The Edgar Wallace Collection 7
Author: Edgar Wallace
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: short stories
Description: EDGAR WALLACE was a prolific author of short stories, which were published in all sorts of unlikely places and in many cases then entirely forgotten. Some of them were collected in his lifetime, mostly those short stories forming a series, such as The Reporter, The Iron Grip, and The Adventures of Heine. Most of them, however, were not in the form of series. The non-series stories below have not been previously collected. 1. The Mediaeval Mind 2. The Christmas Princess 3. Indian Magic 4. Jimmy's Brother 5. The Christmas Cup 6: Killer Kay 7: The Business-Woman 8: Blue Suit 9: Battle Level 10: T

THE EDGAR WALLACE

COLLECTION

Short Stories of Edgar Wallace

Volume 7

2015

Contents

Introduction

1. The Mediaeval Mind

2. The Christmas Princess

3. Indian Magic

4. Jimmy's Brother

5. The Christmas Cup

6: Killer Kay

7: The Business-Woman

8: Blue Suit

9:  Battle Level

10:  The Air Taxi

11:  The Convenient Sea

12: Thieves Make Thieves

13: Big Little Brother (novelette)

14: The Last Adventure

15: The Talkative Burglar

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Introduction

EDGAR WALLACE was a prolific author of short stories, which were published in all sorts of unlikely places and in many cases then entirely forgotten. Some of them were collected in his lifetime, mostly those short stories forming a series, such as The Reporter, The Iron Grip, and The Adventures of Heine. Most of them, however, were not in the form of series.

The non-series stories below have not been previously collected.

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1. The Mediaeval Mind

THERE CAN be no question that the D'Ortons were mediaeval minded. Charles, the eldest of the brothers (he was once a doctor), had been twice submitted to the indignity of a police prosecution— once for beating a youthful robber of his orchards; once for an assault upon a serf of his who had expressed political views which were violently opposed to those held by his master. The Reverend Hubert, that hard-faced curate of souls, was in conflict with his evangelical bishop most of the time, and had created what were locally known as "scandals" by his treatment of parishioners; and Leslie D'Orton, youngest of the trio, had carried his mediaevalism to such lengths that his effigy had been burnt by the enraged villagers of Badleigh-in-the-Moor.

They were men who sincerely hated the spirit of the time, though they were not averse from its conveniences. Electric light and motor cars, and expensive flats in Park Lane— all the advantages which are to be had by pushing buttons and turning switches were tolerable despite their modernity. They loathed the vulgar rich and despised the still more vulgar poor. Charles, white-haired and red-faced, had only French servants at his little palace near Saffron Walden; the Reverend Hubert was the only parson in England who never went about without his walking footman.

It was the D'Ortons' misfortune that Jean Alys D'Orton was entirely devoid of the mediaeval spirit. She was, it is true, only a half-sister, the relic of an unfortunate and indiscreet marriage contracted by their father, in his middle age, with one Mary Jean Potter, a very pretty lady, entirely without historical associations. She brought to the family no coat-armor, no lions couchant or leopards rampant; no more of heraldry indeed than was to be found inscribed on the six hundred thousand golden sovereigns which were hers (had she exchanged paper for metal) and which now should have been her daughter's. Miss Potter was literally the daughter of potters, rich Midland potters— but potters.

"I am common clay, Charles," said Jean, when he had remonstrated with her over some low escapade of her teens. "I have nothing that is Plantagenet in my system. When I wish to meet artists and dance with actors, my conscience doesn't prick me a little bit."

She was a slim, tall, pretty girl with yellowish ("clay-colored," said the Rev. Hubert) hair, and she had eyes like her mother's— big and dark and devastating.

That they had entirely devastated one susceptible man was the main reason why the three brothers sat at breakfast in Leslie D'Orton's flat one dull November morning. It was something more than a meal: it was a board meeting of the Mediaevalism Corporation. Something more serious than that even. There was a morning newspaper on the table, folded to display an alarming and a very inopportune column that had thrust itself into notice.

In a sense the news it contained struck at all the ancient privilege of class— those fine rights of acquisition and maintenance which established the castles of the Rhine and the strongholds of the Komitadjis.

"Very depressing," said Charles, and stroked his trim white moustache thoughtfully. " Deuced unpleasant."

"But these were trustees of a public company," insisted the Rev. Hubert. "I don't think it comes quite into the same category, Leslie? Are we not taking rather a fantastic view of— er— possibilities?"

The thin-faced young man with the deep-set eyes shook his head.

"My dear fellow, I'm a lawyer, or I'm supposed to be one. What is the use of deceiving ourselves?"

The Rev. Hubert picked up the paper again. The column which interested him was headed: "Seven Years for Faithless Trustees." He abominated the word "faithless."

"The responsibility for all this," he said soberly, "lies with that wretched Potter woman. It was a crime to leave the money in... as it were... after all, we have done our best."

"Let me put the matter plainly and a little brutally," said Leslie, as he pushed back from the table. "We three are the trustees of some £630,000. We have administered the money in a way which no court of law would countenance. If Jean marries the right kind of man— that is to say, if we could pick and choose her husband— there could be nothing to worry about. But Jean 1"

They were silent at this, being one in their despair of Jean and her erratic and vulgar predilections.

"You don't think this Mortiboy affair is serious?" asked Hubert.

"Mortimer," corrected Leslie. "Yes, I do. If he were the ordinary type of smug missioner, I shouldn't worry. The kind of fellow who runs an uplift mission in the East End is generally illiterate and usually common. But according to Jean, Mortimer is a Cambridge man, by no means pious, and more interested in teaching boys to box than saving their immortal souls."

"Diabolical!" said Hubert, with a grimace. "I preached a sermon on that very subject last Sunday—"

"We don't want sermons now, Hubert," said Charles testily. "Here is the point: we're in a devil of a mess if Jean decides to run away with this wretched youth. What is he like?"

They both looked at Leslie for information, but he shook his head.

"I haven't met him. Jean wanted to bring him to dinner, but I put my foot down. The only thing I. know about him is that he has beautiful eyes and a noble character, and that his handicap at golf is some ridiculous figure."

"Four," grunted Charles. "You told me that. I thought it was absurd. I can't understand how any man can keep his handicap at four if he wastes his time running sing-songs for the scum of Whitechapel. What is his profession?"

Leslie looked at him significantly.

"He is a lawyer," he said; "in the solicitors' branch, and that makes it worse."

Another long silence.

"How much of Jean's money is left?" asked Hubert.

The red-faced Charles coughed. He was the financial genius of the family.

"More than a half," he said loudly; "and I am perfectly certain that the Court would accept our explanation—"

"The Court would accept no explanation," said Leslie. "You can make up your mind on that subject. A hundred thousand pounds spent on a treasure- hunting expedition to Cocos Island is not what any Chancery judge would agree as a gilt-edged adventure."

"Tiggerly is honest enough," said Hubert. "A thoroughly reliable man. A little coarse of speech—"

"And a little mad," broke in Leslie. "He is coming up to see me tonight, by the way. He says he knows now where he made his mistake.... If we can finance another expedition..."

It was characteristic of the D'Ortons that such a statement was not received with derision. Bather was their attitude one of regret.

"How far has this affair gone?" asked Charles.

"The Mortimer affair?" Leslie bit his thin lower lip. "Very far, I should imagine. He wrote to me asking for a private interview. That means business. There is... how much left!"

"Nearly three hundred thousand," said Charles D'Orton. "Nearly... quite enough for any girl."

"Three— nearly," repeated the younger brother mechanically. "Now if we could arrange a marriage to anybody but this down-and-out adventurer..."

At that particular moment Jean Alys D'Orton was arranging a marriage with no other assistance than a rather good-looking young athlete could give to her.

She was walking slowly across Green Park, and the man who paced by her side had none of the appearance which is usually associated with a down-and-out adventurer.

"My dear," he was saying, "how can I meet these formidable brothers of yours?"

She smiled ruefully.

"There is going to be an awful row, Jack; they won't meet you! You don't know the heroic efforts I've made to get an audience of their majesties."

"Will you risk a cold in the head and sit down?" he asked. They were very near to the entrance of the park. "What is the real trouble? They can't object to me personally, because they don't know anything about me. They can't imagine that I'm a fortune-hunter, because I've money of my own. And if they took the trouble to inquire into the beginnings of my obscure family—"

She shook her head.

"My dear, they frighten me sometimes; they're mediaeval." She turned round suddenly and faced him. "You've heard about the old barons who put their young sisters in a turret room and kept them there for years to keep their dowries? They're like that, Johnny. Don't laugh— I'm awfully serious. Fortunately, they haven't the turret room, but they have the turret mind."

"But what is it all about?" he asked, puzzled. "What is their objection? They don't want to keep you single all their lives? And is your dowry a tremendous amount?"

She evaded this question.

"Did you write to Leslie, as I asked?"

He nodded and felt in his pocket.

"I had a letter back from his secretary requesting me to refrain in future from addressing him. I nearly went round and kicked him."

"I wish you had," she said gloomily.

She was silent for a while, and then:

"It is to do with the dowry. I don't know how exactly—"

"Are they your trustees?" he asked quickly. "Your brothers, I mean?"

She nodded.

"When do you have control?"

""When I am twenty-five or when I am married." she answered, and he whistled.

"I wonder!"

Jack Mortimer knew a great deal more about the aristocratic D'Ortons than they imagined.

"Queer devils!" he said at last. "Are they by any chance your guardians in law? Can they prevent your marriage?"

She shook her head.

"Then what the dickens have we to worry about?" asked Jack Mortimer joyously.

Half an hour later she was passing to her room, when Leslie called her into his study. She shared the flat with her half-brother, but it was about the fourth time in the long years of their association that she had ever been invited into that handsome apartment.

"Charles has gone back to Devonshire," he said, without preliminary, "and he's awfully anxious about you, Jean— about your health, I mean. He wanted to know whether you would like to come down and spend a few weeks in the country."

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Why?" she asked, and then: "Anyway, I couldn't possibly go." It needed a little courage to say. but she got the words out at last. "Leslie, I'm going to be married."

The hand that went up to his upper lip shook a little.

"Really? This is news. You realize you cannot get married without the consent of your guardians!"

"I have no guardians," she replied, so brusquely that his heart sank. Evidently she had been taking advice. At any rate he did not dispute this point.

"When is the interesting event to be?"

The actual date had never been discussed. She made up her mind quickly.

"In a fortnight," she said. "Just before Christmas. Mr. Mortimer and I are going away to Switzerland."

He scratched his chin, his dark eyes never leaving her face.

"This is very... unexpected," he said. "I am not so sure that Charles will approve."

Charles was the senior of the brothers, and theoretically the head of the house.

"And, Leslie"— she was nervous now, on delicate ground, and spoke hurriedly—"Jack— Mr. Mortimer said that when we returned from our honeymoon would be time for him to discuss... business with you... I mean, the question of my money. I told him I came into control on my marriage."

"That interested him, I am sure," said Leslie dryly; it was a tactical error on his part.

"Jack Mortimer has all the money that we shall ever require," she said coldly. "He has an income of his own. If you do not wish him to discuss the matters, his lawyers—"

"There is no reason why he shouldn't discuss it," said Leslie abruptly, and then, with a nod, dismissed her. It was not an unusual method of parting.

Leslie got his elder brother on the phone just before he left his hotel for the country. Hubert was still in London. That afternoon there was a consultation/ at the end of which Leslie went to Lincoln's Inn Fields and consulted a school- friend who was also a lawyer. The solicitor's face lengthened as he heard the frank recital.

"You're not serious?" he asked, when the young man had finished. "Because, if you are, you're in about as bad a position as you can possibly be."

"We've employed the money to the best of our ability " began Leslie, but the lawyer stopped him.

"By your admission you've used enormous sums for your own personal benefit. You have in fact been living on your sister's capital for the past six years. If this went into Court, nothing could save you from penal servitude."

Leslie D'Orton's face went white.

"You mean that seriously?"

The lawyer nodded.

"And of course this would affect also your two brothers. You've put yourselves in rather a tight place, my friend, and the only thing I can suggest is that you persuade your sister to postpone her marriage. In other words, postpone your exposure."

Poor comfort was this to carry to his brethren. The three men met in Charles's sitting-room at Paddington, and three mediaeval minds found one solution simultaneously.

"Jean mustn't marry," said the Rev. Hubert; "or if she marries, it must be a man of our finding."

They consulted through the hours that followed, and in the end, when Leslie D'Orton, stiff with sitting, rose and stretched himself, he had one comment to make which was both illuminating and truthful.

"Whichever way the thing goes, it means penal servitude for all of us."

The Rev. Hubert, least perturbed of the trio, offered the sententious observation that one might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Leslie got back to his flat to find a burly, middle-aged sea-captain waiting for him, and Captain Tiggerly was prepared to talk to the extent of his vocabulary on enormous treasures buried under landslides on Cocos Island.

Even by the lax standard of the sea, he was not a nice man. His earlier adventure in search of treasure had been hampered by a mutiny, which he had quelled single-handed; he narrowly escaped a charge of manslaughter in consequence. But he was an enthusiast.

"Here's the old sloop, ready for another go, my lord." (Invariably he addressed his benefactor by this title.) "I could take in all the stores I wanted in a week... she wants two new yards..."

"Can you find a crew?" asked Leslie.

The seaman grinned.

"Pick 'em up two a penny," he said. "I got a sort of crew now— I've been carrying cement—"

"Where are you lying?"

"In the Pool," said the captain quickly. "You can come over and see her if you like."

Leslie went into the hall and called the maid.

"No, sir," she replied. "Miss D'Orton went out to dinner. A gentleman called for her. He asked for you."

Leslie nodded, closed the door carefully behind him, and fastened the baize door, which further precluded all eavesdropping. Then he sat down at the table opposite the skipper.

"There's a man," he began, "named Mortimer. He runs a boys' club at Wapping..."

Nearly a month later there were peculiar happenings on the edge of Dartmoor. On the morning of the 23rd of December the inhabitants of the villages, within gunshot of Prince-town, heard the boom of a cannon. That deep and awesome sound meant only one thing. Farmers called in their hired men to give instructions about the locking up of barns, the fastening of windows. Later, big cars loaded with policemen and warders came slowly through the mist that lay on the moor, stopped long enough to tell of the escape of a convict serving a life sentence for murder, and passed on. The mist turned to rain, and a gale blew up from the Channel.

The night that followed was a desperate one for a man who, traveling only by night, was making his way to Exeter. He came in time to a high ridge of ground, felt for a flat-topped boulder, found one passably comfortable, and sat down to recover his breath. He was in excellent condition, but he had not eaten that day, and he had walked sixteen miles since sundown over a country which was largely foreign to him. And now it was very dark, and the road he had chosen was no more than a hillside track. He was wet through, naturally; it had not ceased raining since he made his escape. Almost he had forgotten what it felt like to be dry: "amphibian "— that was the word; he had been trying to think of it all day.

The rain soaked down and he was content. His left heel was blistered, he had torn both hands with brambles, and the little scratches were painful in a sharp, nagging kind of way. There had been compensations both for solitude and hardship: the fragrance of pine smoke trailing in the wind from a cottage chimney; the sound of a child's laughter that came through an open window just before a nurse or mother had closed it; the fairylike lights of a tiny village lying in the fold of the moor and seen from a high crag that jutted up from the hillside like a gaunt monolith.

He wished he had a cigar— one of those long, thin brown things that he loved to smoke. Or a pipe or a cigarette even. But wishes put weight on a man's feet and a new burden to his heart. He got up stiffly and went over the crest, descending gingerly and with great caution the steep slope on the other side.

He had an uncanny feeling that danger was very near at hand; that he was being spied upon, though the night was like ink. Once he imagined he had heard the ring of an iron-shod foot....

The hill sloped steeply on his right, and he walked on the side of his feet most of the time. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the "tipple- tipple" of rain on rock. Far away to the north the low, scudding clouds were dyed salmon pink. A big town there, he thought— Exeter. Or maybe... no, it must be Exeter. And was it north or east? The wind helped him to determine. These storms blew in from the Atlantic— south-west. The glow in the sky was on his left front as he stood with his back to the weather. North.

He went farther down the track, and of a sudden it became smooth to his feet. A made road. He felt leftwards cautiously. A wire fence with cylindrical posts and concrete. And there was a shallow ditch. A farm or a house perhaps— then unexpectedly lights came into view. He must have rounded a shoulder of rock. A big house. He could see the glow of many windows.

The man called Tom Burt halted to take counsel with himself, and decided to push on. He had gone a dozen paces....

"Hands up!"

The voice was harsh, inhuman. It was more like the bark of an infuriated crocodile.

"Don't you move or I'll put a dose of shot into your stummick.... Joe!"

He must have roared the word over his shoulder, for his voice sounded fainter.

Mr. Burt was startled alike by the command and by the astonishing fact that he could be seen by his invisible enemy.

"Joe... dam' ye!"

A shuffle of footsteps and a squeaky voice came from the darkness.

"Gotcher gun... see him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Shoot him if he don't do as I tell him. Walk, mister— straight ahead."

Burt obeyed.

Now he understood. His challenger was waist-high in a ditch, and the wayfarer had been visible against the gloomy skyline.

"Go on— right up to the house. I'm follerin' you. Don't let him out of your sight, Joe."

"No, sir," said the unseen youth.

Tom Burt was amused in a ghastly way (that was his own description), but he was puzzled too. The house was large, and, as he had seen, three of the rooms were brightly illuminated. There was a white-pillared portico before the door, and under this were two powerful lamps that threw an oblong of light on the yellow-graveled ground.

The door was open and he had sight of a broad, paneled hall; a red fire burnt on an open hearth. The masks of a dozen foxes stared stonily from the walls. He saw a rack of hunting-crops, and behind the glass window of a cabinet, a dozen guns.

"Stop where you are now and turn round. Joe, shut that door!"

Burt swung round.

He had guessed his captor was old; there was no surprise here. He was picturesque with his white beard and bald head shining with moisture. Dark, menacing eyes glared from under the bushy white eyebrows; how he might be dressed was a matter for conjecture— he wore a dark weatherproof that reached to his heels. The long-barrelled army revolver in his hand did not waver as did the shot-gun in the hands of the boy. The youth's teeth were chattering, the eyes in the pale face were scared and fearful. He started the door closing with his foot, and backed up to it until with a bend of his spare body he closed it with a crash.

"Just you wait here: this boy'11 kill you sure as God if you move!"

The old man slouched past him. Burt heard the sound of a door open and close. There was a long mirror in the hall and he was standing opposite, he found, when he turned his head.

A ludicrous sight! His sodden overcoat clung to his legs, the brim of his sou'- wester dropped dismally over his ears. He was terribly unshaven, and when he smiled he was hideous.

"A merry Christmas!" he said, and bowed to himself.

The youth breathed heavily.

"Don't you go movin' about, mister!" he warned.

Burt grinned at himself again for the joy of experiencing his own ugliness.

"Be of good heart, my child," he said, and the snub nose of the youth wrinkled in embarrassment.

A door opened behind the prisoner.

"Come on!"

Mr. Burt turned and walked through the open door. He was in a large hall with a high raftered ceiling. Before the stone fireplace two men were standing. One, the younger, was in evening dress; the elder wore a faded golf suit. He was very stout, red-faced, and white-haired, and his eyes protruded like a pug dog's. His companion, a thin-faced man with a black smear of moustache, stood with his back to the fire, his hands behind him.

"Good evening," he said, with ironical politeness. "I hope you have enjoyed your walk?"

"The air was good," replied Burt," the scenery, I have no doubt, was excellent, but the feeding was exceedingly poor."

The elder of the two turned to the old man.

"Get him some food," he said gruffly.

A little clock ticked musically in some part of the room, and this, and the falling of a log in the fireplace, were the only sounds that disturbed the interval of silence between the old man's departure and his return with a tray.

"All right— leave it, Gald," nodded the younger man, and when the door had closed on the ancient: "Eat, my friend—"

"And drink," suggested Mr. Burt as he sat down at the table, "and, in view of the festive season, be merry? Tell me that tomorrow I die and I shall call you a liar."

"Damn cheek," growled the red-faced man, but his companion silenced him with a look.

The wanderer was very hungry, but he was also very sane. He did not eat ravenously, but slowly, and was still hungry when he pushed back his plate and drained the long glass of beer.

"A full man is a dull man," he said. "Would you of your charity supply me with a cigarette?"

The younger of the two offered a gold case and his unwilling guest took and lit a cigarette.

"Now," he said, "produce your denouement!"

"Who are you?" asked the younger man.

"Haroun al Raschid," smiled Burt. "A prince in disguise wandering about the earth to learn at first hand of the lives and trials of his people."

"You're the man who escaped from Dartmoor Prison last night"— the young man spoke with great deliberation and care. "I haven't had time to discover your name, but I don't think that matters for the moment. Are you married?"

There was an amused glint in Burt's eyes as he shook his head.

"Would you be willing to marry a lady for five thousand pounds and an aeroplane trip to safety?"

"And a new and dry suit of clothes," suggested Burt; "and by clothes I include such indelicacies as underwear."

"Why argue with him?" exploded the red-faced gentleman. "Tell him he's got to do it; tell him you'll hand him over to the police an' all that. Damn it all, Leslie..."

"Be quiet, Charles, please," said Leslie O'Orton. "Let me manage in my own way—"

"Excuse me." Mr. Burt was pardonably intrigued. "Marriages are much easier arranged in heaven than performed on earth. There are certain time- wasting preliminaries, banns, special licences, and so forth, are there not? I hate to suggest—"

"That is arranged," said Leslie.

He walked up and down the broad strip of carpet before the fireplace, his hands behind him.

"I am going to take you into my confidence... by the way, you are a convicted murderer? A life prisoner?"

"Is it necessary to call me names?" asked the other.

"It isn't, of course. You seem to have been a gentleman. That will make things easier. I have— we have a sister. It is not necessary to tell you the kind of foolish trouble she has got into. It is necessary that she should be married. You were our choice from the moment we heard of your escape."

"I am flattered." Mr. Burt showed his teeth in a smile.

""We have been looking for you all day: by the greatest of good luck we heard through the police that you were heading this way. My old groom found you without having the least idea as to our plans."

"Pardon me: is your sister a willing agent in the matter!"

Charles grunted something.

"That is neither here nor there," said Leslie. "There is another man, of course: he is at the moment on a sailing ship bound for the Pacific. You need not consider him."

He saw the eyes of the man open wider.

"Good God! You shanghaied him!"

Leslie smiled.

"That is beside the point. Are you prepared to marry this lady?"

"But I understand that by the laws of the country " began Mr. Burt.

"A marriage is only legal when performed within certain hours. We have a special license dispensing with that formality. Are you agreeable? If so, my brother's car is waiting to take you to London. You need have no fear about detection: we have taken the most elaborate precautions— we believe in miracles and we anticipated the miracle of your arrival. Do you agree?"

Mr. Burt nodded.

"It is all one to me," he said. "The mystery of it appeals to me."

Leslie went out of the hall and made his way upstairs. There was no turret tower in Charles D'Orton's Devonshire house, but there was an attic chamber which served the purpose. No weak maiden wrung her hands or wept in this lumber room. The girl who sat glowering at the Reverend Hubert was neither subdued nor tearful.

"...it is only because I think you are all mad that I listen to you," she was saying when Leslie entered the room. "You can't imagine that I shall overlook this..."

She looked up at Leslie.

"Have you found my ideal husband?" she demanded, her eyes hard with anger.

To her surprise he nodded.

"You have to be sensible, Jean. This man Mortimer was not the man for you. As I have told you, he was already married—"

"Why did you send a wire in his name saying he was here and wanted to see me?" she asked furiously. "If any harm has come to Jack Mortimer I will never rest until I have put you in prison. Mediaeval? You're prehistoric, Leslie... mad. And as to this man you've got, you can send him away. Or I'll tell him—"

"He knows," said Leslie, and his gravity almost sent her into a fit of hysterical laughter. "As soon as you are married he will leave you," said Leslie, who did all the talking. "We are doing this for your own good, Jean, to protect you against fortune-hunters. In a few years' time you can divorce this man—"

"I'll not marry him— can I see him!" she asked suddenly.

"Please remember, Jean " began the Reverend Hubert in his most ponderous tone.

But she had followed her half-brother from the room. For three days she had paced this little attic room, trying to wrest reality from a situation so fantastic that she could not believe she was waking. She had her moments of panic, too....

She almost ran into the hall. Her husband-designate was sitting at the end of the long table, a second glass of beer before him.

"Is this the lady?" he asked.

"This is the lady," said Leslie.

"She is not favorably impressed by me," said Tom Burt, "and I can hardly blame her."

At the sight of the scarecrow the girl's face had gone the color of chalk. The man rose and bowed.

"In happier times, madame, I was better looking." He turned to Leslie. "Do you anticipate any very strong objection on the part of the lady? I ask because, as you probably know if you have studied my career of crime, I am something of a hypnotist! For example...!"

He snapped his fingers in the air, and the girl stared at him.

"What the devil " began the unimaginative Charles.

"This lady is now completely under control," said Mr. Burt calmly. "Ask her to do anything you wish and she will do it."

Leslie looked from one to the other in amazement.

"Will you marry this man?" he asked.

To his astonishment she nodded.

"Yes," she said dully.

Charles stared open-mouthed as the Reverend Hubert stumbled and blundered through the ancient ritual. Certain provisions had not been made.... Jean Alys D'Orton was married with Leslie's signet ring.

He left her sitting limply in a chair, staring at her husband, and hurried to the telephone in his study.

"Is that the police station?... I am Mr. D'Orton. I have the man you want at my house— the escaped convict—"

"At your house, Mr. D'Orton?" was the surprising reply. "He was caught at Newton Abbot five hours ago!"

Leslie's jaw dropped.

"You mean Burt....?"

"No, sir, Collwood—"

Leslie flew back to the hall. The scarecrow was standing behind the girl's chair.

"What's your name!" he asked breathlessly.

Mr. Burt smiled.

"I have several. When old man Tiggerly got me aboard his dirty little ship he called me Tom Burt— when I jumped overboard off Teignmouth he called me several things that are unprintable. I heard him, because the boat in which he and his son followed me to shore was less than a dozen yards away when I got to land. He chased me on to the moor: if I hadn't gone to sleep and lost myself you would have been in prison hours ago. My real name, by the way is Mortimer— if there is anything in the marriage, that is your sister's name too!"

CHARLES did not refer to that dreadful night until the train was running along the Lake of Geneva a few days later. They were bound for Italy. Hubert followed as soon as he had disposed of his living— Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer were very reasonable.

"That hypnotism business... by Gad... to keep her quiet... we 'd have smelt a rat if she 'd jumped at him. By Gad, that's a lovely old building!" He pointed to the Chateau Chillon, which is undoubtedly mediaeval.

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2. The Christmas Princess

THERE were times when John Bennett Watson (abbreviated for office purposes to "J.B.") wished he were not the Managing Director of the Western Commercial Corporation; moments when he envied the manager of the Broad Street branch of the Southern & Eastern Bank. This in spite of the fact that he was a normal man of thirty-something, without any business worries whatever, enjoying the best of health and an income which, at a moderate estimate, was twenty times larger than the hard-worked bank manager.

J.B. was a man who in no circumstances interfered in other people's affairs; meddlers, he loathed; outside folks who knew how things could be done better, he abominated, and yet there were certain domestic arrangements of the Southern Bank that he would alter.

Gray, the manager, a harassed little man with a straggling beard, came over to see him about a draft, and John made an awkward dive to the matter that at once intrigued and irritated him.

"You are very busy at the bank, Mr. Gray?"

"Yes," sighed Gray, rising and gathering up his documents, "too busy! With the annual audit coming on, the slump in industrials, the heavy cash balances I must carry to meet end-of-the-quarter demands, I look like having a happy New Year! Good morning!"

"I was working late in my office the other night," said John hastily, arresting the official's departure, "and, looking across the road, I saw a girl working at eleven o'clock— she was still working when I left, and the next morning I saw her at her desk when I arrived."

The manager scratched his beard.

"Who can that be, now?" he asked absently. "Oh yes, that is Miss Welford. She was secretary to our late accountant. Poor fellow! He died leaving things in a terrible muddle, and if it wasn't for the fact that she has an instinct for banking and has got his department work at her finger-tips, I should be in a fearful muddle. She is the only member of my staff that I would leave on the premises by herself, I assure you!"

"I thought I'd met her somewhere," said John carelessly and most untruthfully.

"I dare say," said the bank manager. "She is the sort of girl who has moved in a very good set. Her father lost his money in the rubber slump. By the way, rubber is a market that looks like reviving, Mr. Watson."

"I dare say," said John, to whom the fluctuations of the rubber market meant less than nothing. "I think I remember her— Annie Welford, isn't it?"

The manager shook his head.

"I don't know— 'F. G.,' her initials are." He frowned. "I never trouble about the names of people. Oh yes, it's Frances; that's the name. I've often thought she's quite a good-looking girl."

"You've often thought that, have you?" said John scornfully.

The man was scarcely human, and yet he was loath to let him go, and searched around in his mind for some excuse for detaining him.

"Where do you go for Christmas, Mr. Gray?"

"Home," said the other, showing the first sign of animation. "The two days in the year I look forward to are Good Friday and Christmas Day. Christmas is the one day I can't work and can be really a perfectly happy man! I sit in front of a fire, and my children read to me or tell me Christmas stories, and that's my idea of a perfectly happy day."

"Great heavens!" said John, aghast. "You are human, after all! Though I confess that, if anybody tried to tell me a Christmas story on Christmas Day, I should go and look for a hatchet. And your staff— do they work?"

"I'm sorry to say that headquarters won't allow that," said the manager regretfully. "It would add to my enjoyment considerably if I knew that somebody else was working."

John took an instant dislike to him, had thoughts of changing his bank.

"Do you mean to tell me you would let her— them, I mean— work on Christmas Day? Why, it would be disgraceful!" he said hotly.

When the bank manager had gone, John strode over the carpeted floor of his office and stood, staring across at the trim figure visible— more visible than he had hoped— from the window.

"Quite a good-looking girl!"

He smiled at the impertinence of the man. She was beautiful, the complete satisfaction of all his uncatalogued requirements. If he could only hear her speak! He shrank from the possibility of disillusionment. What would she do on Christmas Day? he wondered. Hold revel in her suburban home, possibly in the company of her sweetheart. He made a little grimace at the thought.

Yet it was perfectly ridiculous to suppose that such a girl would be without admirers, and that from their hosts she should not have given preference to one over all the rest.

If Gray had been just a little more human, it would have been possible to secure an introduction, though he shrank even from that prospect.

He was staring at her when the girl looked up, saw his dim figure behind the window-pane, and, as though conscious that she had been the object of his scrutiny, got up quickly from the table, switched on the light, and pulled down the shade. It was the first time she had ever noticed him, he reflected glumly, and it was not very pleasing that her acknowledgment of his admiration should be so emphatically resentful.

John Watson went back to his bachelor flat in St. James's with a feeling that the day had not been well spent, and that something in this one-sided intimacy had gone out of his life. He could no longer picture himself speaking to her, could weave no more dreams in which she played a complacent and agreeable part. Drawing the blind seemed to shut out even the visions that a pipe and a fire and a sprawling terrier bring to the most unimaginative. He must needs fall back upon the Princess.

Her Serene Highness had been a figure of speculation from the day when old Nurse Crawley, who attended his infant needs, and was locally credited with being possessed of the devil, predicted that he would inherit a great fortune and marry a princess— a faith from which she never wavered all the days of her life. Fortune had come unexpectedly and vastly, and had been doubled and trebled by his own peculiar genius. But the Princess remained amongst the glowing and shadowy shapes of the fire, less tangible than the blue smoke that curled from his pipe.

And now the Princess bored him. He wanted to meet "F. G. Welford." He wanted badly to meet her: first, to apologize for his rudeness, and then to ask her... well, just to ask her if life held any greater attraction than the balancing of a late accountant's books.

The blind was drawn the next morning when he looked out. It was drawn on the morning of Christmas Eve. He had brought his bag to the office and lost two trains in the hope that she might relent. She was inexorable. He always traveled to Tatterdown by train because the cottage (it had been his father's before him) had no accommodation for a car, and somehow his big limousine did not attune with the atmosphere of that faded and fragrant place.

The taxi-cab that took him to the station was half-way up Broad Street when he saw her. She was walking toward the office; had evidently been out to tea; and his cab was near enough to the sidewalk to give him the nearest view of her face he had yet had. He drew his breath at the sight of her, and for a second was seized with an insane desire to stop the cab, get out, and, on some desperate excuse or other, speak to her. But before he could commit that folly, she was gone.

Gray was a slave-driver, he decided, a sweater, a man of no sensibility or feeling. Christmas Eve! And to allow a girl to work.... Perhaps the cunning devil had lied to him, and she was working on Christmas Day. He hated the unhappy Mr. Gray, hated his baldness, his beard, and all that was of him. Such a man had no soul, no proper appreciation of values. He was a cold-blooded exploiter of all that was best and noblest in humanity.

By the time he had reached Bullham Junction, John Bennett Watson was better balanced in mind, could chuckle at his own extravagances without wondering at them, which was ominous.

There was no conveyance at the station, and he walked through the one street of Bullham to the Red Lion.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watson."

He turned, to see the rubicund countenance and the blue coat of a policeman.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Watson. You going out to Tatterdown?"

"Why, yes, sergeant, as soon as I can get a cab."

"Likely you'll see my dog Mowser round about the village; he's a rare fellow for Tatterdown. There's a dog there he's always fighting. Will you send him home with a flea in his ear? Give him a whack and he'll go. Getting into bad habits, that dog. Comes home in the middle of the night and scratches the door till I let him in."

J.B. smiled and promised.

Mowser, a bedraggled wire-haired terrier, he found literally on the doorstep of the cottage, and Mowser's feud had evidently found expression in violence, for he was slightly tattered.

John took him in and fed him. The hour was late, and he decided to send him back in the morning— an arrangement wholly agreeable to Mowser, who finished his scrap and went to sleep under the kitchen table.

So small was Tatterdown Cottage that the man and his wife who acted as caretakers had no accommodation and slept at the village— a risky proceeding, as an insurance company had told him, but one which he preferred, for there were memories about this little house with its thatched roof and Elizabethan chimneys which were very pleasant, and the presence of strangers was insufferable. Here, for ten years, John Watson had wakened to hail the Christmas morn and listen to the silvery bells of the parish church, and had spent the morning in the sheltered garden, tending those hardy plants that reveal their treasures in bleak December. For ten Christmas Eves he had sat, huddled up in the big, chintz-covered chair, with a pipe and a book and his pleasant thoughts, listening to the drip of rain or the thin whine of the wind, or watching, on one never-to-be-forgotten Christmas Eve, the snowflakes building white cobwebs in the corner of every pane.

It was half-past eleven, and he had risen with a yawn to stretch himself preparatory to going upstairs to bed, when there came to him from outside a sound which was familiar. He passed down the little passage, unbolted the front door, and stepped into the garden.

Out of the darkness came the peculiar and distinctive sound of an aeroplane's engines that were not running sweetly, and presently, peering overhead, he saw the shadow of great wings. Suddenly a blinding white light showed in the skies, illuminating fields and road, so brilliant that Tatterdown Parish Church, a mile away, was visible. The light swooped in a circle, coming lower and lower, and finally vanished behind the privet fence of the Hermitage field, its radiance throwing the trim boundary hedge into silhouette.

Going back into the cottage for his coat, Watson ran through the garden, across the road, and, vaulting the gate, stumbled over the frozen plough-land to the place where the landing lights of the big machine were flickering to extinction.

"Hello!" called a voice, and John answered the hail, and presently came up with the two men who were standing by the under-carriage. One was lighting a cigarette, and the newcomer caught a momentary glimpse of his face, long, white, and blackly bearded. The other he could not see, but it was he who spoke.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Tatterdown, six miles from Pelworth," Watson answered. "You got down without accident?"

There was no reply for a few seconds, and then the bearded man laughed softly.

"We got down, but not without accident," he said, a dry note in his voice. "Is there a house where...."

Here he stopped and said something to his companion in an undertone. The short man grunted an inquiry in the same tone, and:

"I'll ask," he said. "Are we near to a village?"

"No— not nearer than a mile," said Watson. "I have a cottage, but it is rather isolated."

"Wife and family?"

John laughed quietly.

"No," he said; "I am all alone."

Again the whispered colloquy.

"It may sound a little— unusual and impertinent, these questions," said the tall man at last, "but we have a passenger who, for State reasons, is traveling incognito. I must take you this much into my confidence and tell you that she ought not to be within a thousand miles of England. May I therefore rely upon your discretion?"

Dumbfounded, John Watson listened, his sense of adventure piqued.

"Certainly, you may rely upon me," he said. "I am a bachelor and live alone— I usually come to Tatterdown to spend Christmas— and I haven't even a servant in the house. I was born here, and have a certain sentimental feeling towards the place. I am giving you confidence for confidence. My name is Watson, by the way."

"Thank you," said the other simply. "My name is James— Colonel Alfred James."

He walked towards the machine, and John heard him speak.

"You may descend, Highness," he said.

His eyes now accustomed to the darkness, J.B. saw a slim figure descend, and waited whilst the two men and the woman spoke together in a whisper. So far as he could gather, the lady said little, but the conversation continued for so long that John began to feel the cold.

"Will you come this way?" he called.

"Lead on," said the gruff voice of the smaller man, and the owner of Tatterdown Cottage led the way to the gate, and, after some delay, opened it and ushered them across the road into the cottage.

The tall Colonel James followed, carrying two heavy bags; then came the girl; and thirdly, the shorter of the two, a round, red-faced man with a slight moustache and a pair of small eyes that were set a trifle too close together.

The big man deposited the bags on the floor of the sitting-room.

"I present you, Mr. Watson, to Her Serene Highness, Princess Marie of Thurgen," he said. "Her Highness has a very dear friend in London, but owing to the War and the restrictions which have been placed upon Germans visiting England, it has been necessary for Her Highness to make a surreptitious and in some ways unauthorized trip to London. Whilst we realize that to land in England without a passport and without the necessary authority from the Home Office constitutes a technical offense, my friend and I have gladly undertaken the risk to serve one to whose father we are under a heavy debt of obligation."

All the time he had been speaking, John's wondering gaze had never left the girl's pale face. She stood with eyes downcast, hands lightly clasped in front of her, and only once during the interview did she look up. Presently John found his voice, though he spoke with extraordinary difficulty.

"I shall be happy to place my room at the disposal of Her Highness," he said.

"You have no telephone here?" asked the little man suddenly.

John shook his head.

"No," he said, with a half-smile, "we have nothing quite so modern at Tatterdown Cottage except a very modern bathroom leading from my room. May I show Your Highness the way?"

The tall man inclined his head gravely.

"Will you go first, please?" he said.

Lighting a candle, John went up the narrow stairs, opened the door of his chamber, a cozy room with its old four-poster and its log fire smouldering in the grate.

"This will do very well," said the tall man, who had followed him. "In here, Your Highness."

He put his hand on the girl's arm and led her into the room. Then, coming out quickly, he closed the door behind him. At the foot of the stairs stood the little fat man, grotesquely huge in his leather coat and as grotesquely ridiculous in his leather headgear.

"Her Highness is comfortable," said the bearded man. "You can go to work on the machine. Do you think you can get it right by the morning?"

"I ought to have it right in two hours," said the other, "but we couldn't possibly take off in the dark. I don't know the size of the field. It's plough-land, too, and that'll make it a bit more difficult, but I'll certainly be ready for you at daybreak."

With that he was gone, leaving John alone with the colonel.

"Will you come into the sitting-room?" asked John.

"I think not," replied James. "You see, Mr. Watson, my responsibility is a great one. Certain things have happened in London which have reduced Her Highness to the verge of despair. She has enemies— personal enemies, you understand?— who would not hesitate to take her life."

He pulled up his leather coat, and from his pocket slipped out a long-barrelled Browning and snapped back the jacket.

"I will not detain you any longer, Mr. Watson. You may go to bed with the full assurance that you have rendered an inestimable service to what was once the greatest ruling house in Germany."

John laughed softly.

"Unfortunately," he said, "I have no bed, and if you mean that you are going to sit up all night, you have relieved me of a great embarrassment, for I should have had no place to offer you but the settee in my sitting-room. You are welcome to that."

James shook his head.

"I will remain here," he said, and sat on the lower stair. Suddenly he got up. "Is your sitting-room beneath your bedroom?"

John nodded.

"Should I hear any— any noise above?"

"Undoubtedly," said John. "Every floor in this old house creaks."

"Then I will join you. It is inclined to be draughty here."

He accompanied his host into the sitting-room and stripped the leather coat he was wearing, pulled off his helmet, and sank, with a luxurious sigh, into the deep arm-chair that John had vacated when the sound of the aeroplane's engines had come to his ears.

"Christmas Eve, eh?" said the colonel. He extracted a cigarette from the case and tapped it thoughtfully on his thumbnail. Then, seeing John's eyes resting on the pistol that lay on the table by his elbow, he asked: "Looks a little theatrical, don't you think? I suppose firearms are not in your line, Mr. Watson?"

"I have an automatic at my London flat," said John, with a smile, "but I can't say that I get a great deal of pistol practice. Do you seriously mean that you would use that in certain extremities?"

The big man blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling and nodded.

"I mean that," he said curtly.

"How fascinating!" said J.B. "And how un-Christmaslike!"

The other smiled broadly.

"There are one or two things about you that puzzle me," J.B. went on slowly.

"Such as—?"

"Well," he hesitated, "did the Princess come to where the aeroplane was? I presume it was somewhere outside of London?"

"We picked her up in a car," said the other shortly.

"I see," said J.B. "How queer!"

"What is queer?" frowned James.

"The whole thing," said J.B. Watson. "You can't say that it is a usual experience for a bachelor to have a princess drop on to him from the clouds. And, for a reason which you won't want me to explain, I am especially interested in princesses. It goes back to a very old prophecy that was made by my nurse."

There was a slight movement above their heads.

"Excuse me," said James, and, rising quickly, ran up the stairs.

The sound of a low-voiced conversation floated down to John Watson, and, after a while, the footsteps of James upon the stairs. When he came in he was looking a little worried.

"Did Her Highness require anything?"

"Nothing." This time the man's voice was curt. "She wanted to know when the machine would be ready, that is all."

They sat in complete silence for half an hour till John rose.

"I'll make some coffee, or I shall go to sleep. And you would like some coffee too?"

James hesitated.

"Yes, I think I should. I'll come with you and see you make it," he said.

A sleeping Mowser lifted his wiry head inquiringly as the two men came into the kitchen, and watched them with unconcern, till, realizing that nothing in the shape of food was imminent, he tucked his head between his paws and went to sleep again.

James took a chair and watched the percolator working without comment, and J.B. could not escape a feeling that he stood in relationship to the man as a convict stands to a prison guard, and this impression was strengthened when, the coffee made, his guest walked behind him to the sitting-room again. It was some time before the steaming cups had cooled sufficiently to drink, and John took a sip and made a wry face.

"Do you take sugar?" he asked. "Because I do."

He went back to the kitchen, but this time the man did not accompany him. But he was standing in the doorway when J.B. returned.

"You took some time to find it," he said gruffly, and saw that his tone was a mistake, for he went on, with a laugh and a return to his old suavity: "Forgive my infernal cheek, but this little adventure of ours has got on my nerves."

"I couldn't find it," said John. "My caretaker discovers a new place to hide her stores every visit I make to the cottage."

He dropped two lumps into his coffee and stirred it, and, finding that the bearded colonel desired to do nothing more than to smoke an endless chain of cigarettes, he took down a book from the shelf and began to read.

Presently the heavy boots of the smaller man sounded on the paved pathway outside the cottage, and John jumped up.

"That must be your friend," he said, and went to admit him.

The pilot, for such he seemed to be, came in, grimy of face and black of hands.

"I've put it right," he said. "You can be ready to move as soon as you like. I have explored the field, and there's plenty of room to take her off."

"Go back to the machine and stand by," said the other sharply. And then, to John: "I am extremely obliged to you for courtesy, and I'm glad we have not had to trespass longer on your hospitality than was necessary. And may I add the thanks of the Princess to mine?"

"You may," said John.

James ran up the stairs and knocked at the bedroom door.

"I am ready, Your Highness."

There was a pause, and then the key was turned and the door opened. It closed again upon the man, and all that John Watson could hear was the murmur of voices through the ceiling.

He laughed softly, pure joy in every note. So old Nurse Crawley had been right, after all, and a princess had come into his life, and the prophecy might yet be fulfilled.

The door was opened, two pairs of feet descended the stairs, and presently James stood in the light of the table-lamp, which flowed through the open door of the sitting-room into the passage. In each hand he carried a bag, and behind him was a muffled figure in a fur coat, who kept her face steadily averted from John's eyes.

"I thank you again, Mr. Watson. If I have put you to any expense—"

"None whatever," said John politely.

He stood with his back to the fire and watched. He heard James put down his bag and turn the handle of the door, but it did not move. He tried again, feeling for the bolts, and finding that the door was of stout oak and the lock of ancient solidity, he came back to the sitting-room.

"I can't open your door, Mr. Watson."

"Very true," said John pleasantly, "very true!"

The man's brows gathered in a frown of suspicion.

"What do you mean— very true?" he asked harshly.

"You can't open it because I've locked it, and the key is in my pocket," said John.

Instantly the automatic appeared in James's hand.

"Give me that key," he said coldly, "or there'll be a village tragedy that will mystify the reporters. I ought to have shot you anyway," he said, "and, by God, if you don't— give me that key!"

John shook his head. His hands were still behind him, and, with a smothered exclamation of rage, the man pressed the trigger. There was a dull click.

"I took the precaution of unloading your pistol when you went upstairs an hour or two ago, Mr. James, or Colonel James, as the case may be," said John in his conversational tone. "I have also sent, attached— via the back door— to the collar of a small and intelligent dog, an urgent message to the Bullham police to put in as early an appearance as possible. I've been expecting them for the last five minutes."

With a roar of rage the big man sprang at him, and, as he did so, John withdrew his right hand and struck at his assailant with the poker, which it had held throughout the interview. Quick as a cat, the man dodged the blow, and in another instant he had gripped the other in his powerful hand. John wrenched his left arm free and struck twice at the man, but his padded coat softened the blows, and it was not until a lucky blow caught Colonel James under the jaw that he went floundering to the ground. There was the sound of voices outside. John took the key from his pocket and flung it at the foot of the terrified girl.

"Open the door, quick, Miss Welford!" he hissed, and turned to leap on his half-maddened adversary, who had thrown open his coat and was groping for a second pistol. Before it could be drawn, the room was full of people, and he went down under the weight of two policemen and the local blacksmith.

"THIS is the real miracle-play," said John. "But to make the miracle complete, you've got to stay here and have dinner, Miss Welford."

"But what I can't understand is, how you recognized me?" asked the puzzled girl.

"I not only know your name, but I know the whole story," said John. "You were working at the bank late, and these two gentlemen, who must have long planned the coup, broke into the vault to secure the very large sum in ready cash which would be on the bank premises on Christmas Eve. They then discovered that you were among the treasures that the bank contained—"

"I heard the noise and went down. They took me away with them in the car because they were afraid that I should identify them. I had no idea that, when the machine came down, they swore that, if I betrayed them, they would not only kill me but kill you also. They had to explain me, so I became a princess. But how did you know that I was not?"

"I knew you were a princess all right," said John. "I've known you were a princess ever since I started peeping into your palace window."

She drew a long breath.

"Oh, were you the man?" she said. "I've often wondered since. I never knew you."

"You know me now, and you will know me much better. Will you stay and have Christmas dinner with me?"

She looked at him quickly, then dropped her eyes.

"I think I will," she said. "I owe you so much, Mr.—"

"On Christmas Day," he interrupted, "I am 'John,' even to my enemies," and she smiled.

"I don't feel like an enemy," she said.

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3. Indian Magic

WHEN love comes barging into a man's business there's generally trouble for everybody. That is the opinion of people with knowledge and education.

There was a schoolmaster— and a real gentleman— who used to work next to me in the shoe-making shop at Dartmoor, who told me that love is responsible for more crime than drink. He gave me the figures, and with a bit of chalk he drew what he called a "grarf" on the sole of Wigman's boots— Wigman, that shot the policeman in the Harrow Road. A very nice fellow— Wigman, I mean. I never met the policeman.

There used to be a warder at Dartmoor whose wife ran away with a soldier. You ought to hear him talk about women!

There's another thing I despise— foreigners. It stands to reason that foreigners are different to us Christians. There's no sense of, what I might term, honor amongst them. They keep things back like Dhobi, the Indian, kept things from young Sam Baring. Love and foreigners was Sam's ruin, and deny it who can.

Sam is as smart a fellow as you would find between here and... well, anywhere. Quite the gentleman, and well educated. He can read and write, and you can't ask him anything about geography that he couldn't tell you.

He is always well dressed— why, I've seen him mixing with the swells at Ascot like one of themselves. High collar, spotted tie, long-tailed coat, and a handsome brown bowler with a Beatty tilt— he was my idea of what a lord should look like.

Sam and me and an American, named Bisher, made a lot of money out of the electric racing saddle. You put it on a horse and touched a button— and he moves! I've seen experienced trainers watching the effect of the saddle with their mouths wide open. There was a coil inside and a small battery. When you touched the button, the horse got a shock, and naturally went a bit faster. It cost about £150 to make, and we took orders for ninety at £50 apiece. I needn't tell you that when we didn't deliver the goods, some unpleasant letters came to the office, but, as Sam said, they were out to defraud the Jockey Club by artificial stimulants, and he was doing a good turn to the sport by besting them. Anyway, they couldn't squeal, and that was something.

Sam had high notions about racing, and we'd hardly packed our parcel before he saw an advertisement of a farm for sale, and he got the idea of training a horse or two. He bought a couple out of selling races at Gatwick and Lingfield: Early Worm was one, and the other was called String of Beans. Sam got a license to train without much trouble. He had never been before the Stewards, and he hadn't tried to sell electric saddles to the swell trainers at Newmarket, so, as the song says, the breath of scandal ne'er sullied his fair name. And he hadn't been in the hands of the police either.

Luck is a funny thing. Both those horses he bought were pretty good. We used to run 'em down the course for a bit. They wouldn't be trying a yard. Then, when the money was down, we let loose the head of String of Beans, and the way he won was both exciting and cheerful.

We might have gone on, and packed enough money to live like princes, if it hadn't been for this girl I've been referring to.

Her name was Virginia, the same as the country in America, but she was English. Personally, I never saw anything in her, and when one day I heard her say to her father, "Who is that funny little man with the big red nose?" referring to me, she passed out of my life, and I lost all respect for her. Her father's name was Major Rice, and he had a stable near ours. He trained a few horses, mostly his own, but he had a couple belonging to a young gentleman named Tarbot, Captain Harold Tarbot.

Sam got quite friendly with them, and used to go over to late dinner all dressed up in evening clothing, which was swank.

Well, to cut a long story short, he fell in love with this girl, and meeting her out one day on the Downs, he up and told her that she was the only girl in the world, and that all he had, including the house and furniture, Early Worm, and String of Beans, was hers, which wasn't right, because me and Bisher had a share in the horses, and all the chairs in the dining-room I bought with my own money.

I don't exactly know what happened, but Sam came home with bits of Sussex sticking to his clothes and a black eye. Sam was wrong, but he was always a bit rough with women, and I gather that this captain happened to be handy.

"This comes of lowering yourself to the level of common people," said Sam, when he told us all about it. "I thought I was doing her a favor, which, considering her father is in debt, and this captain hasn't got two shillings to rub together, I certainly was. I'll give him Blue Rat!"

"I shouldn't give him anything if I were you, Sam," I said, and Bisher agreed with me. "If the young woman won't let you walk out with her, she's got bad taste. As to a blue rat— well, I've never heard of it, but I've seen pink ones in my time, especially in the United States, where good alcohol and lives are cheap."

"Blue Rat is his horse," said Sam, who was putting a bit of sticking- plaster on his cheek in front of the looking-glass. "He has been saving it all the year to win a selling plate at Newmarket. And to think," he said bitterly, "that I have been giving him advice and helping, so to speak, to get the horse together!"

Knowing how he felt, I was a bit astonished the next day when he went over to Major Rice's, saw the young lady and the captain, and apologized. He didn't tell us what his object was, and my own opinion then was that it was sheer gentlemanliness, for Sam Baring is as polite a fellow as ever drew the breath of life.

Anyway, everything must have been all right, for Major Rice came over to look at String of Beans. It was the first time he had ever been in our house, and Sam made a great fuss of him. The young lady didn't come, but I saw her, that same week, strolling across the Downs with the captain, and I must say that they looked on affectionate terms, so far as it is possible for a man of the world to judge.

One night Sam came in to where me and Bisher were playing a quiet game of bezique and he said:

"I have entered String of Beans for a mile selling plate at Newmarket. It is the same race that Blue Rat is entered for, and I want to warn you fellows that if the major asks you if String of Beans is any good, you've got to say no. I am going to give that captain the shock of his life."

We had a couple of lads that Sam had picked up, to look after the horses, and he gave these boys instructions that String of Beans was only to be exercised at full strength when Major Rice wasn't on the Downs. Therefore, it was more remarkable still when Sam told us one day at lunch that Major Rice was bringing Blue Rat across the following morning, to give him a trial spin with String of Beans.

"0h, boy!" said Bisher, who, being an American, used strange expressions.

"There's going to be nothing funny about it," said Sam seriously. "I am putting a bit of extra weight on String of Beans, my idea being to know just how I stand with this Blue Rat. I've told the lad to ride him out."

The next morning the trial came off, and, to Sam's astonishment. Blue Rat made rings round String of Beans. Led him all the way, and won the trial in a hack canter; and the time was good, as I know, because I had my watch on the spin from start to finish.

Sam looked down his nose when he came back to the house.

"That Blue Rat horse is going to win," he said.

"What about the weight you gave String of Beans?"

Sam shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he said; *4f String of Beans had a stone less, he couldn't have won that trial. This is horrible. Nosey." (I might remark that that was the name by which my intimate friends called me.)

Anyhow, Sam wasn't quite satisfied, and he persuaded the major to give the horses another trial, and this time they carried the weights they were set to carry in the race, and Blue Rat did just what he liked with String of Beans - -waited on him to the distance, and then came away and won his race, dancing.

"All my best laid plans are dissolving in smoke," groaned Sam, who was a very high-class talker when he liked to give his mind to literary conversation. "I have been kidding Rice all along that his horse was the best, and quite unexpectedly I have been telling the truth."

"If you don't want Blue Rat to win, why not get at the other horse!" said Bisher. "It is dead easy to give him a pill a couple of days before the race."

"Not so easy," said Sam. "You don't suppose," he asked contemptuous, "that I have been going in and out of that house without knowing the lay of the stables? Besides, if you gave him poison he wouldn't run, and if he wouldn't run, that way the captain wouldn't lose his money, would he?" which is common sense and logic, as we all agreed.

It was a week before the race when we met Mr. Dhobi. He was an Indian person— I will not call him a gentleman— a little fellow, very thin, with a high forehead and gold spectacles. Sam had met him somewhere in town, where he used to run a fortune-telling business, in a little turning off Regent Street.

I never saw a man wear a frock-coat and a top-hat on a hot day so elegantly.

Nobody expected him.

"The fact is, gentlemen," he said in his foreign way, "I happened to know that Mr. Baring was down at Luscombe, and as Mr. Baring has been a very good friend of mine, I couldn't very well avoid giving him a chance of securing the golden harvest, which the brave and the fortunate alike deserve,"

I've got a good memory for words, even if I don't know the meaning of them, and that was what he said.

"I am glad to see you, Dhobi; how is the crystal fake going?"

Dhobi shook his head.

"The constabulary of London have interfered, tyrannously and arbitrarily," he said. "Because I am a stranger to your land, being an Indian, as you will notice by the pigmentation of my countenance, I have been victimized by a trick of brutality. But knowing that Mr. Baring was in the racecourse business, I have brought to him the discovery of a fellow-countryman of mine, hoping that a suitable honorarium will reward me for trouble taken and traveling expenses incurred."

And then he told us the most wonderful story. Personally, I didn't believe it, being by nature suspicious, and by profession a teller of the tale. But this Dhobi had a drug which was called Indian Magic. He brought out a big packet and showed us. It looked like dried tea leaves, but it was the dried leaf of a certain Indian bush which only grew on the high mountains, and it had the effect of increasing the stamina of any human being or horse that ate it. Whether or not there are high mountains in India, I don't know. Sam said there were certain hills called the Emma Layers or Hindoo Push, and geography was his passion.

Naturally, being experienced tale-pitchers, and having behind us a record of ninety electric saddles sold and paid for, we didn't exactly fall upon his neck.

"It sounds all right, Dhobi," said Sam.

"The proof of the pudding is in the eating," said Dhobi, highly enthusiastic. "I do not ask you to buy a pig in a poke, or make a leap in the dark. Give one handful to any horse you have before he goes out to exercise, and then tell me if I am indulging in fairy stories or fantastic exaggerations."

That seemed fair.

We put Dhobi up for the night and brought him into a game of Solo with the idea of testing his intelligence. He was more intelligent by three pounds ten and sixpence than Sam and me when we got up to go to bed.

"We will try it on String of Beans," said Sam. "He has always struck me as being a horse liable to take kindly to intoxication."

So, before the sun was up, we all went to String of Beans's stall, and Dhobi mixed with the horse's corn a handful of the Indian Magic.

String of Beans ate off all right. He'd eat anything. He had a special partiality for mutton bones and cabbage stalks, which is strange, considering that most of his ancestors were vegetarians.

The only thing we had to try him with was Early Worm, who wasn't a bad horse by any means; moreover, he had been in the trial spin with Blue Rat, and he had been up sides with String of Beans all the way, and had only been beaten a neck.

So we went out to the Downs, and String of Beans was the liveliest member of the party. The way he tiptoed and pranced and walked sideways and backways was both alarming and instructive. I've never seen a horse get jovial before, but String of Beans was all that; he did everything except laugh. I don't know whether people will believe what I'm going to tell them.

String of Beans jumped off at the start, made all the running, and beat Early "Worm by the length of the street. There was nothing wrong about the gallop, because three of us put the clock on him and he did the mile in one- forty dead.

Sam drew a long sigh, and his eyes shone with a soft light.

"Thank you, Dhobi," he said, "you are indeed a welcome guest."

But he wasn't parting with any money until we had seen how String of Beans got over his jag. The wonderful thing about Indian Magic was that it showed no sign on the horse's coat. He didn't break out in a sweat or go mad, and when the race was over he was just as lively as he was before it started. In fact, Indian Magic had no effect at all upon him, except when we galloped him a few days after the trial he didn't go any faster than Early Worm. To make absolutely sure, we tried a handful of Indian Magic on Early Worm, and then put the two horses together in a fast mile spin. Early Worm went ahead and stayed there, and when it was over, and we clicked down our watches, Sam said:

"Boys, this Captain What's-his-name is going to get a jar."

He had quite recovered his position with the Rices: he used to go over there regular, and the captain couldn't do enough for him. Especially when Sam gave him advice about Blue Rat. I heard him one day when we were up on the Downs exercising our two animals. The captain and the young lady rode up to us just before we left.

"Are you running yours at Newmarket, Mr. Baring?" says the captain.

"Yes, I shall run him," says Sam, shaking his head mournfully. "But what's the use? Your Blue Rat is going to put it all over us."

"I wonder whether I shall get a good price?" says the captain thoughtfully.

"If you don't advertise it, and nobody knows anything about the trial, you'll get six to one for your money," says Sam. "I shall back mine," he went on, "for old association's sake. String of Beans has been a good friend of mine, and I don't think he'd like to know that I let him run without having fifty on him. In fact," he says, "I shouldn't be surprised if my horse wasn't favorite, but don't you take any notice of that, Captain. The public always dash in and back the wrong horse."

"I have been looking at the entries," says the captain, pulling a paper out of his pocket. "Do you see anything there that is likely to beat mine, Mr. Baring?"

He handed down the paper and Sam took it.

"No," he says, "there is nothing there to beat yours. String of Beans will head most of them; but, of course, the poor old String won't see the way your horse is going."

"I hope not," says Miss Virginia, in an absent-minded kind of way, and she looks at the captain with a kind of scared look. "It is an awful lot of money to risk on a selling plater, Harold," she says. "Daddy doesn't like the idea at all."

"Believe me," says Sam, very earnest, "and I speak as a sportsman of experience and a man of the world, backing Blue Rat is like picking up money. It is like taking pennies from a child," he says. "If I wasn't an honest man— which, thank God, I am," says Sam, "and not a word has ever been spoken against my character, and no stain of dishonor has blotted my coat-of-arms, which is a lamb crouching before a lion ramping, if I wasn't— well, anyway, I'm not going to back your horse, not for a penny," he says. "I wouldn't spoil your market. It would be almost caddish," he says.

"Do you think the trial was right?" says the captain.

"Right?" says Sam scoffingly, "why, of course it was right; you took the time, the clock cannot lie. No, poor old String of Beans can't win, and if you would rather I didn't run him—"

"Not at all," says the captain hastily, "especially if he is likely to become a public favorite. That will make the price of Blue Rat a better one."

Walking home to the farm, Sam was a bit remorseless.

"When that dud goes broke, I am going along to the sale of his goods to buy some of his heirlooms," he says. "I won't half tell him what I think of him, either! As to the girl, I wouldn't marry her if she threw herself at me. I'm finished with women. Nosey. They are just vampires and bloodsuckers. Besides," he says, " what's beauty I If I was the Prime Minister I would have a law passed stopping women from showing their faces. It would give the plain ones a chance. The only difference between the plainest woman in the world and the ugliest woman, is her face. Has that ever struck you. Nosey?"

I told him it had. It was curious how Sam was able to put into words thoughts that had been in your mind for years without your being able to express them.

"I don't suppose I shall ever be Prime Minister, " said Sam. "Politics I have never understood, and never shall."

"You won't miss much," says I.

"I don't suppose I shall," says Sam, "but it must be rather wonderful being a Prime Minister and having all the swells tell you when their horses are going to win, and when they're not trying."

He got String of Beans to Newmarket, or rather at a little place between Royston and Newmarket, and on the day of the race we walked him over to the course.

Sam had made his plans. He was going into Tattersalls' ring, wait for the market to be formed, and then sail in and back String of Beans with all the money we had. Bisher was going to look after the horse in the paddock and give him his feed, whilst the previous race was being run and nobody was about; and I was going into the " silver ring" to put on as much money as I could bet before the price came tumbling down.

We were walking across the Heath when we overtook the captain and Miss Virginia; I thought she was looking very worried. Sam took off his hat like a gentleman.

"Good morning, Mr. Baring," she said; "perhaps you will help me to try and persuade Captain Tarbot—"

The captain was a bit annoyed, I think, but she went on.

"Captain Tarbot is going to put a thousand pounds on his horse; I think that is madness, don't you, Mr. Baring?"

"Not at all," said Sam, very firm. "If he had two thousand pounds he ought to put it on that horse; it is one of the finest horses that I have ever seen in a selling plate. The only danger is, that he may not be able to afford to bid up at the auction to buy it in. That horse," he says, "will fetch at least a thousand pounds—"

"If it wins," says the girl. "But suppose it doesn't win—"

Sam sort of smiled.

"It is humanly impossible for that horse not to win, Miss Virginia," he says. "I speak as a sportsman and a man of the world, and I tell you that though funny things happen in racing, I never expect to see anything so comic as that horse not winning. I have been looking up his pedigree, and I say that it is a sin and a shame that a horse of that class and character should be running in a selling plate. But be that as it may, miss," he says, "you couldn't stop him winning unless you built a wall across the course, and even then he'd jump it."

"You hear, my dear?" says the captain. "Mr. Baring understands these things."

"So does father," she says obstinately, "and he says that Blue Rat is only a moderate horse, and if there is anything in the race that can gallop, your horse will be beaten."

"With all due respect to the major," says Sam, "and a nicer man and more perfect gentleman I have never met, and highly educated too— he is not up to date if he says that this horse, Blue Rat, isn't the best performer he has ever trained. I'll tell you what I'll do— I'll give you a thousand pounds for that horse as he stands, if you will let me run him and give me the market for myself."

It was very handsome of Sam, but he knew that the captain wouldn't accept. Even the young lady was impressed.

"Very well," she says; "I suppose you know best," and that was the end of the conversation, for soon after we left them.

At the last minute Sam changed his plans and sent Bisher into the ring to back the horse, whilst he went into the paddock to give String of Beans his final preparation. I was in the "silver ring" when String of Beans went down to the post. He went down, first on his hind legs, then on his front legs, then all his legs together, and I could see by the way he was doing circles in the middle of the course that the Indian Magic was worth all the fifty pounds that Sam had given to Mr. Dhobi.

String of Beans was a good favorite; by the time I had finished backing him, he was at five to two; I had the curiosity to inquire the price of Blue Rat before I went into Tattersalls and joined Bisher and Sam. Blue Rat was at six to one, and was still six to one when I climbed the stand to where Sam and Bisher were standing.

"How did he go down?" says Sam.

"Fine," I says. "Look at him, he's still waltzing."

"I gave him a double dose," says Sam in a low voice. "We can't afford to take any risks."

"He certainly went down like a high-spirited thoroughbred," says Bisher.

"Have you got the money on?" I asked.

Sam nodded.

"This is money from home, Nosey," he says. "You have never in your life had a chance of collecting wealth so easily. "When I look down at those bookmakers," he says, "I have a sort of feeling of sorrow for them. Little do they know as they stand there, howling their blinking heads off, that in a few minutes their vast and capacious pockets will be emptied into my hat. I think we'll go to London tonight to celebrate," he says. "There's a new show on at the Palladium, and I have engaged the Royal box."

It was a very long time before the race started. String of Beans, being slightly the worse for Indian Magic, thought the winning-post was in the other direction, and wouldn't turn his head to the tape. And when he did, he started teaching the other horses a new classy step he 'd learnt, and they began imitating him. Then he tried to walk about on his hind legs, like one of those horses you see in the British Museum, but at last they got his head right and up went the tape.

You could see Sam's blue-and-pink jacket very plainly, for the sun was shining, and before the field had gone a furlong. String of Beans was lobbing along in front, about ten lengths ahead of anything.

"There ought to be a statue put up to the man who found this Indian Magic," says Sam, and we both agreed with him.

Before they got to Bushes Hill, String of Beans was twenty lengths in front, with Blue Rat about five lengths in front of anything else.

I looked round the stand, not expecting to find the captain, because he, being a swell, should have been in the members' enclosure; but there he was, and the young lady, and her face was the color of chalk.

Coming down Bushes Hill, String of Beans, striding out like a lion, was a half a furlong in front, and even if he dropped dead, the speed he was going would have carried him past the winning-post. But he didn't drop dead. He sailed past the winning-post at forty miles an hour, and the smile on Sam's face was a pleasure to see.

We waited, and we had to wait a long time, for the second, which was Blue Rat, to get past the judge's box, and then Sam says:

"Come on, boys, let's lead him in."

"Wait a minute," says Bisher; "he hasn't stopped yet."

String of Beans ought to have turned off to the left and gone into the paddock, and we could see the jockey pulling his head off, but the reins weren't made that could hold String of Beans that day. He went over the heath, and we watched him on the skyline as he suddeny swerved to the right, and went galloping across the heath in the direction of Cambridge. Then he swerved again, and came back toward Newmarket town. After that we didn't see him. By all accounts he went through Newmarket town, turned down a side street, dashed through a kitchen garden on to a tennis lawn, taking the net like a steeple-chaser, through a field, back to the Royston Road, and about half an hour later was stopped by two policemen in Cambridge.

I must say the Stewards were very decent. They waited twenty minutes for String of Beans to come back, and it was only after somebody had telephoned that he had been seen racing a Ford car on the Cambridge Road, that they disqualified him and gave the race to Blue Rat.

It was the double handful of Indian Magic that had done it. We reckoned afterwards that with one handful the jockey would have pulled him up within a mile of Newmarket, and he'd have got back in time for the jockey to have weighed in.

Dhobi promised to meet Sam after the race, but he didn't turn up. Sam spent all the evening looking for him.

_________________________

4. Jimmy's Brother

I FEEL I should like to know Jimmy's brother. I picture him not unlike Jimmy, though leaner and a thought more wiry, with an air of profound profundity and wisdom, and the softest of Scotch accents which need not be reproduced.

I fancy, too, that the whole of his regiment must be wiry, solemn men, either possessed of a sense of humor and jealousy concerted or else void entirely of that virtue and most earnest in their several contemplations of things.

Jimmy himself gives you the impression that he is forever on the verge of laughter, yet is repressing that natural and proper desire lest he waste valuable time which might be employed in telling you a good story.

He has a flat in town, somewhere in the Temple I should imagine, for just as ballast is counter to buoyancy and even balloons are associated with sandbags, so does the joyous heart seek for bleakness of habitation.

Jimmy's brother is, as I say, very serious, as all young Scotsmen are, and looks upon life with solemn eyes, conscious of the beauties of vision and at the same time apprehending all the wastage of its undeveloped natural resources.

He is such a man as would stand speechless before the glories of Niagara Falls, frozen solid in a bitter winter, and would make rapid calculations as to the amount of ice that could be cut, the cost of its transportation, and its profit when delivered c.i.f. New York.

He is like all earnest men, a soldier, paying fleeting visits to town, where he discusses the army in a way which would make the scant hair of the high command rise up like little anti-aircraft guns pointing menacingly to the heavens.

Jimmy got a phone message the other day and recognized the voice of his brother.

"I'd like to come round and see you on a very important matter," said the voice, and Jimmy said, "Come along," albeit cautiously, being prepared for the worst.

Jimmy would never be surprised if his brother came to his flat leading an elephant that he had found wandering about, for he was notoriously fond of animals, and, indeed, the request which the brother had to make when he eventually arrived was startling enough.

Jimmy's brother, burnt of face and wearing the soiled khaki of a blameless life, came into Jimmy's office.

"And where the devil do you come from!" asked Jimmy in his most elderly brotherly tone.

A man, a wicked soldier, had gone on leave and spent many days beyond those specified on Army Form B.260 in riotous and possibly licentious living, and he had been arrested by an unsympathetic constabulary in the act of giving a gratuitous display of bomb-throwing, the improvised grenade being a quart pot, and the entrenched enemy being a somewhat terrified landlord crouching behind the counter. Therefore, Jimmy's brother had been sent up "with a lance-corporal to bring the criminal back to judgment.

"Well?" said Jimmy, on guard.

"Well," repeated Jimmy's brother, impressive to the last degree. "We have got him in London, but we were allowed three days to bring him from Liverpool to the camp, and we have done it in one."

He paused as though expecting Jimmy to read into this bald and uninspiring statement all that was in his mind.

"Well" said Jimmy again. "I suppose you are taking him back to camp?"

"We were allowed three days, and we have done it in one," said Jimmy's brother deliberately, "which means we have two days to spare, and we don't get many spare days in Kitchener 's army; so we have decided to stay in town."

"But," protested Jimmy, the horrible truth dawning upon him slowly, "what is going to happen to the prisoner!"

"That's just it," said Jimmy's brother. "We have got to do something with him." He leant across the table and... "Do you mind looking after him for a couple of days?" he asked, with the nonchalance of one who was demanding a light for a cigar.

Jimmy gasped and said many things which he probably regretted at a later stage, but he told his relative where he would see him before he took charge of this youthful delinquent.

"He is quite a nice chap," protested Jimmy's brother, "when he's sober. Keep him away from the drink. He'll do little jobs around the house." He grew enthusiastic. "He cleans silver," he said suggestively.

But Jimmy would have none of it, for he had no silver that required cleaning.

"Where is your prisoner, now!" he said.

"He's with the corporal," parried Jimmy's brother.

"But where?" insisted Jimmy.

"They're at a picture palace in Regent Street," pleaded this emissary of the crown. "Be a sport and lend us your coal cellar for a couple of days."

But Jimmy was adamant, nor was another friend whom Jimmy's brother was able to beat up any more willing, though it was discovered, in the course of skillful cross-examination conducted by Jimmy's brother, that the friend had an available bathroom.

"What do you want a bathroom for?" urged the young military gentleman passionately.

"To keep my coals in," said the other sardonically.

Eventually Jimmy's brother went down disconsolate, and spent the whole afternoon searching for his prisoner and his superior officer, the two having left the picture palace before he arrived. They were eventually run to earth in a music hall near Piccadilly Circus, and the imprisonment difficulty was got over by taking a couple of rooms in a small temperance hotel in Bloomsbury, the prisoner being locked in one, and his two comrades occupying the other.

The next morning the prisoner protested.

"All the time I am away from the regiment," he said truculently, "I am losing my pay. I want to go back to camp at once."

"You shut up," said Jimmy's brother.

"Haven't you any sense of decency?" demanded the corporal.

"We are going round sight-seeing," explained Jimmy's brother, "and if you behave yourself you can come along, but you will have to pay your own bus fares."

Whereupon the prisoner broke into such a wealth of vile and violent language that they compromised on the question of fares.

Jimmy's brother is a sentimentalist. No less was the corporal, for I gather that they were both Scots.

They found a great tenderness of mind in the vast spaces of St. Paul's Cathedral, though the prisoner, who was a southerner, could do no more than stand with a cynical sneer on his lips, passing remarks about statues and tombs, sarcastic and uncalled for.

It was in the crypt that the man's baseness was finally revealed. Before the grave of Nelson stood Jimmy's brother and the lance-corporal, reverent— almost liquid in their emotions. Jimmy's brother stretched out his hand and laid it upon the tomb of the great admiral.

"Nelson," he murmured, and repeated his oath of allegiance right down to "So help me!" and the corporal, quivering with emotion, followed suit.

They turned to the prisoner. "This is Nelson's tomb," murmured Jimmy's brother urgently.

"To hell with Nelson!" snarled the prisoner. "I'm losing a bob a day!"

So they took him back to camp that very day.

"You don't deserve a holiday," said Jimmy's brother severely.

"An' I don't want one," said the prisoner, "not unless you make it worth me while."

"Men like you ruin the army," said the lance-corporal.

They were still wrangling when the train drew out of the station, leaving Jimmy with tears in his eyes. Yet he was not unhappy.

_______________________

5. The Christmas Cup

COLONEL DESBORO was an easy-going man, and, for himself, did not greatly object to patched carpets, an odd-handled knife or two, and chintz covers that had faded and thinned through over-much washing. But he had no desire that Joan should go through life in an environment of patches and makeshifts.

"He's a very nice fellow, Martin, but—" He shook his head.

The big "but" about the Great Sham of Sunna Lodge was put more definitely by Miss Æthel Morsel later in the day, when Joan Desboro called at Ael Hall, a little too early for the "club," but in nice time to absorb from experienced twenty-six the wisdom so vitally necessary to twenty-one and three months.

"Men," said Æthel, with an air of finality, "are naturally children. They boast and they lie, and mean no harm by it. Children. They never grow up." She said this in the manner of one who had wrapped a clever thought in a gossamer of paradox.

The girl who was perched on the fender of Æthel Morsel's sitting-room sighed and knit her forehead in a tremendous frown. She was more than pretty even in the searching light of a March morning. Her figure was slim, every movement revealed a new and pleasing grace; but she was no philosopher, and her views about men were too concentrated to be of any use in a broad and general conspectus of their merits.

To rich people like Æthel philosophy comes as natural as purring to a cat, but with the poor, philosophy is a painful exercise, And the Desboros were so poor that they could not afford to hide the fact.

"Mark is a little difficult," she admitted reluctantly, but I don't think you quite understand him, Æthel."

"He's American," said Æthel significantly, and when Joan murmured "Canadian," she ignored the distinction.

"He's a boaster and, of course, quite impossible," said Æthel. "We don't even know that he has any money. And he's not 'county'. We had better be very careful." She nodded ominously.

"Why?"

But the warning obliquely flung was not amplified, and there was really no reason why it should have been.

"Martin must be well off— he paid a thousand pounds for a horse," said Joan with some spirit. A thousand pounds was an awful lot.

"Money for horses means nothing," said the practical Æthel. "Quite dreadful people buy horses. Of course he must have money— he does no work. Papa says he is probably living on his capital. And that can end only in bankruptcy."

Not by candlelight or moonlight could Æthel Morsel be described as pretty, She had been "Æthel" in the baptismal register, and "Æthel" she would have been to the end of her days but for the advent of Ælfred Burdenlast, a young man of considerable musical attainments, but with no especial gift for earning his daily bread.

The association was of a transitory kind. He came, made love with a certain delicacy, was figuratively thrown on to the ash-pit by Mr. Morsel, and faded from human ken. Some say that he went to Hollywood and became a cinema star. He left an additional vowel in Æthel's name, and a heart which never again glowed to the music and banners of romance.

The Morsels were the Morsels of Braystone, in the county of Westshire. There was another branch in Northumberland, but nobody knew anything about them; how they ever got to Northumberland is a mystery.

Arthur Persimmin Morsel was very rich, an owner of ten thousand acres, a deer forest, a trout stream, a tract of territory in Angola, a ranch in Canada, and a flat in Park Lane. He was a large pink man, who rode to hounds with the greatest care, and knew every gate and safety path in Westshire. He had never seen a live fox, except at the Zoological Gardens, for he was rather short-sighted. Nevertheless, his picture appeared in certain illustrated weeklies with great regularity as "Mr. Morsel, the well-known fox-hunter." Thus he was depicted on his horse and off, or else with a very black face (flashlight photographs produce that effect sometimes), in a very white shirt and his pink jacket (which also photographed black), at the annual hunt ball.

It is a copybook axiom that riches do not necessarily bring content, and this was the case with Mr. Morsel. He was a hard bargainer, a shrewd buyer, and the sight of money flowing past his golden reservoir, untrapped by the many channels which maintained its height, made him a very unhappy man. And money came easily to him: his luck was phenomenal. He invariably returned from Monte Carlo with an addition to his capital; he never played at the Paddock (of which exclusive club he was one of the most respected— or, at least, one of the oldest members) without rising from the table a winner, though it was uncharitably suggested that he chose his table judiciously, preferring the society of callow and monied youth to the competition of hard-faced men to whom the playing of poker was a natural instinct. And when he had a house-party at Matte Hall the male guests were chosen as carefully. He once won four thousand pounds at a sitting from a youth named Jones, and derived great satisfaction from his coup, for by so doing, as he said, he "knocked the infernal nonsense out of the young cub."

All foolish young men were "young cubs" to Mr. Morsel, just as all gentlemen who never went beyond half-crown bridge were "old foxes."

Jones is a very usual name, sometimes borne by unusual people. Ferdie Jones, for example, was an unusual youth. He had been desperately in love with Æthel, and had advanced the impossible suggestion that with the four thousand pounds left over from his patrimony he should turn Sunna Lodge into a poultry farm, marry Æthel, and live happily ever after.

Long days had passed since Æthel lost her heart to an impecunious violinist. She had acquired balance and a sense of what was due to wealth. Important people had looked wistfully at her, a rackety peer had once kissed her. She consulted her father about Ferdie. Mr. Morsel frowned at his cigar and invited Ferdie to spend a week-end at the Hall.

It was a fair game, if anything is fair when one player of écarté had learnt the game only a few weeks before, and the other could draw cards in his sleep.

So Ferdie Jones went away, and Sunna Lodge appeared in the back page of The Times as:

"A desirable hunting box in a good hunting district. Two packs. Company's water, own electric plant. A bargain...."

Once a week during the winter it was the usual thing to drop in at Matte Hall for tea. Nobody knew how the practice started, but Matte Hall on Thursday afternoon became a sort of county club.

The big oak-lined banqueting hall, with its huge fireplace piled with blazing logs in the colder weather, was crowded with people between the hours of five and six-thirty. They sat on the ancient settles, or (if they were young and "rheumatics" was one of the missing words of their bright lexicons) they perched on the window seats or leant against the panelled walls, adding new lustre to the polish.

And everybody talked at once.

"We got on to a new scent at Figgerty Farm— a vixen, and she gave us a run for two and a half hours, my boy! Killed at Reverly Copse... went to earth near Crawford's place.... He's a half-brother to Bachelor's Fancy— a fine 'lepper' with legs as sound as a bell of brass.... You can't do better than go to Critchfords; the breeches I bought there four years ago are like new...."

They all talked at once— all except Mr. Mark Martin, who drifted from group to group, listening with a smile on his good-looking face.

Nobody took much notice of Mark. They were too polite to roast him, too satisfied with the possession of his guilty secret to pursue inquiries any further. And when he found an opening, as he sometimes did, they listened with extraordinary courtesy.

"You don't get hunting in this county that any way approaches the sport we have in Canada. I remember an old hunter of mine...."

They listened, not looking at one another, interjecting in the proper places a conventional expression of their surprise and wonder. But everybody knew that he couldn't ride!

Whether Mark Martin was an American, a Canadian, or plain English, he was certainly an amiable man. His age was something under thirty, but not very far under, and it was he who purchased, from the agents of the departed Jones, Sunna Lodge, that desirable residence. He was not "county" in the strict sense. You could not be "county" unless you had an immediate interest in a family vault, or could claim part proprietorship in one of those commemorative tablets which adorn the walls of so many parish churches, and which usually start off with a coat-of-arms and end with:

Also the wife of the above

Sir Thos. Smithington, Kt.

But hunting breeds a sort of democracy. Stout men and women, hard-riding and wind-bitten (as they are described by local reporters), grow tender towards one mother in the common bond which unites all who go forth on horses to the destruction of vulpes alopex.

Mr. Martin had a stable of horses in training, and was a member of the hunt, and he had often appeared in the field, but generally on foot. Sometimes he would come to a meet in his expensive car, but never had he appeared on horseback. It was regrettable, he explained, but he had kicked an ankle, or he had bruised a knee, or he had one of those fearful headaches which made riding a positive torture.

He had also been photographed in hunting pink, and his picture had appeared alongside of Mr. Morsel's. He had been photographed at the hunt ball sitting side by side with Lady Mary Seprals (that hard-riding, wind-bitten woman). But nobody had ever seen him riding a horse.

There was an occasion when he turned up at the Highcliffe Point-to-Point wearing jockey's breeches and top boots, and it had been announced, not only in the local newspaper, but in those stately metropolitan organs devoted to the sport of kings, that he would ride his own horse, Ripple Along, in the Highcliffe Handicap.

But this time he had a sprained shoulder, and with great regret handed over his mount to a professional rider, who won. Indeed, many of Mr. Martin's horses won races, though in other hands than his.

When it was given out that he would ride Lumber in the Hunt Gold Cup, people remembered the sprain and gave him another chance. But this time he cut his finger (and there was the hugely bandaged digit in proof). Some talk there was of asking him to resign from the hunt, but nothing came of it.

And then came the supreme bluff of the Great Sham. He entered Lumber in the Christmas Cup at Wolverston Races. The Christmas Cup is to hunting people the blue ribbon of steeplechasing. It is the "paramount and Olympic prize" which brings the shires in full force to Wolverston.

Moreover, it was publicly announced that Lumber would be ridden by Mr. Martin himself. Colonel Desboro heard this news at first hand, and wriggled uncomfortably in the deep and none-too-comfortable arm-chair.

"What a weird beggar you are, Martin!" he said, becoming frank in his irritation. "Enter the horse by all means, but why tell people you're going to ride it?"

Mark looked at him thoughtfully. " I don't know. I thought I would," he said. He tapped his long riding-boots with his hunting-crop— he never went abroad without this evidence of his horsemanship. "I rather like to see fellows riding their own horses."

"But, Mark, is it necessary you should ride at all?" broke in Joan. Her voice was troubled, and that frown of hers had become almost immovable in the past few days. "People are so horrid about— things."

His look of astonishment was badly simulated.

"And the Wolverston course wants an awful lot of riding, Mark. Captain Burnley, who won the race last year, told me there wasn't a course in England, not even the National course, that took so much out of a horse and a rider."

"In Canada—" began Mark.

"This isn't Canada," interrupted the Colonel shortly. "This is Wolverston, and the Christmas Cup isn't a point-to-point affair. You'll have to compete against men like Ridley and Burnley and other fellows who are as good as the best professionals. I think your horse has a big chance— I was telling Joan just before you came— and I suppose in the end it will win. But why on earth commit yourself to the statement that you will ride?"

He glanced across at his daughter and signalled her to leave the room, and when they were alone he said: "I'm going to talk straight to you, Martin. Joan and you have developed rather a friendship in the past six months. What is there in it?"

The younger man eyed him steadily. "There's a lot in it, Colonel," he said quietly. "I love Joan and I'm hoping that you will give her to me— one of these days."

Colonel Desboro filled his pipe with great deliberation.

"It comes down to a question of your prospects, my young friend," he said gruffly.

It required a physical and spiritual effort on his part to mention so mundane a subject as money, but he braced himself.

"You have an income, I suppose?"

Mark Martin nodded, "I have three thousand a year," he said.

The Colonel looked up quickly in surprise and fingered his chin. "That's a pretty good income," he admitted.

"So Mr. Morsel seems to think," replied the other gravely.

"Morsel? What has he to do with it?"

The young man studied the bone crook of his crop as though he had only just discovered its use.

"He's been making inquiries about my position, fortunately through a friend of mine in London. He happens to be a commercial agent, and inquiries of that character come to him."

The Colonel sat upright, pipe in hand. "The dickens he has!" he said softly. "Do you play cards, Martin?"

Mark Martin shook his head. "No," he said. "I like an occasional gamble, but not on cards. Why do you ask, Colonel?"

But Colonel Desboro was too charitable to give expression to his thoughts. Instead: "Do you mind if I speak plainly to you, my friend?"

Mark shook his head, guessing what was coming.

"You are not really a very good rider, are you?"

Gently as the question was put, it was blunt enough, and the young man resumed his study of the hunting-crop.

"I'm one of the best riders in Canada," he said doggedly, and the Colonel smiled.

"We've all got our little weaknesses, my boy," he said kindly. "I remember when I was a kid I distressed my poor dear mother— who'd rather have died than tell a lie— by describing a dog-fight that I hadn't seen!"

He waited.

"I've never seen a dog-fight, either," said Mark simply. "If you want me to say that I am a bad rider, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. I'm really awfully good. And, Colonel— I'm very fond of Joan and everything, but I've not asked her to marry me— yet."

Colonel Desboro looked at him sharply. "Is there my special reason?"

The other nodded. "A very good reason. Nothing discreditable to me, but— well, I don't know. Would you mind very much if nothing was definitely settled until after the Christmas Cup?"

Colonel Desboro considered this matter. "No," he said slowly, "there is no desperate hurry. But why the Christmas Cup?"

"Until after I've won it."

Mark was avoiding the questioning eyes of the older man.

"Till after you've won it, eh? " The Colonel pursed his lips, and then: "All right, let it go at that. Jackson trains the horse, doesn't he?"

Mark nodded.

"I'll come over one morning and see you do an exercise gallop," said the Colonel, not without malice, and had the satisfaction of seeing the young man start.

"I'd rather you didn't," he said; "I'm really fearfully nervous— that's my only weakness. If I knew anybody was looking on, I should feel terrible. It's a sort of stage-fright," he explained lamely. "I don't know whether you ever had it?"

"I've never been on the stage." The Colonel was unusually blunt that morning. "In fact, I've never pretended to be anything else but what I am, and I think other people would be happier if they followed my example."

"I must tell Morsel that," said Mark innocently, "for he is pretending that he has taken a violent liking to me!"

Mr. Arthur Persimmin Morsel was a gentleman who had many of the attributes of the eagle. He could hover on extended pinions and, to the uninitiated eye, appear to be motionless, when in reality he was planning a devastating swoop.

It was the news in The Westshire Gazette that made him hover a little more tensely.

"Lumber is a certain runner in the Christmas Cup. He will be ridden by his owner, Mr. Mark Martin, the wealthy young Canadian who a year ago purchased Sunna Lodge, which has been unoccupied since Mr. Ferdinand Jones went abroad. Mr. Martin is an enthusiastic fox-hunter, and is certain to take a lot of beating in the Cup."

Amongst the many channels which drained into the golden pit of Mr. Morsel was one labelled Westshire Gazette, of which he was the principal shareholder and chairman of directors. He rang up the editor, a civil and obliging man.

"Where did you get that paragraph about Martin?" he asked.

The editor begged him to wait one moment whilst he interviewed the chief reporter, who was also the chief sub-editor and all the other sub-editors there were. After a while he came back.

"It was written by Mr. Martin himself," he said.

Morsel smiled into his trim white moustache. "I thought so," he said.

The training of Lumber for the Christmas Cup was taken in hand during the month of November. Every morning Mr. Martin could be seen driving in the direction of his trainer's stables, and invariably he was attired in riding breeches and most businesslike leggings. And every day, a few hours later, he would alight from his car at the end of the village, and come walking briskly up the street, his boots splashed with mud. And at that hour there were quite a number of people to be met with in the village. Joan met him twice. Mr. Morsel saw him on several occasions and was rather amused. To Æthel one evening he said:

"What are you doing about Christmas, my dear?" Æthel was doing nothing about Christmas.

"You might ask the Desboros to dinner, and ask that fellow Martin over. And, in case I forget it, I'd like you to put the Desboro girl next to this young cub."

"Good heavens— why?" asked Æthel.

Mr. Morsel was lighting a cigar, and she had to wait till he stopped to breathe. "A whim of mine."

"Is he, really training his horse?" asked Æthel.

"The vicar told me that he had seen him come in, his boots and breeches splashed with mud."

"He does that half-way between here and Jackson's place," said Mr. Morsel, without smiling. " Breaks off a twig, dips it into the nearest puddle and flicks it round. I've had a man watching him for a week."

"But has he been riding the horse?" insisted Æthel.

"He hasn't been near the horse," replied her father. All the riding has been done by Jenkins, the stable boy."

"Is he mad?" demanded Æthel, who could find no other explanation.

"No, my dear— vanity, just vanity. Not a bad fellow apart from that infernal nonsense of his. I suppose these Americans like to be thought well of, and cut a dash with their money. Don't forget the Christmas Eve dinner. Write pretty soon in case they make another engagement."

It was the practice of Mr. Morsel to go to London once a week to a board meeting. He was methodical in his habits. He usually walked from the terminus to Piccadilly, where his town car was waiting for him. This walk supplied the constitutional which was denied him by his early departure from Matte Hall. He knew Priggins's Riding School very well, and passed its gates every morning he came to London. Indeed, he had a friendly feeling for Priggins's Riding School, because over the office entrance, by the side of the gate, was a small sign, supported on wrought-iron brackets, depicting a noble-looking fox-hunter in a beautifully-fitting pink coat, jumping a huge fence with a confident smile on his handsome face. Once he had taken Æthel that way and had pointed out the curious resemblance between the handsome, smiling gentleman and himself.

He had turned into the street which holds Priggins's establishment, when ahead of him he saw a familiar figure, It was Mr. Mark Martin, and he was hurrying along, evidently having left the taxi which was turning as Mr. Morsel came into the street. He moved furtively and, with a nervous glance round, disappeared through the gates of the riding school. Mr. Morsel's jaw dropped in astonishment, and then a curious gleam came to his eyes. He stopped opposite the open gates and looked into the sand-covered courtyard. It was empty. Without hesitation he turned into the little office, and gathered that the gentleman in riding breeches and highly-polished boots who was writing a letter as he came in was either Mr. Priggins himself or some one in authority. It proved to be both.

"Oh yes, Mr. Morsel," said Priggins respectfully when the visitor had cautiously revealed himself, with a request that the object of his call should be treated confidentially. "I know your name very well, sir; I saw a photograph of you in County Sport the other day."

"Very likely, very likely," said Mr. Morsel, with a grand air of indifference. "Now, I want you to tell me, Mr. Priggins, in the strictest confidence, do you know that young man who came into your yard a few minutes ago?"

There was a little window above the desk which commanded a view of the courtyard, and Mr. Priggins had duly noted the arrival.

"Oh, he?" He chuckled as at a good joke. "He's a gentleman from the country— Martin by name."

"What does he do here?"

Again Mr. Priggins smiled. "Well, to tell you the truth, he's rather a source of income to me, Mr. Morsel. He's been taking riding lessons off and on for the past month, but I've never been able to get him out of the school."

A slow smile dawned on Mr. Morsel's pink face.

"A good rider, is he?" he asked almost joyfully.

"Good rider! If I only could get him to sit on a horse properly, I'd be happy! I've given up trying, and have handed him over to one of my assistants. There are some people you can never teach to ride: they haven't the gift for it."

Morsel considered. "Is it possible to get a peep at him?" he suggested.

Mr. Priggins nodded, took down a key from the board-lined wall, and, leading the way through a door, traversed the harness-room and conducted the inquirer up a steep and narrow iight of dark stairs. At the top he paused, his hand on a door.

"If you don't want him to know you're here, you'd better not speak," he said, and Mr. Morsel nodded.

The riding-master opened the door cautiously. They were on a small wooden balcony overlooking the school, which was a fairly large hall, its door covered deep with peat moss. Riding at a jog-trot was Mr. Mark Martin. is back was towards the observer, but even if he had faced the other way it seemed doubtful whether he would have noticed anything but the extreme unsteadiness of the large roan horse he was riding. He swayed in the saddle like a drunken man, and bumped up and down at the psychologically wrong moment in a manner which was curious to see. And all the time there was an exchange of instruction and protest between the rider and a sad young man in gaiters who directed the lesson.

"Keep your elbows down, sir. Your toes in, sir. Put your shoulders back, sir. No, sir, don't hold him by the mane. Walk!"

"Can't walk! Beastly thing jolts. Whoaa, you brute! Am I doing any better to-day?"

Even the riding instructor, inured as he was to the habit of praise, would not answer in the affirmative. Mr. Morsel shook with laughter and his face grew purple.

"Now, sir, just try trotting again. Keep your elbows down by your side. Your hands up— that's right, sir. Now, sir..."

The indignant horse broke into a steady trot. Mr. Mark Martin rolled like a ship in a heavy gale. He lost an iron and clutched at the mane. He slipped forward on the horse's withers, he pushed himself back on to the horse's quarters, and finally he slipped ungracefully from the horse's neck to the tanned floor.

"Good heavens! Phew?"

A touch on Mr. Morsel's elbow and he withdrew through the door and down the stairs. A few minutes later he was walking away, swinging his umbrella, a beatific smile upon his face.

CHRISTMAS EVE at Matte Hall: the countryside still white with the heavy snows that had fallen on the Monday; cedar logs burning in the great fireplace: holly wreaths decorously hung on the panelled walls; and a gay company about the generous board of Mr. Persimmin Morsel.

And everybody (except one) was happy, for the very season was as a vintage wine, and Mark found himself, to his comfort, placed next to Joan Desboro. There was a whisper that Æthel's engagement to Lord Winderley was to be announced, but this proved to be premature, though his lordship (who was a fawn-coloured man with a heavy yellow moustache) was seated next to her, and from time to time they looked at one another understandingly.

There was no talk but of the Wolverston races and the Cup. The redoubtable Captain Burnley was there, an apple-faced man who regarded all public meals as tiresome preliminaries to the consumption of old brandy, and Lady Mary, who had bought a new hunter at Tattersalls' and had discovered unsuspected values in her purchase. The Rev. Walter Affelow, the famous hunting parson, who was famous rather for his prowess over a country than for his other Christian qualities, was there, and Gonnington-Drake, one of the leading lights of the Paddock Club; even Boultby Malcolm, the hunting banker, and, facing Mark, Colonel Desboro, a very uneasy man, but not quite so uneasy as the nervous girl who sat by Mark's side.

"Oh, there'll be racing all right," said Burnley confidently. "The course dries up easily and gets most of the sun that is going. I went round the track this morning. By Jove, those fences will take some jumping! A horse has only got to touch them and you're down— stiff as a park wall!"

"The water kills them," said the Rev. Walter Affelow complacently. "After weather like this the take-off will be like batter pudding!"

"Riding yours?"

It was Mr. Morsel's careless inquiry that cut through the conversation.

Mark nodded with a smile. "Yes, I shall be riding mine. What is more, I shall win. Don't any of you people miss Lumber! I went down into Wolverston yesterday and had a look at the Cup— it's a beauty! Of course, I've got dozens of 'em," he went on, and with one accord the whole table stopped talking, "but, curiously enough, I've never had a gold cup."

"I don't remember seeing them on your sideboard," said the vicar.

"I've got a packing-case full of 'em. I haven't troubled to get them out," said Mark carelessly.

"How's the horse?" asked Burnley.

"Never better," replied Mark complacently, as he sipped his wine. "He gave me a wonderful ride this morning. I'm a little worried about the water jump, too, but I think I can get over that. The wretched people who bet at Wolverston would scream if you asked them for the odds to fifty pounds."

Everybody agreed as to this, for the poverty, or parsimony, of Wolverston bookmakers was notorious. The girl by his side was groaning inwardly. She tried ineffectually to turn the conversation in another direction.

"I thought of keeping Lumber for the National," Mark rattled on. "One could win a fortune there."

"You can win a fortune at Wolverston," said Mr. Morsel slowly. "Come now, Martin, to oblige you I will turn bookmaker for your especial benefit!"

There were eight people at that table who saw the fly thrown and waited breathlessly for the fish to rise. And he rose nobly.

"By Jove, would you?" said Mark.

"He will be at least six to one against," said Morsel, "especially if you ride him yourself. Now, I'll make you an offer. I'll lay you twelve thousand to two that Lumber doesn't win the Cup."

"I'll take you," said Mark, half rising from his seat.

"Wait a moment. This is the only condition— that you are the rider."

They saw the change that came to the younger man's face. The girl was looking at him appealingly, and her heart sank as she saw the smile fade.

"That-er-that isn't necessary, is it?" he asked. "I mean, suppose anything happened to me— and I had rather a twinge of rheumatism this morning."

"You say you're going to ride the horse, you're the best rider in Canada, and I'm offering you a wager that you couldn't get and will not get on the course."

And now the company knew just why Mr. Mark Martin had been invited to dinner, and why the girl had been placed by him. He must either refuse, humiliate her hopelessly, and be completely and finally exposed, or he must save his face at the cost of two thousand pounds. He looked left and right as though seeking a way of escape.

"I'll take your wager, Mr. Morsel," he said loudly.

"You can make it eighteen thousand to three thousand, if you like," suggested Morsel.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never moving from the face of the Great Sham.

"I'l1 take that!"

"There you are," Mr, Morsel beamed, "there you are, my boy! You've made eighteen thousand pounds! If I don't pay you," he said jovially, "you can post me at the Paddock Club.

And that, for the girl, was the tragedy of the evening.

MARK drove her back in his car to the little cottage. Colonel Desboro sat behind and brooded on the vanity of youth. As for Joan, she did not speak until he helped her to alight from the machine.

"Why did you do it, Mark?" she asked, and he knew from her voice that she was really hurt.

"I am awfully sorry, but I had to do it, my dear."

When Colon Desboro had gone in, she lingered. "Mark, why did you tell father—" She did not finish the sentence.

"About not asking you until the Cup was run?"

She nodded; her face in the moonlight was very pale, and he thought he had never seen her look so eerily beautiful.

"Is there some reason why I should not— bear your name?" she asked.

"There is— yes," he answered awkwardly. "But I think that reason will not exist after Boxing Day."

THE authorities invariably drafted large forces of police to Wolverston for Boxing Day, and they were needed to control the crowd which flocked up to Knights' Field, where the races were held. An unclouded blue sky, an invigorating, frosty morning, and the little stands and paddock were crowded; the field where the motors were parked was black with shining roofs.

Joan did not see The Sham until after the second race, and then, with a groan, she noted that, although he was wearing his jockey breeches and boots, he walked with a limp.

"It's nothing," he said almost savagely. "I knocked my knee getting into the car."

"You won't be able to ride?"

"I think so." He was almost brusque.

Mr. Morsel, in his big tweed coat with the fur collar, was also an amused observer of the limp. He saw Mark disappear into the stewards' room, and laughed softly.

Æthel was never at her best on a cold day— her nose had a tendency to redden in the northern breezes— but there was a very good reason why she, who never went even to point-to-point meetings because of this disability, which even a powder-puff would not overcome, should have an interest in the Christmas Cup. For Mr. Mark Martin was to give her an additional wedding present. It is true he did not know that his three thousand pounds would be invested in the most luxurious and expensive of motor-cars. but that, indeed, was its destination. Moreover, she had a very natural and proper desire to be present on the occasion of the great exposure.

"He has gone in to tell the stewards he can't ride, and, by Jove, he's only just in time!" said Morsel, for already the riders were coming from the weighing-room, their gaudy caps showing incongruously above heavy overcoats and turned-up collars.

But Mr. Martin said nothing to the stewards about his inability to ride. He interviewed the three stewards, and they accepted certain alterations which he suggested.

"It's too late to alter it on the card or even on the number-board. You'll have to go out as you are," said the senior steward. "Have you notified the change, in accordance with the rules, to the Hunt Committee?"

"Yes," said Mark, and showed the letter he had received from the august secretary of National Hunt.

"That's all right," said the steward. "You'd better hurry up: the saddling bell will be ringing in a few minutes. Have you weighed out?"

Mark smiled. "Yes, I've weighed out," he said, and, to the everlasting amazement of Mr. Morsel, he came out from the weighing-room swinging his whip, limping a little, but showing no other sign of perturbation.

Mr. Morsel watched like a man in a dream, and saw him get up on to the back of the big chestnut. He cantered down to the post and did not fall off. When the flag fell he was the first away, heading his field by half a length. The preliminary fence was an easy one, but it was sufficiently difficult to make an inexperienced rider fall. So far from falling, Mark seemed part of the horse. He overleapt his antagonists at every fence, and took the water jump in his stride.

Joan stood by her father on a farm waggon, open-mouthed, amazed, dreaming, she thought, so that she pinched herself. But she was wide awake. Lumber was leading by a field. He hopped the two last fences like a bird and cantered up the straight, an easy winner by a distance.

Mr. Morsel said nothing. He was incapable of speech. He could only stare, in a mad kind of way, as, with a smile on his brown face, Martin touched his hat to the applauding fox-hunters, and then he said hollowly:

"I've been caught."

But he sent his cheque that night. The cheque had been cleared when he met Mark Martin, and would have passed him with a glare, but Mark stopped him.

"I think you ought to know, Mr. Morsel," he said, "that I raced in an assumed name."

"Eh?" said Morsel, suddenly alert. "That isn't allowed under the rules."

"The horse was not nominated in my name, but the name of my trainer," said Mark quietly, "and at the last minute I notified the Hunt Committee that I was not Mark Martin, but Mark Martin Jones, and received permission to ride.

"Jones!" The name had a familiar ring.

"You knew a brother of mine— Ferdie. He's on my ranch now in Canada, Morsel. He had the effrontery to fall in love with your daughter, and you cleared up that entanglement by taking four thousand pounds from him at a card game he knew nothing about. I'm not saying it wasn't a straight game: I'm merely stating a fact. I am sending him four out of the eighteen thousand you so kindly gave me." He emphasised "gave." "And it was a gift, Mr. Morsel." There was a smile in the eyes that met the glare of the infuriated man. "You see, I am the best amateur rider in Canada. By the way, did you enjoy your morning in the riding school? That was the fourth occasion on which I tried to lure you in— you hadn't noticed me before. Four is my lucky number!"

Mr. Morsel waved his hands wildly, gurgled something, and passed on.

"I STILL don't realise," said Joan that night, "What was the dreadful secret you had to tell me. Why shouldn't I bear your name?"

He shook his head with gentle melancholy.

"Jones!" he said.

"And a very nice name," she said with conviction.

_____________________________

6: Killer Kay

WHEN the Eastbourne Express pulled out of Victoria Station on a bright afternoon in June, Mary Boyd had neither eyes for the glories of the Sussex scenery through which the train was presently flying, nor for the heartening sunshine, nor yet for the other occupant of the carnage in which she sat. For the greater part of an hour he was so immersed in the study of newspapers, that he also seemed oblivious to her presence.

The express was shrieking through Three Bridges when, looking up, she caught his eyes fixed on her. A lanky, lean-faced man of forty, his hair grey at the temples, but for the rest a deep brown, brushed back from his forehead, he had the appearance of a successful professional man. He was dressed with finicking care; his morning coat fitted perfectly, his dark trousers were carefully creased, and the silk hat on the seat by his side polished so that it shone. In that one glance she took him in, from the pearl pin in his cravat to the shiny point of his enamelled shoes. And there her interest might have ended if those deep-set eyes of his had not held hers in fascinated bondage.

Only for a second and then, flushing, she turned her gaze to the countryside which was running swiftly past.

"Aren't you Miss Boyd?"

His voice was remarkably deep and rich, and in it was an indefinable quality of sympathy.

She turned her eyes again in his direction, surprise, suspicion, resentment at this intrusion into her sorrow, manifested in that one glance.

"Yes, I am Miss Boyd," she said quietly, and wondered if she had ever met him. It was hardly likely, for his was a face which she would not have forgotten.

"I am Dr. Kay of the Home Office," he introduced himself, and she was puzzled. Dr. Kay? She remembered something about him. Frank must have spoken of him.

"I did not wait for the end of the inquest," he went on. "I was trying to find the verdict in the last editions. I suppose it was...?"

She nodded, her lips compressed, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Bertram Boyd had not been an ideal father. His pitiful weakness had estranged him from his family, and had brought his wife to a premature end. Yet there were memories of him that Mary treasured. She remembered him before his love of the bottle had mastered him— a jolly, good-natured man, who had carried her on his shoulder through the garden of Ashcome House. So that was how this stranger had seen her; in that dismal court where twelve bored tradesmen had adjudicated upon the method by which Colonel Bertram Boyd had ended his life. They might well regard it as a waste of time, since Boyd had been found one morning by a horrified kitchenmaid, with his head in a gas oven and all the taps turned on. And this in the town house of Sir John Thorley, his brother-in-law.

"I was in court," said the lean-faced man. "I wonder... I realise it must pain you to speak of these things even to a doctor— but I wonder if you can tell me whether your father had shown any suicidal tendencies before?"

She hesitated, loath, as he knew, to talk about the hideous tragedy which clouded her life. And yet those eyes of his were very compelling, as they were kind. He looked like a man who felt intensely, though it was hardly likely, she told herself, that a doctor of experience should feel things very deeply.

"Yes, sometimes... he used to drink a great deal, and lately, since my aunt's death— Lady Thorley, you know— he had been very depressed. Uncle John took him to town, thinking that a change of scene and new interests might brighten him, but I don't think that his new life had any effect. I had a letter from Sir John only a day before— before this dreadful thing happened, saying that poor father had been strange in his manner."

"But," persisted the other, "did your father ever say to you, 'I am tired of life,' or anything of that kind?"

She shook her head.

"No. But he has said it to Uncle John... it came out in the evidence."

Dr. Kay was silent. He sat hunched up in a corner of the compartment, a heavy frown on his face, his lips pursed, his eyes fixed on the carpeted floor.

"I wish I had stayed, but unfortunately I had an appointment. Was anything found in your father's room?"

Again she seemed disinclined to answer.

"Two whisky bottles— one empty, the other nearly empty," she said.

"Was he dressed when he was found?"

She nodded.

"Fully dressed, except he was in his stockinged feet. He had put on his slippers earlier in the evening. Sir John's valet, in his evidence, said that when he went into the room the last thing that night he was sitting in his slippers."

"Can you tell me what kind of slippers he wore?"

Her gesture of distaste was not lost on the questioner.

"They were bathroom slippers— the kind without backs that you slip your feet into. I am awfully sorry if I seem rude, Dr. Kay, but I really wish not to discuss this matter."

He nodded gravely.

"I understand that, Miss Boyd. Will you please believe that I am not asking out of idle curiosity? Nevertheless, I am being unpardonably cruel, for I could discover all these things without questioning you. I had met your aunt, by the way; she was always an invalid, and if I remember aright, she died of scarlet fever. There was some story of a burglar having frightened her. Do you live in Eastbourne?"

Her father had a house there, she told him, and he went on to talk enthusiastically of Sussex. He was a Sussex man, and to him there was no other county in the world. He once had a cottage on the downs, but a wandering Zeppelin making for Portsmouth had dropped a bomb, which had left a large hole filled with splinters of furniture where the cottage had been.

"You have built another, doctor?"

He shook his head.

"No. I am going to Eastbourne on business," he said, and did not enlarge upon the object of his visit.

Frank Hallwell was waiting for her at the station— a tall, athletic figure that was good to look upon. In the excitement of meeting him she did not say good-bye to her travelling companion.

"I was a beast to let you go up alone, darling," said the young man as he tucked her arm in his. "I should have taken no notice of your commands. Thank God it is all over."

She heaved a quick sigh.

"Don't let us talk about it," she said, and then saw a tall hat shining above the press of passengers at the barriers.

"Do you know him?" she asked. "The man in the silk hat— he travelled down with me."

Frank Hallwell followed the direction of her eyes.

"Good Lord!" he said. "It is Killer Kay."

"Killer Kay!" she said, puzzled. "I know his name is Kay, but why 'Killer'?"

Frank was a rising lawyer in the Public Prosecutor's office, and was an authority upon her travelling companion.

"They call him 'Killer' at the Home Secretary's office because he has sent more men to the gallows than any three men in this country. There isn't a criminal in England who doesn't know him by name, for he is one of the greatest crime experts the world has known. Lombrose and Mantazana were kindergarten pupils compared with Killer."

She shivered.

"I suppose he is down here in connection with that beach murder that everybody is talking about," he went on enthusiastically. "I wish I had seen him. I would have introduced you."

"Frank, please..."

He was instantly penitent.

Frank Hallwell lived with his father in a house adjoining the three-acre estate of the late Colonel Boyd.

He had spent the evening with the girl the second night after her return, and was drinking a night-cap preparatory to turning in, when there was announced the man for whom he had devoted two days of fruitless search.

"This is a pleasant surprise, doctor," he said, helping the visitor to divest himself of his shining oilskins, for half a gale was blowing up the Channel, and the rain splashed ceaselessly against the curtained windows. "I knew that you were here, and I've been looking for you. You travelled down with Miss Boyd, to whom, by the way, I am engaged."

Killer Kay had a smile of infinite sweetness.

"Had I known that you were Miss Boyd's fiancé, I should have looked you up two nights ago, HallweIl. I only learnt that fact to-night."

He preceded the young man into his snug study, chose a cigar from the open box with the greatest deliberation, and sank with a little sigh of comfort into a big arm-chair.

"She died accidentally," he said. "I have been experimenting—"

"She— who?" asked the startled Frank.

"The girl on the beach... I'm sorry." Kay smiled again at the alarm he had caused. "The local police were satisfied that the girl was murdered. The man in custody swears that the stone fell from the cliff above. Nobody has ever seen stones fall from the cliff, but they do fall at night. I was nearly killed an hour ago by one. They were lovers, and had found what they thought was a cosy and sheltered spot under the cliff. It is a death trap, and if nobody has seen the stones that come down, it is because the cliff chooses the dark hours for its eccentric shedding of rock."

"He is innocent?"

"Undoubtedly. I have examined the body... however, that was not what I intended talking about. How is Sir John?"

"Thorley? Did they tell you he was down? Yes, he came this afternoon. Poor chap, he is terribly upset about the whole affair."

Dr. Kay pulled at his cigar, his eyes half closed, a picture of content.

"I wonder if I could meet him?" he asked at last. "I have an idea that he may throw some light upon a very peculiar circumstance attending Boyd's death— his valet would do as well, of course, but I prefer tapping the stream at the source."

"That is easy. He is staying over for a day or so to settle the Colonel's estate. Sir John is being very decent about it all, and has advanced poor Mary a thousand to carry on until the estate is administered.... Rich? I think he is very rich. He has a big house in town, an estate in Worcestershire, and a villa at Mentone. He carries very large sums about with him, which isn't very wise. For example, he paid Mary in notes."

Killer Kay was sitting upright, his eyes blazing.

"Notes, eh? Fine!"

"I don't see anything 'fine' about paying in banknotes, doctor," smiled Frank.

"You don't, eh? Well— anyway, we shall see."

Next night he strolled up the long avenue to the Boyds' house, and before he was announced Mary Boyd came out into the hall to meet him.

"I had no idea I was travelling with such a celebrity, doctor," she said, with a faint smile. "I have not told my uncle about your— your profession. He is rather worried just now and I thought it might..."

"Exactly, Miss Boyd," Killer Kay smiled. "You are very wise. I suppose you have been very busy?"

She nodded.

"Signing things, eh? With witnesses?"

She nodded again.

"Uncle John hates lawyers; my own is coming to-morrow, but there were one or two things that concerned poor daddy and which we felt, for the sake of his memory, we ought to keep in the family.... I don't know why I tell you this," she added almost sharply, and laughed.

He had thought she was pretty in the train; he saw now that she was beautiful.

"Before we go in, will you do me a favour?"

Her eyebrows rose.

"Why, surely... if I can."

"Will you promise me that the next time you come to London you will wire me the train by which you are travelling?"

She stared.

"But how— why?"

"Will you? You promised you would, if you could."

"I will, if it pleases you, but..."

"But me no buts," he said good-humouredly, and followed her into the drawing-room.

Sir John Thorley was a stout, red-faced man, with white moustache and heavy white eyebrows. He looked to be a peppery colonel who had served many years in India, and his manner was so irascible as to support this view of him.

"Glad to meet you, doctor," he snapped. "Glad to meet you. Friend of young Hallwell— hum."

He generally added a doubtful "hum" after any phrase which might be construed into a compliment. It was as though he thought he had gone too far, or had offered a larger meed of affability than the object deserved. Very soon he ignored the doctor altogether, and addressed himself solely to the girl.

"It is a big house for a young gal to run," he said, shaking his head. "You'd do better, my dear, if you took a flat in town and put up at an hotel here. I simply can't ask you to stay at my house— simply can't, after— well, you understand. But you mustn't stay here alone in this big house."

"Why not, Uncle John?" she asked, amused for a second (it struck Dr. Kay that she was incapable of being amused for longer in her present frame of mind).

"Why not? My dear good gal, I should be sick with fright. First your dear aunt, then your dear father— no, no, I can't stand it. I must have you where I can see you, hum. After my burglar, my dear... no solitude. He killed your poor dear aunt, the blackguard. Gave her a fright, probably infected the house with the beastly scarlet fever that carried her off."

Mary went out of the room a little while later and Dr. Kay seized the opportunity.

"Sir John, where were Colonel Boyd's slippers found?"

Sir John blinked at him.

"Where were... don't know what you mean, sir. Boyd's slippers? In his room, sir. Where the devil could they be found?"

"They might have been on his feet," said the Killer gently. "I gather they were soft slippers. I wonder why he took them off?"

"Huh? Never thought of that. Anyway, he was mad. I haven't told her, but he was stark, staring mad. Been drinking heavily. Terrible. Couldn't stop him. Very sad."

He shook his big head, and just then the girl came back and the conversation was changed.

The next morning Killer Kay went to London and spent the day pursuing certain inquiries. In the afternoon he left by the Western Express, carrying with him a Home Office order.

He spent the night in Plymouth, and the next morning a hired car carried him to Princetown-on-the-Moors.

A circle of men slouched round a stone-flagged circle. Between each was a space of four feet. Mostly they kept their eyes fixed on the ground, for there was little or nothing for them to see. One of the sides of the quadrilateral in which they exercised was a high wall of grey stone; another was formed by the end of the ugly chapel, covered with black pitch to ensure the hundred-years-old brick-work from decay. A third side was formed by a companion wall, and the fourth by the stub "B" ward with its yellow grill-protected door.

At three points outside of the circle stood uniformed men— silent, watchful, suspicious. They carried no weapons, but drooping from the side- pocket of one was the worn leather strap of a truncheon. The circle moved at an even pace— brown-faced, unshaven men in shabby yellow, their legs encased in buttoned gaiters, their blue-and-white striped shirts open at their red throats. Perched on each head was a nondescript black cap ornamented with letters of the alphabet crudely embroidered. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the heavy boots crashed on the stone walk.

"Stop talking there!"

A sharp order from one of the watchful officers, every untidy face a picture of blank innocence.

"Halt!"

Those facing in the right direction saw the cause of the order. The deputy-governor had come round the corner of the prison chapel, and convicts must not move when the governor or his deputy are approaching.

"Thirty men; exercise party; all correct, sir."

The senior warder saluted stiffly.

But it was not the sight of the young deputy in his stained trench-coat that generated that electric thrill which ran through the thirty hidden men of Dartmoor. It was his companion.

"Killer!"

The word was hissed from man to man for the benefit of those who might not turn their heads.

They knew him by repute, for the most part; some had personal acquaintance with the Home Office expert whose word had sent so many cruel men to the trap.

He stood watching that motionless circle of misery, fingering his chin with a white hand, a look of gloom and doubt upon his face.

"That is Ridgeman— the fellow who is nearest the warder," said the deputy, no less intrigued by the unexpected presence of the Killer than any of the men who stood stiffly to attention.

"Yes— I will talk to him."

The deputy beckoned forward the officer in charge.

"367— bring him to Dr. Kay."

The doctor strolled away from the group, making his way to an open space near the farther wall.

Presently came 367, a little white of face, a little unsteady of hand. He was a small man, grey at the temples.

Dr. Kay nodded to the warder and the man stood back.

"Ridgeman, do you remember breaking into 408 Lowndes Square?"

"Yes, sir. That's what I got my lagging for."

"I know, I know. But do you remember all the particulars of your burglary? You got into the place through the window of the housekeeper's room, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. The room was empty, because the housekeeper was on a visit to the country. Her door was locked. I had to open it with a skeleton."

The Killer gave a sigh of relief and his eyes sparkled.

"That is what I want to know. The door was locked, eh— nothing valuable in the room, eh? Just an ordinary housekeeper's room— with a few nicknacks, I suppose, a picture or two, photographs of the housekeeper's relations?"

Ridgeman, wondering, nodded.

"Nothing else?" The doctor eyed him keenly.

"There was a parcel in red paper—"

"Not on the bed?" The question was shot at the man so sharply that he stepped back as though he were dodging a blow.

"There was a sort of white dressing-gown— no, not a dressing-gown, more like a painter's overall."

"And gloves, eh?" Kay's saturnine face was eager.

"Why— yes, sir. There were a pair of old gloves sticking out of the pocket of the overall."

The Killer rubbed his hands joyously, his thin lips were curled in a smile.

"The only place they could be— in the housekeeper's room, Ridgeman— the only place. Now tell me this. Was there any kind of label on the parcel? Did it look as though it had been carefully packed, as it would be if it came from a store or shop? Or was it rough-tied, as you or I might tie it?"

Ridgeman nodded.

"No, sir. It was nicely tied, but the label had been scratched off. I didn't open it. I was out for jewellery. Lady Thorley had a lot. It's a lie what they said at the trial, that I frightened her to death. I didn't go into her room, because I knew she was ill and had a nurse, and besides, all the stuff was kept in a safe in the library. I was working on the safe when Sir John caught me. I was a fool to bash him. I should have got away with twelve months instead of seven years if I hadn't. But it's a lie to say I had anything to do with the lady's death. I never knew she was dead until I came up for trial."

"Thank you, Ridgeman," Kay nodded. "You may not serve your full time."

Ridgeman went back to the circle, and deputy and expert strolled up the slope and into the prison offices.

"Did you find what you wanted to find?" asked the deputy.

"Yes. How many murders are there committed in England in the course of a year?"

The other looked at him, astonished.

"Fifty?" he suggested.

The Killer smiled.

"Fifty are brought to the bar of judgment. I should say that the number is between four hundred and five hundred. It is difficult to estimate. You only hear of the bunglers, the men and women who do their victims to death by violence— the crimes of passion committed by muddle-headed people who invite detection. 'A' uses poison, and is found with the poison in his possession, and there is always a chemist in the neighbourhood to prove the sale. Generally 'A' says he wanted to poison mice or kill a dog. 'B' butchers his wife (because he loves another woman) and throws her down a well. 'C' lays wait for his enemy (everybody knows of the enmity) and shoots him. 'D' has a quarrel with his girl and kills her. If he doesn't commit the crime in the presence of witnesses, he advertises his guilt by running away. 'E' is a woman who adopts babies for a certain sum and destroys them. And so on. Examine the mentality of these people. Ninety per cent, of them are ignorant, almost illiterate. The great histories of crime that might guide them are closed to them. They must slay in their own primitive ways. But since the instinct for murder is not confined to the low-minded, it follows that there are other methods employed— methods which successfully defy detection. I never see a respectable funeral cortege processing through the street, but I wonder in which of the mourning coaches the murderer is riding."

His voice was earnest, so earnest that the deputy-governor stifled the laugh that was on its way.

"You suggest that murder is practised as a fine art?" he asked.

"Murder is a fine art," said the Killer thoughtfully, "and it is so easy! Popular education has brought to the millions a knowledge of science which enables the evil-minded to dispense with poison and axe. It has given them weapons undreamt-of by their grandfathers— a knowledge of micro- organisms that destroy as surely as a bullet; of natural forces that can be employed to cut soul from body more swiftly than the knife or guillotine. Do you imagine that they are not using their knowledge? Of course they are. A man who knows that finger-prints are fatal leaves no finger-prints. A poisoner who knows that arsenic or any other metallic poison endures for years in the body of his victim uses a vegetable poison. The fellow anxious to rid himself of an obnoxious partner contrives it in such a way that he receives most of the condolences."

The deputy-governor smiled again.

"I shouldn't like to come into purview as a murderer, however clever I was," he said.

"Don't," replied Kay grimly. "They call me 'Killer.' I am proud of the name. I'd rather kill bad men than found an orphanage. I find joy in the chase! When the drop falls and the hunt is ended, I'm like a man that is lost."

The deputy walked with him through the immense iron grille that guards the entrance of the prison, and watched his car until it was out of sight.

"The pity is," he said to the governor afterwards, "that most of the Killer's most interesting victims never get as far as Dartmoor—"

Dr. Kay had two calls to make on his return to London. He went to Somerset House and made a search of certain files; then he called at a laundry, and what he learnt at these two places seemed to satisfy him, for he spent the rest of the day in his laboratory, perfecting his new test for the discovery of arsenic in solution.

It was nearly a week after her uncle's departure that Mary Boyd received a letter from him, asking her to lunch with him at a club which had both a man and woman membership.

Half-way to town she remembered that she had not kept her promise to Dr. Kay. She missed her uncle on the Victoria platform, and was wandering about the broad spaces of the station when she saw the telegraph office. Should she wire? She hesitated. It seemed so silly a thing to do; besides, she was in town now, and she had only promised that she would wire him before she left Eastbourne, telling him the time she would arrive. And she was here already.

She half turned to walk away when, with sudden resolution, she entered the office and scribbled on a form:

"Am in town, lunching at the Regal Club."

She had no sooner sent the wire than she regretted her act, and regretted it all the more when, walking from the office, she came face to face with the ruddy-faced Sir John.

"Hello! here you are then— missed you. Who have you been wiring to, my dear?"

"To— to the housekeeper, to tell her what time I shall be back."

She hated herself for lying, but she could not tell him the truth. It felt foolish, it would have sounded imbecile.

"Seen your lawyer, eh? Didn't tell him about your poor father's youthful escapade?"

She shook her head.

The car was passing along Whitehall, and she wondered in which of those gloomy buildings Killer Kay had his office.

"Boys will be boys," said Sir John gruffly, "and if your father had an affair in his youth, it is not for us to tell the prying, spying lawyers all about it— huh?"

She was not in the mood to discuss her father's early follies. It was sufficient that she had signed the deed which would provide for the woman concerned. She had had an unpleasant five minutes when she had learnt that the document had to be witnessed by her servants, but Sir John had assured her that it was not necessary that the document should be read— even she had not read it again after she had perused the draft.

"Here we are," he said, and helped her out of the car as it stopped before the palatial entrance of the Regal.

The lunch was well ordered, for Sir John Thorley was something of an epicure.

They lingered over the dessert, and when the coffee came :

"Don't use sugar— makes you fat," growled Sir John.

She smiled indulgently as he pushed a saccharine tablet along the tablecloth.

"Thank you, Uncle John," she said; "I'm hardly likely to get fat, but—"

She held the tablet between her finger and thumb above the coffee. Another fraction of a second and it would have dropped.

"Excuse me."

A hand came under hers, and the tablet dropped into a thin brown palm.

She turned, startled, to meet the smiling eyes of Killer Kay.

"Will you go over and see Frank Hallwell? he is sitting at the table in the window," he said smoothly.

"What the devil is the meaning of this, sir?" stormed Sir John, growing purple.

But Killer Kay did not speak until, with a frightened glance at the two men, Mary left them alone.

"It saves a lot of unpleasantness to have the tablet," said Dr. Kay in his suavest voice. "Otherwise it means getting a bottle for the coffee and attracting everybody's attention."

"Will you— please tell me..." Sir John's voice was husky.

"Come with me."

The words were a command, and Sir John followed the doctor meekly.

In the vestibule of the club two men were sitting as though they were waiting for somebody. They rose at the sight of Killer Kay and came toward him.

"Here is your man, Inspector," said Kay brusquely. "I charge him with the wilful murder of Isabel Alice Thorley, and further with the wilful murder of Bertram James Boyd."

"SO FAR FROM THORLEY being a millionaire," explained Dr. Kay through his cigar, "he is a very poor man. He had lived unhappily with his wife, who was immensely wealthy and who, unknown to him, had made a will leaving all her property to her brother. Thorley is a governor of the Wormwood Fever Hospital, and it is the practice of that hospital to dispatch to a special laundry any bedclothes that have been in contact with patients suffering from malignant infectious diseases. These articles are packed in antiseptic red paper and are immediately put, paper and all, into a disinfecting tank before they are washed. Three days before Lady Thorley became infected, he called at the hospital and, as was his practice, stopped his little car, which he drove himself, under the open window of the room in which the infected linen was kept. He made a tour of the hospital without attendance, and it is known that he went into the soiled-linen room. After he had gone a parcel containing pillow-slips was missing, though very little attention was given to the matter at the time. The parcel had been tossed into the car through the open window.

"Lady Thorley died of malignant scarlet fever. There is no doubt that Sir John, in the absence of the nurse, for she was suffering from a nervous breakdown at the time, placed an infected pillow under her head. When he found that Boyd had the money, he killed Boyd. He allowed the Colonel to get drunk, dragged him downstairs in the middle of the night and arranged a suicide. Unfortunately for him, Boyd was wearing loose slippers, which fell off in the bedroom when he was lifted. They were found afterwards neatly arranged under his bed. Suicides aren't so tidy as all that."

"Have you analysed the saccharine tablet?" asked Frank in a hushed voice.

Killer Kay nodded.

"If your young friend had swallowed the coffee containing that tablet, she would have died this morning, and the doctors would have diagnosed the case without hesitation as one of acute ptomaine poisoning."

"But why did he want to kill her— the money would have gone to her cousin in Canada?"

The Killer chuckled softly.

"She signed a will in Thorley's favour. She didn't know that it was a will. The draft he gave her made provision for a mythical woman to whom Boyd was indebted. The document she signed, and which was witnessed in her presence, was a will. I think I shall hang Thorley, if he doesn't die of fright."

But Sir John Thorley was not hanged, nor did he die of fright. In searching him, the jailer bad overlooked a small grey pellet in his waistcoat pocket. Sir John found it in the middle of the night.

____________________

7: The Business-Woman

CERTAIN features of the transaction were quite normal— even commonplace. For example, that a young man should fall desperately in love with a girl he met at a tennis dance, that she should be in consequence the fount of wisdom and the perfection of beauty, that he should be prepared to sacrifice the world to please her— all these things were perfectly proper and understandable.

She was adorable. He was at her feet from the moment they met. As for Derek Buller, who condescended to play at Phyllis Court, though he had three hard courts of his own at Hammerton Grange...

Mr. Buller was plump and loud and immensely rich. He controlled five financial groups and seldom talked of anything but money.

He knew Mona, reminded her once in Geoffrey's hearing that he had known her when she was so high. He took her arm familiarly and as one with rights. Geoffrey used to sit up at nights, reading the lives of illustrious poisoners and trying to discover a method which evaded detection.

He had driven her home once or twice, had enjoyed the divine honours of a tête-â-tête lunch, had listened tongue-tied whilst she criticised his service, and once had touched her hand accidentally in the car. It took him the greater part of a week to make up his mind and to rehearse his speech

Mona Dawson received his declaration in the pretty little drawing-room of her house in Orme Square. Her fine eyes were fixed on his; she reproduced none of the emotional reactions which he had expected. His heart sank and his enthusiasm suddenly went cold in him.

"It is the wrong moment, isn't it?... Don't you feel that?"

"I suppose it is."

His voice was very husky, not at all like the voice that he was accustomed to hearing when he ordered his lunch.

"It is the wrong moment." She was firm. "I know, because I'm terribly fond of you, and I ought to whoop or droop or do something silly— Your tie isn't straight."

He fumbled at his collar, feeling extraordinarily inadequate. He cursed his tie... perhaps that was the cause. And yet, what was left to him of reason told him that women do not reject the stammerings of love from sheer loathing of a disarranged cravat.

He was good-looking, athletic, a comfortable business man, not without prospects of acquiring the interest held by a vulgar partner who lived in a garden city and probably wore sandals in his spare time.

"Sit down, darling."

She said "darling" so easily and so glibly that it had no qualities of endearment.

He sat on the nearest chair.

"It is the wrong moment— psychologically."

She nodded her pretty head wisely. She had the most marvellous red lips and a round chin and a throat like milk.

"You don't know very much about me except that I play tennis rather well. I'm American— you didn't even know that."

He was baffled. Was there any vital reason why her nationality should be an obstacle to marriage? Was England at war with the United States? He read the newspapers fairly regularly and did not remember reading anything about such a catastrophe. Or was she a descendant of one of those Bunker's Hill fellows?

"You didn't know that?"

She paced up and down the room, her hands behind her; he watched her dumbly.

"I'm a business woman. That is why you've come at the wrong moment. I'm terribly, terribly worried... not exactly worried."

She paused for a word.

"Scared?" he suggested hoarsely.

She looked at him coldly.

"I am never scared," she said; and then, most abruptly: "How much money have you got?"

"Twenty thousand pounds," he said promptly. He hadn't twenty thousand pounds or anything like it. But Geoffrey had a sanguine temperament. When he wasn't in debt he was worth twenty thousand pounds. Anyway, he could always sell out his share of the firm for ten thousand— if there was anybody who wanted a half-share of a provision business.

She stopped in her stride and looked at him searchingly.

"Send me a cheque for ten thousand," she said. "I am operating with Stedman's Steel Preferred."

He swayed slightly; the restful room swung giddily before his eyes.

"Oh... Stedman's Steel Preferred... Stock Exchange and all that," he said.

He had never heard of Stedman or his steel.

If she saw the mute agony in his eyes she did not relent. Ten thousand pounds! There was a big balance in the firm's account. Hulfer was away on his holidays.

"How long do you want the money for?"

Geoffrey steadied his voice. He could be businesslike too. Hulfer said that he wouldn't trust him to buy a pat of butter, but Hulfer must be taught a lesson. And the profits of the deal would go into the firm's account.

If Mona Dawson had said: "Open the window and jump out," he would have done it. He was of that age. And it would be a simple matter to draw a cheque.

"For a week or two," she said.

He thought he saw hope shining in her eyes— the dearest eyes in the world— and a great resolution was formed.

"Yes. I'll send you the cheque to-night," he said, and when she sighed his worst fears were confirmed.

"You think I'm odd and unwomanly and... and everything? But you don't know what happiness I shall get out of this— having you with me." She spoke breathlessly. "I never intended asking you to come in, but I've a large interest in these shares, and Buller— John B. Buller— you've heard of him?"

"Not Derek?"

She shook her head.

"No— his father. Ever since dear Daddy died he's been trying to get control of Stedman's—"

He listened like one in a dream to a story of high finance. Until that moment he had believed that such stories were hatched in the brains of young ladies who write scenarios for films. He did not quite understand what it was all about, but had the vague impression that she was being victimised, that a rough-necked old man, sitting in his gilded New York office, was bent upon her ruin; and with that realisation the urge to save her, to fling into the scales his own fortune and the fortune which wasn't his own, grew to an over-whelming volume.

He went home with his head in a whirl and wrote the cheque. The next morning he had a wire from Hulfer, saying that he was returning a fortnight earlier than he had expected.

For the first time in his life Geoffrey Hanibar became a regular subscriber to the financial press. He had had a brief note from Mona, telling him that she had cabled cover (whatever that meant). Stedman's Preferred stood at seven. At lunch that day he met a man wise in the ways of stock markets.

"Stedman's Steel?"

At the frown which came to his face, Geoffrey's heart nearly stopped beating.

"It's queer stock. I hope you're not speculating? If you are you'll get your fingers burnt. There's a terrific fight going on between the Buller and the Dawson crowd. There's some family reason behind it. Leave that stock alone."

"They're at seven," said Geoffrey faintly.

Again that devastating frown.

"That's about as high as they ought to go. I've heard a whisper that there's going to be a bear raid."

"Splendid!" said Geoffrey, without enthusiasm.

It was only now that he realised that Mona was something more than a fragrant lady with a disconcerting habit of hitting a tennis ball just out of his reach. She was a force— a business woman. He glowed at the thought of the trouble which was awaiting Mr. Derek Buller.

Buying an evening paper on his way home, he turned to the financial columns. Stedman's Preferred stood at six— obviously a printer's error. Anyway, it wasn't his favourite newspaper. He sent out for another which more nearly reflected his political opinions; but there was a printer's error here too, for the figure was six. Stedman's Preferred had dropped a whole point.

"How very odd!" said Geoffrey, and laughed hollowly.

The maid, who was serving his soup, was so startled that she nearly dropped the plate.

He had a wild idea of getting Mona on the 'phone the next morning, but that would be hardly fair. She was a business woman, and she might think— anyway, she knew all about Stedman's Preferred— or was it Deferred? He wished he could help her in her battle, but unfortunately, though he had shrewd ideas as to the price at which one could buy Danish butter forward, he knew nothing about steel.

By six o'clock that night anything that looked like steel was extremely unpopular with Geoffrey Hanibar, for Stedman's Preferred had dropped to five and a quarter. On the morning Hulfer came grumbling back to the office it stood at two and a half.

Geoffrey wrote a very carefully phrased letter to his partner.

As to the question of Mona Dawson's future... well, that could wait. He would never desert her— if she would wait for him.

He decided this much in the cab between Waterloo and Ave Maria Lane— decided the matter with such instant resolve that Mona Dawson for the moment became a tractable and a docile quantity.

Certainly Mona could wait until everything of importance was settled, and all the jumble and litter of life were sorted and filed away into their proper compartments.

If he had a million.... Now suppose some prosperous old gentleman were to see in him a resemblance to a long-gone son.... Or a couple of thousand even. People have left wallets in cabs containing tens of thousands. There was no wallet on the floor or even under the cushion, or tucked away behind the fold-up seat— or anywhere.

It is as easy to think in millions. Now suppose he met a bank robber, recognised him, and the bank robber said: "For God's sake let me go— here's a million!" Or two millions...

The cab crawled along New Bridge Street and panted up Ludgate Hill.

He would say to Hulfer:

"Sorry about that business, old boy. I realise that 1 should not have taken partnership money to speculate with. Here's a hundred thousand."

Or fifty thousand. As a matter of fact, Hulfer would be jolly glad to get his share of the ten thousand back. Mona Dawson had lost more.

Where had that money gone? Who was the wise bird who had sold him Steel Preferred at seven? And who was the hopeless imbecile who would have to sell out at two and a half? Geoffrey Hanibar wiped his face with a large white silk handkerchief.

He paid the cab and glanced up at the first floor, where "Hulfer & Hanibar, Produce Merchants" was repeated three times on three separate windows.

Mona Dawson could wait, and Mr. Hulfer was waiting. Geoffrey braced his shoulders and walked stiffly up the stairs. He turned the handle of the door and stalked in.

The staff looked up from a ledger and smiled wanly. She was an uncomely girl, with protruding teeth and offensively fair hair.

"'Morning," said Mr. Hanibar, stood for a moment at the door marked private, and, drawing a deep breath, went in.

Hulfer was writing a letter. He glanced up for the fraction of a second, his lips moved but there was no sound.

The junior partner hung up his hat and umbrella on a shabby-looking stand and sat down at his own desk. There were no letters. Even his wastepaper basket had been removed.

He hated Hulfer. He hated his thin, sandy hair and his wispy yellow moustache; he hated his habit of working in his shirt-sleeves winter and summer, and his imitation jade links. And Hulfer wore paper protectors on his cuffs, a vulgar and abominable habit.

Now he carefully wiped the nib of his pen and laid it down, ran his ugly fingers through his hair and leaned back.

"I gotcher letter," he said, in his thin, querulous voice. "I don't know what we're goin' to do about it, 'm sure. You're not a child; you're old enough to know right from wrong. I don't know what's to be done, 'm sure."

He shook his head and stared out of the rain-drenched window.

"If I had my own interest to think about— well, I don't know what I'd do, 'm sure. But I've got a wife 'n' three children and her mother— 'n' there's bills to rneet— Clewford & Hale were here this mornin'— 'n' the bank 'n' everything. I'm at my wits' end. Can you get the money?"

"No," said Geoffrey firmly, "I can't. I'm afraid You'll have to prosecute me."

That would settle the matter of Mona Dawson; in that one thunderous cataclysm her wail would be lost.

Mr. Hulfer looked at his partner.

"You'd get nine months," he said, and was almost bright.

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.

"It can be nine years as far as I am concerned," he said.

His partner stared at the window and seemed to be calculating something.

"Say seven," he said. "That would bring you out in 1935. My eldest would be eighteen. Lord, how time flies!"

"It's my time you're talking about," said Geoffrey gently. "Probably it will not fly for me."

Mr. Hulfer sat back in his chair, and thrust his hands deep in the armholes of his waistcoat.

"I shall have to give evidence, I suppose," he complained. "I don't know where I'm going to find the time, 'm sure. Whatcher do with the money?"

He was beginning to show a faint interest.

"I speculated— for the firm," said Geoffrey, with great resolution. "If there had been any profits we would have shared them."

Mr. Hulfer's eyebrows went up, and he closed his eyes.

"Don't be silly; there'll be no profits. What did you buy— cheese? I was wondering if you'd gone into the cheese market. I read in the papers there's been a big rise—". He shook his head. "No, it can't be cheese."

"Steel," said Geoffrey in a steely voice.

Mr. Hulfer nearly jumped out of his chair.

"Steel? Good God! What do we want with steel? "he asked, horror- stricken.

"You can't have cheese knives without steel." Geoffrey was almost offensive. "They're complements."

"Steel!" wailed Mr. Hulfer. "Suffering snakes! Whatcher want with steel?"

There was a long and exciting silence.

"Have you informed the police?"

"No." Hulfer looked out of the window vaguely. "No, I haven't done anything. Knocked me off my feet, your letter. And as for being for the firm, that's all bunkum. I wouldn't have taken a penny— you know me, Hanibar— not a cent. If it'd been cheese— or even eggs! But steel— you must have been mad!"

Here Geoffrey found an explanation for his act which was quite agreeable.

"I was mad. I was not responsible for my actions."

Here Mr. Hulfer, himself a business man, demolished the possible defence.

"There's no sense in pleading insanity, Hanibar— not for fraud. For murder, yes."

Then he turned with surprising rapidity in his swing chair.

"Haven't you any friends you could borrow the money from? I hear you're in with that Buller crowd. A man I met on the boat said they've money to burn— he's Steel!"

"He's Wood," said Geoffrey.

Another pause, less exciting, more awkward.

"Well, I suppose you'll be getting along now," said Mr. Hulfer, and swung back to his task. "They'll know where to find you. I'll have to see the lawyers this afternoon."

As Geoffrey reached the door the voice of his partner arrested him.

"Three years— that's about all you'll get. That's what they gave to the head clerk of Turnbull & Smith, and he took fourteen thousand."

Geoffrey slammed the door.

He decided to lunch at the club. It would be the last time he would enter the stately portals of that establishment. He wanted to write to Mona, and tell her that the money he had lost had nothing to do with his defalcation. He might ask her to wait for him, though he was less inclined to make this demand upon her loyalty than he had been.

He was desperately anxious to find some formula which would prove that he was a plain, ordinary, systematic embezzler but not a fool. His one fear was that she would be sorry for him. Perhaps, sitting amidst the wreckage of her fortune, she had forgotten all about his humble contribution. It might be wiser to say nothing.

He saw a newspaper bill, "Suicide of Well-known City Man," and wondered whether he was well known enough to qualify for a news-bill all to himself. "Provision Merchant in the Dock"— but nobody really cared what happened to provision merchants.

He walked up the steps into the big marble hall, and there stood Mr. Derek Buller— plump, offensively prosperous. He was standing in his favourite attitude, his stubby legs apart, his hands in his pockets. He was a great key jingler.

"Hullo!" Mr. Buller greeted him with a scowl. "How's the butter-and-egg business?"

Geoffrey did not reply. It occurred to him at that moment that there was a better way of hiding his defalcation than any. That razor of his that he'd bought in Germany— it wasn't sharp enough to shave with, but it would cut a throat rather neatly.

"Come and lunch," said the plump man. "I want to talk to you."

Geoffrey's first inclination was to seize this loath-some figure, hurl it to the ground and trample upon it. His second inclination was to pass on without a word. Mr. Buller assisted his decision by taking him by the arm and leading him to the members' dining-room.

"Seen Mona lately? What a girl— eh? Quite mad... unreasonable? No women are reasonable, and Mona"— he clicked his lips—"the limit, eh? Women in business— good God!"

They sat down at a little table, Geoffrey still in some doubt as to the attitude he should adopt.

"You're a friend of hers," Derek went on. "Couldn't you have a talk with her? Sole Mornay— and don't forget the butter sauce. Couldn't you say to her— No, I don't want pork. Let's have a look at the menu. Couldn't you say to her— Roast lamb— is it good? Red currant jelly and new potatoes.... Well, you ought to have new potatoes. Couldn't you just drop a hint— No, the last spinach I had here was gritty. I'll write to the committee if it occurs again. I can't stand gritty spinach. Not exactly a hint, but a good heart-to-heart talk..."

"About spinach?" asked Geoffrey, when the waiter had departed.

"Don't be absurd— about money."

He leaned over the table and laid four white sausages, which he called fingers, on Geoffrey's quivering arm.

"Money isn't everything, old boy. There's something in the world besides money— the great world, flowers— er—"

"Roast lamb?" suggested Geoffrey, and Derek was pained.

"Never make fun of sacred subjects, old boy. But there is... the world... life... love."

"Oh, that!" said Geoffrey.

Mr. Buller nodded.

"Now, you're a prosperous business man, but you understand what I mean? You've probably been through it. You've got sense."

Geoffrey unfolded his napkin and spread it on his knees.

"What's this all about?" he asked wearily. "In the first place, let me assure you that my word would carry little weight with Miss Dawson; and as for money—"

"I asked her to marry me— that's between ourselves." Derek got very confidential. "But she's got another fellow in her eye." He looked despairingly around the room. "That's not womanly, you know, old boy, having a man in your eye. A girl should wait till she's asked. My dear mother had no idea that my dear father wanted to marry her until he asked her."

"And did he want to marry her?" asked the interested Geoffrey.

Mr. Buller smiled indulgently, and became instantly serious.

"She's in with one of these big market men, crazy about him. Personally, I think he's been advising her. I went to her yesterday and I said: 'Mona, what's the idea? You'll never ruin us; we have had our lesson and we're not likely to forget it. We thought you sold short. Let bygones be bygones.' But no!" He shook his head.

Geoffrey was bewildered.

"I don't quite understand—" he began.

"She sold her own stock down to two and a half. Is that decent? And we simply had to let go. I'd have given you a tip— but it's too late. Stedman's Preferred went up to ten this morning. She's simply broken my father's heart. Why did she do it? To make a few hundred thousand dollars for somebody who probably doesn't want the money."

Geoffrey gripped on to the edge of the table.

"She told me this morning," said Derek, who never stopped talking. "'Derek,' she said, 'I've let a friend of mine into this deal, and he's going to make a hundred thousand pounds or nothing.'"

"And has he?" Geoffrey's voice was deep and booming, infinitely more unreal than it had ever been.

Derek nodded vigorously.

"More than that. I don't know how much he was in for, but he must have cleared a packet."

Again the four white sausages descended on Geoffrey's arm.

"Couldn't you go to her and say this..."

Geoffrey never knew what he had to say. He could recover from his memory references to steel and love and the world and flowers and bygones, but he had failed to piece them together intelligently when he was shown into Mona Dawson's drawing-room.

She met him with outstretched arms. In her eyes was a soft, almost maternal glow.

"I've killed Poppa Buller," she said. "Isn't it wonderful? My New York agent has cabled me that he took to his bed yesterday morning and refuses to eat. How long can people live without eating, darling?"

______________________

8: Blue Suit

MANY men had tried to scrape acquaintance with Lucia Bradfield. They had waited for her outside the James Street flat; they had smiled at her in the park, and looked over their shoulders to see if she was looking over her shoulder. They had offered to change seats with her, and to lift or lower windows, and had told her many hundreds of times that it was a fine day.

The man in the blue suit informed her one spring afternoon that her stockings were coming down.

It was in the park, a wintry and a blustery day, and he spoke without apology in such a matter-of-fact way that he might have been informing embarrassed ladies all his life that their stockings were adrift.

He turned his back upon her whilst she restored tension.

"Thank you very much," she said, as she passed him.

"Not at all."

No more than that. He didn't seem terribly interested in her. She wondered why he did not wear an overcoat. The next day she saw him again, and he was wearing an overcoat. She had a feeling that she knew him when he nodded as she passed. It was just a friendly "Hello, you" nod, and he did not smile. He was rather good-looking— a soldier, she supposed. There was a rough- haired terrier who looked at him affectionately.

A week after this she was sitting on a park seat and he sat down beside her, brushing the dog away.

"Down, Joe— go catch rabbits..."

Joe ambled off with a sneer; rabbits do not live in Hyde Park.

"Curious dog that," he said. He did not ask permission to light his pipe. "He's not used to ladies. I live in a club."

"Indeed!" She was coldly indifferent, prepared for the next advance, but it did not come. He gazed across the melancholy stretch of green at the dun and purple west. She was only waiting for him to speak again, and she would have taken that as a signal to rise. Not that she objected to being spoken to by a strange man, but she objected to the idea that he might think that she did not object. But he was most irritatingly silent.

Presently he rose, whistled the dog, and went off. This time he smiled, and touched the brim of his hat, but the smile was as mechanical as that touch of brim.

That is how her friendship with the man in the blue suit began, and it developed unexcitingly. He collected stamps, and had been wounded in the war. He rather liked certain things and places which she rather liked. He never spoke on any subject that did not interest her. On the other hand, he did not speak about himself, which was unusual in a man.

One day she thought he looked at her with a new interest, but for all that his speech was more laconic, and once he said, "It's a terrible pity," and she did not know what he was talking about.

Mr. Thirtley knew nothing whatever about these meetings, otherwise he would have understood the lack of sympathy she showed in certain enterprises of his, especially in relation to Andrew Murdoch.

The first time Mr. Thirtley saw Murdoch was at the "Ten-Ace Club." That sombre visitor was playing cards with three very clever young men, who played cards every day except on the Yom Kippur— for they were orthodox, and believed that bad luck followed men who practised their profession on holy days.

As Mr. Murdoch left the club, the genial Thirtlev took him affectionately by the arm.

"My dear boy!"— he could be heavily paternal— "my dear boy, how on earth did you get into that company? Dear, dear, dear! They would steal your eyebrows. Have you lost much?"

Mr. Murdoch confessed that he had lost thirty pounds, and his new friend was annoyed. The thought of a person being plucked by any but his skilled hands was almost painful.

"I seldom go to the place. But I am something of a psychologist, and these dens interest me..."

He spoke quite a lot about "dens," and himself and his niece, who did not quite approve of card-playing "for money."

"I don't often play bridge," said Andrew Murdoch, with a quick and a confident smile. "Piquet is my game— I'm supposed to be the best player in Sydney. But it is rather awkward in London if you don't know people."

Mr. Thirtley decided that this affluent stranger should know him. And Lucia, of course— he could hardly work this one without Lucia.

Three weeks later, Lucia listened whilst her uncle propounded a plan. And in the end she asked a pertinent question:

"If I don't do this, what happens?"

Mr. Thirtley's large and unpleasant face wrinkled up into a grin.

"Don't be stupid," he said. "Don't annoy me— don't argue with me. Don't get sentimental or sanctimonious. You're not a child. This Australian fellow is easy money. There's no danger, no risk. He's got twelve thousand in the Midland North and he's sweet on you."

"He hasn't got twelve thousand shillings of his own— but you've got fifty thousand, and you're free to come and go," she said coolly. "I have not been working very long at this nefarious profession, but I know 'enough' when I see it. Dartmoor is filled with people who wanted to make the cab-fare to the bank and lost the lot. If he is sweet on me, I'm not sweet on him. And blackmail is dirty— I think."

Mr. Thirtley went red to the crown of his bald head.

"It's not blackmail!" he said loudly. "And don't call it that. Gosh! What's the matter with you? Have you gone crazy or something? This last month or two you've been... well!"

He was genuinely amazed as he stared at her.

Lucia Bradfield was very pretty and very alluring. From the top of her smooth-cropped head to the under sole of her brocaded shoes, she was a picture of beautiful modernity. The petite figure, the small, childish face, the peculiar grace of every movement— Mr. Thirtley was well aware of her charms, without being impressed by them. He had trained his sister's daughter from her childhood, for, being a far-sighted man, he realised more and more that the old style in side partners led to complications. He had never seen the interior of a prison cell, and had no desire to enjoy that experience. But working Europe without a second pair of hands was a nervous business. As the years progressed, he realised more and more his own limitation. He had no longer the cherubic, innocent face which deceived the moneyed classes of the 'nineties. Into his expression had crept just that hint of slyness which made possible victims button their hip pockets. The partner was a necessity, and so Lucia Bradfield had been taken from school (where his money had kept her, as he told her time and time again) at the age of sixteen.

He was absurdly proud of his work. Lucia was a unique production. Dickens and others of these writing fellows had described the training of thieves, but that was all imagination and nonsense (he told himself). Those things did not happen in real life. "Bo" Parker, the "con" man, had once trained a girl he was sweet on, but he caught her out of her teens, and when he trained her she went off to work with Mr. Thirtley, and when "Bo" got cross and bloodthirsty, finished by shopping "Bo" and getting him seven years.

Incidentally, "Bo" had pulled down with him one "Crewe" Wall, a master of his art, though this testimony did nothing to lighten his sentence. As to this girl... Mr. Thirtley sighed at the memory. She had most unaccountably got religious, and married an evangelical policeman.

Mr. Thirtley was a psychologist, and psychology had been his long suit in the training of his niece.

"You're being difficult, Lucia. I warned you against this. Here's a man—"

"I'm not at all keen on him, if that is what you're going to say," she interrupted; "but this is a new kind of joke, and my puritan instincts are all sitting up and making faces! I'm sorry. I've helped you with quite a lot of experiments, but none of them has had 'love' in it. And when you ask me to accept the attentions of this man and lay my beautiful head on his shoulder and let him breathe on me, you are going outside the contract."

Lucia was difficult. She always was difficult; and John Thirtley was to blame, for if the truth was told, there was the colour of austerity in the constitution of his own tangled nature, and he had excluded from the curriculum all that pertained to love, real and otherwise. But she was more difficult now than ever she had been. He thought of a sometime partner who had got religion. And here was a good killing that asked for the knife. Twelve thousand easy pounds vaguely ear-marked for agricultural machinery.

"Don't let us descend to the intellectual level of back-chat comedians," he said. "Put on your hat— I'm hungry."

All the way to the Empirical Restaurant, Lucia was thoughtful and abstracted. That man in the blue suit... she wondered what he would think if he knew.... Mr. John Thirtley mistrusted the symptoms of his niece, but was too wise to reveal his pardonable irritation. For his own part, he was uneasy. He hated that reference to the famous "Bo" Parker, who, with a big bank roll (which the lawyers divided neatly), had gone after his car fare, as the saying goes, and had been. "caught for seven."

"Pah!" said Mr. Thirtley.

The girl sighed and became aware of him.

"What are you pah-ing about?"

"Silliness— that's what. Don't argue with me. This Murdoch man is Cash in Hand."

"Let's see," she said.

Andrew Murdoch was waiting in the marble-panelled vestibule of the Empirical. A lank, clean-shaven man with very serious eyes that lit up at the sight of the girl. Mr. Thirtley he scarcely saw, you might suppose.

"I want to tell you something funny," he began.

When he smiled he was very handsome; for the sake of her own peace of mind, she hoped he would remain in his more dour mood.

"I'd love to be amused, but I'm famished."

She walked ahead of him into the jade and silver decorated restaurant. The table had been reserved in a window rather aloof from other tables— Mr. Thirtley had seen to that.

"Now make me laugh," she said— she was smiling already.

"Most extraordinary thing happened. When I was coming out of the bank, a fellow came up to me— a detective fellow."

"Eh?" Mr. Thirtley blinked and became alert.

"He was very decent— in fact, he was rather interesting. Apparently our High Commissioner's office give Scotland Yard the names of all Australians who come to London with a lot of money. I don't know how they know, but evidently they do."

"What did he want?"

Mr. Thirtley asked this carelessly.

"Nothing, really. He said that they were expecting a fellow in town— what was the name, again?... a confidence man..."

Mr. Thirtley could have supplied a dozen names: they hovered about his tongue.

"'Crewe' Wall— that was the name," said Murdoch suddenly. "They're on the look-out for him— the police, I mean. They say he could charm money out of a grindstone— at least, that is what the detective said."

Mr. Thirtley could have agreed with this judgment. "Crewe" Wall. He scratched his nose thoughtfully. He had been unintentionally responsible for Crewe's temporary downfall. But he was relieved that the police warning had not embraced himself.

"I've never heard of the rascal," he said. He would have spoken the exact truth if he had admitted that he had never seen the rascal.

After lunch, Mr. Thirtley drove his niece home to their flat in James Street.

"I have asked him to come to dinner, but I rather fancy it was the lure of your bright eyes, darling, that made him fall."

He was almost gay, though from the conversation at lunch she gathered that he had no reason to be.

"What is this about his winning eight hundred pounds from you at piquet?"

Mr. Thirtley smiled beneficently.

"On balance thirty, on the night's trading eight hundred. He is the best player in Sydney," he said, without any hint of sarcasm in his voice. "He is here, as I told you before, on behalf of the Australian Trading Company, and I must confess that I was puzzled when I heard that poor puling infant has twelve thousand pounds that he could draw on his signature— countersigned by the London Manager. But his father is a rich squatter, and has put him into this job—"

She made an impatient gesture.

"Must you tell me that again? You bite into the twelve thousand; he gives a cheque on the account and gives a fair to middling imitation of his manager's signature on the cheque. You come in to lend him the money to cover the forgery, and we all live happily ever afterwards."

She talked monotonously, as though she were reciting a lesson.

"And if he doesn't put his manager's signature to the cheque, I'm to burst into tears and tell him we shall be ruined. It seems fairly elementary to me, and so full of snags that it is almost childish."

She raised her hand to check the storm of his anger.

"But you are the best judge, I know. I've heard it three-six-five days in the year— except leap year. But I do no weeping!"

He looked at her through narrowed eyelids.

"I don't quite follow there, Lucia," he said slowly. "I'm a little dense."

She was doggedly emphatic.

"I don't want to do any more of— anything." She saw his face go purple, and awaited the outburst, but to her surprise it did not come. Instead, he broke into a cackle of laughter.

"And is this the girl who helped trim the three young men from Hollywood—" he began, but she turned on him in a cold fury.

"I'm through— do you understand that? I'm through! I'm sick and tired of this— I hate it, every minute of it! I didn't know how beastly it was until—"

She hesitated here.

"Until?" he asked ominously.

She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders.

"Until I saw just where I was— that's good enough for you. There are one or two other professions I could follow, and I like this least."

He smiled mysteriously.

"My little duck"— his voice was very gentle—"you reminded me of fifty thousand pounds in the old stocking, and I'll remind you of twenty-five per cent, interest that's coming your way. There's no reason why that fifty shouldn't be sixty-two... anyway, I don't suppose it will be necessary for you to do any more than jolly him along."

"You'll have to do your own jollying," she said. "I'm going out for a walk. This place—"

"Stifles you?" suggested the man sardonically. "Lucia, love, I'm stopping your subscription to the lending library— you're getting full of sentimental clichés!"

Her mind was a storm as she walked quickly through the park. She hated everything. The people who had been drawn to the park by the spring sunshine, the prosperity of those who dwelt in the lordly houses that fringe the park, the dull and honest people who passed her... herself most. She hoped she would not see the man in the blue suit, who of late had adopted tweeds and had lost his right to his original title. And even as she hoped, she sought for him. Her heart gave a little leap when she saw him under a tree, sitting on a garden chair, his terrier leaping up to his hand.

He got up, hauled another chair to the side of his own, waited till she sat down before he was seated.

"Are you terribly honest?" she asked recklessly. "Most men aren't, I know. Or are you just honest, like everybody else?"

This imperturbable man was in no sense surprised by the question.

"I'm afraid I'm terribly honest," he said; and she nodded grimly.

"And you hate thieves, don't you, and tricksters, and the cheap, mean crooks who live by their wits?"

He considered this question. He had a trick of considering even the most unimportant questions with exasperating deliberation. That he should ponder this very vital matter seemed natural.

"I'm not passionately attached to them. Of course, a lot would depend upon the circumstances."

"For God's sake don't be so cautious!"

She was stung to the profanity, and he was not offended.

All she was saying now she had had no intention of saying. She had rehearsed no word that came pouring forth; was unconscious that she had ever given her preposterous offer one mad moment of thought. Yet it must have been all in her, or she could not have said what she did.

"I have never asked you your name, and you've never asked me mine, and I should have hated you if you had been so conventional. But I know you're not married— that you're not a rich man, and that you like me."

He did not answer, but she saw in his eyes that she had spoken the truth, and when she heard his little half-uttered sigh she would have been wild with delight but for what had to come.

"Suppose I were a thief... a confederate of thieves, trained to— oh, all kinds of mean crimes? With my eyes open. Suppose I told you that I had been guilty of all kinds of nastiness except one? And I said I was sick and tired of it all, and I want to get out of it? I want to spell life with everybody's alphabet, and not one that's been invented for me. Suppose I said will you take me... marry me, I mean... and let me keep house without servants. And mend and sew and cook..."

Her voice grew husky; she stopped for want of breath. She was looking at him wide-eyed, frantic with fear.

"Yes." He nodded twice. "If you're prepared for... meanness too. I don't mean I'm a thief. If you'll forgive me lots of things..."

He tried to appear very much at his ease, but when he made an effort to fill his pipe she saw his hand was trembling and she loved him for it.

"I'll see you some time... when?"

She was on her feet now, breathless, as though she had run a mile.

"Here." She pointed to the chair. "I'll be here at one o'clock to-morrow, and we'll fix things."

He nodded— the old, curt, friendly nod— but did not attempt to take her hand or seize the opportunity for awkward endearments that the occasion seemed to justify. Only he looked after her for a long time, indeed until she was out of sight; and he had never done that before.

She came back to the flat exalted.... Mr. Thirtley heard her singing in her bath, and grinned.

"Tantrums... naughty tantrums!" he said.

He dressed— he always dressed for dinner, even when they were alone; one never knew who might call in upon them, and evening dress was very impressive. He saw how bright her eyes were, heard something of the gaiety in her voice.

"Never seen you look better, Lucia... marvellous! You being a good girl?"

He fixed his monocle in his eye and patted her paternally.

She nodded.

"Sure I'm being a good girl," she mimicked.

At that moment the flat bell rang, and the maid ushered in Mr. Andrew Murdoch. And Lucia noticed that he was not as attentive to her as he had been at lunch. He gave her the impression of suppressed excitement; talked about his local manager, who was, as they knew, in Paris; talked more about himself; but always he addressed John Thirtley, ignoring the girl almost entirely. After dinner, Mr. Thirtley unfolded the card table, dropped two unopened packs upon the green cloth.

"This is very immoral, but I have a feeling you want to follow up your luck."

The eagerness which Mr. Andrew Murdoch displayed confirmed John Thirtley's view.

The girl waited. She had her back to the dining table, her hands gripping the edge, her eyes fixed upon the young man; but never once did he look up.

"Sit down!" Thirtley was irritable. "You're getting on my nerves to-night, Lucia."

Meekly she obeyed his instructions, drew a chair where she could watch the play. And Mr. Thirtley's play was well worth watching. There never was, in the history of crime, so great an artist as he; no conjurer could change a pack with such amazing speed. You saw the shuffling cards in his hand, but before they were laid on the table another pack had been substituted. Even Lucia, who had watched this artist for years, never knew where the old pack went to, from what strange pockets and hiding-places came the faked deck.

An hour passed, two hours. The frown deepened on Murdoch's face. The little pile of I.O.U.'s by Thirtley's side grew higher and higher. It was half past ten; the room was thick with cigar smoke. Thirtley walked to the window and pushed it open. He came back to find the young man sitting at the dining table, his head clasped in his hands.

"You have had monstrous luck."

Murdoch could not see the face of his host, did not know, as he chewed his cigar, that that face was one ecstatic smile.

"Seven thousand three hundred is a lot of money... really, I almost wish I hadn't persuaded you to play."

And then Murdoch did a curious thing; he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and took out a square piece of paper. This he unfolded, and revealed to the astonished eyes of Thirtley a £1000 note.

"Can you change this?" he asked. "I'll give you five hundred on account."

Thirtley hesitated.

"I'll change it if you like, but it will do to-morrow."

Murdoch shook his head unsmilingly.

"I'd like to give you something on account," he said.

Mr. Thirtley took the note, examined it with an expert eye. Thousand- pound notes are very rare, but this one was genuine.

He went out, closing the door behind him. Lucia slipped swiftly to the young man's side and shook him by the shoulder.

"You're not going to pay this—"

"You shut up!"

She stared at Murdoch incredulously. The dull agony had vanished from his face; in his eyes was a sinister light which made her shrink back. "You stay right here and don't squeal! If you do, I'll come back and spoil that face of yours. Do you get that, sister?"

She could only stare at him open-mouthed. In another second he was out of the room, and down the passage on the track of his host.

Lucia sat petrified with astonishment and fear. She heard a muttered colloquy, the door was opened violently, and Thirtley was pushed in, his face ashen white. And behind him, carrying a black iron box in one hand and a long-barrelled Browning in the other, was Murdoch.

"You know me, I guess— 'Crewe' Wall. I've been waiting a long time for you, brother— aw, shut up! I know all about it! When you squealed on 'Bo' you squealed on me! The only thing I didn't know was whether you parked your bullion at the bank or in the house. I've wasted a whole lot of time making sure."

He shook the black tin box.

"Squeal again, Thirtley— you and that dame of yours can start afresh, but don't start on me— see?"

The door behind him, which he had slammed when he came in, was opening slowly. Lucia saw it and at first thought that it was the wind. And then...

"Are you two men going quietly, or are you giving a lot of trouble? Put that gun down, Crewe. You know the law. I want you on an old warrant— and you on a new one, Thirtley."

The man in the blue suit was in the doorway, very earnest, rather urgent. Behind him she saw, like one in a dream, face upon face, all remarkably soldier-like and uninterested. The man in the blue suit slipped Crewe's gun into his pocket and passed the two men out, one by one.

Presently the room was left empty save for him and Lucia.

"My name is Larry Goldwin," he said. "I know yours, but you might write down the date of your birth and the name of your father and mother... sorry."

With shaking hands she wrote what he told her.

"Registrars want to know that sort of thing," he said apologetically. "At one o'clock under the same tree."

She nodded.

"I hope you'll get on with the dog," he said; "I think you will— Joe's very reasonable."

_____________________

9:  Battle Level

Novel Magazine, May 1916

DALBERRY came down the broad and ornate stairway slowly, pulling on his gloves.

The man waiting at the foot of the stairs, gripping convulsively at the wooden pillar, watched the descending figure pleadingly.

"How— is she— all right?" he croaked. "What... how... is she?"

He was a plain man inclined to baldness, and he was unshaven. Never especially attractive, he was now almost grotesque, for his eyes were red with weeping, and perspiration beaded his face.

"How is she?" repeated Grant Dalberry absently. "Oh, she's all right."

"All right?"

The man grasped his sleeve.

"Are you sure... all right? She will live?"

Mr. Dalberry brought his mind back to the moment.

"Live? Of course she'll live, my dear Mr. Goldberg," he smiled "It wasn't much of an operation, you know. I wonder you did not get your own doctor to do it; it was hardly a case for a surgeon."

"I had to have you, doctor," quavered the other, wiping his face with a hand that trembled and set the fire dancing on the big ring on his finger. "It was... my wife. They told me you were the best man in London. They call you 'Mister,' don't they, not 'Doctor'? That's always a high-class sign.... My God, I am thankful!"

He shook the other's hand vigorously. His palm was moist and unpleasant, his tears were unrestrained, and affected Grant Dalberry uncomfortably.

He surveyed his host with a curious, searching look. Here was a man, coarse, illiterate, rather impossible from the doctor's fastidious standpoint, hard as nails, yet all broken up by his love for the stout, middle-aged woman who had been recently under the surgeon's hand.

The divinity of love ennobled this commonplace Hebrew diamond merchant, softened his hard corners, and gave to him a strange dignity.

"Wait— wait, doctor!"

Goldberg waddled into his garish parlour, and came back with a little blue leather case.

"You've been very kind to me.... Rachel says you've got the patience of an angel.... This is something... for your wife, if you'll excuse the liberty."

He opened the case under the eyes of the protesting Dalberry.

"I won't take no, sir— I won't indeed! It's nothin'— a few stones, but pretty..."

The case held a beautiful diamond pendant.

"My dear good fellow," laughed Dalberry, and pressed the case back into the other's refusing hand, "I appreciate your kindness, but really I've done nothing— and what little I have done, I shall charge you for— and precious heavily!"

But the little man insisted. He followed the doctor to his car, and for five minutes Endesleigh Gardens was edified by the spectacle of a bare- headed and voluble gentleman in a velvet coat engaged in a strenuous argument with a man who looked twenty-five when he smiled.

"They're worth £500," said Dalberry, "and I couldn't think of taking them."

For all his evident amusement he was a little annoyed, since the argument had attracted a small audience. There were the inevitable two small boys all agape, and an unpromising and seedy young man with a crooked nose. It was like Dalberry to notice the crooked nose.

"See here, Mr. Goldberg," he said at last, to end a situation which was fast becoming ridiculous, "I'll take this beautiful thing home and show my wife, and I will let you know to-morrow whether she will accept it."

This was an easy way out. Margaret would as soon think of spending a week-end with this impossible merchant's family as accepting his gifts.

He thought of Goldberg all the way back to his flat. Here at any rate was a man happily married, devoted to his wife though he was childless. Yet this did not seem to have diminished the affection and faith these two unprepossessing people had in one another. He had read aright the terror in the man's eyes at the very prospect of losing the woman who filled his sphere. Dalberry smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile.

The Goldbergs had been fortunate. They were fore-ordained one for the other. As for Grant Dalberry, he had forced his fate, had conducted a tempestuous wooing, and had carried Margaret Massingham off her feet before he or she had realised that they were people of two Worlds, lived and thought two lives, and were possessed of no common interest.

Margaret was a creature of the field, the open air, the countryside. She was at home on the links, was happiest following hounds, and both hated and feared (as a healthy person must) the profession which her husband followed. She never came to his study; his white sterilisers with their glass shelves and orderly array of glittering instruments gave her "the creeps," she said. If he talked "shop," she left the room.

She loathed the atmosphere of pain and sorrow which his patients brought to the big house in Devonshire Street, and in time she came to fear him a little also. All the things he liked, she detested. He was physically a lazy man and would not walk a dozen yards if he could find a taxi; he was neat in his attire and methodical; she was careless and had neither method nor system; and there were no children.

Things had gone from bad to worse. The currents of their divergent tastes led them farther and farther apart. There was no question of ideals. In the bigger matters of life, in their consideration of the great themes, they saw eye to eye. But happy marriages are not founded on a common adherence to grand principles. Two people in complete agreement that it is wrong to murder, iniquitous to commit adultery, and contemptible to engage in swindling practices, may find cause for much unhappiness in the clash of their views on house management.

Grant Dalberry passed up to his study, entered the particulars of the operation he had just performed in his case-book, and, pulling up an arm-chair to the fire, reached for his pipe and tobacco-jar.

Margaret was out, but presently he heard her voice in the corridor, and, remembering the jewel in his pocket, rose and went in search of her. She was in her sitting-room, and he knocked at the door.

She looked at him suspiciously as he entered the room. That was the maddening attitude she had adopted for nearly a year.

They had grown to the point where they were both a little stiff and unnatural in one another's company, and it was a lame narrative he had to relate, the more so since he was endeavouring all the time to tell her of Mr. Goldberg's gift without dwelling upon the nature of the service which he had rendered to Mr. Goldberg's wife.

"I could not think of accepting such a present," she said decisively.

She looked at the stones glittering on their background of blue velvet.

"It is very beautiful, of course, but— ugh!"

She shuddered and handed back the case.

"Why 'ugh'?" he asked wilfully.

He was in that perverse mood which comes to angry men when they find pleasure in inviting further irritation.

She made a weary gesture.

"My dear boy— let us talk about something else: I haven't very long, because I've to dress for Lady Callifar's dinner. You know very well why I shuddered. There are many reasons why I couldn't accept such a present, and one very good reason why I couldn't wear it. Do you think I should ever get out of my mind the manner in which it was earned?"

He left the room without another word and dined at his club, and in the course of the dinner and the cigar which followed with the coffee he came to a decision.

She hated town, he knew. If she had her way, she would not spend one week in the year in London. She had tried her best to hide the martyrdom of living with him; she should be a martyr no more.

He returned to Devonshire Street a little before his wife reached home, and surprised her by walking into her room almost on her heels.

She was in the act of closing the long french windows leading on to the balcony as he entered, and his professional instinct overcame his natural desire to plunge into the subject nearest his heart.

"You ought not to let the temperature of your room fall," he said. "There is plenty of ventilation, and on a chilly night like this—"

"I did not leave it open," she said. "Jackson must have forgotten to close it. Do you want to see me?"

He nodded.

She sat down, folding her hands meekly on her lap.

"For Heaven's sake, Margaret, do not act the patient Griselda!" he said roughly.

"What would you like me to do?" she said, a faint flush of anger tinting her cheeks.

She was a beautiful girl, with fine, scornful eyes, a firm chin, and a mouth just a little too resolute. Yet there was in her a gracious femininity which was especially appealing, and doubly appealed at this moment to the hungry heart of her husband.

"I want you to listen," he said quietly, "and take what I have to say as complimentary to yourself. Madge, you and I aren't a pair. I'm a difficult sort of man, ten years your senior, and I'm in a profession which makes me a little hateful to you. We are all wrong, and time isn't setting us right. So—"

"So?" she repeated when he paused.

There was no need to ask the question for she divined his meaning, and, to her astonishment, divined it with a panic sense of dismay and a constricted feeling at her heart.

"I think you and I had better part," he said gently. "I'm not the man for you. I am fussy; I am lazy. I hate the outdoor life. I loathe walking and riding. In fact, I'm a slug."

He found no reflection of his smile in her face.

"And I hate medicines and knives and things" she said, and shivered again. "I can't help it, Grant: I'm just born like that. I hate suffering and misery and would sooner die than see an operation."

He nodded.

"You can have Hill Crest and your allowance, of course," he said, "and nobody—"

His eyes had wandered for a fraction of a second toward the door of her dressing-room. It stood ajar, but the window and the door of the room in which he stood were closed, and there was little or no wind. In these circumstances it was, to say the least, remarkable that the door had moved ever so slightly. She looked at him in perplexity.

"Why did you stop?" she asked.

He did not reply. Striding quickly across tile floor, he pushed open the door of her dressing-room, reached in his hand, and switched on the light. Then he entered the room.

There was a man in the room, a man poorly dressed and at that moment in further embarrassment than his poverty caused him. Grant noticed the tell- tale jemmy on the dressing-table, but noted sooner the crooked nose of the burglar.

"It's all right, boss," said the delinquent. "It's a cop, an' I'll go quietly."

"I remember," nodded Grant; "you were after the pendant?"

The man nodded.

"This will mean two years for me," reflected the burglar philosophically, "but I'd sooner do five than have to listen to the junk you an' your missus have been talkin'!"

And Mr. Grant Dalberry felt remarkably uncomfortable.

Two years after this domestic comedy there was a great discussion in C 96.

It arose between a young man lately of the University of Oxford and another young man who, a few days before the declaration of war, had found a job driving an ice-waggon for the admirable Messrs. Fratti, and since the argument was on the subject of Italy, it was only natural that the honours of the night rested with the erstwhile servant of the greatest ice-cream merchant in London.

The two young men were spearing sardines out of a tin, and they were both very dirty. They wore soiled khaki clothing and great shapeless comforters about their necks, and though their conversation was carried on in whispers it was not regarded as private. They whispered because the enemy trenches were only one hundred yards away, and the enemy had a listening-post even closer. From Italy the discussion veered round to military systems and to conscription. The Oxford student did not quote Plato, because he was a nice boy and would not take a mean advantage, but the ex-driver of ice-waggons, having no such fine feelings, did quote (inaccurately) certain Socialist converts to Militarism.

The main conclusions which the argument produced were that it takes a lot of men to make an army, and that war is a leveller of classes.

"Look at me," said the driver proudly. "You wouldn't have spoken to me a year ago. Do you mean to tell me that you'd have got out of your bloomin' motor car—"

"I haven't a motor-car, but don't let that spoil your argument," said the student.

"Well, out of your carriage," insisted the other, desiring, after the manner of all great controversialists, to paint his contrasts in the most vivid colours.

"Make it a bicycle," begged the other.

"Do you mean to tell me that you'd have given me the glad hand, 'Orace?"

Horace (it was not his name) grinned. "Who knows?" he said diplomatically.

"War's brought us all to a level," whispered the driver fiercely. "It's made a man of me an' a man of you, me lad. A year ago— why, a year ago the likes of you would have despised me— you'd have spat at me."

"I don't spit," said the student wearily. "Pass the sardines, Henry."

But the other was too full of his thesis to accept the hint.

"It knocks the fads—"

"Silence!"

It was the sharp voice of the company commander.

The night was very still save for the "klik-klock" of an occasional rifle shot.

Far away to the right came a tremble of sound— a doleful "clong-clong-clong!" The warning was unmistakable. Somebody was hammering vigorously on a suspended brass cartridge case.

"That's gas," said the officer to his subordinate. "It can't be a general gas attack—"

He peered through the sentry's peephole.

Ahead lay the dark outline of the little rise between the two enemy trenches. It was a night of stars, and there was sufficient light to see what he was seeking.

For a while he saw nothing, and then over the rise there loomed a ghostly mist.

He swung round and hammered at the gong by his side.

"Masks!" he roared. "Stand to!"

A shower of heavy objects fell into the trench and exploded.

"Here they come!" yelled the officer.

"They" came a thousand strong behind the gas— a mass of grey figures with a rush.

The masks at the parapets glared devilishly toward the attacking host; somewhere on the left a machine-gun battery came into action, and a wounded artillery observer, crouching at the bottom of the trench with his lips glued to a telephone receiver, said confidentially:

"Square C 38— drum fire... the beggars are in the open, and you'll get 'em beautifully, Clarence."

Clarence (whose name was John) growled an order over his shoulder, and two batteries began to drip shrapnel over the venturesome thousand.

"MY ARGUMENT is," said the ex-driver faintly, "that there's nothin' like war for givin'... oh, Lord!"

They were getting him along the communication trench, and the way was rough and the angles very acute, and naturally the stretcher handles were for ever digging into the clayey sides.

"There ain't no collectin' station," said a cheerful individual at their journey's end.

"Why?" asked the bearers resentfully.

"Because it's crumped," responded the informative private triumphantly. "Hit by a bloomin' coal-box, an' the 'ole outfit straffed."

"Do you mean to tell me," said the indignant leader of Number 1 stretcher, "that there ain't a doctor for these pore perishers?"

"That's right," replied the other.

Somebody came out of the darkness.

"Are these surgical cases?" he asked in a tone of authority.

"Yes, sir," said half a dozen voices.

"The collecting station has been destroyed, hasn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said the guide, with reluctant admiration for the enemy's marksmanship, "properly straffed."

"I heard of it and came over," said the stranger. "I have a motor- ambulance on the road. How many are there?"

There were three cases, and they had all received first-aid before they left the trench. There was a sort of hospital on the Arras road, said the ambulance chauffeur. It was nearer than the base hospital. He was half-way to this sort of hospital when he remembered that he had heard it was to be dismantled as being within range of the heavy guns.

He pulled up at the dark building and bustled off to make inquiries and to provide himself with any excuses that might be necessary. Presently he came back to the surgeon who, crouched in an uncomfortable position, was rebandaging one of the wounded men by the light of a pocket lamp.

It's all right, sir," said the chauffeur in a tone of relief. "The hospital's gone, but there's a nurse in charge and plenty of stores."

He assisted to carry the wounded men into the big hall— it had once been a village school. The providential nurse had lit an oil lamp, had pulled a long table to beneath it, and was covering the table-top with a water-proof sheet, for nurses do not require instructions in such things.

"Plenty of chloroform, sister?" asked the surgeon, slipping off his coat.

"Yes, doctor. The last of the stores do not go until tomorrow, and I was left in charge."

Chauffeur and doctor laid the first of the patients on the table. The nurse disappeared, and came back with towels, dressing-tray, and basins. By the time she had drawn hot water from the big kettle on the still glowing fire in the rear kitchen the surgeon was ready for her.

"Now," he said, "I think we'll—"

He stared across the table.

"Margaret!" he gasped.

She was smiling.

"I knew your voice at once," she said, and took him in with one long and approving glance.

His shirt was stained and torn. He had a day's growth of beard, and he was lean with much physical exercise.

He looked at her in comic despair.

"I say..." he stammered, "this is a little operation, you know.... I shall want you to give him an anæsthetic... you won't like it..."

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed. "Will you use your own instruments or will you use ours? We have some awfully dinky ones!"

THE third sufferer was on the table and was talkative.

"War," he said vaguely and weakly, "is grand... Suppose you met me a year ago..."

"Give him a whiff or two," said Grant, and straightened his aching back whilst the girl dropped the sickly-smelling anæsthetic on the flannel cone.

"It's rum," Grant went on— he always talked as he worked—" here am I living the very life that I thought I should hate— doing my ten and fifteen miles a day— and here are you.... Lord, it is queer!"

She said nothing, watching in wonder and admiration the master-hand in its skilful application.

"I've never seen anybody as clever as you," she said.

"Flatterer," said Grant, without looking up.

"You are wonderful, you know. I've seen big things done in surgery, but you're just— wonderful."

"That will do," he said, signifying rather his satisfaction with his work than an admonishment. "Wake up, Tommy."

He pinched the cheek of the patient, who began to talk drowsily.

"Do you remember that night... the burglar with the crooked nose— he got six months, by the way— he was a rotten prophet," he chuckled... "and how we talked! You hated medicines like the devil."

"And you were a slug!" she said quickly. "Don't forget that!"

He was polishing the instrument he had used, and laughed.

"You said you would rather die than witness an operation."

"And you said—"

"At it again!"

The man on the table was speaking, half sanely, half in the haze of delirium.

"At it again— still talkin' junk about what she don't like an' what you don't like... you ought to go to war, you ought... made a human bein' of me..."

He subsided into an incoherent mutter of sound.

Grant looked down at the half-conscious patient. His nose was distinctly crooked.

"It has made human beings of us all," he said, passing round the table to the girl.

He kissed her, and she put her arms tightly about his neck and held his face to hers for quite a long time.

______________________

10:  The Air Taxi

The Grand Magazine, Sep 1921 to Feb 1922

BENEATH them was a dull grey-green carpet, laced with white patterns that changed every second, dissolving one into the other, to appear in newer and more fantastic arabesques. Beneath, too, but nearer, were flying wisps of cloud torn to shreds by the fury of the pursuing sou'wester. Ahead was a more solid sky barrier, the purple and black vanguard of the storm.

The pilot shot a casual, but interested, glance at the clouds above, a tumbling, rolling mass of grey vapour that trailed bedraggled streamers behind.

Then he looked round at the small mechanic, a grimy youth, with a face like Fate. And the pilot grinned.

He was driving into the teeth of a gale, and the humming whistle of his wires had risen to a shriek that sounded clear above the throaty roar of his engines.

He watched the blue blur of his tractor screw, only turning his head once: the wink of the Dungeness light came up to remind him that the minutes of daylight left to him were few. Night would come inkily and unpleasantly when he met the purple cloud bank now only a few miles ahead.

The forerunner of the greater storm came in the character of a terrific blast of wind that lifted the machine fifty feet in the air and dropped it as suddenly. The left wing went down and the machine slipped a thousand feet, a terrifying sideways toboggan down an airy chute. The one passenger gripped tightly at the rail and set his teeth, the small mechanic did not move. His eyes were glued to the leather-covered head of the pilot... then the airplane righted herself

Below came the matted lights of Folkestone, and no sooner were they over land than the nose of the machine dropped and the roar of the engines ceased.

Not too soon did her wheels touch earth.

The rain was lashing down, stinging the faces of the men, drumming on the canvas wings audibly. The airplane came to a standstill and the pilot, unstrapping himself leisurely, swung to the ground and wiped the rain from his face with a movement that was peculiarly deliberate.

"Peace hath her vic-tories, no less renooned than war-r!" he said, in that queer Glasgow accent which is neither Irish nor Scotch, but has the fascinating qualities of both.

The passenger was stamping his feet on the soddened ground, unconscious apparently that the rain was still pouring down. The force of the storm, as experienced from the firm surface of the earth, was mild by comparison with the howling tornado which is produced when a 100 m.p.h. Liberty engine bucks against a 70 m.p.h. gale.

Therefore, Mr. George Jackson scarcely realised that more than a gentle shower was falling.

"Phew!" he said, relieved; then, looking round with eyebrows gathered in a frown, "This isn't Croydon?"

"It's the airth," said the little man gently, and looked up at the sullen skies.

"It's no' so bad," he said meditatively. "It's a wee bit saft, but no' what ye'd call tu-mool-tuous. But the airth is better till yon clood's awa'."

Mr. Thomas MacTavish, whom his associates called "Tam"— most of them being wholly ignorant of his surname— had chosen the Claybury Aerodrome for his descent in preference to one nearer London, for reasons not wholly unconnected with a significant noise made by his engine. He had guessed the trouble and chose the first available landing, for he took no uncommercial risks.

He stood looking after the passenger as he squelched across the soddened field, and on Tam's face dawned the shadow of a smile.

The little mechanic had heaved himself from the fuselage and was walking round the machine, a look of anguish on his face.

"What's hurting ye, Angus?" asked Tam.

The youth's name was not Angus; it was, in fact, Henry Jones, and Tam had discovered him in a London slum and had elevated him to the dignity of apprentice aviator.

Henry Jones shook his head.

"This old bus has seen her best days," he said, and clicked his lips discouragingly. "I never did think much of these Bristol machines," he added, with gloom. "You mark my words, boss, one of these days there'll be trouble!"

Tam eyed him tolerantly.

"Ye miserable little devil," he said. "Ye never saw an airplane till I introduced ye to the 'Pride of Glasgow.' Get up, noo, and taxi across to the hangar."

With a deep sigh Henry Jones climbed into the pilot's seat, and if his air was one of magnificent unconcern, his hands trembled and his eyes glittered with bottled excitement.

"And take yer hands off the control, will ye?" roared Tam, who had seen the rudder move.

Henry Jones started guiltily.

"Noo," said Tam, "run along to the hangar, and if ye lift her so much as an inch from the ground, I'll take ye by the scruff of yer neck and the seat of yer pants, and there'll be sair hearts in Limehoose!"

He pulled on the propeller, and, with a splutter that rose to a roar, the converted Bristol fighter skimmed along the ground towards the low-roofed hangars, Tam walking behind, his eyes glued to the wheels.

Only once did the machine lift, and he grinned, for it was Henry Jones's dearest dream that some day be would lift the "Pride of Glasgow" with his own hands and send her zooming to the blue.

In the meantime the passenger had reached the office and had been greeted without enthusiasm by the lean-faced manager.

"A car into town? Yes, I think I can manage that; you'll have to see the passport officer here."

"Who's the passport officer?" snarled Mr. Jackson.

"I am," said the other calmly; "and your bag must be examined by the Customs officer."

Mr. Jackson looked round.

"I am also the Customs officer," added the manager modestly.

"If that fool pilot hadn't come down here I shouldn't have wanted a car," said the passenger, and the manager fixed him with a cold and steely eye.

"That fool pilot," he repeated slowly, "was a gentleman who has so many decorations for good flying that he has to brace his coat to hold them. He was, in fact, the greatest aviator and the greatest fighter that the war produced on our side, and if he came down here you may be sure there was an excellent reason for his falling short of his objective— and in the circumstances," he added, "I should imagine that you are very lucky to be here at all."

The passenger grumbled something under his breath, and walking to the fire warmed his hands whilst the manager telephoned.

"He isn't attached to a company, is he?" he asked across his shoulder.

"Tam is not attached to anybody but his machine," said Major Burton. "Tam is a one-man, one-machine, company; in fact, he is the only genuine aerial taxi-driver in Europe."

He explained that on his demobilisation Mr. Thomas MacTavish had purchased an airplane from the War Disposal Board, had erected an hangar in a field near his house at Horsham, and had set up in business for himself. His modest advertisement in the Times had brought Tam many clients. It had been instrumental in arousing the interest of Mr. Jackson, and was the foundation of the pretty little scheme which he had evolved.

"Is the weather likely to change?" he asked suddenly.

Major Burton nodded.

"I think you will have fine weather to-morrow," he said. "Are you going back by air?"

Mr. Jackson said cautiously that he thought he was; then remembering that there was no need for mysteries, and that the pilot would probably disclose the nature of the engagement, he became more communicative.

Major Burton watched his visitor depart, and greeted Tam as he came into the office to register his arrival and pay his landing fees.

"Your passenger's gone, Tam," he said.

"Oh ay," said Tam. "I've a wee bit of a repair to be done, Major Burton. Do your high-class mechanics work after hours?"

"I dare say they would for you, Tam," laughed Burton good-humouredly.

"I've a mechanic of me own," said Tam, looking reproachfully at the diminutive figure of Mr. Henry Jones. "But he's no' so cairtain aboot his diagnosis. Maybe 'tis the engine that's wrong, says he, and maybe 'tis the wings. Likely enough 'tis the strut, or a malformation of the nacelle, or probably the tractor is losing its pull," he went on mercilessly, "or the carburation is faulty."

Mr. Henry Jones gurgled protestively and hotly.

"When Angus fails me, Major Burton, sir," said Tam, with a gesture of despair, "I feel that the re-sources of science are exhausted. There is a strike of brains, ye ken, Major Burton, sir. I'm thinking that there's a little watter in the petrol tank, but Angus is no' in agreement wi' me."

He stripped his leather coat and appeared dry from shoulder to shoulder to a point below his knee, and there the wetness showed black and shining.

"Who's your gentleman friend, Tam?" asked Major Burton.

"Ma client?" said Tam. "Well, I'm no' so sure. He's engaged me for the roond trip. I picked him up at Tremblay in France, in accordance with telegraphic instructions confirmed by letter, enclosing payment on account."

"Have you ever been bilked?" laughed Burton, as he sat down to make out a receipt for the money which Tam had laid on the desk.

"Major Burton, sir, I am a Scot," said Tam solemnly. "If the passengers no pay when they start, it's ma practice to get it oot of them when we're aboot sixteen thousand feet up, and the' Pride of Glasgow' is displaying alarming tendencies to fall into a tail spin."

"I ask 'em for it," said Mr. Henry Jones, husky with importance.

"Angus is my ticket collector, cashier, and portable scientist," said Tam, and then dropping his bantering— "Major Burton, sir, do you know High Barnet?"

The Major nodded.

"It's in the north of London."

"Is it likely there's a place there where I could park ma wee greyhoond of the skies?" asked Tam.

"An aerodrome?"

Tam shook his head.

"No, it'll have to be more private than an aerodrome."

The Major pondered.

"Well, there are any number of fields in High Barnet," he said.

"So he said— in fact, be gie me the exact field, but I think I'll go up to-morrow and have a bit of a squint," said Tam.

He fumbled in his side-pocket, produced a fat pocketbook, and after some delay extracted a paper which he examined.

"Here's the hoose— High Lodge, Barnet. And this is the field that ma client said I could come doon in; but to come doon and to get up are two different things, Major Burton, sir, as it's an impairtinence of me to tell ye."

"Why doesn't he let you go to the nearest aerodrome? Have you got to pick him up?"

"At dawn on the 23rd," said Tam dramatically. "'Tis an elopement, I'm thinking, and I'm seriously considering whether I'll put Angus into a suit of white satin or whether I'll be content with gieing the old bus a new coat of luminous paint. Don't forget your rosette, Angus."

"But, seriously," said the Major, "of course your queer business opens the way to all sorts of remarkable possibilities. Is it an elopement?"

"I'm no' so sure," said Tam cautiously. "It would be a graund adventure. Canna ye see me waiting in the field, tense wi' excitement? Canna ye see Angus here, with a graund boquet of roses stuck in his dairty shairt, and a plug hat on his heid, and the bride dashin' across the field in white satin, wi' a veil of old Brussels lace, and boots to match? Canna ye no' think of them leaping into the fuselage wi' the outraged father dashin' after them? Then up we go, and the old man runs to his hangar, and in a few minutes he is following us in his gold-plated DH. 7. Angus puts the machine-gun on him—"

"Oh no, no," protested his sometime superior; "you're not at war now!"

"Maybe not," said Tam reluctantly, "but it would no' be so difficult to manoeuvre overhead and crash him wi' a big chunk of wedding-cake."

He sighed.

"But I'm thinking," he said, shaking his head regretfully, "that 'tis no' an elopement. The man's face is verra seenister, and I'm glad he paid in advance."

Tam, late of the Scouts, had no other call to London than his business. His wife and their one baby were visiting relations in Connecticut, and his house was being run by an elderly but thrifty Scotch lady, of whom Tam was in awe, but Henry Jones in absolute terror, for she had views on ablution which were wholly at variance with Henry's philosophy of life.

Tam was not usually curious about the business of his clients. His interest began and ended when he bad picked them up and set them down at their destination but he was curious about Mr. Jackson. The fact that he, although a nervous man, had insisted upon taking the trip in the most unfavourable weather conditions, that he had given exact instructions as to where Tam was to wait for him, that he had chosen the hour of dawn for his forthcoming departure, and his strange avoidance of the London aerodromes, all pointed to romance.

Tam found High Lodge without difficulty. It was an old-fashioned Georgian house, with great windows looking out upon a park-like expanse of country, a very large proportion of which seemed to be belonging to the property. Tam had some trouble in making his observations, for a high wall surrounded not only the house but the grounds; but he was gratified to discover that the trees were few and no difficulties about taking off.

Here he might have ended his investigations, and have returned to Claybury, but for the fact, as he discovered from examination of the rough plan which the man had drawn him, that he was to make his landing at a point where he would be screened from the house and observation by a belt of tall elms. For it was in the park that his machine had been ordered to rendezvous.

Tam scratched his chin. He had had a few curious adventures since he had gone into business as an aerial taxi-man, but never before had he hesitated to carry out the services which were demanded of him. He walked round the front of High Lodge in time to see a tall, pretty woman saying good-bye to an elderly man whose car was at the door.

The front of the house, in spite of the extent of the demesne, was within a dozen yards of the roadway. Probably the extra ground had been acquired after the house had been built.

Tam watched the car drive away, and was standing looking after it when a hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned round to meet the suspicious eyes of a man who had "detective" written all over him, from the top of his Derby hat to the square toes of his heavy boots.

"What do you want?"

"Weel," said Tam slowly, "I want a Rolls-Royce car, a hoose in Berkeley Square, a new suit of clothes—"

"None of that," said the other sharply. "What do you want?"

"I want ye to take your hand off my shoulder before I hit ye in the stomach," said Tam; and the man smiled but dropped his hand.

"Do you want anybody in that house?" he asked.

"I canna tell ye till I know who's in the hoose," said Tam.

The man bit his lips thoughtfully.

"All right," he said. "I'm sorry I startled you."

"Ye didna startle me," said Tam, "but will ye tell me, sir, why the police are watching this place?"

"You'd better go to the station and ask the sergeant," said the other shortly and a little unpleasantly.

Tam walked away more thoughtful than ever. He did not ask the station sergeant, nor did he make a call at the local lock-up. He pursued his inquiries in his own peculiar way, and he discovered that the owner of the house was a Mrs. Lockyer. He discovered, too, that she had recently divorced her husband. A villain he was, by all accounts. (His informant on this point was a lank youth who wore spectacles and delivered fish. Tam had trailed him after he had emerged from the servants' entrance of the house, a gateway about fifty yards along the road.) Apparently Mrs. Lockyer was a rich woman, and she had married a mysterious Mr. Lockyer abroad. Too late she discovered that her husband was a man extraordinarily well known to the police of four countries.

"Why," said the spectacled young man impressively, "he didn't dare appear in court when she divorced him. What do you think of that?"

"Ye don't say!" said Tam. "And what are the police agin' the hoose for?"

"Because he's threatened what he'll do to her," said the fish man. "The cook told me that he says, if she don't send him money—"

He explained the presence of the police to Tam's entire satisfaction.

He went back to Claybury, having made first a very careful note of the topographical features of the country, which meant no more than that he had carefully located the waterways, the pools, and the reservoirs, for it is by water that airmen find their way in the half darkness.

At four o'clock the next morning Tam left the Claybury aerodrome and drove the nose of the "Pride of Glasgow" at such an angle as left Henry Jones a little breathless. Up, up, up he went into the purple night, until the ears of Henry Jones buzzed, and he found himself breathing more quickly; until the fingers of Henry Jones were numbed and blue, despite the fur gloves he wore.

"Ridiculous!" muttered Henry Jones, and referred to the unnecessary height to which Tam was climbing.

Beneath them now was a sparkle of lights that winked incessantly, and through the lights ran the grey streak of the Thames— a ribbon half an inch broad and apparently without break, for they were too high even to see the line of the bridges distinctly. The eastern horizon from that height was rimmed with the orange light of the coming sun, and the sky was a faint grey.

Tam found his water-marks and turned when he was over the city of London, moving north.

The light increased, though it had not yet touched the earth. He had to locate his landing, and he circled above the district where he would descend, waiting for the light to show him more clearly the exact spot. Then he suddenly shut off his engine and came down in a long noiseless, glide, touching earth at a spot which had been invisible to him until he was two hundred yards above it, yet so excellently accurate was his landing that the machine came to a standstill within fifty yards of the spot he had chosen the day before. He climbed down slowly. The ground was good for his purpose, the spot he had chosen was, he knew, as good as any he would have found if he had been permitted to prospect the park at his leisure.

He strolled to the end of the tree belt, and looked toward the house. The big windows showed grey in the dawn-light, but the house was silent and there was no sign of life.

It was nearing six o'clock when he heard a scream. It was faint, and might easily have been confused with a high note of a ship's syren, for at this hour of the morning distant noises sounded plain and near at hand.

Tam's eyes narrowed. He took his gloved hands from the deep pockets of his leather jacket, stripped them, and pushed back the leather ear-pieces of his helmet, but he heard no other sound.

Presently he saw a figure coming rapidly across the grass from the direction of the house. It was running, and it carried something in its arms. Tam drew a long breath, and his lined face twisted in a set grin. The runner was breathing heavily as he came up.

"Here you are," he said breathlessly. "Take this: where's the boy?"

"Get up, Angus," said Tam curtly, and Henry Jones climbed into the machine.

"Be careful," said Mr. Jackson in gasps. "Don't be frightened of it; it won't bite you."

A little wail came from the bundle of clothing he thrust up at the startled boy, and Jackson chuckled.

"Now get away as quick as you can."

"Oh ay," said Tam. "But where are ye taking the bairn?"

Mr. Jackson's face was white and ugly, and he had in his hand a small but useful automatic.

"To a safe place!" he said, and Tam looked at the pistol. A man who would abduct his own child in order to get a pull to squeeze money from its mother would not hesitate to commit a worse crime. He pulled hold of the propeller and leapt up as the machine was on the move. He threw one glance back as he came level with the end of the tree belt and saw another figure before the house.

He was heading now for the wall, but with a push of his stick he sent the "Pride of Glasgow" skimming away from the house along a great stretch of grass-land.

There were trees to be dodged, and yet another wall to be faced; within fifty yards of this latter the nose of the machine shot up, and she roared higher and higher into the air.

The passenger was sitting behind him, and presently Tam felt a touch and took from Mr. Jackson's hand a sheet of paper on which he had scribbled:

"I will give you a hundred pounds extra for this job."

Tam nodded, and glancing over his shoulder saw Henry Jones squatting on the floor with a baby in his arms, and inside Tam was one great chuckle of merriment.

Higher and higher drove the machine, and now they were flying over open country. With the sun came a gusty wind which sent the "Pride of Glasgow" seesawing from side to side. Then Mr. Jackson grew alarmed. Tam felt the grip of his hands on his shoulders and heard his hoarse voice in his ear.

"You're going westward!"

Tam nodded. Then something touched his cheek; it was the freezingly cold barrel of the automatic.

"Eastward!" roared the voice.

Tam nodded, but still the rising sun threw his shadow upon the instrument board.

Again the grip of the hands on his shoulder.

"If you land anywhere but in France I'll kill you!"

Tam nodded.

The minutes grew to an hour. The sun was up now, flooding the land with light, but still Tam kept his westward course. Once the man glimpsed the sea to his left, and they sighted a busy port crowded with ships. Tam, glancing backward, saw the change in the man's white face and the almost diabolical glitter in his eyes.

Westward, westward, still westward, until there came beneath them a great stark plain, sparsely fringed with tiny green squares which represented the farms of those who won a livelihood in this hardy soil.

And then the "Pride of Glasgow" dipped. They were heading straight for a little township, the principal feature of which was an ugly yellow starfish of brick. Nearer at hand, Jackson saw that the starfish was made up of five buildings radiating from a common centre, and he traced about these the black line of a wall.

There was only one clear space within that wall, and it was a limited space, into which none but an airman of Tam's extraordinary courage and resource would have dared to drop. The tail of the machine missed the top of the high buildings by inches; the wheels crunched to a gravel path, and the "Pride of Glasgow" came to rest with her tractor screw touching the steel bars of a great gate.

"And here we are!" said Tam, turning round; "'tis the safest place I ken for a wee bairn! Noo start yer shootin'."

Mr. Jackson, white and shaking, had no words, and when the warders of Dartmoor Convict Gaol lifted him from the fuselage and greeted him as an old friend, he looked dazedly from Tam to the unshaven convicts at work in the yard, their heads furtively turned to witness this great excitement which had come into their dull lives, and suddenly collapsed.

Tam took the baby gently from Henry's cramped arms. She was sleeping peacefully.

"Laddie or lassie, I dinna ken what ye are from yer wee face," said Tam. "Ye'd better say good-bye to yer papa. I dinna think ye'll see him again for a lang time."

___________________

11:  The Convenient Sea

THERE were times when Betty Lanson found Losmouth intolerable; moments when, in the despair and sickening anxiety which dominated her, sleeping and waking, she loathed the placid blue sea and the red Devonshire cliffs and the little greeny-grey quay to which the Brixham fishing boats sometimes came, and wished that not only the vanished river (for Losmouth had once been Lost-mouth) but the whole community had never been found.

And yet Losmouth had a loveliness of its own— a mile stretch of amber sands and a glorious countryside that climbed steadily up to the moors, white farmhouses, cornfields, and deep red fallow land.

Even the Towers Hotel had none of the garishness which characterises a modern seaside hostelry, for it was a veritable castle, with a high turret, on the topmost floor of which Betty had her lodging.

"Pretty girl, that." Johnny Didsworth, who had come down for a week-end's fishing, had an eye for beauty. "The head waiter was telling me she's got the whole of the haunted wing to herself— first floor, second floor, third floor— and she lives on the top, dines on the bottom, and does her sewing in between. How's that for a mystery, Cheers?"

Cheers was not greatly interested in women. He was a rather tired young man— if thirty-five can be called young— and was happiest when he was quite alone in the middle of the bay, fishing from his forty-foot motor-boat, or finding solitary ways through the wild and lovely moors.

He was a brown, keen-faced man, his hair grey at the temples, and for the moment he cordially detested his fellow humans. All except Betty, for he had met Betty in the early hours of the morning, bare-legged, wet of face, a bathing wrap round her, coming up from Rock Pool; and it had occurred to him that if any girl looked her best in these circumstances, she must look a little better when she had brought the artifices of the dressmaker and the milliner to her aid.

He saw her sometimes sitting on the circular balcony of what Johnny had flippantly described as the haunted wing. There were ghosts here in plenty, but none known to local tradition. The ghost of the big, puffy-faced man with hard, staring eyes and thick, hateful lips; the ghost of a boy, pale, haggard-faced; and the ghost that had no face at all, for Betty Lanson had never seen the Hon. Jasper Rayshaw, that merciless man, had not even tortured herself by seeking out a photograph of him. Sometimes she pictured him with a jaundiced face and small, crafty eyes, a thin-lipped man, sour at heart, whose secret private life might be unspeakably vile. Or she saw him as a leering man of middle age, or some deformed thing with a warped mind, whose face changed with every mood.

The dark, sorrowful eyes of Edward Lanson remained steadfast; the puffy cheeks and the heavy jowl of Welford were a permanent memory.

So he had appeared, in his ludicrously coloured dressing-gown, when he had walked into her room and locked the door behind him. She did not remember much that happened after that. There was only the evidence of the butler and the footman, who came on the scene and found a broken door and her brother standing over a quiet figure, a smoking pistol in his hand. They had been guests at Jay Welford's country house.

The shock of the business had nearly killed her. They took her evidence on commission. That was before Jasper Rayshaw had come into the case. She was not in court when Edward was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude, but she read the address for the prosecution, delivered with all the vehemence and malignity which Rayshaw could command— as she judged. It was in reality no worse and no better than any speech for the Crown. In some respects it was more sympathetic. But she read into the speech a personal malice, a sheer desire to hurt.

Cheers knew nothing about these ghosts. He was intensely interested in the incidence of deep-sea fishing. Daybreak saw him climbing into his boat with a basket of refreshments; sunset saw the white cutter returning to its berth. When the other guests of the Towers Hotel were strolling from the dining-room to the big ballroom, he was in his pyjamas, winding up his watch, preparatory to a good night's sleep.

She saw him several times, for there were days when the sea was rough and fishing uncomfortable. She was an unseen audience of his little conversation with Johnny, and she disliked Mr. Cheers intensely— if she had room for any other violent dislikes.

When they met it was in circumstances which made it impossible for her to be anything but polite. She had two recreations; she loved to drive out at nights in her two-seater car, and she loved to sail alone on the smooth waters of the bay. She was an excellent yachtswoman and could handle a sail; but there is no way of handling a mast which is broken by a sudden squall, and the fisherman in the long motor-boat drew in his lines hastily and sent the white hull flying to her help.

She was rather breathless. He, who knew very little about women, thought she was frightened, whereas she was only furious that their meeting should bear the hallmark of romance.

He took her on board, and, going into the little dinghy, he cut away the splintered mast, hauled it and its wet sail aboard, and fastened the painter to the motorboat's stern, and all the time she protested feebly.

"I have to bring it in," he said good-humouredly. "It's a danger to shipping and all that sort of thing. Besides, if it floated out to sea and was picked up, it might start a scare."

"How thoughtful of you!" she said, and he smiled.

"Be as rude as you like," he said cheerfully. "I can well understand your feelings. I should hate to be rescued."

"I'm afraid I have spoilt your fishing." She could think of only the trite and commonplace things to say.

"The fishes spoilt that," he answered.

She should have been grateful to him, but he hardly looked at her. His well-mannered indifference was more exasperating than if he had stared at her.

"You've been here a month, haven't you? Don't you find it very dull?"

"No," she answered instantly; "I see very little of the people at the hotel."

He chuckled at this.

"That's exactly how I feel."

Then, after a little pause:

"The manager was talking about you last night— he always refers to you as 'the young lady,' though there seems to be quite a number of young ladies at the hotel. He was saying how dangerous he thought your night driving was. By the way, your car woke me up the other night."

"I like driving at night," she said quickly. "I— I suffer from insomnia."

She hated him for forcing this explanation from her. It was impertinent of him to refer to her habits, good or bad. She knew the countryside for twenty miles around, and knew it by night— she could almost have driven blindfolded.

"It's a lovely country," he agreed. "I saw you the other day outside Ashburton. Your car was standing still by the side of the road, and I nearly stopped to offer you assistance, but saw you had a man with you—"

He saw her face go pink, then white again.

"You're almost a professional rescuer, Mr. Cheers," she said, and he was very amused indeed.

"Aren't I? As a matter of fact, I very nearly came back. I didn't like the look of the man who was with you. He was a cyclist, wasn't he? I saw his machine lying on the bank. The moor is full of tramps at this season, and even a tramp with a bicycle isn't beyond the bounds of possibility."

She did not answer; did not, in fact, speak again except to thank him coldly and formally.

An urgent telephoned request came to him from London the next day. It concerned a matter in which he had been interested a few months earlier, and, instead of fishing, he took his car out and was gone the whole of the day. Betty saw him return, and that night for the first time she went down to the dining-room for the evening meal.

It was crowded with holiday-makers— prosperous fathers of families and their unpromising progeny. She sat down at a little table in the bay of a window that looked over the sea. And then she heard his voice.

"Great minds think alike," he said. "This is the first time I've been down to dinner too. Would you be terribly annoyed with me if I asked if I could join you?"

She hesitated, and nodded. There was defiance in her nod, but it stood for permission.

"I promise not to tell you the story of my life."

He was almost gay as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

"And I won't ask you for yours."

He looked out of the window upon the darkening bay.

"Convenient, isn't it?"

She looked up at him quickly.

"What is convenient?"

"The sea. All the way back I have been making up a story, and the theme of that story is the tremendous convenience of the English Channel. Do you agree, Miss Lanson?"

She was puzzled, a little uneasy, he thought. He changed the subject.

There was no question of indifference now; yet his interest in her could not be regarded as offensive. Her dislike of him was planted in very shallow ground and was easily uprooted. He knew some of her friends. He did not say as much, but she drew inferences from his familiarity with their lives. Most surprising discovery of all, he knew Aunt Anna and had stayed in her stuffy little house in Northampton.

"Whom did she leave all her money to? Her solicitor told me she was worth well over half a million.... You! Good lord! What a bit of luck!"

He seemed more impressed by her relationship with the vinegary spinster whose heiress she had been than by the immense wealth which had come to her, and told her stories of the eccentric old woman that were new to her. For she had only seen Aunt Anna once in her life, and the enormous legacy had come to her as a stunning surprise. Or she might have been stunned if she had not been still dazed by the catastrophe which sent Edward Lanson to penal servitude.

If anybody had told her that day that she would reveal her most precious secret, that she would be unburdening her heart to this unpleasant stranger before nightfall, she would have laughed them to scorn; yet here she was, stirring mechanically the coffee that was already cold, and telling him of Edward and Welford... an inexplicable and staggering departure from her natural reticence.

Yet there was something about him which inspired confidence; a sympathy and an understanding that she had never met with before in her life.

"I suppose you read the case.... I never knew that Mr. Welford had such a dreadful reputation, or we would never have gone there. As a matter of fact, Welford did not know that my brother had arrived. Edward let me go alone; I'd been there half a dozen times when Mrs. Welford was in England— she was in Cannes when this happened— and he had never said a word to which I could take exception. I think Edward heard something about him. He hired a car and arrived about midnight. The butler let him in, and showed him to his room, which was next to mine. Welford knew nothing of this.... Edward always carried a revolver. He had been in the British South African Police for a year, and he was terribly young..."

Mr. Cheers nodded slowly, his grave eyes fixed on hers.

"How tragic— how dreadful! Of course, you didn't give evidence?"

She shook her head.

"The case was mismanaged. Poor Edward was partly responsible, because he wanted to keep my name out of it. He told the butler that he had a personal quarrel with Mr. Welford over money matters. It was the craziest, maddest thing to say. And they took the body out into the hall, and the butler said that was where it was found. Edward must have persuaded the butler to tell that lie. I knew nothing about it till I read the evidence— that dreadful speech!"

"Of Rayshaw?" said Cheers quickly.

"Rayshaw!" She stared out of the window, her eyes narrowed, her lips set in a straight line. "I hope I never meet him." Her voice was vibrant with hate.

"He's not a bad fellow— I know him rather well. As a matter of fact, we're in the same profession."

She looked at him, amazed.

"Are you a lawyer?"

"A sort of one," he said good-humouredly. "Anyway, Rayshaw was only doing his job for the Crown to the best of his ability. I don't think I should feel very bad about him if I were you."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"He's an odd sort of devil. There may have been a touch of malignity in his speech, but just then he was a pretty sick man—"

She shook her head.

"Nothing you can ever say will make me change my judgment," she said.

They strolled out on to the long, paved walk between the sea and the hotel, and mostly he talked about fishing and motoring. She was distrait and nervous; he realised that she was only listening to half of what he said. It was when he began to discuss the best route to reach London by road that she gave him her undivided and instant attention.

"Oh yes, you must go through Exeter," he said, "but you needn't touch Bristol. You can take the Frome road, but even then you've got to go through Bath. Theoretically you can avoid all those towns, but it is dangerous."

"Why dangerous?" she asked quickly, and he made some vague reply about the state of the secondary roads.

Her second car arrived the next day, a heavy, black-looking limousine. He was in the yard when it was backed into the garage. The elderly chauffeur was evidently a family retainer, for she addressed him by his Christian name. For some reason she was irritated to discover that Mr. Cheers was a witness to the arrival of the car.

"I am taking a long trip through Cornwall and Wales," she said.

He thought the explanation was unnecessary, and so did she when she got back to her room.

He saw her again that afternoon. She was worried, nervous, jumped, and changed colour when he spoke to her. She did not come down to dinner, but as he strolled along the beach he thought he saw a figure on the top of the turret, silhouetted against the sky. He knew, because the manager had told him, that the advantage of what was known as the turret suite was that the guest fortunate enough to rent it had a tiny roof garden of his own.

In the morning, when she walked down to the quay, she found the motor- boat hauled up on the beach. Two men were painting the white hull black, and she was so surprised at the sight that she stopped and questioned its owner, who was looking on and superintending the operation.

"The white hull frightens the fish," he said. "At least, that's my present theory. There must be some reason for their shyness."

"But you're having the top painted black, too. It is wicked to paint that beautiful brass-work."

"I am eccentric," he said, and offered no other explanation.

He did not go fishing that day, though he could have hired a boat, but spent the afternoon in his room, sleeping, as he confessed without shame when he saw her before dinner.

The old distrust of him had gone. She did not even regret that she had told him so much. There was something very lovable about him, something that completely appealed to her.... Once she was on the point of confessing the greatest secret of all, but here her tongue was tied by duty.

He had had the boat put in the water; the paint was of the quick-drying variety, he told her. Towards evening she saw two great hampers brought down and put in the well.

"I'm going for a night's fishing," he said when she questioned him.

Her nerves were all on edge, and although he did not believe that she suffered from insomnia he was satisfied in his mind that she had not slept the previous night. When he suggested just before dinner that she should walk along the beach, she definitely refused, and as definitely changed her mind.

They walked in silence for a quarter of a mile, and then unexpectedly, and apropos nothing, he said:

"You want to forget about Exeter."

She stopped dead.

"I don't know what you mean."

Her face was very pale, and she spoke breathlessly.

"About Exeter," he repeated calmly. "It's almost impossible to avoid Exeter on the way to London, and absolutely impossible to avoid one or the other of the big towns."

She walked slowly on by his side.

"I'm not going to London by road," she said at last.

"Cornwall, I think?" he suggested. "And Wales? In that case you can't avoid Bristol." He paused, and added: "Even if you have a chance of avoiding any town."

It was with an effort that she asked:

"Why your sudden solicitude, Mr. Cheers— I mean, for my route?" And then, as though she feared his reply, she went on quickly: "What time are you going fishing?"

"Upon the convenient sea?" he asked.

Again she stopped, looking at him frowningly.

"1 don't understand that convenient sea," she said, speaking with puzzled deliberation. "Why do you repeat it— or is it a quotation from something?"

"I start my fishing at about ten o'clock," was his reply. He ignored her question. "And to-morrow I'll bring you the pick of the basket for your breakfast. Or are you leaving for Cornwall to-night?"

He pointed out to sea.

"There's a mist coming up. We will call that the convenient mist. There should be a thick fog by midnight. Happily, there is no risk of being run down. Farther out at sea the risk is minimised, because big ships stop and hoot pitiably. There is nothing quite as pathetic as a big ship in a fog, bleating for safety."

"I think we'll go back," she said abruptly, and, turning, she swayed and would have fallen, but he caught her by the arm.

"No sleep and no food, young lady. That is very foolish. Don't you think you'd be well advised—" He stopped.

"To go to bed and eat porridge?" she mocked him. "No, I don't. You're a man, so food is the all-important factor in life."

It was eleven o'clock when Betty Lanson opened the little turret door and walked to the quay. She peered down, and at first she thought that the black boat was gone; presently, however, she distinguished it lying in the shadow of the sea wall. The discovery frightened her. She wanted this inquisitive and knowledgeable man to be far away.

Why his presence or absence should affect her, she could not explain to herself. She went back fretfully to her room, mounting the spiral staircase to the top floor and up a short ladder on to the leaded roof. Here she waited, a cloak over her shoulders, peering northward into the dark.

The Losmouth village church clock struck midnight, but she did not move. Her pulses were racing; almost she could hear the beating of her heart.

It had failed, then! She felt sick at the thought. All the planning and the bribing, all the big money spent, and in the end she had failed. Her intelligence told her that it could not help failing, that the chances of success were one in a million. She had read somewhere that not one prisoner in a hundred years had ever escaped from that moorland prison, though hundreds had tried. Why should her efforts be successful?

And then, in the darkest moment of her despair, she saw far away the flicker of a light. Once, twice, three times it flashed, and in the emotional reaction she would have swooned had she not gripped tightly to the roughcast battlement. Her knees gave under her as she came down the ladder.

In her bedroom was a small handbag, which she carried down through the little door into the open. A suitcase was already in the car.

She heard her name whispered; it was the old chauffeur.

"I got the car on the road outside, a hundred yards from the hotel, miss."

Her teeth were chattering as she thanked him.

"Here's the handbag. Mr. Edward is coming here first."

"Is it all right?" The old voice was eager and joyful.

"I think so.... We'll have to wait."

She herself waited alone in the dark lane. Once she thought she heard the purr of a motor-car, but it died away; and then, when she had almost given up hope, she saw two figures walking quickly along the lane towards her, and shrank back into the hedge. Nearer and nearer they came, and she recognised the walk of the slighter and flew to him, and was caught in his arms.

"You'll have to hurry," said his companion gruffly. "The night officer will be making his round in ten minutes."

She led the way through the garage yard to the turret. There were instructions she had to give, last-minute plans which she had written with elaborate care, which did not even admit of discussion.

He came in— a pale, hollow faced young man. She was shocked at the change one year had made in him. Incoherently they talked together, clinging to one another like children; and then the gruff voice of the bribed warder whispered a husky warning.

Betty extinguished the light, and they went out through the door.

Boom!

She heard the warder's curse. "That's the gun!" he almost wailed.

"What is that?" she asked fearfully.

"They've found he has escaped. That's a warning. All the police for miles round will be on the roads."

"I thought that was a possibility."

At the sound of the voice that came from the darkness Betty Lanson almost collapsed. It was Cheers.

"The car is absolutely useless. You'd better put her back in the garage." His voice was very steady and businesslike. "Is that your brother? Come this way."

She did not dream of disobeying him, but followed him to the sea wall.

"There are two days' provisions in the cockpit," he said, "maps and compass, and I venture to offer a few suggestions as to likely landing places. As I said, the sea is a very convenient asset."

He felt her grip at his coat.

"You mean... you knew?"

"I mean I guessed. If I'd seen your brother's face, I should have known, of course. Get down!"

It was a command. The two men obeyed, and slipped over the edge of the quay wall into the boat.

"Can you drive? That's good. You'll find a couple of heavy overcoats there. I rather guessed you'd have a friend with you. There's a self-starter on the dashboard. The compass— you can see the compass— excellent! Good hunting!"

They stood together, the man and the woman, as the black hull glided into a greater blackness, and the sound of the engine became a hum and then ceased altogether.

"That's why I painted the hull black," said Cheers. "My instinct is little short of marvellous. Somehow I knew that it would be wanted to-night."

There was a long silence, which she broke.

"Will they get away?"

"They've every chance," he said. "I hope so for my sake, because I should hate to be disbarred for conniving at the escape of a man I sent to penal servitude."

She reeled back from him.

"You!"

"My name is Rayshaw," he said. "Cheers is my nickname. What about running into Torquay tomorrow and having breakfast together? There are one or two interesting things I'd like to say to you."

The grip on his arm tightened. It was the answer he desired.

_______________________

12: Thieves Make Thieves

IF you had told Mrs. Caling-Apleton that she was a criminal, she would neither have swooned nor wept. She would have regarded you through her jewelled lorgnettes as though you were some prehistoric beastie that had been revivified and escaped from a museum and strayed into her beautiful South Kensington drawing-room. Had you added, in your natural exasperation that she was a conspirator of a most dangerous type and was qualifying, if she had not already qualified, for a long term of penal servitude in the convict establishment at Aylesbury, she would have thought you were mad, for she stood in such close relationship to the law that she thought she was superior to it. For was not Mr. Arthur Wendle, senior partner of Wendle, Wendle & Crail, both her nephew and her protégé?

When a man wishes to say something rather offensive about a woman, he says that she ought to have been born a man. John Crail often said this of Mrs. Caling-Apleton, and with excellent reason. Yet there was nothing mannish about this interesting lady. She was petite, sharp-featured, inclined to be fluffy. She had been a widow for twenty years, and if there was any grey in her hair, it went the way of other natural tints when the excellent Emil, best of hair-artists, "touched" it into a dull and most convincing tint of gold.

Mr. Crail, who was thirty, good-looking and caustic, used to say that the firm of Wendle, Wendle & Crail was really Wendle (in small type) and Caling-Apleton (in big). The first of the Wendles had been her brother, the second had been financed from her own account. Mr. Joshua Wendle was thirty- five and dyspeptic, and had been quite disinclined to add the name of Crail to the brass plate which decorated the door of his City office.

"Don't be a fool, Joshua," said his masterful aunt. "It is very necessary that there should be somebody in the firm who understands law. This young Crail is clever, he is willing to pay five thousand pounds for a share of your practice— which shows that even a good lawyer can be a fool too."

So John Crail was admitted and signed an agreement that only an imbecile or a solicitor would have signed on his own behalf. For this is the peculiarity of lawyers that they are quite incapable of managing their legal affairs.

Six months after his admission he woke to the discovery that he had paid five thousand pounds for the privilege of earning his partner a comfortable competence. He consulted another lawyer, and learned that he had been badly but legally swindled. He was tied by the neck to a business which offered him a meagre salary and a one per cent. return on his investment.

He used to sit in his office late at night and silently curse the name of Wendle. The need for silence disappeared in the third year of his servitude, when Mr. Wendle engaged a new secretary— Miss Elsie Mannering.

She was more than ordinarily pretty; her unromantic age was twenty- four— but she looked eighteen. And she was devastatingly intelligent. She was supposed to be working late one evening when John Crail took her into his confidence. She listened, nibbling the end of het pencil.

"Isn't it queer how silly a man can be?" she asked, and John choked. "But you are! Don't you realise that you can be retired just when they grow tired of you? For example, there's a clause in your agreement that you must not gamble—"

"Good lord!" Mr. Crail's jaw fell. "How did you know?— and why do you say 'they'?"

She smiled— and she was lovely when she smiled.

"I've seen the agreement— arid I've heard 'they' talking. I see more of Mrs. Apleton than you— I was down at her place in Egham last week-end, and Mr. Wendle was there. They kept me working from Friday till Monday morning and gave me a pound for overtime I"

John Crail frowned at this.

"But gambling—?"

She nodded.

"It came out over poor Bennett."

It was whilst John was on his holidays that the unfortunate clerk had been arrested and sentenced to six months' hard labour for embezzlement.

"Apparently the bookmaker who came to collect money from Bennett— that was how The Wendle found out about the eighty pounds he had stolen— told Mr. Wendle that you owed him a lot of money—"

"What did they say about it— the old lady and Flossie?"

She did not know till then his nickname for the senior partner, but when she stopped laughing she was discreet.

"I can only tell you that they know," she said, "and I've told you too much already."

They knew indeed. Mr. Wendle was very severe about it— but not too severe. He wasn't quite sure what line his aunt would take. She lost little time in making her attitude clear.

"Anyway, we'll have to get rid of Crail, and it might as well be done sooner as later. He is taking a most extraordinary attitude over the Murdoch Estate. I lay in bed thinking about it the other night. I am really worried, Joshua. I was talking to Sir Hubert Lesford— who is the best authority at the Bar on property... naturally, I was only putting hypothetical cases to him... in fact, I told him it was a case I had heard years ago. And he was very emphatic. He said that what you have been doing is— well, he said it was criminal conspiracy."

Mr. Wendle shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I would not say that our action—"

"Your action, Joshua," she corrected. "Whatever happens, my name must be kept out. Crail suspects something— he was almost rude to me the last time I was at the office."

Mr. Wendle was obviously agitated.

"Why not let Crail go?" he pleaded. "Give him his money and let him out in a good humour?"

But the five thousand pounds which John Crail had paid had been transferred to Mrs. Apleton's account to liquidate an old debt.

"No, certainly not. We can get rid of him for nothing. But suppose he makes absurd statements about us— you? The ideal method, of course, would be to discover something that would utterly discredit him. A man who gambles... couldn't you have an accountant in?"

The lawyer pursed his thin lips.

"My secretary is a rather clever accountant—" he began.

Mrs. Apleton sniffed.

"She's much too pretty to be clever," she said.

None the less, to Elsie Mannering was given the task of investigation. It was necessarily a slow business, and a month passed before her work was completed. And in a month much may happen.

One morning...

Wendle came to the office in an irritable mood. There were several unpleasant letters to deal with, and his secretary was strangely apathetic, not to say weary. She hid a yawn behind her hand.

"My good young woman, don't yawn, please!" he snapped, and the ghost of a smile dawned in her fine eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't leave the office till twelve last night."

Mr. Wendle very much objected to this reminder of his responsibility.

"I have arranged with the cashier that you shall receive fifteen shillings extra pay for the night work," he said impressively—"which, I think you will agree, is rather handsome. Have you found anything?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing. I went through the transfer books—"

He looked dubious at this.

"Ye-es. I don't know whether you have a sufficient knowledge of accountancy to be able to detect anything irregular, even if you saw it."

"I have a diploma in accountancy," she said coldly.

"Yes, yes." He was impatient. "You found nothing— no notes about the Murdoch Estate?"

"No." And then she turned to a personal matter. "To-morrow is Good Friday, Mr. Wendle. You know that I am going on my holidays?"

Mr. Wendle never failed to protest against the nuisance of holidays. Crail was going away too.

"I never take holidays. It is not for me to influence you: but if you would care to forgo a week, it might considerably enhance your prospects with the firm," he suggested, but apparently she was not impressed. "You are getting three pounds ten a week," he went on. "That is not bad pay for a young girl. I dare say we shall be able to put you up to four pounds next year. I don't promise, but it is possible. You can hardly expect more."

"I expect nothing. I hope— a lot," she said.

Mr. Wendle thought it an opportune moment to point a moral.

"The ideal existence," he said profoundly, "is a successful business career."

She sighed.

"I wonder? There are mountains somewhere and beautiful plains and rivers, and glorious blue seas where you can bathe and lie on a beach whilst the sun warms you. That seems pretty ideal to me."

Her employer was a little shocked.

"I'm afraid you've been reading novels. That is bad— unsettling. Don't forget Mr. Bennett— a wanderer on the face of the earth."

He seldom failed to bring in the gambling Bennett to support his argument. Happily she was spared a dissertation on the shiftless life, for John Crail came in. He hung up his hat and walked to his desk, apparently oblivious of his partner's presence.

"Good morning, Crail. Mrs. Apleton called you up." There was a certain significance in Wendle's tone.

"How long ago?" asked John carelessly.

Mr. Wendle waited until the door closed on the secretary. The name of Mrs. Apleton frequenfly provoked his partner to violent language.

"About twenty minutes ago. She said she'd ring you again. She wouldn't tell me her business."

"Naturally."

Irony maddened Mr. Wendle.

"I mean— er—"

John Crail was sorting his letters.

"You mean that she would not tell you her business. One can hardly find fault with her. Particularly as you knew what her business was."

Mr. Wendle was pained.

"You're being rather unpleasant aren't you?" he asked. "You might at least be polite. I have saved you an unpleasant experience this morning."

Crail looked up quickly.

"Oh! What was that?"

"Bennett came and asked to see you. Of course I sent him packing. You know whom I mean? The clerk who embezzled— er—"

John nodded.

"Poor devil!" he said, not for the first time.

"I really don't like your moral values, my dear Crail," said the other with asperity and John Crail smiled faintly.

"That's because you know 'em. I am puzzled about your moral values, because I don't."

Wisely his partner declined the challenge and returned to the question of Bennett.

"He is going to Canada and wanted some sort of recommendation! The nerve! A man who embezzled eighty-two pounds!"

"Oh, eighty-two?" Crail was most offensive when he sounded most innocent. "I thought it was only eighty. You didn't save me from the experience. I saw him in the street and told him to come in and see me."

"That's very unwise— he had a good job—"

Crail snorted.

"Ninety bob a week after twelve years' service, with a prospect of a ten-shilling rise. He brought up a family on that— good Gad!"

Mr. Joshua Wendle thought an opportunity had arrived.

"There is one thing I have never told you about Bennett's arrest— I hesitate to tell you now," he said deliberately. "This man who came to collect Bennett's debt was a very common fellow, and seemed to be under the influence of drink."

"You mean tight?"

"He was intoxicated," said Mr. Wendle primly.

"Oh, I see— just pickled. Well?"

"He said: 'I shall be coming back here again. I've got five thousand pounds to collect from Crail.' He didn't even say 'Mr. Crail.'"

"Oh, then he was tight," said John Crail calmly. "What does Mrs. Apleton want to see me about?"

"I am not sure." Joshua was very sure indeed. "I have an idea it is about selling the Beltham Abbey Estate."

Again he saw an unpleasant smile dawn in his partner's face.

"Beltham Abbey! She wants to sell that swamp to the Murdoch Estate?" he demanded.

Mr. Wendle stiffened.

"I don't know why she shouldn't," he said.

Crail and he were trustees for both estates. He knew Mrs. Apleton to be an enormously rich woman; the Murdochs had just got enough to keep body and soul together— they were a large family. Mrs. Apleton had bought the Beltham Estate and thought she was going to make a garden city out of a large, damp field. She had burnt her fingers, and was now trying to switch her liability elsewhere.

"It was on my advice she bought Beltham," said Wendle shortly.

"Is it on your advice she's selling it?" asked Crail. "They gave Bennett six months for eighty-two pounds. What should we deserve for diddling the Murdochs out of twenty thousand?"

He saw his partner's face change colour.

"I wish you wouldn't jest about such matters, Crail. Yours is a monstrous suggestion. I honestly believe that the Beltham Estate is worth all that Mrs. Apleton asks."

Elsie Mannering came in then, and the question of the Beltham Estate was shelved.

"Mrs. Apleton to see you," said the secretary.

Crail caught her eyes.

"I shall have a letter for you later, Miss Mannering," he said, and she nodded.

"Yes, darling."

The word was out before she could check herself. Nevertheless the face she turned to the startled eyes of Mr. Wendle betrayed no embarrassment.

"What did you say?" he asked in horror.

"I said 'Yes— after.'" Her voice was very steady she seemed rather surprised at his question.

"I thought you said... What did you think she said?" he asked John.

"I didn't take much notice. Why?" John's face was a mask. He hurried from the room, a puzzled man.

When the door closed on him:

"Angel!" Mr. Crail's voice was mildly reproachful. "You nearly put your pretty foot in it!"

"I did worse than that," said Elsie. "I wore my wedding ring to the office this morning! I've only had a week and I hate taking it off. That ghastly old woman out there is out for blood, Johnny."

Crail scratched his shapely nose thoughtfully.

"I wonder what she wants?"

She had startling news for him.

"She wants the transfer of her securities to the Northern Trust," she said, and he stared at her.

"Who told you?"

"I saw a letter she wrote to Wendle. Johnny, she'll still be terribly rich, won't she?" and, when he nodded "I'm rather glad of that."

"She wants to transfer her securities to the Northern Security Trust, does she? Pray hard, Elsie, for a miracle!"

The miracle happened at that moment. The house 'phone bell rang, and she picked up the instrument.

"Will you see Mr. Bennett?"

Bennett? He had forgotten all about the errant clerk.

"Shoot him in."

Wendle wouldn't like it, but he had got out of the habit of worrying about what Wendle liked.

Bennett was thinner, his face white and haggard. Prison killed men of his calibre. John Crail grew even more thoughtful as he pointed to a chair.

"I'd rather stand. I hope you don't mind my coming to you, sir— you're my last hope."

His wife and he were leaving for Canada the next morning, steerage. And at the last minute he had had a wonderful chance. His people had been farmers for years and had a place in the north of Scotland. The farm had just come into the market.

"Well?"

Bennett made a gesture of despair.

"I know that it is madness to ask, but I don't want to go to a country I don't know." He hesitated. "Is there any chance of raising the money to buy the farm? It is a lonely place; nobody knows about my past. My wife could buy it in her maiden name."

John Crail thought quickly.

"How much?" he asked.

"It's a bargain, sir— fifteen hundred pounds." He laughed harshly. "I know that it is stupid to ask, but you've been a good friend of mine."

There was no time to lose. Elsie bad appeared at the door, and her nod told him that Wendle was returning.

"You know Mrs. Apleton?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; I saw her come in."

"Well, see her go out," said Crail quickly. "When she's gone, come back. Go into my private room and wait."

Bennett had hardly passed through the door when Mrs. Apleton and her nephew came in.

"Good morning, Mr. Crail." There was something very ominous in that good morning.

"Good morning, Mrs. Apleton. What brings you into the City on this beautiful morning?"

"A very serious matter, my dear fellow— very serious." Wendle's voice was shrill.

"Hold your tongue, Joshua! The first thing, and that is the least important, is this letter." She produced a letter from her handbag and threw it on the desk. "I regard this as most impertinent."

Crail hardly glanced at it.

"Oh, the Beltham affair! Well, I really can't let you sell a dud estate to the impoverished Murdochs," he said.

"The impoverished Murdochs!" she scoffed "They have three motor-cars to my one!"

"They are living beyond your income— that is all," he answered coolly.

"You've never been so ultra-scrupulous before."

He knew instinctively that this was all the merest preliminary to the grand attack. The question of the Murdoch Estate had been fought out before. But it could now be re-fought in plainer terms.

"Mrs. Apleton, I know exactly what you and your nephew have been doing. We are the trustees for a large number of estates. My respected senior partner handles most of them. He would have handled yours, only you were anxious that he should not know too much of your private affairs. For years, as I have discovered, he has been juggling his trusts."

Mr. Wendle protested violently, but was silenced by his aunt.

"He has been juggling the trusts to enrich your already bloated bank balance," Crail went on. "Buying cheaply from one, selling dearly to another. I have calculated that in seven years your estate has benefited to the extent of eighty or ninety thousand pounds by this organised conspiracy."

"That is a most serious accusation—" began Wendle, but was again snapped to silence.

"Now, Mr. Crail"— her voice was like steel—"we will leave the Murdochs."

"Happy Murdochs!" smiled John.

"You hold a considerable number of securities of mine?" she continued, and, when he nodded: "A very large number of these have recently come on the market."

To her amazement, he showed no evidence of confusion or guilt.

"I sold them— yes."

She found a difficulty in asking the next question.

"You have the money in your bank?"

Again he nodded.

"Yes. It is customary to sell securities when one decides upon reinvestment."

Mrs. Apleton consulted a paper.

"Nearly seventy-five thousand pounds?"

"You're nearly four thousand out," he said coolly—"seventy-nine."

She turned red and white; for a moment her nephew thought she was on the verge of hysteria. But she kept a tight rein on her emotions.

"The money is in your bank, and in your own name," she said. "I have made that discovery. I want you now to give me a cheque for the full amount and an order to the bank to deliver the remainder of the securities."

If she expected a gesture of defiance she was to be agreeably surprised. He sat down at his desk, took out a cheque-book, and wrote.

"I am a business woman, Mr. Crail. I take no risks."

"Naturally." He did not look up from his writing.

"I shall require, of course, a full statement, but that will do later."

He tore out the cheque, scribbled a few lines on a note-sheet, and passed both to her. She examined the cheque and frowned.

"Do you bank at Torquay?"

"Yes. I like the climate."

His flippancy jarred, but she was a very relieved woman.

"I have distrusted you, Mr. Crail, ever since I saw you at a fashionable restaurant six months ago with the young lady who was here when I came."

Mr. Wendle's mouth opened.

"Miss Mannering? Impossible! This is monstrous— monstrous! You've been living a double life!"

Crail's cold blue eyes were bright with silent laughter. "You are understating the facts. I've lived a quadruple life, and three of them perfectly delightful."

He saw Wendle press his desk bell viciously, and then Elsie came in. Wendle could be very dignified.

"Miss Mannering, you will go to the cashier and draw two weeks' salary in lieu of notice."

"She's entitled to four," interrupted Crail.

Mr. Wendle shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well— you may have four weeks; and you need not return to this office."

That was the last Crail ever saw of him or his sharp-featured aunt. He waited until they were gone.

"Why four weeks?" asked Elsie.

"Every little helps," he said. "Go and get it before he changes his mind!"

He opened the door for her, and then, coming back to his desk, he unlocked a drawer, and, taking out a pad of banknotes, he put them into his pocket. Stepping swiftly to the door of his private room, he beckoned the waiting Bennett.

"Come in. What does that wife of yours look like?" he asked, and the man was taken aback.

"I've got her photo on my passport." He felt in his pocket, and handed the little book to John.

Crail looked at the photograph keenly.

"She's rather pretty too— looks like any other pretty girl," he mused. "And that's your portrait? If I took off my moustache, I'd look rather like you, shouldn't I?"

Bennett was bewildered.

"Why, yes, sir— you would, in a way."

There were a number of papers folded inside the book— steamer tickets, he saw at a glance. Mr. John Crail slipped passports and tickets into his own pocket.

"Go to Scotland by the first train," he said rapidly. "I'll keep these as a souvenir. You need never mention the fact that I've bought them." From his pocket he pulled a roll of notes and extracted twenty. "Fifteen hundred— and a monkey for luck," he said.

Bennett stared at the money in his hand.

"I may want to use your passport and your tickets for a poor friend of mine," Crail went on; "he has got himself into trouble. Well, he's not so poor, but the trouble is very real."

The man nodded slowly.

"I see. You can depend on me," he said.

"And keep straight," warned Crail solemnly. "Honesty is the best policy. Thieves make thieves. Good luck!"

He gripped the hand of the clerk and hustled him through the outer office. Elsie was waiting for him there— he had a moment to speak to her before he returned to his room for his hat.

"Angel, how do you like the prospect of a long sea journey— steerage?" he asked in a whisper, and she smiled.

"That will be the royal suite— with you," she breathed.

Mr. Wendle was waiting for him when he returned to room. And Mr. Wendle had been recently shown copy of some correspondence. He was naturally agitated.

"Crail, you posted a letter to Lady Murdoch last night, they tell me?"

John Crail nodded curtly as he took his hat from the peg.

"Yes. I advised her to get another solicitor. I told her you were trying to rob her. So long!" He made for the door.

"Wait, please!" Joshua was almost frantic with anxiety. "I may want to get in touch with you. It is rather awkward― your banking at Torquay. It is Good Friday to-morrow— and then Easter Monday. it will take four days to clear that cheque."

"I know," said John Crail.

_______________

13: Big Little Brother

A novelettte

1: The Man From The Forest

JOHN CALTHORPE stood seventy-two inches in his stockinged feet, and he was cursed with the good looks and muscular equipment which should rightly go with seventy-two inches and so seldom do. He had been apostrophized by a distant relation, a poetical spinster, in a poem which likened him to the Apollo Belvedere and other good-looking gentlemen of mythology, and, by a fatality which he never ceased to curse, a copy of the poem, cut from the poets’ corner of the Westchester Times (to which his maiden aunt was a regular contributor) found its way to Oundle School, and he became variously “Polly” or “Polo”.

Being in trade, he broke no hearts, because the opportunities for social recreation were few and far between: being the brother of the Earl of Heverswood and nephew of the Duke of Taunton, people wondered that he was in trade at all, for not even the surpassing value of yaga wood, of which he was the sole importer, shifted the basis of his standing from the commercial to the scientific.

When people talked to Selwyn he shrugged his shoulders, and suggested, rather than stated, that Johnny was on the eccentric side, that there was no need at all for his peculiar incursion into the wood trade, and that both he and his mother were a little annoyed.

And here he spoke the truth in one respect: the Dowager Lady Heverswood was in a perpetual state of annoyance with her stepson. The position in the Heverswood household was a peculiar one. The late Lord Heverswood had married twice. He and his first wife had separated after a painful period marked by violent quarrels and long intervals during which this gentle-minded man had not been on speaking terms with his wife, whose acrimony and malignity of temper were notorious. There was a divorce: one of those accommodation arrangements by which people sometimes overstep the boundaries of justice; and Lord Heverswood had married again. For five years he was supremely happy, and then a railway accident had taken away his desire for fife.

He was left, a broken man, with a small baby of fifteen months, and it was whilst he was in this state of depression and unhappiness that friends of the family reconciled him with his former wife and there was a quiet marriage at Heverswood church. Within six months Lord Heverswood was laid in the family vault by the side of his second wife, and Selwyn, Earl of Heverswood, reigned in his place.

That her ladyship resented Johnny, the small child she was called upon to mother, was understandable in a lady of her temperament. But for her wholesome fear of the boy’s fiery uncle, Johnny’s association with Heverswood Castle would have been a very slight one. As it was, she never saw him for seven years, and as soon as he was old enough had bundled him off to a preparatory school.

At five o’clock one summer’s morning, when the night mist still lay on the Port of London, John Calthorpe stepped down from his ancient car at one of those narrow entrances near Dockhead which lead to the water, and found waiting for him, by a rickety and rotting wharf, a ship’s lifeboat manned by two nondescript individuals (one of whom wore a derby hat) who, while they did not approach the ideal of the British Mercantile Marine, were, in spite of their griminess and their strange attire and lack of smartness, typical of the sailor men who man the tramps which have gone up and down the oceans of the world for all time.

His agent was aboard; Johnny found him in the captain’s cabin, and interrupted a glowing dissertation on the merits of yaga wood.

“... Any fool could have found the trees, but he discovered the only way to season it. We’ve had yaga wood on the market here for fifty years: good stuff, but it powdered on the first cold day....”

“Good morning, Captain.”

The master of the Pealego rose and found a chair for the newcomer.

“Just telling the captain— ” began the plumpfaced Mr. Dibbs.

“I heard you— you are appointed publicity manager from this moment,” smiled John, taking the preferred chair. “Good voyage, captain?”

“Yes, sir ... got into a snorter round the Horn, and this stowaway rather rattled me. I don’t know what to do with him. I suppose I’d better hand him over to the police, but he’d be worth a fortune to one of these showmen.”

“A stowaway— what sort of a man?” asked John, interested; and the old captain scratched his head.

“I don’t know— he may be one of these Belize Creoles rim wild; he’s not Carib or pure Indian. My mate says he comes from the other side of the Manatee Hills, but that’s bosh! They’re civilized. He’s a Deep River man and a long way up!”

“When did you find him?”

“We were coming through the Cays when my bo’sun spotted him in number one hold: lyin’ doggo between two parcels of vanilla that I bought for my owner. He doesn’t speak any language I know; my second tried him in Yucatan Spanish, but it was no good.”

“Let me see him!” said John, and a few minutes after there was pushed into the cabin the most extraordinary creature that he had ever rested his eyes upon. Save for a pair of blue shorts about his waist the brown-skinned man was naked. His black hair fell in a mane over a face that was puckered and creased with apprehension. Below middle height, the breadth of his massive shoulders gave him a squat appearance which his stooping attitude accentuated. But his arms ...!They were so long that his finger-tips were below the level of his knees— the muscles lay in swathes under the skin, the biceps, even inactive, were the size of a grown boy’s thigh.

Johnny stared at the apparition. He was not Carib or native Indian. The fillet of cloth about his long hair suggested his origin, and the white man began to speak in a language which the captain and the curious mate had heard but had never correctly spoken. At the first word the native raised his head and his little eyes twinkled. “Man, why did you come on this ship?”

“To look at the world, caballero— also to follow the stars that moved. Where they fall is paradise.”

Johnny knew the old Yucatan legend about the shooting stars and smiled.

“Your mysterious man is a woodman— I’m afraid Mr. Greyson’s Yucatan Spanish needs a little polishing— he speaks the language all right. What are you going to do with him?”

Again the captain rubbed his grey hair.

“I’ll hand him over to the police,” he suggested. Johnny looked at the man again and hesitated. He knew the tribe, the one wholesome race he had met in Central America. Mighty woodmen, who had that peculiar contempt for agriculture in all its branches which distinguished the forest dwellers. They were something more than this: there were no trackers in the world like this tribe, for, although they had the queer gifts of the Australian aborigine, they enjoyed a civilization higher than any of the purely native peoples of South America.

“He’s as strong as an ox— couldn’t you make a porter of him?”

The agent shook his head.

“There would be trouble with the union,” he said.

“We must either have him arrested or else take him back.”

The brown man was listening, turning his head from speaker to speaker as though to read in their faces the meaning of their strange words.

“Master, I will go with you,” he said suddenly. “I could serve such a man as you: you have the face of a god. I am a good cook and once I was servant to a caballero from Mexico and cleaned his clothes with a long brush.”

John laughed.

“Also,” the man went on eagerly, “I am a hunter of men! If the caballero has an enemy I will track him; for I can smell the blood of a man on the hands of his killer I”

John was not laughing any more, though his eyes were troubled.

“O hombre, I am a poor man and I clean my own clothes with a long brush. And I have no enemies— such as you could track. In this country there are men appointed by the Government to do these things.” Then, to the captain: “He really would make an excellent bodyguard if one needed such a thing. Keep him here; give him all he wants. His people were good to me when I had fever on Deep River.” He patted the man’s shoulder. “Here you stay till the ship goes back to your land— the men will be land to you. In this land you would die: la helada is terrible for men like you. Adios.”

He waved the conventional farewell and the brown man went out sullenly.

“What do you think of him?” asked the captain.

John smiled.

“An unusual type of native— I was surprised that he understood Spanish. Is he tractable?”

“He gave no trouble at all,” said the captain; “and I’m glad. You’d have to take a capstan bar to that fellow if he started a rough house!”

For the next two hours John Calthorpe was a busy man. The Pealego carried a record cargo of yaga logs— black, unshapely billets of wood, as hard as ebony and almost as light as ash— and since he was in the position of monopolist, the fixing of its market price was not the least delicate of his operations. And he was due at Heverswood that morning. This was the only unpleasant feature that the day promised

2: At Heverswood

THOMAS, the footman, sidled into the library, stood for a moment surveying the room with a critical eye, then, walking slowly to the fireplace, took up the silver tongs and daintily lifted three pieces of coal from the old-fashioned wooden scuttle. This done, he arranged the newspapers on the long table, pulled back one damask curtain which arrested a few inches of spring sunshine, and was gazing through the long window across the stretch of the deer park when the muffled click of the door-handle turning brought him round, alert and busy.

The member of the household who came into the big panelled room did not so much as look at the servant. He crossed wearily to the chair behind the empire writing-table and fell rather than sat into it.

A thin, weedy man, ungainly of build and awkward of movement, his yellow, haggard face was disfigured by a perpetual frown; the eyes under the straight black brows were small, lustreless, suspicious. This morning there were two distinct pouches beneath them, and the hand that reached out to take his letters was shaky. A weak chin, disfigured with a deep cleft, and a lower lip so full that it seemed to be swollen, added to his unattractiveness.

He opened one letter and threw it aside with an exclamation of disgust, and for a while sat staring across the room at the fire, stroking his little black moustache.

“Has my— has Mr. Calthorpe been in?”

“No, my lord.”

Selwyn Earl of Heverswood never spoke of Johnny Calthorpe as his brother except in moments of absent-mindedness.

“What the devil do you want?” he snapped, as Thomas waited.

“Your lordship asked me to remind you of something.”

Selwyn’s frown grew deeper.

“Was it you who let me in ... umph ... pretty well stewed, wasn’t I? Did my mother hear me?”

“No, my lord. I have not seen her ladyship this morning, and she did not ask her maid what time your lordship returned.”

One side of Lord Heverswood’s mouth twisted up in an unpleasant smile.

“If my— if Mr. John asks you, you can say I came in early— that will do.”

Long after the footman had gone, he sat with his head in his hand. Even when his mother came into the room he did no more than look up.

A tall, stout woman of sixty-five, with a dead white face, her Ups were a vivid carmine, her hair as vivid a red. People meeting the Dowager Countess of Heverswood for the first time were repelled, then amused, by her blatant artificiality— their last impression was one of vague fear, for there was a malignity in her coal-black eyes, a cruel purpose in the set of her thin lips, that made sensitive men and women shudder.

Her servants hated her; the very woman who spent an hour making up her mistress’s face had a secret loathing of the work which transformed this ugly virago into the semblance of beauty.

She walked to the fire. Not all the massage in the world could make plump the withered hand she held to the warmth. Her fingers were laden with costly rings that twinkled and flashed in the light of the dancing flame. About her neck was a double row of exquisitely matched pearls. There were diamonds in her ears, on her broad bosom, in the thickly jewelled bangles about her wrists.

“What time did you come home, Selwyn?” she asked harshly.

“About one o’clock “ he began.

“You’re a liar.”

She did not turn her head or raise her voice: she spoke without heat or passion.

“It was near four, and you were drunk. I heard you. Be careful!”

Again that unpleasant smile of his as he smoothed his sleek black hair.

“Mary Predelle took a lot of landing, Selwyn,” she went on. “Even now, if she hadn’t a father who is itching to get his daughter into the peerage, she would be man-shy— if you were the man.”

He was biting his nails nervously.

“I’m not a bit keen on marriage— I have a lot of good women pals “

“Keep them.” Lady Heverswood’s eyes went back to the fire, and he experienced a sense of physical relief. “Be discreet— but keep them. You will be able to afford your little amusements. Has John been here?”

He shook his head.

“I hope he has fallen into one of his barges and broken his neck,” she said calmly, and he was neither shocked nor amused: he had heard those ungentle sentiments before.

“I wish to God he’d get some sort of fever and die,” she went on in her high, even tone. “He is always on and off these foreign ships, but he catches nothing.”

“What’s the trouble now?” asked Selwyn curiously. His mother never attacked even the hated John at random.

“The command performance— I wrote for tickets and got a polite letter from the duke: he regretted, et cetera. He is John’s uncle. It was the same when I applied for the Royal Enclosure tickets for Ascot. ‘The Duke of Taunton regrets that all the available tickets have been allotted’,” she mimicked, and then, with a snarl of rage which undid all the beautifying processes of her overworked maid:— ”They never forgive— never forget! Cursed lackeys like Taunton! I wish John Calthorpe was in hell!...”

The girl who came into the room at that moment was pretty in a pale, disdainful way, a girl of languid carriage and mien.

“Well?” Lady Heverswood snapped the query.

“The secretary of the New Arts Club wishes to know how many tickets he is to reserve for your ladyship: they are two guineas “

“None!” Lady Heverswood fired the answer without looking up at her private secretary. “Have I nothing to do but to waste my money on that kind of nonsense? They ought to be glad to send me tickets for their wretched ball free! Two guineas indeed! The advertisement of having us there should be enough.”

Still Alma Keenan waited.

“I ordered them, mother,” said Selwyn. It required an effort to say this. “Everybody will be there. I thought of going as a pierrot— ”

“An original idea!” sneered her ladyship. “If you want them, buy them. If you imagine that I am going to mix with the scum of the earth, you’re mistaken. Buy one for John Calthorpe! He will be in his element! All right— don’t drape yourself over that chair, Miss Keenan. Order the tickets for his lordship. And for God’s sake shut the door after you.”

The secretary glided from the room.

“She’s not a bad girl, that,” grumbled Selwyn. “I wonder you’re not a little more decent to her.”

“She is leaving next week,” was the unexpected reply, and Selwyn’s eyebrows rose.

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

The old woman glowered round at him.

“Because she’s too pretty— and you’re too impressionable.”

Lord Heverswood’s face went red.

“I’ve never spoken a dozen words to her,” he protested hotly, “and she’s engaged to some fellow in London.”

“Let her marry him,” said the woman icily. “And here is John Calthorpe— smelling of wood shavings!” John came into the room unannounced. His visits to the castle were few and far between— he would gladly have dispensed with those, but the announcements he had read in yesterday’s newspapers had made the call an urgent necessity.

“Shut the door,” snapped the woman, scarcely raising her eyes, “and the next time you come in, have the goodness to ask the footman to announce you!”

John Calthorpe said nothing in direct answer to this. He was that exasperating kind that could not be exasperated. He strolled across to a shelf and took down a book, examining the pages idly. Lady Heverswood had seen that action before. John had something to say— something unpleasant. She trembled with anger in anticipation. The sight of him never failed to arouse in her a storm of unreasoning hate. One fear obsessed her, that Selwyn would die before he had a son to take the title. It was a fear that kept her awake at nights and was accentuated every time the tanned, healthy face of her stepson came into her vision.

“Answer me when I speak to you I” She mastered her insane rage with an effort. “You come in and out of this house as though you owned it. My God! Things have come to a pretty pass if the son of a brainless interloper— “

He turned and met her malignant gaze: black eyes glowing and smouldering with hate; grey eyes as cold and merciless as death. And yet the words he said were in themselves without offence.

“I would like you to think kindly of my mother, Lady Heverswood; if that is impossible, and you cannot even speak kindly, would you please give her the charity of your silence?”

There trembled on the edge of her tongue a phrase coarse, vile, hurting, but his gaze did not falter. She saw something bleak, as though his eyes mirrored an Arctic desolation, and that froze the words on her lips.

Followed a long and awkward silence.

“How is the timber business?” Selwyn was heavily jocose.

“Flourishing,” said John with the faintest of smiles. “We had another consignment of yaga wood this morning, and it was sold before the ship made fast at Dockhead; come up to-night and I’ll show you some encouraging figures.”

Lord Heverswood’s face lit up with a new interest.

“Put that infernal book down and talk,” he complained. “I can’t see you to-night; I am dining at Madame Bonnigea’s— a party of friends. Can’t you bring the figures down here? After all, it is our business, John. I mean, the mater and everybody is in it. We put up the money.”

John replaced the book he had been reading.

“It really doesn’t matter who found the money,” he said good-humouredly, “and even the question who found and tamed the yaga tree— “

“Of course you found that, old man,” said Selwyn, with an apprehensive glance at the old woman by the fire. She displayed no resentment at his friendly tone, though he was certain she was listening. “Deuced clever of you, too. At the same time, anybody else who went mucking about in British Honduras would have found it— if he went far enough into the forest— but you were lucky. You’ll admit we put up the money for the trip. I scraped together a hundred and the mater promised a hundred.”

“And the trip cost me ten thousand.”

John Calthorpe’s eyes twinkled.

“Well, you had it!” protested his brother. “Your... er ... your mother left you money— “

“There will be a dividend next month,” the other cut short this everlasting wrangle.

There was no company— none knew that better than Selwyn. This amazing wood which his brother had found, and which sold at fancy prices to the furniture-makers, was his own concession, bought, shipped and landed with his own money. The business for which his half-brother expressed an amused contempt was nearly the sole source of revenue which the family enjoyed.

“Next month,” grumbled Selwyn, “and I’ve got a bill from my bookmaker that must be settled before Friday or he’ll post me!”

“In that case you shall have money before Friday,” was the good-natured reply.

And then the tone of the second son changed.

“Is it true that you’re engaged to Mary Predelle? I only saw it in the morning paper.”

“True?” The still figure at the fire asked the question shrilly. “Why shouldn’t it be true?”

John turned to look at her ladyship before he answered.

“There is no reason, madam. She is a very charming girl. It will be a distinction to claim her as a sister-in-law. Only ...”

“Only what?” The thin voice was almost a hollow whistle of sound.

“She seems rather ...” He paused.

“Too good for Selwyn?” she rapped.

“No ... I hardly know Selwyn’s degree of excellence— nobody is too good for anybody if they love each other.”

He had taken a second book from the shelf and was turning the leaves as he spoke— an action that roused the old woman to a cold fury.

“Be so good as to give me your entire attention, John Calthorpe!” Her voice had the menacing quality of an enraged wasp. “What do you mean when you say, ‘She seems rather ...’?”

He put down the book and stood looking at the powdered face of the woman.

“She seems rather too tender a plant to grow in this cactus bush,” he said deliberately. “I’m sorry if I annoy you, but you asked me. She has a lot of money, hasn’t she? At least, her father has. Madam, in two years I shall— we shall be rich. I could even rush things so that the big money came next year. Is it necessary to sacrifice this girl for the sake of a few hundred thousand pounds— which is certain to come, anyway?”

“Sacrifice!”

Lady Heverswood was standing bolt upright, her black eyes blazing.

“Sacrifice... to marry your brother?”

Selwyn watched the scene apprehensively.

“Is that what you mean? A sacrifice for any girl to marry an Earl of Heverswood? Explain yourself.”

“That is what I meant.” John Calthorpe’s voice had a metallic ring: the grey of his eyes was drear and comfortless; she hated him worst when he had that look — hated him worst because she feared him most. “Her father adores her: he’s the type of American who lives for his children, spoils them with his generosity, cloys them with service. She isn’t spoilt so far as I’ve been able to learn from those who know her. She’s just a sweet, natural, sensitive girl. What sort of husband are you giving her? Selwyn!”

The natural red was showing through her cheeks: her mouth drooped till he saw the line of her teeth, clenched in a grin which in any other person would have been ludicrous. And the second son went on:

“Selwyn’s all right— he’s a man-about-town with his own code and his own ideas of decency. I have hoped he would meet some hard-riding woman of his own class — his own ideals: somebody with the intellect of a master of foxhounds and the broad view of a society lawyer— “

“Stop!” She foamed the word, and her skinny hands clawed at the air. “Stop I You ...!”

Only for a fraction of a second did the corner of his lips twitch.

“I’m not that, madam— whatever else I may be. And I’m not being wilfully offensive. I like old Selwyn— I’d go a long way to help him to happiness. And I know my position. I’m the second son. I’m proud of it. I’d rather be the son of Adelaide Countess of Heverswood than I’d be the duke, her brother. But I want no brokenhearted woman to curse this house. If she is to be happy— all right. If Selwyn is the kind of man she would marry, if she were a kitchen maid and he the footman— God bless ‘em, let them get on with it! But this exchange of money for title, and title for money— it is unclean, beastly.”

She did not speak as he walked to the door.

“I’m going to my room,” he said. There was a challenge, in the words if not in the tone.

3:  The Lady Beautiful

THAT tiny room of his, by which he maintained his connection with the home of his ancestors, was the sore place in Heverswood. She never passed the door without a curse; the servants were forbidden to describe it as “Mr. John’s”, and she had stripped it of every article of furniture to which he could not lay personal claim.

Outside in the hall he met the private secretary. Alma Keenan had been closely associated with the aristocracy long enough to envy and hate the men and women with whom she was brought into daily contact as an inferior, and to loathe and despise the class whence she was drawn. Johnny had no illusions about the girl’s feelings for him, for she shared Lady Heverswood’s views very completely. She was passing him with a cold nod when he stood squarely in her path.

“Miss Keenan, her ladyship sent me a note the other day telling me that you are leaving her at the end of the month? I hope that it is to better your position, and if I can be of any service to you “

“Thank you, Mr. Calthorpe”— her tone was resentful; “I can look after myself. There is no reason why I should bother you.”

“Not a bother, I assure you,” said John good-humouredly, “but there is a vacancy in my office.“

She tossed her head.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Calthorpe,” she said, “but I’m not at all keen on being a wood merchant. If you will allow me to pass, please ...”He stepped aside, looking after her. He found Alma Keenan one of the minor tribulations of life, overshadowed a little in her importance by the booming hostility of his stepmother, but none the less a speck of grit in the smooth machinery of life. He hated to see a woman in the position that Alma occupied; the boorishness of Lady Heverswood was notorious; her insolence knew no bounds. He had seen the girl flush and pale alternately under her scathing tongue, and had admired the restraint which Alma had shown. Her ladyship’s note had been characteristic.

Keenan is leaving here on the 30th. Find her a job in your wood-yard. She is very honest, so far as I am able to judge.

Just that, no more, signed with an “S”, which stood for “Sophia”. Lady Heverswood had made many attempts to get round the necessity for signing even that intimate initial.

John went slowly up the wide oaken staircase, down which a Queen of England had walked to her death at the headman’s hands, till he came to the broad landing.

The sun shone through a great stained-glass window, dappling the polished floor with arabesques of rich colour. Centred in the window were the Calthorpe arms, the bloody arm and raised sword of the first Baron Hanford and Heverswode.

He stood for a moment gazing thoughtfully at the fantastic scroll on which the motto of the house was inscribed: Veritas Odium Parit.

Truth arouses hatred! Not inappropriate, he thought, as he went to his cupboard of a room that stood at the head of a further flight of stairs. There was nothing for him to do except to rearrange his books, to take from locked drawers the portraits that were so precious to him— and to think.

He pulled a chair up to the window and looked out over the impoverished acres of wood- and meadow-land. Was he being a little ridiculous about this marriage? After all, these things happened again and again. And such marriages, though they had added to the fringe of that decadent set which suppurated society, had also many happy sequels. He had seen the girl— he could not say that he had met her, though in truth he had.

Selwyn was no match for a woman of refinement and native delicacy— a woman with dreams that circled about the ideal.

He saw a big limousine come into sight through Ridley Copse and disappear behind the angle of the wall which obstructed all view. Selwyn was a problem. He seemed to eat up money as fast as it was made for him, and gave no return, not even the tribute of his gratitude.

He went back to his books. Somebody had been in the room, handling them— and handling them carelessly. And a drawer had been opened by the intruder — the lock had been thrown partially out of gear. He was not hurt, nor yet annoyed. He knew the pettiness of his stepmother— it was not necessary to employ a detective to discover the prying intruder. And then slowly a smile dawned on his face as a fantastical idea came to him. Suppose he employed an agent to detect the malicious visitor— that monkey man from the wilds of Paraguay!

He chuckled as he thought of Lady Heverswood’s face at the appearance of this barbarian who was “a hunter of men”.

Half an hour later, Johnny closed the door of his room behind him and went down the stairs. The door of the library was ajar as he drew opposite, and the sound of a fresh young voice came out. He hesitated. His intention had been to leave the house, but now something more than curiosity impelled him to turn.

Lady Heverswood stood stiffly before the fire, talking to a girl, Selwyn hovering somewhere in the background.

At the sound of John Calthorpe’s voice the slim figure turned, and he looked into a face of such ethereal beauty that for a moment he was without words.

He had seen Mary Predelle before, had met her in the half-dark vestibule of the gloomy County Hall on the night of the charity ball, and had carried away with him the elusive impression of prettiness. He remembered that she wore a dress of silver tissue, and there were pink roses on her corsage; he recalled the shimmering background of a cloak ... she was pulling it on and he had helped her, and a strand of fair hair had caressed his lips....

But now she challenged the light of morning that would have found the least crevice in her defence. A straight-backed girl, rather taller than the average— a being to be drawn in the most delicate of curves. The grey eyes were darker than his own, more ready to laugh — they were laughing now.

“You’re John Calthorpe? I recognize you, though we only met once.”

She glanced quickly across to Selwyn and withdrew her eyes almost immediately.

“You know ... I am to be ... a sister of yours?”

John could have sworn that it required an effort in her to say this; that the red lips for a second hardened. Again that swift glance at the smirking Selwyn, and when her gaze came back he saw something in her face that made his heart sick with pity.

“You haven’t congratulated Selwyn.” Lady Heverswood cut into his thoughts like a knife. “John Calthorpe hasn’t the best of manners, Mary.”

John turned to his brother with outstretched hand.

“You’re a lucky man,” he said mechanically. “I— I do congratulate you.” He faced the girl. “Selwyn is a good sort, Miss Predelle— I hope you will be very happy.”

There was no heartiness in his tone; the words sounded insincere, even to himself. Only in certain circumstances could John Calthorpe hide his feelings, and this was not one of them.

He felt a fool— a gauche, awkward fool, as he took a clumsy farewell of the girl and walked out into the hall. He did not know that his stepmother had followed him until she called him by name, and he turned round guiltily, as though she were reading his inmost thoughts.

“Are you returning to-night?”

He shook his head.

“No, madam. The Pealego is going into dock with the tide, and I must see the master.”

Her stare had the fascinating quality of a snake’s. John Calthorpe hated snakes, but was not afraid of them, and he met her eyes without a tremor.

“Too good for Selwyn?” she asked softly.

He nodded without hesitation.

“Too good for any man short of a saint,” he replied.

“Too good for a Countess of Heverswood? But she’s going to be that, John Calthorpe! She’s going to share him with the rest. Nothing is too good for Selwyn! And if she’s the kind of girl I think she is, my boy will make her— the other kind!”

And now she saw his frosty smile.

“I hope not, madam,” he said gently. “If he did, we should find another Earl of Heverswood.”

The old woman, standing on the worn doorstep of the castle, watched the man she hated until his car had disappeared behind the elms, and the terror of death was in her heart.

4:  Doubts

WHEN John Calthorpe’s shabby two-seater reached the lodge which guarded the entrance to the park the iron gates were closed. He sounded his klaxon and waited patiently for the appearance of the one servant of the house who shared his stepmother’s hatred of him.

Li Sawder, with his bushy black beard, was one of the unhappy memories of his childhood; it was Li Sawder who had, by his stepmother’s orders, administered the most painful flogging he had ever endured. John was a boy of fourteen at the time, and his offence had been a trivial one. His father was lying dangerously ill; there was no appeal from Caesar’s wife. He had taken his beating without a murmur. A hint to his uncle would have sent Elijah Sawder packing; if he had complained to the groom, or to Fisher, the head gardener, Sawder would have had blow for blow; but he said nothing, nursed his hurts, and bore no more resentment towards the brutal lodge-keeper than he felt towards his dentist. But Li Sawder’s dislike of the boy grew on the fear which the years brought that one day Master John would repay his thrashing with interest.

John sounded his signal again. Li knew he was there; John had seen the white curtains move at the first raucous notes. He got down and walked to the gate, and was trying the lock when the man appeared. There were streaks of grey in his beard, and the little boy to whom he had taken the strap towered head and shoulders above him. “Didn’t hear thee,” growled the lodge-keeper.

He came from a line of Quakers and grafted to his west-country speech not a few of their idioms.

John accepted the fiction with his wintry smile.

“His lordship’s getting married,” said the man, as he leisurely fitted a key to the gate. “There won’t be any room at the hall for thee, Master John, when the babies come along.”

“I shall have to turn you out of your lodge and live there,” said John with a quiet laugh, and the man accepted the jest literally.

“Ay! That’s the way of the rich— to turn the poor into the kennels!” He glowered round at the hated figure. “Keep us in the mire so thee can walk on us and keep thy feet clean!”

“You’re a cantankerous old gentleman,” said John good-humouredly. “I was merely joking— open the gate, Sawder, I’m in a hurry.”

But by mischance the lock had jammed. It was a genuine accident, though, from the satisfaction on the bearded face, Li Sawder might have planned it all.

“Thee’ll have to go out by Bailiff’s Gate, young master. Thicky old lock’s g’in me trouble afore. I’ll get the village smith up; must have the gate open in time for the bride. A grand lass, master, like ripe picking. A firm-figured lass— ”

“Sawder.”

John Calthorpe’s voice was never so soft, yet in that one word the man heard warning and threat, and he scowled into the young man’s face with the resentment which a bitter insult might have aroused.

“You will not discuss Miss Predelle with me or with anybody else— that way! Is there a short cut to the Bailiffs Gate? I have forgotten. How are your children, Sawder?”

Li was breathing heavily, and it was some time before he could find his voice.

“My children are in good work and none the better for thy curiosity, Master John.”

It was curious how the mention of the children John had known when he was a child of six invariably aroused the old man to wrath. Sometimes his piercing eyes would search John’s face as though he suspected an ill-timed jest.

He swung the car about.

“Is the dyke bridged?” he asked.

He did not wait for the answer, but sent his machine along the rough cart-track that ran parallel with the high wall, and soon there was no need for an answer. A tiny stream tumbled down the sloping lands of Heverswood Castle and had its overflow under the wall. And the deep gully where he had sat as a boy and dreamed and planned and given rein to his imagination was unbridged. He sent the car sharply up the slope until he came to a place where he knew the stream was fordable. Five minutes later he came in sight of the Bailiff’s Gate, which was no more than a big wooden door which gave access from the road to the home farm. Turning on to the gravelled drive, he saw over his shoulder a big limousine sweep down through the elms that hid the house and follow behind him. It overtook him just as the gate was opened by the keeper’s wife, and he turned his head to meet the smiling eyes of Mary Predelle. As the car came abreast she leant over the side.

“Won’t you come up to Feathers and meet my father?”

The invitation staggered him.

“I’d be delighted, Miss Predelle— but I’m due in London this afternoon— ”

“This afternoon?” she scoffed. “London is only an hour’s run— and you have to pass the house. Will you follow? I promise we will not go too fast.”

Johnny chuckled.

“You cannot go too fast for my chariot of fire,” he said, and had reason to regret his boast, for it required the most careful nursing of his old machine to keep her car within sight.

Feathers lay eight miles away on the London road— a sprawling red building that had once been a farmhouse, but which now, with its marble swimming-pool and Italian garden, was one of the show places of the county.

He swung through the bronze gates and reached the portico in time to see the car turning towards its hidden garage. Mary was talking to a stout and florid man, who he guessed was her father. Paul Predelle was an English-born American subject, who had been wealthy before the discovery of oil on his Texan properties made him one of the ten richest men in the world.

“Daddy, this is John Calthorpe— Selwyn’s brother.”

“Glad to know you, Mr. Calthorpe. As we are coming into your family I guess we shall see a whole lot of each other. Mary, love, get Mr. Calthorpe a long drink. I admire your family, Mr. Calthorpe ... been reading Timm’s History of the Old British Nobility ... you go way back to the Fulkes of Normandy....”

He talked rapidly, firing questions and statements in a staccato rattle of speech, waiting neither for answer nor agreement. A flabby man, thought John, and lethargic. He had the manner and the abrupt decisiveness of the successful American industrialist, but that was a trick he had acquired by association. Beneath the energy and vigour of his Americanism was a deep layer of fatty bourgeoisism of the most pronounced British type.

John neither liked nor disliked him. He could picture this clean-shaven face, minus the cigar, beaming across the counter in a bacon store— why bacon, he could not for the life of him understand.

“It is certainly an elegant family.” Mr. Predelle’s eloquence flowed like a shallow stream above a pebbly bed. “Now, in our country we pretend all that family stuff is bunk. And yet we are proud of our own aristocracy. Now, Mary’s father was one of the grandest Southern gentlemen— ”

“Mary’s father?” John was surprised into blurting the question.

“That’s so. Lady Heverswood, your respected ma-in-law, knows. Mary’s my adopted daughter. Never had any children— never married. In our country adoption is a legal process....”

Johnny listened for ten minutes to an exposition of the laws governing the State of Idaho, and during the recital made his slow way to the prettily furnished drawing room.

At last, silenced and a little depressed by the eloquence of his host, he was left alone with the girl. She had been watching him throughout his ordeal, sympathy and mischief in her eyes, and when Mr. Predelle’s dynamic force was spent and he had disappeared to recuperate (as John gathered) at the billiards-room buffet, Mary took the young man’s arm and led him to a deep window-seat that overlooked the terrace, gay with golden daffodils and the purple and white of hyacinths.

“Do you mind? Daddy is rather an enthusiast ... but I am not apologizing for him so much as for this familiarity of mine. You’re my dream come true I”

He stared at her open-mouthed, and she laughed into his crimson face.

“Poor man ... he thinks I am making love to him!”

“I think nothing of the kind I” he protested indignantly, growing redder than ever.

“You’re my dream come true,” she nodded soberly. “The big little brother I have always wanted and that money couldn’t buy!”

The relief which his sigh revealed made her sway with silent laughter.

“It was too bad of me to shock you that way.” A pause, and the smile left her face. “How do you think you will like your new sister?”

He nodded.

“You’re also my dream come true,” he said solemnly. “I’ve always wanted a pretty sister.”

“That’s not fair.” She held up her hand in protest, and John saw the flash of a large emerald on her third finger, and for some reason or other felt a little twinge at his heart. She was so lovely, so unspoilt. An Easter lily of a girl, too delicate a thing for the coarse hands of a man whose love affairs were the talk of theatrical London. “Johnny— I’m going to call you Johnny— do you mind?” He shook his head. “Shall I be terribly happy? Daddy thinks I will. He sees me in a coronet and robes and is aching to instruct the servants to call me ‘my lady’— but shall I be happy?”

He did not answer. The glib platitudes to which his brain gave shape were beyond the power of utterance. She was looking at him, searching his very soul with those truth-compelling eyes of hers. There was a tenseness in her attitude, in the sudden anxiety of expression, which stilled the light-hearted equivocation which came to his lips. It would have been easier to jest with a dying man.

“Shall I?”

“Is that fair? I do not know your capacity for happiness. I know nothing of what you require in a man, Mary. Selwyn”— another pause— ”has his points.”

For the life of him he could not think of one.

“Are they ‘points’ which would make a woman— me — happy? I’m dreadfully worried, John. It seemed so easy to say yes, and daddy was so pleased about it. And there is nobody I can ask— except you. I knew, the moment I saw you to-day, that— well, that I had a friend — a good brother.”

He was silent— hating himself because his very silence was a disloyalty to the House. The money was needed if Heverswood was to recover its glories. He had spoken hastily of money he could bring into the estate in two years— in a year. But there were many “ifs”. He had discovered an unsuspected source of revenue, but its continuance depended upon so many contingencies. The three estates of the family were heavily mortgaged. He had freed the home farms; was in a fair way to releasing the tentacles that were strangling Heverswood itself. It would be years, however, before he could clear the estate of its debt, for there were current demands which ate into the profits of his business. The money was necessary. Heverswood came first in all his considerations. It was his fetish, his obsession. Pride in the House, a passionate love for the fair lands that men of his name had lorded for centuries ... he looked, and his heart ached for her.

“I don’t know. Men— are queer. All men are queer in some respect. Selwyn is neither worse nor better than the average man in his position— and with his limitations. You know men, Mary? They are careless, happy-go-lucky creatures. The drones of the world who gorge themselves with the honey of life. God made them that way. They flit from flower to flower and think no wrong of it.” He was basely libelling his sex, but Selwyn must be excused in advance.

“I see,” she nodded slowly. “One does not expect an angel from heaven. I suppose a past is indispensable in a man. I take that for granted. But the drones are killed after a year of riot and looting, and man lives on. Does he stay a drone, or does he give up his wanderings from flower to flower? That is what I want to know, Johnny— I’m growing terrified— terrified!”

Johnny drew a long breath.

“He will settle down— marriage changes a man— and children,” he added awkwardly.

Her eyes were on his, searching, probing. She was biting her red lower lip thoughtfully.

“I wonder,” she said; and then Mr. Predelle came in with a pink cocktail in either hand.

All the way to London the girl’s face showed dimly through the windscreen; she appeared on the hoardings, incongruously intruding into flaming advertisements. He saw her on the gold-fretted waters of the Thames as a dinghy brought him to the weather-stained side of the big black tramp. He had lied to her— wickedly, treacherously lied to her. He was thrusting her into the slow fire that would burn out her heart and shrivel her youth.

5:  The Iniquitous Place

HE lived in the unfashionable neighbourhood of Soho, in an ancient house which was part of the legacy his mother had left to him. He occupied the first floor, the ground space being let to a firm of lawyers. The floor above was in the occupation of a police sergeant, who lived rent free and acted as caretaker to the building. It was not a profitable arrangement, but it suited John. The rent of the lawyer more than paid the rates and taxes, and left a little over for renovations. The sergeant’s wife kept his little suite speckless and cooked what meals he had in the house.

He was at this time making a clear profit of eight thousand pounds a year. All of this, with the exception of a few hundred pounds to maintain him in the bare necessities, went to the relief of Heverswood. He grudged himself his club subscription, rode third-class when he journeyed by train; lived on a few shillings a day. His one luxury was his car. It had been his brother’s, and he had bought it from him at twice its value when Selwyn got his new Rolls.

In this spacious sitting-room John Calthorpe frequently sat up half the night studying the trade journals in all languages— he had learnt German to keep in touch with the foreign market. A busy afternoon awaited him at the docks, and it was nearly nine o’clock that night when he came into his ugly house in Fitzroy Square and went up the stairs a trifle wearily. When he rang the bell for his meagre meal he was surprised to see Sergeant Lane carry in the tray and arrange plates and cup man-clumsily on the table.

“My good lady has gone out to the pictures,” he said. “I hope I haven’t made the tea too strong, sir?”

John was reading one of the letters that were on the table, and shook his head.

“I didn’t think that I should be here at all,” the sergeant went on, setting knives and forks. “There’s a big job on to-night.”

“What sort of a job?” asked John, looking up.

“Raid,” was the laconic reply. “I can tell you, sir, because you’re not one of these flighty gentlemen.”

“What are you raiding— a night club?” asked John. The sergeant rubbed his chin.

“Well— it is and it isn’t. It isn’t supposed to be a club, but Madame Bonnigea— ”

Madame Bonnigea! John Calthorpe was paralysed with amazement. It was to Madame’s that Selwyn was going that night— ‘a very dear friend of mine’.

“Madame Bonnigea— in Harrow Square?”

The sergeant nodded.

“But, my dear man, she is a very decent member of society!”

And then the sergeant explained, and John Calthorpe’s eyes opened. That the place was a gambling-hell did not shock him. It was of Selwyn he thought— Selwyn and the girl— she in whose eyes he had read something of terror. Selwyn must not be there when the raid was made.

“We’ve had the place under observation for a long time, and we’ve given them warning,” the sergeant was saying. “I can’t understand good-class people going to what I might describe as a haunt of vice.”

The young man forced a smile.

“That sounds almost terrible,” he said, with an attempt at joviality. “And talking of haunts of vice, I’ve just remembered a theatre engagement. Would you of your kindness put out my dress suit?”

He wanted to be alone to think out the crisis. The police would not spare Selwyn if he were the heir to a dukedom. To-morrow his name would be in the newspapers, associated with that drab haunt— and Mary Predelle would see it and there would be the end. Suppose it were? His lips tightened at the thought. What better way of smashing this horrible bargain?

When Lane called him he did not move. It would be best for her; who knew that it would not be best for Heverswood in the long run? The girl would be saved from the humilation and shame that awaited her.

“Your clothes are ready, sir.”

He turned and walked into the bedroom, slipping off his jacket automatically. Heverswood must be first.

Madame Bonnigea rented a tall house in Harrow Square. Madame had never conducted a club— she gave parties to her friends. You could become a friend of Madame’s by the simple process of slipping a five-pound note into the hand of the footman who opened the door, and remain a friend by tipping the waiter who brought you your wine— providing the tip were big enough. If you complained at his extortions, Madame, a fleshy French Jewess with many chins and brassy hair, was patently shocked, and said that she would discharge the man toute suite— but the complainant was never admitted again. She liked young people around her— nice boys and nice girls. They could dance in the vast drawing room, play a little chemin de ferupstairs, flirt almost anywhere. A negro orchestra played with muted instruments (Madame never invited complaints from neighbours) and the floor of the silk-panelled dancing-room with its rosy lights was crowded with dancers whose loud voices quite drowned the music.

The waiters, swift-footed and deft of hand, moved along the settees that lined the walls, opening bottles, changing glasses. In the middle of the swaying dancers a stout man lurched drunkenly with his fair-haired young partner, whose hard lips were upturned in a smile appropriate to his folly. Pierre, Madame’s manager, a sulky giant, stood by the door watching the fat man’s antics with an expressionless face, ready to pounce on him and hustle him from the room when he grew too boisterous.

Two men were sitting. Selwyn had dined royally, but the thin-faced man who sat by his side was coldly sober. He had the pinched face of a jockey; his keen, small eyes surveyed the company as Selwyn spoke, though his mind was intent upon the stammered excuses of his companion. The man was a little overdressed; wore two glittering diamonds in his shirt-front, and had a trick of smoothing his face with his whole hand.

“It is a pretty serious position, old man,” he said, when Selwyn stopped to sip at his champagne. “This marriage, I mean. Certain people don’t believe it; they think you’re faking to keep your mother quiet. But if you mean it “

“I mean it,” said Selwyn doggedly. “There is big money in this. Why I’m explaining to a damn’ cad like you, I don’t know!”

The jockey-faced man did not move.

“Don’t lose your temper— I shall have to do a lot of persuading. You ought to be able to borrow a lot of money on the strength of this engagement. That would help.”

Selwyn cursed softly.

“They cleaned me out upstairs,” he said, with drunken gravity. “Ruined me, Jim— took the last of the family plate.”

“You shouldn’t play baccarat,” said the wizened man. “You can’t afford to lose.”

Selwyn grinned foolishly.

“That’s why I’ve got to marry— I’m sick of going hat in hand to that damn’ brother of mine— half-brother. If you knew the airs he gives himself— it’s humil— humiliating!”

“Who’s this bird?” the little man interrupted to ask.

The man who had come into the room stood out from that frowsy crowd. Tall, straight, perfectly modelled, his evening kit gave him an added dignity. Aristocrat to his finger-tips, John Calthorpe came like a clean ray of sunlight into a space where candles were burning.

Selwyn turned his head to follow the man’s eyes, and leapt up with an angry oath. In a second he was facing his brother, half sobered by the shock of his appearance.

“What do you want?” he asked. He seemed to forget that he had invited John that very day.

“You— come outside.”

The footman who guarded the front door had appeared and was talking excitedly to Pierre.

“Outside— what do you mean?”

“I want you to come with me, Selwyn— out of this filthy hole.”

The band had stopped playing; the dancers stood watching the man— too interested to demand the inevitable encore.

“Is that so? Wondered why you turned up,” sneered Selwyn, swaying unsteadily on his feet. “Father, dear father, come home with me now.” He wailed the old song, and then, with a ferocity that John had only seen him display once in his life: “Get out of here! Go to your spelling-bee or your sewing-circle, or wherever you get your fun, and leave me alone.”

“Pardon, m’sieur.”

Pierre’s hand dropped on to the young man’s shoulder.

“You are not a friend of Madame’s, I think— you pressed your way into this house. You will now retire, please.”

John did not turn his head.

“Take your hand from my shoulder.”

“You will now retire.” The grip tightened, but only for a second.

With a wrench John Calthorpe freed himself. Nobody saw him strike the blow that sent the big man crashing against the wall. There was a scream of fear from the women, and then two waiters sprang at him, but he stepped back, landed on the jaw of the first, and in another instant was at the curtains which covered the window at the far end of the room.

“I advise you ladies and gentlemen to get away before the police arrive,” he said, and his answer was a tipsy laugh.

“Bluff!” shrieked Selwyn. “You’re going through it, Johnny, and you’d better take your licking ... lesson to you ... you interfering fool! ...”

Pierre was advancing, a champagne bottle in his hand, his pallid face working convulsively. And the crowd stood and watched; evil faces of men and women grew eager at the feast of pain that threatened. The waiters had secured bottles; Madame, livid with rage, forgot the good name of her house and urged them on with little incoherent squeaks of fury.

John sidestepped as the first bottle came crashing to splinters against the wall. He lunged, and drove his left under the manager’s chin, and at that moment the nearest waiter struck.

John staggered back, the blood running down his face— and he put up his hand to guard his head as the second bottle rose....

And then somebody shrieked in fear— a woman. Through the open window came such a Thing as men only see in dreams: a half-naked brown man of terrible strength. He seemed to leap from the window-sill straight at the throat of Pierre. There was a strangled cry, a momentary vision of a flying body, and the big manager fell, a crumpled heap, against Selwyn, knocking him senseless.

“The police!”

The voice and the sound of a scuffle came from below. John dashed to the half-conscious Selwyn and dragged him to the window.

“Quick, hombre! What is your name?” John spoke breathlessly in Spanish.

“Quio, master.”

“Can you get him out— that way?” He pointed to the window.

Quio stooped and lifted Selwyn as though he were a baby. His short brown legs swung over the window-sill, with one arm he drew the bemused man through, and then, gripping the man’s collar with his teeth as a St. Bernard might hold a drowning man, he disappeared into the darkness, and in the pandemonium which followed the arrival of the police nobody noticed.

John turned to meet a familiar face.

“You, Mr. Calthorpe? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I might say the same to you, sergeant,” smiled John. He was white and shaking, but he could smile.

“I was called out after you left,” said Sergeant Lane in a low voice. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you, Mr. Calthorpe; you’ll have to go to the station. And they tell me your brother is here— Lord Heverswood. His name’s in the visitors’ book.”

John Calthorpe looked the policeman in the eyes.

“My brother has not been here this evening,” he said steadily. “I always sign his name— for the swank of it!”

6:  Mary Understands

MR. HOLMAN PREDELLE was a man who believed in straight talking. He had with the best of intentions stripped the beauty from mystery and labelled the raw understuff “knowledge”. And Mary sat at her sewing, with the dainty cambric close to her face, and listened to all the news that was fit to print.

She was not shocked; hurt a little, bewildered by the wide difference between her conception of John Calthorpe and the gross reality.

“That’s Selwyn’s brother,” he said grimly. “Hooch an’ everything! Well, that cuts down our acquaintance with Mr. John to ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good night’. It’s tough on Selwyn, just as the engagement was announced— in the same journal, by Christopher! And I guess you’d think that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth! Hit one of these guys with a bottle, too— it’s certainly tough on your beau, Mary.”

“I don’t understand it,” she said, shaking her head helplessly. “John isn’t that kind of man, daddy. He must have got into the place by mistake.”

“I’ll bet he did!” Mr. Predelle smiled unpleasantly. “Biggest mistake he ever made. Did I tell you what her ladyship said when she heard about it?”

“I don’t want to know.” She rose quickly. “Have you seen Selwyn?”

“Yuh I” he nodded. “The poor lad’s in bed— sick. Says the disgrace has made him ill. Do you wonder, honey? And he looks ill.” She said nothing to this.

“What did they do to John— you didn’t tell me that?” she asked at length.

“Fined him forty shillings— that’s about eight dollars. Can you beat it? Why, if that happened in New York he’d have been sent to the Island. They’re death on that kind of joint in our country, Mary. And rightly. Well, well ... and I thought he was a real nice boy!”

She put the sewing into her basket and closed the lid. “I’m going to Heverswood,” she said definitely, and he agreed.

“You’ll find Selwyn knocked out. A word from the girl he loves would do a whole lot to bring him on to his feet. Just say that it won’t make any difference....” She made a hurried exit, and going up to her room, rang for her maid.

“Tell Steele I want the car at once, Alice,” she said. “I want him to stop in Belford village. I have a telegram to send.”

“Yes, miss.” The maid was all a-twitter with her news. “Have you heard, miss, about Mr. Calthorpe— and him a gentleman, too, and brother to his lordship?” Mary’s face and manner were alike frigid.

“Alice, do you like this situation?”

“Why, yes, miss....”

“Then please don’t talk yourself out of it!”

Mary nodded to the door, and the affrighted maid escaped gladly. She had never encountered her mistress in this mood.

An hour before this John Calthorpe got down from his old car and, brushing the dust from his knees and sleeves, went leisurely into the hall. The face of Thomas the footman was inscrutable.

“Is her ladyship about, Thomas?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I ...?”He hesitated.

“Yes, tell her I am here.”

Thomas appeared in a short time at the library door, and the visitor walked in. Lady Heverswood was in her favourite attitude, bolt upright on the edge of an armchair drawn near the fire. Her coal-black eyes swept him as he drew near.

“Well?” she asked harshly. “You’ve got yourself into a mess, John!”

“Yes, I have rather.” His tone was airy, his manner indifferent. “Young blood, madam. Youth will be served.”

The eyes snapped at him, but she made no rejoinder. “And Selwyn has taken to his bed— dear, dear!”

He knew well enough that she was aware of the truth. She did not disguise her knowledge.

“How did you get him away? He says when he woke up he was lying in a yard with an ugly black man squatting by his side!”

John laughed softly.

“Bit of a shock for Selwyn. He must have thought that he had passed over and was getting acquainted with his new host! Poor old Selwyn!”

“Why did you go there at all— what right had you?” He seldom interrupted her. He broke his rule now.

“I knew the place was to be raided— it was high time the police took action. There was gambling in every other room. Madame will be lucky if she escapes imprisonment. I went to warn Selwyn, and somebody started something— I rather think it was I, but I have always hated people pawing me. The black man got Selwyn through the window and climbed down a drainpipe with him.”

Lady Heverswood shivered.

“He might have been killed!”

“Not he; these woodmen climb like cats. Oh, you mean Selwyn? There was no danger. Quio had his teeth in Selwyn’s collar.”

A silence.

“I presume your uncle does not know— yet,” she said.

“He wouldn’t believe it, anyway,” was the disconcerting reply. He looked at her thoughtfully. “I want you to do something for me, Lady Heverswood.”

So unusual a request opened her eyes.

“You see....” He was at a loss how to begin. “I don’t want Miss Predelle to believe that I’m the rascal I appear to be. After all, it is natural that I wish to preserve a little of her respect. I’d like you to tell her that— that it was quite an accident I was in that wretched house at all.”

“Why should I?” boomed the old woman.

“Well, if you don’t”— he seemed reluctant to put the alternative to her— ”I’m afraid I shall have to tell her the truth.”

“She wouldn’t believe you— any more than your uncle would believe wrong of you.”

John smiled.

“Oh, yes, she would,” he said gently. “And there is Selwyn’s right roman handwriting in the visitors’ book— he must have been mad to sign his name. You couldn’t confuse his writing with mine. And Mary Predelle isn’t a fool.”

She pondered this, glooming into the fire.

“I’m sending you a cheque to-morrow for a thousand,” he went on. “The mortgage on Low Meadow was cleared to-day. And the trees are safe; I’ve finished paying off the bank, and that’s another little pillow lifted from the infant face of Heverswood— we’ll have the old place breathing naturally in a year or two. Can I see Selwyn? ‘ ‘

She jerked her head to the door impatiently.

Selwyn looked ill. The face that was upturned on the pillow was yellow in contrast to the snowy linen. John chuckled joyously.

“I’m ill,” snarled the invalid. “Fever or something “

“If ever I saw a man who looked like a poisoned monkey!”

“See here, John”— Selwyn struggled up on his elbow and spluttered in his wrath— ”I didn’t ask you to come here. You damned gaolbird!”

The tantalizing laughter of the other roused him to madness.

“Get out I” he screamed. “Get out!”

His mother was in the room in a second; she must have been waiting outside the door, John thought.

“What is this— don’t you realize that Selwyn is ill? You great oaf! Come out or I’ll call the servants and have you beaten from the door!”

The man spun round.

“Call Li Sawder,” he said softly. “You found him useful once before, madam. Let him flog the man as he flogged the child.”

There was a deathly stillness in the over-furnished room.

“Get out,” whimpered Selwyn from his bed, and this time his brother obeyed. He preceded Lady Heverswood to the hall.

“I am staying here to-night. Unfortunately my— conviction has rather upset my plans. Even my constabulary bodyguard has lost faith in me and fears for his reputation at headquarters.”

She shrugged her massive shoulders.

“I will have your room put ready,” she said, and swept into the library.

A little later, John went up to his room.

“Keeper of the family conscience, guardian angel to rich American ladies, petty Don Quixote! I’d give a hundred for another punch at somebody’s head!” He spoke his thoughts aloud.

He had a bath and changed, for the journey down had been an unusually grimy one. He did not know that Mary Predelle was in the house until, coming downstairs, he saw her getting into her car and walked out to her. Lady Heverswood was standing by the door of the limousine and heard the footsteps behind her.

“Good-bye, my dear,” and, to the chauffeur, sharply: “Drive on, my man.”

“Wait!” Mary had seen him in the gloomy entrance hall and beckoned him. There was nothing of guilt in his face or mien. “I read ... all about it— at least, daddy read it.” She was a little breathless. “I’m so sorry.”

She held out her hand; he took it with great deliberation.

“I’m rather sorry, too,” he said, as deliberately he looked round at Lady Heverswood. “Her ladyship has probably explained? ...”

It was a question rather than a statement, and the girl’s embarrassment was all too significant.

“I told Mary that you were probably more sinned against than sinning,” said the old woman, defiance in her eyes and in her tone.

“Is that all?” he asked gently.

Lady Heverswood stiffened. She played the House— an unfailing card.

“It is not a subject that I cared to discuss with Miss Predelle,” she said. “Either you were an habitué or Selwyn was. His name was in the book and you admitted that it was your signature, John Calthorpe “

She had said too much; she realized it as she saw the sudden look of understanding in Mary Predelle’s face— a quick lighting up of the dark-grey eyes, a going and coming of the pink in her cheeks.

“Oh ... I didn’t know that ... about the book, I mean. Selwyn’s name was there!” She laughed softly, although she was not entirely amused. “How very funny!”

And with her understanding John fell into a panic. His own cursed vanity (so he called it), his desire to stand well in the eyes of has brother’s fiancee, had led him to betrayal of the House. He was undermining the foundation on which she was building her life.

“It was I all right,” he said, incoherent in his haste to correct the impression she had received. “I’m rather a night-club lizard. They have a fascination for me— the only thing I want you to believe is that I— that my interest in the establishment was a fairly wholesome one. It is very unfortunate, the whole thing. I went there to gamble ...”

Her eyes never left his face throughout his unconvincing narrative. When he had finished:

“Drive back with me to Feathers,” she said peremptorily.

Lady Heverswood was alarmed, and showed it.

“I will ask you to excuse him,” she said. “Selwyn is very anxious to see him— at once.”

“I’ll wait until he has seen Lord Heverswood— I have heaps of time.” And she settled herself back against the cushions of the car.

Lady Heverswood fixed her stepson with a baleful stare. Her lips were a little tight, the straight lines that ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth were hard ridges of flesh.

“I can spare you— John,” she said. The words almost choked her.

It was not until the car was clear of the Bailiffs’ Gate that John Calthorpe spoke.

“I’d rather not see your father, if you don’t mind,” he said, and she nodded.

“I will stop the car and we will walk a little way— I want to talk to you.”

She pressed the indicator; the machine drew up by the side of the road and they alighted, walking on to the place where the stile of a fieldpath gave them an excuse for stopping.

“Now— what is the truth about your arrest?”

John Calthorpe had his story ready. He had called at Madame Bonnigea’s intending to pass an idle hour. There had been a fight and then the police had arrived. He was a poor inventor, she thought, and, thinking, said as much.

“Selwyn was there,” she accused, and now, when a plain, unadorned he was called for, he was silent.

“You are not being the kind of big little brother I wanted, John,” she went on, and the gentle reproach in her tone hurt him.

“I’m in the position of being big little brother to two people,” he was stung into replying. “Two people whose interests are in conflict.”

She was leaning backward against the stile, her elbows on the top rail, one hand playing with the rope of seed pearls that supported a splash of carved jade. Her eyes were on the ground; a thoughtful little frown furrowed her forehead.

“I hardly know what to do.” Her gesture was a despairing one. “I think I like Selwyn well enough— to make the experiment. I think so. But I want a lead, Johnny— somebody’s assurance besides father’s. It is a horribly dangerous experiment. Madame Bonnigea’s — well, that is part of a bachelor’s history. I wonder what advice your father would have given me if he ... were alive to discuss this thing?”

With a sinking heart John Calthorpe admitted to himself the ghastly truth.

“Miss Predelle, I will tell you what I think. If I were you ... I think I should go back to America and find a man of my own kind ... a decent-living gentleman....

He saw the millions fading from the Heverswood coffers and groaned in spirit.

“You mean that?” She had the uncanny gift of reading his mind. “You are trying to be horribly mercenary and selfish— and you are trying just as hard to be fair to me?”

“That isn’t so much of a trial, Mary,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to do Selwyn an injustice. Marriage may make him. He used to be quite a decent fellow— especially to me, and during a time when I hadn’t many friends. And marriages that look all wrong to the outsider are so often wonderfully successful. I’m vacillating like an old weather vane! And I admit that I am selfish. I’d be very proud to have you be my sister-in-law. That is only natural.”

She sighed and drew herself erect.

“I’ll go through with it,” she said, “only it seems— all wrong. I wish ... daddy weren’t so rich.”

There was a wistfulness in her tone which melted him. For a second he had the impulse to tell her the truth— that her fears were his certainties; that Selwyn had the mind and soul of the brute beast.

She turned away abruptly and walked ahead of him to the waiting car.

“You’ll not come to Feathers?” she asked, indifferently, it seemed. “Well— good-bye, Johnny. You are just a wee bit too unselfish, I think.”

And with this she left him, and he made his leisurely way back to the house.

He stood for a moment on the crest of the slope, admiring the big grey house. The evening sun had thrown the shadows of the tall poplars across the face of the castle so that it was barred black and orange— a prison-house, he thought. Here might a sensitive girl captured in marriage eat out her proud heart and none would guess her secret.

He was walking on when he saw, just ahead of him, skulking in the shadows of a box hedge, a man whom, despite his shabbiness, he instantly recognized, although he had lost sight of him for years.

For a moment he was too astonished to speak. Bertie Thrennigen was at one time a leader of the more hectic sets of society. He came of a good family, and although he had been expelled from his school, unfortunately for him he was never allowed to realize the seriousness of that happening. He was cursed with a fond mother who saw no harm in him; doubly cursed by reason of the great wealth which he inherited at her death, and dissipated a few years after he had gained control of the considerable property which came to him. A clever amateur, he had gone on to the stage, and had been moderately successful in a production which he himself had financed. The play was less successful than he; it ran for a few weeks, and took with it almost the last of his mother’s money.

All this John knew; but that the Beau Brummel of other days, the squanderer of thousands, should have come down to tramp level was astounding. He called him by name and the man turned quickly.

“And what the devil are you doing here on this fine day?” asked John.

Mr. Thrennigen was at first startled.

“How do you do— John Calthorpe, isn’t it? To tell you the truth, old boy,” he said, with great frankness, ‘I’m trying to touch Selwyn. I’m broke. There’s some money coming to me from Canada, but for the moment... I want to get next to old Selwyn.”

“Then why don’t you go up to the house and see him? He’s in bed.”

Bertie stroked his unshaven chin. He was one of the least desirable of Selwyn’s associates, and had not been to Heverswood Castle for years. In spite of the jaunty set of his hat and the startling brilliance of his cravat, John guessed him to be down and out.

“Well, the truth is, old dear”— he hesitated— ”I don’t want to go up just now. What I wanted to do was to send a note up to the old boy. I want a hundred. Look at my clothes! Good Lord ... if people saw me!”

He went on to explain that he had just arrived from France. He had in truth returned from Germany, with consular aid.

As he was talking a girl came into view. She was walking slowly down a path towards one of the coverts which dotted the park.

“Who’s that, old boy?” asked Bertie with some anxiety as he peered short-sightedly at the figure.

“That is Miss Alma Keenan,” said John, and the words produced an extraordinary effect upon the man. He turned a shade paler, and the hand that went to his mouth was shaking.

“She’s not coming this way, is she?” he asked huskily. “She’s the one demnition female I don’t want to meet!”

“Why not?” asked John, astonished.

Bertie put his hand in his pocket and took out a crumpled letter.

“Give this to Selwyn, will you?” he almost pleaded. “I’m broke, Johnny— broke to the wide world! Tell him to send anything he can rake together by special messenger.”

“Do you want some money?”

Great as was his evident need, Bertie Thrennigen was in such a hurry to be gone that, with a wave of his hand, he jumped over a stile and half ran, half walked across the meadow.

What was behind this? Why was this man in such terror at the prospect of meeting Lady Heverswood’s secretary face to face? John speculated all the way back to the house.

7:  A Strange Visitor

JOHN CALTHORPE had often wondered who was the rat-faced man he had seen with his brother on the night of the raid. He had time for thought, for with the clearing of the Pealegothere was a lull in his business, and since the demand was so heavy, and the supply of wood determined by the period of its seasoning, there was no immediate necessity for finding new markets.

He thought about the girl, but not too often. That was one of the painful subjects of meditation that had to be dismissed almost before it was raised. But the rat-faced man was really worth thinking about. He saw him once by accident crossing Trafalgar Square. Johnny was in his car, otherwise he would certainly have stopped him and claimed acquaintance, if only to discover what association his brother had with so unprepossessing an individual.

Selwyn had apparently recovered. John saw him one day, coming out of a famous furnisher’s, in company with Mr. Predelle, and he smiled grimly. The castle could stand a lot of refurnishing, he thought.

One of the lesser embarrassments of life for John Calthorpe was the attachment of the Indian, Quio. Having demonstrated his ability and willingness, he seemed to have taken it for granted that any question of his employment had been definitely settled. That he was a “tracker” John discovered when he learned that Quio had never really lost sight of him from the moment he left the ship, except for the period he was at Heverswood, and then, with that uncanny instinct, and without speaking a word of the English language, he had found his way to Fitzroy Square.

Calthorpe suspected, not without reason, that the Indian, who spoke fluent Spanish, had gravitated to Soho, and had there discovered, through one of the many who spoke the language, his address. That he knew his name was at first a puzzle to John, until he remembered the years he had spent in Paraguay, where he had been as well known as the native chiefs.

The policeman-caretaker was reluctant to share a house with so wild a savage, but as his wife had gone away into the country the objection was not insuperable, and Quio was installed in a garret room at the very top of the building.

He was so useful a man with the “long brush”, so docile and humble a creature, that Sergeant Lane became reconciled to his presence, and even supplied him with cast-off articles of clothing; but it was John who insisted upon the hair-cut, which was performed by the sergeant himself, not without trepidation.

On one other point John Calthorpe was implacable. He had discovered that the Indian carried a knife; he saw the shape of it as he bent down to take off his master’s boots one night.

“In this land, Quio, no man carries the espada, big or little.”

With some reluctance the Indian took it from his body-belt; a long, slender poignard, with a curiously thin handle covered with thin scales of gold. John took the knife and examined it curiously. Its two edges were razor-keen, its point like a needle.

“Master, I keep this for your enemies,” pleaded the brown man.

John smiled.

“We must try something less drastic, Quio,” he said in English, and the man looked puzzled.

When he had gone, John put the knife away in one of the drawers of his open desk. He was a little worried about Quio; but he was uneasy about so many things that Quio deserved, and received, no more than a few seconds’ thought.

He had received a polite intimation from the secretary of his club calling upon him to resign as a result of the police-court exposure. That he expected. What he did not anticipate was a call from Alma Keenan. If he had enumerated all the people in the world most likely to visit him, he would have placed Alma a long way last. Lane, who acted as a sort of keeper of the sacred door when John was in residence during the daytime, brought the card, and, reading it, John gasped.

“Miss Keenan?” he said.

“Yes, sir; a very pretty young lady.”

“I know she’s pretty all right,” said John dryly. “Are you sure she wants to see me?”

Yet whom else could she want to see? he thought. The end of the month had come and gone. He knew the girl had left the employ of Lady Heverswood, and in many ways was glad for her sake. He had been willing to find a job for her, and thought perhaps she might have repented of her haughty rejection of his offer.

“Show her in, sergeant,” he said.

The girl who came through the door was obviously no suppliant for a humble post in his office. It was Alma, but a transfigured Alma; Alma severely but beautifully dressed in an embroidered costume that must have cost three months’ salary. Her hat was a Paris mode; about her neck was a long string of pearls, which might have been artificial but which looked remarkably real. She had two sparkling rings upon the finger of the hand that was bare, and in her ears were diamonds of the first water.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Keenan,” he said, as he pushed forward a chair for her.

“Is it?” she said languidly, as she sat down bolt upright on the edge.

He was secretly amused, knowing little of the exigencies and requirements of modern fashions; all that occurred to him was that she had copied exactly the peculiar attitude which Lady Heverswood adopted in his presence.

“I have left Heverswood, you know?” she said.

He nodded. Then he asked good-humouredly:

“Have you found a suitable job?” And she raised her eyes in languid surprise.

“A job, Mr. Calthorpe? Great heavens, no! I am not taking any more jobs. The truth is”— she played with the silver handle of her squat umbrella— ”I have had a legacy left me. That is why I gave up my position with Lady Heverswood.”

All the time he was cudgelling his brains to find an excuse for her visit. The girl did not like him. It would be more true to say that the measure of her dislike was only exceeded by the attitude of mind which his stepmother displayed on all possible occasions. Why had she come? Was it to flaunt her new prosperity? The natural desire of the under-dog to advertise her independence?

“I congratulate you,” he said politely, and waited.

Evidently she found it difficult to begin.

“Mr. Calthorpe, you know Mary Predelle, don’t you?”

“I know Miss Predelle— yes,” he said.

“She’s an awfully nice girl,” drawled Alma; “one of the sweetest I know. You’re rather fond of her, aren’t you?”

The question took his breath away, and then, with a little smile:

“I’m sure you haven’t come here out of curiosity to pry into the melancholy secrets of my young heart, Miss Keenan,” he said. “I like Miss Predelle, but I don’t think we need discuss her, need we?”

“Yes,” was the astonishing reply. “You see”— she did not raise her eyes to his, was watching the ferrule of her umbrella as she traced patterns on the carpet “— you see, Mr. Calthorpe, I am in rather a dilemma. I have been very well brought up, although I occupied a menial position in Lady Heverswood’s house. My father was a gentleman....”

She proceeded at length to detail her ancestry, and John listened with patience and not a little astonishment. Of her origin he knew nothing. She had appeared in the Heverswood household during his absence in South America. Beyond the fact that for some reason her face had appeared in a dim way rather familiar to him, he had never had the opportunity of getting interested in her.

“All this is very interesting, Miss Keenan,” he interrupted her gently, “but I don’t see exactly what it has to do with me.”

Only for a second did the old resentment show in the flash of her eyes, but she curbed whatever dislike she felt and gave him the sweetest of smiles.

“I only wanted to tell you that I’m not the kind of girl who would play a low-down trick upon another woman,” she said. “Of course, if you’re very fond of her, it makes a lot of difference, if you’d ...” She hesitated. “Well, if you wouldn’t look down upon her, and you’d do the honourable thing.”

He stared at her, open-mouthed.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at. Will you speak a little more plainly?”

But evidently, so far from speaking plainly, she did not intend to speak any more, for she rose and offered her charmingly gloved hand.

“Good-bye, Mr. Calthorpe. It’s been such a pleasure to have this little talk,” she said.

He did not take the hand, but, walking to the door, stood squarely between her and the exit.

“Before you go, Miss Keenan,” he said quietly, “I want to know exactly what you’re trying to tell me.” Again the languid eyebrows rose.

“Really, Mr. Calthorpe, I have nothing more to say,” she said; and when he did not move a tinge of red came to her pale face.

“I want to know what you mean by 'doing the honourable thing’,” said John, without moving. “And what do you mean by ‘you’re too much of a lady to play a trick upon Miss Predelle’? What trick is intended?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I merely wanted to make sure—”

“Wanted to salve your conscience in advance, eh?” And the shrewd shot hit home.

“What do you mean?” All the languor was out of her voice; she was something approaching her precious model. “How dare you talk to me like that? Let me pass, please.”

Her gesture was regal. John, in any other circumstances, could have laughed. He did, however, realize how unprofitable any further questioning would be, opened the door for her without a word, and watched her over the balustrade until the nodding paradise of her hat had disappeared from view. Then he went back to his room and thought.

8:  Alma Asks A Question

THE PREDELLES were in town. They had come up to their little house in Clarges Street in preparation for the wedding, which was, to quote Mary’s letter, to be a quiet one. Her note showed no sign of her inward perturbation.

Dear Big Little Brother (it ran),

You will come to this interesting ceremony, won’t you? You will, of course, be the cynosure of disapproving eyes, and poor daddy is determined to say no more than “Good morning” and “Good night” to you— as the wedding will be after lunch, you will be spared even this indignity unless he adds “Good afternoon” to his repertoire! I am reconciled to— things. It is so much easier to go along the new road which somebody has obligingly laid for you than to break through the tall hedges and stumble in the ditches that are such obstacles in the path of self-determination— blessed word! I shall need your moral support, big little brother. I have my moments of panic, in common with all young ladies who flutter on the brink of matrimony. Come and see me. Daddy has been elected to a very exclusive club, and is a little dazed by his good fortune. He goes there every day in the hope of finding somebody who will take pity upon and talk to him. Yesterday a man nodded, and daddy came home quite pleased, though I’m sure that the nodder was looking at somebody else.

There was a postscript.

Come at four to tea: I shall be alone.

He was on his way to Clarges Street, walking down Piccadilly, when he met Selwyn, who was in his most genial and expansive mood. Selwyn he could have endured, but Bertie Thrennigen he neither expected nor approved. The change in Bertie’s appearance was little short of wonderful. He was again in his more gorgeous raiment. Evidently Selwyn had been generous— Selwyn, who was generous to nobody. What queer secret did Bertie hold? he wondered.

He would have hurried on, but his brother detained him.

“You’re coming to my bachelor party to-morrow night, old bird?” he said. “I’ll take no denial, in spite of your hideous past.” The jest afforded him such amusement that he literally screamed with laughter, to the amazement of passers-by. “Dinner at Rigiali’s, and on to the Arts Ball. Rigiali’s is practically given over to the revellers, so you’ve got to turn up in fancy dress, old bird.”

John shook his head.

“No, thank you, but I shall be at your wedding.”

Selwyn’s face changed.

“The devil you will! Is the old lady sending you an invitation?”

“I don’t know— but I have promised Miss Predelle that I will be there.”

John would have passed on, but Selwyn put a detaining hand on his sleeve.

“I can’t prevent her asking you, of course,” he said, and there was in his small, beady eyes a glint of suspicious distrust that accentuated the weak viciousness of his features; “but after we’re married ...”

John shook his arm free with unaccustomed roughness; he could not trust himself to reply, and, with a curt nod to the two men, passed on his way.

He had gone only a few strides further when the shrill, cacophonous shriek of powerful brakes applied violently made him instinctively jerk his head towards the roadway. The sight that met his eyes brought him to a standstill. A girl, well dressed, slimly built, had been crossing the road in an obvious hurry, dodging a precarious way through the Piccadilly traffic, dense yet fast-moving. The driver of the big limousine had had to utilize every ounce of braking power his car possessed in order to avoid running her down.

John recognized the girl instantly: it was Alma Keenan, and he was obviously her objective. Ignoring the scathing comments of the chauffeur, she reached the pavement and, making for John, clutched his arm with a feverish grip.

“Mr. Calthorpe,” she gasped, “I want— I want to speak to you!”

He had never seen man or woman so distressed as she. Her teeth were chattering, and the hand that gripped his sleeve trembled so convulsively that his arm shook.

“Why, what on earth— “ he began.

“I want to speak to you— only for a second!”

She half pulled him into the comparative quiet of Berkeley Street.

“Who was that? I saw you just now with a man,” she went on incoherently. “Yes, yes”— with impatience— ”I know that you were talking to ... Lord Heverswood, but who was the other man?”

“The other man?” said John in surprise. “Why, that was Bertie Thrennigen, who is a better actor than he is a gentleman, and a worse actor than any other man on the stage.”

“Bertie Thrennigen?” she repeated slowly. “An actor?” And then: “Are you sure? Will you swear that?”

“Why, of course,” said John, trying to soothe her. “With those reservations I am prepared to guarantee that he’s an actor.”

Something made him look round. At the comer of Berkeley Street a little man was standing watching them, and he recognized this flashily attired individual instantly as the man he had seen with Selwyn at Madame Bonnigea’s on the night of the raid.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“Never mind about him,” she wailed impatiently. “You’re sure ... about what you said?”

“Now listen, Miss Keenan”— John patted the poor, trembling hand kindly— ”you’re in some kind of trouble. Won’t you tell me what it is?”

People were looking at them curiously as they passed; but John had none of the self-consciousness which would have made a man of lesser breeding feel uncomfortable.

“I can’t tell you ... I will come to your house some time. You’re very good....”

Suddenly she squeezed his hand, and before he realized what had happened she was flying back towards Piccadilly. He saw her stop and speak to the little watcher, and together they turned the comer and passed out of sight.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said the perplexed John as he continued his slow way to Clarges Street.

9:  The Handkerchief

MARY came into the hall as the butler opened the door to him, and he thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. And yet ... was she not a little finer-drawn? And behind the smile could he not trace evidence of distress beyond expression? Her mien and voice were gay enough as she took him into the little drawing room.

“Sit down. I haven’t seen you for a week,” she said, and almost pushed him down on to the settee. “First of all, I want to ask you something. Is it true they have turned you out of your club?”

“I was resigning anyway,” he said airily.

John Calthorpe was not a good liar.

“That’s one thing,” she said. “Another story I heard is that you are keeping bad company.”

“I?”— in amazement.

She nodded, her eyes twinkling.

“They tell me that you have a cannibal valet.”

John laughed softly.

“Quio is not a cannibal; in fact, he’s rather a highly educated Indian,” he said. “Who knows that he may not lead me to one of those undiscovered treasuries of the ancient American people, whose ruined temples fill his part of Paraguay?”

He told her about the man and the queer way in which Quio had come into his fife, but omitted the story of the Indian’s startling appearance at Madame Bonnigea’s.

But this she did not want telling. Alice, the maid, had a sister in rather a gay household, and Mary knew the story of the raid and all that had preceded the appearance of the police, for Alice was something of a gossip, and for the first time in the period of her service had received encouragement to talk.

Mary listened without comment to the lame narrative, and, when he had finished:

“I have written to your club,” she said quietly.

John gasped.

“You’ve written? But, my dear girl— !”

“I’ve written. You can be as angry as you like with me, but I found out the names of the committee of your club, and I have written to every one of them separately, telling them the true story of what happened, why you were in the club and why you were arrested. I know it is an unpardonable thing to do, but you must explain my lack of reticence by the fact that I’m a wild American girl. I have no doubt it is very embarrassing for you to have a strange woman writing to your committee, but, Johnny, I do not intend allowing you to make this sacrifice. You took the blame to yourself because you thought it might spoil Selwyn’s chances of marriage if it were known. Well, I’m marrying him. Please don’t talk. I’m ringing for the tea.”

He sat in silence till the tea-table was wheeled in, and, when the maid had withdrawn, he said:

“Does your father know?”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t think it was necessary that he should know,” she answered quietly; “and it is equally unnecessary that your— what do you call it?— conviction should be erased. The thing that counts for the moment is your club.”

Again he was silent, until:

“It was splendid of you, Mary, and I really am not embarrassed by your action— that is to say, I suffer no loss of dignity by having the loveliest lady in the world writing on my behalf. When is the marriage to take place?”

“The day after to-morrow,” was her surprising reply— surprising because he had taken it for granted that there would be the usual long engagement, followed by an autumn wedding.

“Daddy may have to go back to America in September,” she said, “and he wants the thing over before he goes. For my own part”— here her voice was a little less steady than it had been— ”it cannot be finished and done with too soon— your tea is getting cold.”

“Has Selwyn been here?” he asked. “I met him a little time ago. I hope he didn’t bring the unutterable Bertie to call upon you?”

She shook her head.

“No, that is our arrangement— we do not see each other until the wedding-day. Lady Heverswood was here to lunch. She doesn’t like you.”

A ghost of a smile trembled at the corner of his mouth. “No, she doesn’t,” he admitted. “Did she express her dislike more openly than usual?”

Mary settled herself back in the corner of the settee and laughed.

“You’re the worst man in the world,” she said solemnly. “You have the heart of a murderer and designs upon the title!”

“Good Lord!” gasped John, aghast. That aspect of his iniquities had never occurred to him.

“She is very pleased that the marriage is taking place so soon,” Mary went on. “She feels there ought to be— children”— the word came with difficulty— ”to carry on the title. She said you had threatened to murder Selwyn.”

Johnny’s grin was one of sheer delight.

“I certainly told her that we should be looking for a new Earl of Heverswood in certain eventualities,” he admitted, “but I suggested nothing more than “

It was a little difficult to explain that what he had meant was a chastisement which he calculated would bring about a revolution in the character of Selwyn.

“I think that is all the mischief I can do to-day,” she said, a smile in her eyes. “Oh, yes, I must tell you that Selwyn has been borrowing money on the strength of his forthcoming alliance.”

“You don’t mean that?” said John, shocked. “From moneylenders?”

But she was serious.

“One of their agents came to see daddy to confirm the engagement. Fortunately, I was here, and was able to assure him that there would be a most generous settlement.”

“But why on earth does he want money now?” he asked, in perplexity. “I sent him a big cheque a few days ago.”

She sighed.

“I’m afraid Selwyn’s the kind of man who wants money in large quantities all the time.” And then she shook off the unpleasant subject of her thoughts. “You’re coming to the wedding, Johnny?”

He hesitated.

“I— would rather not.”

“Why not?” she challenged.

He could give no direct reply.

“Just now, I was talking about the old temples of the Aztecs, the original inhabitants of the South American continent,” he said slowly. “I believe they were in the habit of offering human sacrifices upon their altars. Had I lived in those days, I feel I should not have received an invitation to one of those functions with any great pleasure.”

Her eyes were fixed on his.

“I am the sacrifice— in a way, yes. You’re weakening, Johnny,” she said softly.

He nodded.

“Yes, I am weakening. It is horrible to think that the wedding-day is so close at hand.”

There was a long silence.

“Suppose”— she was playing with the fringe of a silken scarf that was over her shoulder, and was not looking at him— ”suppose it were not Selwyn, Johnny? Suppose that holy of holies, Heverswood, were not involved, and you knew I was going to be married to somebody ... I loathed... and you ... loved me ... what would you do?”

John Calthorpe’s face was white.

“Is it fair to ask me?”

She shook her head gently, and then, raising her eyes, met his.

“It was grossly unfair.” She got up. “It’s a funny world, Johnny, isn’t it? And now I’m sending you away in a great hurry. Are you joining Selwyn’s party at the Albert Hall to-morrow night?”

“Are you going?” he asked.

“Daddy has already a box. It seems a better way of spending one’s wedding-eve than to pass the time in meditation and prayer.”

There was a faint tinge of bitterness in her voice, which she was the first to recognize.

“I’m being sorry for myself,” she said, and held out her hand.

10: Alma’s Distress

IT was a very troubled young man who walked back to Fitzroy Square, and he was so absorbed in the problem of this radiant girl that he had almost forgotten the existence of Alma Keenan, until Sergeant Lane came out of his little pantry in his shirt-sleeves, with a polishing-cloth in one hand and a silver candlestick in the other.

“The young lady came: I showed her into your room, but she didn’t wait, sir.”

“Which young lady?” demanded John, momentarily at sea.

And then it was that he remembered Alma.

“She seemed pretty upset, too,” said Sergeant Lane, with a professional interest in morbid conditions. “In fact, I’ve never seen anybody look worse than she did. Eyes all red and everything.”

What had she wanted, John wondered, as he went into his room. The first thing he saw on his open desk was a sheet of paper covered with a scrawl of handwriting.

I’m sorry I was so rotten to you. Forgive me.

There was no signature.

He heard a shuffle of slippered feet behind him and turned to meet Quio, wearing about his middle an incongruous green baize apron.

“Master, I found this on the long ladder. May I keep it, for it is so beautiful?”

In the palm of his huge hand was a crumpled lady’s handkerchief, a delicate thing of lace and cambric. John took it in his hand and shook out the folds.

“Some lady must have dropped it, Quio,” he said, and, curiously enough, he did not associate Alma Keenan with the find, “as she went down the stairs. Keep it in your room, and if it is asked for, return it.”

“It is very beautiful,” said Quio, in sober ecstasy. “Not in all my days have I seen such a wonder.”

His master, however, was less than usually in a mood for gossip, and sent the man back to the pantry, where he was assisting Sergeant Lane in his renovations. He wanted to think out this business of Alma without interruption. Frankly, he was worried, and after long consideration he decided on an action which was repugnant to him. He took up the telephone and gave the number of Lady Heverswood’s house in Hill Street. A new and a strange voice answered him.

“I am Lady Heverswood’s secretary. Can I give her ladyship a message?”

“Will you tell her ladyship that Mr. Calthorpe wishes to speak to her very urgently?” said John.

He did not have to wait so long as he expected. In a minute Lady Heverswood’s harsh voice spoke.

“Well?”

“It is John speaking, Lady Heverswood. Miss Keenan has left you, has she not?”

A pause.

“Yes. Why do you want to know? Have you a job for her?”

“I don’t think she wants a job,” said John dryly. “What I wanted to know was, did she leave in any exceptional circumstances? I mean, was she discharged?” Again a pause before the reply.

“Yes; I told her I thought that she had better find another position.”

“Was there any reason?”

“No reason that I can give, except that I wanted a change. Why?”

“I saw her in town,” said John, “and she seemed very distressed. She hasn’t”— he did not know exactly how to put the question “—she hasn’t formed any attachment at Heverswood, has she?”

“I am not interested in the love affairs of my servants,” said her ladyship coldly.

“I am not talking about your servants. I am talking about— Selwyn.”

He heard the snort of anger at the other end of the wire, and at other times would have been amused.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Well, I’ll put it as plainly as I can,” said John slowly. “Did she know that Selwyn was going to be married? What I mean to ask,” he went on desperately, “is, did Miss Keenan know that Selwyn was about to be married?”

“Of course she did!” exploded Lady Heverswood. “How dare you make so villainous a suggestion!... She sent out the cards of invitation... if you want to know, it was she who tore yours up after your disgraceful conduct....”

Click!

Lady Heverswood in her wrath had hung up.

“That beats the band,” said John in despair.

For the mystery of the girl’s distress was a greater mystery than ever.

11:  The Duke

THE tickets for the Arts Ball were at a premium. He had some difficulty in obtaining the necessary voucher, and then had to pay twice its original value. Year after year the Arts Ball had drawn fashionable and artistic London to the Albert Hall; and so popular was the function that there was a waiting-list of names before the tickets were first issued.

John was not the type who found much fun in the amenities and recreations of the younger set. For five years he had devoted every minute of his day to the development of what Selwyn facetiously called “the timber trade”. His business had not been built up from nothing, nor yet by accident. He had sunk the greater portion of the money which his mother had left him in the leases he had procured from the Government, and in the erection of mills and seasoning plant, and only in the last two years had his reward come to him. That he had derived very little personal advantage from his success seldom occurred to him. Heverswood, first and last, was his preoccupation.

He had had a frugal dinner and was dressing for the ball when he received a rare visitor in the shape of a tall, aristocratic man whose white moustache and bristling eyebrows were the joy of the caricaturist. Straight of back, slim as a youth, the ninth Duke of Taunton stalked into his room.

“Hullo, you scallywag!” he greeted his favourite nephew with a roar. “What’s this news I’ve had of you?”

“Good Lord! I thought it had reached you years ago, uncle.”

John suspended the fastening of his white tie to shake hands with the man whom, of all men in the world, he loved.

“I was in Paris. Of course, it’s all tommyrot. You’re not that kind of night bird. What is the inside of it? I called at the club on my way back and raised Cain when I heard they’d asked you to resign. Of all the dunderheaded jackasses “

“I think that matter will be rectified,” said John quietly, resuming his dressing operations. “A very lovely lady has taken the unusual course of writing to the committee.”

“You were there after Selwyn, of course?” said the duke as he sat down on the bed and scowled at his nephew.

“I was there after Selwyn,” agreed John. “You and Mary Predelle are intent upon robbing me of the martyr’s halo, so I may as well confess that my appearance in that notorious establishment was determined by the foreknowledge I had of the police raid.”

“Mary Predelle?” The duke frowned. “That’s the pretty girl that’s marrying your brute of a brother?”

His uncle was a privileged person. John did not protest against the description.

“Poor little devil!” Taunton went on, shaking his head mournfully. “She’s an American: that makes it worse. One likes to keep these tragedies inside the family. Why didn’t you marry her yourself?”

“I?” John laughed softly. “She wouldn’t have had me!”

“Stuff!” snapped the duke. “Where are you going?”

“To the Arts Ball,” said John. “That confirms your worst suspicions.”

To his surprise, his ducal relative confessed that he himself was joining a party later in the evening.

“I presume that you will look forward with some relief to the passing of the family burden?”

The duke was eyeing him keenly, and John started. That aspect of the marriage had not occurred to him.

“They don’t expect you to go on keeping the family for the rest of your natural life, do they?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” confessed his nephew.

“That old she-wolf would bleed you white.” In these uncomplimentary terms did he refer to the Dowager Countess of Heverswood.

He strode up and down the room, poking at various objects with his ebony stick, another distressing practice of his.

“I saw a disreputable pal of Selwyn’s at the station when I arrived,” said the duke.

“Not Bertie Thrennigen?”

Taunton nodded.

“He was on his way to the Continent by the late afternoon train, with many boxes and bags, and he was more prosperous than I’ve seen him for a long time.”

“Do you know anything about him, duke?” asked John seriously.

“Know anything about him!” scoffed the other. “I know he’s the most unmitigated scoundrel that has ever walked the streets of London, that he’s the worst blackguard who has ever been warned off the turf, that his name on a promissory note is worth just the value of the note as wastepaper and no more....” He enumerated a few of Mr. Thrennigen’s past exploits, and Johnny was in agreement.

The duke looked at his watch.

“Are you going to the wedding?”

John nodded.

“Who invited you?”— bluntly.

“Miss Predelle.”

“Humph!” said the Duke of Taunton, and looked at his nephew queerly. “You’re a damned fool.”

It was one of the Duke of Taunton’s characteristic farewell speeches.

12: At The Arts Ball

THE great hall was brilliantly lighted. At one end a large orchestra was playing, and although John had come comparatively early the floor was already covered with dancers. There were crusaders, hot and uncomfortable in their unaccustomed armour; there were troubadours and minstrels, milkmaids and Elizabethan ladies, rajahs in shimmering silk and Eastern ladies in sequin trousers; a Red Indian or two; a policeman; cowboys and pierrots galore.

John had come alone, but he did not feel the need of a partner. From the level of the floor he watched the kaleidoscopic shift of colour. A shower of toy balloons came down from the roof, a pink ribbon streamer hurtled in a curve across the dancers. From one of the boxes came the “toot” of a toy trumpet.

He felt somebody touch his arm, and turned to meet a smiling girl attendant, who held a mask in her hand, and over her arm a long crimson domino.

“No evening dress is allowed,” she said.

“Must I wear this?” said John, in dismay.

She observed his inches admiringly.

“If you can wear it,” she said.

He slipped into the domino and found it at least three inches short. She disappeared into some hidden wardrobe and returned with a larger domino; and although John was inclined to run away in her absence, the fear of getting the girl into some scrape kept him, and he reluctantly struggled into a wrap which certainly fitted him. He looked at the mask dubiously, put it on, and paid the girl the fee.

So far from causing him any discomfort, the mask and domino gave him a sense of seclusion which was eminently desirable.

He hung about the entrance, and presently he saw Mary arrive with her father and Lady Heverswood, and was thankful for his disguise. Again he saw that peaked look in her face that he had noticed the previous day— but she was lovely! She was dressed as Beatrice, and in the severe straight garment of the Venetian maid her beauty was ethereal. Mr. Predelle was superior to the frivolities of fancy dress, and halted to don his domino; but, to the unholy joy of the watcher, the duchess was wearing the costume of a grande dame. He thought he had never seen anything quite so funny in his life.

Under the snowy pompadour wig, the face, in spite of its heavy rouging and its elaborate make-up, looked hard and old; and not even the glittering glory of jewelled mittens disguised the age of her hands.

After they had passed out of view on the way to their box, there arrived a visitor at the sight of whom John Calthorpe almost collapsed. It was Quio!

By what means he secured entrance to that hall nobody ever knew. John did not trouble to ask himself why the man came— Quio in these days was his shadow.

The appearance of the Indian in his shabby clothes was instantly noticed by a group of guests who were waiting. John heard somebody say, “What a wonderful make-up!” and he realized that it was possible that the Indian might have been a masquerader; for his features were regular: he was almost European in that respect.

When he had recovered from his surprise John crossed the floor to him.

“Quio,” he said sharply, “why are you here?”

The man looked up in his dog-like way.

“I go everywhere you go, master.”

“So I realize,” said John dryly; “but this time you must go home.”

To his surprise, the man did not argue, but, turning, went through the throng of newcomers, and John walked up the stairs to the box tier in the hope of again seeing the girl.

He had examined the plan which was displayed in the vestibule, and knew where Selwyn’s box might be. It was four from that occupied by his mother and fiancee. John strolled into the box, and a uniformed attendant came hurrying towards him.

“It’s all right,” smiled the younger son. “This is Lord Heverswood’s box, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m his brother.”

From this vantage-place he could look down upon the gay scene and watch with interest the dancers and their many and varied styles. From the front of the loge he could look along the other boxes. There was a masked Chinaman in the next; beyond that, a monk. He could just glimpse the profile of Mary Predelle, who came into view round the edge of the sheltering partition.

With a heavy sigh he turned in time to see a boisterous party coming along the promenade. Selwyn he recognized in spite of his pierrot costume and his mask. The other two were men known to him.

The third of the party was a woman in a Polly Peachum dress, and John gasped at his brother’s audacity. Her name does not matter: that she was notorious, and that nine doors out of ten in Mayfair were closed against her, was bad enough. But that Selwyn should, on his bridal eve, and in the presence of his mother and the woman who was to be his wife, bring this girl into his party was outrageous. He had not intended making himself known, but now he intercepted his brother.

“I want a word with you, Selwyn.”

Selwyn did not recognize him.

“Who the devil are you? Not John? Good Lord! Here’s John Calthorpe!” He roared with laughter, but the man to whom he spoke was beyond the discomfort of ridicule.

He took his brother by the arm and led the reluctant man away from the party.

“Selwyn, you must send that girl home. You know Mary is here?”

“See here, John,” interrupted the other angrily, “how long have you been censor of public morals? Anna’s here and she’s going to stay here. If Mary doesn’t like it, she can go to blazes!”

He was more than half drunk. Johnny knew that it was useless attempting to argue with him.

“You are riding for a fall,” he warned. “Don’t forget, Selwyn, that you are not married— yet!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Selwyn, partially sobered by the seriousness of his half-brother’s voice.

“You’ve been borrowing money on the strength of your engagement, and I tell you that Mary Predelle is a girl who would not hesitate to break off her engagement at the last minute of the eleventh hour. You’re running a risk, Selwyn.” And then, as the folly and the wickedness of the thing came to him, he added passionately: “I wish to God she would see you, and understand the kind of cattle you herd with!”

“Go and tell her!” snarled Selwyn. “And as for ‘cattle’....”

But John, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. It was madness, utter folly to talk to him now. He could only leave him to his fate.

He saw the duke later, and that autocrat refused to don any accommodation domino. John was rather surprised to find that quite a number of other men had taken the same stand. For himself, he was quite content with his mask and cloak: it gave him a chance to be nearer the girl.

He must have wandered the entire circuit of the first tier half a dozen times before, utterly weary, he decided to return home. He had seen the girl three times: once she danced with Selwyn, and the dance ended abruptly. He saw her stop in the middle of a movement, turn, and walk back to the stairway, a flush on her face, Selwyn, grotesquely apologetic, following her like a whipped cur. It was the possibility that this might have some sequel that kept John until one o’clock, and he was strengthened in his determination to leave the place by discovering that his uncle had the same intention.

John had slipped his domino and handed his mask to an attendant. They were standing together on the outer rim of the dancers, when suddenly, from one of the boxes, came a shrill scream. John turned his head quickly. The sound came from somewhere near the box that was occupied by Selwyn. His heart suddenly thumped painfully, and there came to him a dreadful feeling of foreboding.

Racing upstairs, he flew along the circular corridor, now deserted, and, pushing through the press of people who stood in the doorway, he looked down upon a sight that filled him with horror.

Selwyn, Earl of Heverswood, lay on his back, his arms outstretched. From the centre of his breast protruded a golden-handled poignard, and John Calthorpe’s senses reeled. It was the knife he had taken from the native Quio and had left in the drawer of his desk!

13: The Accusation

STANDING at his elbow, looking down in terror, was the woman whose presence Johnny had so resented. Before he could talk to her, or ask a question, there was a shriek that was almost animal from behind the little crowd that pressed about the door of the box, and Lady Heverswood, her wig grotesquely awry, fought her way through and dropped on her knees by the side of the dead man. Presently she looked up at Johnny, and her eyes were like fire.

“You did this!” she said.

Suddenly a deadly calm had fallen on her. She was mistress of her voice and her emotions. The withered face was working convulsively, but her voice had that steady, metallic quality that he knew so well.

“You did this, John Calthorpe, as you threatened I”

He was so dumbfounded that he could not answer.

“You threatened, and now you have kept your word, that there would be another Earl of Heverswood.”

The crowd behind had melted under the instructions of a police officer. Two detectives, set to watch the jewels, were in the box, examining the still figure. One of them heard her words as he entered, and shot a suspicious glance at John.

“I am Lady Heverswood”— the words came slowly, evenly— ”this is my son. And this— gentleman”— she pointed a trembling finger to John— ”is his half-brother, who inherits the title.”

So sick at heart was he with grief and horror that John Calthorpe could only shake his head. But the practical detective saw an avenue for investigation.

“Have you spoken to your brother to-night, Mr. Calthorpe?” he asked.

John nodded.

“Yes,” he said quietly. Then: “Don’t you think you’d better get Lady Heverswood away?”

The detective hesitated, looked over his shoulder, and at that moment a uniformed inspector of police appeared and, to John’s relief, the old woman allowed herself to be led away.

“Now, Mr. Calthorpe.” The door was closed; they were at the back of the box, out of view of the dancing crowd, the majority of whom knew little or nothing of what had happened. “You spoke to your brother to-night?”

“Yes, I saw him for a few moments.”

“Have you seen this knife before?”

John only hesitated a second.

“Yes; the last time I saw it, it was in the drawer of my desk,” he said. And, accustomed as he was to shocks, the police officer gasped.

“You realize what you’re saying, Mr. Calthorpe?”

“Yes, of course,” said John impatiently.

“Where were you when the murder was committed?”

“I don’t know— I was talking with my uncle, the Duke of Taunton, and I’d just said good night to him when I heard a woman shriek.”

By this time there had arrived an eye-witness of the crime: a young man who had occupied a box immediately opposite Selwyn’s, and who had been examining the other box-holders through his glasses.

“He was standing at the curtain at the back of the box, and I saw the curtain move and a hand come through, and then he fell. I thought it was a joke at first.”

“You saw nobody?”

“Nobody at all.” The eye-witness shook his head. “Only the hand and the sleeve of a red domino.”

The detective looked at John.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Absolutely,” said the witness.

“What costume did you wear to-night, Mr. Calthorpe?”

The other hesitated.

“A red domino,” he said.

The corridor outside had been cleared, and attendants were lifting the still figure to a stretcher which lay waiting. John averted his eyes from the ghastly sight. His head was in a whirl; he had lost the power of reasoning. If he thought consecutively, it was of Mary Predelle. What would she think and suffer? Who had struck the blow? Quio! It must be he. Only he could have retrieved the knife; only he would dare use it upon the man who he thought was an “enemy”. There was no reason to disguise the native’s presence in the hall, and he told the detective what had happened. To his surprise, the officer knew all about Quio.

“It couldn’t have been he, Mr. Calthorpe. We saw him coming out of the hall. One of our officers challenged him for his ticket, and found he could not speak English. He has been locked in one of the rooms, under charge of a police officer, and has been there ever since the early part of the evening.”

John shook his head.

“I can’t help you,” he said wearily. “I know the knife was in my drawer this afternoon. To suggest that I struck my brother is monstrous! As for his title, I no more envy that than I envy this policeman his brass buttons. It is horrible, horrible!”

The officer was looking at him keenly.

“Lady Heverswood was very emphatic,” he said significantly.

“Lady Heverswood!” John threw out his hands in a gesture of despair. “We are not good friends, she and I. I don’t think there’s any more I can tell you. Do you suspect me?” he asked bluntly.

“I suspect everybody,” was the cool reply. “At any rate, I must ask you to stay here until my sergeant or inspector come. I have no doubt they will have some questions to ask you which I have overlooked.”

He was virtually a prisoner: he recognized that, and knew that from his present position to the occupancy of a police-court cell was the easiest of transitions.

The situation was so ghastly, so unbelievable, that it was beyond his understanding. He had a wild desire to go to the girl and comfort her; but she must have been taken away immediately by her father, for there was no sign of her in the box, and he only hoped that this theory of his was correct.

The police chief arrived soon after, and to John’s relief he discovered it was a man with whom he had some slight acquaintance. Inspector Welling listened, examined the knife, and when he had heard the story of Quio had him sent for.

They had left the box, proceeding to one of the offices in the building, where they were free from interruption. Quio was lodged so near that he seemed to return almost immediately with his custodian. Fortunately, Welling spoke Spanish fluently, and although the Spanish of South America is subtly different from the European language, he made himself understood.

“You know this knife?”

The Indian nodded.

“Yes, master, that is mine.”

At the sight of the blood on the blade the Indian’s eyes opened wide.

He looked up at John with approval in his eyes. To this wild man, murder was a perfectly normal and natural sequence of the dislike which he knew existed between the two men.

“Did the caballero kill his enemy?” he asked eagerly.

John shook his head, and a shade of disappointment passed over Quio’s expressive face. His long arm reached out for the knife.

“Steady, my friend,” said Welling. “We’re not going to give you this weapon!”

“Master”— Quio’s voice was very earnest—"I have tracked killers of men in my own land. For this is the truth, that when a caballero slays with a knife his hands grow hot and wet because of the spirit which is within him. Caballero, let me put my nose to the handle.”

The detective held the haft gingerly towards the Indian. Bending his head, he ran his delicate nostrils up and down the haft. Then slowly he straightened, and John saw on his face a look of bewilderment.

“Master,” he said, “that is a scent I know and yet I do not know.”

“Is it your master’s?”

Quio shook his head.

“No,” he said. “But it is one I know.” His hideous frown advertised his perplexity.

“I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to come to the station, Lord Heverswood,” said Welling, and Johnny started and stared at the man.

“Lord?” he began.

And then he understood. Never had peer learned of his accession with such a bitterness of heart, with so wild a feeling of desolation and sorrow, as John Calthorpe, twelfth Earl of Heverswood.

It was nearly three o’clock before he returned to his house. The duke, who had gone home, and knew nothing of the tragedy, had been sent for, and it was his evidence and influence that saved his nephew from a night of close detention.

Sergeant Lane was waiting up for him and told him that Scotland Yard had made a search of the house. To the surprise of the weary Johnny, the sergeant was in a state of spluttering indignation.

“They must have gone daft to think you’d do anything like that!”

John fell heavily into a chair with a tired smile.

“I think they’re pretty well convinced. They examined my hands and my shirt-cuff very thoroughly— there was a great deal of blood— some of it had splattered on the wall of the box....” He shivered. “My God! It was awful, awful!” he said, covering his face with his hands.

And yet his thoughts were not of his dead brother, but of the girl to whom this tragedy and its sequel would be a crowning sorrow.

The sergeant was not a thought-reader, but the information he gave was naturally prompted.

“A lady rang you up, sir. She’s rung up three times: once when the police were here.”

John looked up.

“A lady— who?” he asked quickly.

“She didn’t give her name, sir, but she asked me to tell you to call her the moment you came in.”

As he spoke, the telephone-bell rang and he took up the instrument.

“Yes, madam,” he said, and, nodding, handed the ‘phone to John.

It was Mary, and at the sound of his voice he heard her sigh.

“Thank God you’re back! They told me you were arrested, Johnny. Isn’t it too terrible! Poor soul! ... Johnny, how dare they think that it was you?”

“Lady Heverswood suggested it,” he said.

“They’ve taken her to a hospital, Johnny. She’s mad— quite mad.... What is going to happen to you?”

There was little mirth in his laugh.

“Oh, I suppose I shall be an object of suspicion for many years to come,” he said. “Poor old Selwyn!”

“There is no explanation?” Her voice was full of anxiety.

“Nobody is suspected,” he said.

“He had a woman with him....” A little pause. “Daddy heard she wasn’t very nice....”

“The woman quite cleared herself. She was in the company of Selwyn’s friends,” said John. “No, I’m afraid there is no clue at all.”

“But you— what is going to happen to you?” she asked fearfully.

John was not in a position to answer. Though he felt that he had been cleared to some extent by the very careful inspection, both by two police surgeons and the detectives, he realized just how much suspicion would attach to him.

“I’m afraid there will be a first-class newspaper sensation,” he said. “And, Mary, you’re to keep out of it. You’re to see no reporters. If the police come to

“They’ve already been,” she said quietly. “They wanted to know whether I knew of any quarrel between you and Selwyn, and I told them no. They told me the knife was yours. Was it, Johnny?”

He explained, as briefly as possible, how the poignard came into his possession.

“Will you come and see me in the morning?” she asked. “You promise?”

But he was silent.

“You promise?” she asked again.

“I don’t think I’d better see you for a day or two, Mary,” he said gently, “not until this matter is cleared up. I want to keep your name out of the case. I want no suggestion that...” He could not bring himself to say the words, but she guessed.

“That there was a rivalry too,” she said. “Oh, Johnny!”

A long silence, and then:

“Good night,” she said; and he hung up the receiver with a sense of relief and gratitude.

14: Alma’s Home

LANE was making him coffee when Inspector Welling knocked at the front door and was admitted.

“I have an idea that you’re thoroughly and completely exonerated, Lord Heverswood,” he said.

“I’d rather you called me ‘Calthorpe’, in the circumstances. The other name is a little painful.”

Welling nodded.

“That I can understand,” he said. “Yes, we found a trail of blood leading to one of the stairways and to an emergency exit, which had been pushed open. There was blood on the paving-stones outside.”

“But the knife was left behind.”

Again Welling nodded.

“Yes. Either the murderer cut himself, or, what is more likely, his sleeve and hand were covered after the first blow.”

Lane brought the coffee in at that moment, and in the presence of a brother officer the inspector felt no disinclination to talk.

“The thing that impressed me was that nigger of yours “

“Indian,” corrected Johnny.

“Well, they’re all niggers to me,” said Welling.

“What impressed you about him?”

“Smelling the knife. I know that some native fellows have an abnormal sense of smell, and I’ve heard about these South American trackers. Do you think his story was a fake?” Johnny shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly; “I have had remarkable proofs of this quality, especially in the tribe from which Quio comes.”

“You don’t think he was saying it because he thought he was exonerating you?”

Johnny expressed his dissent.

“I’m afraid I rather fell in his estimation when he found that I was not the murderer,” he said with a faint smile. “Poor old Selwyn! I can’t believe it is true! Soon I shall wake up and find that it is all nightmare.”

The inspector looked at him strangely.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Calthorpe,” he said, with a hint of dryness, “but your brother was not exactly a saint? He must have had many enemies―"

So far he got when the door was burst violently open and Quio came running in, his eyes bright with excitement. In his hand he held an object which Johnny recognized instantly.

“Master,” he said eagerly, “here it is— the thing I smelt!” It was the wisp of lace and cambric which the Indian had picked up on the stairs. “It is the same, the same!” He was dancing in his wild excitement.

The police officer put out his hand and snatched the handkerchief, examining it carefully.

“A. K.,” he said. “Who is that?”

Johnny jumped to his feet.

“Alma Keenan!” he gasped, and in a few words told all he knew of the girl.

Alma Keenan! It was incredible!

He pulled the ‘phone to him and in a few minutes had got Lady Heverswood’s house. The butler answered him immediately, for the whole household was awake.

“Is that you, Milton? This is Mr. John speaking. What is Alma Keenan’s address?”

“I don’t know, my lord.” John groaned. “I will tell you in a moment.”

He was gone more than a moment. Five minutes passed before he returned,

“I’ve taken the liberty of looking through her ladyship’s letters, and there is one from Miss Keenan, saying that her future address would be 309 Belgrave House. I think she’s got a job there, sir.”

“Belgrave House?” said the detective. “That’s a pretty swagger block of residential flats near Eaton Square. Will you come with me, Mr. Calthorpe?”

John swallowed his coffee and hurried down behind the detective into the grey street. Day was dawning; he had been nearly twenty-four hours out of bed, but no longer did he feel tired. On his way westward he told Welling of the girl’s visit, and the note she had left for him.

“Where do you keep your notepaper?” asked the detective suddenly.

John thought for a while.

“In one of the drawers of my desk.”

“In the same drawer as you put the knife?”

“No, the one below.”

“She probably opened that first in a search for paper, found the knife and took it,” said Welling. “The reason is to seek, but I am satisfied that she killed your brother.”

There was a night bell at Belgrave House, and after a little wait the night porter admitted them.

“No, sir, I don’t know any Miss Keenan who is employed here. There is a Miss Keenan who’s got a suite on the second floor: she’s had it for a long time.”

“What is she like?” asked Welling, and when the porter had described her there was no doubt left in their minds that the lady who paid £600 a year for one of the best apartments in the most exclusive of buildings was Alma Keenan!

They went upstairs and wakened her maid. No sooner were they in the sumptuous drawing-room than all their doubts were at rest. Alma’s own portrait was on the mantelpiece, taken by a fashionable photographer, and on the piano was an even larger picture of Selwyn.

“Humph!” said the detective. “This explains a lot.”

He questioned the girl, but her mistress had not been there that night. She thought she might have gone down to Heverswood to see her father.

“Her father?” said John incredulously. “Her father doesn’t live at Heverswood.”

“Oh, yes, he does, sir,” said the shivering maid, frightened to death by the apparition of the police. “I happen to know because I saw a letter of his one day when I was dusting her table. It was signed ‘your loving father’.”

They looked at one another.

“Are you sure it was Heverswood?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“But not Heverswood Castle? The village is a very small one. What is his name?”

“I don’t know his name,” said the girl, shaking her head, “but I know he lives in Heverswood Castle.”

John’s jaw dropped.

“At any rate”— the girl was insistent upon this— “it was Heverswood Castle on the notepaper.”

And then the truth suddenly dawned upon Johnny. He remembered questions asked and resentfully evaded.

“I think I can take you to Alma Keenan,” he said reluctantly, for now he knew the extent of Selwyn’s infamy.

The sun was flooding the broad acres of Heverswood Castle when the police car stopped at the main gates and, in answer to the repeated signals, Elijah Sawder, haggard and white of face, staggered out of his house; his trembling hands unlocked the gate and threw it open. The car passed inside and stopped. Johnny and the detective got down.

“Elijah,” said Johnny gently, “where is your daughter?”

“Dead!”

The harsh voice was full of grief, the face still bore the grime of his tears. “Her’s dead I By her own hand she died, lad. Thee can’t touch her. Dead and in heaven, like the pure angel she is— thy brother is in hell, Johnny Calthorpe, and well he deserved it!”

A man appeared in the doorway of the keeper’s lodge: the thin-faced little man whom Johnny instantly recognized. He came quickly to the old man’s side and put his arm round his shoulder.

“Go inside, dad,” he said soothingly. “I’ll talk to Mr. Calthorpe.”

Very tenderly he led the old man back to the house, and handed him over to the care of the village woman who had attended him for so many years. And then the little man closed the door softly and came back.

“Gentlemen, I think you ought to know the truth,” he said, and told them the story of Alma Keenan Sawder.

15: The Truth

“YOU must remember us, Mr. John, when you were a little boy. Her ladyship always took an interest in us, and when Alma grew old enough she paid the expenses of her education and sent her away to a school. Her ladyship was not so much interested in me, but she got me a job in a training stable, and although I wasn’t on exactly the same level as Alma in the matter of education, I did pretty well and made money.

“When Alma came back from school, her ladyship sent her to Paris to learn French, because she wanted a private secretary. Although she was very good to us, Lady Heverswood never treated us as anything but what we were— her servants. She’s a queer woman, and I don’t suppose she has ever done a turn for anybody without looking forward to the time when she was going to get back a little more than she gave.

“Before she went to Paris, Alma met Mr. Selwyn, and they grew fond of each other— used to walk in the home park; and one thing led to another, and the end of it was, Alma was getting ideas a little above her situation, and refused to have anything more to do with Selwyn unless he married her. There’s no doubt that my sister was the one woman in the world that Selwyn loved, but he dared not marry her, especially as he knew that his mother was planning a good marriage for him, and one that would bring the family a lot of money. I only heard about this affair by accident. I didn’t take much notice of it, because such things have happened before, and though I didn’t want my sister to disgrace the family, yet I didn’t much favour his lordship, and I took no part, one way or the other, in helping Alma to get what she wanted. She was a very ambitious girl, and when she told me she was to be Lady Heverswood I nearly dropped dead! But she was quite serious about it, and told me that his lordship had promised to marry her, but that the marriage must be kept secret. One day when I was at Newmarket I had a telegram from him, telling me to come up to London to a certain house, and when I arrived Alma was there, in a great state of excitement, and said that she and Selwyn were to be married by special licence from the Archbishop of Canterbury, and that I was to be a witness.”

“Where was this house?”

“It was Lady Heverswood’s town house, but it was empty because the family were in the country, and the caretaker was out. I rather think that his lordship arranged for him to be away that afternoon. Whilst we were talking, Selwyn (as I got to call him) came, and brought with him a very aristocratic-looking parson, and there and then, without any waste of time, they were married, and I was the witness. The parson told me that in the exceptional circumstances a second witness was not necessary.

“Selwyn was allowed to keep the marriage certificate, because he thought that Alma had no place for it and the paper might be discovered. Of course, I had to swear that I’d not say a word, and as he gave me a hundred pounds for my trouble I was quite pleased with my trip to London.

“Nothing further happened until about a week ago, when I went down to see my father. He was terribly upset. He had gone up unexpectedly to see Alma— he had not been to London in forty years— and found her in a beautiful apartment. This so distressed him that she told him about her marriage to Lord Heverswood. He couldn’t believe it, especially as his lordship was going to be married to somebody else. But Alma explained the plan which his lordship had suggested. He was to marry this girl, and after the marriage he was to leave her, and she would divorce him. And then he would openly marry Alma, saying nothing about the secret marriage beforehand. They were practically to part at the church door, or as soon as the money from the marriage settlement was transferred to him. He said that all this American girl wanted was to be Countess of Heverswood; and though I don’t believe Alma was very keen on the idea, she accepted. My poor father was terribly upset, for he is an honest man and has lived straightly and decently all his life. He had done everything her ladyship asked of him, even pretending that Alma was no relation, because he thought it might reflect on her having a lodge-keeper for a father. And her ladyship ordered this too.

“Things would have gone on all right, but yesterday— or was it the day before?— as Alma and I were walking along Piccadilly, we saw his lordship on the other side of the road with a man whom we both recognized as the parson who had married Alma at his mother’s house! Alma saw the trick at once, and would have flown across and demanded an explanation, but I held her arm. Then we saw you stop and talk to them, and Alma said we must follow you. She wanted to know who the other man was, and when you told her he was an actor she knew that she had been sold, that the marriage was only a pretence and Selwyn’s story a lie.

“I lost sight of her after that. She had not gone to her flat, and I never saw her again until late last night. She telephoned me about nine o’clock to have her car— his lordship made her a very big allowance— waiting near Albert Mansions at half past ten. I had a feeling that things were going very wrong, and I was terribly worried, but I waited from half past ten till nearly one, when suddenly I saw her coming along the sidewalk, almost running. She wore a red cloak and her face was still masked, but she did not speak a word as I opened the door of the car for her, but, jumping in, collapsed by my side. ‘What is the matter, Alma,’ I said. ‘Take me home,’ was all that she could say. ‘Take me to Heverswood.’

“‘Heverswood at this hour of the night?’ I said to her, but: ‘I want to see father,’ was all she would say.

“I leaned out of the window and told the driver, but not a word would she say until we reached Heverswood village, and then she asked me to stop. You know the place in the road, Mr. John, where you can see the Castle and the lawns and rosery— that’s where she stopped, and got out of the car. She stood for about five minutes, looking at the castle without a word. I didn’t see what she was doing, until suddenly she started to sway, and I managed to catch her before she fell... she was dead by the time we reached the lodge.”

“Poisoned?” asked Welling.

The man nodded. His eyes were swimming with tears, and presently he broke down and sobbed convulsively into his hands.

“That is all, gentlemen,” he said at last, without looking up. “Lord Heverswood was a scoundrel who deserved to die, but it is damnable that he should have dragged my sister down with him!”

JOHNNY came back from a trip to South America on a Royal Mail steamer packet. It entered the Solent side by side with a great Atlantic liner, and, standing at the rail of the boat-deck, he looked across the waters to a slim figure in white who stood in splendid isolation on the top deck of the Berengaria. That she was there, he knew. That he was the man in grey flannel, she was well aware. For three days, messages of greeting and enquiry had been flashed from ship to ship, and ever since they had been within four hundred miles distance they had heard the sound of each other’s voices. The stipulated year had passed. Ahead of them was the port of Southampton. Beyond that, Heverswood church. A veritable holy place to John Calthorpe, Earl of Heverswood. For her one page of life had ended when they put Selwyn with his father, and here the newest and the most glorious page of all was to open.

________________________

14: The Last Adventure

MOST people who draw for a straight throw in their hands when it comes to their turn to bet. Edna drew for a straight and got a straight flush, which meant that she had the beating of the average fifty thousand hands.

Pecksell played poker, but he was a bad loser, though it was not his own money that he risked. He was a poor player, nervous, easily bluffed. She discovered that he was terribly sensitive to ridicule, being one of those men who run an inferiority complex. She made other findings which amazed, enraged or heartened her.

Pecksell was vain and immensely self-admiring. Put him in a room with a mirror, and it was inevitable that he would site himself so that he could glance sideways or frontways at his own reflection.

When he was talking his eyes would be for himself; not swift, seemingly unconscious straying of eyes towards his mirrored self, but glances that were long, lingering and satisfied— almost tender.

He was tall; his figure was the ideal of the men’s fashion artist; broad-shouldered, slim-waisted; a perfect figure for a tail-coat, for he was long in the leg. His hands were white and shapely, his feet reasonably small. He had a great pad of fair hair brushed back from his high, sloping forehead. This completes the catalogue of his attractive qualities. His nose was big and broad, and his eyes had a peculiarly Oriental slant. Thick lips, a rounded, womanly chin, and an almost flawless complexion ... the first time Edna saw him she thought he was a man in the early thirties. It was a long time before she saw him in the light of day that revealed certain lines about the eyes and mouth that no masseur could wholly obliterate.

She suspected him of good taste for a time. He had furnished the Dower House exquisitely, but afterwards she learned that he had left the décor in the hands of an Oxford Street store which employed the sweetest of young men to advise the roughneck patrons in the choice of colour and form.

Naturally she would discover this in time, because in the end the bills came to her for settlement. The Dower House cost four thousand pounds in the raw. By the time flowers were growing where weeds had been, and the new central-heating pipes were laid under new oak flooring, and wallpaper and whitewash had given way to painted walls and ceilings, Edna had spent three times that amount— the cleverly concealed safe in his library had cost six hundred pounds to buy and install.

She need not have paid a penny. Any good lawyer would have fixed Ralph in a spacious dock, there to sit for a dreary day between two bored warders till at the end the white-wigged judge told him the way to go.

But since she had so many pennies— she had enjoyed the income from seven hundred thousand pounds from her father’s estate before Uncle “Dicker” Jordan made her his sole heiress— she preferred to pay.

The affair with Benito belonged to that hectic postwar period when shingled youth wrote ecstatic letters to mighty airmen who had earned their double ace. Benito was a wonderful lover. There were three or four meetings in Paris, and after each meeting the correspondence became a little more quiveringly incoherent, and a little less suitable for publication in a church magazine.

Benito was killed in a crash; he was drunk at the time, and everybody agreed that it was a mercy that the pretty little French actress who was with him was lucky enough to escape with nothing worse than a broken ankle.

Edna was not stricken by the tragedy. She was awfully sorry and very shocked, for by then Benito’s charm had waned, and she used to spend unpleasant hours wondering if he really had burnt her letters.

It was Ralph who told her that he had not; that the letters were, in fact, in the possession of a very revengeful woman. It was Ralph who suggested that he should act as go-between and for a consideration “buy the woman’s silence”. The expression was his.

He came out of the blue one rainy September evening, shabby and quite self-assured. It was the day Edna Mason had come back from Davos, her heart singing little lines of joy, for the squat and toad-like Swiss doctor, who never spoke anything but the truth, had made his pronouncement. Jack Mason was curable. Eminent English physicians had given him three months to live. A really bad case of T.B. Ye-es, he might go to a Swiss clinic, but ... He might as well die in Switzerland as in England. They did not say this in so many words, but a half-shrug can be very eloquent.

This husband of hers, sometime athlete, always like a child in his faith and adoration, was God and the world to her. He knew nothing of Benito or the cottage at Fontainebleau; he believed that purity was an inseparable element of spinsterhood, though he knew that servant-girls did odd things. He wasn’t a fool either, had commanded the King’s Company of the Grenadiers, was a big-game shot and a master of foxhounds. But he was a dreamer, had walked, dreaming, through much that was dirty. He was a member of that branch of society which hardly knows one night club from another, an old-fashioned lot of people, rather stupid and self-centred and wholesome folk, who are wise about dogs and horses and ground rents. They lived in the same houses as their great-great-grandfathers, and they were wholly incapable of visualizing a household that did not employ a footman called Charles.

No, Jack did not dream of Benito or the cottage, or the kind of letters, half in French and half in English, that crazy adolescence can write.

And here was Mr. Ralph Pecksell, very much more composed outwardly than he was in his mind, displaying, like a conjurer, handwritten copies of certain correspondence, spreading sheet after sheet on the polished walnut table.

“I personally regret to be the agent in such a matter,” he said in his deep and musical voice, “but unfortunately my business as a private detective ...”

“Yes,” she said.

He was watching her closely but approvingly. He had had very little to do with women of her class, though he had admired them. She was tall and straight-backed, had the vague qualities of aristocracy. Lovely, too, and very fragrant. Not so pretty or as much to his taste as the girl who interrupted their talk, apologized frantically and withdrew. That was the first time he saw Jack Mason’s sister— thereafter the vision of her was never absent from his mind.

Enid was not the kind to panic at the hint of danger. She was a cool, balanced woman; the blood of four generals ran in her— one had been Marlborough’s chief-of-staff.

The man was puzzled by her, and he was disappointed. He had read the letters, and had been quite perturbed as to the effect which would be produced when she knew that he had violated the sacred privacy of her written thought. She must be confused, burn with shame, cry a little, possibly faint. She did none of these things. She did not so much as flush as her eyes skimmed the copper-plate writing— Ralph had served an apprenticeship in the offices of a Melbourne lawyer.

So calm and impersonal was her scrutiny that she might have been considering the indiscretions of a stranger in the presence of an intimate friend.

“What is the name of the woman who has these letters?” she asked.

“Mademoiselle Levine,” he answered glibly. “I am afraid that I cannot give you her address— except that she is living at the moment in Lille.”

A long silence. The rain dripped unceasingly upon the stone sill of an open window; there was the faintest aroma of gardenias in the room. He wondered why all those coats of arms were let into the windows. She wore no jewels, only a very thin pearl necklace— cost three hundred at the most. That was queer for a woman who was reputedly a millionairess.

Her serenity frightened him. Where was the bell? Two silken straps hung on either side of the stone fireplace. And there were telephones in the house. He was a fool to come by train— a couple of rural flatties could pick him up at the railway station as easy as pie. They gave you fourteen years for blackmail— and the prosecutor’s name was not mentioned in Court, and there was no fear of the letters being read. He began to perspire at the temples.

“How many letters are there?” she asked.

“Thirty-seven,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse.

She was silent for a time, and then she nodded.

“There were thirty-six and a short note,” she said. “I didn’t dream that he would keep them. Mademoiselle Levine? I will buy the originals back from her for twenty thousand pounds.”

Mr. Ralph Pecksell was staggered, for a few seconds was speechless. With luck he had hoped for a thousand. New and magnificent vistas opened to him.

He left, as she believed, for Paris with a deposit of five thousand pounds. In a month he came back with photographic reproductions of all the letters. They looked like the real letters because they had been printed from process plates. It was he who, when he had drawn the balance of the twenty thousand, “discovered” the fraud. Until then she had regarded him as a genuine agent and had rewarded him for his services. When he came to her with one of the original letters (and the most innocuous) she realized the character of his mission, and cold-bloodedly faced the prospect of an expensive pensioner.

All this happened between lovely visits to Davos where a husband who should have been dead was playing golf.

“Who is this man who has bought the Dower House?” asked Jane Mason. “Mr. Pecksell, I mean.”

“He’s an old friend of my brother’s.”

Enid could lie convincingly.

Jane made a little face.

“He’s an extraordinary person— he told me I was the loveliest girl he had ever seen.”

Enid stared at her.

“When was this?”

“To-day. I was walking up from the village and he overtook me in his car— the road was so beastly that when he offered to drive me to the house I jumped in.”

Enid looked at her for a long time.

“Oh!” she said at last, and her lips were set very tight.

She had not fought the suggestion that Ralph should live at the Dower House. In her queerly sane way she saw the advantage to the man of living near the source of his revenue. That night Jane went out to dine with the Harrigays, and she sent for the man.

“Don’t speak to Miss Mason again, please,” she said. “If you do, I may decide to see my lawyers.”

He was cowed— for a week.

But on the main road, not very far from the Dower House, was a post-box, and he had seen Enid go there, even on rainy days, to post a letter. He made a “net” that fitted into the opening of the letter-box, and snared a letter. It was to her husband, and from his knowledge of human beings, which was considerable, he understood why she paid blackmail rather than that his dream of her should be awakened to stark reality.

Edna came to accept the burden of his persecution as she accepted the ugliness of the pollards that lined Biddy brook; these trees, by some freak of nature, had grown into strangely obscene shapes. Nor was it persecution, for she never lost an hour’s sleep about the man.

She met him sometimes. Once he asked himself to dinner, and came, a resplendent tribute to the art of Savile Row. She wished to see him about several things; she had returned from Davos a few days before and had called upon a certain notary of Paris. Jane was in town; they dined tête-à-tête, and Ralph was most correct in speech and manner.

Remembering all that he had gleaned from the correspondence which had come into his possession, the correctness of his attitude might seem remarkable, for he could definitely trace the path to wild and flaming horizons of mad error. But she had a guard not easily forced, rather, an ice barrier that offered no foothold to adventurous feet.

“Before you were a blackmailer you were a burglar, weren’t you?”

She asked this disconcerting question almost as the door closed on the butler, who had left them to their coffee. He hated that abrupt attack of hers; it frightened him.

“My dear lady,” he drawled, “I do not follow you.”

Ralph had acquired a tone that was bored and languid, a tone and an inflection which went rather well with a refurbished Dower House and a Stutz car.

He glanced at her through his slant eyelids; his thick lips puffed in a smile, consciously nonchalant, in reality a little apprehensive.

“I had a letter last week from a Paris notary,” she said, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “A Monsieur Roux. He was Benito’s attorney, and had my letters, which he would have returned to me, only Benito did not put my address on the sealed envelope— if the notary had broken the seal and read the letters he would have known where to find me. He only discovered where I lived when he found an old address book of Benito’s— last week.”

Ralph inclined his head; he was frowning in the manner of a man who was greatly puzzled and could make neither head nor tail of what he was hearing. At least, that is how he hoped he looked.

“Nine months ago,” Edna went on, “burglars opened the safe of Monsieur Roux and took away about two thousand pounds’ worth of bonds and a number of documents. The sealed envelope containing my letters was part of the theft.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Pecksell.

“That is how you came to possess them,” she said. “I have wondered how it was.”

Ralph puffed at his cigar and looked up at the ceiling.

“My career has been a strange one—" he began.

“I’m not interested in the story of your life,” she interrupted, “but that is the truth, isn’t it? After all, you can’t be much worse than a blackmailer, can you? Burglary must seem an innocent amusement by comparison.”

He had been a burglar; he had been almost everything that qualifies a man for Dartmoor. He began to tell her, diffidently at first, and then, as the splendour of his embroidered narrative took hold of him, he became expansive. He had all the gaolbird’s faith in the uniqueness of his own experiences, surrounded the most commonplace of incidents with a nimbus of glory, took credit to himself for the many discreditable exploits that were purely imaginary. But this he made plain— burglary did not pay.

“Take ‘Gilly’ Brown— one of the most brilliant bank-smashers of the day— a jewel thief. Broke— I saw him the other day in town— he didn’t see me— down at heel, miserable-looking. Yet that man once got away with a quarter of a million in sparklers!”

He spoke of other great characters in this umbrageous world he knew, but always he came back to Gilly Brown, sometimes testily, sometimes despisingly, once with a hint of fearfulness, but never displaying the admiration proper in a journeyman for a master of craft.

She listened attentively, conscious through him of the terrible importance of Gilly Brown. This shadowy crook was an obsession, a dominating life; circumstances revolved about and had their beginning in him; he marked crucial steps and stages of existence.

This he discovered to the quiet woman with the grey, steadfast eyes, and gave the impression that his revelation was automatic. It was as though by her statement and question she had broken down his inhibitions, and Gilly Brown became visible because he was all in life there was to conceal.

When Pecksell came to the end of his boastings, she said:

“My husband is coming home in the spring. I have decided that you must not stay here. Why don’t you live in London?”

He had excuses. A desire to break from old associates, to go straight.

When she laughed at this he flushed, was obviously hurt. He was going straight in the sense that he added nothing to his considerable income from any other illicit form of employment, and his grievance made him a little angry. He gave shape to plans which up to that moment had been formless even in his own mind.

Edna listened, and for the first time in their association she was shocked, so that she became a little off her balance.

“... I may not be a gentleman,” he said, “but there are plenty of so-called gentlemen who wouldn’t make your sister as happy as I should. After all, we live in a democratic age....”

He developed his staggering thesis. Fortunately she was not called upon to make any comment until he had finished. It was strange that at that moment she remembered, as a little girl, planting a particularly beautiful flower— or so it had appeared to her. She remembered the despair and rage of the gardeners, who knew that this weed would never be eradicated, but would spread and spread and appear in the most unexpected places, whither its seed had blown. Here was a parasite growth to be dealt with instantly and drastically. She knew that threats of lawyers and police were futile. Mr. Ralph Pecksell had explored those avenues of danger and had found them well fortified against attack.

“It is not a matter that I can discuss,” she said at last.

Next day she went to town.

She knew of an underworld, but it had neither location nor definite boundary. The only wrongdoer who had ever come into her life was a butler who had pawned her father’s silver, and he, she imagined, was no desperado, but a criminal from force of circumstances.

Whilst Jack was at Davos she lived in a small flat off Park Lane. There was only one hope in her heart, and that faint enough. Because of her association with certain charities she had been brought into touch with sundry bright representatives of the Press— languid young men who wrote gossip paragraphs, knew social obscurities by sight, and could spell their names without error. One of these she summoned to her, and her luck was in.

Usually these gentlemen— who, though in Fleet Street, are not of it— could hardly tell you the name of a reporter, but her visitor was more gifted. At eleven o’clock that night she interviewed Jerry Hold, who knew more about criminals than most crime reporters.

“Gilly Brown? It’s funny you should mention Gilly. I’m going to do a story about him this week— profitless crime. Here’s a man dying of T.B.”— she winced at this— ”in a miserable little Lambeth lodging, without a shilling to his name, and he must have handled hundreds of thousands of pounds. He never really got over the flogging he had at Dartmoor.”

Edna did not even know that convicts were flogged; but apparently they are, for bad assaults on warders, and this particular warder had been especially hateful to Gilly and his six hundred companions in misery. Nobody saw the blow struck— no official body; it almost killed the warder, and the culprit would have escaped punishment but for the fact that there was one of the six hundred sunburnt convicts who saw an opportunity of gaining a remission of sentence.

“The curious thing,” said Jerry, “was that Langer— that was the fellow’s name— was a friend of Gilly’s, had worked on many jobs with him. But, Mrs. Mason, you’re not adding prison philanthropy to your other activities, are you?”

She had not thought of this explanation for her curiosity, and grasped the suggestion instantly.

Gilly was not confined to his bed. He walked the streets by day, seeking sunshine, a dilapidated and haggard man who was sixty and looked eighty.

“If you can do anything for him,” said Jerry at parting, “I’d be glad, because he’s a decent old bird, in spite of his disreputable past.”

“Do you know this man Langer?” she asked.

Jerry nodded.

“Curiously enough, I do. I haven’t seen him for years. A tall fellow, rather swell in his way. A pretty good burglar, though he’s never been charged with that crime. He’s got a woman complex....”

Jerry, being a crime reporter, was very frank.

He left to collect Gilly. This was on the Tuesday. On the Thursday he telephoned that Gilly Brown was on his way.

Her heart ached for the breathless old man. The similarity of his symptoms to others she had seen cut her like a knife. She had sent out all the servants and they were alone in the flat together.

“Yes, miss, I’m as near dead as makes no difference, but I sort of hang on. It was the bashing that did it ...”

She had to steel herself while he described the flogging in horrid detail. He had come in the expectancy of largesse, and accordingly kept his conversation on the plaintive note, piling misery on misery, sketching all the probabilities of a lonely workhouse death. She might be good for a fiver, he decided. Later he took a more extravagant view of the possibilities.

Yet there was nothing soft about her. His most gruesome and heartrending descriptions brought no suspicion of tears or sorrow. Presently he thought it was her turn to talk.

“You’ve been a burglar, haven’t you— a safe-opener?”

He grinned a little proudly, and was stimulated to a new line of appeal, but she cut him short.

“I’m going to tell you frankly, Mr. Brown, just why I want you. I realize I am placing myself in your hands, but that doesn’t bother me very much. I am being blackmailed by a man who has thirty-seven letters of mine, which he keeps, I am sure, in a safe. They are probably in the original envelope. I want you to open the safe and get me the letters. I will pay you five thousand pounds, and arrange for your admission into a clinic in Switzerland.”

He sat bolt upright in his chair, staring at her, suspicion in his pale eyes. Irresolutely he shook his head.

“I don’t think I could do it, miss. Apart from me health and strength, there’s the question of tools; they’d cost money to get “

“I will pay for those,” she said, opened her bag and took out a thick bunch of five-pound notes. “There’s two hundred pounds here,” she said. “I will drive you to the place myself, and drive you from there to Dover. Do you know the Continent?”

He nodded, and smacked his thin lips.

“Do I know the Continent? Why, the year before the war I did a job in Monte Carlo “

Again she cut short his narrative, and he became businesslike. What type of safe was it? She could tell him this, for she had paid the bill.

“A Craster? That’s easy.”

She showed him where the Dower House was on a map, drew a plan of its rooms.

“What’s he like— the fellow who’s put the black on you?”

She described Mr. Ralph Pecksell rather vaguely.

“Anyway, he won’t worry me,” said the old man grimly. “And you needn’t be frightened of me going to prison, because I never shall. I’ve had my last bit of stir. There’s only one thing that I’ve never parted with. No prison for me, miss— or workhouse.” A statement which was in violent conflict with the lurid picture he had drawn of death in a pauper’s bed.

The possibility of this last adventure set his sluggish blood racing. His eyes were brighter, his step firmer, when he left that night.

She picked him up the next night in the New Cut. He had been waiting for an hour, he told her.

“Never dreamt you would come, miss.”

She noticed that he carried no bag.

“You haven’t the tools you were going to buy?” she said, and he chuckled.

“I got ‘em all planted on me, miss. If a flattie saw me carrying a bag he’d pull me in under the Act.”

He had never asked her her name. Probably the crime reporter had told him. But she had the impression that names meant nothing to him— except such names as were borne by eminent judges and regimental prison governors.

Through that long journey into Hampshire he coughed at regular intervals; hard little coughs that shook his spare frame, and every time a paroxysm was over he said the same thing.

“It was the bashing that done it. Maybe Mr. Hold told you? ... I told you, did I? My memory’s not what it was. Twenty-five lashes, eh? And I wouldn’t have got it but for That Fellow.”

He never referred to Langer in any other way. He had no name— he was just That Fellow.

“The things I’ve done for that man! I got him out of trouble time after time. I’ve never done him a harm in my life.”

It began to rain almost as they came to the top of the hill from which in daylight could be seen the Dower House, standing at the end of an avenue of oaks. She turned the car into a narrow lane which formed one of the boundaries of Mr. Pecksell’s property.

Ralph went to bed early, and the windows were dark as they stole in the shadow of the oaks to the front of the house. To Gilly’s surprise she gave him a key. It was like Edna that she had long ago secured the key of the Dower House front door against emergencies.

“He keeps two servants,” she said. “They sleep in the back of the house. He himself is a heavy sleeper.”

She was starting to tell him the position of the library again, but he stopped her.

“You stay here, miss, and get back to the car.”

She went back to the end of the avenue, near the disused lodges, and waited. Rain fell heavily and more heavily. There was a sound of far-off thunder. Half an hour passed, then she saw the spare shape coming swiftly and noiselessly across the lawn.

“Is this the letter, miss?”

There was a flicker of light; she saw the big envelope, tore open the flap with trembling fingers, and took out one of the letters.

“Yes.” She was more breathless than he.

“That’s all right.” His voice was very cheerful.

They walked down the avenue and along the road to the lane in silence. She stepped into the car, but he did not follow. He seemed to have suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth. Edna called the man by name, but there was no answer. And then she got out again, walked a few steps, stumbled over something lying by the side of the roadway, and, stooping, felt the shape of him.

JERRY came to Park Lane as she was finishing breakfast the next morning.

“Have you heard about your Gilly Brown? Found dead near your house. You didn’t tell him you had jewellery there, did you? Anyway, he busted the wrong crib. Do you know the man who lives in the Dower House? You’ll never guess who he was— an ex-convict named Langer. The police found him shot stone dead, the safe open, and poor old Gilly dead in a lane about a hundred yards away. His last adventure must have settled him.”

He took out his notebook.

“Now can you tell me anything about this fellow Langer? He called himself Pecksell. How he came to be living in your neighbourhood?”

Edna Mason had nothing interesting to say.

______________

15: The Talkative Burglar

The Novel Magazine, Dec 1912

THE Duke smelt danger the moment the white fan of his electric lamp flashed across the room.

For this was no unoccupied house. There was a newspaper on the floor and a cosy chair drawn up to a little table— there was also an empty glass. He lifted it and sniffed wisely.

“A whisky-and-soda,” he said mentally. “I have made what my disreputable associates call ‘an error’.”

The window through which he had come was still open— he looked and hesitated.

He was an accomplished burglar, practised in his art. He preferred an unoccupied house, but failing that— anyway, he had gone to a great deal of trouble and he would not leave without a souvenir.

He put the rays of his lamp over the room, noted a secretaire in the corner, and felt for his delicate jemmy.

Then the door was flung open violently.

In the hall without all the lights were on and the Duke saw the figure of a man silhouetted. More interesting to the Duke, he saw the sharp outline of a long-barrelled revolver, and it was held by a man who did not seem afraid of holding it.

“Who’s there?” said a voice sharply. The Duke heard the fingers of the newcomer rustling along the wall searching for the switch.

“It’s all right!” said the Duke calmly.

“All right be damned!”

Click! The room was flooded with light.

The man in the doorway was a soldierly gentleman in a dressing-gown, and he was reasonably annoyed.

“Don’t move,” he said; “stand over there where I can see you.”

The Duke laid his jemmy on the table and obeyed.

“All right,” he said easily, “send for the police.”

“That is exactly what I am going to do,” replied the other grimly.

From somewhere in the house came a woman’s voice.

“What is it?”

The man with the revolver backed to the door and spoke over his shoulder.

“It’s all right, dear. Put on your gown and come down if you’d like to see a real live burglar.” He looked at his captive interestedly. “And a famous one at that. You’re the rascal they call the Duke, aren’t you?”

The other smiled and, uninvited, sank into a chair.

“I am called the Duke,” he said punctiliously, “but I object to being called ‘rascal’.”

“You’re particular, my man,” said the owner of the revolver.

“I am particular,” corrected the Duke, “but I am not your man.”

The Duke was about thirty-five, clean-shaven and dressed quietly. He had a presence and a bearing which led policemen to touch their hats to him. His eyes were solemn and grey, and there were tiny lines at each corner which spoke eloquently of hidden laughter. And, indeed, the Duke’s ruin was a sense of humour and a propensity to laugh at his more serious self. There is no devil so potent as that one which dwells snugly in smiles.

“Stay where you are,” said Sir Brandon Burton, Bart.

He crossed to the telephone which stood on the study table and disentangled the receiver.

“Hello, Central,” he called in the irritated tone peculiar to the patrician in a hurry. “Get me Lime Street Police Station.”

“They’re not connected; try Wardour Place,” said the Duke softly. “Besides, it’s nearer.”

“Hello— hello— not connected? Well, get me— where did you say?” He turned to his prisoner.

“Wardour Place,” said the other. “Ask for Inspector King. He’s on duty to-night.”

“Eh? How do you know?”

“Oh, I know,” said the Duke vaguely.

“Hello. Is that Wardour Place. Yes. Is Inspector King there? Oh, is it you, Inspector? I want you to send a man to my house— I am Sir Brandon Burton, 162 Curberry Gardens— no, there’s no pressing hurry; I think I can manage till he comes. I am obliged to you.”

The last was addressed to the Duke, and he inclined his head.

He had chosen the most comfortable seat and sat in the most comfortable attitude— his legs stretched stiffly outward, his fingers drumming a little tune on the padded arms.

He was whistling softly to himself an air from Pagliacci.

At the sound of Sir Brandon’s voice he started as from a pleasant reverie.

“Not at all,” he said courteously. “Naturally, I know a great deal more about police stations than you do. Besides, I like Wardour Place; the cells are new and fairly clean.”

Sir Brandon laid down his revolver within reach and a smile struggled to his lean face.

“You’re a cool devil! What will you get?”

The Duke contemplated the ceiling.

“Five years and the remainder of my sentence. It’s rather a pity. I was hoping to see the Royal Hunt Cup run.”

He was in earnest— there was no braggadocio here.

“Jove! You’re a refreshing person,” said the admiring Sir Brandon.

“Why not?” The Duke crossed his legs. “What is the good of worrying? I made a mistake.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I thought you were abroad; you left London on Friday.”

“I came back again.”

“So I gather.”

There was an embarrassing period of silence.

Then: “Help yourself to a drink,” said Sir Brandon.

“Thanks!” The burglar walked to the table and measured himself a modest portion.

Sir Brandon was puzzled.

“How does it come about, a man of your class and obvious education— a burglar— good God!”

Said the Duke, and there was a hint of boredom in his tone:

“Why is it that people of my class never forgive crime that means hard work? You condone the forger, the swindler, the bucket-shop keeper, the fraudulent director, and hold up your hands in horror because we younger sons discover a profession which is not overcrowded. It is class snobbery— nothing less.”

There was another period of silence. The Duke watched a clock which ticked noisily on the mantelshelf, and wondered why an expensive clock should tick so loudly.

Then a thought struck Sir Brandon.

“So you want to see the Royal Hunt Cup run? Why?”

“I happen to know the horse that will win,” said the Duke, and there was immense confidence in his tone.

Sir Brandon smiled.

“So do I, my friend.”

The other looked at him with a pitying shake of his head.

“You mean your filly? You amuse me,” he said carelessly.

Sir Brandon Burton got up from his chair.

“What the devil do you mean?” he asked. “I tell you she will win, and win easily.”

The burglar raised his patient eyes to the ceiling.

“Good Lord!” he murmured. “How blind these owners are! However, it isn’t worth discussion. I hoped,” he added meditatively, “to make enough to carry me very far from this land. To tell the truth, I’ve already backed the horse, and got £5,000 to £150, and I’ve put up the money. It took many burglaries to make up that hundred and fifty.”

He spoke a little ruefully, and Sir Brandon smiled again.

“Anyway, you would have lost,” he said.

“Oh, of course!” There was no mistaking the offensive acquiescence.

“You don’t agree?” demanded the baronet irritably.

“I most certainly do not,” said the calm burglar, and looked at the clock. “That policeman takes a long time, but perhaps he didn’t think the errand was very urgent.”

“What is your horse?” persisted the other.

The Duke favoured him with a lofty smile.

“I do not feel justified in telling you,” he said, and explained. “I gained my information in delicate circumstances. I was burgling the owner’s house, and I heard the strength from the gentleman— er— as he was telling a lady.”

The baronet started to speak, but a step on the stairs arrested him.

“Excuse me,” he said, without realizing the absurdity of excusing himself to a burglar.

He went to the door, and the Duke rose to his feet as the girl came in. Tall and slim, with a rare and delicate colouring, her beauty was enhanced by the vividly hued kimono she wore. She looked from one to the other.

“This isn’t?”

Sir Brandon chuckled like a big boy exhibiting his rare find.

“This is our burglar— the gentleman burglar.”

The Duke frowned a little— he had a tender gorge.

“The term is somewhat offensive,” he said, “and contradictory. There cannot be a gentleman burglar.”

She looked from him to her husband.

“What have you done?” she asked.

“Sent for the police.”

Her eyes made a quick survey of the room.

“Nothing has been disturbed,” said the Duke, interpreting the look. “I can assure your ladyship on that point. I was, as the newspapers say, ‘disturbed at my nefarious work’.”

“Just as you disturbed him in a most interesting confession,” said Sir Brandon.

“I am sorry. Won’t you sit down?”

The Duke pushed the chair he had been using towards her, and with a little inclination of her head she settled herself.

“You must hear this, dear,” said the baronet eagerly. “It touches us both. Our friend knows a horse that will beat White Lady; overheard in the course of one of his midnight forays the owner telling “

The girl fixed her eyes on the burglar with a new interest.

“Overheard?” she repeated. “What horse is this?”

Ordinarily the Duke would have said no more, but he was a thirsty man, thirsty for his own people, the sound of their voices, the intimacy of their companionship. Ahead of him was a desert of days— of months— of years, wherein he would be a number, less than a pawn, since he would have no part in the game. He began wondering how far he would get before the caution which was second nature to him laid a finger on his tongue.

“You must not ask which is the horse,” he said, “because it involves I broke into a little house in Mayfair less than a week ago. A little house but an enormously rich one. The owner was by every account out of town; there were no servants in the place, and I took my time. It is of no interest to you to know how I got in— it is sufficient to say that I got in. I made my way through the house, spying out the land: I came to the dining-room last. Imagine my surprise to discover that, though the owner was supposed to be away, the table was laid for two. A dainty little supper, wines, fruits, liquors— too rich a feast for a servant. Whilst I was looking at the table by the light of my electric lamp I heard the front door open and voices in the hall. I had just time to secrete myself in a little room which led off the dining room, when they entered.”

“And— ?” It was the woman’s voice and it was in the wrong key. The Duke noticed this, but Sir Brandon had no sensitive ear.

“Well, they ate and they drank and they talked— she was especially vivacious.”

Lady Burton shifted her chair deliberately. Her back was half turned to her husband. She faced the unbidden guest.

“Did you— did you see her face?” she asked.

“I caught a glimpse.”

The Duke’s voice was casual, too casual for the woman with her lips a-tremble.

“Ah!” she said.

“The gentleman’s wife, I suppose?” asked Sir Brandon.

The Duke hesitated.

“Er— no— not permanently so, I think— so I understood.”

The latter was to the woman and had a note of apology.

“Oh!” said Sir Brandon.

“It was embarrassing for me,” the Duke went on; “I come of a good puritan stock, but what could I do?”

“You— you could have made your presence known,” said Lady Burton almost fiercely.

“And have been arrested,” protested the Duke.

“They would not have dared arrest you,” she said vehemently.

“I cannot blackmail justice,” said the Duke loftily.

“So you stood like a cad, listening.”

Icily bitter, her words did not sting the Duke, conscious as he was alike of his rectitude and the overwhelming justification of expediency.

“I stood listening, not because I am a cad, but because I am a burglar.”

Sir Brandon Burton’s mouth made a large “O”. He was an honest man, possessing no subtlety.

“My dear,” he said a little shocked, “be reasonable. What on earth was he to do?”

“What, indeed!” agreed the other man with a bland and benevolent smile. “So I stayed and the talk turned upon race-horses. I heard the man say, ‘So-and-so thinks he will win, but I shall beat him.’ “

The sportsman in Sir Brandon was wide awake, and he leaned forward.

“Do you remember the name?”

“It was a curious name,” reflected the burglar, “in fact, it must have been a nickname.”

“And it was?”

The Duke tapped his head impatiently.

“It was on the tip of my tongue— tut! Ah! I remember; it was ‘Ronny’.”

Sir Brandon was on his feet.

“Ronny! Why, that is my nickname,” he gasped. “Who on earth could—"

Lady Burton twisted her chair still further.

“And the lady— did— did she agree?” she asked quickly.

“She laughed, I remember, then he told her of the trial. And he was telling her the truth.”

“He may have boasted,” suggested Sir Brandon.

“I think not,” replied the Duke oracularly; “men seldom lie on side issues. It rang true to me. As for me, I saw a way out. I am not a betting man: betting isn’t as safe as burglary. But here was a chance.”

Lady Burton was resting her chin on her hand, searching his face.

“Do men only speak the truth— in side issues?” she asked. “There was a big issue there, was there not? Forgive me, I am a woman, and these things interest me. He probably loved her. Was he lying if he told her so? I ask you because you have no illusions; you see men and women in a different light from that in which we see them.”

Her husband was shuffling his feet nervously as she spoke. He was proud of his wife— a clever woman with depths his simple nature could not plumb.

“My dear,” he urged, “we cannot expect a burglar to talk philosophy at two o’clock in the morning.”

“You do not answer me,” she said, ignoring the interruption.

The Duke was enjoying his hour. He was prepared to plunge into the psychology of the situation she conjured.

“You ask a question which it is difficult to answer,” he said. “Love is very difficult to detect in normal circumstances, but when a house is on fire it is a somewhat difficult task to decide whether the kitchen grate is also burning. The man was all on fire— as I judged. Whether the fire would eventually restrict itself to the domestic hearth was beyond my understanding.”

He felt he had acquitted himself well. Sir Brandon was impatient for practical issues.

“You people are getting away from the main point,” he said. “I confess myself as being immensely curious to know the name of this wonderful horse.”

The burglar threw out his hands— a man desolated.

“And I cannot tell you,” he confessed miserably.

“Why not?”

The Duke was annoyed. He had forgotten the horse.

“Obviously,” he said with an exhibition of asperity, “if I tell you the horse you know the owner; if you know the owner you may infer the lady— that would be a betrayal of which no self-respecting burglar would be guilty.”

“Stuff!” snapped Sir Brandon. “But isn’t the whole thing ridiculous! Here we find ourselves at two o’clock in the morning taking lessons in morality from a burglar. Look here, you’re a sporting sort of devil and I’ll make you a sporting offer “

She turned to him, her face rigid and tense.

“I forbid you making any bargains with this man,” she said coldly; “it is unworthy of you.”

Sir Brandon’s face was a study.

“Dearest, you are mistaken,” he said, eager to correct her; “if you think I have any other desire than to gratify my curiosity you are wrong. It makes no difference to me. I do not bet— but I am piqued. I’ll make this offer “

The Duke came to the Lady’s rescue.

“My dear fellow, no offer you make will alter my determination.”

His tone was that of a patron reluctantly compelled to refuse a favour to a very old friend.

“Now look here,” persisted Sir Brandon, “there is only one horse in the race I am afraid of— you know what that is, Millicent?”

She nodded slowly. All the time her husband was talking she was watching the Duke with an expressionless face.

“It is a horse in the ownership of my best pal, Arthur Graversley, Lord Arthur Graversley. Why, it was only to-night you were telling me, dear, that Arthur thinks Saracen will win. Is that the horse?”

The Duke shook his head.

“Suppose I said yes?” he asked.

“Well?”

“If Lord Arthur Graversley were the man,” said the burglar slowly, “it would not be nice hearing for you or for any friend.”

Sir Brandon was uncomfortable.

“Oh, the lady? I had forgotten her— but”— he shrugged his shoulders— "young men are young men.... Was it Arthur Graversley?”

They heard the faint tinkle of a bell, and the Duke and his host rose together.

“No, it was not Lord Arthur,” said the Duke.

“H’m!”

Sir Brandon stood in the doorway, deep in thought, and they heard the bell ring again.

“Give me your word that you will not try to escape,” said he.

“Escape— not I.”

Sir Brandon looked at his wife, half inviting her to come with him, but she avoided the invitation and he left the room.

For a moment they stood facing each other, the burglar and the lady. Then she spoke.

“You are discreet,” she said, “and not a little merciful.”

The Duke wrinkled his forehead.

“I cannot quite follow your ladyship,” he said slowly.

“Oh, don’t pretend, please!” She spoke rapidly, feverishly, harshly almost.

“You know it was Lord Graversley— you know that you saw the woman.”

“Yes, I did see the woman.” He nodded.

“It was last Wednesday?”

He was genuinely surprised, and looked it.

“You are wrong, it was last Friday,” he answered quietly.

“Wednesday, I think,” said Lady Burton. She was very pale. The rose of delicate shade had left her cheeks.

“Pardon me— Friday,” he insisted. “I know my own burglaries,” he added testily.

She walked up and down the room with quick little strides, her arms moving undecidedly. Then she swung round on him stormily.

“Let us finish this farce. I know, I know! My God, how I know!” Her voice sank to a whisper; she was speaking to herself, seeing herself abased and horrible. “Ah, don’t pretend. Don’t, for God’s sake, play with me. Buy your freedom, tell my husband— I was the woman you saw in Graversley’s house on Wednesday night.”

“You!”

The man stared at her; had she been less disturbed she would have noted his amazement.

“You saw— you know,” she said shortly.

“Lady Burton, you are mad!” He found his voice. “Mad to make such a confession to a man like me, though it is safe enough.” He went nearer to her. “It was Friday night that I broke into Graversley’s house. Do you hear, Friday— and the woman was not you!”

She passed her hand across her eyes— this new shock was the greater of the two.

“Not me— you’re deceiving yourself. I left for Paris on Friday.”

Her voice was monotonous.

“What was the night of the Art’s Ball?” The Duke was businesslike. He was in a state of terror: for her. One can hold off hysteria if one is precise enough. “Graversley had been there— he was in costume.”

She whispered something; he could not catch what she said.

“It was the costume of an Austrian officer,” he added. She nodded her head many times.

“Another woman Friday, and he swore to me two days before— I shall go mad. Who was she, tell me?”

“It was not you,” said the Duke, but was deceived if he thought that satisfied her. The colour had come back to her cheeks, settling in two little lakes of crimson under her eyes. He felt her small hand on his arm and marvelled at the strength of her grip.

“You fool! Do you think I care for myself? Do you think that matters now? Tell me you’re lying, tell me you invented this. You were a man of my class once— if you have any lingering spark of honour— ”

The Duke put her away from him kindly.

“I have many lingering sparks of honour,” he said gently; “one is glowing very brightly just now. I cannot tell you who the woman was.”

There was a step on the stair. She recovered herself with an efficiency which was marvellous to the man. He himself shook from head to foot, and there was a trickle of perspiration coming from his forehead.

“Ha! Not escaped?” said Burton with the heavy jocoseness of a man who has good news to reveal.

“No, but I rather wish I had,” said the burglar with earnestness.

“Well, you’re going to,” said Sir Brandon briskly. “I’ve sent the police away with a cock-and-bull story”; he hesitated, then, “I owe you an apology,” he said, “I owe it as much to myself. I allowed my keenness to run away with me. I ought not to have asked you about that man.”

“It was Graversley.”

Lady Burton spoke, and the Duke turned on her in a sweat of apprehension.

“I forbid you, madam; you are betraying a confidence,” he said angrily.

“It was Graversley, Brandon,” she said, ignoring him, “Graversley with a woman!” And her laugh was not pleasant to hear.

Sir Brandon’s face was troubled. He hastened to her side, ready to blame himself.

“Oh, some men are brutes!” she almost wailed. “Graversley, with his art and his ideals!Graversley, with his cults and his music! A beast! A beast!” Her sorrow was painful to watch. The Duke knew himself for a fool: his folly impressed him more than his villainy. He had blundered.

The other man was comforting her awkwardly. They were both oblivious of the presence of the burglar. He thought once of leaving by the window. Their voices dropped so that he could only catch a word here and there, then hers rose to a conversational pitch.

Sir Brandon came across the room.

“My wife wishes to speak to you, and so do I. Have you any money?”

The Duke nodded.

“A little. Enough.”

“Look here, you clear out of England. Give me the name of your bookmaker and if the horse wins I will send the money on.”

The Duke hesitated.

“That is kind of you, but— “

“No buts; I’ll get you some money.”

He left the room, and they were alone.

She had not wept, he saw, but the little lakes of fire were gone and she was deadly pale.

“What do you know of Graversley?”

She took it for granted that he knew the man. Therein she was not mistaken. Lord Arthur enjoyed a reputation, and the Duke, who confined his labours to the best of houses, had heard things from servants— and servants are seldom scandalmongers without reason.

He answered her, weighing his words.

“What all the world knows— he’s a blackguard.

“This woman you saw,” she asked, “she is not— not the only one?”

The Duke shook his head.

“There are others— many others?” she persisted.

“Lady Burton,” he said gravely, “I will not lie to you, though I know the truth will hurt you— there are many.”

There was a long silence. From the floor below they heard the patter-patter of Sir Brandon’s slippered feet as he moved from room to room like a man seeking something.

“I— I wrote to him,” she said simply.

The Duke said nothing, but he was thinking quickly.

“Yes, I put my soul into words for him,” she went on listlessly. “All my life will be blackened by that. Every day will hold a fear, every night a terror— oh, what a fool, what a fool I have been!”

She clasped and unclasped her slim white hands, and the Duke watched her with a far-away eye.

“Can you tell me, is Arthur Graversley in town tonight?” he asked suddenly.

He had to repeat the question before she answered.

“Oh, I don’t know— why do you ask?”

“Did you write many letters?”

She nodded.

Sir Brandon had put down his revolver on a little table, and the Duke picked it up.

From the hall below the baronet was calling:

“I say, are you coming down?”

“Yes, at once,” said the Duke.

She was staring at him, doubt and hope in her eyes.

“What are you going to do?” she whispered.

“I am going to get your letters,” said the Duke in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Oh, no!”

The Duke had a sense of the dramatic: he was inspired with the nobility of his errand; an intoxicating sense of rectitude uplifted him. “Madam,” he said, “I hope in a few days to have retired permanently from my profession. I owe it to the man I once was to end my adventurous career in a blaze of glory. Tomorrow those letters will be in your hands.”

“You— you will do this,” she whispered. “But if Graversley is there?”

The Duke twisted the loaded cylinders of the revolver. “So much the worse for Graversley,” he said grimly, and went out.

End Vol 7

Table of Contents

- Introduction
- 1. The Mediaeval Mind
- 2. The Christmas Princess
- 3. Indian Magic
- 4. Jimmy's Brother
- 5. The Christmas Cup
- 6: Killer Kay
- 7: The Business-Woman
- 8: Blue Suit
- 9:  Battle Level
- 10:  The Air Taxi
- 11:  The Convenient Sea
- 12: Thieves Make Thieves
- 13: Big Little Brother (novelette)
- 14: The Last Adventure
- 15: The Talkative Burglar