Date: 1902-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Crime and Mystery; Romance
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain worldwide.

THE DEATH WHISTLE

RICHARD MARSH

MobileRead Edition
2021

As the story opens in Canterstone Jail, George Edney, a dying convict, leaves all his ill-gotten goods to Andrew Bruce, a “good-conduct” man whose term of two years is nearly at an end. After Bruce obtains his freedom, he locates the “buried treasure” Edney had hidden, and tries to find answers to the questions it raises. A story with a bit of something for everyone: a handsome hero, a beautiful heroine, many dastardly villains. Crime, mystery, romance, a touch of weird science, a taste of the supernatural too. A bit over the top, but great fun.

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Richard Marsh (12 October 1857 – 9 August 1915) was the pseudonym of English author Richard Bernard Heldmann. One of the most popular and prolific authors of the late-Victorian and Edwardian periods, he is best known now for his supernatural thriller novel The Beetle, which for a time outsold Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Marsh produced nearly 80 volumes of fiction and numerous short stories, in genres including horror, crime, romance and humor.

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This book, first published in 1903, is in the public domain worldwide.

CONTENTS

THE DEATH WHISTLE
1 … Appointing an Heir
2 … In Richmond Park
3 … The Box
4 … The First Cheque
5 … A Visitor
6 … Mr. Ludlow Requires Some Information
7 … Safe No. 226
8 … The Whistler
9 … Benjamin Rodway
10 … The Rodway Power
11 … Mr. Ludlow Visits His Mother
12 … Bob Hammick
13 … The Leading Lady
14 … Brokers and the Marriage Question
15 … The Man in Grey
16 … Dene Park
17 … The Waiter
18 … The Glasspooles Receive a Visitor
19 … Coming Events
20 … The Attack Which Failed
21 … The Biter Bitten
22 … On Putney Heath
23 … Mr. Rodway Doubts
24 … Haste to the Wedding
25 … The Bridesmaid Intervenes
26 … The Man in the Mustard-Coloured Suit
27 … Netta Cries
28 … A Woman Eloquent
29 … Friends in Council
30 … The Vultures Gather
31 … Home
32 … Calm Before the Storm
33 … Mr. Ludlow Speaks Out
34 … Netta Learns the Truth
35 … Cousins
36 … Between the Storms
37 … The Setting of the Snare
38 … The Cabman
39 … Among Thieves
40 … The Eight
41 … The Means of Persuasion
42 … Mr. Carpenter
43 … Without
44 … Within
45 … The Marquis and Marchioness
46 … Summing Up

— I —

APPOINTING AN HEIR

“If you like, you’ll be able to live upon the interest – many a man who is thought well off lives on less. Or, if you prefer to aim at the big things – and you’re that kind of man – you’ll have enough capital in hand to enable you to bring off successfully some of those greater villainies which make men millionaires.”

The listener laughed; the situation appealed to his peculiar sense of humour. The man in the bed looked at him.

“I like to hear you laugh, lying here. If I were out of this, and we were alone together, and had had a little difference of opinion, I shouldn’t like it quite so much. The devil’s strongest in you when you laugh.”

“You’re so funny.”

“I am. I’ve been a funny man my whole life long; an unconscious humorist. The mischief is, I’ve found it out too late. If I’d suspected the truth a dozen years ago I shouldn’t be dying in jail.”

“It’s not a pretty place to die in. And yet – I don’t know; it’s as good as any other.”

“You didn’t think so once.”

“Once! – Once I thought jam the concentrated essence of happiness.”

“So did I. I thought it so strongly that I held it worth while to swallow a few hitters to get it. That’s where it is, and why I’m here, Bruce.” The other nodded. “I’ve a feeling you don’t believe half that I’ve been telling you; that you regard my story about the fortune which is lying ready for your hand as a convict’s fairy tale.”

“My dear chap, I always believe everything I’m told. I’ve been the confidant of a large number of voracious histories since I’ve been inside this place. The silent system is not so rigidly enforced as to prevent one’s being that. My powers of credulity are boundless.”

“Yes, I know. If I thought you were setting down among the rest of the prison lies what I’ve told you, I should lie in my grave and scorch.”

“Don’t do that. And don’t talk about it either. It presents unpleasant vistas to the imagination.”

“Perhaps if I were to tell you my history you might bring yourself to believe that I am leaving you a fortune. I grant that under the circumstances the notion does want swallowing.”

“My dear Edney, I give my confidence to no one.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“But if you choose to give me yours, I am entirely at your service. I agree with you that when a man who has been sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude observes that he proposes to make you his heir, you are inclined to ask yourself what to. It is easy enough to bequeath any number of castles in Spain, to anyone; but one hardly expects to have to pay legacy duty on bequests of the kind.”

“You won’t pay legacy duty on what I’m leaving you.”

The man in the bed grinned. He lay back on his pillow and coughed. Coughed badly and long. So long that one wondered if he would stop before he was broken to pieces. Blood issued from his mouth. He was not a pleasant spectacle. His companion rendered him such assistance as he could, showing gentleness and patience which contrasted oddly with his stalwart form. After the paroxysms were over, the man in the bed lay motionless, scarcely seeming to breathe. Words came thinly from his lips.

“I’ll go off in one of those bouts, please God.”

“You mustn’t talk.”

“But I must talk. That’s just what I must do. Perkins won’t be back yet. I ought to be able to tell you all that’s needful before he comes. I mayn’t have another chance.”

Perkins was dispenser and warder combined. Canterstone was but a small jail. There were seldom many prisoners in the infirmary. At present there were but three: George Edney, dying; Sam Swire, a ‘traveller,’ ‘doing a drag,’ the victim of too much drink and too little food; and Andrew Bruce, recovering from a sprain, a good-conduct man, whose term of two years’ hard labour was nearly at an end, and who was quite capable of looking after the two sick men who were in bed. Therefore, since the prison was not over-staffed, when Perkins went to dinner he simply locked the outer door of the infirmary and left Andrew Bruce in charge. Which explains how it was that George Edney and he were able to discuss their private affairs so freely; even proposing to enter into more delicate matters still. In Edney’s opinion there was only one drawback.

“Go and see what that brute in the next room is doing.”

Bruce did as he was told; passing for the purpose into the adjacent apartment, which was merely divided from its neighbour by a brief partition wall. Presently he returned.

“Swire’s asleep; fast as a top.”

“Good thing too; not that I can talk loud enough to give him much chance of overhearing.”

“I tell you again that you oughtn’t to talk at all.”

“Chuck all that! Sit as close as you can, so as to spare my breath.”

Bruce drew a chair as close to the bedside as possible, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, so that his head was within a few inches of the other’s face. He kept his eyes fixed upon the narrator’s countenance, not only as if desirous of reading what was transpiring in his brain and behind his actual words, but also as if struck – and amused – by the singularity of his appearance. Normally small, weak-legged, loose-limbed, blear-eyed, he now seemed nothing but skin and bone. His lips were bloodless; patches of sandy stubble concealed his cheeks and chin; every now and then he gave a gasp, recalling the sounds made by a ‘roaring’ horse. As he proceeded, Bruce realised more and more clearly how entirely he looked the part of chief actor in such a tale as that which he was telling.

“I’m a solicitor by profession. Never on my own account; – hadn’t the money to start with. I was managing clerk to a man who had. His name was Glasspoole – Frederick Glasspoole, of Birchester. Connect anything with the name?”

“With the name of Frederick Glasspoole? – Nothing, at present.”

“I thought you might have heard something of the story – read about it in the newspapers, perhaps – and so have saved me trouble.”

“I’m willing to save you all trouble.”

“I don’t want to be saved that way. – He was a good fellow – young, and a fool. His father had left him a fine practice. Not only did he act for most of the townsfolk, but he was agent for some of the chief estates in the neighbourhood. But he had two faults – he wasn’t fond of work, and he trusted me. The latter in particular was a grave mistake.”

The grin which accompanied the words seemed to lend to the speaker’s corpse-like features something of the grotesque horror which we associate with a gargoyle.

“I was not an immoral character – not, that is, in any unusual degree. But I am, and always was, non-moral. Morality, that is, didn’t enter into my scheme of creation at all. I hated work; though no one could work harder than I could when I chose, and had an end in view; and I liked a good time – my notion of a good time. I realised, quite early in life, that my good time meant money. Not in small sums. I didn’t want to do the prodigal for, say, six months, and then have to live on husks for an indefinite period. That wasn’t my idea; not a little bit. What I wanted was fifty or sixty thousand pounds. Then I would invest it in something gilt-edged, live on the interest, and get every farthing’s worth of fun out of it that could be got.

“The point was how to procure the fifty or sixty thousand pounds. It wasn’t likely to be obtained out of the savings of a managing clerk. Glasspoole himself hadn’t anything like that amount of ready money. His father’s estate was sworn at something over ten thousand pounds. I happened to know that each year’s income was spent during the same twelve-month. So it seemed that even if, by some process of hanky-panky, I diddled him out of his business – which I perhaps mightn’t have found an impossible feat – I should still have had to work for the rest of my life. Which was exactly what I didn’t want to do. I tried betting – on horses and on the Stock Exchange. But that didn’t make me appreciably richer. I dabbled in one or two other directions. Still the money wouldn’t come. So, at last, I made up my mind what I would do.

“Instead of a profit, my little ventures had resulted in a pecuniary loss – which was what I hadn’t intended. To meet it, I had had to make free with other people’s property. Not to a large amount. Still it was more than I was ever likely to be able to replace. Worrying about it put me on the track of my great idea.

“In Glasspoole’s charge there were all sorts of securities – bonds, shares, insurance policies, mortgage and title deeds; all sorts of things. Large sums of money – or money’s worth – passed through his hands on behalf of his clients. And his hands meant mine. There was one estate in particular – the Dene Park estate, belonging to the Foster family – the fee-simple of which was practically inside the walls of Glasspoole’s office. Nothing would be easier than to obtain the money I wanted – by turning thief.

“Why shouldn’t I? I did my best to sum up the pros and cons, and give a judicial decision as to which side had the best of it. I argued in this way.

“On the one hand, I should be found out. I never deceived myself as to there being any room for doubt upon that point. On the other, I should have the money. I did not propose to spend it. My idea was to put it away in a safe place, where I alone should know of its existence, and to which I only should have access. I should be sentenced, probably, to between five and ten years’ penal servitude. I doubted if I should object to prison much more than I did to Glasspoole’s office. When I had served my term I should be a man of means. In other words, by doing – at the outside – ten years’ imprisonment I should have earned a fortune; which I certainly never should be able to do by any other means whatever. You catch the notion?”

“I perceive that you’re a pretty sort of a scoundrel.”

“I’m one sort, you’re another. I understand that you’re here for something very much like murder.”

Bruce laughed. Stretching out his hands he placed the other in a more comfortable position on his pillow. The sick man gave a little sigh of satisfaction.

“Your touch is as soft as a woman’s, when you like. – Well, my scheme went on rollers up to a certain point. I stripped the office bare, laying hands on everything within reach; turning things into cash as I went on – often, I am sorry to say, at a shocking loss. It’s astonishing how certain kinds of property depreciate when you’re in a hurry to realise. I put the money away as fast as I got it. By the time the crash came I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was comfortably off. They arrested Glasspoole and me on the same day.”

“Glasspoole? – Was he your accomplice?”

“Neglect, my dear sir, neglect. I should never have been able to collar everything in the way I did do if his neglect of his clients’ interests had not been really culpable. However, they were able to prove nothing against him actually criminal; and he was acquitted – a ruined man. I got ten years; which was three more than I expected, because I had hoped to get off with seven. But the judge happened to be Quince, who has a special prejudice against solicitors who misappropriate.”

“You deserved the ten years; every day of it.”

“I fancy that most of us in this establishment do deserve all we’ve got – you as well as the rest.”

“I’m not denying it.”

“That’s just as well. – The mischief is that I didn’t get on in prison so well as I desired. Somehow it didn’t agree with me at all. I haven’t done six years, yet in about six hours I’ll be dead.”

Bruce, noticing the difficulty he had in speaking, in breathing, in living, thought it probable that he was right.

“I always understood that before a man got to your condition they gave him his discharge.”

“So they do. They told me, a month ago, that I was a dead man. And they offered to let me out.”

“Offered? – what do you mean?”

“They don’t turn a man out to die in the streets, or even in a workhouse. They ask him if he has anywhere to go to; if he has any friends.”

“And haven’t you any;?”

“After what I’ve been telling you, do I strike you as being the kind of man who is likely to have friends? Like you, I’ve none.”

“How do you know I’ve none? You know nothing about me.”

“I’ll stake my fortune that there’s not one creature living who’d stretch out a hand to save you from hell-fire. That’s one reason why I’m making you my heir.”

“One reason – what’s another?”

“Just now you called me a pretty sort of a scoundrel. I attempted no contradiction. But, as a scoundrel, compared to you I’m a pygmy. In you there’s the making of a criminal Colossus. You’ve no principles; no scruples; no attachments; nothing to cause you to stay your hand. You’re handsome – you look like a Greek god; but I don’t know if you’re aware that those blue eyes of yours are of the shade and kind which are found in the heads of many gentlemen who finish at the end of a rope. You’ve nerve; courage enough for anything; for assurance, a countenance of triple brass. You’re a giant in stature; you’ve the strength of a Hercules; and the sort of constitution which has never known what it is to be ill. You know the world; and, I fancy, you’ve seen – and done – a few things in it. You’re a man of education; possibly a scholar; certainly a public school and university man. Given the chance, you should go far. And I’m going to give you the chance. Put these things together and you’ve another reason why I’m making you my heir.”

“You flatter me; ascribing to me qualities which I was not aware that I possessed.”

“I think that’s possible. But you’ll discover their existence as occasion arises for you to use them. I imagine that the fact that you’ve had the temper of a fiend is responsible for your being here.”

“Well, there may be something in that.”

“You must get that under, or it’ll land you again. A man of your type, who, when he’s raging hot inside, can seem as cold as ice, is the most dangerous creature on God’s earth.-Go out in about a fortnight, don’t you?”

“To be exact, in ten days.”

“I’ll be underground before then. Seems odd that I should have done it all to make you rich.”

“It does – extremely, If this money exists, as you assert, why didn’t you avail yourself of the discharge which was offered you, and make use of it yourself?”

“What use could I have made of it had I got it? I’m doomed to die; I may as well die here as anywhere. I’ve got beyond the stage when money could buy me anything which I could enjoy. Also – a big ‘also’ – the key to it all happens to be in a place where, in my then condition, I couldn’t have got at it. I’d have had to take a partner, who’d have robbed me. It’ll give me more satisfaction to know that it’s being used by a man like you.”

“Do you seriously suggest that, masquerading as George Edney, I should lay claim to moneys which are deposited somewhere in your name? Not only would the counterfeit be detected in an instant, but, I take it, there are associations which I should find it difficult to explain away.”

“I’m suggesting nothing so foolish. The money is not in any way connected with my name, or with me. It’s deposited in the name of Smithers – Francis Smithers. And he is nothing but a name – and a signature. You’ll have to get the signature right; but I credit you with the capacity for doing that. Unto this hour, no one has ever seen him in the flesh. When you come on the scene it will be his first appearance on any stage.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought it would be better that no one with a memory for faces should be able to associate George Edney with Francis Smithers, so I took care that none of the depositing should be done by me in person.”

“Then how am I to get at it?”

“You know Richmond Park, near London?”

“Very well.”

“I was born at Richmond. I know every inch of it. When, down at Birchester, I was casting about for a hiding-place which no one could suspect, the Park struck me as being just the thing. Entering from the Richmond Gate, do you know what they used to call the drive towards the White House?”

“I do.”

“Going towards the House, when you have passed the plantations, the ground dips – with the Penn Ponds on your right.”

Bruce nodded.

“A dozen yards due west of the north-western corner of the smaller pond – which is the one you first approach – among uneven ground, three feet deep, there is a tin box, which contains everything necessary to place you in immediate possession of the fortune of which I am now appointing you the heir. You will have no difficulty in finding it; but to further mark the spot, I broke a piece of bamboo off the cane which I was carrying and stuck it into the turf. So few people penetrate into that part of the Park – partly because it is out of the way, and partly because the unevenness of the ground makes walking unpleasant – that, unless the deer have trampled it under foot, I shouldn’t be surprised to find that piece of bamboo still thrusting up its nose amidst the tussocky grass.”

— II —

IN RICHMOND PARK

The conversation was interrupted by the return of the dispenser, Perkins. Three days afterwards George Edney lay dead. Before the end actually arrived he was reduced to such a condition that – for him – talking was impossible. Only once did he again mention the subject to Bruce. Then he merely mumbled the directions which he had given him as to the alleged whereabouts of the tin box.

“Remember, twelve yards due west of the north-west corner of Little Penn Pond, three feet underground.”

The day before Bruce left jail, something occurred which was destined to stick in his memory. The prisoners were walking round and round the circular path which did duty as exercise ground. The time for exercise was nearly up when he heard someone say behind him, in those low, clear tones which the jail bird uses who desires to evade the observant warder’s eyes and ears, “Mind you don’t forget Richmond Park.”

Bruce waited for a second or two, as was the desirable etiquette on such occasions, then glanced behind. The words had not come from the man immediately at his back, but from the next but one. Bruce recognised in him the ‘traveller,’ Swire, who had been the sole occupant of the other half of the infirmary when Edney had been relieving his mind. At Edney’s request he had gone, before the tale began, to see how Mr. Swire was engaged, and had found him, to all appearances, fast asleep. He remembered that Perkins, on his entrance, had found him still sleeping. Had the ingenuous Mr. Swire been feigning slumber, for purposes of his own? Edney had spoken in such a subdued voice – he could not have spoken loudly had he tried – that Swire could scarcely have heard much, even if he had been listening. Still, Bruce was curious.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t go and take the blooming lot; just leave a bit for someone else.”

It seemed as if Mr. Swire’s hearing had been at least sufficiently keen. Presently Bruce asked another question.

“When do you go out?”

“Oh, I’ve lots to do yet; when they do get me into a place of this sort they like to keep me just as long as ever they can.”

The warder’s voice rang out.

“Now then, No. 37, do you want to get reported for talking the day before you leave?”

Bruce was No. 37. He did not wish to be reported. During the remainder of exercise he held his peace. But he was free to hope that for a considerable period Mr. Swire might continue an inmate of Canterstone Jail.

The following day – the great day on which he was to return to the world – was Saturday. His sentence expired on the Sunday. Since that was a day of rest in the prison, as among men outside, those prisoners whose terms expired on a Sunday were discharged the day before. Bruce had asked and received permission to leave at an earlier hour than was usual, as he was desirous of catching the first train up to town. Soon after six o’clock on the Saturday morning he passed through the prison gates – for the first time for two years. He was dressed in his own clothes; carried a Gladstone bag – of somewhat attenuated appearance; and had in his pocket the gratuity of ten shillings which he had earned, and £2, 13s. 6d. which he had brought with him into jail. When he reached the station he found that there was still some minutes before the ticket office would be open. Since he had the place to himself he spent the interval in examining his countenance in the looking-glass which was over the fireplace – it was two years since he had seen a mirror. The change in his appearance amused him. His beard had grown; he had been clean-shaven when he went in; his moustache had attained to huge dimensions. He thought of how Edney had likened him to a Greek god. It struck him that a viking would have been an apter comparison. His many inches – he was nearly six feet three; his fair hair and beard, both showing a tendency to curl; his pink and white skin; his bright blue eyes – all these things were attributes of the old sea rovers. He recalled Edney’s association of blue eyes, like his, with murderers’, and smiled; revealing, as he did so, two rows of beautiful teeth. Physically, prison regimen had had no injurious effect on him; he presented a perfect picture of bodily health. The suggestion of a continual smile seemed to irradiate his features, conveying the impression that he had not a care in the world. Wherever he went eyes were turned to look at him – especially when the eyes were in feminine heads.

When he reached London he breakfasted at a modest Swiss-Italian restaurant, which was close to the terminus. Then, walking to Waterloo, he took train to Putney. There he started to look for lodgings. Possibly his taste was fastidious. He called at at least a dozen houses before lighting on anything which seemed to suit him. He had seen four in the road in which he then was – Dulverton Road it was stated to be on a tablet at the corner. At No. 25 there was again a card promising ‘apartments’ in the window. It was a modern forty-to-fifty-pounds a year ‘villa,’ with electric bells, tiled doorstep, and all the latest improvements. He pressed the white china knob which was at the side of the stained-glass-windowed door.

His ring was answered by a girl – a dark girl, apparently somewhere her twenties; not a servant, but looking like a lady in her plain indigo serge dress. She appealed to him then and there; something in her appearance differentiated her from the females who had presented themselves to him at the other houses. He was not so struck by the rooms, but they would serve. They were on the ground floor. The girl spoke of them as the ‘dining-rooms’ – the sitting-room being in the front and the bedroom at the back. The furniture was not substantial in kind, nor liberal in quantity. About everything there was a gimcrack air, which suggested the jerry-builder.

“And what is the rent you are asking?” The girl looked at him with what he was conscious were inquiring eyes – as if she were desirous of ascertaining how much he was willing to pay.

“Is it for a permanency?”

“I’m afraid that at present I cannot say. I may be gone in a week; or I may stay” – there was a flash of laughter in his eyes – “I may stay forever.”

Her countenance remained unmoved.

“Of course it makes a difference if it’s for a permanency. Mother has generally had five and twenty shillings.”

“Five and twenty shillings!” Twelve and sixpence was the maximum price he had proposed to himself to pay. He had seen rooms at that rent a few doors down the street. But there there was a blowsy woman, with a baby in her arms; not this girl, with the sweet, soft voice. “Is that inclusive?”

“That would be inclusive.”

“Then I’ll take the rooms.”

Later he saw her mother, who had returned from shopping. She was a Mrs. Ludlow – a widow. A little woman, with trouble written large on her face. Bruce, whose keen blue eyes saw everything, said to himself, “She worries.”

Still later, in his bedroom, he considered the position; incidentally taking an inventory of his belongings.

“Frock-coat and waistcoat; two pairs of trousers; two shirts; two pairs of socks; one necktie; one pair of boots – except what I stand up in, that completes my wardrobe. Gold links, studs, watch and chain – these things represent my jewellery; and £2, 14s. 9d. my entire fortune. Considering that the rent is twenty-five shillings a week, that won’t go far.” He paced up and down the tiny room. “She asked if I was going to be a permanency. It looks like it! I’ve about enough money to see me through the week. And then? I don’t want to return to Canterstone Jail for obtaining food and lodging under false pretences – especially from Miss Ludlow and her mother. It’ll have to be George Edney’s fortune or – or something else.”

He arranged his clothes in the chest of drawers, then went out into the passage.

“I’m going out, Mrs. Ludlow, and perhaps may not be back till late.”

“Would you like a latchkey? Mr. Rodway, who has the drawing-rooms, and who is often out late, always uses one. I have two.”

Bruce went out with one of them in his waistcoat pocket.

“That woman has never been deceived, or she would scarcely be so trustful – unless it’s her nature to be deceived and come again. In the atmosphere to which I have lately been accustomed such simplicity would be regarded as suggestive either of a lunatic asylum or a fairy tale.”

He strode across Barnes Common, up Clarence Lane, into Richmond Park, as one who knew the way. It was then about three o’clock in the afternoon. Although the weather was fine, a strong breeze blowing from the north-west hinted at approaching rain. When he got inside the Park he stretched out his arms, raising himself on his toes, like a man who wakes from sleep.

“This is something like. It’s worth while doing two years’ hard labour if only for the sake of regaining one’s capacity for enjoyment. I feel as if my school days had returned, and as if the world lay in front of me – my oyster-shell, filled with priceless gems, which it only needs a touch of my knife to open. Perhaps it does!”

He took off his hat and marched across the turf, laughing as he went. It was all he could do to keep himself from breaking into a run. As he neared the lakes his pace grew slower. Although it was Saturday afternoon not many people were about. He scanned closely those who came within scanning distance. When he had crossed the road leading from the Sheen Gate he seemed to have the whole Park in front of him to himself. Reaching the edge of the smaller pond he paused, observing the lie of the ground.

“How did Edney put it? – A dozen yards due west of the north-western corner; – that will be the corner on the opposite side, straight ahead.” He walked to the point in question. “West? – As I stand here I am looking south; the west is on my right. Now for your dozen yards.” He took a dozen paces, then stooped to examine the turf. “As he said, the ground’s uneven enough. That precious tin box of his may be here or hereabouts, or it mayn’t. Very much it mayn’t. I was never on quite such a wild-goose chase since the days when I used to dream of going in search of hidden treasure. If the man was gammoning me all the time? I doubt it; and yet?-perhaps I’m the only man who would – What’s that?”

Something caught his eye a foot or two from where he was standing; something which might very easily have escaped his notice had not his glance been such a keenly observant one. It looked like a splinter of wood amid the coarse grasses.

“Edney’s piece of bamboo, as I’m a sinner! Then, on that occasion, at any rate, the man was not a liar.”

Gripping the scrap, which was all that was visible, he endeavoured to drag it out of the earth. It was not an easy task. The turf had grown so close about it that it was held as in a vice. He cut away the fibrous roots with his penknife. Presently he held it in his hand. It was part of a slender bamboo cane, about ten inches in length. A ferrule, nearly eaten away by rust, was still at one end. The wood itself was rotten. It was only by careful handling that he had succeeded in drawing it out intact.

“To think of that having been here all this time – half a sixpenny cane! How many years is it? I suppose it must be seven. He had served six; and the presumption is that he paid his last visit here some time before what he called ‘the crash’ came. It shows that he chose his place with knowledge – it has even gone unmolested by the deer. Then am I to take it that the tin box is underneath, containing the key to the fortune – my fortune? One thing’s obvious, that since I’ve lit on this, which, in its way, is ‘confirmation strong as holy writ,’ it’s worth while examining a little farther.”

He stood up, considering; turning the piece of cane over and over in his fingers.

“Three feet deep, he said. I can’t get down to that with a penknife, not to mention that to excavate a hole that size in Richmond Park in broad daylight might attract attention. Although there are not many people about, still there’s the risk. I require no audience and I want to be asked no questions. I’ll go on to Richmond; there I’ll buy something to dig with; after dusk I’ll return. In the meantime I’ll replace this piece of cane; it’ll serve as a landmark a second time. I may want it after the shadows have fallen.”

He carried out his programme; walked over to the town; purchased in George Street a mason’s trowel and a small digging fork. As the day was drawing to a close he strolled back towards the Penn Ponds with the two tools in his jacket pockets.

He returned by the route which Edney had described – along the drive leading to the White House. This necessitated a sharp turn to the right as soon as the plantation was passed. Almost immediately afterwards the lake came into full sight. The month was April, when the night comes quickly, especially on a grey day such as that was. It was distinctly chilly. The wind had risen still higher. Heavy clouds tore across the sky. He had not seen a creature since entering the Park – until the lake came in sight. Then he saw that someone – something – was by the water’s edge. Was it a man? a deer? a bush? – what?

He stopped instantly, drawing back into the shadow of the tree which he was passing. The light was bad, as he had desired it should be. As the object he was eyeing was at a distance of over a hundred yards, the prevailing obscurity made it difficult to determine what it was. However, his powers of vision happened to be unusually acute.

“It’s a man; that’s what it is. He’s kneeling down, and is leaning so far forward that his nose almost touches the grass. Unless I err, he’s very close to Edney’s piece of cane. What’s he doing there, at this time of day? Is it accident or intention?”

Presently from the crouching figure proceeded a sort of chuckling sound.

“He’s found it. It’s intention. He seems to be so wrapped up in what he’s looking for, and so unsuspicious of anyone being hereabouts, that I ought to be able to get at him before he scents my neighbourhood. The wind’s coming from him. I used to be a bit of a hand at a deer-stalk; let’s see if I’ve forgotten the trick.”

It seemed that he had not. Aided by the configuration of the ground, by the darkness, by the noise the wind was making – it was fast blowing up a storm – by his own dexterity and deftness of movement, he came within nine or ten feet of the now nearly recumbent figure – obviously still unnoticed.

“He’s digging! – the dear man!”

Leaping through the air like some huge wild creature, Bruce sprang upon the unheeding man, and, gripping him by the shoulder, swung him round upon his feet; meeting with no more resistance than might have been offered by an automaton.

The man he held helpless in front of him was Sam Swire.

— III —

THE BOX

Beyond doubt Mr. Swire had, in his time, been in some curious situations. He was a man with a history, so the thing was certain. The probability is, therefore, that he was not an easy man to take by surprise. That on that occasion he was surprised is undeniable. He had all the outward marks and signs of amazement in the superlative degree. The muscles of his face were twitching as if he were suffering from St Vitus’ dance; his mouth seemed to be opening and shutting of its own accord.

“So you weren’t asleep?”

The fact that, under the circumstances, he should have regained the faculty of speech so quickly as he did was creditable to his presence of mind, and showed how wide his experience must have been. True, his voice was a little tremulous, and he showed a tendency to stutter. Still, what he said was understandable.

“It’s – it’s His Highness!”

‘His Highness’ was the nickname by which Bruce had been known in jail, and had reference to his appearance, deportment, and such fragments of his story as were known – or guessed at.

“And you were lying when you told me that you had still some time to serve?”

“Never said it. What I said was that I still had lots to do. So I had – pretty nearly four and twenty hours. I came away from home this morning – same as you did. Only it seems that they let you out extra early. But we aren’t all persons of importance, and that’s where it is.” Bruce returned to his original position.

“So you weren’t asleep?”

Swire grinned. He was rapidly becoming his normal self.

“Well, I can’t say I was – exactly. When the cove told you to see what I was up to, I thought that there might be going to be some interesting conversation. So when you came and had a look, of course I was as sound as a baby. Bound to be when I knew it would oblige.”

“And you heard?”

“Not all; – bits here and there; – about enough.”

There was silence. They looked each other in the face. Swire spoke next.

“You take your hands from off me. Perhaps you don’t know your scrunching up my shoulder-blades.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Now that’s just the question I was going to put to you.”

“You know what I am doing.”

“And you know what I am doing, so we’re even.”

“I see – that’s it. The further question arises – what shall I do with you?”

“You take your hands off – that’s what you’ll do with me.” Instead of answering Bruce transferred one hand to the other’s throat; gripping it in such fashion that the man’s jaw dropped open and continued motionless, as if suddenly paralysed. Apparently he made an effort to remonstrate, but his utterance was choked; to struggle, but his limbs merely twitched, as if they belonged to some lay figure. The grip became firmer and firmer, until Mr. Swire’s countenance assumed a very unpleasant appearance indeed. When it was relaxed he fell backwards on to the ground like a log, remaining motionless as one. Bruce stopped to look at him.

“He’s not dead, but he’s as near to death as it would be wise to bring him.”

From about the neck, which he had just been holding in such a close embrace, he took a coloured handkerchief. With it he tied its owner’s legs together. From a jacket pocket he took a second, using it to tie his hands behind his back. Then he turned his attention to other matters.

“So he did find the landmark, and he’s started digging with a pocket knife. If Edney’s box of treasures is any size, it would have taken him some time to dig it out with that. Yet with such a blade it ought to be a useful knife. He might have tried it upon me if I had given him a chance.” Something touched him on the face. It was a drop of rain. “It’s coming, is it? I thought it wasn’t far off.” All at once the rain descended with torrential violence. “It begins to occur to me that I’m going to get wet. There’s one comfort – it’s likely to save me from further disturbance.”

He laughed beneath his breath, as if the whole business was a joke.

“In a matter of this sort, method’s desirable. The first thing to do is to cut out a square of turf, which can be replaced so as to show as little sign of disturbance as possible. And for that purpose Swire’s knife will come in handy.”

Working rapidly, cutting out a thick slab of turf, he laid it, intact, upon one side. With his trowel he loosened the earth which its removal had made accessible, using his hands to shovel it out. The pelting rain, seeming to drain it into the hole, turned it into mud as he went on.

“I ought to have got down nearly three feet. Let’s hope Edney’s three didn’t mean four; this is becoming awkward.” The depth to which he had attained, and the nature of the tools with which he was working, necessitated his lying flat on his stomach on the soaking grass. “I’ll probe for it.” Using Swire’s knife as a probe he thrust it into the ground nearly as far as it would go – until its further ingress was prevented by some hard substance.

“That feels like metal. We will trust it is. It oughtn’t to take me long to get as far as that.” As he was resuming work Swire evinced signs of returning consciousness. He lay five or six feet from the open hole. Even at that short distance only his outline was visible in the prevailing darkness. Odd sounds came from him; then groans; then words, and with words, bad language.

“Where am I? – What are you playing at? – What’s happened? – Who the—?”

Then came the torrent of bad language. Without saying a word, with the man’s own knife Bruce cut off a thick tuft of grass. Moving towards him, just as he was in the very midst of a flood of expletives, Bruce crammed the grass into his mouth. It served as an effective gag. The man might writhe and twist, and he did, but he could not rise to his feet; his own handkerchiefs bound him too adroitly; nor could he make himself heard. Picking him up indifferently, as if he were some inanimate log, Bruce bore him back into the drive, a distance of perhaps two hundred yards. Depositing him by the fence of one of the plantations, his face against the woodwork, he left him, still without a word.

Then he returned to his labour. A few seconds later he was lifting out of the hole which he had made what seemed to be a metal box.

“Then Edney wasn’t lying – which seems to show that the ruling passion is not always strong in death – unless the point of the jest is still to come, and his treasure box contains nothing Worth the finding.”

He crammed back into the hole as much of the soil as he could. Replacing the slab of turf, he strode off with the box in his hand; – apparently oblivious of Mr. Sam Swire, lying on the sodden ground, bound and speechless, in the darkness, the wind, and the pelting rain. He glanced at his watch.

“Nearly ten. Clarence Gate will be closed. It will have to be Sheen.”

He passed through Sheen Gate unobserved. Covering the ground at the rate of a good five miles an hour, he returned to Dulverton Road. On the lonely road, at that time, in that weather, he did not meet a soul. The downpour never slackened. As he neared his destination he thought of the condition he was in.

“If they see me they’ll wonder what sort of lodger they’ve got hold of; what I’ve been doing, where I’ve been. Which little matters I might find it difficult to explain. Perhaps Mrs. Ludlow’s latchkey will enable me to get to cover before I’m scented; – they won’t see me.”

The latchkey did him the service he desired. By its aid he slipped into the house and into his bedroom before anyone was conscious of his presence. Hardly was he in his room when someone rapped at the panel. Mrs. Ludlow’s voice was heard.

“Would you like any supper, sir? You didn’t say before you went out, so I left something on the table in case you might.”

“Thank you, but I’ve had all that I require. I’m wet and rather tired, so I think I’ll tumble in.”

He did not “tumble in” quite so soon as his words – spoken from behind the cover of the locked door – suggested. First of all he placed himself before the looking-glass. The figure he presented seemed to afford him amusement – though it was probably as well that he had not been seen on his entrance, and that the road along which he had come was a lonely one. No one could have encountered him unawares without being struck by his appearance; and wondering; and asking questions. It was not unlikely that food for cogitation would have been provided by the answers received. He was soaked to the skin, his clothes being glued to his person as if he had just emerged from a long sojourn in the water. They were in an indescribable state of dirt. He wore a dark grey suit of Harris tweed, which served as an excellent foil to the stains of the reeking sandy turf on which he had been lying. His hands were caked with mud; it grimed his face, matted his beard. As he regarded himself in the mirror he laughed beneath his breath – which seemed to be a trick to which he was addicted.

“It’s eminently desirable that there should be something worth having in Edney’s treasure box; because this suit is clearly done for, and I’ve only a frocker to take its place; and with a frock-coat one can hardly wear a bowler, even if this bowler can ever be worn again.”

He undressed himself; washed; scrubbed himself with towels. It was an indifferent substitute for a bath, yet luxury compared to the methods of ablution to which he had become accustomed at Canterstone. Then, in nondescript garb, he tackled his find.

It was a box, about nine inches by six, apparently made of thin sheets of rolled iron. Probably originally it was japanned; there were traces here and there of what might have been japan; but now it was so eaten by rust that, save where the metal was still obscured by fragments of dirt, it was all a dull red.

“The key would be no use even if I had it; the lock’s a wreck. And rust has riveted the lid to the body of the thing.” He shook it. No sound proceeded from within.

“If it were empty! that would be the crowning jest. The question is, how to prise it open?”

It was a work of time, but he did get it open at last – with the aid of Mr. Swire’s knife, his own digging fork and trowel, and, it should be added, Mrs. Ludlow’s fire-irons, which served as levers. When it was open the reason why nothing had been audible when the box was shaken became obvious; the interstices left by the contents had been packed with cotton-wool, – which had become rusty, like the receptacle in which it was contained. Mr. Edney had meant that nothing should be heard.

“A thoroughgoing man, that benefactor of mine. May his dishonest bones rest in peace! He evidently did his best to keep his treasures in condition.”

The contents proved to be of a varied kind. Turning them out upon the bed, disentangling them from the rusty cotton-wool in which they were enveloped, Bruce examined them one by one. The first article on which he lighted had on him somewhat the effect of a cold douche. It was a portrait; a woman’s photograph; “cabinet” size; a half-length. She was seemingly between thirty and forty years of age, and was in evening-dress; – as is the custom of a certain type of woman, who loves to attire herself in her splendours, merely for the sake of photographic reproduction. She wore a ‘picture’ hat; had two necklaces round her throat; ornaments in her hair; an anchor-shaped brooch in the bosom of her dress. Not a bad-looking woman; a trifle thin-lipped; and with some peculiarity in the shape of her nose which seemed almost to amount to a twist.

“Who is it, I wonder? – wife or sweetheart? or somebody else’s sweetheart? – It’s an unexpected find, and unwelcome – suggesting complications. From what I saw of him, one would hardly have associated Edney with a woman; – but one never knows. I hope, for your sake, madam, and for mine, that we shall never meet, or there may be trouble. More trouble. – What’s this at the back? – The photographer’s name – ‘Rayner, Birchester.’ – Birchester? That’s where it all took place. So it would seem that if I want to know something about you, madam, I have only to inquire at that address. But, as it chances, I do not want to know anything. I prefer to know nothing. Still, I’ll keep your photograph, lest, someday, it may be required for reference. And yet – all sorts of unexpected disagreeables might arise from a trifle of this sort. Anyhow, for the present we’ll put you by.”

He next picked up a cheque-book, containing a hundred blank cheques – “to order” – drawn on the Strand branch of the National Bank.

“Cheques are all very well, given a balance; but without a balance, dangerous – in certain hands. As one or two gentlemen in Canterstone Jail seem to have found. Is there a balance in our favour at the Strand branch of the National Bank?”

It appeared that there was, if one might judge from the evidence of a pass-book, which was his third discovery. It was endorsed, on the plain parchment cover, in a bold round hand: “Francis Smithers, Esq.”

“Smithers? – Francis Smithers? – I don’t care for the name myself; but still, if there is a solid balance at the back of it – a balance, if you’re credited with it under any name, is sweet, especially when it finds you with a fortune of less than three pounds sterling.”

The pass-book contained but a single entry. That was on the credit side – “By cash, £1000.” It was attached to a date nearly seven years old. Bruce stared. After such a preface the blank pages seemed to have a singular eloquence.

“Mr. Edney was really not such a liar as one might have supposed – £1000, bearing no interest, not drawn upon for seven years – the National Bank must feel that it has got rather a good thing. That’s the sort of account that any bank would like to have. – What have we here?”

In the flap were two papers. One was a printed form on which the same institution acknowledged the receipt of £5000 on deposit, to bear interest at the rate of 2 3/4% until further notice. The date was the same as that on which the drawing account had been opened. The second was a half-sheet of notepaper, on which was written, in a crabbed legal hand, “Address given, Cosmopolitan Hotel, Charing Cross.”

“I see. So at the Strand branch of the National Bank, Francis Smithers, Esquire, has a thousand pounds, on which he can draw at sight; and five thousand pounds, on which he can draw at seven days’ notice. The latter sum has been bearing interest. I presume the rate has varied with the Bank rate. Assuming it to have averaged two and a half per cent., then there should be standing to his credit, in the shape of interest, something like another thousand pounds. Very pretty indeed. – And at the time these two accounts were opened he was residing at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. A highly respectable address. I had his word for it that he did not put in a personal appearance in the matter – yet it seems unnatural to have arranged a transaction of this sort through the post. I wonder. The bank people must have imagined that they had an oddity in the way of a client. So they had. One hears a good deal about bankers’ unclaimed balances. Do they fancy they’ve got a haul in this little lot? If so, they’ll be disillusioned when I appear upon the scene. And yet – it’s not all plain sailing. – Next, please.”

The next was a blank envelope. In it was a document issued by the Shoe Lane Safe Deposit Company, by which, in consideration of a certain sum of money received on a date this time nearly eight years old, they conveyed to Francis Smithers, Esquire, for a term of 99 years, one of their safes, to wit, No. 226. Accompanying this document was a tiny key of ingenious construction, to which was attached a tag inscribed, “Key of safe.” There was also another half-sheet of notepaper on which was written, in a plain flowing hand, “Francis Smithers.” Above it was the superscription, “My signature.”

“The key at last; the Open Sesame which is, or is not, to unlock the door to all these riches. As the dear man correctly said, the signature’s the essential thing. With it, one’s sufficiently in the dark. Without it, where would one be? He vowed that I should find it easy; it doesn’t look difficult, the sort of running hand they teach at school. As he was good enough to hint, I’m tolerably deft with a pen. Its presence here suggests that this is not his usual calligraphy; and that it was therefore the part of wisdom to keep a copy, to jog his memory, in case he himself should forget how he wrote his name. He seems to have had an eye for all eventualities, save one – a prison deathbed. I wonder what’s in safe No. 226. That, at any rate, I should have no difficulty in learning. I’ve the receipt – the key; they can hardly refuse me access to my very own safe, mine own for 99 years. He was a far-sighted man; did he expect to live to enjoy his possession for the whole of his term? Now what remains?”

There remained a letter – case in which there were twenty five-pound notes, not numbered consecutively, and many of them well worn, and a chamois leather bag containing fifty sovereigns.

“Something tangible at last. It is highly possible that this may be worth more to me than all the rest put together. I have this. I haven’t that, and never may have. A man may keep himself alive for some time on £150; while, although Open Sesame does open the door, it may be that it is only to find destruction awaiting one on the other side.”

Collecting the various articles, he contemplated them in the mass. Then, taking up the woman’s photograph, he subjected it to a further examination.

“I like this least of Mr. Edney’s treasures. I should have been obliged to him if he hadn’t put it in the box. It’s too suggestive. Who is she? What’s she doing in this galley? Has she a right to be here? He said he had no friends, and preferred to die in prison rather than trust himself to their tender mercies if he had any; that’s a fact. She mightn’t have been his friend although – theoretically – ‘a nearer one still, and a dearer one.’ That sort of thing depends upon circumstances, and upon one’s point of view. But in that case, where do I come in? I think I should like to know something about the lady; and yet – perhaps not. Confound the woman! I’ve a mind to burn her. But before I proceed to that extremity I’ll sleep on it. Anyhow, don’t let me blink at the situation. Let me look it straight in the face. These are the fruits of felony; the spoils of a sneaking swindler and a constitutional thief. If I avail myself of them, I sink to his level. I’ve been in trouble, but am I prepared to do that?”

Picking up the wash-leather bag he jingled its contents.

“That’s eloquent music to a man who has less than three sovereigns between him and a return to jail. I’m afraid that I may not prove altogether impervious to temptation. Men refuse to act as trustees; but I’m not sure that I shall refuse to act as heir, even to a swindler of the very first water. But I’ll sleep upon it all.”

And he did, soundly, as if conscience did not trouble him. He was asleep almost as soon as he was between the sheets. But possibly that was because such a bed as Mrs. Ludlow’s was a luxury to which he had been strange for a considerable space of time.

— IV —

THE FIRST CHEQUE

The following day was Sunday. It rained unceasingly. For that reason and others – some of them connected with the condition of his wardrobe – he remained indoors, considering. On Monday the sun shone. When he had finished breakfast Mrs. Ludlow appeared in person to clear the table, and to receive his orders for the day. Then she lingered, having evidently something on her mind. Presently it appeared that she was not quite so trustful as he had supposed. Possibly an inspection of his luggage had not inspired her with confidence.

“I am sure that you will understand, Mr. Smithers” – he had given the name of Smithers on his arrival, and so had taken at least a preliminary step – “that no offence is intended, but might I ask if you’re in business?”

“In business? – I’m afraid not.”

“Are you – are you looking for a situation?”

“I wasn’t thinking of doing so, just at present.”

“Because, sir, you’re a perfect stranger to me, and – and—”

“You’d like your rent in advance?”

“Perhaps you would give me a reference.”

“I’d sooner pay you; it will save us both trouble.”

“I hope that no offence will be taken where none is meant; but the truth is, money is an object to me just now, and I dare not take any risks.”

“Money is an object to most of us, and only foolish people do take unnecessary risks. I assure you, Mrs. Ludlow, I am not in the least offended, and am quite willing to pay you weekly in advance.”

He gave her two sovereigns; his own. When she had gone he turned the change she had given him over and over in his hand.

“That almost settles it. Less than a pound represents my all. What’s a pound to a man of my pretensions? I fear I shall have to trench upon that fortune.”

Arrayed in his frock-coat and incongruous headgear in the shape of that relic of a bowler, he sallied forth to take the air. In the High Street he bought another bowler and a silk hat. Glorified by the latter, he journeyed on top of a ’bus to town. He had never enjoyed a ride so much in his life. It is some distance from Putney to Regent Circus. But it was not one whit too far for him. The whole thing was a continuous delight. Given fine weather and no need for haste, one could hardly choose a pleasanter method of progression through the London streets than the top of an omnibus. And in his case there were special circumstances which made the occasion memorable; – it was so much better to be there than in Canterstone Jail.

In Regent Street he was measured for two or three suits, and made sundry other purchases, for which he paid with Mr. Edney’s banknotes. Then he strolled along the Strand, where he surveyed the outside of the National Bank. Thence to Shoe Lane, to inspect the Safe Deposit Company. He was impressed by the idea of solidity conveyed by the plain stone frontage.

“If a man has a safe in a place like that, it must have something in it; it’s bound to. It can’t be empty.” He twiddled a tiny key which he took from his waistcoat pocket. “I wonder what’s in my safe, No. 226. I’m half disposed to investigate it right away. But perhaps I’d better postpone that pleasure till – till I’m in a more settled state of mind.”

He lunched at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, an idea having occurred to him. Mr. Smithers had opened his two banking accounts while a resident of that palatial hostelry. If he were to draw his first cheque at the same address it might tend to allay any tendency to unhealthy suspicion. Suppose he were to enter his name in the books, and make it his headquarters? There was something in the notion; a good deal perhaps. But Miss Ludlow lived at Putney. There was plenty of time to turn the matter over in his mind.

At Dulverton Road that evening his coal-scuttle happened to be empty. He rang for it to be refilled. Miss Ludlow appeared. The idea that that graceful, dainty-looking girl should perform for him offices of that sort did not appeal to him at all.

“Allow me to take the scuttle. If you’ll show me where the coals are, I’ll fill it in no time.”

But the girl showed so plainly by her manner that she would rather he did not, that he had to yield. She went out with the scuttle in her hand – leaving him to fume upon the hearthrug.

“I can’t stand this. I’m not going to have a girl like that wait upon me hand and foot as if she were some dirty drudge. Don’t they keep a servant? – Then who cleans the boots?”

The question suggested disagreeable possibilities – especially when he reflected on how much his boots had stood in need of cleaning the preceding Saturday night, and how beautifully polished he had found them in the morning. On her return – with the refilled scuttle – she answered the inquiry which he had addressed to himself.

“We don’t keep a servant. Mother and I do the work between us.”

“But isn’t that hard on you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Things are hard. Not that it matters. One gets used to them.”

She showed a disposition to linger – with which he was entirely in sympathy, very much preferring her company, just then, to his own.

“If you will allow me, I shall be happy to engage a boy to do the rougher work – boots, and that sort of thing.”

“It’s very good of you, but I’m afraid we couldn’t afford it.”

“I’d pay him.”

“But we should have to deduct the amount from your rent – we should have to charge you less – and that’s what we couldn’t afford.”

“You need do nothing of the kind.”

“But attendance is included in what you are paying mother; – we couldn’t allow you to pay for what you don’t have.”

“That’s rubbish. If I choose to supply myself with a myrmidon in the form of a boy, I don’t see what that has to do with you. Am I a slave that I should not be suffered to provide myself with a dozen grown-up serving-men?”

“There’s that way of putting it, no doubt. You are not a slave.”

She looked at him with dancing eyes. He noticed what pleasant eyes they were; big – brown – open – sunny. She stood observing him – with apparent unconsciousness of the fact – as if something in his personality struck her and gave her courage.

“I hope you didn’t mind what mother said to you this morning?”

“Do you mean about my being a stranger?”

“Yes. She has a good many troubles just now, and she’s anxious.”

“She’s quite right; I am a stranger – and not one to inspire confidence either.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“I am – or if I do it’s confidence misplaced.”

“Mother didn’t mean anything.”

“Then she ought to have meant something. But I believe she did. I do her more justice than her daughter. I came here with an ancient Gladstone and two suits of old clothes – one on and t’other off; there wouldn’t have been much there to fall back upon in case of unpaid rent.”

“Believe me, Mr. Smithers, neither mother nor I had any fear that there would be that.”

She spoke with sudden gravity, as if fearful that his lightness of tone was on the surface only. But he laughed at her.

“Then you ought to have had; – always suspect everyone. That’s business. – By the way – question for question! – I’ll put to you the inquiry your mother put to me, so you mustn’t take offence; – aren’t you in business?”

“I’ve tried all sorts of things. Typewriting was the last; but there doesn’t seem much money in that. So I’m looking for something else in which there is some money. If I find it, mother will have to get a servant. She can’t do everything herself.”

Mr. Smithers, recently Bruce, immediately began to cast about in his mind as to whether he could not find for her something more congenial than – horrid notion! – cleaning a strong man’s dirty boots. But he did not put this fact into words.

“You have another lodger?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Rodway has the drawing-rooms. He’s been here ever since we came. Not that we’ve been here very long, but perhaps we shouldn’t have come at all if it hadn’t been for him. He’s in my brother’s bank.”

“Your brother’s bank?”

“Well, the bank in which he is employed. He’s in the Strand branch of the National Bank.”

“In the Strand branch of the National Bank? How very odd!”

He felt that it was odd; – so odd that it nearly took his breath away.

“He’s much older than I am – he has a wife and family – he’s been there for years – he’s one of the cashiers. Why is it odd?”

“Its oddity consists in the fact that I have an account at that particular bank.”

Whether or not he had intended to utter the words, he could not, at the moment, have said. But they were uttered – beyond recall. She spoke with a little air of malice.

“I believe that several people have accounts there. Where’s the oddity of your having one?”

He turned his side face to her, resting a foot on the kerb and an elbow on the mantel. Should he answer? And if so, what? He had no time to think – it seemed easier to answer.

“There is something peculiar about the matter, and it’s this. Seven years ago I opened two accounts there – a drawing and a deposit account. Up to the present I have not drawn a cheque upon the one or the interest from the other. I am thinking of doing so now.”

“Seven years! I wish that mother or I could afford to open an account at a bank and leave it untouched for seven years! I’m going to see my brother at the bank tomorrow morning.”

“Are you? Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a cheque for me and cashing it.”

“I shall be delighted.”

When she had left him he was not in two but a dozen minds. In the first place, what had he done? He had certainly done one thing – he had burnt his boats. He had taken a step which would lead him – where? Gould it be called an open question? If so, time alone could supply the answer – he might have to wait for it till the end of his life.

Even if he did not entrust her with the cheque of which he had spoken, she would tell her brother what he had said. Unless he forbade her. On what grounds could he do that? It would be to arouse suspicion there and then. If she told him, the probability was that inquiries would be immediately made; the whole business would be stirred up. Suppose he allowed her to present the cheque and there was trouble – a consequence which he esteemed extremely possible. Would he not be in the position of the cowardly scamp who, lacking courage to offer his own forgery across the bank counter, passes on the risk to any unconscious substitute? How would she be placed in case anything did happen? At the very least, she would have to bear witness against him. The notion tickled him. He laughed.

The result of his cogitations was that he took out of a brand new despatch box, which had been one of the day’s purchases, Mr. Smithers’ pass and cheque books and his signature. Producing also pens, ink, and paper, he set himself to imitate the latter.

“Let me see how close I can get to it. I’m out of practice. It’s some time since I wrote anything – even a copy.” Before he set to work he scrutinised the deposit note and the entry in the pass-book. “I suppose it is all right – that nothing has been drawn – that there’s no hanky-panky about it anywhere. I’m in such a curious position that my naturally unsuspicious nature sees deception everywhere. Like a child who has to find its way about a strange room in pitch darkness, I’m a little timid – and awkward. The whole thing seems to be so pat that I’m convinced there’s a flaw somewhere – and that it will floor me.”

He covered a sheet of paper with the two words – “Francis Smithers” – written in a hand which was so exactly like the original that it would have needed an expert to detect the difference. For a man who was ‘out of practice,’ he did it with surprising ease.

“I haven’t lost the knack – fortunately. Or is it unfortunately? I wonder. If only a man standing where I stand could see into the future! – It’s a convenient but a dangerous gift, that of penmanship – on these lines. We can only trust that, on this occasion, the danger is reduced to a vanishing point. – For how much shall I draw my first cheque? It should not be for too much – at the same time it ought to be enough to make it worth while.”

He wrote a cheque for £50, signing and endorsing it “Francis Smithers.” Then he went to bed – in thoughtful mood.

In the morning repentance came. His rest had been broken – for him an unwonted experience. Visions of a girl’s face and a pair of big brown eyes had disturbed his slumbers. When he rose he had changed his mind.

“She shan’t take the cheque, and cover me. I shouldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to her. Whatever risk’s about, I fancy I’m equal to taking it. I’ll not screen myself behind a woman’s petticoats; – I’m not such a cur. I’ve not got down to that level yet – though I’m promising fair. I’ll take the cheque to the bank myself.”

But in so deciding he was reckoning without the lady. While he was at breakfast she came in in her hat and jacket.

“Will you give me the cheque of which you spoke last night, Mr. Smithers?”

“Cheque?”

He looked up at her – as if feigning forgetfulness.

“You said you would like me to change a cheque for you at the National Bank.”

“So I did – yes – just so. But I don’t think I’ll trouble you, Miss Ludlow. There may be some formalities, which you might find a nuisance.”

“I’m sure I shouldn’t; – it will be a pleasure. In fact, by letting me change it you’ll be doing me a service.”

“Doing you a service? – How so?”

“I want to see my brother, but I’m not so sure that he will want to see me – and your cheque will serve as an excuse.”

“I see.” He did not see; but that was by the way. “If, by getting you to do me a service I shall be doing you one – if you put it in that way – I will trespass on your kindness.” He passed her the cheque, which he took from his pocket. “It’s for £50 – tell them to make it three tens and four fives. You understand that you’re responsible for whatever happens – in the way of worry.”

She smiled and nodded.

“I’m used to responsibility; – in this case I’ll take all there is about.”

“Will you?” he said to himself, grimly, when she had gone. “If you only knew the peculiar nature of the responsibility you are incurring, your eagerness would be less. – After all, I am a cur; I’ve let her do it. Now I shall be on tenterhooks till she returns, imagining all sorts of delightful possibilities. If any of them do come off, I’ll – I’ll what? What can I do if any trouble comes to her because of her connection with a blackguard of my type? Cut my throat? Hang myself? Much benefit she would receive from that. I can do nothing. – So, at this point, let me arrive at one decision, and stick to it. I’ll do all that has to be done myself; I’ll drag no one with me into the mire in which I choose to run the risk of drowning. How long ought it to take her to get to the Strand and back? Goodness alone can tell. She may have to do a dozen errands of which I know nothing – there may be a hundred and one delays. Suppose – oh, confound supposing! One thing’s sure – I’m a haunted man until she does return. Why on earth did I let her take that cheque!”

— V —

A VISITOR

Mr. Smithers had a little conversation with his landlady while she removed his breakfast things, in the course of which she gave utterance to some candid opinions on the subject of her son and daughter.

“Theodore – that’s my son’s name – is a very clever man. Sometimes I’m almost afraid that he’s too clever.”

“In what sense? How can a man be too clever?”

He knew very well, from personal experience. But he chose to ask.

“It doesn’t become me, his mother, to say anything; especially considering what a position he’s gained, and he’s done it all himself, for it’s little enough I’ve been able to do for him, and his father died when he was a little lad. I only hope he’ll get all that he thinks he will, and that it’ll bring him happiness.”

“I presume that he’s a shrewd man of business?”

“Wonderfully shrewd – and hard. I won’t say that he’s hard as the nether millstone, because a man can’t be expected to think of nothing but his mother all his life – especially when he has a wife and family. – Not like Netta.”

“Netta? Is that your daughter’s name?”

“It is, sir. I wish there were more like her in the world. What it would be to me without her I don’t know. But then I always do think that a woman has got more of the milk of human kindness in her than a man. There are some of the contrary opinion. I only speak as I’ve found. It seems to me that women know more of the pains and troubles of life, and perhaps that softens them. So many men only want a woman to make use of her. It isn’t fair.”

“My landlady’s a philosopher,” mused her lodger, she having departed. “That last shaft might have been meant for me. I’m making use of a woman at this very moment – and wish I wasn’t. – Netta? Odd name! Yet it suits her. I’m of her mother’s opinion – that there’s more in her than meets the eye; and what one sees is sufficiently prepossessing. – Curious that I should give a second thought to a woman after my experience of the sex – which doesn’t tally with Mrs. Ludlow’s. Man’s a composite creature.” He referred to his watch. “Not eleven yet. How the time does drag. With comfort I can’t go out, and I can’t stay in until that girl returns – very possibly with a policeman. Suppose she is accompanied by a man in blue? What a very short holiday I shall have had.” Taking up the day’s Telegraph he began to read – starting with the outside advertisement page and going straight on. To him a newspaper was still a luxury. It was some time before he came on anything in which he seemed to find a particular interest. When he did it took the form of a short paragraph in one of the columns headed “London Day by Day” – though what association it had with the headline was not quite clear.

“The Marchioness of Skye gave birth to a son and heir on Sunday evening at Gairloch Castle, the family seat, Gairloch Castle, which stands on the edge of a precipitous cliff, is one of the most remarkable ancestral homes in Britain. It is also one of the most ancient. If tradition goes for anything, the castle possesses a well-authenticated ghost. The Gairloch piper is famous. It is stated, however, that the wild wail of his weird pipes is only audible when a gale is blowing from the north-west, so that the gale may have something to do with the music. We understand that the Prince of Scotland has consented to act as sponsor. The Marquis of Skye, who has been staying in Paris, returned to the castle yesterday morning, to find that both mother and child are progressing favourably.”

When he had finished the paragraph Mr. Smithers, laying down the paper, stared into vacancy, as if his mental eye saw a picture before him in the air.

“That’s a relief! That’s a weight off my mind! What a weight – and what a relief! Bravo Alec – and bravo Sarah; well done! My only regret is that it isn’t twins. But let’s hope it will be twins next time, and the time after, and then again, until there are a baker’s dozen. You mayn’t believe it, my good people, but the farther I’m off from Gairloch the better I’ll be pleased. Indeed, my only hope of happiness lies there – if I’ve any hope at all. – So Alec’s been to Paris – may Paris have meant propriety. – And Shon’s pipes are only heard in a north-west wind? And, inferentially, only at Gairloch? Two little errors. I’ve heard them in all winds and in all places. I’ve grown used to them, so that I’ve begun to fancy that I know just when they may be expected.”

The fashion of his countenance changed – growing grim and stark; more obviously reminiscent of the viking’s, to which he had himself compared it. He remained for, possibly, half an hour as rigid as if he had been carved in stone. With a start he returned to life, casting quick inquiring glances round the little room, like a man who had been dreaming. It was with a conscious effort that he took the paper again between his fingers, reading on mechanically until, for the second time, he came on something which roused him to unmistakable attention.

This time it was a paragraph in the body of the paper, the headline being, “MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE IN RICHMOND PARK.” It seemed that on the preceding Sunday afternoon – a few hours before an heir had been born to the Marquisate of Skye – a man was found in Richmond Park bound hand and foot, and gagged. He was in a wretched plight, having been exposed to the elements during the pitiless rains of the night and morning. His state of exhaustion was so complete that for some time after his arrival at the hospital, to which he had been taken as soon as possible after his discovery, fears were entertained for his life. Sympathetic treatment, however, had worked such a change that there was now little doubt of his eventual recovery. He had been too far gone to be able to talk much, yet it seemed that he had managed to tell a strange story. He had been attacked in the darkness by a gang of ruffians, who, having used him with brutal violence, had, with the probable intention of avoiding pursuit, left him in the helpless condition in which he had been found. That robbery had been the object there seemed no doubt, as the victim of the outrage, who was a man in humble circumstances, had had upon him at the time, secured in a canvas bag, nearly five pounds in gold and silver coins; while, when he was found, the bag had vanished, and in his pockets were only a few coppers. The paragraph concluded by stating that at present nothing had been heard of the cowardly assailants; and while it was believed that the police had a clue, the whole affair was wrapped in mystery.

“Mr. Swire means to make five pounds out of it, even if he loses the box of treasures. An ingenious man, and ready-witted. He won’t blab. First of all, because of his constitutional objection to telling the truth; and second, because, in the course of the inquiries which would inevitably ensue, some damaging little discoveries might be made affecting him. He’d get nothing out of it anyhow. As it is, he probably thinks that he has a pull over me; – a double, if not a treble, pull. It will be one of the chief objects of his life to light on me again. When he does, then there’ll be another tug of war. – Mem.: look out for Swire.”

Miss Ludlow did not return till late in the afternoon. Before then Mr. Smithers had made up his mind half a dozen times to rush off to the bank to see what had become of her. He was picturing her in all sorts of disagreeable positions. When she did appear he was standing at the window watching for her arrival with more anxiety than he would have cared to admit even to himself. So desirous was he to quickly hear the worst – feeling sure that there was a worst – that he had the door open for her before she had had time to ring, offering a somewhat lame explanation of his reasons for doing so.

“Excuse me for acting as door-opener, but I didn’t want you to be kept waiting. I thought you were lost.”

“I? – or the money?”

“You! Hang the money!”

He held the door open for her to enter his sitting-room. The lightness of her tone had caused his heart to jump in his bosom; for he perceived that nothing very dreadful had happened to her after all, or there would not be that smile in her voice – and in her eyes, and on her lips.

“Thank you; but you need never be afraid of my being lost; I’m not worth losing. The truth is, I thought they would never let me out of that horrid bank. I might have gone to rob it, instead of merely to change a cheque.”

“I was afraid that there might be some formalities. You know I warned you.”

“Formalities, you call them! They asked me enough questions to fill a book; wanting to know how old you were, how short you were, how black you were. I quite expected them to insist on my drawing a likeness of you on the spot. I might have managed a caricature of you; farther than that I don’t think I could have gone.”

“You do draw caricatures?”

“Oh yes, at times. – They seemed to think that I knew everything about you; and that if I didn’t, then I ought to.”

“It’s fortunate for me you don’t.”

“Perhaps. One never knows. Men are – men.” She looked at him with laughing glances. “However, they did give me the money at last. At least, my brother did. Here it is, three tens, four fives, as requested. If I might be allowed to offer my advice, were I in your place, I should not again leave money untouched at a bank quite so long. I fancy they get so used to having it on the premises that they resent your asking for it back again almost as much as if it really were their own.”

“I understand the feeling, and will bear the advice in mind. – I hope your interview with your brother was pleasanter?”

Her face clouded.

“No; it wasn’t pleasant at all. But then, I didn’t expect it would be. Only I’m afraid mother will be disappointed. – The great thing is that I got your money. But you mustn’t suppose that their curiosity’s appeased. I shouldn’t be surprised if a director, or the manager, or somebody came and asked you some of the questions which they asked me. They don’t want to give you your own money if they can help it, I feel sure.”

After she had left him, he remained some moments fingering the banknotes she had brought.

“I wonder what it was she went to see her brother about, which made him so unpleasant. It’s not my business, but I’m a trifle curious. – Poor little girl! I expect they teased her. What a brute I was to let her go. Nice thoughts she’ll think of me if she ever does find out. No doubt she’s right; I may expect to be interviewed. It’s not to be supposed that they’ll disgorge dumbly to an unseen stranger. I’ll go to them myself tomorrow and have it over.”

But the expected interview took place before the morrow.

An hour or two later there was a tapping at his sitting-room door. Miss Ludlow entered.

“My brother from the bank wishes to see you, Mr. Smithers, if you are not engaged. Do you mind his coming in?”

There was a twinkle in her eyes as she spoke, which he understood, or thought he did. “My brother” did not wait to hear if Mr. Smithers minded. He entered before that gentleman had a chance of speaking. Whereon Miss Ludlow withdrew, leaving the two men alone together.

Mr. Smithers found himself confronted by an individual whom he certainly should not have recognised as the lady’s brother. His erectness of bearing lent to him an adventitious appearance of height; he looked as if he could not bend. His black hair, parted with rigid precision in the centre, was turning grey at the edges. His face was square and broad. One was struck by the thinness of his lips, and their length – details which were thrown into greater prominence by the fact that his upper lip and jaw were clean-shaven. The austerity of his appearance was accentuated by the primness of his attire. Mr. Smithers thought that he had never seen a more unclubbable-looking man – even in Canterstone Jail.

That this was a person who had considerable control over his feelings – and who was quite capable of concealing the fact that he had any at all – was obvious. Which made it the more surprising that he was so evidently and singularly moved, staring at Mr. Smithers – as if he were unable to take his eyes from off him – as if he were some uncanny creature. That gentleman’s keen observation was hardly likely to allow the peculiarity of the other’s manner to escape his notice. He asked himself some questions.

“Has he seen me before? or have I seen him? I don’t remember his face; and it’s not a face one would be likely to forget. Yet one never knows. Is there going to be trouble? He looks like the sort of man who could make it.”

— VI —

MR. LUDLOW REQUIRES
SOME INFORMATION

Mr. Theodore Ludlow spoke first, Mr. Smithers waiting almost ostentatiously for him to do so. But he only got as far as two words – half a question.

“Are you—?”

“Francis Smithers. – Don’t you recognise me?”

“I do not.”

“No? And yet you look at me as if we had met before. Have we?”

“Never.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself. You, I believe, are Mr. Ludlow, of the Strand branch of the National Bank?”

“I am.”

“Pray take a seat.”

“Thank you; I prefer to stand.”

“Allow me to offer you a cigar.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“A little whiskey?”

“I never drink intoxicating liquors.”

“Then what may I offer you?”

“Thank you; nothing. I am here on business, though informally.” Hitherto he had remained standing by the door where he had entered. Now, coming a little forward, he rested the knuckles of one hand upon the table – the stare with which he had been favouring the other becoming, if anything, still more inquisitorial. “Am I to understand that you are Mr. Francis Smithers?”

“You are, since I am.”

“The Mr. Francis Smithers who has an account with us?”

“Who has two accounts with you – that is, with the bank of which you are a servant.”

The words were chosen with malice – which Mr. Ludlow possibly observed. His tone became resentful.

“A cheque for £50, signed Francis Smithers, was presented today.”

“That is so.”

“You sent my sister with it.”

“Pardon me; that is hardly the correct way of putting it. Miss Ludlow informed me that she was going to call on you, and I asked her to cash a cheque for me at the same time.”

“You asked her to cash a cheque for you.”

“Certainly. Was there anything objectionable or strange in that?”

The two men’s glances met, as if they were measuring swords. For an appreciable period they regarded each other in perfect silence. Then Mr. Ludlow started a little back, almost as if he had been struck a blow. His eyes fell. When he spoke again it was without raising them.

“The accounts were opened under peculiar circumstances?”

“I am probably better acquainted with the circumstances under which they were opened than you are.”

“I doubt it.”

“Mr. Ludlow – the accounts are mine; not yours.”

“They were placed in my hands at the time they were opened, and it was I who was instructed to make inquiries. I made them.”

“Are you aware, Mr. Ludlow, that your manner is a little singular? May I ask what is the purport of your presence here, and who has sent you? I am not accustomed, at this hour, to receive visits from my bankers’ clerks, especially when their bearing is so – unusual.”

Mr. Ludlow looked up. Something seemed trembling in his eyes and on his lips – which, however, died away in front of the other’s calm imperturbability. His glance sank again.

“Possibly you may find it convenient to call at the bank in the course of tomorrow. There are one or two matters into which we should like to enter with you.”

“Possibly I may not find it convenient – and very probably.”

“I think you had better.”

“Why?” Once more the cashier’s glance went up and down – apparently he found the other’s eyes unpleasant to encounter. “I should be sorry, Mr. Ludlow, to have to be the cause of your losing your situation.”

This time the bank clerk looked up with surprise, which was unmistakably genuine.

“You be the cause of my losing my situation – you!”

“Yes, I. I am unwilling to suppose that your discourtesy is intentional – as I can conceive of no reason why you should desire to be rude—” He paused, regarding Mr. Ludlow with an intent, smiling scrutiny, before which that gentleman seemed to quail. “I am content to attribute it to your naturally unfortunate manner. It would occasion me genuine distress to have to intimate to your manager that while you continue in the employ of the National Bank, my account must be transferred to an establishment whose officials have been trained to treat its customers with civility. The fact seems to be, Mr. Ludlow, that because I have allowed considerable sums to continue idle in the hands of your employers through a term of years, you imagine yourself entitled to regard them as the owners of my moneys. I will comment on that position when I see your principals. In the meantime, I have the pleasure of wishing you good-evening.”

Crossing the room, Mr. Smithers himself turned the handle of the door and held it open. After a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Ludlow went through it without a word; without, for instance, troubling himself to say good-night. Not only did he leave the room, but he left the house, shutting the street door behind him with a bang. Scarcely had he departed than Miss Ludlow came hurrying in to Mr. Smithers.

“Has Theodore gone?”

“I believe so – he went out into the street.”

“But mother begged him to see her after he had seen you, and he said he would. What can he be thinking of? Has anything happened?”

“‘Happened’? In that form the question’s rather difficult to answer. I am inclined to think, Miss Ludlow, that your brother’s manner is a little unfortunate sometimes.”

“Sometimes! It too often is.” Miss Ludlow’s brown eyes – obviously anxious – were searching Mr. Smithers’ smiling face. “Has there been any unpleasantness?”

“I didn’t like his manner, and I told him so.”

“You told him so? Then there has been unpleasantness. Because he certainly would not like to be told that. – Was he very rude?”

“Middling – though I suppose he thought it was all in the way of business.”

“This comes of leaving your money untouched for all those years – it is just as though they had taken it for granted you were dead, and had spent it. I told you they wouldn’t want to let you have it back again.”

“I daresay not – though what particular concern it is of your brother’s I fail to understand. I imagine he’s a character.”

Mr. Ludlow appeared to have the same opinion of Mr. Smithers. He found himself in the street with his hat in his hand. Before putting it on his head he summed up his feelings with sufficient terseness.

“I thought I’d seen all sorts, but he’s unique.” At this point on went the hat, he settling it, with both hands, at the proper angle, as became a careful man. “I can’t be mistaken. Anyhow, of that I will make sure.”

His residence was at Brixton. Instead of going there, however, he paid a visit at the Universal Hotel. The Universal is one of that group of huge caravansaries to which the Cosmopolitan belongs. He was about to inquire for the manager, Mr. Hibbert, but was saved the trouble by perceiving the man himself standing in the great hall, engaged apparently in doing nothing. It is odd how frequently gentlemen in Mr. Hibbert’s position are found similarly occupied, especially when one considers the machine like accuracy with which the establishments they superintend are run.

The two men shook hands. They spoke about the weather. A few remarks were exchanged on a subject about which it chanced that Mr. Hibbert had been in correspondence with the National Bank – where the Universal Hotel had an account. Some platitudes were uttered. Then, just as he was going, and had even turned on his heels, Mr. Ludlow bethought himself of a question – which, although he did not say so, he had come very much out of his way to ask.

“Oh, by the way, do you remember that when you were in the reception-room at the Cosmopolitan, a man used to come there named Smithers!”

“Smithers? – Francis Smithers?”

“That’s the man.”

“Let me see – that must be nearly seven years ago.”

“All that.”

“You called one day and asked me to point him out to you?”

“I did. Can you remember what he looked like?”

“It’s part of my business to remember that kind of thing. At one time he was in and out a good deal. I remember him very well.”

“What did he look like?”

Mr. Hibbert half closed his eyes, as if he were looking for a photograph among the tablets of his brain.

“He was a short, slight, sandy-haired man, with washed-out eyes. He always looked to me as if he were short sighted, but I don’t fancy he was, because he never wore glasses. Over-dressed, half-bred; lavish with his money – he always tipped everyone he ran across each time he came. It must have cost him something. Used to enter his address as Newcastle-on-Tyne, but he was certainly a South countryman.”

Mr. Ludlow had been listening attentively, as if weighing each word the other spoke.

“At the time you pointed him out to me he was occupying Nos. 121 and 122.”

“That I couldn’t say. You’ll find it in the books. They keep them. He always had two rooms – that I do know. He flung his cash about in style, as if he hadn’t yet got used to the feel of it.”

“Should you recognise him if you saw him again?”

“I should – anywhere. What’s the trouble?”

“At present there’s none, and there never may be any. Only I thought I’d just ask you. – Thanks! – Good-night!”

This time Mr. Ludlow did not forget his manners. He ruminated as he went his homeward way.

“I thought I couldn’t be mistaken; not to that extent, at any rate. I remember Hibbert pointing him out to me as he sat at dinner in the à-la-carte saloon, and thinking what an ugly little brute he looked. This man’s a berserk. He’s unique – unique! After my experience, it’s something to come upon a new variety.”

Possibly Mr. Ludlow’s experience was not so large as he supposed. Some men are apt to overestimate their knowledge of their fellows. Soon after his arrival at the bank on the following morning, the manager came up to him and made certain inquiries as he stood at his desk preparing for the work of the day.

“Well, did you see Mr. Smithers?”

“I did.”

“And is it all right?”

“If you mean – did Mr. Smithers proffer any evidence which would identify him with our Mr. Smithers, he did not. He showed me the door.”

“Showed you the door?”

“And intimated that if I continued an employé of this establishment, he might deem it advisable to transfer his account to another.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I said nothing. He didn’t give me a chance. I fancy that this Mr. Smithers is a person to whom most people would find it difficult to say anything he didn’t wish them to. He’s unique.”

“He must be a character – to leave his money in our hands in the way he has done.”

“It is unusual.”

“Unusual! I should think it was. What do you think of him?”

“I think nothing.”

The manager kept his eyes upon the speaker’s face, which, for expression, was like a blank page.

“The signature’s all right.”

“It seems all right.”

The manager drummed his fingers on the polished counter. He was aware, from occasionally painful experience, that his head-cashier was caution personified.

“Did you tell him I should like to see him?”

“I did. And he informed me, in reply, that when he did condescend to come your way, he would give you to understand that you were making a mistake in attempting to treat his moneys as if they were your own, merely because they had been in your hands so long.”

His superior officer showed signs of being disconcerted.

“That’s just it – it’s exactly that kind of feeling which I don’t wish to provoke. Of course, if he’s the man, there’s nothing more to be said. But is he the man?”

“That, I am afraid, I must leave you to decide.”

The manager went off grumbling. Mr. Ludlow continued his work. He had said nothing which was not true; only, in view of his chiefs evident uneasiness, it seemed odd that he should have omitted all mention of the interview which he had had with Mr. Hibbert.

— VII —

SAFE NO. 226

During the next few days, in his own fashion, Mr. Smithers seemed to enjoy himself. He and his landlady’s daughter bade fair to become close friends. The gentleman had leisure; the lady’s household duties did not occupy all her time; it was not unnatural that they should have been occasionally in each other’s society – especially as it appeared that they had so many tastes in common. He liked rowing; she liked being rowed; and though the river at Putney is not an oarsman’s paradise, as something on which to float a boat they seemed to find it better than nothing at all. Then they both were fond of walking. And it is impossible to deny that walking is good exercise, and that the neighbourhood of Putney offers some agreeable opportunities of proving it. There is Wimbledon Common, which, in its way, is charming. There is Barnes Common, which also has attractions. And there is the towing-path, which is not bad. While, for those who choose to go farther afield, there is Richmond Park.

These two did choose to go farther afield. Not only did the gentleman take the lady into Richmond Park, but he sat down with her on the turf beside Penn Ponds, almost on the identical spot where Mr. Edney’s treasure box had been found. There they talked about all sorts of things – wandering over that wide range of subjects over which men and women do wander when, at a certain stage of their acquaintance, they are alone together, and are feeling very much at their ease.

Mr. Smithers looked in at the Strand branch of the National Bank when it suited him, as he had told Mr. Ludlow that he would do, showing no sort of hurry to gratify the not wholly unjustifiable curiosity of the chief officials of that establishment. When he did put in an appearance those officials had rather a bad quarter of an hour. The manager, Mr. Barnett, found himself one day alone in his private office with a radiant individual, who somehow or other did not at all fit in with his preconceived notions of the bank’s eccentric client. He had looked for something abnormal, but not in this direction. This handsome, bearded, blue-eyed giant, with charming manners and air of perfect breeding, was not what he had expected. He was so faultlessly attired, there was in his bearing such a suggestion of a man born to command, that Mr. Barnett was conscious of feeling himself at a distinct disadvantage. That this man was ‘a swell’ – as he would himself have phrased it; and, in fact, afterwards did – and ‘a swell of the first water,’ he had no doubt whatever. The discovery threw a new light upon the matter. His experience had taught him that ‘swells’ might be expected to develop eccentricities in financial matters.

“If Ludlow had told me,” he said to himself, “that the man was a duke, a marquis, or an earl, – I’ll swear he’s hobnobbed with the lot of them – I should have known whereabouts I was. But with all his cleverness, Ludlow’s a mole.” Aloud he observed, “I trust that your coming here has subjected you to no inconvenience, Mr. Smithers.”

“Not at all. I was passing and dropped in. I allow no one and nothing to subject me to inconvenience.”

“You see, in the matter of your account—”

“Accounts,” amended the visitor. Mr. Barnett accepted the amendment.

“I beg your pardon – in the matter of your accounts there has been, from our point of view – technically, that is – a certain amount of irregularity. You, of course, remember the circumstances under which they were opened.” Mr. Smithers nodded. “It was all done through the post, in itself an unusual proceeding. There was no personal interview, no introduction, no reference offered—”

“Before you go any farther, Mr. Barnett, be so good as to understand me. I am a peculiar man.” The manager had realised that already, He did so still more clearly when he perceived the very odd something which had come into the speaker’s eyes. “It is my habit to do as I like with my own. Sometimes I open accounts at certain banks – for reasons of my own – with the intention of leaving them intact for considerable periods of time.”

“Pleasant for the banks, but dangerous sometimes for you.”

“Comments are not invited. This is the first instance of the kind in which I have had any trouble.”

“Pardon me, there is no trouble now – not the least, not the slightest. We are only anxious for your own protection.”

“I am capable of protecting myself.” There was that in his manner which lent to his words a singular significance, and filled his hearer with vague discomfort. “Interest has been accruing on the £5000 which you hold for me upon deposit. Have the goodness to transfer that interest to my current account, and advise me of its exact amount.”

“I can let you know at once if you like.”

“Advise me through the post. Use that medium for all your communications, and don’t send any of your clerks to call on me except at my request. I have lately returned to England, and have taken rooms at Putney. I find that my landlady is the mother of one of your clerks, a person named Ludlow. Some days ago he came to me, acting, I gathered, in accordance with your instructions, and – was offensive.”

“I feel certain that it was far from his intention to be anything of the kind.”

“I am not dealing with intentions, but with facts. Recommend him not to take advantage of his connection with his mother to offend again. I am a man of action.” He rose from his chair as he spoke and stood straight up; Mr. Barnett was emphatically conscious that he looked it. “I have lived in parts of the world where the point of view is not that of the London commercial man. Mr. Ludlow came within an ace of discovering that the other evening. Good-day, Mr. Barnett.”

Mr. Smithers left the manager in a condition which might almost have been described as one of fluster.

“I wonder what part of the globe he has lived in?” inquired the official of himself. “He’s not the sort of individual I should like to quarrel with. I can conceive of circumstances under which I wouldn’t contradict him for – for a good round sum. In spite of his smile, his soft voice, his pleasant manners, a look came into his face just then which – upon my honour – which was scarcely human. I take it that his name’s no more Smithers than mine is. He’s somebody, or he has been. I’ll refer to headquarters; but I don’t see myself what concern it is of ours under what name he chooses to masquerade – so long as he doesn’t attempt to overdraw. We’ve done pretty well out of his account – so far.”

When he appeared in the public office, the head-cashier put to him a question.

“Well – is he the man?”

The reply was enigmatic.

“With reference to Mr. Francis Smithers’ account – pay all cheques which are in order unless you hear from me to the contrary.”

This time it was the manager’s face which was expressionless – a fact which Mr. Ludlow resented in his turn.

“What’s in the wind now?” he wondered. “There’s always something at the back of his head when he talks like that.”

After leaving the bank Mr. Smithers journeyed to the stronghold of the Shoe Lane Safe Deposit Company. He handed in his visiting-card at the Inquiry Office.

“I want access to my safe – No. 226.” The clerk glanced at the piece of pasteboard.

“Mr. Francis Smithers! You have your key?”

“I have.”

“Please sign your name here.”

Mr. Smithers did as he was told – in a volume which resembled the visitors-book of an hotel. The clerk disappeared with the volume and the card into an inner office, presently returning with a little book of what looked like coupons, one of which he began to fill up.

“It is some time since you were here?”

“It may be some time before I am here again.”

The clerk glanced at the visitor, as if inquiring if the intention was to snub. Mr. Smithers found himself in possession of a slip of paper authorising someone to give him admission to safe No. 226. Presently he was walking along a corridor which reminded him unpleasantly of an establishment under whose too hospitable roof he had recently spent two years. There were heavy doors on either side. Even the bunch of keys which his companion wore chained round his waist was disagreeably suggestive. The custodian’s manners, however, were affability itself. He threw open one of the doors.

“There, sir – there’s your safe.” Mr. Smithers found that his safe was one of those which the door had shrouded. “Would you like a room?” Mr. Smithers thought he would. “You can have No. 14, that’s disengaged at present; at the end of the passage, on your right. Anything heavy to carry?”

Mr. Smithers thought not. The porter left him – strolling to the other end. The owner of the safe proceeded to unlock.

“Let’s hope there’s no trick about the key, or the lock, or anything – I shall look like an idiot if I’ve forgotten how it goes.”

There was nothing of the kind. The door swung back upon its bright steel hinges as easily and noiselessly as if it had been accustomed to constant opening and shutting. The whole inner space was filled by what looked like a deed box. A drop handle in front was evidently intended to be used to draw it out. Mr. Smithers drew it out. He carried it to where the porter stood at the end of the passage. The official waved his hand towards an open door.

“No. 14, sir – you’ll find it empty.”

Mr. Smithers found it empty. Its proportions suggested rather a cupboard than a room. But there were two chairs, a table, and materials for writing. He shut the door and slipped the bolt.

“On this, the occasion of the first examination of the contents of my safe, the strictest privacy may be advisable. Anyhow, we’ll have it. What’s inside Mr. Edney’s second treasure box?”

There was a good deal inside – of a very varied character. There were bonds, share certificates, securities of different kinds. Mr. Smithers favoured them with but a cursory inspection. His actual knowledge of such matters was but slight. But he saw and understood enough to realise that in the aggregate they represented a considerable sum – probably over £50,000. What struck him as odd was that they were examples of so many different investments. There were consols, foreign government stocks, railways, waterworks, gas companies, mines, industrial undertakings – apparently every kind of security in which money could be invested was illustrated there. There was not a large amount in any of them. In not one more than a thousand pounds. In some less than a hundred. Together, however, they stood for a very comfortable sum.

“Mr. Edney appears to have been a man of discretion. The precept about not putting all your eggs into one basket must have been continually before his eyes. Possibly he had made up his mind that whatever panic overtook the commercial world, something he held should go scot-free. I seem to have an interest in eighty or ninety different undertakings. It will take me all my time to collect my income. And then the arrears – the arrears for seven years on all these things. I shall have to educate myself commercially at once, or some of them will do me, that’s certain. And no man likes to be done, even when he unexpectedly finds himself, shall we say, a millionaire. What’s in all these things? They look like jewel-cases. They are!”

They were, – well-filled jewel-cases too. When he saw their contents their owner stared. On jewels he had been a recognised authority once upon a time. Here he recognised fine examples of the rarest gems – in rings, bracelets, brooches, earrings, necklaces, tiaras.

“Where did the man get them? Did he plunder all the jewellers’ shops in town? There’s no name on any of the cases – which is odd, since, as a rule, a jeweller’s so fond of his own name – and ladies are so desirous of having the names of certain jewellers upon their cases. The names of just those houses who deal in these kinds of things. What’s it mean? Does it suggest the wholesale trade? Or was the fellow a fence upon a generous scale? It looks as if I were entering into even muddier waters than I expected. With such an eye for the share market as he had, he can hardly have been reduced to such investments as this – which are sometimes so difficult to turn into cash – as experience happens to have taught me. – Great Caesar’s ghost!”

The exclamation was induced by the contents of a small leather case which he had hitherto overlooked. It was filled with unmounted diamonds – cut stones – looking like drops of light.

“The interest grows. Here are some of the finest stones I have ever seen – from Africa, South America, India. That’s Brazil. I wonder how many carats it is? And what light! what colour! It’s worth – I don’t care to think how much it is worth. – But what’s the explanation of the mystery? Where did the fellow get them? A half-educated solicitor’s clerk, buried in the heart of the country? These alone are worth a nice little fortune. If I didn’t know, I should say it was impossible that they could he genuine. But I do know. These are not only – as the phrase goes – ‘real’ diamonds, but there’s not an indifferent stone among them. – It begins to occur to me that there was a good deal more in Mr. Edney than I imagined, or than he hinted at in his last dying speech and confession.”

How much more there really was, his heir had still to learn. The proofs lay before him in that box – as yet unnoticed and untouched.

— VIII —

THE WHISTLER

Among the remaining contents, four things in particular arrested the inquirer’s attention – for this reason. They were among the somewhat heterogeneous collection of what looked like odds and ends which still awaited examination at the bottom of the box. Two were contained in coarse brown paper, tied with string and sealed. Taking one of them up, Mr. Smithers weighed it in his hand.

“What’s in here? Seems light enough. This isn’t jewels. What’s on the seal? Some sort of hieroglyphic. More mysteries; I’ve suddenly been precipitated into their atmosphere. I didn’t expect to find the contents of my safe quite so interesting.”

When, having cut the string to avoid breaking the seals, the packet was unfastened, for a moment or two he regarded what was within as the greatest mystery of all. There was nothing inside but small blank sheets of different coloured papers. Then he began to understand – comprehension coming on him with an uncomfortable sense of shock.

He drew out one of the sheets of white paper, felt it with his fingers, held it up to the light, examined it with curious minuteness, as one might peer into a doubtful work of art.

“That’s banknote paper, unless I err, or an uncommonly good imitation. – That’s no imitation; that’s the genuine thing. I’ve reason to doubt if any outsider could get as near to it as that. What are we coming to now? As in the children’s game, I’m beginning to get warm.”

The other packets held banknotes of nearly all countries – English, French, German, Russian, American. They were arranged in bundles, each in a rubber band. There were four packets of English notes – fives, tens, twenties, fifties. The paper being so thin, it was difficult to estimate their number, but there were possibly three or four hundred of each value. Mr. Smithers examined them first in the mass, then a specimen from each bundle.

“If they’re not genuine they’d deceive Old Nick; I can detect no flaw. If it weren’t that those blank sheets are so suggestive, I should pronounce them unhesitatingly as genuine. Supposing them to be forgeries, then they’re the work of an artist who, in this line of business, I should imagine has never yet been equalled – luckily for the police and for the world at large. Yet it’s against reason to suppose that they are real, unless my respectable benefactor was a millionaire. Taking all the countries together, there are presumably over a hundred thousand. Look at this pile of Americans – enough greenbacks to buy an English title. – Hullo!”

Running through the bundle of English five-pound notes, something struck him – a peculiarity in the numeration. He referred back to the one on top.

“The same number twice over – that settles it.”

He glanced quickly through some of the other bundles, to find that the same peculiarity recurred again and again.

“They’re numbered in hundreds – starting all right, and running on all right until the hundred is reached, and then beginning all over again. No bank of issue does that kind of thing. I’m the heritor of the largest – and finest – collection of forged banknotes I ever heard of, or, I imagine, the police either. The position is becoming much more delightful than I ever supposed it would be. Can Mr. Edney have been a man of infinite jest? – What have we here?”

He picked up a dark-green leather box – the largest and most conspicuous article still unexamined. Round it were half a dozen seals.

“Judging from its appearance this should hold the key to the situation. There is something odd about those seals. What is it that the die is supposed to represent? Looks as if someone has been playing tricks with masonic symbols. To open the box, I am afraid you will have to be broken. Sorry, but it can’t be helped.”

As it would have been a work of time and difficulty to have removed them intact from the grained leather, he cut through them with his pen-knife. A boss on the front suggested a spring. He pressed it.

“Now for the secret of the mystic casket. This is heavy enough. What is it going to be this time? – Imitation gold, for a change?”

The guess – if it was intended for one – was wide of the mark. The case was crammed with metal plates, each in an envelope of oiled paper. He inspected them one after the other, more and more grimly as he went on.

“Very pretty – very pretty, indeed. Idyllic – nothing less. I think, Mr. Edney, that if I had understood what kind of man you really were, I should have shed upon your expiring brow a tribute of admiration. I cannot but regret a wasted opportunity. Evidently these are the plates from which those works of financial art have been produced. I find myself in possession of something really superior in the way of forgers’ outfits. Apparently little is wanting to enable me to set up in the trade on my own account tomorrow. I wonder what the police would give for this little lot – and the banks. I gathered from Mr. Edney’s last dying speech and confession that his little capital was the fruit of the use he had made of the contents of his employer’s office, one Frederic Glasspoole; being indebted for the lion’s share of it to the unwitting generosity of a certain Foster family, of Dene ark. I cannot but think that it came also from other sources, to which he omitted to refer, and so failed to do himself justice; for he must have been a really high-class scoundrel on a first-rate scale – a professional felon, in short. I am sorry, because it introduces an element into the matter of which I am at present indisposed to take advantage.”

He closed the boxful of plates; returned the banknotes to their brown-paper cover.

“The notes are false, and I’m not prepared to give a definite opinion on the bonds and the shares, but I’ll swear to the jewels. The only point is, who and where are those who still, at the present moment, bewail their loss? Are they fair ladies whose soft cheeks have been seamed by scalding tears, or are they mere tradesmen who’ve been ruined? In either case, the position’s not a pretty one. The yarn about the solicitor’s office and Frederic Glasspoole, and the Foster family, and Dene Park, and all the rest of it – can the whole thing have been a myth? We’ll institute inquiries. I’m disposed to dedicate my life, or a portion of it, to vicarious restitution. Is salvation to be reached along that road? Are the cleansing fires there?”

Only one thing that remained received much notice from Mr. Smithers – a memorandum pocket-book, in a limp cover – a waistcoat-pocket affair. It was crowded with memoranda, few of which conveyed much meaning to him, at least after the hasty inspection which, at the moment, was all he was disposed to vouchsafe. There were notes in what looked to him like shorthand; masses of figures, with which were apparently associated observations in the same cryptic characters; and a number of what seemed to be chemical formulae. Only on one page was there an entry which he who ran might read. Presumably it was a list of men’s names. There were six of them – Augustus Chaffinch, Bob Hammick, Samuel Waterson, Gustav Kronberg, Philip Fentum, Sam Brown. After the last name there was a note of interrogation in parentheses – thus ‘(?)’. At the bottom of the page, by itself, was what might have been a pseudonym – “The Linkman.”

“Friends of the late Mr. Edney’s, I presume. It is possible that one day I may meet these gentlemen, or some of them. It is also possible – extremely! – that this little volume may contain matter which was intended for Mr. Edney’s own private and personal information, and which, therefore, may be of interest to me as his heir. My education in certain useful directions was unfortunately neglected, and I don’t understand shorthand – if this is shorthand, which has yet to he shown. But it is within the range of possibility that I may light on someone who does, and who will be willing to impart instruction to me.”

He slipped the memorandum-book into the pistol-pocket of his trousers, withdrawing a pistol to give it precedence. When, at last, he emerged from the Safe Deposit Company’s premises, and had gone some little distance towards Fleet Street, he was accosted by an individual who, he had been conscious, had observed his appearance from the other side of the road. He was a short, burly individual, in build and get-up suggesting the pugilist, or the racecourse hanger-on. He wore a shabby suit of tweeds of a rather conspicuous check; what was intended to represent a mighty pearl adorned his greasy scarlet necktie; and his brown billycock hat, dented, was a good deal on one side of his head. It would be to compliment his voice to call it husky.

“Excuse me, guv’nor, but is your name Smithers?”

Mr. Smithers looked at him – not liking what he saw.

“It is.”

“Francis Smithers?”

“The same.”

The stranger’s next remark was a trifle unexpected. It took the form of a volley of expletives.

“Well, I am something well somethinged!”

“Are you? I’m sorry. But I don’t see how it interests me.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you’re the Francis Smithers as owns safe 226 up yonder?”

“May I ask why you inquire?”

“Why I inquire! May you ask why I inquire! Well, you have got a face! Who the something are you?”

The man spoke with a ferocity which was, in its way – its very ugly way – impressive and suggestive.

Mr. Smithers only smiled.

“My man, I am going in that direction.” He pointed with his cane. “You go in the other, and don’t speak to me again.”

“Not speak to you again! Me not speak to you again! I’ll say what I’ve got to say to you if you skin me alive; and there’s more than me as’ll have their say too.”

“It is possible that you – and they – may have that pleasure on some other occasion. You certainly won’t this afternoon.”

Mr. Smithers moved forward, tranquilly. The other followed.

“Hearken here, guv’nor—”

“You heard what I said. If you take another step in this direction, or speak another word, I’ll summon a policeman.”

“A policeman! You’ll summon a policeman! That tops it! Blimey if I don’t feel I must be going off my dot! Why, I’ll follow you to the other side of the world, and keep talking to you all the time!”

Mr. Smithers laughed, as if he found the other’s exaggeration amusing. Lower down the road there happened to be a constable, and at that instant he chanced to be looking in their direction. Mr. Smithers beckoned to him with his stick. After momentary hesitation, in evident response to the signal, he advanced in their direction. The stranger beheld his advance with an evident mingling of suspicion, fury, and trepidation, looking as, if he could screw his courage to the sticking point, he would – but he couldn’t. He began to bluster.

“All right, my ikey bloke, then it’s knife, is it? – and, mind you, it will be knife!”

Turning on his heels he went striding up towards Holborn at a pace which wanted very little to make it degenerate into a run. Mr. Smithers moved smilingly towards the approaching policeman.

“It’s all right, officer. Sorry to have troubled you; only that individual seemed disposed to be offensive. Although an entire stranger, he seems to think that he knows me, so I thought that you might know him. Judging from the pace at which he’s travelling, it seems probable that you do.”

The man in blue treated the matter in the stolid, take-it-for-granted official manner.

“Shouldn’t be surprised. There are one or two that I know round here, and they know me.”

Mr. Smithers went his way. The policeman, standing in the road, followed with his eyes the retreating stranger.

That night, towards ten o’clock, Mr. Smithers, taking his ease in his sitting-room at Putney, heard all at once someone whistling, someone who could whistle, possessed of a correct ear and a tuneful pipe. In the prevailing silence – it was very still at Putney – the sound, though not a loud one, was oddly audible. Mr. Smithers, who was reading at the time, was at first under the impression that the whistling was in the house. The pipe was so sound and true, the air such a quaint one, the whole thing so unexpected, that he could not help but pay attention. The tune was gone through to an apparent end; then there was silence, lasting, perhaps, for five or six minutes. Then the performance was repeated. This time Mr. Smithers was disposed to think that the performer was in the street, close to his own window; so close indeed as to make it seem that he was actually in the room itself. The illusion was so strong that it had on the solitary reader a curious effect. Had his eyes been closed he could have declared that the performance was within a foot or two of the chair on which he was sitting; but whether behind, before, or above him, he could not have positively said. Again the tune was whistled to an end; again there was an interval of silence; then again it was recommenced; – always conveying to the listener the impression of the performer’s acute proximity.

“Is it a street musician, whistling for coppers? If so, it’s queer that I shouldn’t have heard him coming down the street in this stillness. Then, why should he have singled out this house? He does it uncommonly well; those upper notes are as clear as a bird’s, and the tune’s quaint.”

Once more an interval of silence; another repetition.

“Why doesn’t he vary his theme? Is it the case of a composer who’s in love with his own melody, or what’s the notion?”

That time the interval was prolonged. The minutes passed and nothing was heard.

“Had enough of it, I suppose; or perhaps the appreciation shown was not sufficiently material. I might have sent him out some coppers if he’d waited, if only for the sake of asking him to treat us to another tune.”

Probably more than half an hour had gone when the whistler returned, to whistle the same tune.

“Is there any meaning in it? Or is it merely some idle lounger, who’s whistling for want of thought, and who’s a lover of only one thing at a time? Whoever it is, he must have his lips glued to the window, unless he’s availing himself of a crack in the pane.”

As he was rising from his chair, with the intention of crossing to the window to make inquiries, Miss Ludlow came into the room. These two had reached a stage of intimacy where want of ceremony went unnoticed.

“So it is in here; I wondered where it was. But – why I it isn’t you?”

“What isn’t me?”

“It isn’t you who’s whistling? Mother and I were wondering who it was. It sounds in here – is it in the street?”

“You come with me and we’ll ask the performer to explain his partiality for my windowpane; his face must be close against it. Step softly; we’ll catch him in the act.”

They went quietly along the passage. Noiselessly Mr. Smithers drew back the latch, opened the door, stepped out – to find that nothing and no one was in sight. They had been so confident of discovering the performer within a foot or two of the sitting-room window, that it was some seconds before they were able to understand that there could be no one there. They looked at each other with startled faces.

“Well,” exclaimed the lady, “of all the extraordinary things! Why, he was whistling while you were opening the door. I could have declared then that he was on the doorstep. Where can he have gone?”

“That’s the question. If he hadn’t gone, I should have said it was impossible he could go before we had a peep at him. There’s not a creature in the street.”

“There doesn’t seem to be.” The lady was standing by the gentleman on the pavement. Nothing was visible in either direction except the gas-lamps and the shadows. “If anyone was about, we should be sure to see them. And yet, can anyone have been playing you a trick?”

“What kind of trick? It would be a novelty in tricks which would satisfactorily account, under the circumstances, for the instantaneous disappearance of a whistling man.”

Nothing more was heard of the mysterious performer, and nothing at all was seen, until the household had retired to bed. Mr. Smithers, as his wont was, was soon asleep, which made it all the stranger that he should suddenly have found himself lying wide awake in the darkened room. For a moment he could not imagine what had aroused him. Then he understood. The whistler had returned. Through the blackness came the sound of his clear, musical pipe, piping the same tune. Mr. Smithers sat up in bed and struck a match. A reference to his watch showed him that it was a quarter to four.

“This is a trifle too much – worse than the waits. One doesn’t want to be woke up in the silent watches of the night to listen to any gentleman whistling, even though he’s a master of the art. It sounds as if he were outside this window now. What does it mean?”

— IX —

BENJAMIN RODWAY

Late one evening Mr. Smithers, alighting from a hansom at the door of No. 25 Dulverton Road, perceived that somebody else was entering the house in front of him. Mr. Smithers addressed him, jumping to conclusions.

“You are Mr. Rodway?”

“I am. And you are Mr. Smithers?”

“The same. Come into my room and have a smoke. As everybody’s gone to bed, we shan’t be keeping them up.” Mr. Rodway accepted the invitation. “Since we’re fellow-lodgers, it’s odd that you and I shouldn’t have met before; I’ve been here some time now.”

“As I’m out all day and night, it’s not so odd as it seems.”

“If you put it that way, I suppose it isn’t. But are your hours so irregular? I thought you were at the bank. I believe I’ve seen you there.”

“I was.”

“Was? Have you left?”

“Sacked – kicked out. Told to consider myself lucky that I’m not in jail, and, so far as I can understand, sentenced to penal servitude for the term of my natural life.”

There was a quality in the speaker’s voice which commended itself to Mr. Smithers’ ear. He remembered him very well, having particularly noticed him perched on a high stool, with his legs bunched under him, nibbling at the end of a pen and staring into vacancy. Not a typical-looking clerk – too careless in his attire, too restless, too self-assertive, possibly too dreamy. He was short and squarely built, with a big head and a bull neck. His hair stood badly in need of brushing; his tie was crooked; there were stains on his waistcoat. He looked like a man who would be unhappy in a new suit of clothes. His face suggested power; there was a sympathetic twinkle in his eyes; he had a humorous mouth. There were few things Mr. Smithers loved better than humour, forgiving much to those who had it, for he found them rare.

“What was the penal servitude to be for?”

“For messing up the books. Hang the books! They said they wouldn’t balance. I wasn’t denying it, so I chucked them across the office – just shaving Barnett’s head – and went. I’ve been wrestling with those books for fourteen years. I’ve had enough of it. I once knew a chap who was a booking-clerk on a railway. Booking-clerks have to make up out of their own pockets any shortage in their change. That chap was great at shortage – though he never understood how it was – so great that at the end of the month, instead of being paid for the work he’d done, he had to pay for the privilege of doing it. He’d always handed over to delighted passengers more than his earnings. He concluded to try and earn his living somewhere, where trying didn’t cost so much. I’m like that chap when it comes to balancing books. They unbalance me. I hate ’em. Mr. Smithers, you have the pleasure of entertaining the most miserable man in England. I congratulate you.”

“No hope?”

“None. At least, except at intervals, and that’s only because I’m built that way. It’s really hopeless. Yet I’ve the greatest fortune the world has ever seen – just beyond my reach.”

“It’s like that with many of us.”

“I daresay. Only you speak sarcastic, and I’m dealing with a fact. It’s there in plain sight, though I can’t get at it; and the probability is I never shall.”

“Again your case is not an uncommon one.”

“I’m not suggesting that it is. Everything about me is common. A discharged bank clerk! I am no more fitted to be a bank clerk than I am to be the Pope of Rome, and I should make a bad fit in his shoes. I’m that most unfortunate of all God’s creatures – an inventor.”

Mr. Smithers had surmised it before he had spoken, from certain signs.

“I thought you were something of the kind; I mean, that is, that you had some such hobby.”

“You did? It’s come to that, has it? I carry about with me the marks of the beast. Have they been talking to you about me here?”

“Do you mean the Ludlows? – Not a word.”

“I thought I could rely on Mrs. Ludlow not giving me away, and I was dead sure of Netta. But I must have sunk pretty low if I bear my shame on my face.”

“What’s the particular trouble?”

“He guesses that there’s a particular trouble, though I’m a man of many troubles. This is a person to be feared. I am not prepared to enter into my particular trouble. I know too much about you.”

If Mr. Smithers was startled he did not show it.

“Do you? In what sense?”

“I’ve heard about you at the bank. It seems that you nearly punched Ludlow’s nose. I wish you had quite; I shall have to kick him someday. It might have prepared his mind. You’re the office mystery. Barnett’s of opinion that you’re the Czar of All the Russias, slightly disguised. I’m not going to be laughed at by a possible emperor.”

“You should only judge people from your own experience of them, not from hearsay. I’m not so bad as Mr. Barnett appears to suppose. Tell me about your invention.”

“You will only say that I am mad, as all the others have done. As a matter of fact, it is they who are mad and I who am sane. I wish I could get a chance of proving it.”

“Pay me the compliment of imagining that I also am sane, unless you have particular reasons for keeping silence. I am no gossip.”

“I care nothing if you’ve a tongue which blabs everything to everyone; it will do me no harm. I’ll tell you in half a dozen words – now prepare to laugh! I have discovered perpetual motion.”

“That is rather a large order, and suggests a fairy tale, unless you’re joking.”

“Nowadays it is the fairy tales which are proved to be true. Roentgen rays, the phonograph, the telephone, wireless telegraphy – weren’t those fairy tales till the right man came along? Now they’re solid facts. – What’s that?”

It was the sound of someone whistling a quaint little air. The two men were silent, Rodway seeming the more surprised of the two. Mr. Smithers only smiled.

“It’s someone whistling.”

“I can hear that. But who, at this hour of the night? It’s after one. Is it a ventriloquial effect, or a trick of a phonograph? It seems in the room. Is it someone whistling to you?”

“Not that I am aware of. What form does perpetual motion take with you?”

“A very practical one – electricity. – I shall have to see who that chap is. He gets on my nerves.”

“It’s all right. Possibly some belated roisterer. How do you mean – electricity?”

“Why aren’t electric motors so popular as they might be? Because they’re only able to carry with them an insufficient supply of motive power. When that’s exhausted they come to a standstill, until they’re provided with a fresh supply. I’ll turn you out a motor which shall be provided with an initial charge. Fresh power shall be generated by the mere forward movement of the machine, which shall be adequate to supply the place of that which is being used; so that, given enough power to drive you ten miles, it will automatically generate enough to drive you a hundred, or a thousand, if it pleases you.” “Incredible!”

“So they all say. So they always have said of every new thing. When it comes, old men ask themselves how they came to be such blockheads as not to have seen it before – its simplicity’s so patent. That’s one of life’s little ironies. Find me the capital and I’ll put a motor on the road inside six weeks which shall do what I’ve told you. But the capital’s what I can’t find, except on terms to which I decline to listen. I’m not going to sell my birthright for a mess of pottage.”

Rising from his chair he began striding about the room, swinging his arms with ungainly movements which were apparently intended to give emphasis to his words. One perceived how it was that his attire became disarranged.

“I’ve been pressing hotfoot after the thing ever since motors came into being. It’s been a monomania – an obsession. I saw it from the first, but only, as it were, obliquely. I couldn’t get at it quite all round. I’ve thought I had, once and once again, but I’ve just missed it by a scarcely appreciable fraction. It’s occupied my thoughts night and day, and I’ve been working at it night and day. I’ve done everything with my own two hands, for want of funds, and because I was afraid of letting anyone get a glimpse at what I was after. All the while, all day long, I’ve been sitting on a stool at that confounded bank, the thing getting between the figures and me. I had a little capital, but that’s all gone, and – now I just owe everyone; it’s a wonder I didn’t take to robbery and murder. I’ve lost my situation – that doesn’t matter; but I’ve got a bumbailiff in at my workshop – that does matter. He might collar my whole idea. Luckily – it’s my one stroke of luck – he happens to be such a dunderheaded idiot that he couldn’t see a thing even if you hit him in the eye with it. The Ludlows came here at my suggestion. I said to Netta, ‘Get your mother to take a house and furnish it. I’ll take the drawing-rooms. What I pay for them will more than provide for the rent.’ It looks like it! My goodness gracious! Do you know I owe them more than six months’ rent? Aren’t I a pretty scoundrel? Every penny I’ve had has been spent upon that motor. I’m nothing but a swindler and a thief. Imagination fails to picture what would have happened if you hadn’t come upon the scene. They’d have been turned into the street for sure, and I should have cut my throat. That precious Theodore wouldn’t help his mother with so much as change for a farthing.”

Mr. Smithers thought of Mrs. Ludlow’s anxiety about his own rent, and excused her again. Mr. Rodway’s frankness threw a lurid light on many things which had puzzled him. He told himself he was an ass.

“Are you sure you’ve got this thing of yours at last?”

“Certain – as sure as I am that you and I are in this room. But what’s the use now? With bums to the left and bums to the right, credit nil, and not a rag of reputation left to cover me! It’s too late – I’m a wrong ’un!”

He stopped to listen.

“That beggar’s back again, with the same tune. What is his little game? If he’s not trying to attract the attention of someone in this house I’m a Dutchman. Why, he must be close to your window. Sure I’m not in the way, and that it’s not a friend of yours?” .

“Certain. How much would it cost to put this scheme of yours on a working footing?”

“I’ve only been working from models. To build a full-sized motor might possibly cost a thousand pounds. You see, I should have to get everything at the start. When the proper plant was set up they could be turned out at a profit for a quarter, for a tenth of the sum; for less than that. It would depend on the style of thing that was wanted. To put the whole thing on a proper footing might cost anything from ten to twenty thousand pounds.”

“If you can prove to me that the idea is a practical, workable reality, and not an hallucination of your brain – and, mind you, I should require proof! – I will provide a thousand for the first car, and if that is successful, a further twenty.”

“Mr. Smithers! Are – are you joking?”

“I am not. I have capital which I am desirous of diverting from the channels in which it at present rests. If – it’s a very big ‘if’ – if your scheme satisfies me that it’s feasible and ripe, and that sort of thing, I am ready and willing to give it financial support.”

“There’s one of the greatest fortunes in it that the world has ever seen; one of the greatest – the greatest! Only I’ve – I’ve been disappointed so many times that I’ve got a bit – heartsick. What terms would you make? I’m not to be bought out, and I’m not to be staved off with an invisible royalty. I’m going to manage the whole concern.”

“I’d have no desire to oust you. My proposal would be halves – share and share alike.”

“Then – then it’s done. I – I’ve got a pain in my side, or something; you – you’ve made me feel quite queer. Do you – do you think it would be too late to go to my workshop now? It’s only a mile off, along the Wandsworth Road. I’d have a sack over the bumbailiff’s head, and you could sit on him. Then, when we’d got him nice and quiet – he’s a dear old soul, somewhere in the nineties – I’d set my model in motion and prove to you the truth of all I’ve said inside of half an hour.”

“Don’t you think it is a little late for an expedition of the kind? Won’t the morning suit, especially as it seems that you will have the whole day free?”

“It isn’t that; only – you won’t change your mind before the morning comes? I’ve known it happen.”

“Not I. I’m not that kind of person, as you will learn.”

“Because, anyhow, so far as sleeping’s concerned, it won’t make any difference to me whether I go or whether I don’t. I never am much of a hand between the sheets, and tonight I shan’t close my eyes for thinking. Why, there’s that whistling chap come back again, and the same old tune! He must be trying to put his nose through your window. You are sure he’s not a friend of yours?”

“I have already told you.”

“Then in that case I’ll go and speak a quiet word or two to him, as if he were a friend of mine, and ask him if he doesn’t think it’s time he went to bed. I must do something to relieve my feelings.”

Mr. Rodway quitted the room. When he had gone Mr. Smithers observed to himself:

“You will have to find him first, which may be difficult.”

He stood on the hearthrug, stroking his beard, in an attitude of expectation. Presently Rodway’s voice was heard calling to him from without.

“Mr. Smithers! Mr. Smithers!”

“I thought so.”

He strolled to the front door, to find Rodway standing on the doorstep with a queer look on his face and in his eyes. His voice seemed to be a little unmanageable.

“Have – have we taken to hearing things, like some chaps take to seeing them?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Was – wasn’t there somebody whistling?”

“There seemed to be.”

“Seemed to be! What do you mean by seemed? Was there or wasn’t there?”

“There was.”

“Wasn’t he jammed close up against your window?”

“Since you came out to make his acquaintance, you ought to be able to give me information on that point.”

“I ought, but I can’t. He was whistling even as I was opening the door, so I thought I’d pounce upon him in a friendly way and take him by the collar. But when I got outside I didn’t see so much as the whisk of a cat’s tail. Where he’s hidden himself beats me, unless there are ghosts about, in which case I shan’t be happy. I’m not afraid of many things, but spooks I bar. I’d sooner have a tête-à-tête with a roaring, raving, hungry lion than with the mildest-mannered ghost that ever breathed.”

“Come in and have a little more whiskey.”

Mr. Rodway went in.

— X —

THE RODWAY POWER

Mr. Rodway’s workshop took the form of a shed which seemed a little out of the perpendicular. There certainly was more of it on one side than the other. It had once been covered with tar; which fact, however, was rather of the nature of a reminiscence, since there was so little of it left. The building stood in the centre of an uneven plot of ground, which was a sort of interlude in an otherwise unbroken line of shops and houses. With scant regard to the feelings of the shed and its tenant, the spot seemed to have been treated as a place where rubbish might be shot. Miscellaneous examples of household refuse were everywhere – empty tins in endless variety, broken crockery, old boots and shoes. A disreputable board – also crooked – announced that “This Eligible Property Is To Be Sold For Building Purposes.”

“The reason why it hasn’t been sold ages ago,” explained Rodway, as he arrived upon the scene with Mr. Smithers, and perceived that that gentleman was struck by its appearance of rurality, “is because it belongs to five sisters, and they can’t agree how much they want for it, so they keep on getting nothing.”

“And are you the tenant of the five?”

“Well, I suppose I am. But I pay my rent, or rather I don’t pay my rent, to a scoundrel of an auctioneer who earns a dishonest living by putting executions into peaceful homes. He’s the ruffian who’s harrying me. And here’s his hireling assistant.”

Mr. Rodway opened his workshop door. The hireling referred to was a venerable and very dirty old man, who was bent almost double on a backless wooden chair, which he had propped up against the side of the shed for the sake of additional support. Mr. Rodway regarded him with critical consideration.

“Now the question is, what’s to be done with you? Chloroforming you would cost more than you’re worth, and killing you might make a mess – besides my not wanting to have any more rubbish than I can help about the place. I’ll give you a shilling, you could go out and get some beer.”

“I could that, and some grub too. It’s little enough I’ve had since I’ve been in the place. I never see one like it.”

“You mean that you never saw a place in which the arrangements for bailiffs were so handsome?”

“’Andsome? I don’t know what you call ’andsome, considering there’s only two or three old sacks for a bed, and the ’ard ground’s made my old bones ache all over.”

“Wouldn’t the shortest way be to pay the debt?” suggested Mr. Smithers. “What’s the amount?”

“With costs, seven-four-six. And glad I’ll be to get it. Rather than have much more of this kind of thing, I’d go into the ’ouse. They do give you a bed.”

Mr. Smithers handed over eight sovereigns, declining to receive any change. As he departed, the old man’s face was lit up by senile joy.

“This won’t do for a beginning,” declared Rodway. “You’re here to do business, not to show charity. For all you know, that motor of mine may turn out to be a first-rate fraud; then I’ll owe you eight pounds, and you’ll be putting in an execution.”

“Then let’s come to business.”

_“As fast as you like. Do you know anything about electricity?”

“Not a particle.”

“Then – this doesn’t sound like business; but unless you want to receive a course of elementary instruction on the spot, you’ll have to take a good deal for granted.”

“I may be disposed for the instruction later on. At present I want to see what you have to show. What’s this?”

He was looking at a double row of thin rusty rails which performed a complete circuit round the building, suggesting a miniature railway track.

“That’s the road on which I do my trials. You see, I say that one of my motors, of any size, will go for any time and any distance. There isn’t much space in here; so, to obviate that, I’ve built this oval track. My motors will run on road or rails; they’re indifferent which it is. They’ll go round and round a thing like this forever.”

“Literally, forever?”

“Now, there you have me. ‘Ever’ was meant for a figure of speech. For the process of generation, certain conditions and certain constituents are required. When those are exhausted they have to to be resupplied.”

“Then you only claim that your motor will go farther than the one at present in use?”

“Only! It’s a good big ‘only.’ Give me a motor charged for ten miles; if it’s one of mine, that ten-mile charge will take it right round the world, perhaps twice round. I haven’t worked it right out, but before very long I guarantee that the wastage shall be so slight that it shall go on practically forever.”

“Once round the world on a ten-mile charge should be good enough.”

“Should be! It is. You wait and I’ll show you.”

From a cupboard which he unlocked, Mr. Rodway took what looked like a metal box on wheels, handling it with as much care as if it had been a piece of priceless china. He regarded it as a parent might a favourite child, enlarging on its virtues with an enthusiasm which was infectious.

“It’s primitive, but it’s practical, as you’re going to see. No pretty paint, no dainty finish, nothing to please the eye; that has all to come. Its children will be things of beauty; all the resources of civilisation will be drawn upon for their adornment. Their sire’s an ugly, shapeless monster. Yet, before very long, it will be the world’s greatest curiosity, and people will come from all the far corners of the globe to have a squint at it. This is Benjamin Rodway’s Power Motor – his first; and you’ll be the first person to see it in motion. It contains sufficient power to run about a mile – say ten minutes. It’ll run sixty miles an hour easy if it’s wanted to; but round this track we’re bound to let it go slow, or it runs off. I’ll start it, and it shall keep on running just as long as you want it to.”

The box on wheels began to move forward along the rusty rails.

“It’s nearly noiseless.”

“Compared to the present things, it is quite, and runs smoother. For any bumping, the road’s responsible.”

“Will it carry passengers?”

“What do you think! It will carry anything! Before many years are past it will be drawing trains along all the railroads of the world, and driving ships through all its oceans. But to begin with, mind you, it’s for the road; you’re not going to induce railway companies to transform all their rolling stock in four and twenty hours. When they see perpetual-motion cars covering all the roads, then they’ll start thinking. That motor’s one horsepower.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“It’ll carry me. I’ll show you.” He balanced a short length of board upon the little engine, which looked so like a clockwork toy. On this he perched himself. The motor went steadily forward, apparently heedless of the burden which had been imposed upon it.

“It’s not easy to keep your balance upon a thing of this sort – if I move, the thing’s upset – but, bar moving, this ugly little monster will carry me a thousand miles without beginning to be tired.”

“For how long a time do you say the thing will keep on running without your touching it?”

“At this rate of progression, until your hair turns grey.”

“Then, if we go and have some lunch and then return, we shall find it still running when we come back?”

“We shall; very much we shall. It had been running day and night unceasingly for very nearly a fortnight when that bum’s arrival on the scene yesterday put a stop to the proceedings.”

“You and I will call together on Messrs Magruder & Barnes, a firm of electrical engineers, of whom you may have heard.”

“Leading men in the profession.”

“I will put to them certain questions. If their answers are satisfactory, and if, on our return, we find your child still running, all that will remain will be to put the matter on a regular business footing, and I will come in as your partner.”

Rodway stared.

“I say! You’ve a way of moving! There are all sorts of matters to be gone into which you haven’t touched; questions of validity of patent, and all that sort of thing. For all you know, the whole thing may be a gigantic swindle. You admit that you know nothing; for all you can tell, I may be sending this little beauty along by clockwork.”

“Don’t be afraid. As we go on, I shall make all the inquiries you can desire, and possibly more. The agreement will contain clauses to the effect that if your invention fails in any respect to come up to your description, then I shall be at liberty to at once withdraw my capital, and to hold you responsible for the return of any moneys which may already have been expended.”

“I hope you’re not going to be a Rhadamanthus, or whatever was the name of the party who couldn’t bend. There is such a thing as a middle course.”

They proceeded to the offices of that firm of eminent electricians. They did not see either of the principals, but they interviewed one of their chief understudies – who seemed amused by the simplicity of the inquiries which Mr. Smithers put to him.

“I am going to ask you for information on a point on which you may possibly think that none should be required, since the whole matter should be at the finger-ends of Macaulay’s schoolboy; but since I am willing to pay your own terms for information, I trust that you will have no objection to offer on that head.” The understudy bowed. “Suppose a box twelve inches square, on wheels. How much electric motive power could be packed into it? That is, to carry it what distance?”

“You want a precise answer, or an approximate one?”

“An approximate one will do.”

“For me to be precise I should require certain particulars which you might not be disposed to furnish. – I believe you are the Mr. Rodway who I have been given to understand is at present engaged in the production of something revolutionary in motors.”

The gentleman thus suddenly referred to flushed up to the roots of his hair.

“I am.”

The understudy smiled.

“Then in that case I think it extremely probable that the particulars would not be rendered. I may say roughly, Mr. Smithers, that such a motor as you describe could be constructed to carry sufficient power to drive it any distance between one and five miles. The exact distance would depend upon a variety of circumstances.”

“It would then stand still?”

“Certainly, until recharged.”

“Is there any process by which such a motor could be driven five hundred miles instead of five?”

“I know of none – no self-contained power, that is. If you do, we shall be very glad if you will let us hear of it. You would find it very well worth your while.”

When they again found themselves in the street Mr. Rodway’s manner was contemptuous.

“I should like to see him build a twelve-inch motor to run five miles, giving him his own conditions!”

On their return, after lunch, to the Wandsworth Road, they found the box on wheels still going round and round on its treadmill way. Mr. Smithers referred to his watch.

“We have been gone nearly three hours. If it is going at the rate of six miles an hour, which I suppose is about the mark, then it has already journeyed eighteen miles. In the light of our friend the expert’s dictum, that seems almost good enough. Give me some notion of how it’s done, enough to show that it’s neither clockwork nor trickery, and I’m your partner.”

The desired information was soon supplied. Before long Mr. Smithers recognised that he was in the presence of a new illustration of the working of certain laws of nature which bade fair to do all that its discoverer claimed for it. As steam superseded hand and horse labour, so the Rodway Power promised to take the place of steam. Beyond doubt, a new commercial and industrial revolution was impending. On only one point did there seem to be any uncertainty.

“Can the whole process – idea and all – be patented?”

“It’s patenting it at every possible point, before the intervention of the capitalist, that has brought me to my last shilling. I’m an authority on patent law – I ought to be; I’ve studied it hard and long enough, and am prepared to prove to you that it’s protected at every point at which the law can protect it. But, at the same time, I don’t want you to misunderstand. It will be impossible to keep the secret of how the generation’s brought about – there are bound to be infringements. But I propose to grant licences to people both at home and abroad to use our processes on royalty terms. They’ll find it less troublesome and cheaper than infringement. As for the little pettifogging buccaneers, they’ll find our metal a trifle too heavy; and anyhow, we can afford to laugh at them. If you will supply the initial capital, and make it as much as you can, we’re face to face with the most colossal fortune the world has ever seen.”

Before he left that tumbledown workshop, in which the little box on wheels, representing such mighty possibilities, still continued its apparently ceaseless gyrations, it was understood that Mr. Francis Smithers was to be a joint owner of the Rodway Power.

Arriving at Dulverton Road, he was greeted by his landlady’s daughter, interrogation written large all over her.

“Well, are you going to make his fortune?”

Mr. Smithers laughed. It was noticeable that this girl seemed to have a knack of reaching down to a spring which was inside him, which at her touch bubbled up into pleasant, honest laughter.

“I like your way of putting it. The fortune which is going to be made is mine.”

“That’s what you say. For my part I believe that you’re one of those fairy godfathers one reads about, who go about the world shedding kindnesses.”

“You think so?”

“I feel sure of it. I’ve been watching you – well, for some time now – and I’ve noticed that when people want things very badly, you can’t help letting them have them.”

“Always?”

“So far as I’ve observed. It’s a sort of a kind of a peculiarity you have.”

He was turning over in his fingers an unopened letter which had been awaiting him upon the table.

“In this case it is I who will get the best of it. I am not the philanthropist you suppose. Mr. Rodway has invented something which will transform the existing conditions of trade and locomotion. Those fortunate individuals who may have a proprietary interest in it will find themselves masters of the world in a much more real sense than any king or emperor, and the quite possible possessors of wealth exceeding that dreamed of by any of the fabulists. It is by a happy chance that I am one of them. But then, I’m a lucky man.”

“Do you mean it, or are you only talking like that as a cover to your generosity?”

“My generosity is a figment of that very active imagination of yours, young lady. I have none.”

“That’s all stuff and nonsense; because, you see, I know better.”

“Rodway’s a gold mine of incredible richness, which I propose to work for my own particular benefit.”

“Why haven’t others seen it if that’s the case? He’s tried and tried to get them to.”

“Because they were so unhappy as not to be able to see what lay right in front of them. Or perhaps they weren’t on the ground at the mathematical moment when it was there to see. I tell you I’m a lucky man.”

He opened the envelope with which he had been trifling.

“You are, in having such a temperament. And you ought to be a happy one, if happiness consists in making others happy; because I’ll be bound you’ve made Ben Rodway the happiest man the world contains this day.”

Mr. Smithers was regarding a small square of pasteboard which he had taken from the envelope he had opened. On it was nothing but a blot of scarlet sealing-wax, impressed with a seal. It was this impression at which he was glancing. It was a replica of the curious hieroglyphic, suggestive of a masonic symbol, which had been impressed on the seals which had secured certain packages which he had found in safe No. 226. After a momentary examination he looked up at the lady.

“It’s something to have made someone happy, isn’t it?”

“I believe it’s your mission in life to go about doing that sort of thing – a Bayard knight, without fear and without reproach, righting wrongs, and setting the crooked places straight.”

“I would that your picture were an accurate one.”

“It’s not so far out, I believe, as you choose to pretend.”

But he shook his head, and she shook hers back again, with malicious intent, as she left the room.

He returned to an examination of the seal upon the square of pasteboard, commencing to whistle the opening bars of the quaint melody which the persistence of the unseen whistler caused to assail his ears at moments when they least expected it. It was done, it seemed, without intention; because as soon as he realised what sounds were proceeding from his lips, they ceased.

“No, thank you. No echo, please. We’ve enough of the original. First that; then this; what next? May the next act take place in the open! I dislike an unseen enemy, and am quite prepared to fight for my inheritance. It’s lucky I’ve no nerves; much of this sort of thing might wear them to fiddlestrings. If there’s to be much more of it, even I shall be all agog to get to grips.”

— XI —

MR. LUDLOW VISITS
HIS MOTHER

One evening Mr. Smithers took Miss Ludlow to the theatre. During their absence Mrs. Ludlow had a visitor – no less a person than her son. He did not seem to be in very good humour on his arrival; not in that pleasant humour in which a son should be who only pays an occasional visit to his widowed mother. What little he came with vanished when he heard of his sister’s absence.

“Where’s Netta?”

“She’s gone with Mr. Smithers to the theatre.”

He could not have seemed more startled if his mother had struck him.

“What!”

Mrs. Ludlow repeated her observation, a little tremulously. She stood in awe of her son, who had always domineered over her, as if he had been the parent and she the child.

“Do you mean to say that you’ve allowed Netta to go with that – that man alone to the theatre?”

“Why not? She’s been with him two or three times before. She’s always enjoyed herself. He’s very nice to her.”

“Mother, you’re a fool!”

“Theodore!”

“As for Netta, when I see her I shall take the liberty of making a few remarks to her which she won’t forget.”

“It’s no business of yours what Netta does. She is old enough to look after herself – you’ve left her to do it for a good many years. Now she’s quite capable of doing it. I’m sure she wouldn’t do anything she thought was wrong, and I’d trust Netta to know the difference between right and wrong as well as you do. Mr. Smithers is a perfect gentleman; he always behaves to her like one.”

“I say again, mother, that you’re a fool!”

“You ought not to speak to me like that; you shall not do it! You forget that I’m your mother. You won’t hold out a finger to help me, and yet you want to ride roughshod over us as if we were slaves.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, if you can help it. I merely decline to allow my sister to disgrace me. I owe all I am to my own exertions. I might, I should, be in the gutter for all the help I have received from either parents or friends. I don’t intend to allow myself to be ruined by the folly of those with whom I am connected.”

“You are more likely to disgrace your sister than she is to disgrace you, in spite of all your boasting!”

“That is a question of opinion. Anyhow, I’ve the most to lose.”

“How dare you say such a thing of your own sister?”

“Because it happens to be true; and I always make it a rule to look the truth straight in the face. What is Rodway thinking about to allow this kind of thing?”

“There is nothing between Netta and Mr. Rodway. You yourself forbade it.”

“And Rodway went out of his way to inform me that he didn’t care one snap of his fingers what I forbade, as you are very well aware. He’s as much set on her as ever he was.”

“I don’t believe she thinks of him at all – not in that way.”

“You’re not suggesting that there’s anything between her and that scoundrel with whom she has gone out tonight?”

“Why do you call him a scoundrel? He’s not behaved like a scoundrel to us. I don’t believe he is one. I don’t know what we should have done without him.”

“You object to my calling you a fool, so I’ll do my best to refrain. Only don’t behave as if you were one. I tell you that if you allow your daughter to associate with – Mr. Smithers, before long you’ll be wishing that she had never been born.”

“What do you mean? Why do you say such dreadful things? What do you know about him, or what do you think you know, that you are hiding from us?”

Theodore regarded her with the hard-set stare from which, from his boyhood upward, she had shrunk. The expression of his face suggested unspeakable contempt.

“As matters are at present, it doesn’t suit me to tell you all I do mean. Only understand that rather than Netta should be connected in any way with – Mr. Smithers, I’d cut her throat.”

“Some sons are a comfort to their mother, but it seems to me that you have always gone out of your way to make me miserable. You won’t answer my letters, and when you do come you talk like this. I can only hope that you have come because you do mean to give me a little assistance; if you don’t, we shall be in the streets before long.”

“I am not in a position to help you, even were I so disposed; I myself am pressed for money.”

“Is that true?”

“I should not say it if it were not. I have had losses which have placed me in a situation of considerable difficulty.”

“I can only say that every week I am afraid that Mr. Judson will enforce the bill of sale he holds. I give him nearly all Mr. Smithers pays, for fines. When Mr. Rodway paid up his back rent it all went, for what Judson calls arrears of interest. The more I keep on paying, the more I seem to owe; the debt grows larger instead of less.”

“You shouldn’t have gone, in the first place, to a moneylender of Judson’s type.”

“Where was I to go? You wouldn’t help. I had to get the money from somewhere.”

“Then you must take the consequences of your own act. You can’t expect the man to release you from a contract into which you entered with your eyes open.”

“Theodore, you can have no natural feeling. You know that this man is squeezing the lifeblood out of your mother’s heart, and you talk as if it were no concern of yours.”

“I am a man of business first of all. My standard of commercial honesty is a high one. A contract once entered into must be carried out to the letter, at whatever cost. I wish my feeling on that subject were yours. You would have been saved from your present position.”

Mrs. Ludlow put her hand up to her face and cried, her son watching her as he might have done some mechanical toy. Presently he proffered a suggestion.

“Why don’t you get Rodway to help you? I hear that there’s something in that crack-brained scheme of his after all, and that he’s likely to coin money.”

“I will not ask Mr. Rodway for what my son declines to give me, especially after the way in which you yourself have behaved to him.”

“What’s my treatment of Ben Rodway got to do with you? I’m not going to ask him for assistance. You have cried ‘Wolf! wolf!’ so often and so long that I’ve my doubts as to the imminence of the danger; but if you’re in anything like the danger you say you are, you’ll be glad to accept help from whatever quarter it may come. There’s Smithers; why not try him?”

“You hint at such a thing! – after what you have been saying!”

“Don’t confuse the issues. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get out of him whatever may be got. There’s no reason, but very much the contrary, why you should wish him to associate with your daughter.”

“Theodore, you’re a wicked man – to want your mother to play such a part!”

They were sitting in the kitchen, which, since it was the only living-room she had, Mrs. Ludlow had, perforce, to use as a parlour. Theodore stood up.

“It’s no use my attempting to argue with you. Our points of view are different. I recognised that fact many years ago. It seems you never will. Stay here. I will return to you shortly.”

“Where are you going?”

He had moved to the door.

“I am going to take advantage of Mr. Smithers’ absence to look through his rooms.”

“Theodore! – You have no right to go into his rooms at all.”

“I have reasons of my own for wishing to make certain inquiries, and I must ask you to take it for granted that those reasons are a sufficient justification for what I propose to do. Do as I tell you – stay here till I return.”

He shut the door behind him as he went out, leaving his mother to disobey him at her peril. She showed genuine concern.

“He has no right to go into Mr. Smithers’ rooms when he’s not there! What does he mean by it? What can he want? He is so headstrong, so sure that he is right and that everyone else is wrong, that I’m sometimes afraid that he supposes that, just because he chooses to do a thing, no one has a right to say a word against it. What will Mr. Smithers think if he finds out?”

On that point, at least, Mr. Theodore Ludlow seemed to be indifferent. Had the entire contents of ‘the dining-rooms’ been his own personal property, he could scarcely have treated them with less ceremony. He examined, hurriedly yet systematically, everything that could be examined. The bedroom first, beginning with the chest of drawers, which he overhauled as thoroughly as any custom-house officer could have done. He commented on the voluminous nature of his wardrobe.

“Clothes are a weakness of his, evidently; – he’s that type of man – a walking clothes-horse. The place is crammed with them; – seems to have the tailor’s entire stock.”

He felt in pockets; looked through letter-cases; studied old envelopes, inside and out; turned out portfolios; pried into books; opened everything that could be opened. Resenting, indeed, the fact that there should be anything which could not be opened; – without, that is, resorting to measures which even he seemed disposed to draw the line. In particular, there was a despatch-box to which he objected strongly because it refused to let him see what was inside. It was a first-rate article of its kind, and provided with an excellent lock. None of his keys – he had an extensive assortment – would fit it. Being a persevering man, and having the very best causes for not wishing to be baffled, he tried the persuasive power of the thin blade of his pocket-knife when inserted in the interstice of the lid. In vain. That despatch-box was so very well made that it was with difficulty he could induce even the point to enter; and when he had succeeded in getting it so far, without giving him the slightest warning it snapped clean off.

“That’s awkward – very. I doubt if I shall be able to get that out again. If he opens his desk and finds the point of my blade just inside the lid, he’ll wonder how it got there. Let him. It’s possible, even if he’s able to make a shrewd guess, that he may consider it desirable not to push his curiosity too far. Men in his position must occasionally find it prudent to know as little as they conveniently can. The mischief is that I’ve learnt nothing that I don’t know already, and there are one or two things I want to learn. It is possible that they’re inside that despatch-box. I’m disposed to get at the inside of it somehow – and anyhow. If they are there he won’t be able to object; I’ll be holding him between my finger and my thumb. If they’re not there, it won’t matter much either. Should he wish to know why I thought it my duty to examine what he pleases to call his property, I should have no objection to explain, if necessary, in the presence of a policeman. How am I going to get at the thing? I am not anxious to smash it into pieces with a poker. A chisel ought to do it. – What’s that?”

‘That’ was a ring at the front-door bell. He was on the point of quitting the room in search of the requisite tool when it rang through the house. Considering his indifference to Mr. Smithers’ feelings on certain matters of which he had just been speaking, it was odd that the mere tinkling of the electric bell should cause him to show such distinct signs of discomposure. He referred to his watch.

“It’s not he. He can’t be back already from the theatre. It’s only just after nine.”

His mother’s troubled face looked at him from the kitchen door.

“There’s someone ringing, Theodore. Hadn’t you better come into the kitchen?”

“I’ll go and see who it is,” he said. And he went.

— XII —

BOB HAMMICK

On the doorstep stood the man who had accosted Mr. Smithers on the occasion of his first visit to safe No. 226. He looked rather shabbier than he had done then; his hat was a little more on one side, and there was that about his general appearance which was more than ever suggestive of the prize-ring. Perhaps this peculiarity was accentuated by the fact that he had been drinking.

The two men confronted each other in silence, until the stranger broke the ice in his own fashion.

“Well? Know me? Or are you only trying to know me next time we meet again?”

It was then that Mr. Ludlow perceived that the stranger had been ministering to his thirst. Being himself a person of such rigid teetotal principles, it is possible that the discovery did not tend to prejudice him in the other’s favour. His manner was sufficiently brusque.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? A good many things; so don’t you, or anybody else, make any blooming error. And I’m going to have ’em.”

Apparently Mr. Ludlow had already arrived at a conclusion that this was not an acquaintance which it was desirable to encourage further. He made as if to shut the door in the stranger’s face, a manoeuvre which that individual frustrated by the sudden advancement of his foot.

“I want to see Smithers – Francis Smithers – Mr. Francis Smithers.”

At the mention of this name Mr. Ludlow re-opened the door, a proceeding on which the stranger remarked.

“That’s right, guv’nor; you open it before you’re sorry, and you keep it open, unless you want to get yourself knocked out.”

“Can I give Mr. Smithers any message?”

“Can you give him any message? No, you can’t. I’ll give him my own messages, if it’s the same to you, or if it ain’t.”

“He’s not in.”

“Then I’ll wait till he is in. I’ve come to have it out with him, and I’m going to have it out with him if I wait a fortnight.”

Mr. Ludlow reflected. This was obviously an extremely objectionable person, and he was in a most unpleasant state. All the bank clerk’s instincts cried out against the creature’s neighbourhood. But, at the same time, Theodore was so very anxious to be posted up in Mr. Smithers’ private affairs that he felt – strongly – that he should allow no opportunity of acquiring information to escape him. Here, for all he could tell, was such an one close to his hand. The fellow was drunk enough to be talkative; distinctly the sort of character with whom no respectable character would allow himself to be even remotely connected. Yet the man’s manner pointed to a close association between himself and Mr. Smithers. Perhaps, under the influence of a little judicious handling, his blabbing tongue might place Mr. Smithers even more at Mr. Ludlow’s mercy than he was already. So, for reasons, Theodore did what he would rather not have done; he asked the intoxicated rascal into Mr. Smithers’ sitting-room, and there he kept him company.

“Come inside and wait.”

Apparently the suggestion took the stranger by surprise.

“I don’t mind if I do; I’d just as soon wait inside as I would out. You use me as a gentleman, and you’ll find I’m all right.”

Mrs. Ludlow had been listening to the conversation from the vantage of the kitchen door. When the stranger staggered into the hall she remonstrated.

“It’s no use that person waiting for Mr. Smithers, Theodore. He won’t be home till ever so late.”

But Theodore declined to be advised; he preferred to order.

“You go into the kitchen, and stop there. This is my affair, not yours.”

When the stranger was in the sitting-room, and stood – with his hat still on the side of his head – bucking up against the dining-table, Mr. Ludlow felt, as he regarded him, that he had never found himself in less congenial company.

“Is Mr. Smithers a friend of yours?”

“Friend of mine! Him! He’s my enemy – that’s what he is. Knife’s the word between him and me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Hammick, Bob Hammick’s my name. I’ve not been ashamed of it even when I’ve been standing in the dock.”

Mr. Ludlow pricked up his ears at this. So this was the sort of company Mr. Smithers kept – that of the denizens of the dock. Precisely what he had expected.

“And pray, Mr. Hammick, how has Mr. Smithers offended you?”

“How! – Hasn’t he robbed me? – Isn’t’ he standing between me and millions?”

“You are joking. He can hardly have robbed you to that extent.”

“Of course, if you know more about me than I know about myself, there’s an end of it. You’re a fly cove, you are, but maybe you’re a bit too fly. I tell you he’s holding me out of a hundred thousand pound – perhaps more.”

Mr. Ludlow perceived that Mr. Hammick’s mood was argumentative; and as he himself was indisposed in that direction, he resolved to violate his principles still further, and ply the visitor with drink until – if luck would have it so – the power of loquacity was all that was left to him.

“Will you have some whiskey?”

“Will I have some whiskey? Do I look as if I were a chap that won’t have whiskey? So help me, I’d like to drown in it! Give me whiskey all day long and all night through, and I’d still keep wanting it.”

These were shocking sentiments. But Mr. Ludlow concealed the feelings of disgust they must have roused in him. He took a glass and a decanter of whiskey out of Mr. Smithers’ cupboard. Mr. Hammick at once commented on the single tumbler.

“Ain’t you going to have nothing? Is the one glass to do for both of us?”

“Thank you. I do not drink.”

“Blimey, but I thought you didn’t. You look that kind of bloke. Well, I do – and I hate them that don’t. They’re poison. I never do business with a man who won’t take his fair whack. The odds are that while you’re drinking he’s watching; waiting for you to turn yourself inside out for his amusement – when you don’t know what you are doing! I know! I’ve been there! – Hang me if I don’t believe that’s your little game! That’s what you’ve brought me in here for! Shouldn’t be surprised but what you think that when I’ve lowered enough – and you’ve lowered nothing – you’ll get a few pickings off me. Then that’s where you’re wrong, d – d wrong. I’ll keep on mopping it up as long as there’s any to mop up, but you’ll get nothing out of Bob Hammick, not if I swallowed a barrelful.”

So it proved. Mr. Hammick’s perspicacity was unexpected. Rather than have aroused his suspicions, Mr. Ludlow almost wished that he had simulated a taste for what he held in abhorrence. But it was now too late. Hammick was not to be beguiled. Although he made rapid inroads into the decanter, the only effect of his potations was to make him scurrilous to the verge of combativeness. He delivered himself of a continuous flow of language on the subject of teetotallers. Indeed, when Mr. Ludlow did manage to slip in a question edgeways, it was received with so much animosity that, since he was far from desiring a set-to with the intoxicated ruffian then and there, he judged it the better part of wisdom to cease from his inquiries. Foiled in one direction, his agile brain moved in another, hitting on something in which the vagabond might still be made of use. Bringing forward the despatch-box which he had found intractable, he placed it on the table.

“Can you open a desk?”

“Can I open a desk? There isn’t a desk in England I couldn’t open, nor a safe neither.”

“I mean without a key.”

“And I mean without a key. Do you think I want a key to let me inside a thing? What kind of a softy are you taking me for?”

“Suppose you try your hand on this.”

“This? A bramah lock, that’s what this has got. They think them bramah locks clever. I’ll show you!”

He took from his pocket what looked like a piece of twisted wire. A portion of this he endeavoured to insinuate into the tiny keyhole. He was, however, more drunk than he supposed. His hand shook so that the wire would not go in. It is possible, also, that his eyes saw two locks instead of one; he certainly made jabs where the lock was not.

While he was still contending with this unfortunate difficulty, someone addressed him from behind.

“What tricks are you up to?” The speaker was Mr. Rodway; the pair had been so engrossed in other matters that they had not observed his entrance. He came forward to find an answer to his own inquiry – “Trying to pick the lock?”

Taking Mr. Hammick by the collar of his coat, he swung him across the room with so much goodwill that it was only coming in contact with the wall that saved him from the floor. Then he looked at Ludlow.

“And you’re aiding and abetting him!”

Mr. Ludlow greeted his whilom colleague with no enthusiastic welcome; he held his peace – which Mr. Hammick declined to do.

“Who done that?” he demanded. “Who done that? You let me get hold of the man who laid his hand on me and you’ll see me kill him.”

Mr. Rodway showed no alarm. On the contrary, he regarded his would-be destroyer, who evidently found it difficult to keep upon his feet in spite of the near neighbourhood of the wall, with some appearance of contempt.

“So you’re drunk, are you? Apparently your blue-ribbon friend has been dosing you with Mr. Smithers’ whiskey. I’ve seen you before. I’ve noticed you hanging about two or three times lately, and have wondered what mischief a blackguard of your stamp was after. Now I begin to understand.” He turned to Ludlow.

“He’s a friend of yours, is he?”

“He’s nothing of the kind. I never saw him till half an hour ago. He’s a friend of your friend Smithers.”

This charge Mr. Hammick hastily denied.

“I’m no friend of Smithers! He’s the greatest enemy I have! I’ll put my knife into him yet before I’ve done with him.” He steadied himself, with the seeming intention of getting his recent assailant into focus – an attempt in which he succeeded, at least to some extent.

“So it was you who laid your hand on me, was it? Darn your impudent face! I’ll smash it!”

He made what was in more senses than one a blind rush at Mr. Rodway. Had he reached him he might possibly have carried out his threat. But that gentleman did not let him get so far. Stepping aside as the other came on, he dealt him a swinging blow on the jaw. In Mr. Hammick’s then state but little was needed to carry him off his feet. That blow laid him out for good. He went crashing down among the chairs, lying still where he had fallen, in a manner which suggested that he must have made a mistake as to the person who was to be killed. Mrs. Ludlow came rushing into the room.

“Theodore! Mr. Rodway! What is the matter?”

Rodway explained.

“The matter is, Mrs. Ludlow, that Theodore has been making this man drunk on Mr. Smithers’ whiskey, and has then been inciting him to break open Mr. Smithers’ despatch-box.”

“It is false!”

“It is not false, as anyone has only to look at your face to see.” Indeed, Mr. Ludlow did not look happy. Possibly he was conscious that for a man of his high character he was in a somewhat invidious position. “As for your drunken friend—”

“I tell you again that he is not my friend.”

Mr. Rodway went unheeding on – “and associate, I’ll make short work of him.”

He did. Possibly the blow he had received had had the effect of bringing the results of the whiskey Mr. Hammick had imbibed to a sudden head. When Mr. Rodway, gripping him by the shoulders, proceeded to drag him along, very much as if he had been a sack of potatoes, all he did by way of protest was to give utterance to some inarticulate grumblings. Hauling him along the passage, through the front door, across the pavement, Mr. Rodway deposited him in the gutter and left him there. Presently, reviving to a dim consciousness of where he was, scrambling to his feet, mumbling threatenings and slaughters, he staggered along the pavement in search of haunts where he was better known and appreciated.

On Mr. Rodway’s return to the sitting-room, Mrs. Ludlow assailed him with her prayers for peace.

“Mr. Rodway, I hope there’ll be no trouble. I warned Theodore not to let the man in—”

“No doubt he had good reasons of his own for ignoring your warning.”

“Nothing of the kind. The man wanted to see Smithers – I let him wait.”

“You let him wait – that scoundrel? You innocent dear!”

“Now don’t quarrel! don’t quarrel! You know, Mr. Rodway, that I’ve trouble enough to bear already. I hope you are not going to add to it.”

“Not on this occasion, at least, Mrs. Ludlow. But as I have something to say to Theodore in private, I would ask you to leave us alone.”

“You promised me.”

Her son interposed.

“Go! don’t you hear what you are told? Are we a couple of children that you should try to tell us how to conduct our own affairs?”

The obedient mother went. Rodway eyed her offspring with what were not looks of admiration.

“You’re a pretty dear; a charming son. A comfort to your mother, and the prop of her age. If mothers were endowed with the prophetic instinct, they would strangle such babies as you at their birth.”

“Is that kind of thing all you have to say to me?”

“Oh dear no, I’ve other kinds of things to say as well. You’ve been dropping hints lately that there is something dark and dreadful about Frank Smithers.”

“Frank Smithers? It has got to that, has it? I suppose it will soon be Frank.”

“I hope so. The day on which I am admitted to so much intimacy will be the proudest of my life. I’m something of a judge of a man; he is one. Straight as a die; grit all through; incapable of a mean or dirty action; a gentleman born and bred. With nothing of the strain of the cur in him which is so strong in you.”

“Is that the reason why you have lent him your sweetheart?”

“Lent him my sweetheart? What do you mean?”

“I thought you were going to make Netta your wife. Yet you’ve sent her off with him to the theatre. Is that the result of the bargain? some small return for the cash he has given you?”

“Ludlow, your mother and sister are ladies. Can you have got the blackguard strain from your father, because you are a blackguard through and through? I want to keep my hands off you in this house, if I can help it. So I will merely say that if you again spit out slanderous insinuations of the kind against Netta or Smithers or me, I will wait till you leave this house; I will go with you; and when we are clear of it, we will try conclusions as to who is the better man.”

“Do you suppose that I allow myself to be influenced by threats in doing what I think is right? I have warned you; if you neglect my warnings, the responsibility is yours.”

“It is.”

“Do you intend to tell Smithers what has taken place tonight?”

“Certainly. Every blessed thing – including your slanders.”

“Then you’ll be sorry for it afterwards. As to Mr. Smithers, in the future I will deal with him.”

“I should. And for your own sake, put it as far forward into the future as you can. You’ll find it safer.”

— XIII —

THE LEADING LADY

In the meantime Miss Ludlow and Mr. Smithers were enjoying the play at the Pandora Theatre. Or rather, perhaps, it should be written that Miss Ludlow was, while Mr. Smithers sunned himself in her society. It is probable that the lady’s capacity for enjoyment was greater than the gentleman’s. She was possessed of an unspoiled appetite for pleasure which found delight in everything. To her a theatre was an abode of romance; the mimic traffic of the stage a perpetual joy. She had not arrived at that period when one sits in judgement. Unfortunately, the gentleman had. His experience of the contemporary drama was so extensive that it required unusual fare to titillate his palate. He found his companion’s satisfaction with what she saw much more charming than the thing which pleased her, and was content to watch the light come into her eyes, her lips part as the interest grew, the fleeting colour paint her pretty cheeks. He found in her, indeed, something which he had not expected to find again in any woman. She held him to her with bonds of whose nature she did not dream.

That night there seemed some special reason why he took even less interest than usual in what was transpiring on the stage. The play was a successful one, the house crowded. The acting could hardly have been better. Yet there was one character the rendition of which seemed to have an odd effect on Mr. Smithers. What made it still more singular was that it was the principal part in the piece, and that, by the evident common consent of the audience, it could not have been more worthily rendered. The role was a feminine one – that of the heroine. It was played by an actress whose name, according to the programme, was Papillon – Miss Esmé Papillon. She was a tall, graceful woman, possessed of a voice to whose musical tones it was a delight to listen. Possibly Mr. Smithers was the only person in the crowded theatre who did not find them pleasant. On her first appearance he was covertly observing his companion – who, unconscious of his scrutiny, herself had eyes for nothing but the stage – thinking what a pretty ear she had. At the first sound of the actress’ voice he looked round with a start. When he saw her, an indefinable change took place in his countenance. It was not so much that the smile in his eyes and about his lips vanished, as that its expression altered. He looked at his programme, as if searching on the list for a familiar name, and failing to find it.

“Papillon? Esmé Papillon? Is that meant for her? Then in that case she must be the actress who has suddenly taken the town by storm. It would be quite in keeping if she were. She does everything suddenly.” He watched her, something singular in his blue eyes. “She can act – she always could. But then the stage was different. Is she also to be a sword of Damocles? This is another case of grasp your nettle.”

Murmuring an excuse to his companion, much to the scandal of the audience he quitted his seat during the progress of an act. Fortunately his was the last seat in a row. Marching straight out of the theatre, he went round to the stage door. At the moment the office was empty. Cerberus had gone on an errand. Mr. Smithers took advantage of the doorkeeper’s absence to walk straight past his den into the dim recesses beyond. He met a youth carrying something in a jug, of whom he made inquiries.

“Which is Miss Papillon’s room?”

Without hesitation the youth replied, plainly unconscious of there being anything irregular in the other’s presence where he was.

“Papillon? Straight on; second door to the right.”

Mr. Smithers did not find the way quite so straight as the youth implied; but he groped along until he reached a door on which was tacked a visiting-card, inscribed with a lady’s name. He stood on no ceremony, but then and there, turning the handle, opened the door.

“Who’s there?” exclaimed a voice as he was entering,

He did not answer till he was inside and had his back against the door.

The first act had just concluded, the curtain having fallen almost immediately on his leaving the auditorium. Possibly the consciousness that it was drawing to a close had prompted him to rapid movement. The last plaudits of the audience were still echoing in the theatre. It had been a great personal success for Miss Papillon. Flushed with victory, flattered by the compliments which the audience had showered on her, she had hurried to her dressing-room; a light-hearted woman, without a care in the world. Humming a lively tune beneath her breath, with her dresser’s assistance she was commencing to change her costume for the second act, when she was startled by the sudden opening of the door.

When she saw who it was had entered, she stood staring for a moment or two with rigid eyes; then underwent, all in an instant, so complete a metamorphosis, that it almost seemed that the woman who was, could not be the woman who had just been. She dropped so limply on to a chair, that one might have been excused for wondering if the bones had dropped clean out of her. Behind her make-up, the muscles of her face began to twitch as if she were suddenly seized with an attack of St Vitus’ dance. Grease paint was incapable of concealing the appearance of sudden age. The tall, graceful, happy, triumphant woman of a moment back had become, all at once, a sort of gibbering lay figure.

He was the first to speak, and then it was to the dresser, who had remained motionless, looking from one to the other.

“You can go.”

The dresser turned to the actress:

“Excuse me, Miss, but do you want this gentleman in here? You know there isn’t much time to change.”

The actress was still. Mr. Smithers, moving forward, laid his hand upon the dresser’s shoulder.

“Did you hear me tell you, you could go?”

The dresser showed those signs of resentment of which her mistress seemed incapable.

“Take your hand off my shoulder; don’t you touch me. I don’t know who you are or what you want; I don’t believe you’ve any right to be in here, so the sooner you take yourself away from here the better. Anyhow, I’m not going to take my orders from you, and I’ll have you know it.”

Mr. Smithers turned to Miss Papillon.

“Tell her to go.”

The actress obeyed.

“Go,” she muttered.

This time the dresser consented.

“I’ll go fast enough; I’m sure I’m willing. It’s no business of mine, only you know what the rules are, and how much time there is to change; and if the stage is kept waiting, don’t let me be blamed.”

She went out grumbling. Mr. Smithers turned the key and shot the bolt.

“Don’t kill me,” moaned the woman on the chair. “For God’s sake, don’t kill me.”

“You ruined my life; branded me with ignominy; brought me to open shame. If you propose to attempt to play that part again I shall kill you. If you don’t, so far as I am concerned, you may go scot-free. I want to come to an understanding with you, that is all. So try to be as open, as candid, as truthful with me as you can, for both our sakes. What are you doing here?”

“I’m acting. Don’t you know? – I’ve made a great success.”

“I know about the acting and the success, but why are you here at all?”

“What was I to do? – where could I go? I always had a natural bent towards the stage.”

“I’m aware of it. I ought to be.”

“So – so I tried acting; and – and I’m married.”

“Married!”

He uttered the word in a tone of voice which induced Miss Papillon to draw herself together on her chair, cover her face with her hands, and repeat her former petition.

“Don’t kill me! – For God’s sake, don’t kill me!”

“Kill you! What for? For doing me the greatest service in your power? To hear that you are married is almost as good news as to hear that you are dead. May I ask who is the happy man?”

“Bellamy.”

“The actor?”

“He – he worried me till I married him.”

“Did he? What a man of discernment the fellow must be. And you’ve rewarded him.”

“I – I’ve made the hit of the piece! All London’s coming to see me act in it!”

“And shows its taste in so doing. To know that your efforts are properly appreciated must be delightful for you – and Bellamy.” Someone rapped at the panel of the door in peremptory fashion. “There’s really no reason why these good people should be any longer kept out, as matters stand.”

A little man was standing without, made up as the character he enacted in the play – a choleric, and comic, red-headed Irishman. At that moment he appeared to be the person he represented. His questions tumbled over each other as they came from his lips.

“Who are you? What’s the meaning of your extraordinary behaviour? What business have you behind the scenes? Who admitted you? How dare you intrude yourself into my wife’s apartment?”

Mr. Smithers’ placidity was in striking contrast to the other’s excitement.

“Mr. Bellamy? – I have only just heard of your matrimonial good fortune. Allow me to offer you my congratulations.”

“Who wants your congratulations? Who asked for them? How dare you offer them at this time of day? Do you suppose you’re in a barn? Are you aware you are in a respectable theatre?” – Mr. Bellamy addressed himself to his wife, the lady’s dresser standing with an aggrieved air at his elbow: “My darling Esmé, I cannot tell you how concerned I feel. Mrs. Jones assures me that this person positively forced himself into your room. If he has offered you any impertinence, even the slightest, I shall call him to a personal account. My dearest, I do beg that you will not allow yourself to be distressed – the whole house will be prostrated.” The lady gave unmistakable symptoms of having achieved a rapid recovery.

“Its all right, Freddy! – don’t be a fool! – and for gracious’ sake don’t let’s have any fuss! – Now, Jones, move yourself, and get me into my change as fast as you can.”

When Mr. Smithers returned to his stall he found Miss Ludlow quick to notice that there was something new in his demeanour.

“Where have you been? I thought you’d gone for good and forgotten me. And what is the matter with you? – you look all smile.”

“I feel like that. Perhaps it’s the effect of the play.”

“Isn’t it a lovely play? And isn’t Miss Papillon splendid?”

“She seems to have some notion of acting.”

“Seems to have some notion of acting! Is that all you can say? Why, she acts magnificently. And isn’t she beautiful?”

“I have seen worse-looking women.”

“Surely you are not blind?”

“Blind? – Me? – What do you mean?”

“That’s the one thing I don’t like about you – your pretending to be so cynical; – at least, not exactly cynical, but you never will admit that things are half so splendid as I think they are.”

“That’s my misfortune.”

As he looked at her radiant face, lighted with the joy which only comes of innocence, he felt that it was.

He enjoyed the second act amazingly – for him; finding rare delight in observing Mr. Bellamy, whose part was not so prominent an one as it might have been, and even greater pleasure in studying his charming wife. She represented a type of person who was a theatrical fashion of the hour – a woman with a past. That past she seemed to find an inconvenient possession, especially when the other characters began to make themselves disagreeable to her on account of it. She made a sweet sinner in that hour of her penitence. Her genuine distress touched the audience even in the stalls and boxes. The curtain had to be raised twice at the end of the act, and then she had to come in front of it alone.

“How cruel they are to her! – how cruel!”

Miss Ludlow’s reference was to the characters on the stage. The audience could scarcely have been kinder. Mr. Smithers was still. Presently the young lady delivered herself of a scrap of proverbial philosophy – “How dreadful it must be to have done something of which you are ashamed!”

“Horrible!”

“You must go in fear and trembling lest someone should find out what it is you have done, and then when it is found out it’s worst of all.”

“Sometimes one does a thing of which one doesn’t know whether one ought or ought not to be ashamed.”

“I can’t see how that can be. We all have an inward monitor which points out to us the difference between right and wrong.”

“I’m not sure that it’s so simple as you suppose. The strands are apt to cross each other; then life becomes a complicated thing. – Suppose that someone for whom you cared turned out to be not all that one ought to be – what would be your own personal attitude in such a case?”

“l should forgive the sinner, but hate the sin.”

The words were spoken with a smile. Mr. Smithers, leaning back in his stall, looked up at the crimson velvet curtains as if he saw something in – or at the back of – them, which moved him to contemplation.

— XIV —

BROKERS AND
THE MARRIAGE QUESTION

One afternoon Mr. Smithers, returning to Dulverton Road, saw what looked like a furniture van standing outside the door of No. 23. As he came along the pavement he observed it with surprise. Men were taking things out of the house and placing them in the van, in a manner which suggested that a removal was taking place. As he had only quitted the house a few hours before, and had then heard nothing to lead him to suppose that such a move was intended, he could but wonder what the thing might mean. As he reached the door a man came out with a couch on his head, which he recognised as being part of the furniture of his own sitting-room. To this man he put a question.

“What’s the meaning of this? And what are you doing with that couch?”

“The meaning of it is, governor, that this is a bust-up, and I’d thank you to stand out of my way.”

“A bust-up! What are you talking about?”

“A bill of sale is what I’m talking about. We’re taking away what’s scheduled. If you ask inside there, perhaps they’ll be able to tell you more about it than I can. If you’re a friend of the family, at a delicate moment like this the old lady may be glad to see you. Only, as this couch isn’t exactly a featherweight, I’ll ask you to move aside and let me put it in the van.”

“Put that couch down.”

“Put it down? May I ask who you might be?”

“Put that couch down. Or, better, take it back where it came from. I’ll talk to you in there.”

“Look here, governor, don’t you be silly, and don’t you make no mistake. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care; but you can take it from me that it’s all regular, and that it’s either the money or the things.”

“You shall have the money. Do as I tell you – take that couch back to the sitting-room.”

“I’ll be very glad to do it if it is going to be the money; but as it ain’t easy to turn a couch this size in a passage this width, my mate being outside there in the van, I’ll just ask you to lend me a hand.”

Mr. Smithers lent a hand. As they were carrying the couch between them Mrs. Ludlow emerged from the kitchen, crying and wringing her hands.

“Oh, Mr. Smithers, it has come at last! I’ve done my best to prevent it, but it has been more than I could manage.”

“I am afraid, Mrs. Ludlow, that I don’t understand what it all means.”

“Mr. Judson has distrained upon a bill of sale. I borrowed seventy-five pounds from him when we came here. He’s had it all back again, and yet he makes out that, with arrears of interest and what he calls fines, I still owe him more than I borrowed.”

“The amount is one hundred and twenty-seven pound ten and five, and you may be sure its owing. Mr. Judson is a sharp man of business, but he don’t make mistakes when it comes to figures in a case like this. He’d find it too expensive.”

“You shall have the money. Bring those things back out of the cart.”

“Excuse me, sir, I’m not doubting your word; but me and my mate have had the job of taking out them things, and we don’t want to have the trouble of bringing them back for nothing. I’d like to see the money before we start.”

Mr. Smithers produced a roll of banknotes from his despatch-box.

“Here it is. Return those things exactly as you found them, and there will be something for yourselves.”

Soon everything was as it had been, and the van had gone. Mrs. Ludlow was rendered almost inarticulate by a combination of gratitude and shame.

“Oh, Mr. Smithers, I don’t know how to thank you – I was in despair when you first came – you’ve been my guardian angel all along; I don’t know how I ever shall repay you.”

“We will discuss that together later on. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, I should like to speak a word or two to Netta.”

Mrs. Ludlow retired tearfully to her own quarters. Her daughter would have gone with her had not Mr. Smithers interposed.

“Stop. I wish to speak to you.” The girl confronted him with white cheeks and big eyes. “I don’t think you have used me very well.”

“I know I haven’t. My only excuse is that I have always had some faint hope that Theodore would do something to help us, rather than let the worst come to the worst, and that that odious usurer would be staved off. I didn’t realise till Mr. Judson’s van was actually at the door that the hour of reckoning was upon us.”

“That is not what I mean. You ought, long ago, to have given me an opportunity to remove this burden off your shoulders, and your mother’s.”

“Why? My own brother refused to help. Why should I come to you, a stranger?”

“I deny that I am a stranger.”

“You’re the best of friends, but you’re a stranger.”

“It is in your refusal to admit that I am not a stranger that my grievance lies.”

“You’ve been too generous to me already. I’ve been conscious all along that I ought not to have allowed it, but you have such a way that I’ve not known how to refuse. But what kind of girl you take me for, to suppose that I should be willing to encroach still further upon your generosity I am unable to imagine.”

“It’s not a question of generosity. Is it possible that you’re not aware what you have been to me almost since the moment I first saw you?”

“Mr. Smithers!”

“Don’t call me by that odious name.”

“Odious? – But it is your name.”

“It has a prefix.”

“A prefix? Really, I don’t know what you mean. Mister is a prefix.”

“Netta, you are honest with everybody else; be honest with me. – Don’t you know I love you?”

“I know you like me; or at least I suppose you like me, or you wouldn’t be so kind.”

“‘Like!’ ‘kind!’ – don’t use such words! I didn’t mean to speak so soon, but events have moved more quickly than I expected. Netta – answer me! – will you be my wife?”

She looked up at him with eyes which did not flinch, although her cheeks were flaming.

“You ask the question as if you were demanding my money or my life.”

“Perhaps I am – or at least their equivalent. – Will you be my wife?”

“Please be calm. I don’t know you when your eyes blaze like that. Let us consider.”

“I’ll consider nothing.”

“Then, since somebody must consider, I will. In the first place, I’m nobody and nothing; a beggar; indebted to your charity for a roof to cover me; while you are a great gentleman and a rich man.”

“As for the great gentleman – fiddle! But it’s true I’m a rich man. Rodway and I have received an offer of a million sterling for the Power.”

“A million sterling!”

“Which we’ve refused. Soon we shall be offered fifty millions. We shall refuse that also. We’re running for a record in the way of wealth. And I owe it all to you.”

“To me? – Really you can say things!”

“If you only knew what it meant to me when you gave me shelter in your home.”

“Let you lodgings, I suppose you mean?”

“Shelter, I said; shelter is what I meant. Perhaps you never will know; if you ever do, you’ll understand. By so doing you gave me an opportunity of meeting Rodway.”

“You were not the only person Mr. Rodway had met. He had met heaps of people. None of them could see anything in his great invention. You alone had the seeing eye.”

“Anyhow, you afforded me an opportunity of proving that I was not such an idiot as the rest of them. It began with a little thing – with my ringing the bell, and your appearance at the front door.”

“You call that a little thing?”

“At least it was one for which you were directly responsible – as you have continued to be directly responsible for everything that has taken place throughout. Now it promises to end with such great things – for both of us.”

“I don’t see how I am concerned in all this greatness.”

“Not as my wife? – Netta, play with me some other time. Just now I’m in such deadly earnest. Tell me that you will be my wife.”

“I should like to, very much.”

“Then, as I should like it still more, that’s settled.”

“You’ve chosen such an odd moment – when the sound of the broker’s cart is still in the street.”

“That broker’s cart brought me to my senses. It showed me in one flash in what an unsatisfactory state affairs must be between us if you could wait for such a crisis before hinting that you were in trouble. It made it imperative on me not to leave you with any excuse for similar conduct in the future.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to be the dominant partner.”

Shortly afterwards she said:

“I’ve always wondered what it felt like to be kissed by a man with a beard.”

“And now, what’s your candid opinion?”

“Well – it’s odd to feel all that hair so close. With a beard you look poetic; but then, in every sense, you’re unusual. I don’t like bearded men as a rule – I prefer them shaven and shorn.”

“Shall I shave?”

“Certainly not. The idea! I’ve fallen in love with you as you are, and if any alteration’s made – that’s a catastrophe which I wish to avoid. – Do you know I’ve not the slightest right to marry a rich man, because I’ve never had a five-pound note of my very own – to do with just as I liked – in my life.”

“You’ll like five-pound notes all the better now.”

“I suppose you’ve always been rich?”

“Not I. It’ll be as novel an experience to me as to you.”

“But you must have been rich to leave all that money untouched in the bank for so many years?”

“That was different. Now we are about to deal with millions.” He looked down at his foot.

“I see. Then in your opinion one is only rich when one deals with millions. What a lot of poor folks there must be. What will Theodore say?”

“Who cares?”

“But he is my brother.”

“Even the best of brothers have little to say in matters of this sort, and he’s the worst.”

“And then—” she paused, as someone was heard opening the front door with a latchkey.

“There’s Mr. Rodway – what will he say?”

“You don’t mean—?” She nodded. A light dawned on him. “What an ass I must be not to have seen! – Now I understand. – I hope he won’t take it – hardly.” When Mr. Rodway appeared at the open door his partner had his arm about the lady’s waist. “Ben, you’ve come in the nick of time. Netta has just promised to be my wife.”

Mr. Rodway dropped on to a chair.

“You call that the nick of time! – And I was hurrying home to ask her to be mine.”

“My dear chap! – I hadn’t a notion! – If you had only dropped a hint, I would have yielded you the precedence.”

“It would have made no difference if you had.” This was the lady.

Mr. Rodway groaned. “That’s a nice thing to say! And I daresay I’ve asked that girl a dozen times! – sometimes when I hadn’t a sovereign in my pocket.”

“I should think you must have asked me quite twenty times, and frequently when you hadn’t a shilling.”

“It’s a theory of mine that marriage, like everything else, is a matter of perseverance. No girl says yes till you’ve asked her about fifty times.”

“That isn’t always the case.” And Miss Ludlow looked up at Mr. Smithers. He drew her closer to him.

“I’m glad I’ve won, Ben; but I’m awfully sorry you’ve lost.”

“Don’t allow your satisfaction to be lessened by any little consideration of that kind. It’s true you’ve dashed the cup of happiness from my lips, but that’s a matter of not the slightest consequence. There are only about half a dozen girls I really care for; and as I’ve lost sight of the other five, in capturing this one you’ve robbed me of the entire six. After what I’ve gone through in proposing to her, off and on, since goodness alone knows when, it does seem hard.”

“I am grieved,” observed the lady, “that all that labour should have been wasted. But if you put the matter into the hands of a competent private detective, I cannot help thinking that you will light on traces of at least some of the five.”

“It’s to be hoped so – and before very long. An unmarried millionaire is such a waste; especially as an aunt, three cousins, a niece, a friend of my boyhood’s days, and a lady who knew my mother have all expressed their willingness to come and keep house for me. I didn’t know I had so many relatives and friends – I loathe ’em all. – When’s it going to be?”

“When’s what going to be?”

“The marriage.”

“What a ridiculous question to ask, when it’s only just this moment that we’ve begun to think about anything of the kind. Indeed I haven’t begun yet. In a year or two it will be quite time to talk about that.”

“The marriage, my dear Ben, will take place next week.”

“Next week!” Thus the lady.

“Or, at the outside, within a month. There is no reason why there should be any delay. Indeed, very much the contrary.”

“I suppose I’m to have no voice in the matter?”

“Decidedly you are. I will say to you, ‘That is the day on which we are going to be married’; and your voice will reply, ‘Yes, it is..”

“I appear to have come across an original kind of person.”

“You’d much better have had me,” groaned Mr. Rodway. “I know you’ll be sorry you didn’t. You can twist me round your finger. But he’ll twist you.”

“He’d better try. At the eleventh hour I may change my mind.”

“Do. Then I’ll persuade you to change it back again. – By the way, I’m thinking about buying a place in the country.”

“What do you call a place in the country?”

“I’ve been making inquiries, and I’ve heard of a place called Dene Park – belonged to some people named Foster – near Birchester, in Sussex. Seems rather a nice house, good grounds, and all that sort of thing.”

“Hark at him! I hope that by a ‘place’ you do not mean a palace. Be so good as to remember that I am used to No. 23 Dulverton Road, which is not a ‘place..”

Rodway, who seemed to have been ruminating, delivered himself of the results.

“Dene Park? Foster family? Birchester? I’ve an idea that I’ve heard the name before. Wasn’t it mixed up with a ease in the law courts some years ago? I can’t quite hit on the connection, but I believe it was – rather imagine it was associated in some way with a case of a fraudulent solicitor.”

“I fancy you’re right, and that there was something of the kind. Anyhow, it’s on the market now, and, from what I hear, should be just the place for us.”

“You’ve paid no attention to my modestly expressed hope that the place is not a palace.”

“If it were, aren’t you fit to be its queen?”

“There’s one thing,” she said, “which may be urged in favour of your beard – that in moments of intense provocation it’s a very convenient thing to have to pull.”

By that time the daylight had come to an end. The evening had closed in. The gas having remained unlighted, the room was all in shadow. The silence which followed Netta’s laughing words was followed by the sound of someone whistling. The three faces turned towards the window. Rodway was the first to speak.

“There’s that whistling chap come back again I and the same old tune! Do you know, Smithers, I’ve heard him two or three times since that first night, and I’ve never been able to drop on him.”

“I’ve heard him too.”

“And I,” echoed Netta.

“It’s uncommonly queer. Always the same tune, and always whistled close up to the window; and yet it’s not dark enough to prevent our seeing anyone if anyone were there, with the blind drawn up like that. Upon my word, I’m beginning to wonder if the thing’s uncanny. I suppose, Smithers, that it’s not a ghostly signal, intended to convey a special significance to you.”

“Not that I’m aware. Allow me, my dear Ben, to direct the same inquiry to your address.”

“It can’t be meant for me. There isn’t a ghost who takes sufficient interest in my proceedings to pay me a visit from the shades. There; he’s finished. Where can the beggar have got to?”

A suggestion came from Netta.

“I’ve wondered if it mightn’t be a bird, trained to whistle only that one tune. There is something bird-like about the tone.”

“The same idea struck me,” admitted Mr. Rodway. “You can train a piping bullfinch to do anything. And yet I don’t know how you’re going to make the explanation fit, unless it’s in one of the houses next to us.”

“I’ve asked them. There isn’t a bird in either.”

“There you are then. That explanation’s off. I am inclined to suspect a phonographic trick.”

— XV —

THE MAN IN GREY

Mr. Smithers journeyed down to Birchester to view that “handsome residential property” known as Dene Park. On the way down he read a newspaper. This paper contained an item of news in which he seemed to take considerable interest. It was an account of the christening of the Marquis of Skye’s infant son and heir – Lord Alec Bruce of Gairloch. An imposing ceremony it seemed to have been, with a royal godfather and a brave show of friends. The paper observed that the baptismal rite had been postponed beyond the usual time owing to the delicate health of both the child and its mother. Mr. Smithers knit his brow when he saw this.

“Sarah used to be as strong as a horse. She ought to be, considering the constitution with which she was endowed and the training she received; a type of your modern woman, practised in everything that makes for health; an athlete to her fingertips. She’s never known a day’s illness. I wonder if what the thing says is true. I’d give a nice little sum to be sure it wasn’t. Lord Alec Bruce of Gairloch! How odd it sounds. Is he a bonny bairn, I wonder, with the Skye blue eye? I warrant his father’ll be making much of him. Alec and a bairn! Somehow I cannot get the two in focus.”

The newspaper went on to state that the event was of special import to the ancient family, owing to romantic circumstances with which the world was more or less familiar. Taking, possibly, this suppositious familiarity for granted, the paper did not explain what these circumstances were. The allusion served to divert Mr. Smithers’ thoughts into another channel.

“‘Romantic circumstances’? That’s a pretty way of putting it. ‘With which the world is more or less familiar’? Indeed. I’m laying odds that the gentleman who wrote that paragraph is ignorant of them himself. It’ll be a drop of bitterness in the cup of Alec’s happiness when he sees it – if he ever does. Gairloch! How the old storm-beaten place haunts me asleep and waking. Strange that I cannot get it out of my sight. That life is dead – buried. I’ve been born anew into another world. And yet, though I never fail to be conscious of the grave in which it is contained, all the time I see its ancient battlements, seeming to bid me walk on them again beside the sea. What’s the scientific name for the capacity of seeing several things at once – the things that are and the things that have been?”

As he turned this little problem over in his mind, looking, with scarcely seeing eyes, through the carriage window at the country they were traversing, he began to whistle. The act suggested obliviousness of the fact that he was not alone in the compartment. In the opposite corner, at the other end, was another passenger, whose presence Mr. Smithers seemed, for the moment, to be ignoring. It is possible that this person had been taking as little notice of his companion as his companion had been taking of him. He also had been engrossed in his newspaper’s version of the day’s story, until his companion began to whistle. The instant the sound, which, under the circumstances, some would have regarded as a solecism, commenced, he seemed to prick up his ears. His eyes ceased to travel along the lines of his newspaper. He conveyed the impression of being all at once keenly on the alert.

After momentary hesitation, his hands which held the paper fell on to his knees. He glanced round with what almost amounted to a start. His appearance was singular. Although probably rather over than under the average height, his enormous girth lent him the air of being short. Not only was he noticeable for breadth of chest, but his stoutness amounted to deformity. His neck was suggested by a single layer of fat. On it was perched a head which was small out of all proportion to the rest of him. It was bullet-shaped. The face was clean-shaven. A pair of round black eyes twinkled under overhanging eyebrows. The mouth was small and whimsical; the nose a comical little pug. The man was about fifty years of age. He was attired in a loosely fitting suit of light-grey tweed, which served, if anything, to accentuate the contours of his massive figure; a soft hat, of the same shade of grey as his clothes, was in the rack above his head. The small portion of his waistcoat open in front was ornamented by a narrow strip of scarlet ribbon tied in a sailor’s knot; a slender gold chain passed from pocket to pocket; he wore grey suede gloves and brown boots.

Probably, since his thoughts were far away, without realising what it was that he was doing, Mr. Smithers whistled the little tune with which, owing to the persistence of the mysterious whistler, habit had made familiar. It was evidently this accident which attracted the attention of his travelling companion, the man in grey. He followed it, note for note, as if the sound of it filled him with so much surprise that he found it hard to believe his ears; then stared at the whistler as if he experienced a similar difficulty in crediting the evidence of his eyes. He looked at the handsome giant in the opposite corner as he might have regarded a ghost; noting the air of distinction, the indefinable something which signified birth and breeding. Whether or not the other was conscious of his scrutiny he could not say. At least he showed no sign of it, keeping his eyes turned towards his own window. After an interval the whistling re-commenced; the tune was gone through a second time. The man in grey, resuming his paper, observed the printed page with a glance which probably saw little and cared less for what was on it. The tune was gone through a third time. Another interval – this time broken by the man in grey.

In his turn he whistled; in the same soft, modulated tones which had characterised Mr. Smithers’ probably unconscious little performance. The air which he essayed bore a curious resemblance to the one to which he had been listening; a resemblance which the first performer could scarcely fail to notice. Effectually roused from his reverie, Mr. Smithers woke to distinct perception that he was not alone. His glance journeyed to the other end of the carriage, observing his fellow-traveller with unmistakable amusement. The man in grey ceased. Mr. Smithers spoke.

“Your tune might almost be an echo of mine.”

“It is an echo, and an answer.”

“Indeed? Is that so? You are acquainted with the tune?”

“Very well indeed.”

“It’s only part of an air, isn’t it? What is it called, and who is the composer?”

The man in grey pursed up into a sort of button the small mouth which went so strangely with his huge frame.

“It is entitled, to give a title to what never had one, ‘The Death Whistle,’ and was composed by Francis Smithers.”

If the answer occasioned Mr. Smithers any surprise, he showed no sign of it. He merely continued to regard the other with his characteristic air of languid entertainment.

“‘The Death Whistle’? Rather a peculiar title with which to brand so quaint a melody. Is it an allusion to some incident with which it has been associated, or what?”

“It is an allusion to the Seal of the Eight Men, which was not to be broken by any one of them save in the presence of the other seven, under penalty of death.”

The man in grey spoke in rather wheezy tones, which suggested asthma. Mr. Smithers looked at him for a moment or two before he answered.

“Is that so?”

Taking up his newspaper, he recommenced to study its columns as if, for him, all interest in the conversation was at an end. The man in grey was also still continuing to eye the blue cloth cushion which was immediately in front of him as if it had been something unusual. Then his whole face broke up into a number of wrinkles, each one seeming to represent a separate smile. He turned towards Mr. Smithers, beaming at him in a fashion which could hardly be described as pleasant.

“You’re fond of the newspaper?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re fond of the newspaper!”

“One reads it.”

“You find something in it of particular interest?”

Mr. Smithers gave a slight movement which might have meant anything, but which did not seem to hint at his being disposed to enter into conversation. The man in grey waited a second or so, as if for a reply; then, when none came, he went deliberately up to the other end of the carriage and placed himself in the seat directly opposite Mr. Smithers.

“Permit me to offer you my card.”

Lowering his paper Mr. Smithers took the proffered piece of pasteboard, reading aloud the name which was engraved upon it.

“‘Mr. Augustus Chaffinch.’ I’m afraid I have not the pleasure?”

“Oh yes, you have the pleasure. May I ask you for your card?”

“You’re very good; but I’m afraid it’s not my rule to exchange cards with strangers – thank you all the same.”

“My name is not strange to you, although yours is to me. We’ve been calling to you – how long?”

“Calling to me? – How?”

“You were whistling just now what no one ever does whistle unless he is one of the Eight.”

“Are you referring to the air you spoke of as ‘The Death Whistle’?”

“I am, as you’re aware. How often have we called to you? Take care that we don’t have to call once too often.”

“Who are you, Mr. Chaffinch?”

“You know who I am; you’ve a retentive memory. I’m the man who heads the list of seven names which is in the little book which you found in safe No. 226. I will give you the other six: – Bob Hammick; Samuel Waterson; Gustav Kronberg; Philip Fentum; Sam Brown, – queried; and The Linkman. That is the order in which they stand.”

“This is an unexpected pleasure!”

Mr. Smithers laughed. Mr. Chaffinch’s face became the mass of wrinkles which lent to it such an uncomfortable resemblance to an india-rubber doll.

“On both sides. But you will find that where the Eight are concerned it is the unexpected which generally happens. Now tell me who you are.”

“I’m Francis Smithers.”

“That’s a lie. You don’t look like the sort who’d resort to the shelter of a dirty lie. The higher flights are in your line, so I wouldn’t descend from them.”

“How do you know that I’m not Francis Smithers, as much as you’re Augustus Chaffinch?”

“How do I know that you’re not Francis Smithers? Because I know that he lies in the pauper’s burial-ground at Canterstone.”

A sudden change took place in the expression of Mr. Smithers’ eyes, the pupils dilating till a speck of light seemed to glow in the centre of each. That Mr. Chaffinch noticed it was proved by his commenting on its appearance.

“And after seeing the thing come into your eyes which has come into them now, I should have said you’d murdered him had I not been sure you didn’t – for it’s murder which is looking out at me. You’re the homicidal type, which thinks as little of killing a man or woman – as of wringing a chicken’s neck. But if you try close quarters with me, you’ll find that I’m not all fat, and that I’m almost as much possessed of the devil as you are.”

Mr. Smithers was still; content to regard the other smilingly. Mr. Chaffinch leaned back in his seat, placing a suede-gloved hand on each fat leg. He cocked his small round head on one side, in a fashion which was grotesquely reminiscent of some unwieldy bird.

“I’ll tell you something. I’m one of two persons now living who is aware of the connection which existed between George Edney and Francis Smithers. George Edney died in prison. As you appeared shortly afterwards as Francis Smithers, the presumption is that you were with him in Canterstone Jail – like him, a convicted felon. – Ah! you were?”

Mr. Smithers sat rather forward on his seat. In an instant Mr. Chaffinch’s hand – popping in and out of the pocket of his shooting-jacket – held what looked like a toy revolver.

“If you touch me – or move more forward – I’ll shoot you like a rat. I know enough of your history to make it easy to convince a jury that killing you would be justifiable homicide.”

Mr. Smithers looked from the man to the revolver, and from the revolver back to the man.

“It isn’t your pretty popgun which would prevent my killing you, Mr. Chaffinch, but the consideration of the mess you’d make, and other things.”

“You keep those other things well to the front; you’ll find it the part of wisdom. If you’d done so always, you’d have been wiser still.”

“May I ask, Mr. Chaffinch, why you take so keen an interest in me?” Mr. Chaffinch did not at once reply. He sat well back – as if with the intention of keeping himself as far from his companion as the width of the compartment permitted, his diminutive weapon pointing somewhat ostentatiously across the way. He eyed Mr. Smithers as if reflectively. Presently his face again became a mass of wrinkles.

“I think it’s possible that you actually don’t know.”

“You think correctly; I don’t.”

“George Edney was a man who would hardly give his entire confidence to anyone. Complete candour was with him a physical impossibility. He had his concealments even from me, as I have since discovered. It is scarcely probable that he told you everything; it is possible that you haven’t found it all out since.”

Mr. Smithers only smiled, the quality of his smile seeming to strike Mr. Chaffinch.

“As regards secretiveness, you’re a man of Edney’s kidney. The average human being might live with you on terms of intimacy your whole life long, and yet not know what kind of man you really are. I think it possible that you’re such a bundle of contradictions that at more than one cross road you discover a stranger in yourself. Under certain conceivable circumstances, that sort of thing is not only a misfortune, it’s a dangerous error; – as, before very long, you will possibly find. On this occasion you shall not be able to reproach me with want of candour. Before we part you shall understand me, however much I may remain in the dark concerning you. – Briefly: safe No. 226, to which you have had, and still have, access, is not – and was not – the property of George Edney, alias Francis Smithers, but of the Eight.”

“The Eight! What Eight?”

“Seven of the names you have found in the little book to which I have already referred; Francis Smithers was the eighth. One other has in it an interest of a peculiar kind; but for your own sake it is to be hoped that with that other you will never come into contact.”

“Making the joint stock company to consist of nine?”

“Making it consist of nine. But for the present we need only concern ourselves with eight. In that safe was a quantity of jewellery, representing a large sum of money. That jewellery is our joint property. Smithers was merely its custodian. There were also plates for the production of the banknotes of most of the countries which circulate banknotes; genuine plates, you understand, procured, at the cost of much labour and money, from the issuing banks themselves. There was a large supply of paper, also genuine. Last, but not least, there were a large number of what were, to all intents and purposes, bona fide notes, representing, in the main, a comfortable fortune, even when divided by eight. Had not Francis Smithers taken us in, all this wealth would not have remained inactive on the premises of the Shoe Lane Deposit Company. As I have told you, only I and one other were aware of his identity with George Edney; we only hit on the discovery by chance, after he had been sentenced to penal servitude, on a charge which came to us as an entire surprise. So while the rest of the society has been awaiting the reappearance of Francis Smithers, and keeping an unsleeping eye on safe No. 226, to the best of my ability I have been following the movements of a certain inmate of His Majesty’s jails; intending, on his emerging from them, to call the attention of the, remainder of the company to the deception which he had practised on his faithful colleagues.”

“Quite a romantic little story of yours, Mr. Chaffinch!”

“You think so. – Let me continue the romance by pointing out the line we shall probably follow in your case. In the first place, we have got you.”

“Have you indeed?”

“We know where you live. For that we’re indebted to Bob Hammick; who, if he would only sign the pledge, would be a discreeter man.”

“Is Mr. Bob Hammick a gentleman who recalls a broken-down prize-fighter?”

“You flatter him by the description, but probably it’s the man. – We are already in possession of certain details which intimately concern you. Very soon we shall be acquainted with the entire story of your life. You will find that we shall be able to make an awkward use of it.”

“You really are of that opinion?”

“I really am. – We shall of course require you to return to us intact the property which was never yours, and shall call you to serious account for any part of it which may he missing.”

“That will be very good of you.”

“After that, we shall have to consider that you have obtained our confidence in a wholly unjustifiable manner, and shall have to decide whether it will be advisable to put an end to you at once, or to rest content with satisfactory hostages for your future good behaviour.”

“In whichever direction it may incline, the decision of your charming society will be agreeable to me.”

“The Eight do not reside within a stone’s throw of each other. They are scattered over different countries; engaged in various avocations. To communicate the facts to all of them takes time. When they have those facts they will commence to move. You will be at once advised of the form which their movement may take.”

“It is really very good of you, Mr. Chaffinch, to give me all these hints on behalf of your friends.”

“In the meantime, I would advise you to meet us half-way. To volunteer the information which, otherwise, we shall obtain without your assistance; to hand to us, inviolate, our property—”

“Your property?”

“Our property. Then, and then only, we may be disposed to treat your conduct leniently.”

“And that you call meeting you half-way? Your notions of half-measures are your own.”

“Should you, as time goes on, feel disposed to act on my suggestion, as I think is probable, you had better communicate with me at my private address – The Firs, Birchester; when I will personally undertake to do for you all that can be done.”

“The Firs, Birchester? You live at Birchester? We shall not be far from each other. I am thinking of taking up my residence at Dene Park.”

“Dene Park! – You?”

“In which case I suppose we shall be neighbours, in a sort of a way, and be able to keep an eye upon each other’s movements. This, I think, is Birchester Station. Good morning, Mr. Chaffinch. I have to thank you for making the journey seem so short an one.”

“You’re a cool hand.”

Mr. Smithers laughingly nodded towards the revolver which Mr. Chaffinch still was holding.

“Were I you I should return that plaything to your pocket. To be seen carrying a toy of that kind makes one look so foolish.”

Mr. Chaffinch, standing at the carriage door, watched the other’s tall figure as he strolled down the platform.

“He is a cool hand. Or is it only ignorance? It is easy for a man not to be afraid when he’s ignorant of the danger he is running. If he knew that, to all intents and purposes, he is already a dead man, he might look at the world out of different eyes.”

— XVI —

DENE PARK

Mr. Smithers was delighted with Dene Park. Unfortunately the auctioneer and estate agent, Mr. R. W. Felkin, with whom he had been in correspondence, not having been advised of his coming, was out at the time he called. He therefore had to be content with the society of one of that gentleman’s clerks, who accompanied him on the visit of inspection.

Dene Park was distant three or four miles from the town of Birchester. They drove to it in a dogcart, the clerk taking the reins. It was a pleasant drive, through the rich, undulating, well-wooded Sussex country. He told himself that a man could hardly desire a more agreeable approach to his home. He noticed how well the youngster from Mr. Felkin’s office drove

“You’re used to horses?”

“Rather.” Then the clerk added, as by way of an afterthought – “At least, I was once.” Mr. Smithers noted, too, what a good-looking lad the speaker was, with an air about him which one scarcely expected to find in a country auctioneer’s assistant. He sat very upright; his well-shaped head was nicely poised; his cheeks had that healthy pallor which goes well with black hair. Occasionally his face was lighted up by an irresistible smile, half sweet, half roguish. His straw hat, with its broad ribbon, and his plain suit of navy serge, became him well. Mr. Smithers, who was quick both in his likes and his dislikes, had taken a fancy to his driver before he drew up before some closed lodge gates.

An old woman came out of a stone lodge, which stood very much in need of repairs. She seemed to know his companion very well.

“Good morning, Mr. Sidney. And how be you, sir?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brazier, I am going strong. And how are you – and Sam?”

“There’s nothing much the matter with me except old bones. Sam, he ain’t nothing to complain of neither, though that don’t keep him from grumbling, none the more for that.”

The youngster laughed.

“Sam wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t grumble. Would you mind opening the gates, Mrs. Brazier? We’ve come to see the house.”

“Is this the gentleman?”

Planting herself by the side of the cart, she stared up with her old eyes at Mr. Smithers. The clerk regarded him with a quizzical glance.

“That’s the gentleman.”

The old lady finished her inspection. Then, without a word, she swung the gates back on their hinges, standing grimly silent while the cart drove through. When they were past, Mr. Smithers remarked to the driver—

“She seems to know you?”

“She knows me very well.”

They entered an avenue of beech trees. Autumn’s fingers were beginning to fleck their glories with russet gold.

“This is a fine drive.”

“I have been told that this is the finest avenue of beech trees in England; I can well believe it. In this country we are famous for our beeches.”

They continued between the two rows of giant trees for probably half a mile. Then the clerk drew up.

“This is the house.”

He could hardly have chosen a more effective point of view. Emerging from the shadow of the beeches, an expanse of open park land stretched in front. The ground ascended gently from where they were. The house crowned the slope – at a distance of perhaps another half mile. Mr. Smithers had not expected anything so striking. It conveyed the impression not only of size, but of stability, and even grandeur.

“It looks very well from here.”

“It looks well from anywhere.”

“Those trailing vines and creeping plants mayn’t benefit the walls, but they soften the lines.”

The youngster shook his head.

“The pruning knife is wanted badly. You’ll find them overrun with the nests of all sorts of feathered things. I shouldn’t be surprised if they’d got into the house itself. In an empty house a bird treats a broken window as an invitation.”

“Is the place quite uninhabited? – No caretaker or anything?”

“I shall have to be your cicerone; there’s not a living creature on the premises – except rats and mice, and similar small deer.”

An excellent guide the speaker proved; threading his way in and out of the multitudinous passages with an instinct for direction which seemed never at fault; passing from room to room with the sure step of one who knows them well. Splendid apartments some of them were. Mr. Smithers laughed to himself as he pictured Netta’s face of amazement on her first discovering herself to be the mistress of all this amplitude; her big, wide-open eyes as she set herself to explore the intricacies of her new domain.

They were in a spacious chamber on the first floor, which looked out over a series of Italian terraces on to a lake.

“This,” explained his guide, “is the picture gallery; or, rather, it was. The walls were papered with family portraits, which were sold off by the yard.”

A note of bitterness in the speaker’s voice struck Mr. Smithers’ ear – not for the first time.

“You seem to know the house very well?”

“I ought to; I was born here.”

“Indeed. How came that about?”

“It was my father’s house; and his father’s, and his father’s before him, in a long line of right descent.”

“Then you are—?”

“My name is Foster – Sidney Foster.”

Mr. Smithers was still. He had suspected that the young man might have some association with the house, but had not guessed that the connection was so close as it appeared it was. As he stood looking through the window on to the fair scene without, he was tickled by the irony of the position – that this man should be introducing him, as a possible purchaser, to the home of his fathers.

“How came your father to sell the place?”

“He didn’t sell it; – he’d have died first.”

The answer came with a strength of bitterness for which Mr. Smithers was unprepared. He touched the other lightly on the shoulder.

“It was not my intention to hurt you.”

The youth laughed; a little wryly, perhaps, but still he laughed.

“Oh, you didn’t hurt me. I got used to the situation long enough ago. The story’s common property; it’s known to everyone.”

“Wasn’t there something about a fraudulent solicitor?”

Mr. Smithers was poking at the wall with the end of his cane. His companion indulged in a repetition of the former mirthless laughter.

“There was a good deal about a fraudulent solicitor; – a good deal too much. My father was one of the best fellows in the world, but in some matters simple as a child. He knew nothing about business, and cared less; and worst of all, he trusted everyone. His affairs were managed by a solicitor named Glasspoole, over at Birchester. To his keeping my father entrusted all that he had – title-deeds, securities, everything. In his turn Glasspoole confided in his head-clerk – a man named Edney; George Edney – a scoundrel of the very finest water. Mr. Edney merely applied the entire contents of his employer’s office to his own private uses; – one day my father woke to find himself robbed of all he had – a beggar.”

“But surely at least part of the property was recoverable?”

“I was only fifteen at the time, so I didn’t know much about details; but I believe Edney juggled my father into doing all sorts of things he didn’t know that he was doing. He did recover the title-deeds, but that was only after a large expenditure both of time and money, and then they were practically worthless. You can’t keep up a place like this on the income it produces. He was in debt; his money and my mother’s had slipped through the holes in Edney’s pockets. Anyhow, he wasn’t the man to pull things out of the mire. He died instead. Within the year my mother followed him. Then the mortgagees foreclosed – and now the property’s in the market.”

“Are you the only child?”

“I have a sister – Margaret. She’s what she calls ‘writing for the press.’ She says that one of these days she’s going to make a great name and a big fortune. In the meantime, thank God, she has enough to live upon.”

“And you?”

“Felkin’s been very good in giving me a berth in his office; but what I want is to be a land surveyor, or a bailiff, or a steward, or something of that kind. I ought to understand the work. If it weren’t for Meg I’d emigrate, but I can’t leave her in England all alone.”

“What became of Edney?”

“He’s in jail; and let’s hope he’ll die there – for my sake as well as his own.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He turned the happiest home in England into a hell; he robbed me of my birthright; he killed my mother and father – he’s as much a murderer as any that’s gone to the gallows. If ever I have the misfortune to meet him face to face I’ll treat him as one – I’ll kill him as he killed them.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“If he had used you as he has used me how would you talk? Wouldn’t you want to have something in exchange?”

Mr. Smithers was still describing patterns on the wall with the point of his stick. Instead of replying to the question he countered with another.

“And Glasspoole – what’s become of him?”

“He’s a waiter at the Gaiety Restaurant in the Strand.”

Mr. Smithers wheeled round, genuinely surprised.

“A waiter!”

“So I’m told. Edney ruined him as well as us – but he’d done more to deserve his fate than we had. It seems that he was one of those fools who like to leave undone the things they ought to do – a pretty common type. He wrote to me some time ago telling me just how he was built, and imploring my forgiveness. It seemed he hadn’t been a knave, so I did forgive him. It doesn’t appear to have done much good up to now.”

Turning to one of the windows, the youngster stood in silence. Possibly he was endeavouring to dissipate some of his superfluous heat. Presently Mr. Smithers asked still another question.

“Foster, have you heard of the Rodway Power?”

“You mean the new invention for generating motive force which is to turn the whole world topsy-turvy? Rather. I’ve a bit of a mechanical twist myself. Had things been different, I might have qualified as a full-blown C.E.”

“I am one of the proprietors. We are getting together a large staff. Would you like a position on it?”

“Would I? Wouldn’t I!”

“Then you shall have one. More – you shall have an opportunity to earn enough money to buy Dene Park back again.”

“Buy Dene Park back again? – But I thought you were going to make an offer for it yourself?”

“I intend to buy it. That fact, however, will not alter the case. In the Rodway Power there are fortunes for all sorts of people. Show yourself the vertebrate animal I take you for, and there’s one in it for you. Come to me with the money in your hand and say, ‘I want my home,’ and you shall have it.”

“But it – it sounds like a dream! What am I to you? What interest can you take in me? Are you an angel descended out of heaven, or are you – are you jesting?”

“Neither. I’m a practical man, meaning every word I say. Only – I’ve a weakness. I’ve myself such a fondness for the house in which my father was born that when I meet a man whose heart sings to the same tune, a fellow-feeling makes me wondrous kind. I tell you that you shall be afforded an opportunity to regain your father’s home. – I am about to be married, Mr. Foster. I think my wife would like to meet your sister – if she will let us have that pleasure.”

“Let you have the pleasure! Why – why, Meg’s the most excitable girl in the world; and when I tell her what you’ve said, she’ll be wanting to rush across the world to thank you.”

“We won’t trouble her to rush so far; we’ll meet her at least half-way. Now, is there anything more I ought to see?”

Young Foster had no chance of tendering his own personal thanks. There was something in Mr. Smithers’ quiet, matter-of-fact air which forbade his doing so – which was perhaps as well. The lad seemed in a mood in which he might have found it difficult to put his feelings into words – that is, with any sort of dignity. His pale cheeks were flushed; every now and then his lips would twitch; there was a suspicious moisture about his eyes. He appeared to be altogether in a state of tremblement, which suggested that it needed but a very little more to make him show that in taking on manhood he had not put his boyishness behind him.

Their talk for a while was on the most ordinary topics. They were clear of the lodge gates, and were bowling along the road to Birchester before Mr. Smithers put another question.

“By the way, you’re an old inhabitant, and probably know something about everyone – do you know anything about a man named Chaffinch?”

“Of The Firs? – Well, I believe he’s got lots of money.”

“Where did he get it?”

“Did you ever hear of Chaffinch’s Counters?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“I don’t know much about them, but I’ve heard that he had some bars in different parts of London – luncheon bars, where they sold food as well as drink, which he called Chaffinch’s Counters. He made a pile out of them, they say then he turned them into a company. I understand he still has an interest in London public-house property – goes regularly to town. He’s built himself a nice enough house – after a fashion. I believe he has some uncommonly queer visitors.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s common talk that some very odd characters are to be seen about The Firs – male and female; and that some funny things take place there. But then I suppose chaps connected with public-houses have their own ideas. He’s not a bad sort – in his way. Subscribes to everything; presides at smokers; offers special prizes at the flower show – and all that kind of thing. Is there anything particular you want to know about him?”

“No, nothing particular. I only asked.”

— XVII —

THE WAITER

Mr. Felkin was in when they returned to Birchester – full of apologies for his previous absence.

“I hope that you were pleased with Dene Park, Mr. Smithers. It is one of our finest local seats.”

“So pleased that I have decided to buy it.” Mr. Felkin beamed.

“At the – at the price quoted?” Mr. Smithers nodded. Mr. Felkin beamed still more. “This will be regarded by the neighbourhood as very good news, Mr. Smithers. Dene Park has been too long unoccupied. Birchester will be delighted to hear that it is to be tenanted again.”

The new tenant’s smile seemed to hint that Mr. Felkin’s words might be a little premature.

“I was shown over the place by the son of the late owner.”

“Young Foster! His is a sad story. You may possibly have heard something of it.” Mr. Smithers signified that he had. “A fine young fellow, the son – one of nature’s gentlemen. And, of course, also a gentleman by birth and education. I was indebted to his father for many kindnesses. Indeed, it was owing to his encouragement that I first set up in business on my own account. I have endeavoured to show my gratitude in my attitude towards his son – though you will understand that I am perfectly aware that his qualifications are far beyond anything I can do.”

“I have offered him a position in a commercial undertaking in which I am interested, which he has accepted.”

“More good news, Mr. Smithers; though I shall be sorry to part with Mr. Sidney. I presume that you were acquainted with his family?”

“I cannot say that I was.” He glanced at his watch. “My train leaves in a few minutes. Before I go” – he repeated the question he had put to Sydney Foster – “there’s a man named Chaffinch who lives in these parts. Do you know anything about him?”

“Mr. Augustus Chaffinch, of The Firs. Well, I do, and I don’t. In a sense, all Birchester knows about him; as, indeed, does a considerable part of London. You are probably aware that he was the proprietor of Chaffinch’s Counters.”

“ls he married?”

Mr. Felkin scratched his cheek.

“That I cannot tell you. I make bold to say that he ought to be, if he isn’t.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Between four and five years.”

“Then he came after the Glasspoole fiasco?”

“Certainly. Some time after. Fred Glasspoole had vanished from the neighbourhood entirely before he came; and George Edney had been for a considerable period in jail. May I ask why you inquire?”

“I journeyed down with him from town – he introduced himself to me in the train – I wondered what sort of person he was.”

“Distinctly a character, Mr. Smithers – an eccentric character. One with whom you are not likely to have much in common. They tell some very strange stories indeed about him – but a man in my position pays as little attention to scandal as he can possibly help.”

“Just so, Mr. Felkin. – With reference, then, to Dene Park, you shall hear from my solicitors in the course of tomorrow.”

As he travelled back to London he went over the events of the day in his mind.

“It’s a pretty coil on which I’m entering. One man against how many? – What’s the betting that the one man doesn’t win?”

When the train entered Victoria he cast a rapid glance along the line of passengers as they alighted from the different carriage doors.

“I suppose I’m being followed, but by which of them among so many? What does it matter? Only when we come to grips will the band begin to play. By that time I may have a little orchestra of my own.”

He drove straight to the Gaiety Restaurant. When the food he had ordered had been placed before him, he observed to the man who was attending to his wants:

“You have a waiter here named Glasspoole?”

The man was placing a cruet-stand within convenient reach of Mr. Smithers. For some reason the words seemed to so take him by surprise that the cruet slipped from his hand. It was only by good fortune that the contents of the bottles were not distributed over the table. He repaired the mischief with a hand which obviously shook, muttering glibly as he did so—

“No, sir; no one of the name of Glasspoole here.”

Mr. Smithers looked at him – the man avoiding his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

Without waiting to be questioned further, the man shuffled off down the room. Mr. Smithers eyed him as he went. He was a short man, with a stoop. Indeed, his most prominent characteristic might have been summed up in that one word – stoop. His ill-fitting dress suit, a size too large, shone with grease and wear. His face was pinched and thin. His hair was of a lustrous black, which went so ill with his general appearance that one suspected the source from which its blackness came. He was so long up at the other end of the room as almost to suggest unwillingness to return to the immediate neighbourhood of his duties. A customer appeared at the table adjoining that occupied by Mr. Smithers. He tapped a fork against a wineglass.

“Waiter!” he cried.

Another attendant came to him.

“I’ll send your waiter to you, sir.”

Presently the little man reappeared, studiously avoiding a glance in Mr. Smithers’ direction as he came. That gentleman bided his time. When the newcomer had been served he re-summoned his attendant. For a waiter the little man was singularly inattentive, appearing not to notice Mr. Smithers’ signal. But the customer persisted. Then the little man approached with a rush.

“Anything more, sir?”

“Your name is Glasspoole,” said Mr. Smithers.

“Mine, sir? No, sir. My name is Frederick Emmett.”

“Frederick Glasspoole, you mean.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I do not mean that. I ought to know my own name, sir.”

“You need not be so anxious to conceal your identity from me. I bring you good news, not bad.”

“It’s a long time since any good news came my way.”

“The more reason why you should welcome that of which I am a bearer.”

“May I ask your name, sir?”

“Francis Smithers. I am purchasing the Dene Park estate, near Birchester.”

During this brief colloquy the little man had been gathering together the empty plates and dishes. When Mr. Smithers said that, he replaced them on the table with something of a clatter.

“Are you indeed, sir? I – I used to know that part of the world.”

“I thought so. Now be a sensible man, Mr. Glasspoole. I have a proposition which I wish to make to you. Tell me where I can make it.”

“A proposition which you wish to make to me, sir? Of what nature?”

“Of a nature which I believe you will find entirely satisfactory. But I cannot enter into details here. Where can we talk together at our ease?”

“Well, sir, I’m here till after one in the morning.”

“In that case the matter must be settled in another way.” He beckoned to an official in a frock-coat, who had been observing their proceedings with curiosity. “You are the manager?” The frock-coated individual bowed.

“I have discovered in this waiter a person in whom I take an interest; to whom I have a communication to make of some importance. You must let him come away with me at once.”

The frock-coated individual seemed dubious.

“Emmett is on the staff. If he leaves now, he will not only subject us to inconvenience, but lose a day’s pay, and run the risk of dismissal.”

“I will make all that up to him. That’s for you.” He slipped a sovereign into the manager’s palm, whereat the manager smiled. Mr. Smithers turned to the waiter. “Go and put on your hat. I will wait for you here.”

The little man still seemed disposed to hesitate; he regarded the manager – as if looking for a sign.

“Excuse me, sir, but—”

The manager was brusque.

“Don’t you hear the gentleman tell you to go and put your hat on, and say he’ll wait for you here?”

The little man fled. The manager and Mr. Smithers had some desultory conversation on the subject of rules and regulations as they affected waiters, the official evincing some mild curiosity as to the nature of the customer’s acquaintance with this particular member of the staff, until the little man returned, disguised in an ancient overcoat and the ruins of a bowler hat.

Soon the pair were standing together outside the door of the establishment on the Strand pavement – the little man showing unlooked-for signs of a resolute spirit.

“Now, sir, before I move another step, let me understand you. You’ve probably lost me my situation. It’s the first regular situation I’ve had for – I don’t care to think how long. Anyhow, you’ve lost me a day’s wage. I can’t afford to do without that.”

“My dear Mr. Glasspoole, let me beg you to regard that as compensation.”

Mr. Smithers handed him a piece of paper. The little man regarded it with incredulous eyes.

“A five-pound note? For me? What for? Why should you give me a five-pound note? What’s the game?”

“I tell you again that I wish to make to you a proposition which I believe you will find of a satisfactory nature. But I can’t enter into details out in the street here, any more than in that grill-room downstairs. Where do you live?”

“Live? I live – if you can call it living – in a room – or what the landlord calls a room – in a court off Bow Street.”

“If you will take me there I will come to the point without delay.”

“Take you there! My wife and two girls are there – working.”

“If it is not an unpardonable intrusion, I should prefer to make my proposition in the presence of your wife and daughters; it is one which they are entitled to hear.”

“It’s not a trick?”

“Mr. Glasspoole, you are as suspicious as if you feared that I might be an ogre, desirous to make a meal off you.”

“I am suspicious – I’m suspicious of everything and everyone – and with reason. If you’d gone through what I have, you’d know what the feeling was.”

“Perhaps I have gone through what you have.”

“You? You’ve never been on your beam-ends – never in this world! I don’t know who you are, or what you are, and I don’t know about trusting you – but I’ve got hold of what looks like a five-pound note – and you talked about Birchester – and – and sent my heart – what’s left of it – up into my mouth – so I’ll take you home. Come!”

The little man started off at a pace which was a near relation to a run.

— XVIII —

THE GLASSPOOLES
RECEIVE A VISITOR

“This is my home.”

They had come up three flights of broken stairs. The little man pushed a door open at the top. A voice inquired from within—

“Who’s there?”

“It’s I – and Mr. Smithers. – Go in.”

Mr. Smithers went in. He found himself in a small, barely furnished room, which stood badly in need of re-papering and re-painting. Seated at a table before the open window was a woman, who had once been pretty. She was still probably not more than thirty four or five, and not so much ill-looking as prematurely worn-out. She looked half starved; exhausted – not only for want of rest, but still more for want of peace of mind. A tragedy was in her anxious eyes; in her nervous, shrinking attitude; in her apparent constant expectation of another lash from misfortune’s whip. A sewing-machine was on the table, which was piled up with what looked like partly-made garments. More were on the floor at her side.

Two girls, evidently sisters, had been assisting her in her work. In one pitiful respect they resembled their mother. As Mr. Smithers entered they started to their feet, as if fearful that he would strike them a blow. The elder was perhaps fourteen years old. The three stood looking at him as though he had been some unknown, and therefore terrible, creature – the sure harbinger of fresh disaster. Their evident distress so affected Mr. Smithers that for the moment he was without words.

“Fred, ” cried the woman, “what has happened? Who is this?”

“He says he’s Mr. Smithers. He’s lost me my situation, and he’s given me this instead.”

He threw on the table the piece of paper which had been given him.

“It’s a five-pound note. Is – is it real? – Lost you your situation? Fred!”

“Father!”

The two girls drew together with an instinctive gesture, which in itself was eloquent.

“At least he made me come away with him – though I don’t know who he is or what he wants, and didn’t want to come. Mr. Nixon let me off, but when I go back again he’ll say my place is filled. And so it will be, I know!”

“Fred, what will you do?”

“Father!” the two girls cried again.

“Mrs. Glasspoole,” began Mr. Smithers.

But he had only got so far when the woman broke into half-tearful, half-frightened exclamations.

“Glasspoole! That’s not my name! My my name’s Emmett.”

Her husband offered tremulous corroboration.

“I told him so, but be wouldn’t listen to me – he didn’t care for what I said.”

“But is your name not Glasspoole?”

“If it was once, what business is that of yours? If it’s Emmett now, how does that harm anyone? If you’d a name which was a curse to you, which was like a great weight under which you couldn’t even stagger, which barred your path whichever way you turned, which kept you from earning your daily bread, wouldn’t you want to put it behind you, so that you needn’t go in hourly terror of being asked if you’re that fool who was worse than any knave, since the pyramid of his colossal folly brought him, and all who had to do with him, to ruin and to shame? Wouldn’t you try to keep your wife and children and yourself alive, under cover of some patronymic which didn’t smell quite so strong in all men’s noses?”

“Besides,” chimed in his wife, “all sorts of people change their names. Why shouldn’t we call ourselves Emmett if we choose?”

“I do not dispute your right to do so for a single instant. You wholly misconceive the purport of my presence here. I bring what I hope and believe you will think good news. But before I come to it, it is essential that I should clearly understand that you are Mr. Frederick Glasspoole, of Birchester.”

“Well, I am Frederick Glasspoole, late of Birchester. What then? What have you to say to Frederick Glasspoole?”

“As I told you, I am purchasing the Dene Park estate—”

“Dene Park!” interposed the woman. “But – what has become of Mr. and Mrs. Foster?”

“They are dead.”

“Dead? – Both of them? – But there is Mr. Sidney – and Miss Margaret?”

“At the death of their parents the estate was found to be so heavily encumbered that it was thrown upon the market.”

“Fred! – did you know this?”

“Yes,I knew it; but what was the use of telling you? What was the use of letting you know that the ruin I had brought about was even greater than you supposed? The knowledge wouldn’t have made you happier.”

“I’m – I’m not blaming you, Fred; only I – I didn’t know it was so bad as that.”

“Bad! – I’ve acted as a general blight. For everyone with whom I have ever been brought into contact, the best thing that could have happened would have been that I had never been born.”

“You mustn’t say that – you mustn’t say it! You’re my husband – all that I’ve got – and I love you – and you’ve been very good to me.”

“Carrie! – Good to you?”

“You have – you know you have! A woman never had a better husband than you have been to me. All that happened wasn’t your fault; I was to blame as well as you. I was young, and frivolous, and empty-headed, and fond of pleasure, and didn’t know life was so serious as it is. And you spoilt me because you loved me, and listened to my persuasions to neglect – for the sake of my silly pleasures – what never ought to have been neglected.”

“I didn’t need much persuading.”

“Fred, a wife’s duty is towards her husband, as much as a husband’s is towards his wife. Inasmuch as I induced you to leave undone what you should have done, the fault – for what has come on us and others – was mine. I will not have you say – or think – that you were alone to blame.”

“Come, Carrie – dry your eyes. You and I have shed enough tears to drown all our sorrows. Don’t let us show Mr. Smithers that our lachrymal ducts are as a perpetual spring. Well, sir; you say you have bought Dene Park. What has that to do with us?”

“Shortly, this: – I want you to be my steward.”

“What!”

“I want you to be my steward. The house wants repairing; it has to be furnished; the whole property requires immediate attention from one who knows it. I am about to be married. I want the necessary works to be put immediately in hand, and pressed forward as expeditiously as possible, so that, when my wife and I return from our honeymoon, the place may be ready for our occupation.”

“You want me to be your steward?”

“You know the property?”

“I ought to.”

“Then you’re just the man I want.”

“Are you – are you jesting? Or – are you mad? Do you know my record? – What sort of an account I gave of my stewardship once upon a time?”

“It’s because I know your story better than you suppose that I offer you this position. Men make mistakes which are of the nature of debts. When they have paid them in full they may claim quittance. The harder they have found the payment, the less likely they are to incur them again. You have paid for the mistake you made – dearly.”

“God knows it.”

“And are therefore entitled to a receipt, and to fresh credit. That credit I am prepared to offer you, in the full persuasion that trust will not be abused a second time. I understand that there is a tolerable house on the estate, which shall be at once prepared for your occupation. The formalities of purchase are not yet concluded, but they will be in the course of the next few days. By then I shall expect you to be ready to go down at once to take possession in my name. You will be furnished with instructions, which I shall look to you to see are carried out in their entirety. I am sure that I shall not look in vain.”

Mrs. Glasspoole, on a broken-backed chair, was crying quietly. Her husband – his old overcoat unbuttoned, revealing the incongruous clothes beneath – was looking about him with bewildered eyes.

“To hear you talking, it’s – it’s as though one had risen from the dead.”

“Look on me as one risen from the dead. It’s not a bad idea of yours. Regard me as someone come out of the grave of your dead past to point out the way to better things.”

“You – you’re not jesting, sir?”

“I’m as fond of a jest as most men, but I’m in earnest now. To prove it, I will come to business. – As regards salary, I am prepared to pay you five hundred pounds a year – and the house.”

“Five hundred pounds a year – and the house?”

“In the meantime, you will clear out of this at once; – and by at once I mean inside twenty minutes.”

“Inside twenty minutes?”

“Or less, if you can manage it. I will give you a hundred pounds – here they are, five tens and ten fives – which you will regard as a loan, to be paid back as I will afterwards explain. You will replenish your wardrobe and find yourself better quarters – at any rate, before the night comes.”

“But, sir – you – you must let me speak. How can I – show my face – in Birchester; – a man with my story?”

“l trust you are not going to talk nonsense, Mr. Glasspoole. There is one crime I find it difficult to forgive – the crime of cowardice. If you are the man I take you to be, you will go back to Birchester ready to show that the weakling they knew was a creature born of delusion; and resolute to prove to them what kind of man you really are. That will be a thing worth doing, Mr. Glasspoole.”

“But you forget that the whole countryside is covered with men and women who suffered because of me.”

“Is that so? – Have you all their names?”

“Have I all their names! – Shall I ever be without them?”

“Later, you and I will look into the matter together, and we will see what can be done.”

“See what can be done! – What do you mean?”

“Money lost may be refunded; – if it’s a question of money only.”

“Do you mean that you’ll refund it?”

“It’s within the range of possibility. I imagine it’s not a question of a large amount.”

“But why should you pay anything at all? or even dream of such a thing? What has my shame to do with you? You speak of such things as if they were trifles; as if it were nothing that you, a stranger, should dig me out of the dirt into which I’ve sunk, cleanse me, and rehabilitate me in the eyes of men, at a serious expenditure not only of time but of money. What has Frederick Glasspoole to do with you? Or are you Don Quixote materialised out of realms of fancy?”

“Nonsense. No high faluting, Mr. Glasspoole, if you please. I’m a man who, under curious circumstances, has come into what promises to be a monstrous fortune; – monstrous altogether beyond the requirements of one man. There’s no reason whatever why a little good shouldn’t be done with some of it. Come, Mrs. Glasspoole, don’t cry. Put that sort of thing behind you for ever and a day. The good time’s come. – There’s money on the table; – you have all sorts of things to buy; – the shops will soon be closed. – You girls, I have not the pleasure of knowing your names, but there’s a fiver each for you; – girls want all sorts of things for their very own. – Mr. Glasspoole, that is where I live. You understand that in the morning I shall expect you to report yourself at an address better suited to the man who occupies the responsible position of my steward.”

There was silence when he had gone. Then they cried – each alone, and all together. Then they laughed and talked, words and thoughts tumbling over each other in their strange excitement. At their mother’s suggestion, they thanked God for the great mercy which, it seemed, He was about to show to them. Then they went out, a happy quartette, to buy the things of which they stood so much in need. And before the night had closed, that court off Bow Street knew them no more.

Mr. Smithers returned to Dulverton Road to find a certain young lady awaiting him, to whom, after his own fashion, he rendered a report of his adventures of the day.

“There’s no longer any excuse for further attempts to postpone the evil hour on the ground that I haven’t a house to take you to. I’ve purchased one this very day.”

“You’ve bought Dene Park?”

“I have, with the appurtenances and stabling.”

“What sort of a place is it?”

“Enormous – a palace on a small scale – about a hundred rooms and ten thousand acres.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Not a bit – serious as a judge. I should say it’s as fine a place as there is in Sussex, in every respect.”

“What do you suppose I’m going to do in a place like that?”

“Oh, stroll round, and pick the flowers, and shoot the game, and dig the fields, and scrub and cook for the establishment, and that kind of thing.”

She was moving about the room in the fidgety way she had when excited, which amused him mightily. In his case, excitement seemed to make him calmer, as though it needed a sudden demand on all his faculties to bring him to a state of complete quiescence.

“I’m not at all fitted for such a place – not in the very least scrap. The height of my ambition has always been a twelve-roomed detached villa residence – rent £90 a year. There’s the very red-bricked edifice on the Barnes Road, with the loveliest bow windows and the front door painted green. I shouldn’t be surprised if they want a hundred for it, but I shouldn’t pay them more than ninety – on principle. I know I shall only disgrace you in your Sussex splendiferousness. Hadn’t you better go carefully over the matter while there still is time, and request me to consider your offer, as made, withdrawn?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. That sort of thing would be a horrid worry. Better bear the ills I have. Besides, I have a sort of feeling that when a man gets in a scrape, it’s only the part of decency that he should see it through.”

“So that’s your point of view. Very well. Then I have to request you to consider it off.”

“That’s all right. Then what we have to consider now is how to get it on again. – Netta!”

“Well?”

“I’m beginning to have a glimmering of a notion that in you there’s the germ of something rather good-looking.”

“I know I’m beautiful, under all conditions. That’s no news. – What a lot of letters you do have, What’s that you’ve got there?”

He was holding a square white card, in the centre of which was a blot of scarlet sealing-wax. Above it was written, in a delicate running hand, “A reminder of our conversation; – the _first. – A. C.”

“How did this get there? Apparently it hasn’t come through the post.”

“Someone slipped it into the letterbox, I suppose. It was there with the rest of the letters. – What is it?” He passed it to her.

“The seal looks like a pair of triangles. Who’s ‘A. C.’? And what’s the mysterious conversation he wishes to remind you of?”

“My dear person, I’m beginning to discover that all sorts of people wish to remind me of mysterious conversations. It looks as if I were going to be a mark for everyone possessed of a postage stamp and an envelope. – By the way, I want to come to an understanding with you. When is this marriage of ours to be?”

“Oh – in about a year.”

“It will take place this day month.”

“This day month? It can’t!”

“It can, and will. So kindly make a note of the fact that this day month you are to be married – to me. After we are married we will go to Italy till Christmas.”

“To Italy, till Christmas?”

“By that time the Park should be ready for our reception. So we will spend our first Christmas at home.”

“Frank” – she was sitting on his knee, which was a convenient position for putting her arm round his neck – “Frank, you’re like a fairy tale.”

“The wicked fairy, I suppose. Don’t spare my feelings. Call me an ogre right away. You may as well do it now as afterwards. I’ll get reconciled.”

“When I was quite a little child I used to have a fairy tale of my very own. I was the heroine. In it I was to have a husband – who was just like you; and whom I loved – just as I love you. And who gave me everything that my heart could desire.”

“Do you think I’m going to give you everything that your heart can desire?”

“Everything, and – and more. – Frank, do you think that a girl can be too happy? I mean that I’ve heard people say that when a person’s too happy, it’s a sign that the happiness won’t last. – Do you believe that’s true?”

He tore the card bearing the scarlet seal into little pieces, dropping them into the waste-paper basket. And he laughed.

— XIX —

COMING EVENTS

The coming wedding began to cast its shadows before. To Netta those were astounding days. She moved in a continuous atmosphere of miracles or dreams. She did not know which it was, but it was all very wonderful. Had she been the favourite godchild of half-a-dozen fairy godmothers, she could hardly have borne promise of being a better dowered bride. Her future lord seemed to have made up his mind that she should go without no good thing. Jewels he showered upon her, at whose value she could only guess, but before whose beauty she stood amazed. She had not realised that such things really were, outside the fairy tales. He opened a banking account in her name – but not at the National Bank against the magnitude of which she vainly cried. Her trousseau was in itself a dream. Amid that wealth of lovely raiment her soul was uplifted, half ashamed of herself though she was. She rejoiced over it as a mother over her child. But then pretty clothes never before had come her way; and the heart of nearly every woman craves for them.

“Do you think,” she asked, “that I’m a princess, that I need to be re-dressed from top to toe every time I’m seen in public? And do you propose to travel about with me and a great wilderness of trunks?”

“It’s a mistake to suppose that it’s much more bother to travel with twenty trunks than with one, especially abroad. You place them in charge of the railway company, and there’s an end of them until you find them awaiting you in the bedroom of your hotel. Besides, you’ll have a maid; she’ll do all the looking after them that’s needed.”

“A maid!”

“Certainly, my wife must have a personal attendant. Who’s to do your hair?”

“My hair!”

“And see that your hat is put on properly?”

“My hat put on properly! Do you think I would trust anyone to put my hat on except myself?”

“And do everything that’s required? You’ll find your maid waiting for you at the station when we start upon our honeymoon. Leave the task of finding her to me. I’ll undertake to provide you with as satisfactory an article as the market can supply.”

She made a small grimace and sighed.

“I know I’m marrying into royalty, and I’m sure I didn’t ought.”

The purchase of the Dene Park estate was completed with a decree of expedition to which not improbably the legal gentlemen on both sides were unaccustomed in matters of such importance. The works necessary to render the house inhabitable were at once commenced. Great firms were charged to see that it was duly furnished and ready for the reception of its master and mistress by the approaching Christmas season. Mr. Glasspoole was installed in the steward’s house, and endowed with the necessary authority to see that everything required was properly and promptly done.

The attitude of the Glasspoole family in their new position was both curious and pathetic. To begin with, they appeared to find it difficult to realise that their position had really and truly changed, which perhaps was not surprising. They suffered from self-consciousness to a degree which Mr. Smithers seemed to find positively painful. He was at Dene Park when they arrived to take up their residence in their new quarters. When he looked in at the steward’s house to bid them welcome he found the whole family dissolved in tears. His attitude on that occasion could hardly have been described as sympathetic.

“Excuse me, Mr. Glasspoole, but I didn’t request you to come down here to indulge in that kind of thing.”

“I – I know it’s weak of me, sir. But you don’t know what it means to us to return to Birchester, and what our feelings are.”

“Yes, I do; and if I didn’t, I could see. I can see too much; too much feeling, Mr. Glasspoole. Less water if you please. I want you to be regarded as an autocrat upon this property; and how do you suppose you’re going to be that if you go about with tears trickling down the side of your nose?”

“I’ll – I’ll see it doesn’t occur again.”

“Do. The Dene Park steward is a person of importance and dignity, which things don’t accord with blubbering.”

Sidney Foster, who had already left Birchester to take up a position on the staff of the Rodway Power, was duly informed of what had taken place.

“I’m delighted to hear of the poor chap’s good luck; I always felt that he was more sinned against than sinning. Edney was the scoundrel; it was out of him that no good thing could come. But then, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Smithers, I’m so off my head at my own good luck that I can’t help rejoicing at anybody else’s.”

Margaret Foster had been duly introduced to Netta Ludlow, with whom she had struck up an instant friendship, based on a difference of opinion on almost every conceivable subject. But then Miss Foster’s views were her own.

“Of course, marriage ruins a woman’s career,” she observed, on one occasion.

Netta promptly cut her short.

“Marriage ruins a woman’s career! What nonsense are you talking? Why, marriage is a woman’s career. Wait till it’s on the point of ruining yours, then you’ll change your tone.”

“Perhaps. I’ll wait. When that time comes I hope it will be ruined by the same sort of person who is ruining yours. You have such an uncertain temper, and you do so bite one’s nose off, directly one opens one’s mouth—”

“I never!”

“ – that I hardly dare to speak to you. So I can only hope that you’ll not be offended if I say that Mr. Smithers – I’m not fond of the name—”

“Who cares what you’re fond of?”

“ – is just my ideal of what a man should be; big, and strong, and handsome; a gentleman to his fingertips; who has never done a thing in all his life of which he has cause to be ashamed, but who has done hundreds of which he has every right to be proud – and isn’t.”

“Thank you,” observed Miss Ludlow, with exemplary meekness. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll kiss you.”

And she did.

Already the Rodway Power was proving to be the gold mine its owners had expected. The experimental motors which had been built had realised to the full their inventor’s anticipations. Their fame had travelled round the world. Everywhere men had awoke to the truth that that revolution in mechanical force for whose advent engineers had so long been looking, had at last become an accomplished fact. Electricity, that mystery of mysteries, had in a certain sense been bridled; constrained to do man’s will in a degree which, but the other day, had been but an enthusiast’s dream. It had been proved, beyond the suggestion of doubt, that not only was it possible, but easy, to call it into inexhaustible being. The problem of the wastage of coal was solved. Steam, as a motive power, was doomed. The Rodway Power, or some analogous substitute, had the commercial and locomotive future of the world at its feet. Orders from all parts of the globe were pouring in. It was obvious that no firm, however huge, could cope with them single-handed. Arrangements were being pressed forward, in virtue of which the process of manufacture could be carried on in various countries on terms which would produce for Messrs Smithers & Rodway an income which in its immensity would be altogether beyond anything of which adventurous financial magnates hitherto had dreamed. It seemed that the time might not be far distant when they would be able to draw cheques for millions with the same equanimity with which other rich men wrote thousands.

In the meanwhile they continued to be fellow-lodgers in that little house at Putney.

Thither, one evening, repaired the brother of the expectant bride – Mr. Theodore Ludlow. It chanced, when he arrived, that his sister was out, having gone to spend an hour with Miss Margaret Foster, at what that young lady called her ‘digs.’ Which euphonious word in this case represented three tiny rooms in some ‘Ladies’ Mansions’ at the foot of Sloane Square.

Theodore inquired for her when he appeared. On learning where she was he frowned.

“Where’s Mr. Smithers?” He was told that Mr. Smithers was in his sitting-room. “Then I’ll see him.”

His mother, who, even under altered circumstances, found it difficult not to regard her son with something like timidity, looked at him with anxious eyes. She liked neither his looks, his manner, nor his tone. She herself conveyed his request to the gentleman in question. Soon Mr. Theodore was ushering himself into the lodger’s presence.

Directly he saw him Mr. Smithers perceived, by certain signs, that there was trouble coming.

— XX —

THE ATTACK WHICH FAILED

Mr. Smithers opened the interview by ignoring the singularity of his visitor’s bearing.

“I believe, Mr. Ludlow, that it is no use my offering you anything. You expressed your views on tobacco and what you called ‘alcohol’ on a previous occasion.”

“I did. And in any case, were I the most bibulous of men, I should decline to drink with you, as you are well aware!”

“Why should I be aware of it?”

“Men in my position do not hobnob with a thief.”

“I fancy, Mr. Ludlow, that men in your position do and say rather funny things.”

“They have to, when they are brought into contact with such a character as you. When I look at you, and observe the air of brazen assurance which clothes you as with a garment, I am lost in wonder as to the hidden purpose which actuates the Almighty in allowing such reptiles as you to cumber the ground.”

“Gently, Mr. Ludlow, gently! Don’t force the note too soon.”

“Do you suppose that, however it may be with the rest of the world, you have deceived me for a single instant? – that I don’t know who you are, and all about you?”

“I am not supposing anything.”

“Do you suppose that I am not conscious that your name is no more Francis Smithers than mine is?”

“Is that so, really?”

“Do you suppose that I have not throughout been cognisant of the fact that you have been masquerading under another man’s name, in order to obtain possession of property to which you have not the slightest claim?”

“You appear to be cognisant of a good many things, Mr. Ludlow.”

“You brazen it out, as I expected. It is your hide-bound impudence which makes you in an especial degree a danger to society. Yours is the countenance of the indurated criminal type, which is impervious to the blush of shame.”

“Your choice of epithets is good.”

“Not content with ordinary rascality, you have proceeded to the extraordinary, by endeavouring to entangle the affections of an innocent girl.”

“You allude to Netta?”

“Don’t you speak of her by her Christian name in my presence. I am her brother.”

“A fact on which she has reason to congratulate herself, since you are so exemplary a son and generous a brother.”

“It is easy for the rogue who has plunged his hand into another man’s till to squander money on improvident women. I can but do my duty according to my lights, which are not of a kind which you are likely to appreciate.”

“That is so.”

“You may sneer, and sneer, and sneer; but you know, as I know, that I hold you in the hollow of my hand” – to illustrate his meaning, Mr. Ludlow held out the hand in question – “and that I’ve but to move my fingers to crush you. In other words, I have but to speak to the constable in the street, and you’ll be on the road to penal servitude.”

“Shall I ring and give them instructions to communicate with the gentleman in question?”

“You may laugh as well as sneer, but you’ll not find a prolonged sojourn in one of His Majesty’s jails amusing. I came here with the express intention of speaking plainly, of calling a spade a spade, and of making myself understood. I have carried out that intention. Now you understand me.”

“I am not sure that I do; but that is by the way. If those are all the remarks you have to make, I am afraid I have no right to detain you.”

“They are not; I wish they were.”

“I also.”

“My instincts, natural and acquired, are on the side of society. My standard of honour is
high. Rigid honesty is to me as the breath of my nostrils. For the double-dealer I have no sufficient words of scorn. My strenuous impulse would be to deliver you, on the instant, bound and helpless, to the vengeance of the law. But—”

“Pitt’s ‘but’!”

“By the exercise of insidious arts you have insinuated yourself into my family circle.”

“Hear, hear! – Very well put.”

“You have inveigled both my mother and sister into an invidious position.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I am therefore placed in the distressing situation of having to choose between doing violence to their feelings and my simple duty. Under these circumstances I have arrived at a decision which I fear does more credit to my heart than to my head. I have resolved to conceal – at least temporarily – my knowledge of certain actions of which I know you to have been guilty; – to put it into another form, to show mercy.”

“Then you have arrived at a decision which does you credit.”

“I am not so sure of that. I can only say that I have arrived at it after careful and profound consideration of the matter from every point of view. However, for the moment we will let that pass. To my resolution to show mercy, conditions are attached. In the first place, due and proper penitence must be shown – practical penitence. The account standing in the name of Francis Smithers must be restored to its original proportions – with interest up to date. So that when Mr. Smithers does appear it may be found intact.”

“And in the second place?”

“In the second place, the sum of ten thousand pounds must be placed in my hands as a guarantee of future good conduct.”

Mr. Smithers looked at Mr. Ludlow as if suspecting a jest, but the cashier’s expression continued to be of wooden severity.

“You were good enough to say that you wished to make yourself clearly understood. May I ask you to explain the exact meaning of that second condition?”

“You have used another man’s money in speculations which – so far – have turned out successfully. It is therefore important that I should avail myself of your present position to secure the bank – of which I am a servant – against further fraud upon your part.”

“Then in that case a guarantee policy for that amount, taken out in some sound company, would serve your purpose equally well?”

“It would not.”

“The money must be placed in your hands in cash?”

“It must.”

“And you would render an account weekly, or day by day?”

“I should not undertake to render any account.”

“Then what security should I have against fraud on your part?”

“I have told you my conditions. I do not intend to haggle, to alter them in one jot or tittle. Still less do I propose to honour with my notice any impertinence which may proceed from you.”

Mr. Smithers regarded him in silence. Then, going to a box which was on the sideboard, he chose a cigar, prepared it with fastidious care, lit it, and seemed disposed to enjoy it with complete disregard to Mr. Ludlow’s presence. The cashier eyed his proceedings grimly.

“I await your answer.”

Mr. Smithers took his cigar from between his lips, as if surprised.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I say that I await your answer.”

“My answer! – To what?”

“Do you intend to accept my conditions, or to go to penal servitude?”

“Unfortunately I don’t understand your conditions.”

“I will repeat them. You are to restore the account at the bank to its original proportions, with interest added; and you are to deposit in my hands the sum of ten thousand pounds in cash as a guarantee of your future good conduct.”

“It is that last condition which I don’t understand. Shall I tell you why?”

“Certainly.”

“Because I happen to know that you yourself are in a rather tight place; and I therefore fail to see how the depositing of such a sum of money in your hands would act as a guarantee of your future good conduct.”

“What do you mean? – What are you daring to insinuate?”

“Nothing. I am no dealer in insinuations. I am merely wishful to remind you that you have been using other people’s money in speculations which, so far, have turned out unsuccessfully. I do so, although I am conscious that the fact has no more escaped your recollection than it has mine. On the contrary, I am afraid it has cost you many wakeful nights, Mr. Ludlow.”

The cashier’s complexion assumed a curious hue. His expression became, if possible, harder and more rigid than before.

“What nonsense are you talking? Do you suppose that any insolent innuendoes which come from you will make the slightest impression upon me?”

Mr. Smithers laughed – the quiet laugh which was apt to come from him at unexpected moments; suggesting that, as regards the humorous, he had a point of view which was peculiarly his own.

“Very good. Then we’ll let it rest.”

“We will not let it rest; don’t make any mistake about it. It’s either going to be my conditions or penal servitude.”

Mr. Smithers said nothing. He only enjoyed his cigar.

“Which is it going to be?”

“Whichever you like.”

“Then it shall be penal servitude.”

“For you? – Then when do you think they’re likely to discover the feats of legerdemain you’ve been performing with your books and cash?”

“You’re – I believe you’re the direct spawn of the devil!”

“Do you? I’m so sorry! That sort of belief can’t be nice to hold.”

“You understand that if you decline to take advantage of the offer of mercy which I am extending to you, before I leave this house you will be in the custody of a policeman.”

“Oh no, I shan’t.”

“Be under no delusion – I mean what I say.”

“Not you.”

“You will find it out when it is too late.”

“Mr. Ludlow, you really are more foolish than I supposed; while the extent of my folly you appear to have overestimated.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Is it possible that you fail to perceive that by your conduct since the occasion of our first meeting, crowned by the attitude you have taken up this evening, you have delivered yourself – to use your own figure of speech – into the hollow of my hand?”

“What good do you suppose you will do yourself by talking such nonsense?”

“You say you knew from the first that I was defrauding the bank.”

“I did. You never deceived me for a moment.”

“Then it was your duty to at once communicate the fact to your employers. By concealing your knowledge, you were conniving at a fraud on them.”

“I had my reasons for keeping silence.”

“Not a doubt of it. You will find that your employers will appreciate those reasons. I do. You allowed the fraud to be continued; you allowed me to finance your mother; to become engaged to your sister—”

“I had no voice in either of those matters.”

“You take care not to have – you were duly advised of what was occurring. It is only when you yourself are in pecuniary straits and in imminent danger of ruinous exposure that you endeavour, by means of threats, to levy blackmail.”

“Blackmail! – You insolent—”

“Steady! Let me advise you, Mr. Ludlow, not to apply any more injurious threats to me, or – you may regret it. The alternative you offer – penal servitude or £10,000 – is blackmail in its worst form.”

“I only require that that sum shall be deposited—”

“Deposited! With a man who is worse than penniless! Your choice of words is more than odd. However, we will not pursue that matter any further. You are, of course, at liberty to take any steps you like. On one point I should like to clear your mind of misconception – whatever you may think, I am the only person who is entitled to draw on that account of Francis Smithers.”

“That I know to be false. I know that you are not the Francis Smithers by whom it was opened.”

“The intention was to conceal the identity of the person by whom it was opened, and that identity you have not penetrated. I know what you think, and what inquiries you have made. But you are quite at sea. I repeat that I am the only person who is entitled to draw upon the account of Francis Smithers.”

“I can but say—”

“Say nothing. You had better make any statement you have to make elsewhere. You see I know the facts; you only guess at them, and your guess is all abroad. On a single point I should like to have an understanding before requesting you to be kind enough to leave me. I am about to marry your sister. Do not imagine that I am marrying you. As you at present appear to me, you are a type of man for whom I have no use. You seem to be a bully; a hypocrite; something closely approximating to a knave; and, I also fear, a coward. You have been a bad brother, and a worse son. You have devoted your whole life to self-seeking – with results which, as you are yourself aware, are only too likely to be disastrous. With a. person of such a character, understand once, and once for all, that I decline to have intercourse of any kind. Now I must ask you to relieve me of your society, Mr. Ludlow.”

“One – one more word.”

“What is it?”

Mr. Ludlow seemed to find some difficulty in answering. His fluency seemed to have deserted him. His attitude had undergone a marked change during the last few minutes. From dogmatic assertiveness, he had passed to doubt and hesitation. Anxiety had taken the place of sternness. Something had come into his face – a shifty, nervous, deprecating something – which lent to it a new expression. When he spoke it was almost as if he stammered. All at once his voice had become husky.

“We – we look at life from different standpoints.”

“I hope so.”

“You – you judge me with undue severity.”

“I doubt it.”

“My – my standard of duty—”

“No hypocrisy, if you please.”

In the front of the other’s interposition Mr. Ludlow seemed to collapse more and more – as if some sustaining bone had been taken clean out of him. His tone descended nearly to a whine.

“I – I’m afraid there’s a certain amount of truth in what you say. I – I have been the victim of some unfortunate speculations. At the time I entered into them I had every reason to believe that they were sound, and that the result would be blessed by Providence—”

“Would be what?”

“Would be – would be all that could be desired.”

“By you?”

“By me. Instead of which, owing to circumstances over which I had no control, I found myself confronted by a loss for which I – I was unprepared; and – and I’m sorry to say—”

“I know. You needn’t go on. What was the amount?”

“It’s – it’s not a large amount. About – about £3000.”

“You don’t call that a large amount. May I inquire what your salary is?”

“Of course, in proportion to my salary, it is a large amount. I – I was comparing it in – in my mind’s eye with the immense fortune with the accumulation of which you are credited.”

“What right have you to make such a comparison?”

“None – absolutely none. I – I beg your pardon for making it. It – it was a most unfortunate phrase. Of course the amount is a large one; a very large – a painfully large one.”

“You’re a pretty sort of creature to attempt to measure swords with me. On my word, Mr. Ludlow, you are a much more insignificant creature than I imagined.” He paused, as if to listen. Someone was entering the front door. “I fancy that’s Netta. If so, I will request her to do me the favour of witnessing the remainder of our little interview.”

“I – I would much rather she did not come in here, at least for a minute or two, if – if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind; I had much rather she did come.” He opened the door. “It is Netta. – Netta, would you mind obliging me with your company for a few moments?”

Netta’s voice was heard replying.

“As a rule I do object, very strongly, to come anywhere where you are; but by way of an exception, for once in a while—”

The young lady came into the room, all radiant with smiles – and impertinence. At the sight of her brother the smiles – and impertinence – vanished. Her face fell.

“Theodore!” she said. Adding, when she perceived the singularity of his appearance, “What – what is wrong?”

— XXI —

THE BITER BITTEN

Mr. Ludlow did not look happy. Especially to one who was accustomed to see in him a dominant, autocratic, self-righteous, insensitive personality, his present attitude came as a shock. To Netta this was a new Theodore. This hangdog, nerveless, frightened, anxious creature was not the family tyrant with whom she was only too familiar. That Theodore had looked a whole world in the face, bidding it contradict his smallest utterance if it dare; this, cringed as if in doubt whether to plead for pity or to shun it. The singularity of his demeanour was rendered more conspicuous by his companion’s perfect ease. Mr. Smithers, taking Netta’s two hands in his, regarded her wondering face with smiling eyes.

“Netta, I have to tell you something which will pain you; but for your own sake, for your mother’s, and for mine, I think that you had better be told. – Your brother has more than once dropped you hints that he is acquainted with something to the detriment of my character?”

“You know that I never believed him.”

“Of course I know it. – He came tonight to inform me that he intended to publish this knowledge – I don’t quite know to whom, but we will say the world.”

“He never dared!”

“He did dare. He was kind enough, however, to inform me that he would still continue to conceal the mysterious and wondrous things he knows if I would place in his hands £10,000.”

“He must be mad.”

“On the contrary, I fancy that he is singularly sane. But it appears that he is not actuated so much by a wish to hurt me as by a desire to save himself. He has been speculating beyond his means, and to make good his losses has resorted to irregularities which may imperil his position at the bank in more ways than one.”

“Theodore!”

“You mentioned, Mr. Ludlow, that the sum of which you stand in need is about £3000. Is that the exact amount?”

“The exact amount is £4250.”

“Four thousand two hundred and fifty? – You use the word ‘about’ in a generous sense. Is that all? Will that cover everything?”

“Everything.”

“Then if I give you a cheque for £5000, that will be sufficient?”

The cashier’s eyes glistened. His figure grew suddenly straighter.

“More than sufficient! – And – and you will have earned my undying gratitude.”

“I will place on paper the remarks you have heard me address to your sister: how you have endeavoured to blackmail me; how you have been guilty of serious defalcations. It will take the form of a confession, to which you will affix your signature. When you have signed it I will give you a cheque for £5000, because I am unwilling that the commencement of your sister’s married life should be darkened by the shadow of her brother’s shame. But you will understand, Mr. Ludlow, that this is the only assistance you will ever have from me. Are you prepared to sign a document of the nature I have described?”

During Mr. Smithers’ observations his former dejected air had returned to Mr. Ludlow with almost more than its original force. Apparently the proposition did not commend itself to him at all.

“I – I would rather not.”

“I daresay!”

“What – what use would you make of such a paper?”

“No use at all, so long as you continue of good behaviour, and refrain from further slander. Should I have cause to complain of you, I should make what use of it I pleased.”

“I – I don’t think you ought to ask me to place myself in your power to the extent which you suggest. It would convey the impression that my – my attitude has been more – more regrettable than it has.”

“You are, of course, entitled to hold such an opinion. Only if you do, I must ask you to leave my room.”

“I’ll – I’ll sign.”

Mr. Smithers, sitting down to his desk, wrote something on a sheet of letter-paper. Netta, turning her back on her brother – with the intention possibly of seeing as little of his humiliation as she could help – leaned against the mantelshelf, on which there was a mirror. Until Mr. Smithers sat down to write, Mr. Ludlow’s glance had been fixed upon the ground. During the silence which followed he looked up – to observe the writer. As he did so, there came on to his face a look of malevolence and vindictive hatred which scarcely suggested the undying gratitude of which he had spoken. Netta saw that look before her in the mirror. She started. Twirling round, she met her brother’s eyes. He perceived that she had seen and understood. As if alarmed at the use she might make of the knowledge, back went his glance upon the ground. When Mr. Smithers had ceased to write, he had resumed his bearing of detected and dejected wretch, while from the other side of the room his sister regarded him with flaming eyes.

“Be so good as to read that through, Mr. Ludlow; and if it correctly describes your conduct, sign it.”

Mr. Ludlow read it through, with a face which was a study in certain unusual forms of expression. Then, with compressed lips, he signed it.

“I will not ask your sister to act as a formal witness, but you will not fail to remember that she has seen what you have done.” Taking up the paper, Mr. Smithers carefully examined it.

“Is this your usual signature? It is rather hieroglyphic for a bank cashier.”

“Yes.”

“You see, Netta?”

“It is not his usual signature – it is not in the least like it.”

“So I suspected. You hear, Mr. Ludlow. I am afraid I must ask you to sign it again. Leave this hieroglyph untouched, and under it place your usual signature, if you please.” As he did as he was hidden, the set of Mr. Ludlow’s mouth and lips suggested the grin of a wildcat.

“That, at least, seems more in order. Is it, Netta?” The girl nodded. “Here is a cheque for £5000, payable to your order on presentation. And now, good-night.”

Mr. Ludlow left the room, with the cheque unfolded in his hand, without deigning to go through any form of thanks or farewell either. Nothing could be less suggestive of undying gratitude than his proceedings when he found himself out in the street. He shook his fist at the window of the room which he had just quitted – which was not a kindly gesture. And as he proceeded on his way, he rained down curses on the head of the man whose cheque he was pocketing.

“He’s cleverer than I thought, and carries heavier metal. I was a fool to go so unprepared; he had me at a disadvantage. But next time I’ll know better – and that there will be a next time is as sure as that he’s alive. If he thinks he has succeeded in throwing dust in my eyes he’s mistaken – I know he isn’t Francis Smithers; who and what he is I’ll know before I pay him another call. That there is something badly wrong about him I need no telling. Only let me hit upon the proof of what it is, and it’ll be his turn to sign confessions. So this is to be the only assistance I’m to receive from him. Is it? We shall see. Before I’ve done with him I’ll be as rich as he is. As for Netta, she looks on him as a demigod, and on me as so much dirt. I’ll pay her! If I show her, beyond the possibility of contradiction, that he’s a scoundrel, it’ll be like dealing her her death-blow. I know her. It’ll break her heart. And I’ll break it yet.”

Within, Mr. Smithers discussed the brother with his sister. “Nice fellow, Theodore!”

“I didn’t think he was so bad as that.”

“Nor I. But I begin to perceive all sorts of possibilities.”

“Frank, do you really think he’s grateful?”

“Grateful!” Mr. Smithers laughed. “If he could do it with safety, he’d cut me up into little pieces here and now.”

“I hope he wouldn’t go quite so far as that, but – I’m afraid he will try to do you a mischief.”

“Not a doubt of it.”

“Frank, what shall you do?”

“Do? How?”

“You don’t seem to realise in the very least the dreadful situation into which you are drifting. Why will you persist in having anything to do with such a family as mine – in which such unpleasant things take place, and in which there are such horrid people?”

“Sweetheart, in this life one has to take the sweets with the bitters. In taking you I take a measure of the sweets which is altogether out of proportion with one man’s proper share. Would you have me altogether avoid a flavour of the hitters?”

“I’m afraid that one day you’ll be sorry.”

“For making you my wife? I’ve much more cause to be fearful that one day you’ll regret the generous impulse which made of me your husband.”

“Generous impulse – Frank – never! never! never! ‘Till the sun grows cold, and the stars grow old’ – and never then! I wonder if there ever was such another man as you are!” Again Mr. Smithers laughed. “You’re not to laugh – you’re always laughing – it’s your one fault. Can’t you be serious, even on the solemn subject of your own perfections?”

Mr. Smithers tried to be serious – and failed.

— XXII —

ON PUTNEY HEATH

It was the night before the wedding. The bride of the morrow and her mother had retired to rest. A restless fit possessed the expectant bridegroom.

“I’d not sleep if I went to bed, so what’s the use of going? If Rodway were here we might find something to say to each other. The last few days he seems to have had a troubled conscience. Possibly his duties of tomorrow weigh heavy on his soul.” Mr. Rodway was to give the bride away. It was not strange if, at close quarters, he found the prospect hard to contemplate. “But he’s not here. And in the house, alone with my own company, I seem to stifle. The night is fine. A tramp across the Heath may perhaps brush away the cobwebs.”

He went out. A clock struck one. Through the still, clear air the sound went swiftly. Other chimes pressed on the first. For a few seconds clock called to clock. He strode up towards Putney Heath. A tardy clock asserted its independence by striking the hour some minutes after all the rest had finished, on a cracked bell, which shrieked.

“That clock’s behind the times, announcing the fact with dissonant pride. – What mood has got me? Like that beldam in Maebeth – ‘By the twinkling of my thumbs, something evil this way comes.’ I’ve a premonition strong upon me that fate’s about to play me some scurvy trick. I wish tomorrow’s ceremony were well over. Perhaps then I’d have a mind at peace – if I’m ever again to know what it is to have a mind at peace. I seem to have murdered, not sleep, but peace. My thoughts keep reverting to that crime-stained Thane. – Who’s that?”

Turning quickly, he looked behind him. Nothing living was in sight. In the bright starlight he could see to the bottom of the hill.

“I thought someone was running after me – or was it that someone ran across the road? I heard footsteps. It couldn’t have been a cat.”

He resumed his walk.

“Perhaps Netta’s nervousness has affected me. I suppose the eve of her wedding’s a solemn moment to a girl. Certainly Netta seemed to find it solemn. To think that she should have cried when she said good-night. Excitement – every nerve in her body is on end. There are a few great days in the average woman’s life; the one on which she’s married ought to be the greatest of them all. I fancy that’s how it’s going to be with Netta. And so – in another sense – it’s going to be with me. Now, who’s that?”

He again swung quickly round – again to find nothing to be seen. The appearance of solitude seemed to puzzle him.

“I’ll swear that that time I heard someone running – and if they weren’t a man’s steps, my fancy’s playing me tricks to which I’m unaccustomed. Where can he have vanished? There’s plenty of cover. He may have slipped behind a bush or a tree, or thrown himself flat down on the uneven ground. Wherever he is he’s not far away. I’m betting that he’s within fifty feet of where I stand.”

He had reached the Heath. Although there were houses within a stone’s throw, immediately on either side of him was open country, broken by trees, gorse, blackberry bushes. The turf rose and fell. In that light it would have been easy for a dozen men to have remained concealed within the fifty feet of which he spoke.

“There are fellows who’d say that it were folly in a man in my position to trust himself alone up here at this romantic hour – especially upon his wedding eve. And it’s certain that if any of my threatening friends are disposed to show that they mean business, now’s their time to do it. I presume there are policemen hereabouts; but if the moment is well chosen, it’s doubtful if they would be likely to come my way in time. It were the part of discretion to turn back, and turn soon; but discretion is a virtue to which I never was attached. For an argument – of sorts! – I’m just in the mood. It’s a prescription, properly applied, of which I stand in need. Life’s gone too easily of late.”

Selecting a cigar from his ease, he remained stationary till he had lit it, then strolled on.

“If the hounds are after me, they’ll have the scent of my cigar to guide them. In a place like this, at this hour, the scent of a cigar should be perceptible to the dullest nose within a radius of half a mile.”

He had proceeded, perhaps, another hundred yards, when for the first time he performed an instantaneous right about face. He had noticed something which might have escaped a less keen ear.

“That was someone stumbling over a bush – I’ve heard a gentleman do it in a covert before tonight. Where is he? I’d like to have someone with me here, so that we might have a little bet as to his exact location. He’s a seasoned hand. Although he must have been taken unawares, he’s gone to earth in a flash. I say he’s inside that clump of what looks like gorse, and I’m ready to support my opinion to the extent of a pony. Hullo! – more sport!”

He had been contemplating a group of brambles which were at a little distance on his right. All at once his glance travelled across the road to the more wooded ground upon his left.

“There’s someone among those hawthorns, or whatever they are, and more than one. Two at least – I’ll be easily convinced that there are three. I saw what looked uncommonly like heads against the skyline; – I’m sure that there were two. There is going to be an argument – of sorts! It would be impossible to avoid them now, even if I so desired. The only result of any attempt to retrace my steps would probably be that the matter would be brought to a more rapid issue. – I’m inquisitive as to how it is they got where they are. There was only one man running – of that I’m positive. Yet there are probably four about me now. He could hardly have carried the others on his back. It’s just as unlikely that they were awaiting my arrival – on the off-chance of my doing such an extremely improbable thing as take a solitary walk, at this hour, in this direction. There really seems to be something uncanny about the situation. – Shall I let them know I’ve spotted them, and provoke an attack at the moment which suits me? They must have realised that my suspicions have been aroused. – Not I. The element of uncertainty is half the fun; let them come when it suits them.”

As he neared Wimbledon Common he became conscious that someone was approaching – “with measured tread and slow.”

“A policeman! – as I’m a sinner!-Nothing could be better. If I don’t have a little amusement at the expense of my unseen friends, I’m only a relic of the man I used to be. The position is developing latent possibilities. Gentlemen of the Eight! – you’re in for a bad five minutes. If I were only sure that Mr. Augustus Chaffinch is among you.”

On came the policeman – on went Mr. Smithers. They arrived within a yard of one another. Then Mr. Smithers stopped. He addressed the constable in a tone of voice which must have been audible, say, within fifty yards or so.

“A fine night, officer.”

“Yes – but it’s a little late.”

The remark might almost have been intended as a hint. The constable was a big, burly fellow, with a heavy black moustache. He eyed Mr. Smithers with official suspicion, which was presently lulled when he perceived what manner of man he was.

“It is a trifle early. But I presume that in this part of the world one is not likely to meet with an adventure even at this hour of the morning.”

“Well – it’s pretty lonely.”

“But there are no bad characters hereabouts.”

“I shouldn’t care to say as much as that myself. I’ve seen some uncommonly queer characters hereabouts,”

“Surely not footpads, and that kind of thing?”

“Yes – I daresay what you’d call footpads, Anyhow, parties who’d do a good deal for half a sovereign – and who’ve done a good deal, some of them.”

“Your words make me think. I’ve come up Putney Hill, and do you know that I’ve more than once had an odd impression that I was being followed.”

“Then if I was you I should go straight back down Putney Hill. You’ll be safer there than here.”

“You see those brambles to the left of that tree – only a second or two before you came up I fancied that I saw a man dodge down behind them.”

“I’ll go and see if you like.”

“No – I wouldn’t trouble you. It was only my fancy; – you know the sort of fancies one does get in a place like this.”

“You’d better let me go and see. Such things have happened, and will happen again.”

“Nonsense. You make me think of the ancient spinster who makes it a nightly rule to look for the burglar under the bed. Good-night – have a cigar.”

The policeman had a cigar. Each pursued his individual way. When he had gone a little distance, glancing over his shoulder, Mr. Smithers perceived that what he had anticipated had taken place – the constable had quitted the high-road to stroll towards the patch of brushwood towards which his attention had been directed.

“I fear that you are just a trifle late – I fancy the birds were alarmed in time. They were alarmed; that’s something.” The constable, after wandering in and out among the bushes, was returning to the road. “I thought so. Not a feather to be found.”

He walked on till, as he moved round the bend in the road, the policeman passed from sight.

“Now, will they come, or will they wait till he is out of hearing too? A shout would reach him. Perhaps their instructions are to take no risks. I, on the other hand, am taking all there are around. But the truth is, I’m curious to know what sort of gentry these are with whom I have to deal. Mr. Chaffinch’s mysterious jargon has inspired me with a desire to bring the matter of the Eight – a blessed word is Mesopotamia! – to something like a test. I’ll give them to the windmill. If, by the time I reach it, they’ve still done nothing, I’ll act on Robert’s advice, and walk back again down Putney Hill. – Who the deuce are you?”

The inquiry was addressed to a figure which seemed to rise up out of the ground itself in front of him. Almost at the same instant two other figures appeared on either side. Making no attempt to answer his question they came at him with a rush. Laughing, he drew back.

“So there’s going to be an argument – welcome, gentlemen of the Eight!”

When the first man came within his reach he dealt him a blow on the face which hurled him back on to the ground from which he so recently had risen.

“I hope I haven’t hurt your nose, sir; I fear it’s broken.”

He met one of the others with his right. But the force of the blow was broken by his companion; who, flinging himself on Mr. Smithers, twined his arms about his neck. The man staggered backwards, but, recovering himself, again came rushing on. Encumbered by the fellow who had hung himself about him with monkey-like agility, Mr. Smithers was ill-prepared to encounter his fresh antagonist.

“Hold on!” muttered the newcomer. “I’ll down him!”

“Will you? I think you are mistaken.”

Springing on one side, with a sudden twist Mr. Smithers wrenched himself free of the fellow who clung to him. Taking him about the body he thrust him against his onrushing comrade with so much vigour that both were borne off their feet. The man on whom he had first bestowed his favours having regained his perpendicular, was returning to the attack; but on seeing the fate which had befallen his friends, showed signs of hesitation – an attitude on which Mr. Smithers was prompt to comment.

“I trust, sir, your nose is not seriously injured – you put your hand up to it as if it were. False noses, as you are possibly aware, are among the latest creations of science; – if your own is utterly destroyed, I recommend the fact to your attention. It’s cool standing still; won’t you try another little game of rough and tumble? You do the tumbling parts so very well. – Ah, there are your companions ready to rejoin you. Now all of you can come on together. For you, that must be so much more agreeable than one at a time.”

The hearers, however, finding themselves once more in the enjoyment of an upright posture, did not show themselves so eager to renew the onslaught as might have been expected. They muttered together, keeping themselves at a prudent distance from where their antagonist stood contemptuously regarding them.

“Come! come! Aren’t you going to down me? I’m waiting to be downed. On a chilly night like this I do beg you to believe that I do not wish to have to wait too long.”

For a moment or two the trio evinced no marked signs of a pressing desire to accept his invitation. It seemed, indeed, to be doubtful if they would not rather retreat than advance. But on a sudden their tactics changed; they came flying at him with an impetuosity and a disregard of consequences which did them credit. Out went his arms, like metal rods. Over went the first man; his companions – without being knocked actually down – receiving probably as much of his attention as they quite cared for. Not one of them succeeded in getting within reach of him.

“Why don’t you down me?” he cried. “You haven’t downed me yet!”

While he was still speaking something was thrown over his head from behind – something wet and sticky. He found himself struggling in sudden darkness with an unseen assailant, his head and face enveloped in what was either a bag or a sack. It was jerked violently backwards. He felt that he was being borne off his feet – was conscious of a suffocating sensation, of a sickly odour which oppressed his nostrils – and then he became unconscious of everything.

— XXIII —

MR. RODWAY DOUBTS

“Coming to, are you? Now then, what are you up to? Don’t do that.”

When Mr. Smithers returned to consciousness, the first thing he even dimly realised was that a constable was in front of him, kneeling on one knee, and that it was from him the words proceeded. It was several seconds before he realised anything else; as, for instance, that he was sitting up upon the grass; that his hat was off; that the fresh, damp air felt grateful about his throbbing brow; that it was still dark; and that he was feeling, both mentally and physically, very queer indeed.

“Better have gone straight back, as I told you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Smithers had not caught the allusion conveyed in the other’s words. Then it dawned upon him that this was the constable with whom – in a mischievous mood – he had had that little conversation. “I think I’ve seen you before?”

“You have, and not so very long ago either. When I saw you again, I thought you were dead. Do what I might, you wouldn’t show any signs of life; and then, just as I was thinking of going off for help, you came to.”

“Thank you; I’m very much obliged for the interest you took in me. Where was I lying? On the grass here?”

“On the grass, just where you’re sitting; on your back, looking up to the sky. You looked like a corpse, if ever I saw one. How are you feeling now?”

“Better, thank you; practically well, indeed. Only my head throbs.”

“So it wasn’t only your fancy about them chaps behind the brambles. I saw nothing of them; they must have nipped off before I got there.”

“Chaps behind the brambles?”

“Wasn’t it them that did for you?”

“Did for me? It seems as if I must have had some sort of a fit. I feel like it.”

“Fit? Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t been robbed and assaulted?”

“Robbed?” Mr. Smithers was standing up by now, seeming a little tottery. He was going through the contents of his pockets with apparent method. “Money, watch, chain, pocket-book intact; there’s nothing missing of intrinsic value. That doesn’t look like robbery. It must have been a fit.”

“Didn’t you see anyone?”

“See anyone? I saw you. A fit’s the explanation. Thank you, officer, again, for your assistance; there’s a five-pound note to mark my sense of it. The presence of that note upon my person is sufficient testimony that I have not been robbed.”

The policeman was looking from the note to its donor with doubtful eyes.

“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you, sir, especially as this is altogether beyond anything I’ve done for you; but I’m afraid I shall have to trouble you for your name and address. I shall have to report what’s happened.”

“By all means; here’s my card. And now, for the second time, good-night. I don’t think I’m likely to meet with any more adventures on my homeward way. I am in no danger of another fit tonight.”

The policeman watched him as he moved along the road, leaning a little on his stick, his limping, uncertain gait bearing but little resemblance to the buoyant ease which had marked his movements on their first meeting. Slightly opening the shutter of his lantern, he scrutinised by the aid of its light the banknote he was holding.

“Seems all right; yet if it is, what did he give it me for – a lump of money like that? Not for what I did, but for what I didn’t do, that’s about the size of it. There’s a mystery somewhere which I haven’t got the hang of. He’s no more had a fit than I have. ‘Francis Smithers’ – that’s his name, is it – according to the card he gave me. Well, Mr. Francis Smithers, if you choose to let yourself be killed as near as a toucher, and don’t choose to say anything about it, I suppose it’s no business of mine; especially when there’s a five-pound note to be earned by making it no business of mine. But if I was you, I wouldn’t walk about alone in the dark any more than you can help. I should say, by the look of things, that someone had a down against you, and that you’d sooner they downed you than own up what it’s for.”

Mr. Smithers communed with himself as he wended his homeward way.

“What was it they were after? It wasn’t money, and apparently it wasn’t me. It’s now half-past two. I must have lain there a good hour – on the turf, with my face to the stars; a dignified position for a man who’s to be married at noon. As during that time I was wholly at their mercy, they might have done anything. What did they do? It’s not likely that their sole object was just to lay me there and leave me. They don’t seem to have subjected the contents of my pockets to a very rigorous examination, if they touched them at all. They must have been after some particular thing – and found it pretty nearly right away.”

An idea suddenly occurred to him. He stopped, Taking out the sovereign-purse which was attached to one end of his watch-chain, he stared at it with all his eyes.

“The key of the safe – as I’m a sinner! The key of safe No. 226 on the premises of the Shoe Lane Deposit Company. That was their objective – and they’ve got it at once. It was attached to my sovereign-purse, and now it isn’t. Unmistakably now it isn’t.”

He resumed his walk.

“What do they think they’re going to do with it? They can do what they please. – The idea isn’t a bad one, though if I chose they’d be no nearer safe No. 226 than they were before. It doesn’t follow, because they have the key, that they have the entrée. I suppose they’ll try various little tricks of hanky-panky to get the entrée, having got the key; but I’ve only to lift my little finger to checkmate them. But I won’t lift my little finger. I would give something to see the look on Mr. Chaffinch’s face when he learns what are the present contents of Mr. Smithers’ strong-box.”

He laughed, as if in the enjoyment of a first-rate joke. He had reached the top of Putney Hill. Turning, stretching out his hand towards the Heath, with a mocking assumption of melodramatic earnestness, he said – as if addressing an unseen audience:

“This time you score, and you’re welcome to your winnings, gentlemen of the Eight!”

A voice exclaimed, almost at his elbow,

“Smithers – by all that’s holy! Man alive, what are you talking about? – What’s the matter with you? – What are you doing here?”

Mr. Smithers found himself confronted by Mr. Rodway. If the encounter surprised him disagreeably, he concealed the fact with considerable skill.

“Ben! – Where have you sprung from? I never heard you coming. It’s for me to ask what you are doing here, at this hour, when all good boys should be in bed.”

“I’m known to the police. It’s no new thing for me to be here at any hour. Many a time have I tramped the Heath and the Common all through the night, wrestling with a screw that wouldn’t fit or a wheel that wouldn’t turn. It’s here and hereabouts that, in the silence, sometimes amid rain and wind and blackness, I’ve groped my way, through failure after failure, to the Power. But with you it’s different. You’re to be married in an hour or two. You ought to be in bed, like a decent creature. What’s happened to you? What nonsense were you spouting?”

Mr. Smithers was conscious that the other’s shrewd eyes were noting certain singularities in his appearance.

“I’ve had a fall.”

“You look as if you had had a row.”

“Do I? – It seems to have shaken me.”

They went on down the hill together. Presently Mr. Rodway made a remark which recalled what the policeman had said to himself as he examined his five-pound note.

“If I were you, I’d bar lonely walks in lonely places in lonely hours.”

Mr. Smithers glanced quickly towards him.

“That’s a cryptographic utterance; what’s it mean?”

“Just what it says.”

When they were back in Mr. Smithers’ sitting-room, by the light of the gas, Mr. Rodway looked his companion carefully up and down.

“You have been in a row. Someone has been taking liberties with your collar and necktie; you’ve been rolled on the grass, and there’s a scratch on your cheek two inches long. That’s not the sort of ornament with which a bridegroom ought to go to the altar.”

Smithers was examining himself before the looking-glass.

“It does look pretty bad. I shall have to say you did it.”

“You can say that to others; you can’t to me. – Frank, own up!”

“Own up – what?”

“Who are you.”

“My dear Ben, isn’t it rather late in the day to ask me such a question?”

“It is, but better late than never.”

“No; sometimes better never.”

“This isn’t one of those times. Theodore Ludlow goes about singing a song which is nearly all bunkum, but not quite all. That he’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick I’ve no doubt whatever, but I’ve just as little doubt that there is a stick to be got hold of. I’m a judge of a man; and you are a man, or you wouldn’t be my partner. I was pretty stuck for money when I came across you. But it wasn’t only money I wanted. I wanted a man – and I’ve got him. I’d trust you with my life, and with more than my life. But you’re a man of mystery for all that. And I want to ask you, right here and now, almost within sound of your wedding-bells, if you don’t think you’ll be doing the square thing by putting an end to the mystery, at least so far as I’m concerned.”

“Ben, have you had this sort of feeling upon your mind some time?”

“Ever since the day on which Netta Ludlow consented to be your wife, when it became my business.”

“How?”

“Because I love her better than my life – better than the Power. All the time that I was struggling to get there, I kept saying to myself that when I did I’d get her too. Then you came along, and snapped her from underneath my nose.”

“But she’d refused you?”

“Oh yes, she’d refused me, but she wouldn’t have kept on refusing me forever if you hadn’t come along._ But that’s all over. You’re going to try to make her the happiest wife that ever lived, and I shouldn’t be surprised if you succeeded. But do you know what sort of a girl she is?”

“I fancy so.”

“She’s made of you a hero. She’s set you up on a pinnacle in her hall of heroes. If she finds out anything about you which is not in consonance with the heroic character, you’ll come tumbling down with a rush, and your fall will kill her.”

“And therefore?”

“This: Don’t regard me as a partner only in matters of pounds shillings pence. If you can’t tell her what the mystery is – if you can, do, I earnestly entreat you, do! – but if you can’t, tell me. As a brother sinner, you’ll find me tolerant. And let me help you in guarding her from the discovery of what you had rather she didn’t know.”

“Why should you imagine there is a mystery?”

“Because I’ve common-sense. What’s the meaning of this uncanny whistling that’s always going on, and always the same tune? I daresay you don’t know how it’s done, or even who does it, but I do believe you know that it’s meant for you. Then, you’re the best spied-on man I ever heard of. I’ve reasons for knowing that a constant watch is kept upon your goings and comings, your risings – up and sittings-down, upon everything you do. For instance, someone dogged your footsteps up to the Heath just now. Who was it? You won’t tell, but you’ve got their mark upon you. I’ll lay odds that there is someone watching the house at this very moment, that there are eyes on the light in your window, possibly an ear glued to the pane.”

“I should like to get it between my finger and thumb.”

“I daresay! Probably you’ve tried to do so more than once and failed, because the thing is too well done. If you won’t do anything else, and I can see that you won’t by the look of you, at least answer two questions: Have you ever been mixed up in any secret society, or political conspiracy with the Mafia, or Nihilists, or Anarchists, or any rubbish of that kind?”

“I assure you, never!”

“Do you go in peril of your life? – I know you don’t care a twopenny damn if you do, and that you probably enjoy the mere notion of such a thing; you’re that sort of man. But you’ll soon have a wife to be considered. Remember that your danger will be hers. Think of what her feelings will be if she suddenly, without warning, discovers the position you are in. Is it fair to subject her to such a risk?”

“My dear Ben, I’ve just one remark which I should like to make.”

“You haven’t answered my second question.”

“My remark will be my answer; it’s this. I’m a tolerably strong man, with a confident belief in my capacity to take good care of myself and all that I hold dear.”

“Is that all you intend to say?”

“Except that we both of us have onerous tasks to perform in the course of the next few hours, and that I do think that we ought to have at least half-an-hour in bed.”

“I’m ready. Only, Frank, do remember, if ever the place you’re in gets very tight, that two heads are better than one.”

When he found himself in his own bedroom, Mr. Rodway delivered himself of a curious observation.

“If all the facts were known, there’s not an insurance company in England which would accept his life, even as an extraordinary risk, and for twelvemonths only. And he’s going to marry Netta! All I can do is to remember what He said – ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend,’ and to hope that I may have a chance.”

— XXIV —

HASTE TO THE WEDDING

It was a ‘pretty’ wedding. The number of persons actually concerned in it was six. There was the bride, who looked a ‘picture,’ in a dress which would have sat well upon a queen. No expense had been spared upon that costume.

“You’re only going to be married once in your life,” Mr. Smithers had declared. “At least, that’s the average expectation in cases of this kind; and you’re going to come to me like a dressmaker’s dream.”

And she did. Netta was more than perplexed by the glorious shape which, before it was finished, that dream assumed.

“You know it’s positively wicked to wear a dress like this only once. I ought to be married again in it, and before the fashions change; and however shall I manage that?”

“Oh, wear it to go to court in.”

“To go where?”

“To court. I take it that my wife will make her obeisance to her sovereign among the other ladies of the land.”

A comical expression came on Netta’s face.

“I’m going to court now. Pray how long ago is it really since I was blackleading the kitchen grate?”

The ‘ornaments’ which the bride wore were of unusual beauty.

“I’ve never had a moment’s peace,” she asserted, “since these diamonds came into the house. I suppose the entire premises are worth about five hundred pounds, and this diamond necklace alone about fifty thousand. It does seem incongruous. I’ve slept with it underneath my pillow, and yet I haven’t been happy. The other night I dreamt that a horrid monkey-like-looking creature was insinuating its fingers under my pillowcase – oh dear! And then there are this tiara, and pins, and brooches, and bracelets – I ought to go about guarded – I know I ought. If we are going to take these things abroad with us, I shouldn’t be one bit surprised if I came back grey.”

“I think grey would rather suit you.”

“Do you? Then, if the idea is that you shall be afforded an opportunity of judging at the earliest possible moment, then I don’t like it. You don’t want my jewels to turn me grey?”

“No, not particularly.”

“What an agreeable way you have of putting things!” She sighed. “There’s one thing: it would be rather romantic if I were to go prematurely grey because my jewels are of such extreme beauty that the mere fact of their possession affects the colour of my hair.” She sighed.

“Before I met you, the only jewellery I had was a silver brooch, which cost three and nine at an all-sorts shop in the Fulham Road.”

The bride’s mother was in tears – genuine tears. She was attired in a grey silk dress, fashioned with such cunning that it endowed her with an amazing appearance of juvenility.

“It makes you look not a day over thirty!”

So Netta had assured her – to her distress; as if in her case juvenescence was synonymous with indecorum.

“I hope, Netta, that it doesn’t make me look so young as you say it does.”

“But it does – it makes you look a positive child – my sister, mother dear.”

Solemnly, Mrs. Ludlow shook her head.

“I don’t hold with people at my time of life looking so much younger than they are; it’s nothing but flightiness.”

And then there was the wrench of parting. The proverbial saying has it that “my daughter’s my daughter the whole of my life.” But the girl was going into such a different world to that to which her mother was accustomed, and Mrs. Ludlow, conscious of her manifold deficiencies, was so unwilling to venture into it herself, that the saying in this case was hardly likely to be verified. When Netta Ludlow became Mrs. Francis Smithers, with the best will in the world to remain unchanged, it was impossible that she could continue to be to her mother the daughter that was. So, although in her nervous, hesitant fashion, she gloried in her child’s good fortune and in her prospects of boundless happiness, she herself could not but be conscious that she would be left alone. Residence with her son was out of the question; she had not been so foolish as to dream of it. She was a town-bred woman, and had expressed her unwillingness to occupy a house on the Dene Park estate.

“I don’t mind the country now and then, I’m as fond of it as most, but I couldn’t live in it all the time. I was born in Paddington, and Putney’s the farthest I’ve lived from Charing Cross.” She did consent to go a little farther afield to Wimbledon Common. There Mr. Rodway had taken to himself a dwelling-place, and Mrs. Ludlow had agreed to keep house for him.

“I understand him, and he understands me, and that’s something. He says he’s never going to be married, but marriage is a subject on which no man ever knew his own mind yet; anyhow, he won’t be bringing a wife home before I’ve had time to look about me.”

Margaret Foster was the solitary bridesmaid – rather troublesome an attendant Netta found her.

“Do you know, it sounds incredible nowadays, when lots of people live at weddings, but I’ve never seen one in my life. What did a bridesmaid ought to do? Ought I to carry you into the church, or merely drag you along by the hair of your head, and soothe you with something out of a bottle at regular intervals?”

“You’ve to do nothing whatever except look nice.”

“That’ll be easy – especially as Mr. Smithers declares that it’s the bridegroom’s duty to provide the bridesmaid with her dress. That man’s ideas are grand! But he’s a mass of deception.”

“Meg! how dare you say such things?”

“He says the bridegroom ought to give the bridesmaid presents. I can’t help thinking he’s mistaking me for a noun of multitude. I’m becoming the possessor of a shopful. I say – excuse curiosity! – but why didn’t you give the other man a try?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you marry Mr. Rodway? Although you’ve neither of you breathed a word, I know he asked you – I can see it in his eyes. You might have bullied him; you’re under a complete misapprehension if you think that you’ll ever be able to bully Mr. Smithers.”

“Meg, you say you’ve never been to a wedding; – you’re the first girl friend I’ve had.”

“You’re fortunate in being able to make so excellent a beginning.”

“And I’m commencing to wonder if all girls talk like you do? I used to have quite a high opinion of my own sex till I made your acquaintance. Now I’m growing to have none at all.”

“Thank you; that’s meant to be cutting. But I suppose you must expect to be sat upon by some people when they’re going to be married. But perhaps I shan’t remain a spinster the whole of my life, and then it’ll be my turn. – I had a proposal the other day.”

“Meg! – No! – Who was it?”

“Oh – somebody who knows my value. He said ‘Let’s be married.’ I said, ‘Shan’t!’ But I don’t suppose I shall be able to keep on saying ‘Shan’t’ to everyone. I’m bound to be overwhelmed in the rush that’s coming. Then I’ll be able to do some trampling on my unprotected sisters.”

Sidney Foster was best man. The idea of his occupying a position of such importance amused him – as he explained to Mr. Smithers.

“It seems tremendous cheek on my part – to set up as your best man! You being such a swell, and all the rest of it; and I owing everything to you – though why you are so good to me is beyond me altogether. But, of course, if you’d like me to do it, I should be only too proud and delighted.”

“I should like you to do it,” said Mr. Smithers.

Mr. Rodway, whose duty it was to give away the bride, appeared to find his role a little arduous. For one thing he was treated by the bridesmaid in a manner which he found embarrassing. On that young lady’s shapely head the bump of reverence was extremely small. Upon previous occasions Mr. Rodway, whose knowledge of women was practically limited to Netta, had found in Miss Foster a type of femininity which was altogether beyond his understanding. The bride and her mother drove to church in one carriage, while her bridesmaid and temporary father were together in another. This arrangement was to Mr. Rodway the cause of some confusion. The lady – whose glories occupied the entire seat facing the horses – surveyed him, as he screwed himself into the smallest possible compass in an opposite seat, critically.

“It doesn’t suit you?”

The gentleman started; he was already painfully conscious of being in apparel which his soul loathed.

“What doesn’t suit me?”

“None of it suits you. And you’ve no notion of how to tie a bow.”

“I never had. But they said I ought to wear one.”

“It’s meant for a bow?”

“Meant for a bow!” He put up his fingers in alarm. “ls it – is it very bad?”

“In an ordinary ease I should advise no rumpling, but in your case it can make no difference. It couldn’t possibly be worse. – I don’t like your frock-coat.”

“I loathe it. I feel that if I were to stretch my arms something would burst.”

“I should let it burst. It might give you relief and make you happier. I’ve generally seen you in a short blue arrangement, with about thirteen pockets, every one of them filled to overflowing. In that you seemed comfortable.”

“I am. I’ve practically lived in that jacket ever since I had it.”

“It looks as though you had. A high collar doesn’t suit you.”

“It doesn’t, and I don’t suit it. Damn the thing! – I – I beg ten thousand pardons. I assure you I didn’t mean it.”

The gentleman’s complexion had suddenly assumed a vermilion hue. The lady was affable.

“Pray don’t apologise. And I’m sure you did mean it. Isn’t that waistcoat a little – striking?”

“Do you think so?”

“I always feel that half-a-dozen colours brought together within the narrow compass of a single garment do make it stand out.”

“There aren’t half-a-dozen colours in this.”

“There are more. There are the primary colours in the form of stripes; and then they are arranged in innumerable combinations to form that very curious background.”

“They said I ought to wear something in the fancy way.”

“You have certainly succeeded in doing that.”

“Do you think there’d be time for me to go and change it? – I don’t want to turn the affair into a sort of Guy Faux show.”

“No; I’m afraid there wouldn’t be time. You might take it off and stuff it under the seat, or you might button your coat well over it. – Why do you nurse your hat? Won’t it go on your head?”

“I’d rather do anything with it than put it there.”

“You don’t look – taking you together – as if you were expecting much enjoyment?”

“I abominate the whole thing.”

“Do you mean that you abominate driving alone with me?”

“Not only that.”

“Not only that – but partly that. I see. You have an agreeable way of expressing yourself!”

“I – I assure you, Miss Foster, that I didn’t mean anything of the kind.”

“That is the second assurance of yours on which I feel compelled to cast doubts. Do you object to my society because I also look a sight? – By the way, how do I look?”

“You – you look – you look like a dream of beauty.”

“More so than Netta?”

“Of course that’s different. She looks nice.”

“Really! – Mr. Rodway! – Then I am to understand that she looks nice, while I merely look like a dream of beauty. Pray what sort of a rag, tag, and bobtail kind of an affair is that? Don’t you wish that you were master of the art of expressing yourself differently? Then you might be able to hint that it was my intention to turn the whole affair into a sort of Guy Faux show.”

Mr. Rodway looked about him in search of the help which was not forthcoming. Incidentally, he rubbed the nap of his hat the wrong way. Then an expression of something like resolution settled on his countenance. His tone was a little savage.

“It was far from my intention to hint at anything of the kind, as you are perfectly well aware.”

The lady looked at him with mischievous eyes. The carriage drew up.

“I believe this is the church. You will now, for the present, be relieved of the too near abomination of my society.”

— XXV —

THE BRIDESMAID INTERVENES

In the church was that miscellaneous collection of persons – mostly women – which haunts such occasions, regarding a wedding – anybody’s wedding – as a public show of a distinctly attractive kind. It was the general opinion that the bridegroom did credit to the proceedings. This view was given audible utterance to by more than one of the onlookers.

“’Andsome I call him,” remarked one lady, who carried a baby, to a friend who led by the hand a toddling child. “A regular picture. ’Ow tall he is, and ’ow straight he do ’old himself. And don’t that beard become him, and them blue eyes! And ain’t his clothes something like a fit!”

“Ah!” rejoined her friend, “there isn’t many of his sort about; I wish there was more.”

“There’s not enough to go round, that’s certain sure. She’s in luck, she is. He’s something like a man.”

As the bridegroom led his bride down the aisle, the common feeling, expressed in more or less homely fashion, was with this lady – that he was “something like a man.” He looked so proud and happy; he held himself with so much grace of bearing; such a glad light was in his eyes; he carried himself as if he had not a care upon his mind; as if he could look the whole world in the face, knowing no cause for shame in what was past, or for doubt or fear in what the future had in store for him; in short, he did seem, in such ideal fashion, to be all that a man should be, that it was not strange that among those present were some who esteemed themselves the more because of the knowledge that he was of the same clay as they were. In his person he did so much honour to the whole family of men!

The ceremony went without a hitch. Mrs. Ludlow cried. Others cried – perfect strangers – they alone knew why. No marriage service could have been more successfully performed. Another pair was launched upon that matrimonial sea which knows, theoretically, but one point of parting – death; one resting-place – the grave. All went as merrily as marriage bells.

Curiously enough, it was while those bells were chiming, in an eager, frolicsome peal, that an incident occurred which might be said, in some degree, to have marred the perfect harmony.

One person at least was present in that building who was not in festive mood. Why he was there at all he himself could have hardly said; unless it was to make sure, by the evidence of his own eyesight, that the marriage did take place. This was the brother of the bride. He had been invited to the wedding – by his sister’s wish; which invitation – possibly because he suspected it might not be warmly seconded by the groom – he had refused. He had told himself, more than once, that on no account should the occasion be illumined by the light of his countenance. Yet, at the last moment, he had excused himself for an hour from the bank, in order that he might see all that was to be seen – as it were, incognito. He only had one sister; it may be that, on this great occasion in her life, his heart went out to her – such might have been the case; but his conduct hardly suggested it. On the opposite side of the road, nearly fronting the church, was a tavern. In this he took refuge, consuming a sandwich and a bottle of lemonade, until such time as the wedding party had entered the building. Then he followed; modestly declining the verger’s offer to lead him to a front seat, preferring to place himself in close proximity to the door. The ceremony concluded, he availed himself of his position to be among the first of those who went. Finding himself in the street, he joined himself to the little crowd of loiterers which waited for the wedding party to emerge.

Immediately in front of him was an individual who one would scarcely have thought, from his appearance, could have been interested in such a function as a marriage. Although not an old man, he yet conveyed the impression of being, generally speaking, in the last stage of decay.

He was clad in a nondescript array of rags, which held together he alone knew how. Strips of rag were wound round his feet in lieu of boots. An ancient peakless cap was crammed upon his head. His hair and beard had been untrimmed and unwashed much longer than was desirable. There was no doubt whatever that misery and he had long been bedfellows.

Presently there was a stir at the church door. The crowd woke up. All turned to see.

“Here they come! – Here’s the bride and bridegroom!”

Mr. and Mrs. Smithers came along the winding churchyard path – the groom all radiance, the bride all blushes. Immediately behind them came Mr. Rodway, with the bridesmaid on his arm; the best man, with Mrs. Ludlow, bringing up the rear. Whether that is the legitimate order in which the procession ought to have been formed is by the way; that is how they chose to come. So soon as he perceived the newly married man, the dilapidated creature in front of Mr. Ludlow began to behave in an extremely singular fashion.

“My gawd!” he exclaimed, “it’s him! – You don’t mean to say that” – he turned on Mr. Ludlow with sudden ferocity of inquiry – “that that’s the bloke who’s been married?”

Mr. Ludlow regarded him with barely concealed aversion, while plainly struck by the peculiarity of his manner.

“Certainly. Why shouldn’t he be? – Do you know him?”

“Know him! – Do I know him! – Him! – I’ll show you if I know him! – and I’ll show him too!”

The fellow moved forward as if to thrust himself in the way of the little procession. Mr. Ludlow caught him by the shoulder.

“If you have anything to show, show me.”

“Show you! – You! – Who are you? Why should I show you?”

“I am the brother of the lady he has married. For any information about him worth having I am willing to pay handsomely.”

“You’re willing to pay for information? – You are? – How am I to know it?”

“By putting me to the test.”

While these questions and answers had been hurriedly-exchanged, the wedding party had reached the pavement. The bridegroom had handed the bride into the carriage which was waiting; had followed himself; the door had been closed; the coachman had driven off. The ragged stranger woke to the fact with sudden fury. If Mr. Ludlow had not kept tight hold of him he would have rushed after the departing vehicle. As it was, he began shouting at the top of his voice.

“Let me get at him! – Let me get at him! – You see that bloke? He was in quod with me. Now look where he is and where I am! If I had my rights it’d be the other way round! – First he tried to murder me, then he robbed me after! If I was to speak a word he’d get a lifer!”

The better sort among the spectators, not knowing what to make of the man, drew back. Others pressed forward. The inevitable constable moved towards him.

“Now then – none of that! Off you go!”

“So help me, guv’nor,” shrieked the man, in evident awe of the official eye and voice and hand, “it’s him you ought to be after, not me!”

Mr. Rodway, perceiving Theodore Ludlow, taking in something of the situation at a glance, motioned to Sidney Foster; who, following Mrs. Ludlow into the carriage which was waiting, immediately drove off. Into the next vehicle Mr. Rodway ushered Miss Foster, speaking to her through the window.

“You go on. I’ll follow.”

She replied to him, an odd look in her eyes and on her face—

“Don’t let there be a scene.”

He nodded. Off drove the bridesmaid in solitary state.

Mr. Rodway thrust his way through the knot of people towards the excited ragamuffin, addressing him as if he were some inferior animal whose one business it was to obey. A hansom was standing by the kerb. He pointed to it.

“Now, my man, get into that cab. I want to speak to you.” Ludlow interposed.

“None of that, Rodway. He’s my find. I’ve been juggled with enough. I’m going to have no more of it.”

Mr. Rodway’s manner was stern; his words to the point.

“Don’t be a fool! Do you want to have a disturbance here? You can come with us if you like. I’ll see to this man, constable. Thank you very much.”

He slipped a coin into the policeman’s hand. The vagabond entered the cab, with a tell-tale readiness to yield implicit, unquestioning obedience in the presence of a representative of the law. The vehicle started; containing as curiously assorted a trio as, probably, even a hansom ever held.

It had been arranged that after the wedding the small party should return to the Cosmopolitan Hotel. There dresses were to be changed; breakfast – or what passed as such – was to be eaten; last greetings were to be uttered; bride and bridegroom were to be despatched upon their duplicate way. No programme could have been better arranged, only, unfortunately, when it came to the point, the whole fell flat. This was owing to the unaccountable absence of the bridegroom’s partner. The meal was ready, the guests were ready, but this one was missing. Miss Foster alone was able to furnish an explanation of his non-appearance, and her account was principally remarkable for its vagueness.”

“There was some sort of disturbance among the crowd outside the church, in which a man and a policeman seemed to be figuring largely. Mr. Rodway would stop to see what it was about. He said he’d come on afterwards. That’s all I know.”

At least that was all she would tell. Nor, judging from her manner, was there any reason to suppose that she could have told more, even had she desired. Mr. Rodway was known to have his eccentric moods. It seemed that he had been indulging in one quite recently. So, since time was of importance, boat trains refusing to wait for anyone, the five sat down to table; hopeful, every moment, that the absentee would come.

Before he did appear the meal was nearly concluded, the moment being close at hand when the honeymooning couple would have to start. As he came hurrying along the corridor, looking not at all as if he were about to take a prominent part in a marriage festivity, a waiter stopped him, having an envelope in his hand.

“Mr. Rodway? I was told to give you this letter, sir, and to request you to read it before you joined the company.”

Mr. Rodway tore the envelope open with a finger which seemed tremulous. It contained a note written in a small, clear, almost masculine hand.

Dear Mr. Rodway, – Whatever you may have heard, say nothing to anyone; let them go in peace. If you have the slightest regard for Netta, you will not turn the happiest day of her life into the most miserable, I don’t suppose it will have any weight, but I beg you to behave as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, as a special favour to me. I will give you all the explanations you can possibly require afterwards.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Foster.

Although the words were plain enough, Mr. Rodway read them through again, as if, on the first reading, their meaning had escaped him. He turned to the waiter.

“Bring me some whiskey. Is there any place near where I can have it?”

“I think this sitting-room is disengaged. I will bring you the whiskey in a moment, sir.”

When it came he scarcely touched it. It seemed that all he wanted was an opportunity for a moment’s solitary reflection.

“Say nothing! Let them go in peace! That means that I’m to be this man’s confederate in still another crime. If I’ve any regard for Netta! Turn the happiest day of her life into the most miserable! God knows I’ve no desire to do that, and it’s because she is what she is to me that I’m in agony. One woman should understand another woman’s feelings better than I can. If she thinks that it would be better for Netta that for the present I should hold my tongue, I daresay that she knows best.”

Netta was leaving the room to put on her coat and hat as he entered. She greeted him with a reproachful smile.

“I thought you weren’t even coming to say goodbye. Where have you been?”

The sight of her seemed to tie his tongue into knots. He blundered in his speech.

“I’ve been – I’ve been—”

Miss Foster, the ever-ready, took the words out of his halting lips.

“Do you know where he’s been? Shall I tell you? There was a noisy person outside the church. I’m convinced that Mr. Rodway was simply burning to interview him. Now I expect he’s had that interview. Don’t you know that he’s extremely sensitive to any crumpled leaf which may affect your couch of roses?”

“I know that he’s a way of doing things which is particularly his own.”

Netta went out, laughing. Miss Foster, following through the door which he left open, favoured him with a meaning glance, murmuring a classic phrase.

“Mind! Mum’s the word!”

Mr. Smithers’ voice addressed him from behind.

“Why, Ben, you’re a pretty sort of deserter. I was afraid you wouldn’t even come in time to drink us God-speed.”

“There is always time for that.”

There was something unusual in the speaker’s voice, in the manner in which he sought to avoid the other’s face. Mr. Smithers commented on the peculiarity of the other’s demeanour, in words which seemed to be a little touched with scorn.

“What’s happened, Ben? I hope nothing unpleasant? On such a day as this nothing unpleasant must happen. In case of such a mishap, you just take the untoward event, twist it round, and you’ll find that on the obverse side there’s laughter. – Come, Ben, I recommend this wine; drink to this toast: May our honeymoon be cloudless, and our married life like an April shower; with – at worst! – the sun close at hand behind the cloud.”

Mr. Rodway raised the brimming glass, steadily regarding Mr. Smithers before he put it to his lips.

“I drink to Netta’s happiness.”

“Ah, Ben, that’s a better toast than mine! No heeltaps, sir, to a toast like that.”

Mr. Rodway, draining his glass, placed it upside down upon the table, turning away without another word.

Shortly the bride returned, equipped for travelling. Goodbyes were said. The married couple had an escort down into the hall. When the carriage bearing them to the station had started, Mr. Rodway turned to Miss Foster, who stood a little apart.

“I’ve allowed her to go off alone, unprotected, at the absolute mercy of a man who, if the half of what I’ve just been listening to is true, must be one of the biggest scoundrels in Europe; and this I’ve done – from the bottom of my heart, I believe foolishly! – all owing to you.”

The girl contemplated him with laughing eyes, not one whit abashed by his black looks.

“My dear Mr. Rodway, please make that bow of yours a little more presentable. Would you like me to tie it for you? It’s a little public on the steps here, but I don’t mind.” While the gentleman – with every outward symptom of unwillingness – grappled with his refractory necktie, the lady continued: “If what you say is correct – I rather doubt the quarter from which your information comes! – I can only give you the assurance of my personal conviction that sometimes in one scoundrel there is more good than in twelve just men.”

— XXVI —

THE MAN IN THE
MUSTARD-COLOURED SUIT

Mrs. Smithers sipped her chocolate. She regarded her husband, who reclined – in a state of considerable undress – on a couch in front of her. She herself was attired in a nondescript garment, which, to a masculine eye, appeared to consist principally of lace and ribbons, and which was pretending to assist in the concealment of the fact that she had just stepped out of bed.

“I should think that I must be the laziest person in the world!”

“So long as you’ve an inward persuasion that you’ve cut the record, it’s all right. This is a record-breaking age.”

“How long have we been married?”

“Do you want an answer in seconds or in years?”

“This is the third of December.”

“Since the second was yesterday, it’s within the range of possibility that you are right.”

“We’ve been married nearly three months.”

“And you still live?”

“Still live!” She laughed as she stirred her chocolate. “It’s only during those three months that I have begun to live.”

“It’s odd, but I’ve a somewhat similar – unreasonable – feeling about myself.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely!”

“But it can’t be quite the same to you. I’m coming to the conclusion that there’s nowhere you haven’t been; nothing you haven’t seen and done. You seem equally at home in every country, with every language. You knew the whole world well before I came into your life at all; while I – I’ve only just begun to know there is a world. And you are teaching me – showing me its greatness and its glory, its marvel and its mystery. It’s such a pleasant thing to be taught by one who knows, and whom one loves. It’s that which makes it different for me.”

The big man laughed. The lady looked across at him and smiled.

“I’m even beginning not to mind your laughter; to understand that where your heart is most concerned your laugh is nearest. It’s a way you have. You hide the tender nature which is in that great big chest of yours – and I do believe that you’ve the tenderest soul that ever was! – under a cloak of perpetual – shall I call it mockery? See you with that little child which had lost itself in the piazza the other day. Laughing at its sorrows, you take ever so much trouble to make it happier than ever it was in its life before. It’s a way you have. You’ll be like that to me, and more, when my day of sorrow comes; and when you fold me in your arms and I hear your laughter, I shall know that with me all will be well.”

They were at the Hotel du Quirinal in Rome, after a journeying hither and thither which had been to the young wife a continual rapture. It is so good a thing to have seen nothing when, in the springtime of your life, an opportunity comes to see all; especially if you are a woman who has just been married to a man to whom money is no object, and whose love for you is only equalled by yours for him. A girl’s first big drink at her woman’s cup of happiness, how sweet it is!

Netta Smithers had arrived at the conclusion that life was a fairy tale, in which there were nothing but good fairies; and that for a husband she had found the Admirable Crichton. Not in one jot or tittle had he hitherto fallen away from her high ideal. He is a remarkable man who lives with a woman three months without doing that. Love is blind, but it has its seeing moments; and in the course of three months those moments have an uncomfortable knack of developing into minutes; and even – too often – into hours. Until then the wife had seen nothing in her husband but what she was glad to see.

That afternoon an incident occurred which might have brought the first crumpling of a rose-leaf, if it had not been for him.

They were in a lazy mood; had stayed indoors throughout the morning, both attending to their correspondence. Letters with her took the form of endless paeans of laudation. They were delightful things to write; but – conceivably! – only a saving sense of humour, which lighted them here and there, kept them from being a trifle wearisome to read. Afterwards they decided to do some shopping. The amount of shopping which already had been done was not a little surprising. A perpetual stream of packages had been kept flowing towards their native land for which they were responsible.

They had finished lunch in their private apartment; the table had been cleared; they were just discussing the advisability of Netta’s preparing for out of doors, when the door opened and someone entered. It was a large room. Mr. Smithers’ back was towards the door. Netta, supposing it was the waiter who had returned, having forgotten some part of his necessary duty, did not look up. So that, as it chanced, both were taken by surprise when they found standing between them a stranger. And not a prepossessing looking stranger either.

He was a man of medium height, slightly built, who carried himself with a rigidity which spoke of military training. His long yellow moustache, turned up in German fashion at the ends, served to accentuate the impression of aggressiveness which his whole hearing conveyed. He wore a “ditto suit” of mustard-yellow smooth-faced cloth, the waistcoat being cut very high in front, so as to give but a glimpse of the narrow band of black ribbon which encircled the stiff shirt collar, which fitted so closely that it seemed

[missing text pg 286-287]

Smithers as if he imagined himself to be addressing some creature of the gutter, whom he could lash with his tongue as with a whip. His evident intention of being disagreeable had, however, no apparent effect upon his listener.

“I hold myself too straight for you? – Really?”

“You can grin. I am told that you are good at grinning. But you will not grin for long. We know all about you. You have just come out of jail. You went into jail as Andrew Bruce, you came out of jail as Francis Smithers. As Francis Smithers you at once proceeded to qualify for jail again by laying your hands upon our property.”

“You refer to the contents of the safe in Shoe Lane?”

“You know what I refer to. No fool talk for me.”

“I asked because I rather fancied that it was your friends who relieved me of the key of safe No. 226. In which case they have possibly themselves gained access to its contents.”

“Oh yes, it was my friends who relieved you of the key, and we have had a look at the safe. We also can do a thing or two. But for us, you are altogether too clever. In the safe there was nothing; you have put it all somewhere else. You think that smart? If, my smart chap, you have spent it, or turned any of it into money, or touched it in any way whatever, you will be sorry. You will find you have been too smart. For we will strip you to the buff, and we will crucify you, and while you are hanging there we will baste you with boiling oil – after we have torn your tongue out by the roots.”

“You are evidently a man of humour, Mr. Kronberg.”

“You also – for the present. You will not be so humorous later. As for your pretty girl, we will tell her what sort of an animal she has got hold of – that will please her! If it turns out that she stands in with you, then we will string her up at your side – that, too, you will find humorous! As you helped yourself to what is ours, in our turn we will help ourselves to what you think is yours – we will each of us have from her a kiss or two.”

“Have the kindness, Mr. Kronberg, to keep my wife’s name out of any remarks which you may desire to address to me.”

“Your wife! Your ———!”

Mr. Kronberg gave utterance to an opprobrious epithet. Mr. Smithers moved towards him. In a moment the Austrian, falling back, was presenting a revolver at the other’s head.

“Don’t you try any of that!”

He possibly underrated the Englishman’s agility and presence of mind. Before the words were out of his mouth his antagonist had gripped his wrist, and, with a dexterous movement, had wrenched the weapon out of his hand. There was a flash, a report – on a sudden Mr. Kronberg descended on a heap to the floor. As Mr. Smithers stood looking down at him, not a muscle of his countenance changed. The occurrence apparently served to recall to his mind an ancient saw.

“Every bullet has its billet!” He laughed, as if the application, in the present case, was comical. “During the single moment in which the muzzle looked his way – it discharged itself. For which of us set the trigger in action I have not a notion. The predicament is an awkward one!”

He bent over the prostrate man, who was bunched up in that very ugly fashion which is only seen in cases of serious trouble.

“Mr. Kronberg! – No answer, no movement. It would seem that these gentlemen of the Eight are a little unfortunate.” Lifting the Austrian’s head, he placed him in a less ungainly attitude upon his back. “A rascal face, though saintly features do not make saints. His moustache gives to him an unnecessary touch of the grotesque. So that’s where the bullet entered, within an inch of his heart. And only that small stain upon his beautiful yellow waistcoat! So small a show of blood is in itself suspicious. No pulsation. Did it kill him instantly? It’s very odd how easily that sort of thing is done.”

His wife’s voice was heard speaking to him from behind the door which led into the bedroom.

“Frank! – Are you alone? May I come in?”” He looked up, smiling, his face turned towards the door.

“Patience! I’m- coming to you in half a second.” He glanced back at Mr. Kronberg.

“What shall I do – with this? Time’s pressing.”

A large couch stood against a wall, on which was a huge bearskin carriage rug – one of his gifts to his wife. He picked up Mr. Kronberg, and he placed him on this couch, with his brown hat and his revolver. Over the whole he spread the bearskin rug – hurriedly.

Just as he had finished giving the couch as neat an appearance as the circumstances of the case permitted, Netta came into the room.

— XXVII —

NETTA CRIES

She was ready for their shopping expedition, looking charming in her long fur coat and small hat, which was perched, coquettishly, a little on one side of her dainty head. She regarded her husband with a smile; which he returned – he was just moving away from the couch on which was the bearskin rug.

“What was that noise?”

“Noise? Like a pistol shot? Wasn’t that overhead?”

“It sounded” – she glanced about her – “it sounded as if it were in here. I wondered if that agreeable visitor and you were beginning to shoot each other.” She sniffed. “And what’s the smell? It smells” – another sniff – “like fireworks.”

“You’ve the great gift of imagination, which extends even to your nose.”

“There is a smell” – sniff – “of something unusual. You’re not to laugh at me. I’m sure my nose has no more imagination than yours has. Well, have you got rid of your visitor?”

“Yes; I’ve got rid of him.”

“Who was he, and what did he want?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you a satisfactory answer to either question. I didn’t wait for him to come to an end of his explanations. Are you ready?”

“Of course I am. Don’t ever accuse me of keeping you waiting. I’ve been kept waiting – nearly! – thirty seconds.”

“I want you to do me a favour; a great one. Get me a hat. You’ll find a row of them hanging on the pegs in my dressing-room.”

“Do you want any gloves? – and a stick?”

“I shall be exceedingly obliged by your providing me with both, if I may impose on you so serious a task.”

When she had gone to do his errand he continued to stare at the bearskin rug.

“It looks odd, as if there were – something underneath. I must arrange it better than that. I don’t wish to convey the impression to any uninvited person who may chance to stray into the room that we are using that rug for an improper purpose; as, for instance, to conceal something which ought not to be hidden. In all delicate matters one should avoid attracting the attention of the inquisitive.”

He went to the couch and drew one end of the bearskin over the head, so that, descending in an even slope to the foot, it presented no marked inequality of surface. He contemplated this result with seeming satisfaction.

“I don’t fancy that that looks as if there were anything remarkable underneath. If only someone doesn’t sit down on it. If they do they maybe startled. The risk of leaving it here is not inconsiderable – in an hotel one never knows who may take it into his head to come prying into one’s sitting-room while one is out of it, but the risk of attempting to place it somewhere else before Netta brings that hat of mine would be still greater. It is when we return from our tour round the shops that complications will commence. Netta likes to recline upon this couch. While we are out I shall have to think of something.”

The lady, reappearing, found the gentleman transferring some cigars from a box upon a sideboard to his cigar-case. He was humming to himself an air which had caught his fancy in a new opera which they had seen at the Argentina a night or two before.

“You didn’t tell me which hat you wanted, so, as there are about twenty, I had to guess. Don’t blame me if I’ve brought the wrong one.”

“You’re sure to have done that. It is the wrong one. Thank you, that will do very well.”

They had a delightful walk. The afternoon was fine. All Rome was out of doors. They wandered hither and thither, in the haphazard fashion which commended itself to Netta.

“I should like to lose myself,” she would sometimes declare. “It would be something of an adventure, and in this world adventures are so few. But it’s quite impossible to do it when one’s out with you; – even in Rome, where I should have thought nothing could he easier. I’m sure three-quarters of the time I haven’t the very faintest notion where I am. But your bump of locality is positively uncanny. Just as you’re sure that you’ve never been near this place before, and that you’ll never find your way out again, you just say, ‘Oh, you take the third turning on your left, and the fourth on your right, and the seventh on your left again, and you go straight on till you come to a pump at the corner, and you twist round twice, and in front of you is the Strada Something-or-other, and there you are!’ When you’ve been persuaded that you really are lost after all, and that you’re doomed to tramp those ancient lanes and alleys till you die, I call that sort of thing provoking.”

“Attribute it to my misfortune rather than my fault.”

“I shall attribute it to precisely what I please. And it’s lovely to go about with someone who always knows exactly where he is. It gives you such a feeling of safety.”

They bought things, of various kinds, in various places. As a purchaser, Netta was omnivorous. Whatever caught her eye that she thought she would like to buy, she mostly bought. If it was not likely to be of use to her, then it would be just the thing for someone else. And people liked to receive presents from their friends who happened to be travelling; it showed that they were not forgotten. Her husband laughed at her.

“I suppose you’re not aware that you can buy these very same things in town at about half the price?”

The lady puckered her brow. The suggestion troubled her.

“Can you? I suppose you can. But then you couldn’t say that they were bought in Rome.”

“No; you couldn’t claim the credit of having been so foolish.”

The lady drew herself up – offended – for about the twinkling of an eye.

“Now I shan’t buy another thing – at least, unless I see something I really want. Oh, isn’t that glass vase pretty? Wouldn’t it look lovely filled with roses?”

“You have already invested in about twenty glass vases, which would all look lovely filled with roses!”

“Have I? So many as that? But it would be the very thing for mother.”

“How? You’ve sent her five, to my certain knowledge. Have you any reason to suppose that she intends to set up as a collector of glass vases?”

“I know I’ve sent her one or two. I daresay she wouldn’t know what to do with it. No; I don’t think I truly want it.”

But when the dealer beguiled her into holding the vase in her own two hands, and she perceived how pretty it really was, she melted – as did the money in her husband’s pockets. Finally they found themselves again in the Corso, with the lady a little tired, and disposed, since the weather was still warm, to take her ease outside a café. She loved, as she put it, to see the crowd go by. As they were about to take their seats at one of the little tables, she exclaimed—

“Why, Frank, there’s your friend of the moustaches and the yellow suit.”

Although the words could scarcely have failed to have startled him – for he had had the problem of how to dispose of what was underneath the bearskin present in his mind throughout the afternoon – he showed no sign of any feeling of the kind, but looked round leisurely in the direction in which she was glancing.

“Do you mean the man in the mustard-coloured suit?”

“Yes – there he is, crossing the road – behind that team – now – he’s vanished.”

“I certainly do not see him.”

“You weren’t quick enough – he was going at a tremendous rate. It certainly was he. As he passed I noticed how he stared.”

“Do you mean that he passed close to us?”

“Right behind us – as if he were coming from the Via Nazionale – perhaps from our hotel. When he saw you he quickened his pace; as if, remembering the result of his first interview, he was not anxious to risk another.”

By now they were seated. Mr. Smithers, having given his order, was lighting a cigar.

“There is probably more than one man in Rome who wears a mustard-coloured suit.”

“But let’s hope, not such another one as he. I’m sure it was your friend. I saw him too recently to be able to mistake his face for someone else’s – with his ridiculous moustaches and insolent stare.”

Her husband was silent. When he spoke again it was to call her attention to the fact that the evening was drawing in, and that it was growing colder.

On their return to the hotel he cast a curious glance at the porter who swung open the door. In the hall he paused for a moment, looking about him as if in search of someone, or in expectation of something happening. Declining to patronise the lift, they walked up the stairs to their rooms, which were on the first floor. Netta’s maid met her on the threshold of her bedroom. She was a pleasant-faced woman, perhaps nearly forty years of age, whose services the young wife was beginning to consider indispensable, and to whom she had already grown attached. She greeted her mistress.

“I have a good fire for you, madam. It is growing cold.”

“It certainly is chillier. Directly the sun goes in, the temperature goes down with a rush.” She spoke to her husband. “Are you going into the sitting-room?” He nodded. “I’ll be with you in half a minute.”

With her maid she retreated into the bedroom.

Outside the sitting-room Mr. Smithers for a moment stayed, as if listening. Then, opening the door, he took a step into the room and pause again; seeming – as he had done in the hall – to search the apartment for something unusual. Nothing unwonted was to be seen. He glanced at the couch. The bearskin descended – as he had left it – in an even slope from the head to the foot. He placed his hat, stick, and gloves upon a table; then moved to the couch.

“Could it have been him she saw? As she said, she was hardly likely to be mistaken. And yet!” He drew the bearskin aside. There was nothing underneath. For the space of several minutes he remained, a corner of the rug in his hand, staring at the empty couch – considering. He was still there when his wife came out of the bedroom. Something in his attitude seemed to strike her.

“Frank, whatever are you standing there like that for? What are you looking at?”

He dropped the rug and turned.

“I fancy I was dreaming.”

She went towards him, then stopped as if to listen. Indeed, she did listen. They both did – to the sound of someone whistling – whistling clearly and truly – the air they knew by heart. If they could trust the evidence of their ears, the performer was in the room; if the evidence of their eyes, except themselves the room was empty. Netta’s lips parted, her eyes opened wider, her cheeks went a little pale.

“Frank! – it’s the whistler! – the same tune – where can he be? What does it mean?”

He regarded her with his smiling eyes.

“It’s odd – it is the tune.”

Going to her putting his arm about her, he led her to the fireplace. The sound stopped – the air was finished. As it ceased, she burst into sudden tears. It was an unprecedented thing for her to do; he had never known her cry before. Sitting on an armchair which was at the side of the hearth he lifted her on to his knee, soothing her as if she were a little child.

“I know it’s silly of me, but – Frank! – what does it mean?”

As he laughed, and folding his arms about her drew her closer to him, the sound of the whistling began again.

— XXVIII —

A WOMAN ELOQUENT

The room which Miss Foster called her ‘den,’ and in which she, presumably, spent a considerable portion of her life, was an apartment about ten feet square, which was so encumbered with furniture of a peculiar kind that there was no room in it for anything else. She had acquired the knack of finding space in it for herself somehow, but her friends, less accustomed to the exigencies of the situation, were apt to show by their demeanour that their sense of comfort was to seek. The more familiar were the terms of friendship on which they stood, the more emphatic was the expression of their discontent.

“If you’d only let me drop three-quarters of this rubbish out of the window,” her brother would observe, “one might be able to move about.”

“My dear Sidney,” his sister would retort, “in a room one is not supposed to move about.”

This reading of the law, on the subject of deportment in certain places, did not seem to commend itself to Mr. Rodway. He had called to see her, at the lady’s special invitation, and to judge by the manner in which he bore himself,must have been continually inspired by the wish that he had shown more wisdom. The subject of conversation interested him deeply, and when that was the case it was impossible for him to keep still. Let the rules as to the deportment which was proper in a room be what they may, he had to move about. In the present instance the consequences were that he had already knocked over a fair proportion of the articles which the room contained, and nearly knocked over all the rest – having just succeeded in upsetting a flimsy cane construction which was supposed to represent a table, and which was crowded with photographs, some of them in glass-fronted frames.

“I’m afraid,” he explained, as he stooped to pick up what was left, “that some of the glasses are cracked.”

“Shivered to splinters, you mean. I heard them smash. But it doesn’t matter. They’re only friends of mine. – You were saying?”

Mr. Rodway picked some of the pieces of glass out of his fingers. He found that these interruptions diverted the even current of his thoughts.

“I – I was saying that it is wholly inconsistent with my ideas of duty to allow Netta to live with a man of whose real character she is so frightfully ignorant.”

“But she has lived with him. You should have thought of that before.”

“It isn’t fair of you to say that. She would never have gone away with him upon her honeymoon in ignorance if it hadn’t been for you.”

“How intensely grateful she would be to me if she were acquainted with that fact. For she appears to have had a perfectly delightful time. ‘Roses, roses, all the way!’ – Oh, if we could all of us be certain of idyllic bliss for at least one period in our lives!”

Mr. Rodway favoured the speaker with a sidelong glance, as if he suspected her of some esoteric meaning.

“But the awakening must come, and then it will be all the more bitter for what has gone before.”

“But why must what you call ‘the awakening’ come? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Do you suppose that I could allow her to continue in ignorance – even if there were not others who will take advantage of the first opportunity to open her eyes?”

“To what?”

“To his record! – To the type of man he is!”

“What type of man is he?”

“You ask me that!”

“I can only say that, so far as I know, he’s the type of man I should like to marry.”

“Miss Foster!”

“Mr. Rodway! – I wish you weren’t quite so excitable. Heat doesn’t impress me in the least. You say he’s been in prison.”

“I say! – Swire says. He ought to know, since he was there with him.”

“That must have been a disadvantage to have had Mr. Swire as a companion. And yet I don’t know. I think I should rather like to meet Mr. Swire.”

“I’ll take care you do nothing of the kind.”

“You’ll take care? Indeed. Nothing is more sure than that many reputable persons do go to prison. You don’t know what he was there for.”

“I can soon find out. I should have done it before if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Always me! How fortunate that you are acquainted with one person who’s possessed of common-sense. I’m prepared to bet – and pay if I lose – that he was there for nothing discreditable.”

“Your code of ethics is your own. A jailbird is a jailbird. What do you suppose your brother would say if he were acquainted with the facts, which you have forbidden me to communicate to him?”

“I have, for the present.”

“Do you think he’d associate with him?”

“My brother is not a cur, or he wouldn’t be my brother.”

“I’m not suggesting he is a cur. On the contrary, he is one of the finest all-round fellows I ever met.”

“And therefore the less likely to forget that, for all he has, and hopes to be, he is indebted – to the same person as you are.”

“Don’t you understand?”

“Please don’t hammer that screen with your fist. It wasn’t built to resist a battering-ram.”

“Don’t you understand that that’s the most hideous feature of the whole position?”

“What’s the most hideous feature? – Now, you’re about to renew the assault!”

“That, involuntarily, unconsciously, I should have played receiver to a thief! That the prosperity of the Rodway .Power should have been built upon dishonesty!”

“There is that way of looking at it.”

“There’s only that way! One rogue points out to another where he has hidden the fruits of his rascality, and the second uses them to finance an honest man.”

“Well, and why not?”

“Why not? – When, by so doing, he tars the unconscious wretch with his own brush. You don’t understand what all this means to me; how it threatens to make of my whole life a grotesque wreck.”

“Oh yes, I do understand. I understand that we are getting there.”

“Getting where?”

“To the point; that your grievance is a personal one; which makes you so – robustious.”

“Miss Foster, I am perhaps old-fashioned. I was brought up on simple lines; being taught that there was a fundamental difference between right and wrong, and that the two could not be blended. If then, this man—”

“I decline to allow you, in my presence, to speak of him as a man; unless, that is, you mean that he is as much a man as you are, and probably more.”

“If, then, my partner is a thief, and used a thief’s money to place me where I am, then all I have has sprung from roguery; and if I wish to free myself from the taint of roguery, I must put it all from me and begin again.”

“Don’t you believe he’s honest?”

“I did!”

“Don’t you know even now, deep down in your heart, that you’d trust him before any other man you ever met?”

“In the face of what Swire says!”

“In the face of what Mr. Swire says. – Mr. Swire! You compare him to Mr. Swire?”

“I don’t. I feel that he ought to be confronted with Swire, and heard in his own defence.”

“Shall I tell you what I feel? Listen to me, Mr. Rodway; and please don’t – merely because you’re getting the worst of the argument – destroy all my furniture. That’s the third time you’ve knocked down that flower-stand.”

“Really, Miss Foster, I – I beg ten thousand pardons, but it – it’s so fragile.”

“It will be worse than fragile by the time you’ve done with it. It’s not meant to be used like that. There is no reason why you should take advantage of the fact that it has no legs to stand upon worth mentioning.”

The article in question was an elongated tripod, of too anaemic a constitution to stand up in the teeth of a healthy draught. Awed by its owner’s severity, Mr. Rodway replaced it as best he could.

“Now, if you will be so good as to attend to a few remarks I have to make, and to keep still. You say that the name of the man who died in prison was Edney – George Edney.”

“Swire says it was.”

“George Edney ruined my father; robbed us of our home; of all that, in those days, made life worth living; and drove Sidney and me out into the world to earn our daily bread.”

“Miss Foster! – You don’t mean it!”

Coming into unexpected contact with an unnoticed chair, Mr. Rodway plunged down on it with a sudden vigour which caused it to emit a sinister sound of unmistakable resentment.

“I do mean it. I also mean that that chair is intended for sylph-like persons, weighing not more than six stone, and that you appear to weigh sixteen. I’m not sure that there is a chair in the room which is capable of bearing you; but if there is, it’s that.”

She pointed to a wooden chair which stood against the wall, of a singularly aggravating design. It had a very small, triangular seat, and a very straight, high, and narrow back. Mr. Rodway perched himself upon it with something of the air of a humiliated schoolboy.

“I will tell you the story.” – She told him the tale – so far as it was known to her – of Glasspoole’s folly and Edney’s knavery; he listening, open-eyed and open-mouthed. “Since the probability is that the money which Edney left to Netta’s husband is part of that of which he robbed us, I think you will admit that I have almost as much right to judge him as you have.”

“I’d no idea! – This is awful!”

“Of course you’d no idea. And in what sense do you use the word ‘awful’? I suppose you must have something in you, or you wouldn’t have invented the Rodway Power, but of your judgement in ordinary matters I have no opinion whatever. If accident hadn’t brought you into contact with a profoundly honest, clear-headed man, you’d have been the best plundered inventor that ever lived – such is my solemn conviction.”

Mr. Rodway only gasped – partly, perhaps, because the young lady expressed her views with such perfect frankness; and, possibly, partly because, while her flashing eyes continued to regard him with such accusatory sternness, he dared not move from the seat on which he was enduring the acme of discomfort. She went on, with an eloquent fluency which visibly impressed him:

“Let me state the case as it appears to me. Mr. Smithers – or Mr. Bruce, as you say he is – though I shall continue to call him Mr. Smithers till he tells me not to – sinned – that’s the presumption. I don’t know how or why. But I’m sure he did nothing dishonest; nothing mean; nothing unworthy; nothing which was in disaccord with an ideal code of honour. Yet he must have offended in a legal sense, or he would scarcely have found himself in Canterstone Jail. There he met George Edney. He listened to him, as he lay upon his deathbed – probably not believing one per cent of what he said. When he found himself again outside the prison gates, with everything – apparently – lost; with nothing to hope for; with the consciousness strong upon him of what men of your stamp say – and think – about jailbirds, he perhaps thought that he would at least see what amount of truth there was in Edney’s statements. He learned that there was more than he expected – than anyone would have expected. He found himself in possession of a considerable sum of money. You may be sure that the problem which presented itself to him was the same problem which would have presented itself to you – what should he do with it? And I think he found a saner solution than you might have done. I believe that the decision at which he arrived was this – that he would use it to repair the mischief which George Edney had wrought. That he would leave no stone unturned to discover whom Edney had wronged, and how; and that then he would make it his especial care that the atonement should be greater than the injury.”

“You believe that really?”

“With all the strength of belief that is in me. Doesn’t everything point to it? His encounter with you was a stroke of fortune in this sense. Probably the fund on which he had chanced was insufficient for the purpose for which it would have to be employed. He recognised instantly the value of your invention; perceived that – for your own safety’s sake – you stood in urgent need of a competent, honest associate; and straightway resolving to do a triple service – to you; to the world; to Edney’s victims. He immediately saw that here was an opportunity to provide himself with ample funds to alleviate – so far as money could – the suffering which had been caused. So he became your partner; picking you out of the ditch – according to your own confession – and setting you on the high-road to wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. What was the first thing he did when success was assured? He went down and bought my old home – which had been the special object of Edney’s wickedness; discovered Sidney – who was all that was left of the Fosters; put him there and then in the way to fortune; assuring him that when he was possessed of sufficient means – which he himself was placing in his hands – he should reign again in the home of his fathers. He is not the type of man to make open overtures of pecuniary assistance to a high-minded, high-thinking, and tolerably respectable young woman; but I’m persuaded that he is putting into Netta’s hand – without her knowing it – schemes for making a millionairess of me, even against my will. I’m beginning to perceive the cloven hoof peeping out of her letters. You wait and see. He’s routed out Mr. Glasspoole—”

“Glasspoole! Is that the steward at Dene Park?”

“It is – also George Edney’s employer, and dupe. I have it from Mr. and Mrs. Glasspoole’s own lips that they were in the direst straits – discredited, despairing, at misery’s last fence – when he hunted them out – and now see where they are. Sometime back I heard from an acquaintance that her husband had received a letter from a firm of solicitors advising him that they were instructed by some person or persons unnamed to hand him the amount enclosed as compensation for the loss he had suffered by Edney’s criminality. The amount in question represented the original sum, at something more than compound interest. Since then I have heard of other similar cases. Your partner instructed Mr. Glasspoole to draw up a list of his clients whom Edney caused to suffer wrong, and those one-time victims are now finding themselves in clover.

“And this is the man whom you, from the impregnable heights of your superiority in virtue and sapience, propose to brand as – I don’t quite know what, but as something unspeakable. Why, Mr. Rodway, if you were to do as you suggest, and were to attempt to disillusion Netta, you would yourself be guilty of a shameful, unforgivable crime.”

The lady, becoming enamoured of her theme, had risen from her seat, and stood confronting him, with outstretched hands, as an eloquent counsel might have stood before a jury. He seemed to be at least as much impressed by her earnestness as would have been the average juryman. Having deserted his position on the chair against the wall, he fidgeted about from place to place, as if in search of words with which to express his meaning.

“You – you present a view of the case which is entirely novel to me; and – and no doubt there’s a great deal to be said for it.”

“A great deal to be said for it! – There’s everything to be said for it! – everything!” _

“Even granting that, you must bear in mind that it is not from me only – or even principally – that danger is to be feared. There are Theodore Ludlow and the man Swire. They have both of them objects to gain; to obtain them, they’ll stick at nothing.”

“You and I will be a match for them.”

“You and I? Really – I’m afraid I don’t quite see how. I don’t see, for instance, how you are going to prevent Ludlow from telling his sister what he knows, and Swire from making himself disagreeable.”

“You are excessively dense. I’ll show you how it can be done. Will you sign a treaty of alliance?”

She held out her hand – of which he promptly took advantage.

“I shall be charmed.”

“You promise to do everything I tell you?”

An expression of dubiety came over his features, as if he regretted the haste with which he had placed his palm in hers.

“I will certainly undertake to give any suggestion you may make my most serious consideration.”

“That won’t do at all – not in the least. In dealing with such creatures as the two you’ve named, I’ve methods of my own. To ensure success for those methods, it is necessary that I should have an ally on whom I can implicitly depend. The question therefore is – can I, or can I not, depend on you? – are you with me, or against me?”

“If you put it that way, I am with you – certainly – all the way.”

“Then mind you are.” They solemnly shook hands. “Don’t sit there; that’s your chair against the wall.”

He looked at it and sighed.

— XXIX —

FRIENDS IN COUNCIL

It was not an announcement which was likely to appeal to the sympathies of Mr. Swire, as the expression which was on that gentleman’s countenance plainly showed.

“In connection with the

Juvenile Branch of the Sons of Water,

MR. THEODORE LUDLOW
has kindly consented to give an Address,
entitled

TEMPERANCE: WHENCE IT COMES, WHAT IT IS, WHERE IT GOES.”

Mr. Swire glared at the placard on which the words were printed as if it were a personal enemy. Then, withdrawing a step or two, he surveyed the building with which it was associated.

“So this is Ebenezer Chapel, is it? and this is where he comes and gives his addresses? Very good; when he comes I’ll take the liberty of addressing him.”

Mr. Ludlow was probably not gratified when he discovered who was awaiting his arrival outside the edifice within whose walls he was to deliver his acute and well-chosen observations. A more disreputable figure than Mr. Swire presented would have been hard to find, or one more suited to illustrate at least a certain side of the forthcoming remarks. At the very gates of the chapel, in full view of the already assembling audience, this disgraceful-looking person addressed him with a degree of freedom which could not have been agreeable.

“So there you are, are you? Found you, have I? Perhaps you don’t know I’ve been looking for you this month and more; daresay you’ve never guessed that I’ve found out how you’ve been kidding me.”

Mr. Ludlow endeavoured to pass off the obvious fact of Mr. Swire’s existence with an air of carelessness which scarcely suited him.

“Ah, Swire – still in the flesh? And what has brought you here?”

“The same thing that’s brought you. You’re going to give an address, and I’m going to give an address – to you.”

Mr. Ludlow glanced about him. Undoubtedly his encounter with this dreadful creature was becoming the subject of comment. Persons passing up towards the entrance turned to look. At the private door someone stood and watched. Perhaps it was an office-bearer; even a deacon. The lecturer on temperance felt that it would be advisable to rid himself of this fellow at the earliest possible moment. He spoke to him in low, peremptory tones.

“If you wish to speak to me, you can do so in an hour and a half.”

“If it’s all the same to you I’d sooner speak to you now.”

“You cannot. I have a lecture to deliver. I will speak to you afterwards. – Now go. Let me pass.”

Mr. Swire had placed himself in front of him in a manner which was suggestive.

“Hand over a sovereign and I’ll think about it.”

“A sovereign! – What do you mean?”

“For gargle – that’s what I mean. Do you think that I’m going to wait for you dry-mouthed?”

Mr. Ludlow eyed Mr. Swire with what might be described as scorn leavened with uneasiness.

“Are you aware that I am just going to deliver a lecture on temperance? – And you ask me to encourage you in your habits of drunkenness!”

“I don’t want no encouragement. Money’s what I want, that’s all.”

“Then you’ll get no money for that purpose out of me. – Now, my man, stand aside.”

“I’ll stand aside when I’ve said my say to you, not before. You get your sister married to the biggest scoundrel in England—”

Mr. Swire had commenced his observations in a tone of voice which was so audible that Mr. Ludlow became immediately conscious of the extreme desirability of inducing him to cut them short, at least for the present. He produced a coin.

“Here’s a shilling for you. While you are waiting, you can get something to eat.”

In reply the other’s language was full-flavoured.

“I don’t want none of your shillings, and I don’t want nothing to eat. Drink’s what I’m after. Make it half a quid – its dry work waiting.”

“I will make it half-a-crown, but not another farthing. Will you take it and go, or shall I call a policeman?”

“Call a policeman! – You’ll call a policeman!”

“I certainly will. I don’t intend to allow myself to be annoyed by you. Be under no misapprehension.”

Either Mr. Ludlow’s show of firmness, or the coin temptingly displayed between his finger and thumb, affected Mr. Swire. He condescended to pocket the half-crown.

“When you’ve given that address of yours on temperance, you’ll find me waiting for you here; so don’t you flatter yourself you won’t.”

Possibly this was an occasion on which Mr. Ludlow would have been willing that the other should stray from the strict paths of truth, but Mr. Swire evinced a fondness for veracity to which he was perhaps occasionally a stranger. When, at last, the lecturer appeared there, on the pavement was his friend. He remained in the building to the very last moment, so that as few of his audience should witness the meeting as might be. Before he left he thought it advisable to tell a falsehood to such persons in authority as were with him in the vestry – by way, perhaps, of exhibiting his zeal for the cause for which he had just been speaking.

“There’s a sad case in which I am much interested – of a man who has given himself body and soul to the demon. I rather fancy he’s waiting for me outside now. I still trust to be able to snatch him as a brand from the burning.”

If such was the case he displayed his trust in rather a singular fashion. So soon as he was in the street, he marched off at the top of his speed, and had already, at the corner of the street, reached a region where cabs and omnibuses were procurable, before the sad case in question had him – literally – by the shoulder.

“That’s the game, is it? – Thought that half-dollar of yours had done the trick? – Then you’re wrong; it ain’t.”

Mr. Ludlow professed surprise at seeing the speaker at his elbow.

“So you’ve not gone. I suppose it was owing to the darkness that I didn’t see you. – Now what have you to say to me?”

“I’ve a good deal to say to you. Do you want me to say it here?”

Mr. Ludlow considered – or pretended to.

“I’m afraid I’m rather pressed for time just now. I think I would rather make an appointment with you for tomorrow, and then we can go into everything together thoroughly and at our leisure.”

“You made an appointment with me once before and didn’t keep it. What kind of a fool do you think I am? Before I lose sight of you, you and me’s going to have an understanding.”

“But I can’t talk to you here.”

“You live somewhere I suppose. You take me home; I’ll talk to you there.”

The suggestion did not commend itself to Mr. Ludlow.

“Isn’t there some place near here where we can be private?”

“There’s a little crib I know of.”

“Is it respectable?”

“For respectability it’s equal to Buckingham Palace any day.”

“Is it far?”

“Just round the corner.”

“Then I’ll give you ten minutes – not longer. You lead the way and I’ll follow you.”

“No, you don’t. You might do your following in the wrong direction, once my back was turned. If I’m not good enough for you to walk with, you’ll have to make believe I am, and that’s all about it.”

Again Mr. Ludlow reflected. There were reasons – substantial ones – why he did not wish to have too of much Mr. Swire’s society. Still, on several accounts, he did not wish to have an open rupture with him then and there. Moreover, there was something which he really desired to say to him. So, summing up the matter, he arrived at a hasty decision to give the fellow the interview he desired, on his own terms.

“If you’ll show me the way, I’ll come with you. Only move yourself, and be quick about it.”

In a few moments he became conscious that they were entering a neighbourhood which was not exactly savoury.

“Where are you taking me? You told me that the place of which you spoke was just round the corner.”

“That was a figure of speech, that was; don’t you know what a figure of speech is? It’s under a quarter of a mile from where we’re standing, and that’s the gospel truth.” Mr. Ludlow hesitated. There was something in the man’s manner which he did not like, yet which he hardly knew how to deal with.

“I don’t want any of your nonsense, you understand, and I’ll have none. I’m not going with you to any thieves’ kennel, nor to any place of the kind. I’d rather listen to what you have to say to me here.”

“The idea! just as though I’d take you to such as them. I tell you there ain’t a more decenter house in London.” Mr. Swire’s tone suddenly changed, passing from what he intended for the persuasive to the avowedly bellicose. “I’ve had enough of your humbug. You won’t let me come to your place; you won’t let me talk to you in the street; nothing will suit but that you should go to my place, and now you’re going, so don’t let me hear no more about it.”

Mr. Ludlow concluded that probably the lesser evil would be to let Mr. Swire have his own way, so he went. The quarter mile was proved to consist of a good deal more than 440 yards; nor did the character of the neighbourhood get better as they advanced. At last, in a very narrow alley, Mr. Swire paused before what was apparently a bird shop, on a very small scale. The little window was filled with birds in cages. More birds and cages decorated the doorway. Although it was long past the hour when they ought to have been asleep, some of them were still indulging in vocal exercises. Mr. Swire waved his hand.

“Here you are! Ain’t this good enough? No one ain’t likely to come to much harm where there’s all these birds about.”

Some such thought was passing through his companion’s mind. The place promised better than he had feared. A man appeared at the doorway, short, square-built, with a pipe in his mouth. He eyed Mr. Swire and his companion, addressing the former.

“So it’s you, is it? Now, what’s the game?”

Mr. Swire replied:

“I’ve got a little business with a friend of mine. Want to go up to the Cave, so that we can be alone together.”

The man said nothing. The pair entered, not the shop, but a sort of covered entry which ran beside it, ending in what was rather a flight of steps than stairs.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the Cave of Harmony.”

“The Cave of Harmony? What do you mean?”

“The Cave of Harmony is where they hold the singing matches. I’ve known more than a hundred birds enter for a really big prize. There ain’t no better room of the kind in town, nor one what’s better thought of. Let me go up first and open the door.”

Mr. Swire went up first. Mr. Ludlow followed, not with the best grace; there was a remoteness about the place which, in his present company, he did not appreciate. The apartment to which he was introduced seemed to be rather a loft than a room. There was no ceiling. The open raftered roof was whitewashed like the walls. A board on trestles represented a table. Ancient forms stood against the walls. Nails were everywhere; intended, the visitor surmised, to sustain the cages of the contestants when a ‘singing match’ was on. A musty smell made the air of the place offensive, though it was unwarmed and the night was cold. Gas flamed from a solitary bracket. As Mr. Ludlow entered, not too willingly, Swire, pulling the door to behind him, turned the key, an action which his companion instantly resented.

“What do you mean by that? – I insist upon your unlocking that door at once.”

“You insist! – How are you going to insist? – That’s what I want to know.”

The eyes of the two men met – for half-a-dozen seconds only. But it was long enough for Mr. Ludlow to learn that in courage, of a kind, he had met more than his match. He himself was possessed of the sort of hardihood which, while it sticks at nothing, shuns physical violence even in the uttermost extremity. Against a rough-and-tumble encounter with a man of this type, in a place of this sort, every nerve in his body protested. Yet too late he realised that nothing short of that might enable him to successfully resist the fellow’s demands. To get himself out of the difficulty by which he suddenly found himself confronted, he was prepared to promise anything.

“I don’t understand you, Swire. What quarrel have you with me?”

“We’ll come to that presently. To begin with, I want you to answer one or two questions. The first is – What’s the address of the bloke your sister married? – Where am I going to find him?”

“He’s abroad.”

“You told me that before, and I ain’t saying he isn’t. But what I want to know is, where shall I find him when he isn’t abroad? – And, for the matter of that, where do you find him when he is?”

“I’ll be frank with you.”

“Perhaps you’d better.”

“You gave me certain information as to the person with whom my sister has been ill-advised enough to associate herself in marriage. I have inquired into that information, and regret to say that, in the main, I have found it to be accurate.”

“You have, have you?”

“I have not only ascertained that he is a convicted felon, but I have also learned of what crime he was guilty.”

“What was it?”

“A dreadful, an atrocious, an unspeakable crime.”

“What was it?”

“Murder.”

“Murder? – Why, he only got two years.”

“Owing to a technical flaw the jury returned it as manslaughter. But it was murder none the less – hideous murder. The story is a dreadful one; – the man’s whole record is frightful. He is one of those creatures whose existence is a reproach to civilisation.”

“What price what he done after he came out?”

“There is that again. So far from punishment inducing him to halt in his career of crime, with unparalleled effrontery he continues in it to the present hour. And this is the man who has my sister for his wife.”

“You wouldn’t have known nothing about him if it hadn’t been for me.”

“That is scarcely correct. I had some knowledge of his character before I was aware of your existence.”

“Are you denying that I put you on his track?”

Mr. Swire spoke with a degree of warmth which induced Mr. Ludlow to draw a little back.

“I am denying nothing. I am conscious of my obligations to you in that matter.”

“What I want to know is, what I’m going to get out of it. Up to now I ain’t got much.”

“You must understand that I’ve many things to consider.”

“I’ve only got two: one is to be even with him for what he done to me; the other is, to get as much out of him as ever I can.”

Mr. Swire presented with such admirable candour, and, it may be added, completeness, the only two motives which were really actuating Mr. Ludlow, that for a moment that gentleman was silent. Mr. Swire went on.

“We’ve got him between our finger and thumb, that’s where we’ve got him. It seems that he’s passing himself off as someone else. Well, we’ve only got to say the word and he’ll be a good deal less than no one.”

“He’s no common villain, I assure you; nor is he so easy to deal with as you appear to imagine.”

“Do you think I don’t know him? Do you think that I don’t know he’d make nothing of putting away either you or me? Ain’t I had his hand upon me? – Is he fond of your sister?”

“So I’ve been given to understand – in his way.”

“Then we’ve got him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Through her. Putting the screw on her’ll be putting the screw on him. If he’s fond of her, he won’t want her to know about him. It might break her heart. Some women’s hearts break easy.”

“I believe it would break hers.”

“Then we’ll start breaking it right away, which’ll do the trick at once. That is, if he’s fond of her. What I want you to do is, to tell me all about him that I don’t know – who he is, what he is, and where he is. Then we’ll talk about the terms on which you and I are going to work together.”

“You must clearly understand that my chief anxiety is to guard my sister from all unpleasantness.”

“Stow that! I know what your chief anxiety is. You don’t care for your sister no more than for this deal board. You don’t care for nothing and no one except yourself. You and I are birds of a feather; only you’re a humbug, and I ain’t.”

Mr. Ludlow looked as if he did not relish the notion of being coupled quite so closely with Mr. Swire. But he said nothing; he merely pressed together the fingers of his black kid gloves. “You let me know exactly how the land lies, and let’s understand each other; then we’ll set about that sister of yours together, and after we’ve said a few words to her, you’ll find that husband of hers will turn out to be the most generous man alive. We needn’t be afraid of her laying a finger upon us; and when we’ve had our say, she won’t let him do it either.”

“There’s something in your notion.”

“There’s about as much money in it as he’s got himself. I’ve played this game before, though I’ve never had so big a chance as I hope this is going to be. If you want to get at a man’s pockets – a man what you’ve got between your finger and your thumb – find out the girl he’s fond of – really fond of, mind! – and if she’s got a soft heart, so soon as you start breaking it, he’ll open his pockets as wide as ever you want.”

Mr. Swire winked. Mr. Ludlow sighed.

“I am bound to admit that in certain respects my sister has not treated me well.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised! And in certain respects we won’t treat her well neither. In dealing with a woman, you’ll find that I’m the equal of any man alive.”

— XXX —

THE VULTURES GATHER

Christmas drew near. The preparations which were being made at Dene Park for the return of the bride and bridegroom had been the talk of all the countryside. The old house had been glorified. For, while it was understood that no money was to be spared, instructions had been given that there should be no display of truculent taste – that there should be nothing to suggest the mushroom millionaire.

“I want the house to be a gentleman’s, not merely an illustration of the power of money-bags.”

So Mr. Smithers had said; and he had been careful to place matters in the hands of persons by whom he knew his wishes would be observed. Mr. Glasspoole, looking on, was a little mystified by some of the things which were being done.

“There isn’t a bit of new furniture being put in the dining-room. I’m told that it’s all of it two hundred years old at least, some of it more. And yet I’ll be bound that it’s costing as much as if it had been made on purpose.”

This remark was addressed to an individual who had become quite a close acquaintance – no less a person than Mr. Augustus Chaffinch. He favoured the steward with a quick glance out of his small, bright eyes, as if suspecting him of a joke. But Mr. Glasspoole’s face was gravity itself.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you were right about its costing nearly as much as if it had been made on purpose. I happen to know that £4000 was paid for the sideboard alone.”

“Four thousand pounds! for the sideboard! Why, it’s only old oak.”

“That’s all; but some old oak costs money.”

Mr. Chaffinch’s tone was dry; a fact of which the steward seemed unconscious.

Exactly how it had come about, Mr. Glasspoole himself was not quite clear; but it had been made plain to him that he could count on at least one friend at the scene of his former misadventures. Whatever might be the attitude of Birchester in general, there could be no doubt about the attitude of one of its inhabitants in particular. Mr. Augustus Chaffinch was pleasantness itself. A more agreeable neighbour – though, after all, he could be hardly called a neighbour – it would have been difficult to find. He placed himself and all that he had entirely at the disposition of the Glasspooles, showering attentions on the ladies of the family in a fashion which was the more delightful, since they were entirely unaccustomed to anything of the kind. And, in return, he required so little. Indeed, nothing at all. He merely showed a friendly interest in everything that concerned them – in their history, and their employer’s history, and so on.

Possibly because, with natural delicacy, he perceived that there were points in their own story on which they were a little loth to dwell, he confined his inquiries – and they came from him continually, in an accidental sort of way – principally to their employer. Concerning him, he displayed an interest which was boundless – as, perhaps, was not surprising – as he himself put it, with his air of beaming good-nature, his fat face all wrinkled with smiles.

“Your governor, Glasspoole, is already one of the most remarkable men of the age. Before he’s finished he may be even more remarkable still; if I were a sporting man, I should say that’s the betting. Everything connected with the life story of such a man ought to be public property – especially if he’s a self-made man. I’m a self-made man myself.”

Mr. Chaffinch displayed his rotund figure in a style which suggested a pouter pigeon. He hinted, in his casual way, at lines on which information would be valued.

“For instance, there’s his behaviour towards you. I gather, my dear Glasspoole, from what you have said, that you were not in the most flourishing circumstances when you made his acquaintance.”

Mr. Glasspoole shook his head, gloomily.

“In the depths.”

“And there he comes to you, a perfect stranger – I believe he was a perfect stranger?”

“Never heard of him before. Can’t make out how he ever heard of me.”

“That’s it – how did he? Doesn’t it seem to you, my dear Glasspoole, that he must have had a motive in what he did?”

“How do you mean?”

The thin man looked at the fat one in a hesitating, doubtful fashion, which superficially was perhaps his most prominent characteristic. The ‘sea of troubles’ in which he had struggled for so many years seemed to have impressed on him an air as of continual indecision, as if he were always ready, at a moment’s notice, to retreat from any position which he might appear to have taken up. Whether, however, this attitude was not more apparent than real, was a question on which his friend Mr. Augustus Chaffinch had his serious doubts. On more than one occasion he had found that Mr. Glasspoole had a sticking-point, from which, although he might wriggle and writhe and display abject humility, it was difficult to dislodge him. When, for example, he asked some haphazard questions on a matter which was becoming the subject of common talk, for all practical intents and purposes the steward’s mouth shut up like a rat-trap.

“Have you got a private fortune of your own, Mr. Glasspoole, or are you making a fortune out of Mr. Smithers?”

The question was asked with that appearance of genial unconcern which marked so many of Mr. Chaffinch’s inquiries. The other looked at him askance.

“I don’t understand?”

“You’re behaving uncommonly well, whichever way it is. I know you don’t like allusions to old times, my dear Glasspoole, but when a man atones for his little mistakes of the past in the handsome way you are doing, I say that he’s a credit to all of us. I hear that old Markwell, of Forest Lodge, received the other day a cheque for £9000, as compensation for what he lost through your misfortune. That’s handsome, Glasspoole, really handsome – especially as I understand that the original sum was under five. No wonder the old gentleman’s half off his head with joy.”

“The money didn’t come from me.”

“No? Then from whom did it come? You know that this isn’t the first payment of the kind which has been made.” The steward was silent.

“Does it come from Mr. Smithers?”

“I am afraid I can give you no information, Mr. Chaffinch.”

“Everybody is saying it comes from him, but what I say is, why should it? He had nothing to do with what happened to you all those years ago – since he’s a perfect stranger, how could he have?”

“He certainly had nothing to do with what happened to me.”

“That’s what I say. Then why should this money come from him? – why should it? A man doesn’t hand over large sums of his own money to other men for nothing at all unless he has a motive.”

“Mr. Smithers is the most generous man that ever lived.”

“Yes – I shouldn’t be surprised. His generosity takes such peculiar forms that one wonders. Don’t you?”

“I used to. I’m beginning to do so no longer.”

“No? – Because you know – or have guessed – what’s spurring him on?”

“I tell you again that Mr. Smithers is the most generous man that ever lived. Look at his conduct to me.”

“Just so. Look at his conduct to you, that’s the point. It’s odd that he, a perfect stranger, should take such an interest in you, and in what you did, and in Dene Park, and the Fosters, and all the rest of it – localising his generosity, as it were.”

Mr. Chaffinch might drop hints, suggest suspicions, indulge in dark allusions – on this particular subject he made no outward impression on Mr. Glasspoole. As to the extent of the steward’s knowledge, he was as much at a loss as ever. If the little man had only known it, more than once he moved his friend almost to anger. But on other points the steward was much more complaisant. He allowed his friend not only the free run of the grounds, but also, practically, of his employer’s house. This, possibly, was owing to the fact that Mr. Chaffinch showed so frank an interest in questions of decoration, and furniture, and old houses. He followed the process of reincarnation which Dene Park was undergoing with almost as much delight as if the place had been his own. He was in and out of it continually, on good terms with the representatives of the firms by which the work was being carried on, hail-fellow-well-met with their workmen. And yet, either by accident or design, it happened that he was never on the premises when either Miss Margaret Foster or Mr. Rodway was about – until one day. So it chanced that that was the first hint they received of the intimacy which existed between the Dene Park steward and the rotund proprietor of Chaffinch’s Counters.

It was on the twenty-fourth of December – on Christmas Eve – the bride and bridegroom were expected home. Everything was in readiness for their arrival. Mr. Chaffinch came over from Birchester in his buggy for the express purpose, as it seemed, of congratulating the steward on the fact.

“It does you credit, Glasspoole – the highest credit – the way things have been done.”

The steward shook his head, in his deprecatory way.

“I’ve had very little to do with it except in looking on.”

“Nonsense!-that’s your modesty! – I know better. If it hadn’t been for you nothing would have been ready – nothing. You’ve worked like a slave. And I’ve no doubt whatever that, by such an employer, you’ll find your services appreciated at their proper value.”

Mr. Chaffinch said this with a little grin, which seemed to endow his words with an odd significance.

“Though I hope to number Mr. and Mrs. Smithers among my most intimate friends” – Mr. Chaffinch said this with a positive chuckle – “it’s hardly likely that I shall be able to go in and out of their beautiful home exactly as I please, so before they do come home I should like to go over it once more – with you, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Glasspoole seemed a little loth, almost as if he thought that on the eve of the owner’s return such a suggestion smacked of the indelicate. But he yielded.

“I am intending to go over the house myself, to see that everything is as it ought to be – you can come with me if you like.”

Mr. Chaffinch did like. He was loud in his praises of everything – and, indeed, there was much to praise. With singular expedition, the place had been transformed from a tumbledown, rat-haunted building, into one of those ideally beautiful houses which are among the greater glories of rural England. Mr. Chaffinch actually sighed with satisfaction.

“One ought to be happy, Glasspoole, in a home like this.”

“And they will be happy.”

“Of course they will – not a doubt of it; flawlessly happy. With everything that the heart can desire, how could it be otherwise? Lucky woman to have been dowered by providence with such a husband – a man with heaps of money, troops of friends, a noble, candid nature, and a character which will hear the strictest inquiry.”

Mr. Chaffinch evinced a disposition to linger here and there, which seemed to cause his companion some annoyance. Mr. Glasspoole seemed nervous almost to the point of irritability. His friend commented on the fact.

“You’re anxious?”

“I am. Who wouldn’t be?”

“But you’re over-anxious – there’s such a thing as that.”

“In my position, how can I help it? Think of how much depends – to me – upon whether everything is exactly as he would wish it to be. Until he expresses himself as satisfied I shall be – I shall be on hot irons.”

The little man was trembling. His friend patted him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Glasspoole – don’t you worry. There’s a time coming of which you’ve no notion.”

The steward did not find the words so reassuring as they were perhaps meant to be – and that in spite of the amused laugh by which they were accompanied. Mr. Glasspoole stayed for a moment to speak a last word to the housekeeper and the butler. When Mr. Chaffinch entered the hall he found that a man was standing at the open door, who, without ceremony, addressed himself to him.

“Is Mr. Smithers in?”

Mr. Chaffinch beamed.

“I believe that Mr. Smithers is expected to return tomorrow.”

“Are you the – the—?”

The stranger hesitated, as if in doubt how to conclude his sentence. No whit disconcerted, Mr. Chaffinch turned to his friend, who was now at his heels.

“This is Mr. Glasspoole – the steward.”

“Oh, you are the man Glasspoole.”

Not only were the words peculiar, but they were rendered more so by the manner in which they were uttered. They seemed to strike the steward as if they had been a blow. He drew back with a show of timidity which was not agreeable to witness.

The speaker, apparently perceiving the effect he had produced, was not slow in endeavouring to add to it. Nothing could have been more gratuitously offensive than his manner.

“I know your history, Glasspoole, and all about you, so don’t attempt to put on any airs of stewardship with me. It won’t do. I am the brother of Mrs. Smithers. My name is Ludlow – Theodore Ludlow.” Mr. Chaffinch seemed to prick up his ears on hearing this. The bird-like scrutiny with which he had been regarding the stranger became intensified. “You will see that accommodation is provided for me here until my sister returns; for me and for – for this person.”

Again he seemed to be in doubt as to the exact words to select. The person alluded to, who had hitherto remained, modestly, half-way down the noble flight of steps which led to the entrance, in obedience to a gesture from the speaker, now advanced. He presented a curious appearance; seeming ill at ease in a brand-new suit of clothes, and generally spick and span attire, which accorded badly with his slouching air and ruffian countenance. Nor did he seem to grow more comfortable when he became conscious of the interest with which Mr. Chaffinch was regarding him. The steward, on the other hand, surveyed him with undisguised concern. He stammered a reply.

“I – I’m afraid I have no instructions – Mr. Ludlow.”

“You have my instructions, they are sufficient.” He came into the hall. “There are some of the servants – I will instruct them. In my sister’s house, where I am concerned, instructions from you are not required.”

While, suddenly unnerved, the little man seemed lost in a maze of indecision, someone else came into the hall – no other than Miss Foster. Her appearance the steward hailed with open relief; while she, on her side, looked about her with curious eyes.

“Good-day, Mr. Glasspoole. Who are these – gentlemen?”

“This gentleman says that he is Mr. Ludlow, the brother of Mrs. Smithers.”

“So you are Mr. Ludlow! Pray, Mr. Ludlow, what are you doing here?”

The gentleman met the young lady’s somewhat haughty gaze of inquiry with a truculent stare.

“To whom do I speak?”

“I am Margaret Foster.”

“Oh, I understand. May I ask, Miss Foster, why you should express curiosity as to the cause of my presence in my sister’s house?”

“You know very well, Mr. Ludlow, why I should be surprised at finding you in the house of your sister’s husband. Hadn’t you better go?”

“At your command?”

“At my suggestion.”

“I regret that, in such a matter, I am unable to regard the suggestion of a complete stranger with the attention to which – for some reason which I am at a loss to understand – you appear to think it entitled.”

“You refuse to go?”

“Most emphatically. It is for me to order you, rather than for you to order me.”

“Then here comes someone whose orders I think you will find it advisable to obey.”

Up the steps came Mr. Rodway – to the evident discomfiture of both Mr. Ludlow and his companion. He was accompanied by Sidney Foster. Mr. Rodway spoke first to Mr. Ludlow’s companion, with a degree of robust vigour which left no doubt whatever as to his meaning.

“Swire! You scoundrel! You have the impudence to show yourself here!” Some workmen had come with him. They remained at the foot of the steps. He called to them. “Take this fellow and march him through the lodge gates. If he offers the least resistance, hand him over to a policeman. Say that I give him into custody as being a notorious bad character – I’ll show ample cause when he’s brought before the magistrates in the morning.”

Though visibly perturbed, Sam Swire tried to bluster.

“I ain’t done nothing! Don’t let anyone lay a hand on me!”

“Lay a hand on you!”

The impetuous Mr. Rodway laid two hands on him without an instant’s hesitation, running him half-way down the steps, and flinging him down the remainder of the distance in a style which must have been hurtful alike to his clothes, his dignity, and his person. As he showed an unwillingness to alter the horizontal posture to which he had been reduced, the workmen assisted him to regain his feet.

“Now, march him through the lodge gates,” cried Mr. Rodway.

They marched, him; showing a willingness to observe Mr. Rodway’s directions, both in the letter and the spirit, against which Mr. Swire evidently deemed it useless to protest. It is to be feared that he had been handled in a similar fashion more than once before. Rodway, returning to the hall, displayed a readiness to treat Mr. Ludlow with equal lack of ceremony.

“Now, what are you doing here? Off you go, after your friend.”

“Don’t you try to bully me, Ben Rodway, nor allow yourself to imagine that I intend to let you drive me out of my sister’s house.”

“This is not your sister’s house. It’s my friend’s. And I’m authorised by him to treat it as if it were my own till he returns – as you are perfectly well aware. Foster, this is the Theodore Ludlow of whose bad behaviour to his sister and mother you have already heard too much. You must forgive me if I treat him as he deserves.”

“I’ll take him in hand myself if you like.” Ludlow turned on the speaker, in the possible hope of succeeding better with him than with Mr. Rodway.

“You’ll take me in hand! I believe your name is Foster. Do you know the character of the man with whom you are associated – who calls this house his?”

“Very well indeed. I should advise you to be careful not to say anything against Mr. Smithers in my hearing.”

“Smithers! His name’s no more Smithers than mine is. He’s a criminal—”

Mr. Ludlow found himself standing at the foot of the steps almost before he knew it, having been assisted there by Sidney Foster, who, still with his hand upon his collar, was regarding him with sinister looks.

“Say another word against Mr. Smithers and I’ll knock you down.”

“Duck him in the lake,” exclaimed his sister from above. “It may cleanse his tongue, even if his heart be grimed beyond all hope.”

Mr. Ludlow made a gallant effort to retain some show of self-respect.

“You’ll be sorry for treating me like this before long.”

“I’ll wait until that time comes.”

“As for your sister—”

“I would recommend you not to allow any allusion to my sister to pass your lips.”

Mr. Ludlow looked at the speaker, and saw that he meant what he said.

“Very good. Before many hours are past it will be my turn.”

Mr. Ludlow went after Mr. Swire, holding himself with what, under the circumstances, was tolerable erectness. There remained Mr. Chaffinch, to whom Mr. Rodway addressed a question.

“Now, sir, may I ask who you are?”

Mr. Chaffinch smiled, genially.

“Mr. Foster knows me very well.”

“I know you by sight.”

“Rather more than by sight, I think, Mr. Foster. And I fancy I may also call myself a friend of Mr. Smithers.”

“Scarcely a friend, Mr. Chaffinch. I believe you spoke to him once in a train.”

“Well, an acquaintance then, which I trust will soon ripen into friendship.”

“I don’t think it’s very likely; and in any case, at present Mr. Smithers isn’t at home.”

“I’ll take the hint, Mr. Foster – I’ll take the hint.”

He took it, smiling all the time. When he was gone Miss Foster said to Mr. Rodway:

“First blood’s ours!”

“Yes,” he replied. His tone was not so sprightly as hers had been. “But when it comes to business, it’s last blood which counts. I shouldn’t be surprised if that was theirs.”

— XXXI —

HOME

“It’s good to be in England again,” Netta said to her husband, as they came off the boat on to the Admiralty Pier at Dover. Then she glanced up at him and laughed. “I suppose – at this moment it would be unpatriotic to say anything about the weather.”

They had had a cold crossing. The wind was a piercing north-easter. Yet, in spite of it, there had been more than the suspicion of a fog in the Channel. Now, as they landed amid the coldness and darkness of the late winter afternoon, it seemed as if they could scarcely have a more cheerless reception. Netta was glad to find herself in the compartment which had been reserved for them – in possession of a cup of tea.

“This is better – especially the tea. I am glad to be back again; but” – she looked at him with whimsical eyes – “I don’t call Dover England. Do you? I shan’t feel that I am back till I’m out of Dover.”

When they were, and the train was speeding Londonwards, she sat very still, seeming to hug herself, as it were, in her corner. He observed her over the top of his evening paper.

“You’re in a solemn mood.”

“I am – tremendously solemn!” She was again silent for a second or two, then added,

“This is a sort of between.”

“Is it? – How?”

“One dream is ended; another’s just going to begin.”

“How can you tell?”

“Don’t you know, when you’re fast asleep and one dream’s ended, how you do know that another is going to begin? The feeling you have that it’s a sort of interregnum, during which you’re passing from one strange happening to another? How you wait – and wonder – what the next is going to be?”

“Have you any notion?”

“I’ve a foreboding.” She said it with an odd little smile.

“A foreboding! – Is it so bad as that?”

“You see, I’m so happy, it makes me afraid. I never used to be afraid before I knew what happiness was; but now that I do know, I am. And the last dream was so beautiful! Oh, my dear, it has all been such rapture! – one can’t expect the next to be like it.”

“Monotony palls – sweetness cloys – a breath of a keener air is bracing.”

“Yes – when you’re in it and it’s blowing all about you. But when you’re petting yourself in your furs, and hear it whistling without, there’s a moment when you hesitate to face it.”

“As you stand in doubt on the edge of your bath?”

“After the splash it’s all right; but before – oh dear, you should see me shiver!”

“I do. But it’s no good shivering. There’s a huge house waiting for its mistress, and it insists on having her. When you find yourself sovereign lady of all you survey, you’ll discover that the plunge was well worth making. As a country madam you’ll be immense. When you see it growing, I don’t believe you know wheat from barley.”

“I don’t.”

“And you can’t ride – or golf – or play tennis – or even ping-pong.”

“I’ll do all those things before long – and so well that no one will guess how late my education began. You wait till I get a chance! I’ll show you that I’m a natural female athlete, and quite capable of doing anything that any woman ever did.”

“I believe you are.”

“You believe! – I’m sure! I’ve an instinct for all kinds of games – I am convinced of it – and I’ll show the people about Dene Park that at that sort of thing I’m the lady champion of everything.”

They dined in town; then a special train took them home. It was midnight when they arrived at Birchester. The weather had cleared. It was a cloudless, starlit night. Netta had the carriage windows down as they rolled through the lanes over the frosty roads. Suddenly a church clock struck the hour.

“Twelve o’clock – Christmas Day. A merry Christmas, Frank! – the first your wife has ever wished you.”

She snuggled up close to him. He put his arm about her, and they kissed.

“The same to you, dear wife, and many of ’em – I believe that’s how it goes. You’re a Christmas bride.”

“How can that be? I suppose a Christmas bride is a person who’s married at Christmas, and I’ve been married to you all these months. I believe you’ve already forgotten how long we have been married.”

“I’ve no head for dates. I’m bringing you home at Christmas, so I say you’re a Christmas bride; and if I say you’re a Christmas bride you are – even if you aren’t.”

“How masterful you really are!”

“Before very long they’ll be saying you’re the feminine equivalent, so we’ll be even. – Here is the entrance to your home, and Mrs. Brazier and her son are up to do the honours.”

The carriage stopped at the lodge gates. In the lodge itself a light was burning. As soon as the vehicle came to a standstill the old lady and her son were out of the house, throwing the gates open. Mr. Smithers called to them.

“How are you, Mrs. Brazier? Good-evening, Sam – I’ve brought your mistress home.”

Netta put her head out of the window.

“And very glad,” she cried, “I am to get here.”

The old woman took the hand which the girl advanced, and held it as if it had been some fragile thing.

“Welcome, sir and madam. A merry Christmas to you both!”

Mrs. Brazier remained to curtsey and her son to touch his hat as the carriage rolled on down the avenue.

“Those,” said the husband to his wife, “are the first of the great host of your retainers.”

“She seems a very nice old lady, and her son is not an ogre. I’m not afraid of them.” The carriage swept round a corner, clear of the trees.

“Frank! – is that the house? – our house? It looks like a palace.”

“I told you it was.”

“But you didn’t tell me it was a fairy palace; – and standing up there, all lit up against the night, it looks like one. I believe that it’s an enchanted castle!”

“Not a doubt of it – to which the queen of the enchantments is coming.”

So soon as the coachman reined up his horses the vehicle was taken by storm. The door was thrown open; Netta was in her mother’s arms; Margaret Foster had one of her hands; Mr. Rodway had the other. Sidney Foster had both her husband’s hands in his. The air was alive with their voices and cries of welcome.

“Netta, how late you are! I was beginning to be afraid that something must have happened.”

This was her mother – who was disposed to tears.

“Well, young woman, so he has brought you back alive. We hardly expected it.”

This was Margaret Foster. Mr. Rodway was slightly inarticulate. Sidney was more audible – as he addressed the husband.

“I don’t know if it’s the light or what it is, but you seem to be as brown as a berry.”

“How did you expect I was going to be?”

“Well, when a fellow returns from his honeymoon, one never knows how he’s going to look.”

Netta turned to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Foster. I’ll remember your words when you are starting on yours.”

They went up the steps in a crowd laughing and talking all together.

“Didn’t I tell you,” exclaimed Netta, “that this was an enchanted castle? These are the sort of steps enchanted castles always have.”

“Of course it’s an enchanted castle,” rejoined Miss Foster. “And within are divers strange enchantments – as you are soon to learn.”

Indeed, it might have been an abode of faerie; for, to Netta, even when she was in the building, everything seemed wonderful – that she should be mistress in such a place, the greatest wonder of them all. Margaret Foster escorted her to her apartment. When they reached it Margaret commented, with characteristic freedom, on the alleged singularity of her appearance.

“How scared you look! Your eyes are notes of exclamation – expressive of nothing but amazement. Don’t you like the nest your lord’s designed for you?”

“Nest, you call it? Palace, it seems to me – and I’m supposed to be its mistress!”

“It’s not a case of supposition – you are.”

“I who used to be the maid-of-all-work in Dulverton Road.”

“I’d like to occupy a similar position in my establishment – I’d keep it more respectable.”

“I never thought that a house could be so beautiful. But it’s your home, not mine.”

“There were some people named Foster who lived here once, so I’m rather glad you like the place. Judging from your looks, marriage seems to suit you.”

“Seems to suit me!”

Margaret was searching her friend with eyes which found out everything.

“Has he been beating you?”

“Beating me – Meg!”

“You convey to me the impression of being fairly happy – considering.”

“I’m the happiest woman that ever lived.”

“Dear me! Are you indeed? And pray how do you know how all the other women felt? But, anyhow, your words suggest that you’ve still some fragments of faith in the man that’s got you – and after all, that’s something.”

“Faith! I know that the man who – as you put it – has got me, is incomparably greater, nobler, wiser, stronger, tenderer, truer, than I ever supposed he was. Faith has been exchanged for knowledge, my dear.”

Mr. Rodway had a few words alone with his partner before they went into supper.

“Feeling fit? – you’re looking it!”

“I am feeling all I look – and more.”

“No clouds – even on the horizon?”

“My dear Ben, I’ve a physical peculiarity – I’m incapable of seeing a cloud, even when folks are saying that the sky is black with them.”

“A convenient gift at times, but also, on occasion, a source of danger. It can’t be nice to always go out without an umbrella when it’s going to rain – hard.”

“Ah!-but I’m impervious to rain.”

“But those who are with you mayn’t be.”

“They’ll have umbrellas – or, in the nick of time, I may be able to produce one from up my sleeve.”

The two men looked at each other. Mr. Smithers laughed. But there was no sign of laughter on his companion’s face – a fact on which he observed.

“Why, Ben, to look at you, one would think that you saw nothing else but clouds. That’s a freak of vision peculiar to a large section of humanity – it’s born of the liver. Try a pill.”

“In my case you are mistaken. I assure you that I only see things which are in full sight. It seems to me that the man who doesn’t see them is the one who’s suffering from a freak of vision. Whether, for him, a pill would be a sufficient remedy I seriously doubt.”

An odd thing happened while they were at supper – one of those odd things which seemed to dog Mr. Smithers’ footsteps. They were jesting, eating, drinking, speaking of a hundred things, for questions flowed, and answers came as readily. To all appearances their minds were entirely occupied with the pleasures of the moment; care was wholly absent from the board. Mr. Smithers was telling a story of how, he declared, Netta had lost herself in Paris; and she was denying his assertions, when, just as he was in the middle of a sentence, he stopped – as if to listen.

“What noise is that?”

The question was asked in a quick, sharp way, which was so foreign to his general manner, that coming, as it did, so unexpectedly, it was a little startling. They all listened. Sidney Foster spoke – as if the inquiry had been specially addressed to him.

“I hear nothing.”

“Perhaps it was the wind.”

He went on with his story. But it seemed that the salt had gone out of it. He brought it to a lame conclusion. Some desultory remarks were exchanged. Then again he startled them by whirling round in his seat and staring across the room.

“Don’t you hear it?”

Once more they listened. This time it was Margaret who answered.

“I do hear something – it’s out in the park – like someone crying.”

Netta looked at her in surprise.

“Meg! – Who can be crying, in the park, at this time of night? I hear nothing.”

Mr. Smithers raised his hand, as if commanding silence.

“Now can’t you hear? It’s coming closer.”

“It’s somebody serenading you.”

This was Rodway. Netta half rose from her chair.

“It’s not the whistler!”

“The whistler? No; this time it’s not the whistler. It sounds to me as if it were some poor chap screeching.”

The sound, whatever it was, grew obviously louder, as if it swelled in volume as it was borne towards them on the breeze. Suddenly Mr. Smithers sprang to his feet. His words had an ominous significance – as if they burst from him in the shock of what was something more than surprise.

“It’s the piper!”

Each second the sound grew greater as it seemed to come rushing across the park. Then, all at once, it went wailing past the window of the room which they were in; and then, at the very moment when it had reached its greatest height, all was still. The effect was peculiar – the approaching noise; the sudden wail; the instant silence. They looked at each other with startled faces.

“What was it?” demanded Netta. Rodway answered. His glance was fixed upon his partner.

“It did sound like bagpipes; blown by a madman. It almost reminds one of the stories which are told of a great Scotch family, which is haunted by a ghost in the shape of a long dead-and-buried piper.”

“Really?”

“Really. Haven’t you ever heard of the Gairloch piper, who always warns members of the ancient house of Skye of approaching death? – You’ve heard the story, Smithers, I suppose?”

Mr. Smithers had continued standing an instant after the sound had ceased. Then, without observing on it in any way, resuming his chair, he continued to eat what was on his plate. He answered Rodway’s question without glancing up.

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.” Laying down his knife and fork he looked at his watch. “It’s tolerably late; Christmas is well in, Netta; you’ve been travelling – don’t you think it’s time?”

On the table in his dressing-room he found a blank envelope, which was sealed with what looked like a masonic symbol. He summoned the servant.

“Did you put this on my dressing-table?”

The man looked askance at the envelope which he held up.

“No, sir.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know, sir. I was in here about five minutes ago, and it was not there then.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite, sir. I could not have failed to have noticed it.”

Mr. Smithers examined the man’s face. He was a young fellow, with brown hair and a frank, open countenance.

“You can go.” The man went. “If he didn’t put it there, who did? Have I an enemy in my own household?”

He tore the envelope open. It contained a typewritten communication.

You will be required to give a final settlement on Jan. 1 – the first day of the new year.

If you are a wise man, you will be at the Piccadilly corner of Waterloo Place at nine o’clock on the evening of that day. You will be accosted by a person who will have in his necktie, in the form of a scarf-pin, the seal of the Eight. He will conduct you to the place of settlement.

If you are not a wise man, you will not be at the rendezvous at the appointed time.

In that case the settlement will take a more disagreeable form – you will have had due warning.

He pressed a spring in his dressing-case, and took out of the cavity which was disclosed two other sheets of paper, which he compared with the one which he had just received. In every respect they were identical.

“One at Florence; the next at Paris; the third one here. It looks as if they at last meant business. The first of January! Six clear days. It’s a short time to have in which to put one’s affairs in order.”

Netta’s voice called to him from the adjoining bedroom.

“I’m so sleepy! Shall you be long?”

— XXXII —

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

At Dene Park that Christmas Day was one to be remembered. There was dinner for the tenants and the work-people; a huge Christmas-tree for the children; there were games and dances for their elders. It was honoured in the traditional fashion. The new master and mistress were everywhere, winning golden opinions – she for her youth, and looks and smiles, and pleasant, kindly ways; he for the indefinable, sympathetic something which won him friends wherever friends were to be won. And then he was so tall, and strong, and handsome – so fine a gentleman – one whom any property would be proud to own as master. His smile was like sunshine; his voice like an instrument of many strings, from which he could produce at will the sweetest and merriest notes; he was so obviously without a care in the world.

None saw an incident which took place in his dressing-room. Netta and he, that morning, were late risers. When he reached his dressing-room, learning that the papers had already arrived, he ordered them to bring up the Times. When it came, he allowed it to remain untouched until the servant had left the room. So soon as the man had gone he opened it, asking of himself a curious question as he did so.

“What did Shon mean?”

He searched the columns of the paper as if for an answer – it seemed that he found one.

“What’s that? – ‘Accident to the Scotch Express. Serious Loss of Life. List of the Killed and Wounded.’”

It appeared that on the previous day a grave disaster had happened to a fast train to the North of Scotland. It had collided with some heavily laden baggage-trucks which – as usual – were where they ought not to have been, The result was a catastrophe. For many – in that moment ‘the festive season’ was turned to one of mourning. There were some among the passengers who had been killed upon the instant; others who had been better killed. Among the dead were the occupants of a specially reserved saloon which had been in the front of the train. They were four – three women and a child – the Marchioness of Skye; her infant son, Lord Alec Bruce of Gairloch; his nurse, and her maid. All four must have gone without a moment’s warning straight to their account. Their bodies had been taken out of the ruins of the telescoped carriage, “presenting” – so the paper said – “a dreadful spectacle.”

Mr. Smithers read and re-read these words until they must have taken strange shapes before his eyes.

“That’s what Shon meant!” It came from his lips like a wail. – “That’s what he meant!”

The hand which held the paper dropped to his side. He stood in his shirt-sleeves, staring into vacancy, as if it contained a ghost, at which he was constrained to stare.

“Now, what shall I do?”

The question seemed to force itself between his lips. As if in despair of finding an answer, he dropped down on to a chair which was behind him – and stared.

Netta’s voice was heard speaking to him from the next room – as it had done the night before.

“I’m going down to breakfast directly; are you nearly ready?”

“I shall be ready in five minutes.”

And he was.

At the breakfast table there was an exchange of Christmas gifts; each had something for everyone else. The air was full of expressions of surprise and pleasure. Thanks and laughter were on all lips. The host’s mood was in harmony with the rest. His wife’s presents to her friends were the theme of admiration.

“I believe,” declared Margaret, “that you’d like to pass your life giving people things, the most lovely things that you could find.”

“l should. It wouldn’t be bad fun. Do you think it would? You see, in my time I’ve had so little chance of giving anybody anything that I must make up for lost opportunities. But as for the lovely part, if there’s anything specially charming, you may be quite sure that Frank chose that. When my taste wobbles, and I can’t think what to get, he steps in and at once discovers something that’s a perfect dream. At buying presents there never was his equal!”

Margaret laughed.

“Mr. Smithers, I’m beginning to suspect that your wife is under the impression that you’ve some good qualities.”

He looked up at her, for a moment, with twinkling eyes.

“Miss Foster, my wife – being the wisest woman in the world – is well aware that I’m compact of them.”

They spoke of the accident to the Scotch Express; remarking on how frequently the Christmas season was heralded by some misfortune to ship or train, as if it were a law of nature that tragedy should be associated with comedy, laughter with tears. Mr. Smithers joined in the conversation, pointing out the special dangers of that portion of the line on which the accident occurred, as if he had been over the ground and knew it well.

When the party had separated, and he and his partner were lighting their pipes, preparatory to sallying out into the open air, Mr. Rodway commented on a point which had not been touched upon at table.

“Odd that the Marchioness of Skye and her son should have been on board!”

Mr. Smithers’ reply was brief:

“Very.”

“Especially after what took place last night.”

“How do you mean?”

“That wailing noise.”

“What about it?”

Mr. Rodway looked at his partner – who was occupied in inducing his pipe to draw to his satisfaction – almost as if his temper was a little ruffled.

“You seemed interested enough in it at the time.”

“In what?”

“Man, you’re a masterpiece!”

Mr. Rodway’s tone was so explosive that the other stared at him in unmistakable surprise.

“Ben! what’s wrong? I know I’m a masterpiece on general principles, but why on this particular occasion?”

“You don’t know? Of course not!”

“Ben, you’ve been overworking – the Power’s got too much upon your – digestion. Take my very strong advice – do try a pill!”

By way of reply to this friendly suggestion Mr. Rodney’s manner was vitriolic.

“I suppose you never heard of the Gairloch piper, or how the death of a member of the reigning house of Skye is announced by the wail of his pipes – no hint of the story ever came your way?”

“You are mistaken. I’m probably as familiar with the legend as you are. But why, on that account, this fluster?”

“Do you mean to tell me that that wasn’t the Gairloch piper we heard last night?”

“Heard last night! I say – Ben!” The ladies came downstairs. “Please, Netta, are you ever coming? Both Rodway and I are spoiling for a mouthful of fresh air. Miss Foster, this partner of mine has been overworking himself. If he doesn’t look out I tell him he’ll fall a victim to the fiend dyspepsia.”

Mr. Rodway said nothing – not even when Miss Foster murmured in his ear:

“Now, what silly thing have you been saying or doing? It’s extraordinary what one has to endure from geese.”

She sighed. He gasped and glared. Some moments afterwards he observed, apparently apropos of nothing in particular:

“The man’s a masterpiece!”

The day’s festivities went off without a hitch. Mr. Glasspoole, who was understood to be responsible for all the details of the arrangements which had been made, was congratulated on his success. Indeed, the little man was in his element – here, there, and everywhere at once. So, also, were his wife and daughters. Late in the day Netta expressed to her husband her conviction that they were in no slight measure indebted for the day’s success to the steward and his family.

“Frank, I like those Glasspooles. They’re so natural, and simple, and willing to oblige; and somehow there’s something about them – their looks, voices, manner, or something – which seems to say they’ve had a history. Have they?”

“You shrewd student of human nature, we all of us have had a history,”

“All of us? I’m not so sure – not in the sense I mean. Have you?”

“My history is just beginning.”

If such was the case, it continued uneventfully for six days, which were spent in making himself and his wife acquainted with their new possessions. Netta enjoyed the process of finding out the full extent of her domain with the outspoken frankness of a healthy, unspoilt child. To her it seemed so wonderful that it should all be hers. She never wearied of telling her husband that she found it impossible to realise that it really and truly was her own – that she was its mistress and its queen. And he, on his part, seemed to find it pleasant to listen to her enthusiastic outbursts – as a parent likes to witness a child’s rapture on finding itself the recipient of the toy which its heart desires.

The holiday season passed in making holiday. On the eve of the new year they all went together to the village church, of whose living Mr. Smithers was the patron. The vicar was easily induced to make what, for him, was a new departure, and to hold a ‘watch-night’ service. Husband and wife greeted the new year in God’s house. As they walked home across the park, the joy-bells crashing through the midnight air, the young wife broke the silence which had momentarily prevailed between them by delivering herself of an observation which the whole world has uttered in its time.

“I wonder what the new year will bring to us.”

She had not long to wait to see.

— XXXIII —

MR. LUDLOW SPEAKS OUT

On the morning of the first of January, Mr. Smithers went to London by the train which left Birchester at half-past eleven. He told his wife that he had business in town which would probably prevent his returning until the following day. She knew that during their absence abroad arrears of business had accumulated which required his attention. A man in his position cannot take a prolonged holiday with complete impunity. And although, for some cause, which she could not have adequately explained even to herself, reluctant enough to let him go, she acquiesced in his departure. She accompanied him in the dogcart to the station; saw the train start, with him in it; then turned to leave the platform. As she moved towards the entrance someone took off his hat to her – a very fat, barrel-shaped man, with a small bullet head and a hairless face, which, as he smiled, became a network of wrinkles.

“I beg your pardon. I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Smithers. May I ask if Mr. Smithers is at home?”

“My husband has just gone to town.”

“To town? Is he likely to be at home this afternoon? My name is Chaffinch – I rather wished to see him.”

“He will not return until tomorrow.”

“Not until tomorrow? – Thank you very much.”

He dismissed himself with a sweeping bow. She made for her dogcart, he for the telegraph office, from which he despatched the following telegram:

TO SAMUEL WATERSON,
HOTEL COSMOPOLITAN, LONDON:

HE COMES ON BY THIS TRAIN; SHE WILL COME ON LATEr.

As the groom drove her homeward, her mood was a little melancholy, as was but natural. It was the first time since their marriage that they had been parted. Had she known that in a drawer in her husband’s dressing-table there was a sealed envelope, which was inscribed in his handwriting – “To be opened by my wife should nothing have been heard of me by noon on January the second. – Francis Smithers.” – she might have had reason for something more than melancholy. But she did not know that it was there; nor did she dream that actual peril – in any shape or form – was close at hand. Her mood was sentimental – not for some months had she been alone; she was disposed to prolong her solitude rather than to bring it to an immediate close.

Alighting at the lodge gates, she bade the groom tell Miss Foster, or anyone else who might inquire for her, that she was walking home through the park. As the cart went on down the avenue she struck off among the trees. It was a clear, crisp morning, dry under foot; the copse, which stretched in front of her, invited one who was meditatively inclined. Not a creature was in sight, or apparently in hearing. This was the spot in which she could think out the thoughts which all at once were pressing on her.

Vague fancies they were rather than tangible reflections – the shadowy conceits which are apt at times to compass a woman round about, and to lift her, wide-awake, into something very like a world of dreams – especially if she is young, imaginative, and in a position to whose entire novelty she has not yet become accustomed. As, even in her most practical moments, she still seemed to herself to be an actor in a fairy tale, it was not strange if, when the fit was on her, it scarcely needed an act of conscious volition to transfer her to that land of romance in which young girls love to wander. Her story of the last few months transcended any romance of which she had ever heard; and in all its parts it had been, and was, so beautiful. Like Cinderella, she had been transformed, as if by magic, from the hopeless household drudge into the Prince’s well-loved wife. And what a Prince he was! His virtues, – how unique! his affection – how unbounded! The ideal man of whom countless women dream was actually hers! What had she done to deserve this great good fortune? What could she do? She might give him all she had; yet how little, after all, was that. How, by her future life, could be least shown her manifold unworthiness of him? Worthy she could never be – she was sure of that; never, though she lived to untold years!

So strenuously was this borne into her that, as she walked, she clenched her fists, demanding of herself:

“Frank! Frank! What did you see in me? There’s nothing to be seen – nothing – absolutely nothing. I wish I could do something – just some little thing! – in return for all you’ve done for me.”

As she addressed to herself this profound aspiration something caught her ear: she saw, advancing towards her along the path which wound among the trees upon her right, a man. Her knowledge of the geography of her own estate was still more than a trifle vague, nor had she any certain knowledge of what were public footpaths and what were not. Still, she felt persuaded that where she was was private; and that this man, if he was a stranger, trespassed. That he was a stranger, as she looked at him, she had no doubt.

His appearance, as he approached, did not favourably impress her. He seemed to have been quite recently in the wars. His ill-fitting clothes were ill-kept, as if he had lately lain in the mud or been rolled in the dust. He slouched rather than walked, with a hangdog air which was unpleasantly suggestive. He was coming towards her at right angles. Should she stop and inquire what he was doing there, or walk on and ignore his presence? The question was answered by the man himself. He called out to her.

“Excuse me, Miss, I want to speak to you.”

She stood still, in sudden indignation. How dare he call her ‘Miss’ when she was a married woman – or address her at all?

He, such a disreputable creature; she, the lady of the manor. When he came close she hurled at him an inquiry:

“Do you know that you’re trespassing?”

His answer was not what she had expected.

“Trespassing? Me trespassing? On my own ground, or on what ought to be my own ground? I like that!”

“If you don’t take yourself off instantly I shall summon a keeper, and then you’ll regret it.”

“Summon a keeper! You will? For me? Who do you think you are, to talk to me like that?”

“I am Mrs. Smithers, and the ground on which you are is my husband’s property, as you will quickly learn.”

“You’re Mrs. Smithers!” The man expectorated, as if the name tasted badly in his mouth.

“You’re no more Mrs. Smithers than I am. ’Cause why? Because your husband’s name – if he is your husband – is no more Smithers than mine is.”

Netta went a little white.

“You have been drinking, my man. I will leave someone else to deal with you.”

She made as if to pass on. He blocked the way.

“Oh no, I haven’t been drinking; and I’m not going to deal with anyone else but you – at least, not yet awhile. My name’s Swire – Sam Swire. Have you ever heard the bloke what calls himself your husband speak of me?”

“l have not. He is not likely to speak to me of such a person as you are, even if he’s aware of your existence.”

“I daresay not; he’s that sort of cove. He never told you that he murdered me as near as a toucher for trying to get what was my own, and that I could send him to penal servitude for life for that alone? – Of course not! He wouldn’t. He likes to keep that sort of thing private. It’s his way.”

“If you don’t let me pass at once I shall call for help.”

“You can call till you’re hoarse for all I care; only, if you’ve a mite of sense, you won’t do anything so foolish till you’ve listened to what I have to say. I don’t mean you no harm, not a morsel. He’s done you, like he has me, and everyone he’s come across. Oh, he’s a gem! I tell you, you’re not Mrs. Smithers, because, whatever his name is – and that’s between him and his mother!-it isn’t ‘Smithers.’ He married you under a false name. When I was sent to Canterstone Jail to do three months, I found him there doing two years; and he was jailed as Bruce – Andrew Bruce. He took the name of Smithers when he came out of stir because, by taking it, he saw his way to the biggest robbery that ever yet was done.”

“Will you let me pass?”

“No, I won’t; not till you’ve heard me out. What do you know about him, except what he’s told you? Nothing at all. I tell you that when he came out of prison I don’t believe he had more than a sovereign he could rightly call his own, and every farthing he’s got now he’s got by blasted robbery.”

“Do you suppose I am paying the slightest attention to your ridiculous drunken lies?”

But her cheeks were pale, her lips trembled, fear was in her eyes.

“I’m not drunk, and they’re not lies, as I’ll prove to you quickly enough. You’re the best done young woman in England,and the chap what’s done you is the biggest all-round scoundrel that’s managed to cheat the gallows up to now. But he’s bound to end on them, as sure as I’m alive.”

“I’m afraid, Netta, that what Mr. Swire says is only too true.”

The words came from behind her, in a voice which she knew well. Turning, she found that her brother was within half-a-dozen feet of where she stood, dressed as for the City, in his frock-coat, silk hat, black kid gloves. He rested both hands on the top of an umbrella. His appearance so reminded her of a certain type of stage figure with which she had become familiar that, an irresistible appeal being made to her risible nerves, she burst into an hysterical fit of laughter.

“Do you think that costume’s suited to the country, Theodore? You don’t know how funny you look in it – like a man in a play!”

Theodore, unfortunately, was wholly devoid of a sense of humour. Neither her remarks nor her merriment seemed to please him. He bestowed on her the look before which, in the old days, his mother and sister had often cowered.

“Since you find entertainment in the idea of being a nameless creature and a scoundrel’s plaything, I shall understand that, in dealing with you, it is not necessary to chop phrases. What Swire says is even less than the truth. The blackguard with many aliases who pretended to marry you is not only a jailbird and an impudent swindler, but a convicted murderer, who only escaped the hangman by the skin of his teeth.”

“And what are you? Although I regret to say that you are my brother, are you not a blackmailer and a fraudulent clerk, who was glad to save yourself from the consequences of your own misdeeds by accepting a large sum of money from the man of whose absence from home you are taking advantage to vilify to me – his wife—”

“You are not his wife. I suspected, from the first, that he was a rogue, as you are perfectly well aware, because I continually warned you against him; but at the time of which you speak I had no notion that he was such a rogue, or he would have had to walk over my body to have reached you. He was tried for murder – the murder of Colonel Raymond Verinder. Owing to a technical flaw, the capital charge was withdrawn, and he was found guilty of manslaughter, for which he was sentenced to two years’ hard labour. He then called himself Andrew Bruce. He was a married man, and his wife still lives. You will perceive in what a position that one fact places you.”

“It is false – every word of it.”

But she had to press her fingertips into the palms of her hands and to bite her lips to keep herself from crying.

“Does not your common-sense tell you that I should not make such a positive assertion had I not taken the necessary steps to ascertain that it was correct? This man was in jail with him.”

“That’s true – true as gospel. He was Bruce then – that I’ll swear.”

“While in jail he appears to have planned what has turned out to be perhaps the most remarkable fraud that ever was perpetrated. When he emerged from prison he assumed the name of Smithers, for the purpose of getting hold of moneys which were the fruits of a series of rascalities which had been the work of a villain who had been almost a kindred spirit. To enable him to gain possession of the shameful hoard, with brazen assurance he committed a hundred offences against the law. With this money he financed Rodway’s invention. As it was never his, nor the rogue’s that hid it, all the profits of that invention are forfeit to the law, and, when the facts become known, will be claimed and seized. So you see that this man’s a criminal monster – a thief, a forger, an impostor, a murderer, a bigamist – soon to be a beggar. You stand on the edge of an abyss of shame, too terrible to contemplate – as his latest plaything.”

“It’s not true; not – not a word of it. You would never dare to talk like this if he were here!”

“No, that he certainly would not.”

The speaker was Miss Foster, who came quickly towards them through the trees. Netta ran to her with a cry.

“Oh Meg, I’m so lad you’ve come! They’ve been saying such wicked things of Frank!”

— XXXIV —

NETTA LEARNS THE TRUTH

Margaret Foster, putting her arm round. Netta, drew her closely to her; contemplating the two men in front of her with looks which were not flattering.

“So it’s you again, Mr. Ludlow, and your prison friend. Netta, the other day this animal” – the allusion was to Mr. Swire, who seemed to resent it – “was assisted off the premises; and I regret to say that your brother had to be. sent after him. I trust that you have not paid them the compliment of listening to anything that either of them may have to say.”

“They have made me listen; but I haven’t believed a word – not a word.”

“That’s right. It’s impossible to treat them with the contempt which they deserve, but it’s as well to get as close to it as one conveniently can.”

“Miss Foster, I have cause to believe that in this matter – for reasons- which I am at a loss to understand – you are not so innocent as you would desire to appear. Can you tell my most unfortunate sister that the man whom she supposes to be her husband is not a convicted criminal, and that he did not marry her under a name to which he has no title? Don’t you know, of your own knowledge, that this is true?”

“Mr. Ludlow, be so good as to let me pass.”

“Not until you have answered my question.”

“I ask you, for the second and last time, to let me pass.”

“Netta, you are surrounded by a conspiracy of silence. Rodway knew the truth on the day that you were married. I believe this girl has gagged his lips – why, since she pretends to be your friend, and is presumably a lady, is beyond my comprehension. Ask her, in my presence, if what I have told you is not true.”

“I told you it was the last time!” With the intention of compelling him to allow them a passage, Miss Foster flung herself at Ludlow almost as if she had been a man. But she had neither a man’s strength, nor – in affairs of this sort – his adroitness. Mr. Ludlow – not himself by any means a physical-force man – had no difficulty in gripping her wrists, and in continuing to hold them, despite her struggles.

“No you don’t, Miss Foster! Your attendant bullies are not now at your beck and call to assist you in your nefarious scheme to cover up the truth from the light of day.”

Netta, with a white face, went close up to him.

“Theodore, let Margaret go!”

“With the greatest possible pleasure. It is my wish to remember that she is a lady, so long as by her conduct she does not compel me to forget it. Question her now as to the truth of what I have told you.”

As Mr. Ludlow released her, the young lady, with crimsoned cheeks, seemed endeavouring her utmost to conceal her consciousness of her loss of dignity.

“Meg, of course I know that all he has said is false, but, for form’s sake, tell me that you too know that it is lies.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt that he has told you lies.”

“Your looks hardly suggest such knowledge, Miss Foster, nor does your manner of fencing with my sister’s question. – I’m afraid, Netta that you will have to make your inquiry clearer. Ask her if she is cognisant of the fact that your husband married you under a name which is not his.”

“That, Meg, I am sure you will find it easy to deny.”

“On such a point I should certainly not advise you to accept your brother’s statement.”

“You hear how she juggles with phrases! This young lady has a nimble tongue. Now, ask her if she is not perfectly well aware that the man whom you suppose to be your husband is a convicted felon.”

“Netta, don’t trouble yourself to obey this – gentleman. I decline to answer, here, any question which may be prompted by him or by his friend; for reasons which, later on, you will appreciate.”

“But, Meg, surely you will not allow him to say such a thing – before me! – without telling him, on the instant, that he lies?”

“That’s the way in which to put it to her.”

“Netta, there are two ways of telling a story – a wrong way and a right way. You may take my word for it that your brother has told his story the wrong way. Your husband returns tomorrow. I would recommend you to put your questions to him then, and he will give you all the information you require.”

“In other words, she recommends you to afford him another opportunity to continue his campaign of lies; for to suppose that such a character as he is will admit his guilt – even when confronted by irrefutable proof – is an absurdity. – I regret, Miss Foster, that you drive me to the conclusion that you are willing to assist in duping, betraying, and ruining the credulous girl. whom you pretend to call your friend.”

“You dare say such a thing! – you!”

“I dare say more. This unfortunate child – she is little else – is my own flesh and blood. I am her brother. As such, until you give plain answers to the plain questions which she has put to you, I shall decline to allow her to return to the house of which this scoundrel has obtained possession by fraud and falsehood, and in which he wishes her to figure as his associate and mistress.”

“Your language is quite in keeping with your well-known character, Mr. Ludlow; but I don’t fancy your permission will be asked. Here comes someone who will be better able to cope with you than two helpless women.” She pointed to Mr. Rodway, who was hurrying towards them along the woodland path. She called to him. – “Mr. Rodway, you are not coming before you are wanted. Be quick, please!”

Ludlow moved towards him as, at the lady’s bidding, he quickened his steps almost to a run.

“Rodway, before you speak, listen to me!”

Miss Foster interrupted him.

“Don’t do anything of the kind. – Have him thrown into the road instead!”

Rodway looked from one to the other in evident perplexity.

“What has happened?”

Ludlow got his words out first.

“This has happened – that I want to know why you have concealed from my sister your knowledge of: the fact that the man whom she supposes to be her husband is an impostor and a convicted felon?”

As Mr. Rodway turned to look at Netta, on his face there was a very curious expression – as of one who suddenly finds himself amid the throes of an earthquake, against, whose manifold perils he has no means of defence, and of whose consequences he is fearful, rather for others than for himself. There are situations in which a man becomes conscious that he may sacrifice even his life in vain. His actual utterance was bald enough.

“Margaret, take Netta home.”

But Netta interposed, tremulous and pale.

“I am not to be taken home so easily – as a child by its nurse. – Ben, it appears that Meg refuses to give Theodore the lie, so I ask you to tell me if there is the slightest shadow of a shade of truth in what he says.”

“Tell her. I have never known you to utter a falsehood yet.”

“I am not going to utter a falsehood now – even for the sweet pleasure of baulking you.”

“Then tell her if it’s not true that he came straight from prison to be a lodger in my mother’s house, and then and there commenced the career of fraud which he has continued to the present hour.”

“I should like to kill you!”

“Ben, don’t you understand that by your silence you are killing me?”

There was that in her voice which set the strong man trembling. It seemed that he could hardly stammer out a reply – which was no reply.

“Netta, go home.”

“But if what Theodore says is true, I have no home, and no husband.”

“You certainly have no husband.”

Ludlow’s tone was cold and measured.

Rodway’s was hot and eager:

“That’s false!”

Ludlow persisted.

“At the time of his conviction he was a married man, and his wife still lives.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It is none the less a fact.”

“Theodore, if you’re telling a lie I’ll – I’ll—”

Rodway was quivering with passion, which it was plain he found it hard to repress. The other regarded him with unflinching eyes.

“If it is a lie, you may use me as you will – but it is not a lie.”

Netta plucked Rodway by the arm.

“Then I suppose – in any case – that the rest is true?”

“Margaret, take her home!”

“Thank you – I need no taking – I can take myself. Margaret may come with me if she likes.”

Ludlow made as if to stop them. Rodway caught him by the arm.

“Don’t move, or you’ll be sorry.”

Apparently he saw that in the speaker’s face which induced him to esteem discretion the better part of valour. He let the women go.

Rodway remained behind, to deal with the two men in his own fashion. Already Mr. Swire was evincing a disposition to slink away in the rear.

The girls walked home in silence, each with her eyes fixed straight in front of her, and neither attempting to utter a word. When they reached the house Netta went straight up to her bedroom, and, although uninvited, as if in virtue of a tacit understanding which existed between them, Miss Foster went with her.

As soon as the door was closed, Netta turned to her companion with a face, the expression of which had become so singularly transformed, that her friend regarded her with a sudden consciousness of physical pain.

“Meg, what has happened to the world? Just now it seemed so beautiful, and now it’s hideous.”

“It’s still a very good world to live in.”

“How can you say that – when it’s hideous? Meg, is it all true – what Theodore said?”

“Netta, have I ever struck you as being the sort of person who would be likely to tell you falsehoods?”

“Never – till now.”

“The reservation’s unkind. Now I’m going to tell you the simple, honest truth.”

“Yes, do – tell me the truth – at last. It seems that I have been living in a world of lies.”

“You have been doing nothing of the kind.”

“But it seems that I have.”

“I tell you that it’s only seeming. Don’t you know your husband well enough to know that?”

“Is he my husband?”

“Netta, I know nothing about the truth of what your brother has just now told you – I mean about his having had a wife when he married you.”

“But you know about the rest!”

“I am coming to that. But I am convinced that he has never done you a conscious wrong, Don’t you yourself know enough of him by now to be sure of that?”

“Not if he had a wife when he married me.”

“I don’t know what foundation of truth there is in your brother’s story. Frankly, I have no great faith in your brother.”

“I didn’t use to have.”

“I haven’t now. I have an innate persuasion that, on examination, his story will not be found to bear the interpretation he wishes it to convey.”

“But the rest of it is true. Meg, can it be possible that he came straight from prison to our house, and that – he committed murder?”

“I have not the faintest notion what he did; but I’m sure it was nothing of which he has cause to be ashamed, though, I’m afraid, it is true that he was in prison.”

“You knew that all along?”

“I did not know it till after, yon were married.”

“You are sure of that?”

“You remember the man who made the disturbance outside the church? That was Swire. He told your brother and Mr. Rodway, there and then. After you had left for your honeymoon, Mr. Rodway told me.”

“Then he knew before I left?”

“Do you reproach me for not letting him tell you then? – after the time you’ve had abroad? – that dream of perfect happiness?”

“Yes, but if it was only a dream? One would rather be saved from dreams, however pleasant, if the awakening is likely to be disagreeable. For the awakening stays, while the dream goes.”

“But this has not been a dream of yours, Netta; and there will be no awakening from it of the kind – which you suggest. I know nothing of your husband’s story, but I believe he has been greatly sinned against. I thought so from the first moment that I saw him. I am sure he is a true and honest gentleman. Do you think that I should be proud to call him my friend if I was not sure? I preferred to tell no tales of him; first, because I was conscious that I had but an imperfect knowledge of the facts; and second, because I trusted him, and felt that when he knew the proper time had come, he would tell you everything, and lay his heart and life bare before you. I should have thought that, as you loved him, you would have felt that way too; realising that he would hold you dearer because, in such a matter, you left it all to him.”

“I am only just beginning to understand in how many respects your point of view is different from mine. Yours appears to me to be – peculiar. For instance, you don’t seem to perceive that while you have all been wise, I have been the only fool among you; and as I’m the person principally concerned, that cannot be nice for me.”

“You’ve been no fool; – ask him if he thinks you have.”

“Ask him? Who do you mean by ‘him’? The person whose name I supposed was Smithers?”

“Netta!”

“Well? Why do you look at me like that? It was the merest supposition, wasn’t it? It’s easy for you to talk prettily, and to say smooth things; but you have a name – I haven’t.”

“Netta, I understand your frame of mind – how all the foundations of the world seem to have given way—”

“It’s very good of you.”

“But it’s not so bad as you imagine – indeed, it’s not bad at all – it’s only a cloud that has got for a moment before the sun. Wait till your husband returns tomorrow – you’ll find that at his touch it will melt away.”

“Wait? – I suppose I shall have to wait – even if in the interval I go mad. I don’t know where he is or I’d telegraph to him to return – and perhaps he wouldn’t come.”

“You’d be very foolish if you did anything of the kind.”

“I daresay. I have been foolish in my time. But moments seem precious when you’re as I am.” She bit her lip, and clenched her fists, and turned away. “If you don’t mind very much, I’d rather you left me.”

Without a word Margaret Foster went out of the room. Netta, waiting till she heard the door shut, turned as if to see if the girl had really gone. Then, crossing the room, she stood before a mirror, studying the reflection which appeared in it.

“That’s not my face. I thought I shouldn’t know it if I saw it again. I felt I changed – with everything else. I seem to have died. – I wonder what it feels like to be dead. I wish I could die before he comes back. I’m afraid of his coming. I daren’t think of the stranger I shall see. My husband and my lover went away this morning – forever. I didn’t know he was going away forever – I wish I had, it’d have been so different – and this man’s coming in his place. What shall I do?”

— XXXV —

COUSINS

About three o’clock on the afternoon of that day Mr. Smithers was in Piccadilly. Just after he had passed Arlington Street someone spoke to him, who had approached him from behind.

“Drew!”

At the sound of the voice he gave a perceptible start. One might have suspected him of a desire to ignore the speaker and march straight on. But if such was his intention it was frustrated by the other’s insistence.

“Drew, I say!”

The words were uttered with an emphasis which refused evasion. After what was plainly enough a further moment’s hesitation, Mr. Smithers turned, to find himself confronted by a man who had both a singular likeness and unlikeness to himself. This other man was shorter, smaller altogether. He was not so broad. He had not that air which compelled attention – at first sight, Mr. Smithers’ most striking characteristic. Yet, when you observed more closely, you perceived that even in his bearing and his figure he recalled the bigger man. There was about him an ease, a grace, one might add a touch of conscious, yet careless, superiority, which was as a reminiscence of the other’s splendour. One saw it clearly as they stood together. About his face were recollections. His hair and beard were thin and sandy, while the other’s were luxuriant and golden; his countenance was thin and peaked, while the other’s was radiant with health and vigour; yet in the features, their expression, above all in the large blue eyes, which smiled, and would smile though the heart was weeping, there was kinship. The newcomer was attired in apparel – each detail the production of a master hand – whose hue, from head to foot, was black. He was gazing at Mr. Smithers in unmistakable surprise.

“Man, is it a sea-king or a painter’s model that you are? I’d not have known you in that beard. You’re like a picture!”

Mr. Smithers laughed – and when he spoke it was odd how like their voices were.

“Yes – my beard has grown.”

“Grown – when I never saw you with a hair upon your face! It’s just magnificent. I believe you meant to cut me.”

“I had for the moment some intention of walking on.”

“It’s pretty of you to admit it. You’re a. pretty fellow altogether!”

“Yet, Alec, I’m glad to see you. I’ve ached for a sight of you.”

“You’ve kept your aches out of your face.”

“I’ve learnt to do it.”

The other observed it shrewdly; then something came on to his face which made it beautiful – a look of understanding. But he only said:

“Come to the house with me.” When the other seemed to hesitate, he continued, in gentle yet peremptory tones, “It’s no good thinking whether you will or whether you won’t, because if you won’t I’ll have you carried.”

“I’d sooner walk.”

“Then walk with me.”

He passed his arm through the other’s. As, arm-in-arm, they crossed the road together, it was plain that they were kin. They strolled – almost completely silent, finding sufficient content in each other’s society – to the Marquis of Skye’s house, which is in Park Lane – as the world knows, one of the most famous of London’s famous houses. There they entered a room which overlooked the garden. And being alone in it, the Marquis of Skye placed his kinsman before a window, and stood in front of him at a distance of about an arm’s length.

“Let’s stare at you,” he said. And he stared; the other bearing his inspection with smiling equanimity. “Do you know you’ve used me very ill?”

“Such was not my intention.”

“And what kind of an intention had you then?”

“To hide myself.”

“And what kind of intention do you call that? When I’ve been picturing you in all sorts of piteous plights, with shoeless feet, contending with fearful creatures in fearful places, without a sup of whiskey with which to warm yourself, and here you are, a radiant vision, looking a credit to your family, and I’ll be betting that you’ve money in your pocket.”

“I have a pound or two.”

“It’s more than the rest of your family has got. Like everything else, money’s scarce with us. Why didn’t you come to me when you quitted that prison place? I didn’t like to write. I know the black spirit that’s in you, and I thought you mightn’t fancy the address; and I’m told, besides, that they’ve a nasty little trick of editing your correspondence, and I never wrote a letter that didn’t want it – but why didn’t you come?”

“I couldn’t.”

“And why couldn’t you?”

“I’d no money.”

“And can you stand there and tell me that you didn’t know I’d give you money if you wanted it?”

“I’m not so foolish. But I also suspected that you’d none to spare.”

“Suspected! – The word is good. I’ve never had money to spare, nor ever will have, but that’s no reason why I shouldn’t have got money for you if you had wanted it. You talk strangely.”

“And do you think I could have come to you straight from the shadow of a prison?”

“Why not? Do you think that you’re the first Bruce who’s been jailed? You’ve scandalously neglected the study of your family history if you do. We’ve been a gallows crew since the day that we began – murdering and thieving down the ages – as people of family did. I doubt if there’s a jail in Scotland that hasn’t held us. And what jailed you? Doing what did you honour – killing a scoundrel – that was all. If you hadn’t killed him, then I mightn’t ever have spoken to you again. Our fathers would have run him through in the Park, or put a bullet in him, like gentlemen. Other times, other manners. You being in the movement – as a gentleman should be – killed him in the fashion of the hour.”

“I never meant to kill him.”

“No; of course not. When a gentleman drops another gentleman out of a fourth-floor window, he never imagines that anything will hurt him. It’s against nature to suppose it.”

“I was blind with fury.”

“And, as things are, a very good thing it is to be blind in moments of that sort. To suppose that you did anything unbecoming a gentleman is absurd – you’d call the man to account who suggested it. You know – as well as I know – that there isn’t a man in London – that is a man! – who wouldn’t be proud to take you by the hand – or a woman either.” Suddenly changing the subject, the Marquis waved his hand towards a water-colour drawing of a lady which hung over the mantelpiece. “You’ve heard?,”

“I saw it in the paper – and I heard the pipes.”

“I also. – Well, she was a good wife to me – in her way; and I wasn’t a bad husband to her – as husbands go – which isn’t saying much for either side. I’m endeavouring to reconcile myself to the inscrutable decree of an all-seeing Providence – and I hope she is. The boy wouldn’t have lived in any case.”

“Is that so?”

“You had only to look at him – Sarah knew it herself – the doctors were unanimous. He was a weak, puling brat, without a hearty yell in him. – So you’re the heir.”

“God forbid!”

“What might you be meaning? Aren’t you the heir?”

“You’ll marry again.”

“Never. I’m doomed.”

“Doomed?”

“You’ll be Marquis of Skye within – let’s take the extreme limit – let’s say inside a week.”

“What rubbish are you talking?”

“Shon piped to me last night.”

“Alec!”

“He favoured Sarah the night before she started on her last journey. I only heard of it yesterday. It appears that in the middle of the night she rang for her maid and asked her who was piping. The girl told my man; yesterday I had the tale from him. On my return this morning Shon performed for my special benefit his own particular version of Buaidh no Bàs.”

“It was a hallucination. You were thinking of your man’s story; you imagined that you heard.”

“You know how a Bruce imagines Buaidh no Bàs. Nor was I thinking of my man’s story – I was thinking of my infernal luck – I had been playing bridge in Fossdyke’s room. I walked home. As I came into the gate I heard the piper – it was as though he was playing to himself just behind my back. I turned, fully expecting to see someone there. When I saw that I had the whole place to myself for a moment I was startled. Then I understood.”

“It’s the rankest superstition – one of which we Bruces ought to be thoroughly ashamed. I don’t believe that there’s a particle of truth in the whole mad legend.”

The Marquis looked at him – queerly. His tone became suddenly sardonic.

“If I were you I shouldn’t lie – on such a point. If you have lies to spare, don’t waste them. You know how it goes – for a cadet, twelve hours’ notice; for the head of the family, twenty-four – Shon is good enough to assume that he may want a little longer to make ready. So it would seem that it’s by the mercy of Providence I’ve run across you in the nick of time. It was this morning at a quarter past four that I heard him. So if you look round about noon tomorrow you’ll find that Preston – you remember Preston? he’s still head-jack-in-office – will greet the Marquis.”

“Nonsense! I wish you wouldn’t talk in that strain – you’ve always had that eerie streak in you.”

“I daresay. Still – I should advise you to keep a carpetbag packed ready. Have you seen that?” He took a photograph out of a heap of others and threw it across. “She’s Esmé Papillon now – I suppose you’ve heard.”

“Yes; I’ve heard.”

“She’s gone onto the stage – where they all go now. It’s quite the fashion – so is she. A name like Esmé Papillon looks well on the bills – she certainly looks nice on the boards. Made a huge success – draws all the town to the Pandora.”

Although the Marquis paused, the other was silent – he was regarding the photograph he held in his hand as if it had been some sort of curio. His cousin went on – observing him closely, as a surgeon might a subject on whom he was using his scalpel:

“She’s married again – Bellamy the actor – Frederick Bellamy, you know. Plays fools – and plays them perfectly. I’m told that he’s as proud of her as if she were something altogether too fine for human nature’s daily food – and yet he must know everything. Man’s queer!”

“I also am married again.”

“What!” The Marquis started, almost as if the other had struck him. Mr. Smithers met the other’s gaze and smiled.

“To the dearest girl in the world. The phrase is not original, but in this case it’s an accurate description.”

“Are you – joking?”

“I am not.”

“Then, if you’re in earnest, it’s the best news that ever I heard – but as to that I needn’t be telling you. Say there are at least two pair of twins – four bouncing, bonny boys, that can make themselves heard from here to the other side of the Park – there’s nothing like good lungs. Knowing your record and mine, and that we’re the last of the stock, each time I’ve looked at Sarah, and at the puling brat which was all that she could give me, it’s been like a nightmare to me to think that the Bruces were done. But if you’ll promise that you’ll have at least a baker’s dozen of lusty, long-legged, strong-lunged lads, built on their father s lines, it’s with the greatest pleasure that I’ll be joining Sarah.”

“I’ve not been married six months.”

“To be sure that’s a wee small time. But say there are hopes?”

“I hear there are hopes.”

“Then take me to your wife at once – or rather, bring her here. Don’t let her keep out of the home of her unborn babe a moment longer than she can help. – By the way, who’ve you married?”

“The daughter of the landlady who kept the lodgings which I occupied when I first came out of prison.”

“Say that again – it sounds like a little complication.” Mr. Smithers repeated his words. The Marquis was still for a moment. Then he said – in his tone a suggestion of doubt – “Have you taken the long price again? The last time you didn’t land it.”

“You wouldn’t ask me such a question if you knew her.”

“Has she money?”

“Not a penny, except what I give her.”

“Then I’m thinking that that’s not likely to be much. It’ll be the first time I’ll be hearing that your pocket’s overweighted – yet you seem to have a tailor who trusts you. How have you managed?”

“I’ve had adventures.”

“I’ll be bound! Adventures are to the adventurous, and there’s no mistaking that you’re that. Have your adventures taken the shape of a gold mine?”

“Something like it, only more so.-May I have a cigar?”

He turned to a silver cabinet which stood upon a sideboard.

“If you try the left top drawer you’ll find the thing you’re wanting – and hand me one. They’re fine and black and strong – rightly suited to a man with an empty pocket who’s beginning to talk of gold mines.”

Mr. Smithers did as he was requested, proceeding to light the one which he himself had chosen.

“Have you ever heard of Francis Smithers?”

“The Francis Smithers who everybody’s heard off? – the million a minute man?”

“That’s the man. I’m he.”

“What’s that?”

The marquis lowered his cigar in the middle of the operation of lighting it, regardless of the fact that the flame of the match approached his fingers.

“I say, I’m the man you refer to.”

“But the man I refer to is Francis Smithers, the Rodway Power man, who, from the coin point of view, is leaving the American multi-millionaires at the post.”

“I am that Francis Smithers Rodway is my partner.”

The marquis laid down his cigar, still unlighted, and dropped the match with a start.

“Is this one of those samples of American humour in which the point consists in telling the biggest lie that ever was told; because, if so, it isn’t fair for you to start off without giving me warning?”

Mr. Smithers handed the other a visiting-card.

“That is my name and my country address. At present we haven’t a house in town.” “Oh, at present you haven’t a house in town! Is that so?”

“When I came out of prison I assumed the name of Smithers.”

“Wasn’t the name of Bruce good enough for you?”

“I didn’t wish to bring more shame on it than I had done already. That was one reason, and there were others. In the same house in which I lodged lived Benjamin Rodway, who was then a bank clerk. I became his partner – as Francis Smithers. When I became engaged I took out letters-patent, and became Francis Smithers legally.”

“Then am I to understand that there is no Andrew Bruce? – that Francis Smithers is your legal name?”

“You are. My wife is Mrs. Smithers.”

“And when I join Sarah – what then?”

“My dear Alec, you must marry again.”

“Between this and tomorrow.”

“Get that bee out of your bonnet. In an insurable sense, yours is a better life than mine.”

“But suppose – what then?”

“Would you wish that a man with my record should become a Marquis of Skye?”

“I would – a thousand times over – if that man be you.”

“Then I wouldn’t.”

“Fortunately the matter is not one for your decision. The law gives you no option. It will make you marquis whether you will or not. By means of no letters-patent will you be able to stultify your birthright. Shame on you if force be needed. Are you such a coward that you dare not face your peers – because a woman tricked you once, and you paid the man that aided her? I know you better than you know yourself. The Bruce blood runs hot in your veins. You’ll not play the skulking loon, seeking refuge behind a hedge, when the piper calls you to take the place that’s yours; – you’ll not deny your sires, or their heritage; but you’ll take it – and hold it – like a man!”

“If you are convinced that I will not bring shame upon our fathers, then I will; – that is, if I survive you.”

“Shame upon our fathers? Why, if you’d cut the rascal’s head off at the shoulders and stuck it on your doorpost, you’d only have done what they’ve done often. How many times, I’m wondering, has there been a row of heads drying on the Gairloch battlements? So far from bringing shame, if you are Francis Smithers you’ll bring great glory; for money’s the one thing the Bruce has found it hard to get and keep. At the notion of a Marquis of Skye with the money of Francis Smithers, there isn’t one of your sires that won’t rub his hands together and chuckle with glee; and when Shon calls you, his pipes will skirl with joy.”

“Alec, there’s a question I wish to ask you.”

“Ask, and be answered. – It’s good for you that I’m away tomorrow, or I’d be wanting cash from you the day after. It’s nothing but debts that you’ll be succeeding to. I give you my word that I’m hard put to it to find someone that’ll let me make them bigger.”

“Any sum that you require I shall be only too proud and happy to let you have at once; and if you will let my men of business communicate with yours, I will see that all encumbrances are cleared.”

“Hark at him! – Did any Bruce ever hear the like! – And he’s afraid that he’ll bring shame upon his sires! If it’s shameful to free your family of a load of debt which has been dragging it through the dirt this many a year, then your opportunities to dishonour it on those lines will be many – when I’ve joined Sarah.”

“That’s the point on which I want to ask a question. You say that you heard Shon this morning.” The marquis nodded. “Don’t you think the warning might have been meant for me?”

“Why? – Did you hear him?”

“I think it possible that what you heard was meant for me, since it’s on the cards that by this time tomorrow I may be – with Sarah.”

“Why do you say it? – What’s in the air?”

“I have some business to transact tonight which may have that result. I merely speak of it because I wish to point out that it’s extremely possible – from what you say – that I’ve been warned by deputy. So far as I was concerned, the warning was not required. I knew already.”

“By this time tomorrow we’ll both know.”

“Probably. – Should the call be mine, you’ll remember I’ve a wife.”

“I will. She shall be bone of my bone – especially if it’s a boy.”

Mr. Smithers expelled a cloud of smoke from between his lips.

“She’s the dearest girl in the world – and I love her better than my life.”

— XXXVI —

BETWEEN THE STORMS

Again and again the same idea, in different settings, placed Netta upon a mental rack – which, by degrees, became a physical one as well.

“To think that I should have trusted him so implicitly, and that he should have been so hideously false – that his treachery should have been equal to my faith!”

The fashion of it continually changed, assailing her in a hundred different forms; but the thought, at bottom, remained identical – that he should have so imposed upon her credulity! Wherever she looked the reflection lashed her as with unescapable whips. She had esteemed him a god – and he was this thing of pestilent clay; she had believed him incapable of falsehood – and, from the first, in all that he had said and done, he had been a materialised lie; she had credited him with more than mortal virtue – and all the while he had been vice incarnate; she had imagined him upon a pedestal, at whose base all the world ought to fall down and worship – and he was this shameful thing, whom she would be fortunate if she would be able to hide in a ditch!

And she – she herself! – what a simpleton she had been – what a credulous fool! As she beat her fists against the arms of the chair on which she was sitting, she told herself that it really was incredible that she could have been such a monstrous idiot. How he must have been laughing at her – making a jest of her behind her back! From that first moment when, fresh from jail – oh ye powers, think of it! fresh from jail! – he had been her mother’s lodger, he had been smiling at her in his sleeve. Piling lie upon lie, and tickled beyond measure at the gullibility with which she swallowed them; adding fraud to fraud, and splitting his sides with amusement at her persistence in regarding him as an honest man. When she recalled how she had boasted of him to Margaret Foster, among others, as being a stainless knight, without fear and without reproach, she writhed and bit her lips, and could have beaten her head against the wall in her abandonment of shame.

Hers was a nature which was peculiarly sensitive to ridicule. To know that she had become a common laughing-stock was in itself sufficient to cut her to the quick – especially as, in her sublime unconsciousness, in her inconceivable blindness, she had held her head so high. Even Theodore would have the laugh of her; he would never allow her to forget it till one of them was dead. And Rodway – whom she had always regarded as a good-humoured butt; the reiteration of whose desire that she should marry him she had looked upon as a sort of standing joke – she would suspect him of indulging in at least an inward smile whenever he looked her way. As for Margaret Foster, that sly cat – so she called her – who, under the guise of friendship, had set herself deliberately to deceive her, and while pretending to envy her, had been enjoying her crass stupidity – she had never had a girl friend before – her first would be her last! She had heard of woman’s treachery to woman, now she knew what it meant. And her mother, of whose simplicity she had made fun – what would her mother think and say when she saw her tumbled off the pinnacle on which she had supposed herself to be immutably fixed?

As tormenting demons chased each other through her fevered brain, rage seemed to contend with agony. If there only had been something in reach on which she could wreak her wrath; or if she had only been able, at that very moment, to erase herself from off the face of the earth, as if she had never been!

At the best, the position was too terrible to permit as yet of sane contemplation; and at the worst – what then? A sobbing fit shook her as with palsy. She dare not think of it. Suppose, when he returned – if he ever did return; she was not sure that she wished him to return – and she put to him those questions which she would have to put; and he, stripped of the subterfuges of which he had taken such diabolical advantage, constrained to the bare truth, was to admit that what was not the least of Theodore’s accusations was true, and that he had already another wife – what would she do then? What could she do? Nothing. There was the lake. She might find refuge there!

While – to use the apostolic figure – she contended with the wild beasts which her brother had gone out of his way to let loose upon her, that model relative was himself by no means happy. One might have supposed that he would have been content with the fruit of his labours, but he was not. Nor was his associate, Mr. Swire. After the ladies had departed, and left him confronting Mr. Rodway in the copse, there had been a painful scene. He certainly had found it painful. To be handled – by a muscular person in a very bad temper – as if one were something between a football and a lay figure, cannot be comforting to the feelings of any gentleman. Mr. Swire, with a discretion which did more credit to his head than to his heart, made the best possible speed along what he believed to be the shortest cut to the high road. When Mr. Ludlow rejoined him – which he did only after a considerable interval – that pillar of the commercial fabric looked as if he had been treated very badly – and he had. Mr. Swire greeted him with an unsympathetic grin.

“You look a pretty sight!”

Mr. Ludlow did not look a pretty sight. He was hatless; his collar was missing; his shirt was torn open at the neck; his nice black clothes not only looked as if they had come off a ragman’s barrow, but they seemed to be attached to him only by accident. His nose was bleeding. His face and hair were so plastered with mud that he was unrecognisable. Mr. Swire’s words were intended to be ironic – as Mr. Ludlow was not slow to perceive.

“If there’s a law in the land, that man Rodway shall smart for this. – Why didn’t you stand by me?”

“I did stand by you till the fight began. Then, as it wasn’t any business of mine, and I didn’t want to be mixed up in a little family affair of that kind, of course I came away. There was one to one – you didn’t want there to be two to one, did you? – Did you kill him?”

“Kill him!” – Mr. Ludlow ground his teeth – what was left of them. – “Before I’ve finished I’ll make him wish I had killed him. – You’ve made a pretty mess of things!”

“Me! that’s good. What price you? When I think of how you looked when you came away from town this morning, and how you’re looking now, it seems to me that you haven’t made a very good job of it up to this. – What I want to know is, what I’m going to get out of it.”

Mr. Ludlow glared at the speaker as well as the state of his optics permitted.

“May I ask what you expect to get out of it after the way in which you’ve behaved?”

“You said that this ought to be as good to me as ten thousand pound – what I want to know is, where’s that ten thousand coming from?”

“You may well want! I supposed you were going to behave like a reasonable being. I never imagined you were going to blunder out everything in the way you did. Before I had a chance of speaking, you had ruined all.”

“How do you make that out? Now look here, I’ve seen your hanky games before today, so don’t you try to play no more of them off on tome, or I’ll start talking. I done just as you told me, and now I expect you to be as good as your word; and what I want and what I mean to know is, where’s that ten thousand a-coming from?”

Mr. Swire was regarding his companion in a manner which hardly suggested friendship. Mr. Ludlow, indeed, resented his bearing with as great a show of dignity as his unfortunate condition permitted.

“Be so good as to stand further off, and not to thrust your face at me like that. I shall also be obliged by your going your way and allowing me to go mine.”

“With the greatest of pleasure. It ain’t no catch to be seen with a scarecrow like you, what’s treated your own sister worse than I’d treat a blooming copper. Only, before I do go, perhaps you’ll hand over.”

“Hand over what?”

“That ten thousand pound you said this lay was going to be worth to me.”

“Don’t be an idiot!”

“What you call me?”

“I ask you not, if possible, to behave as if you were an—”

Mr. Ludlow did not finish his sentence. Before he could do so his companion took, or rather tried to take, him by the throat. The cashier, having had a recent object lesson in the inconveniences of that kind of thing, warded off the threatened attack by planting his fist in Mr. Swire’s right eye with such a sudden force and directness that Sam, as he staggered backwards, seemed to have some difficulty in keeping himself upon his feet. It was a second or two before he recovered from the pain and shock. When he did, he rushed at Theodore in the fashion of his class – with head down and arms whirling like the sails of a windmill. Then and there the whilom allies engaged in a rough-and-tumble bout of fisticuffs of a sort in which one hardly expects to find a gentleman of Mr. Ludlow’s type engaged.

Matters, however, had not proceeded far when law and order came upon the scene in the shape of Jaikes, the village constable. Mr. Jaikes’ methods proved rough and ready. He saw two men fighting; he did not stop to inquire into the why and wherefore – the sight of contention was enough for him.

“Now then! What’s all this? We don’t want none of this sort of thing here! Off you go – both the two of you!”

Swire, experienced in such matters, was not slow to take the hint. Disengaging himself from the fray, he slunk off with a degree of expedition which showed unequivocal readiness to obey the official mandate. But Mr. Ludlow, unaccustomed to being addressed by a policeman in such a tone, evinced a disposition to remonstrate.

“I’ve been assaulted by two persons—”

That he had been subjected to considerable violence was sufficiently plain. But Mr. Jaikes did not wait for him to go into details. His manner was curt.

“I’ve heard! I know all about you! And serve you right! Your friend knows on which side his bread’s buttered – if you take my advice you’ll go after him.”

“That fellow’s no friend of mine. My name is—”

Mr. Ludlow began fumbling for his card-case.

The constable cut him short.

“I don’t want to know what your name is, and I don’t want to have anything to say to you. Are you going to take yourself off, or am I going to lock you up?”

Moving forward, the policeman showed an inclination to take him by the collar of his coat. As that would have been the third time, in the course of a single morning, of his being subjected to such an indignity, Mr. Ludlow’s soul rebelled. He took himself off; though painfully conscious – as the policeman’s eyes followed his hatless figure – that it was an exceedingly undignified position for a man in his position to have to occupy.

With regret it has to be stated that while Mr. Ludlow was falling out with his associate, a difference of opinion was also taking place between another pair of allies. When Miss Foster left Netta in her bedroom she marched straight in search of Mr. Rodway. And she found him – at a moment when it would have been perhaps well if she had failed in finding him. He had recently concluded his interview with Mr. Ludlow. And though there was no evidence of his having suffered damage, his apparel was not in the best of order, and there were abundant signs that he was both hot and excited. As coolness and calmness were not at that instant the most prominent characteristics in the young lady’s deportment, it did seem unfortunate that they could not have managed to miss each other.

She opened proceedings by looking him up and down with an air which in itself was provoking.

“So you’ve been fighting?”

His tone in reply was grim.

“If you like to call it so. I’ve treated Theodore Ludlow to the best thrashing he’s ever had in his life – as yet!”

“I suppose it has made you happy. I believe that sort of thing does make some men happy – of a certain nature.”

“On the contrary, I’m the most miserable brute in England; and I’m rendered so by the consciousness that this would not have happened if I had persisted, as I ought to have done, in disregarding your advice. If I had only acted honestly and straightforwardly, as I wanted to, it might all have been avoided.”

“That’s just the sort of remark I expected you would make – just the remark. Allow me to tell you that if you had been half the man I supposed you were, poor dear Netta would not have been in the condition she now is.”

“What could I have done to save her, then?”

“You might have contradicted her brother’s assertions, as she begged and implored you to.”

“And told a lie?”

“Told a lie! You might have found means of silencing his wicked tongue without committing yourself to an actual falsehood. I tell you frankly, Mr. Rodway, that I never imagined that you would have behaved as you have done.” He gasped, as well he might. “There is that poor girl contemplating suicide—”

“Contemplating suicide!”

“What else is there for her to contemplate, since she supposes herself to be falling through the bottomless abyss into which you have allowed her to be plunged?”

“I allowed her to be plunged!”

“If you had thrashed that man at the beginning instead of afterwards, you might have saved her from everything.”

“But the mischief was done before I arrived on the scene.”

Perhaps it was the consciousness that this was so which made her bite her lips and tipped her tongue with spite.

“We girls were alone. What could we do against two great men? But when you came, you might easily have made them eat their words, if you had not preferred to break poor Netta’s heart instead.”

He threw out his arms, as if appealing to the silent trees.

“I never heard anything more monstrous! Let me tell you – in face of your cruel accusations – I will speak out! – let me tell you that you are in no small degree responsible for the hideous position into which affairs have drifted.”

“That’s right! Lay the blame on me! I thought you would. Having thrashed Mr. Ludlow – after carefully waiting till after he had broken his sister’s heart – now thrash me.”

“If you had suffered me to act honestly-”

“Are you suggesting that I advised dishonesty, by word, look, or action?”

“If you had let me tell her the truth about that blackguard—”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“I am speaking of the scoundrel who is bringing shame upon us all.”

“Are you referring to Mr. Francis Smithers?”

“Francis Smithers! – bah! Don’t let there be any of that hypocrisy between us two.”

“And let there be still less of that kind of talk, if you please, Mr. Rodway. It is because you are so utterly incapable of dividing the true from the false; of detecting the fundamental lie which is at the root of the pseudo truths, which come from the lips of such men as Theodore Ludlow, that I say that the responsibility is yours for the trouble which has come, and still is coming. I know, if you don’t, that there is more manhood in the man you call a scoundrel, than could be obtained from a hundred such men as you and Ludlow and Swire, if you were boiled down into Liebig’s extract – more of all the fine, the virile qualities. More truth, more honesty, more courage, more wisdom, more dependability – I’d rather trust him with my whole body than you with my little finger. And if you encourage Netta in supposing, for one single instant, that he’s anything remotely like the creature that vile man’s vile lips have suggested, then you deserve to be whipped at the tail of your own unresting machines as long as they keep running.”

The young lady spoke with so much vigour that Mr. Rodway – in open-mouthed astonishment – shrank from her, as if fearful of a personal assault.

And while she was emptying on him the vials of her scorn, Netta was suffering herself to stumble into the nets which had been spread to catch her.

— XXXVII —

THE SETTING OF THE SNARE

It had ended in tears, the passion and the pain, the rage and the frenzy. The climax had come in the form of a paroxysm of weeping. Netta had thrown herself upon her bed to cry. And there she still lay when someone knocked at the door. The knocking came a second time before she heeded. Then she sat up in sudden fright.

“Who’s there?” Someone tried the handle, to find the door was locked. “You can’t come in. What do you want?”

“A lady wishes to see you, madam.”

“A lady – what lady?”

“I understand that she declines to give her name, but that she is very desirous of seeing you. She says that her business is of the utmost importance.”

The voice was her maid’s. Apparently she had been deputed by one of the menservants to bear a message.

“Where is my mother? – or Miss Foster? I’m not well – tell one of them to see her – I can’t.”

The maid departed, shortly to return.

“I’m very sorry, madam, but Parker tells me that the lady declines to go without seeing you.”

Parker was the butler, a personage with imposing manners, of whom Netta herself stood somewhat in awe. “She has sent this note.”

Netta descended from the bed, opened the door about three inches, took the envelope which was passed through the interstice, and shut the door again in the woman’s face. She had to wipe the tears out of her half-blinded eyes before she could see to read. Then she found that in the envelope was a sheet of paper on which was pencilled, in clear, bold writing, the following:

I am sorry to hear that you are ill, but I must see you at once on a matter which is literally one of life and death. I regret to appear insistent, but as no one will serve but you, I must request you not to keep me waiting.

The writing was strange, there was no signature – nothing to show from whom the communication had come. She had to read the words over two or three times before she was able to grasp their meaning. Then her face assumed a grimmer setting. Her blurred eyes became set and rigid. She asked herself a question:

“Now, what else is coming?” She called to the maid without – “What sort of looking person is this lady?”

“I haven’t seen her, madam.”

“Is she young?”

“Parker didn’t mention, madam.”

“And she won’t give her name?”’

“She absolutely declines to give her name. Parker says that she says she will give her name to you, but to no one else.”

Netta repeated to herself, sotto voce:

“She’ll give her name to me, will she, and to no one else?” She reflected for a few moments, then asked aloud, “Where is she?”

“She is in the oak room, madam.”

“Tell her that I will be with her in five minutes.”

The maid bore away the message. Netta re-read the pencilled note; stood for a second, as if considering; washed her face and sponged her eyes – the marks of the tears would not come out of them; retouched her hair before the mirror; then began to look for a particular bottle of smelling-salts. It was not upon her dressing-table, nor anywhere in sight. She went into her husband’s dressing-room, thinking that it might be there; – he liked the pungent odour of the contents of that particular bottle, and had a trick of appropriating it for his especial use. As it was nowhere to be seen, she drew out his dressing-table drawers, one after the other, supposing that it might be in one of them. In one of the drawers she saw an envelope, but in none of them the bottle. The envelope was that which was addressed – “To be opened by my wife should nothing have been heard of me by noon on January the second. – Francis Smithers.” Had she observed it, it might have put her on the alert; and might even have saved her from the peril which was momentarily coming closer. But she did not observe it, and she went blindly to her fate. Since there were no signs of the bottle, she returned to her bedroom. As she did so the door – which she had not re-locked – opened. Supposing that it had been opened by her maid, she began to address her.

“Forbes, have you seen my blue smelling-bottle with the—”

Something which she saw in the mirror in front of which she was standing caused her to stop and turn. Someone had entered the room who was not Forbes – a strange woman, who had closed the door after her as she came in, and who now stood in silence, observing Netta. She was about forty years of age; not bad-looking, in a hard, garish fashion; big, and squarely built; the unmistakable suggestion of muscular strength which was conveyed by her figure being in keeping with the squareness of her jaw and the spirit of domination which looked out of her eyes. Expensively and even well dressed in tailor-made tweeds, there was that about her which forbade her being mistaken for a woman of gentle birth and breeding. Netta decided, on the instant, that she was a type of person whom, under any circumstances, she would dislike – even had she not presented herself in such a very unusual fashion. Her tone was as severe as she could make it.

“Who are you? And what do you mean by intruding yourself uninvited in my room?”

The woman showed no discomposure. She replied to Netta’s inquiries with another – which she left unfinished.

“You are—?”

“I am Mrs. Smithers.”

“Pardon me, I am Mrs. Smithers – Mrs. Francis Smithers.”

Netta swayed a little backwards, so that she was glad to have her hand upon the dressing-table. It was what she had expected.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you really?” There was an insolent intonation in the voice which suggested something more than doubt.

“My husband’s name is Smithers.”

“Excuse me, your husband’s name is not Smithers. That was my husband’s name. I am his widow.”

What did the woman mean?

“My husband is dead.”

This time Netta’s feet refused altogether to support her, even with the aid of the corner of the dressing-table. Fortunately there was a chair at hand to save her from falling on to the floor. Apparently this woman was on a different errand from that which she had feared. Although she had not a notion what it was that had really brought her, her heart leapt within her bosom as if with relief. She said again – this time with truth—

“I don’t understand.”

“I will make it plain enough. Neither you nor I married a model man. We both married scoundrels. But you seem to have hit upon the greater scoundrel of the two.”

“How dare you say it?”

“I dare to say it because it’s true. Both our husbands were in jail together.”

“I don’t believe it.” Netta spoke as if she was choking. The other’s voice was hard and clear – pitiless.

“You’ll have to believe it. My husband died in jail. Yours sat by his deathbed. When he was dead he set himself to rob him. And in robbing him he robbed me. All that you have is mine – even to the name by which you call yourself.”

“Can you – can you prove that what you say is true? I have heard something of this a little time ago. I only want to know.”

Netta put her hand up to her forehead, as if it ached.

“Do you think that I would come to you with a tale like this if I couldn’t prove that it was true? If I’m forced, I’ll prove it in every court in England. The man who calls himself your husband is as little moved by appeals to his sense of mercy and of justice as if he were made of steel. If I must, I’ll drag from him what is mine by the help of the law – I’ll not get it in any other way. But you – you are young; too young to be wholly bad; you may be different. You may have a heart within your bosom which can be moved to pity. You may be willing to help me against this man – who has wronged you almost as much as he has wronged me! – to get back at least some of the things of which he’s robbed me.”

“If you are able to show that any of the things I have are yours, I’ll not keep them from you for an instant”

“You mean it?”

“I do.”

They looked at each other. The one so simple; so easy to deceive; so nearly broken-hearted. The other so unscrupulous; so versed in devious ways; so ready to snatch at an unfair advantage. The elder woman perceived that, because of the girl’s piteous plight, she was likely to have an easier task than she had foreseen.

“You will let me prove to you that the man who calls himself your husband has done what I say he has?”

“If you can.”

“If I can! – Come with me and I’ll show you if I can.”

“Come with you? – Where?”

There was a sudden eagerness in the woman’s manner from which she instinctively shrank.

“Tonight he’s to be called to an account.”

“Called to account? – What do you mean?”

“I am not the only one he’s robbed – he’s robbed others. When we’ve asked him to disgorge – to give us back what is our own – he’s laughed in our faces. I tell you he’s like steel for hardness. But he’ll do no more laughing after tonight. He’s going to meet those face to face who’ll put a stop to that. We’ve borne enough – as he’ll find out. If you mean a tithe of what you say, and are not a brazen-faced liar such as he is – and you don’t look it; you look good! – you’ll come with me and help us – persuade him to give us back our own.”

“Where is he?”

“I’ll take you to him.”

“I ask you to tell me where he is.”

“He’s in London. Tonight he’s going to a house which is one of his own particular haunts, and there he’s going to meet his victims; the unfortunates whose property he has – and you have.”

“Not I.”

“Yes, you! – you! I see it all about you! – you even have my name! You’ll see that he’ll start laughing at us again – bid us whistle for the return of a pennyworth he’s stolen. And if you’re not there to help us, there’ll be mischief done.”

“Are you sure of what you say?”

“What I tell you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Can’t you see that I am speaking truly?”

“You seem to be – but I have been so much deceived.”

“You have! – God knows you have! But if you do as I ask you, deceit will be at end. You’ll at least have a quiet conscience,whatever happens; and that is something. If you like, I’ll go down on my knees to implore you; – I’ll sacrifice my heart’s blood to touch yours.”

“You need do nothing violent. If you are sure that tonight my husband will be at the house you speak of, under the circumstances you mention, no pressure will be needed to induce me to be also there.”

“I swear that I’ve told you nothing but the truth – he will be there. – What object could I have in telling you a falsehood?”

That was the inquiry which Netta was putting to herself. She saw no object – then. She arrived at a decision – which was to deliver her into hands which knew not what it was to show mercy.

“I will come with you. – When shall we start?”

“Now! – At once! – Every moment’s precious The one thing to be feared is to be late. If you are too late, you may have cause to regret it to the last moment of your life.”

If Netta could have only known it, the woman was looking at her with eyes from which – at that very second – there gleamed murder. She was saying to herself that the moments of the pretty fool in front of her were numbered, and enjoying in anticipation the epicurean pleasure of assisting at her despatch. But the girl saw nothing – understood nothing – guessed nothing. She was only filled with a divine desire at any cost to right the wrong. So she allowed herself to be trapped as easily as if she had been some woodland creature, ignorant of lures.

“If you will sit down, I will put on my hat and jacket and come with you directly.”

The woman, placing herself on the easiest chair which she could find, watched the girl making ready with a grin which she seemed to find it impossible to restrain. If Netta had noticed it, its peculiar quality might have hinted to her that it might he advisable at least to consult with someone else before she placed herself in this stranger’s power. But she noticed nothing.

— XXXVIII —

THE CABMAN

As the voice of Big Ben came across the Park announcing that it was nine o’clock, Mr. Smithers strolled up Waterloo Place. It was a fine evening, but very cold. A slight shower of sleet had fallen in London during the earlier part of the day; the roads and pavements were like glass. As he strolled up towards the Circus a hansom kept pace at his side, scenting a possible fare. Mr. Smithers smoked as he went. As the hour struck, he removed the cigar from his mouth and stood for a moment to listen. The cabman stopped too; apparently under the impression that the tall figure on the pavement was hesitating whether to walk or ride. Ignoring the driver’s hint, Mr. Smithers continued his leisurely walk. As he approached the Circus he scanned the loiterers and passers-by. At the corner he stopped. In the shadow, against the shuttered window of a shop, a man was standing. The two had that part of the pavement to themselves. Mr. Smithers, crossing to where he stood, subjected him to a close examination – which the other showed no sign of resenting. He was an undersized fellow, with a thin, dark face – a Jew. In his scarlet necktie was a scarf-pin fashioned to represent the symbol with which Mr. Smithers was so well acquainted. Mr. Smithers, putting out his fingers, was about to withdraw the pin from its place when the wearer covered it with his hand. He remonstrated – with a strong cockney twang.

“What are you up to? No tricks! – I know you’re good at them, but I don’t want you to play none of them with me.”

Mr. Smithers laughed.

“I only wanted to look at it closer. I have wondered, more than once, what it’s intended to represent. What’s the notion?”

“Never you mind what the notion is – you keep your hands off, that’s all you’ve got to do. – So you’ve come, have you? About time too. You’re late, you are. Lucky for you you ain’t later.”

“Why is it lucky?”

The man grinned – unpleasantly.

“As you ain’t later, you needn’t trouble yourself about the why. I tell you it is lucky. – Are you coming with me?”

“I’m here for that especial purpose.”

“Then we shall have to have a cab.”

Two hansoms were drawn up against the pavement – the one which had followed Mr. Smithers up Waterloo Place, and another, in front of it, which, it seemed, had been there before the other came. The stranger moved towards the first, Mr. Smithers towards the second.

“Here,” exclaimed the stranger, “this cab will do. Jump in.”

“Thank you,” returned Mr. Smithers. “I think I prefer this one. The horse is better.”

“What are you giving us? There’s nothing the matter with this horse. Come on in here – this one came first.”

“All the same, I think I prefer this one. If you are going to oblige me with your company, I should recommend you to take a seat.”

Without waiting for the other, Mr. Smithers stepped into the cab by which he was standing and sat down. The Jew came and addressed him from the pavement:

“What do you think you’re doing? The other cab’s mine – I came in it; it’s been waiting for me.”

“I really think that I would rather ride in a cab which has not been waiting for you.”

Mr. Smithers’ tone was so courteous and pleasant that the other scarcely seemed to know what to make of him.

“Are you coming out of that?”

“I am not. What is more, I am afraid – if you are not coming into this – that I shall have to go.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“My good fellow, what business is that of yours?”

The man returned the speaker’s smile with a glance which was not friendly. His tone was sullen.

“Wait half a mo’.”

Mr. Smithers waited. The Jew, going back to his own cab, commenced a colloquy with his driver. Presently a tall man came across the road and joined them. Then the Jew came and took his seat in the cab which Mr. Smithers already occupied, seemingly not in the best of tempers. When the driver opened the trap in the roof he called to him through it.

“Hanover Gate, Regent’s Park – and don’t move as if that horse of yours had only got three legs to go on.”

When they had gone some little distance Mr. Smithers observed, in his most genial tones:

“I am afraid that my preference for a hansom which had not been waiting for you has caused something in the nature of a hitch in your arrangements.”

His companion’s tone, as he replied, was not by any means so pleasant as his own had been.

“Don’t you put yourself out. There won’t be no hitches in our arrangements by the time we’re through with them.”

“Our? – Your friends are in the plural number, I see. I presume that one of them is following us in that cab of yours.”

“Look here! if you don’t want to make things worse than what they are, you won’t see nor hear nothing, and you won’t presume nothing either. You just keep a still tongue in your head, and come along with me.”

“Your advice sounds excellent. Will you try a cigar?”

“I don’t mind if I do.” The Jew selected one from the ease which the other proffered. “I suppose there’s no hanky about them? I understand that you’re a bit too fly, my bloke; that’s why I ask. I’ve heard of drugged cigars before today!”

“I’m beginning to fear that you’re a bit of an ass.”

“Now then! Don’t you call me no names, or you’ll be sorry.”

“Since I imagine that I might have less difficulty in throwing you out of the cab than you would have in throwing me, I take it that the probabilities of sorrow are with you.”

The Jew, who was biting off the end of his cigar, turned sharply on the seat.

“If you were to throw me out of this cab – and I’m not denying that, by the look of you, you could do it – you’d be about one of the sorriest men that ever lived.”

“I’ve half a mind to throw you out, merely for the purpose of ascertaining on what grounds that assertion is based.”

“I’d keep to the half mind if I was you – Got a match?” Mr. Smithers handed him a gold matchbox which had been a present from Netta – one of the many presents which she was so fond of presenting to him with his own money. The Jew admired it. “That’s something like a match-box, that is; it would pawn for a tenner.”

“Do you think so?”

“Lay a dollar it would. I’ve done in a few things like that in my time. I ought to know.-”

Apparently,having recovered from his bad temper, he was becoming talkative. – “This ain’t a bad smoke. Daresay they stand you in a bob apiece. I know where you can get ’em for eightpence.”

“You might give me the address.”

“It wouldn’t be no use – to you.”

“Why not? One likes to buy in the cheapest market.”

“I daresay.”

About his curtness there was something which was almost ominous; as if it conveyed – and was intended to convey – a threat. It moved Mr. Smithers’ mirth. He laughed.

“You speak as if my buying days were over.”

The other’s reply was distinctly not an answer to his words.

“It’s a fine night, ain’t it?”

“But cold – a cold night on which to die.”

For the second time the Jew turned sharply in his seat – regarding the other with his dark, inscrutable eyes.

“Do you think you’d find it so?”

“I haven’t considered the matter from the personal point of view. I fancy one doesn’t till one gets close to it.”

“Then, if I were you, I should consider it.”

“You think that I am close to death?”

“You may be.”

“On the other hand, I mayn’t. One should always weigh all the possibilities. – May I inquire your name?”

“Brown – Sam Brown. You’ve heard it before.”

“I’ve seen it written – followed, I think, by a note of interrogation.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. Some folks always do look like questioning me when I tell them that my name’s Sam Brown – they seem to think it ought to be Moses.” The cab drew up. “Here we are – Hanover Gate. This horse has got four legs. Out you skip.”

“How much farther have we to go? I think I would rather ride all the way.”

“Then you ain’t going to. I ain’t going to take no strange cab of which I don’t know nothing up to my crib – not quite I ain’t. As it is, we ain’t got more than a hundred yards to go. – Are you going to get out?”

“Are you sure that we haven’t more than a hundred yards to go?”

“I ain’t measured it with a tape, and so I tell you straight. – Once more I ask you, are you getting out?”

Mr. Smithers stepped on to the pavement.

“It’s just possible that I may be able to walk that hundred yards of yours. I’ll at least give it a trial. Your following friend doesn’t appear to be in sight. Driver, what’s become of that cab which I wouldn’t take?”

“Followed us to the top of Baker Street, then turned off towards Dorset Square.”

“Did it? Perhaps your friend has gone to prepare for us. – Thank you, driver; here’s half-a-crown for you.”

The cab remained stationary while the two men, crossing the road, passed into Grove Gardens. Then the cab moved after them. As it neared the corner a policeman approached. The driver, pulling up, descended from his box, addressing the constable in a peremptory fashion which seemed to startle him.

“Mind my horse!” He spoke a few words in an undertone, which seemed to startle the constable still more. Then added aloud, in the abrupt staccato tones of the man who commands,

“Stay here till I come back.”

Without further ceremony he also disappeared into Grove Gardens, leaving the policeman in charge of his horse and cab.

“Well, well,” exclaimed that officer to himself, evidently taken aback by the unexpectedness of his position, “this beats anything! I wonder what’s up now?”

When this very original cabman entered the Gardens, the two men were still in plain sight. Mr. Smithers was laughing. In the prevailing stillness the sound was distinctly audible to the man at the back, who indulged in a comment of his.

“He’s got presence of mind and pluck. He’ll want ’em both. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s walking into a hotter place even than he fancies.”

The two men turned one corner, then another, then a third, the cabman, still apparently unobserved, keeping judiciously in the rear. He refrained from following them round the last corner, but when he gained it, stopped to listen. He could hear the footsteps of the men in front.

Then they ceased.

“I thought so. Mr. Brown’s looking to see if there’s anyone behind.”

It must have been a pure guess, but it was a correct one.

The road which the Jew had entered had trees on either side. Old-fashioned houses stood in grounds of their own. In most cases each was surrounded by its own high wall, so that, from the street, it was difficult to see what lay beyond. It seemed a very quiet neighbourhood. Lying, as it did, off the main road, traffic was practically non-existent. Not a creature seemed to he about. As Mr. Brown, suddenly pausing, turned right-about-face, his companion remarked on the entire absence of any sort of going to-and-fro.

“There’s quite an atmosphere of remoteness about this place, Mr. Brown. To all intents and purposes, it’s a thousand miles from the traffic of the city. May I inquire what you’re looking for?”

“I’m looking to see if there are any friends of mine about.”

“Indeed. Do you expect friends of yours to be about? – here, in the open street?” Mr. Brown was whistling beneath his breath, very softly. Mr. Smithers recognised the air. “So you’re a whistler too? Wherever I go, that air seems destined to haunt me. – You must pardon my observing that that hundred yards has already stretched to half-a-mile. If it’s likely to extend much farther, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse me.”

“Excuse you?”

The Jew looked at him with a grin. Mr. Smithers met his glance with a smile.

“I said – I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse me.”

“Ah! Well, we won’t talk about that; because, as it happens, we’re there.”

“There? Where’s ‘there’? And what’s ‘there’?”

“This is the place – over you come.”

Mr. Brown moved across the road. Mr. Smithers remained where he was. Instantly the other, pausing, turned to look at him.

“Are you coming?”

“Is that the house – inside that ten-foot wall?”

“That’s it.”

“I suppose there is a house – nothing’s visible from here – it’s completely cut off from the world.”

“There’s a house right enough – as you’ll see.”

“It would be rather a joke if, after all the trouble you and your friends have taken, I changed my mind, and declined to come.”

“You’d find it a joke – I wouldn’t advise you to try it.”

There was something in the Jew’s tone which was very grim indeed. Mr. Smithers laughed.

“I think that – once more – I’ll take your advice, and won’t.”

“You hadn’t better. Come on.”

The two men moved towards the ten-foot wall side by side.

“Do you know, Mr. Brown, that you’ve a way of addressing one as if one were a dog?”

“It’s manner.”

“Rather an unpleasant manner. If you, in turn, will take advice, you’ll change it.”

A gate opened in the wall under whose shadow they were moving. As if in response to a preconcerted signal, two men came out. They placed themselves on either side of Mr. Smithers. Pausing, he regarded them with his sunny smile – his hands in the pockets of his long overcoat.

“Friends of yours, Mr. Brown?”

“Yes – friends of mine.”

One of the men was tall and thin – with a thinness which suggested sinews. Mr. Smithers recognised in him the individual who had crossed from Mr. Brown’s cab at Piccadilly Circus. The other was a negro. Without a word each took Mr. Smithers by an arm – manipulating him with such dexterity that, almost before he knew it, he found himself standing with the three men inside the gate, which was shut behind him. Two minutes afterwards the driver of the hansom came dashing into Park Road as if he were running for his life – to find the policeman still in charge of his horse and cab. Without seeming to pause in his flight, he sprang on to the box.

“Let go her head!” he gasped; – the pace at which he had come had left him almost speechless for want of breath.

The policeman stepped back. The driver snatched at the reins; turned the mare; and – without vouchsafing another syllable to the constable – sent her pelting along the road at a rate of speed which was considerably beyond the statutory limit.

The officer stared after him with feelings which were plainly mixed.

“He’ll soon get himself pulled up if he keeps on like that. I wonder what is up. I suppose it is all right, and I’ve not been hoaxed. It’ll be a nice lookout for me if I have been.”

Judging from the expression of his countenance, it would seem that he was in a state of almost painful uncertainty.

— XXXIX —

AMONG THIEVES

Mr. Smithers looked from one to the other of the two men who had been responsible for the rapidity of his passage through the gate.

“Gentlemen, wasn’t that a little uncalled for? I have a constitutional disrelish for the touch of a stranger’s hand.”

The tall man answered – with a nasal twang—

“Perhaps it was a little unceremonious, but there are occasions on which ceremony has to take a back seat. I’ll ask you to be so good as to step along.”

They were standing in what was evidently a covered passageway leading from the outer gate to the house. The sides were apparently of brick, covered with painted plaster; the roof was of glass. A faint light glimmered in the hall beyond, but where they were it was all in shadow.

“You’re an American, sir?”

“I am; so you’ll understand that I come from a country where they don’t like to be kept fooling around – so perhaps you will step along.”

“Then, since you are an American, you will probably understand what these are. I believe that in certain sections of your society they are common playthings.”

He took a quick step to the rear, so that he had his back against the door. As he took his hands out of his overcoat pockets it was seen that he held a revolver in each, the muzzles of which were pointed in their direction. Without a moment’s hesitation the negro, ducking, came straight at him; there was a report; he went over on to his back with a sound which was more like a bellow than a human cry. The others, who had shown a disposition to join him in his onward rush, were equally prompt to display a readiness to keep their distance – the gleaming muzzles were still trained on them.

“That’s intended for a hint. He’s got the bullet in the fleshy part of his thigh; I don’t suppose it’ll do much damage to a hide like his; he’ll be able to pick it out at his leisure. You, as an American, ought to know better than to set black scum like that at a white man.”

The American spoke to the writhing black, who still continued to give utterance to his feelings.

“Stop that noise; it isn’t the first time you’ve had a piece of lead inside you.” Then he put a question to Mr. Smithers, which smacked of the ironical. “Is that how you’re going to take it?”

“It is. I must request you, sir, not to let your hands go near your pockets; nor you, Mr. Brown – or I shall have to ask you to hold them up.”

Brown acted on the suggestion then and there.

“My goodness! I’ll hold mine up with all the pleasure in life.”

He held his hands up in front of him in a fashion which seemed to strike the American as funny. He laughed.

“I didn’t know you were just that sort of man, or I wouldn’t have come out without my guns. I haven’t so much as a peashooter on me. If I’d brought a gun you wouldn’t be standing there quite so cock-a-doodle; but I didn’t understand that they were quite so spry with them over here.”

“That’s frank. I will be equally candid. I have come to meet you, gentlemen, at your particular request, but the meeting is to be on my own terms. By that I mean that I am prepared to behave myself so long as you do; but that if there’s going to be trouble, the trouble is not going to be all on one side. And in that connection I would again observe that I’ve a constitutional disrelish to the touch of a stranger’s hand. Now, if you’ll lead the way into the house – and take your black friend with you; by the wool, if that’s easiest – I’ll follow.”

“You will?”

“I am in the habit of stating my meaning exactly. I tell you, if you will lead the way into the house, I will follow.”

The American spoke to the negro.

“You ain’t dead, nor yet dying. Stand up.”

With his assistance the black managed to stagger to his feet, clapping his hand to his thigh as he did so, and glancing at Mr. Smithers in a manner which was an eloquent expression of his feelings. The trio moved on ahead, the black floundering along with the aid of the tall man’s arm; emitting groans and imprecations, which were received by his supporter with a silence which was scarcely sympathetic. Mr. Smithers strode after them, his arms dangling at his sides, the revolvers in his hands. It was a singular procession. The passage was a long one, the house evidently standing at some distance from the road. The three in front moved slowly, hampered by the stumbling black. When the Jew quickened his pace, seemingly with the intention of announcing their arrival, Mr. Smithers pulled him up.

“Gently, Mr. Brown; – keep together, if you please. Your friends indoors must be quite aware of what has happened, and will have made all preparations for your arrival that you can possibly desire. They do not need you to recruit their forces.”

Brown obeyed, keeping close to his associates with an apparently punctilious desire to avoid the resentment of the man with the revolvers, which, in its way, was amusing. They approached the end of the passage. In front were stone steps, ascending, through an open doorway, to what looked like a dimly lighted hall.

“Stop!” cried Mr. Smithers. They stopped, as at the word of command. “What’s beyond that doorway?”

The American replied:

“A house. At least, there was a house when I came out to bid you how-d’ye-do. Perhaps surprise at your behaviour has caused it to take itself off the face of the earth.”

“Let me again recommend you, and, through you, your friends, not – if they wish to avoid trouble – to cause it. They may think me simple to venture alone into a building in which they are; but let me assure them that I am capable of showing adequate resentment – even though alone – for liberties which they may be thinking of taking.”

Mr. Smithers’ clear tones were probably distinctly audible to any unseen audience which might have been beyond that open door. The American, in reply, was jocular:

“Hear, hear! Now, if the address is finished, may we move on?”

“You may. Only, do let me urge you to remember.”

“You can bet that we’ll remember. Remembering is what we’re best at.”

The three men in front, mounting the steps, entered the house. Mr. Smithers came closer. They moved across the shadowed hall. He went after them. So soon as he had crossed the threshold, and was about to look about him, in the dim light, to see what sort of place it was which he was entering, someone sprang at him from out of the shadows on either side. Crack, crack, went his revolvers. A cry of pain seemed to show that someone had been hit. But apparently it was neither of his immediate assailants. They clung to his wrists with a pertinacity which not only made it impossible for him to throw them off, but rendered it difficult for him to use his weapons with advantage. Suddenly someone came at him from behind. The men in front, relieved from their fear of being used as his targets, returned to join in the attack. The American’s long fingers closed about his throat in a fashion which was not pleasant. Others came running down the stairs – he could hear them shouting words of encouragement to their friends as they descended. Against such odds resistance was vain. By sheer weight of numbers they bore him to the ground; and having got him down, they kept him there. The American proffered him a piece of advice.

“If you move, we’ll have to break your head; and as that might hurt, I’ll use your word and recommend you to keep still.”

Another voice came from the background – which also had an American twang in it, and which, although soft and gentle, had in it a suggestion of menace and authority:

“Tie him up – tight.”

When he heard this, Mr. Smithers made another violent effort to throw off his antagonists. So soon as he recommenced his struggles, the same unimpassioned voice pronounced two words:

“Bash him!”

By dint of exerting his utmost strength it almost seemed for a moment or two as if Mr. Smithers might regain his liberty. Compelled to take advantage of such means of defence as were within his power, bringing his leg up suddenly, he dealt the American – who was kneeling upon his prostrate body – such a violent blow in the back, that he was forced momentarily to release his hold. In the confusion which ensued, Mr. Smithers all but regained his feet. Shaking off at least some of those who held him down, he raised himself clean off the ground. But as he was scrambling on to his knees, something struck him a blow on the head which seemed to knock the life right out of him. Falling back with a thud upon the floor, he lay still. When they were sure that his silence was obligatory, and not designed, his assailants loosed him.

As Mr. Brown stood up he rubbed his arms and shoulders.

“That done him, that did! He very nearly done me first, though.”

The tall American, who seemed to be a little uncertain on his feet, was apparently endeavouring to ascertain the condition of his spinal column.

“If there’d have been a little more powder at the back of his knee, I’m thinking that I never should have sat or stood up straight again. There’s steel springs in the muscles of his legs.”

His compatriot remarked, in his curiously gentle voice:

“You’d better look spry and tie him up before he starts with his leg work again.”

A short stout man stood looking down at the recumbent figure, rubbing his hands together and smiling as he did so. It was Mr. Chaffinch.

“I told you that we should have trouble with him. He is not an ordinary man – he has such high spirits – and he’s so difficult to persuade – he won’t hear reason.”

“He’s a devil, that’s what he is! But we will show to him that there are other devils also.”

The speaker was Gustav Kronberg – the gentleman in the yellow suit, who had visited Mr. and Mrs. Smithers in the hotel at Rome. His opinion was corroborated by Mr. Bob Hammick’s husky tones:

“He’s a bitter bad bargain, that’s what I call him. And as for owdacity, I never see his equal – strike me pink, I never have! He’s a fair red-hot ’un – that’s what he is!”

Mr. Hammick moved the motionless body, round which they all were grouped, with the toe of his boot. The smooth, authoritative tones made themselves heard again.

“Gentlemen, not so much talking, if you please. We’re here for business; and, so far as I’m concerned, time’s of value. I’m ready to credit our friend with all the qualities with which you endow him, and yet I’m betting that he’s met his match at last. When he leaves this edifice he won’t be the man he was when he came in – not by a deal. Tie him tight there – never mind about cutting into his arms. We don’t want any more wrestling matches just yet awhile. If we’ve got him so that he can’t move, wishing to heaven that he could, maybe we’ll find him more handy for that means of persuasion we’re going to employ.”

— XL —

THE EIGHT

When Mr. Smithers returned to consciousness, he first became aware of two things. One was, that he was sopping wet; the other, that, regarding him with a malignant grin, was the hideous and evil countenance of the negro he had wounded. The cause of his being wet was made immediately apparent by the fact that, so soon as his eyes were opened, a quantity of ice-cold water was dashed into his face. It was thrown with such force that it not only blinded him, but it also deprived him for a second of his just returning breath. So soon as he could, he turned his head to see who was the cause of the outrage. A man was standing a foot or two away from him, holding an empty zinc pail. He recognised him.

“I’ve seen you before. You’re the man who spoke to me in Chancery Lane.”

Mr. Hammick grinned.

“And now you see me again – it’s going to be quite a happy little meeting, as you’ll find.”

“You also see me again – leastways you will, when you’ve got rid of that.”

Mr. Smithers suddenly realised that by Hammick’s side Mr. Brown was standing, and that he also held a pail – a full one. While he still was speaking, he lifted his pail and flung its contents into Mr. Smithers’ face. The icy water entered both his eyes and mouth. He gasped and splattered in his efforts to be rid of it, seeming to cause much amusement by the grimaces which these proceedings necessarily involved. Laughter seemed to resound on all sides of him.

When he had regained the use of his eyes, he perceived that in front of him was a plain wooden table, round which men were seated, regarding him with expressions on their features which suggested that they found the spectacle he presented most diverting. His head throbbed, his senses seemed dulled, he was conscious of such exquisite pain that he was prevented from taking advantage of the few wits which he seemed to have at his command. So stupid did he feel that a perceptible interval elapsed before he understood what it was that was paining him. Then the thing became plain enough – too plain. He was secured to a chair-which, in its turn, seemed fastened to the floor – by slender cords which were wound round and round his legs and arms and body, with such remorseless tightness that they not only cut into his flesh like knives, but, by biting into the veins, and so preventing the proper circulation of the blood, tortured him as if they had been red-hot wires. He had to bite his lips to stifle the exclamation which, in the first stress of his agony, involuntarily rose to them – for he realised that these were men who would find the most delicious entertainment in his confession that he smarted at their hands.

He was yet, however, so little master of himself, that some instants passed before he was able, not only to open his eyes, but to keep them open – wearing a smile which he made it his utmost endeavour should be as a mask to conceal the pains as of hell, which seemed every instant to increase in intensity. While he steeled himself to show an indifferent front to the men who, he was aware, looked eagerly for signs of the agonies which racked him, someone spoke to him from the other end of the table. It was the American, whose soft rounded tones seemed to suggest – to the quivering man in front of him – oil of vitriol, as if he meant that his every word should burn.

“We are glad to welcome you among us, Mr. Francis Smithers; and regret that the singularity of your behaviour should have constrained us to commence by handling you in a fashion which we had intended to postpone till later in your visit. You’re sitting there as in a suit of fire, and it rests for you to say to what temperature it has still to be raised.”

With an effort which was almost superhuman, Mr. Smithers fixed his glance upon the speaker – and smiled. He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age; – a commonplace looking man; suggesting, in his appearance, nothing unusual, either physical or mental. He had light brown hair and a slight sandy moustache. His eyes, which were grey, were his most peculiar feature – the pupils had a trick of dilating, as it seemed at will, which reminded one of a cat, and which was both startling and disagreeable. He sat forward, with his arms upon the table, twisting a pen between his fingers. Mr. Smithers put to him a question:

“May I venture to ask to whom it is that I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“You may that. I’m Waterson – Samuel Waterson, of Philadelphia, Penn.; and as this little association is one of my pet notions, and I’ve sunk a Satan of a pile in it, and taken any amount of trouble, you may reckon that I take a real interest in you.”

“I fancy I have heard the name of Samuel Waterson before – in connection with the police?”

“It’s in the betting.”

“As a forger of banknotes?”

“I have seen myself described in cold type as the Banknote King.”

“Judging from your tone, you would appear to pride yourself upon the fact of your being a blackguard, a thief, and a coward, Mr. Waterson. I have always understood that all thieves were cowards, but I have not realised how true that was till now.”

“Clip him over the mouth, Linkman! He’s too much tongue.”

The black, who was seated on his left, stood up and struck him with his clenched fist upon the mouth. The blow was a sufficiently severe one to fuddle him for a moment. When he had regained enough self-possession he turned to the black with a smile:

“You coloured gentleman!”

The words, or the manner in which they were spoken, or both, roused the negro to fury. Gripping the helpless man’s hair with the fingers of one hand, with the other he began to pommel him about the head and face, no one endeavouring to stay him with so much as a word. Indeed, when he had amused himself sufficiently, Waterson said, as Mr. Smithers sat dazed and bleeding in front of him:

“You see, that’s the sort we are. We like people to keep civil tongues in their heads. And if you don’t do as we tell you, we’ll do you.”

Mr. Chaffinch, who was on the speaker’s right, added a kind of postscript – rubbing his fat hands together, and wrinkling his face with his smile:

“l advised you to behave judiciously; you took no notice, and you see what comes of it.”

Mr. Smithers’ rejoinder was scarcely courteous:

“So, Mr. Augustus Chaffinch, you are at last in your proper place among your brother blackguards!”

The fat man waved his hands.

“Now do you call that judicious? A person in your position should have more sense. If your conduct were only judicious, even yet things might be made so much more pleasant.”

Mr. Kronberg interposed; – he was on the other side of Waterson:

“For me, I do not think it matters what he says. We owe him so much already that a little more makes no difference.”

Waterson tapped on the table with the end of his pen; his tone was blandly sardonic:

“What our friend Kronberg says is true; we owe you so much already. We had arranged the biggest coup we had ever planned; bent all our energies to carry it into execution; spent ourselves in our determination that there should be no hitch; we actually saw our fortunes made, when you – a perfect stranger – come suddenly out of nowhere, and calmly appropriate – entirely to yourself – the priceless treasures which we had accumulated at the cost of so much time, pains, skill, and money, and which were the common property of us all; and you laugh! You will easily believe that the humour of the situation is hardly likely to strike us in quite the same way as it does you. You have enjoyed the jest for a really considerable space of time. You must admit that the moment has arrived for us to share in your enjoyment.”

Mr. Chaffinch held out his hands in front of him, with what he perhaps intended for a persuasive gesture:

“You must admit it – as a reasonable person, you must certainly admit it.”

Mr. Smithers was silent. The fact that the continually increasing pressure of the cords which bound him was bringing out drops of anguished sweat upon his forehead did not prevent his smiling. Waterson continued:

“To proceed to details. You have in your possession banknotes – or what resemble banknotes – of the face value of over a million sterling. You hear what I say?”

“I do.”

“You also hold the finest set of plates for the production of banknotes which ever came out of an engraver’s hand, and an absolutely invaluable stock of real banknote paper; what we went through, severally and collectively, to get that paper, you are possibly incapable of realising. You continue to follow me?”

“You have still left me my sense of hearing.”

“Then continue to make the best use of it while it is still yours; it is possible that it will not be yours much longer. You are also the custodian – the involuntary and unintentional custodian, so far as we are concerned – of a practically unique collection of jewellery. It would not be placing an immodest valuation on it were we to state that it is really worth a million sterling. These things – the notes, the plates, the paper, the jewels – are ours.”

“In what sense are they yours?”

“We printed the notes, engraved the plates, bought the paper; in our own fashion, annexed the jewels; in that sense they are ours.”

“But if – as would appear to be your own rule – possession is nine-tenths of the law?”

“There is the crucial point! In that sense, at present they are yours – which is the reason why you are here. We placed these things in charge of one of ourselves, on the understanding that, on a certain day, certain things – should be done with them. Before that day arrived our friend met trouble. For a long term of years we had to eat our hearts out in the consciousness that our fortune was where we couldn’t get at it, for we had made the stupendous and stupid error of allowing it to be placed where it was only accessible to our unfortunate friend, who was himself secluded both from it and from us. But we bore up, I hope, like men; secure in the conviction that the time would come when we should enter into the enjoyment of our own. You perceive the situation?”

“I listen to your words.”

“Then I cannot but think that they must move you nearly to tears. Talk about patience on a monument! Think of the patience with which we eight men waited for an opportunity to get at that box which was being guarded – theoretically, for us – by that Safe Deposit Company. Then picture our feelings when our friend Hammick informed us that an individual – who might have dropped from the moon, for all we knew, and for all the warning we had had of his approach – had entered that company’s premises – under his very eyes! – and used our box as if it were his own. Can’t you imagine the sensations with which we heard that news?”

“Weren’t you pleased?”

“Oh we were – down to the ground. When we learned what kind of an individual that individual was; how he laughed and laughed, and kept on laughing, when hints were given to him of the injury he was doing to eight hard-working and patient men, our pleasure grew greater; only there wasn’t enough of it to go round. The earnest and heartfelt applications of separate individuals of our little society have only amused you – so I understand. Contradict me if I’m wrong. Various honest and peaceful avocations have served to keep us scattered over the face of the earth – we’re a globe-trotting little crowd. This is the first opportunity we have had of introducing ourselves to you collectively; and we therefore propose to take advantage of it to ask you one or two questions. Have I made myself clear to you so far?”

“Clearer than you imagine.”

“You flatter me; because, in that case, so to speak, I shall have penetrated to the very marrow of your bones. Kindly pay careful attention to the questions which I am about to have the honour of putting to you, and weigh your words before you answer them. In the first place, will you be so good as to tell us where our property now is?”

“I decline to admit that it is your property.”

“We haven’t time to argue that, though I’m free to allow that it may seem to you to be arguable; but age comes fast, and we’re in a hurry. Will you be so good as to tell us where the property which you decline to admit is ours now is?”

“I will not.”

“That’s final?”

“It is.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“You hear, my dear friends, that this gentleman declines to tell us where our fortune is located. Perhaps that’s because it has vanished into air; let’s hope it isn’t because he’s wasted it all on riotous living. In the second place, are you prepared to hand over to us the property in question, say, within twelve hours of this?”

“I am not.”

“You are not?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Yes; but as this is a matter of some little importance, I am real anxious to be sure that I hear right; and to give you a chance of changing your mind before it’s altogether too late. So perhaps you’ll excuse me if I ask you just once more if you’ll disgorge inside twelve hours?”

“You have had my answer.”

“And I may again take that answer to be final?”

“You may.”

“Since this fortune which you won’t admit to be ours may be stowed away in quarters where it mayn’t be just handy to get at, perhaps twelve hours is too short a period to want to tie you down to. So I will now ask you to be good enough to state to this assembled company when it will be convenient to hand it over.”

“Never.”

“That’s a hard word, ‘never.’ Perhaps some of it is spent; other people’s money is dreadful easy to burn. Would you like to take advantage of this occasion to mention when you’ll let us have what’s left?”

“You’ll have nothing from me – ever.”

“To hear you one would judge that your words were fast to the bedrock. Shall we talk of shares? You can’t want to keep it all; it’s against nature. There’s notes, plates, paper, jewels. Would you kindly like to mention what you’ll let us have? You can’t be such an all-fired monopolist as not to want to give us something?”

“The jewels, I believe, were stolen. The notes, plates, and paper represent a form of criminality against which society has to be continually on its guard. You seriously misjudge my character if you suppose that I am capable of placing in the hands of professional criminals, such as you confess yourselves to be, tools which you propose to use to work serious, and possibly irreparable, mischief to innocent men and women.”

“You take a high and comical tone, considering your record. You might be a gospel-pitcher, instead of the worst egg in the basket.”

“I fancy that your knowledge of me is merely superficial. With men of your type I have not only no sympathy, but very much the contrary.”

“Men of my type! You have a face. I’d been told of it before, but I didn’t understand what a face till I’d had the pleasure of meeting you. And what do you call men of your type?”

“Have you brought me here for the purpose of furnishing you with what I conceive to be a correct analysis of my own character?”

“We have not, and that’s a fact. I’m obliged to you for the reminder. – Well, we’ve put our questions and we’ve had your answers; and I daresay you understand that we rather expected what kind of answers they would be. We’ve kind of hung out the olive branch before; you didn’t snatch at it, and we didn’t suppose you’d do much in the way of snatching now. We are sorry; we would have liked you to have behaved as if you were a white man. It’d have revived our belief in human nature if you’d have handed over, cheerful and without a murmur, the fruits of our earnest and very real labours. But since you’re not built that way – and begging your pardon for this little speech – we’re going to use persuasion, and so endeavour to supply deficiencies in your architecture. Now how much persuasion do you think you’ll want before you’re brought to see that it might be worth your while to hand over to us what’s our own?”

“Nothing you can do will induce me to change my mind.”

“Nothing? That’s a vague expression – covers a deal of ground. You’re sure that’s the word you want to use?”

“I am.”

“Ever heard of the tortures of the Spanish Inquisition? Suppose we try some of those?”

“You can try what you please. I’ve no doubt you’re scoundrels and cowards enough for anything.”

“Suppose we drop you into boiling oil?” Mr. Smithers laughed outright. “Funny idea, isn’t it? I notice you’re easily amused; it’s one of your strongest points. We’ll fill you right up with amusement before we’ve done. You know we mean to get back what’s our own if we have to tear the soul right out of you to do it.”

“My soul is beyond your purview.”

“You think so? Your body isn’t – that’s a dead sure thing. What’s to hinder us from tearing the flesh from off you with a pair of red-hot pincers?”

“The law of England will have its pound of flesh from you in exchange for all that you may take from me.”

“That’s your conviction – and a very comfortable one it must be to have. When we’re stripping the flesh off your bones it must be so soothing for you to be able to reflect that someone will serve us just the same in the good time that’s coming. Now you might hardly believe it, but I believe we’ve hit upon a means of persuasion which will so appeal to both your soul and body as to induce you to return that lot of goods to their rightful owners inside of half-an-hour.”

“I do not believe it.”

“Are you a sporting man?”

“Not where vermin are concerned.”

“Meaning me. Thank you very much. If you were a sporting man – where vermin are concerned – I’d be willing to have a nice little bet that when this means of persuasion is brought to bear on you, you’ll come round to our way of thinking well inside the thirty minutes.”

“You’d lose your money.”

“Not much I shouldn’t. Do you know what the means of persuasion is?”

“I neither know nor care.”

“Can you guess? I can see you can’t, by the face of you, or you wouldn’t be sitting there so nice and pleasant – though, as it is, you look as if your beauty was spoiled for good, and half the senses beat out of you; and there’s great drops of wet trickling down your forehead and your cheeks that’s being wrung out of you by the whipcord that’s burning into your heart’s marrow – and may it burn! But all that’s nothing to what you’ll look like, and feel like, thirty seconds after I’ve rung this bell.”

He struck the gong of a hand-bell which was before him on the table three times. Almost before the last stroke had ceased vibrating, a door opened at the end of the room. A woman, coming in, continued to hold it open, as if to enable someone else to pass.

And Netta entered.

— XLI —

THE MEANS OF PERSUASION

What Mr. Smithers had been expecting to see he could not himself have said – possibly some grotesque implement of hideous torture, but not this. Indeed, so wholly taken was he by surprise, so far from anticipating any visitation of the kind, that he at first supposed that the agony which his bonds were causing him had mounted to his brain, and that what he seemed to see in front of him was an optical delusion. So it happened that for some seconds he continued to stare in silence at Netta, and she at him, both appearing unable to credit the evidence of their own senses.

Her veil, which was drawn aside, drooped over the brim of her hat. Her cheeks were colourless; then, on a sudden, they went fiery red, and paled again. Her eyes showed signs of weeping; even now, in the corner of each a tear was standing. Her lips were tremulous. She drew quick breaths, as if her heart beat fast. She stood very straight, her head a little back, her hands held a little in front of her – as if expectant of a blow. But it was plain that the blow which she actually received was altogether beyond anything which her imagination had foreshadowed.

She stared at the man tied in the chair, with yards and yards of thin cord lacing him about, confining him as if in a vice, with the torn, disordered, dusty clothing, with the rumpled hair, and bruised and bleeding face, as if incredulous of the idea that this could be her husband. But when she began to realise that this indeed was he, this creature in such a sorry plight, she gave back a little, breathing faster and faster, the colour coming and going in her cheeks.

At the same time it dawned on Mr. Smithers that this woman, this girl, appearing so miraculously in this haunt of villains, was his wife, his bride of a few months’ standing, whose innocence of evil still was virginal. And when he saw her moving back, and her agitation at the sight which he presented, he forgot his own condition, and made as if to rise and go to her. But so soon as he moved, his bonds bit him tighter, so that, before he knew it, a groan of agony had escaped from his lips. As she heard it Netta gave an answering cry, moving towards him as if to offer aid and comfort. But before she had taken a second step the woman who had brought her there held her by her right arm, and Bob Hammick had planted himself directly in her path.

“None of that,” said Mr. Hammick. “You stop where you are. Hands off – no touching’s allowed.”

“But,” returned Netta, looking at him as if she supposed him to be ignorant of the relation in which she stood to the man in the chair, “he’s my husband.”

“Never you mind what he is. You stop where you are, or you’ll be made to.”

The intentional brutality of the speaker’s tone seemed to add to her already sufficiently obvious bewilderment, as if she could not but fancy that he had made some strange mistake in addressing her so. Waterson, since her entrance, had been observing her with an air of amusement; now,waving his hand towards her, he spoke to Mr. Smithers.

“This is the means of persuasion we propose to use. Hadn’t you better own at sight that you are beaten?”

Mr. Smithers, ignoring him, addressed his wife. His voice was a little hoarse, his face a ghastly white.

“Netta, how is it that you are here?”

She replied, in tones which trembled:

“I came with this lady. I understood from her—”

Waterson cut her short.

“Excuse me, Miss – sorry to interrupt a lady, especially when she’s young and pretty – but you’ve been brought here to speak when you’re spoken to by me, and by me only. If you’re as smart as you look, you’ll he careful not to pay attention to any other creature in this room.”

He turned to her husband. “As for you, the next time you speak to her without my leave I’ll have her tied up. I mean what I say, so if you care a tin cent for the young lady’s comfort, you’ll just watch out.”

“You hound!”

“Now, look here, that’s not talk for one gentleman to use to another; you know it isn’t, and if you don’t I’ll have to learn you manners. It doesn’t seem to be much use to knock chips off you, so the next time you pitch any of that sort of talk this way I’ll knock chips off her – and you shall see me do it. I’ll use her as a whipping-boy, to keep you in good order – so long as you behave, all right; when you misbehave, she’ll smart.”

If looks could kill, the speaker would have fallen dead in his chair. Mr. Smithers’ face became transformed. All thought of his own sufferings seemed swept away by the flood of rage which came rushing over him. He seemed to swell in his chair. Waterson commented on the change in his humour.

“So your dander’s rising? – I thought it would. Up to now you’ve been too dead calm for me, my sonny. There are times when I like to deal with a man who’s got hell inside him, and this is one of them. Once more – you see what are the means of persuasion we propose to use. I understand that this isn’t the first time you’ve met the lady. You’re thinking that a man who would mishandle a woman isn’t a man, and there I’m with you. If she is mishandled, it’s you that’ll do it. You’ve got the whip-hand of us; and if to keep it you choose to sacrifice the woman who loves you, the responsibility’s yours – don’t you throw dust in your own eyes – it’s yours. You’ve made free with our property, and you’ve used it to live on the fat of the land and to buy yourself a wife – and here she is. If you’ve a spark of manhood in you, which you pretend is wanting in us, you won’t try to hang on to what isn’t yours at the cost of the woman who’s trusted you; for she’ll have to pay – dearly – for what you keep. If you choose to keep your pockets filled at such a price, then you’re the kind of skunk for whom there isn’t any use; and we’re going to prove it before we’ve done with you. – You hear what I say?”

“I hear language which, coming from such a quarter, is the highest compliment you can pay me.”

“Oh, you may sneer – just for a little while; then every sneer of yours she’ll pay for. You want breaking in, and by ———! you shall be broken. I’ve seen your sort tamed before today. It isn’t a pretty business, but it’s wonderful how they come to heel when it’s through. Now, for the last time, are you going to give us back our own, or shall we have to use this means of persuasion to make you?”

“Each time you insult or hurt that lady you shall pay for it a thousand times.”

“That’s not an answer to my question. Are you going to hand over? If you aren’t, we’ll take the risk of all you promise us, and you shall see her whipped to ribbons before your eyes.”

“You unspeakable thing!”

“Didn’t I tell you what would happen next time you pitched that sort of talk this way?”

He picked up a lady’s riding whip which lay before him on the table and struck Netta with it smartly over the knuckles of her ungloved hand. Taken unawares by the unprovoked assault, she started back with a cry of mingled pain and fear. Before she could make a further movement, the woman who had served as a lure held her on one side and Hammick on the other.

“You coward!” she exclaimed.

In an instant the blow was repeated.

“Weren’t you warned not to speak unless I told you? You’ll find – and he’ll find – that my word goes here; so don’t either of you make any mistake about it.” He looked at the helpless man in front of him. “Well? Wouldn’t you like to relieve yourself of some of those big words that are trembling on your tongue – and get her another cut or two?”

Mr. Smithers replied with a show of self-possession which, under the circumstances, seemed unnatural.

“I should be reluctant, Mr. Waterson, to do anything which would be likely to incur your further displeasure.”

“What do you mean by that? Sneering on a fresh tack – is that it? You’re a nut that takes some cracking; but we’ll crack you – never fear.”

He turned to Netta, pointing at her the riding whip which he still held in his hand:

“Listen to me. Eyes front, if you please – and a pair of sparklers they are – real stones. I don’t wonder that there’s a glint in them as you look at me, and I don’t suppose that just now you’re feeling that I’m quite the sort of man whom you would like to fall in love with. For that I’m sorry; because I assure you that I’m just as unwilling as any other man to lay a hand upon a woman save in the way of kindness. But this is a case of stern necessity – as you’ll yourself allow when I’ve explained. You see the man who calls himself your husband – he doesn’t look pretty just now, does he? And I believe that he’s no more your husband than I am. He’s robbed us – all the eight gentlemen you see here – of what cost us years of thought, and anxiety, and labour, besides a heap of money. And all we want him to do is to give it to us back again – just that, and nothing more. I’m sure you’ll perceive how extremely reasonable that is of us. And therefore it is with the utmost confidence that I appeal to you to ask him to play the honest man. You have my permission to speak.”

He gave his whip a little flourish. Netta seemed to be at a loss as to what was required of her.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I wish you to give free rein to the noble impulses of your beautiful feminine nature, and to ask this gentleman, with all the eloquence at your command, to give us what we’re wanting.”

“I am to speak to him?”

“That’s what I’m requesting.”

“And I shall not be struck if I do?”

“You will not. It’s with extreme regret that I have to say it, but it’s just possible that you’ll be struck if you don’t.”

“Thank you.” She looked towards her husband, and she smiled. In her voice there was actually a jubilant ring. “Frank, all sorts of stories have been told me about you today, and it is because of them that I am here. But I am not sorry that I came, since my coming has relieved my heart of such a weight of foolish doubt and trouble. For no one can be in this room and look at these men, and fail to understand that in any difference that may be between you and them you are sure to be in the right, and they in the wrong. Their mere appearance is sufficient to render me assured that all the evil things which have been told of you are false. As I have trusted you always,I trust you now. Do what you think is right. Have no fear for me; I have none for myself. If they do me wrong, who have done no wrong to them, it is they who will suffer, not I. Act, dear, as you would if I were not here.”

“You are not afraid?”

“Indeed, no – not a little bit.”

“Then neither am I. You know, Netta, that I love you?”

“Of course. It is worthwhile having come to be able to say again – of course.” She turned to Waterson, still smiling. “Is there anything more that you would wish me to say?”

“I hardly think that there is.”

The words were uttered with a dryness which – despite the menace which was at the back of them – moved Netta to laughter.

She had been listened to in silence, though her observations had been couched in such a different strain to that which her auditors desired. During the brief colloquy between husband and wife the faces about the table had assumed a more truculent expression, but none had interrupted. Now, as if by general consent, they waited for Waterson to play the part of spokesman. He sat twiddling the riding whip between his fingers, as if he were considering what shape to give his words. When he spoke his voice was as bland as it had been throughout, but the pupils of his eyes had become distended to twice their normal proportions.

“Those were very high-toned remarks of yours, though they weren’t exactly what we wanted. What puzzles me is, if you quite understand what kind of man it is to whom you have been talking. You seem to think that he’s a painted saint, but he isn’t. He’s done you quite as brown as he has us, and that’s very brown indeed. Let me give you some pointers as to where he’s done you. To begin at the beginning – his name isn’t Smithers.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Waterson; you possibly make that assertion in good faith, but you are in error none the less. I was careful to make that my name before I married this lady.”

“Well, we’ll let it go at that. We’ll allow that he made his name Smithers to marry you, though it wasn’t Smithers up to then. Do you know that he’s a jail bird? That he came straight out of jail to sneak our pile, and make up to you?”

“It may be news to you, Mr. Waterson, to learn that I was sentenced to a term of imprisonment for doing that of which no man would have cause to be ashamed.”

Netta looked at him and smiled, but she did not speak – being mindful, perhaps, of Waterson’s whip.

Mr. Chaffinch intervened:

“My dear friend, you must forgive my pointing out that reason and argument have been tried before. Every effort has been made to induce this person to behave in a right-minded manner. In vain; – to all appeals he has turned a deaf ear. This young woman appears to be a bird of his own feather. It is no use wasting valuable moments in talk. The time has come to proceed to deeds.”

“Hear, hear! Them’s my sentiments. Tie her up and whip her – that’s the only kind of talk you’ll find he’ll listen to; and if you’ll let me get my fingers round that whip, I’ll soon start talking.”

This was the Jew, who called himself Sam Brown. His eyes were fixed on Netta as if already, in anticipation, he revelled in the part he pictured himself as playing. The tall American, who had met Mr. Smithers at the gate, joined for the first time in the conversation. He was a peculiar-looking man, with black hair parted in the centre, which was so long that it hung down the nape of his neck. He spoke with a pronounced drawl.

“I’m a man of principle, and it’s against my principles to hurt a woman; but if the only way of hurting that man is by hurting this woman, and that seems to be about the size of it, then this is a case in which principles must go by the board, and I say hurt her till he feels that he has had about enough of it. Only do let’s hustle. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be through.”

Kronberg spoke next – his voice hard, metallic, domineering.

“Why do we wait? I thought we were here for business, not for talk. There has been too much talk already. Does he talk before he does? He is not that kind of man – have I not had the proof of it on my own body? Then why do we talk so much? If he does as we want, good; then we will talk. But if not, string her up – at once, this instant. My time here is short; I myself must go and cut pieces out of her with a whip, or with what you will, until he does.”

Waterson sat drawing the thong of the whip through his fingers, as if amused at the vehemence of some of his colleagues. As he looked at Mr. Smithers, the pupils of his eyes seemed to have grown still larger.

“You perceive that my friends are of one mind, and that mind is mine. We’ve talked enough. We’ll now do. Hammick, show him what we’ve got behind there.”

The wall on one side of the room was shrouded by green baize curtains. Mr. Hammick, drawing one of these aside, disclosed a triangle, fashioned somewhat on the lines of the frame which is used in jails for flogging refractory prisoners. There were straps at the top to secure the victim’s wrists, and others at the bottom to secure the ankles. Netta looked at the thing, with evident lack of comprehension of the purpose to which it was applied. Waterson, calling her attention to himself by flicking her lightly with the end of his whip, proceeded to explain.

“You see this is a sort of scaffold on which we are going to whip you. We take off your pretty bodice, and bare your pretty back, and fasten your pretty wrists there, and your pretty ankles here; then, when you’re trussed up so that you can’t do anything else but squeal, we—” he drew the whip through his fingers with a gesture and a look which were not pleasant – “we cut into your pretty back with this whip. – How long do you think it’ll be before you squeal?”

The negro, leaning over the board, proffered a petition:

“Let me cut into her. I will show you how to use a whip like that. I will cut you out a fine pattern on her back; at every cut I will take off a strip of flesh like that.” He drew his fingers apart to illustrate his meaning. “I will pay him for his bullet.”

“But, my dear Linkman, won’t that prevent your standing?”

The negro grinned horribly.

“Not for a job like that.”

The tall American interposed.

“It seems against nature to let a black man cut into a white woman.”

Kronberg spoke, bringing his fist down with a bang upon the table.

“All the better so. The more it is against nature, the less will he like it – and that is the point.”

Waterson followed; his bland tones in such odd contradiction to the menace which was in his dreadful eyes.

“I am inclined to agree with you, my dear Kronberg; the more drastic the remedy, the more rapid the cure.” He pointed his whip at Mr. Smithers. “Now, for the very last time, I’m going to repeat the question that I’ve put to you already; and as the responsibility for all that follows will be yours, I earnestly advise you to weigh your words before you answer. Are you going to sit there and enjoy your best girl’s squeals, while our coloured friend cuts into her, to save your pockets; or, to save her, are you going to give us what’s our own?”

“You will not dare to touch my wife.”

“Not dare? Really, I didn’t know you were so simple. Is that your answer to my question?”

“Except to warn you against the consequences of any act of ultra-blackguardism of which you may be guilty.”

“Gentlemen, you hear him! You all must feel that nothing could exceed the patience with which we have treated him, except the colossal insolence with which he persists in treating us. Do I voice the sense of the meeting in expressing the fear that there is nothing left for us except to proceed to extremities?”

Various speakers gave simultaneous expression to their feelings.

“Tie her up!”

“Tear the clothes all off her!”

“Cut her into ribbons!”

“Seeing the blood streaming down her back and hearing her squealing like a stuck pig will bring him to his senses.”

“Frankly, gentlemen, I am afraid that nothing else will. Hammick, is that triangle ready? Remember that it’s a lady we have to deal with; let everything be in order. The feminine soul loves order!”

While Mr. Hammick was busying himself with the straps on the triangle, Netta was left with, as sole custodian, the female who had enticed her from her home, and who up to then had not uttered a single syllable. The outward composure of the girl’s bearing had possibly conveyed a wrong impression of her character, so that it was taken for granted that, for very lack of spirit, she acquiesced in the frightful role which she was destined to fill. The woman, more engaged in observing Hammick than in considering her charge, held her loosely with a single hand. In an instant she had wrenched herself free, had snatched up a bowie knife and a revolver which lay on the table in front of Waterson, and, with them in her hands, was rushing to her husband at the other end. It was all done so suddenly that she had reached his chair before anyone could stop her, and, with eager hands was cutting at the cords which held him.

“An arm first,” he said; “then give me that revolver.”

She did her best to do his bidding; but, though slender, the cords were many. Before she was half-way through them the room was in an uproar. The black at her side reached out at her. Unhesitatingly she discharged at him the revolver which she held, taking aim as best she could. From the roar of rage and pain which came from him it was plain that the bullet had struck him somewhere, but it was equally plain that it had not disabled him. Gripping her about the waist, he tore her from her husband’s side, whirled her over his head and flung her from him – her revolver discharging harmlessly while she was in mid-air. She descended on to the floor with a crash which shook the room. In a second they were on her, tearing from her the revolver and the knife.

“Linkman,” cried Waterson, “it’s a dead sure thing that now you have earned the right of cutting into her, so cut into her you shall. Tie her up right straight away.”

The woman who had served as lure delivered herself of her first remark:

“If you’re going to bare her back you’ll have to do it before you tie her up.”

“Is that so? Then bare her back, right now – then, gentlemen, we’ll see what sort of shoulders the lady has.”

“What’s that?”

The inquiry came from Mr. Chaffinch. Like the rest he had risen from his chair, but unlike them his attention was not wholly absorbed by what was taking place inside the room. He spoke sharply, as if resenting the noise which his friends were making.

“Can’t you be still for a second? – What’s going on downstairs? – Listen!”

They acted on his hint and listened, momentarily quiet. A sound proceeded from below as if someone was raining blows – heavy blows – upon a door.

— XLII —

MR. CARPENTER

The Marquis of Skye was a man of many acquaintances. Being in the mood, he dined that night at a certain restaurant which was much frequented by the people. The diners there were, for the most part, comparatively early folk, going on to some theatrical entertainment, and desirous of reaching it before the curtain rose. When the marquis entered, the greater part of them were already gone. Only a few of the tables continued to be occupied. At one of them sat a man alone. He saw the marquis as soon as he entered, and nodded. The marquis crossed towards him with a smile of pleasure.

“Have you room at your table for me?”

“I have.”

“Then we’ll dine together.”

“But I’m half-way through my dinner.”

“That doesn’t matter; I’ll catch you up. I eat at a gallop. I’ll undertake to give any man a start and a beating.”

“You shouldn’t; you should eat slowly; give so many bites to each mouthful before you swallow it. It preserves your digestion.”

“Thank you; but I’ve no taste for preserves – even for a preserved digestion. Waiter, what can you give me to eat?”

The other watched him as he chose his dishes. He was a young man of about thirty. His black hair was cut very close; his moustache waxed at the ends. He had lean cheeks; a short, straight nose; and keen dark eyes. He showed his teeth when he smiled. There was about him an air of alertness which suggested that his vitality was strong, and that he enjoyed his life. His name was Frederic Carpenter. Even by casual acquaintances he was known as Fred; being a man with whom almost anyone could take liberties up to a certain point, but not too far. He was a Civil Servant; having some sort of a position – nobody outside the office seemed to know quite what – in the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard.

The marquis, attacking his soup, commented on an unusual something which he seemed to notice in his companion’s demeanour.

“From what quarter is the wind blowing? You look as if you were scudding along in front of it, with all sails set.”

“I’m going to have a lark tonight.”

“No? – A real lark?”

“A very real lark.”

“You’ve let me share the table – can’t we share the lark?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m not sure that I oughtn’t to keep outside of it.”

“What’s that matter – if it’s a real good thing? Never did a thing that I ought in my life. Is it a secret?”

“It is up to the present moment; but as probably all the world will be talking about it tomorrow morning, I don’t mind giving you a little early information – especially as I take it that you won’t pass it on.”

“Mum’s the word – though I’m not quite sure that I know what mum means; but that’s by the way. Let her go.”

“You’ve heard of a man named Bruce – Andrew Bruce?”

Suddenly Mr. Carpenter, laying down his knife and fork, sat up straight in his chair, with an air of extreme confusion. “Why – what an ass I am – I believe he’s a relation of yours?”

“He’s the only relation I have in the world – my cousin; and my heir – thank God!”

“I’d forgotten all about it – I deserve well kicking.”

“Why? Because he’s my cousin? What were you going to tell me about Andrew? Nothing to his discredit?”

“Very much the other way.”

“Then let her go.”

“Well – really I never felt such a fool in my life!”

“You’re over young. You’ll have felt all kinds of a fool by the time you’ve reached my years. You’re slow at starting.”

“Of course you know that he got into a little trouble.”

“I know that he threw Raymond Verinder out of the window – if that’s what you call trouble?”

“Just so – and, of course, we all know that it served the brute well right; only when one man helps another to smash his head on the pavement, the law has a way of its own of looking at it.”

“That’s the cold truth. And especially the fellows inside your office. It’s their trade.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“No later than this afternoon.”

“Then perhaps he told you about what’s going to happen tonight.”

“Not a word. Though I surmised from his manner that for some reason or other tonight was going to be big with the fate of Rome.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it was – for him. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“You’ve been telling me some minutes, but up to this it seems all preface.”

“Sometime ago he came to see the chief. I happened to be in the room at the time, and was present at the interview. He told us a most extraordinary story. It seems that he met a man when he was – you know where.”

“In jail – I know.”

“A man named Edney – one of the kind who ought to have been drowned at birth. He nursed this man while he was on his deathbed. The fellow actually made him his heir – of course in informal fashion, but the intention was real enough. He told him that he would find certain property in a certain place, and that he might have it. Edney was one of nature’s liars, an your cousin didn’t believe a word he said; still he thought it might be worth while to examine the spot which he’d described with very curious minuteness – and there, to his surprise, were the things he’d spoken of. What do you think formed part of them?”

“Haven’t an idea in my head – never had.”

“Most of the jewels which had figured in some of the biggest jewel robberies which had been brought off in all parts of the world during the last twenty years or so.”

“They ought to have been worth something.”

“They were – untold gold.”

“It’s like my luck. I wish I’d been sent to jail instead of him; then they might have been left to me. Why wasn’t it I who helped Verinder out of the room?”

“They were in the family!”

“It’s little you know about relations if you think that that would be likely to benefit me.”

“Another part of that legacy consisted of the finest stock of forged banknotes of all nations, and the finest plant for manufacturing them, that ever was. If those notes had been put into circulation they’d have disturbed the banknote currency of the world, because no one would have been able to tell the real article from the imitation. Bruce had all the things with him in a tin box – the actual tin box in which they had been stored. When he turned them out in front of us upon the table, the sight of those jewels would have made your mouth water.”

“It waters at the thought of ’em!”

“In that box had been a notebook filled with secret writing. He’d puzzled out the key to it – he’s got brains.”

“He has – mine! That’s how it is I haven’t any.”

“He’d made out what the book was all about It contained a detailed account of the dates on which the jewels had been stolen, from whom they had been stolen, by whom – and in short all about them; the very things we at the office wanted to know. He’d a great idea – he’s a wonderful chap!”

“We’re a wonderful family – on his side of the house.”

“The fellows to whom the things belonged had found out that he had them, and had tried all sorts of dodges to induce him to fork up.”

“He must have had an enjoyable time!”

“He felt sure – for reasons – that before very long they’d try to bring him to book before the entire crowd. His idea was to say nothing about what he’d done with the things, but to let them think that he still had them; and then, when the time came, give us the office, and let us collar the whole jolly lot. They seem to have got tired of trying to get at him singly. The other day they gave him notice that, as he’d expected, they meant to make him render an account to the whole blessed gang. He communicated at once with us, we made our preparations, and the thing is coming off tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight. That’s the lark I was telling you about. It’s going to be a great game. Bruce is going to meet one of their chaps at Piccadilly Circus at nine o’clock.”

“Nine o’clock! It’s past nine now.”

“I know it is; there’s a clock behind you, and I’ve got my eye on it all the time. I’m expecting news every minute. He’s going to get with this chap into a cab driven by one of our fellows – because he hasn’t a notion where the real place of meeting is going to be, any more than we have. So soon as the cab puts them down, our fellow is to lick back to us as hard as he can tear. Directly he returns a body of picked men will start for that crib of theirs, and before they guess that we’re on their tracks we shall have nabbed the crowd.”

“It’s a very pretty scheme of yours, but my cousin plays a leading part in it which I don’t altogether relish.”

“He’s a good plucked one – there’s not a doubt of it.”

“Pluck be hanged! He’s all the family I have. Suppose harm touches him, what will become of the marquisate? Now I understand what he was talking about this afternoon; if I’d understood then, I’d have spoilt your scheme – my word for it! To commence, suppose the chap he’s gone to meet won’t get into that cab of yours?”

“He’ll manage that; he’s a way about him there’s no resisting.”

“You’re surer than I am. Anyhow, maybe the place you call their ‘crib’ is the other side of London. Between the time your fellow returns to you and you get back to Andrew, what’s to prevent their cutting his throat, or getting rid of him in any other way they fancy; and if they’re the sort you say they are, they’ll not stick at a trifle – and then what’s to become of the marquisate?”

“We pointed out to him the risk which he was running, but he insisted that he would be able to protect himself till we came to his assistance.”

“Protect himself! – against a murdering crew like that! It’s nearly a quarter to ten, and you hearing nothing! They’ll have cut him into pieces while I’ve been eating my dinner.”

“We’ll hope not.”

“What’s the good of hoping?”

“There’s our fellow!”

A man appeared at the door, who signalled to Mr. Carpenter. In a second that gentleman was on his feet. The marquis also rose, declaring:

“With or without your leave, I’ll share this lark with you – and a pretty lark it’s like to be, I’m thinking! – just as I’ve shared your table. – Waiter, take the bill out of that.”

Tossing some money on to the table, he followed close on Mr. Carpenter’s heels to the door.

— XLIII —

WITHOUT

The person who had signalled to Mr. Carpenter seemed to be in so great a hurry that he was unable to even wait for that gentleman’s approach. By the time he had gained the hall of the restaurant the stranger was in the street. When Mr. Carpenter joined him on the pavement he was standing beside a hansom cab, which he straightway invited the other to enter.

“Jump in! – time’s precious.”

Mr. Carpenter hesitated – to ask a question:

“Well, Daniells, what’s the news?”

Mr. Daniells’ manner was curt.

“I’ll tell you as we go along – jump in!”

The marquis interposed:

“You’ll have to take me with you.”

Mr. Daniells turned sharply round.

“Take you? Who are you?” Then, in sudden recognition, he raised his hat. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I didn’t see it was you.”

Mr. Carpenter nodded.

“You know the Marquis of Skye?”

“By sight, of course.”

“Mr. Bruce is his cousin. He wants to come with us.”

“He means to come with you.”

The correction was his lordship’s. Daniells looked at him inquiringly, then addressed Mr. Carpenter:

“You’ve told him what’s up?”

“I have. As it’s his cousin to whose assistance we are going, he naturally feels interested.”

“He being all the family I have, I’ve a fancy for being present at his last moments.”

“It’s likely to be a case of his last moments if we’re not soon moving. Jump in both of you if you’re going. For every moment we waste now, there may be the deuce to pay later on.”

The marquis and Mr. Carpenter got in first; Mr. Daniells packed himself in after them. All three were thin. The cab was off. Mr. Carpenter began a catechism.

“Well, Daniells, now what’s the news?”

“The news is that I’m out of condition.” He had his hat off and was wiping his brow, although the temperature was considerably below freezing-point. “A man in my walk of life ought always to be just fit. I shall have to leave off milk in my tea.”

“According to the tale I’m told about the way in which you diet yourself, I should think that that’s about all you have to leave off.”

“I haven’t much – unless I starve. There are few men who stoke their bodies with less fuel than I do. But milk will have to go – it’s heating.”

“How did you manage with that cab of yours?”

“Followed him up Waterloo Place. Picked him up at the Circus. The chap who met him was tried at Clerkenwell Sessions twelve years ago for burglary and the murder of a policeman. He was acquitted on the charge of murder. According to the way in which the tale got itself told, it was his pal who did for the peeler, while he was taking himself off with the spoil. For that he had seven years.”

“A nice sort of character to meet!”

“That chap’s been lucky. He’s one of the worst regular hands we have in town. We’ve only been able to bring it home to him three times, but we’ve nearly done it again and again. However it might have been about that other job, there isn’t a morsel of doubt that he’s earned the gallows since then.”

“Did he come with you in your cab?”

“Mr. Bruce managed that beautifully. He’d a cab driven by a pal of his own, and he was very strong on having that. But Mr. Bruce wasn’t taking any – he had to come with me. I listened to what they were talking about as they went along – he as good as told Mr. Bruce that they meant to do for him.”

The marquis groaned.

“That’s pleasant hearing, since he’s all my family!”

“He wouldn’t ride any further than Hanover Gate – for all Mr. Bruce’s trying to get him to let me drive them to the door. So I followed them on foot.”

“See where they went?”

“I did. Then made for the nearest station, and telephoned to them at Bow Street to send our chaps right on. Then came round for you – and that’s what’s wasted precious time, because our chaps ought to be pretty nearly there by now.”

“And my cousin dead!”

“You seem to have made up your mind upon that point,” observed Mr. Carpenter. “But I both hope and believe that you’ll find that you’re wrong.”

“It’s easy talking! What’s your notion, Mr. Daniells? What do you think that lucky chap, of whom you’ve been telling us, and his lucky friends, are likely to do to my cousin when they’ve got him all to themselves?”

“That’s more than I care to think. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes, I do know that; and no one’s ever called me a cur. Considering how he’s had them all on toast, they’ll have their backs up, and they’ll stick at nothing – they’re that sort. Anyhow, he’s in for the very worst hour he’s ever had in all his life; that I’ll swear to. When I remember what a gentleman he is – an all-round, true English gentleman—”

“He’s Scotch.”

“ – He’s as good as if he were English – I don’t like to think of it. Him at the mercy of that scum!”

Thrusting up the trap door he spoke to the driver. “Push along! unless you want to be hung for murder.”

There was an interval of silence, broken by the marquis.

“If they harm him they shall pay!”

“Oh, they’ll be made to pay right enough. I shouldn’t be surprised if we snapped the lot; then this’ll be the last flutter they’ll have for a good many years to come. More than one of them will go for life. But whether he won’t have to pay too dearly for helping us to get them is another question altogether.”

Conversation languished. Each was engaged with his own thoughts. Mr. Daniells was plainly fidgeting; he kept urging the driver to further haste. At last that individual expostulated:

“What’s the good of your keeping on at me? You, as a policeman, ought to know. My mare’s doing her best. If I start galloping her, I shall have some blessed copper pulling me up sharp; then where’ll you be?”

Suddenly they turned into a road in which it was obvious that something unusual was happening. A number of men were descending from what looked like a private omnibus, which had been crowded to its utmost capacity, both inside and out. Behind was an ominous looking vehicle – ‘Black Maria’ – the official van used for conveying prisoners from court to jail. From it also men were emerging. The whole cortège was drawn up before a high dead wall. In that quiet street, at that hour, the proceedings seemed uncanny. Mr. Daniells pulled the cabman up.

“Just in time!” he exclaimed. “Our chaps have just come.”

The trio descended on to the pavement – to find themselves in the midst of a crowd of men, dressed in civilian clothes, all of whom seemed curiously in earnest. What little talking there was took place in undertones. Mr. Daniells was the only person who spoke above a whisper.

“Where’s Inspector Barnes?” he inquired.

A tall man stepped forward. He had a short black beard, and was apparently the only person present in official costume. “Oh, there you are, Barnes. Everything all right?”

“Can’t say – only just come. I suppose this is the place. We can’t see much from outside here; and from what we can see, it looks as if it were empty. From the top of the ’bus the house seems to be all in darkness.”

“I daresay; shutters up all round. But this is the place safe enough, and I rather fancy that you’ll find plenty inside ready to receive you warmly. – How many men have you got?”

“Forty altogether, barring the driver.”

“Got the ladders?”

“In the van; they’re fetching them out.” As a matter of fact, while the inspector was speaking, two short ladders were being produced out of the recesses of Black Maria and brought forward on to the pavement. Mr. Daniells issued his instructions.

“Stand one of those ladders against the wall, then lower the other over the other side. – Barnes, leave a dozen of your men here – tell them to keep a special eye upon that door – and send the rest over the wall to surround the house. You and I’ll go with them. I think we shall be able to get into the house with less fuss from the garden than from the street.”

The inspector, picking out eleven men, placed them under a sergeant, with instructions to detain anyone who attempted to emerge from the premises. The others, following each other over the ladder, vanished over the wall. Mr. Daniells addressed Mr. Carpenter.

“Are you coming with us?”

“I am.”

The marquis, unasked, announced his intention.

“Count me in. Where you lead I will follow. All I want is to get to my family by the shortest road.”

Daniells shook his head.

“You quite understand, my lord, that we can assume no responsibility for whatever happens. I oughtn’t to have let you come – it’s irregular.”

“My life has been irregular up to now; it’s only fit and proper that the end should be in keeping.”

“The end? What do you mean?”

He looked at the other sharply, with keen, inquiring eyes. The marquis laughed.

“I mean that I’ll be obliged by your requesting your friends not to monopolise that ladder unduly long.”

The ladder was scarcely high enough; reaching the top, one had to lever oneself on to the wall. Daniells balanced himself momentarily on the summit.

“What’s down there?”

“Seems like some sort of shrubbery. ’Ware how you come; without a light it isn’t easy to see where you’re going.”

Presently all were over. As the speaker had said, the whole garden seemed to take the form of a large shrubbery, that is, so far as they were able to ascertain. In the prevailing darkness it was difficult to make out their surroundings. They stumbled over unseen obstacles; against branches which only became visible too late. They seemed to have suddenly entered a place of mystery. Sounds were audible for which there were no ostensible causes. All at once, from someone there came an exclamation which was louder than the other. The inspector’s voice inquired into the reason.

“Who’s that? What’s the matter there?”

“It’s me, sir,” replied an unseen person. “I’ve tripped over a root or something – afraid I’ve twisted my ankle.”

The inspector was unsympathetic.

“Not you. You’ll he all right if you stand up and pull yourself together. What’s this? A path?”

It appeared that it was; also that it ran round the house.

“Shine a light here, someone, and let’s see what this is.”

The shutter of a lantern was opened; a bright ray ran up and down, to and fro – sufficient to show that the path on which they were was a narrow and a winding one. Re-closing the lantern, they followed it as best they could towards the left.

“Place is like a maze,” grumbled the inspector.

“In this light a man might keep on walking round and round, and come to nowhere after all.”

“In the meantime,” murmured the marquis, “my family is being slain.”

“Here’s another path,” observed someone in front. “Why, there’s two; they branch off to the right and left; this one goes straight on.”

“That’s all right. You pay your money and take your choice – to find that they all lead nowhere.”

“The one to the left ought to lead to the house. Hullo! we’re right up to it; this feels like a wall. Let’s have another glimpse of light there, and let’s see where we are – the place is as black as Hades.”

Again a shutter was turned. A gleam of light ran up and down a building which was right in front of them, so close that if they had taken another step the leaders would have struck their heads against it. As revealed by the lamplight, a door stared them in the face.

“I see how it is,” exclaimed Mr. Daniells. “We’ve struck the covered passage which leads into the house, and this is the door which opens out of the passage into the garden. What we have to do is to get through it. I expect that path we’ve just left goes right round the house. Barnes, you take some of your men along it and station them within easy hail of each other. Mind, you chaps, you’re down on anyone who tries to pass. Leave me ten. I’ll wait here till you come back. Be as quick as you can.”

Doubtless the inspector obeyed orders to the best of his ability, but, under the circumstances, rapidity of motion was difficult. He and his men moved off; they heard them tramping as they went – their occasional stumbles.

“It strikes me,” remarked Mr. Carpenter, “that either this house is empty, or else its inmates are intent on some very engrossing business. If they were merely fast asleep, they’d have shown signs before this of being roused by the row we’re managing to make.”

“They’re too much engaged, that’s what it is; and probably the last thing they’re expecting is a visit from us. Mr. Bruce never let them have the least idea that he was communicating with us. They think they’ve got him all to themselves by himself; when they see us they’ll look funny – and act funny too, unless I’m wrong. Barnes is taking his time.”

“It isn’t easy to make out the geography of an unknown garden on a night like this. You don’t want him to leave them a chance of getting off – he has to post his men.”

Some minutes passed. They could hear the diminishing tramp of the police officers as they passed farther round the house. Then there was silence – almost ominous silence. Then footsteps were heard returning towards them along the unseen winding path.

“Here’s Barnes!”

“And time it was Barnes. Hullo! what’s that?”

There was a sound within the house – a sound which startled those who were without.

“It’s a pistol shot!”

“By George, it was a pistol shot! That sounds as if someone was inside, and as if business was being done.”

“Break the door down! Don’t wait for Barnes! While we’re waiting, murder’s being done.”

This was the marquis – his tones betrayed excitement. In comparison, Daniells’ voice, though eager, was businesslike and cold.

“If we give the alarm before his men are ready, the whole lot of these chaps may get away scot-free. – Who has the cold chisels and hammers?”

“Here you are, sir.”

“Is that you, Barnes? Placed your men all right?”

“So far as I can see in this darkness.”

The sound within the house was repeated – a second shot was heard. The marquis’s excitement grew apace.

“Confound you, Mr. Daniells! what are you keeping us hanging about like this for? It’s sheer murder!”

“Keep calm, my lord. – Now, you men there, open this door!”

In a surprisingly short space of time the door was opened. They streamed through it – to find themselves in pitch blackness.

“Let’s have some lights.”

Lanterns gleamed – to disclose that they were in the covered passage which led from the street to the house, and that the hall door was closed in front of them. Mr. Daniells’ instructions were short and pithy.

“Break open that door!”

Instantly chisels and hammers were carrying out his orders. Under their persuasive influence the door was being wrenched from its hinges.

— XLIV —

WITHIN

It was the sound of that hammering which Mr. Chaffinch heard in that upstairs room – which shortly penetrated to the consciousness of his companions. Each man seemed to hold his breath to listen. The fashion of their faces changed. Rage and lust of cruelty, fading for a moment into the background, gave place to something which was almost fear. With odd unanimity, all eyes turned towards the door. Mr. Waterson voiced the common doubt:

“What’s up now?”

The woman who had lured Netta answered:

“I’ll go and see.”

“Do! Someone catch hold of that girl while you’re gone – she’s marked dangerous.”

The woman hurried out. There was no necessity for anyone to take her place in guarding Netta, who was already held by three or four. The noise below seemed growing louder. The threat which it conveyed was unmistakable. Men were producing revolvers which had hitherto been hidden. Mr. Chaffinch, whose huge countenance had assumed a pasty look, deprecated their appearance.

“Put those away. Remember, gentlemen, that you’re in England, and that here that sort of thing won’t do.”

The tall, thin American was the only one who commented on the hint:

“I reckon lead’s lead even in this darn country – it’s a stopper!”

Waterson asked a question of Mr. Chaffinch:

“Is there any way out – for us?”

“There’s only the one entrance.”

“Then if it’s the cops, they’ve got us like rats in a trap.”

“But how can it be? They’ve no reason to suppose that we are here?”

The Jew, Sam Brown, interposed, with a jerk of his elbow towards Mr. Smithers.

“Haven’t they? What price him?”

“He’d no notion where he was coming to.”

“Perhaps; but he’s fly enough for anything, he is. If it is them, I know how they got on to us – through that blamed cabman.”

“You think,” added the tall American, “that that cabman he was so anxious to patronise at the Circus was a friend of his?”

“That’s about the size of it. I wish I’d seen him hung before I got inside his blamed cab.”

“What’s that your talking about?” asked Waterson.

Before any could answer the woman came hurrying in, in evident perturbation.

“There’s a crowd of men at the door, and there’s more in the garden; but it’s so dark I can’t see properly.”

“It’s the tees, sure enough!” cried Brown.

“He’s given us away! Damned if I don’t believe it’s been a plant of his from the beginning!”

The tall American pointed his revolver at Mr. Smithers.

“It’s the last time he shall give me away.”

He fired, but Mr. Chaffinch, rushing forward, struck up his arm. The bullet lodged in the wall.

“What did you do that for?” he demanded angrily.

“Don’t make things worse than they are already, you fool,” retorted Chaffinch. “If the tees are on to us, I don’t mean to stand my trial for murder if you do.”

“Gentlemen,” exclaimed Waterson, “it’s been suggested to me that we put out the lamps, then scatter over the house, each man for himself. It seems to me that that’ll be our best chance.”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth than Kronberg, without waiting to hear what was the opinion of the company, springing on to the table, blew out the lamp which was suspended in the centre of the room. Another lamp, a common glass one, stood lighted on the mantelshelf.

“Steady there!” cried a voice. “Let’s have the door open before you leave us all in darkness!”

“And let me make my mark upon that beauty!”

Again the American fired at Mr. Smithers; again Mr. Chaffinch thrust aside his pistol arm; and again the disappointed marksman turned on his associate in anger.

“See here, my fat friend, do you want some lead in you?”

There was a crash below, which seemed to set the whole house in a tremor.

“They’ve got the door down! – Put out that light!”

Someone dashed the glass lamp off the mantel on to the floor. Fortunately it became extinguished as it fell; it was obvious from the sound that it had been shattered into fragments. In the darkness which ensued there arose a singular hubbub of voices; of men making the best of their way past unseen obstacles towards the door. Out of the confusion came the sound of a woman’s voice. It was Netta screaming.

“Frank! – save me! – the black! – the black!”

Something was happening to her, but in the darkness it was impossible to see what. There was the sound of a thud, thud, as of blows being struck by some heavy weapon; then a sort of whimpering noise, as of broken hysterical sobs; then only the previous confusion. Mr. Smithers was heard above the din.

“Netta!” he shouted. “Netta!”

But none answered. Only a voice addressed him, belonging to someone who was standing close at his side.

“Now, my friend, don’t you disturb yourself about Netta. Our coloured friend will look after her – he’s dead on to a white girl is the Linkman. You talk to me. It’s my turn to have a gun and a tickler. Perhaps the tickler’ll make less noise.”

The prick of a sharp point in his arm made it plain to Mr. Smithers what the speaker meant by a ‘tickler.’ It was evidently some sort of a knife, as indeed his further words explained.

“If I cut your head clean off your shoulders, your friends coming up the stairs may have what’s left of you, with my best compliments.”

If the speaker proposed to put his bloodthirsty suggestion into actual execution he reckoned without his host. Although Netta, in her desperate dash to effect her husband’s freedom, had only sundered a few of the cords which bound him, she had yet done more than at first appeared to bring about the end she had in view; for, by judicious movements of his muscles, he had taken advantage of the cords which she had cut to loosen the others. When the knocking had been first heard without, he alone had kept his head, for he alone had been prepared for it. In the confusion which followed he had busied himself by straining every nerve to improve on what he had already done, to such good purpose that, when he felt that point entering his flesh, he had succeeded in almost entirely freeing his right arm. It needed but that prick to supply a final impetus. With sudden rage he put forth his entire strength – his arm was free. He gripped the other by the wrist, and, taking him wholly unawares, twisted the knife out of his hand.

“You beauty!” exclaimed a voice. “Then it’ll have to be lead!”

Mr. Smithers felt something cold touch his forehead – it was the muzzle of a revolver. He wrenched his head aside, striking out blindly with the knife of which he had gained possession. It came into contact with something. There was an exclamation of pain and fury. Coincidently the weapon was discharged. The flame scorched his skin, but the bullet missed him. That something serious had happened to his assailant was shown by the fact that the weapon went clattering to the floor, while his voice was heard declaring:

“I do believe the beauty’s hacked my hand off at the wrist!”

Mr. Smithers, finding himself the recipient of no further immediate attentions, began to make eager use of his knife to sunder his remaining bonds

The encounter, such as it was, had occupied but a moment. Chaos still reigned in the room. The extinguishing of the lights had apparently caused its occupants to forget their bearings. Judging from the sounds, they experienced a difficulty in finding the door. Suddenly a voice exclaimed:

“Look out! – They’re coming up the stairs!”

Confusion became confounded. Men seemingly came into collision with each other, some pressing forward while others pressed back. Oaths and execrations filled the air. All at once authoritative tones were heard without.

“Show a light there! – quick! They’re in this room!”

Bull’s-eye lanterns gleamed through the doorway. Men endeavoured to escape the channels of light which they opened out in front of them. Mr. Daniells thundered an inquiry:

“Mr. Smithers! – Are you in there?”

“I’m here all right, but they’ve got my wife!”

“Andrew!” came a shout, which Mr. Smithers recognised.

“Alec!” he replied.

The marquis came rushing down one of the channels of light; it threw his figure into vivid relief. He had his hat off – was apparently waving it in exultant salutation to his cousin. There was a shot. He threw out his arms on either side of him, as if to prevent himself from falling – and fell, crying, as he went tumbling backwards:

“That’s got me! Where’s Shon!” In the confusion and uncertain light, it was impossible to see who had fired. Only Mr. Chaffinch was heard protesting:

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, none of that, I beg of you. Officers, I call you to witness that we are not responsible for that shot. We surrender.”

A lantern was turned full on to him. Mr. Daniells was seen standing in the door.

“I know you – you’re Augustus Chaffinch; and you know me – I’m George Daniells. There are forty constables in the house and grounds. You chaps have done enough mischief already; if you’re wise, you’ll act on Mr. Chaffinch’s suggestion and do no more.”

Someone struck a match. It was seen to be Kronberg. Climbing on to the table, he lighted the centre lamp, which he had himself put out.

“Let us see what we are doing,” he remarked.

There was another shot – someone else dropped on to the floor.

“Who’s that?” demanded Mr. Daniells.

The tall American was seen to be lying in a heap. Chaffinch explained:

“It’s Philip Fentum. It was he who fired the other shot.”

Such was the presumption, though it was never actually proved. He had blown his own brains out, preferring self-destruction to the fate which he knew was certainly in store for him. The officers, entering, began to take possession of their prisoners, no one offering the slightest resistance. Messrs Carpenter and Daniells between them freed Mr. Smithers from the remainder of his bonds.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not seriously; but—” He had raised himself to his feet. The agony caused by the restored circulation was too much for him. He sank back with a groan. A woman’s shriek rang through the house. He made a further effort to regain the use of his limbs – in vain. “That’s my wife! – Save her! – I can’t! – I’m done!”

His head drooped over the arm of the chair. He had swooned. The woman’s shriek rang out again, coming from an upper floor.

“There’s some devilry taking place upstairs. If some of you chaps will come with me we’ll stop it.”

Guided by the continued cries, which were growing fainter and fainter, they discovered a room above, with the door locked. They burst it open, to find the black inside with Netta. They had arrived just in time.

The negro’s strength must have been herculean. Although he had still a bullet in his thigh, in his frenzy at being baulked of his prey, he fought his would-be captors like a madman, succeeding in inflicting serious injuries on more than one of them before they had him fast. When he was finally secured, the two leaders of the expedition exchanged notes.

“How many have you got?” asked Mr. Daniells.

“Counting the one who shot himself, this one” – meaning the black – “makes eight. Then there’s a woman besides, who says that she doesn’t know what we want to arrest her for, because she’s done nothing.”

“Hasn’t she? We shall see about that later.”

And they saw.

— XLV —

THE MARQUIS AND MARCHIONESS

“You see it was the Chief whom Shon was calling.”

They had removed the Marquis of Skye to the great house in Park Lane. He had insisted; and as, in any case, it was only a question of hours, it had seemed to the doctors that it did not matter. The bullet had not killed on the spot, but it had produced internal haemorrhage, which was beyond the reach of medicine. The marquis was bleeding to death.

It was between two and three o’clock in the morning. Beside the bed were his cousin, whom we have known through the greater part of this story as Francis Smithers, and his wife, Netta. Both looked as if they had been in the wars. Netta, in particular, was disposed towards silence. During the last few hours events had come marching upon her with such breathless rapidity that it was not strange that she felt bewildered. And now, scarcely had she escaped what was worse than death, than she found herself in this great house, in the presence of this dying man, confronted by the fact that she was within measurable distance of becoming the wife of one of the greatest of England’s peers. No wonder that she asked herself if these things could be happening in a world of dream.

The marquis was conscious of no pain. On the contrary, he was completely at his ease – more so than were the watchers at his side. Only his voice grew ever fainter. He spoke to Netta, who regarded him with the strangest mixture of awe and pity. He was a little beyond her understanding.

“I am sorry, cousin, that our acquaintance has been so brief an one, but I comfort myself with the reflection that knowing you has enabled me to die in peace. I am persuaded that I am leaving the Bruces in safe hands.”

He watched her in silence for some seconds, seeming surprised at the tears which were rolling down her cheeks. He put out his hand and touched one with his fingers.

“Why, it’s a tear! You shouldn’t cry – it isn’t worth it. Between ourselves, it’ll be the best thing for me – to be dead. Everything I’ve cared for has been dead some time. And I’m tired – you don’t know how tired one gets. Besides, I’m leaving behind me so excellent a representative – one who’ll be in every respect a better Chief than ever I have been.”

“That is not so.”

Andrew was standing by his wife’s side, as she knelt upon the floor. It was from him that the point-blank contradiction came.

“It is so; your little finger would make a better Chief than my whole body.” Then, to Netta,

“You don’t know my cousin, although you’ve married him. He’s the dearest fellow, but he’s had a deal of trouble. One woman destroyed him; it’s only fair that another should build him up again. You’ll not bring him any hurt or harm?”

“I’ll try not – I’ll try hard.”

“You’ll not need much trying. I thank you for having married him – it’s a compliment to the family.”

That was the last set speech he made, and it was uttered with a smile. There came from him at intervals a few disconnected remarks, but they became rarer and fainter. At last he said something in so low a tone of voice that she had to bend over to catch what he said.

“Kiss—” he whispered, and then stopped, as if his strength was spent, and he could say no more.

But she understood, and kissed him. And her husband kissed him too.

Almost immediately afterwards the wailing sound of bagpipes seemed to be borne on the wind past the window.

“What is that?” she asked; for up to that moment everything had been very quiet.

“It’s Shon.” Her husband lifted her up from her knees and took her in his arms. “Alec is dead.”

Later in the day the husband and the wife talked together. Youth is elastic. Its moods soon change. Netta had had a refreshing and a dreamless sleep. When she awoke the world looked brighter. After all, this man had been nothing to her – the acquaintance of an hour. And he was dead. There was an end.

It was the singularity of the position which made its strongest appeal to her. She said to her husband:

“Are you really the Marquis of Skye?”

“I am afraid I am – unfortunately.”

“And am I the Marchioness?”

“You are; that burden is laid upon you.”

But this time he smiled, for he perceived from something which was on her face that she might not regard it as such a burden after all. She drew a long breath, as if to assure herself that she was awake.

“And the other day I was cleaning the lodger’s boots – and you were the lodger.”

He drew her towards him with a laugh.

“You will admit that I always protested.”

“But I did them all the same. And now I’m a marchioness. Oh dear! I never thought that it would come to this.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Frank – whatever grand names you have, I shall always call you Frank.”

“I hope you always will.”

“Frank – is it true that you’ve been married before?”

She drew a little away from him, regarding him with anxious eyes.

“Perfectly. I divorced my first wife, for sufficient reasons. She has become an actress. You have seen her at the Pandora Theatre. She calls herself Esmé Papillon, and is married again – to Mr. Frederic Bellamy, whom you saw acting with her in the piece in which she played the heroine.”

“Frank! Was Esmé Papillon your wife?”

“She was, once – to my cost. She ruined me by her extravagance – lock, stock, and barrel. I never was a rich man. When I tried to check her, she grew to hate me. And there were other things. I’ll do her the justice to admit that I don’t believe that she meant much harm. That was the worst of it – she was incapable of meaning anything. She was that sort of woman – irresponsible. She had acquaintance who helped to ruin her – and me. One was a man who called himself my friend – Raymond Verinder. One night I found her in a room with him. I was very angry. We fought. I threw him out of the window. He was killed.”

“Killed!”

Netta’s face had grown whiter.

“They charged me with murder. It was not murder. I had not meant to kill him. They perceived that themselves. They altered the charge to manslaughter. Of that they found me guilty, and sentenced me to two years’ hard labour.”

“Frank!”

She put her hand upon his shoulder and snuggled closer to him.

“You will understand that that was not nice for me. I resolved to put the past – the world in which I had lived – behind me; to submerge my own identity; to begin life again at some fresh starting-point. So I came to Putney – and fell in love with you – which I ought not to have done.”

“Why oughtn’t you to have fallen in love with me? You were divorced before you came.”

“Oh yes; I was divorced before I came.”

“Then why oughtn’t you to have fallen in love with me? – Because I wasn’t good enough?”

“The idea! – Because of my record. A man with such a record as mine ought not to have allowed himself to fall in love with such a woman as you – for her sake, not his.”

“Indeed! And pray what’s the matter with your record? If I found out that a woman was trying – even trying, mind! – to steal your love from me, do you suppose that I shouldn’t feel like killing her? And I shouldn’t be surprised if I did it too.”

“You need never have any fear of anyone alienating my love from you. I owe you too much.”

“You owe me too much! What do you owe me?”

“I owe you happiness.”

“And don’t I owe you happiness?”

“I hope to succeed in making you happy before I’ve done.”

“Before you’ve done? What do you think you’ve been doing up to now? – Frank, you’re a wise person, but I’m beginning to wonder if, after all, on some points you’re not a little dull. Aren’t you perfectly aware that long ago you made me the happiest woman that ever lived?”

“But happiness in your mouth means one thing, and in mine another.”

“Does it? – How pleasant! – I am learning!”

“By consenting to become my wife you restored me to my self-respect – you raised me out of the ditch into which I’d fallen. The consciousness that a good woman had consented to entrust her life to me made a better man of me than I ever thought I should have become again. It is in that sense that I mean that I owe you happiness.”

“Is it? – Very pretty, and excellently expressed! – Now perhaps you will allow me to ask you just one question – what would have become of me if it hadn’t been for you?”

“That is a question which neither I nor any other man can answer.”

“Is it? Then I can at least supply you with the probabilities. – At best, I should have been still the household drudge I was when first you saw me. But the probabilities are that I should have been on the streets – a pauper, hopeless and downtrodden, begging my bread. Instead of which, you have not only made me your wife – than which no greater honour could have befallen a woman – but you have also made of me a marchioness. – No, sir – or, dear my lord, as I suppose it’ll have to be – don’t you ever attempt to drop even the very faintest hint that you owe me more than I owe you; because the thing is, on the face of it, so utterly preposterous, that if you will descend to such absurdities, you’ll put me in such a temper that I’m nearly sure we’ll quarrel.”

— XLVI —

SUMMING UP

Mr. Chaffinch and his friends met with their deserts, or, at least, with a considerable part of them. For it may be taken for granted that gentlemen of their kidney never do receive quite all that they deserve from the hands of the law. That little book, filled with the secret writing, which Mr. Edney’s heir found in safe No. 226, contained matter which proved to be their complete undoing. When Mr. Smithers, having puzzled out the key, went with it and the rest of his find to the authorities, he was able to lay before them a history of certain criminal transactions in which the association had been engaged which was in its way unique. The late George Edney, besides being a player of many parts, must have been a man of subtle humour. He had recorded, with circumstantial details, the particulars of all the crimes in which his associates had been concerned. It is within the range of possibility that, in bequeathing his ill-gotten booty to his fellow-prisoner, he foresaw the use which might be made of this interesting volume, and chuckled at the prospect. For it is hardly likely that so astute a person could have so misread the character of Andrew Bruce as to suppose that he would be willing to continue as his posthumous partner in his innumerable rascalities. However that may have been, the entries which he had made with his own hands did settle the fate of his friends, more than one of whom was sentenced to penal servitude for life.

Mr. Theodore Ludlow failed one day to put in an appearance at the office of the bank which he honoured with his services. On inquiries being made into the condition of his accounts, a sufficient reason for his absence was discovered. He had apparently taken a little trip abroad; and, so far as is known, has not since revisited his native land. Of Mr. Sam Swire, his whilom associate, nothing has been seen or heard.

Shortly after succeeding to the marquisate, Mr. Francis Smithers that was presented the Dene Park estate to Mr. Sidney Foster. When the young gentleman naturally hesitated to accept so munificent a gift, the marquis told him the whole story of George Edney’s legacy, explaining that his chief reason for appropriating it was to enable him to make restitution to the testator’s victims.

One day Mr. Benjamin Rodway, now a multimillionaire, asked Miss Margaret Foster to be his wife; and strange to say – for they hardly ever said a civil thing to one another – the young lady consented.

“I don’t mind,” she observed. “I’ll marry you. I’ve done you so much good already that I may as well place myself in a position which will enable me to do you more.”

He pulled a face – for his manners were still uncouth.

“I don’t see what good you’ve done me up to now?”

“That’s merely an illustration of your phenomenal opacity. To begin with, I saved you from making a fantastic spectacle of yourself on at least one historical occasion – and even then you went as far in that direction as you possibly could. I suppose that now you will admit that I was right in all that I said of Netta’s husband – that he is the truest, bravest, noblest gentleman.”

Mr. Rodway ran his fingers through his hair – he has the trick of it unto this hour,

“I tell you what he is – he’s the luckiest man in the world.”

“My dear Benjamin – I shall always call you Benjamin in full; you look a Benjamin, with your hair standing up so beautifully on end; you’re a tidy man – my dear Benjamin, in a sense we may be fortune’s fools and playthings, but after all there’s a certain kind of luck which only goes with character.”

Not long ago Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Rodway entered on the responsible position of godparents to the infant son and heir of the Marquis and Marchioness of Skye. Both the mother and the godmother perceived, moment that each of them set eyes upon him, what a striking resemblance the boy bore to his father. It’s extraordinary what insight, in such matters, women have! Compared to them, men are as nothing.