TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER I

“I’M not a weak fool—what did they say? I want to know exactly what they said, Mac.” “They told you themselves. There are distinct signs of valvular disease—you must be very careful.” “Pooh!” The man got up and walked to the window and drummed impatiently on the rain-splashed pane. Then he turned and stared at his friend seated, with drooping head, by the table.

“Look here,” he exclaimed suddenly, “are you going to be sensible, or are you not? You’ve known me for—nineteen years, isn’t it? Well, that’s time enough, surely, to understand me! Have you ever known me to act like a hen in traffic? Why should you begin to treat me like an infant just because your professional interest is roused for the first time? You are certainly a doctor, but you are—my friend too.”

There was a most curious expression in the speaker’s eyes as he uttered the last words, and the other man noticed it, and spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently.

“Yes, yes—but you heard what they said—I— 1 how can I tell you more? They kept nothing back.”

“You were shut up with them for three-quarters of an hour—what did they say?”

“We talked about other cases.” He still spoke in that queer hurried way. “Doctors always do in consultation—it’s like lawyers. We compared your case with others. Sir Ellis always proses by the hour; it interests me of course professionally, but he’s very technical and stilted. He only stopped then because Bruner had to leave, he—”

He was interrupted by a laugh, half amused, half sardonic, and he flushed a little, and looked up at his companion, who was staring at him with an expression of faint scorn.

“You mentioned lawyers just now, Mac. Well, if the money hadn’t come just when it did I should have been sweating away at the Bar—done jolly well too, I fancy! Let us imagine that I am in wig and gown now! You don’t seem able to speak by yourself. I will help you. I will ask questions; you must answer. Regard yourself as on oath, Mac. Regard me as an eminent K.C. cross-examining a—criminal.”

Again that curious look flashed into his eyes, and MacFarlane stirred uneasily.

The master of the house rose to his feet and placed his hands on the table and leant forward. His piercing eyes looked steadily at his companion— eyes ringed by the bluish-grey smear of delicate health.

“Did Sir Ellis say that there was immediate danger?”

“No.”

“There is danger?”

“There is always—”

“Don’t generalize, please. Is there danger in my case? Answer yes or no.”

“Yes—but, Brock, old chap, don’t—”

“Thanks. You can bring in the sentiment afterwards. At present I want facts. The end may come suddenly?”

MacFarlane squirmed in his chair, and did not answer till the question was repeated somewhat more sternly.

“Yes—if care is not taken.”

“What care?”

“You must not overwork or fatigue yourself, you must not worry” (the other man’s mouth twisted with a silent laugh), “you must not hurry— but we told you all this before!”

“Yes. There must be no sudden shocks, I suppose?”

“Quite so.”

“How is one to guard against shocks, I wonder! Then I must be good and take my medicines like a model little boy, I suppose?”

“They will certainly help. You must not forget to take them regularly.”

“Ah! Well, Gra will see to that. She is an excellent nurse—isn’t she, Mac?”

It was impossible this time to ignore the irony in his face and voice.

“Why do you speak like that, Brock? You ought to know how good she is: she saved your life two years ago in Scotland.”

“Ah yes, so they all said. I believe she did. What a pity!”

“A pity?”

“Yes; if I’d gone off then it would have saved such a lot of—of—er—difficulty now. Well, now for technical details, please/’

He sat down, and crossed his knees.

Then began a series of questions which astonished the doctor. He realized suddenly that his friend must have been reading up the subject for some time. He talked of valvular lesions, auriculo-ventricular valves, tricuspid and mitral, and the chordæ tendineœ, as if he had been familiar with the terms all his life.

MacFarlane was puzzled and confused. Whenever he hesitated over a reply, fearing to agitate the patient, he was met by a look so hard, by a few words of such biting sarcasm, that finally he answered almost angrily.

At last his tormentor ended his questions, and was silent. He was looking across the room out of the window at the passing vehicles, and his face was like a mask.

MacFarlane shook himself, got up, and walked about somewhat nervously, looking at, without seeing, various objects. He stared for some time at a plaster bust of Darwin, then he wheeled round and spoke.

“All this is rot, you know, Brock! You are now as wise as I am about the case, and I hope you’ll be sensible and take care of yourself.’’

There was a pause, and he suddenly felt horribly uncomfortable as his eyes met his friend’s sombre gaze.

“Yes,” said Brocklehurst quietly, “I intend to take care of myself. I’m only forty-two, and I don’t wish to die yet.”

“Of course not. Who spoke of dying?” He spoke with a noisy cheerfulness.

Brocklehurst’s answer seemed irrelevant.

“What are you earning now, Mac?”

MacFarlane gasped.

“I—how do you mean?” he stammered.

“I mean how have you got on lately? I know your practice has been growing of late years, but of course the profession is rather overcrowded. Do you mind my asking this?”

“Oh, not at all: you’ve always known my affairs more or less intimately. I am making about twelve hundred a year on an average—sometimes more, sometimes less, but it works out at about that.”

He still looked surprised; he could not follow the working of the other’s thoughts.

“You’re a very clever doctor, Mac; I believe in you—that is, in your speciality. I don’t think you’re very good at things outside the heart!”

MacFarlane laughed.

“No; I shouldn’t make a good G.P.”

“Quite so. Well, I’ve a proposal to make to you. The state I am in needs constant care and attendance, as you know. I should like to have you with me always, permanently. No, don’t interrupt, please. I could give you two rooms here for your own, and at Wane’s Ferry you can have the west tower for your domain. I will give you for one year from to-day fourteen hundred pounds, the following years an increase of two hundred each year. I pay all your expenses of course. You can choose a horse for your own at Wane’s; here you can order any horse or vehicle you wish from the stables. Anything else you can think of please ask me—I will do all I can to make you comfortable. What do you say?”

“Impossible!” MacFarlane exclaimed; “utterly impossible!”

“Why?”

“It would never do—I— Besides, you don’t need a constant attendant like that. You have only to be careful.”

“But if I prefer to have some one with me to be careful for me?”

“Well—any one would do. It’s ridiculous to get a specialist, and pay huge sums to him, just to see you don’t overwork or overtire yourself.”

“Ah! I don’t agree with you. You see I think it would pay me (even at the price offered) to keep some one by me whose interest it was to keep me alive.”

“Interest?”

“Yes, interest. It will pay you to keep me in this vale of tears.”

“So it would anyone else! I can find you some careful man for three or four hundred a year, say, who would think himself on a bed of roses; he’d take care of you all right. No one would want to lose a good post like that; while as for me, I’m already on my feet, and I——”

The other man interrupted.

“I’m not speaking of money.”

“What then?”

There was a silence in the room, but a horrible silence which seemed to hold a brooding, uncanny presence. The doctor shivered slightly, and involuntarily looked over his shoulder at the door. Then Brocklehurst spoke. His voice was low and even. A singularly refined and musical voice at any time, it now sounded more so than ever.

“I mean Gra.”

“Eh?”

“Of course you believe in nothing. You modern doctors pride yourselves on your materialism. But I believe in other things. I know. I intend to do all I can to buy my life at a big price—to you. When I go, Gra goes too.”

MacFarlane sprang to his feet, white to the lips. “What are you saying? Are you mad?”

“No, or I should employ a brain specialist. I say this in all seriousness. I wish you to be in constant attendance on me because it will be to your interest to keep me alive.”

“How—how? Why, even supposing your preposterous suggestion were true, how—what should I—”

Brocklehurst rose to his feet, and the men stood face to face, the library table between them. He held out his arm and pointed straight at the other man’s eyes, then he spoke harshly, loudly :

“Don’t lie, man. Don’t be a hypocrite. I know.”

Then the doctor crumpled up like a wounded man. He sank on the chair he had risen from, his arms fell limply on the table, and his head bent down on his chest.

“I have—I—” His broken voice trembled to silence.

“You need not speak. I know just how far it has gone. Now, I repeat, your interest is to guard my life as your own.”

Then the drooping man flung back his shoulders, and a wave of colour sprang to his face.

He spoke quickly, firmly.

“You are trying to frighten me! It is a wild extravagant lie. How could you possibly make me believe that you hold powers over life and death? If you die, you die suddenly—there would be no chance to kill her.”

He laughed wildly. Then he looked at the man standing opposite, and saw a look on his face that he had never seen on any face in his life—a look of fixed purpose, of almost God-like strength of resolve.

“I should not try to kill” he said slowly; then he lifted his eyes and looked up, up, out, beyond the walls—beyond the world, it seemed. He spoke solemnly, intensely.

“I swear by Almighty God, in whom even you believe, I swear by all the living and all the dead, I swear by every sacred thing known, that, when I go to the shades beyond, she goes too.”

Again there was a silence which seemed to vibrate. When Brocklehurst spoke again it was in a different voice, politely, quietly, as if he were discussing an ordinary bargain.

“You will want time to think this over. It is now Monday; on Thursday you can give me your answer.”

“I don’t want time,” stuttered the doctor.

“The thing is mad, it’s—”

The door opened and a woman stood on the threshold.

“Well?” she said, holding the heavy portiere in her hand. “What is it? You look so—so—

What is it? You promised to come to me. Is there anything more I don’t know? They said they had kept nothing back.”

She came into the room and sat down, looking first at one man, then at the other.

Her husband laughed lightly.

“No, Gra,” he answered, with a glance at MacFarlane; “you were told all. It’s valvular disease, as I thought. I have to be very careful, that’s all. I may, with care, live to be ninety. I was only having a business talk with Mac. I’m trying to persuade him to come to live with us permanently, to take care of me.”

His wife’s eyelids flickered, and she stooped and picked up a thread off the carpet.

“Can’t I do that?” she asked.

“Well, you see, Mac is a doctor, and also a man has more authority. If I employed him to see after me, I should be bound to obey him!”

“But how could he leave his practice?”

“That’s just what we were trying to arrange. I think we shall manage it. You’ll give me your answer on Thursday, Mac, won’t you?” MacFarlane got up stiffly from his chair.

“Yes,” he said dully; “but I don’t see how it’s to be done. Well, good-bye; I’ll come in to-morrow as usual.”

There were no formal hand-shakings; he just went out of the door, and down the hall with a step a little less firm than usual. He slipped his arms into the sleeves of the overcoat a footman held out for him, took his hat and umbrella, and went down the steps to his brougham.

“Home,” he said sullenly, and sat back in the corner, watching the rain.

“Bah!” he exclaimed presently. “The man’s mad. So am I, for that matter, to be frightened like a kid at the theatrical ravings of a lunatic.”

When he reached his house he found that there were five patients waiting for him. Three were on his free list, daughters or wives of doctors. He went through the professional business automatically. There was no outward difference in his manner.

He then had lunch, read over a pamphlet that had been sent him by a confrere, pulled out some manuscript paper and started to write an article for a medical paper.

After writing a few lines in his rather untidy handwriting the pen fell from his fingers and rolled to the floor.

“God! if it’s that!” he exclaimed, and sat staring straight in front of him.

Hitherto Brocklehurst’s announcement had struck him as mania. He knew that, whatever others might believe, there was no such thing as the supernatural. He did not believe it possible that a power unknown could be called into play to do the impossible. Quite suddenly the word “ suggestion” flashed to his brain, and his hands were shaking on the table in front of him.

He got dizzily to his feet and went to the bookcase that stretched to the ceiling all along two sides of the room. He mounted the steps and ran his eyes along a row of books till he found what he wanted. Then, with some volumes in his hand, he went back to his desk. They were the volumes on Phénomènes de Suggestion, from the complete works of Charcot. Feverishly he read on and on, turning over the pages hurriedly, searching in the index, taking notes on a sheet of paper. His man brought in some tea, and turned up the lights, but he still continued reading. At last he shut the cover with a bang, and rested his head on his hand. His face was grey and worn, his mouth shut in a hard line of pain.

“Fool that I was!” he muttered. Then he thought and thought.

Suggestion, that was it. There was no necessity for the supernatural.

At the Salpêtrière experiments had been tried over and over again; there was no uncertainty about the results. In the hypnotic state patients had been ordered to do certain things at certain times, and hours or days afterwards they had carried out the commands.

Brocklehurst had always taken a deep interest in this branch of science; he had hypnotized people over and over again. MacFarlane, who had not the power himself, had been amused and interested in some of his friend’s experiments. Why, even in the old days at Oxford Brocklehurst had given exhibitions of his gift. How all their circle had laughed when the sedate porter was found one afternoon sitting with his feet in a tub of water! Brocklehurst had hypnotized him the day before, and, when he asked for ideas for suggestion, had accepted that offered by a mischievous youth: “Order him to put his feet in a tub of water to-morrow at three o’clock.” No one thought it was possible, but the suggestion had worked all right. It was not the only time by any means. Many were the cases he could remember where the power had been called into play.

Gra? Ah, Gra had been an easy subject. She was interested in the matter herself, and had lent herself willingly for her husband’s experiments. What was easier than for him to give her the suggestion, time after time till it was beyond fear of failure, that her life was to end with his ?

MacFarlane groaned and hit his clenched hand on the table.

Then the telephone bell rang, and he seized the receiver and put it to his ear.

“Yes? Yes, it is I. What is it, Gra?”

The answer came buzzing through the wires.

“Mac, I couldn’t telephone before. I wanted to, but he wouldn’t let me go. I want to know whether he ought to exert himself with doing experiments.”

“What experiments? He of course ought not to tire himself.”

“He insisted! I couldn’t stop him, and I have never refused before. He hypnotized me after lunch. What? Mac, did you cry out? Are you listening?”

The man’s face was white with terror, his hands shook, and he was gasping, as if out of breath. He cleared his voice by a cough, then spoke quietly and distinctly.

“Gra, are you listening? You must not let him do it again. Do you hear? Will you promise? Swear you won’t let him.

“Very well. I won’t if I can help it.”

“If you can help it? But of course you can help it.”

“Mac, don’t you remember I told you that he’d hypnotized me once when I was asleep? What? What’s the matter, Mac? You frighten me.”

“Go on.” The doctor’s voice was hoarse, and he could hardly hold the ear-piece against his ear his hand was so unsteady.

“He told me of that the next morning,” the woman’s voice went on; “he only did it for an experiment, to see if he could. But if I refuse him he may do it again. Will it hurt him?”

“Yes; on no account must he do it. I will tell him so to-morrow.”

“Yes, do. If you tell him perhaps he will obey. Oh, Mac, he seems to think that you will come and live with us.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. Of course it’s absurd.”

“Why absurd?”

“Mac!” Gra’s voice climbed to a note of astonishment. Then she sighed. “Dear, it would not do. Our strength is only human strength after all. I could not bear—” She broke off suddenly, and the listener hit his free hand on the desk.

“Very well; Gra, we will talk it over,” he said quietly; “don’t worry yourself now.”

“Good-bye, Mac. I must go.”

“Good-bye, Gra.”

He hung up the receiver, and let his head drop on his arms.

“Oh my God, my God!” he groaned. “So that was it. I am right.”

He remained with his head on his outstretched arms for nearly an hour; when he raised it his face had changed: always firm and resolute, it now held an added strength, and there was an expression of almost sublime renunciation on it.

“I must save her,” he said quietly; “if my life will do it I am ready to give it—willingly, God knows.”

Then he wrote two letters. One was to Brocklehurst saying that he had already decided. He would go to him; but first he must travel for a few weeks—he needed a change. He would arrange matters with him on the morrow.

The other letter he wrote in French, and it was directed to a very well-known doctor in Paris.

CHAPTER II

A MONTH after the twins came into the world Lady Ethersbury had a violent attack of indigestion, which she mistook for conscience. While the aggressive phase of piety that this gave rise to lasted the christening took place; and, instead of the family names already chosen, the infants were labelled Grace and Faith. By the time the babies could lisp, Lady Ethersbury— who always did things rabidly—was deep in Ibsen, so her better feelings were not outraged by the fact that the pious names became Gra and Fai in small mouths which could not manage the sibilant and th. The baby names had stuck to the girls, and few friends of after days knew what the original appellations had been. When her daughters were nineteen her ladyship’s hobby happened to be Norman architecture. She had photographs and drawings of famous buildings hung all over her bedroom and boudoir, and her talk bristled with “ buttresses,” “engaged shafts,” " ccushion capitals,” “groins,” and “surface sculpture.” Then she heard about Wane’s Ferry, managed to meet Cuthbert Brocklehurst at a friend’s house, and set herself to scheme for an invitation. She got it after Brocklehurst had seen Gra. At Wane’s (as the house was called locally) Lady Ethersbury was enthusiastic and unwearying in her researches. Brocklehurst’s aunt, who kept house for him, was tired out.

One night, when Gra was nearly asleep, her door opened, and her mother came in—stately and handsome even with dressing-gown and toupeeless head.

“It is the most purely Norman house in England,” said she, sitting on the bed. “It has not been spoilt by any vulgar additions—anyway, outside, and the inside has been done very skilfully. Gra, we must keep it in the family.”

“Eh?” cried Gra, sitting up and blinking.

“My heart would break if I could not come here often. One of you must marry him.”

Gra laughed. She was used to her mother.

“Why don’t you do it yourself? Then you could be here always.”

“ My dear! Don’t be absurd. He is thirty-five, I am forty-four. Besides, I do not care to give up my liberty—even for Wane’s. I think, I really think, he has taken a fancy to you. At first I thought it was Fai; now I think it is you.”

Gra gurgled. She was quite sure it was she.

“Mind, dearie,” her mother said, as she rose to leave the room, “I shall be bitterly disappointed if we don’t keep it in the family.”

So Gra was married to the purest piece of Norman architecture in England, and, amongst other things, a house in Curzon Street, a property in Scotland, a yacht, about fifty thousand a year, and—a very handsome man, who worshipped his wife with a wild overmastering passion, which seemed as unmodern as Wane’s Ferry.

For two months she was quite happy. Then James MacFarlane returned from abroad, and she found her fate. He was her husband’s most intimate friend, and she had to see him every day when they were in London.

After one heartrending scene between them, when the man’s iron will was broken down by some small accident, they agreed to suffer in silence, bury their mutual love out of sight, be honourable—and unhappy.

For six years they had fought the fight. Quietly, doggedly they had gone on, sometimes in an agony of soul that had left its mark on their faces, sometimes with an almost automatic perseverance which resulted in a numbness of spirit not good to know.

Only once since that first illuminating moment had his resolution broken down. When the baby died he had taken the dry-eyed, stunned mother into his arms and comforted her. Her tears had come at the tender touch, and together they had gone into the silent room and looked at the little waxen figure.

“Thank you, Mac,” she said quietly; “you have taken away the bitterness. It was not wrong, my dear; I would not even mind Wee Willie Winkie knowing of that. Oh, my baby!”

But Wee Willie Winkie slept his last baby sleep, and the mother shut the memory in her heart, and went on with her life. No other baby came to soothe with tiny hands the ache of the long struggle against dishonour. She was alone. Not even Fai knew, and when she was twenty-three Fai married the man of her choice and went to India. Lady Ethersbury was not a mother to confide in—though she was intensely affectionate and very sympathetic to her children, she had too light a mind to grasp an idea for long together. She was a will-o’-the-wisp mentally, and Gra would no more have thought of confiding in her than in a child.

Now she had an added misery. Hitherto she had gathered strength by absence from the beloved one—strength to bear the constant agony of his presence during the four months of the year she spent in London. While she and her husband were travelling, or installed quietly at Wane’s Ferry, or in Scotland, she fought the fight alone, and was able to meet MacFarlane again with the certainty that she could go on as before. But now—would she be strong enough, she asked herself, to see him day after day, and all day long for weeks and months, without breaking down? It was cruel. Why was he doing it?

With trembling lips and beating heart she asked him this the day after the consultation.

The man was racked with misery; he did not know how to answer. He walked about her pretty room with quick, uneven strides, and stammered as he gave his explanation.

“Dear, it is hard, I know. But—but he had set his heart on it. I—well, I feel I owe him something; how can I refuse? I—Gra, I have stolen your heart from him; I must try to save his life in return.”

It did not sound convincing, and she lifted her eyebrows.

“Mac, you could have found some one else to do as well; he only wants care, and some one to forbid him to over-exert himself.”

“Yes, I suggested that—but he wanted me. Oh, Gra, Gra, do trust me—I have my reasons.” The words were a cry of appeal.

Suddenly she sprang to him and clutched his arm; her face was white with an unnamed terror.

“Mac, oh, Mac—you—you—dear, you are going to do your best? You are going to—to try and save him?”

He read the thought that she did not know herself, and he shuddered.

“Yes, I am going to try my utmost, that I swear. Till I return from Paris you must try your best too. And, Gra, you must keep him from hypnotizing you. Do you hear?”

“I will try. But it is difficult. If I slept in another room it would be all right, but it is impossible. I suggested it after what you told me on the telephone last night, but he was upset, said suppose he was taken ill in the night, would I have him left there to die alone—and so on. I daren’t do it, Mac. I will refuse to be hypnotized when I can, but he seems to be crazy just now on the subject, and I fear he may try it at night.”

Mac groaned.

“Is it so bad for him?” she asked anxiously.

“God! yes, and—and for—” He broke off, then went on more quietly, “That is the reason why I am coming, chiefly. I—Gra, will you swear to keep a secret?”

“Of course. Why not? Tell me.”

“Well, I am going to Paris to try if I can learn hypnotism. They say it is easy to learn if one has got will-power and concentration, and I have both. When I return—when I come to you, I want you to let me hypnotize you as often as I wish.”

She gave a surprised exclamation, and he went on hurriedly.

“It never seems to hurt you, and I want to see if I can manage something.”

“Oh!” She was puzzled, but trustful. “You think you can help him by it?”

“Yes; I hope to save him from a—I hope to help him. But he must not know. You understand? If he knows it will be of no use.”

“Very well, dear. I don’t understand, but I trust you absolutely.”

The look in her eyes was so full of love and trust that his heart yearned over her. He was standing close to herchairas she looked up,and heput his hand on her shoulder to thank her—he could not speak.

She suddenly put her hand on his, and lifted it to her mouth and kissed it.

He choked, turned white, half moved away, then met her eyes again; and in one moment he had knelt at her feet and drawn her into his arms.

His iron will had broken down. A sleepless night and horrible torturing anxiety had weakened him.

Like a wounded bird she lay there in his arms, her heart beating, and her whole body shaking. She returned his frantic kisses with shut eyes. He held her face between his hands and devoured it with his gaze.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded huskily.

She opened them. They were dark with feeling, her red mouth was trembling.

“Say you love me. Say you will always love me.”

“I love you Oh, how I love you!”

Then the maddening pulsing in his brain beat itself into wild thoughts.

Why not save her? Why not take her away for ever, away from that evil influence? This idea of his hypnotic counter-suggestion was nonsense. It might not succeed—how could it succeed against her husband’s greater power and deeper experience? He would be in misery the whole time, not knowing whether the verdict would be life or death. Brocklehurst seemed so sure. What was honour, what was virtue, compared with saving a life like this one? If her husband were not near her he could do nothing, he would soon lose the influence that he had already gained. He—MacFarlane—would take her right away to distant lands. He had a very little money of his own, she had some too—enough for them to live on till he could build up a reputation in some new place ; he was clever at his work, he knew it would not be long before he earned money again. They would be happy—God! how happy!

Then he poured out the passionate words in her ear—praying, imploring, breaking down her unspoken objections with all love’s arguments.

She shivered, but she never took her eyes from his face. The square jaw was set in an iron strength; the piercing, deep-set eyes searched her soul and laid it bare.

“Say yes—say yes! We cannot bear it—you were right. How can we live for weeks and months, perhaps years, side by side and never feed our starving hearts? It is not wrong; love is the most divine thing in this world—do not let us deny it. Come to me; Gra, Gra, I will love you more than life—come to me. You have proved my love, dear heart—for six long years I have loved you without hope. We have been good—oh, far too good. Gra, Gra!”

He dropped his head in her lap, and she stroked his fair hair with trembling fingers. The glow and warmth of love were in her heart. The passionate outburst had moved her to the core of her being. He was right; how could love like this be wrong? She would consent, they would be happy.

She lifted her head, and opened her lips to say the word. He raised himself, saw the expression in her eyes, and his heart throbbed with joy.

“You are—” she began. Then he saw her eyes fix on something across the room; they became soft and yearning, and in a moment two tears welled out and ran down her cheeks.

He turned and followed the direction of her gaze. She was looking at a painting on white china framed in Italian beaten silver; it stood on a white easel in the corner by the fireplace. It was the picture of a very beautiful baby of about a year old. He was sitting in a basket of flowers, and laughing out at the world with open mouth and round amused blue eyes.

The man and woman were silent for some minutes—minutes throbbing with love and pain.

When she spoke it was slowly, with agony in her voice.

“I want to meet Wee Willie Winkie again.”

That was all; but the man knew that the baby had fought the battle against him—and won.

He got unsteadily to his feet, and sat down in a deep chair, covering his face with his hands. He could say nothing more. What was the good? Only a brute could drag a baby from its mother’s arms by force—and that is what Gra believed would happen.

Clever woman as she was, her undogmatic religion was that of a child.

Wee Willie Winkie was waiting for her in a wonderful bright world somewhere out beyond the blue sky. As she had sung as a child so she might sing now, with a beautiful faith that shamed all unbelief:

There’s a home for little children Above the bright blue sky,

Where Jesus reigns in glory,

A home of peace and joy;

No home on earth is like it,

Nor can with it compare,

For every one is happy,

Nor could be happier, there.

She had expressed all when she had said, “I want to meet Wee Willie Winkie again.”

What was there left for him to do but hide his heart from her, and smile? He could, he doubted not, overcome her objections, and by the sheer force of love make her come to him—but what was the use? She would not be happy, really happy as he wished her to be. He knew that he should see a look on her face sometimes not good to see when one loved as he loved her. It would be when she thought she was alone, and then the dear eyes would overflow, and the dear mouth tremble, and a yearning agony of hopeless longing would pinch all the beautiful features. Ah! he could not bear that. No; he must go on as he was—fight down the pain, fight down desire, be calm, faithful, and long-suffering. He could hope for nothing. He had a rival—and though that rival was but a baby, a baby gone out to that “home for little children,” the wee hands were stronger than his own, the wee red mouth calling could be heard beyond his deeper tones. He got up softly and went to her. He stroked her head tenderly.

“Forgive me. I was mad,” he said quietly.

She rose, and stood facing him. Then she placed her hands on his shoulders.

“I love you, Mac.” There was a little catch in her voice. “I—I will even give up my baby for you if you wish.”

He shook his head.

“No, beloved; I am not that kind of man. Forgive me. I did not sleep last night, and I am very anxious. My will gave out. Forgive me,”

She leaned her face upwards, and kissed him.

“There is nothing to forgive. It was my fault. You are the one man in the world for me, dear. It is hard—oh, terribly hard. God knows how we have tried; He cannot blame us very much, I think. Somehow, Mac, this has made it easier for me. I think I can go on now without fear. And you—· you are so strong, you will help me to be good. You are so strong.”

“Yes, dear, I will help you.” He bent and kissed her hands, one after the other. Then he went out of the room.

He clenched his hands and leant his head against the outside of the door.

“Strong!” he murmured bitterly. “Strong! Oh my God!”

CHAPTER III

IN a fortnight the Brocklehursts, by the famous doctors orders, went down to Wane’s Ferry. Cuthbert argued against the move, and said he could not drag his wife away in the middle of the season; but she laughed at him, and then became stern, put on the manner of a severe nurse, called him “sir,” and said it was her duty to see that he did what he was told.

He gave in; he really loved Wane’s, and was always perfectly content in the country.

At Wane’s Ferry he kept his collection of coins —one of the most famous, outside a museum, in England. He was a very learned numismatist, and wrote on the subject in many English and foreign papers. It was one of the great interests of his life.

“After all,” he said musingly, with his eyes fixed on her, " we are all right there. Also we must see to the west tower for Mac; he will be with us in a few weeks.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you think there is anything we had better order for it before we leave town? Do you think we can make it comfortable enough with what we’ve got?”

“Oh, dear Cuthbert, there are tons of things; there is ample to furnish more rooms than there are in the west tower.”

“All right. You’ll see to it, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll see to everything. You need not worry yourself about it.”

When MacFarlane arrived in July he was looking ill, and husband and wife both noticed it, the latter with a little catch in her heart.

They had had letters from him now and again, from Paris, Berlin, Vienna. He said he was visiting his old friends, and enjoying himself. When he came back he looked as if he had been working night and day.

“Good heavens, Mac!” exclaimed Brocklehurst, “this doesn’t look as if your holiday had done you good. Why, man, you seem more fagged than you are at the end of a hard season.”

“It’s nothing,” he said lightly; “I’ve just had a nasty bout of influenza, and it always pulls one down. I shall soon get all right down here.”

“I hope so; I hate to see you looking so peeky. Also you have to keep me in order! I’m sure Gra is glad you’ve come; she complains bitterly that I won’t obey her.”

“Will you obey me?” Mac asked suddenly.

“Of course I shall; that’s what I’ve arranged all this for—as you know.”

There was a curious note in his voice that made Gra look up quickly.

“Well,” he went on, “if you are rested you had better have a look at your new abode: I hope you will find it comfortable. If there is anything else you would like, I trust you to ask for it. Gra, will you go with Mac? I haven’t seen it, old chap; Gra is so severe, she won’t hear of me mounting the stairs. She says the one flight of stairs is quite enough for me!”

“Quite right,” answered Mac. “You really oughtn’t to do those; stairs are always trying to the heart. Can’t you manage to fix up a bedroom down here somewhere?”

“No; there are only small rooms on the ground floor, except the various sitting-rooms, and I can’t turn any of those topsy-turvy. One of the little rooms would do for me alone, but not for Gra— and I don’t care to be alone. By the way, Gra insisted on having a bell fitted up from our room to yours! I told her it was idiotic, but she was adamant.”

“She was perfectly right, Brock,” MacFarlane said quietly. “If you ever were ill in the night she would want to call me.”

Brocklehurst laughed.

“I’m not at all likely to be ill in the night. I never have been yet. I usually sleep like a top.

I only had those attacks when I was dead tired.” “One never knows. Besides, you said just now that you did not care to sleep alone.” Mac said this carelessly, but he looked sharply at his patient.

Cuthbert flinched very slightly, but he laughed again as he answered.

“Oh, that’s different. Having Gra there makes me easier. I am not in the least nervous, but when one has once had those horrible attacks, and when one has been told that one may go off pop any moment, one naturally likes to have some one near. Well, go along and see your rooms, and mind you tell Gra if there is any single thing you can think of that would make them more comfortable.”

“Thanks, I will. But I am sure I shall find them delightful. Au revoir.”

Gra preceded him out of the room and up the grand staircase in silence. He looked about him as he went, and thrilled, as of old, to the wonders of the superb architecture. The hall and staircase had never been changed, and the perfection of the lines always drew involuntary sighs of admiration from even the most ignorant sightseer. MacFarlane had been familiar with the house for sixteen years—ever since his friend had come into the property—and he loved every stone, every tracery, every rough-hewn crude coat of arms.

Gra guessed what he was thinking, and turned her head and looked at him.

“Yes, isn’t it perfect?” she said. “Wouldn’t Wee Willie Winkie have been happy here?”

He nodded; his sympathy for that old sorrow was too deep for mere words.

“Now,” she went on, “that little unappreciative beast will have it some day. Fancy, Mac, he remarked last year, when he was down here—‘ Horrid cold place this hall, Cuthbert; I wonder you don’t carpet it all over, and hang jolly warm curtains about. I don’t fancy it would be difficult, either, to make a false ceiling—boards you know—just from gallery to gallery. You could have it lincrustaed over to look like oak or something.’ Lincrusta, Mac, and a false ceiling!And that’s what he’ll do, you see if he doesn’t.”

Mac shuddered. Brocklehurst’s cousin had been at Oxford with him his last year, and had always been one of his greatest aversions.

“Don’t let us think about it, Gra. I hope neither of us may live to see anything so ghastly.”

She sighed, and continued to lead the way along a narrow corridor with deep loopholes in the thick walls, then along another at right angles, up a flight of steep worn steps, and down another passage. Then she opened a door—one of the “pure Norman” doors that her mother had gushed over. The room into which they stepped was octangular, and round the walls were deep loopholes, glazed now, but in the old days they had undoubtedly been open to the air. The walls were hung with tapestry, and the floor was carpeted cosily. Easy chairs and a sofa lent modern comfort, and a large writing-table was placed in the middle of the room.

Downstairs in the hall the electric lights were hidden in old lamps; here the sconces were modern and graceful, though solid.

“It’s delightful,” he said gratefully, looking round.

“I’ve left you the shelf and the mantelpiece free for your own photos and things. Of course when your books fill up all these dreary-looking cases it will look much more comfy. Now come and see the rest.”

She opened a door hidden in the tapestry and disclosed a winding staircase going upwards.

“You see she said, pointing, “I have had the lower stairs boarded up. Those other rooms were impossible for use, so I saw no good in leaving the stairs open for you to break your neck over; you would hardly know that stairs go downwards, would you?”

“It’s certainly very cleverly done. How did you manage it?”

“I thought of it, and the carpenter carried it out. We just continued the floor, as it were. I’ts quite strong; I made him put heavy beams underneath into the walls. As it’s all covered with carpet, it really looks quite nice.”

She stood and frankly admired her handiwork; then she laughed.

“I think I should have made quite a good architect, Mac! Come on.”

Upstairs, his bedroom was light, and prettily furnished in chintz. Little curtains fell straight from brass rods at every window, and the walls were covered with the same material.

“How perfectly charming!” cried MacFarlane. “Gra, you must have slaved, my dear What’s behind this?”

But she caught his arm, laughing gaily.

“No; you’re not to look till you’re prepared to be properly impressed, sir! This is my chef d'œuvre. There!” She drew the curtain on its rod, and displayed a large fitted bath, with a geyser installed on a shelf at the head.

“You see,” she said as he gazed in astonishment, “you’d have had to tramp miles to the nearest bathroom, so I arranged this. I was disappointed that they couldn’t bring up the hot-water pipes, but they said it was utterly impossible. The water and gas were comparatively easy, and it’s a good geyser. Isn’t it jolly?” she ended childishly.

MacFarlane was staring out of the nearest window; he had a lump in his throat and could not speak.

She touched him on the arm.

“Aren’t you impressed?” she asked gaily. Then she saw his eyes, and hurriedly moved to the door.

“Come,” she said quickly, “you must see your roof now.”

She mounted, breathing fast, and stood before him on the roof of the tower.

An awning stretched across half of it, under which were wicker chairs and a table. The other half had flower-boxes filled with gay flowers, and creepers which trailed over the low stone parapet.

She looked at the stretch of beautiful country before her, then she sighed.

“This is your fair-weather study, Mac. It’s nearly always cool up here.”

He took her hand and kissed it silently, and she knew that he was pleased.

They stood for a few moments looking at the view, then with one accord they sank into chairs, and he bent forward and spoke earnestly.

“Tell me, Gra, how do you think he is? Has he had any attack since the one you wrote to me about a fortnight ago?”

“ No. But that was bad, Mac. I did all you and Sir Ellis told me. He was not unconscious, I am thankful to say, but he turned horribly grey and cold. Lightfoot was there, and he helped me, and we got Rivers up too. We filled three hot-water bags for him, and we gave him the drops. It did not last long, not nearly so long as the one in May, and he was all right again by the afternoon. I made him sleep afterwards, and he awakened seemingly quite well.”

“What caused it do you think?”

“I don’t think—I’m sure. First of all the whole day before he had been writing; he insisted on finishing an article for a German scientific magazine, and he sent it off to be translated and typed. Then the morning of the attack he walked down to Dene’s farm and went all over it. Dene wanted something done to the barns. He met the agent there, and discussed things with him. There was a storm, and he came back soaked. I did not know that he had gone; he evaded me by saying he was going to read in the library—he promised not to write. So I went to the rose-garden, and down to the East Lodge to see a new baby Mrs. O’Sullivan has had. I got back about twelve, and searched everywhere for him, and was just going out in the rain to see if I could find him, when he appeared, wet through and tired out. I called Lightfoot and told him to see that he changed everything. About ten minutes after Lightfoot sent down for me, and when I got to the dressing-room I found him in the state I’ve told you of. I’m glad you’ve come, Mac. He will obey you, I think. I have been able to prevent him doing some extra mad things, but not all.”

“Yes.” MacFarlane was frowning. “We have our work cut out for us. One or other of us must always be with him. Poor chap! It’s beastly hard on him, of course, after having always done everything he wanted, but his only chance is to keep quiet.” He hesitated, then went on slowly. “ And the hypnotism, Gra? — he hasn’t tried that?”

“No. He has not asked me once to let him do it. But, Mac, I’m not at all sure that he does not try it sometimes.”

“How—when?” he exclaimed.

“Well, I may be doing him an injustice—I hope it is not as I think—but I was awakened once by a great noise—it was that elm I told you of that fell in the gale—and Cuth was standing by my side, and he had the queer look in his eyes he always used to have when he’d just waked me from an hypnotic sleep. He made an excuse, and said he had come to me when he heard the tree fall, as he thought I’d be frightened; but—well, you know the sort of feeling one has when some one has been near one for some time? I couldn’t get over the idea that he was not speaking the truth.”

MacFarlane was playing a tattoo with his fingers on the iron table. He looked worried.

“If it is as you think, there is only one thing to be done. Gra, that is why I made up my mind to learn to do the thing myself.”

“Why? How? By the way, can you do it now?”

“Yes. It is not so hard as I, in my ignorance, thought. I believe most of us could do it if we knew how to concentrate the will.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“I am going to hypnotize you, as I told you, and I am going to will you to wake up if Brock gets out of bed and comes to yours.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, that’s a splendid idea. How clever of you to think of it!”

He was glad that she believed the lie; luckily she knew nothing of the technicalities of “ suggestion.” What he had told her he knew was impossible, but he trusted to her believing it, and rejoiced to see that she did. It gave a good reason for his desire to hypnotize her; he knew now that she would not wonder at his wish to do so. Indeed, she was anxious that he should begin, and they planned ways and means like two conspirators. For one hour after breakfast Brocklehurst always read the papers in the library; this was an old habit of his, and it could be counted on. That one hour was theirs, and they arranged to meet, when fine, down at the stone summer-house in the eastern garden. This small round building was mounted on square pillars, and it was reached by iron stairs which echoed and re-echoed when any one was mounting, so that it was easy to count on no interruption without warning. In wet weather they could go to the gallery in the armoury.

MacFarlane would not have her come to his rooms; some servant might see her coming, and a scandal would follow.

They talked for a little while longer, then she turned to lead the way down the steps.

“Oh, I forgot,” said she when half-way down; “I must show you.”

She went into the bedroom again.

“Here is the bell which rings in your man’s room; he’s just across the lower corridor. That alarm up there rings from my room. I put the push under my pillow every night. If I need you I will ring. You must come straight in—the doors are never locked.”

“You swear to ring if you are ever in the least anxious, or even if you think you would rather have me there?”

“Yes, Mac, I promise.”

“You see, Gra, he need never know you rang if there is no necessity. I will come quite quietly to the door of the dressing-room and look through: if I find him really ill I can come in; if he is better by then I can steal away.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, with a grateful look at him, “that is just what I want. He would fuss if I had sent for you without reason. Thank you, Mac. I am glad you like everything. Now we will go down to tea.”

CHAPTER IV

DR. JAMES MACFARLANE was dreaming.

He was fishing—a sport of which he was very fond. He had stood for some time on the bank of a swiftly flowing gurgling stream, but the fish were shy, and he had had no success. Then he saw a little whirl in the water under an overhanging bush, caught a glimpse of a large head, and neatly and skilfully cast his line. The fly alighted exactly over the place, and again he saw the whirl in the water. Then, before the trout rose to the fly, he heard a bell.

“Damn!” he exclaimed. “They must wait for me.”

But suddenly stream and bank and line vanished, and he sat up in bed.

“I wonder what awakened me?” he muttered crossly. “I wish I’d caught that trout! It was a bell, and I thought it was for lunch.”

He rubbed his eyes. Then he gave a violent start, leant forward and switched on the light. His eyes went up at once to the alarm bell, and he sprang from the bed. A small board had been arranged by the bell, on which a white disc showed when it had been rung—the disc was there now.

He flung on his dressing-gown, put his feet into his slippers, and ran from the room and down the stairs, turning the lights on as he went.

The corridors were pitch dark, but he found the electric-light switches and flooded the place with brilliance.

As fast as he could he ran till he reached the dressing-room door. He was about to burst in, when he remembered what he had arranged with Gra, and opened the door very softly. The room was dark, but he felt his way across to the bedroom door without turning on the light.

Very, very gently he pulled it open and peered in.

He could see nothing at first—the big room was lit only by a night-light—then gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he made out a figure standing by the further bed. It was Gra’s bed, he knew, and he screwed up his eyes to see what she was doing. Then he saw that it was Brocklehurst standing there in his pyjamas. He was bending slightly forward and moving his hands with a rhythmic motion. Now he could see Gra lying still, turned on her side with her hand under her pillow; he could see her face now, and it was peaceful and quiet, the face of a sleeper. Brocklehurst was standing with his back to the watcher. What was he doing? Ah! MacFarlane almost exclaimed aloud. Then he put his hand quickly to his mouth.

What should he do?

The rhythmic motion stopped, and now he saw the tall figure bend lower and stare at the sleeping face.

His heart started hammering so loudly that he feared it might be heard. A hundred thoughts flew hurriedly through his brain. What should he do? Good God! what should he do? He thought of dropping something in the dressing-room, and so interrupt the man who was trying to influence his love’s life. Then he put that idea away with horror. It might startle the man in the next room with terrible results—terrible to all of them. Then he thought of creeping back along the upper hall again, and coming back noisily, so that Brocklehurst could hear him, knocking at the door, entering, and explaining that the bell had rung. He was about to do this when he suddenly realized that it would counteract all his plans. Brocklehurst would be furious; he would probably keep the door locked afterwards, and she would be cut off from help. No, that would not do. He must think of something for the future, but now, now what was to be done?

Then his brain cleared, with a swift rush came the certainty of what to do.

He bent his head forward, and across the room he stared at the white face lying on the pillow. His heart almost ceased to beat; he was all will. The beads of sweat sprang out on his forehead, collected, and rolled down his face—a face like a mask, devoid of all expression except in the eyes, which gazed and gazed with superhuman purpose in their depths. The perspiration rolled to his collar and soaked it, his hands became wet and clammy, but he was totally unconscious of his body—he was mind incarnate. He seemed to see his will going out to that figure on the bed in visible waves mingling with those other will-waves and fighting with them—a fight for life. He did not move, he looked like a statue carved in stone, all but the eyes of living fire.

How long it lasted he did not know; time, with everything else, was non-existent. Then at last the figure by the bed straightened itself, the arms came out again and made some sweeping passes.

The doctor drew his breath slowly through his nostrils; then, as that other figure turned slowly, he quietly shut the door. A very faint light stole into the dressing-room from the passage. He sank into a chair and shivered. He could not move just yet. If Brocklehurst came and found him he could not help it, his strength was gone. He sat and shivered, then he realized that he was soaking wet. Staggering slightly he rose to his feet.

“I must not get ill,” he muttered; “I must keep absolutely fit.”

Feeling his way like a blind man, he got to the open door, went out, and shut it softly. He leant against the wall for a few moments before he could force his legs to move, then he went slowly back the way he had come, turning out the lights automatically.

In his room he poured out some brandy and drank it He wanted to fling himself on his bed at once and sleep and sleep—but no, he must keep well for her sake.

He lit the gas in the geyser, and, as the hot water flowed, he stripped off his soaking garments After his bath he went to his medicine chest -and carefully measured out a few drops from a phial, added water, and drank it. Only then did he get into bed and turn out the light. But before doing so he pressed the button of the board by the bell, and watched the white disc spring back and hide itself.

The next morning, while his man moved about the room putting away his things, and preparing others, he lay and wondered. How had the bell rung? Certainly Gra had rung it—but how? To her sleeping brain must have come the sense of danger; her fingers, quite near the bell-push under her pillow, must have pressed it. Her sub-conscious self had taken steps to save her. But could he rely on that always? He knew he could not.

If she had been lying in any other position it would have been impossible; she would not have had time, before the complete hypnotic trance, to have taken action. In any case, even though her hand was touching the bell, it was marvellous —a miracle. No, he must not depend on miracles; he was a practical man, and he must depend on his own brain. He must do with less sleep, he must install himself in the dressing-room night after night and wait and watch.

He had noticed the time in his room when he returned the night before: it was one o’clock. Probably Brocklehurst always chose the same time. He remembered now that his friend had always worked at college from eleven till two, saying that his brain was clearer at that time than any other. He, as a man who had doctoring in view as a profession, had been interested in this, but had by tests convinced himself of its truth. Brocklehurst’s vitality, judging by his pulse and circulation, was at its height in those hours; at three his pulse would begin to beat slower, the blood-pressure would become feeble.

Yes, it was perhaps to be reckoned on that the hypnotic experiments would take place between twelve and one. They retired to bed about eleven, the first sleep was the deepest, and Cuthbert would choose that, as there was less chance of his wife waking.

Well, he must wait till twelve each night, listen carefully, and creep into the dressing-room. There he must wait by the door; his ears would be so strained to hear the slightest noise that he would know when Brocklehurst got out of bed. Then he could open the door between the two rooms. Ah! one other thing would help him—he could bore a small hole through the door. In the day it would not be seen—he would make a tiny brown plug, the colour of the mahogany, and would take it out when he entered the room and insert it again when he had the door open.

As he dressed he plotted and planned till he had arranged everything. He even prepared an excuse for being found in the dressing-room in case an accident should bring Brocklehurst there during his watch.

As a boy he had walked in his sleep; he had also done so once or twice at college. For many years now this uncomfortable habit had been cured, but he made up his mind casually to inform his host that he had found himself in his sitting-room at night with work in front of him, and that several times of late he had worked in his sleep.

He thought of every contingency; nothing now could take him by surprise.

As he went down to breakfast he wondered a little whether Gra would have any recollection of ringing the bell, but when he met her he realized that she was perfectly unconscious of the night’s happenings. She was not looking quite well, he noticed, with an ache in his heart. There were dark marks under her eyes, and she was rather listless.

When she opened her letters, though, her face flooded with joy, and she gave vent to a little childish crow of excitement.

“Bill’s got his leave,” she cried, “and he and Fai are coming home! Oh, Cuth, how pleased I am!”

“ I’m glad, dear. When do they come?”

“They will arrive—let’s see—where’s a calendar? Thanks. Urn—urn—oh, they arrive next Monday. Hurrah! Cuth, may I send a wire to them and ask them to come straight here? and \vrite to mother to tell her to meet them and come with them? You see if they don’t do that mother is sure to keep them for ages—she won’t part with Fai at first. Do let me.”

Cuthbert laughed.

“You little goose!” he said affectionately. “Of course you may ask them. I suppose we’re allowed to have visitors, Mac?” he added whimsically.

“Yes, you’re allowed to have visitors!” Mac answered, with mock gravity. “As a matter of fact it is the best thing for you. You must ‘ keep cheerful, as the doctors say.”

He was himself pleased at the news; he did not know what he hoped, but he felt relieved that Fai and her husband and mother would be in the house. He did not for one instant propose to confide in any one, but he felt that Fai being there would make things easier for him somehow. For one thing Gra would be cheerful—she adored her sister—and to keep her cheerful would go a long way towards keeping her well. He feared he knew not what: he was terrified that the long fight for mastery of her mind would, in time, sap her strength. Yet what could he do? He had thought and thought till his brain reeled, and he could see no other way to counteract Cuth-bert’s horrible design. Better that she should fall ill even than—that other awful possibility.

Each day since his arrival he had hypnotized her, and thrown all his heart and soul into his brain as he commanded her to ignore those other suggestions and do his will. She was to live, live, live to the span of her natural life. Her body was to be under his orders, not under Cuthbert’s. It had taken it out of him terribly; it was quite a new power he had developed, and the effort was tremendous. As time went on he knew it would become easier, but—would he succeed? That was the thought that tormented all his waking hours. Which will was the stronger, his or Brocklehurst’s?

Anyway, he was doing all he could, he could not do more. Her husband had had the start of him— that was the thought that agonized him.

All those weeks when he was studying night and day on the Continent Cuthbert had had a clear field. He did not doubt for a moment that each night she had been subjected to the same treatment that, by accident, he had discovered in the early hours of that morning. How far had it gone? Could he counteract it? Was his newfound power strong enough? These and other questions buzzed and buzzed through his brain till he felt that something would burst in his head.

That afternoon, when husband and wife were out, looking at a new motor, he stole to their room, and, locking the doors into the passage, he carefully bored a tiny hole through the door between the two rooms. It was hidden in the moulding, and on the dressing-room side he stopped it with a plug he had made and coloured in the privacy of his own room. To be able to find it in the dark he measured the distance between it and the keyhole on a rule, and marked it with a notch—a rule he meant to keep always in the pocket of his dressing-gown.

For three nights he watched, and for two out of the three he had to oppose his will to that other over the unconscious body of the girl. The night in between these two he heard no movement from the other room. One o’clock struck, two, and he heard no sound. Then he opened the door very softly, just a crack, through which he could see better than through the tiny hole. t Brocklehurst was lying on his back breathing regularly—he was sound asleep. MacFarlane went on watching till half-past three—he would take no risks. Then he shut the door and went back to the west tower, worn out, but deeply thankful that for one night at least Gra had not been subjected to the fight of wills.

On the third night he felt dead tired when he returned to his room. It was as much as he could do to force himself to take the warm bath that he knew was necessary to restore the vigour to his aching body. When he lay down he sighed with relief, and turned luxuriously in the cool sheets. He was just on the borderland of sleeping and waking when from over his head came the sharp ring of the alarm bell. He sprang straight from the bed to his feet and turned on the light. It was no accident, no chance touch of the bell-push by Gra’s fingers—he realized this as he flung on his dressing-gown. The bell went on ringing— not a gentle, uncertain ring that the unconscious fingers of a sleeping woman might give, but a firm, unceasing, shrill sound. She wanted him, that was certain. He snatched up the case of medicines he always kept ready on a table, and ran. He opened the dressing-room door softly as agreed, sprang across to the other door and opened it. The bedroom was flooded with light. Gra was bending in her nightgown by her husband's bed, and trying to lift him.

“Come quick!” she cried. “He cried out, and when I awoke I found him like this. Quick, Mac !”

From the other side of the bed Mac bent and looked at Brocklehurst. His mouth was blue, and the face was a ghastly grey.

The doctor stripped down the clothes and put his ear to the heart' of the unconscious man. He could hear very faint beats, few and far between.

“The gas-lamp. Hurry!” he exclaimed. “Fill the bottles as soon as you can.”

Gra flew to the dressing-room, turned up the light, then lit the burners under a full kettle that by MacFarlane’s orders was always there in case of emergency. She put the indiarubber, flannel-covered bags ready, then went back to the bedroom. Mac was filling a small glass syringe very carefully.

“ The spirit-lamp and the spirit,” he said, without looking up. She lit a small lamp and held it out, then she suddenly set it down on the table and fell sideways on her bed. Mac started, ceased his work, and stared at her.

“Go on, go on,” she said faintly. “You can see to me after. I—I feel so queer.”

As she spoke she turned whiter and her head fell back on to the pillow.

The colour in MacFarlane’s face ebbed away, his lips opened in a soundless cry; then he looked, not at Gra, but at the man on the other bed. The mouth was fallen slightly open, the greyness of the skin was more marked.

“God help me!” The agonized cry broke from Mac at last. Then he gritted his teeth.

He passed the needle through the flame quickly, bent over Brocklehurst, turned him slightly, and pushed the needle into his thigh.

From the other room he could hear the sound of the singing kettle, but now he turned to Gra.

“Oh, give me strength, give me strength!” he cried. He put out his hands and moved them to and fro, to and fro, over the white face. The colour began to come back to it, but she did not open her eyes. Then he bent and whispered to her. Twice in one night—was he strong enough?

“Come back, come back,” he whispered; “I command you to come back.’ The sweat dropped from his face on to hers. He agonized. The colour remained in her cheeks.

Then he heard the water boiling and ran to the dressing-room. He filled one bag, went back with it, and placed it at Brocklehurst’s feet, filled a second and put it under the white feet of the woman. Then he bent and listened to Cuthbert’s heart. He could only hear his own pulses throbbing and throbbing.

He poured some liniment in his hand and began to rub slowly backwards and forwards on the man’s breast; as he did it he looked over his shoulder at the other bed. Gra was breathing gently; she looked as if she were quietly asleep. He moved to one side, still rubbing automatically, and he said, “Come back, come back,” over and over again. He felt as if his soul were wandering alone in some horrible hell.

Minutes passed, then he felt under his hand a movement. He turned and laid his head where his hand had been. Yes, now he could hear the faint beating, more regular now, and stronger.

Quick as lightning he moved across to Gra and made the sweeping passes across her to bring her back to consciousness. From the other bed came a sigh.

When Brocklehurst opened his eyes MacFarlane was leaning over him.

“ Now drink this,” he said quietly; “you are all right now.”

As the man drank he looked round him.

“Where is Gra?” he said faintly. Then a sudden look of fright came into his eyes, and he repeated louder, “Where is Gra?”

“I am here,” said his wife’s voice. “Oh, Cuth, Fm glad you are better. I was stupid. I—I suppose I fainted, Mac! Idiot! Fancy, Cuth, I left Mac all the work to do. Oh, what on earth came over me?”

Cuthbert’s eyes met those of the doctor, and in them was a gleam of triumph. With the look still there he said quietly:

“ It was a bad bout this time, Mac; I was nearly gone.”

MacFarlane poured out some brandy and drank it.

CHAPTER V

MACFARLANE knew that he must be very careful not to rouse Brocklehurst’s suspicions. It was a most difficult position for him. If the subject was ever referred to again—which he did not think likely—he must still profess to disbelieve that any harm coinciding with her husband’s death could come to Gra. If her attack, synchronous with Cuthbert’s, was mentioned, he must pretend to believe it arose from her sudden fright in the dead of night. On no account must Brocklehurst guess that the doctor had solved the mystery—if he did he would suspect a counterplot, and would take steps to foil it.

But all the same he felt that he must do what he could to stop these midnight séances. It was doing the man harm, and he had no doubt whatever that the terrible seizure in the night was due to overfatigue. He knew himself how terribly exhausted he was after exerting all his power of will—and he was a strong man. What must the effect be on a man who was suffering from disease? He had seen the result in the night. Yes, he must tackle Brocklehurst on the subject; perhaps if he frightened him sufficiently he might give it up.

He had returned to his room at five o’clock, satisfied that there was no more danger. Brocklehurst had fallen into a quiet sleep. Gra had obediently taken a draught he had prepared for her, and he knew she would sleep profoundly. He would send word to the kitchen, directly the servants were up, that on no account was their master to be disturbed.

In the meanwhile Mac sat by the writing-table in his sitting-room and thought, with his face buried in his hands. He was very tired, but he knew he could not sleep. His thoughts buzzed round and round in his brain till he felt giddy: and always they came back to the same point —was he gaining ground? He could not think so. Up to the present he had had a very strong hope, but now, after the events of the night, this hope lessened and lessened till it died almost entirely. Gra’s loss of consciousness had, to his practised eyes, looked too much like coma— he knew it was not a faint. Then how could he hope that he was gaining ground? Was there anything else he could do, he wondered.

At last he made up his mind to write to Paris and put the whole case before his great professor.

For an hour he was carefully composing the letter, and from the very beginning he left nothing out. He told the Frenchman the whole story, barring the fact that he was in love with Gra. He, of course, gave no names, and he asked for the reply to be sent to his bank in London. He enclosed the letter to a friend in London to post, then he sighed. He had done what he could —he must wait patiently, and see if his famous confrere could suggest anything.

His heart ached with the misery of it all. He loved Gra with an abiding love that he knew would never alter. For six years it had not changed one iota, though there had been nothing to feed it. Only twice had his passion blazed up, only thrice had he taken her in his arms and kissed her. The second time had held no passion, merely deep love and overwhelming sympathy with her grief. He could only watch over her, and act just as any other friend might do. He could “ but say what mere friends say,” not even “a thought stronger;” he did not dare to hold her hand “so very little longer”—it was too dangerous. In fact, he had got into the way of never shaking hands at all; it was easy, as he was the ami intime of the house. But no amount of starving could kill his love; it was there for all time, an integral part of his life. He would do nothing to hurt her—everything to help her. But could he help her? Again his whirling thoughts came round to the same question.

He must certainly tackle Brocklehurst—that he had decided; but how could he actually prevent these deadly experiments? He did not dare give a .sleeping-draught often to a man whose heart was in that condition, otherwise it would be easy. To hypnotize him was out of the question. Therefore there was no other plan but the one he had already adopted—unless he could frighten his patient into renouncing his designs. He did not believe he should succeed. Brocklehurst knew that any accident might kill him, and he wished to revenge himself—a post-mortem revenge that was horrible to contemplate.

MacFarlane shivered. It was ghastly; and he was forced to be here, to look on at the horror, to do his utmost; his utmost-—what did it amount to? Apparently he was kicking against the pricks, fighting the air, struggling with invisible demons. He was strong, strong physically and mentally, but was it of any use? He could but wait and see—wait with an aching, anxious heart.

His man came into the room and interrupted his agonized musings, and he sent the message to the kitchen that the master was not to be disturbed. Then he dressed slowly, absent-mindedly, and went down to breakfast.

He posted his letter himself, then he sat in the library and tried to read. He told the butler to send to him when Brocklehurst rang, and just after eleven the message came by a footman.

He went upstairs and knocked at the door.

“May I come in?”

“One moment,” said Gra. “Yes, you may come now.”

She was sitting on a chair in her dressing-gown when he entered, and she smiled at him cheerfully.

“Aren’t we dreadfully late people, Mac?”

“I gave orders you were not to be called,” he answered quietly as he went over to Brocklehurst. “How do you feel this morning, Brock?”

“A little tired, but otherwise quite fit, thanks. It was a nasty attack this time, Mac.”

The doctor felt his pulse, and listened to his heart.

“Yes, it’s better this morning, old chap. We must have a talk this afternoon.”

“May I get up?” Cuthbert asked, as he 'sipped his tea.

“Yes—oh yes. Don’t exert yourself to-day, though. Just take a drive about six when it’s cooler. I should lie down a bit this afternoon if I were you.”

“Very well, I will. I feel wonderfully well, thanks to your ministrations. All my other bouts have left me much more of a wreck. I’m glad you came to me, Mac.”

“So am I. It was a good thing I was on the spot last night. Now, don’t hurry dressing, and don’t have your bath either too hot or too cold. Shall I order lunch at one for to-day? It’s now nearly half-past eleven, and you can’t crowd in breakfast, can you?”

“Yes; a good idea. Will that suit you, Gra? Just ring, please, Mac; I’ll order some more toast, that will keep us going. Many thanks, old man, for your care. I’m glad to be alive!”

In the afternoon, when Gra was out of the way, MacFarlane went to Brocklehurst in the library. His heart was beating rather fast, he felt tired out after his sleepless night, but he knew he must talk the matter out. He must try to put a stop to these terrible nights. He would not succeed, he felt sure of that, but he owed it to all three of them to do his best.

“I say, Brock, I don’t understand last night,” he said quietly, sitting down where he could see his companion’s face.

“How do you mean? It was the same old thing, only rather worse.”

MacFarlane lit a cigarette; he nodded, puffed out the smoke lazily, then said:

“Yes. But all the other times were after some great exertion, physical or mental. What on earth did you do to get yourself in that state? You were all right in the evening. Did you lift anything and strain yourself?”

Brocklehurst shook his head.

“Then did you sit up studying? That is the worst thing for you. I’ve told you so often.”

“No; I didn’t open a book.”

He looked uneasy, and the doctor noticed it, and pressed him harder.

“Then you wrote, Brock. The same old habit you’ve had all your life. You must learn to cure yourself of it, old chap. Do what work you have to do in the day. You really must not work at night. You think your brain is clearer then—it may be, it certainly used to be—but I tell you in all seriousness that you must not do it. You require, above all, quiet nights. If you go to sleep with your brain fagged out it is bound to react on the heart and give you beans. I implore you not to exert yourself mentally. You know I had to forbid hypnotism: I was sorry, because I know how it interests you—it would me if I could do it—but it’s awfully bad for you. By the way, I’ve forgotten to ask you—you haven’t done it since I stopped it, have you?”

Brocklehurst got up and rummaged in a drawer for something he apparently could not find.

“My dear Mac,” he said, with his head bent down over the papers, “how fussy you are! I’ve not even suggested it since you forbade it. I’ve not asked Gra once. Ask her—she’ll tell you.”

Mac noticed the clever way a lie was avoided, and bit his lip with fury.

“Ah well,” he said carelessly, lighting another cigarette, “that’s not necessary; you can do it without asking permission, you know. You hypnotized Mullen one night when he slept, do you remember? and didn’t you do the same once to Gra? I think you told me so, or she did. I remember something about it vaguely.”

Brocklehurst had suddenly become curiously still as the other began to speak, now he turned over the papers in the drawer hurriedly, making much noise of rustling and crackling.

“Oh, that! That was ages ago.” He laughed rather loudly. “I did it for an experiment, that’s all. Are you suggesting that I do that now? What for?” He ended irritably, and looked across at MacFarlane.

The latter lifted his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, with a very good imitation of indifference.

“Certainly not How could it enter my head that you’d be such a thundering fool! I simply remarked that permission wasn’t necessary. That’s always struck me as so wonderful, but then of course I don’t know even the rudiments of the business. No, old man, I simply want to warn you again not to do it. I know it’s damned hard when you were such a nailer at it, but for the present you must give it up. These lesions may heal—it’s not absolutely unknown—if you keep quiet, and then you’ll be able to do everything you want. But I was warning you not to forget that throwing out your whole will like that takes it out of you; it’s a terrible effort, I know—I’ve often taken your pulse, you see, after your experiments. In your present state, if you try on any of your games, it might have disastrous results, and I don’t think it fair to me not to take absolute care of yourself, and obey me in everything.”

Brocklehurst came away from the drawer, and flung himself back into his chair.

“Keep your hair on!” he said, with rather overdone jocularity. “I’m being quite a good little boy! No, Mac; I own I did work last night. It was wrong of me of course, but I had found out something new, and I had to work it out. I won’t do it again. Or if I do, not for a long time, then I won’t do it so strenuously. I give you my word of honour I won’t touch work for a week, anyway. Then I will do only a little. As for the hypnotic business you’re so bothered about—why, ask Gra; she can tell you. I hope these beastly lesions will heal, that’s all, because I am losing all interest in life: I can’t do anything I used to.”

“You’ve worked often at night?” asked Mac quietly.

Brocklehurst laughed rather uncomfortably and fidgeted.

“I’’m awfully sorry.” He twirled a paper-knife round and round. “I’’m afraid I must confess that I have. You see, Mac, I always did love doing things at night.”

“You have given me your word not to do any more—at least for a week?”

“Yes, I swear it.”

“You ought not to work at night at all, Brock.”

“I don’t think it will hurt me, really I don’t, if I take it easy. Look here. Give me once a week, old man, and I will content myself with that. What made me bad was that—well, the cat’s out of the bag now—I had been working night after night. Except the night before last, when I felt dead tired and gave it up, I have been at it for weeks.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” cried the doctor indignantly.

“Humph! Well, you will trust me now? I promise you to rest except once a week. I can’t give up everything, Mac, all at once. I’ve been very good, considering.”

“Very well. I trust you. You have never broken an oath yet that I know of. You will go for one week from to-day before you work again?”

“Yes; I swear.”

“Then, after that, you will go six clear days?”

“Yes; on my honour.”

“All right.”

MacFarlane heaved a sigh of relief. He had succeeded far better than he had hoped. He was bound to be content with the promise given. He knew it would be impossible to stop the plot altogether. Brocklehurst was not the man to give up what he had once set his heart on. That he would “work,” as he called it, only once a week was a wonderful concession. Mac clenched his hands when he thought how sure the man must be of the success of his scheme when he was ready to give up six days a week. Ah! of course that curious attack of Gra’s last night had confirmed him in his belief that the work of weeks had succeeded. Yes, that was it. Now evidently he thought that it was necessary to re-suggest to Gra’s brain his commands only occasionally—just to keep it fixed in her mind, as it were.

Mac felt more hopeful. Was not his will strong enough to undo the past? He would have six days to every one of Brocklehurst's. That was enough, surely, to suck out the poison of these last weeks?

This afternoon he could do nothing, he was far too tired; but to-morrow he would begin, and he would throw all his soul into the work. He doubted whether he had been strong enough the last few days—the fight of wills in the nights had been so exhausting. But now he would be able to rest, and his will must be stronger for the day séance. He knew that he could trust Brocklehurst. Before, he had never given his word; he had crawled ' out of the difficulty by subterfuges, saying that he promised never again to ask any one to be hypnotized. The doctor had seen the difficulty at the time, but did not realize what a pass it would get to. He was forced to be content with the present compromise. His unuttered prayer, night and day, now was “O God, may my extra time prove stronger than his greater power. May his suggestions weaken and mine strengthen. Help me.

CHAPTER VI

GRA was in a fever of excitement as she drove to the station to meet her mother, sister, and brother-in-law. She had not seen Fai for three long years, and her heart was hungering for the sight of her.

As the train appeared round the distant curve she clutched Cuthbert’s hand.

“Oh, Cuth, I’m bursting\” she cried.

Cuthbert pressed her hand tenderly.

“My darling! You are looking perfectly glorious,” he exclaimed. “I shall be jealous of Fai soon!”

But Gra could not hear. She had caught sight of a head at one of the windows, and she took a little run along the platform.

Out of the door tumbled Fai, almost before the train had stopped, and the twins were locked in each other’s arms. They were both utterly unconscious of strangers looking on; the Irish are as unself-conscious as the French—what did it matter to them? They had not kissed for three years !

Their mother stood beside them, waiting for her turn to greet her daughter. Tears of tenderness were in her eyes, which she blinked away quickly. Captain Barnes twirled his moustache and looked amused.

“Why, Fai, you’re fatter! You lamb! You do, do look well.”

She held her sister at arm’s length, her face was dimpling all over with smiles. Then she caught sight of her mother.

“Oh, Ladyship, I’m so sorry. How are you?”

She kissed her mother and shook hands heartily with her brother-in-law. The train moved out of the station.

Gra linked her arm in Fai’s as they moved down the platform.

“Have you brought a motor, Cuthbert?” asked Lady Ethersbury.

“Yes—the Mercèdes; there’s plenty of room for us all. There’s a bus for the maids and luggage.”

“Bill, will you see that everything is put on the bus?” cried the lady anxiously. “And please be careful of my tools.”

“Your tools?” exclaimed Gra. “What tools?”

Her mother stood by the motor, watching the boxes as they were brought out by the men.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you, dear? I’ve taken up—

That’s it, Bill. Tell him to put it inside, please, and not to bump it. Eh? Oh, wood-carving, Gra. You’ve no idea how interesting it is. I want you to give me a wee room as a workshop— some place where I can make a mess without worrying. I shall enjoy myself here, there are such lovely bits to copy. That door to the west terrace, for instance, there is a perfect bit of surface—eh? All in? Very well.”

They packed themselves into the huge motor, and it moved off.

Gra and Fai sat side by side, holding hands. Bill Barnes suddenly exploded with laughter.

“What is it?” asked his wife.

“You two. You’re just like two kids!”

Gra got pink.

“Well, why not? We shall be old soon enough. I’m not going to pretend to be stiff, and Englishy, and undemonstrative, to please any one.”

“That’s right, dear,” smiled Brocklehurst; “don’t be bullied. Bill’s only green with envy; don’t take any notice of him.”

“I shan’t! Fai, I feel as if we must talk for three months without stopping! Oh, I’ve such piles and piles of things to tell you, and to hear.”

Fai slipped her arm round her sister’s waist and squeezed it.

“I am so glad to be here,” she whispered. “India is jolly, and Bill’s an angel of light, but I do miss you horribly sometimes.”

Bill began to chaff again, but his mother-in-law pulled his arm.

“Oh, leave them alone,” she laughed; “it’s no good. They were always rolled up in each other’s arms as children—we’re quite used to it. Why on earth I had twins I can’t imagine—it’s not in the family. Pat didn’t come for five years, you know, and I was in such a fright it was going to be twins again.”

“How is Pat?” asked Cuthbert; “we haven’t had a letter for a fortnight.”

“I’ve had four telegrams—in answer to mine, to which I prepaid the replies! He’s in Paris, or was. Pat is one of those people who look upon Paris as the Continental Clapham Junction— change here for everywhere! Let’s see—yes, here is his last; it came two days ago.”

She produced a crumpled telegram from her bag and handed it to Brocklehurst. He grinned as he glanced over it, then he laughed outright.

“Surely you didn’t prepay all this?”

“Oh no. I paid for two francs’ worth, I think.”

“Urn—this is about eleven! Why on earth can’t he write a letter?”

“I don’t know. He seldom does. At Oxford, of course, he’s too busy, but I think he might when he’s abroad. What’s he say? I forget.” Cuthbert read out slowly:

“'Dear old mater. Got your wire, am all right. Going on to Switzerland. Paris beastly in August poodle,”—he stopped and frowned. “What does he mean? Oh, I see; I wish they’d put stops in telegrams. Now I’ve got it.,‘ Paris beastly in August. Poodle bought, prize pedigree. Can you get old Renfrew to pass him into England without that rotten quarantine? Left my strop behind, will you send, French ones beastly. Grimshaw sprained wrist. I’m quite fit. Pat.’ Humph! For sheer madness commend me to my dear brother-in-law!”

Gra had been bending forward to listen, and she laughed.

“Dear old Pat!” she cried. “He always did love telegrams. I’ve got one somewhere that I kept as a curiosity. We have never been able to make it out, and when he saw it he couldn’t explain it either. He had a sudden fit of economy and dropped all the pronouns, and several verbs ; it was something about a boat-race, and having broken a scull. As he spelt it with a k, we were in an awful fright, and sent a wild telegram back asking how he was.”

“Skull can be spelt either way,” said Brocklehurst.

“Oh, I know. Silly language. But scull can’t.”

“Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Captain Barnes. “Skull can, and scull can’t—it’s enough to make one’s brain reel! How are you, Brocklehurst? The letters before we left India frightened us. You look quite fit.”

Brocklehurst fidgeted; like most Englishmen, he disliked talking about his health.

“Oh, it’s all right. That is, it’s horrid. I have to be careful of everything—not allowed to ride even. Shan’t be allowed to shoot. Hateful. I’m ordered about like a child, and fussed over, and made to take medicines and things. I shall get all right, you see if I don’t!”

“Lady Ethersbury tells us that Dr. MacFarlane is with you.”

“Yes. I thought it wiser to have some one always on the spot, in case of emergency. It’s a good thing he’s there; he’s really jolly clever, you know. He pulled me out of a nasty attack last week, and I feel splendid now.”

“How on earth did you persuade him to come? He was doing awfully well in town, wasn’t he? ”

“ Oh, he’s very fond of us, you see, and I’ve made it worth his while. I have great confidence in him. Here we are. You’ll be glad of your tea, Ladyship, won’t you?”

Lady Ethersbury’s sons-in-law sometimes called her by the pet name used by her daughters. When the twins were tiny children they never addressed her in any other manner; hearing “her ladyship” so often in the mouths of the servants, they came to the conclusion that it was her name, and adopted it—no amount of correction could break them of it. And now they only called her “mother” when they were very serious about anything.

After tea Fai drew MacFarlane to a window alcove.

“You don’t look well, Mac,” she said anxiously; “what is it? Are you worrying about Cuthbert? How is he? I want you to tell me all about it.”

“He’s just the same. We have to be very careful, you know. Oh, I’m all right! I had influenza rather badly three weeks ago, and it left me somewhat pulled down, but I’m quite fit now. It’s rather a responsibility looking after Brock; one has to be awfully firm. You see he’s always been so active, and one has to nag and nag to get him to take reasonable care.”

Fai puckered her brow.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I can imagine it must be hard work. The last letter I got from Gra made me wretched, she seemed so bothered about him.”

“She’s better now; I hope I have taken a little of the weight off her shoulders. He does what I tell him, more or less, though I have to argue about every little thing. He can’t see that working too hard is just as bad for him as physical exertion. However, I’ve screwed a promise out of him at last, and I am easier in my mind.”

“You’re an angel, Mac, to give up your practice to come here.”

He fidgeted with the tassel of the blind.

“Oh, nonsense! Brock and I have been pals for nearly twenty years, and he seemed to have set his heart upon it.”

“But surely any careful, fairly experienced doctor would have done. I don’t mean to disparage your superior knowledge—you know that. But it seems, from what Gra told me, that only ordinary care and skill are necessary; isn’t that so?”

“So I thought at first. But I see now that more than that is needed.” A curious, bitter smile came to his mouth as he spoke, then he continued carefully: “I see that a very strong will is wanted to cope with Brock—he’s fearfully obstinate, you know. Also, for some reason or other, he has confidence in me. No—I feel sure now that no other man could have managed him.”

Fai held out her hand impulsively.

“You’re a good sort, Mac. Anyway, I thank you from my heart for what you are doing. I feel in my bones that you are doing more than any of us know.”

He started as he held the soft hand, then he laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.

“You can rely on me to do all I can,” he said lightly; then he turned the subject.

He did not wish Fai to get an inkling of what was going on, and he knew that he must be very careful, as she had an extraordinary amount of sensitiveness where Gra was concerned. The rapport between the twins was remarkable; over and over again each one had known what was happening to the other when miles of land or sea separated them.

When Gra’s baby had died, after only twelve hours’ illness, MacFarlane had seen how wonderful this telepathy was. Four hours after Wee Willie Winkie had breathed his last little gasping breath, Fai had arrived in London from Scotland. She had travelled right through without stopping, and he was in the hall when the footman opened the door to her.

She came straight across to him, her face was white and strained.

“ What is it?” she gasped, laying her hand on his arm. “Something has happened to Gra. I knew it; I’ve come straight through.”

He did not want anything of that kind to happen now—it could do no good, and it would drive Fai nearly mad with terror and anxiety.

Two nights after her arrival it was brought home to him what a hard task he had before him if he was to keep her in ignorance.

The week was up, and it was the night Brocklehurst was to “work.”

At midnight MacFarlane installed himself in the dressing-room and watched, and fought.

When Cuthbert was about to go back to bed the watcher closed the door quietly, crept across the room, opened the door into the passage, and— saw Fai in dressing-gown and slippers, bending by the bedroom door with her ear to the keyhole.

They both started violently, and he put his finger to his mouth with a faint “hush,” in an agony in case she cried out.

She came swiftly towards him.

“What is it?” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong. Is he ill?”

He took her arm and drew her along the passage, turning out the light as he passed it.

“We mustn’t speak here, he might hear us.”

He drew her into a spare room, and turned up the light. Then he sank into a chair. He was exhausted, as he always was after one of these secret excursions.

“Quick!” cried Fai, her hand on her heart. “Was he ill?”

He shook his head wearily.

“No; I was only watching in case he overworked . I often do. I’ve bored a hole in the in-between door, and I can see. For God’s sake, Fai, don’t let him know! It would undo everything.”

“Overwork?” she repeated dazedly.

“Yes.” He spoke very quietly and distinctly. “You see I can’t stop him altogether. I have tried my best, but it’s impossible. He always did work at night—all his articles have been written at night—he says his brain is clearer then. I caught him at it ten days ago, and I did not dare disturb him for fear of the fright—so I watched. Then last week he had that bad attack, and I got it out of him—he confessed that he’d been working. With some difficulty I managed to make him promise not to work more than once a week. Tonight the week was up, so I went down to watch.” Fai went across to him and laid her finger on his forehead, then she felt his neck-band.

“Mac, you are soaking!” she exclaimed. “What have you been doing? Don’t tell me that it’s only watching. You are a strong man; that wouldn’t make you in this state. Tell me.”

He thought a moment, then he looked up, and spoke with apparent openness:

"Well, Fai, I’ll tell you, but you must swear on your solemn word of honour to tell no one. No one, mind, not even Gra or Bill.”

“I give you my word, Mac—I swear.”

“Well, before I came here I went to Paris and went through a course of lessons in hypnotism. I believe in it firmly, and I think suggestion can often do good when everything else fails. I am trying it on—Brock. When he is working I try to counteract the harm it may do. I give out my strength, you see—I have a lot of superfluous strength—and I am trusting it may do good. I can't make him give up work, so this is all that I can do.”

Fai walked to the window, pulled the blind on one side, and stared out at the dark still night. The tears were running down her face. When she spoke her voice was low and broken:

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

He laughed a little huskily.

“Nonsense, Fai! There’s no question of life. It only takes it out of me a little. You see it is new for me, I’m not used to it; I probably give out far more than I need. I shall get more expert as I go on. Even now it’s not nearly so exhausting as the first time I tried it—ten days ago.”

“How is it,” asked Fai, “that he had that attack last week? Weren’t you there that night?”

Then MacFarlane had to lie again.

“Yes,” he said; “I had been there watching till two o’clock. He has never before started after that, and he was sleeping quietly. I thought it was safe, so left, and went up to bed. An hour after that Gra rang for me, and I found him unconscious. He must have mistaken the time and begun work after I’d gone; his vitality is very low then, and I was not there to help, so it exhausted him. I shall never forgive myself.”

“Nonsense! You’ve done more than any one in the world would do.”

“Now it is easier, you see. He has given me his oath to work only once a week, and he has never broken an oath. So I know where I am. I shall just go down on Wednesdays, and if he does not work that night, I shall watch the next, and so on.”

She nodded. Then she caught hold of his arm.

“Can’t I help, Mac? I am very strong, and can do without much sleep. I could watch for you, then if he started work I could fly up and call you. Do let me. I should like to do something.”

“My dear girl, no! I am quite capable of doing it. It’s only once a week now. If it had been every night I might have accepted your help.” He smiled to himself.

“But,” argued Fai, “I should like to do it. I should feel I was helping just a little.”

He frowned. How was he to get out of this quandary? Then a brilliant idea struck him, and he spoke quickly:

“There is one thing you have forgotten that makes it utterly impossible, Fai. You know that there is such an extraordinary telepathy between you and Gra that the very fact of your being there, close by her, would be bound to wake her. She would come to the door; then—the fat would be in the fire!”

“Urn—goodness! Yes. I had forgotten that. What a nuisance! Oh yes, you're right, it would never do. I might knock over something in scrambling away in the dark. I am sorry; I should have loved to help you.”

He looked relieved.

“Yes, I know. But there is really very little to do now. I can easily stand once a week.”

He shivered violently as he spoke, and Fai cried out.

“Oh, what a brute I am!” she exclaimed. “Here I am talking of helping you and I can't even see that you're catching your death of cold. Selfish beast! Go up at once, Mac, and take brandy and things. Go!”

He got up stiffly.

“All right; don’t worry. I always have a hot bath after these séances, and that makes me quite fit again. Good night—or good morning rather. Mind, you have sworn not to tell my secret to a living soul. And, Fai, don’t think about it when Brock is present; he’s got an uncanny habit of reading thoughts sometimes.”

“Very well. Now do hurry. And, Mac, I shall love you all my life for your angelic goodness,” she ended, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Don’t be absurd! That is the exaggerated sentiment of the hour—to-morrow you’ll see that I am doing nothing out of the way. After all I am paid for being the doctor of the house, and it is only my duty. Good night, run off to bed.” They parted in the passage, and MacFarlane went thoughtfully back to his own rooms.

“I think it’s all right,” he muttered, as he prepared the bath. “It was rather a shock to find her there, but I fancy she believes me. That’s the best of a lie that’s partly the truth! How I hated lying, though! Well, it can’t be helped; she must be kept in ignorance. Brock would find out, to a dead certainty, if she knew it.”

The stable clock struck three.

CHAPTER VII

WANE’S FERRY cheered up with the infusion of new blood. Gra gave various entertainments, and sent out invitations for a large garden party for the first of August. She got back her old gaiety, and MacFarlane, as he watched her, rejoiced that these people had come. She had been getting too dismal, she needed waking up. He conspired with Fai to egg on her sister, suggesting that they should have more guests in the house. Gra, when this was mooted, acquiesced cheerfully, and consulted with Fai as to whom she should ask. In the old days she had liked a houseful; it was only the terrible anxiety hanging over her head that had lately made her feel as if she could never be gay again. Fai had been horrified at her sister’s grave face. Two days after her arrival she had scolded.

“Gra, dear, you have changed so much. You are so fearfully grown-up now.”

Gra smiled feebly.

“Of course I am,” she answered, with a little sigh. “Wouldn’t you be grown-up if you had all this to think of?”

“I know it’s awful—but you really ought to try and put it away from you, and not think of it. Thinking can’t make it any better, and I’m sure it must worry Cuth if he sees you looking miserable. He ought to be thoroughly cheered and kept amused. We all feel how horrible the whole thing is, but it doesn’t help matters if we go about with long faces!”

“I haven’t a long face,” said Gra wearily.

“Well, you’re not exactly gay! You never open the piano now, I hear—I asked Mac—and you hardly ever ride.”

“Of course I don’t. Cuth is forbidden to ride, and I always did hate going out with only a groom. Mac or I must always be in the house, so he can’t come with me.”

“Why don’t you ask Sir Wilfred? You used often to go out with him. He’s down here now, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“Why ‘ but ’? Is anything the matter?”

“Urn—m.”

“What?”

“Well, he—oh, Fai, I can’t go out alone with him any more-”

“Oh, it’s come, has it!” was Fai’s only reply.

“You knew?”

“Of course I did. Any one with eyes in her head could see he was in love with you. But when I left he’d stood it for a year or so, and I thought he never would say anything. He’s one of those highly virtuous young men who thinks that ‘ to look on a woman to,’ etc., etc., and I felt sure he would ‘ hide his broken heart, and wear a smiling face, and do all the other correct things! ”

“How cruel you are, Fai! I hate you bringing cheap cynicism to bear on poor Wilfred. He is good. he may be a tiny weeny bit grown-up, but he’s really a good sort. He would never have said anything only there was an accident. Oh Fai! it was quite like the Family Herald!”

Gra’s sense of humour was never very far from the surface, and now she chuckled hopefully.

Fai drew her chair nearer.

“Do tell me!”

“Well, it’s mean, but it’s only you, and you never tell things. I was riding Gnome, and he ran away with me—this was last autumn. Wilfred came tearing after in quite the approved manner. We were on the downs, and Gnome seemed to thoroughly enjoy it. I don’t believe he’d been frightened at all—it was sheer exuberance of spirit, he thought he’d be wicked for the fun of the thing! I gave him his head, sat tight, and spoke soothingly to him—or as soothingly as I could when the words were jerked out of my mouth by an animal going about thirty miles an hour. I wasn’t a bit frightened, but Wilfred was. He yelled instructions from behind, some of which I heard, some were lost in the sound of the galloping hoofs. (Aren’t I telling this nicely? quite literary.) Then Wilfred cut off a corner, as it were, and came across close by Gnome’s head. Poor Gnome, who was only enjoying himself up till then, had a violent attack of nerves, swerved all over the place, caught his foot in a hole, and came down wallop! (Oh, I don’t think ‘ wallop ’ is good at all! ‘ Came down with a ghastly thud ’ would be better!) I took my foot out of the stirrup as it happened, and rolled clear. As I fell I heard a blood-stained cry from Wilfred. I suppose it stunned me a little, because I awakened to the fact that he was hugging me with wild incoherence, calling himself a brute (with adjectives), and kissing my left ear and the brim of my hat alternately! ”

Fai was laughing helplessly.

“Well?”

“Oh, well, I sat up, and pretended not to notice that there were tears in his eyes, and that he was calling me darling, and so on. I started to talk in a high commonplace voice, said I wasn’t hurt— and altogether behaved quite properly! But I won’t go out alone with him again, there might be another accident, and he might become too sentimental to ignore! Poor dear, I’m very sorry for him, though I can’t help laughing.”

“Never mind, it will do him good. He needed waking up.”

A footman opened the door and came up to Gra.

“Yes?” she inquired.

“Please, mum, her ladyship has asked for a ladder.”

“Eh?”

“A ladder, mum. She says she wants it placed by the door to the west terrace; she is going to copy the carving, mum. Rivers told me to ask you, mum, if I’d better not give her ladyship these library steps; he thinks as how it might be safer, mum, as they’ve padded feet, and they can’t slide, and— and—they’ve got a broader top like.”

Fai burst into a wild shriek of laughter. Gra tried to keep a grave face, but one look at the unnaturally severe mouth of the footman broke down her resolution, and it was with a wide grin that she told him to take the steps, and watched him carry them away. As the door shut, she buried her face in a cushion and gasped.

“Oh!” cried Fai, wiping her eyes, “oh, Gra! ‘ they’ve got a broader top like ’—oh dear, oh dear!”

They were like two children, gurgling and shaking with laughter.

Presently Fai got up.

“Quick, Gra, come along. We must go and see the installation. We can hide by the armoury —quick!”

Hand in hand they sped from the library, and wended their way cautiously to the west corridor. Here they crept along quietly till they stood hidden in the deep doorway leading to the old armoury, whence they peeped, trusting to the dark shadow to hide them.

Lady Ethersbury was standing there, covered from shoulders to feet in a holland overall. Clemson, her maid, was holding a drawing-board and pencils. Rivers, the sedate butler, was gazing with troubled brow, first at the rotund figure of his mistress’s mother, then at the library steps which the footman was placing close against the door, directed by the would-be artist’s pointing finger.

“Wait a moment, Darton,” cried Rivers suddenly.

“I’d better lock the door first, your ladyship—it opens inwards.’’

Gra and Fai covered their mouths, and clung to each other in an ecstasy of amusement.

Just then they heard footsteps in the corridor behind them, and peeped, to find Cuthbert bearing down upon them. They both pantomimed wildly to him for silence, and he joined them on tiptoe.

Gra drew down his head and whispered, and he grinned.

“They came for the library steps, Cuth,” added Fai in his other car; “Rivers thought as how they’ve got a broader top like!”

Gra put her hand over his mouth as it opened, and smothered the laugh. Then the three conspirators peered forth again, to find her ladyship being helped up the steps by Rivers’s respectful hand.

“That’s all right,” she said, a little out of breath. “Now, Rivers, if you will kindly hold me firmly while I turn. No; I think you’d better put your arm round my—er—dress.”

Rivers solemnly clutched her ladyship’s knees.

“How I’d love to be in the housekeeper’s room at lunch-time!” whispered Fai.

The artist turned slowly and carefully, then sat herself on the top of the steps with a little bang.

“There!” she cried triumphantly, “now it’s all safe. Hand me the board, Clemson; yes, and the pencils and rubber. Oh, have you forgotten the measure and compasses? No? Where are they, then? Oh, so I have—I didn’t see. Thank you,

Rivers, I am quite comfortable now. It was a good idea of yours to get these steps. No, thanks, I shan’t want anything else. Clemson, you had better wait within call; I don’t fancy I could manage to get down alone. You can get a book and sit in the window-seat over there.”

Clemson, who had been with her mistress for twenty years, usually had a very stern and very pale face. As she turned away now the three watchers could see that it was sterner than ever, but of a most unusual colour; in fact, as Gra remarked, she looked apoplectic.

“It must be a dormant sense of humour which we never suspected,” whispered Cuthbert. “I’m much obliged to you girls for letting me into this; I haven’t been so amused for months!”

Lady Ethersbury had the drawing-board prised between her knees and the overdoor, and was measuring busily, with her eyes screwed up and her tongue between her teeth like an anxious child.

“Isn’t she too sweet for words?” said Gra.

“Let’s go and talk to her.”

“All right; but we must come along the corridor so that she can hear. We mustn’t startle her, or · she might fall!”

“Go away! I’m busy,” cried their mother as she heard them coming.

“We only came to see if you were comfy, Ladyship,” said Gra.

“I’m as comfortable as I can be on these steps,” laughed she. “It’s not exactly an easy chair!

However, it’s worth it. This will make a wonderful study. I don’t quite know how I’m going to reproduce the worn effect, but well see when I get to work on the carving.”

“Wouldn't you like a cushion to sit on?”

“My dear Cuthbert, you are very kind to think of it; I wish I had before I sat down. Now I fear it is impossible; I’m fixed. Now do go away, all of you. Clemson is going to stay near me. I am busy and can’t talk. You may think this is only a fad, but it isn’t; I am taking it up seriously, and am deeply interested in it. I only wish that I had taken it up years ago—it would have filled my life with enjoyment. I could always draw, you know, so that part is not difficult. As for the carving, my master says I am very clever at it. Now do go. Good-bye!”

Gra linked her arm in her husband’s, and led him and her sister to the rose-garden.

“Isn’t she perfectly delicious!” cried Cuthbert. “This is about the twentieth fad she’s had since I knew her.”

“Let’s count,” said Fai, sinking lazily into a wicker chair. “First, when we were born, religion; then Ibsen; then Greek vases.”

“No,” interrupted Gra; “the microscope came before Greek vases.”

“So it did! Then came history, botany, preserve-making, High Art (capital letters of course !), languages—oh, and hundreds of others; I can’t remember their order! Then, during the South African War the whole house was filled with bandages, and she went through the ambulance class. I fancy she was thinking of going out as a nurse, but luckily those awful bead necklaces became the rage, and her whole time was occupied in sending to Venice and Cairo and places for beads, and threading them when they came. We all went about as kind of Maud Allens.”

“My dear Fai!”

“Well, a little more drapery of course, but we were positively overweighted with beads. Oh, she’s delightful! The beauty of it is that she never keeps it up long enough for one to get bored with it, and there’s a charming excitement of uncertainty always as to what the next thing will be. It may be an expedition to the North Pole, or making artificial flowers. A month ago it was breeding dogs: poor Pat was sent all over the country to find prize pedigree animals. Then she saw Mrs. Granton’s wood-carving, Clemson tells me, and started feverishly on lessons with a greasy little Italian with a squint.”

“What are you all talking about?” asked MacFarlane as he sauntered towards them: “you look very amused.”

Fai explained, and made him laugh over the “broader top like.” Then the four wandered off to the copse to enjoy the beautiful green coolness of its shade.

Gra and MacFarlane walked in front, and Fai chattered to her brother-in-law.

“Isn’t this perfect?” she cried as they entered the wood, putting up her face and sniffing. “ Such a glorious fresh-earthy smell. Don’t you love it?”

He did not answer, and she glanced up at him, to find a face white and hard, and eyes staring straight before him. She followed the direction of his gaze and saw MacFarlane bending and disentangling a bramble from Gra’s dress. She was looking down at his fair head with a curiously sad expression, then the bramble evidently caught her heel, and she steadied herself by putting a hand on his shoulder. He flinched visibly, and Gra withdrew her hand quickly. That was all, and if it had not been for the stern face by her side Fai would not have remarked anything unusual. Now she bit her lips and thought.

Was Cuthbert jealous? If so, why had he asked MacFarlane to live with them? Was MacFarlane in love with Gra? That sudden movement as her hand touched him certainly looked like it, and Gra’s face had worn a queer look as she watched him. What was the meaning of it all? Surely Cuthbert would not have asked his friend to come here if he had suspected anything—yet why had he looked like that? Perhaps it was only lately that MacFarlane had—yet no, it was not likely that a man who had known Gra for over six years would suddenly alter his feelings like that. No; if he loved her it must have been so for years. Then why had Cuthbert not known it before? She knew how clever he was at reading people—he had told her about Bill before she knew it herself. Then—well, she must think it out in peace; she could not think now, with that man walking by her side seething with an internal tempest. She could feel that all was not well; his thoughts seemed to disturb the atmosphere. She felt uncomfortable; the same thrill was in her nerves as was there before a storm.

She tried to talk, and with a great effort of will she shook her troubled thoughts from her mind. He must not know that she had seen anything; no, he must never know. In the meanwhile she would watch: she did not like that expression his face had borne—it looked too much like a threat.

She gave a little shiver, and plunged into wild hilarity, hoping he would not see that it was forced.

CHAPTER VIII

AMONGST the visitors who now came to stay at Wane’s Ferry was Captain Barnes’s youngest sister, a girl of eighteen, exceedingly pretty in a fair fluffy way, tall and “ willowy” (this was a word she used herself), and very sentimental.

People who did not know her well were apt to declare that she was affected, but, as a matter of fact, her sentiment was perfectly natural. Her favourite reading was books of knight-errantry, and poetry—Tennyson standing easily first. She was intensely good-natured, and nothing she liked better than to do little things for those around her.

She was bitterly disappointed when she found that she could do nothing for her host. She had been told about his state of health, and on her way down to Wane’s she had glowed in anticipation of the work before her. She would bring in his beef-tea herself—all invalids had beef-tea— she would make him delightful jellies, and thrill when she saw him eating them. There was no end to her little plans for easing him.

And lo! the supposed invalid was a huge, apparently robust man, who ate nearly as every one else did, and who never thought of beef-tea or jelly. It was a cruel blow!

Fai, who understood her sister-in-law fairly well, knew what was passing in her mind, and in a spirit of mischief gave her a hero to worship. She chose somewhat grandiloquent language, and told the girl that MacFarlane had given up his career to come and live with his friend and try to save his life.

This was quite enough for Norah. If MacFarlane had been small and plain she would have still seen the knight beneath the rugged exterior; but as he was good-looking, with a splendid, athletic figure, she promptly fell into an ecstatic state of silent worship. When he spoke to her she blushed, when he shook hands she thrilled. One day he cut a white rose-bud and gave it to her as she happened to be walking by his side. She wore it (having first removed the thorns) next her heart for two days, then pressed it in her Tennyson, between the leaves of the “Morte d’Arthur.”

Soon every one in the house became aware of the comedy being enacted under their eyes — every one, that is to say, but the gentleman in question.

MacFarlane’s whole soul was bound up in one woman, and though he was polite, and laughed and talked with others, he was almost unconscious as to whether they were pretty or plain, young or old. Now and then, quite suddenly, he would seem to realize the personal appearance of some one, and would make illuminating remarks on the subject to Gra, Fai, or Cuthbert, much to their amusement—amusement somewhat sardonic on Brocklehurst’s part.

One day he was sitting with Fai, Gra, and her husband on the west terrace. Most of the guests were playing tennis in the courts far away on the south-east side of the gardens; now and then their cries could be heard, softened by distance. On the stretch of turf in front of the terrace Norah Barnes was playing Jeu de Grâces with a youth from Oxford, a friend of Pat Ethersbury’s. This person was convinced of his own immense importance, and considered Jeu de Grâces a “rotten” game; but he was flattered when Norah asked him to play, and acquiesced. He thought he was very much in love with her. Norah loved the game because it was romantic and graceful, and—principally—because it had been played in those dear old days when men wore satin coats and lace ruffles.

She was fairly expert, and tossed the rings high in the air with swift movements of the sticks. She always caught the return ring, but young Lorrimer, her partner, missed many, and had to run about to retrieve them.

MacFarlane, with the others on the terrace, was watching the game, and presently he seemed to become aware of Norah’s personality.

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” he remarked, leaning forward the better to see the flight of one of Norah’s highest casts.

“Yes, we think so,” answered Fai; “she’s very much admired.”

“She’s exactly like a Greuze,” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

A slow colour mounted to Gra’s face, and she turned away her head quickly, but not before her husband had noted the flash in her eyes. A smile flickered quickly over his mouth, and an expression of almost devilish cunning lightened his eyes.

“You’re quite right, Mac,” he said slowly, “she is exactly like a Greuze. That halo of fluffy hair, and the little pointed chin, and the big eyes, half mischief, half melancholy, the wistful droop to the mouth. It’s that Greuze in the Louvre, isn’t it?”

“Yes; one of my favourite pictures!” MacFarlane was quite animated. “I’d no idea she was so lovely; and that game shows her off so well.”

“That is why she plays it!”

Fai glanced quickly at Gra; it was not like her sister to make a spiteful speech like that. Her suspicions of the week before came back to her mind, and she half closed her eyes and watched. She saw Gra’s heightened colour, and Cuthbert’s sardonic expression. Only Mac looked natural. Innocently he went on.

“Oh, I don’t think that! To me she seems quite unself-conscious—that’s one of her charms.”

“And she’s so delightfully young!” This from Brocklehurst. “Only eighteen: all life before her! Ah, what wouldn’t we give to be eighteen again!”

“I should not care about it at all,” exclaimed Gra. “I am twenty-six, and I much prefer being twenty-six to eighteen. I know I was absurdly silly when I was eighteen.”

“Ah yes,” said MacFarlane; “ one can’t have knowledge and the freshness of extreme, youth as well—that would be idealic, wouldn’t it? But I know what Brock means—there is a fascination about youth that is hard to ignore. We may have been foolish, ignorant, unsophisticated when young, but think how enthusiastic we were!”

“I think it would be difficult to beat your present enthusiasm, Mac!” Gra laughed, but it was a hard laugh, and MacFarlane noticed it, and glanced quickly at her.

“Oh, well, I’ve kept some of my enthusiasm, I’m glad to say,” he said lightly. “I don’t think one need become soured and grumpy because one is old.”

“No. Even at twenty-six I can still feel.”

He again looked at her, and this time he noticed the primly pursed mouth, and wondered what was the matter. But he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“A great age, truly! What would you say if you were forty-three?”

“Oh, for a man it does not matter. But we poor women must always be young, or—”

She made an expressive gesture with her thumb turned downwards.

“What rot! How can you say that when women are marrying so much older nowadays?

Why, it’s rare to hear of a young girl marrying.

“Marrying? Yes. Oh yes, men usually choose the sensible women to marry, not the giddy girls. But the girls apparently get the admiration and enthusiasm!”

“I don’t agree.”

“Oh, well, I suppose I oughtn’t to talk.” Gra got up and stretched with elaborate laziness. “ I was married before I was twenty.”

Brocklehurst joined in the conversation, laughing a little.

“Ah, but I was lucky! I got the sensible woman and the freshness of youth combined.”

His wife made him a little bow, and threw him a smile. Then his heart smote him for his cruelty, and he said quietly:

“For my part I think you, and also Fai, are far better looking now than you were at nineteen. Don’t you agree with me, Mac?”

“Quite. To my mind no amount of youth is equal to the beautiful look of—of—er, I don’t know how to express it. There’s an unawakened look about extreme youth that may fascinate blasé men, but it’s not to be compared to the softness and je ne sais quoi that a woman develops when she has lived and known life.”

“Hear, hear!” laughed Fai. “A beautiful thought, though somewhat stammeringly put! You’re getting on, Mac! After making two old married women positively green with jealousy over your sayings about youth, you have mollified them and made them feel purry-purry. Come on, Gra, let’s go down and see what they’re doing at the courts.”

She slipped her arm through her sister’s and drew her down the steps.

“So!” she said quietly, as they entered the rose-garden.

“So what?”

“My dear Gra, do you think that we are twins for nothing? Have we not known each other’s secrets all our lives?”

Gra’s arm gave a sudden movement, but Fai’s held it closer.

“I don’t know what you mean!”·—with supreme nonchalance.

“How long have you loved him?”

Gra gasped; this was an open attack that made her quake.

“Who, what—” she began, but Fai whisked round and confronted her.

“Oh, Gra!” There were tears in her eyes. “Has my long absence destroyed all the confidence you had for twenty-three years? Darling, I am just as true and loyal as ever; won’t you trust me?”

Then Gra broke down and sobbed, and, sitting on a stone seat by the dragon fountain, she opened her heart to her sister, and felt considerably relieved after she had done so.

“Norman architecture has ruined your life!” was Fai’s bitter remark when her twin had done.

“Nonsense! It was the beautiful ignorance of youth that every one was gushing about just now. Cuthbert was very fascinating, and I was flattered and pleased that a man of his standing should like me. I mistook these feelings for love, and I was quite happy. You know I was. How can one know the difference before one has experienced it—eh?”

Fai was thoughtful. She dragged her finger in and out of the old moss-grown stone carving.

“Gra, Cuth is jealous.”

“My dear Fai, you’re mad! Cuth does not for one moment suspect.”

“I say he does. I’ve watched him.” Then she told what she had seen in the copse a week ago.

But Gra laughed at her; called it imagination; said she knew Cuthbert, and could read him like a book; got rather cross, and pooh-poohed the whole idea. Fai shut her lips obstinately; she knew what she knew, and nothing would alter her opinion. She was uneasy. Now that part of her suspicions was proved to be correct, she felt perfectly sure that she was equally correct in all. Cuthbert was jealous, and he had some deep-laid plan. What was it? She was now aware, through Gra’s confidence, that the feelings of Mac and her sister were not of recent growth—they had been the same for six years. Therefore it could be no sudden knowledge on Cuthbert’s part. If he knew now he had always known. It could be no fresh act on their part that had illumined him. She believed Gra when she said that they had made up their minds to be “good,” as she expressed it. She had solemnly sworn that Mac had kissed her three times only in the six long years. En passant she wondered how they could be so wonderful, but that was neither here nor there.

What she was puzzling over was Cuthbert’s action in the matter.

Gra, when repudiating her sister’s suggestion, had very justly remarked, “Why should Cuth make Mac come here if he knew?”

Why indeed? That was the question Fai kept asking herself, and ever it remained unanswered. It was not as if he did not love his wife. No one, however foolish, could suggest such a thing. He worshipped her as much now as on their wedding-day. Fai had often thought that his love was almost medieval in its strength, a love the knights of old might have had for the maidens they rescued from untold dangers; not a love one saw nowadays—it was fierce, and strong, and overmastering, and she had often felt afraid when she had thought of it.

Ah! Perhaps that held the explanation. Perhaps he wanted to keep the two under observation, thinking that nothing could happen while he was there to guard against it. Yet that seemed idiotic—it would be better surely to separate them, to give them no opportunities for seeing each other. Did he want Mac to suffer, knowing well that his wife’s virtue was beyond question? Yes, that seemed more logical, knowing his character as she did, than any other of her suppositions.

Then suddenly she turned quite cold, and shivered. Could he mean to kill Mac? Oh no! oh no! he could not be so horrible! She threw the thought from her indignantly, but it came back again and again. In the dead of night she would wake with the terror of it, and lie shaking with fear. Each time she told herself that she was a fool, but each time something inside her brain said, “But why have him here, then? ”

She took to watching her brother-in-law when Mac was present, but always from a coign of vantage whence she could see but not be seen; she was afraid of Cuthbert reading her thoughts. When she was with him she, by sheer force of will, fixed her mind on other subjects. She wanted to watch, but would not for the world have him know that he was being studied.

She saw nothing to confirm the theory. The two men were undoubtedly fond of one another. Cuthbert could not act to that extent. When they were alone he was thoroughly natural and unaffectedly “chummy”; when Gra joined them a faint shadow would flit across her husband’s face, and he would draw within himself as it were, but still Fai could detect no threat in his expression. Only that once in the wood had there been the slightest sign of it. No; there was a curious look in his eyes sometimes when he regarded his friend, but it was hardly violent—more a certainty of revenge of some unknown kind.

Possibly he was jealous of the future; he would hate the idea of his wife marrying when he was dead—and he had been told he might die suddenly. Possibly, knowing MacFarlane’s integrity and honesty, he had given him the task of keeping him alive out of revenge.

Suddenly Fai felt that she was enlightened. That was the explanation; she had no doubt whatever now. How cruel! It reminded her of some lover of old planning torture for a rival. And Mac had taken up the task to be near Gra, and help her as no strange doctor could help her.

Fai stared out into the darkness of her bedroom and shuddered violently. Much thinking had enabled her to guess. She felt easier, but very, very unhappy. Poor, poor Mac!

CHAPTER IX

IT is so much easier to suffer martyrdom for some great idea than to endure patiently the idiosyncrasies of one’s companions.

Gra’s life was made a burden to her by her mother’s fad for wood-carving, Just as in the old days of girlhood the whole house was turned topsy-turvy by Lady Ethersbury’s fads, so was it now. To the looker-on it was doubtless amusing, but to the lady’s daughters and maid the matter became somewhat wearisome.

She was so fond of boasting that she never wasted time, but she did not appear to mind whom else she wasted. Her maid became thin and haggard, her daughters’ foreheads developed creases of worry; she herself was always cheerful—that aggressive cheerfulness that troublesome people seem to cultivate. Cheerfulness is no more a sign of unselfishness than a wig is of hair. A wig is meant to hide deficiencies.

Nothing disturbed her; she combined modern emotions with primitive nerves. Her daughters could never remember her having been “upset,” not even over the accidents of childish days—the accidents that usually make mothers weep with sympathy as they bind up the cuts and bruises.

Withal no one could say that her ladyship was a bore in the ordinary acceptation of the term. People were delighted to have her as one of a house-party; she made people laugh. She passed for being witty and epigrammatic, and she never divulged that her epigrams were accidental, and that often she could not see at what her friends were laughing.

Fai, wearied out, entered Gra’s sitting-room, and flung herself into a chair.

“I’m dead beat,” she groaned. “Ladyship has been driving Clemson and me mad. She’s come to the conclusion that the over-door she was doing is too heavy for wood-carving, and we’ve both, aided by Sawyer, been streaming after her with paper, pencils, compasses, ladders, cushions, and goodness knows what, for over an hour.”

“My dear, why didn’t you call me?” cried Gra, much distressed. “I’ve been free for an hour, and I wondered where you were.”

“Oh, it’s my turn!” laughed Fai. “You had her yesterday. I wish that one could give her something to make her less feather-brained! She treats life as some women treat shops — places to enter hurriedly, to stare about in, and finger things. It’s awful. Gra, I believe she is getting tired of this carving already. She stood in front of the tapestry in the Oriel room for ten minutes this morning, feeling it and wondering what needles and wool were used. She also wondered if there were any teachers of the work nowadays. If she starts tapestry you will have no peace.”

“Gra!” called Lady Ethersbury, from the door.

“ Oh, here you are. I’m so tired, my very bones ache! My dear, I cant find a bit that’s suitable. It’s like life—all the nice bits seem out of reach, or so dusty that one would get positively black touching them.”

Gra chuckled. That it was unconscious wit did not spoil the speech in the least.

“Dusty!” she cried; “why on earth don’t the servants clean properly?”

“ Oh, it’s not their faults. They can’t get at the armoury roof.”

Her daughter exclaimed:

“Oh, I haven’t been up—yet. But I looked through Cuthbert’s strong glasses, and I can see it is thick with dust. However, I shall have to try and get up. There’s a lovely little tracery of vines and heads, just suitable for my work.”

“But, my dear mother, how do you propose to get up there? It would require a thirty-foot ladder.” Lady Ethersbury sighed.

“That’s what I came to consult you about. I thought that, if Cuthbert did not object, I could have a kind of pulley arrangement fixed up, and they could haul me up in a chair.”

Gra and Fai covered their faces and shrieked with laughter. They pictured the sight vividly. Their mother measured thirty inches round her exceedingly well kept waist, and forty-eight round her bust.

“Oh, I know it would not be exactly dignified,” said the lady complacently, “but one ought not to consider dignity on occasions like these. I’m sure, Gra, all the knights and people you admire so much could not have always appeared dignified when they were climbing up towers and things to rescue distressed damsels! I regard dignity as I regard Chinese white in painting—a little is very nice, but lumped on it spoils things. I am dignified enough in the ordinary course of things! Your poor father used to say I walked like the Sphinx—no, I don’t mean that exactly” (as she noticed her daughters’ faces), “but it was something to do with the Sphinx anyway! But I must consult Cuthbert about this pulley arrangement.”

“ If the papers get to hear of it they will manage to get reporters into the house somehow,” laughed Fai, “and you will be snapshotted. Then there will be pictures in the society journals with ‘ one of our most charming aristocrats at work.’ How will you like that?”

“My dear child, I think it will not be so bad as Lady Kretstone, who appeared in The Sketch the other day in a group with her eleven children.”

Gra and Fai became hysterical.

“What have I said?” queried their mother, smiling feebly.

“Ladyship, you’ll be the death of me!” gasped Fai, rolling her head about on a cushion.

“Besides, he could only photograph my feet.” Lady Ethersbury was pursuing the idea of the reporter. “That is, unless he got into the gallery, and we could keep that door locked. I don’t see how my feet could interest anybody—that is, of course I mean the public. As a matter of fact, your father always said that my feet were my great feature—no, I don’t mean that—I mean that he admired them. I think feet are going off nowadays—oh, for goodness’ sake don’t laugh at everything I say! You know quite well what I mean. Look at the feet one sees protruding beneath those disgusting tight dresses! Horrors! simply horrors! By the way, I saw a woman fall flat on her nose the other day when she was trying to get into a cab! She forgot she had on a tied-in dress. The cabman was unsympathetic; he called out to another that ‘ if women would mistake their dresses for navvies’ trousers what could they expect?’ I had to ask Mr. Denis, who was with me, what navvies did to their trousers. He said that they tie them round the knees. But what was I talking about? Oh yes, the pulley. I must go and find Cuthbert, and ask him if he thinks I could arrange it. Where is he? Do you know?” “Talking to Butson, I think.”

“Oh dear, then he won’t want to be interrupted! What a nuisance agents are! Pennington always wants to speak to me when I am most occupied. However, it’s nearly lunch-time, so I suppose I must wait till the afternoon.”

“Have you tried the jambs of the mantelpiece in the Pomegranate room?” asked Gra anxiously.

“Yes, I have. The design is all right, but it’s got a ridiculous Latin motto running through it, ‘ Labor omnia vincit,’ and if I exhibited that it would look like boasting!”

“But, my dear Ladyship, it would be a copy: every one could see that it was in the original.”

“No, my dear, they wouldn’t Ill-natured people would say I’d put it in! Oh, I know them! Why, when Mrs. Cottersfield painted that lovely view of her house people said that the doves on the west gable were painted to give people the erroneous impression that the Cotters-fields lived in exquisite peace—whereas they quarrel like cat and dog, as every one knows. Oh, you’ve no idea how horrid people are. Oh, there’s the gong—is my hair straight?”

Of course Cuthbert tried all he could to prevent his mother-in-law carrying out her mad project, but she was obstinate, and, short of refusing his permission for the pulley to be erected, which he was far too good-natured to do, there was no way of stopping her.

There were seven people staying in the house exclusive of relations, and intense interest was exhibited in the affair. Norah Barnes giggled whenever she looked at Lady Ethersbury, and spent her time in watching the workmen putting up the foundation for the pulley, and waiting in intense excitement for the “hauling operation” as she called it. She and young Lorrimer—her faithful follower—often put their heads together and whispered.

From her brother she had heard of the conversation between Lady Ethersbury and her two daughters, and the idea of a reporter photographing the lady on her high perch fired Lorrimer’s mischievous imagination.

“I say, Norah,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “wouldn’t it be fun if I disguised myself and got into the gallery when she’s up, and ‘ interviewed ’ her from there, and took a snapshot?”

Norah gazed at him solemnly.

“Dicky, you’re a genius! Do you think you could do it?”

“Of course I could! I often act at Oxford. You would have to steal the key for me, as they are going to lock the gallery door. You must go with Mrs. Brocklehurst, or whoever goes to lock it, and must find out where they put the key. Í shall be waiting for you. No! I tell you! I’ll get in before they lock it, then you can let me out afterwards. See? She proposes to start work to-morrow morning. I’ll go off after breakfast for a ride, then I’ll ride back and dismount at the stables, and I’ll slip in by the terrace door, and up to my room, and make up. Hurrah! What fun it will be!”

“I hope she won’t be startled, and fall out,” said Norah, looking anxious.

“You must be there, and you must suggest that she is bound into the chair in case of accidents.”

“All right. Oh, Dicky, I hope I shan’t laugh! We’re all going to be there. Even fat old Mr. Jefferson is interested.”

Lady Ethersbury was very much flattered at the excitement she was causing. She superintended the workmen, and suggested many, more or less impracticable, improvements in the machinery.

The next morning, after breakfast, she disappeared to her room, and reappeared clothed in workmanlike overall, with a cap on her head.

“ I know that they have dusted the place, dear Gra,” she said, “but I thought that there might be some left—there always is. You know those people who have an extraordinary person called a ‘ charwoman.’ She scrubs and scrubs, and the place looks spotless, but the person herself is always cleaning and never clean. Dust is like something or other in the Bible—always with us. I don’t want to get smothered. Now let’s go.”

“Don’t you feel nervous, Ladyship?” asked Fai.

“No, not a bit. I saw that fat workman hauled up last night. The ropes are strong enough to bear dozens of people.’’

They wended their way to the armoury, followed by the rest of the visitors, most of these trying hard to hide their smiles.

The gardener and two of the grooms were on the spot to pull the lady up. The ropes ran easily over pulleys, and a comfortable chair was lashed into a kind of cradle of ropes. By the side of the chair was fixed a box which held the whole of the paraphernalia the worker found necessary. She looked into this to see that everything was in its place, then sat in the chair.

“Fai,” said Norah Barnes, “don’t you think your mother had better be bound in? I’m so terrified of her falling.”

“Yes, Ladyship, I really think you ought to have some support. Wait a moment; I’ll get something.”

She returned in a few minutes with a wide webbing belt of her husband’s, and proceeded to buckle her mother into the chair amid laughing protests from that lady, who declared that there was no possibility of her falling out. Then the men pulled at the ropes, and, amid breathless silence, the chair left the ground and mounted to the roof. The ropes were fixed firmly.

“I’m beautifully comfortable!” cried a small voice from thirty feet up. “This carving is even more exquisite than I thought. I’m very much obliged, Cuthbert, for your kindness. If I can get a good copy of this I shall exhibit it.”

She went on talking as she measured and drew on her board. She was thoroughly enjoying hèrself.

Then from her right, from the gallery she was sure was barred to intruders, there came a voice.

“Excuse me, Lady Ethersbury, but my paper heard of your remarkable gift, and we are very anxious to have a short description of your work.”

Every one in the hall looked up, and Brocklehurst said “Damn!” furiously.

Leaning over the stone balustrade was a man with long black hair, melancholy whiskers, and pincenez. He was clothed in a weedy-looking black frock-coat, in his hand was a notebook, and on the stone rail was poised a camera.

Lady Ethersbury jumped.

“How did you get in there? It is locked,” she said severely.

“Oh, excuse me, madam!” begged the sad, thin voice. “We reporters have our living to get, and the editor promised me ten pounds if I could manage it.”

“Go away!” cried her ladyship.

“Oh, madam, don’t be hard on me. 1 have hidden here since last night I’m stiff and sore, and am very hungry. I shall be dismissed from the staff if I carry back nothing.”

“ I think it is abominable.” These were Lady Ethersbury’s words, but her tone was softer.

“Pray don’t say that! I cannot see what harm I have done. My editor wishes to wake up our idle rich to the fact that for all of them there is work to do if they will only do it. They ignore their talents as a rule, and waste their lives. We want to produce a series of articles to show what our aristocrats can do if they like. My editor says he wishes to begin with your ladyship, who has shown such a good example.”

The expression on the lady’s face was the same as that on a cat’s when it is stroked. This man was speaking in almost her own words. Had she not set an example by her hard work?

“What do you want to know?” she asked quietly.

The man put the point of a pencil in his mouth, and rustled the leaves of his notebook.

“When did you take up wood-carving?”

“Only this year.”

“Did you have lessons?”

“Oh dear yes. I learnt from Signor Tetritonni. He thinks very highly of my work. Of course I could draw before—your editor will probably remember that. By the way, what paper are you on? I forgot to ask.”

“It is a new paper, madam, we are now producing our third number. It is The Sceptre, and is occupied entirely with our great Society. It is a five-shilling paper, and the contributions are entirely from the pens of well-known leaders of the haut monde. I am sure you will be pleased with it; I will leave you a copy.”

“Very well.”

He asked a few more questions, then proceeded to arrange a tripod and unstrap his camera.

“ I must stop this!” cried Brocklehurst, turning to the door. But Norah Barnes flew to his side and whispered.

Cuthbert broke into a roar of laughter, sank on a stone bench and rocked to and fro.

The camera was arranged to the reporter’s satisfaction, and the lady posed in an “intense” attitude, with a pair of compasses in her pretty, pointed fingers.

Then Brocklehurst called Gra, and together they went upstairs to release the grinning culprit from the gallery.

“She must never, never know!” cried Gra. “I won’t have her feelings hurt. You are going back to town next week; you must write an official letter from The Sceptre, saying it has gone bankrupt or something, and you must send her the photos and the negatives as a proof of your good faith.”

“Very well, Mrs. Brocklehurst, I’ll do that. Oh, Lord! it was a lark, though! You don’t really mind, do you?”

Gra tried not to smile. How could she be severe with this youth, with his merry boyish nature ?

No one knew about it but the Barneses and themselves, and she bound the whole lot to secrecy.

Lady Ethersbury never knew. By the time the letter with the photographs came from London she had tired of wood-carving, and was intensely interested in tapestry, as Fai had prophesied. She was rather glad that she had not been celebrated in the papers as a wood-carver—tapestry was so much more graceful!

“I shall never change again!” she exclaimed. “I have at last found something which really interests me. I shall try and revive the work. I have influence, you know. I hope that in a year or two you will see hundreds of women doing this beautiful work.”

How often had her daughters heard similar speeches! She was always “never going to change.”

“I wonder what the next thing will be!” sighed Fai. “I hope tapestry will last till I return to India. My brain does get so floppy with all this.”

As a matter of fact, tapestry lasted for eight months, longer than anything had endured since the Greek-vase craze. She began a “study” ten feet by eight, copied from a tapestry in the Oriel room at Wane’s Ferry. Before she tired she had worked one corner—two feet by one and a half ; a crusader’s ankle and sandal, and part of a dog.

CHAPTER X

MACFARLANE received a letter from the French doctor to whom he had written. The answer had been long in coming, as the Frenchman had been away. He wrote very sympathetically, and very technically, but he could give no help. Apparently MacFarlane was doing all that he could do. He smiled as he read one sentence—“If you can get proofs that this lady is being subjected to suggestion detrimental to her health, surely the English law can remove her from the influence of her husband.”

It tickled his fancy when he pictured the face of a judge asked to believe that it was possible to make a person die by suggestion! The idea was amusing to the last degree. His confrères proposal was so French! In France he knew that it might be possible, but English courts went by proofs alone—not such proofs as the Frenchman wrote of, but things they could see. It was only in criminal and divorce cases that circumstantial evidence was admitted. If a man was proved to have been near the place where a murder with robbery was committed, and afterwards was known to have plenty of money, it was nearly enough to hang him. If a woman was proved to have seen a man—other than her husband—alone many times, or to have kissed him, it was enough to divorce her—the idea being that given an opportunity all women were impure.

But to appear in a sober court of law and announce that a man was willing his wife to die— ah ! that was out of the question.

So matters must go on as they were. Things were better now. Nearly every day he sent Gra into an hypnotic sleep, and subjected her mind to his powerful will. Only once a week did he make an exception, when he knew that at night he would be called upon to counteract her husband’s will: on that day he kept himself unfatigued, so as to give out all he could at night. Sometimes it was very difficult for both of them to escape from all the visitors, and many were the ruses they were obliged to employ.

Gra was just as anxious as he was that they should not miss a day, and she became more convinced than ever that it was necessary when, by a strange chance, she awoke one Wednesday night just as her husband was standing over her to begin the first passes.

MacFarlane had seen this from his post in the dressing-room, and had closed the door softly, watching through his peephole.

“Cuth!” cried Gra indignantly, “what were you going to do?”

“What’s the matter, dear?” answered her husband, with intense surprise. “You look quite angry. I’m sorry I waked you, but there’s a beastly mosquito worrying me, and I saw it just by you, so I got out of my bed to try to catch it.”

Then he stared about, made frantic clutches in the air, and at last said: “Ah, got him! Hurrah!” Rubbed both hands together as though crushing something, kissed Gra, again saying he was sorry to have disturbed her, and got back to bed.

But Gra was not satisfied, and lay awake. Twice she met her husband’s eyes across the intervening space, and twice he said, “Go to sleep, goose!”

But she waited till he had turned his back, and till she heard the regular breathing that told her that he was asleep; only then did she settle down herself. And only then did MacFarlane go back to his own room.

Gra was firmly convinced that she had waked because of the suggestion made to her by Mac in her hypnotic sleeps, and she rejoiced at the success of the experiment. She told him all about it the next day, and he had to pretend to be as delighted as she was. Poor Gra! she could not know that only the next night she slept soundly when her husband bent over her with infinite precaution—she did not wake.

MacFarlane knew that there was one thing he might do—that was to will her to wake on Thursday (as it would be now) nights at twelve o’clock, and stay awake till half-past two. He did not do this, because he knew that Brocklehurst, defeated one night, would try the next, and so on, and Gra’s health would soon break down if she were kept awake night after night. There was no way out of it that he could see, except the way he had chosen.

The weeks passed, visitors came and went, and the leaves fell off the trees, and colder weather came slowly, beginning with a nip in the air in the early mornings and the evenings, passing unremarked to the time when the hot-water heating had to be turned on, and great log fires lit in the huge fireplaces.

Lady Ethersbury and Captain and Mrs. Barnes had left in September to pay some visits. In October Fai and her mother returned, leaving the soldier with his own people.

At the end of October the whole household was upset by Brocklehurst catching a bad cold which developed into pneumonia.

MacFarlane got a nurse down from London for night work, and he slept in the dressing-room himself. During the day he and Gra, aided by Fai, and hindered by Lady Ethersbury, did the work.

The doctor was very anxious, Cuthbert’s heart became very feeble, and he found it necessary constantly to keep it up to the mark by strong remedies. Once he had a great specialist down, but he could suggest nothing that was not already being done.

However, they succeeded in pulling the patient round, and by the first days of December he was well again, barring weakness.

The specialist came down again, sounded and prodded, then expressed a decided opinion that Brocklehurst should go to some warm climate for the rest of the winter. MacFarlane had thought the same, and many were the consultations as to where they should go.

“Egypt?” proposed Cuthbert.

“No; I won’t hear of Egypt,” said Mac decidedly. “It’s too hot. Your heart would immediately get fatigued; great heat is very bad for you. The south of France is equally impossible, the night cold would be dangerous; and I know what you are—you’d go to that beastly Casino and get hot and stuffy, then one couldn’t drag you away before sunset, and you’d come out and get cold again. No. The Italian Riviera is better.”

“I won’t go! I’ve been, and, though it’s perfectly beautiful, I loathe the people one meets there— Jews, Germans, Americans, and vulgar, rich English. I’ve no prejudice against nationalities, but I hate the vulgarians of all races. I prefer the frankly common one sees at Blackpool.”

“I fear Blackpool is not warm enough!” laughed Mac.

“How about Malta, or Sicily?”

“Oh, I couldn’t live for months in Sicily!” cried Gra, “I should be in terror of another earthquake. They keep on having little shocks every few months.”

“In Malta you would get winds. No; Malta won’t do for the winter.”

Finally the last person they could think of helped them.

“Why not try the Canary Isles?” asked Lady EthersbUry when informed of the difficulty. “I was there three years ago, and it’s the most wonderful climate I have yet discovered. About seventy all the time, night and day. At least, the temperature only falls a few degrees at night, and the sun always shines—I mean in the day,” she added as she saw her daughters smiling. “There’s always a moon at night—I don’t know how it manages it, but there was always a moon when I was there.”

Encyclopaedias and Baedekers were consulted, and finally it was decided.

Captain Barnes, who returned at this time, wanted them to go to Teneriffe, but Brocklehurst was obstinately convinced that he would like Las Palmas better.

“It’s ugly,” said Barnes.

“I don’t care. I like ugly places. My reason is, that I see that the best hotel in Teneriffe is high up above the sea; at Las Palmas I can be right on the sea, and I love that. We can go over to Teneriffe for a time if we fancy it, but I want to go to Las Palmas. Another reason is • that the harbour at Las Palmas is a very good one, and it isn’t at Santa Cruz. I suppose we shall go in the Wane?”

“I suppose so,” said Gra, with a shiver. “The regular steamers are not very large, it seems, and I don’t suppose it will make much difference.”

“Poor Gra!” said her husband pityingly, “I wish you loved the sea as I do.”

“I do love her—to look at! Also I don’t mind being on the sea when it’s smooth, but— How ever, it’s no good—-you’ve never been ill, so you don’t realize what it is!”

“Well, we can avoid the Bay, dear. We can go through Spain, and have the Wane sent round to meet us at Cadiz. That will be all right, eh?”

“Yes, that’s better.” Gra was studying a map, and pointing with a pink-tipped finger as she contemplated their journey. “Yes; I don’t think I could face the Bay at this time of year.”

When the whole thing was arranged MacFarlane could not help being worried as to how he should be able to carry out his midnight watchings. He asked Fai to take a walk with him, and he consulted her, trusting to the woman-brain to find a way out of the difficulty.

“You see,” he said, with a crease of thought in his forehead, “I don’t see how it is to be done, and I won’t give it up if I can help it—I’m certain it has helped Brock, he’s had no bad attack since July. They will of course arrange to have a dressing-room there, but how can I go wandering about an hotel at night? People, if they met me, might report to the manager!”

“Urn—m,” remarked Fai; she held her lower lip with her finger and thumb, and looked bothered. “Can’t you have a room adjoining theirs?”

“No; I’ve thought of that, but it would never do. Brock would naturally lock the in-between door, and he would be on the qui vive. I would never dare open it, even if I could.”

“Well, you must risk the passages, that’s all.”

“Another thing,” went on Mac, frowning still more—“in hotels I know Brock always locks his doors, and how on earth could I get in?”

“Oh, bother!” Fai stopped dead in the road and looked at her companion with puzzled eyes. “ What can one do, Mac? Wait; let me think.’

They walked on in silence for some time. Then she stopped again.

“In the illustration of the hotel there is a wide balcony running all round by the rooms. Couldn’t you come by the window?”

“And the shutters!” scoffed Mac. “I know those shutters—they have a bolt on the inside, so that one can sleep with the window open and yet be secure.”

“Well, you must invent a means of opening the shutter from outside. Anyway, it’s easier than the door; you couldn’t open that with the key left on the inside. Look here—give me a piece of paper and a pencil—thanks. See?”

She spread the paper on a flat stone on the top of a low wall, then she drew busily.

“The shutters are like the ordinary Continental shutters—aren’t they?—with slats of wood like this.”

“Yes; they look like that in the photograph.”

“Well, when Cuth and Gra are out, you must remove one of the slats very carefully and replace it by a little wedge. You can easily take it out at night, and that leaves enough space for your hand to pass through, and you can then pull back the catch. See?”

“Yes. Yes; that seems to be the only thing to do, certainly. I must grease the bolt so that it makes no noise. I doubt whether I shall be able to bore a hole in the door—they always have light paint in those hotels. However, I must do what I can.”

“As far as that goes,” said Fai, “he will probably leave the door open. The outer door will be locked, you see, so there’s no reason why he shouldn’t.”

“Oh!” cried Mac in consternation, “that will be an awful bore. I might make a faint noise and then all would be bust up. No; I must tell Gra to shut it always—I can easily say that I fear a draught for him. You have helped me a lot, Fai; I’m most tremendously grateful.”

“Absurd! I’m only too glad if I’ve been able to do even the tiniest thing to help you. I shall be there for the first three weeks, and shall be able to see how it works. The great thing to be remembered is that you must get a room on the same floor.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I have a good excuse for that, as if he were ill in the night I must be near, so that Gra could fetch me quickly.”

Fai and her husband were going with the party in the yacht; they were to stay till the end of January with the Brocklehursts, and then the Wane would take them back to Marseilles in time to catch the P. & O. boat to India. Barnes’s leave would be up in February, and, much to the sorrow of the sisters, they would have to part again.

Fai cheered Gra as well as she could by telling her that there were rumours that the regiment would be ordered to Gibraltar or England the next winter, and Gra prayed that it might be so. In the meanwhile she felt she could not part from Fai for one moment that was not absolutely necessary, and she had persuaded her brother-in-law to come to the Canaries with them.

Preparations went on; Gra went up to London several times to “do shopping,” declaring she had not one summer frock left fit to wear.

On the twentieth of December they went to Paris, and after, by easy stages, through Spain, spending Christmas in Madrid.

The yacht met them at Cadiz, and, much to Gra’s joy, there was every prospect of a smooth voyage.

The Wane was a fine steamboat of nearly a thousand tons; she was painted white, with a dark-blue line above the water-mark, and she was the joy and pride of her owner.

The moment Brocklehurst felt the roll and swell of the sea he was a different man. The somewhat gloomy manner he had had for some months vanished completely, and he became as lighthearted as a boy.

MacFarlane thought it was a good opportunity to try to make his friend promise to give himself a rest during their sojourn in the sunny isles. But he could not succeed. Cuthbert laughed at him, and asked him to notice how well he was.

“But I want you to keep well, old chap. If you work hard you may get seedy. Look here, do give it up while we are abroad; you can go back to it when we return in the spring.”

“You seem to want me to become a moribund animal during the winter!” chaffed Brocklehurst. “ No; I really can’t stagnate like that. I must do some work.”

“Well, work less often, then, Brock. Do grant me that favour. Say once a fortnight instead of once a week. Do! You can work in the daytime oftener if you like; you’ll probably feel so fit there that you’ll be able to. It’s the nights I want you to have quiet.”

Then to his surprise and delight Cuthbert consented, and passed his word that he would only work at night once a fortnight—if that.

“If I don’t find it necessary to do nightwork, I won’t, Mac. We’ll see how I get on in the day. As you say, it’s such good air I shall very likely do all I want to in the day. Then the nights can go.”

But MacFarlane smiled bitterly. He knew.

CHAPTER XI

TΗΕ Wane steamed into the harbour at Las Palmas just as the sun was setting behind the hills. The reflection turned everything around to an exquisite glowing red. The sea was a transparent pale green, with a bar of deep violet along the horizon, and on its smooth surface little sailing boats were moving gently, their sails seemingly on fire. The fort and signal station on the heights had caught the prevailing colour, and the sand-dunes looked like a wonderful Eastern carpet full of changing lights and gleaming iridescence. Far away over the West Bay the mountains were green and purple and gold, deepening into blacker shadows full of mystery.

The yacht’s passengers leant over the rail gazing at all this feast of colour, and amusedly watching two of their sailors who were busy keeping at bay the occupants of the swarm of small boats round them, who were vociferating, holding up their wares, jumping up and down, waving their arms, and doing all they knew to attract the attention of the yacht-owner. The clamour was terrific, but the sight was exceedingly picturesque.

“Butiful lovely cigare, buy lovely cigare!” yelled one merry-eyed man, balancing himself perilously with one bare foot each side of the boat, and holding an open box of very dark cigars in each hand.

“Sweet! sweet!” cried a boy, as if he were calling to birds, but the word evidently referred to the succulent properties of the bananas and oranges in his boat.

One, an Indian, held up solemnly some gorgeous Eastern embroideries in one hand, and a Japanese kimona in the other. He said nothing, but stared with melting eyes at the women.

Another boat was piled with the drawn-thread work of the country, packages and packages of snowy whiteness with here and there a brighter colour amongst them. A tall lean-hipped man held at arms’ length a white bed-spread, one mass of delicate openwork; another in the same boat draped himself in a mauve dress-length, his brown hands waving as he shrieked that nevare, nevare would the ladies see such wonderful cheapness. Only fifteen shillang!”

Another boat was crammed with basketwork— chairs, baskets, tables, every imaginable thing made of the charming split-cane industry.

All but the Indian, who stood like a rock, silent and wistful, yelled and screamed, some in broken English, some in Spanish.

There were little mandolines made of tortoiseshell and ivory, filigree work from Malta, ebony elephants from India, queer appliqué clothwork from Egypt—every land seemed represented, from the west coast of Africa to the farthest point of Japan.

“Why,” asked Gra, “ do they sell all these things here? Look at that Maltese lace shawl, Cuth— how lovely! But why should one find all this here, so far away?”

Captain Barnes explained.

“You see the Canaries are on the way to many places. The Castle boats come here, some of the South American boats, and many others. So the natives do a good trade amongst those people who have never seen India, Japan, etc. They cater for all. When will these preliminaries be over? One would think we had cholera on board at the very least!”

At last they were allowed to land, and, being a small boat, the Wane steamed up to the mole, and the passengers were landed on the quay.

“So these are the tartanas, I suppose,” said Fai, as she studied the funny little covered carts that were standing in a row in the road. The drivers were pushing and hustling each other by the gangway, each swearing in a funny mixture of English and Spanish that his tartana was the only one that the visitors could possibly condescend to take. The porter from the hotel shoved them on one side and touched his cap.

“I’ve got the cart here for the luggage, sir; I’ll see to it.”

“Very well,” agreed Cuthbert. “Will you wait and see my valet and the maid into a tartana. Yes, put the dressing-cases in with us. Can we all get into one?”

He looked doubtfully at the small horse, but the porter smiled.

“Oh yes! they hold six. Better take this one, sir.” And he opened the door of a tartana drawn by a white horse. The driver smiled with the beaming smile only a Southerner knows the secret of, swept off his wide hat with a courteous bow, tucked in Fai’s dress tenderly before he shut them in, jumped on the box, and drove off.

He presently sat himself down on the footboard to regulate the weight, and drove sideways. When there was anything in his way he whistled shrilly through his teeth.

They bumped and rocked as they tore along over the fearful road and the uneven tram-lines, the sea murmured and splashed on their left, on the right were the squalid houses of one story, and after that the sand-dunes which people are so fond of labelling “ugly.” Beyond these stretched the purple mountains.

“Cuth, ask him if he speaks English.”

The man gave a radiant smile.

“Yes, I spek vary veil!”

“What are these crosses for?” asked Gra, pointing as she spoke to a small rough wooden cross at the side of the road. “We’ve passed two others. Ah! and there are two more side by side.”

The man looked blank—he had not understood; his “vary” good English was not equal to the occasion.

“Crosses,” explained Gra patiently. “What for these crosses?” She crossed her fingers, and again pointed.

“Ah yes, crosses!” An illuminating smile.

“Von two man die dare—see? Dey drive dark night, dey fall ovare. See down dare.” His expressive gestures with whip, hands, and shoulders explained the accident.

“Oh!” cried Gra, with a shudder. “Fai, do you understand? They’ve put up crosses at the places where the poor men fell over the rocks.”

Fai nodded; she was touched.

“Oh, palms!” exclaimed her sister. “How jolly! I never get tired of palms. Oh, that’s Bougainvillea; did you ever see anything more gorgeous than that mass of colour?”

“Ve com! Ve here!” cried the driver, and turned in at the gates.

While the men were arranging things in the office the two women admired the patio.

“How delicious, and how Spanish! It must always be cool here.”

“We shan’t have time to dress for dinner,” remarked Fai; “they say the luggage won’t be up for an hour.”

“Oh well, we’re fairly respectable!”

“We’ve got rooms on the first floor,” said Brocklehurst as he joined them. “Mac says it’s better I should have no stairs, but I don’t like to be on the ground floor.”

“No; I shouldn’t either. It’s sure to be noisy.”

They went up the stairs with the manageress, who showed them a big room, with windows opening on to a wide balcony; through another door was the dressing-room, and MacFarlane looked quickly to see if his plan were feasible. He caught Fai’s eye, and they nodded to each other. His room was further along the corridor, three doors away.

Fai and her husband were on the second floor.

There were not many people in the hotel yet; the manager told them that the next two months would see the rush. What there were appeared “decent,” as Gra expressed it, and she and Fai after dinner in the patio started labelling the people with nicknames—an old childish habit. There was “Lord Dundreary,” an old soldierly man with whiskers, “The Duchess,” a pretty woman with grey hair, active and gracious, who held a kind of court in one corner. Captain Barnes found out that she had been here every winter for six years, and was made much of.

“She actually knows some of the residents!” he exclaimed.

“Why,” asked his wife, “is that so wonderful?”

“Lord, yes! Craughton told me before we left England that the residents are far too haughty to know mere trippers. When they have graciously opened the tennis club to visitors they consider that they’ve done their duty. It’s always the way in this kind of place, it’s fearfully cliquey. He told me that he went to a dance here once, and would never go again. The Catalina Hotel people danced with each other, the Metropole ditto, and the residents positively froze the rest of the crowd. Awful larks! I hope there’ll be a dance before we go!”

Gra sniffed.

“I never think snobbery is amusing!” she said, with a little move of disgust.

Then “The Duchess” sailed over to their corner.

“You’ve just come, I hear?” she remarked pleasantly to Gra. “We did not expect people to-day, as it’s not mail day; but they tell me you came in your yacht.”

“Yes. Luckily it was smooth, except for one day.”

“ Ah! you’re not a good sailor?”

Gra shook her head with a whimsical expression.

“Alas, no! My husband”—she touched Cuthbert’s arm by way of introduction—“loves the sea. He’s never ill.”

“Yes, I envy men. You see that thin slip of a woman over there? She and her husband came over in an awful storm the other day, they thought the ship was going down. She was the only woman who appeared on board the whole time. She never missed a meal. That vulgar little man in the frock-coat is her husband.”

Gra laughed.

“Oh,” she said, “now I can understand. He looks as if he would kill every natural emotion! ”

“The Duchess” shrieked with laughter.

“Oh, I must tell that to my husband,” she chuckled. “Do any of you play bridge?” she went on; “we are so short of players.”

“Yes, we all play, more or less. I’m sure my husband would be delighted to have a game. Wouldn’t you, Cuth?”

“The Duchess”—her name, they found out, was Ratherson—was delighted; she was never quite happy unless she was playing bridge. Soon they had two tables going. Mr. Ratherson did not play; he looked on and criticized.

A Dr. and Mrs. Forman played, and after one rubber Captain Barnes and the doctor found that they were old acquaintances. They had been eyeing each other furtively all the time, till at last Barnes said:

“Haven’t you been in India?”

“Yes; I was a R.A.M.C. man. I know your face.”

They became deep in conversation about friends, until “The Duchess” tapped the table with her fan.

“Are you going to play?” she asked plaintively, and the game went on, punctuated with: “What has become of the So-and-sos?” “Where is What’s-his-name now?”

“Have the A.s got any more children?”

“Is B. still a dab at polo?” and so on.

Gra insisted on stopping at eleven o’clock, much to Mrs. Ratherson’s disappointment.

“I’m sorry, but my husband is here for his health; that’s his doctor with him. He must go to bed early.”

“Well, I’m sorry too, but I quite understand. I hope we shall have many games together.”

“I hope so. But you need not stop now, I’m sure. My sister and brother-in-law will be delighted to go on, and Dr. MacFarlane, too.”

“Not the MacFarlane of London?” said Dr. Forman. “I mean the heart man who writes so well in the medical papers. But of course not; that man’s a specialist.”

“Yes, it is he,” answered Gra quietly—“James MacFarlane. He and my husband are very old friends, and he has given up his work to come and take care of him. You know men are so difficult! I think he is the only person who has any authority over this patient, so he came. Yes, Mac, I’m ready; we were waiting till you’d finished your rubber! Who won?”

“Nothing in it. Forty céntimos out in the end. We won two rubbers each.”

“I don’t think it will be bad here—do you, Cuth?” asked Gra as she linked her arm in his, going up to their room.

“No, not half bad. This is certainly a delightful room, isn’t it? Quite grand furniture! ”

The maid and valet had been busy, and the rooms looked almost homelike. Gra tumbled in under her mosquito curtains, and slept soundly, with that childlike sleep one acquires only after a sea voyage.

CHAPTER XII

THE lazy life and the marvellous sub-tropical climate worked wonders for Brocklehurst.

He looked better than he had done for years. He had seldom looked really ill, but to the initiated it was easy to see that all was not well with him. Now the slight blue tinge round his mouth and the drawn appearance round his eyes disappeared entirely. Even before Fai and her husband left for India the difference was noticeable.

“Do you think he will get well, Mac?” asked Fai, the day before she left.

“I think it is possible. It is, of course, very rarely known—a perfect healing of the lesions, I mean—but it has been heard of, to the everlasting wonder of the medical world. If he goes on like this I fail to see why he should not be one of the miracles. I gave him a thorough overhauling yesterday, and the irregularity is so slight it’s almost impossible to detect.”

“Grand!” she exclaimed. “He owes it all to you.”

“My dear girl, I’ve done hardly anything that an ordinary student could not have done.”

“ Pooh! How about your night watches and the saving him from fatigue?”

“That? Oh, that is nothing,” stammered Mac. He hated receiving her praise under false pretences. That it was to save her sister he knew would stimulate her gratitude still more, but that was neither here nor there. The point was that she was praising him for something he had not done.

He wondered now if he had done anything. Looking out at the sparkling sea and the tropical vegetation, the whole idea seemed a horrible nightmare. Had he been mad to take the thing seriously? Brocklehurst had been excited and unnerved, naturally, by the verdict of the doctors. He wanted his friend to be with him, fearing a stranger—he always did dislike having strangers round him—and, having found out Mac’s feelings for Gra, he had tried to gain his ends by the silly extravagant threat which Mac had taken seriously. It was madness! As for his séances in the night— well, his doctor had forbidden him hypnotism, and, like a naughty child, he did secretly what he could not do openly. Mac shook himself. Why had he been such a fool? Why had he been frightened like this? Then suddenly his mind went back to that un-Maylike wet morning in the library in Curzon Street. Again he saw his friend’s face lifted up with that extraordinary strength of purpose in it. Again he heard the solemn words spoken in that unnaturally low voice: “I swear by Almighty God, in whom even you believe; I swear by all the living and all the dead ; I swear by every sacred thing known, that when I go to the shades beyond, she goes too.”

He shuddered violently, as he had felt himself shudder at the time.

Then that other horrible picture came like a flash to his brain—Cuthbert lying on his bed scarcely alive, his heart beating so feebly that, if he had been left unattended, the faint spark of life would have flickered out; Gra falling on her bed white and speechless, not in a faint (was he not doctor enough to know that?); Brocklehurst’s recovery and his anxious, frightened look as he asked, “Where’s Gra?”—then the expression of triumph when he knew that she had been ill—an expression so fleeting that no one but an attentive, suspicious watcher could have noticed it. He flung a pebble into the sea and gazed across at the signal-station with unseeing eyes.

“God knows no one has ever accused me of imagination run riot!” he thought. “That is not my failing. Yet tell this story to a thousand men, and all but possibly one would say I was mad. I am not mad; I have seen what I have seen. I have known Brock for twenty years, and I know his character as no one else does. I know his strength, I know his beliefs—I must credit what I have seen. Reason! Reason does not come into this at all. I thought once that reason could apply to everything, poor puny fool! Why, three hundred years ago Shakespeare knew better! No; I must go on. Even if I am mad, even if it is all a dream of impossible absurdity, it can do no harm to continue.”

His self-imposed task was easier now. Brocklehurst knew of his improvement, and was gayer and more himself. He had promised MacFarlane to “work” at night only once a fortnight. Mac was always on the spot waiting and watching, but sometimes Cuthbert slept soundly and did not wake to carry out his designs. Then Mac would come the next night. Even then it twice happened that nothing unusual occurred, and the doctor had to enter again, like a burglar, before Brocklehurst rewarded his patience. The invalid was evidently getting used to the idea that he might get well, and was not so anxious.

Mac was delighted; he hoped that in time the practice might be given up altogether. He was especially pleased because, here, it was impossible for him to hypnotize Gra every day. There were no newspapers to occupy her husband every morning, and he usually proposed going out or doing something that would keep them all together. When they thought they were safe from interruption they would go down to the wooden summer-house whence Mac could see through the latticework, if any one were coming, in time to stop the movement of his arms. But this was only once or twice a week; and if Cuthbert had been carrying on his old plan of weekly influence, MacFarlane would have been very anxious. As it was he felt content, and made up his mind to enjoy the dolce far niente life to the uttermost.

He sometimes played tennis, and occasionally, when a match was got up, cricket. That was the extent of his activity. Walking he did not count.

They had brought a motor with them, and they took drives nearly every day, much to the disgust of the chauffeur, who, when the roads were a little worse than usual, would look round at his master with an expression that made them all laugh. They took innumerable excursions, and found the country inland very beautiful.

Gra, who had a great gift for languages, took lessons in Spanish, and soon she could talk to the wonderfully picturesque and dirty country people. She had some difficulty at first in understanding the patois they spoke, but soon got used to it. Over and over again she would stop the motor, get out, and speak seriously and persuasively to some driver about his poor starved and bleeding mules.

No Spaniard is rude to a pretty woman, and he would shrug his shoulders, grin freely, look quite astonished at the idea of any one—even a mad Inglesa—pretending to think that animals had feelings; perhaps to please her he would loosen a strap or ease a collar—and that was all. Gra would return to the motor red-cheeked and half weeping.

“What can one do?” she would cry in despair.

“My dear Gra,” said her husband kindly one day, “what can one expect of a nation that is brought up from its earliest childhood to look upon bull-fighting and cock-fighting as sports? It’s no good; they all tell me that they have tried everything, and that the more one lectures the brutes, the worse they are.”

“Have you heard the history of the Society they tried to get up?” asked Mac. “Well, they had a thousand pounds given them to start it with by a rich visitor, then they tried the residents— few would subscribe, they were indifferent. Then they went to the bishop. The bishop remarked that he would do nothing to interfere with the poor earning their living. Charming, wasn’t it? ”

“I shall get Signora Carmorito to write to the King or Queen,” said Gra; “surely the Queen, being English, would do something if she knew.”

It was this question of animal-torture that led to a very serious result for Brocklehurst.

He and MacFarlane were walking down by the port one day; they had left Gra at the English hospital, whither they had motored her to take flowers and books to a patient, a visitor who had a bad attack of fever. They were to call for her again in a quarter of an hour; meanwhile they strolled as far as the club to watch the shipping, leaving the motor at the corner.

Walking back they met and stopped to speak to a man who lived at their hotel; he was a clerk in one of the offices at the port. Just as they were turning away they saw a cart, loaded with full sacks of grain, drawn by a wretched horse. His bones were through his skin, his head hung down, and he hobbled on three legs. Brocklehurst glanced at the sorry beast; he was too used to the misery now to take much notice. Suddenly he started and looked closer.

“God!” he exclaimed. “This is a bit too much. Mac, that leg is broken.”

Mac went forward, held up his hand to the driver to make him stop, and placed his hand on the off hind leg of the horse. It was quite true, the leg was broken. He turned to the other man with them and asked him to tell the driver the state of affairs.

The rough dirty Spaniard got down off the shafts and looked furious. He spoke rapidly, with many gesticulations.

“What’s he say?” asked Cuthbert.

Mr. Palmer shrugged his shoulders.

“The usual thing! He says it’s been like that for two days, and it works all right.”

“Works all right!” quoted Brocklehurst furiously. “I’d like to break his leg, the dirty scoundrel, and see how he’d like to work! Anyway, Palmer, I’m not going to stand this. The brute must be killed.”

“Good Lord! You don’t know what the red-tape is here. The other day they left a dying horse by the side of the road for two days—it had been knocked down by the tramway, and crushed horribly—just because the owner was away and couldn’t be got at. It’s no good; one can do nothing.”

“Look here—offer the man a few pounds for it, then we’ll kill it.”

“Humph!” cried the resident. “Do you know what the result would be? You’d have dozens of men breaking their horses’ and mules’ legs in the hope of getting the same reward!”

MacFarlane pressed his mouth together firmly.

" Well, I'm going to do something, that’s certain.

I’d never rest easy a moment after if I thought I’d let that go.”

During this conversation the Spaniard had been talking without ceasing. Once or twice he had tried to lead the horse on, but Mac’s hand was on the bit.

Brocklehurst strode to the motor.

“Gregson,” he called to his man, drive back to the hotel as hard as you can lick, go up to my room and bring my gun—see that you bring cartridges too. Hurry! you ought to be back in ten minutes.”

The man set the engine going, sprang to his seat and went off in a cloud of dust.

“What do you propose to do?” asked Palmer anxiously.

“Kill it, and let him sue me,” was the short answer.

“I’ll do it, Brock,” cried Mac; “I know the exact place to shoot.”

“All right; I don’t care who does it, as long as it’s done.”

He walked to and fro angrily. Palmer argued with the owner, trying to persuade him to consent to the beast being killed. He was sulky and obdurate, tried to snatch the reins from MacFarlane’s hand, and was generally objectionable.

A crowd had collected, vociferous and amused. Some—a very small percentage—said that the horse was not fit to work.

The Englishmen were joined by one or two others from the offices round about.

“Look out for a row!” said one quietly. “I tried this sort of thing once, and it was not pleasant.”

There was the purr of the motor, and Gregson swept round the corner, brought the car to a standstill, and jumped to the ground.

“I brought two revolvers too, sir,” he said quietly; “I thought the Spaniards looked nasty like, and they might be useful. They’re all loaded; I did that in your room.” Then seeing his master look surprised, he added, “My brother’s a game-keeper, sir; I know all about it.”

The owner of the horse sprang at MacFarlane, but was brought up short by some quick words in Spanish, as an English youth snatched a revolver from Gregson and pointed it in deadly fashion. Mac took the gun; Brocklehurst took the other revolver and faced the crowd. No one moved.

In one moment a shot rang out, and the poor agonized brute had ended his sufferings forever.

“Palmer, take my letter-case out of my pocket,” said Brocklehurst—“thanks. You’ll find cards there. Give one to that brute and tell him he can do what he likes. I shall be at the hotel for two months longer.”

He backed to the car.

“Come on, Mac. You’d better come too, Palmer; you’re going back to lunch, I suppose?”

The men got in and drove off, leaving a furious man shaking his fist after them, and an excited crowd laughing and talking.

They told Gra something of the affair, knowing she was bound to hear of it.

That night after dinner Brocklehurst and MacFarlane strolled up and down the terrace by the sea, smoking. Cuthbert was now allowed three cigarettes a day, much to his joy. A half-moon lit up the calm sea, and the air was warm and scented. Mac was throwing pebbles at a rock, trying to hit a particular mark. His companion walked on slowly, drinking in the beauty around him.

When he had walked about fifty yards he turned his back to the sea and looked up at the lighted hotel.

Then a head appeared over the top of the seawall, followed by a stealthy body. As it dropped lightly to its feet Brocklehurst was startled by a cry from Mac.

“Look out, Brock!”

He wheeled quickly, just in time to catch a wrist holding a gleaming knife poised to strike; he struck out with his left hand, but the man closed, twisted his right leg round Cuthbert’s knees, and brought him heavily to the ground. He lifted his freed hand to strike downwards with the knife, but Mac was upon him, and he was held as in a vice.

Other men came running, and in a few moments they had the Spaniard bound and helpless.

“See to him,” panted Mac; “I must take Brocklehurst in. One of you help me to carry him. Quick !”

The hotel was in wild commotion, people ran hither and thither trying to help. Almost before they got Brocklehurst to his bed the hot-water bottles were ready.

“Injection?” queried Gra hurriedly.

“Yes—quick!”

Dr. Forman was there too; they were all three working hard over the unconscious figure.

“I’m afraid he’s gone,” whispered Forman, but Mac shook his head.

The pallor was not the pallor of death; he had seen him as bad as this. But he was furious, because he had hoped all that was over, and now this Spaniard—! Mac became profane.

It seemed hours to the anxious watchers before Brocklehurst opened his eyes.

He drank the liquid offered him, and sighed.

“Ah! I remember,” he said wearily—“the brute! Did you catch him?”

“Yes. They’re taking him off to the town. Don’t think, Brock. Just lie still.”

But some other thought had entered his brain, for he suddenly half sat up.

“How’s Gra?” he asked quickly.

“I’m all right, dear,” she answered for herself.

“All right!”

She puzzled over the note of astonishment in his voice, but Mac shivered violently.

“Yes—all right; of course it was an awful shock, Cuth, but I’ve not done anything silly like last time.

Cuthbert shut his eyes and frowned.

CHAPTER XIII

THIS attack of Brocklehurst’s seemed, strangely . enough, to pull him down more than any other he had ever had. He had been so wonderfully well before it that MacFarlane had hoped that, if there were any other seizures, they would be so slight, and lessening so markedly in intensity, that soon they would cease altogether. He presumed that it was the very fact of his patient having been so well that had exaggerated the shock, as it were. Anyway, the fact remained that he was obliged to keep Brocklehurst in bed for three days. He was not at all satisfied with his condition.

He had to leave Gra in charge to a great extent, as he was much occupied in the town with the unpleasant preliminaries connected with the trial of Antonio Marterello, as the truculent Spaniard was called. It promised to be very disagreeable, but MacFarlane had saved his friend a great deal of extra worry by saying that it was he who had shot the horse—his friend had given his card because he, MacFarlane, had had none of his own in his pocket.

As this fact was borne out before the magistrate by several witnesses, it could not be contradicted.

Mac also said that he presumed that the Spaniard had mistaken his friend for himself when he attacked him on the sea-front. He employed a lawyer who could speak French, and this man promised that he would save the visitors every possible inconvenience—he did not think it would be necessary for them to stay for the trial. Mac shrugged his shoulders; he was determined not to stay in any case, if the affair dragged out into months, as he was told was quite probable.

He was intensely worried himself. He was not blind, and he had realized thoroughly what Brocklehurst’s expression had meant when he had found that Gra was quite well after his attack. He was prepared for Cuthbert to say that he found it necessary to work a little harder, and that therefore he withdrew his promise to work only once a fortnight. He spent many sleepless hours over the problem, then thought he would try a plan that had flashed through his mind as being a possible help.

The third day Brocklehurst was lying in a deckchair outside his bedroom window when Mac joined him and felt his pulse.

“Yes, you're decidedly better to-day, Brock,” he said cheerfully. “You,may come down to-morrow.” “High time!” grumbled Cuthbert. “Beastly bore all this, just as I was so well.”

“Yes; I’m furious about it. I wish the brute had made for me instead.”

“I don’t; I should probably not have seen him coming, and then you’d have been stabbed. Don’t you think that would have been a worse shock for me?” He spoke half seriously, half whimsically, and Mac laughed.

“Well, anyway,” he said, walking to the edge of the balcony and looking over, “I hope this is the last attack of any importance. Of course one can’t allow for accidents, but, all going well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go on as before. By the way, Brock, I’ve been debating in my own mind as to whether I ought to tell you something or not. I think you ought to know, but, again, I don’t want you to fuss.”

“I shan’t fuss. What is it? Something about this Spaniard?”

“Oh no; I told you all there is to be told about that. No; it’s about Gra. If you will promise me faithfully not to worry about it I will tell you. It’s nothing serious—as yet, but I think you ought to know.”

Brocklehurst sat up, bent forward, and studied the doctor’s back. Then he spoke quietly.

“About Gra? What? You’d better tell me; I promise not to worry.”

Mac came back to his chair and sat down.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I fear there is just a little something wrong with her heart too. I would like to examine her, but can’t without frightening her. You remember last year when you had that bad attack at night? Well, that fainting fit she had looked uncommonly like heart to me. Then the other night, when I went to tell her about you, she turned ghastly—looked like death. I gave her some brandy, and I put a few drops of something else in it without her knowing. While we were holding your head up I felt her pulse without her noticing—I couldn’t count it properly of course, but it was very feeble. She told you she was all right when you asked, but she’d really only begun to recover when she saw you moving. I was very bothered about her; I shouldn’t like her to have many more shocks.”

While he had been speaking he had seemingly been looking at the trees over Cuthbert’s head, but he had the very useful capacity of really seeing an object he was not looking at directly—an easy thing to do if one concentrates the will—and he had remarked the varying expressions on his patient’s face: first anxiety, then interest, then a deep flush mounting up under the sunburnt skin, and finally a curious relief and satisfaction which were unmistakable.

He rejoiced greatly; he was nearly sure that his plan had succeeded.

He looked right away out to sea, and left the man time to recover.

“I think you must be mistaken, Mac,” he said at last. “At least, what I mean is that, though Gra was affected very strongly by the shock, I fancy it was only what one might expect from a girl who is intensely highly strung, and who hears that a tragedy has only just been avoided. As for last year, she was waked suddenly from a sound sleep to find me apparently dead, and you know yourself how overwhelming that must be. I feel sure that there is nothing the matter with her heart.”

“I may be mistaken. I hope I am,” answered his companion. “I certainly had not much time to devote to her—you were quite enough to worry over! However, I thought it wise to tell you; I’m glad you aren’t bothered about it.”

“No, I’m not anxious. Gra has always been so wonderfully strong. You did not say anything to her about it?”

“Oh no; I did not want her to think that I considered it anything more than the natural shock to the nerves any one would have had under the circumstances.”

“That’s right! I shan’t say anything either; you may be quite sure that’s what it was—just nervous shock. Now tell me, how did you get on in the town to-day?”

They talked of other things till Gra came up to keep her husband company, then MacFarlane went out for a long walk.

His ruse had succeeded! There was no doubt of that. He was getting quite used to lying now but he comforted himself with the quotation: “A lie for the sake of mercy is better than the truth for the sake of mischief.”

By his lie this time he was pretty sure he had prevented “mischief.” He would hear nothing of Cuthbert’s desire to work oftener at night, Gra would not be subjected to that deadly influence any more than was the case now. His heart glowed with happiness when he realized that undoubtedly his own influence was working in her. The other night, though he had watched her carefully, he had seen no signs such as he had falsely described to her husband. She had been, as far as he could see, perfectly normal. He might have been tempted again to distrust the whole mad idea if he had not caught that look on Cuthbert’s face when he asked after Gra. Then to-day, when he was being told that series of lies, was there any mistaking the expression of triumph, of relief, that he had shown? None—MacFarfane was as sure of the truth of his theory as he was sure that he breathed. He would never doubt it again. He must go on taking precautions, go on working, pit his will against that other will; he must continue week after week, month after month, year after year if need be. It was a dreary, miserable outlook, but his love was strong enough.

He could not help wondering what would happen if Brocklehurst became strong and well again, if the lesions healed—as was not absolutely unknown—if there was no further need of him as constant permanent attendant. In that case would Cuthbert give up his horrible design? He foresaw a difficulty at which he shuddered. He would have to have the matter out with Brocklehurst before leaving; he would have to ask if, now that he were well, he had resigned his plot whatever it was. He must never seem to have guessed what the plot was. He must pretend to think it was something occult, or to disbelieve altogether. Even when he had consented to come, to give up his practice, he had been careful to pretend that he did not credit the possibility of harm coming to Gra. He had scoffed at the notion, said he did not believe in the supernatural, declared that he had decided to acquiesce in Cuthbert’s desire for the sake of their old friendship, and because he hoped that there was really a chance of pulling him round to health.

He must keep this up always, always. Brocklehurst must never know that the whole thing was no secret to him.

He sighed as he contemplated the lonely years. Now at least he was near the woman he loved— he could see her every day, and all day. Then he would be back in the old ruck of work again—see her occasionally for four months in the year, wear out his heart with eight months of loneliness. He was but human, and it is beyond human strength not to hope for happiness. He could honestly say to himself that he had never desired Brockle-hurst’s death, could declare that he had done everything in his power to cure him; but even that being so there was always the dim possibility of a future free from care, free from the terrible law “thou shalt not.” It lay faint and unrecognized by words, this possibility, like a vague illumination to a traveller on a dark lonely waste—an illumination so far, so dull, that the weary wanderer cannot distinguish between reality and his own imagination, but presses on towards it all the same, hoping it may be the light at the end of his long journey.

Now he felt that even that dim hope had gone. He was sure that his patient was getting well. Though he had been quite ill this time after the attack, his heart now was beating as strongly and regularly as it had done before. Only to the very practised ear was there the faintest sign of disease. He was not cured yet, but the doctor firmly believed that, rare as it was, a complete cure would in this case be achieved. Nine months ago he would have said it was utterly impossible. In all his experience he had never seen a cure, though he had read of the possibility— more, read of cases vouched for by doctors of repute.

He could not help being proud, professionally, of his skill, he had undoubtedly helped with his not inconsiderable knowledge. He had read every article in German and French medical papers that had appeared on the subject during the last months. He had tried a new French drug with marvellous results, he had begun giving it after the attack in July, and from then till now the patient had had no relapse. Even during his illness, when all had feared that the strain would be fatal, he had had no bad seizure. This time it had arisen from physical violence, and was not to be wondered at.

He knew that his ability was not alone responsible for the extraordinary cure—if cure it were. Brocklehurst’s constitution was a marvel. He had always been strong; he had always led a studious, regular life, and that went a long way towards aiding medical science. A puny man would have been dead long ago.

MacFarlane’s feelings were very complicated where his friend was concerned. He often analysed them and wondered. Notwithstanding all, he could not kill the old liking. They had been friends from their young manhood days, and a friendship like that does not die easily. He was sure that Brocklehurst felt the same for him as he had always felt, though his wife loved him, though he was trying to injure him through this love, yet, withal, Mac knew there was no hatred in his friend’s heart, any more than there was in his own. He often tried to put himself in Cuthbert’s place, and wondered if, supposing the possibility had occurred to him, he would have acted in the same way. He did not think so—but then Brocklehurst was descended from a long line of Norman ancestors—· men with primitive emotions and primitive strength. The blood in his veins was fierce, passionate blood; he had altered little, if anything, from those old-world knights who had fought for their lives and their loves with medieval weapons.

It was certainly a curious situation. MacFarlane felt sure that he ought to hate his friend, but he could not do so. He had but two intimate friends in the world, and he was not changeable. Also he could not help feeling in his heart that he had done Brocklehurst a deep wrong. That the wrong was unwilful did not alter matters. He loved this man’s wife, and she loved him. He could not help thinking how Cuthbert must have suffered when he had first discovered the state of affairs. He often wondered why Gra had not been taken right away, why he and she had ever been permitted to meet. The husband had not shown by word or sign that he was aware of their love, not till that terrible day the spring before when the whole world had seemed to go to pieces with a sentence. What had been his object in keeping silence? Had he even in those days plotted a deep and horrible revenge? He—Mac—would never know. The thing would remain a mystery.

Probably now, if Brocklehurst recovered his health completely, he would weave out some other plan, perhaps now the separation would come. Mac shuddered as he looked into a black future without a sight of the face he loved, or a sound of her voice. He felt he could not face it—better death. Her goodness he respected and worshipped; never again would he try to break it down. Her love of Wee Willie Winkie and her child-like faith stood ever between them; but what harm could it do to either of them, or to Cuthbert, to see each other, to hear each other’s voice, to know that both always remained steadfast and true? Separation could not change them, that he knew; it would only wear their hearts away in a great loneliness and bitterness.

If Cuthbert ever suggested it, he made up his mind to pray him to be merciful. He was sure that they were not suspected of wrong; his friend was clever enough to know that their hearts had a great barrier between them raised by Gra. He would plead for the mercy of the sight of her—would tell him, if need be, of his hopeless appeal to her, would swear always to love and suffer in silence. Could any man be so hard, so cruel, as to refuse such poor relief from torture ?

He turned homewards dazed and wretched. He had worked himself up to a pitch of misery hard to bear. Probably, too, it was unnecessary—very likely Brocklehurst was thinking of nothing of the kind. He must wait in patience, and hope.

He shook back his shoulders, as though he were shaking off a heavy burden, and looked up at the sky—an iridescent globe reddening to sunset.

CHAPTER XIV

“IT’S most extraordinary,” said Gra, one evening. “I always had an idea that the lower classes took their holidays in August—they certainly used to in my younger days. Yet here they are in swarms. I suppose they read in the papers of Lord and Lady So-and-so going away in the winter, and they think it’s rather swagger to do likewise.”

“What I can’t understand is how they can afford it,” remarked Cuthbert. “Though it is wonderfully cheap for the distance, yet it must—even by trippers’ tickets—cost them twenty-five or thirty pounds each, with tips and things. Yet there’s a family of four over there who appear greengrocers or something.”

“No, they’re not,” laughed Gra. “Pa keeps a milk-shop in the Harrow Road, and ma helps with the books. I’m sure I’m right.”

“Do you see that man over there?” asked Mac. “No—the one with a red fringe of hair. I spoke to him before dinner. I said, ‘ How do you think you’ll like Las Palmas? ’ He answered, ‘ Wal, it seems vary dull. I think I’d ’ave ’ad more fon in Blaackpool.’ As a matter of fact, these people are mostly North of Englanders; they are a very saving race.”

“I asked that thin, stooping man over there if he’d come for his health,” grinned Brocklehurst. He stared at me blankly and said, ‘Noa, I jes’ coom! ’ He’s a Yorkshire farmer.”

Gra laughed; then she said seriously:

“As a matter of fact, I don’t mind that kind of person at all. It’s the pretentious suburban I loathe—those four females who overdress, for instance. I call them the ‘butter-scotches,’ because they’re so sticky! They won’t speak to any one— any woman, I mean; they’ve picked up with all the third-rate Spanish men at the Casino. They gave themselves awful airs on board the boat, Mrs. Stuart tells me; the two unmarried ones said that they had ‘a large allowance from their father!’ Also they impressed on every one that they kept a motor at home! I suppose that is the height of grandeur for them. It is really awfully funny.”

“That man and his little boy are so funny,” said Mac. “The hospital nurse seems so unnecessary; the boy plays about all right.”

“M. or N.,” grinned Brocklehurst.

Gra stared for a moment, then covered her face and shook.

“Oh, Cuth, you are vulgar!”

“Well, my dear, I only—”

“Never mind, it’s awfully funny. I must tell ‘ the Duchess.’ I wonder how I shall get on in the whist drive to-morrow? Last time I nearly got the booby prize.”

It was natural that a little scandal should be talked; there was not much else to do. A concert now and then, when any talent was staying in the hotel, occasionally a whist drive, got up by Mr. Ratherson, and the weekly excitement over the mail, were about the only things that broke the monotony. Yet every one was happy; how could they help being so in such a lovely climate?

Nearly every day the Brocklehursts would walk up to the rose-garden as they called it—a nursery garden kept by two sad-eyed dark women; but such a garden! No rows and rows of flowers, but a wild tangle of beauty and scent. They presumed the younger woman had a husband, as, when Gra wanted to pick some orange-blossom, her dark eyes would glance round in fear, and she would say her husband would be angry. But MacFarlane would smile at her, she would smile back, and Gra nearly always had her sweet-scented blossom. There were puppies and kittens and baby-goats up at this enchanted spot, and Gra would play with all the young things like a child. She was quite content in Las Palmas; she felt she could stay for ever. Yet in little over a month they were going home—to London this time, to see a little of the Season. She loved the whole thing; loved the Spanish women peeping through their persianas, though she objected to the way they covered their beautiful olive skins with cheap white powder; loved the lithe, bright-eyed lovers standing outside on the pavement (a Spanish woman may only talk through the open shutter to her lover: to meet outside is bad form); loved the dirty children swarming everywhere in enormous numbers, some clothed only in an abbreviated shirt; loved the curious one-storied, flat-roofed houses, the groups of men gambling at the corners of the plazas, the tartanas with their cool curtains, the fat duennas walking with the stiff young girls, the cows being led round with their calves from door to door, and milked on the spot while the mistress of the house stood by waiting for the mug or jug to be filled. She loved and took an interest in everything. It was only the starved mules that spoiled things for her. In the town things were better; for this reason she kept away from the port.

For some weeks after the incident of the horse they found themselves celebrities. They could not enter the town without being pointed at, and if they alighted at a shop there would soon be a small crowd of idlers round the door, staring half in amusement, half in admiration. Gra was furious at first, but she became used to it, and soon the interest died down as some other excitement came to the fore.

As to the Spaniard, Antonio, he was still awaiting his trial, and they heard no more about him. They had been given permission to leave the island when their time was up, their evidence had been taken down and sworn to, and the case was exceedingly simple. Stabbing was too usual an occurrence in the Canaries to make any difficulty about the proceedings. The only difference was that this time the offence was against a visitor; and magistrate, police, and lawyers, all talking together with much excitement and indignation, assured them that it was the first time such a thing had occurred—in fact, this appeared to be true, they could find no record of such a happening before.

They were all three sorry when the time came for them to leave. They had put it off from week to week till the end of April; at last they made up their minds to tear themselves away.

MacFarlane, the day before they were to leave, went for a stroll along the sands, at low tide, with Brocklehurst. He felt he must have his future decided. His patient was so well now that he really did not need a permanent doctor any longer. His heart ached, but he was too honest to continue drawing his large salary for nothing, and he knew that he must open the subject. It was a difficult thing to do, and he felt somewhat awkward.

When he began, Cuthbert listened to him quietly; then he said, with an amused smile:

“You’re so confoundedly conscientious, Mac! I knew you would burst this on me soon, and Eve been thinking over it. Now, honestly, am I perfectly cured—without any doubt whatever?” MacFarlane hesitated.

“It’s difficult to say that for certain,” he said slowly. “As far as I can see, there is very little wrong. You’ll have to go slow for some time, of course; and I don’t think you’ll ever be able to do all you did before. Hunting, for instance, might easily make you bad again, and you must never overfatigue yourself. But what I mean is, that you don’t need me to see after you now—you only require a reasonable amount of common sense. You must give me your word not to do mad things—I don’t want to have had all my trouble for nothing, to see you go back to the old state. But you’re not a fool, Brock, and I think you’ve had a lesson.” “Yes—oh I shall not cut a dash, you may be sure of that, old chap.” He stopped, and walked a little way without speaking; then he went on quietly: “I have been thinking over this, and I fancy you may agree to what I propose. It’s like this. You gave up your work and everything for me; it will take you some time to settle down again to the old routine. I propose to do this: I will continue what I am giving you till the end of the year—no, don’t protest, please, it is just. Then I want you to be with us for July, till your year with us is up. We shall be in town till June—Gra doesn’t want to stay till the end of the season; after that we shall go to Wane’s. In August we shall go up to Scotland. I want you to stay till we go north. Your rooms in Curzon Street are prepared for you, so that makes no bother. Then you can have the rest of the year to look about you and settle down—send out notices, or whatever you doctors do, to your old patients. By the beginning of next year you ought to be in the swim again. I particularly want to keep you till you can say positively that I am cured, and I shan’t feel easy unless you are there. And, Mac” (he hesitated, looked at the sea, and poked the sand with his stick) “I—I—er—want to thank you for all you’ve done. It’s entirely owing to you that I am so well; I quite realize what a lot of trouble and thought you have put into the case, and I—er—I’m deeply grateful.”

“Rot!”

Two Englishmen, one of whom is thanking the other for saving his life, are the most awkward, shy, and uneasy beings possible to be seen on the earth. They were both red, and they looked away from each other, and started with one accord to walk faster.

“Well?” said Brocklehurst at last. “Will you do what I ask? I ask it as a great favour.”

How could MacFarlane refuse? Three more months in the beloved presence! It was not possible to resist it. He accepted.

He saw that now was not the moment to speak about Gra. He must leave that till the day of his departure. Time enough then to find out what his friend’s feelings were in the matter.

He was happy. He had been rather low-spirited lately when he thought of his decision to leave them on reaching London. Now a great weight seemed fallen from his mind, he would not think of the future, he would be happy—as happy as he could be—for three months longer.

This time the Wane was ordered to go to Plymouth. The sea was gloriously smooth, and the sun was hot. But alas! how can one tell? Before the terrible Bay was sighted the sky clouded over and the waves came rolling against the yacht’s sides with accumulated strength. Gra retired to her cabin. She was very ill indeed, and had only one wish—to go to the bottom and end this misery. MacFarlane attended her tenderly, and tried everything he could think of to alleviate her torture. At last he gave her morphia, which seemed to be the only thing that helped her.

It was a draggled, drawn-faced Gra that was carried up on deck at last—the day before their arrival. She lay listless and white on a deckchair, not caring to read or talk. But the next morning she was well again, and smiled upon the world with deep content.

A slight mist hung over Plymouth as they steamed into the Sound at one o’clock; but the sun was doing its best to pierce through the haze.

In London it was pouring with rain, and Gra shivered with disgust. At the station Cuthbert sent his valet to telephone to Curzon Street to tell the servants to light fires in all the rooms. They were a shivering group that huddled into the carriage sent to meet them.

“Has it been like this all the time, Jenkins?” asked Cuthbert of the coachman.

“Well, sir, not quite so bad, as you might say. We’ve had a bit o’ rain since the second, but last Thursday was quite sunny off and on.”

“Quite sunny off and on,” quoted Gra bitterly, “four days ago. Ugh! And if we saw no sun for two or three hours at Las Palmas every one was growling and grizzling. What a climate we have in this country of ours!”

Arrived at the house, they made for the fires, and warmed their chilled bodies.

“Mac,” said Gra, “just tell them to light fires in Cécile’s and Lightfoot’s rooms too; they’ll need it, poor things, as much as we. I wonder whether Lightfoot will still be glad to get back to his beloved country. He hated Las Palmas, I believe; he always wore his most disapproving look. He couldn’t have looked severer if Cuth had insisted on putting on brown boots with a frock coat, or a top hat with a jacket suit.”

Brocklehurst laughed.

“I tackled him about it one day, and he was ‘resigned.’ I could have kicked him. I hate people who are resigned. He said that as it was doing me so much good he was only too pleased; ‘ for himself he couldn’t see what was the good of them furriners,’ and suggested that it was very remiss of the English not to go out and collar the islands, and turn out the Spanish.”

“Well,” cried Gra hopefully, “anyway, one thing is jolly—to see one’s own things again. And wont it be nice to sit down to a table with decent silver and glass? Come on, let’s go and dress; I expect the servants have arrived by now.”

Gra was in high spirits notwithstanding the dismal weather and her past agonies on the yacht. She too refused to look forward into the future, and would think only that she was to keep Mac with her for three months more. She tried to “be good,” poor child, but she could not help the joy she felt in her lover’s presence. Cuthbert she was very fond of in a “pally” way, but, try as she would, she could not love him as she knew she ought to do. She had given her heart to MacFarlane, and what she had once given she could not take back. All she could do was to keep watch and ward over herself, so that never by word or sign should she break down as she had broken down twice before. She was determined that she would be strong—strong as only a good woman can be. She knew that if she tempted him his good resolutions would go, and leave only the passionately tender lover. She quite realized that all lay in her hands, and she sighed that it should be so. Men are supposed to be strong and women weak, but she found, as many others had found before her, that where love is concerned, it is quite the opposite.

It is well that women are given a mental strength quite out of proportion to their weak bodies ; life would be a dreary pilgrimage if it were not so, and unhappiness would be a thousandfold greater than it is.

CHAPTER XV

ABOUT a fortnight after the return to London a sale took place of a very important private collection of coins. For days before, Brocklehurst was deep in catalogues and reference books, and Gra could hardly persuade him to go out with her. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, and MacFarlane teased him about his “worn bits of metal,” as he disrespectfully called the magnificent collection.

When the great day came, Cuthbert, with Mac in attendance, was early at the sale-room, walking round with a magnifying-glass and sheaves of annotated lists. He was very excited and interested, and when the sale began he was installed in a corner near the auctioneer, who watched him carefully, ready to accept the nod of one of the best-known numismatologists in England.

Half-way through the morning he was worked up to a state of irritation by a German who bid up the price for one particular lot that Cuthbert had set his heart upon. He was determined to get it, but it certainly was most annoying to have to give a price far beyond what he had marked as the outside limit any one would bid to. A few pounds more or less made no difference to him, but the aggravating part of it was that he knew his rival was running it up for spite. The two men had recently been at loggerheads over a much-discussed problem in a German technical paper, and the Englishman had been proved to be in the right. He had closed the discussion by a dignified retort to the German’s somewhat rabid attack on him in particular, and the English race in general.

The German stood in the corner nodding and nodding like a Chinese mandarin. He had little fat hands which he kept clutched round the catalogue, his head was round, his face was red, and he had a greedy smile.

Brocklehurst answered nod with nod, and clenched his teeth. Then suddenly his face brightened, and he put up his hand to hide the grin he could not help giving. Standing on the other side of MacFarlane he noticed a man whom he knew was a friend of the German. He bent towards Mac and whispered so that the stranger could hear:

“I don’t want the things a bit! I’m only running them up to amuse myself. I’m going to leave off in a minute, then you just watch Goertz’s face when he’s left with them on his hands.”

He nodded to the interrogative auctioneer, and out of the corner of his eye watched the man who had overheard his remark sidle round the room and stand behind the German. He saw him whisper something, saw the red face get redder and the mouth fall open, then the auctioneer looked at it.

“And you, sir?” he asked'; but the German shook his head.

Brocklehurst chuckled, and he could not resist throwing a smile of triumph over at Goertz’s friend as the hammer came down. Goertz noticed it and turned on his friend with fury.

MacFarlane laughed.

“Well done, Brock! Did you know that he was a friend of Goertz’s?”

Of course I did,” chuckled Cuthbert; “that’s why I said it. All’s fair in love and sales. Come along, I’ve got all I want for to-day. To-morrow there are one or two lots I must bid for, but the rest to-day are no good.”

When they returned home Brocklehurst looked tired, and MacFarlane noticed that his face was rather haggard. He had consented to him going to the sale, but he had not anticipated the incident of Goertz, and he saw that it had overexcited his friend. He took the catalogue and reference books away by force, and, after lunch, he insisted that Cuthbert should lie down.

Gra looked worried.

“Is there anything wrong?” she asked anxiously.

“Nothing serious, I think, but that fight agitated him, and I fancy it’s best to keep him quiet. I wonder whether he will trust to-morrow to me.”

But Brocklehurst would not allow any one to bid for him. Luckily the obnoxious German was absent, so the purchases went off easily; but he was not himself—he looked tired and ill.

That night MacFarlane knew he would have to watch, and he hoped that Cuthbert would be sensible enough to give up his fortnightly work.

The night after their arrival he had subjected his wife to the usual suggestion. Mac wondered if it were ever to cease. Now the fortnight was up, and, though he trusted it would be useless, he took up his post at one o’clock in the dressing-room.

They had all three been to a dinner-party, and had not returned till half-past eleven, so he knew it would be no use watching before one. He feared that his friend would not give up his purpose to-night—the next night the Brocklehursts were going to a theatre, and afterwards to a supper-party at the Savoy, so that night would be out of the question.

Sure enough, shortly after he was at his post, Brocklehurst rose from his bed and went across to Gra’s. But to-night there was something new, and Mac’s nerves were on edge. Usually the suggestion was given silently—there were no words. To-night, after the preliminary passes, Brocklehurst bent over his wife, and spoke softly.

“Tell me, Gra, what are your orders? What have you been commanded to do?”

Mac got in a panic. Suppose she said: “To live on to the limit of my natural life.” Good God! Then Brocklehurst would suspect, nay, would know, that some one else had been tampering with her.

What should he do? He had no time to think.

He leant forward, his soul seemed to go out of him and hang over that bed.

“Say nothing. Don’t answer. Be silent. Do you hear? Be silent—I command you not to answer.”

He flung out his will with an agony of strength, the sweat rolled off him as it had in those early days, his hands were clenched till the nails bit into the palms, his face was white with fear.

Gra moved slightly and uneasily, and rolled her head on the pillow.

Cuthbert made a few more passes, then repeated his question.

“Answer me. What have you been commanded to do?”

Gra opened her lips.

“To—to—li—” she began. Then was silent.

Could the power of that waiting, watching, agonized man really give sufficient force across the intervening space to close her lips? It seemed so, for she rolled her head again, and there was a worried frown on her brow.

Again her husband repeated the question, bending lower till his face nearly touched hers. For half an hour the fight went on, and she never opened her lips again. Then Cuthbert, staggering slightly, went to a table and poured himself out some drops always placed there by the doctor in case of emergency. Then he made the passes to bring back Gra to her natural sleep, but, what had never happened before, she awoke, and stared at her husband.

“I was just going to wake you,” he said menda ciously. “I felt queer. I’ve just taken the drops.”

Mac closed the door quietly and ran back to his room; he feared that Gra would ring for him. They had the same arrangement of alarm-bell here as at Wane’s Ferry.

He sank into a chair, trembling from head to foot, then he crawled to his medicine-cupboard and measured himself out a strong dose of caffeine.

The bell did not ring. What should he do?

In five minutes he again went down softly to the first floor, and listened at the door of the bedroom. He heard Gra saying something—he could not distinguish the words—then Brocklehurst’s deeper tones saying he was better, and that it was unnecessary. He presumed Gra had suggested he should be called.

Then he heard Cuthbert yawn wearily. Gra moved about the room a little longer; then he heard a bed creak.

He crept into the dressing-room and peered through the peephole he had made for himself here as at Wane’s. They were both in bed. Gra was turning restlessly, but her husband lay still. He waited there till three o’clock, shivering in his wet pyjamas. He did not dare leave till he was sure that they were both asleep.

And what a weary time of thinking he had till it was time to get up. He never closed his eyes. The shock had been terrible for him. He went over in his thoughts the half-hour of strain again and again. If he had not succeeded—if she had spoken—what would have been the result? Brockle hurst would have suspected him—he felt sure of that, for whom else could he suspect? That some one had influenced Gra with a contrary suggestion to his own would have been apparent, and could it be any one else but MacFarlane? If this had happened he knew that all his work would have been undone—useless. Brocklehurst would have made an excuse for getting him out of the house, and would then have gone on with his plot, subjecting Gra to his will day after day till he had her completely under control.

For many weeks MacFarlane had not been so anxious about the result as he had been the year before. He was convinced that his friend was going to get well—anyway that, barring accidents, he would live for years; but, notwithstanding his . hope, he had continued to influence Gra with suggestion, he wished to oust that other horrible idea from her subconscious mind. He did not think now that it much mattered; Brocklehurst would live till he was old, probably, and, as years went on, he would forget about his diabolical plan, and leave Gra in peace.

But this questioning of the subject upset his calculations. Brocklehurst would be uneasy and suspicious—not of him, he did not think that possible, but of his own power—and that might lead to complications. What these complications might be, he could not guess, but he was soon to know.

At breakfast Cuthbert opened his letters as usual, and by and by he gave an exclamation of pleasure. Gra looked up.

“They’ve asked me to do the numismatology article for the new encyclopaedia,” he said triumphantly; “it’s really rather an honour.”

“Oh I am so glad, Cuth. It is indeed an honour.”

MacFarlane added his hearty congratulations. But he was not quite so pleased an hour or so afterwards, when Brocklehurst and he were sitting in the library.

Cuthbert was muddling about with some papers, and he coughed once or twice, then spoke in a rather unnatural voice.

“I say, Mac, this work will be a rather stiff job. Er—I suppose I’m strong enough now to undertake it all right?”

MacFarlane was utterly unsuspicious. He was, as a matter of fact, delighted that his friend had been offered the work—he thought it would take his mind off other things, and occupy him in the science that interested him more than any other. So he answered unhesitatingly:

“Yes, certainly. Writing is far better for you than fagging about at sales and things. I think it will do you no harm at all.”

“That’s all right.” Brocklehurst went to a shelf and ran his eye along the books and hummed. Then he added quietly: “Well, I’ve got to do some at night, you know. I always could work better at night; you’re quite aware of that. I must do an hour or two’s work in. my old way.” MacFarlane gasped. What a fool he had been to fall into a trap like this.

“That’s a totally different thing, Brock,” he said hurriedly. “I won’t have all my work undone by your idiotic fancy for night work. You can work perfectly well in the day—you know you can. Those articles you wrote at Las Palmas were as good as anything you’ve ever done—in fact it’s probably those that have got you this offer.”

“Yes; but that air was different. I never seem to be able to write in England. You remember at Oxford the rotten stuff I turned out in the day. I could get nothing into my head unless I studied at night. No, I must work at night, once or twice a week. You’ve said yourself that I was strong now.”

“Strong enough for ordinary work,” cried his companion irritably, “but not for turning night into day.”

“Don’t be silly—‘ night into day!’ You know that I never sit up all night, but I must have a little time, my brain is clearer—problems seem to illuminate themselves, somehow, at night. I might have done it without telling you, but I’d given my promise, and I wished to do the straight thing.”

“I won’t release you from your promise,” Mac burst out in a rage. “You gave it me, and I won’t have you take it back.”

Cuthbert laughed.

“Well, I take it back myself. I have a perfect right to. I have not been underhand, I’ve told you frankly. And I’m going to do it, so there!”

MacFarlane bounced up from his chair.

“You’re a damned fool!”

His temper, usually under perfect control, was flaming; perhaps his sleepless night had something to do with it.

Brocklehurst wheeled round.

“All right,” he said cheerfully. “Anyway, I’ll continue to be one. Look here, Mac, what’s all the bother about? I’ll go to bed at half-past one or two, and, if you like, I’ll be called later. I don’t see what difference it can make. You said I could go to theatres and things, and stay up late sometimes, so where’s the harm in working instead?”

Then Mac saw he had made a fool of himself, and went more cautiously.

“Amusement is another thing.”

“My work is my amusement. It’s much more entertaining and much less fag than a stupid reception.”

MacFarlane was thoughtful.

“Don’t you see?” persisted his companion.

“There’s one thing against it,” said the doctor slowly. “You always work in your bedroom. You go to bed, sleep for a little, then get up and start working. It’s a rotten plan. The whole atmosphere gets permeated with strain—oh, you may laugh, but it’s a fact—and you don’t get the same restful sleep afterwards as you ought to get. At Oxford at least you used to work in the sitting-room, and go to bed after in a fresh, airy room— that’s not so bad. Will you do that now ? Mind, I’d much prefer you to do no work at night, but if you will do it, at least work down here, then go up and have a bath, and get to bed freshened up.”

Brocklehurst shrugged his shoulders.

“All right,” he said indifferently. “ If that’s any satisfaction to you, I can do that. I will work in here, and go up after.”

“And go straight to bed?” asked Mac suspiciously.

It was Cuthbert’s turn to get angry, and his anger was no half-measures.

“I won’t be bullied like a naughty child!” he shouted. “I shall do as I damn well please. If I find I think of anything when I get upstairs I shall do it. I’m sick of being ordered about. I’m perfectly strong now, and it’s just because you love hectoring and lecturing that you want me to do things just in your way.”

“You’re an obstinate idiot!”

“And you’re an interfering, pompous ass!”

The two angry men stood facing each other, their eyes flashing, their voices raised.

Gra opened the door and stood gazing at them in astonishment.

“Good heavens! What on earth is the matter? You look as if you were going to fight.”

Both men began explaining at once, and Gra put her hands over her ears.

“Oh, do get cool,” she pleaded, half laughing. “Now, Cuth, explain.”

If a torrent of incoherent fault-finding is explanation, Gra got it. She sat down and waited patiently, then she turned to Mac. He was hardly more coherent, but, piecing together the two speeches, Gra seemed, more by intuition than anything else, to get some idea of the reason of the row.

At the end she looked from one to the other gravely.

“Then/’ she said at last, “if I understand aright, you give Cuth permission to work sometimes at night, as long as he works down here? That seems quite fair, Cuth.”

“Rot!” exploded her husband. “I’m going to do as I choose. I won’t be bullied”—the reiteration seemed to please him—“I am going to work where and how I please. I’ve consented to write down here, but if I think of something upstairs I’m certainly going to do it.”

Then he suddenly whirled round and faced MacFarlane again.

“What’s at the bottom of this?” he asked, and his voice was suspicious.

This cooled the doctor effectually; it would never do for Cuthbert to suspect that there was any reason for his objections other than he had already given.

He looked straight at him steadily.

“Nothing,” he answered—“nothing but what I have told you. I know strenuous effort vitiates the atmosphere, and it’s better for you to write down here.”

“Very well. I promise not to write in my room. There! If I think of a thing I’ll just note it down — I won’t write.”

Mac turned away with a sigh. He had fought and lost. All the old nightly watching must recommence; and the fight would be harder, he knew. He must think and think, and see if hard thought could circumvent the new difficulty.

Was Cuthbert mad? He began to think he must be. He was practically well, yet he would not give up his old hateful desire. Gra must answer when he asked her the question again—must answer, but not obey. How could that be?

What could he do? He had fought, lost his temper, been undignified, and all for nothing.

All that day he puzzled and worried, and even when he fell into a deep sleep after lunch, wearied out, he dreamt of the maze of difficulties. Could he ever find the way out of the maze? He wondered.

CHAPTER XVI

IT was just at this time that MacFarlane met Hippolyte Grandjean. When he saw him first he chuckled at the inappropriateness of the name, but when he knew the man better he found that it was his real name, not a nom de guerre, as he had fancied. He also no longer thought it inappropriate—there is a bigness of soul as well as of body.

He was walking in the Park the morning after the quarrel with Brocklehurst, he was feeling dull and worried, also tired out. He had watched the night before from his post in the dressing-room, and had had the same fight—Brocklehurst willing his hypnotized wife to speak, he willing her to say nothing. He knew this could not go on, but as yet he had thought of no plan—he could think of no plan, his brain felt like wet wool.

He was gazing absent-mindedly at the carriages passing, when he was hailed by a high, excitable voice, and saw a victoria drawing up at the railings. A woman of a somewhat fatigued prettiness held out her hand to him.

“So you’re back, Dr. MacFarlane? How glad every one must be. I must come and see you again; I’m sure you’ll find something wrong with my heart this time—I’ve been doing too much.”

Mrs. Brendell-Stephens had come to him the year before, when it was the fashion to have some disease. Her heart was perfectly normal, but she was most disappointed when he told her so. She was a well-known society woman, and was never happy unless she had at least six engagements for each day. She also had many fads, not fads like those of Lady Ethersbury, who at least improved her mind with them, however short a time they lasted. No; hers were the last new crazes of the moment. Beauty-culture (of the face), French bull-dogs, “classic” dancing, diseases, had all had their turn; the last thing with which she had startled her friends was soap-bubbles. She had given a large reception at which every individual was supplied with a bowl of soap-suds and a long clay pipe, and she had offered prizes for the best bubbles.

She was restless and unsatisfied, always looking out for something new, always tiring of it when found.

Now she leant towards MacFarlane with a serious face.

“If I’d known you were back I would have sent you an invitation for to-night You must come, doctor—I insist upon it. I’ve got the most wonderful man—I discovered him a month ago by accident. Our car broke down at an awful little place called—oh, Stokington, or Bokington, or Rokington, or something, and they couldn’t get it mended for hours. So we went to an entertainment in the town-hall. It was killings simply killing! Then this man came on; it was quite another thing. I've never seen anything so marvellous. I got him to come to town, and have procured him heaps of engagements. He's a huge success. He's coming to me to-night. You really must come."

She had spoken, as her habit was, without pausing for breath, and MacFarlane had no chance to speak. Now he said quietly that he had not returned to work yet, and was staying with friends professionally.

“Oh, I know—the Brocklehursts,” broke in the lady. “How is the poor man—better? Oh, I’m so glad. But you must come to me. I know they won’t mind. I don't know them, or I would ask them too."

MacFarlane knew that he could easily go if he wished it. Cuthbert had insisted, when making the original arrangement, that he was to keep his own friends, and go out when he chose. But he had no heart for entertainments, though he knew he was free this night, as he had, by dint of much patient pressure, made Brocklehurst promise that he would never “work” two nights in succession. No; he wished to be quiet and think. He was just about to say he had an important engagement, when Mrs. Stephens gave an exclamation.

“Oh! how stupid I am! I've never told you what my discovery is. I particularly want you to come because you are so clever, and, like all doctors, a terrible sceptic, I fear. But you can t refuse to believe in Hippolyte Grandjean, he’s a marvel. You think me a silly little thing, I know” (archly), “but this time I do know what I’m talking about. He’s a Frenchman, of course (and he speaks English), and he’s the most extraordinary hypnotist I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen many. He can do just what he likes with every one—the most astonishing power. He just points from the platform to any one he picks out in the room, and they just have to do what he wants. My dear doctor, I can assure you that he made Lord Gunnersbourne stand up on his chair and wave his handkerchief the other day at the Wallesburys’ reception. Gout and all, mind you! he hopped up like a child, and beamed on every one as if he were doing something clever.”

MacFarlane suddenly bent forward, interested.

“Is that a fact?”

“A fact—I swear it! and you can’t accuse Gunnersbourne of being a confederate. He has most—well, I cant describe to you what he is.

Will you come and see for yourself?”

“Where did he get the power?” asked MacFarlane.

“He says he has always had it. As a child he used to hypnotize the fowls and the dogs at his home. One of his uncles had the power too, and Hippolyte says it was before hypnotism was understood, and his uncle was stoned by the villagers for being a sorcerer. Now, you will come, won’t you?—ten o’clock sharp; and, though you don’t believe me now, you will see it is true when you come. He reads thoughts too in the queerest way; I have to think of nothing when he’s there, I’m so afraid. He called out the other day to Tommy Dowl (you know Tommy?) that it was no use going to Norway, ‘ she ’ wouldn’t be there! Of course we didn’t know what he meant, but Tommy did—he got crimson.”

“Yes, I’ll come, Mrs. Stephens. Many thanks for asking me. I’m sure it will be interesting.”

“You can set him any tests you like,” cried the lady as she was whirled away.

He did not know why he had decided to go— the man was probably a fraud; Mrs. Stephens was renowned for finding the most weird people to perform at her house—anything for a new sensation, seemed to be her motto. However, he’d accepted on the spur of the moment, more because he had the word “hypnotism” on the brain than for any other reason.

When he arrived he found Mrs. Stephens’s huge drawing-room turned into a theatre with rows of chairs, and at one end a platform.

The place was crowded with a laughing, chattering, well-dressed throng.

He greeted several friends, and found a chair next to Crampton the composer, whom he knew slightly.

Mrs. Stephens was rushing about from acquaintance to acquaintance talking excitedly, and distributing her staccato smile on one and all. Then she held up her hand and said: “Hush! here he comes”; and Hippolyte Grandjean came on to the platform from a door at the side.

MacFarlane smiled, he could not help it—the man was so droll in appearance. His height was about five feet two, he had very small hands and feet, the former curiously pointed and white. His head was remarkable, very high and egg-shaped, though across the forehead was a most uncommon width, accentuated by its baldness, as the long, dark, straight hair did not begin till the very centre of the crown. His eyebrows met over a hooked nose, and under them was a pair of the most uncanny light eyes MacFarlane had ever seen. He puzzled as to what eyes they reminded him of, and could not think—some animal's, he knew that. The pupils were very small, mere pin-points, like those of a person under the influence of morphia. The mouth was hidden by a ridiculous black moustache, the hairs of which partly drooped, partly bristled, and his chin looked as if a piece had been cut out of it, so deep was the cleft. His age was difficult to guess—probably about forty, MacFarlane thought.

“Queer-looking brute!” muttered Crampton.

MacFarlane nodded.

“Yes. But powerful. Also trustworthy. One thing I’m sure of, he believes in himself; whatever he does there’s no cheating about it.”

He whispered the words to his companion as he looked at the little figure on the platform. Then, to his utter surprise, the big head nodded at him, and, in broken English, the man spoke.

“Tank you, monsieur. I am vary glad of your good opinion. It is vorth much.”

That was nothing. If the man possessed any powers at all he could read faces. Why, even he— MacFarlane—had taught himself to do that when walking the hospitals.

That is what he thought, and again the head nodded; then the light eyes passed to his neighbour. They fixed him for a few moments, then Grandjean opened his mouth, and in a soft, light tenor voice, using the old-fashioned do re mi, he sang two-bars of music.

Crampton sprang to his feet.

“Stop! it’s not written yet!” he cried, then he sat down suddenly, reddening, as he found himself stared at by every one in the room.

Grandjean laughed, and his laughter turned the curious face into that of a mischievous child.

“Those bars were running in my head while I was dressing,” whispered Crampton. “I didn’t even hum them, so no one could have heard. The man’s most uncanny.”

MacFarlane was staring at the platform. He was interested, but he wanted further proof.

“Dat vas vat you call play,” remarked Grandjean. “Now I vili do someting for you. ’Oo vili come up and be ’ypnotized? I vili not ’urt ’im. Madame vili tell you I do not ’urt. I vili not do vat some mens do—burn and ’it and tell you you suffer not. No; dat is foolish. I vili not make dam fool of you neither by making you dance like silly bear. No; I jes’ send you sleep and you say fings you know not. Dat is all. ’Oo vili come?”

He looked round the room with a smile.

Mrs. Stephens rose.

“Billy,” she called to a tall man with grey hair, “ do go. I promise you he won’t hurt you. What he says is true.”

“Billy,” otherwise Colonel Sir Arthur Brindley, bowed. Then, looking rather uncomfortable, he marched to the platform and mounted it.

“Do you speak French, monsieur?” asked Grandjean.

“No. That is, I can ask my way in Paris, and can order my coffee at hotels, but I fear my French is rocky.”

“R-r-rocky?” questioned Grandjean. “I suppose dat is argot—er, vat you call slang. Veil, you speak not French, dat all right. Now you sit on dis chair, so. Do not fear; I not ’urt you.”

He bent and stared at his victim’s eyes, and in a surprisingly short time he stood upright again and quietly said: “’E sleep.”

The Colonel lay back breathing quietly.

Then Grandjean took from his pocket some papers.

“Vili some kind gentleman please take dese and give dem about in de room. Tank you. It is a little poem of our great de Musset. I do not fink dis gentleman is vat you might say a lover of poets, eh?” There was a murmer of laughter in the room. “Έ also not speak French, eh? Veil, ve vili see vat ve can do. Έ speak dose verses. See?”

The typewritten copies had found their way to different hands, and now the hypnotist bent again over the sleeper.

“You say vat I fink, please,” he commanded quietly. “Now; begin.”

He stared at Sir Arthur, who coughed, then, in fluent French, began to recite:

“Rappelle-toi, quand l’Aurore craintive

He went all through the threeOuvre au soleil son palais enchanté,

Rappelle-toi, lorsque la nuit pensive

class="i2" Passe en rêvant sous son voile argenté;

A l’appel du plaisir lorsque ton sein palpite,

Aux doux songes du soir lorsque l’ombre t’invite,

Ecoute au fond des bois Murmurer une voix—

Rappelle-toi.”

He went all through the three exquisite verses, giving them their full value. There were tears in many eyes as the soldier, with sad voice, spoke the last lines:

“Tu ne me verras plus; mais mon âme immortelle

Reviendra près de toi comme une sœur fidèle,

class="i2"Ecoute, dans la nuit,

Une voix qui gémit—

Rappelle-toi.”

Then the audience clapped, and clapped; and the Colonel, wakened by a few swift passes of the delicate white hands, stared.

“What have I done?” he asked, as he stepped down from the platform.

“That!” said fat, emotional Lady Dorrington, handing him her copy of the verses.

“I don’t understand a word of it,” he announced as he glanced at the paper.

“We did—that is, some of us did.” She wiped away a tear, and murmured:

“Écoute, dans la nuit,

Une voix qui gémit—

Rappelle-toi.”

There was a babel of offers of “I,” “I,” when Grandjean next asked for a subject. Not one minded being made to recite in a language he did not know. But that was not repeated All sorts of things happened—some grave, some gay. But Grandjean kept his word—no one was nurt, and no one was made to look foolish. The most he did was to make one man take off his coat, lay it on a table, and rub and rub with his handkerchief to get out an imaginary stain.

Between two performances a small event took place that amused people immensely.

Grandjean said he wanted a rest, and sat down on his chair. People began to discuss the wonders they had seen. Suddenly a young girl got up, made her way to the mantelpiece, took a rose out of a vase, and went across to Mrs. Stephens, who was talking in a group by the door. She placed it in her hostess’s dress, turning her head on one side to admire the effect.

“Is that the one you wanted?” she asked prettily.

“Wanted?” puzzled Mrs. Stephens.

“Yes, you said the big pink rose; but there were two—I chose the prettier.”

“My dear, I—” then with one accord all the people round who had seen the incident turned and looked at the stage—Grandjean was smiling quietly, with his eyes fixed on the girl.

“Thank you, dear. Yes, it was this one,” said Mrs. Stephens kindly; and the giver of the rose smiled happily, and went back to her seat behind MacFarlane.

In a few minutes he asked Crampton, who knew her, to introduce him, and he asked her when Mrs. Stephens had asked her for the rose.

“What rose?” she asked, with wide-opened, surprised eyes.

“The rose you gave her.”

“I gave her no rose. Oh, that pink one she’s wearing? It was not I—you are mistaken.”

This interested MacFarlane more than anything that had gone before. He fell into deep thought, and hardly noticed the following events. He heard the clapping and laughter, and he clapped himself once or twice, but he could not have given a detailed description of any one performance.

After it was all over, the people surged into the supper-room, and MacFarlane went with them. He was standing looking at a picture by Corot when he felt a touch on his arm, and looked down to meet the curious eyes of the entertainer.

“I can ’elp you,” said Grandjean, without any preliminary.

“Yes,” answered MacFarlane quietly.

“Vili you come to my ’ouse to-morrow at eleven? ’Ere is my card. I shall be very pleased to ’elp a fellow worker.”

MacFarlane stared at the card and hesitated. His thoughts were answered uncannily.

“I vili be silent as the de—er. Parlez-vous français, monsieur?”

“Mais oui!”

“Bien, ça c est plus facile.”

They continued in French.

“I will keep your secret, monsieur. I know many secrets—some told to me, some not told. I have not read yours—I would not do so. I know only that you can do my work—oh, not all my work, that comes with practice, but some of it. I know you are in great sorrow and great difficulty, and I was told, somehow, that I could help you. If you will trust me I shall be very pleased to do my utmost.”

MacFarlane looked steadily into the queer eyes. Then he held out his hand.

“Thank you, monsieur; I will trust you.”

The small white hand was swallowed up in his big brown one.

“At eleven o’clock then?”

“Yes, at eleven.”

“Au revoir, monsieur.”

“Au revoir, à demain.”

He went home, and slept more soundly than he had done for a year.

CHAPTER XVII

SO it came about that Dr. James MacFarlane, most reticent of men, sat one morning in a lodging-house room, and told his deepest secret to Hippolyte Grandjean, public entertainer. Only a year before, he would have laughed at the idea. He would have scoffed in his mind at Hippolyte, would have thought him a charlatan, or at the best an amusing trickster, whose rôle in life was to entertain society butterflies.

Now—what did he think? He wondered as he sat on a stiff arm-chair and stared at the ghastly room, furnished (if furniture it could be called) with a “suite” of cheap saddle-bag chairs and sofa, an imitation rosewood sideboard, a round table with a horrible chenille cover, antimacassars of the mock Japanese style, pictures in shrieking gilt frames consisting chiefly of Marcus Stone engravings and enlargements of photographs of the landlady’s relations (“All you have to do is to send us a photograph and five shillings, and we will return you the photograph, and a beautiful enlargement, eighteen inches by ten, done by our best artists by a secret process of our own”), a painted drain-pipe containing a large bunch of dried and dyed pampas-grass and Cape gooseberries, and two Birmingham-Japanese vases on the mantelpiece, flanking a clock of gilt figures in stiff attitudes embracing the dial. Oh, it was a very superior room as lodgings go; the landlady might well put “furnished in the most refined manner” on her cards.

His host sat opposite him in the twin chair to his own, his short legs dangling, and his little arms laid quietly each side of him.

MacFarlane shuddered, and had thoughts of running away. Then he encountered the gaze of those curious, large, light eyes, and stared back at them. The eyes smiled, and Hippolyte spoke.

“Oui, c'est drôle, n'est-ce pas? Mais.”

He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his white hands from the plush saddle-bags, and spread them out in a gesture expressing many things.

MacFarlane leant forward, and frowned slightly.

“I do not doubt you,” he said quietly, “I doubt only that you will be able to credit what I am going to tell you.”

Grandjean shook his head.

“I have lived too long to dare to doubt anything, monsieur. I beg you to leave nothing out; tell me even the little things—the things you may think unimportant.”

“Very well.”

He began with Oxford, described the character of Brocklehurst and their friendship, and went on through the years, telling little incidents, as he had been instructed.

Hippolyte sat back in his chair, his body perfectly still, his eyes shut.

When MacFarlane got to the time of his friend’s marriage his voice shook a little, and he stammered with embarrassment. But he knew he must tell all or nothing, and he went on. For the first time he told the story of his hopeless love—told it to a man whom he had met only the night before, a man of another blood to his own, another breeding, a little man who would have resembled a monkey if it had not been for those wonderful eyes, and the beautiful hands. He spoke French well, and was glad of it; it is so much easier to talk of love in a Latin tongue. He told of the child’s death, of Gra’s goodness—somehow it seemed no sacrilege to talk of her to this queer little man.

Then he spoke of Brocklehurst’s illness, of the consultation, and then of that extraordinary conversation between himself and his friend when the specialists had gone. He gave the exact words Cuthbert had used—could he ever forget them?

Grandjean opened his eyes suddenly. He thought the man was going to speak, so stopped, but he only nodded and said: “Go on.”

Under the gaze of those wide-open, attentive eyes he continued.

He told of his scepticism, then of the sudden illumination that had come to him; of his decision to circumvent the plot if he could,and his journey to the Continent, and his study of the power of hypnotism; of his return to Wane’s Ferry, and of his night watches, and his struggles.

He left out nothing. Right through the whole story he went, carefully, telling everything. He finished up with the history of the shock he had received three nights before, and of Brocklehurst’s resolution to break the promise he had given, and to “work” at night when he wished.

“He suspects that his wife has somehow loosened the influence,” he ended, his elbows on the chair arms, his head bowed in his hands, “and he is determined to get it back. What am I to do? If he goes on, my power is not strong enough to counterbalance his. And he will go on till she answers as he wishes. Mind, the man is nearly well now, I have no fear that he will get ill again in the ordinary course of things—but there are accidents. Suppose he were killed—one can’t guard against accidents. Then all my work would be in vain.

Then Grandjean spoke for the first time.

“Why does he want to continue the thing now? Originally it was because he thought he might die any day, and he used the threat as a sword to make you work—to make you save him. Now that the danger is passed, I fail to see what his object is.”

MacFarlane shook his head.

“And I,” he said sorrowfully—“I also thought all would be well now. I can only think that it is a species of obstinacy. I think he would have given it up soon, but the other night seemed to make him angry, He has always succeeded in what he has set his mind to, and he was furious that she did not answer as he wished. It appears to me as if he were doing it as a kind of experiment, to see if he has lost his influence, I am sure he does not suspect the truth, he has no idea that I have interfered with his designs, but he suspects that his will has weakened since the old days, and he wishes to regain it. I’m in a quandary—if I leave her alone he will impose his suggestion on her; it is too much of a risk. Grandjean, do you think it is possible—all this? Do you think that a suggestion as horrible as that can take hold of a mind and bear a fatal result?”

Grandjean nodded gravely.

“Yes, I fear it is possible. I know my uncle told me that he knew of a case where a man had willed his wife to die at a certain time. He was in love with another woman, and he wished to marry her. The wife died—the man had his way. My uncle could never prove it, of course, but he knew. He could see things, and he read the man’s thoughts.”

“Yes, but that was at a certain time. I have often puzzled over this same thing. I know one can say to an hypnotic subject, ‘ At such and such an hour or day you are to do so-and-so,’ and he does it; but can one say, ‘When you see Whats-his-name do so-and-so, you are to do so-and-so at the same moment.’ That is my doubt.”

“Ah—I see.”

Grandjean shut his eyes again and thought deeply. Then he spoke quickly.

“Will you allow me to hypnotize you?”

“Certainly. Why?”

“I wish to try an experiment. Then will you come here again this afternoon? I wish to think,”

“Very well. When do you wish to hypnotize me?”

“Now. Just lie back quietly—so. Give up your will to me, otherwise it may be difficult.”

He bent over his visitor and stared into his eyes. It was not the first time MacFarlane had been hypnotized; often, in the old days, he had allowed himself to be a subject for Brocklehurst’s experiments. Very soon he was sleeping profoundly.

Grandjean pulled up the sleeper’s eyelids and looked at his eyes. He was satisfied.

“Do you hear me speak?” he asked in French.

“Yes.”

“I wish to tell you something. When you wake up, you will stay here a little while talking to me. I shall then offer you a drink. When I put the glasses on the table—you understand?—when I put out the glasses you must scream. Something will hurt you. Do you hear?”

“I must scream?” repeated the sleeper.

“Yes. Not too loudly, because you are a brave man; but you will be hurt, and you must cry out.”

He repeated his injunction several times, then he awakened his visitor.

MacFarlane smiled.

“I wish I could send people off as quickly as that,” he said enviously. “What did you ask me ?

“Oh, I just wondered if your subconscious self could help in the difficulty. Often one gets an idea from a sleeping subject which one has not thought of. But you were just as puzzled as you are now.”

They talked for some little time longer; then MacFarlane stood up.

“Well,” he said, “I must go now. What time shall I come this afternoon?”

“About four—any time between four and seven; I shall be here.”

“I am not going to attempt to thank you, Grandjean. Your sympathy is beyond thanks.”

Grandjean waved his hands.

“It is my profession,” he said carelessly; “no thanks are needed. It interests me beyond all things. What you have told me to-day has made me think—and I want to think of a way out. It is for my own sake as well as yours; I love problems. But wait; before you go you must have one little drink with me.” He went to the sideboard, and returned with a decanter, which he put on the table, talking all the while. “I drink whisky in England; I never touch it in France, and wondered at your liking for it: I’ve come to the conclusion that it is this climate of yours.” He fetched glasses, and brought them towards the table. “In France one does not need it, but here, mon Dieu! one needs something.” He placed the glasses on the table, and, as he did so, MacFarlane cried out, clapped his hands to his head, and sank into a chair.

Grandjean bent over him.

“What is it?”

‘ Lord, such a pain! It's gone now. I can't think what it was."

Grandjean sank down in the chair opposite.

“It was no pain.”

“Eh? I can assure you—”

“It was no pain. Listen.”

He told what he had done, and MacFarlane stared; then, as he realized the reason for the experiment, he turned very white.

“Good God!”

“Yes. It is quite true. Something must be done. I must think. I feel sure I shall be able to help you. I felt that last night when I first saw you.”

“I hope to Heaven you can.”

MacFarlane felt shaky. All through the past year, though he had striven and fought as if he had no doubts, deep down in his heart was the unacknowledged hope that such things could not be. Now—well now that hope had gone. It was proved to him that it was possible to give suggestion of an action to be done, not only at a certain hour or day, but synchronizing with another action done by another person.

He went away feeling dazed and wretched. Fie could think of no plan, and he had no hope that Grandjean would be of any use.

When he returned at five o’clock, he was met by the Frenchman with an abrupt question:

“ You write, I believe?”

“Yes. I used to write. I have no opportunity now.”

“Your friend suggested that you should try and pick up your old practice when you left him? ”

“Yes.”

“Well, could you not suggest to him that you will have great difficulty in doing so after having disappeared for so long.”

“Yes, he knows that. I have till the end of the year to do it in. He continues my salary till then. I leave him, as I told you, on the fifth of August.”

Grandjean looked serious. He put up one small hand and used it as a bâton, as if he were marking time, waving it up and down as he spoke.

“Could you not say to your friend that you have decided that it would be well to bring out a book in the autumn, so as to bring your name before the public again?”

MacFarlane looked surprised.

“I could, of course, but I don't see how I could get through it. You will understand that, as long as I am under his roof, and taking his money, I can’t very well disappear all day, and devote myself to my own work.”

“Exactly!” Grandjean looked triumphant. “Now, could you not say to him that, with his permission, you had decided to employ a secretary? that you had an immense number of notes which this secretary could sort and transcribe? that you insisted on giving up, say, four pounds a week for this secretary’s board, if your friend did not object to his presence in the house? Could you not do this?”

“Yes, of course I could,” said MacFarlane, looking puzzled; “but I don’t see what that has to do with the difficulty in hand. As a matter of fact it is a very good idea of yours, and if I weren’t so worried, I should do it. I have a lot of notes. I was just going to begin another book when I was called to give up everything to do with my profession. What are you thinking of, Grandjean?”

“Sit down,” said the little man; they had been standing hitherto. “Now,” he continued, as he leant forward in his chair, with an expression of delight on his face, “you say there is no difficulty in all that. Very well, I”—he placed his forefinger on his breast—“I come as your secretary, I stay in the house, and I help you!”

MacFarlane stared at him.

“But—” he began blankly.

The little man laughed.

“Oh, I know I cannot write English well. But need he know that? You can tell him I can write better than I talk, or—better still—say you are going to write the book in French, and that I am there to help you, Say I am a scientist—after all, my profession is a science, though you English have not yet acknowledged it to any great extent.”

“But, my dear chap, that’s all right, it presents no difficulties; Brocklehurst would not even inquire about it. But—but your work? your—”

“Oh, my work? I have to take a holiday sometimes. You would be keeping me. And, if you wish, you can pay me a salary”—he chuckled —“the salary of your secretary. I don’t want this, you understand. I am suggesting it only to please you. I am interested in the problem, and I wish to see if I cannot help. I think I can; I have thought of a plan.”

“What?”

MacFarlane bent forward, with sparkling eyes.

“Well”—Grandjean got up and walked about with short, quick steps. “Mind, I am not sure, but I think I am strong enough to force the lady to answer as her husband wishes. To answer only, you understand? Just to say the empty words, not to mean them, not to understand them, not to have the suggestion in her brain at all, but just to say like a parrot what he wishes. Then we will influence her in the day, as you have been doing all this time—influence her against her husband’s suggestion. So! What do you think?”

“But you would have to watch night after night. You would be tired out.”

Grandjean laughed merrily.

“Ah! I am a night bird. I love going to bed late. And I am a very late person in the mornings. I do not rise till ten. Terrible for a secretary! But you can keep that a secret, except from the servant who brings my coffee.

I think it is a very, very good plan. What do you think?”

“But—”

“If you say ‘but’ any more I shall think you do not trust me,” said Hippolyte seriously.

MacFarlane walked across the room and held out his hand silently; the little man took it.

So without a word they sealed their compact—surely one of the most extraordinary compacts ever agreed on between men.

CHAPTER XVIII

Brock”

“Um?”

“I’ve been thinking, and I want to put the results of my thoughts before you.”

“Go ahead. You sound very solemn.”

“I am. Well, it’s like this. I shall have some difficulty, as you realize, in catching hold again, and I think I ought to begin to wake people up to the fact that James MacFarlane has not retired from work pour toujours. I have written one or two articles in the last year, but that’s all. When I came to you, I was just going to start a book. 1 have piles of notes, and had written out the synopsis. Now, I thought that if I employed a secretary I could get through it all right without neglecting you.”

“Bosh! I’m all right now. You can work all day long as far as I’m concerned. I want you in the house only in case of need, that’s all.”

“I dare say. But you see I have some conscience. I’m not going to take your money, and calmly work at my own affairs all day long, as you suggest. No, if I employ a secretary he can work alone to a great extent; I should dictate to him for an hour or two while you’re working, then the rest of the day he can transcribe from his shorthand notes and from the muddle of scraps I have. I can mark them after he’s sorted them, and give him what he’s to use for the day, and so on. I wanted to consult you about it.”

“Of course, Mac, you can do as you like. Get the Johnny, by all means; I suppose he’ll come in early every day?”

“No; that’s why I wanted to consult you. I think of taking a man who used to work for me sometimes, if he can come. He lives in the country, and I should have to have him here. I propose to give him the little room off mine if you’ve no objection. And, look here, Brock, I insist on paying for his keep.”

“Rot!”

“If you don’t consent I shall not have him, and my work must go hang. I mean this. I intend you to deduct four pounds a week from my salary.”

“Good heavens! I don’t keep a boardinghouse. Four pounds a week for a wretched secretary—I never heard such nonsense!”

“Then he can’t come.”

“But, my dear chap, four pounds is simply ridiculous. One can go to an hotel for that.”

“Well, he’ll give trouble—he’ll have to have his meals in my room, and so on.”

“The servants are paid. No, Mac, I really can’t do it.”

The men argued and wrangled for twenty minutes. MacFarlane was firm. He was determined that he would not bring this man into the house to work against Brocklehurst, allowing the host to pay for his keep. The whole thing was hateful to him; even though the end in sight was good, yet it seemed mean and underhand, and went against the grain most terribly.

At last Cuthbert gave in and consented to take three pounds a week. He held out a long time for nothing, longer still for two pounds; at last, cross and irritable, he accepted MacFarlane’s final suggestion.

“And who is my new boarder?” he asked sarcastically.

Mac laughed.

“A queer little Frenchman. He’s a marvel at understanding my notes, and very quick at shorthand”—he got scarlet at the lie, and walked to the window. “He’s about five foot nothing, and a most remarkable-looking person. But he’s honest; you need not fear he’ll run off with the plate. He speaks bad English, but writes and reads it well, as so many do who have learnt from books. He’s quite clever.”

“Is he a gentleman? Why can’t he meal with us?”

“No, he’s not what I suppose one would call a gentleman. Anyway, I know he’d be fearfully awkward if he had to eat down here.”

He wished to keep Grandjean out of Brocklehurst’s way—it would not do for him to see the little man often. Cuthbert was extraordinarily sharp at reading people, and he might one day realize that poor Hippolyte was not the rara avis of a secretary represented by his new employer.

So the matter was arranged, and the following day Grandjean appeared, and was installed in a small bedroom leading off the same passage as the suite of three rooms occupied by MacFarlane. Everything was done to hoodwink any one who might be suspicious. MacFarlane bought a typewriter, and put the machine in a prominent place in his sitting-room. A pile of old books full of shorthand notes was placed beside it. Drawers were emptied of their conglomeration of slips of paper sprawled over with writing in the doctors vile caligraphy.

The night before, Gra had been subjected to the usual hypnotic treatment, MacFarlane keeping her silent—a silence that it was easy to see roused her husband to a pitch of impatient anger. But what could MacFarlane do? He must wait for Grandjean’s help.

The first night the little man could do nothing; it was not necessary to watch, as MacFarlane knew Brocklehurst would not break his word. He had promised to go to bed and sleep at least every other night.

So the two conspirators talked and made plans, and Grandjean told his employer how he had avoided his standing engagements by writing and saying that he was ill. He was interested heart and soul in the new work—it was easy to see that. His face glowed with excitement as he talked, and he could hardly keep his small hands still for a moment.

The next morning Brocklehurst said at breakfast:

“I shall probably pay you a visit if you don’t mind, Mac, before I start work—-just to see your wonderful secretary.”

“I don’t think you ought to do the stairs,” said MacFarlane.

“Oh, nonsense, it won’t hurt me for once. I’ll come after breakfast.”

“Very well, but take it slowly,” said MacFarlane cheerfully, and flew upstairs when the meal was finished to warn Hippolyte.

When Brocklehurst came in, the two were bending over piles of notes in the most businesslike manner. Hippolyte had on a pair of smoked glasses—he was sensible enough to realize that his uncanny eyes might give him away. He got up and bowed. Brocklehurst nodded as Mac said:

“This is Mr. Brocklehurst, Hippolyte.”

Cuthbert sank into a chair and lit a cigarette.

“Go on, old chap,” he said heartily, “if you don’t mind me. You usen’t to. I’d like to hear you dictate, if monsieur does not mind?”

“Not at all, monsieur,” Grandjean answered. “Are you ready, monsieur? We continue the notes from last night?” He spoke in French to MacFarlane.

The latter was worried. He had not thought of this. Was his supposed secretary sharp enough to carry out this travesty of work?

Grandjean was quite sharp enough. He poised his pencil over his notebook, and looked through his glasses at his employer.

MacFarlane, trembling with nervousness, began to dictate. It was quite a chance that his words were sense. The little man’s pencil travelled quickly over the paper with queer dots and dashes that a stenographer would have shrieked over. He whisked back the sheets as they were covered, and once he looked up and said:

“Pardon, monsieur, how do you spell sphygmo-graph?”

A touch that roused the doctor’s deep admiration.

But he could not continue long. He got up and went to the table.

“After that I want this note inserted, ‘ Note F,’ do you understand? Then you can type them, and I will see if it’s all right.”

He turned to Cuthbert.

“I’m going down now,” he said. “I think I shall go out for a little. Are you going to start work?”

“Yes,” answered Brocklehurst, going to the door with the doctor. Outside he added: “He’s jolly quick at it. I wish I could do shorthand.”

It was as much as his companion could do to stifle his laughter; he was strung up to a state of nervous excitement that made laughter almost a necessity.

To his upright nature all this deceit was disgusting, horrible—yet it was necessary, that was the hateful thing about it; he could do nothing else, it was his last chance. He must guard against accidents; guard Gra’s dear life from this truly Machiavelian plot. It must be done—it must be done.

And that night he regretted nothing. All his scruples were killed.

He had had some trouble at the beginning to arrange his watchings. It was not so easy as at Wane’s Ferry. At Wane’s the dressing-room door need be opened only a little way for Gra’s bed to be in full view; here it had to be opened wider. Also, the beds had been arranged facing the door instead of sideways. This he had managed to get altered by saying that it was better for Brocklehurst to sleep back to the light, so he had had the beds placed to the left, on the window side of the room, but, as the dressing-room door opened to the right, it had to be pulled open half-way before he could see them. Then, the first day after their return, when going to bore his peephole, he had found that a board in the passage squeaked rather badly; and one night, when the Brocklehursts were at a reception, he had descended, feeling like a thief, and taken up the carpet and the board, and chiselled and planed at it before replacing it, wondering what he should say if a servant appeared.

Luckily he was not interrupted, and the board was afterwards silent. But he never felt so comfortable in watching—if comfort it could be called— as he did at Wane’s.

This night was to be the first time that Hippolyte would watch, and MacFarlane’s heart beat uncomfortably fast. He gave him full instructions as to what he was to do if they were discovered. Hie himself would pretend to be asleep, Hippolyte was to put his finger to his lips, and tell Brocklehurst that he had followed him downstairs. For this reason both men were in dressing-gowns, and a strange apparition the Frenchman looked with his thin bare legs appearing beneath a Jaeger wrap—he wore a night-shirt, not pyjamas. His little feet were thrust into gaudy wool-work slippers, and MacFarlane nearly laughed when he first saw him.

The two waited silently in their sitting-room with the door open—waited to hear the master of the house come upstairs. He was writing in the library, as MacFarlane had got him to promise, in a vain endeavour to put a stop to the other business. He knew from two nights’ experience that he would come up to the dressing-room, then go into the bathroom opening off it, and return to the bedroom. That was the time to descend. He knew that they must be very, very cautious, as Brocklehurst did not go to bed, but waited for only a few minutes before going to Gra’s side. His ears were not dulled with sleep as they had been at Wane’s, he was wide awake and alert, and the slightest sound would make him turn. The door hinges and handles were well oiled, there was no creaking board now; but in the dark any accident might happen, and Grandjean was not as accustomed as he was to moving silently.

Something of his nervousness he put into words as they waited; but the little man smiled.

“I can see in the dark, like a cat,” he said. “Now wait and listen. See, I turn out the light”—· he suited the action to the word; “now I will go into the next room and fetch you your watch. Where have you put it?”

“On my dressing-table; but you hardly know my room.”

“As well as I know that room downstairs; I have only seen that once, remember. Now listen hard, and tell me if I make any noise.”

He moved away. There was not the faintest sound of his steps, and he touched nothing in the room. MacFarlane heard the door creak; but that was nothing—this door was not oiled. Not one other minutest noise did he hear till a voice said close to his ear:

“Don’t be startled, I am here. Here is your watch”—and it was put into his hand.

“Did you hear anything?” asked Grandjean proudly, as he turned up the light.

“No. Wonderful! That has eased my mind a lot. Now we had better turn out the light. It is half-past one, and he may be coming up any moment, and he’d see the light if he looked up.”

They sat in the dark, talking in low voices, till they heard a door open and close far below in the silent house.

The dressing-room door on to the upper hall made no noise, of course, but, by leaning over the landing-rail, they heard the bathroom door click, then the faint sound of running water. Some minutes after the door clicked again, then silence.

“Come on,” whispered Mac,and,silently,stealthily, the two men crept down the stairs.

MacFarlane bent his eye to the keyhole—the light was out. Softly, softly he opened the door, and they went in.

The doctor crossed to the communicating door, measured, and picked out his little wedge of wood, and a tiny hole of light appeared. He looked through, and pulled Hippolyte towards him to look for himself.

Brocklehurst was standing exactly opposite, by the mantelpiece; he was easily visible by the light of the shaded night-lamp that stood on the corner of the shelf. His head was turned towards the beds, and he was listening. The hole was bored close to the hinge of the door, so the watcher could see when Cuthbert moved to Gra’s bed, as he did in a few moments. He stood with his back to them, and Gra’s head was only just visible on his left. He began the rhythmic movements of his hands, and MacFarlane turned the handle gently, and set the door half open.

Grandjean stood back in the shadow, and MacFarlane watched him. He could see his face very dimly, but his eyes were used to darkness, and he saw well enough to notice the curious change in the man’s expression.

At Mrs. Stephens’s house he had done wonderful things, but it was to interest and amuse a crowd of society people; here it was a question of, maybe, life or death, and his mouth was set, his queer light eyes seemed to go back and back into his head, as if he were living in the past. His hands— those beautifully formed hands—darted out, the fingers grasping and collecting some invisible thing.

Then—as Brocklehurst ceased his movements, bent lower, and spoke—Hippolyte’s head was thrust forward, his nostrils quivered, and his lips moved silently.

“Tell me, Gra, what you are to do—will you answer me? Say what commands you have been given.”

The beautiful head rocked on the pillow; Gra frowned, but she did not answer.

Beads of sweat came out on the Frenchman’s face, his eyes seemed to glow like a cat’s in the gloom; again he moved his lips.

Brocklehurst repeated his question with a distinct note of impatience in his voice.

The head on the pillow moved again, then, in the silence of the room, a sweet low voice spoke :

“When Cuthbert dies, my heart is to cease beating. I die too.”

Brocklehurst gave an exclamation of joy and triumph which drowned the sound of the quick breath MacFarlane drew in.

“That is right. Don’t forget,” said the man in the bedroom. Then he lifted his arms again.

Grandjean shut the door.

When they returned to the room upstairs MacFarlane flung himself into a chair, and gave vent to a sound like á deep sob.

“Thank God! Oh! thank God!”

“Please may I have some whisky?” asked Grandjean.

MacFarlane laughed. If he had not laughed he would have cried. His nerves were racked to the point of hysteria.

“Take any damned thing you want,” he exclaimed in English.

Then he hit Hippolyte’s shoulder such a bang as nearly sent the poor little man to the ground.

“By Heaven! you’re a brick, Hippolyte! you’re a marvel! I feel I could kiss Mrs. Stephens, cosmetics and all, for having introduced me to you.”

He still spoke in English, and Grandjean shrugged his shoulders as he poured out the whisky.

“I don’t know what you are saying—you say something about kissing Mrs. Stephens, eh? What for?”

The rapid French calmed MacFarlane, and he laughed again. He held out his hand and took the Frenchman’s little white one and wrung it.

“I can never express my gratitude, Grandjean.”

Hippolyte shrugged again.

“Pah!” he said, and drank deeply. “Gratitude. Why? I am employed by you to save that beautiful lady—I try to do it. That is all. Now come to bed.”

CHAPTER XIX

BUT Grandjean was uneasy.

He had never before in his life tried anything of this kind. To make a person—a person not under his own hypnotic power—say empty words to satisfy another! It had not been easy, and he had succeeded; but it was a risk. He could not tell whether the mere fact of saying the words would not have revived the old influence in Gra’s mind. MacFarlane had no doubts, he knew that; but for himself he was not comfortable.

As well as he could, without alarming the doctor unnecessarily, he tried to make him see that they must go carefully. After breakfast the next morning, when the two were closeted together, he spoke about the matter quietly and gravely.

“What do you mean?” asked MacFarlane anxiously. “You surely don’t think he has got back his old influence? You heard how she refused to answer, when I was watching, the first time he asked the question the other day. That looks as if my influence were greater—doesn’t it?” “Yes, yes—oh yes; but I think you must be careful to keep up your influence. You must not let her backslide.”

“No. I intend to hypnotize her every day. I told you what she thinks my reason is for doing this, didn’t I? We both suspected Brocklehurst of hypnotizing her when asleep, and so I told her it was bad for him. I said I was giving her the suggestion hypnotically to wake up when he began. She firmly believes that—especially as she did wake once when he was just starting. By the way, I must go off to her now—her husband is deep in his work, and she will be waiting for me in her room.”

“I should ask her, if I were you, what your commands are. Ask her just as her husband did.”

Grandjean spoke carelessly, turning over some pamphlets as he did so.

“All right. Yes, it’s just as well.”

MacFarlane went along the landing to Gra’s sitting-room. They were practically free from all Brocklehurst’s interruption here, as he was, by the doctor’s advice, still careful about stairs, and rarely went up any when it was not absolutely necessary. The day before, when he had gone to Mac’s room, was the first time he had been up to this landing for months.

Gra was sitting in the chair she was accustomed to choose for the séances, as she laughingly called them. As Mac entered the room she looked up from a book.

“You must hurry up to-day, Mac; I have to go out.”

“Very well. Isn’t it a gorgeous day? Rather different from the terrible weather that greeted us on our arrival?”

“Yes. I’m longing to be at Wane’s. I wish we were there in this weather. Horrid; we have to wait for a fortnight yet?”

“I think you could easily persuade Brock to go sooner if you really wished to—he’s dying to get down to his coins.”

“Yes, but I can’t go; unfortunately, I’ve got engagements booked up to the nineteenth, and it’s so rude to back out without any real excuse. Now come on, get to work, Mac.”

Soon she was lying back with her eyes closed, breathing quietly and regularly.

When he was quite sure that she was unconscious, he asked the question.

“Tell me, Gra, what are your orders?”

Gra puckered her brow.

“Your orders, dear? What have I told you to do?”

“I—I think—I fancy I—oh something to do with Cuth. I must—”

She stammered and hesitated painfully. MacFarlane frowned.

He repeated his question.

“When you die, I—” began Gra. Then she stopped, and began again: “When Cuth dies,

I— When Cuthbert dies, my heart—”

“No, no!” cried Mac in an agony. “That is not what you have been told to do. Think again. What have I commanded you to do?”

“To live out the span of my natural life,” said Gra distinctly, and MacFarlane’s face broke into smiles, which quickly left it as she continued, after a slight pause: “. . . cease beating. I die too.”

Again and again he tried, to receive only silence as a response, or a few incoherent words. Then he sat down to think, leaving her lying back in her chair, sleeping soundly.

His influence was gone! He pushed his fingers through his hair till it all stood up in an untidy heap. His influence was gone—or so confused with that other influence that it was not to be depended on. What was he to do? He must consult Hippolyte. In the meanwhile he must prepare Gra for something else to happen— probably Grandjean would have to see what he could do. Oh, lies again—how he hated it! But how could he tell her the truth? How could he see the shuddering horror creep into that dear face as he told her that her husband, out of jealousy, was trying to end her life with his? No, that was impossible. He must go on lying, lying, lying. Was there any one, however virtuous, who would be merciless enough to tell the truth in his place? He thought not.

He wakened her, and she looked at him and laughed.

“What have you been doing to your hair, Mac? You look like shockheaded Peter.” Then her face became graver as she continued: “But you look serious, dear—what is it?”

“I am serious. I have failed, and I am worried.” “How failed? Tell me, Mac.”

“It struck me to-day that it would be as well to ask you what I had commanded you to do. You calmly answered that you were to sleep soundly every night, and not wake if Brock hypnotized you.”

“Mac!”

“It’s true. He has evidently been hypnotizing you, and, since that time when you waked up, he has taken precautions that you should not do it again by suggesting to you that nothing should wake you. I’m no good, evidently. I have failed.”

“Oh, Mac, what a bother! All your trouble for nothing. I am so sorry. But it doesn’t seem to have done him any harm, does it? And it certainly doesn’t hurt me—I’m always well. I don’t suppose he does it often, so why bother? I can’t see what the fascination is for him, but he always was frightfully keen on it, and I suppose he wants to keep in his hand—or brain, I ought to say.” It was apparent that she was not worried over the revelation.

How was he to rouse her to the gravity of the situation? He began to speak seriously.

“Listen, Gra. If this hadn’t happened I would not have spoken. I don’t want to worry you, but now I must tell you. Brock is working at this numismatic work far harder than he ought. That in itself will do him no harm, but combined with intense brain-force used in another direction it will do him harm. It takes it out of one to an extent you can never realize. Even I am sometimes quite exhausted. I have never been able to understand why Brock’s heart in the mornings sometimes has been rocky; there was nothing to account for it as far as I could see. I had trusted to you waking if he tried any hypnotic tricks, Now I recognize the fact that this mysterious condition was the result of his exertions in the night. Mind, no great harm has been done yet, but it might do harm if continued Also it saps his strength without his knowing, and, if there were any accident, such as one cannot guard against, we might find that he was not strong enough to bear up against it.”

“But,” said Gra, looking very puzzled, “you and Sir Ellis both say that the lesions are practically healed.”

“So they are. But look here, Gra, if you have a cut on your finger, and you have kept it plastered up, then you take off the plaster and use your finger for some great wrench, that cut, though you may hardly be able to see it, will open again and bleed; see? Now look at this”—he seized a sheet of paper and a pencil from the writing-table, and began drawing a rough diagram. Gra bent over him, watching carefully.

“Now you see, this is the heart, these are the valves. Now here were the lesions.”

He proceeded to give a lecture in simple language, leaving out all technical words. Other heart specialists would have opened their eyes in astonishment and amusement at some of his statements, but he went on quietly till he had drummed into her brain a quantity of absurd ideas about the functions of the valves of the heart. He only hoped that she would not some day startle a doctor with the lecture, delivered second-hand.

Gra nodded and nodded, and said “ I see” now and again, and finally, when he had done, sat down and frowned.

“What are we to do, Mac? I quite see that one must do something. Cuth’s will is so fearfully strong that he circumvents even yours, and I always thought you were stronger than any man I know.”

“It’s a question of knack, I suppose,” sighed MacFarlane miserably. “He has done this all his life, and I’ve been at it for only a year. We must get some one else into it, that’s all. I must think. You go out now, Gra; and don’t worry. I will think of something, never fear.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will think of a way out, Mac. I’m fearfully sorry about it all. I can’t help feeling guilty somehow. What a silly thing the brain is, when all’s said and done! I want to obey you, and yet, because Cuth says I’m to do this and that, my stupid brain obeys him.”

“Goose! Well, go out, and don’t worry.”

He went back to his room, and the moment Hippolyte saw him he got up hastily and said: “Oh, là là!”

MacFarlane sat down, put his arms on the table, and leant his head on his hands. Presently he lifted his face, and it was haggard.

“Tell me,” said Grandjean, sitting down near him—“ I can see part of it, but tell me the whole. Leave nothing out.”

Slowly MacFarlane told him, stopping now and then to get some detail absolutely correct, making no comments, asking no advice, merely giving him the history of the last half-hour down to the smallest particular.

When he had done, the Frenchman was silent, his remarkable eyes watching a sunbeam dancing on the wall.

“Something must be done,” ended Mac. “Now, if anything happened, it is a toss up which would win—my will or Brocklehurst’s. I shan’t be easy for one moment. His heart is all right, that won’t kill him in the ordinary course of things, but if there is any accident—even if the accident did not kill him outright—the heart would probably go back to its old state, and that would kill him. What I mean is, that, supposing he were flung from his horse (he’s allowed to ride now), or the motor had a smash up, or any one of the thousand things that happen in London every day, he might be killed. Even if he were not killed on the spot, the shock would be so great that I would not give that”—he clicked his fingers—“for his life if he were badly hurt. To all intents and purposes he’s a well man, but, when it comes to having to bear an operation or a long illness, the strain would be too great.”

Hippolyte nodded gravely.

There was silence for some time, then the little man began to speak.

“There are two things I can do. If one does not succeed, we must try the other. I can try to influence Mr. Brocklehurst to give up hypnotizing madame. Of course I cannot do it with his will— if I could, it would be easy; I should have to do it when he is asleep, and, to speak quite plainly, I do not think I can do it—he is too strong. When I throw my will down a room at an entertainment, and make some one obey me unconsciously, it is always some one whom I know I can influence— like that young girl that night at Mrs. Stephens’s house; that was easy. Now, I could not have influenced you, for instance, though I could read your thoughts. Thoughts are another thing—they are pictures painted on the face; one has only to look and one can see. Now I fear that, though I shall be able to hypnotize Mr. Brocklehurst when he sleeps (if he does not wake—there is always that danger), I may not be able to make him obey me— he is too strong. If I hypnotized him with his knowledge it would be quite different; then he would fall asleep with the idea already in his brain that I was going to suggest something—you understand?”

MacFarlane nodded hopelessly.

“No; I fear I may fail,” Hippolyte went on—“I greatly fear it; but it is always worth trying—one sometimes has success when one least expects it. Well, if that fails, it leaves the other plan. You must persuade madame to let me use her. The first time I should give the suggestion that she should wake when her husband began the passes— that would satisfy her; she would then be willing, nay, anxious, to go on. After that I would throw all my power into carrying on what you have already begun. I don’t for one moment wish to belittle your power—you have done wonders, considering what you had to fight against. But I can say without conceit that I am exceptionally suitable for this work. Mr. Brocklehurst is exceptional too; he has made a·study of hypnotic suggestion as well as possessing the natural gift. It will need all I can give to counterbalance his will. Strong as you are, you can do nothing now. Unless last year you had persuaded him to give it up to a great extent, while you were able to continue working with madame every day, you would not have succeeded at all. I reckon that it would require about four of your suggestions to his one to make the matter even—that at least; probably five or six to one. Even I may not know his full power, though I hope I may succeed in what I intend to try.”

“Then first you will see what you can do with him?” asked Mac.

“Yes, I shall try to-night. To-morrow night we shall have to be down there to make her speak. He must never suspect, if we can help it, that any one is working against him. Then the night after I shall try with him again. If, after that, we find that he still persists in continuing to hypnotize madame, I shall know that I have failed.”

“It will be a risk, as you say. Suppose he wakes?”

Hippolyte shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands with his favourite gesture.

“Then I must try your plan, and pretend I am walking in my sleep. It would be a disaster, as he would be sure to lock his door afterwards. But I think I had better try that plan first. If it did succeed, it would simplify matters greatly—in fact, all would then be well.”

“Oh yes. Then we need fear nothing. If he gave it up, all we should have to do would be to hypnotize her once or twice, and get his suggestion well out of her memory.”

“Exactly. That is why I want to try. It is always worth trying a thing that would be a blessing if it succeeded.”

“ Yes, certainly. And even if it does not succeed I think that your power is stronger than his, and you will be able to hypnotize her every day to his every two days.”

Hippolyte looked grave.

“Yes, but, monsieur, you forget one thing. We shall never know for certain.”

MacFarlane looked up quickly.

“Not know? How do you mean?”

Grandjean walked to the window and looked out. He did not speak for a few moments, then he turned round, and spoke so low that MacFarlane could hardly hear.

“You forget that she must be made to answer him. How can I ever be sure that the answer is mere empty words? When I get her under my influence to answer me, she will say what I have suggested —that, of course. But how are we ever to know for certain that the words she says to him are not the expression of what is in her mind?”

“Good God!” MacFarlane walked up and down the room with quick uneven steps. Then he broke out impatiently: “Why need she answer him? Let her remain silent.”

“And what would be the result? You don’t think, monsieur—you don’t think. Can’t you see that if he thought he had lost his influence he would subject her to his will every night, whereas, if he gets an answer each time, he will probably discontinue the influence to a great extent? I hope we may succeed so well that he will go back to the old arrangement, and hypnotize her only once a week, if that. Can’t you see?”

MacFarlane groaned.

“Yes, I see. The whole thing is horrible. How can I remain in this uncertainty always—always ? How about when I have to leave? I have only seven weeks more with them. I can make no excuse for staying on longer. Oh! I think I shall go mad.”

“No, you won’t. You’re not a man to give up. I had to warn you of this; you would have realized it for yourself some time. I hope and trust that we may so succeed that he will give up the whole thing. Once he thinks that she is entirely under his control, he will give it up if he is a sane man— which I really begin to doubt.”

“Oh, he’s sane enough. He’s only mad on this one notion. You forget, Grandjean, that the idea of—of—” He broke off, painfully embarrassed, and Grandjean laid his hand on his shoulder and pressed it.

“I know—I know. Don’t distress yourself. Well, you rely on me. I swear to do all in my power ; and my power is considerable.”

“Yes. Oh yes, I rely on you. You are my only hope. Fool that I was to think that I could manage this alone.”

“Not at all. You have done a great deal, as I told you. It showed that your influence was strong when she refused to answer him. Now go out for your ride. I shall want your help, remember, and you, as a doctor, don't need to be told that you must keep your body well if your brain is to be of any use.”

MacFarlane turned and went to his bedroom with dragging steps.

CHAPTER XX

POOR Hippolyte did not succeed in his project.

He tried his utmost, needless to say, and, the second night, had some hope that he had succeeded, as Brocklehurst repeated, on being questioned, that which Grandjean had commanded him to do—to give up hypnotizing his wife. The Frenchman had run great risk of being discovered; he had had to make a few passes over Gra as well, in case she waked; the first night—the night after the conversation between MacFarlane and Grandjean—Cuthbert had partly waked as the latter had entered his bedroom. Grandjean had promptly sunk to the ground by the side of a table, and remained crouching there, hardly breathing, till he saw that deep sleep had come again.

But it was all useless. True, Brocklehurst seemed to hesitate, as though he were thinking of something, on the fourth night, just as he bent over his wife’s bed, and before he began the passes. But the hesitation was only momentary, and it might have been accidental.

The only thing to do, therefore, was to convince Gra that the curious little French secretary, whom she had seen but once, was a very strong hypnotist, and to get her consent to submit herself to his will, instead of MacFarlane’s.

She opened her eyes in astonishment when she was told.

“But, Mac,” she cried, “how extraordinary! Here are we, all mad on the subject, and then your secretary turns out to be so too. Are you sure?”

“My dear girl, it’s not exactly chance,” said MacFarlane, and he smiled bitterly to think that for once he could speak the truth. “I have always known that he was a hypnotist: I met him first at a performance he was giving, and he helped me with a difficult problem that was worrying me at the time. We became chummy in a sense, and I took him into my employ, finding he was very clever, and could help me. He has given up professional hypnotism since I knew him. He is the most wonderful man at it I have ever seen—far stronger than I am. It is in his blood; he’s had relations who have had the gift, natural, not cultivated, and he’s done it all his life. I was thinking of him the other day when I found I had failed with you, and I told him all about it, and consulted him. He’s quite sure that he can succeed, and it would be a grand thing if we could stop Brock fatiguing himself like this—I feel convinced he’s doing it often. Now if Hippolyte can make you wake, you can catch Brock at it”

So the little “secretary” hypnotized Gra, and, for that first day, willed her to wake when Brock came into the bedroom that night.

When she was wakened from the hypnotic sleep, MacFarlane explained what had been done.

“When you wake, as you will do as Brock enters the room, you must not let him see that you are awake—do you understand? Then, when he comes over, and begins the passes, you can speak to him.”

“Yes, if he does begin,” mused Gra; “but I really can’t think that he does it as often as you think, Mac. It would be really stupid of him when you’ve told him it does him harm.”

“Well, I may be wrong—we’ll see. Anyway, it’s worth trying.”

The next morning at breakfast MacFarlane noticed that husband and wife were stiffly polite to each other, and he wondered what had taken place. He could not know till he was told, as he had not watched the night before, trusting entirely to Gra waking and putting a stop to any “tricks ”—as he savagely called Brocklehurst’s mania.

He went up to his room after breakfast, and five minutes after there was a faint knock at the door. He opened it, and Gra stood on the threshold, flushed, and with bright eyes.

“May I come in?”

He held the door wider.

“Yes, come in. Tell us what happened. It’s easy to see something happened.”

“I should think it did!” ejaculated Gra, sinking into a chair. Then she looked at Hippolyte, who was sitting at the table covered with papers, and back to MacFarlane, and wrinkled her forehead.

“Yes, go on. Hippolyte knows all; we need keep nothing back from him. Talk in French; he understands it better.”

“ Last night,” began Gra, speaking rather low, and glancing at the door nervously, “I waked when Cuth came back from the bathroom. I was first going to yawn, or do something silly, when I remembered what you’d said, and I lay quiet. I opened my under-eye (I was lying on my side) a tiny chink, just enough to see if he moved. He was standing by his bed, at the foot. He was watching me—I could not see that, but I felt it —so I breathed quietly and evenly. In a few minutes he came over, leant over me, and listened, then he lifted his hands and began the passes. Of course, I had never seen this, as he always used to hypnotize me by staring—you know— but you’d told me the passes were necessary when the subject was sleeping, so I understood. I didn’t want to startle him by suddenly sitting up, so I quietly said: ‘ Cuth, how dare you try and hypnotize me when I am asleep?’ You should have seen his face! It was exactly like a naughty boy’s when caught stealing apples in an orchard. He dropped his hands, and just stared, with his mouth open. I then sat up, and I was very severe. I said all sorts of things about his promises not to do that sort of thing, and how wicked it was of him to endanger his health when you had taken such a lot of trouble to make him well, and so on. Oh, I was horribly grown-up. He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his chin, and looked everywhere but at me; and then he began to make excuses. He said all sorts of silly things—that he had wanted to see if he could do it still ; that he was quite well now, and that it would not hurt him; and he got quite incoherent about it. I said straight out: ‘ Cuth, is this the first time you’ve done it since we came home? ’ and he got scarlet, and wriggled—positively wriggled, Mac, like a naughty child. I said he need not answer, as I could see that he had done it often. Then I read him a long lecture about his heart. I did not let him suspect that you knew about these nightly séances, Mac; I thought it best to keep that dark. I said that Sir Ellis had explained the functions of the heart to me, and had said that great mental exertion was bad for him. He scoffed at that, and said it was no exertion, that he’d done hypnotism for over twenty years, and it was no more effort than reading. I said: ‘ Then why did Mac forbid it?” and he said—I’m sorry, Mac—he said you were a cranky fool, and that you had the usual ignorant idea about hypnotism, that it was something extraordinary, that you had no glimmering of what it really was—I nearly laughed—and all doctors were the same, they got some idea into their heads and were as obstinate as mules. Then I said I objected to being hypnotized in my sleep, that I thought it unfair, and I tried to get him to promise never to do it again; but he got angry, angrier than he has ever been with me, and point-blank refused. I argued and argued, and I fear we both became very acrimonious. I said I intended to sleep in another room. And, Mac, I’ve given instructions to the servants to prepare the blue room for me, and I”m going there.”

She ended triumphantly, and the two men looked at each other with sudden smiles of delight. They had neither of them thought of this termination to the affair.

Gra saw their pleasure, and laughed.

“He’s quite well enough to be left now at night,” she said, “and I am not going to lie there like a dummy for him to experiment on.”

“What did he say?” exclaimed Mac.

“He was furious, of course—absolutely furious. He accused me of wanting to leave him alone, and asked what he should do if he were ill. I turned on him, and said that if he thought that there was any fear of his being ill it made what he had done only the more wicked. His excuse for doing it had been that he was perfectly well. I quoted his own speech at him. Then he sulked. He went to bed and pretended to sleep, but he did not really sleep till about four—nor did I, and I’m dead tired. However, I’ve stopped it, thank goodness, and now there’s no risk. I shall lock my door. It’s really too bad of him, and it’s only owing to you, Mac, that we ever discovered it. How thankful I am that we did; if he’d gone on for long he might have been ill again.”

Gra was entirely pleased with herself and the way she had managed the business. The two men praised her, and she beamed upon them.

“I am intensely grateful to you, monsieur,” she said to Grandjean; “you made me wake last night, and it’s all owing to you. What can I do to show my gratitude?”

MacFarlane had noticed that the little man was looking worried, and had wondered why. Now his face lit up as he bowed to Gra. He spread out his hands in a gesture of deprecation of her words of praise.

“I did nothing, madame—nothing. You are a wonderful subject, that is all. If you are really so kind as to wish to do something for me, I have one great desire.”

MacFarlane looked surprised. What could the queer little man be going to ask? He felt uncomfortable. Was his helper going to fall from the pedestal on which he had placed him?

Gra nodded brightly.

“Yes?” she asked.

“You are such a good subject, madame”— Hippolyte spoke dreamily—“that, if you really are generous, you will allow me to hypnotize you now and then; it would be such a great pleasure to me.”

Then, as Gra consented immediately, MacFarlane heaved a sigh of relief. How could he have doubted Grandjean even for an instant? Here was he, like a fool, thinking only of his joy that Gra would be saved from that horrible influence, and quite forgetting that she must be subjected to several contrary suggestions to her husband’s, otherwise they could not be sure of her safety. And he, Hippolyte, had realized this, and acted quickly. Ah! he was a wonder. He threw a quick look of understanding at the Frenchman, who was bowing his thanks to Gra for her consent.

When Gra had left them, they talked long and excitedly about the events of the last twelve hours. They had success beyond their greatest hopes.

Then MacFarlane became gloomy.

“I wonder what he’ll do now,” he said, absent-mindedly turning over some papers. “He’s not a man to give up his object.”

“I don’t see what he can do. She will be in her own room behind a locked door, and she won’t consent to be hypnotized when she is awake.”

“No. But—well, I don’t know, but I’ve known Brocklehurst for over twenty years, and it’s not his way to submit meekly to another’s will. However, we must wait and see; at present all is well.”

MacFarlane made up his mind, after deep thought, to say nothing to Brocklehurst about the night before, unless he spoke first. But Cuthbert evidently thought it best to take the bull by the horns, and he referred casually to Gra’s removal to the blue room.

“Just because I was trying to see if I still had my old power,” he ended, with a shrug.

MacFarlane took the matter lightly.

“Oh, you’re a bad lot, Brock,” he said, laughing. “If it had been some months ago I should have been seriously angry with you. However, once won’t have hurt you. But Gra appears to be in a rage about it, and, really, I don’t wonder. I shouldn’t like to be hypnotized in my sleep.”

“Oh well,” Cuthbert yawned elaborately, “I suppose it was rather mean. But you see she won’t consent to my trying when she’s awake, out of some silly idea that you instilled into her mind when I was ill—so what was I to do? I think you might let me do it now and then, Mac—I’m quite well now.”

“No, I won’t,” said Mac firmly; “I consider that it is bad for you. It may be a silly prejudice, as you say—but surely, Brock, it’s not so important as all that?”

“Oh no”—hastily—“not at all. I—it only amuses me. Well, I see I must do without that amusement, that’s all.”

So the matter ended apparently; but MacFarlane was not satisfied.

Once, when Gra was lying on a sofa in the smaller drawing-room, reading, her husband tried to hypnotize her without her knowledge. She had dropped her book, and her eyes were closing sleepily, when she saw in a looking-glass a reflection from another glass. It was of her husband standing behind her with slowly, rhythmically moving hands. With an enormous effort of will she managed to sit up, then she turned to rend him.

It was of no use him explaining that he was doing it for fun only, her wrath was not appeasable, and, till they all migrated to Wane’s Ferry, the relations between husband and wife were strained.

He tried to make peace many times; but Gra, though she spoke to him quite pleasantly, was not the same “chummy” wife as of yore, and Cuthbert looked gloomy.

She was so pleased to get to Wane’s again that she could no longer keep him in disgrace, and she came to him when he was walking in the rose-garden the day after their arrival and slipped her arm into his.

“I’ll make it up now,” she whispered mischievously, and he put his arm round her waist. “But you’re to be a good boy in future.”

“Won’t you come back to our room?” he asked wistfully.

She shook her head.

“Not unless you give me your word of honour not to try that horrid experiment again.”

He laughed rather bitterly.

“I daren’t promise—I might find the temptation too strong for me, and I should never forgive myself for breaking my word.”

For this man had a curious code of honour that he had laid down for himself. He was certain that he had never broken his word—he had shuffled with the truth, deceived both his wife and doctor (as he thought), but he had not given his word not to hypnotize Gra—never, no, never.

Gra was now sleeping in a room situated on the same floor as her husband’s. The windows were next to his, and, like his, had a stone balcony to each. From here she would call to him gaily in the morning, and go on calling till he put a sleepy, untidy head out of his nearest window and greeted her. Once she made him step on to his balcony, and across the intervening space she threw a rose to him.

“Isn’t it lovely, Cuth?” she cried joyfully; “it was growing just within reach on my side here. Hasn’t the creeper grown since last year?”

He did not answer—he was staring at the rose.

She laughed.

“I thought that you’d like it. Romantic, isn’t it, to throw a rose to a man from a balcony? Now let’s dress; I’m dying to be out. What a day!”

“I can’t part with her—I can’t part with her,” he muttered as he placed the rose in a vase on his dressing-table. Then he covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“Am I mad, I wonder?” he said at last. “Yes, mad for her. I wish to God I’d never met her! ”

He went into the bathroom, and stood staring at the water.

“‘ Till death do us part,’” he muttered. “That’s all wrong. Why should death part those who have sworn to be one? What have I ever done that she should not love me? Yet I can’t hate that man who has stolen her heart—I cant; I wish I could—I would soon end it then. However, he is going soon—only a few weeks more; then—then— well, I can always try.”

He got into the warm water and splashed violently.

“Damn him!” he exclaimed, and ducked his head to wash the curse away.

CHAPTER XXI

Hippolyte grandjean was a very light sleeper; he also had preternaturally sharp hearing.

One night, when he had been at Wane’s Ferry for a week, he wakened suddenly, and he wondered what had waked him. He lifted himself on his elbow and listened—he heard nothing. It was dark, there was no moon in the sky, so he knew it must be after one, the moon setting early these nights. He was just about to lie down again when he heard something, evidently the same sound that had awakened him. Far, far away, seemingly on the ground floor, there was a curious noise, very faint, and not continuous—a little grating sound with a jar at the end. After listening hard for a few moments he rose quickly, and put on his dressing-gown and slippers. He opened his door, and swiftly went along the corridor, down the few steps, and along another passage; this brought him to the main landing of the second story. He leant over the well of the stairs and listened again. He could hear nothing. His cats’ eyes searched the darkness—nothing to be seen. He was perfectly sure he had heard a noise, and he made up his mind to investigate, so he slipped down the stairs to the first floor. Here he went along the passage a little way and listened at Brocklehurst’s door— silence. Then to Gra’s door—silence still. Back to the stairs crept Hippolyte, making no more noise than some soft-footed beast of the jungle would have made.

“I wonder what it was,” he thought, putting his head on one side and staring down into the hall. Just then he heard the grating jar again—clearer now; it undoubtedly came from the back of the house, on the ground floor.

Sidling down the stairs, holding loosely on to the banisters, he went, walked across the hall, and softly opened the baize door leading to the kitchens. Now he could hear the noise clearly, and quite suddenly he knew what it was—some one was trying to open a window, the grating was a knife being scraped on the dried putty, the jar was caused by a small portion breaking off.

Nimble as a kitten Grandjean flew up the two flights of stairs again, back along the corridors. His own room was exactly opposite the doorway that led to the west tower. He opened this door, went across MacFarlane’s sitting-room, and up the winding stairs to the bedroom; he opened the door and spoke.

“Monsieur, riayez pas peur, c est moi .”

“Eh? You, Hippolyte? What is it?”

“You must get up, and come with me; there is some one breaking into the house. We must not turn on the light—they might see: I will lead you. Have you a weapon of some kind?”

In a few seconds MacFarlane was in his dressing gown.

“Yes, I’ve two revolvers in my chest of drawers. You’d better find them—I can’t see. Top left-hand drawer. Got them? Yes, they’re loaded. Come on. Where are they?”

“Somewhere by the kitchens. Give me your hand—so.”

MacFarlane stumbled over many things in his rooms, but, once in the corridor, it was easier, and Hippolyte went ahead surely and silently.

“Be careful to make no noise on the first floor,” he whispered. “We must not frighten monsieur or madame.”

They arrived at the baize door without accident, and, as Hippolyte opened it, MacFarlane heard the noise for the first time.

“Here you must lead,” said Grandjean. “I don’t know this part of the house.”

MacFarlane clutched his revolver and walked steadily along a stone passage, turned to the left, and paused at a door.

“It’s here—the housekeeper’s room. Look here, Hippolyte, will you stay here, and I will step out of the side door and catch them in the rear—otherwise they’ll bolt? See?”

“Go along. Be quick!”

MacFarlane went back to the baize door; here he turned to the left and went down two passages till he arrived at a door bolted and barred. There was a faint light here, as there were several uncovered windows, and the night, though moonless, was not pitch-dark. He felt the bolts, and eased them back and back slowly. The noise he made sounded to him like thunder, but it was really very slight, only a squeak or two. When the door was open, he slipped out and round the corner of the house. Behind a wild-currant bush he stopped, and peered out. A man was standing by a window working away at the window-pane with a curved instrument; at his feet lay a bag.

Slowly MacFarlane crept forward, walking on a grass border. Two yards from the unconscious thief he lifted his revolver and spoke.

“Lay down that tool!”

There was no need to tell him to lay it down, it flew from his hand with a clatter as he jumped about two feet into the air. He whirled as he jumped, and looked down the muzzle of the revolver. Then he flung up his hands.

“Don’t shoot, guv’ner!—don’t shoot!”

“No, I shan’t shoot unless you attempt to run away, then I shall lame you. Are you alone? ”

“Yus. My mate’s waiting in the road. I’m quite alone.”

“Well, come along with me. It’s no good fighting, you know.”

“No; it’s a fair cop. Where do you want me to go?”

“Here, Hippolyte—come here.”

Hippolyte, hearing the voices, had come out by the door, and was coming to join them.

“Come and take his other arm. I shall lock him up till to-morrow in the old stone dairy.”

The foreign language worried the burglar; he sniffed.

MacFarlane took his right arm with his left, keeping the pistol in his right hand.

“Now come.”

The man made some incoherent pleadings for freedom, but MacFarlane paid no attention. Into the house they led him, along another passage, and MacFarlane opened a door. The place was perfectly dark. Far up by the ceiling was a window, the rest was stone. He pushed the man in.

“There you are; you’ll be safe there, my friend.”

He shut the door, and turned the key.

“Now, Hippolyte, we’d better go down to the road and look for this man’s companion. He’ll be waiting by the south lodge, I should think—it’s the nearest.”

Hippolyte agreed, and they went down through the scented darkness to the shrubbery, cut through this to the south avenue, and so to the lodge gates. MacFarlane roused the lodge-keeper and explained matters, and the three searched the road and the avenue. There was not a sign of any one.

They went down to the west lodge and searched there with the same want of success.

“I suppose he heard us coming and bolted,” sighed MacFarlane. “We can’t do any more, we’d better go back. Anyway, we’ve got one. Keep your eyes open, Jones, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll have another good look round as I go back; but I fear he bolted, as you say.”

“There’s two striking,” said MacFarlane as they turned to go back, and the distant chimes of the old church clock reached them faintly.

“We must return through the shrubbery—it’s quicker, and I left the door open.”

They walked quickly, and reached the shrubbery in a few minutes.

“What’s that?” suddenly exclaimed Hippolyte, clutching his companion’s arm, and standing still.

“What? I heard nothing.”

“It was footsteps—I know it was.”

“Nonsense! Who could it be?”

“I could swear I heard them, over there to the right, on the gravel.”

“I heard nothing,” repeated MacFarlane, and they went on.

He shut and bolted the side door, then went along to the old dairy.

He tapped at the door.

“You there,” he called—“you will be released from here in the morning when the police come. Do you hear?”

No answer.

“If you want water, there’s a tap somewhere there—you can feel for it.”

No answer.

“Do you hear, my man?”

No answer.

Suddenly MacFarlane took hold of the key to turn it. It would not move. He had borrowed a match-box from the lodge-keeper, and he struck a match, then, holding it high, he stared at the door.

“Will you answer me?” he called, and then turned to Hippolyte. “The key has jammed, I can’t turn it.”

Hippolyte caught hold of the handle of the door and turned it—the door swung open!

“Damn!” cried Mac.

Then he struck another match. The dairy was empty!

MacFarlane stamped his foot.

“What fools we were—what absolute childish fools! That other man must have been quite close and seen it all, then, when our backs were turned, calmly came in and released his pal.”

Hippolyte nodded.

Suddenly MacFarlane pulled himself together.

“Hippolyte, they may be in the house. I must rouse the servants, and we must have a thorough search.”

He lit the gas in the passages, then he went through the kitchens and up the back staircase, and roused the men. He came back followed by the butler, the valet, three footmen, and odd man, all clothed in the most extraordinary collection of things.

“You search here,” he ordered. “I must go up to Mr. Brocklehurst, in case he hears all the noise, and wonders. Search thoroughly—every single hole and corner, mind. I’ll leave you the revolver. Come with me, Hippolyte.”

The two men went out through the baize door, and MacFarlane turned up all the lights till the hall looked as bright as day.

“I don’t want to frighten madame,” he said as they mounted the stairs, “but I must wake Brocklehurst; he’s a light sleeper and is sure to hear the noise. Luckily, madame’s door is round the corner, and she won’t hear us at his door.”

He knocked softly on Cuthbert’s door. There was no reply. Then he knocked again and called “ Brock” at the keyhole. At last he turned the handle—the door was locked!

“Now, why on earth has he locked his door?” whispered MacFarlane. “He never does, except in hotels. I must try the dressing-room.”

They went into the dressing-room and turned on the light, then to the communicating door.

That was locked too!

MacFarlane stared in absolute astonishment.

“Well!”

“Try knocking here,” suggested Hippolyte; “you can knock quite loud here—madame can’t possibly hear, as her room is quite in the opposite direction.”

MacFarlane shuc the outer door, in case the noise should echo in the passage, then he knocked loudly and called. All was silence in the bedroom. He turned white.

“Hippolyte, there’s something the matter. He must be ill. Hie never sleeps as soundly as this— he never has since I’ve known him. What am I to do?”

He knocked and knocked, receiving no answer. Then he remembered his old peephole, and picked out the plug, and looked through. All was dark; it was only Gra who slept with a light.

“I must get in somehow.”

He rushed out of the room, and downstairs, returning in a few minutes with a tool-box.

He knocked again before he set to work with the tools. He unscrewed the lock of the door, which was, luckily, an old-fashioned affair. Screw after screw he took out, placing them on a table by his side. Then he inserted a wrench, and tore the rest away.

He was shaking with fear. What should he see in that room? He tore open the door.

“What the devil are you doing?” cried a furious voice, and there in the window, illuminated by the light streaming in from the dressing-room, stood Brocklehurst.

“Oh, thank God!” cried MacFarlane.

The relief was almost too much for him, he sank down on a chair and stared at his friend.

Brocklehurst was white with rage. He stared back at the two men, his eyes flashing.

“May I ask why you come to my room in the middle of the night and break in?”

His voice was cold; he could hardly control himself—he wanted to strike MacFarlane.

“I thought you were ill, Brock,” whispered the doctor. “We knocked and knocked, and called and called, and you never answered. I was in an awful funk—you sleep so lightly as a rule.”

“I had just come up from the library. I was sitting on the balcony. It was too hot to sleep. I suppose I couldn’t hear from there. But why, pray, did you come at all?”

Then he was told about the burglars, and he began to throw on some clothes quickly.

His temper seemed to have disappeared—he could hardly be annoyed under the circumstances.

“I’ll; go down. Get me my revolver, Mac; no —on the bottom shelf. Thanks. Are all the men up? Γ11 help them search downstairs; I’ll send up Sawyer to you, and you three search the upper floors. Lord! there are thousands of holes and corners they might hide in and never be found. Lock each room after you’ve examined it, and take away the key, so that they can’t slip back behind your back. Come on.”

When he got to the passage he hesitated.

“I must lock Gra in,” he said quietly; “if they got into her room they’d frighten her to death.”

He went round the corner to Gra’s door.

“Why, it’s locked!” he exclaimed, and MacFarlane thought that there was not sufficient surprise in his voice.

“So was yours,” he answered curtly; and Brocklehurst laughed.

“My poor door? Yes, I’ve found several times lately that I’ve locked the doors. I can’t think why —hotel habit, I suppose.”

“Did you lock them at Curzon Street?”

“Yes, often.”

Now MacFarlane knew that this was a lie, and he wondered. But he had no time to think of problems now—there was work to be done.

“Send up Sawyer,” he said at the top of the stairs. “We’ll wait here for him.”

“Very well.” Brocklehurst descended quickly.

Hippolyte caught hold of MacFarlane’s arm.

“Come back, quick!” he whispered. “It’s our only chance.”

“Our only chance? What for?”

But Hippolyte drew him back to Brocklehurst’s room.

“ Quick! Go and sit on the balcony. I will knock and call; see if you can hear me.”

“There’s no chair here,” cried his companion as he drew back the window-doors.

“Well, lean over the palisade. I will go outside. See, I will shut the broken door. Count the knocks you hear.”

He went outside—first the dressing-room door, then the bedroom door—and knocked softly, and called.

Then he went back. As he opened the door MacFarlane stepped into the room.

“I heard fifteen knocks and five calls,” he said.

Then the two men stared at each other.

“And he had not just come up from the library,” remarked Hippolyte slowly; “when I first went down, on hearing the noise, there was no light in the library.”

“What does it mean?”

“We must find out. We have no time now; we must search the house.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE men searched the house from top to bottom and could find no sign of the burglars. Hippolyte had been quite certain that they would not; he reminded MacFarlane of the steps he had heard on the gravel on the east terrace. Evidently the moment the prisoner had been released, the two had bolted, not wishing to run any risks of encountering MacFarlane and Hippolyte. They had probably been hiding in the shrubbery, not daring to make for the outer railings—which they had apparently climbed— until the men who were searching the grounds had returned to the house; then, on hearing voices in the shrubbery, they had slipped off the terrace and across the rose-garden to the copse, and hence to the park, whence they could easily reach the open country.

It was no easy matter thoroughly to examine the great house; it was full of odd corners, deep embrasures in the corridors and passages, queer cupboards, which in the far-off Norman days were counted as rooms, galleries, holes under staircases, and all manner of quaint hiding-places. But at last all was done, and by that time it was broad daylight. Then Brocklehurst asked for coffee, and he sat down in the library.

“You will have some coffee with us, monsieur?” he said to Hippolyte, and he consented thankfully —he was worn out. Since before one o’clock he had been on his feet, and he was exceedingly sleepy.

“I am very thankful to you,” Brocklehurst went on; “if you had not heard the noise they would have got in to a dead certainty. I suppose they were after the plate, but they would probably have burst open my cases of coins, and goodness knows what they would have done with them—very likely carted away the whole lot and melted them down.” He shuddered at the horrible thought. “We owe our escape to you.” Then he looked at the absurd little figure with its bare legs dangling, and the small feet covered with the brilliant wool-work slippers, and he nearly laughed. It was so ridiculous to think that it was this insignificant person to whom he owed the safety of his wonderful collection.

Grandjean had rushed up to his room after he and MacFarlane had roused the servants, and had put on his smoked glasses; these added to his droll appearance.

MacFarlane noticed Cuthbert’s amused expression, and he smiled. How astonished his friend would be if he knew that that funny little man was one of the most powerful hypnotists he had ever seen!

Brocklehurst yawned loudly.

“Lord! I’m tired,” he said, “I wish they’d bring that coffee. I’ve had no sleep at all; you others can’t have had much. I’ll tell the servants to let us sleep till we ring. I’d better write a note to Gra, to be given to her when they take her tea in, and then she won’t wonder at our non-appearance. I’m glad she was not disturbed—she is a wonderfully sound sleeper. Here’s the coffee, thank goodness—toast too, that’s all right. I’m as hungry as a hunter—after all, we were hunters. I’ll tell Lightfoot to telephone to the police about the events of the night. Just write down, Mac, a description of the man you caught, then Lightfoot can tell them.”

“Have mercy upon me, Brock,” sighed MacFarlane, with a wry face. “I could kick myself when I think what a thundering fool I was. All that trouble to get the brute and lock him up, and then calmly leave him for his friend to release. Ugh! It makes me pretty sick, I can tell you.”

Cuthbert laughed, with a piece of toast in his mouth.

“Don’t make me choke, Mac. Your face of despair, combined with your rough hair and your exceedingly sketchy costume, is enough to kill one. My dear chap, I should have done the same. I fail to see how you could have imagined that the man could be released the moment you’d turned your back. It was certainly pretty decent of his companion, and I rather hope he won’t be caught. That class of person is usually so anxious to save his own neck, he very seldom stops to see to his pal. His motto usually is, ‘ Each for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.’ It was really quite remarkable for him to wait in danger, mind, and see his friend out of bondage. I wonder where they came from!; there’s not been a burglary about here for years.”

“He was a pure cockney,” said MacFarlane. “He undoubtedly came from town—no mistaking the accent.”

“Then they are off, you may be quite sure. They probably caught the four-three train at Getsminster. They could cut across country and be there in a little over an hour. More coffee, Monsieur Grandjean? No? Well, I vote we all turn in.”

The three sleepy men went up to their beds. The sun was shining brightly, and the birds were singing with that peculiar clear-throated, flute-like song that they treat the world to only in the early morning.

MacFarlane was too tired to think now; he slept without moving till ten o’clock.

From the landing window, on his way downstairs, he caught sight of Gra in the garden, and he made his way to her before he went in to breakfast.

She ran to meet him with excited face.

“Oh, I am so glad some one has appeared!” she exclaimed. “I’m dying to hear all about it. I’ve cross-examined all the servants, but I want your account, as you were the hero of the adventure.”

“A poor hero, I’m afraid,” laughed Mac; “you’ve heard I let him go?”

“Oh, that is nothing. You caught him first. Have you had your breakfast? Well, I’ll come and sit with you while you eat, and you must tell me the whole thing. Is Monsieur Hippolyte up?”

“I don’t know. I listened at his door, and heard nothing. I’ll ask Sawyer. Ah, there goes Brock’s blind! He’s evidently only just been called.” While he was sitting at breakfast he told Gra the whole story, and she was much interested.

“I’m glad they got off, poor things,” was her final verdict.

When Brocklehurst appeared, just as MacFarlane had finished his meal, he looked cross.

“Lightfoot tells me that the police are coming to see us at twelve,” he said. “Awful nuisance; they’ll be pottering about all over the place for days—I know them.”

“I really think that we ought to start a night watchman again, Cuth.” Gra’s face was serious. “We ought to have got another when old Roberts died. We talked about it, and I don’t know why we never saw to it. You don’t want some one to break in and steal your collection, do you?—not to speak of the plate, and my jewellery.”

“I hate the idea of having a stranger about at night. Old Roberts I didn’t mind, I’d known him all my life. However, I suppose we must do it. I’ll see about it. I say, Gra, I don’t like you sleeping alone now that there are burglars about; I think you’d better come back to me, don’t you?” Gra laughed merrily.

“Nonsense! We’re as safe as we can be now that they’ve had a fright. You may be quite sure that they won’t try again—for a long time, anyway. I’m not a bit nervous. But you’d better engage a man for night work. How about putting Jones on the job? Bob Jones and his mother can manage at the lodge all right, and Jones is thoroughly capable and trustworthy.”

“A brilliant idea, Gra. Yes, I’11 send for him this morning and speak to him about it. Yes, Bob is quite old enough to help his mother now, he’s sixteen, isn’t he? Very well, I’ll send for Jones.”

The police were important and fussy, as only county police can be. “They were quite sure that they would catch the men; already they had a clue,” etc., etc.

The household spent a busy day. What with another thorough search all through the house, to see that window and door locks were secure, interviews with the police, and telephone messages from other police stations, MacFarlane and Hippolyte had hardly a moment in which to talk; and only when night came could they discuss the mystery of the locked doors of the night before. An hour’s talk did not help them to elucidate matters.

“Anyway,” MacFarlane said finally, “I am going to search that room thoroughly to-morrow. I shall somehow get him out of the way in the afternoon, and will have a go at it. There are all sorts of secret doors and passages in this house that I know nothing of, and there may be one in his room. I certainly never suspected it, as the walls are all papered in the modern way; but I am going to have a look round.”

So the next day he asked Gra to make some excuse for taking her husband to Getsminster. He could give her no explanation of his extra ordinary request, except that he thought Cuthbert required a long drive, as he was working too hard.

Gra looked at him with rather a curious expression as she promised to do his behest. She did not quite believe that his given reason was the true one, but she trusted him absolutely, and she knew that he would not ask her to do this thing unless it were for the good of Cuthbert or herself.

MacFarlane felt horribly mean and conscious-smitten when he saw how eagerly Brocklehurst acquiesced when Gra asked him to drive with her. He sighed as he thought how he was deceiving this man. But what else could he do? What would be the end of it if he made open war—told his friend that he knew all, and was going to circumvent his design? The only possible result would be his dismissal from the house—he would have to leave Gra to her fate, and wear out his heart in anxious loneliness. As it was, he was leaving her in a few weeks—leaving her to what? Till the night before, he had been quite easy in his mind; even now he could not think what had happened. But he was uncomfortable. Why had Brocklehurst locked his doors? Why had he told the lie? for it was a lie to say he had often locked the doors in Curzon Street—he, MacFarlane, had been to his room secretly at night too often not to know that the statement was untrue. He could not answer these questions, but he felt sure that there must be an answer. It might, of course, have nothing to do with Gra—he did not see how it could have; but again, if not, what was tile explanation ?

When the motor had started off with Gra and her husband, he and Hippolyte went upstairs to Brocklehurst’s room. There was not much chance of any servant coming to interrupt them. Lightfoot, the valet, had, much to MacFarlane’s delight, asked for the afternoon off to go to a distant farm, where he had some relatives. No other servant would have any excuse for entering the master’s room.

“See, he’s had the lock mended,” said Hippolyte, pointing to the dressing-room door.

“Yes,” answered MacFarlane, examining it, “and it is a different kind of lock. It could not be opened from this side now.”

They entered the room.

“First the floor,” said the doctor. “I know that in the Pompadour room there was a passage under the floor till Brocklehurst had it all fastened down. You begin by the window, I’ll begin this side, and we’ll meet in the middle. It is entirely covered with the carpet, I know; but examine the nails round the edge carefully to see if they have been moved, or have false heads or anything. Then see if there is any join in the carpet that is not a real join. Move the furniture ; we must look under everything.”

Both men went down on their hands and knees, and inch by inch the floor was examined. There was no heavy furniture to move, as the chest of drawers and press were in the dressing-room, and Gra’s furniture had been moved to her own room, as it was her favourite suite. There was only a sofa, a few arm-chairs, a writing-table, and some small tables. The bed Hippolyte crawled under. Not one suspicious mark could they find. The joins in the carpet were firmly sewn, the nails were firmly fixed.

“No, it’s not the floor,” said MacFarlane, rising to his feet, and stretching his aching back. “Now for the walls. ITI get the steps I brought up— they’re outside. We must press every inch of the paper, there might be a secret spring as there is in the armoury—I showed you, you remember? The cupboards would be the most likely—we’ll try them first, then the fire-place.”

There were three cupboards, all unlocked. In one they found some rough planks.

“How careless!” exclaimed MacFarlane. “The workmen must have left these when they did up the room last spring. However, I can’t give myself away by telling Brocklehurst I’ve discovered them. They must stay; no one uses the cupboard, evidently. No, there’s nothing here; there’s no join in the paper, so nothing could open. Now for the chimney-piece. Isn’t this marble beautiful?” Each grape and tendril of the fine carving was pushed and pulled by the doctor’s sensitive fingertips. Then suddenly something happened.

There was a crack, a rattle of mortar falling somewhere behind, and the left-hand panel of the marble fell to one side. Both men exclaimed.

But the discovery ended in nothing. All that was disclosed was a small empty cavity originally intended for hiding valuables—a primitive safe, unused for many, many long years. It had not been opened, anyway for a very long time, it was full of dust that had crept in through the infinitesimal crack in the opening. Mac shut it again, and heard the click of the hidden spring.

He looked up the chimney, but here his eyesight told him there was no possibility of any one having passed, the soot was undisturbed.

They mounted the steps in turn and pressed their fingers over the walls, they pulled and pushed at the mouldings of the doors and windows —all without result.

They then went on to each balcony and tried the outer wall, but with equal failure.

Tired and dirty, they stared at each other when all was done.

“I suppose we’ve made fools of ourselves!” exclaimed MacFarlane irritably. “He must have been outside with the windows pulled to. Like that, he probably would not have heard us.”

“Why pull the windows to?’’asked Hippolyte abruptly; “it was a hot night, and he always likes air.”

“I don’t know—don’t ask me. All I know is that I’ll swear that there is no secret passage from this room to another. And he certainly was in this room, and not out of it. He was very likely asleep and didn’t like to say that he was sleeping like a hog—he’s proud of being a light sleeper. No, Hippolyte, we’ve given ourselves a fright for nothing As to why he locked the doors—God knows! I have no explanation. Perhaps he really did lock them sometimes at Curzoii Street, and it’s just a chance that it was not the nights we wanted to get in. That is the only thing I can think of. He won’t be likely to do it again after last night; he’s not an absent-minded man as a rule.”

Hippolyte could suggest nothing better, but he was puzzled. He thought and thought The result of his thinking was shown to MacFarlane the next morning. As he was dressing, there came a knock at his door, and the Frenchman entered. He sat down on a chair and made a queer gesture expressing worry and uncertainty. Then he said quietly:

“I went to monsieur’s room at half-past one this morning. I waited in the oriel-window alcove for him to come up from the library. He had his bath first, then he went through the dressing-room to the bedroom. He locked the door, and tried it to make sure; then he went across the room to the bedroom door and locked that, and he tried that. He turned the handle and pulled to see that it was secure.”

“Good heavens!”

“Then I listened at the door. He walked about the room, turned some handle, and dragged something across the room. After that I heard nothing. I waited for ten minutes, then I knocked—I made up my mind to say that I’d heard a noise downstairs—there was no answer. I tried both doors, knocking at each. I could not make him hear.” MacFarlane sat down on his bed, and the two men stared at each other blankly.

Then Hippolyte quietly left the room.

CHAPTER XXIII

MACFARLANE finished dressing as if he were in a dream. His brain seemed deadened, he could not think coherently. He knew that he wanted to think—to think hard; but he could not fix his thoughts on any one thing. This was an unusual state of affairs; concentration was a matter of habit with him as a rule, but now he felt as if his brain were empty, a mere forty odd ounces of useless matter. He went on with the process of dressing automatically, thinking of surrounding objects, of his clothes, of his toilet articles, and not once of the great problem that he knew he would have to solve.

Presently his eye alighted on his medicine-chest. “Yes,” he thought, “I’ve forgotten to put in that extra shelf; I must do it to-day.”

He went over to the cupboard, found the key on his bunch, and opened it.

“Yes, all those small bottles must be kept together. I think, perhaps, I had better put up my smaller cupboard alongside. That would be more suitable.”

He took up and fingered one or two bottles, then his hand closed on a small bright box con taining his hypodermic syringe, and suddenly he was quite still. He remained there for several minutes with the box in his hand, then he put it back and closed the door, and locked it.

He stepped briskly across the room, down the winding stairs, and through his sitting-room. He knocked at Grand jean’s door and entered.

“ Well?” queried the Frenchman.

“I’ve been thinking.”

He had not, but he was not aware of it. Only the last five minutes had brought any enlightenment. He sat down and frowned.

“Look here, Hippolyte. We’ve proved beyond a doubt that Brocklehurst does not leave his room. Then what makes him deaf to knockings? He doesn’t drink—that’s certain. It must be drugs. Mind, it’s an absolute conundrum to me as to why he should, but, as far as I can see, it is the only thing possible. He must take morphia. That deadens him, and he flings himself on his bed, and hears nothing.”

Hippolyte frowned.

“The other night, when we broke in—had he taken morphia then? You would have noticed it, surely? He seemed quite normal to me.”

“He might have taken it some time before; it would have had time to work off a bit.”

“His bed had not been disturbed—I noticed that,” protested Grandjean.

MacFarlane bit his lip.

“Well, I can’t help it,” he exclaimed, somewhat impatiently. “It’s the only thing I can think of. I shall make some excuse to go in to-morrow 17 when he’s bathing, and I’11 see if there are any marks of injections—one can easily see.”

So the next morning he knocked at Brocklehurst’s bathroom door when he heard splashing.

He opened the door a few inches.

“Sorry, Brock, but I want something.”

“Oh, come in.”

“Have you any Scrubb’s Ammonia? I thought you used it, and I’m out of it.”

“No; I have bath-salts, though—there, on the shelf. You can take the box.”

He rose from the bath and began to rub with a rough towel.

“I say, you’re getting fat!” cried MacFarlane.

Brocklehurst stretched out his arm and laughed.

“Yes, I am fatter, there’s no doubt of that. I hope I shan’t get really fat; my mother was immense.”

“No. Your bones are too big.”

MacFarlane’s voice was depressed, and his companion noticed it and grinned.

“You sound disappointed, Mac. Mean of you— I should hate to be fat.”

MacFarlane was disappointed, but it was because he could not discover one single suspicious mark on the skin of the man standing naked before him.

He made some laughing remark, and went away, clutching the unneeded bath-salts.

He and Hippolyte had many consultations as to what they should do. Neither of them thought it was possible that Brocklehurst got into his wife’s room at night—they had searched too carefully not to be certain of this, and they knew that Gra kept her door locked. Both of them tried her door several times, and not once did they find it unlocked.

But the problem remained. What happened to Cuthbert after he entered his room? Why should he lock his door? Why could he hear no sound when they knocked?

Anxiety for Gra was now superseded in MacFarlane’s mind by anxiety for his friend. He felt sure that something was wrong. He gave him a thorough overhauling, but could not discover any symptoms to give him uneasiness. The heart was as well as it had been on their return to England, there was no sign of drug-taking, drink the doctor knew was impossible—sometimes Cuthbert forgot to take even his nightly glass of whisky and soda. Had he taken to sleeping soundly? he wondered. It would be curious if he had. Usually the sleep of men over forty is lighter instead of heavier, and, as he well knew, his friend had ever been an exceedingly light sleeper, that is why he had always been so terrified of waking him by making the faintest noise when he used to steal into the dressing-room at night.

He and the Frenchman discussed every possible elucidation of the mystery, but could arrive at no satisfactory result.

MacFarlane proved for himself that Hippolyte’s account of what happened at night, after Brocklehurst came up from the library, was correct. He watched from the alcove and listened. Then, on the two doors being locked, he heard the dragging sound Grandjean had described—after that, silence. He went to the door and knocked, receiving no response.

“He hasn’t had time to get to sleep!” he exclaimed irritably. “Good heavens! The thing is driving me mad. What does he do?”

At last the moon was full, and he decided to see what he could discover by peering through the old peephole in the dressing-room door. The moment both doors were locked he slipped into the room, withdrew the plug, and placed his eye to the tiny hole. He could see the bed and part of the wall, but nothing else. He heard the man inside drag something across the room, but could not see him. He tried the keyhole, but from there could only see a cupboard. Brocklehurst was not on the bed when he knocked and received no answer.

He talked over with Hippolyte a wild plot of hiding himself in one of the empty cupboards in the room, but at last realized that this would be useless. He would have to be shut in it, in case Cuthbert should notice the door standing ajar; and what could he see from there? Nothing. He could not bore a hole, as the cupboards were all painted white, and Brocklehurst’s eyes were very sharp. The dressing-room door had been easy— it was of mahogany and much moulded, his tiny peep-hole was well hidden in a crevice. He then thought of boring a hole in the ceiling; this could ' easily be hidden in the very ornamental cornice.

At last this was decided on, and he and the Frenchman spent hours measuring and tapping.

They had to choose the times when Brocklehurst was out of the house. Luckily, he was now allowed to ride, and he and Gra went for long rides about the country.

The room over Cuthbert’s was a spare room, and the two conspirators rolled up the carpet, took up some boards, and there, diving up to the elbows in dust and cobwebs, they strove to find the exact spot in which to bore their hole. MacFarlane went to the lower room, and, mounted on steps, drove a long skewer through the plaster; then upstairs again to feel all along, to try to find the protruding point.

At the third try he succeeded, and he enlarged the hole. Downstairs he filled in the useless apertures with plaster, and painted them with chínese white, putting the white also round the larger hole. This was in the middle of a plaster flower, and, standing down on the floor and looking up, it was impossible to distinguish it. He carefully collected every tiny spot of plaster from the carpet before he retired from the bedroom.

Lying flat on his face upstairs, with his arms and head in the space between floor and ceiling, he could see through the hole a good portion of the room. Two cupboards, the sofa, and three armchairs were fully visible.

That night he watched, leaving Hippolyte downstairs to come up and tell him when Brocklehurst had entered his room.

It was all entirely useless. The room was bright with moonlight, and he could see clearly, but Cuthbert passed only once in his line of vision; that was when he first entered the room and went over to the other door to lock it. After that he did not see him again.

Hippolyte ran down again and knocked at the doors. MacFarlane could hear the knocking from where he was, but all was silence in the room under him.

He was in despair. He rose from his uncomfortable position, and stamped his foot “I won’t give up!” he cried to Grandjean. “I shall try in all four sides of the room. We must go through the whole performance over again.”

The next day he received a shock.

While he was dressing, a telegram was brought to him. He opened it, to find that it was a cable from Fai, from India.

“Is anything wrong with Gra? Cable. Fai.” He turned giddy and sick. He knew quite well from experience that Fai’s “feelings,” as she called them, were not to be ignored.

He sent her a reassuring cable, then went down and confided in his faithful “secretary.”

For some time now Grandjean had not hypnotized Gra, in fact ever since they had been at Wane’s Ferry. He and MacFarlane had made quite sure before they left town that her husband’s hypnotic suggestion had been totally ousted from her mind. Nearly every day in Curzon Street she had been put to sleep by the Frenchman, and time after time had answered his questions without hesitation, giving in a clear voice a repetition of his silent commands to her. There had for the last half-dozen times never been the faintest sign of un certainty such as there had been at first, when she had once begun the sentence with “When you die.” No; they were perfectly sure that all was well with her—there was nothing left of the old influence.

“I will hypnotize her to-day,” said Hippolyte quickly. “I will try if I can discover anything. It’s very difficult. I can’t hope for a moment that I shall be successful. If he has got at her, she will not know it.”

“Very well—try. Take her down to the old stone summer-house. I will stay with Brocklehurst, and see that he does not come out. After breakfast is the best time.”

Gra assented willingly, and went into the garden with Hippolyte, laughing and talking merrily.

Hippolyte bent over her anxiously, and in a minute she was asleep.

He could not think why he felt so nervous as he put the question:

“Tell me what you are to do. What orders have you received?”

Without an instant’s pause Gra answered seriously:

“When you die, I am to die too, Cuth.”

The Frenchman tumbled on to a seat, white and shaking. The perspiration came out on his great forehead in drops, his beautiful white hands were shaking.

“Oh, mon Dieu!—mon Dieu!” he groaned. “How has he got at her?”

Then he pulled himself together and questioned her. She knew nothing. As he had feared, she was utterly unconscious of her husband’s machinations.

For half an hour he threw out every bit of his will-power, to try to counteract that other influence. It was harder than it had ever been before. Over and over again she repeated the horrible words; only quite at the end, when he was utterly exhausted, could he get a sentence that was a muddle of the two commands—his and Brocklehurst’s.

He wakened her at last, and she could not fail to notice his grave, preoccupied face.

He said he had neuralgia, and asked her, as lightly as he could, to consent to him hypnotizing her oftener.

“I am losing my power,” he said dismally.

She laughed.

“Of course you can do it as often as you like, if it gives you pleasure. I don’t mind in the least. I’m only too pleased to do anything to show my gratitude for the discovery you made about my husband. I’m sure he has been better since we stopped it.”

He assented absent-mindedly.

She proposed a walk in the gardens, but he said he must get back to work.

How was he to tell MacFarlane? That was the question that was worrying him. He knew that it would be a terrible shock.

It was worse than he had thought.

MacFarlane seemed to utterly collapse. He ' looked years older after the revelation.

“And we leave here in four weeks,” was the first broken remark he gave vent to. “Hippolyte, my brain is whirling. I can’t think any more. You must plan something.”

Hippolyte was thoughtful.

“Well, I have arranged to hypnotize her every day,” he began quietly. “She consented willingly. We must go on with the ceiling plan. She tells me that they are going to Steep Denes this afternoon; perhaps we shall have enough time to bore two holes—then you can move from one to the other.”

MacFarlane nodded.

“Yes, we must do what we can. But I don’t think we shall succeed. He’s too cunning. There must be some secret way that we did not discover.”

The Frenchman was hardly less downhearted. His pride was humbled. He had thought that his will was strong—that he could do anything he wished; but this other man had bested him. Three weeks only he had had to do it in—that was probably ten séances—yet it had been enough to wipe out from his wife’s mind all the professional hypnotist’s influence, wipe it out as though it had never existed. And, as MacFarlane had said, what was to happen after they left? Now, for the four weeks remaining to them, he could probably destroy in his turn all other suggestions; but what about the future? Also there was that other consideration—he could not watch now when Cuthbert was hypnotizing his wife, and will her to answer the empty words to calm her husband’s suspicions. Would he not in time realize without any doubt that her mind had been tampered with by some other?

He began to think that it was hopeless, unless they could invent a plan to stop the whole thing.

Then he jumped to his feet and gave a loud exclamation.

MacFarlane looked up.

“I have it!” the Frenchman cried excitedly. “We must burn out her room, then she will have to move to another!”

CHAPTER XXIV

MACFARLANE made up his mind to speak to Gra, and see if he could manage to get her away on a visit. Even a week or two would give him time to think. To one thing he had absolutely made up his mind—he must not leave, as arranged, on the fifth of August, unless by some means he could put a stop to what was going on. That Brocklehurst, in some mysterious way, had access to his wife’s room, both he and Hippolyte were certain. That this must end, he swore to himself—it should not go on. If everything failed, then he must carry out Grandjean’s melodramatic suggestion, and make Gra’s room unfit for habitation. He was loath to do this if he could think of anything else; in the meanwhile he wanted time to think. Perhaps if Gra were away, and the cause of his acute anxiety removed for some days, he might be able to plan something; at present he was too uneasy, his brain would not work clearly.

The next day he asked Gra to go for a walk with him after breakfast while Cuthbert was working, and she consented willingly.

“What’s the matter, Mac?” she asked, as they entered the park by the shrubbery gate. “You’ve been looking worried for days. What is it? ”

“My dear,” he answered gravely, “I haven’t wanted to bother you, but now I must. I can’t get on without your help any longer.” He hesitated a moment, then went on speaking quickly and decidedly. “I have been anxious about Brock for some time—ever since we arrived at Wane’s, in fact. I gave him a thorough overhauling the other day, and I found that things were not as right as they should be. I did not tell him this—I thought it better not to. I couldn’t understand what the reason for it was; it was the same as it used to be in Curzon Street while he was hypnotizing you. I thought this was impossible now, so I was greatly puzzled. Then I began to fear he was taking drugs.”

“ Drugs!” interrupted Gra, opening her eyes widely.

“Why on earth did you think of that? He told her of the locked doors, and of his having had to break in the door on the night of the burglary.

She was astonished and incredulous that it could have been anything but a chance, but, when he went on to tell her that he had found out that the doors were always locked, she stopped still by a tree, and looked up at him with a very serious face.

“Oh, Mac, is it drugs?” she gasped.

“ No. I have proved that it is not that.”

“ Well, what?”

He looked round him at the beautiful grass and trees, and bit his lips.

“Gra, I hate to say it, but he has started his old habit—he is hypnotizing you again.”

She cried out. Then she shrugged her shoulders rather irritably.

“Impossible, Mac! I sleep in another room now, and I always lock my door.”

“I know. But there’s no doubt about it. Hippolyte first thought of it—that is why he asked you to let him hypnotize you yesterday. He found out for certain then.”

Gra sank down on the short grass, and hugged her knees. She looked up at him with intense bewilderment.

“How?” she began. “Oh, Mac, I can’t believe it. How could he manage it?”

“That’s what’s bothering me. I have thought and thought till my brain feels positively addled. There must be a secret door from his room to yours.”

“But, Mac, I’m sure there isn’t. When the rooms were repapered three years ago, I saw them when the old paper was stripped off the walls. There wasn’t a sign of anything of the kind. It was then that I discovered the secret door in the Pomegranate room—you remember I told you of it—I saw the join in the mortar, and we tried and tried till we found the spring. I told the workmen to be careful to look in every room for secret passages, etc.—I’m always so excited about them. These rooms were papered again the other day too. I’m certain that there is nothing of the kind.” “Well, how do you account for it? That the fact is there, we can’t get away from. First ”—he began to tick off on his fingers—“he locks both his doors, a thing he never used to do. Then he does not hear us when we knock, though it is quite easy to hear from any part of the room—we’ve tried. Three—he makes excuses, and says he locked the door without thinking (he does not know that we have tried since, and that they are always locked). Four—when you are asked, in hypnotic sleep, you say that he has hypnotized you. How are we to get away from all that? ”

Gra took off her hat and fanned herself with it.

“My brain, too, is becoming addled. What do you propose to do?”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about. I want to know if we can’t conspire to stop it for a bit, then it will give me time to think and see if I can’t manage something. Could you go away for a week or two? Mrs. Selwyn would be delighted to have you, and she is a thoroughly good pal. I propose that you send her a telegram to-day saying this: ‘ Will you write by return asking me to come to you at once for a week or so? Don’t refer to this telegram. Will explain.’ You can easily tell her the truth when you see her.”

“Urn—m,” mused Gra.

“You see, it must be put a stop to, Gra. It is doing him more harm than anything else.”

“Why can’t Monsieur Hippolyte influence me, as he did before, to wake up when Cuth comes into the room? Then I could stop it easily. If I found out how he came, I could put something in front of the secret door and prevent him coming again. Can’t we try that? I don’t want to go away just now—I—oh, Mac, you will be here for only a few weeks more!”

It was very seldom that Gra said as much as this, and MacFarlane’s heart leapt. He had been standing by her side, now he flung himself on to the grass. His eyes were on a level with hers, and he looked at her with a terrible yearning.

“Oh, Gra, Gra!” The words were almost a sob.

She put her hand on his head, smoothing back the fair hair tenderly. A great love looked out of her eyes.

“I have tried,” she said brokenly—“oh, I have tried so hard, Mac. But I shall never cease to love you. I think if you were a brute, and were always trying to tempt me, I might succeed in—in unloving you. But, you understand, you are so strong, you help me so. Oh, my Mac, my dreams are all I have. Am I wicked to dream, Mac? I can’t help it. Your arms are often round me then, and somehow it never seems wrong.”

He had buried his face in his arms as he lay flat on the grass, and now he groaned.

“For God’s sake, stop! My darling, my darling, I am not strong. You are driving me mad.”

She heard the agony in his voice, and she stretched out her arms suddenly; then she dropped them to her lap, and slowly, drearily, she rose to her feet.

“Come, dear,” she said quietly, “we must go on. We must talk out this subject of Cuth. I think it would be best, before I ask Letty to invite me, to try what Monsieur Hippolyte can do. You see what I mean, don’t you? I will lie facing the wall between the two rooms, then if there is a secret door I shall be bound to see it, and I can take precautions afterwards. Was he there, do you think, last night?”

“No—the night before. He will probably try to-night. It’s curious how he sticks to the letter of his word—he promised me never to work two nights in succession, and he calls hypnotism ‘ work.’ It may not be to-night, but it very likely will be.”

“I tell you what,” cried Gra—“we won’t try anything hypnotic. I’ll just lie awake; it won’t hurt me for once. I can easily do it. That’s better than waking up, you see, I’m less likely to yawn or something. If I am lying awake I can keep my eyes fixed on the wall, and then when he comes in I can pretend not to see. I think that best. I will let him hypnotize me, and he won’t ever know that I was awake. Then to-morrow I’ll arrange matters so that he can’t get in again. What do you think, Mac?”

MacFarlane agreed.

That night Gra took two cupfuls of black coffee the last thing before getting into bed. She knew that her husband would not come upstairs till about one, so she read till after half-past twelve. Then she turned off her light, leaving only the night-lamp.

Her bed was parallel with the outer wall and windows, which were on her right as she lay in bed. The wall between her room and her husband’s was facing her. She arranged herself on her left side, with her head bent very much down, so that, through half-closed eyes, she could see the whole of the party-wall. The night was hot and heavy, great clouds were rolling over the sky, and the moon was invisible; hardly a breath of air entered by the wide-open window—there was that peculiar stillness that sometimes precedes a storm.

She lay quietly, thinking of various things to keep herself awake. The walls were too thick for her to hear when Cuthbert should enter the next room, she must trust to her eyes. She kept them half-closed in case he should have a means of seeing her before he came in. She wished him to think her asleep.

After about three-quarters of an hour she fancied she heard a faint sound, but, though she listened carefully, it was not repeated. She counted the roses on the paper, and wondered if it were possible for an opening to be hidden there. She herself thought it unlikely—yet Mac was so sure.

Suddenly she felt very drowsy—a curious drowsiness very difficult to fight against. It was not like ordinary sleepiness, she thought—more like the feeling she had when she was being hypnotized. Then, as she thought this, she gasped. She tried to move, but her limbs would not obey her will. With a fearful effort, that seemed to wrench her heart, she tore open her eyes; she saw two hands over her head, and recognized them as Cuthbert’s hands. She knew that he was standing behind her. Again she tried to move, to call out, to do something—anything—to break the spell, but she was helpless. The next thing she was conscious of was the song of birds, and when she opened her eyes it was broad day.

She looked at her watch—it was seven o’clock.

Then the events of the night came back in a rush to her mind, and she sprang from the bed, her face white and frightened.

She ran across to her writing-table, and was beginning to write a note to MacFarlane, when she changed her mind. It would be safer to write to Hippolyte.

She dashed off a few lines in French, asking him to go up to MacFarlane and wake him, and for both of them to meet her at eight o’clock in the stone summer-house.

Then she rang, ordered her tea to be brought at once, and sent up the letter to Grandjean.

She could not think coherently. What did it all mean? She was certain that she had not taken her eyes off that wall, yet she was equally certain that Cuthbert had been in the room. How had he got in? The window was impossible. The only creeper outside was a frail rose-tree, not strong enough to support a child. There were no pipes or anything to climb by. His balcony was separated from hers by seven or eight feet of space with a sheer drop in between to the ground twenty feet below. How could he get up to the window, if it was by the window he had entered—which she doubted? In any case Mac had told her that, after once entering his room and locking the doors, Cuthbert did not pass out again, therefore a ladder was impossible.

She shuddered; she was terrified; she hardly knew why, but the horror of the unknown was over her as she dressed.

She slipped from the room and hurriedly ran downstairs, and out into the rose-garden. She stumbled up the steps to the summer-house, and flung herself into a chair, panting. MacFarlane and the Frenchman were waiting for her.

MacFarlane patted her shoulder to soothe her,

“Hush!” he said gently, “don’t worry, Gra. Tell us, and see what we can do to help.”

“Will you ride into Getsminster for me this morning, Mac? I shall send a wire to Letty Selwyn, I can’t stay here—I’m frightened. I shall ask her to wire for me. I must go away on Friday. I can’t go till then, because of the garden-party on Thursday.”

“Yes—yes. I’lI go. It will be all right. Now try and tell us quietly what it is.”

As calmly as she could, she began the story. By the time’· she had finished, she was trembling from head to foot. She spoke in French for Hippolyte’s benefit, and, as she went on, the little man looked very grave.

“Mac!”—she held out one trembling hand to him, which he took and stroked—“I’m a fool, but I was frightened. I don’t know why. I knew it was Cuth, but it was awful. I have never minded him doing it before, but last night I felt—oh, I felt horrible. It seemed to me as if he weren’t the same, as if he were evil somehow. I felt as if there were some hateful influence by me, and this morning I have a curious feeling as if I’d been made to promise something ghastly. I can’t explain—its all so intangible; but, Monsieur Hippolyte, will you hypnotize me, please, and see what you can do? You may be able to calm me.”

“Yes. That is best. Put your head back—so.” MacFarlane had his face buried in his hands as the Frenchman sent the woman to sleep. He lifted it, and looked at her with dulled eyes, as Hippolyte put the question as to what commands she had received.

Without a moment’s hesitation she gave the order that Cuthbert had given her.

MacFarlane groaned.

“Try and calm her,” he whispered. “And give the contrary suggestion. We must gain time. I will get her away from here on Friday.”

She awoke feeling considerably quieter.

“Could you find out how he got in?” she asked anxiously.

Hippolyte shook his head.

“No. I can find out only what you know yourself.”

“Don’t worry, Gra, we will find out,” said MacFarlane. “In the meanwhile you must get away. I will ride into Gctsminster after breakfast.”

He sent a telegram to Mrs. Selwyn asking her to telegraph for Gra. Then, just as he was handing it in, he thought he had better provide for accidents, and he added:

“If you are by any chance unable to have me, wire MacFarlane, Wane’s Ferry, not to me.”

No telegram came that day, and Gra was worried. The next morning MacFarlane received an answer:

“So sorry; your wire sent on here by post. Am staying with the Rodgers. Just off in yacht. Impossible to postpone.”

There was no one else that Gra cared to trust. Lady Ethersbury was abroad—Gra was not quite sure where; her last letter had said that she was going on to Carlsbad or Homburg, and that she would let her daughter know.

That night Gra was quite ill, and she made up her mind to ask her maid to sleep in her room.

CHAPTER XXV

THE garden-party, of which Gra had spoken to MacFarlane, was a very big affair indeed. It was an omnium gatherum such as owners of large country houses feel obliged to give once or twice a year. There were all sorts and conditions of men, from a Secretary of State, who was campaigning in the neighbourhood, to rich tenants of Brocklehurst’s, who were more remarkable for their money than their grammar. There was the usual sprinkling of the professional class, including the doctors and the rectors of the country round, and the deans, canons, and smaller clergy from Gets-minster. The Bishop had promised to come if he could.

Lady Ethersbury had once remarked that garden-parties were so convenient—“One does not mind, somehow, meeting that class of person out in the air!” A speech that had been quoted many times by her hearers.

Gra was always amused by these entertainments, the contrasts were so funny. Also the costumes of some of the ladies interested her.

To-day Alice Kellick, daughter of the local duke, came in a very simple white muslin frock and a large Leghorn hat, trimmed with pink roses. Mrs. Stubbs, wife of a retired milkman, who was the tenant of Wane’s House, wore a purple silk trimmed with jet, and a hat “from Paris.” She, when invited by her host to have an ice, sat down on the terrace steps and spread a handkerchief over her purple lap. She nearly upset her ice when Brocklehurst greeted the Cabinet Minister.

“How are you, old chap?”

“Dead tired,” growled the weary statesman. “Been spouting all over the place for a fortnight.”

Brocklehurst laughed.

“The drawback of your position. Never mind. I suppose you’re tired of being asked what you think of the situation?”

“On the contrary,” he grinned; “people are far too anxious to tell me what they think of the situation.”

“Well, come and have a drink.” Then Brocklehurst winked. “Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Stubbs, the wife of one of our best-known neighbours.”

Mrs. Stubbs plumped down her half-emptied ice-plate, rose awkwardly, and held out her tightly-gloved hand.

“Proud to meet you, I’m sure,” she murmured. Then she added gaspingly: “And you really hang people, sir!”

“Not with my own hands, Mrs. Stubbs.”

Mrs. Stubbs giggled.

“Lor’! You are funny! I must tell my husband that; he just loves a joke.”

She turned to a young man who came up.

“Ow de do, Mr. Briggs?”

Brocklehurst and the Minister bowed and moved away, hearing as they went an ecstatic shriek from the silk-clad lady: “‘ Not with me own ’ands, Mrs. Stubbs,’ he says.”

Brocklehurst stroked his chin.

“Forgive me, old man,” he said, smiling; “I couldn’t resist it. Poor old soul, it will be a wonderful memory to her dying day. She’ll tell every one of your esprit. Here’s Gra. Gra, I see the Bishop over there. Excuse me, I must fly to his lordship, or he’s bound to get at loggerheads with our high-church rector of Witherint. See you later.”

“Come and see the Aunt Sally,” cried Gra. “Lady Alice, Sir George, the Duke, and the Brentons are playing.”

“Don’t you think Mrs. Stubbs might come if I fetched her?”

“Oh, not for the world. Aunt Sally is considered vulgar by the tenants; one of them took me to task some years ago for permitting it. You’d have died. She put it down to my youth, and my want of experience of the ways of Society! Oh dear, do you think we’d better go to Cuth? I see that Mr. Dawson has joined him and the Bishop.”

“ What will happen?”

“Oh, it’s like gunpowder and a light. Mr. Dawson belongs to the something league, and wears a cross on his—er—where the waistcoat swells. The Bishop is low. He has already pro tested against candles on the altar, and there has been an acrimonious correspondence between them. Yet, when the Bishop is anywhere in sight, Mr. Dawson gravitates towards him like a needle to a magnet Oh well, I must leave them to Cuth, I can’t be bothered. Come and shy.”

“How do you do?” said the Bishop stiffly. Then he fixed his eyes on the cross suspended from Mr. Dawson’s watch-chain.

Mr. Dawson was a tall thin man, who flattered himself that he bore a strong resemblance to Cardinal Merry del Val. When he thought that the Bishop had gazed long enough at the ornament on his person, he turned it over, so that the reverse side could be studied.

The Bishop snorted. Perhaps this is hardly a respectful way to refer to the noise his lordship made, but the English language is so circumscribed.

“I think, sir, that you might keep that emblem of—”

“Our faith,” interrupted Dawson quietly. “Y es?”

The Bishop again made the noise referred to above.

“Yes?” repeated the clergyman.

“Oh, come,” said Brocklehurst, “this is not a debating platform. My dear Bishop, let us drop all little discussions for to-day, and enjoy ourselves. Will you come and see Aunt Sally?”

“I’d love to!” cried the Bishop. “That is, if—er—”

“Oh, there’s no one there but the Duke and a few others. The rest think it terribly ill-bred.

Most of them will play croquet, or listen to the singing. Mr. Dawson, will you come?”

“I think not, thank you. I want to find Mrs.

Blenkinsop; she has promised to help me with——” he caught the Bishop’s kindling eye, and his host’s pleading expression, and ended weakly: “ with—· er—something.”

“Oh, dear Mr. Brocklehurst,” piped a high voice, “do tell me where Mrs. Brocklehurst is. Oh, Bishop, how de do. Lovely day, isn’t it? Oh, at Aunt Sally? Do let me come with you. I so much want to see your wife for a moment.”

“Certainly, Miss Grigson; come along.”

Miss Grigson was an institution. She had lived in The Red House for many, many years with her old mother—her very old mother. No one could guess Miss Grigson’s age. Ill-natured people said she was sixty. She always dressed in what she thought was the height of fashion. In winter she wore bright colours and coquettish toques; in summer, light muslins and floppy hats. Today she sported a wrong-coloured mauve muslin, very tight round the—the place between the knees and ankles. The bodice had transparent yoke and sleeves, which revealed her terrible thinness. Her hat was of white crinoline straw, trimmed with masses of blue hydrangea—the wrong blue. She had white shoes and stockings, and a parasol covered with painted flowers, presumably meant by the artist for roses. Her thin mouse-coloured hair was puffed out over a “pompadour” pad—which was quite visible, and under her hat were pinned masses of roly-poly curls, which had not the faintest pretensions to be a match for the main erection.

She talked mostly in italics, and she talked a good deal. Her girlishness, having become chronic, was wearisome. She now turned archly to the Bishop and held up a white-gloved finger at him.

“Oh, you naughty man!” she cried. “What have you been saying to poor Mr. Dawson? Oh, you can't deny it! I saw his face.”

“My dear Miss Grigson,” began the Bishop. “I really—er—I’m sure you are mistaken. I had no conversation whatever with Mr. Dawson.”

Gra had once invented an adjective to describe the manner his lordship now adopted—“ pomptious.” She said it was a melange of “bumptious” and “pompous.”

“Don't you think your last letter to him was a little—well, just a leetle severe?” continued the lady, with her most playful manner.

“In my position I have to be severe,” he answered slowly. “You forget that my—er— that these kinds of matters are placed in my hands; that I have to use my discretion about things that may influence the souls of the people in my diocese. I consider that Mr. Dawson is very indiscreet—very indiscreet.”

“But what difference can a candle—”

Luckily the argument, if argument it could be called, was brought to a close by their arrival at the ground reserved for the highly intellectual game of Aunt Sally. Miss Grigson was so enthusiastic at seeing a splendid shot of the Duke's, that she broke off her sentence to shriek with joy. Miss Grigson dearly loved a title. She was not low-born herself, her mother having been a Gordon, but nothing could cure her of the very palpable delight she felt when she could roll a title round her tongue. It was a harmless idiosyncrasy, but caused great amusement to her acquaintances.

Doubtless there are “types” to be seen in London, but the hustle and bustle of a large town leaves one no leisure quietly to study their peculiarities. Certain it is that, for the student of eccentricities, there are no places like the provinces in which to watch and analyse.

At this garden-party of the Brocklehursts, Dickens could have found a wealth of “material”; he could have written half a book of descriptions, and, under his magic touch, each individual would have lived for the reader. How he would have rejoiced in fat Mr. Stubbs, whose passion for ices made him seize any excuse for entering the refreshment tent—his politeness in offering to escort every lady of his acquaintance was remarkable.

“You look tired, Mrs. So-and-so,” was his invariable formula. “Let me take you to the tent and get you a cup of tea?”

He would place the dame in a chair and rush to the buffet, and, while he was waiting for the tea, he would bolt an ice.

Or Mrs. Featherstone, wife of a dean at Getsminster, who had been brought up on Jane Austen, and whose one idea of refinement was languid airs, a smelling-bottle, and a handkerchief held in her little fingers by its exact centre.

Bluff Miss Harborough, of The Hall, would have made excellent “copy.” This lady, winter and summer, dressed in a coat and skirt and a boat-shaped hat. Her petticoats were short, and her boots were “sensible.” She spoke in a tone that is usually called “hearty.” She was of good old county family, and knew every one. She was the candid friend of the neighbourhood, and was meant for a soldier, only a mistake of Nature’s made her a female. People were a little afraid of her tongue; when she approached, the women invariably smoothed their dresses, and the men stood bolt upright.

There were the two Miss Baldwins, whose father was a retired admiral. They were of that trying age that friends describe as “about” thirty, and enemies as “about” forty. They were still called “girls,” and they loved youths of about twenty-five. Their greatest dissipations were tea-parties, and sometimes a dinner, or, like the present occasion, a garden-party. But they were always happy, and thoroughly enjoyed their lives. Their favourite word was “thrilling,” and they applied the adjective to the simplest events. They confided their affairs to every one who would listen.

When the afternoon was nearly gone, Gra slipped her arm through Poppy Baldwin’s as she was walking alone down a path in the rose-garden. She liked these women, and was sorry for them, though they would have been the first to repudiate any need for pity.

“Well, Poppy,” she said kindly, “how about Mr. Hetherington? Is he coming back?”

Miss Baldwin looked to right and left, and over her shoulder, before answering in a whisper :

“ My dear, I think he will be back soon. I feel sure he means something; it is so thrilling.”

“What has he done? Are you sure he is serious?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t tell any one, Gra, but I must tell you my reasons for thinking so. Since he \vent away he has sent me five picture postcards!”

It is impossible to describe the pride Miss Baldwin exhibited in speaking this sentence.

Gra did not laugh, the thing was too pitiful. Ever since she had married, and come to Wane’s Ferry, she had heard practically the same thing. Every young man who appeared on the horizon was destined to be the man. That each time he “loved and rode away” made no difference to “ the girls”—they were eternally hopeful, and hope kept them young. Though Poppy was all bust and hips, and Mary all waist, their faces were unwrinkled and their eyes were bright. Sanguinity is the true elixir of youth, and he who possesses it never grows old.

“One was a view of Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey,” said Poppy, after a pause. “He is very fond of poetry. I gave him a copy of the Hngoldsby Legends’ before he left. Don’t tell any one. He gave me the poetry of a man called Hlenley. I don’t understand it very well, but I’m trying to, to please him. There’s one poem in it about—oh, I can’t say the word, it’s a Biblical word. I think it a little coarse. I’m sure Bobbie did not remember it was in the book, or he wouldn’t have given it to me—he was always so refined. There is one he marked, my dear, and it begins: ‘ There was no kiss that day.’ Isn’t that thrilling? I told him when I last wrote that I liked that poem.”

“Do you write?” asked Gra abruptly.

“Oh yes; he asked me to. I tell him all the little things that will interest him.”

“Do vou think it wise to write letters when he writes only cards?”

This query was met by a laughing squeak of protest.

“Why not? He asked me to. He is so busy, poor dear, or he would write, I know. Why, on his last card he said: ‘ Have you decided on the new chintz? ’ That shows interest, doesn’t it? I sent him a pattern: I hope he’ll understand—I chose his favourite flower, lilies of the valley! I think he’ll be pleased. The whole of the chairs are to have new covers—they were so shabby.”

How could Gra preach worldly wisdom and calculation to this unworldly, hopeful soul? She knew that the Baldwins killed any chance they might have over and over again by what is vulgarly termed “flinging themselves at men’s heads,” but they would never learn better. Kinder to let them go on enjoying themselves and hoping.

“Well, I hope it will come to something, Poppy,” said Gra quietly, as they turned towards the lawn. “I must go now, and begin saying good-bye. People are thinking of going.”

One after another the guests left, and soon nothing remained to remind Gra of the gathering except the empty marquee, the Aunt Sally, the balls and mallets on the croquet-lawn, and the feeling of intense fatigue the poor hostess has after having made herself agreeable to over a hundred persons of all tastes and denominations.

CHAPTER XXVI

JUST after he had dressed for dinner that night MacFarlane went down to Grandjean’s rooms. “ Look here, Hippolyte,” he said, flinging himself into a chair. “It does no good madame being nervous and wakeful, it will only injure her health; so I have told her that Brocklehurst will try nothing to-night. She trusts me absolutely. Of course he will, as he couldn’t last night, owing to the maid being in madame’s room; but I have the two holes all ready now, and I will get at the bottom of the mystery to-night. If the worst comes to the worst, we must carry out your suggestion, and make her room unfit for habitation, then she will have to move elsewhere. That will put a stop to it effectually. However, I wish to avoid that, if possible, as I don’t want any of her personal belongings to be injured, and I fail to see how we could help it. I shall see to-night how he gets into that room, and I can then do something to make the secret door useless. I think that is best, don’t you?”

“Yes, it certainly would be the most practical plan. Shall you be able to see, do you think? The moon is at her last quarter now.”

“Oh yes, I can see all right; or you, perhaps, had better watch—you seem to be able to see in the dark.”

“Very well, I will do it. You can be there, and I can tell you all I see. Well, we shall solve the mystery to-night, at last! I can’t help thinking that, notwithstanding our careful examination of the floor, there is a trap-door of some kind there which leads into madame’s room. It certainly is not a door in the party-wall, or she would have seen him enter the other night. Or there may be a door in the outside wall in both rooms; there’s space enough in those thick walls for a person to slide along if they are hollow.”

“Yes; I fancy that is the explanation. We shall see to-night.”

MacFarlane, with the Frenchman’s assistance, had bored two more holes in between Brockleburst’s ceiling and the floor of the room above. From one or other of these the whole room was visible, and they knew that they would see without fail the means by which Cuthbert entered his wife’s room.

Gra went to bed quite easy in her mind, for MacFarlane had promised her that all would be well to-night. She was tired, and she fell asleep within five minutes of getting into bed.

MacFarlane and Hippolyte talked in the latter’s room till half-past twelve. Then they adjourned to the embrasure of the window in the passage by Brocklehurst’s room, and waited till they heard him come up to bed. They crept quietly along the corridor and up the stairs to the room overhead.

“You'd better watch that hole,” said Hippolyte, “and I'll watch this. If you see anything, and want me, call me over, and I’ll come."

They lay down silently with their heads and shoulders inside the spaces they had made by removing boards.

The room below was very dim—it was only after having watched for some minutes that MacFarlane could see objects at all.

Presently Hippolyte saw Brocklehurst pass through the room to the door into the corridor, and he could hear distinctly the click of the key as it was turned. Then he saw the figure below him pause. He stooped and picked up something, then he walked across to the dressing-room again, unlocked the door, and went in. Ina few moments he reappeared, locked the door behind him, and walked swiftly across the room out of Hippolyte’s sight. Just then the room became darker—a cloud had passed over the moon. Hippolyte, with his extraordinary cats’ sight, could still see, but the man he was watching was not in his line of vision. He withdrew his shoulders carefully from the cavity, and walked over to MacFarlane, and stooped.

“Can you see him? " he whispered.

MacFarlane raised himself soundlessly.

“Quick! take my place. Before the room got dark I saw him open a cupboard. I can’t see him now.”

Grandjean lay down and peered through the hole. Lying even in that uncomfortable position he shrugged his shoulders; MacFarlane saw the gesture, and wondered what it meant.

Then Hippolyte’s hand went up and beckoned, and MacFarlane crouched down so that his head was just above the Frenchman’s.

“He took something out of that cupboard,” whispered the latter. “I wish you had been able to see what it was. It’s too late now. I saw him just as he was going through the window pushing something in front of him. I couldn’t see what it was, as it was hidden from me by his figure.”

“The window!” exclaimed MacFarlane. “Has he come back?”

“Not yet—I’m watching.”

In silence they waited, but the window below them was not darkened by Brocklehurst’s figure.

“Can we see the outside of the window from any other near here?” asked Grandjean at last.

“No. The four windows of Brocklehurst’s and madame’s rooms take up that square. These, as you know, look over the other way. The other wing has windows, but it’s locked up, and I don’t know where the keys are. I know!—you watch here, and I will run downstairs, and out by the terrace door, and round by the shrubbery. I can hide in the bushes and see him coming back. Au revoir !”

He ran on silent feet down the great staircase and passages, and carried out his plan. He had some trouble, and wasted over five minutes, with the fastenings of the terrace door. Since the burglary the locks had been overhauled and some changed, and he did not see that hidden beneath the massive lock was a small bolt. He tugged and tugged, but the door was immovable. He had no light, so had to feel. At last his groping fingers found the bolt and slid it back.

When he arrived at the shrubbery he hid himself carefully, and gazed up at the windows. There was nothing to be seen at first. Then he saw the window of Brocklehurst’s room move, and in a moment Cuthbert appeared, gazed up at the sky, stretched his arms and yawned, then re-entered the room.

“I was too late!” growled MacFarlane to himself. “Of course he never stays long with her, and I remained upstairs for at least ten minutes after he’d gone.”

He made his way back to Hippolyte, who met him on the stairs.

Both asked “Well?” at the same moment.

“I was too late,” said the doctor—“he had gone back before I got there. A confounded lock delayed me. What did you see?”

Hippolyte drew his companion to his room before he spoke.

“He returned about five minutes after you left,” he said gravely. “He came in through the window backwards, dragging something after him. I could not see what it was. He dragged it over to the right, towards the cupboard. The room was very dark, and when he opened the cupboard-door it hid him from me. Whatever it was, he placed it in the cupboard, for when he moved away and shut it, there was nothing in his arms.”

“We must look to-morrow and see what it is,” said MacFarlane. “I don’t understand what it can be. What can he want? If there’s a door in the stone outside, surely that is all that is necessary.”

The two men were so anxious to see what was in the cupboard that they could hardly contain their impatience till Brocklehurst went out with Gra after lunch.

MacFarlane then went to fetch Hippolyte, as agreed, and they went quickly to Cuthbert’s room.

As MacFarlane opened the cupboard he exclaimed:

“Why, this is the cupboard containing the boards we saw before! There’s nothing else here.”

“That is what he took,” cried Grandjean. “I could see it was something long and whitish, and I knew it was heavy by the dragging sound.”

“But what on earth—” began MacFarlane; then he stopped short and stared at his companion. “Good Lord! I believe we’ve been on a wrong scent, Hippolyte; there is no secret passage. These boards are long enough to go from this balcony to the nearer balcony of the next room. He crawls across.”

“Yes, that must be it.”

“But the man must be mad! Fancy running that risk. The wonder is that the night watchman has never seen him.”

“No; he goes his rounds between twelve and half-past, and again between half-past two and three. I’ve heard him. Where is he the rest of the time?”

“In the little room to the left of the side door we opened the night of the burglary.”

“There you are! That is ever so far away from this wing. Besides, monsieur chooses his time—he knows that he runs no risk of being seen when he makes his journey.”

“But, Hippolyte, why does he do it? Granted an overwhelming mania when he thought he might die at any moment, why now, when he knows that he may live for years?”

“My opinion is that it arises from a curious obstinacy. I believe he was going to discontinue the thing when you were in Curzon Street, then that night when madame refused to answer him put him on his mettle, as it were; he was furious that he had lost his influence, and he determined to try to regain it. I think that, very probably, he will stop it when we leave.”

“Not if she is refusing to answer him now, as is very likely, as you are hypnotizing her every day.”

Hippolyte looked uneasy. “It is not that that worries me,” he said. “If she did not answer at all it would be better than giving him the words of my commands to her. Then he would know that some one was interfering.”

“Oh dear!—oh dear!” sighed MacFarlane; “it is very difficult to know what to do. Anyway, tomorrow night I shall take up my position in the shrubbery about one—just after he comes upstairs. Then we can know for certain if it is as we think. I can’t help discrediting the idea of the journey across space. There may be some other explanation —there may be a passage in the wall, and the boards are needed to place along the floor for some reason, If I find that he does go by the balconies, we must fall back on the idea of a fire in her room.”

That afternoon MacFarlane was made to feel curiously uneasy by a conversation he had with Brocklehurst The doctor showed his friend an article in a French medical paper, which described a case of cured lesions in valvular disease—a case almost exactly resembling Brocklehurst’s own.

He read it aloud, translating the technical terms for Cuthbert’s benefit. It ended with the words: “Barring accidents, Monsieur X will live to a good old age.”

“Sauf accidents” Brocklehurst repeated, smiling grimly.

MacFarlane looked up quickly.

“Of course! If the man is run over, or gets smashed up on a railway, he will very likely be killed. But his heart won’t kill him.”

“No. Mine won’t kill me either.”

“Just so. Unless you do mad things, there is no reason to suppose that your heart will ever trouble you again.”

“No.” Brocklehurst’s voice was contemplative. “It seems funny to have had all this fuss about my heart, and for my death to be caused by something else. When the thing began, last year, I was certain it was that. You see, I have to die before I am forty-five, so I thought—”

MacFarlane sprang to his feet.

“What do you mean?” he cried.

Cuthbert smiled.

“Did I never tell you that? Oh, I’m certain of it. I have gone in a good deal for horoscopes and things, you know—well, none continue after forty-three, except one, which goes to forty-four. There may be an error of a year, sometimes they are not exact, but I’ve always felt that forty-five was the limit.'”

“Then you cheated me!” ejaculated the doctor.

Brocklehurst raised his eyebrows.

“How?” he asked, looking steadily at his companion. “I don’t see it. I was just forty-two then, and I thought that I might just as well live to—forty-four and three-quarters say. You certainly managed to cure me. 1 think I should have gone off last year if it had not been for your care. I am enjoying my life—I knew I should enjoy my life. That is why I wanted you to come and save me, if you could. I believe in your skill —I always did.”

“And you procured my constant attendance by a threat, Brock?”

“If you like to put it so—yes. I wished to live, and I did my utmost to obtain what I considered my best chance. Wouldn’t any man do the same?”

“But I still protest that you cheated me. God knows whether I was a fool to believe your threat, but somehow you impressed me against my judgment, against my reason, and I came. But if you knew you were going to die—mind, I think it all tommy-rot; I don’t believe in your supernatural rubbish, as you know, but you do; and I repeat, that if you thought you were going to die it was cheating me to—to—”

He broke off, got up, and walked to the mantelpiece.

“I know what you mean,” said Cuthbert softly. “You mean Gra. Well, of course that threat—if you wish to call it a threat—only held good in the event of your failure to cure me of the heart trouble—that is, I mean this: if the trouble had gone on till I was, say, forty-four, I would have released my power. I would not have continued it after then, as I should have known that skill could do nothing for me, it would not have been your fault if I had died—it would have been natural. But, as I said before, I wished to live a little longer, and I have done so.”

MacFarlane’s heart was beating most uncomfortably. This was the first time since that never-to-be-forgotten day in Curzon Street that the subject had been mentioned between them. He bit his lips, then turned round.

“Then,” he said slowly and clearly, “you have given up all that idea now you are cured?”

A dark red spread gradually over Brocklehurst’s face; he fidgeted with the leaves of a book on his knees and did not look up.

“I—” he began, then he rose and walked to the window. There was silence for a full minute, then he spoke so low that MacFarlane could hardly hear him. “When you leave, Mac, you may be quite easy in your mind.”

“When I leave! Then you mean that until then I must remain in uncertainty? I had better go to-morrow, as you mistrust me.”

“I do not mistrust you!” The man’s voice shook with emotion. “Oh, Mac, you don’t know the temptation. She is more to me than my soul.”

He came across the room, and, as Mac saw his face, he noticed it was drawn and haggard. Never, all through their long friendship, had Brocklehurst shown him the depths of his nature as he showed them now.

“Imagine the temptation of the power”—the words were broken, and his hands shook. “Imagine the possibility of taking the light of your life out with you into that vast unknown. All the bitterness of death lies in the loneliness, Mac; if one could always go forth hand in hand with one’s dearest and nearest, death would indeed hold no sting. I was so lonely, Mac—my God! so lonely.”

There is no describing the agony of the man’s voice. MacFarlane brushed his hand over his eyes, the light seemed growing dim.

Then Cuthbert’s hand fell on his shoulder, and he heard the deep voice speaking again.

“When I go out, Mac—next year, I suppose— you will take her. Mac, be good to her, or my shade will haunt you. We will never speak of this again, so I will say now that I know all. Don’t imagine that I think you have been a cad, Mac. I know most men would have not been strong enough to do as you have done. It was mostly for her sake, I know. But a little for my sake too, I think, Mac. I like to think that.”

MacFarlane could not speak, but he held out his hand, and the other man grasped it.

That night MacFarlane had a note brought to him in his room. The envelope was addressed in Brocklehurst’s peculiarly beautiful handwriting. He tore it open, and read these words:

“From Sunday she will be free for ever from the power.’’

What did it mean? To-day was Friday. Then Brocklehurst must mean to try the experiment once more. To-morrow night? Perhaps he was going to try and undo the evil—that must be it. Well, he would watch from the shrubbery, just to satisfy himself as to the means by which access to Gra’s room had been obtained.

Thank God the thing was ending. Thank God for that conversation with his friend. Brock had been quite right—how could any one judge who knew not the temptation? He fell asleep with Cuthbert’s words ringing in his ears:

“All the bitterness of death lies in the loneliness, Mac; if one could always go forth hand in hand with one’s dearest and nearest, death would indeed hold no sting.”

CHAPTER XXVII

IT was a hot, still night. Not a leaf stirred.

The moon, an uncertain crescent, lay low— shortly she would sink behind the trees in the park ; but the night was not dark, for myriads of stars were shining in “that inverted Bowl they call the Sky”—shining so brightly that they appeared to be quite near, so near that it seemed it would be easy to build some high tower whence man could stretch his greedy hand and pluck the gleaming jewels for himself. It was a magic night, a night to see the fairies and the gnomes playing in and out the ferns and grasses, and to hear the flowers talking; a night to hold one’s breath and watch for some wonderful thing to happen, and be not in the least astonished at the miracle.

MacFarlane sat on a bench in the shade of the dense shrubbery and listened to the silence. Like many men of mixed Scottish and Irish blood he had a deep poetical side to his nature, and a night like this stirred in him all kinds of wonderful fancies.

A bird gave a sleepy twitter, and he smiled as he imagined the cause—a fairy had touched the tiny fluffed body with his wand, or a mischievous gnome had plucked the little brown tail. There was the sound of a swift skurry through the undergrowth—a mouse had been called to an important council of his kind: he imagined him speeding along, muttering, like Alice’s rabbit, “Oh, my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting !” A little tree began shaking and whispering when all the others were still—was it not because a swarm of little figures was climbing and playing in the boughs?

Just then his ears, trained by the night to hear the sounds of the night, caught another noise, and he looked up. Brocklehurst stood on his nearer balcony and looked up at the stars. Then he stretched his arms over his head. The light touched his dark, handsome face to a strange, mysterious beauty. He remained quite still for a few moments, then his arms dropped to his sides. He turned and caught hold of a board which he had placed leaning against the side of the house. Very slowly, making no sound, he pushed it across till one end was supported on the stone balustrade of the balcony which lay the nearer to him of the two belonging to Gra’s room. Then a second board was placed alongside the first. He felt them with his hands to see that they were firm, then he paused a moment, and again looked up at the stars.

“So Hippolyte was right,” thought MacFarlane. “How extraordinary that he should have done this uncomfortable journey so often for a mad idea —yet was it mad?”

He again thought of Brocklehurst’s words about the loneliness of death, and he sighed.

Anyway, this was the last time; he knew that he could trust his friend now. He was watching the last journey, and it was to be for the removal of the influence. The mystery of the night made him feel as if he were watching the strange rites of some olden age—the removal of a curse. He felt there ought to be vague coloured lights and incense, mutterings of distant thunder, cabalistic signs. It was too commonplace—a tall man in blue silk pyjamas standing on a stone balcony, his only instruments two thick boards, rough and splashed with whitewash.

Then the figure stirred.

Brocklehurst caught hold of a projection in the wall with his hand, placed his foot between the pillars of the stonework and mounted till he stood on the perilous bridge, facing his destination. With his right hand on the wall, his left arm held out from his side, he began to move; slowly, making no noise, he placed one foot before the other.

Then MacFarlane saw something else, and, as he saw, his heart gave one terrible leap, then stood still.

The light curtains of Gra’s window moved.

The figure on the boards went on. The curtains moved again, wide apart, and Gra stood between them in her nightgown.

MacFarlane stood up and waved her back, but she was looking up at the sky, and did not see him. He did not dare call.

There was no time to think what to do, for, even as he thought, Gra stepped out on the balcony and looked straight at her husband.

“Cuth!”

MacFarlane heard the loud exclamation, and, merging into it a horrible cry as the figure on the boards started violently, turned to retreat, swayed, and fell headlong to the stones twenty feet below. As he sprang from his retreat MacFarlane called for help—called loudly again and again. Then, even as he ran, he looked up and saw a white heap lying on the floor of Gra’s balcony.

Jones, the watchman, came running round the corner of the house.

“Quick! help me, Jones.”

“Oh, what is it, sir? Why, it’s the master!”

“Yes, he was walking in his sleep, and fell from the balcony.”

He gave the explanation automatically as he lifted the head of his friend and bent his ear to the heart.

“He is not dead. Can you manage to help me carry him?”

“Yes, sir. Which door, sir?”

“The terrace—quick! You take his feet.”

Tenderly they carried their burden into the house. Jones turned up the lights as they went, loosing one hand for the purpose.

“Where to, sir?”

“Upstairs. All my things are upstairs.”

In the hall they were met by Hippolyte, white and shaking.

“I was watching in the room above,” he said. “I heard the cry.”

He, of course, spoke in French, and MacFarlane answered as he moved along. He was rather breathless, for Brocklehurst was a heavy man.

“Go to madame’s room. Break open the door somehow, anyhow, only do it. She is in a faint or something, on the balcony. Hurry! Turn up all the lights as you go, and in the dressing-room;

I shall put him on the couch there, as we can’t get into his room.”

Hippolyte’s little feet in the brilliant woolwork slippers fled up the stairs.

With difficulty, going very slowly, the two men bore Brocklehurst up the stairs, along the corridor, and laid him on the sofa in the dressing-room.

“Go and call Lightfoot!” cried the doctor; and, as he began to strip off the jacket of the pyjamas, Jones ran from the room.

“Arm broken—that’s nothing,” muttered MacFarlane, feeling with his long, sensitive fingers along the flesh.

The ribs were all well, and the clavicles. There was a red mark, rapidly turning blue, on the forehead. He felt gently over the head. No, there was nothing broken there. Then he turned his friend over on his face very gently, and his fingers began to press slowly downwards.

Then he stopped, and his face turned grey.

“My God!—oh my God!”

Just then he heard a loud crash, followed by another. Hippolyte had broken in the panel of Gra’s door.

MacFarlane turned the unconscious figure over, and laid it very straight on its back, with a small cushion under the head. Then he covered the naked body with the couvre-pieds.

Lightfoot appeared, white-faced, and half-clothed, followed by Rivers, the old butler.

“Is he badly hurt, sir?”

MacFarlane bowed his head. Then he looked at the two grief-stricken faces, and his mouth trembled.

“I can do nothing,” he said very quietly. “His back is broken.

Rivers leant his head against the door and sobbed.

“Lightfoot, you’ve been up to my room, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir—once.”

“Go there now. There’s a medicine-cupboard behind the door. Here is the key. Open it, and bring me the little bright box you will see on the small shelf—you’ve seen it before—my hypodermic syringe. Also a bottle standing by its side, with an orange label on it. Be quick! ”

Lightfoot left the room as Hippolyte entered.

“She is unconscious,” cried the Frenchman. “It’s not a faint. I’ve hypnotized her. I’ve got her on to the bed somehow. What shall we do? Is he badly hurt?”

The short staccato sentences cut the silence like a knife. MacFarlane groaned.

“His back is broken. He can’t last long.”

“Mon Dieu! Then she may—

He left the word unsaid, and gazed piteously at MacFarlane, who rose to his feet.

“Rivers, I’m going to Mrs. Brocklehurst, who has fainted. Call me at once if the master moves.”

Rivers, tears streaming down his old face, nodded, and the two men left the room.

Gra’s room was brilliantly lighted. She was lying on the bed, her eyes shut, her face very white.

MacFarlane bent and listened to her heart. His face lay on her breast, visible beneath the thin nightgown, and, as he listened, he shut his lips into a thin line.

“Is she in the hypnotic state now?”

“Yes.”

“Then try and wake her.”

Hippolyte’s hands went out and made rapid passes.

The little man no longer looked ridiculous, for the absurdity of the figure was redeemed by the wonderful concentration of his face. A lock of his long hair fell, damp and straggling, over his forehead, he pushed it back impatiently, and went on with the passes.

Gra did not move. Not an eyelash flickered, the lips remained slightly open—they were faintly blue.

“Send her off again, and will and will and will. Hippolyte, save her!”

His voice rose in a cry of despair.

The little man nodded, and bent over Gra.

“We might try some brandy first.”

MacFarlane ran from the room, and returned in a minute with a flask. He forced the teeth open with a silver nail-file from the dressing-table, and dropped the raw spirit a little at a time into her mouth. He stroked the throat and pressed it at the side, but no swallow followed, and the brandy ran out on to the pillow.

“No good!” he exclaimed. “Try hypnotism. If she moves, pour some brandy down. I must go. My God! I must leave her.”

Hippolyte pressed his arm.

“I will work as I have never worked before,” he said in a low solemn voice,

MacFarlane bent and kissed one white hand lying on the sheet—then, with lifeless steps, he went away.

As he entered the dressing-room Brocklehurst moved his hand.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at his friend—a long steady look, as if he were thinking.

Suddenly the eyes fluttered, and a frown came on his forehead.

“Are you in pain, Brock?” asked MacFarlane very gently.

“No.”

There was silence for a few moments, then he said quietly:

“I suppose I’m done for?”

MacFarlane did not answer, and Brocklehurst looked at him.

“I see,” he said quietly. “What is it?—the back?”

MacFarlane nodded. Then Rivers sobbed, and Brocklehurst turned his eyes and saw him and Lightfoot.

“ Poor old Rivers!” he said in the same low voice.

Rivers came forward, his wrinkled face working with emotion. Brocklehurst tried to move the hand nearest him, but could not.

“I see my arm is broken,” he remarked. “Well, that doesn’t matter, I shan’t need it. Take my other hand, Rivers. That’s right. God bless you, you’ve given me and mine a long, faithful service.”

Rivers bent his grey head and kissed his master’s hand, and the tears fell on it.

“You too, Lightfoot,” the master said kindly; and the valet, stiff and outwardly unmoved, knelt and followed Rivers’s example.

“Mac, where's Gra?” Loudly and suddenly the words rang out, and Cuthbert’s eyes distended as he asked the question.

“She is in her room. Hippolyte is with her.”

“Why doesn’t she come?”

“Don’t worry, old chap—she has fainted. She will come when she gets better.”

If it was possible for the dying man’s face to get whiter, it did so now.

“Send Rivers and Lightfoot away—I must speak to you.”

The two servants joined their frightened, cowering fellows in the upper hall at the end of the corridor.

“Shut the door, Mac.”

He obeyed, and returned to the sofa.

“Mac, you saw it all, I suppose?”

MacFarlane nodded.

“Mac”—he moved his hand restlessly, and Mac took it—“Mac, I was going for the last time, to undo what I had done.”

“I know, Brock—I know, old chap; don’t worry.”

“I see now how horrible, how—” he broke off and began again. “It was selfish. She has been so good to me. And, after all, I have Wee Willie Winkie.”

This was the first time Brocklehurst had ever mentioned his child since the tragic death.

“Mac, I am afraid. Why does she not come?”

“She fainted as you fell. She has not come to yet.”

“Are you sure it is only a faint?”

He looked searchingly at his friend’s face, and something he saw there sent a convulsion through his whole length. It looked as if he were trying to rise.

“Mac,”—his voice was loud and strong again— “go and fetch her here.”

Mac hesitated.

“Do as I tell you. Carry her here, and put her in that arm-chair close by my right side.”

It was a command to be obeyed, and MacFarlane left the room.

He found Hippolyte, his face literally streaming, bending over the still figure on the bed.

“Bring her to—quick! I have to carry her to him.”

Hippolyte looked up dazed, but he obeyed mechanically. There was no difference to be seen in the woman—she was nearly as one dead.

MacFarlane,stooped and gathered her into his arms. He drew the sheet round her, and carried her away. Hippolyte followed in a dream: he might be wanted.

Brocklehurst’s eyes were flaming as his wife was propped up in the chair by his side. The only life in that wrenched body seemed to lie in those distended eyes as they gazed at her.

“Push her nearer,” he whispered.

Then he lifted his right arm—the left was lying helpless by his side.

“Don’t exert yourself, Brock!” cried the doctor anxiously.

“I must! What does it matter—a few minutes or hours more or less?”

He stared at the unconscious figure in the chair, and began the old passes with his one hand.

He muttered and muttered, and MacFarlane heard a word here and there.

Then louder came the words:

“What are the commands you have received? Answer.”

Silence.

“O God, if there were only some one to help me!” he cried.

A little figure, in a dressing-gown, showing thin legs beneath, with feet clad in brilliant woolwork slippers, entered the room.

“I can help you, monsieur!”

“You!”

“Yes, I. I am a hypnotist.”

It was no time to wonder, Brocklehurst accepted the fact without further argument.

“Join your will to mine. Tell her she is to live —to live—to live! Do you understand?”

“Yes.” He came forward, and bent over Gra.

MacFarlane too leant nearer, staring at the beloved face.

He willed with the whole of him—brain and heart and soul joined in that fight.

After a silence: “What are the orders you have received?” said Cuthbert.

The bluish lips parted.

“I — I am to—”

Again silence closed round.

Then a miracle happened.

A convulsion again passed over Cuthbert’s body, and, before any one could stop him, he rose from the couch and stood upright. He stretched his arm out till the fingers touched his wife’s face, and he cried aloud:

“You are to live!”

The veins swelled in his forehead, the blood rushed to his cheeks; he looked as well as he had ever been.

“You are to live!”

“I am to live,” said a small, sweet voice.

“Now, come back! Come back, and live!”

His hand moved strongly in the contrary passes.

Gra sighed and moved.

“Come back!”

As the last words rang through the room, and the colour came to the woman’s cheeks and lips, she opened her eyes.

“Cuth!” she cried, and stood up quickly, stretching out her arms.

“Gra! Gra!”

He made one step towards her, then fell at her feet.

He was dead.