Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short Stories
Description: Ladbroke Lionel Day Black (1877-1940) was an English author and newspaperman who wrote many short stories and a number of novels, some under the pseuodnym Paul Urquhart. The short stories in this new 2018 collection were published in Australian newspapers between 1902 and 1933. as Ladbroke Black 1: The Panacea Boom 2: They Also Serve 3: Cinderella 4: Mother o' Mine 5: Ordeal By Battle 6: Prodigal Father 7: Red Magnus Backs Out As Paul Urquhart 8: Through the Shadows 9: Nurse Sorrell's Patient 10: The Ballydoyle Regatta 11: My Lady of the Halls 12: The Tremendous Adventure of Mr. Jones 13: The

THE BALLYDOYLE REGATTA
and other stories

Ladbroke Black

(Ladbroke Lionel Day Black)

2018

As Ladbroke Black

1: The Panacea Boom

2: They Also Serve

3: Cinderella

4: Mother o' Mine

5: Ordeal By Battle

6: Prodigal Father

7: Red Magnus Backs Out

As Paul Urquhart

8: Through the Shadows

9: Nurse Sorrell's Patient

10: The Ballydoyle Regatta

11: My Lady of the Halls

12: The Tremendous Adventure of Mr. Jones

13: The Way of a Maid and a Man

14: A Splendid Surprise

_______________

Ladbroke Lionel Day Black (1877-1940) was an English author and newspaperman who wrote many short stories and a number of novels, some under the pseuodnym Paul Urquhart. The short stories in this new 2018 collection were published in Australian newspapers between 1902 and 1933.

As Ladbroke Black

1: The Panacea Boom

Ballarat Star 27 June 1902

"GEE!" exclaimed the American, in the commercial room of the "Malt and Shovel." "You talk about advertising enterprise in this country; why, it's nothing to what we do in the States. You've heard, of course, of the Panacea Boom? What— never? What do they do with your memories in this country, anyway ? Well, drink with me, boys, and I’ll tell you."

The waiter having taken our orders, the American began:

"Out West in Bugsville there was a man called Parker who was the proprietor of a patent metal polisher. Somehow or other, this polisher fell flat— wouldn't sell at all; so that Parker began to think that people had given up polishing metal and that it was high time he gave up trying to sell what they didn't want. One morning, while he was thinking things over, a stranger suddenly entered his office without knocking, and took a seat. Parker was just about to tell him that the Public Information Bureau was round in the next block, when he spoke first.

" 'You are the proprietor of Parker's Peerless Polisher, I believe?'

"Parker admitted it without a blush.

" 'You want to make a fortune out of the polisher— that so?'

"Parker, whose liver was out of order, said 'No.' He was running his business as a local branch of the New York Charity Organisation Society. The stranger took this question as answered in the affirmative, and began to explain what he'd come for.

"I can't tell you all he said, but it amounted to this:— Parker was to change his polisher into a patent medicine. 'Parker's Priceless Panacea,'— it answered just as well that way, and was to give him, the stranger, a hundred thousand dollars and a quarter of the profits if, before the year was out, Parker made, through his agency, a million dollars.

"Parker saw he didn't stand to lose anything anyway, and as he hadn’t ever made more than a few cents out of the polisher, he wasn't particular about losing nothing on the chance of gaining a million or so. Well, he and the stranger fixed up things between them, and when the arrangement was in black and white the stranger explained his idea.

"Parker was to get four intimate friends whom he could trust to promise that when they bought anything, from a drink to a bar of soap, they would mention the name of Parker. Each of these four friends was to get four other friends to do likewise, and they in their turn were to get four other apiece, and so on. It was, in fact, to be a snowball, with Parker's name instead of the usual penny stamp.

"Well, though Parker had no great idea of the scheme, he got the first four friends, swore them to secrecy, and then went home to await the result. After three days there were about a thousand people going about Bugsville dropping in at the stores and bars; and saying that they had been asked to mention the name of Parker when they ordered anything.

"Before the end of the week there wasn't a man in the town who didn't about Parker. The number increased m geometrical progression, and, of course, it soon got too big for Bugsville. then the whole state began talking of him, and before a month had elapsed the entire population of the United States had the name of Parker on their lips. After that it got into Europe, and just flashed through the United Kingdom.

"On the Continent it caught on like measles, and at the end of six months the priests were talking about him in Thibet. Then the papers took it up, and it was calculated afterwards by Dr .Dolt Fuoling, the eminent statist, that if the columns of printed matter which dealt with the question 'who is Parker?' were placed end to end they would encircle the earth at the equator ten times and leave enough paper over to print six editions of all the morning papers in the world. Editors offered prizes for the best solution, and when Mr Hiram P. Buckle, of New Capernaum, told his constituents that if they asked him who was Parker, he would reply that he didn't know and didn't care, they up and threw him out, and he daren't show his face in that district for the rest of his life. People got frightened— somehow thought Parker was an anarchist scare. A well-known politician in this country formed a party, on the motto—'Everybody — meaning the Opposition— who mention's Parker, is giving a vote to the Wooli-Woolis'— at that time the Wooli-Wooli niggers in West Africa were seeing how near they could get to maxims without being hurt. In France, the Nationalists made out it was an insult to the Army, and in Russia, they sent people who mentioned Parker to Siberia, and a new sect sprung up called Parker Martyrs. The climax was reached when the Japanese Government, in giving an order for anew battleship to a Glasgow firm, stated that they had been requested to mention the name of Parker.

"When the excitement was at its height, a note appeared one morning in all the principal newspapers in the world to the effect that on such-and-such a day the answer to the question, 'Who is Parker?' would be announced.

"Well, I can tell you, curiosity was at boiling point. People stayed up all night just to hear the news. Just before the newspapers went to press on the day appointed, a telegram reached them, which ran something like this:— 'Who is Parker'— the great mystery— the man whose name is ringing through the world? Parker is the benefactor of the Human Race. Parker is the proprietor of 'Parker’s Priceless Panacea.' On sale everywhere.

"At the same time as this information reached the public, the panacea was on sale in every known city in the world. The first day alone realised five million dollars, for everybody bought a box to see what it was like, or to keep as a souvenir. Before six months were up, Parker and his partner shared in sixty million of dollars between them, and sold out the patent to a company for another ten million. That, gentlemen, was the Panacea Boom— the finest, and cheapest advertisement that was ever known. You’ve never had anything like it on this side of the ditch."

There was a dead silence when the American had finished. Then Smith, who is in fancy goods, marked time with his feet on the ground.

"What’s that?" said the American sharply.

"The feet of the young men,” said Smith.

"What young men?"

"The young men who came to fetch Ananias."

Then somebody laughed.

_________________

2: They Also Serve

Chronicle (Adelaide) 4 December 1915

i

HAROLD SMITHSON was the great joke of the office, especially after the war broke out. They would ask him when he was I going to enlist, and facetiously speculate on the insomnia the Kaiser would probably suffer from when he learnt the news hat so redoubtable a champion had joined he ranks of the Allies. Jimmy Dorrell, he third clerk, was particularly facetious on the subject.

And Harold Smithson said nothing. His clothes were shabby, in stature he  was under-sized, and he wore spectacles. It was true there was something in his face, had anyone taken the trouble to study it, which was prepossessing. It was a strong face in spite of the patient sweetness. of its expression, and his brown eyes, when they were not masked by the lens of his glasses, had the quality of a poet.

But then nobody did study Harold Smithson. They glanced at his small figure, his mean clothes, his narrow chest, sampled perhaps his timid, hesitating manner— and dismissed him. He was distinctly of the stuff that butts are made of.

And yet in the body of Harold Smithson there burnt the soul of a hero. He told nobody, of coarse, for he had no intimates, being inclined indeed to worship from a long way off those he loved, instead of making them his friends, but as soon as the war broke out he tried to enlist.

He tried everywhere, and everywhere he was met with contumely. The . doctors passed scoffing remarks on his nude figure, and told him to run away and not waste their time. Big recruiting-sergeants glowered at him. Once, indeed, when he had been turned down for about the twentieth time, a kindly officer who was passing through the room who caught sight of his twitching face and the tears that had gathered in the half-blinded eyes, and moved by one of those generous instincts that come to his mind took him aside, and patted him on the shoulder.

'Never mind, my lad,' he said. 'You've shown the right spirit in trying. You've set an example. I wish there were more like you. But we can't all fight— and you can do your duty at home.'

That had put great heart into Harold Smithson. He recognised at last that the honour of fighting in the ranks of his countrymen could never be his, and he set about seeking how he could do his duly at home.

And his opportunity came soon. He had read in a newspaper that those who were unable to fight might do a great public service by taking over the work of those who could. In his simplicity he spoke to Mr. Mackintosh, his employer, on that subject.

Now, as it chanced, Mr. Mackintosh was a man with a veritable pin-point of a soul. He had buried his ideals, if he had ever had any, long ago in his ledgers. It was from no patriotic consideration that he weighed Smithson's suggestion. He worked it out as a sum in arithmetic, and acted on the result. Business, of course, had fallen off, but to dismiss any of his employees would bring down upon him the censure of his customers. That would be bad business.

But here he saw a way out of the difficulty. He could get rid of two clerks, advertise the fact widely that he was paying them half salaries, and keeping their places open for them while they were at the war, and get Smithson to do their work as well as his own for exactly he same remuneration that he was at present receiving. He would save by this means, he calculated, something like two hundred a year.

To arrive at such a conclusion and to act were for Mr. Mackintosh one and the fame thing. He summoned Jimmy Dorrell and another clerk to his private office, pointed out to them that he felt he could no longer stand in their way, that it was every man's duty to fight for his country, and that they could go out and enlist there and then with the certainty that they would receive half their salaries while they were with the colours, and would be able to return to their places when the War was over. It was very cleverly done, for it left the two clerks no alternative but to go, and one of them at least had no wish to do anything of the kind.

Nature had cast Jimmy Dorrell's figure in the heroic mould. He was six foot, well set up, with a chest worthy of a guardsman. No one could sing patriotic songs with such a rich fervour as he; none could talk about the war with such a grim, set nee or suggest so admirably the bulldog valour that fights against overwhelming odds, and never recognises defeat.

And yet Jimmy Dorrell was a coward. He hated the thought of service in the ranks, but he had to go. For the first few minutes the dramatic possibilities of the situation carried him through. He came back into the clerks office with his lips close set, and a little pallor in his cheeks which enhanced rather than detracted from the effect of his pose.

'Well, good-bye, boys,' he said ostentatiously, closing his ledger. 'I'm off to take a hand in the game.'

They crowded round him, patting him on the back, and congratulating him, telling him what a fine fellow he was, and urging him to give the Germans what for.

Harold Smithson watched him from the other end of the room with a glow of enthusiasm in his cheeks and a certain dimness about his glasses. He did not join in the congratulations, but when Dorrell, with a swaggering stride, walked out of the office, he slipped quietly after him, and caught him up in the passage.

'I say, Dorrell,' he whispered, 'just one moment. I should very much like to shake your hand before you go."

The hero extended his hand with a half-contemptuous, half-patronising air. 'Thanks, Smithson,' he said.

'And— I should like to tell you something, Dorrell,' Smithson went on timidly. 'I'll look after Marjory, while you're away and see that so harm comes to her.'

Jimmy Dorrell laughed the frank, deep-chested laugh that had won him the title of 'good fellow' on so many occasions. 'Very kind of you, old chap,' he said, 'but Marjory would look better after you after her. I'm afraid you're not much use as a protector; but thanks all the same.'

He made great fun of this little conversation when he saw Marjory Parsons that evening.

'Fancy that absurd little dot-and-carry-one chap talking about looking after you. Marjory. I should like to have punched him for his impudence; but then, I really think he meant well.'

And Marjory smiled— a non-committal, inscrutable smile— which suggested to Jimmy Dorrell's conceit-encrusted mind that she fully appreciated the joke.

ii

HAROLD SMITHSON did the work of three men at the office without a murmur. He was there at eight o'clock in the morning and took some of the books back with him, principally because by this means he was enabled to meet Marjory as she left her work and accompany her home.

Smithson worshipped the very ground on which Marjory walked. He thought there was no such sweet, no such beautiful woman in the world. And it was worship unalloyed by any considerations of self. He never thought of her at any time, even in his wildest dreams, as ever belonging to himself. She had been created by Providence as the only fit and proper mate for such a hero as Jimmy Dorrell.

This, to Smithson, seemed an obvious and incontrovertible fact. What Marjory thought did not transpire. She seemed to bear, rather than to enjoy, his delicately tendered chaperonage.. She sat by his side on the tram and listened while he talked— and his talk was always about Jimmy Dorrell.

Sometimes those blue eyes of hers, when he was not looking, would steal a glance partly oft wonder at his flushed, enthusiastic face. Otherwise, her attitude towards him was like everybody else's— an attitude of contemptuous good nature. She endured him.

There came an evening when Marjory Parsons did not make her appearance on the pavement outside her office at the usual time. Harold Smithson, after waiting some time, summoned up enough courage to enquire of the caretaker where Miss Parsons was.

'She ain't come to-day,' the old woman snapped. 'I heard one of them young ladies say she was ill; that's all I know about it.'

That news sent Harold Smithson back to the suburb in which he lived in a perfect sweat of anxiety. Somehow he felt he was responsible to Jimmy Dorrell for Marjory's illness. Whether he could be reasonably held to have failed in his promise by not sheltering her from hostile germs, he did not pause to consider.

He went straight to the little red brick house in which she lived with her mother, and with his heart in his mouth prepared to hear the worst. And it was quite as bad as his gloomy forebodings had suggested. Mrs. Parsons, who interviewed him in the drawing-room, took the line that somebody was deliberately responsible for what had happened.

'It's no use complaining, of course— but there it is. Pleurisy, the doctor says. Probably a month's illness. She must have caught a chill. It's riding on tho top of those trams, as I've always told her.' She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief as if she was the sufferer and not her daughter.

"And how are we to get on, I should like to know. The bit of money I have only just pays the rent. Of course Marjory's salary's stopped. And we've no money saved. And there is all that private work that has come in— there's three big manuscripts to be typed— she'd only just managed to get those authors to employ her. Of course, she'll lose that connection. We shall be sold up. It really is too bad."

To Harold Smithson it seemed that there was a very proper note of accusation in her voice. He ought not to have allowed her to ride on top of a tram; he ought to have seen that she was properly wrapped up; it could only be attributed to his carelessness that Marjory had caught a chill and that all these terrible disasters had befallen Mrs. Persons.

'I—I am awfully sorry,' he stammered, and then, suddenly inspired by a bright idea, he added, 'If you'd let me, I could type those manuscripts. I've got a machine of my own, you know. Of course I couldn't do it as well as Miss Parsons, but perhaps the authors wouldn't know, and anyway it would keep together the connection, and you would have that money to go on with.'

For some time Mrs. Parsons was not quite satisfied in her own mind as to whether Smithson intended to keep the money he earned or not.

When this was made clear she adopted an almost hostile attitude, finding some difficulty in accepting favour.

'Well, you may if you like,' she said, 'but you must promise to be very careful of the manuscripts. It's very important work, of course, and I don't really know what Marjory would say if she knew I handed it over to somebody else. You must promise to be very careful— on that understanding I may as well let you do as you suggest. It is really too bad that all this should fall on me at such a moment.'

Five minutes later Harold Smithson went back to his lodgings with the manuscripts under his arm. That night he finished his books by ten o'clock, and. then, taking the cover off his machine he typed until far in the morning, by which time the keys had become so blurred that he went to bed.

For a whole fortnight he stuck heroically to his task. He felt in some way that he was being of service, and as his fingers played over the keys he built fanciful pictures in his mind of the enemy he was indirectly helping to kill away in the trenches the other side of the Channel. He at least had released two men for the war— one of them a man among men, the man who had won Marjory's' heart.

He found time every day to write to Marjory, and his letters, like his conversation, were full of Jimmy Dorrell. He picked up pieces of gossip from the office concerning his hero, and elaborated them innocently.

And at last— it was the very day upon which he completed his typing—  he told her with a kind of breathless exultation that Dorrell's regiment had been ordered to France. Their hero at last was to have an opportunity of winning the laurels they knew he would win to lay at his lady's feet.

He left this letter by hand, as it was necessary for him to have an interview with Mrs. Parsons. He had just received the money for the work he had done, and this had to be given over to Mrs. Parsons.

Marjory's mother was very particular in checking the amount, and for some, time carried on a querulous argument as to whether one of the authors had not paid a shilling too little.

Harold Smithson came away from that interview, having paid the shilling in dispute out of his own pocket, in a somewhat depressed mood. He tried to shake off this feeling by a long walk, and it was already dark when he turned up the flight of stone steps' that led to the front door of his lodgings. As he did so somebody darted forward arid put Ms hand upon his shoulder.

'Smithson, old chap,' said the familiar voice of Jimmy Dorrell, 'would you let me come and stay with you to-night?'

Smithson looked up with a start. 'Why, of course, he stammered, 'but I thought you had crossed the Channel to France.'

In the darkness the other's face was visible only as a white mask. 'Take me inside,' he whispered. 'Quick man; they may nab me unless. I'll tell you everything there.'

iii

IN THE little sitting-room, when the lamp had been lit, Dorrell made a request for food.

'I haven't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours,' he said, and laughed like an hysterical child.

Smithson regarded him with great concern. He was evidently in a pitiable state. His khaki was torn and muddy and soaked with the rain; his face was unshaven, and there was a haggard look about his cheeks. But Smithson was glad— glad and flattered— that his hero should select him as the person to -assist him in his evident straits.

'I'll get you something at once, Dorrell,' he exclaimed, and dashing out of the room had a hurried interview with his landlady before running off to the neighbouring shops.

Within ten minutes of his return a fire had been lit in the grate and Dorrell was sitting down to a prime cut of beef steak, a bottle of beer, and a variety of etceteras winch Smithson's hospitable mind had suggested. There was a whisky and soda to follow when he had eaten, and with this in his hand and his feet on the mantelpiece Jimmy Dorrell began to blossom out into the Dorrell of old.

'And now,' Smithson said, wiping his glasses, and glancing benignly at his guest. 'Now, Dorrell you shall tell me all that has happened.'

The other made a grimace.

'Nothing's happened,' he said thickly.

'It was awfully good of you to think of running up to see me before leaving for the front,' Smithson remarked. 'You don't know what a pleasure it is to me to have you here.'

He rubbed his hands together with a gesture of delight and then, as the other made no comment, he went on:

'Marjory's getting on all right. I didn't tell you, because I thought it might bother you, and there was nothing really serious, but she hasn't been well during the last few weeks— has had to keep to her bed. She was down to-day for the first time— a little thin perhaps, her mother says, but getting on nicely. You'll certainly be able to see her tomorrow.'

Again Dorrell laughed, and, gulping down his whisky and soda, held his glass out for more.

'You're a good old stick, Smithson,' he said. 'I'm awfully obliged to you for giving me a hiding-place.'

He paused a moment or two, and then, looking up from a contemplation of his muddy boots on the mantelpiece, glanced at his host for the first time full in tie face. 'You couldn't do with me for a day or so, I suppose? he said.

'Why, of course,' replied Smithson, with a flush of pleasure. 'My landlady's making up another bed in my room, and you can occupy it for as long as you like.'

He had put on his glasses now and burned his beaming eyes to Dowell's face. Something in the other's expression— some haunting terror— a look as of a hunted animal— made him start.

'Dorrell,' he exclaimed, 'is anything the matter?'

'Yes, everything's the matter,' he answered breathlessly. 'I'm sick of life— sick of everything.'

'But you are going out to fight the enemy, Dorrell!'

'Am I?' retorted the other savagely. 'I enlisted for home service in the Territorials. They got me to volunteer for the front by a trick. Lined us up against a brick wall, that old beast of a colonel did, and told all those who wished to remain at home to take one step to the rear. Of course, we couldn't. And then he made us a long rotten speech, thanking us for what he called out patriotic sense of duty.'

Smithson was staring at him in amazement.

'Then you didn't want to go to the front?'

'Haven't I told you?' Dorrell answered savagely. 'That is exactly what happened.'

Smithson felt as if all the foundations of his world were crumbling beneath !his feet. But he clung desperately to his idealised conception of this man. After all there might be private treasons for his not wishing to leave the country.

'It does sound rather like sharp piece of work,' he admitted. 'But I suppose there is no way out of it. When does your regiment go?'

'It's gone,' the other answered, his face flushing.

Smithson jumped to his feet.

'Do you mean to say you've deserted?' he gasped.

They seemed suddenly to exchange places. Insignificant-looking little figure though he was, Smithson was the dominant personality of the two.

Dorrell sat there white-faced and ashamed, cowering before the other's fixed gaze.

'Yes, I've deserted. Don't be hard on me, Smithson. I— I couldn't have gone to the front. I ran away yesterday morning before they left, and I've been hiding and skulking about ever since. You'll stand by me, won't you, Smithson?— for the sake of old times. You won't hand me over to the authorities?'

Smithson was silent for several seconds. He was thinking furiously. Which way did his duty lie? Clearly he ought to inform the police of this deserter. .But there was Marjory— Marjory would break, her heart if she knew. She loved this man.

'All right,' he said, and there was a note of contempt in his voice. 'You can stay here until the hue and cry has blown over.'

He had begun to walk up and down the floor of the tiny, room, but he paused presently in front of Dorrell.

'I didn't think it of you, Dorrell,' he said. 'I didn't think it of you.'

iv

TO SAY that Jimmy Dorrell was profoundly miserable for the next fortnight would be to express but feebly the state of his mind. He had fled for refuge to Smithson's lodgings in preference to any of his other friends and acquaintances, because Smithson was the sort of man, he felt, who could be induced to do anything.

And Smithson, he had discovered, was not at all this sort of man. He gave him a bed, it is true, and food and a hiding-place, but beyond that he refused to go.

Dorrell had proposed to exchange his uniform for a suit of ordinary clothes, to grow a beard and moustache, and so disguised go into the world again.

But Smithson wouldn't hear of it. He wasn't going to harbor any deserter, he said. The law would not look upon him as being guilty of this offence as long as Dorrell wore his uniform. If he countenanced anything of the kind, it could obviously be brought up against him that he knew Dorrell to be a deserter and was helping him to break his oath. On this point he was adamant.

The result was that Dorrell had to keep indoors the whole day long, stealing out after nightfall for a breath of fresh air. And there were other matters which increase his dejection. Smithson kept a tight hand on the whisky bottle. He was unable to find any remedy for his sufferings in that direction. And there was the question of money. He was penniless, and Smithson— stingy, stuck-up little prig that he was— declined even to make him an allowance.

As the days wore on he began seriously to think of giving himself up, and exchanging for the comparative freedom of a trench half full of water this life of imprisonment. And that was a matter of fact, the very result that Smithson was anxious to bring about. Jimmy Dorrell had fallen completely from the high place he had occupied in his esteem. The idol was shattered. He saw now clearly that this man was by nature a blustering bully— and what was worse, a coward. But he hoped that it might be possible to reform him— not for his own sake so much as for the sake of Marjory.

If he could induce Dorrell by this form of pressure to go out and do his duty, Marjory need never know what had happened, and consequently would not suffer. He continued to write to Marjory in the old strain.

His letters were full of Jimmy Dorrell. but instead of his statements being slightly embroidered facts, they were now pure fiction. He put into his letters some of those pictures that floated up before his eyes when he had been typing her manuscript for her. And they sounded most convincing.

Jimmy Dorrell was always the hero. But he did not visit Mrs. Parsons or her daughter. He felt that as an imitator of Machiavelli he was better with his pen than with his tongue, and so he left the little red brick house where Marjory lived severely alone.

He heard by letter that she was completely recovered, and was looking out for some more work, and hoped he would come to see her. But, true to his resolve, he took no notice of this invitation. She would want to talk of Dorrell, and that would be a task beyond his diplomatic skill. And he made other alterations in his habits.

An evening spent with Dorrell was unbearable, and so instead of bringing his books home from the office, as had been, his wont, he stayed behind, getting back when Dorrell was safely in bed.

Saturday afternoons were a difficulty, but he solved this problem by never returning from the city until four in the afternoon, and then, making the excuse that he had a visit to pay, hurrying out as soon as he had changed his clothes.

It was on the third Saturday of his visitor's stay that Smithson first fully realised the legal dangers he was running. At the corner of his road he was stopped by two burly-looking men in plain clothes, but with an undisguisable military, air about them, who asked him certain questions.

'You haven't seen a young soldier about here from the ――, have you?' one man asked.

'A friend of ours,' the other went on. 'He's on leave and he asked us to look him up if we were in this neighbourhood. We can't remember the exact address, but it is somewhere about here.'

Smithson felt that he was turning pale, but he nerved himself with an effort.

'I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I can't help you,' he said.

'Never seen no soldier about here, I suppose. A tallish chap— about six foot?'

He proceeded to give a very fair list of Jimmy Dorrell's points.

Smithson's uneasiness increased. 'I'm afraid I can't help you,' he repeated, and then, muttering good afternoon and saying something incoherent v about being afraid he would be late for his appointment, he ran down the street. It was a long street and his lodgings were right at the other end.

When he got there and let himself in with his latchkey, he could see the two men marching shoulder to shoulder steadily down the pavement. He felt that Dorrell would be caught unless he escaped instantly. Taking two steps at a time he ran up the stairs. The door of his sitting-room was open, but as he was about to give it a push, the sound of voices from within the room made him pause.

'What's Smithson?' Dorrell was saying with a snarl. 'A little, rotten, undersized clerk. You'll be telling me next, Marjory, that you're in love with him.'

Smithson went white to the lips and his whole body trembled. Had he wished to he could not have entered the room at that moment.

'You to talk like that,' answered Marjory's sweet voice, raised to a tone of angry scorn. 'You, a great skulking coward who ran away from a fight. Why, Mr. Smithson's worth fifty of you.'

Jimmy Dorrell muttered something contemptuous under his breath that Smithson could not hear.

'I don't care what you say,' Marjory went on. 'Why did you ever think that I loved you? I never told you I did. You amused me— that was all. I always knew the sort of man you were.'

'Oh, so Smithson's your sort, is he, after all?' Dorrell exclaimed and laughed.

'Yes. He's a man— a real man. I don't mind your laughter and your sneers. I know what he is. He's doing his own work and your work down at the office so that you might go out and fight, and when I was ill he kept all my connection together for me― all for your sake— so that you shouldn't be worried about me. As if I cared whether you were worried or not! And you ran away! it's like you― like the sort of man you are— all padding and pretence— to say horrid things about the man who has befriended you and given you a hiding place.'

She paused a moment as if to gather breath.

'If you want to know, I do love him! There! I've told you and I'm not ashamed. He's the best and bravest and sweetest man I ever met, and I'd marry him tomorrow and think I was the luckiest girl in the world if he'd ask me.'

Something seemed to take hold of Smithson's throat. He choked, and the sound seemed to loosen the spell that was upon him. He staggered ,into the room, his face flushed, and his big brown eyes lit up with wonder and happiness.

'Marjory!' he stammered. 'I couldn't help hearing— is it true what you said just now?'

She turned swiftly, and her face, that had been pale with anger and doom, changed instantly.

'Didn't you know?' she answered.

'Marjory— my sweetest Marjory,' he gasped, I can't believe it. I— I didn't think anybody could love me.'

'I do,' she said simply. And at that, with a certain timid wonder, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

'Oh, Marjory!' was all he could say.

It was several seconds before they woke from this happiness to a sense of their surroundings. When they did so they found that Dorrell had gone. Downstairs they could hear the banging of the front door. Smithson ran hastily to the window.

'He will be caught,' he cried; 'the police are outside.'

'Doesn't he deserve to be caught, dearest?' Marjory said.

Smithson's head was out of the window now, and even as he looked down into the street he saw Dorrell walk straight into the arms of the two detectives. There were a few words, and then the men marched him away, one on either side.

'They've got him,' he said, withdrawing his head. Marjory Field out her arms to him.

'I don't care,' she exclaimed. 'Haven't I got you?'

And to that question there was only on possible answer.

____________

3: Cinderella

Chronicle (Adelaide) 11 December 1915

'MISS MARY says you are to go up at once and finish her dress. She is in an awful way because you are so late.'

The neatly-dressed, trim parlourmaid gave the message, with her comments upon it, and, with a toss of her head, turned away as if it did not become her to be any longer in the society of her mistress's companion than was absolutely necessary.

Outside it had been snowing, and the front of Ellen Askwood's cheap jacket was powdered with white crystals. It had been a long walk from Westbourne Grove to the stores where she had been told to purchase the one small piece of lace which Mrs. Maysfield and her two daughters considered absolutely necessary for the completion of the latter's costume at the great Covent Garden ball that night.

Ellen was very tired; but her position in the house was too precarious, and Mrs. Maysfield's tongue— not to mention the tongues of her two daughters— was too sharp, to let her even think of resting. She ran up the broad flight of stairs to the little bare bed-sitting-room she occupied at the top of the house, clipped off her wet things, and, hurrying down to the first floor, tapped timidly at a bedroom door. A sharp voice that seemed to suggest the last stages of feminine irritation told her to come in.

'Oh. that's you, is it, Ellen, at last? I don't know what you've been doing to be so long. Let me see what you've bought.'

Mary Maysfield, in a state of deshabille, Matched the little paper package from Ellen's hand, and, opening it, examined its contents.

'Of course, it's not what I wanted,' she said, with a frown that made her fat, freckled face look even more unpleasant than usual. 'But there's no time to change it now.'

At that moment Mrs. Maysfield entered the room.

'So, you have come back, Ellen?' she exclaimed tartly. 'Now, for goodness' sake, do finish my poor child's dress. The lack of interest you have shown in this dance is quite shameless.'

Ellen, worn out with all the work she had done during the day, was moved to a mild expression of rebellion.

'You lee, I'm not going to the ball, Mrs. Maysfield,' she said.

Mrs. Maysfield was one of those persons who believe that charity not only begins but ends at home.

Ellen might be regarded as the one exception to this principle that she had ever permitted herself.

But, even from strictly commercial point of view, the girl's position in the house could hardly be classed under the heading of charity, for she did the work of a competent housemaid, lady's maid, sempstress, end companion for the meagre wages of twelve pounds a year. She was, however, the orphan child of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Ashwood, who had left her completely penniless, and, as Mrs. Ashwood had for a short time been Mrs. Maysfield's school fellow, Mrs. 'Maysfield considered that, in permitting Ellen to perform these duties tor such inadequate remuneration, she was laying up for herself a crown of gold in heaven.

'Going to the ball, indeed!' she exclaimed. 'I should think not. You ought to remember who you are and what your position in life would have been had not my husband and I taken pity on you. Now, kindly have the goodness to finish Mary's dress, and don't try my forbearance by making such wicked suggestions.'

With her lips firmly set and a little spot of colour upon her beautiful face, Ellen hurried away to the sanctuary she occupied at the top of the house. She was very near to tears, but with an effort she restrained them lest they should fall upon the costly fabric that her nimble fingers were handling.

Mrs. Maysfield's speech made her realise, more than anything had ever done before, the utter friendliness and loneliness of her position.

Except for a mysterious godfather— a friend of her father's— to whom she wrote dutifully every Christmas in Australia, and received a brief acknowledgment in reply, accompanied by some trifling present, the Maysfields, with their cold, calculating charity, were the only persons she knew in the world. She was a drudge— a worse drudge than the highly-paid parlourmaid, who occasionally condescended to call her 'miss.'

As Mrs. Maysfield had said, the idea of her going to a ball, or of having any amusements or recreations, was preposterous, though she was more than good-looking and only nineteen years of age.

The dress was finished at last; but her labours were not at an end. Mary insisted that she must stay to put it on her properly. She was in the middle of this trying ordeal— trying, because Mary's temper, never of the best, was in a state of irritable eruption— when the parlourmaid entered the room.

'There's a gentleman to see Miss Ellen,' she said.

Everybody present was astonished. Ellen could hardly credit her ears; Mary stared at the maid as if she had suddenly gone mad.

Mrs. Maysfield was the first to recover from her amazement.

'I never heard of such a thing!' she exclaimed. 'How dare he call here at such an hour. I don't allow my companion to receive male visitors in my house. Perhaps you would have the goodness to explain who it is, Ellen?'

'I'm sure I don't know,' Ellen answered miserably.

Mrs. Maysfield sniffed. 'I will go and see this man myself and send about him about his business. And kindly see that you dress my daughter properly, Ellen.'

She sailed out of the room bristling with indignation, and, with a cold, aloof hauteur, entered the drawing-room. A tall, burly man in an easy-fitting tweed suit turned' as she entered. For a moment there was a look of astonishment, in his eyes and then he laughed.

'Well, you can't be Miss Ashwood,' he said, 'that's a dead cert. I told the slavey that I wanted to see Miss Ashwood. You must be Mrs. Maysfield.'

'Miss Ashwood is my companion,' Mrs. Maysfield replied icily. 'It is not my custom to permit my companion to receive visitors in my house.'

The stranger's big blue eyes opened wide.

'Say, you make me feel as if I was in the freezing-room on board the steamer. I always thought you were a pal of Miss Ashwood's mother and had given her a home when her parents died. Leastways, that's what Ellen told me.'

'That is quite correct,' Mrs. Maysfield retorted, in some surprise.

'Well, I'm her godfather, George Harding. I don't savvy this business about her being your companion. Any way, I've got to see her— it was her father's wish— so, if you please, just trot her out.'

For a fraction of a second Mrs Maysfield hesitated. She was not accustomed to be spoken to in this way and she would have liked to resent it, but there was something so grimly determined about George Harding that she gave way.

In a few seconds Ellen was down in the drawing-room alone with her mysterious godfather.

'Well,' he said, staring at her with a broad grin, 'you're the real picture of poor old Dick. I'd have known you anywhere.'

He sunk his voice to a hoarse whisper and jerked a very rough thumb towards the door. 'Say, do you like living with old Frozenface, my dear, because I shouldn't.'

For one second Ellen caught her breath and then went off into an uncontrollable peal of laughter. It was the first time she had laughed since her parents' death, a year before, and somehow it seemed to shake off the load of misery that had been accumulating upon her shoulders ever since.

'Oh, hush,' she said. 'Mrs. Maysfield gave me a home, you know. I don't know what I should have done without her help, for father and mother hadn't any money to leave me.'

George Harding's face grew serious.

'I never knew that or I'd have helped,' he said. 'But look here, my dear, I think I've tumbled to this business. I'll bet that old iceberg makes you earn every penny of your keep, and more besides. Any way, we needn't talk of that just now,' he went on in a lighter tone. 'The question is, how are we going to celebrate this meeting? You've got to come out with me tonight, of course.'

'I don't think Mrs. Maysfield would let me,' Ellen sad timidly. 'Besides, I am wanted to dress her daughters for the great ball they're going to at Covent Garden.'

Her words seemed to give George Harding an inspiration, for he suddenly clapped his hands together.

'Lor'! I remember going to Covent Garden with your father. That's just the very thing. It'll be like the fairy tale— only I'll have to be the fairy godfather instead of the fairy godmother. Buck along, my dear, and get your hat on— this is going to be just It.'

At that moment the parlourmaid entered the room! 'Miss Mary says you are to go up at once and finish dressing her, miss.'

She would have flounced out of the room again had not George Harding, with a few. strides, stopped her at the door.

'Here,' he said, 'you look a nice sort of girl. You'll do a favour for me, I know.'

He pressed something into the girl's hand, and, glancing at this something, she saw it was two sovereigns.

'I say, my dear,' George Harding went on in a confidential whisper, 'don't you think you could go and tell Miss Mary that Miss Ashwood had had to go to bed— faint, you know, or something of that sort— shock at seeing me—something that a clever girl like you can think of that's likely to go down.'

The parlourmaid giggled feebly.

'You will, won't you?' George Harding exclaimed; 'and you might at the same time fetch down Miss Ashwood's hat and coat.' The girl nodded understanding and, still giggling, hurried out of the room.

George Harding turned to Ellen and winked. 'I'll fix it all right, my dear, don't you fret. I'm a fairy godfather, you just see.'

As if in proof of the boast, the parlourmaid appeared presently with Ellen's coat and hat.

'Oh, miss, I didn't half have to tell a tale ' she exclaimed breathlessly. 'I said you'd been taken ill sudden, and was lying down, and so as you couldn't see anybody, you'd locked your door.'

Certain qualms of conscience forced Ellen to utter a feeble protest; but George Harding swept all objections aside.

'Don't you fret, my dear. This is my night out, and I'll take all the responsibility.'

During the space of the next few hours Ellen thought she was in dreamland. She was conscious of driving about London in a car, of knocking up a famous modiste, who made a speciality of providing fancy costumes at the shortest notice, of a gorgeous hotel, where she changed into these wonderful clothes, and then she partially woke up, to find herself in the great ballroom at Covent Garden.

Under normal circumstances she would have been overwhelmed by shyness, for never in her life had she been to such a ball; but she wore over her eyes a little velvet mask, and George Harding was there to support her, gallantly looking after her, and seeing that she had no lack of partners.

'You just enjoy yourself, my dear; that's what you've got to do. Don't bother about me. I'm an old fogey, and I'll look after myself.'

In accordance with these instructions Ellen danced every dance. The splendid scene in which she found herself, the music, the laughter, the dresses, the colours, seemed to change her into a very different person from the tired, broken-spirited girl of a few hours before. Except at supper time— and she had never tasted such a supper before in her life— she saw little of her godfather; but once, in the middle of a dance, she thought she detected him clumsily making the circuit of the room with a partner on his arm.

And the strange part of it all was that the partner seemed extraordinarily like Mary Maysfield.

She questioned him on this point at supper, but his only reply was to smile. 'Perhaps you were dreaming,' he said.

The great night for her came to an end at last. At 4 o'clock in the morning she found herself back again in her little bed-sitting-room at the top of Mrs. Maysfield's house. Mrs. Maysfield, and her two daughters had not yet returned, and she scrambled into bed without any member of the household being aware of where she had been or the hour at which she had come back— except, perhaps, the parlourmaid, who had become suddenly wonderfully discreet and attentive.

She rose at the usual hour; but, she might just as well have stayed in bed? as there was no sign of breakfast until ten o'clock, when .Mrs. Maysfield and her daughters appeared, very out of temper and looking plainer than usual after their night's dissipation.

They at once flew at Ellen. How dare she be so tiresome as to pretend to be ill when they were in the middle of dressing; her conduct had almost spoilt the whole dance.

Ellen, used to these tirades, sat demurely silent, and presently the conversation turned to the subject of the ball. Mary had made a conquest, it appeared, and was proud of the fact.

'He was really a charming gentleman, mother,' she explained to Mrs. Maysfield, 'and I'm sure, from the way he spoke, he must be immensely wealthy. The worst of it is he never told me his name.'

'Perhaps he had very good reasons for not telling you,' snappily remarked her sister, who was envious of Mary's success.

'Oh, he's promised to call,' Mary went on airily. 'He particularly asked for my address.'

As she spoke the parlourmaid entered the room with a magnificent bouquet of flowers.

'A gentleman sent these for you, miss?' she said, handing them to Mary, 'and be says he'd be so grateful if he could speak to you for one moment.'

Mary jumped delightedly from her chair, glancing triumphantly at her sister. Mrs. Maysfield also rose.

'You'd better receive him here, Mary,' she said. 'Show the gentleman in here, Jane. One moment, Jane. What name did he give?'

'He didn't give no name,' the girl replied with some vague signs of confusion.

'Well, any way, show him in here!' Mrs. Maysfield exclaimed.

A few seconds later the door opened, and a man appeared. At the sight of him Ellen flushed with confusion, and a look of uneasy surprise played on Mrs. Maysfield's face. It was George Harding.

He walked, smiling and unmoved, towards Mary, and held out his hand. 'I hope my charming partner is none the worse for last night,' he said, and then, turning to Mrs. Maysfield, he added. 'It's most surprising, Mrs. Maysfield, that circumstances should have brought me to your house twice so strangely — once last night on a matter of business, and now this morning on a matter of pleasure.'

He bowed slightly to Mary as he spoke. Ellen he ignored completely.

'It was so kind of you to send my daughter those lovely flowers,' Mrs. Maysfield exclaimed, awkward and ill-at-ease. 'She has just been saying how delightful you made the ball for her last night. This is my other daughter— and Ellen, of course, you know.'

He shook hands with the other Miss Maysfield, but contented himself with a cold, distant bow to Ellen.

'I was wondering if you'd give me the pleasure of all coming to lunch with me today,' he said. 'I am mostly a stranger in London, and when I've made real nice friends, as I hope I may regard you— well, I like to make the most of them. Now, do say you will, Mrs. Maysfield.'

Mrs. Maysfield was carried away by his air of good nature and his masterfulness.

'It is exceedingly kind of you,' she murmured. 'I'm sure we shall be delighted.'

'Good!' he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. 'I expect all of you, you know, and I'll call for you with the car at a quarter to one.'

When, ten minutes later, he had taken his departure, Mrs. Maysfield and her daughters fell to discussing him in detail. Mary, it was agreed, had certainly made an impression upon him; there could be no doubt of that. Also, it was pretty clear that he was very wealthy.

Mrs. Mayfield declared that she would get her husband to make certain discreet enquiries in the city regarding him, though she considered it obvious, on the face of it, that he was in every way, a most desirable gentleman.

And in all this conversation she took no part. She sat there, miserable and unhappy. The glamour of last night had passed away. Her godfather, who had been so kind and charming, had not even spoken to her— had treated her just as Mrs. Maysfield treated her.

There was, of course, no suggestion that she was to go to the lunch. Such an idea never entered anybody's head. And from her little room upstairs .she had to see Mrs Maysfield and her two daughters .whirled away in George Harding's motor-car. She had been given come work to do— so that she shouldn't get into idle habits, Mrs. Maysfield said— and she sat there in her room stitching end cutting out blouses for the Misses Maysfield.

At half-past two, however, the parlourmaid appeared, all agog with excitement.

'Oh, miss, Mr. Harding's downstairs, and he says will you please come at once?'

She rose with her work in her hand, hardly crediting her senses: but the parlourmaid snatched it from her, found her shabby coat and hat, and had her dressed in these garments almost before she had time to look round.

Downstairs George Harding was waiting for her.

'What a joke, Ellen,' he said, laughing like an overgrown schoolboy. 'I packed them off to the theatre, so as to keep them out of harm's way, and now we can have the whole afternoon to ourselves.

And what an afternoon it was for Ellen!

They dashed into the country, took tea at a little inn cosily before the fire, and were back again by five o'clock.

During this wonderful trip George Harding got from her such information of her daily movements as he required. When she set out for her hour's walk on the following day he was there waiting for her with his motor car round the corner of the street. Sometimes in these intervals of recreation she visited art galleries and museums with him, sometimes they went for spins out into the pleasant countryside beyond London; but always she was back for her duties to the moment.

And nearly every day, too, George Harding called at Mrs. Maysfield's house. On these occasions he treated Ellen just as Mrs. Maysfield treated her— as a kind of superior servant, with whom one had to bear but could not be intimate.

One day Ellen did not appear at her usual time. Subsequent enquiries led George Harding to discover that she was ill.

Mrs. Maysfield spoke of it as being very troublesome. Really, she must think of getting rid of the girl, she was always so in the way. George Harding apparently sympathised with these remarks, for he made no comment. But the parlourmaid, while Ellen lay sick, earned many a sovereign by carrying messages to her room.

On the first day that she was strong enough to come downstairs she was allowed to rest in the morning-room— for this once, as Mrs. Maysfield was careful to explain— on the strict understanding that there was to be no shamming or malingering.

In the afternoon Mrs. Maysfield and her daughters went out for an hour. When they returned they saw a familiar hat and stick in the hall. Mr. Harding must have called.

Mary congratulated herself on having returned In time. Where was he? they enquired of the parlourmaid.

Jane looked somewhat guilty when she was at last driven to confess that he was in the morning-room. Quite forgetful of the fact that Ellen had been resting there, Mary and her mother entered the room.

And there a sight met their eyes which almost took their breath away. Mr. Harding was sitting, on the sofa, holding Ellen in his arms, and, even as they opened the door they saw him kiss her hair.

'Mr. Harding!' Mrs. Maysfield exclaimed.

'Ellen!' Mary cried, in a high-pitched voice. 'How dare you?'

George Harding sat where he was, quite composed. 'Don't worry yourselves!' he exclaimed.

'What does this conduct mean, Mr. Harding?' Mrs. Maysfield retorted furiously. 'I find you here with my companion, who certainly shall leave my house this very day!'

'I said, don't worry,' George Harding interrupted her. 'She's going to leave your house all right, and she's got another situation as a companion already. She's going to be my companion, bless her. She's just promised to be my wife, and she isn't going to be bullied and snubbed and underpaid any longer, Mrs. Maysfield— and that's all about it!'

______________

4: Mother o' Mine

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 19 May 1917

"GOOD-BYE Mrs Gascoyne, and good-bye, my little Marjory. It will be a lonely home without you, but your place is here― where your poor husband wished you to be by the side of his mother. Good-bye, and Heaven bless you, my girl."

" Stephen Macalister wiped his eyes with a somewhat discoloured silk handkerchief, looked for one moment, at his' daughter, and then, with bowed head, walked softly from the big, elaborately-furnished London drawing room.

As he closed the door and stood in the hall listening, his face changed. His eyes lit up with triumph, and his loose mouth twitched with laughter. It had all been so perfectly simple and so entirely successful. He wondered he had not thought of it before.

That morning he had seen in the paper the announcement that John Gascoyne had not returned from a prospecting tour in the interior of South America. The party had met with disaster while shooting the rapids on one of the great rivers. John had been flung out of the boat and carried rapidly down-stream. He was never seen again, and the survivors of the party had returned to the coast to report that he had been drowned.

Macalister had had financial dealings with John Gascoyne in his wild, thoughtless days— dealings in which he had lent him various sums of money on the promise to pay at some five or six hundred per cent. He had had several letters from him. Moreover, John Gascoyne had known his daughter Marjory— had made a kind of big brotherly love to her— had bought her presents in his reckless way out of the sums which the money-lender had advanced to him.

And all these things, coupled with the fact that he was now miserably poor, had given to the announcement of John Gascoyne's death a special importance in the eyes of Stephen Macalister. Immediately he had seen possibilities in the situation.

John Gascoyne was the only son of his widowed mother, a very wealthy woman, who before long must die, leaving everything to her son, had her son been alive. Now that her son was dead, the money would naturally go to his widow, supposing he had been married. That John Gascoyne had never been married did not trouble Stephen Macalister.

His cunning brain saw at once a chance of providing for his daughter, and of also providing for himself. Supposing he took Marjory to Mrs Gascoyne and told her that her dead son had made a secret marriage with Marjory? He had letters from Gascoyne— letters in which he sent his love— to Marjory. All that was necessary was a wedding ring and a vague statement about the marriage having taken place in some lonely village in Cornwall while Gascoyne was spending a holiday at Plymouth.

He had acted at once. There had been difficulty with Marjory; but she had been accustomed to submit to his will, and he had bullied and threatened, and finally coerced her to do as he told her. The plan had been carried out with an ease which surprised him, and Marjory was now installed in that house as the widow of John Gascoyne. He made his way into the street, smiling with grim content

At the sound of the closing front door Marjory Macalister turned from the window at which she had been standing, and, with the colour flaming in her cheeks, ran to the chair in which old Mrs Gascoyne was sitting

"Mrs Gascoyne!" she cried, in a low voice. "While my father was here I coudn't tell you, but you must know at once. I was forced Into doing this

She stopped speaking abruptlv.

Gascoyne was holding out her white trembling hands to her. '

"My dear, come here. Kneel down there and let me look at you,"

With something like a sob, Marjory did as she was bid. Mrs. Gascoyne placed her hands upon her shoulders.

"Jack's wife!" she murmured, and her sad, kindly face was irradiated for a moment with a look of pathetic happiness. "And I thought there was nothing of him left— nothing that he had loved and cared for. Oh, my dear if you only knew what this means to me! Something of my dear boy has come back to me. Thank Heaven for that!"

Every vestige of colour drained from the girl's face. An agony of emotion lit up her glorious dark eyes. She had loved John Gascoyne— loved him in secret-and that made everything a thousand times worse. It was like treason to her love to do this thing.

"Mrs. Gascoyne," she sobbed piteously. "Don't, please. You must listen to me."

For answer, the old lady bent down and kissed her upturned face.

"My dear Jack's wife! And so sweet and so beautiful! I can forgive him for not telling me, dear, for you have come to me when my heart seemed empty and there was nothing more to live for. My Jack's wife! We will live here together, dearest, and we will talk of him, and perhaps he will be with us— with the two women he loved— his mother and his wife!"

Something seemed to snap in Marjory's brain. She had determined, as soon as her father's back was turned, to confess the whole truth about the mean and despicable plot in which she had been compelled to take part.

But now?

How could she speak? How could she tell the truth? She saw the great joy and happiness in Mrs. Gascoyne's eyes at the thought that, from the wreck of her life, her boy's wife had been so unexpectedly saved. To tell her the truth would-be to torture her— to plunge her still deeper into the depths of despair when she was just clutching at happiness. Now could she tell her the truth and see the light fade from that kindly face and blank despair settle down upon those dim eyes? Her resolution faltered and failed.

"Oh, Mrs. Gascoyne!" she cried, and burst into a flood of tears.

A feeble hand stroked her hair.

"You must call me mother, as he called me mother," said the old lady's voice.

"Mother!" she exclaimed brokenly, and then the room reeled about her, and for a while unconsciousness settled down upon her troubled brain.

When she came to herself she was lying in a comfortable bedroom, and Mrs Gascoyne was seated by her side, obviously happy and content to be Able to serve and tend her dead son's wife. And Marjory had to bring herself to play the part. There were no doubts, no questionings on Mrs Gascoyne's part. She believed implicitly that Marjory was Jack's wife.

And as the days went by, Marjory, for the sake of Mrs Gascoyne's happiness, had to adapt herself to the role. She was made the mistress of the house; she was given complete charge of the large establishment. The old servants, who had loved the master, transferred their affection to the beautiful, considerate girl who was supposed to be his widow.

But there was one thing Marjory refused to do. She declined to accept the large allowance that Mrs Gascoyne pressed upon her. Her father had counted upon this; Marjory was to have transferred to him a large portion of this allowance. But she would not touch the money. Out of pity for the broken-hearted mother she was keeping up the delusion that she was Jack's wife— the big, kindly man she had loved in secret; to take the money would, she felt, make the whole business utterly mean and despicable. And so, in spite of the frantic letters she received from her father— letters she did not answer— she refused the big banking account that Mrs Gascoyne wished to place at her disposal.

She had been three weeks in the house, and her father's demands for money were becoming more threatening, when the utterly unexpected happened. She had seen that Mrs Gascoyne was comfortably taking her afternoon rest, and was coming downstairs, when she was brought to a halt by the sound of voices in the hall and the sight of the old butler talking to a tall, gaunt man In a suit that had evidently seen a good deal of hard wear.

"Don't you know me, William?" the man exclaimed, in a hollow voice.

And then she saw the butler start back and throw up his hands.

"It's Mr John!" he cried. "Heaven be praised! It's Mr John himself!"

Marjory felt as if her legs were giving way beneath her. She tried to move, but she was powerless.

John Gascoyne had come back from the grave!

As if the voices came from a long way off, she heard John telling his story.

He had been carried far down the river by the rushing torrent, but had managed to retain his presence of mind. He was a powerful swimmer, and managed gradually to approach the bank, where he had clutched an overhanging bough and dragged himself ashore more dead than alive.

It was a terrible experience, but worse was to follow, for the dense tropical forest covering both banks of the river defied his efforts to penetrate it for more than a short distance.

Faint with hunger and suffering intensely from the great heat, he had tried to make his way along the bank, but had had to give it up, and there seemed nothing for it but to plunge again into the river where he had so nearly perished, and end his agony as speedily as possible.

Then, when hope had nearly left him, five Indians in a large canoe came into sight from the direction of the Falls.

Springing to his feet he hailed them, and was taken off in the. canoe to their village, several miles down the river, eventually reaching civilisation after enough adventures to fill a book and, as he put it, "last him a lifetime."

"It'll be a great day for the mistress and Mrs John," the old butler cried, rubbing his hands joyfully.

As he spoke he glanced up the stairs where Marjory was standing. She had seen John start at the mention of his wife, and a puzzled look creep into his face. The moment of discovery was at hand— the moment of her disgrace!

"There she is, sir!" cried the old butler, triumphantly.

Across the intervening space John Gascoyne's and Marjory's eyes met. There was a look of pitiable entreaty in the girl's glance. For some seconds John hesitated, and then, with an odd, grim expression, he turned to the butler.

''William," he said, "go downstairs and get me something to eat. I shall be ready for it in about ten minutes."

He waited until the butler had disappeared, and then he walked stiffly up the stairs to where Marjory  was standing. She stood motionless, her wonderful dark eyes staring at him wildly.

"Perhaps you will tell me what this masquerade means?" he said.

She did not answer him. Her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth.

"And it's Marjory Macalister— old cent, per cent's daughter. And you've been living here as my widow, have you? I needn't ask you who put you up to this pretty game. I recognise Stephen Macalister's handiwork."

"It's a pity I came back, isn't it?" he said, after a pause. "Rather spoils your plans, I'm afraid: What are you going to do about it?"

And now at last she found her tongue.

"I shall go at once," she stammered.

He laid a hand upon her arm. "No, not just at once, my dear. I want to see my mother first. I'm going to her now."

The mention of his mother roused Marjory. For one moment she forgot her own pitiable situation in the thought of the old lady whom she had grown to love.

"Oh, Mr Gascoyne, you must be careful. Your mother isn't very strong. The shock might kill her. You must let me prepare her for your arrival."

"All right," he said, "cut along. I'll follow you, and we'll have our little talk afterwards."

Hardly knowing how she did it, she made her way to Mrs Gascoyne's room and, sank oh her knees by the old lady's side.

"Mother," she said, "I— want you to be very brave. Something wonderful has happened something none of us could have expected. You must promise to be very quiet, mother. Jack would have wished you to be quiet, you know, for your own sake. There's somebody coming to see you."

Outside in the passage they could hear the heavy tread of feet. The handle of the door turned. Mrs Gascoyne struggled into a sitting posture and cried out, throwing her arms about Marjory. It was this picture that John Gascoyne saw when he entered the room-his mother in the arms of the girl who had passed herself off as his wife.

"Jack— oh, my darling boy!— you've come back to me— you've come back to me!" Mrs Gascoyne cried.

In another moment he was by her side, kissing her, begging her to be calm; but for ten minutes she could do nothing else but cry and laugh alternately. Then, when she was calmer he told her his story— and all the while he noticed her arm was around the neck of the girl, who knelt with bowed head on the floor.

"And oh, my poor boy, though you never told me you were married, I've forgiven you. I don't know what I should have done without your dear wife here— so sweet, so good, so gentle she filled my empty heart for me when I thought you were dead, and I can never tell you all she has been to me."

Marjory rose hurriedly. She could bear no more. She must go— and go at once. In a mist she felt her way to the door, murmuring some excuse about seeing that Jack's room was prepared. Five minutes later, having packed a few of her things, she crept stealthily out of her bedroom with her bag in her hand. But she got no further than the threshold, for John Gascoyne was standing there barring her passage.

"Before you go I want you to tell me why you did it?" he asked.

Stammeringly she told him— how her father had conceived the plot and forced her to carry it out; how she had determined to confess to Mr Gascoyne the whole deception when her father had gone, and then, seeing how much the supposed discovery of something belonging to her dead son— something that he loved— meant to her, how it must have broken her heart had she spoken the truth; she had kept silent.

"You can believe me or not," she cried, when she had finished, "but that is the truth. I would have died sooner than have stayed here if it hadn't been for your mother. That's the truth and now let me go."

"I know it's the truth," he answered; "but I shan't let you go."

He leant forward and caught her hands.

"Put that bag down," he demanded.

"Mr Gascoyne!" she cried.

"You've got to stay here as my wife now. There's no other way out of it," he said, with that strange smile of his. "I'm sure It would break my mother's heart if she discovered the truth. I saw you together, and she's been talking to me about you."

Marjory collared in pitiable confusion. It was true that he was the one man in the whole world whom she had ever loved— who had ever been kind to her; but that she should become his wife under such circumstances— oh! it was more than her pride could stand.

"Let me go!" she cried, miserably.

"I won't," he answered, and his whole face lit up suddenly. "Before I went away— in those silly, selfish days— I loved you, Marjory— and I love you a thousand times more now after all your sweetness and goodness to my mother. You've got to be the real Mrs John Gascoyne, my dearest."

And as he spoke he took her in his arms and kissed her.

And Marjory did not leave the house, for a few days later, quite secretly, she was married to the man whose widow she had posed as— was married and was happy.

After all, Stephen Macalister did get a small allowance, to ensure his keeping his mouth shut.

___________________

5: Ordeal By Battle

Journal (Adelaide) 15 September 1917

The Challenge

SECOND-Lieut. Molineux and Second-Lieut. Dalrymple walked out of the C.O.'s quarters, leaving the C.O. himself fingering his grey moustache and smiling complacently.

Tact, firmness, and knowledge of men— that was all that was required to settle these little difficulties, the C.O. told himself. He was a great believer—good, honest soul— in the mailed fist in the velvet glove. Tact, by gad! There had been an atmosphere in the mess— nothing more than that.  Unquestionably the two subs, Molineux and Dalrymple, were at loggerheads.

Such things were not permissible. They bred friction, difficulties— they were subversive of discipline— and so he had had the two subs up before him.

"Mind you, I'm not asking you what it's all about," he said to them. "That doesn't interest me. You've got to remember that you're soldiers— that the army is the only thing that counts. You will shake hands— and we'll have no more of it, if you please."

And so they had shaken hands with military precision— almost as if they were doing it by "numbers"— and had gone out side by side into the dull December morning, leaving the "old man" quite confident that another little difficulty had been satisfactorily settled.

As if the light in Dolly Westaway's eye, the dimple in Dolly Westaway's cheek, the divine curve of Dolly Westaway's neck, the trim neatness of Dolly Westaway's ankles— all that made up the delicate charm and immense attractiveness of Dolly Westaway— could be swept away by word of command!

"You understand, of course, Dalrymple, that all the old man's guff won't make any difference to my determination? You've got to leave her alone or there'll be trouble."

Molineux, six foot one in his stockinged feet, stood towering over the slight figure of his companion. His face was angry and glowering.

"I've told you before, Molineux, that I don't recognise your right—" Dalrymple began quietly.

But the other out him short.

"It doesn't matter two penn'orth of pins to me what you recognise! I just want to warn you that if I find you hanging about the Westaway's house any more I'll make you answer for it."

Dalrymple's refined, delicately chiselled face flushed, and his dreamy blue eyes lit up with the light of passion.

"Confound you! Do you think you're going to play the bully with me? If you want to fight I'll fight you."

Molineux laughed scornfully.

"You? Why, you wouldn't be worth fighting. I don't know how the deuce they ever let you into the army!"

The flush died out of Dalrymple's cheeks and in its place came a curious pallor.

"If you're not too much of a braggart to fight, I'll fight you when and where and how you please, and if you want this question of Doll—of Miss Westaway— settled between us, I'll agree to abide by the result."

His companion looked at him in astonishment. Somehow he had never expected Dalrymple to show so much spirit,

"It's all very well to make suggestions of that kind," he sneered, "but we aren't allowed to use swords or pistols, and to fight me with your fists— well, you know you might as well save me the trouble!."

Dalrymple stood very stiff and erect.

"I've offered to fight you. I'll fight you with my fists if that's the only way. Of course, if you wish to back out of it—"

A fury of rage leapt into Molineux's eyes. "If you will have it," he said, "it's your funeral. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'll leave you to fix the time and the place, and it'll serve you jolly well right."

The situation was of course melodramatic and absurd. That two young men of twenty, holding His Majesty's commission, should be so devoid of all sense of humour as to propose solemnly to meet in a duel was ridiculous. But then Dolly Westaway, engaged at that very moment in distributing Christmas coal tickets in the village adjacent to the big 'training camp, was enough to destroy any one's sense of humour.

All the same, as Dalrymple made his way to his own quarters, and, shutting the door of his hut, sat down on the edge of his bed, he felt some uneasy qualms succeed to the hot fit of a few minutes before. He felt somehow that he had been trapped into this fight— and, of course, there was no backing out of it now. Practically, he realized, he had surrendered all right to Dolly Westaway.

For of course the fight could have but one conclusion. Molineux weighed over 13 stone, and had the strength of a horse, and, moreover, was noted, for his athletic prowess. And he— well, he hardly turned the scale at eleven stone, and, although his pale face and almost effeminate features were very deceptive, masking as they did a wiry frame and an unquenchable spirit, he was quite ignorant of the art of boxing. Sitting there on the bed he faced the problem. At least he must make a fight of it. He must lose Dolly with honour, and there were obvious preparations to be made. Presently he rose and called his batman. A broad-shouldered man, with a curiously flat, bony face appeared.

"Jackson," said Dalrymple, "I want to get some lessons in boxing. Do you know of any place round here?"

The man's sullen face cleared as if by magic. "Yes, sir— Professor Morgan. He's started a school at East Camp. Couldn't better him as an instructor, sir." The promptness of the reply excited the officer's .curiosity.

"How do you come to know all about Professor Morgan?" he enquired.

"Trained me as an amateur, sir, when I was a lad and got me my first fight as a professional. He's old now, but he can teach a lot still."

Dalrymple's interest increased. He had had no idea up to that moment that his batman had been a "pug". It was altogether a bit of luck.

"How long would it take for a man who's never had the gloves on to learn enough to keep his own end up, Jackson?"

"It would depend, sir. There's some men who could learn nothing; others that have got the real stuff in them, you can get their to make a show in a few week. If you was meaning yourself, sir, I could give you a few wrinkles."

For a few seconds Dalrymple was almost imagined to accept his suggestion. Then he remembered their relative positions in the service. It would hardly do to put on the gloves with his batman. It might prove what the C.O. had called subversive of discipline.

"That'll do, Jackson," he said, rising in his most official manner. "I don't require you any more."

The Rank And File

BEFORE Molineux and Dalrymple had been called up before the C.O. the Platoon had suspected that something was wrong, and when Dalrymple innocently enquired of Pte. Jackson, as an expert on the subject, how long it would take a man to learn to hold his own end up with the gloves, and when subsequently Jackson took a letter from his master over to the quarters of Second-Lieut. Molyneux and waited for an answer, it was inevitable that the truth should leak out.

Jackson mentioned his suspicions in strict confidence to Pte. Moriarty, who acted as servant to Second-Lieut. Molineux, and Moriarty, conceiving it the duty of every good servant to be thoroughly conversant with all the private affairs of master, boldly and unblushingly purloined the letter that Second-Lieut. Dalrymple had written to Second-Lieut. Molineux. He read it to Jackson that same evening behind the cookhouse.

Sir—

That you may have no excuse for backing out of the arrangement we made this morning, I am writing to say that I shall be pleased to meet you in three weeks' time from now— December 24. The place and the hour can be settled by mutual agreement later. It is of course, understood that in the interval neither of us tries to take advantage of the other; with this object I am willing to pass my word not it call at Miss Westaway's house. I shall be glad to receive from you a letter expressing your consent to these terms.

Yours faithfully, Arthur Dalrymple.

"Isn't it a pity now," said Moriarty when he had finished, "that a fine chance of a fight should be spoilt for want of the two men being anything like equal?"

"What do you mean?" said Jackson, his manner at once becoming hostile.

"Mean!" exclaimed Moriarty. "Sure, you don't need me to tell you— you that have been in the business! What chance has the Baby got against Molly?"

"Don't you make no blooming error, Pat," retorted Jackson. "The kid's all right, and he's got the pluck in him, and he's going to be trained by the right man."

"You're just talking," said the Irishman contemptuously."I'll get you a thick 'un that the kid will give Molly a dose of hush-a-bye in three weeks from now—so there!"

"It's like robbing you, but I'll take you,"' retorted Moriarty quickly. And so, while Dalrymple and Molineux were sleeping that night in their quarters, believing that their forthcoming duel was known only to themselves, its details were being discussed in every hut in the battalion.

The news spread from the platoon to the company, and from the company to the other companies. The sergeants' mess heard it and discussed it gravely. The only persons among the rank and file who were not admitted to the secret were the military police, because on principle one never did tell the redcaps anything. Jackson, lured on by a sense of partisanship, incurred responsibilities which hardly a year's pay would liquidate.

The result, of course, was inevitable. Jackson was known to be an old pugilist: his opinion was valuable; he was backing that opinion, and therefore those who, on the face of it, would have been willing to stake their lives that Second-Lieut. Molineux would eat up the Baby, either hedged or staked their money on this prospect of Dalrymple pulling it off.

By the time the Last Post was sounded, about two-thirds of the battalion had backed Molineux, and the remaining third were financial supporters of Dalrymple.

The consciousness of his liabilities lay heavy upon Jackson's soul the following morning.

Dalrymple looked so much like his nickname of "Baby" when, on bringing in his six o'clock cup of tea, he found him asleep. And on the subsequent parade, even those men who had followed his loudly expressed opinion, openly wavered in their support.

It was this feeling of uneasiness that sent Jackson at midday to the disused barn in the East Camp, where Professor Morgan had set up his boxing academy for officers.

"Morning, Professor!" said Jackson. "I want to have a word with you."

The professor was resting, and was, therefore, clad in a frock coat and a grey billycock hat. He smiled pleasantly at the sight of Jackson, and held out his big, broken-knuckled hand to him.

"How are you, Jackson? What's the trouble?"

"It's about my officer. He's coming round here to get you to give him a few lessons. I want you to put him through it proper. Teach him everything you know for old times' sake. I'm interested in him. You see, it's this way "

And straightway he began to recite the story that the two officers so fondly believed was known only to themselves.

"You see, I've got a matter of £12 on this, Professor, and I look like losing it unless you can make something of him."

"What are the weights, Jackson?" the Professor enquired. "My man runs only about eleven; the other goes about thirteen!"

The professor whistled. "Giving a bit away, isn't he? Has he ever had the mittens on before?"

Jackson shook his head. The professor stared at him for some moments in sombre silence.

"A nice sort of particular mug you are, Jackson, aren't you? What's got you? What are you chucking your money about like this for? Didn't know you had so much of the stuff!"

Jackson coloured violently. "Never you mind about that, Professor. You get on with it. And I'll give you a tip. Put him up against something stiff. I've seen that lad on parade, and the more he's up against the more determined he gets."

A Point of Etiquette

There was that in the heart of Second-Lieut. Dalrymple— not only, mind you, the flame that the dark eyes of Dolly Westaway had lit there— which sent him to Professor Morgan, and the study of the noble art, with an enthusiasm, that the professor had rarely seen surpassed.

Every evening Jackson visited the professor, and received a report as «to his pupil's progress. They were not altogether favourable.

"He's all right with the punchball, Jackson, and he's got a punch somewhere— I'll take my oath on that—but I can't get it out. There ain't enough what you call ginger in him."

This was the statement at the end of the first fortnight, and Jackson, with the thought of all the money he had invested, was sorely troubled.

"I see the other chap to-day," the professor went on, shaking his .head and screwing up his face, "and it ain't no go, Jackson. We were up on the hills selecting a ground— 8 o'clock on the morning of the twenty-fourth it's going to come off—  and it'll be too much for him I'm afraid. I can't work blooming miracles, you know— not in three weeks' time. And he wants ginger. I'm too old for him, and I can't stir him up."

The private groaned in spirit.

"Look here, professor," he said, after a long pause, "shove me up against him.  You needn't say who am— or you can give me some fancy name."

It was as the result of this conversation that the professor spoke to his pupil the following morning.

"You want somebody else to spar with, Mr. Dalrymple," he said, "and I think I've found the very man for you. Blackwall's his name— won some big fights in his time. I want you to come in this evening at six and let me see how you frame with him.

Accordingly that evening Dalrymple obediently presented himself at the academy, and, halving changed and had his gloves adjusted, entered the ring.. For some moments there was no sign of his sparring partner, and then a curtain that divided the old barn separated and a curious figure appeared. It was that of a man stripped to the waist, and dressed in shorts so small and so tight as to be indistinguishable from bathing drawers.

He came at a quick trot across the floor his long arms swinging by his side, ducked his bullet head and broad shoulders under the ropes, and dropped unto his chair without a word.

"This is my friend, Mr. Blackwall," said the professor.

Dalrymple stared at him, aghast. It was his servant Jackson— he knew it was Jackson, though Jackson avoided his eye, and stared resolutely up at the beams of the roof. And ought he to spar with his servant? Wasn't it subversive of—?

"Time!" called the professor, and before Dalrymple could decide this nice point of military etiquette he found that he had touched gloves with has opponent and had turned and faced his corner.

Up to that moment Dalrymple had only done "light work" with the professor, but this was a very different proposition. Even while he was still debating that nice point of military discipline, he was jabbed viciously on the mouth, and a right swing sent him back against the ropes, his head singing.

That settled the etiquette question for Second-Lieut. Dalrymple. One couldn't take that sort of thing from a private— the thing was preposterous! Dalrymple rushed in to make an example— only unfortunately Jackson wasn't there, and when he did find hini-in quite another part of the ring— a nicely timed, right-handed hook sent him off his feet. He rose very angry, but perfectly calm and collected. As Jackson had said, when Second-Iieut. Dalrymple was up against anything, he showed at his bet

And now for the first time since he had put on the gloves, he brought judgment and caution into play.

"Much better!" said the professor, when the first round was over. In the second round his opponent contented himself with blackening his eye, and in the third round he hit him only so often as was necessary to keep him fully extended.

"That'll do," said the professor at last, and immediately Jackson ducked under the ropes and disappeared.

When Dalrymple got back to the camp Jackson was in his quarters imperturbably brushing his clothes for mess. Jackson's face was a blank. He might have been as innocent as a babe unborn of that slight discoloration in the corner of Dalrymple's right eye.

The following evening and for every evening in succession during that week, the officer and his servant met as perfect strangers in the professor's ring.

And Dalrymple benefited by the experience. He learnt lots of things— before all how to infuse your boxing with that "ginger," the lack of which the professor had deplored.

On the evening of the 23rd they went six rounds, and Dalrymple at the call of "Time!" had the satisfaction of feeling that he had acquitted himself very creditably. The professor was enthusiastic.

"Stand away from him tomorrow, and worry him, and when you get an opening go all out for it," he said, as his parting advice.

"The weight is against you, and the reach is against you. but you've got a sporting chance if you take my advice."

The Fight

TO A MAN No. 3 Platoon had refused their Charismas leave. In the ballot they had won it fairly and squarely, and their officers, who suffered from their self-denial, were outraged. In vain they sought for a clue to the mystery. The sergeants didn't know, and when the men themselves were pressed to explain, Moriarty, on their behalf, gave a completely unsatisfactory answer.

"Sure, sir, we're all so fond of the army, none of us would be leaving it for a day!"

It was an obvious lie, but in order to allow some of the officers to go away, discipline was relaxed. There was no parade on the morning of the 24th, and other privileges were announced.

But though the men of No. 3 Platoon might have been reasonably expected to lie a little longer in bed, by six o'clock all their quarters were empty.

Headed by Jackson, they were all trooping up to the hills. On the summit was a plateau, covered thickly with furze bushes, save in one part where there was an open space of short cropped grass. Arrived at this, point Jackson addressed his companions.

"Now, my lads, this here's the place where the fight's coming off. If you lie under them furze bushes you'll be able to see everything. But, mind you, if there's one of you so much as shows his head, you'll have to answer to me for it. If Baby and Molly knew we were there, they'd call it off, and we don't want a pretty fight like this spoilt."

It was still dark, and the stars were shining, and up there on the hills there were two or ,three degrees of frost. But in spite of this No. 3 Platoon settled itself comfortably and cheerfully under the furze bushes.

At a quarter to eight, when the sun had just begun to rise, the scouts who had been put out came in with the announcement that the combatants were approaching.

"Out with your pipe," shouted Jackson, "and don't one of you dare to breathe!"

Silence settled down upon the hill.

Presently footsteps were heard approaching, and from two different points Dalrymple and Molineux appeared. Accompanying the former was the Professor in a sweater and flannel trousers, with his grew bowler hat fixed firmly on the back of his head. "Morning, sir!" he said cheerfully to Molineux. "Just the weather for this meeting! I'll have the posts and ropes fixed in a moment." While the two officers stood apart the Professor began to set up the ring. The previous day he had dug the holes for the posts, and in ten minutes he had everything properly fixed. He had thought of everything, from towels and a little gravel to counteract the slipperiness of the turf, to two buckets which, turned upside down, were to take the place of chairs.

"Everything's ready, gentlemen," he said at last.

Unfortunately at that moment there was an unexpected interruption. Along the little path among the furze bushes appeared the figure of a man in a big, old-fashioned tail coat, from the pockets of which protruded the heads of two or three rabbits. At the sight of the ring and the two officers he stood staring with his mouth open.

"Now, then, what do you want, stupid?" bawled the Professor. "Clear out of it!"

"You ain't bought the hill, have you?" the man said, after a moment's pause. "And what are you doing with them things?"

The Professor walked: up to him and, putting his hand upon his shoulder, swung him round.

"Right about turn!" he said. "You hop it!"

Before the man could recover from his surprise he was propelled some yards down the path. Then he began to resist.

"You take your hands off me!" he said. For answer the Professor swung him ruthlessly into a neighbouring furze bush. The man disappeared in a tangle of bracken and undergrowth. The Professor waited for him to get up— and then he leant forward suddenly and peered into the undergrowth. A smile for a moment played about his iron mouth, and then with a sniff he turned back to the ring. He knew there was no fear of interruption.

"That's all right, gentlemen. This little, meeting won't be broken up. And now, if you please, we'd better get to business. The fight, I understand, is to go to a finish. I needn't tell you gentlemen the rules. If you get to your corners I'll give you the time."

Both men had stripped and were standing trying to keep themselves warm by beating their arms on their chests. At the Professor's order they went to their corners, and having had their gloves adjusted, waited there while the Professor, watch in hand, stood in the centre of the ring.

Dalrymple was conscious more than he ever had been before of the inequality of the contest. In his shorts and zephyr, Molineux looked an even more tremendous man than he did in uniform. His broad chest, his long, knotted arms, and his perfect composure— he was even smiling— emphasized the smallness of the other's chances. And Dalrymple was aware of a certain sinking feeling in the region of his stomach.

He was glad when time was called, and he rose from his bucket to meet his rival. Having touched gloves, the two men faced one another. At the same moment from the surrounding furze bushes fifty heads were raised, but neither or the two men saw them. They were too busily occupied.

For the first thirty seconds the fight went all one way.  Dalrymple had completely forgotten everything that he had been told, and now that his rival was in front of him he rushed in with a kind of berserker fury— to erase from his face that smile of mingled contempt and amusement. And he paid for lit. Right and left those long arms swung out, hitting him mercilessly, driving him round the ring, knocking the breath out of-his body, and making his brain dizzy. It wasn't a fight at all— it was simply a massacre.

And then Dalrymple remembered. Of a sudden he began to use his feet. Instead of trying to close with his opponent he dodged him, ducking under his long arms and keeping away from him. He attempted little fighting, but worked simply for time. At the end of the third minute Molineux went to his corner, badly blown and rather puzzled.

In the second and the third rounds Dalrymple continued his tactics. If he gave nothing he took nothing, and the call of time found Molineux more blown and more puzzled. The smile of confidence had vanished from his lips. But still the thing seemed an impossibility— that so small and so light a man could possibly have any chance against the giant to whom he was opposed. The fourth round opened differently.

Molineux waited to be attacked. He was tired of chasing the other round the ring, and Dalrymple, trying to sting him once more into movement, received a straight left on the mouth that sent him full length on the grass. He was up before the call of three, with the blood pouring from his lips, to find Molineux with the old look of triumph and confidence in his eyes, waiting for him.

To Molineux it seemed that he had now got the measure of his opponent. He rushed in; Dalrymple gave way. It was impossible to stand before that superior weight and strength. He backed up against the ropes. It seemed as if the end had come. And then there flashed into Dalrymple's mind one of those simple tricks that Jackson had played upon him. Instead of covering himself he lay back against the ropes, letting his arms droop as if he were too weary to hold his gloves up any longer.

Out swung Molineux's right, straight for the point— but the exhausted figure lying on tine ropes was suddenly galvanized into life. Slipping neatly under the other's right, he ran in. Before Molineux could back away, his rival's left shot up straight under the jaw. And even as he stumbled a right hooked him below the car. He reeled back and fell and lay there on the grass, his arms outstretched.

"—eight— nine— ten! I declare Mr. Dalrymple the winner!"

The Finish

DALRYMPLE leant back against the ropes gasping. He was quite unconscious of the violent rustling in the furze bushes around him. He saw only the big figure of his rival lying there on the grass.

He saw him presently stir, and then with a groan pull himself clumsily to his feet.

"I say, Molineux, I do hope—" he began, running forward.

Molineux, with a dazed, angry scowl, made a gesture as if to sweep him aside.

"All right!" he said. "You've been lucky and won. But a lot of good it may do you! You think you're going to make the running with DoIIy Westaway— but you aren't— she's engaged to be married."  He broke into a laugh. "Dolly Westaway's going to be married this morning."

Dalrymple replied quietly, "I knew that four days ago. We hadn't anything to fight about, but I thought we ought to go through with it. Won't you shake hands, old chap?"

Molineux grew very red, hesitated a moment, and then held out his band. "You're a sportsman, Dalrymple. I— well, I've got what I deserved!"

"Gentlemen," said the Professor, "honour is satisfied. Nothing, I am sure, could be more satisfactorily settled."

Ten minutes later the two officers walked side by side down the hill. They talked and laughed together like friends who had never exchanged an ill word. At the bottom they paused and looked round.

Outlined against the sky-line stood a group of khaki-clad figures. In the middle, clearly discernible, was the figure of Jackson going from one comrade to another with his hand held out, collecting the proceeds of his bets.

Second-Lieut. Dalrymple looked at Second-Lieut. Molineux."

"How the devil did they find out?" said Molineux. Dalrymple did not reply immediately but walked on for a few yards.

"I'll tell you what, old chap," he said presently. "I shall have to find a new. servant. I'm going to sack Jackson after this."

_________________

6: Prodigal Father

Chronicle (Adelaide) 15 December 1917

i

JOHN MASTERTON came out of his elder son's big blatant house in Fitzjohn's-avenue and walked with tremulous haste down the neat drive. Though there was a touch of frost in the air, and the branches of the bare trees were powdered with snow, his old wrinkled face was flushed, and beneath his crown of white hair beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead.

'He offers me a pound a week! And I must be careful and not get into debt— I who have done everything for him,' he muttered to himself. At the age of 73, ruin, utter and complete, had descended upon old John Masterton. His misfortunes were comparable to those of Job, for they had come with the same suddenness and thoroughness.

Three weeks ago he had been a wealthy man, and then the dykes which had protected his life of ease and prosperity had broken down, and the waters of disaster bad swept over him, leaving him nothing— except twenty- thousand shares in the Surramandra Rubber Company at a nominal value of sixpence apiece and quite unsaleable.

With that pride of integrity which was second nature to him, he had sold everything he possessed— his town, house, his Country house, his fleet of motor cars, his pictures— and had paid his creditors in full. He had taken counsel of nobody, but had acted as he thought right.

The future did not trouble him very much: he was an old man, and his eldest son James, on whom he had lavished so much money and go much affection, would look after him for the short space of time that remained to him.

And he had just seen James and Mrs. James, and his disillusionment was complete. Mrs. James, who had always treated him with such affectionate respect, had rated him as if he had been a naughty child. She had railed him a 'stupid old man,' and James himself, instead of offering him a home and a shelter, had spoken to him about his business worries, and had finally offered him an allowance of a pound a week.

'You can dine here on Sundays, and, with a little care, that sum ought to be quite sufficient for your needs, he said. He had said other things, too — excuses, explanations, obviously untrue, about his own financial position, censures of what he called his father's prodigal extravagance— things the old man didn't remember. There remained in his mind only that cold offer of a pound a week and 'You will dine with us, of course, on Sundays.'

In a kind of haze he felt his way down Fitzjohn's-avenue end mounted a 'bus going towards Charing Cross. He had left his luggage there, expecting his son to send for it— a bag containing a few of his clothes that he had felt justified in retaining, and that tin box which, had once contained so many valuable securities, but was now empty, save for the certificate of those twenty thousand shares in the derelict Surramandra Rubber Company. He got out at Trafalgar-square, and a policeman, seeing his frail, tottering figure amidst the maze of traffic, helped him across the Strand.

Automatically John Masterdom, when he was safe on the opposite pavement, put his hand in his pocket and then withdrew it quickly, his face flushing.

'I'm sorry,' he stammered. 'Thank you very much, constable.'

He turned away quickly and began to walk towards the station. He had just reached the first entrance, when a young man dressed in an old, worn suit, saw him and stopped.

For a moment the young man hesitated, and then, with the colour mounting to his pale cheeks, he hurried forward and touched the other's arm. 'Father,' he said.

Old John Masterton halted, trembling. There before him stood his younger son, Donald, whom he had not seen for three years— the wild, wayward boy who had refused to go into his father's business, who had always run contrary to his father's wishes, who had finally committed the unpardonable offence of marrying contrary to his father's direct instructions, and, as a consequence, had been cut off from the paternal roof without even the proverbial shilling. For three yeans he had not seen him. And now...

'What do you want?' he asked huskily.

'I want to be friends,' answered the young man. 'Won't you forgive me now, father, after all these years, and let's make it up?'

Suspicions gathered quickly into the old man's distorted brain. Donald had not heard of the financial disaster that had overtaken him. He thought he was still wealthy, he was trying to curry favour with him.

That, after his past conduct, he could possibly care for him as a father seemed absurd. His interview that morning with James had shown him how mean and greedy human nature was. It occurred to him that he would teach Donald a lesson, even at the price of further bitterness.

'Where are you going?' he enquired,

'It's Saturday afternoon, and I'm going home,' Donald answered, and then, half nervously, he added:— 'Won't you come with me father? You can't think how— how bucked I would be if you would.'

The old man, urged on by his distorted desire to tear the mask from this spurious affection— to see how far his son would go until he realised that his father was a pauper— readily allowed himself to be persuaded.

They travelled up together to a little South London suburb, taking the luggage with them, for Donald had pressed him to stay the night. They arrived at last at a mean little villa in a long street composed of exactly the same houses. Donald let himself in quietly with a latchkey.

'Mary,' he called. 'I've got such a surprise for you.'

A door opened at the end of the small passage, and a pretty, neat slip of a girl appeared, carrying a child of two in her arms.

'Mary dear, this to father,' Donald exclaimed in a curious voice. 'Father, this is my wife and your little grandson.'

For a fraction of a second Mary hesitated, and then, with a blush mantling her cheeks, she came forward, and timidly held out her hand.

'How do you do, Mr. Masterton?' she said. He had never set eyes on her before. He had always spoken or thought of her as 'that woman who caught my son,'  and now she was so different to the picture painted in his own mind that he was taken aback.

'How do you do?' he stammered. The awkwardness of their meeting was removed by the child, who, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, with that unreasoning impetuosity of children, held out his arms to his grandfather, smiling with perfect familiarity.

Somehow or other old John Masterton found himself the next moment with the child in his arms. He was even conscious that he had kissed the little dimpled cheek. Then the old bitterness came back to him, and he put the child down in the passage and, turning, faced his eon. '

'You haven't heard, of course, Donald,' he said, with something that was almost like a sneer, 'that I am ruined — that I haven't a penny-piece left in the world.'

He expected an immediate change in the attitude of his son and his daughter-in-law towards him— an end to this pretence of an affectionate, warm-hearted greeting. To his amazement something quite different happened.

Donald suddenly came forward— there was an odd mist in his eyes— and put a hand upon his arm. 'Of course— I read about it in the papers, father. I didn't want to talk about it. I'm dreadfully sorry— but now, father, you must be tired; won't you sit down and let Mary get you some tea?'

ii

AS DONALD was forced to admit to himself—the three pounds a week he earned was hardly enough to go round as it was. With his father in the house it would be a more difficult matter still.

'But, of course, we must look after him, dear,' Mary exclaimed that night. 'Didn't you see how baby took to him at once?'

'Bless you, my dear,' said Donald, taking her in his arms and kissing her. The following morning he made his way to his brother's big office in the city, and, after waiting half an hour, was grudgingly granted an interview. James had sided with his father in the quarrel about Donald's 'disastrous marriage,' and the two brothers had not met since that event.

'I can give him a home if he'll stay with us; but I'm rather hard up, James, and I thought perhaps you might make him an allowance. He ought to have sonic money of his own to spend,' Donald explained when he had introduced the subject on which he had come.

James' jaw shut like a trap.

'I offered to make him an allowance of a pound a week yesterday, and lie hadn't even the courtesy to wait and tell me whether he would accept my offer. If he wants it, he can write and say so.' Donald coloured slightly.

'It wasn't very much, was it, James? You're a rich man, and father used to make you a big allowonce.'

James shuffled the papers on his desk. 'I don't propose to discuss the question with you,' he said, with a sneer. 'I know what I can afford to give.'

Ten minutes later Donald left the office, his face flushed and his ears tingling. He had spoken his mind to his brother, all to no purpose. James declined to make any larger allowance to his father, or even to make the miserable allowance he suggested, unless the old man solicited it with proper humility.

Donald never mentioned to his father that he had seen James. It might hurt him, he felt, and he was anxious before all things to keep his father cheerful and happy — to make him forget, if he could, the 2 groat change in his fortune.

For himself, he cut down his little expenses as best he could, walking where he would formerly have taken a 'bus, and reducing his midday luncheon to a minimum. Every evening he returned smiling and cheerful, hiding his worries from both his wife and his father.

And they were serious worries. Christmas was drawing near, and rout day approaching. It would be a thin Christmas, he told himself, but he could not help that. He could just scrape through his liabilities, and, as long as his father and Mary and the boy were well and happy, what else mattered?

But, unfortunately, a fortnight before Christmas the boy fell ill. For one awful night his life even hung in the balance. A second opinion had to be obtained, and not only did all Donald's savings go, but he was reduced to anticipating some of his meagre wages.

For a day or two the recovery of his boy filled Donald's heart with such thankfulness that he forget everything else; but at the end of that time he had to bring himself to face the future. The quarter's rent was only eight pounds ten shillings it was true, but ho had not the money, and saw no possibility of getting it, and he knew what that meant. The landlord, represented by a firm of estate agents, was merciless. They would be turned out of their home, and the little furniture they had collected with such difficulty through their married life would be sold. It was with this prospect darkening his mind that Christmas drew near. Both to Mary and his father he appealed cheerful and quite unworried.

'We'll have a jolly Christmas, anyway, father, now that you're with us!' he said more than once.

'Don't tell Mary,' he said brokenly, when his father suddenly betrayed him into a confession. 'It'll all come right, I hope; but—'

He broke down, burying his face in his hands. 'I'm afraid it won't be much of a Christmas, after all,' he stammered.

To old John Masterton it was one of the bitterest moments of his life. He realised then the tremendous sacrifices that Donald had made for him. He was the author of all their difficulties, he told himself.

The Christmas tree and presents that had been promised the little boy would be an impossibility; the simple dinner that was to have marked the great festival could not be purchased. It was all his fault. James' wife had called him a stupid old man. He was more than stupid— he was useless.

'It's all my fault, Donald,' he stammered. 'You have involved yourself in these difficulties on my account. And to think that when I was rich I—'

He broke down utterly, and Donald, who stood in need of so much comfort himself, had to spend nearly an hour trying to cheer him.

But Mary had to be told at the last. It was useless to keep it from her. But if in private she wept, to her husband's face she made light of the whole matter. What did the Christmas dinner matter?

On the morning following the making of the sad confession to Mary, John Masterton sat at-the breakfast-table reading his paper. Suddenly he let it fall from his hand, and with strangely flushed cheeks, rose from his chair. Donald and Mary looked at him anxiously.

'Is anything the matter, father?' Donald enquired.

'Nothing, nothing, my boy,' the old man replied. 'I think I'll just go out and take a little turn.'

'You ought to take a day in bed, father,' said Mary. 'You mustn't really tire yourself.'

Smilingly the old man patted her check, but of her advice he took no notice.

The following day he again left the house until late in the afternoon.

And the next day was Christmas. It was a gloomy morning for the small suburban household, rendered all the more gloomy by the fog and sleet that was falling in the street outside.

A little holly decorated the sitting-room and the passage, but these symbols failed to cheer either Donald or his wife. Only the child and old John Masterton seemed to have the real Christmas atmosphere.

And then disaster followed quick upon disaster. The butcher refund to send the meat, as his account was unpaid, and the grocer had left out of his parcel the small Christmas delicacies, declining to give more credit than was absolutely necessary.

'Never mind, my dear,' old Mr. Masterton said, when he found Mary in tears in the kitchen. 'A dinner of bread and cheese with content is worth more than anything else.'

And it was .a dinner of bread and cheese that Mary set out on the Christmas board. She had just tearfully laid the last knife when there was a thundering knock at the door. Before she could get to it, old Mr. Masterton had run down the passage to open it.

To her amazement, he gave admittance to two men in white caps and white overalls, who solemnly brought into the house and laid upon the table mysterious dishes and bottles, a roast turkey, a plum pudding, mince pies, champagne and port, and the biggest box of crackers that had ever been seen. And hardly had Donald and Mary recovered from the shock of this surprise when another van drew up, and into the house, brushing down the narrow passage with great difficulty, came a completely decorated Christmas tree and a whole host of mysterious parcels.

Donald and Mary and the little boy stood open-mouthed staring at these things that seemed to have fallen from the sky.

'Who can have sent them?" Donald exclaimed at last. Something like a choking laugh came from behind him and, looking round, he saw his father. He was smiling, and the tears were streaming down his old face.

'Father!' he exclaimed, wonderingly.

'They're a present from me, Donald,' the old man cried, 'from the Prodigal , Father. I had some worthless rubber shares which three days ago became valuable. And I'm a rich man again, my boy. And, thank heaven, I've been able to give you, who have been so loving and generous to me, something of the Christmas you deserve.'

_______________

7: Red Magnus Backs Out

Australian Worker (Sydney) 25 January 1933

ALTHOUGH Red Magnus was a gangster, and had a reputation for being 'quick on the draw,' he had, nevertheless, a simple, primitive mind that was only capable of one thought at a time. The great thought at the moment was a baby— Savory Mont's baby. Red Magnus had stolen it. It had been a great coup, but he'd brought it off with the assistance of the 'boys.'

He ran the motor launch under the overhanging trees at the head of the island creek, and switched off the engine.

Then he picked up the ten-months-old morsel of humanity that had been sleeping! peacefully in the tiny cabin of the launch throughout the journey.

'Come on, baby. You're worth more than your weight in gold,' muttered Red Magnus. 'You're going to cost Savory Mont, your daddy, half a million dollars.'

Holding his precious burden with extreme care, he stepped on shore, and made his way through the woods.

His blue eyes lighted up with pleasure as he reached a clearing, in the middle of which stood a neat little bungalow! This was home. True, he wasn't often there, but that fact only made the sight of it more pleasant to him. And Maisie, his wife, was always there waiting for him. Her soft; musical voice greeted him as he approached the bungalow.

'Why, Red, what have you got there?'

There was a clatter of high-heeled shoes on the veranda steps as a slim, pretty girl came down to meet him.

'A baby, kid. Savory Mont's baby, Going to collect half a million on him.'

Before he could say another word, Maisie had taken the baby from him. As she looked down into the slumbering features of the infant, her face grew curiously soft.

'The dear little darling!' she whispered, in a soft accent which betrayed her Irish origin.

'I brought him here because a woman must look after him,' explained Red. 'You'll have to be careful with him, kid. Remember, he's worth half a million dollars.'

He followed her into the bungalow, and watched her with smiling eyes as she laid the sleeping baby on a couch.

'That baby just gives the finishing touch, Maisie,' said Magnus. 'This is real home— you and the kid and our own little shack.'

The girl removed the baby's lower garments so that his little dimpled legs could kick freely.

'Going to stay long this trip, Red?' she inquired presently

'I reckon to stay a week, Maisie. That'll give time to let things develop. Then we can get busy calling the stakes on this business.'

To one who led the life that Red Magnus led, that week in his lonely island home was a blissful holiday. Maisie was the best of wives, and the way she took to the Savory Mont kid, and the kid to her, was truly remarkable.

'My little woman is looking after the baby all right — don't you fret,' he told the gang later. 'She dotes on that kid. You ain't no cause to worry that anything's going to happen to him... Let's get down to the ransom business.'

At first all went well. The news that Mr. Savoy Mont had received a mysterious message demanding half a million dollars as ransom for his stolen baby was circulated throughout the length and breadth of the world.

Three weeks slipped by— three weeks in which Red Magnus was kept busy on the mainland without any chance of seeing Maisie at their island bungalow. And then, just when everything had; been settled, when all the details for the payment of the ransom had been arranged, there was a hitch.

The gang read the news in the papers. The report ran:

'Reliable information has reached Mr. Savory Mont that a cruel attempt at the impersonation of his child had been staged, and the secret negotiations which have been carried on for the last three weeks with a certain gang believed to be in possession of the kidnapped baby have been called off.'

'Something must have happened to the baby,' a member of Red's gang exclaimed, and the others agreed.

The result was that Red Magnus went flying back to his island home. As he hurriedly approached the bungalow he heard Maisie's voice crooning: 'The little precious!.. Does he love his mammy, then? Isn't he a great walker, now?'

He found Maisie in the shade of the veranda, and there, to his immense relief, was Master Savory Mont, with his plump little cheeks all dimples, learning the art of waiting on very sturdy but unstable legs. 'Well now, if that ain't a relief!' Red exclaimed.

Maisie had been so engrossed in the baby that she was unaware of his arrival. Now, startled by his voice, she grabbed the child protectively into her arms, and turned to him, her face rather white

'Oh, so it's only you, Red... You quite scared me.'

'Of course, it's only me,' he answered, taking her in his arms and kissing her. Then he blurted out all about the hitch that had arisen over the baby's ransom.

'Almost seems as if they don't want the kid back,' he grumbled. 'Nice state of things, isn't it, Maisie? Why, what's mother-love worth if it won't pay half a million dollars to get the kid back? They're even saying now that this ain't their, kid. That's the excuse they're giving for backing out.'

'The precious is worth much more than half a million, isn't he?' Maisie crooned to the baby.

THE NEXT morning Red was early astir.

'I must be getting back to the boys, Maisie,' he said at breakfast. 'They'll be glad to hear that it's all O.K. with the baby. Give it a few days, and we'll call Savory Months bluff.'

Then, Maisie, who never interfered with her husband's affairs, made a startling proposal.

'You'd better leave this business to me, Red,' she said firmly. 'You and the boys are making a mess of it. I'll see Mr. and Mrs. Savory Mont and fix it up.'

'You!' her husband exclaimed in astonishment. 'Why, whatever are you saying?'

'That a great big silly like you doesn't know how to handle a job like this. You've got to stay here, Red and mind the baby. I'll run over to the mainland, and I'll be at the Savory Mont's place by the afternoon.'

Red Magnus raised dozens of objections, but in the hands of his wife he was like clay. That afternoon a slim, veiled figure presented herself at the country residence of the baby's parents, and was admitted to the presence , of Mr. and Mrs. Savory Mont.

'You don't know my name,' and it doesn't matter anyway,' began Maisie. 'I've come about your baby. I've been looking after it for the boys.'

Mr. Savory Mont sadly shook his head.

'I don't suppose for a moment you're the woman you say you are, but in order to cut this interview short I may as well show you this letter I have received. It states perfectly clearly, as you see, that the baby held by the gang who are trying to extort money from me is not our baby.'

'Ah, I know all about the letter,' Maisie replied quickly. 'I wrote it. But we've got your kid all right. Say now, hasn't he got a little weeny birthmark under his right arm? And isn't there a scar on the toe of his left foot where the burn is?'

Mrs. Savory Mont rose agitatedly.

'It's our darling!' she cried. 'I know it's our darling!'

But her husband waved her aside, and turned and faced Maisie.

'If what you say is true, why did you write this letter?' he demanded.

'Well— you see, I got so fond of the kid that I just couldn't bear to part with it! Where I live, I'm all alone. It was just heavenly having the wee darling to look after. Sure now, isn't he the sweetest, baby that ever walked?.... The little limbs of him!'

Her face was curiously soft and her eyes were shining.

Mr. Savory Mont blinked.

'But if you say you were so fond of him, that you couldn't bear to give him up, why have you come here?'

Maisie drew in a deep breath, and her cheeks flushed. '

'Sure I shan't be needing anybody else's baby in six months' time— so I'll be getting along... And you'll have the darling' back in the very best of health and looking a picture.'

She gave a little breathless laugh. 'Sure me own'll be the very spit of him― I feel it in me bones— and he'll be my very own!'

______________

As Paul Urquhart

8: Through the Shadows

Telegraph (Brisbane), 30 March 1912

AS SHE heard the sound of her father's latchkey in the door, Marion Vane took the broad flight of stairs in a few steps and rushed joyously into the hall, before she could get to the door; however, Mr, Vane had opened it, and, coming in, closed it behind him.

"Dad," she exclaimed, flinging her arms round his neck, "heaps more wedding presents have come. I have been dying to show them to you all day." She kissed her father's cheek, and then put her own fresh face near his for a paternal greeting.

Ever since she could remember— and eighteen years was not very long to remember— she had met her father on his return from business in the hall of their old-fashioned house. Always he had taken her in his arms and kissed her— his motherless child— the fruit of that brief romance which had come into his life nineteen years ago.

But, now, instead of any answering caress, Sir Vane averted his eyes from her, and gently firmly disengaged himself from her arms.

"Dad," she said in a voice almost of awe, "whatever is the matter?"

He turned his back upon her and made a great business of taking off his coat. It was curious how the sleeves refused to slip from his arms, and the extraordinary amount of polishing his silk hat required before he finally hung it on the peg.

Even then he did not turn immediately to face his daughter, but opened and shut his pug and fiddled fussily with the papers it contained. His strong face, with its deep-set kindly eyes wore a troubled look.

"How can I tell her?'' he muttered to himself, repeating for the thousandth time the question that had been on his dips ever since he had left the city.

"Dad!" There was a troubled  note in her voice. Ho steeled himself with an Short, and turned to look at her. She was very good to look at— fresh as an April morning, the embodiment of a beautiful, healthy English girl, the replica of the woman to whom he had given his heart, and, who lay at rest in the grave where he had buried his first and only love. He quailed before those frank, clear eyes that seemed to search the very depths of his heart. How was he to tell her.

"Something has happened to Arthur—"

"What is it? Tell me, dad— tell me―"

She saw by the gravity of his face, that she had guessed the truth— that something had happened to her lover, the man who in a week was to have been her husband —and the colour fled from her own cheeks.

"Marion," he answered gently, with a quaver in his voice, "you must try and be brave. Come into my study, and I will tell you what has happened."

He led the way into the familiar room on the ground floor, his daughter following. He tried to draw her to his knee as he sat down. For the first time in her life she refused his caresses, standing a few feet from him, with all the sunshine gone from her face.

"Marion, my dearest," he said, gazing fixedly at the pattern of the carpet, "you must try and reconcile yourself to what I have to tell you. Your marriage to Arthur Langton is an impossibility. You must try and forget him, or, if you remember him, remember him only as a man utterly unworthy of you."

She stretched out her hand to steady herself against the mantelpiece. Her lips trembled, and with difficulty she mastered her emotion. When she did speak it was in a severely restrained voice.

"Please tell me everything, dad."

Mr. Vane mustered up his courage, and, as clearly as he could, related the facts that had driven him to determine that Arthur Langton could never he his son-in-law. Langton had been in his office since a boy, and at the age of 30 had, by his industry and his devotion to his employer's interests, risen to be Mr Vane's right-hand man, his most trusted assistant. It was an enormous commercial house over which Mr. Vane ruled, and Langton, in spite of his youth, had drawn a salary of nearly a thousand a year.

Mr. Vane had been very fond of the boy, and warmly approved, of his marriage with his daughter. An engagement of six months had nearly elapsed. Every preparation for the marriage had been made, and now, that morning, his most cherished schemes had vanished in thin smoke.

It was quite a chance discovery, but there was no getting away from the fact that over £500 was missing. The books showed clearly that the money had been deliberately taken in various sums extending over a period of some months.

As a matter of course, Mr. Vane had sent for Langton, pointed out to him the deficiency, and asked him if he could .throw any light on the mystery of these defalcations; in short, the firm was being robbed, and it was necessary -to find the robber.

To his surprise and consternation Langton had answered his questions at first evasively, and when questioned point blank as to whether he knew who the thief was had refused to make any reply. His confusion and obvious uneasiness had at last excited the suspicions of Mr. Vane. The conversation between them became somewhat heated, and the incident had culminated in Langton drawing out his cheque-book and offering to write out a cheque there and then in settlement, of the deficiency.

This suggestion. Coupled with his extraordinary manner, confirmed Mr. Vane in his conviction that Langton was the thief. He tried to draw a satisfactory statement front the young man, but Langton would give only the most evasive answers, and repeat his proposal to settle the matter out of his own pocket. In the end there was nothing for it but summarily to dismiss Langton and appoint another man to his berth.

"I have given his place to John Smallwood, who is coming to see me to-night, and I must ask you, Marion, never to mention Langton's name again in this house. It will he best for both of us— it will save you a great deal of pain, and help me to forget one whom I trusted, and to whom I was devotedly attached."

He looked at his daughter, waiting for her to speak, but for some seconds she made no reply. Then she turned to him abruptly.

"You condemn him and ruin him just on the merest suspicion. Arthur never stole five hundred pounds in his life; I think it is cruel and hard of you, father, and unjust.

Sick and sore at heart, Mr. Vane, welcomed the opportunity of showing some temper; it helped to deaden the pain. For the first time in his life he spoke to his daughter in a, voice angry and commanding.

"Your expression of opinion is not necessary, and it is not possible that you can understand the position. You must simply obey my orders. Arthur Langton is not to be received by you any more— understand that."

He worked himself up into a heat of passion, deliberately heaping words of abuse on his late employee, and trying, in his violence, and intemperance of his language, to forget the anguish that he felt.

Marion waited till the storm had abated.

"I love Arthur," she said, quietly, "and I have promised to be his wife, and nothing shall ever separate us."

Without another word, she turned and hurried from the room, leaving her father alone in the study to the contemplation of his own sad thoughts.

ii

THE MARRIAGE was postponed— that was the statement given out as a preliminary to the final announcement that the match had been abandoned for good and all. Langton, it was hinted, was ill, and had had to go abroad, and other polite falsehoods were invented as a gloss to the real tragedy.

But Marion's face told its own tale, and there were few people who accepted that version as fact. It was clear that something was amiss, and friends of the Vanes waited curiously until time should clear up the mystery.

The days went by. Father and daughter hardly spoke. Every night Mr. Vane immersed himself in business, and every night John Smallwood arrived after dinner with a small bag full of papers.

Instinctively Marion disliked Smallwood; he had reaped the benefits of Arthur's dismissal; he was the one person who had profited by the tragedy of her life.

One night he met her in the hall as she was searching the letter-box, in the hope of some news from Arthur, who had never written her a line.

"Miss Vane," he said, coming towards her with outstretched hand, "I have been wanting an opportunity to speak to you; to tell you how deeply sorry I am for what has occurred."

His woebegone face annoyed her. She deliberately ignored his hand.

"I can't see what you've got to be sorry for, Mr. Smallwood. Filling a better men's shoes is not generally accounted a misfortune by those who fill them."

He recoiled, a slight flush upon his pasty cheeks.

"Oh, Miss Vane, don't say that. I know his misfortune has given me a lift, but I'd much sooner have remained in my old berth than that these things should have happened."

"What things have happened?" she said, coldly. "Mr. Langton, I know, has been accused and punished, without any evidence, of a crime which he was the last person in the world to commit. Perhaps you will explain yourself."

Smallwood looked nervously round at the study door, as if to satisfy himself that Mr. Vane was still safe on the other side.

Then he moved closer to Marian, sidling up to her in a confidential way. "There is no question about it, I am sorry to say, Miss Vane. I thought your father would have told you. It's over five thousand pounds that's missing, and I am afraid there can be no doubt as to who the thief is."

She had a burning desire to strike him in the face instead, she made him no answer, but simply turned and ran up the stairs. Arthur was condemned by everybody, but she would never condemn him. She would let him know that, though all the world turned from him, her love for him, her trust and confidence in, hint, had not abated. She went to her writing-desk and hastily wrote a few lines.

Dearest,— Don't think that I believe these wicked stories about you. I love and trust you utterly. Won't you write to me and tell me how" you are, and what you are doing, and that you love me still ?— Always your Marion.

She posted the letter that same night, and the following evening there came his reply. He thanked her for her trust and confidence in him, and assured her that there was not a word of truth in the charges against him.

"I could, if I wished." he went on to say, "clear myself absolutely, but there are circumstances which prevent it. I think your father might have believed me; but perhaps he was right in acting as he did. Tomorrow was to have been our wedding-day. I can come no longer to your house, but will you meet me at the old place? I must see you and speak to you."

It was half-past eight on the day that was to have been her wedding-day that Marion crept down the stairs, past her father's study. on her way to her lover. She watched with such nervous attention the door, that she did not notice Smallwood standing in the hall she started as he touched her arm. "I waited to give you this before you went out. I knew you wouldn't like it to be lying about the house."

It was her lover's letter! It must have fallen out of the bosom of her dress. Of course, Smallwood must have recognised the handwriting; in all probability he had read its contents. "Thank you," she said, with an air of unconcern, "it wasn't anything of importance."

"I recognised the writing, Miss Vane. I should not go to meet him if I were you."

There was just the suspicion of a sneer behind his words. Marion fired up indignantly, forgetting that she was completely at Smallwood's mercy. If he cared to tell her father, all hope of, seeing Arthur must be abandoned.

"I shall he obliged if you will mind your own business, Mr. Smallwood," she said, looking at him scornfully, as she passed him on her way to the door.

As soon as she was out of the house, sho ran rapidly across the piece of open heathland that fronted her home. In a few minutes she was at the trysting-place, and in her lover's arms.

"It was sweet of you to come," said Arthur, when the first raptures of their meeting were over, "but you must not stay long , it would ruin all chance of my "seeing you again if your father discovered your absence. I must tell you this . don't believe I am a thief, however strange my conduct may seem. I can't explain, dearest, but I was bound to act as I have done."

"Yes, my darling," she whispered. "I never doubted."

"It was simply in case of ordinary humanity," Arthur went on. "The money had been taken, but it was just about to be returned. I was told about it the very morning your father discovered the loss. Unless I held my tongue, it meant, the ruin not only of a man who was my friend, but of two innocent people— his mother and sister, for whose sakes he had borrowed the money. The doctors had said that it they were to live they must go abroad , it was an urgent matter. The man waited to realise some securities. He was wrong to have taken the money, but as he paid it back through me that very morning, you would not have had me disclose his name, would you, Marion?"

She was about to answer when the sound Of approaching footsteps made them I both jump hurriedly to their feet.

"So, Arthur Langton," said the stern voice of Mr. Vane, "not content with stealing my money, would rob me of my daughter."

Before Langton could say a word Mr. Vane had taken his daughter's arm, and with a brief "Come home at once, Marion," almost dragged her from his side. Langton turned passionately to the other figure.

"Smallwood," he exclaimed, "you can't ask me to bear this."

Smallwood, keeping his eyes on the ground, said nothing.

It was Mr. Vane who replied for him. "All sentimental appeals are useless. I trusted you, and I have discovered, through the man who now holds the position you betrayed, the extant of your dishonour. If I have refrained from handing you over to the law for the thousands you have stolen, I have done it for my daughter's sake, but if ever you try to see her again I shall not show mercy any longer."

A half-uttered exclamation escaped Langton. He made a step forward, as if to appeal to Mr. Vane; then he checked himself, and, silently standing there, watched the little party vanish in the shadow of the heath.

iii

THE DAYS went by— for Marion, days of utter misery and wretchedness. No letter from her lover was allowed to reach her; she was kept almost a prisoner in the house. Only at night there came to her some sense of peace and comfort, From her window she could see in the shadow of the heath a figure that stood watching the house— now and again waving to her— and keeping guard and ward over her through the long hours of darkness.

Every night Langton stood at his post. He watched the lights go out one by one. From his hiding-place he could see Mr Vane bid good-bye to Mr. Smallwood.

Once Langton, unknown to Smallwood, followed him home, and the following day, and for some days after, he could have been seen in the neighbourhood. He had certain inquiries to make, and those inquiries made, he gave up his undivided time to standing sentinel outside Mr. Vane's house. He accounted himself happy if he caught a glimpse for a moment of Marion at the window of her room, and forgot all his bitterness and disillusionment in contemplation of her beautiful face even at such a distance.

Marion wondered to herself why, night after night, he waited and watched, and Langton himself as he tramped wearily home at dawn, sometimes wondered, too. A sense of impending evil— a feeling that nothing could stifle-kept him to his post. He had been fooled and tricked— so much he knew now— and he waited as if for Providence to make all clear. On the fifth night of his vigil something happened which amply justified his fears. All the windows in tho house were darkened, except those in the study.

Suddenly the lamp within was moved, and, as if in a gallantry show, the shadows of the occupants of the room were thrown upon the blind. He saw Mr. Vane in his big armchair resting over the fire with his hack to Smallwood, who was sitting at a table writing. For some moments they sat thus. Then Langton saw Smallwood turn his head, and then very slowly and very gently rise from his chair. For a second he stood irresolute, looking in the direction of Mr. Vane.

A moment later a thrill of horror shot through Langton's veins. The blurred, indistinct figure on the blind seemed to have something in its hand— a long thickness of dark shadow, that rippled with the movement of the blind. The figure crouched, became a huddled lump of blackness, and then, slowly— very slowly— moved across the blinds towards the other figure in the chair.

Langton rushed from his hiding place, and without a moment's hesitation picked up a stone from the road, and hurled it through the window. As he ran he saw the figure of Mr. Vane leap to its feet, and then the two shadows were wrapped in one another's embrace.

"Marion! Marion!" Langton shouted, as he leaped up the steps of the house. From the study he could hear the sounds of a struggle, half-muttered exclamations, hard, stertorous breathing, and the restless shifting of feet.

Langton pulled himself on to the ledge of the study window, and .with his arms across his face forced his way through the shattered glass.

A wild scene presented itself. On the floor lay Mr. Vane; above, with one hand at his throat was Smallwood, a long glittering knife in his hand, raised for the last murderous blow. At the sight of Langton he sprang to his feet.

"Back, back, you meddling fool," he shouted, rushing to the other end of the room, and waving his weapon threateningly. His menacing words fell unheeded. Langton dashed across the floor and sprang at him. He saw the knife strike swiftly towards his heart; with the instinct of self preservation, he dashed it upwards, and the steel grazed his shoulder. In another moment he had Smallwood helpless on the floor.

The study door opened, and Marion, white-faced and terror-stricken, appeared at, the entrance. For a moment, sho hesitated, and then, seeing her father, she ran to him, dropping on her knees by his side.

"Dad! dad!" she exclaimed.

Mr. Vane opened his eyes, looked at her in a half-dazed fashion, and then, with a groan, struggled into a sitting position.

"What has happened, dad?" she asked, slipping an arm behind his shoulder.

"Smallwood there— I trusted him— he tried to kill me," answered her father, with difficulty.  "Forgive me, Marion." She helped him to his feet, just as Langton, having wrested the murderous knife from Smallwood's grasp, allowed him to rise. Mr. Vane looked inquiringly at Langton.

"What does it all mean?" he asked.

"It means, Mr Vane, that this man has deceived both of us. He made me a party to his dishonesty by telling me that he had a sick mother and sister, and that he had only taken five hundred pounds to save them from a lingering death; he gave me back that sum, knowing that you had already discovered its loss, pledged me to secrecy, and then took advantage of your natural suspicions to supplant me in your favour."

Langton turned to Smallwood: "If you have a spark of manhood left in you, tell Mr. Vane what I have said is true. You have nothing to gain by silence now."

"Yes, it's all true," answered Smallwood, in a subdued voice. "I haven't a mother or sister, living— they died years ago. I had lost heavily on the turf, and I took the money. When I knew that you had discovered the loss of a small part of it, I planned to involve Langton by getting him to return it and then charging him with the theft of the whole. But I hadn't had enough— and to-night you showed me the money in the safe there— and— and―"

He stopped abruptly. A circle of light from a policeman's lantern had spread itself on the blind. Mr. Vane staggered across to the window and called the constable.

TWO HOURS later, in the same room, a very different scene was being enacted. Langton, with Marion's hand in his, stood before Sir Vane.

"I hope you have forgiven me, sir, for not telling you what you asked me?"

"Arthur, my boy," replied Mr. Vane, in a voice that shook with emotion, "it is you who have to forgive me. I should have known you better. I should have followed Marion's example and trusted you in spite of everything."

Langton bent down and kissed the girl at his side. Then he turned to Mr. Vane.

"It was worth it all," he said, smiling, "to learn what her love and trust in me really meant."

__________________

9: Nurse Sorrell's Patient.

Mullumbimby Star, 10 April 1913

My name is Nurse Sorrell. I have been many years in my profession, and can truly say that in my time I have met all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children; Above all thing's, I like best nursing children, and there never was a child who so completely took my fancy as little Peter Laurence— Peterkins, as most people called him.

He was the only child of a doctor who had for many years given up practice, and who lived in a large house in Portman-place. The child was suffering from a strange complaint— a certain form of haemorrhage; which occurred at intervals, rendering him weaker and weaker, and causing a good deal of anxiety to the family physician, Dr. Ernest Paul.

Dr. Paul was a slow, fat old gentleman, who had attended the Laurence . family for years, and knew Peter's constitution, as he expressed it, just as though it were an open map,'' but even Dr. Paul could not account for ; the haemorrhage.

'As far as l can tell,' he said, 'the lungs are healthy. Under the stethoscope I can detect nothing wrong. The heart is weak and irregular, beyond doubt, but that is naturally accounted for by the excessive loss of blood. I must confess that I am puzzled over the case.'

Now there never was a sweeter child than Peter. He was about seven years of age, and particularly bright, intelligent, and patient. He suffered no pain, only weakness, which grew more and more excessive. His father seemed devoted to him, and had constituted himself at an nearly age in the illness as the boys night nurse.

'No,' he said, to Dr. Paul, 'I will not have a second nurse. I prefer looking after the little fellow, myself during the hours, when Nurse Sorrell must rest. He is happier with me than with anyone else, and as I am comparatively an idle man, there, is no reason why I should not stay awake to see to his comforts. Eh, Peterkins, my boy? Will you have, me or a stranger to look after you by night?'

The little man replied in that low, faint voice which grew fainter day by day that he would rather, far rather, have daddy than anyone else, and it never occurred to Dr. Paul to interfere.

There has been a great deal written and thought from time to time with regard to the importance of a nurse's work. I have myself heard doctors say: 'It is true that I give my orders, but she carries them out.'

Now to a certain extent this is true,' but not altogether, for, beyond doubt, if I had had the complete control of little Peter Laurence I would have had: a night as well as a day nurse for him, and I would have called in someone, else to see him besides that rather drony old person, Dr. Paul.

Still, to feel dissatisfied does not give a nurse , any sense of power, and all that really happened might never have been discovered but for an accident.

On one very hot afternoon in August I had been sitting with my little  patient for some time. The thermometer had risen to about eighty-five in the shade, and it was with great difficulty I could keep the room, even in that great house, cool enough for the child.

With the aid of ice, however, and electric fans, I had managed to soothe the little fellow off to sleep. He had had a very bad attack of haemorrhage the night before, and looked so weak and shadowy as he lay softly breathing out what I felt sure was his very life that my heart was in my mouth as I watched him.

Suddenly a great resolution took possession of  me, I would step out of my  province as nurse and urge Dr. Paul to call in further medical advice without a moment's delay. Little Peter, when quite well, was attended by a very faithful old servant, whom he called Nana. In all the world, he loved Nana next best to his father, and it occurred to me now that I might safely leave the sleeping boy in her care for a short time while I put on my bonnet and cloak and went to see Dr. Paul, giving the woman explicit directions what to do in case the child awakened. I left the room on tip-toe, dressed quickly, and went out of the house.

Dr. Paul was a great man in his way. I have nothing whatever to say against him . He was simply, in my opinion, a little past his work. There were younger men who had superseded him in thought and knowledge, and it was one of these I should now like to call to little Peter Laurence's bedside. It seemed to me simply, outrageous that the cause of the haemorrhage was not discovered — discovered, and, of course, put a stop to.

I arrived at the doctor's house, a big one in Harley-street, and to my inquiry if Dr Paul were within was answered in the affirmative.

'He is very busy with his patients, just now,' said the man who opened the door for me— and he knew me quite well, for I happened to be one of Dr. Paul's favourite nurses— 'but if you will step into the little antechamber just off the waiting-room, I will let him know as soon 'as possible, that you have arrived.'

'I shall be greatly obliged to you, Michael,' I answered, 'for I naturally want to get back to my patient as soon as possible.'

The man nodded and smiled, and showed me into a small room, which was scantily furnished, and was evidently little used. A door, however, from this room led into the dining room, where Dr. Paul's patients usually awaited their turn to go to see him. I noticed now that the door was slightly ajar.

I was about to rise and shut it, for I have a great dislike even to appear to eavesdrop, when, to my, astonishment,' it was opened, and two people entered the little room where I was waiting for the doctor. There was a screen between me and the door, and, scarcely knowing why I did so, I stepped behind it, for the people in question were Dr. Laurence and a lady of about thirty years of age.

I had an unaccountable and strong aversion to Dr. Laurence, knowing that I was taking the initiative with regard to the child's case, and also something which I could not define at the moment, but which I now believe to have been the prompting of Providence, caused me to take shelter behind the screen. Dr. Laurence, thinking himself alone, shut the door, and then turned to the lady.

I had caught a glimpse of her face, which was handsome after a certain sort. She was dressed almost as a girl, in white embroidered muslin, and  she wore tied loosely round her throat a cloak of pink Liberty satin. On her head she had a little toque or very small hat; composed entirely of pink roses. Her dress was very elegant, and I saw at once that she was the sort of woman whom a man might easily lose his heart to. It had never occurred to me' up to that moment that Dr. Laurence was thinking of marrying again but when I saw this lady I immediately perceived that such was the case, and that; in short, she was the person, on whom he had set his heart.

'Well,' she said, in an impatient voice, 'have you any news for me?'

'No good news, ' he replied. 'The child grows weaker daily.'

She gave an impatient, sigh. Then she said, with a queer laugh which caused my blood to run cold in my veins:

'You are still his night nurse, aren't you, Walter?'

'Yes,' he said, abruptly. Then he added: 'The boy gets every care. No one could possibly be a more attentive day nurse than the woman Sorrell, and I naturally take care of my own child at night.'

'He is not your own child,' she said, and at these words I nearly jumped; 'he is only your stepson.'

'Yes, yes,' he replied; 'yes, yes, but I love him as my own. When my dear wife died, she left him in my care. I have been a father to him. But let us change the subject, Sybil. You will keep to your word, you will marry me, won't you?'

How I did long to, get out of that room, but I was caught now like a mouse in a trap. My own prayer was that Michael should not find me hiding behind the screen, and Dr. Laurence and the woman he called Sybil making love to each other in another part of the room.

'You will marry me— you will be true to your promise?' he repeated.

'You know the conditions,' she said. 'I will marry no poor man.'

What his answer was was altogether too low for me to hear, and a minute or two later, to my infinite relief, the pair returned to the general waiting: room. I had now changed my mind.

I immediately slipped out of the room where I had- overhead remarks which gave me a clue to an awful possibility.

Little Peter Laurence was in reality; therefore, only Dr. Laurence's : stepson. His name could not be Laurence at all. What was his name? What had. this woman, Sybil, to do with the matter? I hated her face for all its beauty. I hated her appearance, for all its elegance.

There was an honest, indignant heart within me, and I hurried, back to Portman-place with the, fiercest of all resolves. Come what would, I would save that innocent, child. The child was in danger.

'You look hot, nurse,' said old Nana, when I entered the pleasant room, cool now, for the sun had gone off it, where the child was lying, supported by pillows and playing feebly with some toy horses, which Dr. Laurence had brought him, the day before.

There was never a day that Dr. Laurence did not give the child a fresh toy, and the sweet expression of his pretty eyes and the gentle, low tones of his voice when he said, 'Oh, tank oo, daddy,' recurred now to my memory.

He smiled when he saw me, and I went up to him and kissed him.

'Better, Peterkins?' I said.

'Oh, yes;' he, answered only so seepy.'

'Poor lamb,' said old Nana. 'He wouldn't touchy his tea, although I coaxed him all I could to eat.'

'Not hungry,' said Peterkins; and, he began to play with his horses, putting them in one position and then in another; then suddenly pushing them away as though they tired him.

'Nana,' l said, suddenly, 'will you come with me for a minute into the dressing-room?'

She obeyed at once, gathering up her knitting and glancing back at the boy and smiling.

When we got: into the dressing room I closed the door between that and the one occupied by my little patient.

'I want to ask you a question,' I said. 'You are devoted to little Peter, aren't you?'

'I have had him from birth,' she replied, and tears came into her old eyes.

'What sort of a woman was his mother?' was my next remark.

'An angel; no less. God took her when the boy was three years old.'

'What was her name before she married Dr. Laurence?'

Old Nana looked queer. 'Before she married Dr. Laurence?' she remarked. 'Her maiden name, do you mean?'

'No, the name of her first husband.

'Oh, then,' said Nana, 'you have found that out?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Why was it ever kept from me? Dr. Laurence is the boy's stepfather. What was his father's name?'

'I was told not to tell,' said old Nana. 'I never could guess why, but I was warned not to gossip. The child's name is Roscoe. He will be a very rich man if he lives. The money is all his. Bless you, Dr. Laurence couldn't keep up this house and these servants. Everything is held in trust for the child, for Dr. Laurence is the trustee. My mistress thought no end of, him. I think she married him poor, dear, just to get someone to protect her boy.'

'And if the boy should die, Nana,' I said, 'to whom would the money belong then?'

Nana gave me a queer look. 'I don't like it,' she said. 'I have dreamt of it at nights; I have thought of it by day. It is wicked for me to say my thoughts.'

'No, no; it isn't, it isn't,' I said  'You and I have something to do between us. Now just tell me the truth. If little Peter dies, to whom will the money go?'

'To Dr. Laurence himself; unconditionally, to do what he likes with; and it's a big fortune.'

I sank down on the nearest chair. Events. were developing with rapidity. I felt my heart in my mouth. Nana kept looking at me out of her blinking old eyes. After a time she rose, came up to me in a tottering fashion, and touched me on the shoulder.

'What is up, Nurse Sorrell?' she said. What is up?'

After a pause, I said: 'As far as I can say, there is only one thing up at present, and that is that I watch the boy at night and you will help me in the daytime.'

'But the doctor,' said the old woman; 'he's the most splendid nurse, and he loves the child like anything. I have seen him— I have watched him when my missis was dying, and I have watched him since. He is wrapped up in the child, he is— fairly wrapped up in him.'

'Still,' I answered, slowly, 'the money goes to Dr. Laurence if the child dies ; and, the child is very ill now, Listen, Nana. You and I don't want his money to go to the doctor, do we?'

'No, no,' she said.

'Then our business is to keep Peterkins alive.'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'But I don't like his look.'

'Never mind about his look,' I interrupted. 'Our object is to watch him day and night. Do you understand? Day and night; and I shall force Dr. Paul to get fresh advice. Now tell me something else, and then you may go upstairs and lie down, for you are none too strong yourself. Why, you are shaking all over this minute.'

'It's the hot weather,' she said, in a pathetic sort of way, 'and the look in the child's eyes. I didn't like the look in his eyes when he woke from his sleep this afternoon. They reminded me somehow of my poor missis.'

'Nana,' I said, 'you are faithful— you won't breathe to a soul anything I say to you?'

'Not I,' she answered . 'I am close,' she added — 'I am close as wax.' She pressed her hand to her old heart.

'That is what I thought; I felt somehow that I could trust you. Now then I want to ask you, a question. Have you ever heard of a lady whom your master calls Sybil?'

'That was the Lady Sybil Grey,' she replied at once.

'Ah, perhaps so,' I replied. 'And who is Lady Sybil Grey?'

'She is a young lady who used to come here, a good bit in the spring with her mother when the doctor was recovering from typhoid fever.'

'Oh! Dr. Laurence had typhoid fever in the spring, had he?'

'Yes, and very near death he were for days they gave him up altogether. But he pulled round wonderfully, and lots of people say he owed his recovery in a great measure to Lady Sybil, for she and her mother used to come every day and have tea with him and he took such a sight of trouble getting the place in order for her and having the nicest and most dainty tea you can imagine that, as Dr. Paul said, it gave him a fresh: lease of life I don't know the hang of the words myself, but I know that was the expression. Dear little Peterkins didn't do him half the good Lady Sybil did, I although the child was that devoted and miserable while he was so ill.'

'Thank you, I answered. 'It never, occurred to you, did it, that your master might— might— marry Lady Sybil Grey?'

The old woman laughed. 'She wouldn't be likely to take him. Why, my master has no money at all, except what he gets through little Peterkins. Why, he couldn't settle a penny on her, and it's my shrewd opinion that for she was so pretty and taking she had an eye to the main chance.'

'Right you are there, Nana,' I said, almost joyfully. 'And now just keep everything I have said to yourself, only be ready to help me with your services at any moment I may require them.'

'That I will, my dear— that I will. And it's an ease to my mind to have talked to you, Nurse Sorrell, for I don't like the look of the child at all.'

IT WAS impossible for me to sleep that night— how could I, knowing what I did? There was the father— the stepfather— the handsome, quiet, dignified-looking man, who yet was a devil within. I knew it, I knew it well— it was entirely to his interest that the little boy should die. How was it possible, therefore, for me to sleep?

In the dead of night I rose very softly, put on some soft woollen socks over my shoes, and went downstairs. The boy's room was on the first floor— a large and spacious chamber. I had on purpose oiled the door the night before, and opened it so softly that not a sound was audible. There .was a screen shadowing the door, in case any draught should reach the child . The child was lying on his back, supported by many pillows.

Dr: Ernest Paul had given directions that the child was to take a certain medicine, which was to act upon the constantly recurring haemorrhage, every . two hours. During the day he had the medicine, and in consequence scarcely ever suffered from haemorrhage.. I, carefully watching, noted that the attacks came on as a rule at night.

I stood, trembling not a little behind the screen. If the doctor by any chance left the room he would see me, and then all would be up.

I prayed as I had never prayed before. I knew the exact hour when the child was to have his next dose of medicine. From where I stood I could see the little clock on the mantelpiece. The boy was wide awake— I heard him moaning. I heard his father bend over him and say, 'After you've had your medicine you'll be better, little man.'

At last the hour struck when he was to have it. If the father had gone by the doctor's directions the last dose was given at midnight, the next would be due at two o'clock.

The moment the hour struck the child said something in a faint, failing voice. The father said, 'All right, Peterkins, all right.'

He then carefully poured out a dose of medicine from the bottle into a small medicine glass; he held the glass up between himself and the light, then he walked across the room. Both of the large windows were wide open, for it was summer, and the boy wanted as much fresh air as possible.

I clasped my hands. I saw Dr. Laurence cross the room to the window— the boy could not see his action— and fling the contents of the glass out of the window; he then rinsed it carefully in water, filled up the same amount of cold water in the medicine glass, mixed it with a little sugar, and brought it to the child. '

'Ah, that's right, isn't it, my little man?' he said.

The child was, thirsty— he sipped eagerly at the; medicine.

'I like it, fader,' he said. 'I like your medicines— they're much nicer than nurse's medicines.'

'They're the same, my darling,' said the man.

The boy paused and looked fixedly at him.

'They don't taste the same,' he said.

'Listen, Peter.'

'Yes, fader.'

'You're never to say to nurse that they don't taste the same.'

'No, fader, 'course not. Besides, I like 'em best— your ones. I mean.'

'That's right, my boy.'

It was my custom to give the child, immediately after his medicine, a very strong dose of beef tea. The man prepared it just as I would have done, and flung it also out of the window. He gave the boy a very little milk and water.

My very heart stood still. I waited until four o'clock struck. The same scene was repeated — the medicine was poured out of the bottle and flung out of  the window: the child was given sugar and water, the beef-tea was substituted by a weak concoction of milk and water.

I went upstairs. Now the case was clear, I could wait no longer.

EARLY THE next morning I went down to the child's room. He looked like death itself.

'Ah, nurse,' said Dr. Laurence, who was lying back in a chair, half dozing.

'I'm afraid we've had rather a bad night of it; not much haemorrhage, that's one good thing, but I shall be glad to lie down.'

'You look tired,' I answered.

I was anxious to get him out of the room. The moment he had gone I gave the child a dose of medicine, which was to stop the haemorrhage, and also a strong cup of-beef tea. The little fellow revived.

'How I love you, nurse!' he said, and he slipped his dear little hand into mine.

About seven o'clock I went downstairs to old Nana.

''Nana,' I said. 'I want to go out as soon as possible, but I shan't be very long. No, don't question me, because I can't tell you what I know. No, I won't be very long. Go up and watch him, don't leave him alone with his father.'

Nana promised all too eagerly.

'I'll save him, Nana, I'll save him,' I said.

She shook her head, repeating the words which she had said so often before. 'Ah, me! I don't like the look in his eyes.'

Then I went straight to see Dr. Ernest Paul.

'Why, nurse!' he exclaimed, 'what's the matter? Anything fresh? I must tell you that I wasn't quite satisfied with the state of little Peter Laurence yesterday.'

'Nor was I, doctor, and I have good reason not to be satisfied. And now will you listen to me, for I have something to tell you.'

I then, without a moment's hesitation, related what had occurred on the previous day, the interview between Lady Sybil Grey and Dr. Laurence, which I had overheard in the doctor's own waiting-room, and also what had occurred during the night. The medicine flung out of the window, instead of being given to the child, the beef-tea thrown away, and the little boy kept alive by a drop of milk and water and sugar. The doctor's eyes flashed fire.

'Are you certain of your words? Do you know what a terrible accusation you are bringing against that man?'

'I am prepared to go into any Court of Justice in the land,' replied I, 'and to repeat it. Do you know that on that child's death depends Dr. Laurence's future? Do you know that every penny that little child possesses will go to the doctor should he die? The doctor is in love with Lady Sybil Grey. Oh! there's motive enough.'

'I shall go there immediately,' said Dr. Paul, 'and bring with me fresh advice. There's the great Sir Robert Barnes. I'll give him a hint beforehand, and he'll recommend what is to be done.'

Dr. Laurence was present when, about eleven o'clock that day, Dr. Ernest Paul, accompanied by the great specialist, entered the chill's room.

Laurence turned pale when he saw the other doctor.

'Why have you brought a fresh opinion without letting me know?' he said.

'I didn't like the child's case yesterday, and thought it well to do so,' was the doctor's remark. 'Will you kindly now, sir, leave the room and allow Sir Robert and myself to examine the child? The nurse, of course, remains.'

The examination was brief, and the two doctors afterwards went into the dressing-room, beckoning me to follow them.

Sir Robert said: 'I in every respect agree with Dr. Paul. The child's lungs are healthy, I detect nothing wrong under the stethoscope. But this constant haemorrhage will kill the little fellow in the end, the excessive loss of blood is affecting the heart most considerably. Now I intend to send in a nurse of my own— her name is Sister Mary— she will take the charge of the child at night.

'Yes,' said Dr. Paul, 'that is quite settled, and we give up the case unless the father agrees.'

Dr. Laurence. certainly looked annoyed when he heard that Sister Mary was to come as night nurse, but after a minute he smiled, and said cheerfully. 'Ah, I have indeed to thank you both, my good friends, for your interest in my little man— of course you can well imagine how I value, his previous life.'

Sister Mary arrived about nine o'clock that evening. I took her to my own room, and gave, her a hint of what was going on. I could not possibly tell her all, but I besought of her to be careful, and not on any account whatsoever to leave the child. She promised faithfully, and I went to my room to try and sleep. The boy had been, on the whole, better during the day. I lay down on my bed, my heart was beating irregularly, and I found that, tired as I was, sleep would not visit me.

ABOUT two o'clock slipped downstairs, just as I had done the night before. I opened the door carefully and peeped in. There I saw the nurse, the great nurse, Sister Mary, fast asleep, in her chair! The doctor was bending over the boy and giving him a dose of medicine, I heard his little weak voice say:

'Not that, daddy — I hate that, daddy, not that, daddy!'

'Take it,' said the doctor, in a gruff voice, 'take it.'

The child swallowed it. Almost immediately afterwards there was a violent attack of haemorrhage.

The doctor went to the bell and rang it furiously, the nurse awoke; in the confusion I managed to slip the bottle out of which the doctor had taken the medicine into my pocket. Sister Mary and I did our best for the child. I sent a servant from the, house to fetch Dr. Paul at once. He arrived very soon. The little fellow to all appearances was dying fast. .

'What can be wrong?' said Dr. Paul. 'And is it possible, Sister Mary, that you. fell asleep?'

'I can never forgive myself,' she replied. Tears filled her eyes, poor girl. "I was sitting beside the bedside, feeling so comfortable, when the 'doctor came in. He spoke to me about the boy most affectionately, and then he said: 'I will give you something which will keep you awake all night.

'He gave me a cup of coffee— of course, it was drugged— a moment or two afterwards I became intolerably drowsy, and then I fell asleep.'

'And I have something to say,' I said. 'Doctor Paul, will you kindly analyse the contents of this bottle? I saw Dr. Laurence give a dose to the child while the nurse was asleep.'

Dr. Paul's face was very white. He went straight back to his own house; he returned in about two hours; he asked to see Dr. Laurence. A moment later a bell was rung, and I was asked to go down to Dr. Laurence's room on the ground floor.

'Nurse,' said Dr. Paul, 'I have analysed the contents of this bottle. It contains a drug which I need not mention to you, but which we doctors well know; it is given in particular cases to encourage, when it is necessary to life, haemorrhage, and, therefore, in the case of the boy, was practically akin to murder. Now, sir, I don't know what your motive was— but I can make this extremely unpleasant for you. I intend to-day to remove this little boy to my own house. I believe that with Nurse Sorrell's care and my own we can save his life. Things are very black against you, Dr. Laurence. You can have your liberty if you don't object to the boy going.'

'Oh, let him go, let him go!' said Dr. Laurence. 'The horrible things that are said of a man who has devoted his whole life to his boy!'

'Doctor,' I said, 'I have been suspecting you for some time. I saw you throw the medicine ordered by Dr. Paul out of the window. I saw you also throw away the beef-tea.'

'You— cat!' he said.

'I was watching you behind the screen,' was my remark, 'and when you were attending to that dreadful attack of haemorrhage, I took the bottle out of which you had just given the child a dose. I was determined that you should not escape.'

A few hours later, with the utmost care, the little fellow was removed to Dr. Paul's luxurious house, where he was nursed back to life, and, further, Dr. Paul, at the request of the lawyers, became little Peter's guardian. He is now quite well, and as strong as a boy need be.

As to Dr. Laurence, he thought it best to leave the country, for the story, in spite of all precautions, got more or less abroad, and certainly Lady Sybil Grey refused to have anything to do with him

_________________

10: The Ballydoyle Regatta

Daily News (Perth) 6 September 1913

IN THE PARLOUR of the Jury Hotel at Ballydoyle the Regatta Committee sat in solemn conclave. Outside, in the private bar, some of the most prominent citizens of the town discussed the unprecedented situation which had arisen. It was a situation fraught with the direst consequences to the tradesmen, the hotel keepers, and indirectly, to the mass of tho Ballydoyle people. Nothing less than the utter ruin and complete abandonment of the regatta, and the consequent loss of an annual golden harvest from the visitors whom the regatta attracted to the town, estimated variously from a thousand to ten thousand pounds, according to the generous mood of the statistician, was at stake.

Would Robert Joyce, captain of 'The Pride of the West' rowing club, prove himself a patriot in this hour of trial, and sinking all vain, personal ambitions, consider only the welfare of his native town? It rested entirely with him— that everybody recognised.

For two years the 'Pride of the West' had won the cup by half a dozen lengths or on with the greatest ease; that they could win it a third year if they pleased ,was apparent; as the landlord of The Jury Hotel put it; to the meanest intellect. And if they won it, tho regatta was finished for good and all, for, according to tho bequest of the gentleman since dead, who had presented the cup for competition, the trophy became' tho property of the club winning it three years in succession.

And where could they got another cup? There was nobody in the whole town of Ballydoyle, or in the neighbourhood, for the matter of that, who would put in the money and, consequently, the regatta was doomed— unless, of course, Robert Joyce could be persuaded not to row, or to guarantee that his eight would lose tho race to one of the three other competing clubs.

Inside the parlour Michael Jamieson, captain of the Bann Rowing Club, had expounded the situation for the hundredth time.

"Will you, or will you not, withdraw your boat, Robert Joyce, that's what we want to know?' he said, banging the table in front of him-with his fists.

Robert Joyce, a tall, handsome young man in homely tweeds, who sat isolated on one side of the table facing the three captains of rival clubs, shook his head.

'I will not, Michael Jameson, and there you have it. You know Kathleen Foley has set her heart on having the cup as an ornament for her sideboard, you know that she has sworn not to marry me until the 'Pride of the West' wins, and will I, do you think, throw away the prettiest girl in the whole of Ballydoyle just to please the likes of you?'

'Have you no public spirit?' put in one of the other captains.

'I have, John Nolan, but it doesn't run to losing Kathleen.'

'An' will that be your final word, Robert Joyce?' queried Jamieson.

'It is. The 'Pride of the West' will row in the regatta, and unless you can beat them, we'll have the cup.'

Michael Jamieson rose to his feet.

'I think we'll be going,' he said to his two allies, 'but before we go I'd like to record the sebtiment of tho majority of the Committee that never in the history of the Ballydoyle Regatta have we had before us an example of such unreasonable and such unpatriotic conduct."

He rounded out his sentence with the emphatic flourish of a public orator to the vociferous 'Hear, hears' of his two supporters.

Robert Joyce remained, unmoved.

'You could settle the matter easy enough without all this fine talk if you wished,' he said, also rising to his feet,

'Maybe you'll tell us how we can do that?' questioned Jamieson eagerly.

Robert Joyce moved his six-foot-two body across the floor to the door.

'Easy enough,' he said. 'Let one of your boats row a little faster than the 'Pride of the West' and the matter is settled."

With this parting shot he went out, banging the door behind him. Left alone the three remaining members of the Committee stared blankly into one another's faces.

'There's only one thing to be done,' Jamieson said at last, breaking the silence, 'We must persuade Kathleen Foley to abandon her conditions, and then, maybe, Robert Joyce will do the right thing. If that fails, we've only one other remedy.'

His companions tried to show their intelligence by preserving silence. Michael Jamieson, finding that there was no chance of his own sagacity being emphasised, proceeded to explain. '

'I've a brother in Dublin at the college, where we have some first-class oars, and we'll Just ask them to send down a boat— they'll do it fast enough, my brother says— and they'll beat the 'Pride of the West'. I and save the Cup.'

It seemed a suggestion which, opened up the path of salvation for the Ballydoyle Regatta, and the committee there and then, as they officially formed a quorum, agreed to Jamieson's proposal that an invitation should be sent to the Liffey Rowing Club to enter for the Ballydoyle Cup, provided that their efforts to persuade Kathleen Foley proved abortive.

It was Michael Jamieson who that evening formally introduced tho deputation from the committee to Miss Foley as sho stood in the doorway, of her mother's house in The Diamond.

Had they not been blinded by the gravity of the situation to all other considerations, they would have recognised the reasonableness of Joyce's attitude, for from her head, crowned with its luxuriant mass of blue-black hair, to her dainty little feet, Kathleen Foley was a charming girl of nineteen as ever breathed tho air of Ireland.

She listened to the ornate language of the deputation's spokesman with the suspicion of a twinkle in her eye.

'You're a credit to whoever taught you to speak, Mr. Jamieson,' she said. 'You're the prettiest talker in Ballydoyle, but if Robert Joyce doesn't bring me the Mullingar Cup, he'll be no husband of mine."

In vain the committee  argued. Miss Foley was by turns coquettish and ironical, but she never swerved from her position. She had made her bargain with Robert Joyce: if he won the cup he should have her hand. If he failed, well, there were other men in Ballydoyle.

The committee accepted their defeat with fortitude as might be, and having failed in this attempt to save the fortunes of the Ballydoyle Regatta, they returned to the alternative proposition. That same night a formal, invitation was sent to the Liffey Rowing Club, to enter for the cup.

ii

ROBERT Joyce was the most unpopular man in Ballydoyle. The efforts that had been made to convert him to a right frame of mind by the committee had been continued in a more forcible manner by the people in the town. The hotel-keepers, shopkeepers, and retailers of liquor united for the purpose, of dissuading the 'Pride of the West' from taking part in the race.

By sheer force of public opinion, they hoped to make him change his mind at he eleventh hour. The crew dared not set their feet within any place of refreshment within the town. Little boys pelted them with stones and mud, and as the days went by the anger of the populace, carefully fostered by the trading community, increased in violence. It was only by calling in police protection, indeed, that the eight were able to secure their daily practice on the Ione reaches of the Bann, and from the time they started to the time they returned to the boat-house they were the mark for the missiles of the angry crowd that swarmed on the banks.

The captains of the three rival boats had preserved, as long as they could, the secret of their invitation of the Liffey Rowing Club, but, when at last it became known that a first-class eight from Dublin was to be brought down , to save the situation, life for the 'Pride of the West' became very bitter and very strenuous indeed. Howls of laughter greeted their performances on the water. If they ventured to walk abroad the street urchins shouted after them. 'The Dublin boys are after yer.' The captain was pestered with questions as to what he intended to do with the cup. Handsome offers were made to cox of the use of telescopes, so that he might keep the Liffey boat in view, and all the irony and wit of which the ingenious minds of the people of Ballydoyle were capable were employed to heap ridicule upon the 'Pride, of the West.'

Robert Joyce tried to keep a stout heart throughout these days: of stress,' and trained his crew as rigorously as circumstances would permit. But, although he pretended in public that he would teach the Dublin boys how to row, in his heart of hearts he was convinced that the 'Pride of the West' stood no chance whatsoever of winning the cup for the third year in succession.

His men were rapidly going to pieces; two had black eyes from defending the honour of their club with their fists. There was hardly one who had escaped the shower of stones with which they were daily greeted. What with patches and plaster, the eight grew every twenty-four hours more like a comic crew in some water extravaganza than a serious boat with intentions of taking part in a serious race.

Three days before the race the excitement in the town reached its height, and the violence of the popular rage against the 'Pride of the West' exceeded all bounds.

Robert Joyce, on his way to the house of Kathleen Foley in the Diamond, was seized by the mob, and only by most strenuous exertions managed to release himself and take refuge in the doorway of Mrs. Foley's house.

As he stood there, looking down on the sea of threatening fists and sticks, listening to the long sullen roar of 'Traitor,' the door behind him suddenly opened, and Kathleen stepped out calmly to his side. A deeper volume of anger seemed to well up from the throats of the mob at the sight of a girl whose whim, they believed, was the cause of the trouble.

Alarmed for her safety, Joyce would have drawn her inside and closed the door, but she resisted and imperiously bade him mind his own business Standing with her hands on her hips, she smiled calmly down upon the angry crowd, until even their unreasoning anger gave way before their admiration for her radiant beauty and her pluck.

Gradually the noise and confusion ebbed until only a few voices here and there were to be heard. Then Kathleen suddenly raised her hand as if to ask for a hearing.

'I hope you're all proud of yourselves,' she said, in her soft musical voice, 'I  hope you have all enjoyed your sport; two hundred of you chasing one man! One of you, maybe, would like to break your stick over my head? Nice people you are, to concern yourselves with the honour of Ballydoyle. What do you care about Ballydoyle, indeed, when you have to get a dirty lot of foreigners from Dublin to try and beat a crew that has been born and bred in Ballydoyle? Indeed, an' I hope you're all proud of yourselves. You want the Ballydoyle cup to go to Dublin— nice patriots you are, for all you can shout 'Traitor' at the bidding of other men. If this is your fine idea of patriotism you're welcome to it, but you needn't try to murder an unarmed man, or break into the house of two defenceless women, whose only fault is that they were born in Ballydoyle, and want to see the Ballydoyle cup won by Ballydoyle men, and not to see it taken to Dublin, where any time that anybody looks at it he will laugh at Ballydoyle and mock at its people.'

She stopped breathless; a vivid flash of colour in her cheeks. The crowd, which had remained silent while she was speaking, seemed to be stung suddenly into a roar of cheers. In the few seconds in which she had spoken the whole sentiment of the mob had changed.

'It's true, every word that Miss Foley says,' shouted a man at the back of the crowd. 'It's Michael Jamieson that's the traitor, getting these foreigners from Dublin. The Ballydoyle cup for Ballydoyle men! and three cheers for Robert Joyce and the 'Pride of the West'!'

A great shout rent the air as the three cheers were given, followed by three more for Kathleen Foley.

As if by common instinct the crowd swerved forward, and those in front, seizing Robert Joyce, he was carried shoulder high round the Diamond until the police broke up the procession with the butt-ends of their rifles.

Kathleen Foley, however, had sown the seeds of discord. The town was divided into two camps, the majority with the watchword, 'The Ballydoyle cup for the Ballydoyle people' siding with Robert Joyce and the 'Pride of the West,' the rest, composed mostly of the tradespeople of the town and their hangers-on, supporting Michael Jameson, crystallising their policy into the words, 'Save the Ballydoyle cup for the Ballydoyle people.'

Never did nine men, coming down for a sporting event, meet with such an extraordinary reception as that which fell to the lot of the Liffey Rowing Club when they arrived at Ballydoyle on the evening before the regatta.

A body of police held the station and its immediate surroundings. On the platform a deputation of the tradesmen and hotelkeepers' alliance was in waiting, with Michael Jameson, as representative of the Regatta Committee, as spokesman.

In one of his most flowery speeches, Jameson assured them that the people of Ballydoyle appreciated the exhibition of camaraderie and good fellowship— the outstanding characteristic of true sportsmen— which had prompted them to come so nobly to the assistance of Ballydoyle, and at so much personal inconvenience to save to the people of Ballydoyle that great water festival which had so long been the pride and the glory of the town.

One of the Dublin eight, with a peculiar taste for grammar, estimated that Michael Jameson missed the principal verb three times in three separate periods, and made the calculation that he used only six full-stops in the course of a, speech lasting well over a quarter of an hour. The welcome accorded them by the people of Ballydoyle, however, seemed hardly in tune with the opinion voiced by Michael Jameson.

The hearts of the people of Ballydoyle might beat like one in the true-glowing warmth or their affection for the nine noble sportsmen from Dublin,' 'but they expressed it mostly beyond the barrier of police, outside the station, , with a tempest of hisses and groans and not a few stones that fell dangerously about the four jaunting-cars, as the Liffey crew were carried to the Jury Hotel.

It might be true that the people of Ballydoyle were proud of the opportunity of extending their hospitality to the representatives of aquatic athletics in the capital of our great country, but none the less, the Liffey Rowing Club dined that night with a cordon of police round the hotel and to the accompaniment of a never-ceasing roar of angry shouts.

iii

BUT there was nothing wrong with the hospitality, except so far as it might be considered excessive. The Tradesmen and Hotel Keepers' Alliance, with a view to showing how much they appreciated the saviours of their cause, exhausted themselves in the multiplication of toasts and the complexity of their drinks.

Nine very sad but brutally sober men made their way down to the banks of the Bann in the centre of a phalanx of their supporters the following morning. The surroundings were inspiriting, but hardly of the kind to suit a crew who to a man had violent headache. The noise was deafening, and the scene on the riverside was more like the opening of a primitive battle than the preliminaries of a boat-race.

As if by common agreement the rival factions had each taken up their position on separate banks— the supporters of Robert Joyce on the left, and backers of the Liffey Rowing Club on the right. A fierce fusillade of stones was in progress when a deafening howl announced the arrival of the nine Dublin men.

The eights got afloat with difficulty, the 'Pride of the West' having to put back to unload a small cargo of stones. At last both boats managed to rake up a position at the starting-post, the Liffey boat rocking ominously, and the whole crew, from the pallid little cox in the stern to the weary crew looking more fit for a twelve hour rest in bed than a race over a mile and a haIf course.

'Ballydoyle forever!' yelled one faction. 'Save the cup for Ballydoyle!' came the answering shout, accompanied by a perfect cloud of missiles.

The police on either side laid about them with the energy which distinguishes the Irish constabulary, and forced some sort of order out of the chaos, but not before the cheek of 'three' in the Liffey boat had been cut open' by a stone from one of his own supporters. Just as the pistol was fired for this the first heat of the race, a huge rock, not unlike one of those classical weapons which occasionally did so much execution on the plains of Troy, struck the, stern of the 'Pride of the West' boat, hopelessly damaging the rudder and almost sinking the craft. Howls of delight went up from the other bank.

At that moment, the starting-shot was fired.

It was not exactly a scientific start; both crews plugged disgracefully, and the Liffey boa,t sped on to triumph by a well-meant shower of stones intended for its rivals, almost capsized. As it was, 'four,' who had reclined peacefully the night before under the same table at which he had dined, only saved himself from catching a crab with difficulty.

The 'Pride' of the West' got away better, and in the first few seconds gained half a length, but what they made in speed they lost in their steering. Owing to the smashing of the rudder, the cox was utterly unable to regulate the course. With an accuracy almost sublime, the eight headed for a point a hundred yards down the right bank.

Had the cox of the Liffey boat retained complete control of his senses, he would have easied his men until the inevitable had happened; but with no thought in his mind beyond retrieving the utter ruin and disgrace of his washed-out crew, he urged them on their course with blasphemous energy. Robert Joyce at stroke took his men to their fate with unhesitating gallantry. Amidst the roar of the crowd, he could not properly hear the piteous appeal of his cox, but kept his men at their work with zest and determination. Straight across the Bann at an angle of forty-five the 'Pride of the West' sped. In under thirty seconds the inevitable happened.

Suddenly awaking to what had taken place, the cox of the Liffey boat bore in towards the bank as near as he dared, but the course of his rivals was inexorable. About seventy yards from the starting post the oars of the two eights clashed with one another.  In another second bow had been swept from his seat in the Liffey boat, and both boats turned turtle at exactly the same moment. Eighteen men were hidden for a brief space beneath the sluggish waters of the Bann. When they rose to the surface they were greeted with a shower of sticks and stones.

Maddened by what he believed to be a deliberate foul, Robert Joyce made a plunge at the captain of the Liffey boat. The two men went down locked in each other's arms, and rose only again at the approach of asphyxiation to commence their bitter fight over again.

Other members of the rival crews joined in the fray, and from the two banks a flotilla of little boats put out, carrying the partisans of both sides. Disregarding the fighting crews in the water, they met in the middle of the stream with an impact which must have given their occupants some idea of the sensation of ramming a battleship, Then was fought a battle which lived long in the annals of Ballydoyle.

It was fought with every available weapon, from an oar to a rudder swung dexterously by its lines. So fierce was the battle that the occupants of rival boats fell into the water, fighting madly with legs and arms and fists. That nobody was drowned is another testimony to the truth of the statement that the gods pay particular attention to the welfare of the insane.

For twenty minutes or more the battle raged in mid-stream, the parties on either bank taking what share they could in it, wading up to their necks in some cases in hope of being able to get their fingers on the throats of their opponents.

A special section of mounted police was drafted on to the scene with as much despatch as possible by the authorities. The crowds were driven back from the bank. A steam launch, filled with blue-spiked helmets, dashed into the melee, and with a dispassionate regard for faction dealt out blows or rendered first-aid until the river was cleared of the combatants.

The regatta was at an end. Definite instructions were forwarded from headquarters that the authorities would not permit the continuation of the meeting, that year at any rate.

The news was received with unusual calm, except by Robert Joyce. He was chagrined and dejected.

The 'Pride of the West' had not won the cup for three years in succession, therefore he would have to wait another three years before he could claim the hand of Kathleen Foley; and in all probability he ran the chance of not winning either her hand or the cup.

The other members, of the committee, however, and the people of Ballydoyle generally, were pleased at the turn events had taken. The honour of Ballydoyle had been saved, and the cup had not been taken away by foreigners from Dublin; on the other hand, the cup was still open for competition; for three years at least the regatta was safe, and the Tradesmen and Hotelkeepers' Alliance was quite prepared to bury the hatchet now that their object had 'been secured.

In the truce of amity that was silently arranged the Liffey crew had no part. Both parties, seeking an excuse for their late hostility, agreed in ascribing all their troubles to the visitors. They were compelled to leave the town secretly, under police protection, and made their way back to Dublin, cursing the day that they ever entered for the Ballydoyle regatta.

THAT SAME afternoon Robert Joyce, having concluded his business with the Regatta Committee, made his way gloomily to the house of Kathleen Foley. She met him at the door with a little flush upon her cheeks.

'Well, you haven't won the cup, Robert Joyce,' she said, 'so what might you be coming here for?'

He hung his head mournfully.

'Just to look at you,' he said, 'and to ask you if you'll wait another three years.'

'It's too long to wait. You haven't the cup after all.'

He bit his lip angrily, not trusting himself to raise his eyes to hers. 'It's bitter enough as it is, Kathleen, I've tried my best, but, as you say, I haven't the cup—'

'Well, maybe you'll have me instead," she said softly.

He looked up quickly, and read her meaning in her laughing face and the depths of her dancing eyes.

__________________

11: My Lady of the Halls

Telegraph (Brisbane) 1 November 1913

MARIE VINCENT nudged Lord Winton so suddenly in the ribs with her elbow that he lost control for a moment of the motorcar he was, driving, and only by a miracle saved himself from running down a cow straying in the Hertfordshire lane.

"Your old, man's, a bit of a nut, ain't he, Arthur?" she said, a seraphic smile illuminating her piquant face.

"He's not a bad sort, really, dearest— the old governor isn't; but he's awfully prejudiced."

"Yes, I know his sort; full up to the neck with back-number views ; thinks a music-hall artist, a low, degraded woman, only fit to wipe his boots on."

"I don't think the governor would succeed in doing that in your case," answered Lord Winton, with a smile.

"Not much!" exclaimed Miss Vincent, smiling. "But all the same, Arthur, your father is what he is, and my talking to him won't help us to get married, will it?"

That was the great problem which they had come out in Lord Winton's automobile with the express purpose of trying to solve. So far, they had got no nearer the solution, and the obstacles in the path of love seemed as insurmountable as ever.

Marie Vincent was the star of the music halls. Critics had hailed her as a genius; and had deplored the fact that nothing would persuade her to join the legitimate stage. Her portrayal of different phases of life was masterly, and though most of her audiences saw nothing in her performances except matter for hearty laughter, there were those who were more discerning, and realised that her comedy, like all true, great comedy, was based on a sympathy and understanding of human nature, and only separated from tears by the thinnest of veils.

Her success had been phenomenal. From her earliest years she had been trained to, the footlights, and now, at twenty-four, she was earning a salary of £500 a week, and her name was famous in every part of the English-speaking world. Those who knew her, knew her for a good, generous woman, whose heart was always touched by any tale of suffering, and whose purse was always open to give relief.

The ordinary straight-laced person considered her frankly vulgar, and discerned none of her sterling qualities, behind the screen of rather too-gorgeous clothes, and of a conversation that was more racy than polite.

Many men had proposed marriage to her, but she had given her heart to no one until she met Lord Winton, the only son of the Earl of Marshfields; then she had fallen head over heels in love.

It was, perhaps, unfortunate, for society said that she merely wanted a title, and the earl, who prided himself on the nobility of his name and family, openly declared that she was a common adventuress. Moreover, he stated emphatically that Lord Winton should never marry her with his consent.; That was the crux of tho whole matter. Under ordinary circumstances. Lord Winton would have' braved the anger of his father, and married Marie out of hand.

But, unfortunately, there were obstacles in his path. Though he was 23, he had no income of his own, and had to rely entirely on the handsome allowance made him by the earl.

Brought up to no definite profession, his marriage would mean that he must be dependent on his wife, and to this he would not consent. Marie quite agreed with him.

"I shouldn't like a waster for a husband. You must buck up, Arthur, and start some business or other. You know a lot about cars, why don't you go into the motor trade?"

"I would, like a shot, dearest," he had replied; "But, you see, I want capital. I couldn't bear to take any of your money and the only cash I have a chance of getting comes to me when I am 25, provided I marry with my father's consent."

"Well, we're rather up a gum tree, Arthur," was Marie's comment, "unless we can get round tho old man somehow."

They had discussed the situation over and over again during their afternoon drive without any result.

"If you don't marry me, I shall throw, myself into the Thames, Arthur," Marie said in conclusion, "or else relieve my feelings by bringing a breach of promise case."

"It's cursed bad luck," said Lord Winton, savagely. "If you jump into tho Thames, I'll come with you; I couldn't live without you."

He turned to her as he spoke, to discover by the abstraction of her looks that she was not attending to him.

"What are you thinking about, Marie?" he asked.

She did not answer him for a moment, hut with an unusually serious face stared straight in front of her, while the car rolled onwards between the green hedgerows. Then suddenly she smiled, and the smile, as Lord Winton watched It, gradually developed into a frank grin.

"Look here, Arthur, I am going to take that American tour, after all."

"But you said you wouldn't," he protested in alarm.

"Well, you write and tell me that you don't want me to take it because you're going to marry me."

"Why, what the dickens would be the use of that?"

"Never you mind; you just toe the line, and do as you are bid, like a good boy. Also, promise me that whatever I tell you to do, you will do?"

"Of course, I'll do that, but you might tell me what you're driving at."

"You'll know soon enough, you bet, replied Marie, with a wink. "Meanwhile, take me home as quick as you can, for it's after four o'clock and I have got three halls to work to-night."

ii

A MONTH later the Earl of Marshfields stood at his library window, and looking out across the broad and pleasant sweep of his park, felt distinctly that all was well, with the world. He had every reason, to be satisfied. His paternal diplomacy had triumphed, and his son, Lord Winton, with a certain show of reluctance, had consented to write to Marie Vincent at the dictation of his solicitors, breaking oil his engagement. The earl felt that he had got his son, out of a hole, and saved the family from- the scandal of a mesalliance.

True, Marie Vincent had threatened to be unpleasant, but Mr. Parcher had received instructions to see her on the subject, and arrange any reasonable cash settlement, without prejudice.

The earl foresaw no difficulty. The woman, being a music-hall artist, must obviously be an adventuress if she desired to marry his son, and he was at that moment waiting the advent of his solicitor to hear that the. whole; matter bad been satisfactorily wound up. As soon as Mr. Parcher arrived ho was shown into the library.

"Well, Parcher," the earl said, cheerily, "you've settled everything, I hope satisfactorily?"

Mr. Parcher, whose face was somewhat troubled, shook his head gloomily. "Not exactly settled, my lord. The lady was inclined to be rather— shall I say truculent?— and insisted on a settlement to which I could not consent."

"Sit-down, Parcher, sit down, and tell me all about it. Now, what exactly happened?"

The solicitor ensconced himself in one of the carved oak chairs, and, putting the points of his fingers together, began the narrative of his interview with Marie Vincent.

"I followed your instructions, my lord, absolutely. I went to the lady's flat, and put the matter before her clearly. In the first place I told her, as you desired, that we admitted no claim, but that in the case of a person of her class, your lordship was prepared to be generous."

"What did she say to that?"

Mr. Parcher hesitated and looked rather confused, and the earl had to insist upon an answer to his question before he replied.

"Your lordship is, of course, not acquainted with women of that class, and I must toll you that her manners are— shall we say free? To illustrate my meaning, I may mention that she persistently addressed me, in spite of my objections, as Old Parchment, or Mr. Six-and-Eight, and the whole interview was conducted on her side, in the same spurt of vulgar levity,"

"Yes, but what did she say, Parcher?" persisted the earl.

"Well, she told me to tell your lordship to— to go and boil your head, and requested me at the same time to cut the cackle and get to business."

The earl's forehead creased into a frown.

"And this is the creature that my son wished to marry, Parcher!" he exclaimed. "But don't let me interrupt you."

"I then, told her, my lord, that I was instructed to offer her, without prejudice, the sum of one thousand pounds."

"And what did she say to that ?"

"She had the impudence," continued Parcher, choking with anger at the memory of the insult, "to— shall we say chuck?— me under the chin; and to tell me to guess again."

"She demanded more, then?"

"Yes, my lord. She says she didn't want your money, for she was earning over twenty thousand a year— these women make enormous incomes, my lord— but she wanted to punish Lord Winton for having won her heart, and then thrown her aside. She demanded twenty thousand pounds."

"Ridiculous! preposterous!" exclaimed the earl. "You told her so, of course, Parcher ?"

"I told her that it she rejected our offer she would not get a pennypiece, and that, if necessary, we were quite prepared to fight the case."

"Quite right, Parcher. And made her see reason before you finished your unpleasant interview, I hope."

"I'm afraid not, my lord. When I issued my— shall we say ultimatum?— she said 'Right O,' and, telling me that I should hear from her solicitors, opened the door and wished me good-morning."

The earl walked up and down the library floor in a very fury of anger. He had hoped that Marie Vincent would have been only too glad to accept a thousand pounds, and her disdainful refusal of the money hurt his pride.

"Well, we'll fight the case, Parcher. I'd sooner lose twenty thousand pounds than my son should marry her, or I should weakly consent to this woman's blackmail."

iii

THE breach of promise case between Marie Vincent and Lord Winton created a tremendous sensation. The court was crowded with members of society and the theatrical profession, and every detail of the trial was followed with the closest interest. Maria Vincent dressed— even overdressed— in the height of fashion, and looking very charming, went into the witness-box and detailed her story under the examination of her counsel.

From the very first the case was clear, and practically there was no defence. The letters that her counsel had read, in his opening, showed clearly that up to the middle of June Lord Winton had made the most impassioned love to her, and that he had persuaded her to abandon her American tour, by which she had lost fifteen thousand pounds, under a promise of marrying her at once.

Then suddenly his declarations of affection had cooled, and finally she had received the letter announcing his intention of having nothing more to do with her, which was the cause of the action.

In vain the famous K.C. for the defence attempted, in his cross-examination, to paint Marie Vincent as an adventuress for the benefit of the jury. It was generally conceded that the music-hall artist more than held her own.

"What was your motive," he said, in his best sarcastic manner, fingering his eye-glass, "in desiring to marry the defendant "

"A funny old one." Miss Vincent answered promptly, "which perhaps you haven't ever heard of."

"Possibly I appreciate your motive better than you imagine; but kindly answer my question."

"Love, just that— l-o-v-e. Rum thing, isn't it?"

The counsel looked appealingly at the judge, who politely requested the plaintiff to limit her remarks to answering the questions put to her.

"You were influenced by no other motives?" continued counsel.

"None."

"His title and position never entered into your calculations ?"

"Never."

"You never realised, I suppose, that by marrying him, you would be raided from a situation of obscurity to one that many might envy?"

"Situation of obscurity!" exclaimed the Plaintiff. "Why, I am known in every part of the British Empire and the States. You just ask the gentlemen of the jury which name they know best— mine or the defendant's."

Here a smile lit up the jury-box, and counsel hastily shifted his ground.

"Your motives were quite disinterested, then?"

The plaintiff showed signs of agitation. "I tell you I love him," she said, speaking very quickly. "I suppose you think because you wear a wig and spend most of your time in a stuffy court that nobody can fall in love, but they can, and I did, and— and—" She stopped her tirade abruptly, and, putting her handkerchief to hot eyes, broke into uncontrolled sobs.

The rest of her cross-examination was a failure, and it was with a secret feeling of relief that the famous K.C. finally saw her leave the box.

But if the defence in their attempt to mitigate the damages had made a failure with Marie Vincent, they came off even more hardly with the defendant himself, on whose evidence they mostly relied.

Lord Winton excited nothing but contempt in the witness-box. He openly bragged of having made violent love to the plaintiff without ever having had any intention of marrying her. He stated that he engaged himself to her, swearing the most solemn vows, because he found it amusing, and not even his own counsel could extract anything from him that helped to depict him as the foolish young man, who had; been trapped by a crafty woman of the world. The case ended in a verdict for the plaintiff, with the full damages claimed.

Though the Earl of Marshfields was exceedingly wroth at the amount he was called upon to pay on behalf of his son, his anger was somewhat mitigated by the thought that he had had his own way. And that, with him was everything. As long as his will predominated he did not care, and even though it had cost him twenty thousand pounds and more, his son had not married Marie Vincent.

It was in this mood of angry satisfaction that he sat in the library, two days after the payment of the damages. His mind was busy framing a future for his son. Lord Winton was to marry a titled heiress, and the house of Marshfields, which had existed so long and honourably, was to be set on an even firmer foundation, by this union.

Now that the breach of promise case was over he had no fears about Lord Winton. The boy had seem the folly of his ways, and would not allow himself to be trapped a second time. While he was reflecting on those matters he did not hear the library door open, and he was not aware of anybody else's presence in the room until he looked up to see a charming vision in a simple white dress and a big white hat standing in front of him.

"How do, daddy!" said the vision, two of the dearest little dimples appearing on her cheeks, and a pair of the loveliest dark eyes looking out laughingly at him from under their long lashes.

The earl was a gentleman of the old school, and would sooner have died than have remained sitting in the presence of the humblest woman. In spite of tho stiffness in his limbs, and a certain suspicion of gout in his right foot, he made, an effort to rise. The girl went up to the side of his chair, and, putting her arm round him, helped him to his feet in the most businesslike way.

"That's right, daddy," he said. "Your machinery is a bit creaky, but it'll run along for years yet, let's hope."

The earl looked in utter astonishment at the girl, whose face wore a radiant smile, and the more he looked, the more fascinated was he by its beauty.

"My dear young lady," he exclaimed, when he was able to find his tongue, "may I ask who you are, and why you address me in a manner which, however charming, seems hardly appropriate?"

"Don't you know me?" she asked, her head slightly on one side, smiling up at him with a coquetry which warmed the old blood in his veins. The earl shook his head.

"Do you think I'm nice looking?" The question was asked point blank.

"I think you are perfectly charming," said the earl smiling.

"You don't think I'm vulgar and overdressed, and coarse?"

Looking into the liquid depths of those dark eyes, the earl quite lost his head. "I should think not, indeed," he said, indignantly.

"And what's the matter with my manners— anything much?"

"My dear young lady, I don't know why you ask me these questions, but it you really want me to tell you. I think they are as charming as they are original."

"I thought you would like me, somehow, when you got to know me, And now I'm going to kiss you, because you are such a dear old boy."

She bent forward, and putting her arms round the neck of the unresisting earl, pressed a pair of rosy lips to his cheek.

"There," she said, when she had finished the performance, "now we're quite pally and nice, aren't we, daddy?"

The earl looked with puzzled eyes into the girl's beautiful face..

"Why daddy?" he asked.

"Because, old boy," answered the laughing vision in front of him. "I'm your daughter-in-law. Arthur and I were married at a registry office in London yesterday. Now, please don't have a fit. Here, I'll give you something that will buck you up."

She slipped her arms affectionately round his neck again, and kissed him. "Cheer up, old 'oss. You'll get over it all right. Now I must kiss that nasty little wrinkle from your forehead. Bless any stars, you've so many of them you ought to go in for face massage."

She rained kisses on his brow and then stepped back and examined it critically, as if to see whether her kisses had removed the wrinkles. They had had some effect, for the Earl smiled weakly.

"My daughter-in-law!" he gasped. "But who are you ?"

"Why, you dear old owl, can't you guess? Come along over here, and I'll tell you all about it."

She took him by the arm and, pulling him across the room, made him sit down by her side on a settee. There she slipped an arm round his waist and snuggled up to his side, with her beautiful face closed to his.

"Now, daddy, old buck, I'll tell you all about it. I am Maria Vincent— that horrid, coarse, vulgar adventuress (here she kissed the earl on his lips)— and I have married your son. We had to do it in this way, because you were such a stand-offish, get-off-the-grass old chappie; you wouldn't give Arthur that twenty thousand which should come to him when he is twenty-five, and he wouldn't marry me if he had to be dependent on me, so I just brought that breach of promise action, and got the beans out of you for him that way. Rather pulled your dear old leg, I'm afraid, but just tell me you don't mind, and that you'll be a good daddy to me."

The Earl of Marshfields made one heroic effort to recover his outraged dignity, but the sight of that sweet, winsome face pressed close to his was too much for him.

"My dear," he said, in rather a quavering voice, "I couldn't help forgiving you, even if I didn't want to."

He drew her towards him and kissed her on the cheek, a caress to which Marie replied enthusiastically.

Then she jumped to her feet, and bounded across the room. In another moment she had opened the door and admitted the rather shamefaced heir to the earldom.

"Come along, Arthur," she cried, "the dear old boy has forgiven us, and we have only got to let the curtain ring down on the limelight and 'Bless you, my children!' "

________________

12: The Tremendous Adventure of Mr. Jones

West Gippsland Gazette 25 May 1915

i

UNTIL her engagement to Lord Maltravers was announced, society had almost forgotten that Lady Dorothy had ever been married before. Then the newspapers, by the simple process of turning up their back files, published extensively the story of her previous matrimonial experience.

Eight years had elapsed since, at the age of seventeen, she had run away from her father's house with Mr. Ralph Galton, the Australian adventurer, whose meteoric career on the turf has been the sensation of the season. The marriage, which had begun on the top-note of romance had rapidly developed into a sordid tragedy. At the end of a brief six weeks Lady Dorothy had returned to her father's house.

A fortnight later a terrible accident to a racing "special" on which Ralph Galton was known to have been travelling seemed finally to have set her free. Amidst the heap of charred remains that had once been human beings, actual identification was impossible; but though the Coroner's jury returned an open verdict, the general consensus of opinion agreed that Ralph Galton met his death. After the lapse of the legal period, Lady Dorothy applied to the Courts for leave to find her husband dead, and her application was duly granted.

Mr. Jones, who walked in a famous lingerie establishment in Regent-st., was reminded of these circumstances, with which he had acquainted himself through the columns of his newspaper, by seeing no less a person than Lady Dorothy herself enter the shop.

In the course of his day's work he had the opportunity of scanning many lovely faces, but none, he thought, as beautiful as Lady Dorothy's. This preference may have originated in some romantic element that lay unsuspected in his nature, but still there was no question that Lady Dorothy was exceedingly beautiful. It was easy for the most unobservant person to see that those experiences of eight years before had set their mark upon her character.

She was radiantly happy, and she smiled serenely on Mr. Jones as, with the urbane courtesy of his profession, he conducted her to the department she required. But behind all this animation there was a winsome sadness unmistakable.

"Sun looking out through rain clouds," muttered Mr. Jones to himself as he returned to his post near the door. He was so taken with the phrase that he repeated it several times under his breath in order to commit it to memory, so that he might mention it-quite casually to Mrs. Jones at supper.

In recent years he had found it increasingly necessary to impress his wife from time to time with his intellectual superiority. Unfortunately for the cultivation of Mrs. Jones' humility, another matter had obtruded itself upon his attention before he reached his home on the outskirts of London, to the exclusion of all recollection of his meeting with Lady Dorothy.

For the past two or three months Mr. Jones' five feet and a half body had thrust itself upon his notice quite unnecessarily— especially after meals. The fact that such a thing should trouble him when he was only thirty-three caused him not a little anxiety. He had consulted a chemist's assistant, who travelled up by the same train as himself, on his symptoms, but the subsequent swallowing of various unpleasant mixtures and "tablets" had failed to remedy the faults of his mortal machinery.

Then, when a species of despair was setting down upon his soul, hope had come to him in the shape of an advertisement setting forth the hygienic advantages of the Natural Physical Cure Company. In accordance with their suggestion he had sent the fullest particulars of his symptoms and his mode of life, together with a postal order for 10/6d, and had received in reply complete directions for a course of remedial exercises.

Certain strenuous things had to be done morning and evening in the seclusion of his bedroom, but the part of the cure on which the company insisted most stringently was a six-mile run in the country daily. That night was the first night on which he was to enter upon his pursuit of health by natural physical means.

Mrs. Jones was frankly sarcastic as he came down from his bedroom dressed in a sweater, shorts and sandshoes, with which he had provided himself. It was distinctly a costume in which he did not look to advantage; his legs were very thin, and his chest, without the elaborate padding of his professional frock-coat, was extremely narrow.

Mr. Jones had a natural vanity with regard to his own appearance, but an athletic costume was not one in which he would have aspire to distinction among his fellow-creatures, and he was not sorry that the night was dark.

The night was very dark, and, moreover; there was a mist clinging about the streets. As he made his way through the quarter of a mile of suburban thoroughfare that separated him from the open country he was fortunate for his own self-respect in only meeting one passer-by— a newspaper boy, who hooted exultantly, and asked him if he was going to win the Marathon.

He was relieved when the last house was finally passed, and the hedges on either side of the road, looming dimly through the mist, told him that he was free to carry out his exercise without impertinent interruptions.

Pad-pad-pad he went along in the middle of the road, his elbows pressed close to his sides, his fists clenched determinedly. Very slowly he went, for there was an agonising stitch in his side, and moreover it was difficult to see. but the instructions he had received had told him at all costs to keep going, and he manfully struggled to obey. He had mapped out his route beforehand, so as to avoid all necessity of passing through any inhabited districts-up to the sign-post a mile on the main road, then down the side lone for two miles in the direction of Cheshunt Towers, then a turn to the left before the lodge gates were reached and a three-mile run homewards.

Serious doubts as to whether he would be able to stay the course filled his mind, when he turned to the left off the main road. His feet left like lead, and his legs appeared to move automatically. He went slower and slower, till his pace was merely a pretence of a run, not distinguishable from an ordinary brisk walk. He gasped and gulped with the unaccustomed exercise, and a deadly feeling of nausea seized him. He would have liked to stop, if only for a moment, but partly because the instructions were emphatic on the point, and partly because he had paid 10/6d for those instructions, he kept going.

It was when he was almost at the end of his strength, half a mile up the road leading to Cheshunt Towers, that he heard the purring of a motor behind him. As he turned he saw the glare of its lamps coming steadily toward him.

"Nuisance," he muttered to himself. "Must stop now— might get run over. Hang those road hogs."

Very thankfully he pressed himself against the hedge, regardless of the thorns. The motor car came up slowly, almost blinding him with its lights. As it passed him he caught sight for the moment of the sweet face of its occupant. It was Lady Dorothy.

"Lor!" he exclaimed. "Lady Dorothy! Who would have thought— of course she lives at Cheshunt Towers; I'd forgotten. Odd, I should see her again after this morning people do get thrown up together sometimes."

These harmless meditations made Jones linger in his reclining position against the hedge longer than was perhaps quite fair to the Natural Physical Cure Company. When he started moving once more he felt refreshed and the stitch had gone from his side. He began to cover the ground with almost an athletic stride, feeling an unaccustomed vigour.

A quarter of a mile away he could see the lights of the motor car as it moved slowly through the mist and the darkness. He spurted after it with that spirit of vaulting ambition which makes one cyclist try to overtake and pass another cyclist on the road. It seemed to him that he was catching it up at every stride, and then all at once he realised that the lights were stationary and that the car had stopped.

"Accident or something," he muttered, and spurted again, with some intangible idea of being of assistance.

Then suddenly he heard a wild cry aid the noise of scuffling feet that died down quickly. It brought him to a halt, his heart thumping against his ribs tumultuously. He stood in tie middle of the road, rather an absurd figure in his unaccustomed clothes, his arms hanging limply by his sides and his eyes staring with nervous perplexity through the mist and darkness in the direction of the car, now not twenty yards away.

Out of the stillness of the countryside there came to him the voice of a man, the words indistinguishable, and then a woman's voice, crying piteously and appealingly for help. It was that which set Mr. Jones's now very stiff legs moving again— not quickly, for he was appallingly frightened, but slowly and stealthily with the knees bent, bringing his body into the crouching attitude of the animal that seeks to avoid detection.

ii

HE KEPT on the edge of the road near the hedge, where the strip of grass, straggling through layers of dust, deadened the sound of his canvas shoes. A few feet from the rear wheels of the car he sat down on his haunches and listened-a very troubled and a very frightened scrap of humanity.

Dimly he could see the figure of a man-a man of his own height-leaning against the door of the car, his head and shoulders thrust through the window. He was speaking, and every word he uttered reached the ears of Mr. Jones.

"Don't know me, my fine lady, eh? Can't you give a guess? What if I was to tell you my name was Ralph Galton."

"Ralph!" Lady Dorothy's voice was so faint that it reached Mr. Jones like a whisper.

"Yes, Ralph, your husband. Thought I was killed in that railway accident, didn't you? Hoped I was, I expect, but here I am still alive, turned up just in time to stop my darling wife committing bigamy."

A choking sob from the interior of the car was the only answer. "Bless you, don't excite yourself; I don't mind if you commit bigamy or trigamy for that matter; what I want is money, give me money, and you shall never be troubled with the sight of me again."

"I have hardly anything with me. If—"

"Give me what you've got. And your jewels; you are wearing the Cheshunt diamonds, I see; they'll do to go along with for a bit. Give me them quick; I can't hang about here. Off with them."

The man's bullying tone acted like a tonic to Mr. Jones's nerves. For the first time he thought of interfering, and no sooner had that idea taken shape in his brain than a scheme at once formulated itself for putting it into execution. In a flash came two memories, such as peep out for an inexplicable reason in moments of stress.

One was that in the days when he was a draper's assistant, "living in" in an establishment in Tottenham Court Road, he had cultivated, in a mild way, the art of ventriloquism for the amusement and amazement of his companions. The other consisted in a recollection of the terrifying effect produced, even upon an orderly crowd collected round a fallen horse, of a policeman's voice saying "Now then, what's all this about?"

How he came to collate these experiences so as to bring them to bear on the situation he could not have explained, but he acted on the suggestions that his mind had thrown up without the slightest hesitation. Creeping up the side of the hedge until he was almost exactly behind the man, who was still leaning through the open window of the motor car, he drew himself to his full height-five foot six of a Mr. Jones, nervously alert and determined. He wasted no time in hesitation; he was completely master of himself. Suddenly, from behind the car, there came a voice— a reasonably gruff voice that was as like a policeman's as Mr. Jones could manage—

"Now then, what's all this about?"

Mr. Jones had hoped that the wayside marauder would have taken to his heels at the sound of the voice of law and order. He was disappointed. In a moment the man had withdrawn his head from the window, and in a flash his hand went into his pocket, and the answer to Mr. Jones's ventriloquial entertainment was two revolver shots fired wildly into the night.

"Ugh! ugh!" came a sound from behind the car, believed by Mr. Jones to faithfully reproduce the possible dying exclamation of an expiring policeman. The man peered searchingly for a moment into the darkness, and then cautiously, his body bent to scan the ground, he walked a few paces down the lane. A divine rashness filled Mr. Jones's soul. Stepping very softly he followed him, and then suddenly sprang on him from behind and bore him to the ground. He heard the revolver drop on the metal of the road.

Desperately he grabbed for it. He was only just in time, and for a second he had to struggle for its possession, tearing it from the grasp of the other's clutching fingers.

"Now, you!" he said breathlessly, holding the revolver near the other's ear. The man's body beneath him seemed suddenly to develop the qualities of an expanding spring.

He felt himself jerked into the air, and only with great difficulty did he keep astride of his opponent's back. A hand seized the revolver, and then quite unexpectedly and quite unaccountably, as far as Mr. Jones was concerned, it went off.

The man's body became abruptly flaccid. The arched back on which Mr. Jones had been riding so uncomfortably collapsed, and he rolled into the road. As he picked himself up he stood for a moment to look at the motionless figure.

"Lor'!" he exclaimed, "I've killed a man." These feelings only lasted a moment. He was quite exultant when he thrust his head in through the window of the motor car. Lady Dorothy was sitting there, erect, motionless, deathly pale. Her beautiful face seemed as if it had been carved out of marble. The intrusion of Mr. Jones' flushed features, crowned with disordered hair, almost presented the picture of some grotesque creature, peering up through the undergrowth at the embowered statue of a goddess.

"It's all right, my lady; I've done for him; he won't trouble you any more."

She turned her eyes to him slowly, like one who hears things in a dream.

"Who are you?"

"Jones— walking gentleman at Powell & Caterham's— showed you to the department you wanted this morning, my lady. I'm proud to have been of service to you."

"What service have you done me?" she asked in the same dreamy, monotonous voice.

"I've killed him," answered Mr. Jones, hesitating over the blatant definition of his deed. "The man who wanted your money and diamonds. Lady Dorothy seemed to be suddenly galvanised into wakeful activity. Mr. Jones opened the door for her as she made a movement to get out.

"Let me see him," she said. "Where is he?"

"I shouldn't if I were you," protested Mr. Jones. "It can't be a nice sight for a lady. Besides, I haven't got a light."

She took a box of matches from the car and handed them to him. "I must see him, please."

Very reluctantly, Mr. Jones led her to the place where the man lay, and struck a match. He would not have looked, but she asked him to turn the body over so that she might see the face, and then to remove the mask that shrouded the eyes. He got his fingers sticky with something that trickled down the man's cheek, and it was several moments before he could strike another match. He purposely averted his gaze as the little spurt of flame lit up the darkness.

"That is not my husband!" exclaimed Lady Dorothy in a voice in which it seemed that thankfulness struggled with fear.

iii

MR. JONES became once more alert and active. Even in his sweater and shorts his professional habits returned to him.

"Certainly not, my lady. Your husband was killed in a railway accident eight years ago, and you are going to settle down happily with the Rt. Hon. the Earl Maltravers— I've read all about it in the newspapers, my lady. Won't you come a little this way, please?"

In the darkness he bowed her as if she was a customer towards the lights of the motor car. For the first time he noticed that the road had been rudely blocked with piled stones and two hurdles, and that lying among the debris was the figure of the chauffeur.

"Lor'!" he exclaimed. "I hope he hasn't killed your shovver, my lady."

They hurried to his side, the lady in her delicate evening wraps, with her priceless jewels glittering in the glare of the lamps, and the little grotesque Mr. Jones in his sweater and shorts.

The man was not dead, and even as they bent over him he struggled back to consciousness and with their assistance sat up. But he was too weak even to stand.

"Whatever is to be done?" gasped Lady Dorothy, looking over at Mr. Jones, and for the first time seeming to realise the abnormalities of his figure and his costume.

"If you will do me the honour, my lady, to let me escort you home we can put the shovver inside the car until I get the police."

"You've done me such great service already— you have been so good and brave— and I haven't even thanked you yet."

It was with a certain high exaltation in his soul that Mr. Jones, having helped the chauffeur into the car, escorted Lady Dorothy in the direction of Cheshunt Towers.

He had found an overcoat on the side of the road, and evidently left by the unfortunate desperado, and it afforded a welcome covering to his body. Moreover, it saved his self-respect; for now that the excitement of the struggle was over he realised the curious figure he must cut in his running clothes by the side of this beautiful lady agitated him not a little.

But with the overcoat on and the revolver that he had picked up in his hand he felt not unlike a knight errant, daring heroic deeds for a high-born lady in distress.

For the first half mile Mr. Jones talked eloquently, answering Lady Dorothy's questions about himself and his life in the shop, and his hopes and ambitions. Then they relapsed into silence, walking side by side. Mr. Jones gallantly holding Lady Dorothy's arm to help her through the darkness. The lights of the lodge were at last quite close. They were almost come to that branch road up which Mr: Jones had intended to finish his last three miles of exercise on his way home.

Suddenly they were both startled by a loud coo-ee.

It was repeated two or three times. Mr. Jones let his companion's arm drop.

"It will be all right, my lady," he answered reassuringly. "You stay here and you'll be quite safe."

His tone was masterful; he felt himself inspired with a capacity for doing tremendous things. He patted Lady Dorothy's arm patronisingly before striding out into the darkness towards the spot from which the signalling voice emanated.

"Coo-ee," he answered back. There was a scuffle in the hedge on his left and the sound of somebody jumping lightly into the road. Mr. Jones turned the collar of his overcoat up, high over his ears. The dim shadow of a tall man thrust himself out of the night, towering over him.

"That you, Jim?" said a voice in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes," answered Mr. Jones, coughing adroitly to disguise his identity. "Thought you were never coming. What did you fire those three shots for? Did the chauffeur show fight?"

"Yes," retorted Mr. Jones, again thickly. "Couldn't work the return husband rig properly, I suppose? Never mind; let's divide the swag and clear out of this. It's dangerous hanging about here. Wait a moment while I show a light, Jim."

Mr. Jones heard the man fumbling with the buttons of his coat; then out of the darkness sprang the glow of an electric torch. Mr. Jones took a step forward and thrust the revolver in the other's face.

A flagrant memory of apocryphal doings in the Wild West returned to him.

"Hands up!" The light went out immediately, but he saw the man's hands go up automatically over his head.

"Keep that torch burning or I'll fire."

The light sprang into being again instantly, nearly three feet above his head, shining like a beacon.

"Now turn, and straight on, if you please, until I tell you to stop."

He shepherded the man down the road with his revolver to the door of the lodge, where he bade him knock. To the astonished head gardener of Cheshunt Towers who appeared he spoke in sharp commanding sentences.

"Kindly secure this man and see he doesn't escape. Lady Dorothy has been attacked in her automobile— the driver has been almost killed, and this man's confederate is lying dead on the road a mile away. Get men at once to bring the car home; the driver is inside. I must return to Lady Dorothy."

He waited only long enough to see his prisoner locked away in the coal cellar, answering the questions with which the gardener bombarded him in the same short, incisive sentences.

Then with the torch that he had taken from his prisoner in his hand he hurried back to where Lady Dorothy was standing in the middle of the road. He drew her arm into his, and bade her, in a soothing voice, not to be frightened any longer.

The walk to Cheshunt Towers was a triumphant progress-for Mr. Jones. On the way they met the gardener and his two assistants, frantic with anxiety. Lady Dorothy said nothing; it was Mr. Jones, standing bareheaded with a vision of skinny legs peeping out from under the skirts of his overcoat, who directed them commandingly what to do.

His exaltation did not even leave him when finally they reached the house and he came face to face with Lord Cheshunt, and, more trying still, Lord Cheshunt's butler. He insisted on managing the whole affair; telephoning for the police, interviewing them when they came, and quite impervious to the amazement his costume created, demonstrating to them conclusively that the man he had killed and the man he had captured had conspired together to blackmail Lady Dorothy by pretending that her first husband, Ralph Galton, was still alive.

But next morning Mr. Jones was simply Mr. Jones— frock-coated, immaculately curled, at his post near the big glass doors of Messrs. Powell and Caterham's. There was an interesting interview with the partners; there was an inquest, a magisterial inquiry and a trial in which he had to take part; there was a visit paid by Lord Cheshunt, Lady Dorothy and Lord Maltravers on Mrs. Jones, and there were some quite substantial presents which found their way into Mr. Jones' meagre banking account.

For a time, too, he was persecuted by cameras, and the Natural Physical Cure Company purchased his unsolicited testimonial, with photograph, for £50.

But the Mr. Jones of the tremendous adventure never emerged again. Sometimes it would happen when he sat at table at the luncheon hour— a composite collection of clothes and collars, hung upon a very meagre frame— that a new apprentice or assistant would mention a deed of horror that he had read in the papers, and wonder enviously what it must feel like to kill a man.

Then Mr. Jones' fingers would , almost automatically give his moustache a Kaiser-like twist, and he would begin, "I once killed a man," at which opening most of the assistants would fly in confusion. As for the young man who had never heard it before, he would invariably impart to a friend his conviction that "Our Mr. Jones is a thundering liar."

________________

13: The Way of a Maid and a Man

Queenslander 12 January 1918

"I KNOW YOU'LL marry me, Betty, in the end." Dick Moreland spoke earnestly, and then blushed crimson, as if realising the audacity of his remark. Betty Hammerton saw that blush, and she laughed scornfully.

"You, why you're only a boy! I suppose you think because you've got a commission that entitles you to talk like this?"

They stood together on the shady tennis lawn on The Limes. To Dick the place was consecrated by many happy memories, of long summer days before the war, when he and Betty were boy and girl, spurred to rivalry over the net, laughing and quarrelling, striving their best to get the better of one another, and then afterwards lying exhausted under the old beech-tree, talking.

For ten years they had been intimate friends and companions, and now that he was 21, and she was a year younger, he knew he loved her. In half an hour's time he would be leaving for France. He had alr.ady said good-bye to Betty's widowed mother, and he had sought out the girl on the old familiar lawn, and he had asked her the question that lay nearest to his heart.

"I don't care, Betty," he said, quietly. "I know you and I were meant for one another. I can wait."

She appeared convulsed with merriment. "It's what we used to call beastly cheek !" she exclaimed. "Why, I've never, never thought of you like that. We're old friends, of course, but that's all."

He remained silent, watching her with those grave eyes of his. For some inexplicable reason she felt moved to defend herself.

"I've hardly seen any other man— not that I call you a man, Dick, I shouldn't dream of doing anything. so preposterous just when there's a chance of meeting real men—not boys, mind you—with this division coming into camp on the hills."

He winced.

"All the same, Betty, I know you'll marry me."

Anger now flashed out in her face. "Never, Dick— never ! I don't know what's made you so conceited. As if I should marry you, whom I've known since a child ! Why, you aren't anything better than a child even now! When I marry, I shall marry a man— a real man!"

He hesitated a moment, and then glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I've got to go now, Betty. Good-bye."

He held out his hand, but she ignored it. She was more angry than she cared to admit.

"Good-bye," she said coldly.

For some moments he gazed steadfastly, as if half hoping she would relent, and then turning on his heel he disappeared behind a barrier of shrubbery that enclosed the lawn.

When he had gone she would have called him back, not to tell him that she would marry him, that was altogether too ridiculous, but to say goodbye to him as a friend— as an old friend. After all, he was going out to France, and he might not come back.

It was curious she had not thought of that before. Dick had occupied such a prominent place in her life, so prominent that she had come to regard him much as one regards one's father or brother, and if he went out of her life altogether.

She sank down on the grass beneath the old beech tree where they had so often sat. She would write to him regularly, nice friendly letters. He would forgive her being angry— for not saying good-bye to him properly. He always forgave her everything, and he would bear her no ill-will.

Poor old Dick! Having deadened the pangs of her conscience, she strolled back towards the house. The beating of drums and the loud call of bugles fell upon her ears, and she ran hastily to the lodge gates which looked out upon the road.

She was just in time to see the head of the division that was going into camp on the hills appear. They came tramping through the dust singing and whistling. Some of the men called out to her, but she was quite unmoved by their familiarity. She stood there watching, enthralled by the sight. More than one young officer glanced in the direction of her graceful figure; but out of the whole division one man especially attracted her attention.

He was riding a horse, a beautiful chestnut, and as he passed her across the: intervening space his dark eyes met and held hers momentarily. She had a vision of a sunburnt face with a small black moustache— a handsome face. She saw him smile, and then bend over his horse and pat its neck. That was all, but it moved her strangely.

Somehow something seemed to tell her that she would know more, of this man.

Mrs. Hammerton was a wealthy, elderly lady, very concerned about her social duties, and it was inevitable, therefore, that The Limes soon became the rendezvous of most of the officers of the division. They came regularly, every afternoon, nominally to see Mrs. Hammerton, but actually, to talk and play  tennis with Betty. And one day, before the week was out, the man on the horse appeared. She was engaged in a violent game of tennis when her eye caught sight of her mother coming out on to the lawn with a tall, soldierly figure by her side.

The man looked up and searched the lawn for a moment. For a second his eye lighted upon Betty, and then he turned quietly to Mrs. Hammerton, and seemed to ignore her presence.

The set was over at last. Her mother called to her, and she approached the seat where she was sitting.

"Captain Lansing, let me introduce you to my daughter Betty."

Those bold dark eyes were fixed upon her face. Somehow or other she felt herself blush. She became conscious that he was speaking to her in a deep, vibrant voice.

"Don't you find it dreadfully hot for such violent exercise, Miss Hammerton?" he said. "Won't you sit down and let me get you something to drink?"

After that day Captain Lansing called often. He rode with her, he motored with her, he was unfailing in his attentions. And he fascinated her. Here was a man who knew life— a real man. He could talk of society in London in a slightly bored tone, like one satiated with experience, and she listened enthralled. In her letters to Dick she was quite frank about Captain Lansing— purposely frank, because of the irritating post-script that Dick always added to his letters: "I know you will marry me one day, Betty, and I can wait."

Except for these postscripts, which she always ignored, they were such jolly letters, full of descriptions of his life, and casting over all his hardships a humour that made them appear almost nothing. He never made any reference to Captain Lansing, though she filled sheets about Captain Lansing. In one letter she even mischievously referred to him by his Christian name of Ralph, But even this failed to draw any comment from Dick,

THE TEAS and the tennis parties came suddenly to an abrupt end. When the division had been in camp for nearly six weeks, Mrs.' Hammerton fell seriously ill, and though all the officers called to make polite inquiries, there was no opportunity for the jolly tennis parties and teas and after-dinner talks that had been the attraction at The Limes.

The only person who did not call was Captain. Lansing, but he made up for this omission by writing every day.

A week later the crisis in Mrs. Hammerton's illness had passed, and Betty, exhausted by her constant attendance in the sick room, went out after dinner into the cool of the evening. She made her way to the seat under the old beech tree. Dusk had fallen and the stars were already shining in the sky. She sat there, dreaming idly.

Presently she was startled by a footfall, and, looking up, she saw the tall figure of Captain Lansing striding across the lawn towards her.

"The servants told me you were in the garden, Miss Hammerton, and I thought I would come and find you. I am so glad to hear that your mother is better. I hope that the strain of the nursing hasn't upset you."

Before she quite knew what had happened he had seated himself by her side. Somehow she realised that she ought not to be there alone with him, but she stayed, partly because it was difficult to invent an excuse for beating a retreat. "Isn't It a lovely night?" he exclaimed. "Look, the moon is coming up over the hills."

He pointed to where the golden orb of the moon just showed it's edge above the hilltop. She was conscious of being stirred by some strange emotions. She could see his face in the dusk—so strong, so masterful.

"Yes, it's very beautiful," she stammered, and then made as if to rise.

"I think I must be going in, Captain Lansing." In an instant his arm was about her waist, forcing her back into the seat.

"No, no, you mustn't—you really mustn't!" he exclaimed. "There's no reason why you should, and I never hoped to have the luck to be with you alone on such a night as this."

A curious anxiety seized upon her which she tried to cover with a laugh.

"But I oughtn't to be out here with you alone," she managed to say. "Of course you ought ! What could be more pleasant? And what is pleasant must be right."

His arm tightened about her waist. She felt Insensibly that he was drawing her closer to him. Terror awoke in her mind.

"Please let me go. Captain Lansing," she whispered. For answer he suddenly put his arras about her.

"My darling little girl, one kiss, just one kiss." She felt his hot breath upon her cheek. She found herself looking into his dark eyes—hungry and passionate.

"Didn't you know that I've been looking forward to this opportunity?" he . whispered, and as be spoke his lips touched her cheek.

Instantly the paralysis of terror gave way to violent anger. She tore herself r away from him, striking him in the face with her hands.

"How dare you—how dare you!" she cried. "Oh, you cad!"

She had sprung to her feet, and for one second she stood staring at him, her face crimson, her little hands clenched. And then, with fury in her heart, she turned from him and sped across the lawn. She never stopped running until she had reached her own bedroom. Then she locked her door and flung herself, panting and sobbing, upon the bed.

This was the man whom she had thought such a real man, whose knowledge and experience of life had fascinated her; this common, cheap libertine, who had taken advantage of her mother's illness to insult her in her own home! This was the wonderful creature whose dark eyes and bold, confident manner had woven a spell round her heart and brain.

She rose presently, and, going to the washstand, bathed and scrubbed the cheek that he had kissed, as if hoping by this action to erase from her mind the memory of the insult. This was the man she had thought so wonderful, about whose doings, about whose talk .she had filled her letters to Dick.

Dick! Her whole mind became concentrated suddenly upon Dick. She saw him again as she had seen him that last time on the lawn, with his grave, manly face. How good and brave and splendid he had always been, how different in everything that mattered to the brute she had Just left. Dear old Dick!

Her heart cried out for the man she had spurned. He loved her. He had never faltered in his love. True and faithful he had been always to her throughout his life. Memories of him crowded thickly back upon her mind. Dear, dear Dick! The tears streamed from her eyes down her cheek. And then there came to her In a wonderful glimpse of illumination that she loved him, that it had only wanted just this to show bow there was no man in the world who could compare with Dick.

A dreadful horror seized her. Supposing out there in France he had been killed without ever knowing that she loved him. Some strange psychic premonition possessed her. With the tears still streaming down her face she sat down at her writing-table. Whether he got the loiter or not she must write to him and make her confession.

"My darling," she wrote, "I have been horrid to you, wilfully horrid to you. I know now that I love you, and have always loved you, and I will marry you whenever you wish." She simply signed her name at the end, and then, placing it in an envelope, she addressed it to R. Moreland, Esq., care General Post Office, B.E.F., France.

A few seconds later she crept quietly, out of the house, and with that unreasoning dread still upon her, dropped the letter into the box at the lodge gates.

"CAN'T you sleep?" The figure on the bed smiled feebly, and shook his head. "Not unless you give me morphia, nurse," he answered.

"But I don't want to give you morphia, Mr. Moreland, if I can help it. You ought to try and sleep without it. Is the pain so bad?"

"Yes, it's pretty rotten, nurse." The nurse bent over him and felt his pulse. "I believe you're worrying about something really you know. I've got a letter for you, but I don't know whether I ought to read it to you."

She took a letter from the pocket of her apron.

"Hold it close to my eyes, and let me see the handwriting," he begged. She did as she was asked. She watched his face curiously— she saw his eyes light up.

"Would you mind reading it me, nurse?" he stammered.

She tore open the envelope, and began to read. He lay very still when she had finished. She herself felt the tears gathering in her eyes. He was only a boy, after all, and her heart yearned over him.

"I know that I love you, and have always loved you, and I will marry you whenever you wish." He repeated the words in a low voice. Then he looked up at the nurse, his face radiant.

"Will you put it under my pillow, nurse?" he said. "I know I shall sleep tonight all right." And he did sleep that night, and in that sleep Death, that had so nearly touched him, passed by, leaving him a space for happiness with the girl he loved so finely and so steadfastly.

_________________

14: A Splendid Surprise

The Week (Brisbane) commencing 3 December 1920

"WHAT do you think of this flotation of Collingwood's, Gutch?"

Coverley Gutch was lolling lazily through the House, whistling carols softly to himself, with his hands deep in his pockets, when the speaker stopped him.

"My dear man," answered Gutch, pulling up abruptly in the middle of a pianissimo rendering of Good King Wenceslaus,  "I have been refusing to think of him ever since they began publishing the size of his diamonds in the daily paper, and detailing in paragraph form the social successes of his  wife.

"Great Scott, Gutch, to hear you talk one might think you were the reporter of an anarchist newspaper, in stead of it being your business to buy and sell shares. Do you. mean to say you haven't touched any of the Collingwood group?"

Gutch smiled blandly.

"Not one, ab-so-Iute-ly," he answered.

The other man turned away with ill-disguised contempt.

And, indeed, he had some justification for surprise. Everybody was gambling in Collingwoods, and here was Coverley Gutch, who had been a member of the House for some years, refusing to touch them, because Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood had certain social ambitions and were able to pay for the advertisement of the fact. It seemed all the more surprising when it was considered that Collingwood's name had become an almost national institution.

Had not a junior member of the Government referred to him in a complimentary speech as "one of the pillars of the Empire's commerce .

Had not a popular paper, with enormous circulation. which published an article each week under the title of "Life Successes," called him "the master mind of the world's finance"

Who John Collingwood was, nobody exactly knew. He had loomed abruptly upon the horizon of the city in his fortieth year. it was remembered by the above-mentioned paper that Julius Caesar had begun his career about the same age— but what he had been doing prior to that date was a mystery. He had come into life, so far as the world was concerned as the managing director of the Arawaki Gold Mine— a fever-stricken hole somewhere in West Africa, which had been promoted under different tinmen by a dozen men on, previous occasions to the great loss of hundreds or small shareholders. Nobody quite knew how it happened, but it may have been the discovery of some actual gold in the mine, which led to the great success of the company. Arawakis, at any rate, boomed, and if, eventually the venture failed, it laid the foundation of Collingwood's fortune. He became the most successful promoter of the year. Investors followed him blindly, under the impression that he could not go wrong. Their faith was so far justified that everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. The annual meetings of his companies were festivals rather than dry business gatherings. And his speeches on these occasions, de. delivered with a certain heavy-footed-humour and a quiet grandiose manner, fired the shareholders with enthusiasm and confidence.

He had gone from success to success. He had built himself a house which was a palace. His gold plate, bearing his crest of a stag's head with the suggestive motto on a scroll below, "What I have I hold"  was talked about everywhere.

His wife entertained with sumptuous lavishness, and if she did not know all the titled persons who condescended to appear at her husband's board, were not their names published in the papers, together with interview with the chef and such interesting details as the cost of the repast per head.

As Gutch was travelling home in his motor-brougham the same afternoon, with an evening paper in his hand, he divided his attention between glancing through its columns, and gazing out at the snow which was falling heavily. Suddenly, his eye lighted upon a paragraph in the police court news which attracted his attention. It was headed "Christmas Charity." He read it through.

"The world is becoming accustomed to Mr. John Collingwood's many acts of munificent generosity. but nothing will be more appreciated than his kindly act to-day, with its touch of deep humanity, at the Mansion House, where Henry Turner, aged 43, of no occupation, was charged with using threats and creating a disturbance in Collingwood House.

"Several times before, Turner, under the influence of some imaginary grievance, had sent threatening letters to Mr. Collingwood. Yesterday he forced his wav into the great financiers office and behaved so violently that he had to be ejected by the police. Giving evidence to-day, Mr. Collingwood implored the magistrate to deal leniently with the case.

"It's Christmas-time, and I would like to show a little Christmas charity towards the prisoner!"

As the result of this plea, Turner was bound over for six months.

"I wonder," said Gutch to himself, "l wonder whether the fellow manages. to advertise himself in his bath."

When the car finally deposited Gutch on the steps of his house at Hendon. the snow lay so deep that the marks of the motor's wheels looked like furrows.

He found Walker in the hall on a pair of steps, with his coat off putting up festoons of holly while two small children, a boy and a girl, watched him with rapt interest. They were Walker's nephew and niece, whom Gutch had asked down to spend the Christmas with their uncle.

"Yon's lad and 't'lass," said Walker, taking the nails from between his teeth, "Anna-Maria's the name o't girl; George Henry the boy's called.  After me."

After the manner of Yorkshire children, the two looked with sturdy, grinning defiance at Gutch. Gutch patted them both on the head and hoped they would enjoy themselves.

"We're rale glad to coom, mister,' said Anna-Maria, stoutly.

"Where's tha tongue gone to, George Henry?" ejaculated Walker, encouragingly.

The boy hung on to the end of the banisters on one leg, his face scarlet.

"It's just champion," he said at last.

THAT NIGHT as Gutch sat in his study smoking a pipe, and deep in the latest book on "Intensive Culture," he had forgotten almost the existence of his two little guests. He was reminded of them with almost dramatic suddenness. It was just half-past twelve and he was lazily filling his pipe from his pouch, when, a slight movement on the handle of. the door attracted his attention. He sat still, watching it.

Slowly it turned, and then, cautiously, the door began to swing open. Presently a queer little figure, in a long flannel nightshirt and bare feet, slid into the room. It was George Henry, very pale and clearly very frightened, but with a certain stubbornness about his little mouth and blue eyes which denoted that he had made up his mind to some act which went much against his grain.

"'Ush! mister," he said, putting his chubby little fingers to his lips, "there's a chap, got into the house by passage window. I coom to tell you, as I could not find Uncle Walter."

Gutch stretched out two big arms and took the little shivering, boy up and deposited him in a big chair by the fire...

"You're a good plucked 'un, absolutely," he whispered. "You stay here George Henry, and I'll go and settle with the chap in the passage."

Kicking off his shoes, he paused just a moment to take a revolver from, one of the drawers of his writing-table, and then, with the light step of in athlete, hurried out of the room.

In the hall all was darkness. He took the steps to the passage on the first floor without a sound. Once there he felt for the electric light switch, and, holding it in his hind, waited, listening. There was no question that somebody was in the house. He could hear him moving about, and the cold wind that blow down the passage showed that the window at the end was pulled up. A door near him opened cautiously, and l somebody, trying to stifle breathing, came out.

Gutch pulled the switch down, and at the same moment presented his revolver at the figure of a man which suddenly sprang out of the darkness.

He was a man of middle-age, with a face so cadaverous and hunger-stricken that Gutch, with a feeling of shame, put the revolver in his pocket As he went towards him, the man stood stock still, offering no resistance. Gutch took him by his coat collar.

"Why, bless my soul," he said, "you're a burglar. What do you mean by it?"

"I've a wife and two children who are starving," the man. said, in a monotonous voice.

"Oh, yes, the old, old story," answered Gutch,

"It's an old story," replied the man. with a touch of spirit, speaking in an educated voice, "and it's an old complaint— starving is. You've never tried it, sir."

At that moment, Walker, who had been awakened by the sound of voices, came tumbling down the stairs. Gutch pointed to the burglar, and told him how George Henry had come to warn him.

"What's your name?" he said to the burglar, as "Walker, conducted . him downstairs to the study.

"Henry Turner," replied the man.

"I know that name, but I can't recollect where I have seen it."

"Perhaps you read, it in the paper to-day, sir." said the burglar. "I was bound over at the Mansion House for creating a disturbance and using threats against John Collingwood curse him."

He uttered the last words in the same dreary monotone, so that they seemed to have an almost dreadful significance.

"Ah," ejaculated Gutch; then pointing to George Henry, who sat warming his bare toes by the fire, he added, "take that little hero to bed. Walker, and come back here. I'm going to have a talk with this man."

WHEN WALKER returned, after having tucked George Henry safely away in his bed, he found Gutch walking up and down the floor of the room, while the burglar sat on the edge of a chair looking fixedly into the glowing coals'.

"Let's see," Gutch was saying, "your story is that three years ago, when John Collingwood was a nobody, he borrowed all the capital you possessed— four hundred pounds. With this money, you allege, he bought in the old Arawaki Company, and floated the new one, which turned out trumps, and laid the foundations of his fortune. He then, according to you, pretended that he could not pay back the four hundred pounds, but gave you Instead four hundred Arawaki shares. That's right isn't? Tell me if I'm going wrong."

The burglar nodded gloomily.

"Almost immediately afterwards." went on Gutch, "the company went into liquidation and you found that the shares were worthless. You asked for your money back, and were met with the reply that you must take your chance with the rest of the shareholders. You considered yourself robbed, went and made a fuss at Collingwood House, lost your temper, and got run in. Having been robbed yourself and having a wife and children who wanted food, you came and tried to rob me: that's about the size of it isn't it?

"That's it," said the burglar with a gulp.

"Well, your logic is immoral, ab-so-Iute-ly. You're a danger to society, you're a burglar, and what's more, if you'll forgive me saying so, a jolly rotten burglar. Ab-so-lute-Iy rotten. You don't even know the first principles of the game: why, I really believe you haven't ever? got a Jemmy and a mask. l.ook here, before I hand you over to the police, will you tell— me what proof you've got of your story?"

"None," said the burglar, "except Collingwood's letter saying that be couldn't pay back the four hundred pounds in cash, but had registered my name as the holder of four hundred Arawaki shares."

"And the certificates?" queried Gutch.

"I never had them. I trusted Collingwood," he added, with a bitter laugh,

Gutch walked up and down for some time in silence. Finally, he stepped in front of the burglar.

"Look here." he said, "I've got to give you up to the police— duty to society, and all. that sort of thing— but I'll see that letter of yours first. I'm going to lock you in this room for to-night, and tomorrow you can take me down to your place and show me the letter."

The burglar was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted when Walker woke him the following morning at half-past seven and gave him his breakfast. He ate it ravenously and as soon as he had finished, he accompanied Gutch to his motor car. Walker took the wheel and they drove off at a rapid pace towards Child's' Hill, Here., in front of a wretched house; they stopped at the burglar's direction, and going up a flight of dirty-steps came to a garret. The room Gutch found himself in was spotlessly clean, but almost denuded of furniture. On the one chair that it possessed a woman was sitting, holding a child in her arms. Another child who was standing by her side, ran forward to greet the burglar with cries of delight.

"Father's come back, mother. I knew he would,' he cried.

The woman looked anxiously at Gutch 'and then Inquiringly at her husband.

"You'd better tell her, sir," the burglar muttered, "and get it over."

Gutch stooped down and picked the little boy up in his arms.

"What a fine little chap you have here, Mrs. Turner," he said. "Forgive me calling at this early hour, but I met your husband last night, and as we had a little business matter to settle, we thought we had better get it through us quickly as possible. Have you got that letter, Turner?"

The burglar went to a dilapidated tin box in the corner of the room, and, after turning over some papers selected one, which he handed to Gutch. It was the letter from Collingwood stating, as Turner had declared, that he could not pay back the four hundred in cash, but had registered him as the proprietor of four hundred Arawakis. Having read it, Gutch folded it up, and put it in his. pocket.

"If Mrs, Turner will excuse you," he said to the burglar, meaningly, "we had better get on."

With a look of despair at his wife and children ,the man passed out of the door. Gutch following. As they emerged into the street, Gutch gave vent .to .an exclamation of annoyance.

"Get into the car," he said to the burglar, "and don't attempt to escape. I've left my gloves upstairs and I must go up and get them."

With long strides he retraced his steps to the garret. The door was still open and, with an apology, he walked in.

"Mrs. Turner," he said, "your husband, who has had to hurry off, asked me to come back and give you this."

He turned quickly and went downstairs again, leaving Mrs. Turner gazing with feelings of mingled astonishment and joy at two five-pound notes.

THERE IS A ROOM in Somerset House where are preserved the dreary records of all the companies, dead or alive, that have been formed under the Limited Liability Act. Here Gutch, having sent the burglar back to his house under the guard of Walker, spent two hours that morning. For the payment of one shilling he was allowed to search the register containing the names of the shareholders in the last Arawaki field Mine Company. Four times he went through that list, but nowhere could he find the name of Henry Turner. When at last he paused out into the Strand, he called a taxicab and was driven direct to Collingwood House.

As he passed through a pair of mahogany swing-doors, a cleric came forward fussily and asked him his business.

"Take my card to Mr. Collingwood and tell him want to see him at once— don't forget the at once."

The imperative tone had Its Influence on the clerk, who hurried off immediately with the piece of paste-board. A few moments later Coverly Cutch found himself in the presence of the great financier.

John Collingwood's features were formed on tho mould which the public imagination has prescribed as the ideal for the business man. He had a square, heavy, jaw, truculent lips and nose, a bulging forehead, and a head formed on the Napoleonic model. He was a complete contrast to Gutch himself. The one looked an easy-going good-natured, country gentleman; the other almost fiercely strenuous and concentrated.

"What is your business, Mr. Coverly Gutch?" Collingwood, said,swinging round on the pivot of his chair. "I shall be obliged if you will state it quickly, as my time is valuable."

Gutch sank slowly back into an easy chair, with the air of one who has come for a long stay.

"Well, I'm going to spend some of it, Mr. Collingwood, in the most valuable way in which it could be spent," he said, crossing his legs. "Firstly," Mr. Collingwood, let me tell you that I don't like you; your type I have always held in particular abomination, and, really, your advertisement of your gold plate and your wife's diamonds and your sham crest have got on my nerves."

Collingwood's bulldog, face flushed scarlet. He made a movement as if to ring the bell in front of his desk.

"I shouldn't ring that if I were you," said Gutch. "It's always unpleasant for one's clerks to know what one's really like: besides I've got a lot more to tell you."

"What the deuce do you mean by this infernal impudence?" blurted out

"Just this, Mr. Collingwood. You're a thief, and a mean thief."

The great financier sprang to his feet tempestuously.

"Leave this office at once, or I'll have you thrown out." he raged.

Gutch laughed, as if he had heard one of the finest of jokes.

"Not until I've got that money of which you robbed Henry Turner, together with reasonable interest, Mr. Collingwood. Incidentally, also, I may mention that I take a lot of throwing."

"That ridiculous story again," roared Collingwood, "Perhaps, my man, you didn't see what happened to Henry Turner yesterday at the Mansion House?"

"Oh, yes. I did, Mr. Collingwood. I read all about your idea of Christmas charity. You had your sentimental innings yesterday. This is a hard business transaction! l have here a letter, written by you, in which you acknowledge your indebtedness to Henry Turner for the sum of four hundred pounds, and declare that, being unable to pay it off in cash, you have registered him as the proprietor of four hundred shares in the Arawaki Company."

"Well, that is quite true," said Collingwood, turning a little pale. "What of it?"

"Only this, that you never registered him as the proprietor of four hundred shares."

"That's an infernal lie!"

"I have just come from spending an interesting two hours at Somerset House. Perhaps you would like to come back with me and explain the absence of Henry Turner's name from the registered list of shareholders?"

John Collingwood had suddenly become very limp; he held on for support to the marble mantelpiece. His face was grey with terror. All the arrogant assertiveness had vanished.

"What do you want?" he said in a shaky voice.

"Four hundred pounds," replied Gutch calmly, "with interest for three years― I'm not good at arithmetic― let's call it six hundred pounds― together with another two thousand as compensation."

Without a word, Collingwood went over to his desk, and, unlocking one of the drawers, took out his cheque-book.

A few minutes later, Gutch was speeding northwards in a taxicab.

Although it was only one when he left the city, it was almost seven before he readied his house at Hendon. To the surprise of the neighbours in Child's Hill, Mrs. Turner and her two children were seen to enter a taxi and drive off. They were still more surprised when five hours later, she returned laden with boxes and parcels, and an hour after that, while the taxi waited outside, emerged from her attic dressed out "like a real lidy" with her two children in perfectly new suits.

"When Gutch finally arrived at home, he went straight to his study, where the burglar sat waiting patiently for his doom.

"Turner," he said, in a stern voice, "you're wanted out in the hall. Take this envelope with you. You had better show it to them."

Limply, Turner rose from his feet and walked across the room. The end had come, he thought, and the police were there to take him away. For five minutes Gutch waited discreetly in the study: then he suddenly burst out upon the little group, composed of a woman who was weeping upon her husband's shoulder with joy, and two little children who were dancing about in a state of the wildest spirits. Gutch refused to listen to a word that Turner had got to say.

"Walker," he roared, shaking the burglar's hand, "where's George Henry and Anna-Maria? I want to introduce them to two new little friends who are going to spend Christmas with us."

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Panacea Boom
- 2: They Also Serve
- 3: Cinderella
- 4: Mother o' Mine
- 5: Ordeal By Battle
- 6: Prodigal Father
- 7: Red Magnus Backs Out
- 8: Through the Shadows
- 9: Nurse Sorrell's Patient
- 10: The Ballydoyle Regatta
- 11: My Lady of the Halls
- 12: The Tremendous Adventure of Mr. Jones
- 13: The Way of a Maid and a Man
- 14: A Splendid Surprise