A Drama of the Telephone and Other Adventures
Date: 1909-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Crime; Murder; Mystery; Suspense; Boys’ Adventure Stories
Description: Tales of mystery and suspense, murder and theft, romance and redemption — and as a bonus, a pair of boys’ adventure stories (anticipating Booth Tarkington’s humorous “Penrod” by a bit). ~ ~ ~ ~ Other than the pdf available from the Oxford Bodleian Libraries, this ebook is currently the only digital version extant.
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain worldwide.

A DRAMA
OF THE TELEPHONE

AND OTHER ADVENTURES

RICHARD MARSH

MobileRead Edition
2021

Tales of mystery and suspense, murder and theft, romance and redemption — and as a bonus, a pair of boys’ adventure stories (anticipating Booth Tarkington’s humorous Penrod by a bit).

Other than the pdf available from the Oxford Bodleian Libraries, this ebook is currently the only digital version extant.

*   *   *

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. Marsh produced nearly 80 volumes of fiction and numerous short stories, in genres including horror, crime, romance and humor.

*   *   *

This book, first published in 1910, is in the public domain worldwide.

CONTENTS:

- A Drama of the Telephone
- In the Lion’s Jaws
- A Memorable Night
- The Disappearing Diamonds
- The Cigarette
- The Upstairs Room
- His Child
- A Fortune at a Find
- Sir Philip

A Drama of the Telephone

— I —
A CALL IN THE NIGHT

Mr Oswald Dale was sitting in his study, occupied with some papers which he had brought from the City. He was a member of a firm of accountants which did a considerable business, and just then work was not only plentiful, but in a few days he was going for his holiday, and was anxious to clear off as much of it as was possible before he went.

Although he was a young man in the early thirties and in the best of health, he was feeling both mentally and physically tired. It was latish; the members of his small establishment had gone to bed; he glanced discontentedly at the quantity of work which he still had to do, and wished he could go to bed also.

He looked at his watch: it was just past eleven; as he had to be early in the City he liked to be early to bed – it was late for him. The papers on the table would occupy him, apparently, the best part of another hour – he had half a mind to leave them till the morrow. Alter all, he had not managed so badly, he had got through three hours’ good work since dinner; he had reached a point at which he might conveniently stop – why should he over-fatigue himself by going on? While he hesitated his attention was suddenly diverted – the bell of the telephone began to ring. The instrument was on the table close to his hand. He glanced at it as if both displeased and surprised.

“Who on earth is ringing me up at this hour of the night?”

As a man is sometimes slow in opening an envelope of whose contents he is in doubt, so he allowed a second or two to elapse before answering the call. The bell continued to ring, seeming to break the silence which had been reigning in the room with a persistence which was almost ominous.

“Someone in a hurry.”

Unhooking the receiver, he applied it to his ear.

“Hullo!”

A voice came back to him.

“Are you Oswald Dale?”

“I am; who is speaking?”

“I want to give you a message; if you have a piece of paper handy you’d better write it down, if you haven’t, be careful to note exactly what I say.”

“Who are you?”

“This is the message; listen attentively. A crime has been committed at 8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park. I now place you in possession of the information. All responsibility for any action which may have to be taken is with you. You have the address, 8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park.”

The voice ceased, just as Mr Dale was expecting something else to be said. He waited a second or two, then said:

“Hullo! Hullo! Hullo! Are you there?”

Silence. He seemed to be a little angry, continuing to wait for a response that did not come.

“What on earth does the fellow mean? Who is the man? Hullo! You there, who are you? What do you mean by giving me a message like that? Where are you calling from? I say! Hullo!”

Not a sound. He took the receiver from his ear, looking about him almost as if he expected to see the person who had been speaking standing in the room. With something of an effort, he smiled.

“I suppose it’s some would-be humorist having a joke with me – what he thinks a joke. This is one of the charms of a telephone. Last night I woke up about one o’clock, and hearing the bell persistently ringing, I got out of bed to see who it was; it seemed to be no one, another humorist. It’s not a bad idea to detach the receiver after a certain hour, then such humorists are foiled.”

Half unconsciously he replaced the receiver. Scarcely had he done so than the bell began again. He snatched the receiver, the same voice reached his ear.

“You got the address quite right, 8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park, you understand that now the responsibility is yours.”

Again silence; though Mr Dale rained questions and exclamations, no one answered. In his indignation, on his own account, he called to the exchange, demanding to know from where the call had come which had rung him up. Whoever replied was unable to tell him. A brief and somewhat heated conversation took place between him and someone unknown, it closed without his receiving the information he required.

“One thing’s certain, my humorous friend is not going to have me again tonight, whoever and wherever he may be.”

Instead of again hanging up the receiver he laid it on the table, then regarded, somewhat ruefully, the mass of papers with which he still had to deal. He decided that they would have to wait till tomorrow, that little incident with the telephone had disturbed him. Of course the thing had been a joke; some people’s ideas of humour are their own; just then his idea of humour would have been to lay a stout cane across the joker’s back. He gathered the papers together, placed them in the bag in which he had brought them from the City, took the bag with him into the adjoining apartment, which was his bedroom.

In spite of himself, as he was undressing, that incident of the telephone would occupy his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He could not be rid of it, it seemed such an aimless jest to play upon a man, a stranger. That the speaker at the other end had been a stranger he was convinced. He believed himself to have a good ear for voices, that if he had once heard a voice he would know it again. He felt certain that he had never heard that voice before, even as it came to him over the wires it had a peculiar quality which he would certainly recognise if he heard it again. The man at the other end had spoken with what seemed to be both a slight lisp and a slight stammer. Of course they might have been assumed, but he doubted it.

“There’s a slight impediment in the fellow’s speech which came to him from nature, it wasn’t put on. If, by one of those miracles which coincidence sometimes does perform, I were ever to hear him speak again I should spot him at once, by that one thing.”

So persistently did the occurrence occupy his thoughts that he took it with him even when he was between the sheets.

“What exactly was it which the joker said, and which he was so anxious that I should carefully note, even to the extent of taking it down. ‘A crime has been committed at 8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park. I now place you in possession of the information. All responsibility for any action which may have to be taken is with you.’ I believe those were his precise words – the impudence of the man! What a simple-minded innocent he must take me to be. He can’t imagine me to be so simple as to pay any heed to his ridiculous ‘message.’ I suppose he’ll go and tell his friends what a joke he had at my expense: let him. He’s sent me to bed perhaps sooner than I should have come if it hadn’t been for him, so I score there.”

He might, as he said, have come sooner than he intended, but apparently he had not come to bed to sleep. As a rule no sooner was his head on the pillow and his eyes closed than slumber followed. It was a most unusual experience for him to lie there tossing and turning, hoping for the sleep which would not come. He was most absurdly worried by the persistent fashion by which, as it seemed, something inside his head would repeat the address which the man had given. Such was his inability to get rid of it, that he actually sat up in bed and switched the light on.

“Perhaps if I write it down, as that impertinent scoundrel suggested, it will stop bothering this silly brain of mine.”

It was his custom always to keep paper and pencil on the little table which stood beside his bed. He wrote down the address which had come to him over the wires, not once, nor twice, but three times.

“‘8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park,’ that is what the idiot said.”

Not the least odd part of the business was that what he desired came about, he was allowed to sleep. As if his making that note had worked a charm, no sooner had he put the light out, and his head was back upon the pillow, than slumber came, and he slept peacefully, dreamlessly, till the servant came with his shaving water in the morning.

— II —
THE GIRL IN THE GREY DRESS

When he got out of bed he laughed as he saw the piece of paper with the address on it lying on the table, the joke was so much more obviously a joke now that the morning had come.

“What an idiot the fellow must have been to spend twopence, it must have cost him at least twopence, in sending such a nonsensical message to a perfect stranger, and call it a jest.”

He had breakfast, eating a capital meal, then, as his custom was, went up to his study, which was above his dining-room, to put some letters which had come by the morning post in their appointed places till he could answer them. When he entered the room he noticed that the receiver was, as he had left it, detached from the instrument, lying on the table. He hung it onto its hook, and, almost as he was in the very act of doing so, the bell rang.

The two things, the hanging up of the receiver, and the ringing of the bell were so coincident that it really seemed as if some action on his part must have set the bell going. He stood staring at the instrument as if wondering how it could have happened. But when the bell persisted in its ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, it became clear that he could not be the cause of its agitation.

“Perhaps it’s from the office, or perhaps Stevens wants to know if I’ve finished those papers – he was anxious about them when I came away.”

“Stevens” was one of the partners in his firm, and was associated with him in the business which the papers which he had brought home referred to. He placed the receiver to his ear.

“Hullo!”

The instant the word had passed his lips he started, one had only to watch his face to see that something had startled him. He stood, apparently listening to what was coming to him over the wire, with a look on his face of a very peculiar kind.

“Are you Oswald Dale?”

“Who the dickens are you?”

“Referring to the crime which I informed you last night had been committed at 8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park, if you are in Broad Street Station at half-past nine you will see the young woman who committed it. She will be dressed in a light grey coat and skirt, and a big white straw hat with cornflowers in it, and she will have a bunch of violets in her hand, you understand? If you hand her over to the police she will confess her guilt so soon as the policeman puts his hand upon her shoulder.”

Thus far the voice at the other end, then silence. Mr Dale’s countenance was a study. Whether anger or amazement was his predominant emotion it would not have been easy to say.

“Who are you, sir?”

He shouted out the question as if he were calling to someone in the adjoining apartment, someone who was hard of hearing.

“Do you hear me ask you, sir, who you are? What do you mean by playing these outrageous, tom-fool tricks with me? Hullo! you, sir, I know you are there. I daresay you think you’ll have a little joke at my expense, but I warn you that I shall report this to the police, you may find that jokes of this sort are expensive. Hullo! you there! Hullo!”

Mr Dale might “Hullo!” and did “Hullo,” but he might have saved his breath for all the effect it seemed to have upon the other person at the end of the wire. His indignation when, having “Hulloed” himself nearly hoarse, he replaced the receiver, was, in its way, ludicrous. That a trick should be played on him late at night was one thing, a nocturnal reveller, finding himself near a public call office with twopence in his pocket, might find some sort of excuse in his condition, but that practically the same trick should be played on him again in broad daylight, at that hour of the morning, just after he had breakfasted, and was starting for the City – that assumed the complexion of an outrage. If telephone subscribers were to be subjected to that kind of thing, then the instruments would become an actual nuisance.

He left the house, caught his usual train, met the usual set of men whom he greeted with a curtness to which they were unaccustomed, and, as he travelled up to town, sat in a corner behind a newspaper as if the news which it contained were of the most absorbing kind. As a matter of fact he hardly read a word of it. He tried to again and again, but though he kept the sheet stretched out in front of him, he only used it as a screen to conceal his irritation. He was in general a good-tempered man, not easily annoyed, which made it the more remarkable that the stranger’s reiteration of his joke had affected him as it seemed to have done. As had been the case when last night he had retired to bed, the impertinent scoundrel’s words kept ringing in his ears.

If he was in Broad Street Station at half-past nine – the fellow must know something about him, or how did he know that he generally was in Broad Street Station at half-past nine – he would see a girl in a light grey coat and skirt and a white straw hat trimmed with cornflowers. The rascal was pulling his leg!

Of course he would see nothing of the kind; was it likely? He was not such an idiot as to suppose anything of the sort. But, if by some incredible accident he did see such a young woman, then, he was informed, she was the person who had committed the preposterous suppositious crime which had been enacted at the ridiculous address which he had been fool enough to note down.

That train was due in Broad Street at five and twenty minutes past nine – that morning it was a minute or two late. He noticed that it was just on the half-hour as he passed through the gate onto the platform, and the first person he saw was a girl in a light grey dress. He was not so foolish as not to be aware that young women in costumes of that sort, at that season of the year, were the commonplaces of existence: yet the fact did strike him as being odd that this young woman should at that particular moment have been there. And this feeling of oddness was intensified when he noticed that she had corn-flowers in her white straw hat. He stared at the hat with an intentness of which he was probably unconscious: when she raised a bunch of violets which she had in her hand to her nose, he stared at her: then that peculiar feeling which was obsessing him became a shock, because he knew her.

He was sure he knew her, though such was the confusion of his mind that he could not recall her identity, yet he was quite sure that he did know her, and that pleasantly.

She was extremely pretty, with a face which might almost have been called flower-like, it was so fresh and sweet and fair and innocent. She was quite young, quite possibly only just out of her teens. Among that crowd of hurrying business men she was like some delightful memory of which he had lost the thread. He doubted if she saw him at all – she never looked in his direction. Before he had had anything like a sufficient look at her, she was gone, had passed through the gate through which he had just now come, and was lost in the crowd on the platform. One strange dominant impression she had left behind her, he must have seen her better than he supposed, because, now that she had gone, he had the oddest feeling that she was in trouble. Horrible, unbearable trouble, trouble which weighed her down.

It was this impression of her which he carried with him as he walked to the office; he had not been conscious of it at the moment but there must have been something on her face which had given it him. It was extraordinary that the impertinent stranger should have told him that he would see her at the station, but it was not the coincidence which affected him most. In the first place there was this queer conviction that she was in trouble, and in the second was the feeling that he had seen her before. Yet he could not think where if he only could. He had some delightful association with those big eyes and dainty features, yet for the moment the association escaped him. It would come back to him presently; as he walked he smiled to himself as if he foresaw its coming. But it had not come back when he had reached the office.

He went straight to his private room. His letters were all arranged in order on the table. Among them was a prominent object which was not a letter, though, seemingly, it had come through the post. It was a key, it might have been a latchkey. He took it up, wondering what it was doing there. Attached to it was a label. On one side of the label was the address and the necessary stamp, it was addressed plainly enough to him: on the other side were words at which he stared with amazement which grew momentarily greater: “This is the key of 8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park.”

— III —
THE TENANT OF
NO. 8 GORDON MANSIONS

He rang the bell.

“How did this come?” he inquired of the clerk who entered.

He held up the key with the label attached. The clerk seemed a little puzzled.

“I suppose it came through the post in the ordinary way. I found it among your letters.”

Mr Dale eyed the youth almost as if he suspected him of some feat of legerdemain, then dismissed him. He examined the label.

“Typewritten, on both sides, no chance of recognising the handwriting. ‘8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park,’ the address which came over the phone. What does this mean? Am I being made the subject of some elaborate and exasperating practical joke, or, am I being dragged into something which has nothing to do with me?”

[MISSING TEXT PG 22 TOP]

“Bring me the London Directory.” The clerk brought it. “Take those letters in to Mr Stevens, tell him I shall be with him in a minute, then come back for the directory.” His eye wandered to that part of the directory which gave details of the London streets. “Gordon Mansions, here we are, that isn’t an invention. There is such a street; apparently it is somewhere in the neighbourhood of Connaught Square, odd numbers one side, even the other, four, six, eight – eight. Christopher Norton – Christopher Norton? Where have I heard that name?”

The clerk re-entered. “Bradley, where in the office did I come across the name of Christopher Norton?”

“Of 8 Gordon Mansions, sir?”

“That’s the man.”

“He’s the man who insisted on proceeding to extremities in the Richards case; would hear of nothing but selling up the widow, and getting everything out of her that could be got. I believe that ultimately she was turned into the street with her children, practically without a penny.”

“He was a creditor in the matter? I think I remember. Did he ever come here? Have you ever seen him?”

“Never, we heard of him through Mr Jennister.”

[[[ MISSING TEXT PG 23 TOP ]]]

“And he lives, you say, at 8 Gordon Mansions, Hyde Park? What makes you remember the address? Did we have any communication with him there?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir. The fact is that happens also to be the address of a lady with whom I have some acquaintance.”

“Lady? what lady?”

Mr Dale asked this as if his thoughts were straying, seemingly unconscious of a certain change which had taken place in Mr Bradley’s manner.

“A Miss Grant, sir, Miss Beatrice Grant.”

“Grant? Beatrice Grant?” Mr Dale looked up sharply. “Who is she?”

“I can’t say exactly who she is, but I believe that she’s his niece, or his ward, or something of that sort, I know she lives with Mr Norton.”

“She lives with him? I see, does she? You can go, take the directory.” Mr Bradley took the directory and went. Mr Dale continued for some minutes after he had left him staring into space, thinking, one felt sure, from the expression on his countenance, of things which had little to do with the business of the day. His thoughts shaped themselves into unspoken words.24 A DRAMA OF THE TELEPHONE

“Grant? Grant? Beatrice Grant, where on earth have I heard that name?”

All at once he took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and opened the bottom drawer of the table at which he was sitting. From it he took a small leather despatch box, and out of the despatch box some papers, and from the papers a very singular thing to be found in such an environment. It was a photograph, a snapshot, a very amateurish affair indeed, unmounted, poorly printed, under developed. Apparently it had not been properly toned and fixed, it had faded; before long there would be very little of the picture left, in short it was not the sort of photograph which one would have expected to find in the possession of a man like Oswald Dale. Yet he regarded it as if it were one of the most interesting objects in the world, though it was only the photograph of a girl most wretchedly taken. On the back there was something pencilled.

“Grant, yes, I thought that was her name, and I believe her Christian name was Beatrice. What an odd thing, that Bradley should have mentioned her name.” He suddenly started up from his chair with a sort of jump, in a condition of what, for him, was most unusual excitement.

“Why, what an idiot I am, she’s the girl I saw at the station. To think that I shouldn’t have remembered her at once. What an extraordinary thing. I knew I knew her, and yet what a curious thing. And she lives with Mr Christopher Norton at 8 Gordon Mansions.” He sat down on his chair again, bewilderment taking the place of the agitation which had possessed him a moment ago.

“What was it that scoundrel said when he rang me up this morning, that it was she who had committed the crime. What crime? If this is a practical joke which is being played on me it’s a very remarkable one. And that’s the key? If I were to try it I expect the bladder would burst at once, and someone would start laughing. Good-morning, Stevens.” His partner had come into the room. Through his glasses he was observing the despatch box and the letters which had come out of it with what seemed to be wondering eyes.

“Bradley told me that you would be with me in a minute, and as I want to get to that meeting at Cannon Street Hotel, I thought I’d come and see you about these papers. I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

“No, no, not in the least, I was just coming.” Mr Dale put the faded photograph back among the papers, and the papers back in the despatch box, and shut the despatch box with a click, with a little flustered air almost as if he had been detected in an impropriety. The partners went through the papers together; Mr Dale devoted the rest of the morning to business. When he went out to lunch he met, at the door of the eating house he favoured, an elderly man in a shabby frock coat and a top hat which looked as if it had not been brushed for weeks. He walked with a stoop; he had a long, thin face; high cheek bones, over which the skin seemed to be stretched till it had assumed a parchment hue; and a pair of lacklustre eyes which seemed to be tired of looking out onto the world. Him, Mr Dale accosted.

“Good-morning, Mr Jennister, going to lunch?”

“I’m going to have a cup of coffee and a biscuit at the A.B.C. shop at the corner, though I don’t suppose that you’d call that lunch.”

“Do me the pleasure to lunch with me. There are two or three things which I should like to say to you.”

The old man shook his head.

“Can’t eat a big meal in the middle of the day. The older I get the less I eat, and the better I am. What do you want?”

“Well,” Mr Dale looked round as if anxious not to be overheard, “I hardly know how to put it. You remember the Richards case?” The old man nodded. “You acted for a Mr Norton?” Another nod. “Are you personally acquainted with Mr Norton?” A third nod, Mr Jennister seemed chary of speech. “I – I’m rather curious to know what kind of man he is.”

“Why?”

Mr Dale seemed to experience a difficulty in explaining.

“Is he a young man or – elderly?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite in a position to tell you, it just happens that I want to know. Circumstances have arisen which may bring me into personal contact with him and I should like to know what kind of person I may expect to meet.”

“What are the circumstances which have arisen?”

“Have you any objection to telling me what kind of person Mr Norton is? My interest in him is quite legitimate. I’m not asking merely out of idle curiosity.”

Mr Jennister had kept his expressionless eyes fixed on Mr Dale ever since they had met, they seemed to have an odd quality of being able to stare unblinkingly. A clock somewhere close at hand struck the quarter.

“It’s past my usual hour, Mr Dale, I’m afraid you must excuse me.”

Mr Jennister walked off, seeming to progress with a sideways movement towards the Aerated Bread shop at the corner. Mr Dale stared after him.

“An agreeable old gentleman! That’s a rap across my knuckles. He carries caution pretty far, as if he had particular reasons for saying nothing about Mr Norton.”

— IV —
THE CARETAKER’S STORY

His office was within five minutes walk of Bread Street Station, he lived at Highbury, and yet that evening Mr Dale returned home by way of Hyde Park, which was clearly not his shortest route. He had it in his head that he would further the joke of which he believed himself to be made the subject at least to the extent of calling upon Mr Christopher Norton. He would just knock at the door, ask to see him, tell him about the messages which had been sent by the impertinent stranger. Quite possibly Mr Norton might be able to throw light on the stranger’s identity, then it might turn out that the laugh would not be all on the stranger’s side. There also was at the back of Mr Dale’s mind the thought that if Mr Norton should happen not to be in, or perhaps a little out of health, or for any reason disinclined to see visitors, he might have to interview Miss Grant instead.

He had Mr Bradley’s assurance that Miss Grant did live with Mr Norton. He did not know what grounds that young gentleman had for saying so, but should he chance to be right an opportunity might arise which would enable him to recall himself to the lady’s recollection. It was two years since he had met her, and then he had only seen her for a few days when he was staying with some friends at Shanklin. Women, as a rule, were not at all in his way, yet, whenever he thought of Shanklin, he thought of her. She might have been, so far as he was concerned, the lion of the place. Then of course there was the coincidence of the encounter at the station. She would be amused to hear what monstrous imputations had been made against her over the telephone.

He went by the tube to the Marble Arch, then he walked. He had some difficulty in finding Gordon Mansions, it was rather farther than he had expected. It turned out to be a side street among a network of side streets, a short street with about a dozen houses on either side. It struck him as not only having seen its best days, but as a dismal street. The houses fronted each other in two unbroken rows, of three storey buildings, with stucco fronts, in need, not only of white wash, but of repairs. Here and there pieces of the stucco had fallen away leaving the bare bricks visible beneath. Four or five of them were empty, grimy bills announcing the fact were seen through dirty windows, suggesting that they had been empty an unconscionable time. Those which were let did not strike one as being in the occupation of flourishing tenants; there was that unmistakable something about them which suggested that their occupants had neither time nor money to spend on external decoration. The roadway and the pavements alike were empty, conveying an odd notion that they generally were.

“What a place for her to live in! I’d sooner live in a labourer’s cottage in the country than in a street like this.”

This was a reflection which occurred to Mr Dale, the houses certainly did offer a striking contrast to the well-groomed, cosy-looking, red brick building, standing alone in the well-kept garden at Highbury. Number 8 turned out to be, as far as externals went, nearly, if not quite, the shabbiest of all the houses. It must have been years since the door had been painted, it had peeled and blistered; what its original colour had been only an expert could determine. A screw had come out of the knocker, so that it was hanging sideways by the only one which was left. The windows were so dirty that it was not easy to see if there were curtains on the other side – blinds were scarcely needed to prevent passers-by from looking through them. In the basement was a collection of curiosities which had apparently been thrown over the railing. Mr Dale regarded it askance.

“This certainly doesn’t seem very promising. I suppose the place is occupied. I wonder when someone cleaned those windows last.”

As best he could he raised the knocker, hanging lopsided by its only screw, and he knocked. No one came and nothing happened.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if the house is uninhabited, and that part of the jest consists in sending me on this fool’s errand to a house which the joker knew was empty.”

He knocked a second time and again, still apparently without attracting attention from anyone inside. Then, after his third knocking, the door of the house next door was opened and a woman came out. The house was empty, there were bills in the window announcing that it was to let, which looked as if they had been there for years. At the bottom of one were the words, “Caretaker within.” The woman spoke to Mr Dale.

“I heard you knocking, sir, so I thought I’d come out and speak to you. I’m the caretaker of Number 10, that’s this house, along with my husband, only he’s got a temporary job and at present I’m here alone. Was you wanting to see anyone in Number 8, sir?”

“Does Mr Norton live here?”

“He does live there, sir, and that’s a fact. I’ve heard that he’s lived there for over thirty years and he’s what you might call an old tenant; but you are not the only one who’s been there within the last few days, knocking and getting no one to open – neither he nor his niece.”

“Has he a niece who lives with him?”

“He has, sir, Miss Grant I’m told her name is. To my certain knowledge she’s been living with him now going on for three years, and a nice time they have of it. Are you a friend of Mr Norton’s, sir?”

“I’ve never seen him in my life.”

“Oh, that’s a pity.”

The woman’s tone was peculiar; Mr Dale smiled.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, sir, begging your pardon, you look as if you was a gentleman, and I thought that if you were a friend of Mr Norton’s I should like to say a word to you, because the fact is, I’m not easy in my mind.”

“About what?”

“Well, sir, it’s like this, though I don’t know that I ought to say it to you, seeing that you never so much as saw Mr Norton in your life, but it’s come to that pass that I’ve got to say it to someone, so there you are. There always have been rows between Mr Norton and his niece, though that it’s her fault I can’t think, seeing that a nicer speaking or nicer looking young lady I never saw, while her uncle’s a party that makes me feel uncomfortable every time I look his way, and how that sweet young lady can stop with him at all is more than I can think. But lately the rows between them have been getting worse and worse. Eight days ago, that was yesterday week, which was a Tuesday, there was the most frightful upset. You could hear it almost as plain in this house as if you’d been in that. It began in the morning, went on in the afternoon, and towards the evening I thought there would be murder done; the language that old man did use, we could hear some of his words, and they shocked even my husband, and the way that poor young lady did go on. Then it seemed to my husband and me as if they set to fighting, you never did hear such a flare up, furniture being knocked about and shrieks, and I don’t know what. Then there was a shriek that went right through me, and I said to my husband, ‘I’m going in to see what’s happening, if that old villain does swear at me,’ and I would have gone only just as I was going to the door I heard someone rushing down the stairs at Number 8, and the door opened and shut with a bang, and when I opened our door there was the young lady running down the street as hard as ever she could go?”

The woman stopped as if to take breath. Mr Dale had listened with sensations he would not have found it easy to define, he was beginning to wish very earnestly that he had gone straight home to Highbury. Presently the woman continued, holding her head a little on one side as if, it struck him, she had been some creaking raven.

“Do you know, sir, that ever since there’s been no signs of anyone being in Number 8, it’s been just as if the house was empty. The young lady has never been back again, at least not so far as I know, and of the old gentleman nothing’s been either seen or heard.”

“Is there no servant in the house?”

“Servant? No sir, the old gentleman and his niece used to do all the work of the house between them. There used to be a woman who used to come in and out, but I haven’t seen anything of her now for more than a month. There have been ever so many people who have come, like you, and knocked and knocked and gone away, till really it’s getting on my nerves. Do you think anything could have happened, sir?”

Mr Dale was conscious of an uneasy qualm as he replied to her question with another.

“What could have happened?”

“Well, sir, that’s just it, what could? It’s thinking of what could have happened that’s getting on my nerves, especially now that my husband’s away. There’s a telephone in Number 8, and last night I was woke up from my first sleep, and if that telephone bell wasn’t ringing, I could hear it as plainly as if it was by my bedside, it kept on and on and on, and no one answered, it did for my sleeping for the rest of the night. And that’s not the first time I’ve heard it either, that bell, I mean, it keeps on ringing at all hours of the day and no one ever answers.”

“How do you know that no one ever answers?”

“It wouldn’t keep on ringing, ringing, ringing, if someone did, would it, sir? All the telephones I’ve seen, directly you tell the party what’s calling you are there, the bell stops; but that telephone in number eight, when the bell once starts, it keeps on and on, it’s getting on my nerves. Might I ask, sir, if you’ve any particular business with Mr Norton?”

“No, not of any consequence, I just called on a little matter. I’ll write, it will do just as well.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but do you think the old gentleman may be – ill?”

“He’s probably gone away, he’ll turn up again soon. Good-evening.”

“Still one moment, sir. He’s all alone in the house, sir, if he is ill; that’s what I keep on thinking, and that telephone bell keeps ringing. There may be someone who wants to give him a message, and he can’t take it, because he’s ill.”

Mr Dale wished that this woman would not detain him, her attitude was equivalent to detention. After all, what had happened in this house had nothing to do with him; what position did she expect him to take up? She was a foolish person; she did not understand; because he had paid, in a quixotic spirit, a casual call upon an entire stranger, did she positively expect him to allow himself to be associated with what might turn out to be a most unpleasant business? He had made it the rule of his life to have, if he could help it, nothing to do with disagreeable things; was he to break that rule now because some unknown idiot had called to him upon the telephone? He had to snub the woman, she was a most insistent creature, but he got away, and left her standing at the open door of Number 10. He walked smartly out of the dilapidated street, and at the end he hailed a taxicab.

— V —
THE EMPTY HOUSE

That taxicab moved fast, but not fast enough to enable him to escape from the thoughts which chased him. He was running away; no casuistry could conceal that fact. Why he had come he would not have been able to say; he knew quite well why he was going away, it was because all at once he was afraid. He had had two ideas when journeying towards Gordon Mansions, he would renew his acquaintance with Miss Grant, and prick the bubble of that humorist’s practical joke. Both those ideas had gone by the board. After what that woman had told him he thought of Miss Grant with what was very like a shudder, of what might be the real meaning of the practical joke he dared not think at all, and the thing was made worse because he had to think; the thought pursued him.

The telephone bell kept ringing in Number 8 night and day, and no one answered; that was the part of the woman’s story which had made the strongest impression on his mind. As the taxi bore him swiftly through the streets, he seemed to see the instrument standing on its table, and to hear the ting, ting, ting of its bell. Who was it who kept calling; why was there none who answered? He became the subject of what he was conscious was a curious delusion, he heard that telephone bell and it was calling to him, he knew that it would keep on calling till he answered. Although aware that it was only a delusion it was stronger than he.

He stopped the driver, telling him to return to Gordon Mansions. He felt in his pocket, his fingers closing about the key, that key to which the label was attached. The cab sped back; as it went he could hear the twittering of the bell. But when the cab stopped at Number 8, and he descended, the sound ceased.

This time he made no bones about entering; he had a premonition that that key would open the door, and it did. He slipped it into the keyhole, it turned as easily as if the lock had just been oiled, the door was open, he went into the house; when he was in he hesitated whether or not to shut the door.

He did not like the atmosphere of the house even as it reached him in the hall, there was a stuffiness which suggested that all the air which it contained was stagnant; and, then, there was something else as well. He was not sure that he quite cared to be alone in the house; there was the driver of the taxi on his seat, probably there was the caretaker next door, should he call one of them in, for company? Not the caretaker, she was a ghoul; it was really to her that he owed this ridiculous feeling of discomfort as if he, a grown man, had anything to fear at that hour of the evening in an empty house. He kicked against something as he passed into the hall. Looking down he saw a number of letters were lying on the floor; the postman had slipped them through the slit intended for letters which was in the door and there they had lain, there was no letter-box to stay their fall.

The presence of all those letters, there were probably thirty or forty, or it might have been more, affected Mr Dale unpleasantly; it pointed to irregularity somewhere. If Mr Norton had gone away he would surely have given some address at which correspondence would be delivered. To a man of Mr Dale’s business habits it was not nice to think that a postman had continued to press what might have been important communications through the iron flap marked “Letters,” heedless of what became of them.

A little way down the passage, for the hall was nothing but a narrow passage, a door opened into a room on the right. He stood for a moment with the handle in his hand, then turned it; the room was empty; this was not the one which contained the telephone. It not only looked as if it had not been occupied for a considerable time, but as if, when someone was last in it, that someone had left it in a hurry, and the room had not been touched since. On a table in front of the window was a piece of feminine work; he was not familiar with such things, it might have been a skirt, a blouse, anything. Just as the presumably industrious fingers had put it down, so it stayed; he could see that a needle was sticking into the hem with the cotton attached, as if a stitch had been half made and never finished. Close by it was a thimble and a handkerchief; he was vaguely aware that women never have pockets. Probably that indispensable article had been put on the table because it was the most convenient place, put there, and apparently, forgotten. He took the handkerchief up; there was an odd feel about it, he looked at his fingers, the handkerchief was covered with dust, so thickly that it felt gritty to his touch. Obviously it had been lying there some time.

He turned it round, looking for initials, and found that in one corner was written a whole name, “B. Grant.” It was her handkerchief. It seemed to follow, therefore, that it was her work. Under what circumstances had she put it down in such a hurry, and left it all this time. Like the handkerchief everything in the room was covered with accumulated dust. There was a cobweb hanging from the chandelier, a cobweb actually bridged two folds of the piece of work.

The room had folding doors. He opened one of them, to find another vacant chamber, one which was, though the thing seemed difficult, even untidier and dustier than the other. It was perhaps the dining-room. There was a sideboard, one side of which gaped open disclosing a cellarette in which were bottles and decanters. One of the decanters, apparently, had been taken, it was on a table with the stopper out, a tumbler beside it.

It would seem that the last act of whoever had last been in that room, was to drink. Mr Dale picked up the tumbler; dust had gathered on its sticky sides till it formed a sort of paste; so far as he could judge, it had contained brandy neat. There was nothing visible that could have been used to weaken it. He thought it possible that the tumbler had been nearly full; the last person who had been in that room had needed a strong pick-me-up.

He went back into the hall. Where should he go next? It seemed quite clear that the house was empty. What good would he gain by impertinently peering into a stranger’s unoccupied rooms? If Mr Norton ever came to learn of what he was doing he would very justly resent it; what explanation could he give? Practically none; he was not even sure that he was not being guilty of some legal misdemeanour. Suppose Mr Norton were to lean over the banisters at the top of the staircase and demand his business, he might find himself in a very uncomfortable position.

To where did that staircase lead? He took it to the bedrooms; what right had he to penetrate into another man’s bedchamber – even worse, a lady’s? He really thought he had carried his inquisition far enough; he would return to his taxicab. It might be as well, too, to report the matter to the police; if there were suspicious circumstances they might be inquired into by them. That clearly was the best thing he could do; it was what he ought to have done at first. Better late than never – he would do it now.

What was that? Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting!

Surely – in imagination he had been hearing that sound all the while; could this be imagination – the sound which was coming down that staircase? It seemed startlingly real – it must be real. How the bell kept on ringing, as the caretaker of Number 10 had heard it, crying for an answer.

The sound was real enough, there could be no doubt of that; it was absurd for him to suppose that it was only in his brain that bell was jingling. It came down the stairs from one of the apartments above, apparently on the first floor. He stood listening in the darkening hall as if waiting till it should stop. But it would not stop, it persisted. The message it was trying to convey might be the very one which was needed to solve the mystery of the empty house. It would be unreasonable of him to place the matter in the hands of the police while that bell was ringing; it might be unnecessary to do so if he answered its summons.

He began to ascend the staircase, one step at a time, with what almost amounted to a pause between each, as if he mounted against his will and was looking out for something which might serve as an excuse to descend. He reached the first landing, the bell still rang. There was a second short flight to another and more important landing, that onto which the principal rooms had their openings; it was from one of those rooms that the sound of the bell was coming. As with one hand upon the rail he stood and listened, he took it that it came from the room which looked onto the street.

He gained the second landing – it certainly was in that front room that the bell was ringing. He hesitated with his hand on the handle, half disposed to give warning of his approach by tapping at the panel. He opened the door.

“Anyone in this room?”

There was something in his voice as he asked this question which struck him as odd. No one answered – he had known that no one would. He stepped into the room – the bell kept ringing. He glanced in the direction from which it came. The room was apparently a sitting room, study, office, one of these nondescript apartments which bachelors sometimes have for their own; this room had not been used for living in only, but seemingly also as a store room – almost, after a fashion, as a warehouse. An indescribable litter cumbered the floor, surplus furniture; chairs, for which there seemed to be no use, were piled upon each other; pictures were stacked against each other on the floor, with their faces turned away; in one corner there were quantities of china, together with various odds and ends, such as a couple of brass fenders, and a copper warming pan; the place had almost the appearance of a junk shop.

Everywhere were evidences of crying need for the kindly offices of broom and dustpan; dirt, dust, grime, cloaked everything. On an old leather-covered table stood the telephone whose bell was ringing; Mr Dale eyed it with what seemed positive aversion. The instrument was the central object of an amazing disorder. Under the receiver a cup which had contained some liquid was overturned upon a saucer. Fragments of what had, perhaps, once been bread, cheese, butter, were on a filthy plate. There were masses of papers, some tied about with string or tape, others lying anywhere, anyhow. There were several account books – some had fallen onto the floor, some were still on the table, one was wide open. Across it a cheque book lay, also open. On the top of an old leather despatch box was a revolver, whose bright steel gleamed even through the dust.

There were no curtains to the window, and the blind was down – a Venetian blind, several straps of which were broken; it was through the apertures left by these that the only light came which made things visible. Picking his way through the impedimenta, Mr Dale pulled the blind up – even the cords were filthy. Twilight was passing into night, even with the blind up things were not too easily seen; but there was enough of it to show that he was the only human thing the room contained. The bell of the telephone kept on ringing.

With a reluctance of which he was uncomfortably conscious he moved towards the receiver. It seemed foolish, no doubt, but amid such surroundings there was an ominous quality in the unceasing ringing; what unusual operator could it be who kept us such a persistent call. When he wanted a call put through, his experience was that an operator was ready enough to assure him that no answer could be obtained; the perseverance which the operator showed who was responsible for keeping that bell in motion was in itself bewildering.

He took the receiver off its hook – the instant silence which followed was almost as bad as the jingling. So unclean was the receiver that it was impossible for him to put his ear to it or allow it to approach his lips. He looked about him for something with which to wipe it. There seemed to be nothing but an old newspaper which lay at his feet as if it had been rolled into a ball. He picked it up. Not only was it dirty, but it refused to open out, as if it had been glued together. As a last resource most unwillingly, he used his own pocket handkerchief, he would have to do something quickly or the connection might be cut off, and the caller gone. He gave the usual signal, his own voice startling him.

“Hullo! Yes? Who’s there?”

Silence; then what seemed to him to be a stifled exclamation, suggesting an uncomfortable quality of fear.

“Good God! – Who’s that? Who are you? Is that 8 Gordon Mansions? Who are you?”

The voice which came over the wire had a familiar sound. Where had he heard it before? He knew it – though in it now there was a new note of dreadful, panic-stricken fear. It came again, like a sudden shriek.

“Is that 8 Gordon Mansions? Why don’t you answer me? I ask you if that is 8 Gordon Mansions?”

“It is.” There ensued a sound which Mr Dale would not have found it easy to describe, half laugh, half scream, wholly disagreeable. Then silence!

“Who are you? Who is that who rang up 8 Gordon Mansions? Do you hear me, why don’t you speak, sir?”

His tone was marked by anger which was feigned rather than real – he knew he would get no answer. He knew when he had heard that voice before, with its lisp and its slight stutter. It was the voice which had called to him last night in his own study, which he had taken to be that of a humorist who sought to make him the target of some poor kind of practical joke. It did not strike him as a joker’s now; on the contrary it had for him a significance which filled him with a repugnance which was almost unendurable. Whoever had just been speaking to him, and at that moment he was not sure if it was man or woman, had been filled with a terror that was so dreadful that some of its horror had been conveyed to the listener. Mr Dale had an eerie feeling that it had been the unreasoning blind terror which sometimes marks a beast, but seldom a man.

“He kept on call, call, calling, but he never expected to get an answer from here, from this room, from this house; when one came it scared him out of his wits. I can fancy, from the sound of him, that when he heard my voice, he ran from his end as if he were flying for his life. Why did he call? and why did he expect to receive no answer, that he should be so scared when one came? I don’t think he’ll call again just yet; the bell will have a rest; perhaps he’s still running.”

Mr Dale replaced the receiver. He looked about him round that scene of grime and desolation, with unwilling eyes.

“There’s no one in this room, that’s sure; I’m more than ever convinced that there’s no one in the house. I wonder what that room is; I suppose I’d better look to make quite sure.”

As was the case below, there were folding doors on this floor also. One of them was partly open; he went to see what was on the other side.

— VI —
THE CHAMBER OF HORROR

The room on the other side of those folding doors was not only a bedroom, it was a chamber of horror. It needed but a single glance to bring that fact home, as it seemed to Mr Dale, to the very marrow of his bones. In that moment he understood; he realised what it had all been leading up to; more, that he had known it all along. From the very first moment when last night he had heard that unknown voice coming to him across the telephone, a premonition had been borne in on him of the horror which was behind that partly-opened door. He had tried to persuade himself that he was being made the subject of a practical joke, but in some secret corner of his being he had known better, or he would never have been there then, standing in the presence of death, which had come in such a form.

The bedroom, like the other apartments, might have been described as a receptacle for unpleasant accumulations. Again there were no curtains, but again the blind was down, so that with the aid of the fast fading light coming from behind him, he could not see very well, but he saw enough.

In the shadow he saw an old-fashioned wooden bedstead, with the bed-clothes all tossed and tumbled. Across these tumbled bed-clothes lay a man, only partly covered by a nightshirt. He was on his back, his head lay over the edge, on the side on which Mr Dale was standing. No man could have lain with his head lying over the edge like that for long and lived. How long this man had been dead only an expert on such matters could have told; Mr Dale surmised that he had been dead at least eight days.

He did not know what to do. It is easy for us to flatter ourselves that it is easy for us to know what to do in any situation; yet when the unusual confronts us, we are apt to be slow in collecting our thoughts. Mr Dale was then. He had a vague feeling that from the instant when he had set his foot inside the front door he had expected to find something of this kind somewhere; he dimly realised that he ought to have been ready with a cut-and-dried plan to be put into execution when the moment of the finding came. But he was not – he did not know what to do at all.

How long he stood in that partly-opened door he never knew, motionless, speechless, dumb. The first thing which struck him as advisable was to have more light. He did as he had done in the front room, he drew up the blind; with the cord in his hand he turned to look at the bed. This was an old man with shrunken limbs. He had been killed by someone who was both younger and stronger, someone who had taken him by the throat, choked the life out of him, and then left him with his head dangling over the side, a dreadful spectacle. The someone who had done it had been standing on the side at which Mr Dale had come in, and with fingers tightly clenched about his wind-pipe had dragged the old man to his doom. Mr Dale had no doubt that this on which he was looking was Christopher Norton, who had died from strangulation. The problem still had to be solved – what was he to do?

He made the blind cord fast. Mechanically he looked at his hands; they were all grimed from contact with the cord. A suggestion of grime was all about him; he seemed to be breathing it into his lungs, into his soul, to be suddenly living in a grimy world, from which he could see no way out. What was he to do? Even in that moment of semi-stupefaction, he saw that whatever he did would be followed by a chain of circumstances which would mean the at least temporary upheaval of all that to him made life worth living. He had the decent man’s natural dislike to being brought into contact with the police, his disrelish for having any actual dealings with the criminal law. If he reported, as he would have to do, this thing to the authorities, he would be constrained to have relations of the most objectionable kind both with the police and the law; he would be a prominent figure in what would probably prove to be a notorious case. His name would be on people’s tongues, his portrait in the papers, he would quite possibly be hunted by reporters, all that privacy which he cherished would be gone. Such were the reflections which, more or less vaguely, passed through his mind as he stood staring at the shrunken figure lying across the bed.

He had all but brought himself to the point at which he was about to do something when, standing a little straighter, he lifted his head and listened; someone was moving in the house. In the utter silence every noise was audible; unless he erred, steps were ascending the stairs. He held his breath in his desire not to let the sounds escape him. Someone had come into the front room, was crossing the floor with steps which were so light that he had to strain to catch them; then paused as if to look round; then began to move again. Whoever it was was approaching the folding doors; he caught what might have been the swish of a skirt; a gloved hand was laid against the edge of the open door. A face looked round – it was the face of the girl with the grey dress.

His heart was in his mouth – of all the people in the world that it should be she, at that hideous moment! He noted that her eyes went right across the room towards the window at which he was standing, so that she saw him first; they lingered on his face, within them a look of wistful curiosity, as if she asked who he might be and what he did there. Then – they fell upon the shrunken figure lying across the bed, and not only the eyes, but the whole face, was transfigured in a fashion which was dreadful for him to look upon, as if she had been stricken by some sudden agony of pain which was more than mortal. Her eyes opened wider, her features contracted, life seemed to fade from her cheeks, her lower jaw dropped. But not a sound escaped her; he was also still.

Then she came further round the side of the door, so that her whole figure was visible. She was attired as he had seen her in the morning, in the same grey gown, the corn-flower hat, and in the fingers of her right hand she still bore a bunch of violets. These, as she moved, fell from her unheeded to the floor. He had not imagined that the human face, the human form, could suggest what she suggested then – emotions which might not be shadowed forth in words. And her stillness was so terrible. If she would only speak, utter a sound, do something that the spell might be broken, and he might prove that he was at least a man. But while she stayed, in so many senses of the word, dumb, it was as if her silence had bound him about with chains.

Presently she moved again; gave one step forward towards the bed, went back, went on, in an agony of indecision which it hurt him to have to witness, it was as though he were peering into her very soul. She made what was clearly a great effort to draw nearer to the bed; when she was half-way she failed, fell on her knees, hid her face with her hands, and shuddered. But though even yet not a sound had escaped her, he could keep still no longer.

“Miss Grant.”

It was with a distinct physical effort that he had been able to speak at all, it did not sound like his own voice when he heard it. Her hands fell a little from her face. She looked at him as if it were the strangest thing that he should have spoken. But she stayed still. He persisted in his effort to lessen the sense of strain which her coming had brought.

“No good is to be gained by your remaining here, Miss Grant, would you please come into the other room. I can talk better to you there.” He went towards her round the bed. When he reached her side she looked up at him; she made no attempt to rise.

“Come, Miss Grant, will you not let me help you to get up?”

She took the hand which he held out to her; with its aid she rose, as an automaton might have done, stiffly, as if actuated by a rusty spring. But when he had her fingers in his hand, virtue passed through the tips even of her gloves from her to him; as though because of the mere contact strength had come to him from her weakness.

“You remember me? I had the pleasure of meeting you two years ago at Shanklin, my name is Oswald Dale.”

It was a commonplace thing to say, which was why he said it, being conscious that this was an occasion on which it would be wise to keep as far as possible within the regions of the commonplace. She looked at him as a child might have done, who was more than half distraught with feelings to which it was beyond its capacity to give utterance.

“You don’t remember me?”

“Oh, yes, I do, I remember you quite well.”

It was said simply, yet with an intonation which cut him to the heart.

“I’m glad you remember me, because I have so often wished to meet you again.”

“But I do not understand what you are doing here?”

The question took him unawares; it brought him to a subject which he wished at all costs to avoid. He made a lame attempt at explanation.

“I scarcely know myself; I came in consequence of an anonymous communication which I received.”

She repeated his last words.

“An anonymous communication?”

“Some unknown person told me across the telephone that a crime had been committed at 8 Gordon Mansions, although I thought it was a joke, something made me come and see.”

“But how did you get in?”

“This morning a key reached me through the post which purported to be the key of this house; I used it to gain admission. I left it in the latch, you possibly noticed it as you came in.”

“The door was open; I – I thought it might be uncle.”

A sideways glance towards the bed gave to her words a dreadful significance. He was conscious that again she shuddered. He put to her a question which had to be asked.

“He – he was your uncle?”

She did not answer; she leaned against the wall and began to cry. Less even than before did he know what to do; her coming had so complicated the position. It seemed to him that it placed all sorts of difficulty in the way of the course of action he had proposed to take. He felt that he could do nothing until he knew how she stood in relation to this tragedy. In one respect, her arrival had relieved his mind. He had been in doubt as to whether or not the voice which came across the telephone had been a woman’s; it might have been; it had seemed to his ear to have had attributes which might have been feminine, When the clerk, Bradley, had recalled the memories which were associated with Beatrice Grant, there had been an unpleasant moment in which he had asked himself if it could by any possibility have been she who had spoken to him across the telephone; he had not asked himself why she should have done such a thing, only if she had.

That doubt had been dissipated the instant she spoke. Hers was not the voice which he had heard, never by any possibility could it have been. There was a quality in that voice which he was sure could never even be imitated by her. He began to ask her questions.

“May I ask, Miss Grant, how it is that you also happen to be here.”

“I’ve been haunted.”

“Haunted?” He was startled not only by the reply but by the tone in which it was spoken, as if it were an utterance born of a great fear.

“By thoughts of uncle, I couldn’t get away from them; it is eight days since I saw him, they have been with me all the time, day and night. We quarrelled when I saw him last; he drove me from the house, or I ran away, I’m not sure which it was.”

“What did you quarrel about?”

“He wanted me to do something I couldn’t do, he knew I couldn’t, he would have made me if he could; so – we quarrelled.”

“Was he alive when you saw him last?”

“Alive? Oh, yes. He had a revolver with which he said he would shoot me; when he was in a rage he did not know what he was doing, I was afraid he would, that’s why I ran away.”

Mr Dale thought of the revolver which he had seen gleaming up through the dust on the table.

“You have friends, I presume, to whom you went?”

“Friends? No, not any. He was the only friend I had in the world.”

The only friend she had in the world! an old curmudgeon who, in an insensate fury, had threatened to shoot her because she would not do what she could not do.

“Then, if you had no friends, where did you go?”

“I spent that first night in the streets, I had so little money I didn’t know where to go. I sat for part of the night on a seat in Trafalgar Square. In the morning, when it began to be light I saw beside me on the seat a five-pound note. I think it had been left there by an old gentleman who had come to the seat and tried to speak to me; when I wouldn’t speak to him he went away. I think he must have left that five-pound note behind him. To me it seemed as if it had fallen from heaven. Without it I had only half-a-crown in the world; I had gone away with nothing but what I had on, half-a-crown in my old leather purse; I didn’t know that I had even that till I had gone some way.”

Mr Dale remembered the piece of work in the room below which had seemed to have been put down in such a hurry; had she been working on it when what she called the quarrel had begun? Had it come on her so quickly that she had not had time to put it away?

“And what have you been doing since you found that five-pound note; that is a week ago.”

“I took a room in a house near Westminster Bridge, and I’ve been living on that five-pound note. It has not all gone yet, I have nearly two pounds ten left, but I felt that I had to come to see how uncle was getting on. I wrote to him when I took the room, that was on Wednesday; then when I had no answer I wrote again on Sunday; I knew he was all alone, and I could not think what he was doing without me. Then, on Tuesday, when no answer came, I thought of the telephone, I telephoned to him; but they told me at the exchange that they could get no answer to their call. That was yesterday morning; in the afternoon I telephoned again, and again they told me they couldn’t get an answer; I telephoned a third time last night, still they couldn’t get me the connection. I wondered whatever could have happened; I didn’t think that uncle could be out all day, and I knew he was very particular about replying to every call at once. I’ve telephoned to him three times today; and at last I felt that I must come and see why no one answered the call.”

— VII —
BEATRICE GRANT

She was very young. Two years ago she had seemed but a child, a happy child. In those days she had seemed to have friends; she had been staying with his acquaintances at Shanklin as their guest, a relation which argued at least some degree of intimacy. The people’s name had been Heathcote; there had been three of them, the husband and the wife, and the wife’s sister, a Miss Feltham. George Heathcote was a man he had known in business; he had had no personal intimacy with him until meeting him at Shanklin he had been introduced to his wife and his sister-in-law, and their friend, Miss Grant. He had seen scarcely anything of them since. Those sort of intimacies often die away as quickly as they spring up. He remembered having heard that Heathcote had met with reverses in business, and, later, that he had died. He had no actual knowledge of the amount of truth there was in either statement. At that time he had forgotten their address; he made no personal inquiries. If they had been Miss Grant’s only friends, Heathcote’s decease might explain her loneliness. But what a position for a young girl, with no intimate to whom she could turn except her unconscionable uncle.

As he listened to her story he was struck by the fact that she seemed to be not a day older than when he had met her at Shanklin; only there was this difference, that now it was too clear that she was no longer a happy child. As a rule he was ready-witted; now in the presence of the distress and horror which was not only in every line of the girl’s face, but even in the way she bore herself, his wits deserted him. As it were, he groped for words, which, when they were found, were sufficiently awkward ones.

“Then – then you didn’t know what had happened to your uncle?”

“I don’t know now; what has happened?”

He had got her, insidiously, foot by foot out of the room, until now he had her in the front room, clear of the folding doors.

“Your uncle is dead.”

“I saw he was dead; I was afraid something had happened when I couldn’t get him to answer my call on the telephone; that’s why I came. But he seemed quite well when I saw him last, except for the rage he was in; he never seemed to be unwell, I’ve never known him ill; what did he die of?”

“I fear there has been foul play.”

“Foul play? what do you mean by foul play?”

He kept his eyes fixed intently on her countenance.

“Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against him?”

“I – I’m afraid there were many; he – he was a hard man.”

“In what sense?”

“I mean in business. Of course I know very little about his affairs; he seldom spoke of them to me; but he used to boast that if anyone owed him money he would sell the bed from under him, if he could, rather than be kept waiting for it a single day; he has told me more than once that there were plenty of people who would kill him if it weren’t that they were afraid of the gallows; he seemed to think that that was something to boast about as well.”

“Can you think of some particular person who has threatened him at any time with violence, for any reason?”

The girl shook her head.

“I believe there were such people because he has told me so, but I don’t know any of their names. But why are you asking me such questions?”

“Because your uncle has been murdered.”

“Murdered!” The girl shrank back as if his words had been blows. Then she gave utterance to what struck him as a very curious remark.

“If I had stayed with him and never run away I might have saved him.”

“If you had stayed he might have shot you.”

“He might.”

“Do you think he was in earnest when he threatened you?”

“I don’t know, I can’t say, I was frightened half out of my life; you never saw such a rage as he was in. He struck me three times with a great stick he had. Then when I screamed he ran to his table and took a revolver out of the drawer and pointed it at me, and swore that if I didn’t do what he wanted he would shoot me; I was so afraid that he might that I ran out of the room and out of the house.”

“Had you your hat on when this scene began?”

“No, it was on the table in the hall, I picked it up as I ran, while he was shrieking at me from the top of the stairs, but I didn’t know till I got into the street that I had my leather purse with the half-crown.”

“It seems to me that you were quite justified in doing what you did; I cannot conceive of a more unpleasant position for a girl to be in than yours was. Under the circumstances, for what has happened no blame can possibly be attached to you; make your mind easy on that score.”

She glanced at him and then away. Not for the first time he was struck by her air of utter dejection. Now that he stood closer to her he noticed, even in the imperfect light, that her clothes were shabbier than he had thought; and her gloves were darned, and her dress was old and creased and worn, and her hat was a little draggled. Never had he felt so much at a loss in anyone’s presence as he did in hers. No doubt the consciousness of what was in the next room was in part the cause; but there was something else. He had the strangest, and as it seemed to him, most unwarrantable desire to – he would have hardly dared to own it to himself – to put his arms about this girl and hold her fast, and comfort her; he was dimly aware that such a method of proceeding would at least be comforting to him. The desire to do this thing was becoming so great that it actually made him afraid of her, lest ignoring the conventions for which he himself had always been a stickler, he should do something which he had no right to do, and which she would very probably resent. In that case he would be behaving almost as badly as that old man had done who had struck her with a stick and pointed with a revolver. The thought that she had suffered such treatment made his fingers tingle and close themselves into fists.

Something suddenly prompted him to ask her a question.

“Did you see me this morning at Broad Street Station? I noticed you.”

“You noticed me this morning at Broad Street Station?” She echoed his words with a tone of amazement which seemed greater than they called for. “Then it must have been you – but it can’t have been.”

“What can’t have been?”

“The strangest thing happened yesterday evening. I went for a walk, and while I was standing looking at the ducks on the lake in St James’ Park, a small boy, about so high” – she held out her hand to mark a distance of less than four feet from the floor – “came running up to me and held out a piece of paper. ‘It’s for you, miss,’ he said. He slipped it into my hand and was away before I had any idea of what he looked like. He had given me what might have been a flyleaf torn out of a book, then folded and twisted. There was nothing written outside. I didn’t know what to do. I supposed that there must have been a mistake. Then I unfolded the paper and saw that on it some words were pencilled in what seemed a very bad handwriting. I could just make them out: ‘If Miss G.’ – it might have been B or G, but I took it to be G – ‘will be at Broad Street Station tomorrow morning at half-past nine, she will hear of something to her advantage. She had better carry a bunch of violets.’”

As he listened, Mr Dale began to understand why she had shown such amazement.

“Didn’t you recognise the writing?”

“Not at all; the light wasn’t very good, no better than it is now, it was a wretched piece of paper; I slipped it into my waistband, meaning to study it more carefully when I got in. But when I reached my room I found it had gone, apparently I had dropped it on the way. I couldn’t imagine who it could be from, or what it meant; I thought that it might be a sort of roundabout message from my uncle, and that I might hear good news of him; so this morning I went to Broad Street Station—”

“With the bunch of violets.”

“Yes, with the bunch of violets. But I saw no one I knew, and heard nothing at all. I suppose someone must have played a trick on me, but who or why I can’t imagine.”

“Someone also played a trick on me.”

“On you? But – did you say you saw me at the station?”

“This morning I received a telephone message to the effect that if I were at Broad Street Station at half-past nine, I should see a girl in a light grey dress, with corn-flowers in her hat, and a bunch of violets in her hand.”

“But – what an extraordinary thing; who could have sent you such a message, and what was the idea?”

“I begin to suspect, Miss Grant, that you and I have been made, for some as yet occult reason, joint victims of a conspiracy. Is there anyone who might be disposed to do you an ill turn?”

The girl seemed to consider; then, with a little shiver, said:

“I’m afraid there is.”

“Is it a man or a woman? You know so little of me, Miss Grant, that I am to all intents and purposes a stranger, yet I beg you to believe that you can have confidence in me, and that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be able to render you a service. Do you find it hard to credit that I would like to be your friend?”

She looked at him with serious eyes.

“I believe you would.”

“You could not have paid me a greater compliment than by saying that. Now will you answer the question I put to you? I assure you I have my reasons for asking. The person whom you think might be willing to do you an ill turn, is it a man or a woman?”

“It’s a man.”

“What man? Do you mind telling me his name?”

“I’m not sure. I hope I’m wrong, but I’m afraid he sometimes doesn’t wish me very well. It’s my cousin.”

“Your cousin? I thought you said you had no friend.”

“He is no friend of mine, he never has been; it’s through him all the trouble has come; it is because of him that my uncle threatened to shoot me.”

“Because of him, is that so? And what may be this delightful gentleman’s name?”

“Jennister – Cecil Jennister.”

“Who’s that taking my name in vain?”

The question came from someone who was standing at the door.

— VIII —
ACCUSED

The newcomer was the individual who Mr Dale had met outside the door of the restaurant at which he was about to take his lunch, and who had snubbed him when he had asked questions about Christopher Norton. Miss Grant and Mr Dale had possibly found each other absorbing company, yet Mr Jennister must have come up the stairs very quietly to have been wholly unheard. Neither of them paid any attention to his question; he stood looking from one to the other with his faded, expressionless eyes, as if he were not sure if they were things of flesh and blood, or merely figments of his brain. Apparently at last he came to a decision.

“So it is you two.” He moved further into the room, addressing Mr Dale. “What are you doing here?” Mr Dale seemed to be at a loss for an answer. “Paying an afternoon call upon my client, Mr Christopher Norton? Have you got business with him, is that why you tried to pump me this morning as to the kind of man he was – to deal with? What business have you had to do with him? Don’t you know that I’m his business man?”

When Mr Dale continued silent, he turned to the girl.

“And you, you ungrateful baggage, with your airs and your graces, your humbug and your lies – I thought you’d taken yourself off. He told me so.”

A point suggested by Mr Jennister’s unflattering remarks moved Mr Dale to speech.

“Excuse me, sir, but when did Mr Norton tell you that Miss Grant had, as you put it, taken herself off?”

“What concern is it of yours? You’ll forgive me being frank with you, Mr Dale, but it’s my custom. You haven’t yet told me what you’re doing here; I’ve yet to learn that this young woman’s private affairs have anything to do with you. It’s news to me if they have.” He turned to the girl. “Since it seems that you are here, why didn’t you answer my calls? Was it because you thought it was beneath your dignity, or merely because you guessed that they came from me?”

“I don’t know to what calls you allude.”

“I suppose that during the last week I’ve tried to call Christopher Norton perhaps twenty times, on the telephone I mean, and each time they’ve told me at the exchange that they couldn’t get an answer. He hasn’t answered my letters, and I’ve had no news from him at all. What does it mean? He knows perfectly well that there are matters of pressing importance which had to be attended to; he doesn’t suppose that I’m going to take steps of the kind he likes to have taken on my own responsibility, and without express instructions from him. I know better. If you have been here all the time, why didn’t you answer my calls, now you understand what I mean. Answer me.”

“I haven’t been here all the time.”

“You haven’t been here all the time? What do you mean by ‘you haven’t been here all the time’? How long have you been here? Where have you been?”

“I came here perhaps a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes before you did.”

“Do you mean to tell me this is the first time you’ve been here since he told me you took yourself off more than a week ago?”

“This is the first time.”

“Then what has Christopher Norton been doing all that while by himself?” What is that latchkey doing in the door downstairs? “Who let you in?” This was to Mr Dale. “Did Norton let you in himself? There’s something about this business I don’t understand; where is Christopher Norton? What are you two doing here with your heads close together, and what’s he doing to allow it? I ask you again, where is Christopher Norton?”

“Mr Norton is dead.”

“Dead!” Although Mr Jennister’s eyes remained expressionless, for a moment they seemed to gleam. “When did he die?”

“I’m afraid he has been dead possibly a week.”

“You’re afraid? What do you mean by you’re afraid, why can’t you speak plainly, man? A week? Why wasn’t I told? What did he die of?”

“The presumption is that he has been murdered.”

“The presumption? What does the man mean by talking about the presumption? Murdered? That girl has killed him.”

Mr Jennister pointed an accusatory finger at Miss Grant.

“How dare you say such a thing, sir?” This was Mr Dale. His display of indignation seemed to have no effect upon the other.

“I dare to say, sir, what I believe to be true. If, as you tell me, Christopher Norton has been murdered, then, until it is proved to the contrary, I shall be of opinion that that girl killed him; I know her, you don’t. You are taken in by her pretty face; I know what’s behind it. A week ago last night Christopher Norton telephoned to me at my private address, at about eight o’clock in the evening, just as I was going to have my supper. He told me that he’d washed his hands of Miss Beatrice Grant; that she had taken herself off, and that he hoped that she had gone for good. He told me that before she went she had threatened to kill him; he added that he shouldn’t be surprised if she tried her level best to put her threat into execution. If what you tell me is true, that’s what she has done, she’s put her threat into execution. Look at her, isn’t her guilt written on her pretty face? I believe her to be capable of anything; I say it advisedly, of anything. She’s done me irreparable wrong – she’d do the same to anyone.”

He moved closer to the frightened girl.

“Tell me – in the presence of Mr Dale, deny it if you dare, didn’t you threaten Christopher Norton that you would kill him?”

“Not in the sense you mean, never, never.”

“In what sense then? Can such a threat be made in any second sense? Let me warn you, your threats to kill your uncle have been heard by others besides me.”

“Yes, miss, I’ve heard you threaten the old gentleman, and with all my heart I wish I hadn’t.”

This was again a fresh arrival, the caretaker from No. 10. She explained her presence there with the utmost candour.

“Seeing that the door was left open, and taking an interest in the house as I do, and with good reason, if you only knew the goings on I’ve heard in it, and hearing voices up the stairs. I came in to see what was going on. I have been listening the last few moments outside this door here, and hearing this old gentleman asking this young lady if she’d ever threatened to kill her uncle, that was too much for me, I couldn’t keep silent any longer – I had to come in and tell her to her face I have heard her; and mind you, I’ve been in the next house when I’ve heard her, so she must have said it pretty plain.”

Shrinking from her new accuser the girl answered in a voice which was scarcely audible.

“You may have heard us quarrelling—”

“Quarrelling? I should think I have heard you quarrelling; half murdering each other it seemed to me you were – not, as I’ve always said, that I believe the fault to be on all your side.”

“And when I was very angry, and – and he spoke cruelly to me, it wasn’t always easy to keep my temper, I may have said things which I ought not to have said, but I never meant them.”

“All the same, miss, through that wall I heard you most distinctly, you’d be surprised how easy you do hear through that wall, shouting, not speaking, you wasn’t – I heard you with my own ears threaten to kill your uncle. Miss, I ask you myself, now didn’t you?”

The girl’s only answer was to turn away and cover her face with her hands. One could see that she was shuddering so that the wonder was she was able to stand. Her silence, her attitude, seemed to have one significance for Mr Jennister, and quite another for Mr Dale. The elder man exclaimed:

“You see for yourself – she at least lacks assurance to deny what she knows to be true. Are you satisfied?”

“I am so little satisfied, Mr Jennister, that it is with difficulty that I keep my hands off you. As for this old woman, she possibly has heard the outrageous scene for which I am persuaded Mr Norton was alone responsible; she may even have heard Miss Grant, goaded beyond endurance, say things as she herself admits, which she ought not to have said, and which, if the provocation had not been unendurable, she would not have said; but that those things were said without intention, and were the mere thoughtless utterances of an agitated girl, and were without significance of any sort or kind this woman knows,this woman ought to know, and you certainly do know, that that is the truth I am prepared to stake my life. As for you, Mr Jennister, with your monstrous accusation, I should have thought you were at least conscious of the risk you run of being made to smart for it. I shall sooner believe that you yourself are responsible for what has happened to Mr Norton rather than this young lady.”

“That is the attitude you take up, is it? And what is the cause of the interest you take in Miss Grant, and since when have you taken it?”

“To me, Mr Jennister, Miss Grant is practically a stranger; but I believe myself to be some judge of character – the person who even pretends to believe her to be capable of the crime with which you so baselessly charge her can be none. Do you imagine that because in the first moment of finding herself the subject of such a horrible accusation words desert her, that therefore you are entitled to draw inferences to her discredit? Mr Jennister, I cannot credit that you are so poor a creature as it seems you would desire to appear.”

“Have it your own way, sir. I don’t know what the motives are which induce you to talk like that, but, though I don’t pretend to know, I can guess. I’ve encountered this young woman before. She’s not such a stranger to me as you represent she is to you. I have an acquaintance with her true character to which you certainly cannot pretend. You take your own line and I’ll take mine, events will soon prove to you which is the right one. Where is my unfortunate old friend? Have they taken him away?”

“No one except ourselves is at present aware of what has taken place; I only discovered it myself by accident a very few minutes ago.”

“You have communicated with the police?”

“I have communicated with no one.”

“Then I will. But, first, where is Mr Norton?” Mr Dale pointed to the folding doors. “In his bedroom? While we have been talking like this? Is it possible? And you never dropped a hint of it.”

Mr Dale was still. Mr Jennister opened the door which Mr Dale had closed. He looked into the room beyond.

“Good God! What a dreadful spectacle!”

The caretaker had managed to thrust in sufficient of her head to enable her to see.

“Poor dear old gentleman, how he has been handled – there’s the marks upon his throat.”

Mr Jennister, becoming aware of her near neighbourhood, tried to draw himself a little away.

“Woman!”

“And to think that he’s been there all this time without having even been properly laid out.”

Mr Jennister shut the door so abruptly that the woman’s head was all but caught in it. For the first time he showed signs of having been genuinely moved.

“This is much worse than I supposed, much; what a fiend in human shape it must have been who used him so, no matter what the provocation was. That he had his faults I’m ready to admit. I should judge from what I saw that there has been robbery also; I noticed that the safe was open, I have reason to know that in it he kept his valuables; but retribution shall follow, stern and quick, be sure of that.”

The latter part of these remarks seemed to be specially addressed to Miss Grant, in spite of the fact that she presented a picture of miserable dejection which one might have thought would have moved the hardest moralist to soften his words. As if because he could not help it, Mr Dale, going close to her side, laid his hand gently on her arm.

“Do not mind him: I can only hope that he knows not what he says, and still less, what he insinuates.”

“Then you hope against hope, because I not only know what I say, but I mean every word of it. In a very few minutes that young woman will be in gaol; you will find that she will only quit it for the scaffold. I am going to telephone for the police, a you ought to have done before now, and then we shall see.”

He moved to the instrument on the table. Just as was about to take down the receiver, the bell began to ring.

“There’s someone calling – to him. I wonder how often this has happened, that I and others have called to him – while he has been lying there.”

The caretaker put in her word.

“Many a time it’s happened, sir, and that I can tell you. Again and again in the next house I’ve heard that telephone bell a-ringing all hours of the day and likewise of the night, and I’ve kept on wondering why no one ever answered it; but, of course, now I understand, knowing what I know now. Poor, ill-used old gentleman!”

Before the woman stopped the bell had ceased to ring.

“When you have quite finished, woman, perhaps you’ll allow me to ascertain who the caller is.”

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir, I was only saying—”

“Never mind what you were saying. Be still.”

Once more the bell began to ring; Mr Jennister unhooked the receiver. “Hullo! Who is there?” As they watched him, a change seemed to take place even in his expressionless visage, as if he had been startled. “Hullo! Hullo! Who was that called?” He lowered the receiver. “This is odd; I certainly heard a curious sound when I first spoke; but, beyond that, I can get no answer. The connection must have been cut off.”

“I think not.” This was Mr Dale.

“Why do you think not, sir? It must have been. A person does not call up another unless he has something which he wishes to say; I cannot even get an answer.”

“That particular caller has given you all the answer he means to give; I have had dealings with him already.”

“You speak in enigmas, sir. However, since for some reason or another I can get no answer, what I have now to do is to call up the nearest police station. Where is the call book?” He picked up a red paper-covered volume from among the litter on the table. “What a state this is in; indeed, what a state everything is in; it is all the more deplorable that I never imagined it could have been possible. Which is the nearest police station to this I wonder, and what is its number?”

— IX —
MR DALE DEFIES THE LAW

While Mr Jennister was still searching the pages of the call book, Mr Dale asked him a question.

“Before you do anything, may I ask what you propose to do?”

“I have already told you, sir, I am going to call up the nearest police station. Have you any objection?”

“And when you have done that?”

“When I have done that – we shall see.”

“See what? Before you do anything, it is necessary that we should understand each other. What are you going to tell the police?”

“Aren’t the facts sufficiently patent? They ought to have been made acquainted with them long ago; it was your duty to do so the moment you discovered what had happened.”

“But beyond the facts, what else do you propose to tell them?”

“Beyond the facts I propose to tell them nothing.”

“Then, in that case, this young lady need not remain.”

“Need not remain? What do you mean, sir? That young lady only leaves this room in the custody of the police.”

“That is the point at which I am endeavouring to arrive; do you propose to repeat to the police the monstrous and wholly baseless accusation which you have just now made?”

“I intend to place the police in possession of facts which will enable them to do their duty at once – on that you may rely. In the execution of what I believe to be my duty, I do not allow myself to be moved by sentiment.”

“Miss Grant, will you allow me to offer you my arm?”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“I am not going to allow Miss Grant to remain in this room to be made a victim of your blackguardly stupidity, on that you can rely!”

“How dare you speak to me like that, sir?”

“I dare do very much more. The daring is on your side; you are daring to do a thing of which I should have thought the meanest of mortals would have been ashamed. Miss Grant, will you please come?”

“That girl shall not leave this room – till the police are here.”

“Miss Grant will leave this room with me at once. For the second time, will you allow me to offer you my arm – or would you prefer to take my hand, or would you prefer that I should take yours?” Something in the girl’s attitude, in her dumb misery, in her apparent incapacity to understand what he said, moved him to sudden tenderness. He spoke to her with the careful simplicity with which one chooses words which will reach the mind of a child. “I want you to come with me – don’t you hear? And I not only want you to come, but I insist upon your coming, and that at once. You must do as I tell you, come; give me your hand.”

“Where am I to go, if I do come?” The words came from her as they might have done from an automaton.

“I will tell you that when we are out of the room and the house. I am going to take you to friends, where you will be safe, at least, until Mr Jennister has learned a little common sense, and, possibly, something else as well.”

Taking her hand in his, be began to draw her towards the door, she submitting with a docility which was in itself pathetic. Mr Jennister moved forward.

“Stop, Mr Dale, I am not going to allow this. I’m a man of my word – I have said that until the police come that girl is not going to leave this room, and she is not.”

“Be so good, Mr Jennister, as to stand aside and let me pass.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind; you, a merchant of the City of London, not to know your duty as a citizen better, and to allow your own private prejudices to seduce you to prevent the law taking its proper course. I should myself be guilty of a dereliction of duty if I were to allow it.”

“Are you going to stand on one side, Mr Jennister?”

“By acting as you want to do you will yourself be guilty of a serious offence for which the law will call you to a strict account.”

“You are an older man than I am, Mr Jennister, which is the only reason why I hesitate to use force.”

“I warn you, Mr Dale—”

“And I warn you for the last time, – now go—”

He took Mr Jennister by both shoulders and sent him backwards across the room. Had he not come into contact with the caretaker of No. 10, he might have fallen to the floor. Before he had quite recovered his equilibrium, both the girl and the man had passed from the room. When he discovered the fact he was unmistakably warm.

“The villain! Mr Dale! You girl! I warn you both! Where is that telephone? The police shall arrest him as well as her.” He started violently to ring the bell. “Woman—” This to the caretaker. “Go downstairs and look which way they have gone; the man’s a fool if he thinks he’s going to run away to escape capture. Hullo! Give me the nearest police station.”

When Mr Dale reached the street with the girl’s hand still in his, he found the taxicab which had brought him waiting at the door, with the driver on the box reading a newspaper – clearly oblivious of the tragic happenings which had been taking place almost beneath his nose; or at any rate, just above his head. Mr Dale, having given him an address to which to drive, assisted the girl into the vehicle. When the cab had started he tried to explain to her, at least in outline, what course of action he proposed to follow.

“I’m taking you to the home of a very old friend, whose wife is one of the best women in the world. You will, I hope, be quite safe with them, until that old madman of a Jennister has found out what an idiot he has been making of himself.”

If the girl understood him or not, she said nothing, but sat crouched in the opposite corner of the cab staring in front of her with eyes which he felt sure saw nothing. As he watched her he was moved as he never thought he could have been. If he could only get her to smile; or, if that was a counsel of perfection, if he could only induce her to show some sign of consciousness that life was still worth living. With a curious sense of choking in his throat he tried to speak to her as he might have done to a child of ten.

“Come, you must cheer up, you mustn’t look like that – God’s still in His heaven, all’s right with the world. In a very little while, isn’t it a hymn which says, ‘The clouds will all roll by’; be sure that they will. And tomorrow, or the next day, the sun will be filling all the world – your world, as well as everybody else’s.”

If she heard she gave no sign, but continued in the same piteous attitude staring with the same unseeing eyes. He sought for a question which might rouse her from her stupor.

“Did you not say that the name of the man whom you thought might be willing to do you an ill turn was Jennister?”

He had, at least, achieved his purpose in as much as she answered him, though it was but with a monosyllable, and that breathlessly panted rather than spoken.

“Yes.”

“Did you refer to the Mr Jennister whom we have just now seen?” She shook her head, it seemed that she could not speak. “No? He doesn’t seem to regard you with over-much good will. Has he a relation of the same name?”

“A son.” Again it seemed as if the words had been wrung from her.

“A son? If the son is like the father he must be a pleasant sort of person. Was it his son you had in your mind?” This time she nodded.

“It was this man’s son; let’s hope this is not a question of like father like son. You said his name was – his Christian name?”

“Cecil.”

“Cecil. Oh yes, I remember, Cecil Jennister. Which reminds me that I happen to be aware that his father’s name is John. And has Mr Cecil Jennister any reason for not wishing you well?”

The result of his question took him by surprise. She seemed to make an effort to answer him; then, just as he was about to tell her, so affected was he by her evident pain, that it really did not matter; that she could answer all his questions at her convenience later on; she put her hands up to her face and broke into such a passion of tears that she shook the padded back against which she was leaning. He had never seen a woman cry in his life before; so far as he knew he had never seen anyone cry, except children; when this girl began to cry as if her heart were breaking, there, with him in the cab which was rushing through the public streets, that had been to him a day of varying emotions, but nothing had effected him like the sight and the sound of this girl’s weeping.

It frightened him. His first impulse was to stop the cab and call for aid. He was so little versed in the ways of women that he did not know that sometimes they cried for very little, and that sometimes it seems to do them positive good to tear themselves almost to pieces with hysteric sobbing. He had not the dimmest notion that women and weather have this much in common, that heavy rain tends to clear the air. Had he only guessed it, the best thing this young woman could do was to cry; she followed her natural feminine instincts in dissipating the heavy clouds which oppressed her mind. And though he was not aware of it, because of his alarm and ignorance and clumsiness, he did the best thing possible in doing nothing whatever which might prevent her having her cry right out.

Presently, to his extreme relief, at least she ceased to shake the seat; her sobbing grew less, she was content to cry beneath her breath, and when she had reached that stage he took his courage in both his hands and ventured to indulge in what might have been a ghastly attempt at being humorous.

“If it will do you any good, Miss Grant, let me assure you that at the first opportunity which offers it will give me great pleasure to break Mr Cecil Jennister’s head.”

At this she put down her hands and looked at him; this time with eyes which saw – at least – something.

“Why should you – break his head?”

The break in the middle was caused by a sob which she could not choke back. But she spoke in what was more like her natural voice; and though, as a matter of plain fact, her appearance was not improved by her attack of weeping, her tear-stained face and red-rimmed eyes moved him to a sudden heat which seemed to melt something within him. But still his tongue was awkward. Her unconsciousness that his intention had been to be humorous was only matched by the effort he made to explain.

“Of course I – I was only jesting.” He tried to pull himself together and speak like a reasonable creature. “I’m very sorry, Miss Grant, if I said anything which gave you pain.”

“You didn’t, it’s only my foolishness. Something would have cracked inside my head, if I hadn’t cried. I am better now.”

“I’m glad of that. I see so little of – of women that I’m afraid I don’t understand them very well. You frightened me.”

This he said with a smile which was really a smile; and what was stranger she smiled back at him; though hers was but a poor attempt, it did him good.

“Then if I frightened you, it is I who ought to be sorry.”

Then, before he could speak, she went on with a fluency which was in striking contrast to her previous dumbness. Plainly, the storm had done something else besides clear the air, it had enabled her to find her tongue. All at once this was quite a different girl from the one he had led by the hand from the room and down the stairs.

— X —
TWO IN A TAXI

“You asked me why I thought Cecil Jennister bore me no particular good will, and – I was silly and cried, for which I beg your pardon, especially if I frightened you. But the truth is, it isn’t an easy question to answer, which is perhaps one reason why – I was silly.”

What might almost have been a faint tinge of colour came into her pale cheeks; she seemed to be a little ill at ease.

“You see – it sounds odd, but – he wants to marry me.”

“You think that that sounds odd.”

“But he’s such a very disagreeable person.”

“That a very disagreeable person should entertain such a hope certainly is odd.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t mean what you seem to think, I’m not so absurd; but – it’s hard to explain.”

“In what sense is Mr Cecil Jennister a disagreeable person?”

“In all senses – every one of them. To begin with, he’s – he’s not nice to look at; some people mightn’t think that was of much importance.”

“On the other hand, some people might think it of considerable importance where a prospective husband was concerned.”

“His father doesn’t, nor did my uncle; according to them, it doesn’t matter in the least what a man looks like if he wants to marry you.”

“That’s rather a quaint position for them to take up.”

“And then he drinks, he’s not to be trusted – he’s a liar, a coward, and a thief. I don’t like to have to say such things of anyone, but I’ve proved it of him over and over again. I wouldn’t marry him if there wasn’t another man in the world.”

She had all at once grown warm, and also emphatic; it certainly was a tinge of colour which was shining through her cheeks. Mr Dale felt that it became her.

“If your sentiments towards Mr Cecil Jennister are what they seem to be, I cannot conceive why he wished to marry you.”

“That, as I told you, makes it so odd; because he knows perfectly well what I feel and what I think.”

“And had this promising suitor Mr Norton’s support?”

“That’s what I couldn’t make out. You know my uncle was – was peculiar: I hope you won’t think I wish to say unpleasant things of everyone, but – he was peculiar.”

“I can easily believe it.”

“He was my mother’s brother. When she died, she left me two thousand pounds, and a little more – she told me that there would be a clear two thousand for me when everything was paid. My uncle took charge of it.”

“What do you mean by ‘he took charge of it’? Did your father die before your mother?”

“My father died when I was fourteen, and I’m now nineteen; my mother died two years ago.”

“Did she leave no will?”

“I don’t think there was exactly a will. She put down on a piece of paper that I was to have all that she left, but my uncle always said that that wasn’t a will at all – that’s why he took charge of the money.”

“When, as you put it, he took charge of the money, what did he do with it?”

“I don’t know what he did with it.”

“Didn’t he give you any – of your own money?”

“Scarcely ever. He let me go and live with him, and he always made out that my living with him cost him a great deal more than the income which my money brought. I never could understand how he made it out, because my mother told me that my money ought to bring between eighty and ninety pounds a year, and I’m quite sure I never cost him anything like that. I did practically all the house work; he sometimes had a woman in to clean, but he preferred having the house dirty, and it was.”

“I noticed that it looked as if soap and water and that sort of thing might do it good.”

“You have no idea of the condition it’s in – you can’t have. Some of the rooms haven’t been so much as dusted for years and years, really and truly. And then the food he gave me. I’m not complaining, I’m only to make you understand – you seem to want to understand.”

“I want very much to understand.”

“We scarcely ever had meat, and then only scraps, and those he always stewed – oh, how I got to loath stew.”

“He stewed? Was he the cook?”

“He did all the cooking – he wouldn’t let me do it for fear I should eat some of the food without his knowing. Then there were no fires in the house.”

“No fires?”

“Never, winter or summer. I’ve never seen coals since I’ve been in the house, nor fire-wood either. There was an oil stove in his room and all the cooking was done on that.”

“You have lived under such conditions for two whole years?”

“For nearly two years, not quite. I don’t see how my living could have cost him even eighty pounds a year, and he never gave me any clothes.”

“But how did you manage?”

“You see I never met my uncle till my mother was dead, and the day before she died she gave me some money in a purse which she had always kept by her in case it was suddenly wanted. She said that when uncle came I had better trust it to his keeping; but – when I saw him, I never said a word about it – I kept it.”

“In so doing, I should say you acted very wisely.”

“There were nearly fifty-two pounds in the purse. I had, of course, some clothes to begin with, and when they were worn out, with some of the money I bought others. Then – sometimes I bought food, especially when I went out, or I really think I should have starved, I’ve such an appetite. Uncle always used to be telling me about it. He nearly was starved. He hadn’t a sound tooth in his head, he wouldn’t go to a dentist – he couldn’t eat roast meat, so, as I said, all the meat we ever had was stewed, and he lived on what he called the broth.”

“Your words suggest a cheerful existence.”

“Oh, it was dreadful. If uncle would only have given me some of my money I would have gone long ago, but he wouldn’t, and whenever I spoke of it he was so cross that at the end, I didn’t dare even to hint at it. Then there was Cecil Jennister, and he was worse than everything else put together.”

The maiden sighed, as if some uncomfortable memory weighed heavily on her.

“Then I should say he must have been pretty bad.”

“He was – you can’t imagine. I believe my uncle only encouraged him because he knew I couldn’t stand him – they used to have the most tremendous quarrels, especially when Cecil had had too much to drink. He would come to the door and ring and knock, and if I saw him coming I wouldn’t open – then uncle used to come down in a rage and open the door himself. Then they would both begin at me – how they used to frighten me.”

“But why did your uncle wish you to marry the man.”

“Because, for one thing, he wanted to get me off his hands – at least, I suppose so. Then he hated me, he told me so over and over again – but as he hated everybody that didn’t matter much, And then he took a positive pleasure in what he called taking me down a peg or two, and I believe he tried to bully me into marrying Cecil simply because he knew that to me the thought was torture. Then there was my money. Cecil’s father was also my uncle. My mother had not spoken to him for years. When he heard that mother was dead I believe he asked Mr Norton if she had left any money, and I believe he said she hadn’t; he used to tell the biggest stories. One day Uncle Jennister said that Uncle Norton told him that I had been eating him out of house and home, and I said I didn’t see how that could be as he had the interest of my two thousand pounds to keep me. Then I think Uncle Jennister went to Uncle Norton and had a dreadful quarrel with him because of the story he had told him. My idea has always been that there was an understanding between them that if I married Cecil he should not only have my money, but, ultimately, Uncle Norton’s also. Of course, I’m not sure, but that is what I’ve always felt. And when I wouldn’t marry Cecil, or even look at him, both my uncles were as mad as they could be. Lately it’s been getting worse and worse; Uncle Norton scarcely ever ceased to rave at me, and I’m convinced that Cecil himself must be growing insane: I daresay it sounds foolish, but sometimes I’ve been afraid of my life. I believe his father’s brother did die in an asylum, and I feel sure he will.”

“And it was because of this man’s persistency that you had that last great quarrel with your uncle?”

“Cecil had been in the night before, that was Monday – he had been drinking, and he behaved just like a lunatic. He said that if I wouldn’t promise to marry him he’d stop the night in my room, and never leave it till I did. So I rushed off downstairs and I locked the door, and he came rushing after me and began to bang and bang and try to make me open, but I wouldn’t. I thought every moment that he would force it open. You can fancy the state I was in, because he was in a mood in which he was capable of anything.”

“Where was your uncle while his nephew was conducting himself in such a fashion?”

“Most of the time uncle was on the stairs. I could hear him shouting and swearing and ordering me to open – but I wouldn’t.”

“I should think not. What a delightful pair of relatives, and what an experience.”

“The next day, as soon as I was up, uncle began at me.”

“Why?”

“Because I refused to promise to marry Cecil and because I wouldn’t open my door. He kept on all day, he had never been quite so bad before – the language he used! the way he threatened me! And towards the evening it seemed to me that he became stark staring mad; you can’t conceive how awful it was. It wasn’t strange that I said some of the things that I did say, which that woman said she overheard.”

“It would be strange if you hadn’t said something of the kind; personally, I should not have been disposed to blame you if you had done more than say them. It appears to have been a case not for words, but measures.”

“When he began to hit me with his stick I thought I also must be going mad – how I screamed! Then he picked up his revolver, and – and – as you know, I ran away.”

She sat with her fists clenched tightly on her lap and he could see that she shuddered. It was some seconds before he spoke; when he did it was with a curious earnestness.

“Miss Grant, I cannot tell you how flattered I am by the confidence which you have placed in me; still less can I give you any idea of the feelings with which I have listened to your story. I trust to be able to prove to you that at least all men are not as the men of whom you have been speaking. You said that you remembered our previous meeting.”

“Of course I do; am I ever likely to forget? I have not so many pleasant memories to be able to forget that one. It was at Shanklin, I was staying with the Heathcotes. Mrs Heathcote’s sister, Amy Feltham, and I were at school together. I met Amy one day by accident, and she asked me to stay with them, and mother let me; it was just before I knew how ill she really was. That was one of the pleasantest times I ever had.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say that, because – it was also one of my pleasantest times. I have always hoped that one day I should see you again, and although I have met you under conditions which have not been pleasant, I’m afraid I cannot give you any idea of how glad I am to meet you anyhow.”

The girl heard him with what was certainly both a smile and a blush. What he said, and the way he had of saying it, seemed to deprive her of the power of saying anything. It was only when the cab stopped that she put to him a question with what was almost an air of panic.

“What house is this?”

“This is the residence of my old friend, Frank Morris. I have been able to do him certain services of which I believe he has a lively recollection – I merely say this in order that you may grasp the situation. I am going to ask him and his wife to give you shelter until such time as you no longer stand in need of it. You will find, I think, that they will be willing to do much more than that for me.”

Her demeanour recalled the timid child whom he had led by the hand down the stairs at No. 8, as he ushered her through the door which opened in response to his ring into the house beyond. They were shown into a pleasant apartment where they were presently joined by a happy-faced woman somewhere in the thirties, who, at the sight of Mr Dale, was all smiles of welcome.

“Is Frank in?” he asked.

“Not yet, he must be detained at the office – I am expecting him every minute.”

“This is Miss Grant. I want you and Frank to let her stay with you. It’s a pretty sudden way of putting it; especially as at this moment I can’t enter into my reasons for asking such a service; but when I can I think you’ll not be sorry that you were so very good as to do me such a favour – to say nothing of Miss Grant. May she stay?”

“Why, certainly, as long as ever she pleases; if she likes me as well as I like the look of her, she’ll be doing the favour, not us. You will stay and dine?”

“I am sorry to say I can’t. There are very pressing matters which require my immediate attention, which will perhaps occupy me, say a couple of hours. When I am through with them I will come back; and by that time perhaps I may be able to explain to you the circumstances under which I have brought Miss Grant to you here, in such very unceremonious fashion, without any sort of warning.”

When he re-entered the waiting taxicab, he said to the driver:

“Take me back to 8 Gordon Mansions as fast as you can go.”

— XI —
ON THE PAVEMENT

When the taxi drew up at the house in Gordon Mansions it was already night. Looking out of the window as the cab turned the corner Mr Dale noticed a figure on the pavement, a figure which had apparently been coming towards that corner, but which, when the vehicle appeared, suddenly moved backwards at what was very nearly a run.

“hat gentleman is behaving in rather a peculiar way,” thought Mr Dale as he watched him. The man had come to a stand in front of No. 8, but when the taxi stopped there also, as if seized with panic, he began to run farther down the street. Mr Dale was on the pavement and after him in an instant. The man ran fast, but Mr Dale ran faster, he had caught him before he reached the other end.

“One moment, if you please, sir, I should like a word with you.”

The man tried to drag himself loose.

“Leave go of me! Leave go! What right have you to touch me? You leave go.”

“For once my instinct has guided me aright; I have heard your voice before.”

“You’ve heard my voice before? What do you mean? I don’t know who you are; who are you? You’ve no right to touch me, you let me go.”

“Not just yet. I’ve been too anxious to find you to let you go so soon. You’re the man who called to me over the telephone.”

“The man who called to you over the telephone? What do you mean? You let me go!”

“I’ve rather a good ear for voices; when I’ve heard one I don’t forget it quickly. I’ve heard yours too recently and under too remarkable circumstances to have forgotten it, to say nothing of its having certain very marked peculiarities. Has no one ever told you what a remarkable voice yours is?”

“Who are you?”

This was an undersized man, he was rendered even smaller than nature had made him by the meanness of his carriage. From what he could see of him in that imperfect light, Mr Dale felt that he had never seen a more unprepossessing countenance; there was a suggestion of evil about it almost as if something within him had played the traitor and set a sign upon his face to warn the world what manner of man he was. Mr Dale had him tightly by the arm; he had twisted so that they fronted each other, as he breathed the whole atmosphere seemed to reek of alcohol. One would have thought he had drunk enough to keep such courage as he had at concert pitch, yet nothing was more certain than that he was in a state of abject terror. Mr Dale could feel him shivering as he gripped him like a cur who is being whipped. All the backbone seemed to have gone out of him so that he cringed and cowered. In his little shrill, falsetto voice, with its faint lisp and stammer there was a quality which again recalled the our who whines and sobs in bestial terror. About the whole creature there was something which Mr Dale found so repellent that he felt as if he were being defiled by his mere contact. Had he followed his inclinations he would have thrown him from him and let him speed off through the gutter to which he properly belonged.

But he conquered his hesitation, and held him tighter even than before.

“My name is Dale, Oswald Dale; which is not, I believe, a name unknown to you.”

“Dale? Dale? Dale?” The name was shrieked rather than spoken. “I don’t know anyone named Dale. You let me go.”

“You lie. You’ve rung me up on the telephone three times in the last four-and-twenty hours. Shall I repeat the communications with which you favoured me, or are they fresh in your own recollection? From the look and the sound of you I should say they were.”

“You are wrong, you are, I swear you are; I never sent you a message in my life, I swear to God I never did. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, why should I? You let me go.” A sudden indefinable change took place in his tone. “If you’ll let me go I’ll give you what you like; I’ve got money, lots of money, if you’ll let me go you shall have it all, I swear you shall. Look, you shall have all that.”

He thrust his hand into his trousers pocket; before he could take it out Mr Dale had him by the wrist.

“Don’t you trouble to tempt me with a display of your riches; I fancy before I’m through with you you’ll need them all. I’ve heard of your sort before but I’ve never met it; you seem to be the sort of animal which makes one ashamed of one’s own manhood.”

The man had his left hand in his trousers pocket, it was by that Mr Dale was holding him. His right hand was in the pocket of the summer overcoat which he was wearing. All at once he took it out; something shone in the air; Mr Dale was conscious of a hot, pricking sensation; the man had struck at him with a knife, struck home. He had driven the point of his weapon into Mr Dale’s shoulder, sufficiently deep to be uncomfortable, also sufficiently deep to rouse him to a very different mood.

“You hound! You’ve stabbed me.”

“What has he done, sir, stabbed you?” This was the driver of the taxicab, who, descending from his seat, came hastening towards them. “I’ve been watching him, I thought he was going to be up to something. Shall I give you a hand, sir, or can you manage him yourself? It doesn’t look as if there was very much of him.”

“There isn’t, I could break him in two if I wanted to, but – I prefer to keep him for something else. No you don’t. I have your knife and I’ll keep it; the more you struggle the more risk you run of getting hurt. You are coming with me.”

“You let me go!”

“Let you go? especially after what you’ve done! I think not. You’re coming with me to No. 8, a house with which I believe you have already some acquaintance, and there I fancy you might meet someone who would like a word with you.”

With an exclamation which was half snarl, half shriek, the man twisted himself out of Mr Dale’s grasp, and was just starting to run when Mr Dale, striking out, caught him on the side of the head and knocked him down. The blow had been a harder one than the striker had intended. The man lay still. Mr Dale and the cabman leant over him.

“You got even with him that time,” said the driver. “I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve knocked him out.”

The man himself proclaimed the damage which had been done him.

“You’ve killed me,” he declared.

Mr Dale was unsympathetic.

“Yes, I expect so. You’re alive enough to come with me, and you’ll have to come if you aren’t. Are you going to get up and walk, or am I to drag you along the pavement? Get up.”

He lifted him up by the collar of his coat as one picks up a dog by his neck. The man seemed quiet enough now, possibly because such little spirit as he had being knocked out of him, he realised that resistance was vain. He suffered Mr Dale to march him along the pavement. When they had reached No. 8, Mr Dale asked the driver:

“Would you mind seeing if that door is open?”

“It seems to be; yes, it is.”

“Thank you, I thought it might be.” Then to his captive: “Now, you are coming into No. 8 with me. Would you?” The man made still another effort to escape; but it was a faint one, he was like a puppet in the other’s strong hands. “Don’t you try any more games of that sort than you can help, or – I’ll have to hurt you. In with you.”

And in he went with Mr Dale’s assistance.

“Shall I lend you a hand, sir?” This was the driver at the door.

“Thank you, you are very good, but I don’t think I shall require your assistance; if I do I’ll let you know.” To his captive: “There’s not much light in here. If I could trust you I’d let you show me the way, you probably know it better than I do, but I can’t; so you’ll understand that it isn’t my fault if I happen to bump you against odd corners. Evidently there’s someone upstairs. Probably they are the people I am anxious should have a word with you. This seems to be the staircase, up you go. If you tripped over that stair on purpose, don’t you do it again, lest I should have to drive you up feet foremost. Lift your feet, take care; this seems to be the landing. I never saw a house so badly lighted.”

Mr Dale paused for a moment, possibly with the object of allowing his captive to get his breath; for him it had been a very unpleasant ascent. All the while Mr Dale could feel the man’s body shrinking and shivering in his hands, as he had heard that men shake who are smitten with palsy.

“There’s one more flight to mount, this time a short one, as again you probably know better than I do; up with you. Can’t you stand on your own feet? Can’t you hold yourself better than that? I believe if I were to loose you you’d tumble in a heap; you shudder like a lost soul in mortal fear. Here’s the other landing. Now three or four more steps and you’re in a room with which I’m sure that you’re more than sufficiently acquainted. Has your backbone broken? keep up; here we are; now I’ll introduce you to someone whom I believe you know.”

With one hand he opened the door of the front room on the first floor; with the other he thrust his captive into it.

— XII —
IN THE ROOM

There were five persons present in that front room. The Inspector of Police, whom Mr Jennister had summoned over the telephone; a constable whom he had brought with him; a doctor who had been procured to examine the dead man; the caretaker at No. 10 and Mr Jennister. The doctor, a youngish man, had just been giving an opinion as to how Christopher Norton had come by his death; as if their own eyes could not tell them all he had to tell. In reply to certain questions he had gone on to say that it was quite possible the criminal was a woman, and not necessarily of great strength. The murdered man had been both old and weak; but little force had been needed to deprive him of the scant breath which was left in his body. Any woman might have done it, even a young girl. Of that the doctor had not the slightest doubt.

The inspector took notes of his statements; on Mr Jennister’s expressionless visage at least there were no signs of displeasure.

“You perceive, inspector, that everything Dr Gunton says is consistent with the hypothesis that it is the girl Grant who has committed this crime. I have already acquainted you with the reasons which point to her guilt. I trust that before the night is done you will have her safely under lock and key.”

The inspector replied to Mr Jennister with official brevity.

“I think there is very little doubt about that.”

“And I think there is every doubt.”

The speaker was Mr Dale. He had caught Mr Jennister’s concluding words, and answered them in a fashion of his own. The room was lit by a single oil lamp, which afforded but little illumination. In speaking Mr Dale had moved to the front, so that for the moment his captive, of whom he had tight hold, was in the background.

“This, inspector,” announced Mr Jennister, “is the man Dale who, as I told you, assisted the girl Grant to evade arrest, at least temporarily. Why he has had the assurance to return here I don’t know.”

“Then permit me to inform you, I have returned to hand over to the custody of the police the man who murdered Mr Christopher Norton. Here he is.”

Mr Dale brought his captive to the front with a jerk which that gentleman must have found neither dignified nor pleasant.

At sight of him Mr Jennister’s countenance proved itself capable of showing signs even of something more than surprise.

“Cecil! what does this mean? what are you doing here?”

“It means, I regret to say, Mr Jennister, that it was your son, Cecil, who murdered Mr Norton.”

“What monstrous nonsense is this? How – how dare you say such a thing, sir? of – of my son? – Cecil, come here.”

But Mr Dale declined to allow Mr Cecil Jennister to obey the parental command. Instead he turned to the inspector.

“Inspector, take your prisoner.”

The father interposed; something of the language which had come a little while ago from Mr Dale began to come from him.

“You impudent scoundrel! – you – you have the assurance to talk like that! – of – my son as a prisoner! – inspector, this man seems not only to be that girl’s accomplice, but an impudent madman to boot. Cecil, I insist upon your leaving that fellow at once, do you hear me? Knock him down!”

“Your son hears, but he is unable to obey. I am not going to loose my hold of him till I have confronted him with the man he killed. He shall see his victim and then, if he can, deny his handiwork. Come here and look upon the man you killed.”

Not unnaturally Mr Cecil Jennister showed the very strongest disinclination to act on Mr Dale’s suggestion. When Mr Dale proceeded, as he promptly did, to take steps to make him, he squirmed and wriggled, and broke into screams which it was not good to hear.

“Let me go, let me go! I won’t see him, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I keep seeing him all the time! he’s haunted me ever since.”

As he paused Mr Dale was quick to ask a question.

“Ever since what?”

The question had on Mr Cecil Jennister a most singular effect. A moment before he had been trying to twist himself out of Mr Dale’s hands as if he had been made of india-rubber, shrieking like a man possessed. Now, all at once, both his twisting and his shrieking ceased. He stood quite still, and he said in tones which were all the more audible because they were quiet and restrained.

“I had to kill him, and I did; I did; yes, I did.”

If his words were a shock to his father, it was one from which he quickly recovered. He snapped at his son.

“You consummate idiot.” He turned to the inspector. “Don’t listen to him, he’s in a condition in which he doesn’t know what he’s saying; he’s not well, he hasn’t been for a long time; this man Dale has had an injurious effect upon him. Come away with me at once.”

He moved towards his son, but Mr Dale interposed.

“One moment, Mr Jennister; I fancy that your son has not quite finished. The question of his physical, or mental, condition, is one which can be dealt with later. At present it will be better for him, and I think also for you, if you let him finish what he has to say. Have you anything else to add?”

The inspector spoke; in his hand was an open notebook.

“Before this person says anything more, it is my duty to warn him that any statement which he may make will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

Cecil Jennister looked up at the officer with his very unpleasant eyes; Mr Dale had not thought it possible that there could be in a human head a pair of eyes which conveyed so uncomfortable an impression; they afflicted him with a feeling of nausea.

“I know, I know, I know all about it; you can’t tell me anything about it I don’t know.” The speaker turned to his father. “And as for you, you mind your own business – all my life I’ve had enough of your interfering with me. I’ve had enough of everything – yes, of everything – and I’m done.”

His father attempted to offer remonstrance.

“Cecil, think! Before you—”

The son cut the parental remonstrance very short.

“Before nothing! And I have thought – that’s it. I’ve thought too much – I’ve had enough; and I’m done. I killed him – you know who I mean; I’ve been near to killing him again and again; it would have done him good if I had; but I didn’t – quite, till a week yesterday.”

Cecil Jennister began to bite at the fleshy part of the forefinger of his right hand, and he paused as if to think. His father took advantage of the opportunity.

“Cecil, I implore of you—” His son cut him short.

“You shut up – I’m through with you. I’m through with everyone – I’m done.”

He went on with what he had been saying, addressing himself not so much to the inspector as to the company in general. All the time he continued to bite his finger.

“It began with the girl Beatrice – they say she is my cousin, but I don’t know, she’s not like any of us – no, she isn’t. I’ve had a lot to do with women of different kinds at different times, but they’ve all been of the same kind, young and old, I know. But Beatrice is not like any of them – no, she isn’t; by God, she isn’t. And that was the trouble. I would have done anything for that girl, anything – so I told her. She got hold of me – how she did get hold of me; pretty nearly from the first day I saw her. I’ve told her all about it, but it wasn’t any use; she wouldn’t listen~she never would. Old Norton, whom I sent to the devil, who has been waiting for him for I don’t know how many years, he laughed at me, he always was laughing at me. I could have killed him for it over and over again – I used to say to myself, if I ever got my fingers round his throat, how I’d pinch it. He hated her, and just because he hated her he used to pretend that he wanted her to listen to me. I don’t believe he really did – if she had listened he’d have sung another song; but he knew she never would listen, so he used me to jab at her.” He changed the subject with what was odd abruptness. “Has anybody got anything to drink, my voice is dry in my throat; it’s always like that if I have to do much talking. Give me something to drink.”

The listeners exchanged glances. It was his father who answered.

“You’ve had too much to drink already, that’s what’s the matter with you; it’s your filthy, drunken habits which have brought you to this – made a half-witted fool of you instead of a decent man.”

The son returned his father’s criticism with what he meant for interest.

“I’m as decent a man as you are, and always have been, so come. You’re only a thief who’s never been found out, that’s all you are; when you are found out there will be plenty who will want to cut you into little pieces – you’re as bad as him.” He jerked his thumb towards the folding doors. “You and he were a pair – I know. You leave me alone and I’ll leave you; if you won’t leave me alone I’ll tell tales about you – and then you’ll know.”

Thrusting his head out towards his father, he said this with a malignant intensity which was the more impressive because he scarcely spoke above a whisper. That it impressed his father, that gentleman’s attitude made plain. He drew back as if his son were some dangerous serpent which might make a sudden strike at him. The son looked about him with a malevolence which seemed to issue from his whole being.

“It always was the same here – always; there never was anything to drink in this house – never. I’d have never set foot in it if it hadn’t been for Beatrice. Every time I got near him I wanted to put my fingers round his throat, his scraggy old neck. I knew I should be safer away; but with her in the house I had to come – I had to. What a hold on me she had! And what between her refusing to listen, and his jeers, sometimes I felt like killing her – yes, I did. Then – I wanted to take her by force. He said, ‘why don’t you take her by force; if I wanted her, and she treated me like she does you, I would. You’ve only got,’ he said, ‘to get hold of her, she’ll soon give in: you do as I tell you – you’ll see.’ It wasn’t so easy as he made out, and he knew it wasn’t – he was laughing at me all the while. She’s bigger than I am, and she’s stronger – except when I’ve got the devil well into me, then I’m strong enough. I’m as strong as any man; I can down a woman then, even her. And when I got the devil into me she wouldn’t let me near her – she knew.”

He paused again; as if he were resolving matters in his mind which did not tend to increase his stock of cheerfulness. As he went on, his hearers, including his father, showed a disposition to shrink farther from him, as from some obscene thing.

“Yesterday week – that was Tuesday, I know – she locked herself in her room. I got the devil well into me, and I’d have shown her, but she wouldn’t give me a chance – she knew. Locked the door, she did, and kept me out. He ordered her to unlock it – what words he threw at her, laughing at me all the time, because he knew she wouldn’t. I’d have broken the door down if it hadn’t been for him – he’d have made me pay for the damage before I started, and made a profit; I wasn’t going to let him make a profit out of me. So I gave it up and I went away; and I got more drink into me, and in the evening I came back, and she was gone; gone, she was – gone.”

He stretched his hand out in front of him with a gesture which, as an illustration to his words, was not nice to behold.

“I – I – I – I did want to get them round his throat, those fingers – my fingers – I did want. She’d gone, run away, he said; and I might have got what I wanted if he hadn’t made her run – nothing would have stopped me then, nothing; I’d have broken down her door and ten others; nothing would have stopped me.”

Again he paused, one of those uncomfortable pauses which affected his hearers almost more even than his words; because they were set to wonder what nameless things were passing through his mind.

“It was late, the houses were closed; I got in with a key – I’d got a key of which he knew nothing; when I got in I went straight to her room. When I turned the handle and found it wasn’t locked, I – I thought my turn had come. When I got into the room it was all still. I listened for her breathing. I thought she was very sound asleep, because it seemed I hadn’t roused her, and I couldn’t hear a sound. I went towards her bed. I knocked against a chair, and over it went with a bang. I knew that would wake her, but there wasn’t a sound – I wondered if she was too frightened even to breathe. Then I went right up to her bed, and I felt all over it and she wasn’t there. I struck a match and I saw she never had been there, the bed hadn’t been slept in – so then I knew that something was wrong. I turned out her drawers – she hadn’t many things but I turned them all out. I found a box and I burst it open, it was a small leather box. There were some portraits, three portraits, of a man – the same man. There were two portraits of him by himself, and one of a group with her in it and him standing by her. On the back of the two photographs of him (they were amateur things and weren’t mounted) was written ‘Oswald Dale’ in her handwriting; no Mr, just ‘Oswald Dale.’ I wondered who Oswald Dale was, that she’d got his portraits among those of her mother, and the things she cared for most – if I’d have been within reach of Oswald Dale just then I’d have taught him a thing or two.”

He cast a glance in Mr Dale’s direction. For an instant it seemed as if that gentleman were about to speak – and then to think better of it. Cecil Jennister went on.

“I came upstairs, up here. He had gone to bed, so I went in to have a look at him, and I found he was in bed. When I opened the door he woke up fast enough, and sat up in bed and looked at me. ‘What the something, something do you want?’ – oh, he started to swear at me; he could swear too. I asked him where she was. He said she had run away, and when I told him that I supposed he meant he had driven her away, he said she had run away because of me. We had a discussion – it wasn’t a very long one, because the very first moment I saw his scraggy neck coming up from his night-shirt, my fingers began to itch. She’d done me in the eye, but I didn’t mean to come for nothing – I felt I couldn’t. When he said that if I didn’t take myself out of the house quicker than I’d come in he’d hand me over to the police and charge me with committing a burglary, that finished it; and – it finished him. I got both my hands about his throat, and – I don’t think I ever had a pleasanter sensation than when I felt his life slipping between my fingers. Because I did feel it – I know. I felt it going up my arms and into my body and out again – his life – and I squeezed it out of him. I could have kept it on for hours; if I’d only known, I’d have managed it better – because he was dead before I knew it. I hadn’t the satisfaction of feeling him actually die, no, he did me. I must have squeezed him, because didn’t my fingers ache.”

He held his hands in front of him with his fingers stretched out, and he shook them, as a man might do whose fingers were cramped. For the first time he moved towards the table on which was the telephone. It was to be noticed that even the inspector drew aside to let him pass.

“What beats me is that I should have the feeling in my fingers yet, as if I had them round his throat; sometimes I have to look to make sure; I don’t like it – no, I don’t – I don’t. It was all right while I was in the house, but directly I got outside it began; and it’s kept on ever since-never stopped – I’ve always got my fingers round his throat – and I don’t like it. Eight days ago it was, and I’ve never had my fingers off it since – and I’m done.”

There was in his voice, his attitude, the look which was on his face, his whole dreadful appearance, a suggestion of a despair which was hardly human.

“I thought it would have been found out at once, that she’d come back in the morning and find it out; I wanted it to be found out – I didn’t like to think of him lying there and no one knowing – the house all empty. And there was nothing in the papers, I used to buy them every one, all the editions of the evening papers; but no one seemed to have found out anything. So I took to telephoning. I’ve called this house up sometimes a dozen times a day, yes, and more – all hours of the night—”

“That’s what I’ve heard.” This was the caretaker speaking sotto voce. No one paid any heed. The man went on.

“I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t even go to bed; directly the light was out I felt his neck between my fingers, I had to light up to make sure he wasn’t there; so I used to ring him up. But he never heard; I never got an answer – no one ever heard.”

“I heard.” This was the caretaker again – who still went unheeded.

“Then one day I was looking at the telephone call book and I saw the name of Dale, Oswald Dale. I remembered the portraits which I had seen in her box, with Oswald Dale written on the back; I’d not forgotten them – I knew. Then I got an idea into my head that I might be even with the lot of them; and – that was better than the idea I’d been having in it all the time, thinking of him. It made me laugh, my new idea – laugh – yes, I laughed.”

Anything less suggestive of laughter than the way he said it could scarcely be imagined. A shiver went down Mr Dale’s back. Even the doctor seemed affected.

“I’d seen all along that it might be easy to put the blame on her – quite easy. Then I saw the way to make certain – and to get even with Oswald Dale as well. So last night I rang him up – rang him up – yes, rang him up. I’d been ringing up – this; and – I couldn’t get an answer; but I got an answer fast enough from Oswald Dale. You know I did.”

He looked at the man of whom he asked the question as if he hoped that his word would bite him.

“That is quite correct, you did. I was in – I happened to be at work when your call came and of course I promptly answered. It is my custom to answer a telephone call as promptly as I can.”

“Your custom! You didn’t know what that call meant.”

“I didn’t; I wondered. I was more than half inclined to think that I was being made the subject of a foolish practical joke.”

“And this morning, the call you had this morning – what about that? Did you go to Broad Street Station? Did you see her – the girl who did it?”

“You saw Miss Grant last night in St James’ Park; you caused a note to be given her in which a request was made that she should be at Broad Street Station this morning at half-past nine. Then you sent the message to me this morning that I should see her there. I don’t profess to quite understand the purpose in your muddled brain, but I’ve a faint glimmering of what it was.”

Cecil Jennister looked at the speaker in silence for a moment, as if he hesitated what to make of him; then, as if ignoring his words, he went on with his own story.

“But it made no difference to whom I telephoned, to Oswald Dale, or to Oswald anyone – no, it didn’t. I still had that feeling in my fingers, I had to keep on looking if anything was there. I’ve rung up this house I don’t know how many times today; and this afternoon I rang again – and someone answered – someone answered; and I – I knew that he was found, that he must be found – that whoever had answered must have found him; and – I think that I was glad, oh, yes, I think I was glad. Then – a little time after I rang again, and my father answered; I had heard his voice too often not to know it – I knew his voice – I knew it. Then – I went and got something to drink; I had to go and get something to drink – then I came here. It doesn’t matter now I’m done, does it? Like this” – he put his hand up to his throat with a gesture which was intended to suggest that there was a rope about it – “or like this?”

He was standing by the table on which was the telephone. Before anyone had an inkling of what it was he intended to do he snatched up the revolver which lay, under its cover of dust, on the leather despatch-box, and he pointed it at his head. That dust had not in any way injured its mechanism, or damaged the charge which it contained he instantly proved. There was a general rush in his direction. Before anyone could reach him the weapon had been discharged twice in rapid succession. At the second report he fell to the floor. The inspector and the doctor both leant over him.

“Has he done himself much harm?”

It was the inspector who put the question, the doctor who replied.

“He is dead.”

— XIII —
THE NEWS

When Oswald Dale returned to the Morris’s house it was later than he had originally intended; the two hours of which he had spoken to Mrs Morris as likely to be the duration of his absence had been considerably exceeded.

His friend, Frank Morris, met him in the hall with extended hands.

“My dear Oswald, this is a pleasure as great as it is unexpected; I haven’t seen you—” He stopped as if struck by something in Mr Dale’s appearance. “Old man, what’s wrong? You look – I hope nothing serious has upset you.”

The smile on Dale’s face was not exactly a merry one.

“I’ve had more strange events crowded into the last few hours than have come my way during all the rest of my left put together. Perhaps its because I lead such a humdrum existence that I notice them; but – I certainly have found them a bit upsetting. Where’s Miss Grant?”

“She’s with my wife in the drawing-room.”

“If you’ll allow me I think I’ll go to her; there’s something I’ve got to say to her at once, in order to get it off my mind – if you’ll permit me.”

“Permit you! My dear fellow, I shall be only too delighted if you’ll do just as you like. I’ll call my wife out.” Opening the door of a room, he called to someone within, “Emma!” Mrs Morris came out. “Here’s Oswald Dale, he is very anxious to see Miss Grant for a few moments alone.” Then to Dale, “There you are – you’ll find the lady within.”

Beatrice Grant rose from a chair as Dale went in. She had removed her hat and jacket. Their absence seemed to make her look still younger; she was presented in a new aspect which to his thinking made her, if the thing were possible, look even prettier than before. That flower-like charm which, that morning, in rather a fanciful sense, he seemed to characterise her face, recurred to him with even greater force as he saw her then; if only because, as she saw him enter, blood coming into her cheeks dyed them with the hue of pink roses.

She moved a step forward; then, as if frightened at her own boldness, drew back, then, because she was unable to dissemble her eagerness, came on.

“I’m so glad you’ve come – I was afraid something had happened.” She saw his agitation, that he was under the influence of some strong emotion. Her voice dropped, as if she were afraid. Her eyes were opened wider. “What – what has happened?”

“Everything has happened.”

“Everything? What – what is everything? I – I hope that doesn’t mean that there’s going to be more trouble; that – that there’s nothing very wrong.”

“It means that for you there’s going to be no more trouble, never again. I’m not feeling quite myself because I’ve just been present at a very painful scene. I’d better tell you all about it now, because, having once told you, I need never recur to the matter again – it will be over and done with for ever and a day.”

“Yes, please – please tell me; I’d rather be told anything than be kept in suspense – I feel that I couldn’t stand it. I’ve had to bear so much that – I don’t think I could bear much more.”

“You’ll never have anything more to bear – of that kind anyhow; the future is going to give you all the happiness which you’ve had to do without in the past. It was Cecil Jennister who murdered your uncle.”

“Cecil Jennister? How do you know?”

“Because I’ve just been listening to his confession. He has confessed everything, in the presence of his father—”

“Poor old man!” It was breathed rather than spoken.

“And of others, including an Inspector of Police. At the end – he blew his brains out; he’s dead.”

The girl looked at him with intently staring eyes. As full comprehension of what he said began to come to her she drew back, shuddering.

“Poor Cecil! I never thought that it would come to that.”

“After all, it was the best way out; worse might have happened had he lived. It was all done in a moment, before any of us suspected his intention. My own personal impression is that he was not sane; probably he never was quite sane. A medical man who was also there, and heard him, is of my opinion. I believe, Miss Grant, that in all that has happened, a special providence has been watching over you; as I listened to that dreadful man’s dreadful confession, I felt that stronger and stronger; it seems to me that only a special providence could have brought you through unscathed. There’s another thing – it turns out that you’re an heiress.”

“An heiress? You mean my two thousand pounds.”

“I mean more than that. Now I’ve told you the worst; I think if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you the best in the presence of your host and hostess, and my old friends.” He went and spoke at the open door. “Frank! Mrs Morris! Would you mind coming here?” The husband and wife appeared. “There is some good news which I have to tell Miss Grant, and I should like you to hear what it is.” He turned to the girl. “As I was just about to say to you, you’re an heiress, not only to the extent of your own two thousand pounds, which is perfectly safe, but also, in quite another sense. Your uncle left you everything of which he died possessed.”

“My uncle – has left me everything? Uncle Norton?”

“Yes, your uncle, Christopher Norton. He treated you ill enough while he was alive; after a fashion he has atoned for his ill-treatment now that he is dead. They found among his papers, before I came away, his will. It’s a curious document, characteristic of the man who made it, but it’s perfectly valid – in a legal sense, as sound as the Bank of England. By it he has left you everything of which he died possessed.”

Mr Morris spoke – the girl seemed dumb.

“That is indeed good news; I congratulate you, Miss Grant. And – the gentleman to whom you refer, if it’s not an impertinent question, has he left much?”

“I am unable to give you the exact, or even the approximate figures, but from what I understand, and have seen, I should say that he died a very rich man. I shall not be surprised if it turns out that he has left what is regarded, even nowadays, as a very considerable fortune.”

“And – he lived like that?” This was the girl, speaking hardly above a whisper.

“Yes, and he lived like that. It doesn’t follow that because a man lives frugally that he’s not in a position to live what the world calls better; but Mr Norton certainly seems to have carried frugality – we will say to very nearly its extremest limits. And after all, he lived as he preferred to live, so there you are. The point is, Miss Grant, that you are very rich young lady; and – you must forgive my saying it; it’s not said unkindly – I’m not sure if I’m glad or sorry; you see, it places you in a position which is so infinitely above mine. You perceive how entirely selfish is my point of view.”

“Nothing can place me in a position which is above yours.”

Mr Dale laughed, rather ruefully.

“My dear young lady! that’s all you know.”

She spoke with a sudden show of firmness which, in one who had hitherto been so meek, was a little surprising.

“Yes, that is all I know; but that I do know; I do know that it will make no difference.”

— XIV —
NO DIFFERENCE

And it did make no difference, in the sense in which Beatrice Grant had used the word, and that, although she turned out to be a richer young woman even than Mr Dale had at first supposed. Christopher Norton proved to have been an extraordinary person. While living at the rate of less than a hundred a year, he had been the owner of property which had brought him in many annual thousands; not the least curious part of the position was that if he had not refused to spend money on his own property, it would have brought him in much more, For instance, it turned out that he was the owner of all the houses in the street in which he lived; because he refused to put them in a state of proper repair, they brought him in practically nothing. When, under the new ownership, they were put into a habitable state, they all of them quickly found excellent tenants, and now bring in quite a comfortable income every year. The same might be said of the major part of his possessions; they most of them needed money to be spent on them to make them income-producing properties. And as there was money to spend – he had more than twenty thousand pounds in notes and gold in his own bedroom, which had apparently been lying idle for years – and money was wisely, yet lavishly, spent; the income from the estate was increased out of all knowledge in a very short time.

If Mr Dale had had his way, these facts would have made a very great difference. The one fact that Miss Grant was on the high road to become something like a female millionaire made her, from his point of view, a denizen of a different world. But his point of view was not the lady’s; more, she would not allow that it was his.

“The idea,” she once informed him, “that pounds, shillings, and pence do the things you pretend is ridiculous, illogical, and altogether unthinkable.”

As she addressed him in this strain on quite a number of occasions, it will be observed that her manner towards Oswald Dale had altered very considerably since that first evening when they were alone together in the taxicab.

“You are treating me,” she told him once, “very badly indeed.”

As she said this to him with her head in the air, and he stood in front of her with eyes cast down, a picture of humility, a mere looker-on might have been excused for supposing that the ill-treatment came from the other side. She continued to address him in what really was almost a tone of disdain

“You haven’t been to see me for more than a week – why?”

She asked the questions as if she held a pistol to his head. The poor man seemed quite hard put to it to find an answer.

“I – I’ve had so many engagements.”

“What engagements have you had?”

“Oh, various kinds.”

“I’ve had to come to the City to see you now.”

This interview actually took place at the man’s office, in business hours, with the clerks on tiptoe in the anteroom, and his partners wondering what the young woman, whose gorgeous motor car was waiting at the door, might want with Oswald Dale, when, as they knew perfectly well, there were a dozen matters which demanded his immediate attention.

But she cared for none of the dozen – it is amazing how little women sometimes do care for business matters of the most pressing kind; particularly when they call on men at their offices in the City.

“You can sit down.”

“Thank you, I’m very much obliged.”

As a matter of fact, she was occupying his own particular chair; he placed himself upon another.

“I’ve come to have a straight talk with you.”

“Have you? That’s very good of you.”

But somehow he did not look as if he thought it very good.

“Did you dislike me when you first met me at Shanklin?”

The question was so wholly unexpected that, to use a metaphor, it seemed to knock all the wind out of his sails.

“Dislike you? You know I didn’t; I – I never liked anyone better.”

“Then why did you begin to dislike me?”

“Begin? I have never begun.” From his manner he seemed to be getting a trifle warm.

“Then why do you treat me as if you had?”

“Surely I do nothing of the kind.”

“You place me in a very difficult position.”

“Indeed! I don’t see how? What have I done?”

“What haven’t you done? I owe everything to you – everything; and you treat me as if I owed you nothing. It’s monstrous. You wouldn’t, you couldn’t, treat me like that if you liked me even a little bit; especially as you know I – I love you.”

To do the young woman justice, when she said this, she was overcome by what seemed to be signs of confusion. But her confusion was nothing to his. He bounded out of his seat.

“Miss Grant!”

So far as she was concerned all signs of what had seemed to be confusion fled; she became, instead, very matter of fact, and a very collected young woman – and certainly from a physical point of view, the attitude became her; she looked radiantly lovely. There was sweet fire in her eyes, soft colour in her cheeks, something in the roguish smile which played about her pretty mouth which was nothing less than bewitching.

“How dare you call me Miss Grant – do you love me or don’t you? You know you do, and I know you do! – then why don’t you say so? How ridiculous you are – especially as I believe you’ve loved me ever since I was crying like a silly in the other corner of that taxicab.”

“It’s a fact, I have.”

“Then think what you’ve made me suffer by keeping me wondering when you were going to tell me so.”

“But compared to you, I’m a beggar.”

“Beggar! Do you think money matters when you’re a man and I’m a woman?”

It will be perceived that this young woman had certainly travelled a considerable distance since we met her first – and she was so beautiful; more like a flower than ever. “Without the man she loves every woman’s a beggar-and that’s what I am; especially as you’ve made me come begging to you – and in the City! It isn’t as though it were in a wood, or a lane, or a field, or one of those conventional places – but in your office in the City! I tell you frankly, when I look back and think how nice you used to be, I never should have thought that you could have treated me so cruelly. I’m getting an old woman.”

“An old woman? My dear.”

“Say that again.”

“What?”

“My dear – say it again, as if you meant it.”

He gave a great sigh, and then he relieved his mind.

“There’s never been a time when I haven’t loved you; from the first minute when I saw you on the Shanklin sands – I know it now. And when I saw you again, that evening in the taxicab, I knew what love for a woman meant. And the knowledge has grown and grown, until now I have come to know that that is the greatest thing in the world, the one thing. Even if I had never told you, I should have been a happy man – because I loved you.”

“And, pray, what should I have been?”

She leaned towards him across the table till her face was not very far from his. He was silent, as if he were looking at something in her eyes which filled him with a feeling which raised him beyond speech. So she went on:

“What do you think a woman feels like when she knows that a man want to tell her, and she wants him to tell her, and he won’t? It’s worse than burning.”

His answer was to get up from his chair. He went round to her on her side of the table, and when he came to her she also rose. And he took her in his arms. And while she was still in his arms a tactless clerk came into the room without knocking at the door. And when that clerk had gone, she said:

“Now, you’ll have to marry me.”

And he did – were there not paragraphs reporting the wedding in all last week’s papers? So the fact that she was an heiress did make no difference.

In the Lion’s Jaws

It was Monday morning in Hilton village, after morning school. A group of boys were standing, with their hands in their pockets, staring at a parti-coloured placard, enlivened with illustrations of animals, known and unknown, engaged in most remarkable evolutions. It was an announcement to the effect that Banger’s Menagerie, of worldwide celebrity, would appear for one day; and one day only, in the favoured village. Everybody was invited to come; people generally were informed that such a combination of attractions was never before, and would never again, be found in one menagerie, and were requested to take particular notice that the charge Upon This Occasion – in large capitals – was only Threepence.

“I shall go,” said Charlie Phillips, rattling the contents of his pockets, “only I’ve got no money.”

“So shall I,” said George Bailey, “if I can get some.”

“I had some money on Saturday,” said Harry Seymour, gravely, thinking the matter over; “but I don’t think my mother’ll give me any more; I’ve had my pocket-money in advance for I don’t know how long.”

“I wonder,” said young Ted Marshall, standing by, “if they’d let us in half-price. I’ve got a penny.”

“That’s not half-price,” said Dan Owen, who had not even that humble sum; “what are you thinking of?”

There was a pause. Their thoughts were very simple – how, individually, they were to raise that threepence. Banger’s Menagerie was not a frequent visitor, and to miss seeing it when it did come was not to be thought of. Those pictures were grand, the one representing a lion standing on his hind legs, knocking down an elephant with one paw, while his mouth, turned towards them, was opened so wide that they could almost hear him, and with little effort of imagination fancy the elephant walking down his throat, was not to be sneered at. The only question was about those threepences.

“I wonder,” said George Bailey, after some reflection, “if they’d let us in for nothing, and let us pay next time they come round.”

No one answered. They were inclined to think that Mr Banger, benefactor of his species though he might be, would scarcely see his way clear to give them credit to that extent. So George Bailey wondered all alone.

“My father,” said Dan Owen, “will give me threepence, I know, and you see if I don’t go in this afternoon.”

The others envied him. Their fathers, they were afraid, would not give them threepence, and they were tolerably sure that they would not go in that afternoon. Still, there is nothing like trying, and each went his way, resolved to raise the money if the thing were possible.

But when they were reassembling for school again, the conclusion had been arrived at that it was impossible. One or two fortunate ones had got the cash, but by far the greater number had got nothing but very plain hints that they had better not ask for anything of the kind again. This was hard, and there were these among them who felt that fate to them was cruel.

“It’s tyranny,” said George Bailey, who had had his ears boxed for persisting in his petition; “that’s what it is. When I’m grown up, and have a boy, I’ll let him go to menageries, see if I don’t?”

“Ah!” said Dan Owen, who had the money, and had come up to make his friends comfortable by showing it to them, “my father don’t mind; he’s given me the money and a half holiday.”

“Well,” said Charlie Phillips, whose temper was not improved because Dan was going, “a few half-holidays won’t do you any harm, for a more ignorant fellow, and a thicker head than yours, I never knew.”

But Dan said nothing. He could afford to let them lose their tempers. Whistling “Camp Town Races,” and with a sweet smile upon his face, he walked slowly from them in the direction of the menagerie. As soon as he was gone Harry Seymour called Phillips and Bailey aside, and broached to them a scheme which had been fermenting in his head.

“I know,” he said, “I’m going, with the money or without it, and you fellows can come too if you are the sort that I take you for.”

They looked at him.

“What do you mean?” said Charlie; “you don’t think they’ll let you in for nothing?”

“I will tell you,” said Harry. And he told them. His plan was very simple; simplicity was its chief point, and impudence as well. Money was to have nothing to do with the matter. Harry’s visit was to be strictly gratis. Nor was he to go in with the crowd; his inspection was to be a private one. In fact, he proposed that they should wait till the business of the day was over, all the visitors were gone,and the menagerie closed, and then creep in when nobody was looking.

“But supposing we get found out?” said George, who saw the plan had drawbacks.

“We shan’t be,” said Harry. “But where’s the harm, supposing we are.”

“A great deal,” said George. “I’ve no taste to be half pickled by a horsewhipping if you have.”

“Pooh!” said Harry, “they daren’t touch us? They’d never be able to come here again if they horsewhipped us.”

Which was what he said, he would have found it hard to say on what authority.

“But,” said Charlie, starting objection number two, “It will be so dark we shall be able to see nothing.”

“Oh yes we shall,” said Harry, who was not going to have cold water thrown on his scheme; “it will be light enough; it’s never dark these nights, and they’re sure to leave some lights inside.”

There was a pause, they walking round the playground, each busied with his own reflections.

“I don’t mind,” said George, finally announcing his decision; “it wouldn’t be half a bad lark, and I should like to see the thing at any price.”

Charlie followed suit, so Harry had his way.

Before going in all arrangements were made. The trio were to meet at a certain place at a certain hour, and then act as circumstances prompted them. Harry particularly warned them to say nothing to anybody else, on the ground that if their plan got wind they would have a whole troop at their heels, and then to attempt to escape discovery would be hopeless. And then, on the understanding that each was to hold his tongue, they parted for the afternoon.

Evening came, and with it a clear sky, a bright moon, innumerable stars. The business at Banger’s had been fairly brisk, as good as he himself under the circumstances could expect. Hilton was a small place, and if a fair proportion of the inhabitants patronised his unrivalled show he could have no fault to find. But by nine o’clock people, who were early sleepers there, had had enough of him and his menagerie as well, and, under the starlit heavens, his keepers and assistants commenced the process of closing for the night. This was the time for our three heroes.

Banger’s Menagerie had taken its stand in the centre of the village green. In one corner of the green was a clump of trees, growing close together, forming a convenient shade in the daytime from the sun, at night from passers-by. This was to be the rendezvous. George Bailey was first upon the ground, and for some few minutes he had the pleasure of cooling his heels and watching the last few stragglers departing from the centre of attraction. Then Seymour and Phillips came up together.

“You’re a nice sort,” said George to Harry, when he came up, “keeping a fellow waiting like this!”

“Keeping you waiting!” retorted Harry; “who’s been keeping you waiting? we can’t do anything until the coast is clear.”

So they waited, taking care to keep beneath the shadow of the trees, and escape as much attention as possible.

Time passed on. Banger’s visitors would dawdle, and when the last of them had gone, Banger’s people had their turn. They showed not the slightest inclination to retire; and, having put out the lights, haunted the precincts of the show in a fashion which did not at all meet the views of our young friends. It was getting late; time had passed; and yet there seemed no chance of doing what they had come to do. The moon hung like a golden coin overhead, and, under her light it would be impossible to escape detection from the sharp eyes of Banger’s assistants, resting after toil. George Bailey was getting desperate.

“I shan’t stand much more of this,” he declared. “I shall have my father looking for me, thinking I’m drowned, or something of that sort, if I don’t look out.”

It was unpleasant to be kept waiting; but then the folks at Banger’s did not know they were in the way.

“Nonsense,” said Harry; “it’s no good going home after all this trouble; it will be all, right in a minute; wait till the moon goes under a cloud, and then we’ll make a dash for it.”

As luck had it, the moon did go under a cloud soon after. The heavens were dotted with fleecy travellers, and one of those coming in her path, hid her from the world. Then Harry gave the word to run for it.

Banger’s people had gone for a time to the other side of the menagerie, so, for the minute, there was no one there to notice them. Peeping out from among the trees to see that all was safe, taking advantage of their absence, Harry, passing the word to the others, with them pressing at his heels, ran his hardest across the green. All three bent low, and, if only somebody had seen their flight, suspicion would have been roused directly. But, as it chanced, there was no one there to see, and they reached the canvas goal of their ambition without discovery.

Everybody knows what a travelling menagerie is like – a caravan in front, caravans all round, and a canvas tent covering the centre. At least, such was Banger’s. They reached the tent right at the back, and paused a moment to recover breath, and consider what next was to be done. So far they were unobserved; but to stay where they were was to court discovery every moment.

“Let’s see,” said Harry, “if we can’t lift the canvas, and get under.”

No sooner said than done. The canvas, fastened down close enough in most places, here and there hung quite loose, and with little difficulty they raised it sufficiently high to creep under on hands and knees. Harry went first, Charlie second, George brought up the rear.

“Hullo!” said Harry, as soon as he was in; “what’s that?”

He might well say what that was; it was a pretty hard bump of his head against a harder substance. Not seeing where he was going, he had cannoned into one of the cages which stood in his path. While he was rubbing his head, and wishing it elsewhere, a stifled roar came from its inmate, sounding so close to where they were that they gave a start of alarm.

“Whatever’s that?” said Charlie, clutching George, perhaps unintentionally, by the elbow.

“I don’t know,” said George, comfortingly; “I daresay it’s a lion. My goodness! if it were to get loose!”

It was a pleasant suggestion. Where they stood, contrary to Harry s predictions, it was at first so dark, that they could scarcely see their hands in front of them. But, after a while, when they became used to their surroundings, the darkness somewhat faded, and, in the dim shadow, they began to make out the outlines of the different cages, and other objects, whose identity they could not fix.

Harry, by cautiously putting out his hand and feeling, had discovered that the backs of the cages were to them, so that there was little chance of any unwelcome curiosity, whose capability of seeing in the darkness was superior to theirs, putting out an unexpected paw, and making their acquaintance.

“I say,” said George, who had not recovered from the shock that growl had given him, “I thought you said it was going to be light; what’s the good of coming if there’s nothing to be seen.”

“All right,” said Harry, “wait till we get into the middle. I’ve got a box of matches in my pocket; then we’ll have a look about us.”

It was very well saying wait till we get into the middle, but it was what they found it difficult to do. One and all were unwilling to make a step in any direction, not knowing what they might step into or against. It was not pleasant to know they were in the midst of wild animals, whom they could not see, but who, for all they knew, could see them well enough. They began to think that visiting a menagerie gratis might not be altogether an unmixed happiness.

“It’s no good our stopping here,” said Harry, truly enough. “I’m going to chance it.”

His mode of chancing it was to go down upon his hands and knees, and make the best way he could in that position. The others followed his example. They found that the cage in front of them was in reality a caravan. Under it they crawled. When they reached the other side Harry stood up.

“Shall I strike a match?” he said, doubtfully.

“Do, for gracious sake!” said Charlie, still down on hands and knees. “I don’t like this sort of thing at all.”

Taking his matchbox, Harry proceeded to light one, strangely enough, with rather a shaky hand. Scratch, scratch, went the match, flickering first, then bursting into a flame. It only lasted a moment, then went out again; but, in the instant it did last, the creatures about them, either annoyed at the sudden illumination, or wisely suspecting everything was not as it should be, burst into such a discord of sounds that, in sudden terror, Harry dropped the box from his hands, and fell upon his knees, hoping to find, nearer his friends, that security which he did not feel elsewhere. While the discord lasted they clung closely together, expecting every moment the keepers would come in, or something would happen, and, at the least, the would be discovered. But it was not so. Tillie tumult lasted a few seconds, then died away, and all was still.

“Did you ever hear such a row in all your life?” said Charlie Phillips, when he had nerve enough to speak.

“No,” said George, solemnly, “never.”

They waited to see if the noise would be resumed; but all remained silent.

“I shall get out of this,” said Charlie, breaking the pause. “I’ve had enough of it. Shan’t I catch it when I get home.”

“Don’t be such a donkey!” said Harry, whose courage had somewhat returned, and who did not wish such poor results as the issue of his great scheme. “Where’s that matchbox?”

“If you strike another match,” said George, whose nerves were more disorganised than Harry’s, “I’ll—”

“What will you do?” said Harry, feeling for the box. “Why, you’re a perfect muff! Do you think, after taking all this trouble, I’m going to back out of it without having a sight of the creatures, man or no man? No thank you, not if I know it!”

Just then he found the box, as he proceeded to show by taking out a match. George caught hold of his arm.

“Charlie,” he said, “don’t you let him! we’ll all get killed!”

“You Molly!” said Harry, snatching his arm away; “do you think I’m afraid?”

Before there was a chance for further argument, the match was lighted and the deed was done.

None, however, of the results followed which George had feared and Harry had scarcely looked forward to with pleasurable anticipations. The animals had either had enough of roaring, or else did not deign again to notice the unusual light. They kept perfect silence. Harry, with the flaming match in his hand, stood up, and looked around him. The others also inspected their position with anxious glances.

They stood in an avenue, forming in its entire length a circle, and before and behind were cages. In fact, it was the menagerie, so placed as to give, in one walk round, a complete view of all that it contained. Some of the cages were closed, either because they were empty, or because it was the custom of the occupants to spend the night in an Egyptian darkness. In some of the others the occupants were wide awake, performing a sort of hand-mill drill round and round their narrow quarters. Behind was the cage against which Harry had bumped his head. The inhabitant, he declared, to be a species of foreign fox, Charlie maintaining it to be a wolf, George a laughing-jackass. Whatever it was – even if it was the latter – it was an ugly-looking creature, perpetually snarling as it paced to and fro behind the bars.

Gathering courage as they found no notice was taken of their presence, George and Charlie stood up by Harry, and together they promenaded round the cages. It was rather a trouble to have to keep on lighting matches, especially as more than once Harry burnt his fingers by holding them too long; but as he said nothing, it was not their business to complain.

They had completed their round, and were thinking of returning the way they came, when Harry’s attention was caught by a cage which stood close by. Presumably it was a cage, though, as far as they could see, it might be anything, for it was closed in front by the side of the caravan, which acted as a kind of lid to be opened and shut at leisure. It was fastened at the top by a large iron button. Near at hand stood a pole.

“I wonder,” said Harry, lighting what was nearly his last match, “what’s in here?”

Before they knew what he was going to do, he took the pole, raised it, and turned the button round.

Down came the side, nearly crashing on his head, striking his shoulder with sufficient force to knock him down. His fall, which knocked match and matchbox from his hand, probably saved him from far worse than a blow; for almost simultaneously a tremendous roar filled the tent, and, looking up, he saw a great animal bound out of the cage onto the ground behind him.

The scene which followed was sufficiently appalling. The united noise made by the falling caravan, and the roaring animal, effectually roused every creature in the place. The uproar, which would have been bad enough in the day time, was rendered worse by the darkness and the uncertainty of their position. Harry, too terrified and stunned to move, lay where he had fallen.

“What was that?” said George, all his fears returning.

“A lion!” said Charlie; “let’s run for it.”

It was a matter in which they made no scruple, and, dashing to the side, they left Harry to manage as best he could.

Harry always protested that the few minutes which followed were the most exciting in his life, and it is not unlikely he was right. There he lay, helpless in the dark, amid the din of beasts, and at the mercy of he knew not what. He could neither move nor cry, and remained motionless for the course events would take. He knew the creature which had jumped from the caravan was just near him, and when it came, actually standing over him, and he felt its hot breath on his face, he thought his fate was sealed.

How long it lasted, he could not say; it seemed to him hours; of course it was only minutes. They say that on such occasions time flies with leaden wings. Anyhow, never was a more welcome sound than when he heard footsteps approaching the tent, saw the canvas lifted, and a man step inside with a lantern in his hand. Then, for the first time, to his exceeding terror, he found that the animal standing over him was a full-grown lion!

And it must have been a very well-satisfied lion, or else one well-bred, for it never made the slightest attempt to injure him; and when the newcomer saluted this king of beasts with a hearty kick, he left him at once, and crouched at his keeper’s feet. You may be bound Harry was up before you could say Jack Robinson.

“Well,” said the man, holding up the lantern, so as better to see his face, “you’re a pretty one! Pity he never ate you, and saved us butcher’s meat.”

Harry thought otherwise, and made a move by way of showing he would be more comfortable farther off.

“Hold hard,” said the man; “don’t you be too fast; you’ve got him out, now you’ve got to help to get him in again.”

Going to the caravan, he struck his hand against the bottom, and the lion, in obedience to the signal, sprang back from whence he came. This was a new experience to Harry, who had never thought lions could be got to behave like that. Lending a hand to lift the cover which he had been the means of bringing down, between them they fastened the lion once more in his own apartment. Then, following in the keeper’s steps, he quickly found himself in the open air, heartily glad to have got out of the adventure with whole bones.

Without he discovered his friends, George and Charlie, in the custody of half-a-dozen of Banger’s people, who had stopped them in their flight. The great Mr Banger was there himself, and the young gentlemen trembled for the consequences which yet might follow.

Luckily for them, Mr Banger had had a good supper, and was in a good humour; and, considering they had already suffered enough punishment from fright, he let them off with a warning not to try that sort of thing again.

Taking to their heels as soon as they were allowed, without offering much in the way of thanks, they tore off homeward.

Their gratis and private view had not been so successful as they had expected; and, if the report told true, the greeting they received at home was as warm as they deserved. Certain it is that for some days after, Harry Seymour was particularly careful of his hinder parts, and never sat down upon a seat without first examining if there were any pins in it.

A Memorable Night

Jack Hazard and Tom Green were sitting by a blazing fire, in the twilight of one January evening. It was holiday time, so Jack was at home, and with him was staying his friend, Tom Green. It was Jack’s special apartment, the room where he kept all his treasures, and all his rubbish. Around, in endless confusion, were lying bats, balls, stumps, fishing-rods, caps, single-sticks, and all the other properties in which boys take such great delight.

They were crouching over the fire, each one side of the hearth; the gas was still unlit, and the flames, playing upon their faces, showed two merry, roguish youngsters, about fifteen years of age, whose eyes were flashing with excitement. Jack held in his hand a paper, one of those rare prints telling of the heroes of Tyburn Tree, and of dead-and-gone highwaymen. Rubbishy nonsense, worth much less than the paper it was printed on, but they did not think so then. Their pulses were glowing with admiration of the individuals whose stories were supposed to be therein told.

“Tom,” said Jack, waving the print, and casting large shadows all over the room, “if I had my choice, and could be what I liked, I’d be a highwayman tomorrow.”

“So would I!” said Tom; “look at the lives they led! mustn’t it have been glorious? think of the moonlight rides! think of a horse like Black Bess!”

There was a short silence; each young gentleman was of the picture conjured up to his mind’s eye by the mere mention of such glories. There was an air of romance and wild adventure about these bygone heroes which charmed them greatly. If they could only have lived in those old days, and had a chance of following in their footsteps!

“Tom,” said Jack, suddenly springing up, breaking the silence with something like a shout. “I’ve a grand idea; why shouldn’t we have a try?”

“Have a try?” asked Tom, not understanding him, and not catching his friend’s enthusiasm;

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. Is there any reason why there shouldn’t be highwaymen now-a-days? Look at Paul Clifford; wasn’t he a scholar? and Claude Duval, wasn’t he a gentleman? Paul Clifford wasn’t always on the highway; look how he visited everywhere.” Jack sat down, and went on, in a quieter tone, but still very gravely.

“Tom, these are our holidays; I’m afraid they’ve not been very bright for you, and why we shouldn’t have just one night of it, I can’t see. It would be the most splendid fun that ever was! It’s Colonel Dixon’s party on Thursday; ever so many people are going, they’ll have to cross the moor; you know how lonely that is; it’s the very thing for us.”

“It would be a grand lark,” said Tom, more practical and less enthusiastic than his friends, “but awfully risky. Supposing we were found out?”

“Which we needn’t be,” said Jack, who thought his idea magnificent, “if we take care. Of course we’d have masks, and I’d have my pony, and you could have the old brown mare; don’t I know every inch of the moor? They’d never catch us on dark nights like these; besides, just think of the fright they’d be in.”

“If you’re quite sure,” said the cautious Tom, “that they wouldn’t catch us, and we shouldn’t get found out, I don’t mind – —”

“Of course not,” said Jack, interrupting him, excitedly; “I knew you wouldn’t.”

They went on talking till the twilight faded into darkness, the fire became a deeper and a deeper red, and the servant came to tell them tea was ready. Jack’s mind was full of his idea; he had read and read the nonsense about “Knights of the Road,” and such worthless, penniless scamps, till his head was full of it. He had a vivid imagination, plenty of pluck; and had his energies only been directed in the right direction, would have been a first-rate fellow. But, as it was, literature, instead of improving, spoilt him.

As for Tom, in Jack’s hands he was like clay to the modeller. His friend soon talked him into his scheme, and before they went to sleep that night these two young gentlemen matured a plan by which they were to become heroes in their own eyes, and hand their deeds down to a deathless fame.

Colonel Dixon,whose party Jack had said,was to take place on the following Thursday, was a gentleman who lived on the other side of Blank Moor, a large piece of waste land, which lay about a mile from Jack’s own home. As many of the guests would, in all probability, cross this moor, rendered more lonely than ever by the hour and the season, it would offer fine chances for an unexpected attack, and speedy flight afterwards. Besides, what would peaceful people, going to a ball, dressed in all their splendour, be able to do, on a winter’s night, and in such a lonely place, against highwaymen?

The day came, and, as the shadows fell, the boys were in such a state of excitement that an observant eye might easily have perceived something unusual was in the wind. But people were too much engaged with other matters to pay much attention to them, for, as it chanced, Jack’s own family were going to the ball.

It was gloomy weather, and nothing could have been less inviting for an outdoor excursion than the appearance of things as the evening lowered. The snow fell heavily, and a keen wind was blowing from the north-east. All day long it was so dark, they had to have gaslight for reading. There was a murky thickness in the air; and what with the snow, the cold, the wind, and the fog, it was about as unpleasant weather as can be seen even in the Lincolnshire fens.

“I say, Jack,” said Tom, whose fingertips were blue with cold, and who could only feel the warmth twelve inches from the fire, “it’s not a very bright look-out. There’s not much chance of a ride by moonlight in weather like this.”

“All the better,” said Jack, who was determined to see everything through rose-coloured spectacles; “less chance of being seen. Why, a fog’s the very thing we want.” If so, their wants were peculiar; few people find much pleasure in a yellow mist which looks as though you could cut it with a knife.

They had arranged to start at six. The invitations for the ball were for seven; but the guests had some distance to ride, and people in such weather were likely to be early rather than late. At the last moment Tom Green was inclined to stop at home; it was so bitterly cold, he said, and only agreed to go on receiving Jack’s consent to a costume than which nothing could have made him look less like the received idea of what highwaymen used to be. First of all, he put on his vest, shirt, and waistcoat, then two football jerseys, then his coat, then his overcoat, then over that a multitude of scarves and comforters to keep everything quite warm. If Dick Turpin, or any of his friends, ever looked anything like Tom Green did, then he must have looked very undignified indeed. It went to Jack’s heart when he saw him; but, as he would not go any other way, he was obliged to let him go as he liked.

At the stable an unexpected difficulty met them. Jones, the groom, declined point-blank to let them have the mare, or the pony either.

“His horses,” he declared, “he was not going to have played any pranks with on a night like this.”

But Jack knew as well as anyone how to get on Jones’ soft side; and by dint of many promises of sundry tips and assurances that they would take the greatest care of them, bringing them home safe and sound as they were taken out, he wrung from him a reluctant consent. Saddling their steeds with their own hands, for Jones would move not a finger to their aid, they led them to the stable door, mounted, and were away through what was already a pitch black night.

“I wish,” said Tom, who was in vain endeavouring to see what was in front of him, “I had brought an umbrella; the snow gets into my eyes enough to blind me.”

“You muff!” said Jack; “who ever heard of a highwayman with an umbrella?”

It really was ticklish work; to see where they were going was next to impossible, and if Jack led the way, as he said he could, over the moor in such a light, he would have to know it very well indeed. On they went, Tom grumbling at every step, over and over again almost pitching forward onto his nose, for the old brown mare could scarcely keep her footing. Luckily they were good riders, or our two highwaymen would soon have damaged themselves to such an extent that they would have been able to do very little damage to anybody else.

They had arranged to take up their station in an old barn which stood on the outskirts of the moor, and which had been originally erected to give shelter to stray cattle. This would afford them some protection from the weather, and at the same time was sufficiently near the road to enable them to see vehicles passing in either direction. After one or two futile endeavours to discover its whereabouts, which showed that Jack was not as much at home as he expected he would be, they ended by all but charging right into the back of it.

“Look out!” cried Jack, seeing something black suddenly loom in front of him, and pulling his pony back upon its haunches; “here it is.”

It was all very well to give warning then, but Tom, who as he said, was almost blinded by the snow, did not discover its neighbourhood till the old brown mare ran her head against the back of it with sufficient force to make her kick with unpleasant violence. Going round the other way, they entered, and briefly considered their situation.

“When we hear anybody coming,” said Jack, who took upon himself the command of the expedition, “I’ll ride out, and you follow me, and I’ll cry out ‘Stand and deliver!’ Then you go to the horses’ heads and present your pistol at the coachman. I’ll go to the carriage-window and make them give up what they have about them.”

“It’s all very well,” said Tom, “but suppose the coachman hits at me with his whip?”

“He won’t,” said Jack the positive; “he’ll be too much afraid.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Tom; “if he does, I shan’t stand it..”

“You needn’t be afraid,” said Jack, with some symptoms of contempt; “coachmen are always in an awful fright. Where’s your mask? we’d better put them on.” These masks were little crape affairs, commonly called dominoes. They had purchased them from a theatrical costumier, sending for them all the way to London, and their cost had made a large hole in their spare cash. Then they examined their pistols.

In the matter of the pistols there had been a slight difference of opinion. Both had agreed that it would be out of the question to load them with bullets, but Jack had insisted that it was indispensable to fill them with blank powder; Tom, on the other hand, declining to use anything more dangerous than a cap which would go bang. In vain did Jack argue the point. Tom stood firm; so that while Jack filled his pistol – a rusty old weapon, which he had purchased a bargain from one of his father’s gamekeepers – up to the muzzle with powder, Tom contented himself with placing a percussion-cup upon the nipple.

Time passed on; it was bitterly cold, and more than once Tom declared that, if he only knew the way, he would go home, and leave his friend to play highwayman by himself. But at last their patience was rewarded. Tom was slapping his arms across his chest, announcing, with almost tears in his eyes, that he was frozen to the bones, when, on the right, the sound of carriage wheels was heard approaching.

“Look out!” said Jack, in a fever of excitement, “they’re coming; are you ready?”

“As ready as I ever shall be,” said the gallant Tom, whose spirits had sunk down to zero; “it’s misery.”

On came the approaching carriage. There could be no doubt it contained the guests for the ball. They could see the lamps flashing through the fog, and could hear the horses making the best speed they could over the frosty ground. For it was freezing so fast, that the snow, which still fell, hardened as it reached the earth. Just as the carriage was almost in front of them, Jack gave the word, and rode out of the shed, with Tom close at his heels.

Tom was just going to carry out his part of the programme and ride to the horses’ heads, when, to his surprise, he saw his friend turn tail, and ride back to the barn as hard as he could, calling out:

“Come back, you muff! come back!”

Nothing loth, Tom did as he was requested, and rejoined his friend.

“What’s the matter?” he said, “why didn’t you call out ‘Stand and deliver!’”

“You’re a perfect duffer,” said Jack, who seemed out of temper about something; “didn’t you see it was our own carriage? It would have been a pretty thing to have asked my father and the girls to hand over their watches and chains and all the rest they had about them?”

Tom was so overcome by the discovery that he even forgot that he was cold, but remained turning the matter over and over in his mind. It would have been nice, he could not but confess, to have robbed his host in that style.

“There’s one thing,” said Jack, “we shall be all right now. We shall be quite sure that the next carriage will be somebody else’s, as the coast will be clear for us.”

They had not long to wait. Time was getting on, and barely five minutes had passed when carriage number two was heard approaching.

“Now,” said Jack, who was trembling all over with excitement, “get your pistol ready.”

A moment’s pause; the carriage came on.

“Now,” said Jack, “forward!” And they rode out of the barn, full speed.

The carriage was a large one, with a pair of horses, and a footman and coachman sitting upon the box.

Tom, as instructed, riding right in front of the animals’ heads, so frightened them, that they reared on their hind legs, and all but threw the carriage over.

Jack on his side, shouting out, “Stand and deliver!” in a loud clear voice, dashed at the door, deftly turned the handle, and fling it open, presenting his masked face, and levelled the pistol to the astonished inmates.

The scene which ensued was one of much confusion, the details of which neither of the young highwaymen could ever distinctly call to mind. Tom, at the horses’ heads, found it impossible to control the startled animals, who reared and plunged in a fashion dangerous to himself and to the occupants of the carriage alike. The coachman, off his guard, lashed indiscriminately at the horses, and at Tom. The consequence was, the horses becoming more terrified than ever, reared violently to one side, overturning the carriage and themselves with a crash upon the road. Aghast at this unexpected denouement, Tom lost his courage and fled. The footman, a high-spirited fellow, who escaped injury by springing from his seat, when he saw the imminence of the danger, seeing him fly, made no hesitation in following in pursuit. So away went Tom, with the footman at his heels.

Jack, on the other hand, fared even worse. Not a little to his confusion, the carriage, which he had hoped would contain at least some ladies, was occupied by four gentlemen. These, recovering from their first natural astonishment, showed very few signs of fear, presenting, indeed, an undaunted front. The vehicle was jerking from side to side, Jack clinging to it to retain his position, grew bewildered, and his pistol went off, without his meaning it, at the very moment when one of the gentlemen, seizing him by the arm,all but dragged him from his pony.

A second after, over went the carriage; the gentleman, still holding his arm, dragged him with it. He fell with a great crash, and then all was blank. In the fall he had struck his head upon some portion of the carriage, and was stunned by the blow.

When he came to, he was lying on the road. Around him were the four gentlemen, reinforced by other visitors who had come up in the interval. The snow still fell, the crowd of gentlemen, their servants – some with lamps in their hands – one or two ladies, whose curiosity overcame their prudence; the broken carriage lying by the wayside; the boy on the ground, the centre of a curious crowd; the darkness, the cold, the fog, the nature of the country, all tended to make the scene a most uncommon one.

“You’re a nice young villain!” said a gentleman, whom Jack recognized as Mr Sowden, a well-known magistrate; “you’ll pay dearly for this! I never heard of such barefaced villainy in all my life!”

Poor Jack! he felt very little like a highwayman then. His head hurt him terribly, the blood streamed from an open wound into his eyes; everybody looked at him with horror, as at some dreadful spectacle. He would dearly have liked to burst into a flood of tears, and beg everybody’s pardon on the spot. But it was too far gone for that, and, as Mr Sowden the magistrate said, he would have to pay dearly for his night’s adventure.

They took him straight from there to the station-house. No one bound up his wounds; everybody used him roughly, and, for the first time in his life, Jack Hazard understood what it was to be a criminal. How different was the theory to the practice! He would have given all that he had to have been safe at home in bed, and never to have heard of Dick Turpin, or anybody like him.

A gentleman who stood by lent his carriage for the occasion. In it, with Mr Sowden and another gentleman as guardians, the magistrate’s coachman sitting on the box, he was taken to jail. What a journey that was! Never to be forgotten in all his life!

When they reached the station, and he saw the policeman waiting to receive him, he could stand it no longer, but burst into a passion of weeping, crying for mercy, and begging to be taken home. Not that anybody cared for that; he had offended against the law, and the law must have its due. The inspector took the charge, and, as Jack listened to the awful recital, his heart sank lower still. And when a policeman, taking him by the coat collar, paying no heed unto his cries, hustled him into a cell, and the door closed upon him, and he knew that he was indeed a prisoner, all that was worth living for in the world seemed gone from him.

Throwing himself upon the cold stone floor of his darkened cell, he filled the air with his cries and lamentations. He did not feel much like a hero now; and his deeds, instead of being handed down to deathless fame, seemed likely to lead him to a miserable fate. He was so wrapped up in his misery that he was not even aware that from the office without were issuing cries every whit equal to his own. Even when the door was opened, and someone was flung, rather than led in, he did not even rouse himself to see who it might be.

The newcomer paid as little attention to him. He crouched in a comer of the cell, and cried and howled as though he were crying his heart away. Tom Green – for it was he – was quite as miserable as Jack, and quite as little to be comforted. His flight upon the old brown mare had been brought to a speedy termination by the mare putting her foot into a hole, and pitching him forward on his head. Then the footman, coming up, made short work of dragging him off to join his friend. So Tom Green was a prisoner too. By degrees the boys, fairly exhausted, ceased crying, and then each discovered that the other was there. It was little satisfaction to find that they were brothers in misfortune, but they at least could mingle their griefs together. Unfortunately their fate had not improved their feelings one towards the other.

“If it hadn’t been for you,” said Tom, “I shouldn’t have been in this scrape.”

“If you had managed those horses properly,” said Jack, “we should never have been caught.”

“I shall tell the judge,” said Tom, “that it was you proposed it all.”

“And I shall tell him,” said Jack, “that it was you overturned the carriage.”

This was not the way to put themselves into better spirits, and instead of making bad better, it made it worse. All through the night, until misery and fatigue fairly overcame them, they continued wrangling, disputing as to who really was to blame for their misfortunes, falling short of actual blows only through fear of the officers who might be on the watch outside.

The next morning found them more uncomfortable than ever; dirty, cut, wounded, and miserable. At an early hour a poor substitute for breakfast was brought to them, and then they were marched straight into the court. What a state was theirs! The court was crowded with people, who had got wind of the affair, and had come to look at the young highwaymen. They hung their heads, and dared look no honest man in the face. Mr Hazard himself was there, and was with Mr Sowden on a full bench of magistrates. The sight of his father looking so pale, and cross, and stern, brought tears again to Jack’s eyes, and he cried as though his heart would break. But it was no use; there was no pity for such as he.

The proceedings opened by Colonel Dixon, who was chairman for the occasion, calling Mr Sowden into the witness-box. There that gentleman told what you know already, and ended with an earnest appeal to be allowed to withdraw from the prosecution. Then the magistrates consulted together, and Colonel Dixon announced their decision.

“This is a case,” he said, “such as is, happily, seldom brought before the public – a case where one can but feel the deepest sympathy for the father, whose son has placed him in such a position, and for the lads whose folly has made them greatly amenable to the full severity of the law. We have, however, decided to listen to Mr Sowden’s earnest and heartfelt petition to be allowed to withdraw the prosecution. This we do – although we are not certain if we do our duty in permitting such a step, – because Mr Hazard, as the father of one prisoner, and Mr Green as the father of the other, has assured us that such punishment will be inflicted, and such steps taken, that a repetition of the act of which the prisoners are guilty will be impossible. As for you,” addressing the prisoners, “words of mine cannot express the disgust we feel that two lads, educated as you have been, Christians as you are supposed to be, should have allowed yourselves to be led astray by vicious literature into an act so wicked and so senseless. You are free now, but pray God you may never forget the lesson you have learned today.”

So, as the Colonel said, they were free. But what a freedom! They were followed by a hooting crowd all through the streets, and the thrashing inflicted by each parent upon his child they are not likely yet to have forgotten. They were sent straightway into a school which is remarkable for the severity of its discipline. When they come out again, you will hope with me that they may be better and wiser men.

It is not necessary to point my moral; it is obvious. Good books are among the grandest blessings vouchsafed to boys; he is wisest who uses books to the wisest ends. Choose your reading as you choose your path in life, because it leads to higher and nobler things. And as for the pleasure a vicious book can give, it is not to be compared – believe one who has tried both – to a good one. Try it, and see.

The Disappearing Diamonds

Mrs Turland was shown into the room by Mr Archibald’s servant, Newson. That charming lady, who, metaphorically, had all London at her feet, was in trouble.

“It’s all my own fault,” she candidly admitted; “but that doesn’t make it any better, does it?” She took a flat leather case out of her muff and laid it on the table.

“This,” she added, pointing to the case, “is the cause of it all.”

She touched a spring, the case flew open, disclosing a circlet of white stones which gleamed and sparkled on their velvet bed. Mr Archibald recognised it at a glance.

“Isn’t that the wonderful diamond necklace that your husband gave you, and which people call the River of Light?”

“You know something about diamonds – look! Is it?”

Taking up the shining circlet, he examined it carefully, stone by stone.

“It’s an uncommonly good imitation.”

“But you can tell it is an imitation.”

“Well, as you said, you see I know something about stones.”

“And doesn’t my husband? Would they deceive him? Not even in the dark – he’d tell by the feel. I’ve heard him say so. Mr McManus has the River of Light, Jacob wants to see it, and – that’s all I have to show him.”

“Who is Mr McManus? You surely don’t mean the gentleman who lends money at sixty per cent and upwards.”

“I hope there isn’t another Mr McManus, one’s enough for me – he’s been too much. I got into a mess – it’s no good your asking how, I’m not going to tell you, and I’m not sure that I could explain if I wanted to – I was frightfully pushed for money, Jacob was in Africa, I – I didn’t know where to turn – so I took the River of Light to Mr McManus.”

“Then, my dear cousin, you did an extremely foolish thing.”

“I am as well aware of that as you can be – I don’t need you to tell me; all the same, you don’t understand. He lent me five thousand pounds on it, at sixty per cent, and he deducted the first quarter’s interest in advance, and the understanding was that if I got a year behind with the interest, he was at liberty to sell the necklace, so that he might get back his money. I’ve – I’ve never paid him a penny of interest, I’ve never been able to; he makes out that I owe him eight thousand pounds, and he tells me that if it isn’t paid directly the necklace shall be sold – and now, after being away from me for nearly two years, Jacob’s come back from Africa, and – and he’s asked me twice already about the River of Light, and – now he’s asked me again, and I’ve had to tell him a tale about it’s being gone to be cleaned, but I said I’d get it back this morning, and if I don’t I’m – I’m simply ruined, that’s all.”

“And this?”

As he asked the question Mr Archibald was returning the shining circlet to its velvet bed.

“That’s a paste imitation, can’t you see it is for yourself? I had to get something – I’ve had to wear it sometimes, it’s taken in lots of people – only last week a silly man told me that he’d heard a great deal about my diamond necklace, and that it was more beautiful even than he had expected – and all the time he was looking at that thing. But you’ve spotted it at once, and as for Jacob – he’d be quicker still.”

The door opened and Newson ushered in Mrs Turland’s sister, Miss Vicary. Newson had a lady’s wrap over his arm; Miss Vicary, who seemed to be in a state of some agitation, gave him directions how to be rid of it – rather confused ones.

“Oh, put it down anywhere, on a chair, on the table, or anywhere – you’d better put it on the table, Newson, I want to sit upon that chair.”

The man laid the garment on the table and departed – the lady, however, did not sit upon the chair; apparently she was too excited to sit at all.

“Evelyn,” she exclaimed, as if she were announcing a fact of the direst import, “I’ve just left Sir Frank Burne, and he’d just seen Mr Turland, and Mr Turland’s coming here – – as I knew you were here, I thought I’d come and warn you, because I knew you had that imitation thing, and if Mr Turland saw it – all would be over.”

When Mr McManus, that well-known friend of the needy rich, arrived at his Sackville Street offices, he was greeted by his clerk, Mr Simeon.

“Sir Frank Burne just called to see you, sir. I told him you’d be here directly, I left him in the office while I went upstairs, and when I came down he was gone – I expect he’ll be back again soon.”

“Sir Frank Burne? Did he say what he wanted?”

“Not a word, except that he wanted to see you most particular.”

The money-lender went into his own private room. He glanced at the letters which awaited him upon the table, taking a cursory peep at the contents of one or two. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he took a flat leather case; which, on being opened, was found to contain a circlet of glittering stones which an untrained eye might have taken to be own brother to the one which we have just seen Mrs Turland showing to her cousin, George Archibald – only the usurer’s happened to be the trained eye and he knew better. He gloated over the shimmering glories of those radiant stones as if he could not tear his glance away from them.

“If she cannot find the money by today at noon, and it is already after eleven, they will be mine; I will so manage things that they will be mine. I do not think that the money will be found in time.”

He grinned, as if the prospect pleased him; then looked up quickly as a sound caught his ear.

“Who’s there?”

The door was opened before the answer came to admit a gentleman who in appearance was not at all unlike Mr McManus.

“Do not be frightened, it is only Cousin Joseph, who comes to pay you a little call. Well, Benjamin, how goes it today? What have you there? Ah, it is that necklace of pretty stones; that is lucky – it is about that I have come to talk to you.”

The usurer looked at the newcomer for a moment in silence, then shut the case with a click; the name of Benjamin seemed to suit him much better than that of McManus. His manner was not so genial as the visitor’s.

“Good-day, Joseph Steinberg, good-day. If it is about the necklace you have come to talk to me, you have wasted your time; as I have told you already, it is a matter on which I will have nothing to say to you.”

“Benjamin, you are not so foolish as you would have me to believe; I told you there were three stones I wanted out of it; now, I will be content with two; at a pinch, I will put up with one.”

“You will not have one – I have told you already.”

“You said that at first, then Rachel – she let me have two.”

“For which I will not forgive her – ever.”

“You have forgiven her already – did she not wear the necklace again last night? Do I not know? Besides, where is the harm; for the two stones I gave two others, not quite such good ones perhaps, still no one will be able to prove that they are not the same, and look at the money which I paid, which you have in your pocket, Benjamin. Now listen to me; behave like a man of business.”

Mr McManus’s immediate answer was to unlock a safe and place the leather case within.

“It is so I behave like a man of business; there have been tricks enough played with this necklace already. As for no one being able to prove that the stones are not the same, do you imagine that when Jacob Turland sees it, he will not detect on the instant the exchange that has been made, and then where shall I be?”

“You will be where you always have been – on top. Suppose Turland finds out that the stones have been changed—”

“There is no supposition about it; he has even a better memory for a diamond than you have; and, as you know, of each of these stones he has an exact description in writing.”

“Do you think the lady will let him look as close as that? I think not; not for a long time anyhow. And if he looks, and sees – what can he do? The lady is on your side, that it is he who is mistaken; she will tell him anything rather than admit that the necklace has been in this room – Benjamin, as you are aware, we have a commission from Mrs Van Roost of New York, to get for her, if the thing is possible, the finest diamond necklace in the world. We have already some of the most beautiful stones you ever saw.”

“Two of them from Rachel – out of the River of Light – I know.”

“Yet we want three more. I should like them all from where the others came, but, if you say no, I suppose it is no. Still, one I must have, although you say no. To Rachel, as you know, I gave the two other stones, and five hundred pounds – a large sum just for two diamonds. For the one stone, I will give you another, almost as good—”

“Almost as good – You try to tell me such a tale! Me!”

Mr McManus touched his breast with his fingertips; emphasising the pronoun, as if he intended it to convey the essence of scorn. Mr Steinberg went placidly on, as though he had not been interrupted.

“And not only will I, as I say, give you another stone almost as good, but I will give you five hundred pounds – for a single stone as much as I gave Rachel for two. A moment, Benjamin, do not be too quick in saying no; we have had many deals together, of just this kind, you and me; it is necessary – I say it is necessary – that we should have this one more – do I make you understand, or – do you enforce me to speak more clearly?”

Seemingly Mr McManus did understand; although he said nothing his attitude spoke for him. He kept his face averted. When he spoke, it was with furtive glances about him, as if her feared the walls had ears.

“Steinberg, come here, there is something which I wish to say to you.”

The pair withdrew to a little alcove which was curtained off from the rest of the room, as if to ensure more perfect privacy than the apartment itself afforded. There they communed together in whispers. Suddenly a voice exclaimed:

“Hullo – I beg your pardon – I thought someone was here.”

With a startled look at his companion, laying his finger on his lips, Mr McManus said, in a barely audible whisper:

“You stay here – go farther back into the cover of the curtain; he will not see you. I think I know who it is – that fool Simeon has shown him in without letting me know that he was coming.”

When Mr McManus came out into the room he was saluted by an individual who his trained eye told him, was a member of that privileged class with whom it was his pleasure to do business – a well-groomed, good-looking gentleman, with that in his bearing which pointed to the man about town. He regarded the usurer through a single eyeglass.

“Are you Mr McManus?” The usurer bowed. “I’m Sir Frank Burne – when I called just now you weren’t in – I want to see you about Mrs Turland’s necklace.”

The usurer started, as if taken a little aback; but, as if deeming it wiser to say nothing, he contented himself with another nod. The visitor went on, using a freedom of language to which the other was possibly not unaccustomed; at least, he showed no signs of resentment.

“You know, Mr McManus, you’ve used Mrs Turland deucedly badly; the idea of lending her five thousand pounds on such a necklace as the River of Light, charging her sixty per cent on such security, and then getting her to agree to its being sold if she got behind with the interest – the whole thing’s too monstrous; it’s deuced bad treatment of a lady.”

If the pause which followed was to give Mr McManus an opportunity of speaking, it was one of which he did not avail himself; there was only another nod.

“You know, Mr McManus,” continued the visitor, as if caring nothing for the other’s silence, “that’s not the proper way in which to treat a lady, and it doesn’t do you credit. She hasn’t got the money, and, for a day or two, she’s not likely to have it.”

For the first time the money-lender spoke.

“I am sorry, because, in that case it will be no good, the necklace will be already sold.”

“Don’t be ridiculous – I’ve brought you a thousand pounds—”

The visitor moved his hand towards his pocket as if to take the money out of it; the other stopped him.

“A thousand pounds – is no use. Do not trouble yourself, Sir Frank, to offer it. Mrs Turland owes me three thousand pounds for interest; if that three thousand pounds is not paid me within about half an hour, and I will not accept a farthing less, the necklace will be sold. Do not waste your time, Sir Frank, and mine; if Mrs Turland has the money, or if she has given you the three thousand pounds, give them to me before twelve o’clock; otherwise, since, as you see, I have still my letters to attend to, I must wish you a very good day.”

“Very well, Mr McManus, if that’s the tone you take, you must take it; only I must tell you I’ve heard some very queer stories about that necklace. It was part of your agreement with Mrs Turland that it should not leave your possession for a single moment. I’m told, on good authority, that it’s been out of your possession more than once; indeed, that you haven’t got it now. If that’s the case, you’d better be very careful what you’re doing, or what you say, because the agreement’s invalid, and you’ll find yourself in a very queer position.”

“Sir Frank Burne, I’ve only one remark to make to you – that your information is incorrect. As for Mrs Turland’s necklace not being in my possession at this moment, I will give you the ocular proof that you are wrong.”

Mr McManus went to the safe, unlocked it, took out the leather case, showed what it contained to the visitor. That gentleman, taking the necklace out of the case, examined it closely – if the money-lender felt a certain amount of anxiety as to what the result of the examination might be, he managed to conceal the fact. In spite, however, of the closeness of his scrutiny, the visitor showed no suspicion that anything was wrong.

“You know, Mr McManus,” he said; “this is a very handsome necklace.”

“Or I should not have lent my money.”

“Never saw finer stones – and I’m something of a judge of diamonds, Mr McManus – if you lent fifty thousand on this necklace you’d have been safe; and five, oh, it’s monstrous. It’s very hard upon the lady, Mr McManus.”

Mr McManus neither agreed nor disagreed; merely repeating his terms, he brought his visitor to realise that they were the only ones on which he was prepared to treat. When, a baffled diplomatist, the gentleman took himself away, Mr Steinberg appeared from out of the curtained alcove.

“Benjamin, it is nearly noon – the necklace is as good as yours already, now about that stone – I will show you which one it is I want.”

The flat leather case was still lying on the table. Mr Steinberg picked it up, commenting on the scene of which he had been an unseen auditor as he did so.

“So he is something of a judge of diamonds – eh, Benjamin, what? Did he not look at them pretty closely?”

“So closely that I began to tremble a little – if he was so good a judge of stones as he pretended to be, he might have seen something to make him ask an awkward question.”

“He knows no more of diamonds than the first fool in the street; I know these fine gentlemen, who pretend to be able to judge, how many deals have I had with them, the more they pretend the more I like to deal with them. Now I will show you which is the stone I want. It is the twenty-third from the clasp.”

Opening the case, taking out the necklace, he began to pass it carefully through his great fat fingers. All at once he broke into exclamation:

“Benjamin – what is this trick you’ve played on me.”

“I’m playing you no trick; what do you mean?”

“What is this thing that you have here?”

“You know as well as I – it is Mrs Turland’s necklace, the River of Light.”

“It is no more the River of Light than – I am; look at it.”

The necklace was passed from one fat hand to the other. Mr McManus exclaimed in his turn:

“Steinberg! This is – not the necklace!”

“Do you think I do not know – that thing is paste; what have you done with the necklace? You lent it again to Rachel to wear last night; she has played you one trick, has she played you another?”

“Do not be a fool; she has played me no trick – the necklace was in this case all right – I’ve looked at it a dozen times since she returned it to me.”

“Then, Benjamin, he’s taken it.”

“Do you mean—”

“What do you say was his name?”

“That was Sir Frank Burne?”

“Then Sir Frank Burne is a thief, a rogue, a swindler, and – one too many for you. He was not such a bad judge of stones after all; he has taken with him Mrs Turland’s necklace, one of the finest diamond necklaces in England, and has left you, in exchange, that thing of paste; that you should have allowed him to play such a trick under your very nose; what a fool you are!”

The two men stood staring into each other’s eyes.

•   •   •   •   •

In Mr Archibald’s room a warm discussion was taking place. Mrs Turland had come to him for advice, and, if it could be had, assistance; he was willing, after a fashion, to render both – but it was a fashion which did not please her. Not only was he naturally unwilling to find three thousand pounds, even if she would have let him, which seemed doubtful – his unwillingness was intensified when it was to be found for such a person as McManus. He told her that if she would let him tackle the man he would bring him to terms – reasonable terms; this she was afraid to do.

“If you made a fuss he would tell Jacob, and then what would Jacob say to me?”

That certainly was a question – and the answer was not made pleasanter by her sister’s assurance that whatever he did say would serve her right. The conversation occupied a much longer time than either of them supposed, and they had still arrived at no conclusion when Newson came into the room with an announcement which almost took the agitated lady’s breath away.

“Mr Turland!”

Within ten seconds before either of them could speak a word that gentleman appeared. Newson had removed Miss Vicary’s wrap from that part of the table on which he had originally placed it, and in doing so, had revealed the flat leather case which had been reposing beneath it. It was the case which caught Mr Turland’s eye the moment he entered. His manners always were brusque, because of the haste he was evidently in, just then they were brusquer than ever.

“Archibald, I want to see you about that Roodfontein concession, I’ve just had a wire which requires my immediate presence elsewhere; can you come to me say at four-thirty this afternoon?”

“I was wondering when I could have a chat with you – four-thirty will suit me quite well.”

“Good, then I shall expect you. So it’s you Pauline – do you know you’re getting quite a pretty girl? I’ve always held that my wife is the prettiest woman in London, but – Evelyn, that sister of yours is going to run you close.”

“Jacob, what silly things you say, Pauline has always been prettier than me.”

“Stuff! So there’s the necklace – come back from the cleaner’s, has it; I can’t make out why you ever sent it – it couldn’t have been in want of cleaning whatever you did to it.”

Before they could stop him he had the flat leather case in his hand – and their hearts were in their mouths; especially Mrs Turland’s. Miss Vicary, showing greater presence of mind than her sister, made a forward movement to prevent its being opened – but it was open before she got there. As Mr Turland’s glance travelled over the shining circlet within, his wife looked as if, with very little, she could faint; Miss Vicary stared at him wide-eyed, as if in fearful expectation; while on Mr Archibald’s countenance there was an expression of unwonted gravity, as if even he were prepared for the worst. There was a period of ominous silence – during which the atmosphere seemed to grow positively oppressive. Then Mr Turland took the necklace out of the case, twiddling it between his fingers – the silence continued; he seemed to have a singular fascination for the trio, the three pairs of eyes never for an instant left his face. Then he observed, in the most commonplace of tones.

“If there’s a finer necklace on the market at the present time, I don’t know where it’s to be found; my dear Evelyn, whoever told you it wanted cleaning is an idiot, and if anyone’s told you it has been cleaned, you’ve been duped; it hasn’t been touched since I saw it last.”

He put the necklace back into the case, snapped it to, and laid it on the table.

“Then, Archibald, I shall see you at half-past four.”

With the slightest of nods to the ladies, he moved towards the door, and – out of the room; leaving those three persons in a state of mind which they would not have found it easy to describe. Miss Vicary was the first to speak.

“Did you ever see anything like that? I always have said, Evelyn, that that husband of yours was the limit; but this beats anything. What does it mean? Talking about the thing not having been touched since he saw it last, when – the whole thing’s paste. Do you think he really looked at it?”

“I know what they mean by talking about your heart being in your mouth – I never was nearer fainting in my life. In – in another moment I should have gone off!”

Mrs Turland sank onto a chair in a manner which suggested that it would need very little to make her what she called “go off” even yet. Mr Archibald’s air was perhaps meant to be judicial.

“It certainly is very odd. He looked at it closely enough; I was watching him – if he recognised the counterfeit he didn’t show it by the movement of a muscle; I could have sworn he took it for the real one, yet – that’s impossible. It didn’t even deceive me, and compared to his knowledge of that sort of thing mine is nowhere.”

He moved towards the table as if with the intention of looking in the flat leather case for an explanation to the mystery. If that was his intention, before he could put it into execution, Sir Frank Burne came rushing into the room in a state of excitement which was most unusual in so easy-going a gentleman.

“I say, you people, there’s old McManus downstairs, and his friend Joe Steinberg; I don’t know what’s in the wind, but if they don’t mean mischief, I’m mistaken.”

Scarcely had the words been uttered when Newson appeared to announce the fresh newcomers.

“Mr McManus – Mr Steinberg.”

The two men entered. Mr McManus had in his hand a flat leather case which, so far as exterior went, was twin brother to the one which lay on the table. He seemed angry, the sight of the persons assembled in the room did not seem to make him calmer. He took out a gorgeous silk handkerchief with which to wipe his heated brow. Newson, crossing towards his master, laid a note in front of him which that gentleman, for the moment, suffered to go unheeded. Mr McManus advanced towards Mrs Turland with a gesture which might almost have been called threatening; the words he addressed to her were positively rude.

“So you robbed me; you think to pay your debts by thieving; but you will find that way dearer than the other – as I will show you when I make you pay ten times over.”

The lady regarded his inflamed visage with what was evidently very genuine amazement. Mr Archibald interposed.

“By what right, sir, do you address this language to this lady? If she has been so unwise as to borrow money from a man of your stamp, that gives you no title to insult her.”

“Oh, she borrows right enough, but she pays – she pays by thieving.”

“How dare you speak to me like that, you dreadful man.”

This was Mrs Turland, who was justly indignant. Mr McManus’s anger grew greater instead of less, in spite of the obvious effort which he made to be calm.

“That is the tone you take to me – very good. Mr Steinberg, my friend here, is a witness of what happened – I tell you you waste your time.”

“And what has happened, Mr McManus, to cause you to so forget yourself.”

“Do you pretend then to deny that you sent your friend to me this morning to pay me, in order that I might give you further time, a part of the money which you owe me; and when I told him no, I would not have it, I would have all or none, do you wish me to believe that you do not know that he stole from me the necklace on which I lent you five thousand pounds?”

Everyone regarded the angry speaker with amazement and curiosity, both of which were apparently unfeigned. The lady made an effort to induce the man to express himself more clearly.

“What you say is to me quite incomprehensible; I sent no friend to make any offer, and I certainly know nothing about any necklace being stolen.”

“You have sent no friend? Is Sir Frank Burne not your friend?”

“Certainly; at least, I hope so – I trust and believe he is my very good friend.”

“Then Sir Frank Burne came to me this morning, as your friend, to make me such an offer, and, when I said no – he stole the necklace.”

“Sir Frank Burne? – Frank, what does he mean?”

Sir Frank Burne went striding towards Mr McManus.

“That’s what I mean to find out on my own account. Mr McManus, you’re either stark staring mad, or you’re the most impudent liar I have ever encountered. Do you dare to say that I ever came to your office?”

Mr McManus stared at the speaker with what seemed to be a bewildered gaze.

“Who are you calling a liar? Who said you ever came to my office? I do not know you, and I do not want to know you – I said Sir Frank Burne.”

“But I happen to be Sir Frank Burne.”

Mr McManus’s bewilderment seemed to increase.

“You are Sir Frank Burne? What are you telling me? You are not the Sir Frank Burne who came to my office?”

“That he certainly is not – no resemblance in any way.”

The corroboration came from Mr Steinberg. Sir Frank played the part of echo.

“As your friend says, that I certainly am not. I know you by sight, since you happen to have been pointed out to me on several occasions but this is the first time I’ve ever spoken to you, and I shan’t be sorry if it’s the last; and as I chance to be the only person of my name in England, I’ll trouble you to explain, sir, what you mean.”

Mr McManus did explain, telling him about that with which we are already acquainted. They listened open-eyed and open-mouthed – his was really a curious story.

“Do you mean to tell us,” demanded Sir Frank, “that my deputy exchanged, right in front of you, the real necklace for an imitation one.”

“When he came into the room the real necklace was in this case.” Mr McManus held out another case in front of him. “When he had gone there was this one.”

He held up their inspection a string of sparkling crystals. Sir Frank eyed it with what seemed admiration.

“And a very pretty thing it seems.”

“However, it is not pretty enough for me, I am not so simple.”

Mr Archibald, who had approached, was attentively regarding the glittering gewgaw.

“Would you mind,” he asked, “letting me look at that.”

“Do you know anything about diamonds; if you do then you know that these are not diamonds at all, they are only paste; it is not a bad imitation, but, after all, an imitation is an imitation, and this is only an imitation.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“You are not sure? What do I care of what you are sure? I know a diamond better than I know my own wife, and I tell you that these are not diamonds.”

“As it happens I also know something about diamonds, and I tell you that I’m inclined to think they are; what is more, as yet you’ve not looked at what you’re holding; when you do look I’m inclined to think you’ll be of my opinion.”

Mr McManus did look; Mr Steinberg looked too. The two men’s faces were so close together that the necklace was within a few inches of both of them; and, as they looked, a change seemed to come over their faces; a very singular change, one which seemed to be expressive of the most profound astonishment.

“Benjamin,” exclaimed Mr Steinberg.

“Joseph!” replied the other.

“Let me feel the thing.”

Both men’s fingers closed about the crystals; their astonishment plainly increased.

“What trick,” inquired McManus, “is being played on us.” His tones were actually tremulous. “After all, it is the necklace. It is the River of Light; and I swear that when we came into the house it was only a paste imitation.”

He gazed about him with troubled, puzzled eyes, as if he were half inclined to doubt if he was not the victim of some strange magic. “What trick is being played on us?”

It was Mr Archibald who answered.

“The trick, if there is one, I’m inclined to think is being played by you.”

“By me? When this was paste, I swear it was paste; Steinberg, was it not paste?”

“I also swear it was paste. We took a last look at it when we were outside the house, so that there might be no mistake; when we came into the house it was paste, now, again it is the River of Light; that, before any judge and jury, I will swear.”

Newson appeared in the doorway; he addressed his master.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I placed a note upon the table; I think you may find that it requires an answer.”

Mr Archibald, his attention thus called to the existence of the note, picked it up, with rather a perplexed expression; by the time he had opened it, the servant had vanished. When he had read the first two or three lines he looked about him, as with growing perplexity; then read the note to the end, and he smiled. Something in the note seemed to amuse him; he re-read it, and smiled still more. Folding it up, he replaced it in the envelope, and slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. Then he said, as if the reference were to something which had gone before.

“Mr McManus, I believe that your wife’s name is Rachel.”

Mr McManus and his friend looked at the inquirer as if his question more than surprised him.

“If my wife’s name is Rachel, what is it to you; what has my wife’s name to do with this?”

The reference was to the necklace which he had in his hand.

“A good deal, as you will presently learn. Burne, might I ask you to keep an eye on the door, so that these two gentlemen may not go through it prematurely.”

As Mr McManus glanced round at Sir Frank, who, with a little air of surprise, placed himself between the friends and the door, Mr Archibald caught the necklace out of the usurer’s hand; whereupon the gentleman raised an outcry.

“You give that back to me; you steal it from before my face; you try to play on me another trick; I will not have it – I warn you to be careful.”

“If I had had an opportunity I would have warned you to be careful while there still was time; but I fear it is now too late. Mr McManus, there is a clause in your agreement with Mrs Turland to the effect that the necklace was not to be allowed to pass out of your keeping; you remember it?”

An uneasy look came on Mr McManus’s face; all at once even his companion seemed uncomfortable.

“If there is such a clause, what about it?”

“This, that you have broken it, on more than one occasion.”

“Who’s been telling you lies?”

“Your wife, Rachel, wore it last night at a friend’s house in Maida Vale, not for the first time. How long ago, Mr McManus, is it since it was in her possession for quite a considerable period?”

“Why do you ask me such questions, about things of which you know nothing? Give me back that necklace; the time fixed in the agreement is past, it is mine.”

“Pardon me, that it never will be.”

“Since I have been paid neither my money nor my interest, I have a right to sell it, and I will.”

“The mistake you made was in selling part of it before you had the least right to do any such thing.”

Mr McManus and his friend cast anxious glances in the direction of the door.

“What do you mean?”

“Your friend, Mr Steinberg, knows what I mean as well as you do. While the necklace was in your wife’s keeping, she sold to Mr Steinberg two separate stones, which, of course, was theft.”

“It is not true.”

“She received in exchange for them two inferior and comparatively worthless stones, as well as five hundred pounds in cash. Here are the substituted stones, one at either end, near the clasp, where, since they would be worn at the back of the neck, you hoped they would not be noticeable. Can you give me any reason, Mr McManus, why I should not telephone for the police and give you and Mr Steinberg into their custody?”

There ensued a curious scene. The associates started with bluster, which rapidly became entreaty; when at last they went away it was without the necklace, and on the understanding that Mr Steinberg should return the purloined stones, and that when they were returned, the question of what sum of money should be paid to Mr McManus should at once receive consideration. The ladies did not remain long after the pair had departed, they were escorted by Sir Frank Burne. Mr Archibald spoke a few parting words to Mrs Turland.

“I don’t suppose you will be advised by anyone, and certainly not by me, but – if ever again you should want to borrow money, don’t go to such a gentleman as Benjamin McManus.”

•   •   •   •   •

The most remarkable part of the story is the dialogue which took place between master and man when all the visitors had gone. Mr Archibald rang the bell; Newson appeared; then stood in silence awaiting commands. When Mr Archibald continued to regard him, without uttering a word, as if he were some strange creature, the valet ventured to prompt him.

“You rang, sir?”

His master’s words certainly were not a reply to his question.

“Aren’t you a pretty scoundrel.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

Mr Archibald held out the envelope which he had slipped into a pocket of his coat.

“How did you become possessed of the information which is in this letter?”

Newson never moved an eyelash; he could not have seemed more unconcerned.

“I shall have pleasure in explaining, sir, if you would like me to.”

“I should very much like you to.”

“You will probably remember Miss Chilton, sir, Mrs Turland’s maid – an excellent situation. I happened to marry Miss Chilton without mentioning the fact to Mrs Turland, and that of course would have entitled Mrs Turland to dismiss her, which would have been awkward both for Miss Chilton and for me. However Mrs Turland, begging your pardon, sir, behaved like a brick, and Miss Chilton, now Mrs Newson, is still in her service. I chanced to overhear some of the remarks Mrs Turland made to you having reference to her diamond necklace; a former master of mine had dealings with Mr McManus, so that I became acquainted with his methods, and I felt sorry for Mrs Turland. Then there’s the debt of gratitude which I owe her for her treatment to Mrs Newson. So, when Miss Vicary arrived, in placing her wrapper on the table, I opened the leather case, and extracted the necklace.”

“You must have been quick about it.”

“Yes, sir, I was fairly quick, I’m rather good at sleight of hand. I’m also, sir, by way of being an amateur actor.”

“Are you by way of being anything else?”

“Yes, sir, I am by way of being two or three things; I am acknowledged not to be bad at a make-up. I slipped on a fair wig, a fair moustache, some complexion, and another suit of clothes, and, with that paste necklace in my pocket, I called on Mr McManus as Sir Frank Burne.”

“Newson, you’re a pretty sort of character.”

“By way of being one, sir, persons of my profession have to be. Mr McManus had not arrived; his clerk left me in the outer office; when he left the room I went into Mr McManus’s own apartment, rather a well-arranged apartment for anyone who did not wish his presence to be known. When Mr McManus and Mr Steinberg came in they had not the faintest notion I was there, and” – Newson put his hand up to his mouth and coughed discreetly – “they gave the whole show away, as you will have seen from the note which I ventured to place upon the table, sir, so that when I put in my appearance on the scene, at what I judged to be the proper moment, all I had to do was to say a few words to Mr McManus, ask to see the necklace, and – exchange it for the paste imitation.”

“Some persons might have thought that that was rather a good deal to have to do.”

“Is that so, sir, indeed. A taxi brought me back in under three minutes, in time to open the door to Mr Turland. When I showed him in here, you will perhaps remember, sir, that I removed Miss Vicary’s wrapper from the table, and in doing so I placed the real necklace in the leather case.”

“So that is how the trick was worked.”

“Yes, sir, that is how the trick was worked.”

“Are you an amateur conjuror as well as an amateur actor?”

“Well, sir, I’m by way of being one.”

“And so Turland was actually handling the real necklace while we were shaking in our shoes expecting him to discover the imposture; I thought that thing couldn’t have taken him in for a single moment.”

“No, sir, not for one single moment. When Sir Frank Burne came, and I brought Mr McManus and Mr Steinberg upstairs, Mr McManus was so heated that, in order to enable him to remove the signs of warmth from his forehead with his pocket handkerchief, he put the leather case which he was carrying on the table; the other leather case being, as it were, adjacent, the substitution of one for the other was easy; so, when he opened it, he found that the real necklace was back again. I believe, sir, that what I have said explains practically everything. Mr Turland has just now sent a message to know if you can see him at a quarter-past four instead of half-past.”

Mr Archibald turned away, possibly to hide a smile.

“Tell Mr Turland that I can.”

Newson passed from the room. Mr Archibald, though alone, said a few words aloud:

“That fellow, if he lives long enough, ought to do something very remarkable before he dies.”

The Cigarette

He had been struck by it the moment he entered the room. Arthur Heseltine’s sense of smell was so unusually keen that on more than one occasion he had felt that it was a serious drawback. He had been laughingly heard to declare that it was almost as keen as a hound’s, and that, if put to the test, he believed he could follow a scent almost as well. The name of the man to whom the room belonged was Douglas Seymour. Certain men of kindred tastes were desirous of associating themselves in one of those clubs which are so much in vogue for the purpose of furthering an object connected with the theatre which they fancied they all of them purpose of furthering an object connected with had at heart. It was proposed that Douglas Seymour should be the first president of the club, and that a meeting should be arranged at his rooms for the purpose of giving the thing a coherent shape. Heseltine’s acquaintance with Seymour was but a slight one; he had never been in his rooms before, and, as has been written, the moment he entered he was struck by an odour which pervaded them to such a degree that while the discussion continued he was constrained to continually ask himself – where, and under what circumstances, had that odour assailed his nostrils before?

Its source was evident. The host made that plain when, as each man entered, he offered him a box of cigarettes. What Heseltine smelt was the concentrated essence of possibly thousands of Seymour’s cigarettes.

It was no good for him to tell himself that all cigarettes smell the same – when they have been smoked. He knew better. He was not himself a cigarette smoker, but experience had taught him that he could with ease distinguish two different brands when one was being smoked on either side of him. He tried one of Seymour’s cigarettes out of curiosity. It was of a kind which he had never met before. He mentioned the fact to their proprietor.

“What are these cigarettes of yours? I believe this is the first time I’ve ever come across them.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. So far as I know I am the only man in England who smokes them; for the matter of that, I never met another anywhere. They come from Morocco. I have them exported direct. They are made by a man who gets his tobacco from goodness alone knows where – I’m so ignorant as not to know if there is, or isn’t, any tobacco grown in Morocco, but I’ve grown so attached to them that I not only can’t smoke any other kind, but I’d almost rather go without anything than go without them. To me there is something insidious about these cigarettes which, when you have once come under its influence, makes them a necessity of your being. Don’t you notice that there’s something peculiar in their flavour? Some men don’t like it – I do; I love it. To me, it’s a passion.”

Heseltine looked at the speaker curiously. He was a tall, slight man, perhaps forty years of age, with black hair which he wore rather long and parted in the centre. There was something in his face that was almost Mongolian – perhaps it was the long, narrow eyes, which he had a trick of never opening wide. He was noted for his eccentricities, that confession of his passion for his cigarettes was just the kind of stuff that might be expected from him.

“There’s not only something peculiar about the taste,” said Heseltine; “to my thinking there’s something still more odd about the aroma.”

“Is there? Why do you say that? Is it – objectionable?” ‘

Heseltine wondered if the other could see him from under his nearly shut eyelids.

“No, I don’t know that it’s objectionable, but – it clings.”

He was on the point of adding that he was convinced that he had encountered it before, but something stopped him. Remarks of that kind were apt to provoke a discussion as to the extent to which it was possible for odours to linger in human nostrils; his frequently reiterated assertion that he never forgot a smell was a subject for jest among his intimates. Somehow he was not inclined to jest about it then; still less was he disposed to answer questions which might be put to him by Seymour as to the occasion on which he imagined himself to have met it last.

He could not have answered if he had been asked. It was odd that his memory should be at once so good and so bad. While the proposed club was being shaped, and the talk went on, for some cause which was beyond his comprehension, though he made repeated efforts to dismiss it from his mind, the question would recur – which he could not answer. It was after the meeting was over and he was alone in his own apartments, that it came back to him in a surprising form.

On the mantelpiece were several framed portraits. Mechanically – he was an orderly man – he took up one of these to remove from the glass what might have been specks of dust. As he was in the act of doing this, he stopped, and started. He had begged half-a-dozen cigarettes from Mr Seymour, had brought them away with him, and had one of them, at that moment, lighted, between his lips. Withdrawing it, he passed it once or twice slowly before his face, so that the smoke might reach his nostrils; as it did so a singular expression began to come upon his face.

In his right hand was the cigarette, in his left the framed portrait which he had taken from the shelf. It was the photograph of a young and attractive-looking woman, with a rapt expression in the eyes, which were open to their fullest, and about it generally a something which suggested that the original was used to posing in a photographer’s studio. Raising it, Arthur Heseltine stared at the pictured face long and oddly, and as he did so , every now and then he passed the cigarette to and fro across his face.

“That’s it – I swear that that’s it; the sight of her brings it all back, I’m as certain of it as I am that I am standing here. What does it mean?”

Throwing the remains of the cigarette into the fireplace, returning the portrait to its shelf, he began to move about the room, communing with himself as he went.

“No wonder it made such a curious impression on me when I encountered it again, that I felt that it was associated with some strange page in my life – yet, for a moment, it wasn’t odd if the page remained turned down. I knew it would turn up before very long, and I should see what was on it. Yet who is likely to believe that I could carry such an association in my – what is it? – head or nose? – for more than three long years. But I’ll swear I’m right, and that it’s there.”

He stood by a writing-table, seeming to punctuate his words with his fingers on the top of it.

“I remember, as clearly as if it were only half an hour ago, that when they sent for me, when I entered her room, the first thing I noticed was the smell, the smell of a cigarette made of some peculiar tobacco. Automatically I made a special note of it at once in – whatever is the seat of the sense of smell; recognizing it as a piece of evidence which might one day be needed, prepared to produce it when required. I’m prepared to testify, and to pick out the smell of that particular brand of cigarette among five hundred others; of that I am personally convinced, if I am able to convey conviction to no one else. So far as I’m concerned that’s settled; all that remains for me is – what is the deduction to be drawn?”

With a tortoiseshell paper-knife, which was lying close to his hand, he, so to speak, ticked off the points as they occurred to him.

“In the first place – someone had been smoking one of those particular cigarettes in that room – it is not easy to say how long such a scent lingers, it was very strong when I went in; when, later, I went again, and the windows had been opened, it was scarcely apparent, even to me; the deduction, therefore, is that someone had been smoking one, and possibly two or three, of those cigarettes in her room in the course of that evening. She did not smoke – or at least very rarely, and then under pressure; I am quite sure that she would never have smoked such cigarettes as those; one whiff would have been enough for her – it would have made her ill. So there’s deduction number one.”

He seemed to record the fact with a movement of the paper-knife.

“No one had seen her return that night from the theatre, therefore no one knew if she had returned alone; also nothing was seen or heard of anyone quitting her apartments after the usual hour of her return; yet someone must have returned with her, and – left her afterwards. Her unknown companion was the person who smoked those cigarettes, and the person who smoked those cigarettes was the one who murdered her; there is no other way out of it, no other deduction to be drawn.”

Again that movement of the paper-knife through the air.

“Not one tittle of evidence has been found to throw light upon the mystery – until this hour. Daisy Permain was not in all respects the wisest of women, or she would never have clung to the stage in the way she did, when nothing was surer than that she would never have won on it the eminence for which her whole being craved; she would have married me; but until I saw her lying dead I never suspected that she had such a thing as an enemy in the world. It seemed incredible then, it seems so still, that there was a creature who could kill her. That’s the mystery, that nothing has ever pointed to the personality of such a creature – until now.”

He made a fantastic movement with the paper-knife, which was in keeping with the grin which seemed to distort rather than to illuminate his features.

“If I were to go to a judge and jury, or to a policeman, and were to say: ‘I have evidence for you at last,’ and he were to ask, ‘What is it?’ and I were to reply, ‘I’ve proof of whose cigarettes those were,’ and he were to demand, ‘What’s the nature of the proof?’ and I were to say, ‘I smelt those cigarettes once more than three years ago, and I never smelt them since until tonight, in the rooms of the person who admitted that he is the only man in England who owns them – there’s proof for you,’ he’d laugh in my face and tap his forehead and walk away; he’d take it for granted that I was wrong in the upper storey. And that’s where he would be mistaken, because, as it happens – I’m not. And yet it would be rather jumping to conclusions to take it for granted that because Douglas Seymour – of whom I know practically nothing, I don’t even know he was an acquaintance of hers – smokes those cigarettes, that, therefore, he is the man. Yet I am so interested in the problem, as a problem, that I’m moved to try a little experiment.”

The next evening Douglas Seymour dined with Arthur Heseltine, tête-à-tête, in the latter’s room.

The ostensible reason which had prompted Heseltine’s very pressing invitation was his desire to have a real talk with him on the subject of the suggested club – one of those real talks which we can only have when we are alone together. And there had been the talk. From it the conversation had drifted to other themes. It reached the theatre. They spoke of the paucity of actresses on the English stage who are capable of enacting really comic parts. Then Heseltine asked a sudden question.

“Did you ever hear of a girl named Permain – Daisy Permain?”

This was after the simple feast was ended and they were engaged with their coffee and cigars – which last, in Seymour’s case, took the form of a cigarette, one of his own. He was engaged, when Heseltine spoke, in knocking off the ash of the one he was smoking; his glance was fixed upon the ashtray. Heseltine fancied that his hand twitched, and that he was rather an unnecessary time in removing the ash; but he might have been mistaken.

Seymour repeated the name, always with his glance upon the ashtray.

“Permain? I seem to remember the name in some connection – Daisy Permain? What was she?”

“She was an actress – of sorts.”

“Surely she never did anything big?”

“I said – of sorts.”

“Which means?”

“I was wondering if you had ever seen her, or heard of her, or come across her in any way.”

“What makes you wonder?”

“We were talking of comic actresses; it was her ambition to be one of them – in the first flight.”

“And she wasn’t – as I gather from your tone.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“Oh yes, I saw her – more than once.”

Seymour said this with a little smile; his eyes continued to be veiled by his curiously drooping lids.

“You knew her?”

In asking another question, Seymour allowed the other to construe his unspoken answer as he pleased.

“You also?”

“Very well – after a fashion.”

“Which again means? I judge, by your tone, that it means something. You admired her as an actress?”

“Not as an actress, certainly – she couldn’t act.”

“Yet – now that you mention the name, it comes back to me – she had some rather biggish parts – didn’t she?”

“She had money, she chose to spend it in giving herself what she called a chance. She toured her own company; she took a London theatre at least twice, and was her own manager.”

“She lost money? Feminine persons who enter into those sort of ventures generally do.”

“She must have lost a pailful. When I was young, I read somewhere that you had only to want to be a thing strongly enough to be it. She was an example of what a lie that is. She would never have been an actress if she had lived to be ninety, yet she wanted to be one with all the force that was in her, and there was force, of a kind.”

“What has become of her?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Assist my memory.”

“She was – murdered.”

Taking a, cigarette out of the open case beside him, Seymour proceeded to light it at the stump of the one which was between his lips.

“Now you mention it, I do seem to have some sort of hazy recollection, although The Police News is not exactly in my line. They say there are plenty of persons who scarcely read anything else. I scarcely glance at it from one year’s end to the other. I’m afraid I’m never posted in what happens in the courts.”

“You never heard – of her murder?”

“I may have done, why not? Were there any unusual elements of interest – why do you ask? You, my dear Heseltine, seem to have been unusually interested in – what’s her name? Miss Daisy Permain – I presume she was a Miss?”

“There’s no doubt about that.”

“As you happen to know?” “As I happen to know. Have another liqueur?”

“Thanks, no, in such matters I am the most abstemious of men; my one vice is cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes? I see. Seymour, she lived in this building.”

“Really?”

“In these very rooms.”

“In these?” Sitting up, Mr Seymour looked about him as if a trifle startled. “They ought to be perfumed by her memory.”

“It is in this room that she was murdered.”

“It ought to be haunted by her ghost.”

“I sometimes fancy that it is.”

“Really, Heseltine?”

“At that time I had rooms in the next block, on one of the upper floors. When she – died an envelope was found in that bureau there—” Seymour followed the pointing finger with his eyes – “addressed to me. It contained a will in which she expressed a wish that I should have all the contents of her rooms, which was all she had to leave, to do with as I chose.”

“Was she – older than you?”

“On the contrary she was younger.”

“Then she could hardly have expected you to inherit.”

“She did; that was not the least queer part of it. There was a paragraph – the whole thing was on a sheet of paper, written in her own hand – in which she had made that clear. She wrote that although she was the younger, she had made her will because she did not doubt that I should come into possession of all that she had to leave. I have often asked myself what she meant, the words were so peculiar.”

“I should imagine you have.”

“It almost looks as if she expected to die, as if she had some special reasons for her expectation; at least, that is how it has appeared to me.”

“And you – took all.”

Again Mr Seymour was removing the ash from his cigarette, with an appearance of great care.

“If you can call it all. She had always lived in style, denying herself nothing, spending money like water; it would almost seem as if she had spent all she had, as, beyond the bare contents of these rooms, nothing has ever been found to which she appears to have had the slightest claim.”

“What claim had you to the contents of these rooms?”

“We were engaged to be married.”

“You were – what?”

This time there was about Mr Seymour an unmistakable air of surprise; his eyelids were raised, fully exposing his very curious-looking eyes; with them he was regarding Mr Heseltine as if he found in him something novel and even singular.

“It was not known to the world at large, it was never announced – but we were.”

“You were – formally – engaged to be married?”

“I knew her, off and on, for perhaps four or five years; from the first I – liked her; away from the stage there was something about her personality which I could not help but like – it made to me a very curious appeal. She liked me – she told me so.”

“In so many words?”

“In so many words. She grew to like me – more, and more. She promised to be my wife.”

“In so many words?”

“Why do you repeat that question? What do you, what did you, know of Daisy Permain?”

“I’m beginning to learn that I knew very little; for instance, I’m only just beginning to see that you brought me here to talk of Daisy Permain.”

“I did, in a sense; and I’ve not yet even touched the fringe of – the subject to which I am coming.”

“While you’re on the way would you mind telling me one or two things for my instruction? You say she promised to be your wife, in, I understand, so many words. If that was so, why didn’t she marry you?”

“There were various reasons.”

“I can fancy it.”

“Perhaps you might give me one or two.”

“I might – after you – you first. What, according to you, were one or two of the reasons?”

“There was her love for the stage; I wouldn’t marry a woman who was on it, and she wouldn’t consent to come off.”

“I see; she had two lovers: the stage and you; she – preferred the other.”

“Seymour, do you know what I really asked you here for?”

“I prefer to think that it was for the excellent dinner we have had together, and for the pleasure of my society, since we are apparently kindred spirits.”

“How do you know that?”

“I surmise it, for reasons which we may come to later.”

“They roused me early one morning, in the next block, with a request that I would come at once to Miss Permain’s room. When I came she was lying on the floor, just about where this table is standing now, dead. Somebody had taken her by the throat, with his two hands, and strangled her. He must have used even unnecessary violence, because she presented such a dreadful spectacle. He must have come home with her, after her work at the theatre, in the guise of a friend, and, in the silence of the night, while they were alone together, have done her to death. What do you think of a man who would do a thing like that?”

“There are women who were better, as you put it, done to death, for the world’s sake; very much better.”

“You think that a man who could do a thing like that might not be, of necessity, a coward – and something worse?”

“Not at all; I can conceive of him as a public benefactor.”

“You are that kind of man?”

“I am that kind of man.”

“I did not suppose that there could be a man of that kind.”

“Fortunately, for the world, there are such men.”

“He was a very careful individual, that – man of your kind; he was particularly careful to leave no trace behind which would enable the public to find their – benefactor. Nor has any trace ever been found of him. He walks the earth still – uncrowned. But it is just possible that he will, after many days, yet receive his crown – and that soon.”

“Lucky man! I’ve always held that desert meets with its reward at last.”

“I have a sort of extra sense, of which you may have heard.”

“I have heard nothing interesting about you at all, until you began to speak about yourself; now I am beginning to take an interest in you of which you have no notion.”

“When I first came into the room, and saw her lying on the floor, just about where the table is standing now, although the morning was well advanced the curtains were still drawn, the blinds down, the windows fastened; there was yet in the room the atmosphere of the night before, with in it, as it were, one dominant note: the smell of tobacco, a peculiar kind of tobacco; of a cigarette, a peculiar kind of cigarette. That extra sense I have, of which I spoke, is an abnormally developed sense of smell. That dominant note struck me at once. I knew that I had never smelt that peculiar tobacco, that peculiar cigarette, before; I knew also that I should know it if I ever smelt it again. It is quite a time since Daisy Permain was lying there upon the floor, just about where this table is standing now, but I have never smelt that peculiar tobacco, and cigarette, since – until last night.”

“I felt sure you were an interesting man, you seem likely even to surpass my anticipations; unless you exaggerate, yours must be quite a remarkable case. I’ve heard of experts, say, of writing, but – of smells? Surely, they are novelties.”

“I met that cigarette, for the first time since that morning, in your rooms last night; the air was full of it; you smoked perhaps a dozen.”

“Maybe, thereabouts; I have smoked more than twenty in a single evening. As I told you, they’re my passion.”

“You are smoking another of them now; and, as you do so, and the smoke reaches me, it all comes back – the shaded window, the woman on the floor, the last night’s atmosphere – with in it the dominant note of that peculiar cigarette. You yourself admit that, to the best of your knowledge and belief, you are the only man in England who smokes those cigarettes; the inference would almost seem to be that it was the memory of your cigarette that was in the air.”

“What a gift it is to be able to draw plausible inferences.”

“Was it?”

“It was.”

“It was your cigarette?”

“It was my cigarette.”

“Then it was you who were alone with her in this room that night?”

“Exactly.”

“And you—”

“Go on.”

“Then you—”

“Continue; why do you hesitate? why do you falter in your speech? Draw another inference.”

“Then it was you who killed her?”

“Suppose it was?”

These questions had been fired at each other almost with the rapidity of a machine gun. Now there was a pause, as if to enable each to sum up the other. Mr Seymour, both elbows on the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands, the eternal cigarette between his lips, regarded his host with his curious eyes wide open – and a very curious something in them. His manner was perfectly calm. Heseltine’s, on the contrary, was heated, as with a sort of latent heat, which might at any moment burst into a roaring flame. He sat back in his chair, right away from the table, sideways, returning his guest stare for stare. It was Seymour who broke the pause.

“Suppose I killed her; yes? what then?”

“I am not sure; I will tell you presently; at least you shall hang.”

“You are sure of that?”

“I will leave nothing undone which will hang you.”

“Of that you are certain?”

“As certain as that you are sitting there; as certain as that she was lying there upon the floor, just about where this table is standing now.”

“You have a melodramatic way of repeating that rather effective phrase, as if you still saw her there.”

“I do; I have never ceased to see her; I never shall. What I am doubting is whether I shall not, with my own two hands, place you where she was, beside her, dead.”

“I choked the life out of her; do you imagine you could choke the life out of me; or would you use, as the cook-book says, another way?”

“That’s the doubt which I have in my mind; you are probably as strong as I am.”

“I should say stronger; if you and I came to grips, I would lay a pound to a penny that I could do as I liked with you, before we’d finished.”

“That’s the risk I don’t wish to run; I don’t want you to get the better of me in any way; not for personal reasons, or from fear of you; but because I want to make absolutely sure of your being treated as you treated her. Therefore, you shall hang.”

“But I shan’t.”

“You think there’s not enough evidence against you; I’ll undertake to get all the evidence that’s needed before I’m through.”

“You shan’t want for evidence; I’ll supply you with it in abundance; evidence, as they say, to burn. Still – I shan’t hang.”

“Why not? What’s to save you? – a jury’s recommendation to mercy, or suicide?”

“Neither; the matter will never come before a jury; and as for suicide, I’m not so quixotic. I like life well enough not to be in a hurry to leave it.”

“You may see your position through a different pair of spectacles later on. Presently I am going to ring that bell and ask the porter to send for a policeman.”

“Before you do, let me supply you with some more of that evidence you spoke about.”

“What do you call evidence?”

“Has it occurred to you that there may have been a reason for what I did?”

“What reason could there be in such a thing as that; are you going to plead extenuating circumstances – to me? Surely you can’t be such a fool, even if you are such a cur.”

“You say that she left you the contents of these rooms by will; most of what is here is strange to me, but there is one piece of furniture I recognise, that bureau.”

Mr Seymour rose from his chair; there came a warning from his host.

“Be careful what you are doing; I know the kind of man you are; I am prepared.”

Whipping a revolver out of one of the side pockets of his dinner jacket, he pointed it at the other’s head. Mr Seymour laughed in what seemed unaffected enjoyment of the other’s menace.

“Prepared! To that extent? You think it’s necessary to have a revolver to guard yourself against me? You’re a humorist. You and I are too much in the same boat to be likely to do each other a mischief.”

“I in the same boat with you!”

“Wait till you understand. I was going to show you something about this bureau which perhaps you didn’t know before. As you perceive, it’s an old bureau, probably early eighteenth century. Have you been through it, all its ins and outs?”

“Of course I have, since it has been my property now for more than three years.”

“Are you aware that there is in it – what shall I say? – a secret hiding-place, as was not infrequent with a bureau of that period?”

“I did not know.”

“There is, and I’m going to show you; and if you are speaking the truth, and have never found it for yourself, I believe that in it there may be discovered what may prove to be of interest to you. Watch me; cover me with the revolver as I move across the room, and, if I seem likely to be up to any tricks, fire; only I may tell you, between ourselves, that you don’t strike me as a man who is used to handling a revolver, and I doubt if you will fire straight.”

The piece of furniture to which he referred stood at one side of the room; it was a bookcase above, the bureau part was below. He went to the side of it.

“You see, the side of this bureau is formed of one piece of rosewood; there are no signs of any join; you may go over it with a microscope without detecting that there is a join. I have gone over it myself. They were good workmen in those days. Observe.”

He pulled out one of the arms on which the top of the bureau was intended to rest when open, drew it right out of its socket. Then, inserting his hand, he pressed what must have been a spring within. A narrow panel started out of what had seemed to be the solid piece of wood which formed the exterior. Seymour took hold of this panel, which, to a certain extent, still remained in its place.

“You see, it comes right away.” He suited the action to the word. “It has left – a cavity. Let us see what is in it. What seem to be some papers in an envelope. Let’s see what the papers are – that is, if they are papers.”

From the cavity he took a large, oblong envelope, which seemed stuffed with something. He proceeded to show what.

“The first exhibit, which hardly comes within the definition of what is usually called a paper. It’s a photograph; you recognise the original? It’s my portrait. It was supposed to be rather like me then; I don’t think it’s altogether unlike me now. You see, she had it hidden in that bureau when she left it you by will. Here’s something else, which also seems scarcely like a document.”

From the envelope there had fallen onto the table at which Heseltine was still seated a small bundle of tissue paper, in the heart of which, when Seymour proceeded to unwrap it, there appeared a ring.

“Surely that’s a wedding ring. Wedding rings are as like each other as so many pins, so that no man can tell them apart; yet am I ready to wager what for me is a considerable sum of money that this is the identical wedding ring which I placed upon her finger.”

“Seymour!”

“Why does my name come from you in just that tone? We are only at the beginning; there’s more, much more, to follow. Why, what’s this? Here’s a document at last, a copy of a marriage certificate, something very like legal evidence of a marriage between Charles Douglas Seymour, bachelor, on the one hand, and Susan Snelling, spinster, on the other.”

“Who was Susan Snelling?”

“She was, before she became my wife, and, later, a good deal later, Daisy Permain. You see, I’m getting your trick of melodramatic repetition. This also was hidden in the bureau which she left to you by will. Another document, the certificate of the birth of a little girl, her baby, and mine.”

“Is the child still alive?”

“The exigencies of what was then my occupation compelled me at one time to spend a considerable period abroad; while I was away she put the child out to nurse, she never did like children; they were such a bother. When I came back, with money to pour into her lap, I found that my child was dead, and she did not know.”

“How could that be?”

“Easily. She was in arrears with the child’s keep; the woman who had it didn’t know where she was; she was ever a gadabout, continually changing her address; she found it easier to keep her address to herself than to be dunned for the keep of her child, and mine. Here is what seems to be a bundle of letters – they’re papers. Why, they are some of my letters to her, I wonder why she kept them hidden in the bureau which she left to you by will. You can read them if you like – you’ll be able to see if you ever felt for her what I did – once.”

He dropped the bundle, and the envelope, on the table by Heseltine’s side, and proceeded to light another cigarette.

“When you’ve read those letters, and examined such odds and ends as may be left in the envelope, and thought the matter over – carefully, you’ll perhaps begin to understand why, when you saw her lying on the floor, about where this table is standing now, you smelt my cigarette.”

He moved a little from the table.

“I have to thank you for the charming little dinner which you gave me, I enjoyed it very much, and the evening which has followed. It is always pleasant to meet a kindred spirit, especially if he chances to be a passenger in the boat which carries you. I mustn’t keep you any longer, I’ll say good-night; you’ll have a good deal to occupy you before you sleep, particularly if you pursue the course of study which I have suggested. If, in the morning, you want me, you know where I’m to be found; you’ll own, when you’ve finished your studies, that I’m not the sort of man who is likely to run away.”

When Seymour had gone, and the outer door had been closed, Heseltine was bending over another photograph which had also been contained in that prolific envelope. It was the portrait of a young woman, in whom he recognised a juvenile edition of the Daisy Permain he had known. On it was written, in a hand which he knew to be Douglas Seymour’s, in ink which had faded, “My sweetheart, my darling, my heart’s delight, the best and truest wife in the world.”

•   •   •   •   •

The mystery of Daisy Permain’s death, so far as the general public is concerned, has never been solved.

The Upstairs Room

Mr Cecil Weaver recognized that for him there was nothing left but to make a bolt of it – those little “loans” which he had begun by taking from the petty cash had come to this. He was afraid to think what was the sum total which they had finally mounted up to – old Boardman was finding that out. Old Boardman had realized at last that there was a leakage somewhere, that somewhere the accounts were wrong; he was setting himself to discover exactly where. When discovery came it would be all up with Cecil Weaver. Boardman had begun to suspect; he was sure of it – his only chance was to get away before suspicion became certainty.

He slipped the key into the outer door of the office and, opening it, stepped inside – to start back with a shock. The office was lighted at that hour. It was nearly eleven o’clock; his idea was to complete his arrangements so as to enable him to catch the midnight mail for town; by the morning he would have a start which he flattered himself would make it hard for them to catch him. But money was essential; he had managed that a tolerably large sum of cash should be brought to the office; what he called old Boardman’s prying eyes had prevented his laying predatory hands upon, then and there. He had returned to fetch it; why was the office lighted at this time of night? As noiselessly as he could, opening the glass-panelled door, he peered within.

Of course, he might have taken it for granted it was old Boardman; confound the fool! Although he was Lottie’s father – and there was nothing in the world he loved so well as Lottie Boardman; he had tried to make himself believe that he had even played the thief for love of her – to call old Boardman a nuisance was, from his point of view, to be almost complimentary.

Prying into the books again, was he? He had been all suspicion in the afternoon; possibly he was certain now. However, he would have to risk it. Get away on the midnight mail he must; if he did not, there would be all sorts of risks he would have to run – besides those in his father’s office. He would be rid of Boardman; after all he was his father’s son. Let the old man suspect, be certain even; he could do nothing tonight. Cecil knew he could not go to his father, who lay ill in bed. Let him be rid of Boardman, let him carry off matters with a high hand and – he would do it yet.

He went right into the office, looking about him as if taken by sudden surprise.

“Why – what’s this? Who’s left the light on? Hullo, Boardman, is that you? What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

The outer office was surrounded by glass-panelled windows; Boardman’s room was on the other side; through the panels he could see what was going on without, and who came and went, and the clerks could see him, as Cecil Weaver saw him now, perched on his high stool leaning over the desk, studying the books. So engrossed was he that he was disturbed neither by Cecil’s entry nor by the sound of his voice. The young man cursed him beneath his breath.

“Never was such an old owl for getting wrapped up in a ledger; the old fool’s getting beyond his work; he’s half blind and he’s nearly deaf, and this last week he’s looked so queer that I thought every day something was going to happen to him. I wish something had. Boardman! What on earth’s the matter with you, Boardman?”

Something seemed to be the matter, as he had wished there might be. It was absurd to suppose that even old Boardman was so deaf that he could not hear when shouted to like that. Yet he did not move. He continued leaning over the desk motionless, as if he were a figure of wax. Cecil, opening the dividing door, went striding in. Still not a movement from the managing clerk. For some reason the young man stood still, awed, all at once, by he knew not what. Why was the old man so still?

“Boardman!” His voice was lowered, then raised, as with some strange, sudden fear.

“Boardman!”

Still not a movement in reply. Cecil went quickly forward, as if actuated by some odd sort of terror. He caught the old man by the shoulder, in his condition of curious nervous tension, a little more roughly perhaps than he supposed. The old man came toppling off his high stool onto the floor and lay, still silent, at the young man’s feet. It was his silence which to the young man seemed so much worse than any noise could have been. All his life he had been afraid of death, and to be alone with it under such circumstances, unexpectedly like this. He half turned to flee.

But that – that would be too ridiculous; the crowning act of folly. Here – here – was his chance; the old man dead perhaps in the very nick of time. What had he been doing when he died? On his desk was a half-finished letter beginning “My dear Cecil” – he was writing to him – and telling him what he had found out. So – so he had found out; what an escape.

In sudden, unreasonable rage Cecil could have struck the old man as he lay on the floor. Found out, had he? Then – then it had served him right – that he was dead. His knowledge had died with him, and – all knowledge. Who knew the truth who could ever know it except – this dead old man and himself?

Cecil Weaver was quick witted. In an instant the whole plan was shaped in his brain – perfected. He set to plain measures there and then. He saw what old Boardman had made of the books and – he unmade it; more than unmade it – much more. He was an adept with figures; could work wonders with them if – if there was no old Boardman to be feared. And he worked wonders – while the old man lay dead at his feet. He played tricks with the books, tearing out whole pages where it suited him; played havoc with papers of all sorts and kinds; pillaged the safe; and – finally – left the old man lying dead on the floor.

He flattered himself as he walked home to his father’s house that he had so arranged matters that two things were assured – his own safety and old Boardman’s guilt. It would be plain when, in the morning, the office was opened that old Boardman was a thief, had been one perhaps for years; and that from the retribution which at last had threatened he had escaped – through the portal of the grave.

The young gentleman, when the crisis came, had not lost his head for a single instant; he had prepared for all eventualities; he had left nothing which could be twisted so as to point at the old man’s innocence; nothing which could cast the faintest shadow of a shade on his own integrity. Henceforth he could hold up his head with the best of them, fearing nothing; and yet – all the time he was afraid, which was the more singular since he never had feared anything until – that hour; he had nothing to fear. What was it walked behind him? Why, three, four, five times did he stop to see what followed when – when he knew there was nothing there? The folks were all in bed asleep, the street was empty; what – what was it which, every time he walked on, seemed to keep step with him, sticking close to his heels? Nothing, nothing, nothing, yet – all at once – he broke into a run, and came, all panting, to his father’s door, and – and let himself into his own home, all trembling, and went up to his bed, conscious – dreadfully conscious – that that nothing had come with him.

There was a fine to-do in the morning. Young Arthur Gibbons came rushing to Mr Weaver’s house as one who was big with news of the fate of Rome, and immediately the house was in a turmoil. Young Mr Cecil bade them keep the tale from his father, who was making a slow recovery towards health; but it seemed as if the invalid must have felt that there was something in the air – he shouted from his bedroom to ask what was wrong. When he knew, it was all they could do to keep him between the sheets.

Off tore Cecil with young Gibbons. When they reached the office, the thing was too plain. The young man was nearly moved to tears, that his father’s trusted servant, his own lifelong friend, the father of the girl he loved and hoped to marry, should be dead, under circumstances which, on the face of them, had so hideous a meaning.

A doctor was sent for, the nearest, who chanced to be a particular friend of Cecil’s, a young man who had not set up long in the town. The young man gave him a hint.

“Ackroyd, what I want, what my father wants what we all want, is no scandal. The thing’s plain enough. I’m engaged, as you know, to his daughter, and” – the speaker’s voice trembled – “and in spite of this, in spite of everything, I’m going to marry her. I tell you this between ourselves, so you’ll understand why – why I don’t want to have her father publicly branded.”

It was managed. Cecil had managed it again. A certificate was given, without a hint to the necessity for an inquest; but, though the thing was managed, the end which the young man declared he had in view was very far from being attained. In less than twenty-four hours it was known all through the town and all over the countryside that old Boardman had been robbing Mr Weaver, and had died just in time to save himself from being sent to gaol.

Conceive his daughter’s feelings, to whom the dead man had not only been a father, but a friend, and an example: the soul of all things good, the scorner of all that was evil. Her mother had loved and trusted him. She had told her daughter more than once that her husband was one of the best men she had ever known. The girl did not, could not, believe that the object of so much affection, such boundless confidence had been but a whited sepulchre.

Cecil kept the truth from her at the beginning. She only knew that her father had died; which surely was enough. The first hint of the true facts of the case reached her through the voice of common rumour. She was all aflame.

“What do they mean,” she demanded of Cecil, when at night he came to play the part of lover and comforter, “by saying that father’s books were not found in order? What was wrong with them?”

Cecil hesitated, conscious that he had a delicate situation to face; but the truth might not be hidden. Better that she should hear it from the lips of one who loved her.

“I’m afraid that a good deal was wrong with them. Lottie, don’t look at me like that; if you only knew what I’ve had to bear already. My father – you don’t know what things my father has been saying.”

“What things has he been saying?”

“What hasn’t he. Lottie, I believe you love me!”

“Don’t talk about that now – please.”

“But I must – I must – it’s the one thing I must talk to you about; what else counts?”

“It seems to me that a good deal else counts.”

“It doesn’t – nothing counts. To you and to me that’s the one certain fact, that we love each other; I’m going to be your husband and you’re going to be my wife, that’s the one great fact for us. What my father says or thinks matters nothing to you.”

“You’re quite mistaken – it matters a good deal.”

“I’m going to prove to you presently that it doesn’t.”

“What your father said or did, or even was, matters nothing to me; it isn’t your fault that you’re his daughter—”

“My fault? What do you mean – my fault?”

“What has become of the money, Lottie, goodness only knows, but it’s all gone somewhere – no end of it.”

A hundred pounds of it in banknotes were in the young gentleman’s breast-pocket at that very instant; he was at a loss to know what to do with it, as the numbers of the notes were known, and any attempt to dispose of them might involve him in awkward explanations. The girl was quite frank with him.

“Cecil, you may say what you choose, or Mr Weaver or anyone, but I’d almost rather believe that you were a thief than that my father was. I know my father – I tell you I know him and – he wasn’t a thief; certainly no more than you are.”

The young man was grieved; nay, he was shocked; that the girl he loved could – could throw out such insinuations, even by a side wind; it cut him to the quick. Presently she was comforting him; soothing his sensitive feelings, assuring him that the last wish she had in her heart was to say anything unkind.

So, in spite of Cecil’s well-meant effort to hide the light beneath a bushel it blazed abroad, the more, perhaps, because of his endeavour to hide it. The whole world, or what stood for it in those parts, knew that Thomas Boardman had lived a hypocrite and died a rogue; and for his daughter Charlotte life was made unlivable, so that she would rather that they would lay her in the grave in which they were presently to place her father.

She told Cecil plainly that never would she become his wife, since he was the son of the man whom the world said her father had robbed; but since he was practically the only person who, in that awful time, stood by her she could scarcely keep him outside the door. Indeed, none knew better than she how much, in those hours of trouble, of agony, she owed him. He completed all the arrangements for the funeral, for her own future, so far at present as that could be arranged.

The furniture was to be sold; his life had been insured; there was, for a man of his position, who had never been in receipt of a large income, quite a considerable sum in various small investments and at the bank – the proceeds of everything, when realised, were to be handed over to Mr Weaver to make good in part what he had lost. The most serious difference of opinion she had with Cecil was on that very point – when he protested against her leaving herself penniless.

“Do you imagine,” she asked him, “that I will keep one farthing of the money which people pretend is your father’s – although I’m as sure as I am sure of anything that it was nothing of the kind? I am keeping an exact account of every shilling. One day it will be proved that, whoever robbed your father, my father never did; then I shall require Mr Weaver to return to me my own money.”

There was something in the words, and the tone in which they were uttered, which Cecil did not like at all. He had not been at all himself since the night on which old Boardman died; he had been full of the strangest, most unwholesome fancies; the most uncomfortable was one of which, try as he might, he could not be rid – it was the fancy that he never was alone; wherever he was, indoors or out, by himself or with others, he had an uneasy feeling that unseen, unheard, unnoticed, except by him, there was always someone behind him, close to his back. People were beginning to notice an odd trick he had of suddenly turning round – to stare at nothing.

•   •   •   •   •

It was the night before Thomas Boardman’s funeral. He was to be laid in the churchyard of a little village in which his wife had been born, and now was buried. Lottie was to leave in the evening to spend the night in the house in which her mother had been born; what was left of her father was to follow in the morning. Cecil Weaver was to see her start. Almost at the last minute a request came from some whilom friends that she would call before she went, possibly forever. Cecil Weaver was in the house alone. Mrs Piper, the woman who had been in to perform such services as were necessary, had left for home. The understanding was that Lottie would only be absent for a few minutes, and that on her return she and Cecil would start together for the station.

Cecil took advantage of his solitude to inspect the house, such parts of it as were not familiar. There was some good furniture: old tallboys, a couple of fine wardrobes, a Georgian bureau; these things were to be sold; as it might be worth his while to buy them it was just as well that he should have some idea of their condition. One of the wardrobes was in the room, which had been Charlotte’s own, and was now dismantled; she was taking all her most precious portable possessions away with her. It was in a fine state of preservation, the old wardrobe – he swung back one of the doors to test the hinges. As he did so there was a curious sound; his first impression was that it was caused by one of the hinges, which perhaps creaked. He swung the door to again – it moved quite noiselessly. As he eyed it there came the sound again.

He had not known what nerves were till old Boardman died; his acquaintance with them had grown more acute each hour since; he had reached a state in which he required an explanation for every trivial noise. What had caused the sound which he had just now heard? It certainly was not the wardrobe; it had not come from the room, but from outside the room.

Again; what – what could it be; so curious a sound? Perhaps it was one of those sounds which come at night when the house is still, the explanation of which is so simple if we can only get at it. The door of the room was closed; he opened it and stood to listen.

Again – again – again three times such – such a curious sound; he did not care to ask himself what it resembled and whence it came. All at once his nerves were shivering like so many harp strings! He actually had to hold on to the edge of the door with both his hands in his effort to stay his trembling. What was the noise? Was he to be frightened by a noise – just a noise? How absurd it was, how mad. And yet, hanging on to the door there, his bones seemed to be turning to jelly within him, because of the sound he heard.

Right in front of him on the other side of the landing was the room in which old Boardman lay – in his coffin. He was either stark staring mad, and he did not believe he was that yet, or it was from that room that the sound had come, and still was coming. What was the sound? What was the meaning of the – the infernal thing? The room was empty except for old Boardman and – and his coffin; there was, there could be, nothing, no one to – to make a sound at all; still less a sound like that. Certainly there came a sound from that room on the other side of the landing which seemed to split his brain in two; what did it mean? Then there was silence – the most awful silence he had known.

What should he do? Nothing could be simpler than that he should cross the landing, towards the door at which he hardly dared to look, and turn the handle, and go into the opposite room. At that moment he could not have done it for all the money in the world; fear had come into him so that all the manhood had gone out.

The sound again. Good God! what did it mean; was it – was it someone screaming? Who could be screaming in the opposite room?

While he struggled to find an answer to the question which he hardly dared to ask himself there came another sound, this time from below. Someone had entered the house downstairs. He was down the staircase and into the hall in a couple of strides.

“Lottie!” he exclaimed. “Lottie! Is that you?”

The voice that answered was not Lottie’s.

“It’s me, Mr Weaver, sir. I’ve been and left a parcel behind; seeing that there are some things in it that I might want I’ve come back to get it.”

The speaker was Mrs Piper, the woman who had been helping Charlotte. His nerves were so disorganized that for the instant he could not remember who she was.

“What was that noise,” she asked, “I heard as I was coming in?”

“Noise – what noise? Did you hear a noise?”

“I should rather think I did. I wondered if it was you and Miss Charlotte quarrelling.”

“Why – why should we quarrel? Miss Charlotte’s out.”

“Out, is she? It sounded to me as if it were someone very badly hurt. Was it you, sir, screaming all to yourself. Mr Cecil, whatever is the matter?”

He had heard – something again even while the woman was speaking; something – something coming from above; not this time a scream, but – still – something.

“Mr Cecil, aren’t you well? I never did see a look come upon a face like the one which came on yours just then, and – and it’s there still – why,you might be looking at a ghost.”

He was still sufficiently master of himself to realise that this woman must be got rid of out of the house without a moment’s delay. If the sound came again she – she might want to know and then he must be rid of her before that eventually arose.

“Now, Mrs Piper, that’ll do; you have your parcel. I can’t stop talking to you; I’ve other matters to attend to. Good-night.”

He held the front door wide open. Almost before she knew it he had her out in the street; whether he had pushed her or whether she had gone of her own volition he was not sure – she was gone. He was conscious of the startled look she turned to him as he shut the door. But he did shut it and – again he was alone in the house. And the moment the door was shut the sound returned, not with an ear-splitting scream but – with something which was almost worse. It exercised on him this time a frightful fascination. Beyond doubt it was coming from upstairs – from his room. He felt that he must – that he must know what it meant – that he must! He could not stop downstairs while there was that sound above without knowing. Suppose Mrs Piper had stayed, and had insisted on knowing, what – what risk might he not have run.

He went up the staircase almost as quickly as he had come down – but on the landing he stayed. He had to clutch at the banisters or he would have gone reeling to the floor. What a hideous sound coming – from his room. He would have to find out what it meant – he would have to. He went reeling across the few intervening feet, caught at the handle, turned it, flung open the door and, standing on the threshold, shouted:

“What the devil’s going on in there?”

The room was in pitchy darkness; he could see nothing but – he could hear. As if he could not help it he went staggering into the room, and stood to listen, and as he listened he began to understand. There – he could not see it – but there on his right was the coffin on its three trestles; he knew the arrangements of the room quite well. The sounds came from the coffin – from within the coffin. The undertaker’s men had been only an hour or so before, and had screwed down the coffin lid, making a prisoner forever of what might be within. As in the blackness he listened it came to him in an instant dreadful flash what was within – not a dead man but a live one – one who, suddenly awake to the horror of his position, was struggling to be free – to let someone know that there was no dead man within.

Cecil Weaver asked himself what he should do; with his understanding of the position something of his courage had returned. Thoughts began to chase each other swiftly through his active brain. Old Boardman was dead – dead; that was certain. It was because he was dead that he, Cecil Weaver, was alive; but, if by some miracle it should turn out that he was not dead, then he, Cecil Weaver, might as well hang himself, for to all practical purposes all things would combine together to hang him; and if he had to hang it might as well be for one thing as for another. He had half a mind to unscrew that coffin lid and out the old fool’s throat and at least make sure that he was not buried alive.

Hark at him – hark! Hark! What a silly noise he made, the old fool! It must be pretty close in there – he could not have much room nor much air. He wondered if air got into coffins when they were screwed down and, if so, how much; how long would it take for a man to suffocate inside a coffin – an old man like old Boardman?

Confound the fellow, what a row he made. Was he crying, wheezing, gasping, struggling – what? Was he trying to scream as he had screamed that once so loudly that Mrs Piper in the street had heard him. If – if he screamed again – Cecil tried to think of some means by which he could prevent his screaming without opening the coffin. It would take some time to remove the lid; then he would have to put it back again. He would not dare to run the risk of leaving it off even for a minute – think what it would mean. At any moment Lottie might return; she was infatuated about her father. Cecil believed that she loved him dead better than she loved him living. Suppose in her foolish infatuation she insisted on coming upstairs to take a last glimpse at the coffin – such morbid ideas some women have! – before she left the house forever and – found it open, and – and saw what had happened. Oh, good God, what an awful thing it would be for him. He must not take off the lid – yet the old fool kept making those silly noises. He wondered if he could hear in his coffin, if he knew that someone was in the room, if he guessed who it was. Just think what he must be feeling if he knew that he, Cecil Weaver, was in the room, and would pay no heed to his appeals. The old fellow must be having a very nice time if he did – curse the man.

As if seized by a sudden fit of savage, senseless rage, he went, through the darkness, to the coffin, which was quite close at hand, and tapped it with his knuckles sharply again and again.

“I hear, I hear, I hear, Boardman, but I’ll be hanged if I’ll open. That’s a coffin you’re in – do you hear, it’s a coffin, and I don’t care if you’re dead or living, your coffin shall be buried – as a coffin should be buried – yes, with you inside. Do you hear me, Boardman?”

He shouted the last inquiry, stooping over the coffin lid at that end at which he knew the old man’s head was lying; and as if his words had been heard and understood, from the coffin there came a scream, an agonising scream, which frightened the life half out of Cecil Weaver, and drove him back in the darkness as if he had been struck a blow. Then again the silence which was more awful than the sound had been; his voice had gone out of his throat, the strength out of his limbs; and while his soul still quaked within him as before, he heard the sound of the door being opened below. He had been expecting it, yet it took him unawares. Charlotte’s voice came up to him.

“Cecil!” He would have to go to her at once. He fumbled his way out of the room and down the stairs, trying as he went to steady his shivering nerves. Charlotte was in the apartment which had been used as a sitting-room. She stared at him with wondering eyes – he was uncomfortably conscious that she had cause for staring.

“Wherever have you been?”

He broke into voluble speech, evading her question.

“I expected you back before this. What did those people want with you that they kept you so long? You’ve hardly time to catch the train – is everything ready. I’ve been all over the house; there seems to be nothing left behind. Come, we’d better start at once.”

“What’s the hurry; we’ve plenty of time, more than twenty minutes – it won’t take us five to get to the station.”

“Don’t talk nonsense; you have no watch. We shall only just have time. Do you hear what I tell you; come – now.”

His violence plainly startled her; he spoke as if he would have served her as he did Mrs Piper – push her out of the house. She drew away from him.

“Cecil, what is the matter? Why do you look at me like that, and talk to me so?”

His lips were trembling; it was only with an effort he could form his words.

“I – I – I only want you to catch your train, that – that is all I want you to do; why – why don’t you come when I tell you to?”

The girl drew farther away.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong? I met Mrs Piper; she told me she felt sure that something had upset you, and I can see that something has. Cecil, don’t look like that – you frighten me!”

Hideously aware that at a moment when discretion was essential he was playing the fool, he tried to regain some of his ordinary sang-froid – in vain. The more he tried to collect his scattered senses, the more they seemed to play him tricks, so that even his speech was incoherent. Instead of looking her straight in the face, and speaking calmly and collectedly as he should have done, he was aware that he gibbered like some witless thing.

“What’s – what’s the use of our standing talking here, when – when you’re missing your train? Why the devil don’t you come when I tell you? Will you come?”

It was not a request, it was a command that was shouted at her. When he moved towards her, as if to compel obedience, she shrank farther back.

“Cecil, don’t you touch me; you – you make me feel afraid. Are you ill, or have you suddenly gone mad? What is wrong? Mrs Piper told me that she heard someone screaming just as she was coming into the house, and that when she asked you who it was you thrust her out into the street. I – I heard someone scream as I was coming in. Cecil, was it you?”

Try as he might, he could not find words with which to give her the straightforward answer her question required. He had to resort to evasion.

“What – what the devil are you talking of? What’s the use of asking me such silly questions? Why do you suppose I should scream when I was all alone in the house? You’re like Mrs Piper, you – you let your imagination play you tricks. Now, Lottie, be sensible; I insist on your coming at once to catch your train – I insist on your coming.”

“You insist? What do you mean by – you insist? Cecil, there is something very strangely wrong. I insist upon your telling me what it is. Mrs Piper heard someone scream, and so did I. If it wasn’t you, who was it? Who is in the house besides you, Cecil – who screamed? I’m going to see.”

“Lottie, you shan’t leave this room. Don’t you try, except to go with me to the station.”

“Cecil, you certainly are mad! Will you stand away from that door and let me pass?”

“Now, Lottie, don’t you let me have any trouble with you. I tell you you shan’t leave this room, except to go to the station; and you shan’t.”

The girl regarded him as if his behaviour was altogether beyond her comprehension, within her eyes what seemed to be a growing sense of fear.

“Cecil, I don’t understand you, and you can’t understand me. Do you imagine that you can prevent my doing in my own home exactly as I please – because, as yet, it is my home; that you can stop me from going in or out of any room I please. There is something seriously wrong, and you wish to keep if from me. I’ve had my doubts of you all along. If you don’t wish them to become certainties, you’ll be very careful. Please let me leave the room.”

“Lottie, I beg you, I implore you, I entreat you—”

“Please stand away from that door.”

“I was all alone in the house – you know I was. Who else could there be but me? If Mrs Piper or you heard anything, it must have been me, shouting or singing; you know what a rotten voice I have. It couldn’t have been anything else.”

Even as he ceased to speak there came a sound again from the room above.

“Cecil, what is that?”

“It’s – it’s nothing.”

“Cecil, who is upstairs?”

“There’s – there’s no one upstairs. Who – who could be upstairs when – when you and I are in the house alone?”

“Cecil, it came from father’s room.”

“Lottie!”

The quickness of the girl’s sense of divination in telling her at once from whence the sound was coming seemed to deprive him, for the moment, of his still remaining wits. He shrank away from the door. Before he was back again she was at it, had flung it open, and was half way through. He rushed at her, tried to stay her. She slipped through his hands and up the stairs. He was after her; he caught at her skirt with uncertain fingers;, she tore it away. She gained the landing.

The door of her father’s room was wide open. He had left it so, forgetting, as in his haste he descended, to shut it. Through the open door there came that sound, the piteous sound – as of someone crying.

“Father! father! father!” She ran into the unlighted room, her lover close at her heels.

“Father! It’s father crying! Father! Cecil, he’s alive; father’s in his coffin – alive! Father! I can hear you, father, can you hear me – it’s Lottie. Cecil, have you a light? I left a candle on the mantelpiece with a box of matches. Father, I’m going to light a candle, and then I’ll help you. Cecil, let go my arm.”

“Lottie, what – what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to light the candle.”

“You’ll miss your train.”

“My train! Cecil, what do you mean? Let me go; I want to light the candle.”

“Lottie, don’t be an idiot; come out of the room.”

“Come out of the room!”

“You heard what I said. Come out of the room – you shall come!”

“Cecil!”

“Come out of the room!”

They struggled, they fought – that pair of lovers, in the darkness, while all the time the sound of crying came from the coffin. Each was fighting for life, each in a different sense – with this difference, that for the moment the man was mad. He forgot everything in his frenzied desire to evade the discovery which would follow the raising from the dead. He strained every muscle to get the better of the girl he loved, to drag her from the room; and if he had got her from the room he would have thrown her down the stairs, if needs be from the house – done anything rather than she should open that coffin-lid.

But she was nearly, if not quite, as strong as he was; and she, on her side, in a sense was mad – understanding was driving her mad. She was beginning to realise what kind of creature this was, whom she had loved, and who was assailing her like some wild beast. This way and that way they went, neither prevailing for long; in the darkness neither realising what the other would be after. Presently they went crashing to the floor.

“Here! I say, what’s all this?”

The question came from Mrs Piper, who, with a lighted candle in her hand, was standing at the open door. Cecil Weaver wrenched himself away from the girl he had thrown down. He saw the woman, realised that her presence, her unlooked-for return, meant that for him everything was over. He went rushing past her, down the stairs, out of the house. They heard him slam the door behind him with a crash which shook the house as he passed out into the night. The girl, all dishevelled, appealed to the woman, who stood staring about her, as if wondering what all at once had happened to the world.

“Mrs Piper, don’t ask questions – help me. Where’s a screw-driver?”

“A screw-driver? There’s the one those chaps were using. They left it on the side.”

“Here it is. Mrs Piper, help me, help me. Unscrew the lid. Father’s alive!”

Shortly the lid was raised. The two women between them assisted the old man to rise out of his narrow bed.

Presently father and daughter were weeping in each other’s arms.

His Child

It all happened in an inappreciable space of time. Something ran out of a gate right onto the road; she stopped with a sudden jerk which seemed to shake the car almost to pieces, but not before the something had been knocked over. She knew it had been knocked over, though in that first moment of horror she was incapable of looking round. It was some moments before she was sufficiently mistress of herself to be able to stand up and look behind; the something was lying on the road, a little white bundle, ominously still. Her heart seemed to cease beating – what had she done? She looked about her; there was not a soul in sight, nor a house – from where had the something come? A dreadful impulse swept over her; she would drive away – who would be the wiser? No one would ever tell. She sat down; all but started, then the consciousness of the shameful thing which she would do seemed to hold her paralysed. If she went on – that white something lying on the road would haunt her for ever and ever.

She got out, to find, when her feet stood on solid ground, that she was trembling. She had to hold on to the side of the car. It was a zigzag progress which she made towards the something on the road. When she reached it she knew what a hideous temptation had assailed her, what a wretch she had nearly been. She dropped onto her knees, the tears came welling into her eyes, she bent over the recumbent mite. It was the merest child, scarcely more than an infant. It lay on its face, so still – she hardly dared to touch it. It was no peasant’s child, it was so daintily dressed, in pretty shoes and stockings, a beautiful needlework frock; under-clothes, which were exquisite both as to material and work, were all tumbled and exposed. She touched it on its little bare arm

“Baby! Little one!”

No answer; it lay so still; not a sound to show it even breathed. Her heart was thumping against her side; she was possessed by a great fear. She turned the child right over; she thought it was the most beautiful little girl she had ever seen – a lovely face framed with clustering dark brown curls, eyes closed, lips just parted, as if she slept. So far as Mary Gardner could see there was nothing to show the child had been touched; not a scar nor bruise, not a scratch nor a drop of blood. She felt its little form; so far as her unpractised fingers could determine not a limb was broken. Then what had happened? Why was the little one so ominously still?

She picked it up, shocked to find how lifeless the little body seemed to be. The limbs just dangled anyhow, the head hung back almost as if the neck were broken. She felt sure that the car had not run over it; of that she was convinced; though what had happened she did not know. If the car had gone right over the child, she would certainly have been conscious of the fact. Would she? Was that so sure? So small a child, so big a car?

She was crying now as she had never cried in all her life before, holding the child gently to her bosom. Her tears fell on the little face. She had not cried even when the news had come – the news that had made it seem to her as if the foundations of her world had suddenly been snapped in twain. Grief, pain, shame, and anger, overwhelming her all at once, had all but driven her mad. But she had not cried. Now she was crying as if her heart was broken, over the little child.

Then fear came back – that horrible sense of fear. What would come of it if she were found to have done this thing? She would be sent to gaol, that would be certain; the story would be in every newspaper, not only here, but probably all over the world. Each would make its own comments; for a time at least she would be a byword, she, Mary Gardner, who had what almost amounted to a morbid horror of anything which savoured of publicity. Then – it all came to her during those awful, illuminating moments in which she knelt in the dust with a little silent child hugged in her arms – still worse might follow. How was she to prove that the fault had not been hers; how was she to prove it even to herself, to say nothing of a judge and jury. How was she to show that for this thing which she had done she did not deserve to be punished by the criminal law? Probably public opinion would be against her – it is a motorist’s business not to run over little children even if they do dash suddenly across the lane. If she was to be sentenced to a term of imprisonment, it were better that she had died instead of the child; if she escaped by the skin of her teeth the odium of the thing would always be against her. Her own conscience would be against her, too. Then, as in a sudden dreadful vision, there rose before her the unknown face of the child’s mother – what explanation which she could offer would satisfy her? Her child had been slain; would she be likely to look upon the slayer as anything but a murderess? Mary Gardner realised that in the nature of things the mother never could forgive her, and that her unforgivingness would follow her to the grave.

She came to a sudden decision; rose from her knees, bore the child to the car, placed it among the rugs on the floor at the back, making for it a sort of nest out of which it scarcely could be jolted. It looked so pretty as it nestled there in its cosy cradle, for the nest which she had made for it was cosy as a cradle, that moved by a sudden something she stooped and kissed it. How soft the little lips were. As she drew away was it only in her imagination that on its face there was a smile? She had all but ceased to cry, but as she climbed into the driver’s seat the tears were streaming down her face again. She drove off – straight home. As she brought the car to a standstill in front of the house she was off her seat in an instant, and almost in the same instant had the rug in her arms with the child inside it. She had made her plans as she came along – reckoning that the servants would be at tea, and that no one would be in the hall when she arrived. It turned out as she had expected – she was in the house and half-way up the staircase before anyone appeared. Then a tardy footman came hurriedly along. She called to him as she ascended.

“All right, Elliot, never mind the car; tell them to leave it where it is – I may want it again.”

Entering her own bedroom, she not only closed, but locked the door, laying the rug with the child in it on the bed. She had felt it to be an absolute necessity that she should be in her own place to enable her to collect her thoughts. Here she was, in her own house, where she ran no risk of having her privacy disturbed – what did she propose to do? First of all she must make sure whether the child had still some shred of life left in it or if it was certainly dead; to do that it might be better to undress it. She proceeded to unfasten the little frock, to slip it off the nerveless form. As she did so her eye was caught by something on the hem inside. Something was written there, doubtless the child’s name, at least she would know what it was. She looked to see – and the blood seemed to come surging up to her head. Could she have been mistaken? She looked again. No, there it was, plain as plain could be – “Marjorie Hawthorne.” She sat down on a chair beside the bed, the tiny frock in her hand, staring straight in front of her as if, in the vacant air, she saw a ghost.

Of all the incredible things which had happened this did seem to be the most incredible. Marjorie Hawthorne? Was it possible that it could be – the same Hawthorne? She reflected. It might; the thing was just possible. Her thoughts went back to the exact spot at which the accident had happened. Millwood, his house, had been on her left, at a distance, perhaps, of half-a-mile. She had put on speed as she passed the lodge gates lest anyone should come out and see her; it was perhaps because she had not slowed down enough immediately afterwards that it had happened. The child might be five, or perhaps even six, years old; it was conceivable that a child of that age might stray half-a-mile from home. But, if this was his child, he had been false even longer than she had supposed.

She writhed as she thought of it. Her rage returned. What a fool she had been! What a fool he had made of her! She had been eating her heart out, waiting, and he had been already the father of another woman’s child.

How many years was it since he had gone away as her promised husband? He had been a younger son with only a pittance of his own. She had been the only child of her father. It had been a sufficient disappointment to James Gardner that she had not been a son; being a girl, representing his money, he had made up his mind that she should make a match which should place the family in that social position to which so much money was entitled.

When Raymond Hawthorne, the younger son of an impoverished house, had what he called the impudence to ask for his daughter’s hand he, literally, turned him out of the house. There ensued some stormy scenes with Mary. She was only a girl then, within her already a touch of her father’s hardness. He had told her point-blank that, if she married against his wish, she should not have a farthing of his money – she knew him well enough to be aware that what he said he meant. It was perfectly clear that without a farthing of her own she could not marry a man who was practically penniless. She did not actually defy her father, but when Raymond Hawthorne went to South Africa in search of fortune there was a private understanding between them that so soon as he had won for himself a position he would return to make her his wife.

That was – could it be possible – nearly twelve years ago. For three years they had written to each other regularly, then the correspondence slackened. Things were not going well with him; she understood that he did not care to write often, for of himself he had nothing cheerful to tell her. In the fourth year his letters ceased altogether; she wrote again and again, and again, some of her letters must have reached him, for they never came back to her; then they did begin to return, through the Dead Letter Office.

At that time everything was against her. Her father, as conscious as she was that her first youth was slipping from her, was treating her with what she felt was almost brutality. Proposals had not been many, she had kept out of the reach of them; but there had been some, and others had been engineered by her father himself on a purely commercial basis. He had gone so far as to make overtures on his own account to an impoverished peer who was willing to give her that position which the old man wanted in exchange for coin of the realm. Declining to do as her father wished, there was continual friction. Her health suffered. Anxiety on account of her lover, the bad terms on which she stood with her father, were too much for her; collapse ensued which was both mental and physical; for more than twelve months she was seriously ill. When health began to return there was still no news from Raymond Hawthorne and her father had had a paralytic stroke.

Three years afterwards he was dead; she was alone in the great house, in possession of all his money, an embittered woman of twenty-six who, she feared, was older than her years. Still nothing had been heard of the absent lover. Inquiries had been made for him in all directions, not only by her. Both his father and his brother had been drowned at sea. The family estate, such as it was, was his – he was badly wanted. All trace of him was lost. He had last been heard of in a remote district in Rhodesia. The presumption was that he had died, and been buried, or perhaps left unburied, in the wilderness.

Whatever she might have felt inwardly, Mary refused to admit that he was dead. She continued to wait – four more years. Then there burst a thunderclap. Without a word of warning, as if he had dropped out of the skies, Raymond Hawthorne returned to Millwood, with a wife and child. That was the bitterest blow of all; when the news reached her, Mary Gardner deemed it irresponsible gossip. But it was true enough; he had been back a week; the whole county was agog to know what would happen next. She had received no communication from him, and under the circumstances she wanted none. She was like a thing possessed; it maddened her to think that she had thrown away her life – for this. And everybody knew – that made it bitterer. There had been moments in the last few days when it would have needed very little to induce her to take her own life, as she put it, what was left of it. Sometimes, when the fit was on her, she would go careering round the country, sometimes on horseback, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a motor car. This time it had been in a motor car, and there was the result upon the bed.

His child! She had killed his child. She was glad of it. She did not care what anyone might say, or think – at least she was not sorry. He had killed what was best in her; she had killed what was probably best of his. This was the justice of old – an eye for an eye.

Not only would he suffer, but the woman, who had usurped her place, she would suffer too. Whatever might happen to her could not be worse than what had come to them. If they found out they might put her on her trial, but it would not be easy to prove that she had been guilty of a criminal fault; she would probably get off practically scatheless; their punishment would be endless. Possibly he would see in it the hand of God.

But it would be well to make sure that the child was his. There was the name upon the frock, and, when she went to look, she found it was on all the other garments too. There came a knock at the door, just as she had the child nearly stripped. How it made her start. The handle was turned – thank goodness she had locked the door. If someone had come in and found her there! She cried out in a voice that scarcely seemed her own:

“Who’s there?”

It was her maid who replied. She had merely come to see if there was anything she could do for her. She replied that there was not, she wished to be left alone. She pressed her hand against her side – what an extraordinary feeling it was to feel afraid. If the door had been unlocked!

What should she do with the child? She could not leave it there; she could not keep it in her room – for long. She began to realise one thing – that if discovery came now things would be much worse for her than they would have been if she had told her story on the instant. But the discovery must not come; she had a scheme at the back of her head; she would be rid of the child somehow; no one should ever know what had become of it; the father and mother should suffer the anguish of suspense – they would always be hoping for what could never be. It would add years to their ages, such suspense as that – what they would endure!

The first point she had to consider was how to get rid of the child. Time was going on. Adele would be expecting her to dress for dinner soon. Where should she put it, for the moment? She looked about her for a hiding-place.

Something caused her to turn suddenly round, some sound which would have been inaudible to ears less on the alert than hers. What was it? There seemed to be no visible explanation. And yet – could it be? The child had moved. She had been lying on her side when she had turned, she was convinced of it, now she was on her back. While she held her breath, wondering what it meant, a miracle happened, the child sat up; and, with wide-open eyes, stared up at her face. Mary Gardner felt that her imagination must be playing her a trick, it could not be; but it was. On the little one’s face was an expression which only comes upon the face of a child, the look which might come upon the face of a baby which woke to find itself in fairyland. Then the child asked a question, one of the blunt, straightforward questions which children do ask in the sweetest baby voice, “Who are you?”

Mary Gardner, sinking onto her knees, hid her face on the bed; she was trembling so that it seemed to her the whole room must shake. She was conscious that presently the child made another remark which suggested that she was utterly ignored.

“This is not my house.” Then, when she continued in her recumbent posture, the child asked another question. “Are you crying?”

Mary Gardner was not crying. She was torn by a storm of feelings. To her that had been an afternoon of miracles, but this was the strangest of them all; that, after all, the child should not be dead, and she had made so sure of it. All at once something touched her head, it was the child’s small hand; the tiny palm began to smooth her hair.

“What pretty hair you’ve got, it’s prettier than mother’s, and she has pretty hair. Are you my auntie? You know they told me that Aunt Judith might come any day, I expect you are Aunt Judith. Why do you hide your face? Aren’t you feeling very well?”

She was feeling as she had never felt in all her life before, and she had known some various emotions. She raised her head, found how close the child’s face was to hers, met the big, wide-open eyes, and, because she could not help it, drew her gently to her and kissed her on the lips. The little one put her arms about her neck, and kissed her back again. And then the tears did come, a fact on which the wean commented.

“Why, you are crying; Aunt Judith, why ever are you crying? When I cry like that they say I shall be ill; you’ll be ill if you keep on, you’ll have a headache and I don’t know what.”

Mary Gardner was conscious that the child spoke truly, she would have a headache if she were not careful; she was not sure she had not got one now. She brushed her tears away with the back of her hand, recognising, with a feeling of surprise, how wet her face was.

“You’re quite right, I don’t know what people cry for, do you?”

“I don’t often cry, but when I do cry I do know what I am crying for.”

The child’s delicious gravity moved Mary to sudden laughter. She folded the little one in her arms, smiling through her tears.

“Do you? Then you’re wiser than I am, because I don’t know why I’m crying, I really and truly don’t.”

“Isn’t that rather silly, to cry at you don’t know what?”

It was said with such an air of ancient wisdom, while the tiny fingers were playing with her ruddy locks, the child’s father had once told her that her hair was the colour of rich, red gold; as she recalled the saying she shrank a little away. The child exclaimed at the sudden movement.

“Why, how you started, did I hurt your hair? I didn’t mean to.”

She folded the child to her bosom with a frenzied longing of which, for some reason of her own, she was more than half ashamed.

“You didn’t hurt it, you didn’t; I like to feel your fingers in my hair.”

“Suppose I were to pull it?”

“You might pull and pull, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Not if I hurt you?”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, you couldn’t; nothing you could do ever would hurt me.”

“Why do you say that? You don’t know, I’m very strong. My mother says a woman is so easily hurt; aren’t you easily hurt? You are a woman.”

“Oh yes, I’m a woman, worse luck.”

“Why do you say ‘worse luck’? I’ll be a woman someday, if I keep on growing. Isn’t it nice to be a woman?”

“That depends, on the woman, and—” She was going to say “the man,” but she stopped.

“And what?”

“All sorts of things; you see, a woman’s such a—” Again she stopped. “Listen! There’s someone knocking at the door.” She folded her arms closer round the child, as if she were again overtaken by fear.

“Shall I ask who’s there?”

There seemed to be something in the mere suggestion which made her tremble; her voice sank.

“No, I will.” She raised her tone. “Yes, who’s knocking?” Her maid’s voice replied. “Well, Adele, what do you want?”

“There’s a gentleman downstairs who wishes to see you, Hunt told me to let you know.” Hunt was the butler.

“A gentleman wishes to see me? At this time of day? Who is it?”

“It is Mr Raymond Hawthorne.”

“Who?” In the sudden shock of her surprise she doubted that she had heard aright. The maid repeated the name.

“Why,” exclaimed the child, “it must be papa, his name is Raymond Hawthorne, I know it is.”

Mary Gardner was silent for a moment. She rose to her feet, and as she rose she lifted the child with her, in her arms. She looked into the big eyes, with something very curious in her own.

“Shall we – go and see papa?”

If there had been a break in her voice it had been unnoticed by the child.

“You have got pretty hair, it does shine. Can’t papa come and see us?”

“I think, if we are to see papa, we had better go to him.”

Her tone was grim. She hesitated; the child was partially undressed, should she stay to replace its garments? There was no need, the day was hot, it would come to no harm.

“Shall I take you to him just as you are?”

“Why, how else would you take me? Didn’t that hurt?”

The little one had given a tiny tug to a lock of hair which she had twisted about her baby fingers. Miss Gardner shook her head; plainly the young lady was sublimely unconscious of her disarray. Mary, opening the door, confronted Adele with the child in her arms. The maid stared.

“Where is Mr Raymond Hawthorne?”

“Hunt did not know if you would be able to see him, he showed him into the morning-room.”

Miss Gardner went straight downstairs, the child prattling as she went. The young lady, recognising that this was not her house, was full of curiosity as to where she was. Outside the morning-room Mary paused; for the first time she wondered how she herself was looking, it was characteristic of her that she had not thought of glancing into a mirror. Putting her hand up to her brow she realised that her hair was not in such order as it might be, the young lady had seen to that; she wondered if there were marks of tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, perhaps it would have been better to have seen to that. But now it was too late, she would not go back. She turned the handle and opened the door, but when she had already crossed the threshold for a moment she could go no farther. Her feet seemed clogged, her eyes dimmed, she seemed to see things through a mist. Then she was conscious that a voice was speaking to her, a voice which she had heard somewhere before.

“Mary!”

In some strange fashion the sound of the voice seemed to clear the haze before her eyes, so that she all at once saw clearly. A man was standing by the table with a face and form with which she was familiar, yet unfamiliar. He was resting one hand upon the table and the other on a stick. Something had happened to his body so that he did not stand quite straight, it was as if it had been warped; something worse had happened to his face, so that all one side of it was scarred. Apart from that it was drawn and thin, there was a strange look about the eyes, as there might be in the eyes of one who had lately come out of the darkness into the sun. He was almost bald, the little hair he had was ashen white; indeed that was the dominant note of his entire personality, the whole man was ashen white. Mary thought that she had never seen a stranger figure, or a more pitiful one; her heart began to swell in her bosom as it dawned on her what this man must have gone through to have been brought to this. She did not understand; it was to her almost as if she was looking at one risen from the grave.

“Raymond, is it you?” She had not meant to speak to him like that, to use his Christian name, it had come from her before she knew it.

“I thought you would wonder.”

He spoke in a voice like none which she had ever heard before; it frightened her; that was the second time that afternoon she had been afraid, but this was fear of a different kind.

“I have brought you your child.”

“My child? What do you mean – my child?”

She was in such a queer state of confusion that either she did not hear what he said, or else she did not understand. She spoke to the little one.

“You see, I’ve brought you to papa.”

“That’s not my papa.”

The small maid spoke in tones of something very like alarm. She put her arms round Mary’s neck, pressing herself against her cheek, looking back at the stranger over what seemed to be a timorous shoulder. Mary understood less than before.

“Not your papa?” She addressed the man. “Isn’t this your child?” The answer was a strange one.

“How can it be?”

She echoed his words.

“How can it be? There’s the name upon her things, she says her papa’s name is Raymond Hawthorne, you have a child.”

“How dare you say I have a child?” He spoke with what seemed very like anger.

“Haven’t you? I – I thought you had.”

“How can you have thought it? Why should you? I understand your not being able to endure the sight of me, your shrinking from me, I know what I look like; but why should you have thought I had a child? How dared you think it?”

“But – your wife – hadn’t she a child?”

“My wife? So I’ve a wife? That’s news; especially as I’ve come – out of hell to look at the one I once dreamed of having.”

“Raymond, I don’t understand, aren’t you with your wife – at Millwood?”

“At Millwood? I’m not at Millwood; I wouldn’t go across the doorway until I’d seen you, I made them carry me straight on to you; I’d sworn to myself that if I once got here I’d not rest till I’d seen you, one glimpse of you. If I never got another.”

Something seemed happening to Mary Gardner which was beyond her comprehension; the earth seemed slipping beneath her feet; she made what seemed to her to be a frantic effort to get her footing upon solid ground.

“But I don’t understand! You are married! They told me Raymond Hawthorne was at Millwood with his wife, all the county knows it! And here’s your child.”

“Are you serious? I can scarcely credit it, yet you sound as if you were. Don’t you know that it’s my cousin who is at Millwood with his wife?”

The earth seemed slipping faster and faster from beneath her feet.

“I – I didn’t know you had a cousin; I – I never heard of him.”

“One of my father’s brothers settled in Australia, the man at Millwood is his son; he’s more Australian than English. It’s perhaps his child you’ve got there; but I – for nearly eight years I’ve been a slave in Africa, a black man’s slave, chained by the leg, naked, starved, beaten, with never a chance of escape. You can’t realise what it means, thank God, what I’ve gone through, and lived; a man never knows till he’s tried how hard it is to die. Then you talk about my having a wife, and a child; Mary, you can’t have thought it. I used to think, sometimes, that my spirit was in communion with yours; when I’ve endured the worst I’ve thought it most; it was only that which kept me – alive, if such a thing as I was could be said to have been alive. I know – of course I know – that what I once dreamed is now impossible, I wouldn’t let it happen if it weren’t.”

“You wouldn’t let what happen?”

“You know!”

“I don’t know.”

“Since you thought I’d a wife, and a child, perhaps you have forgotten that once there was talk of that sort of thing between us two.”

“You dare to say that? Now it is you who dare.”

A strange smile seemed to light the man’s scarred face.

“I beg your pardon; I ought to have known you better than to have thought it; and, Mary, I did; I only said it because of what you said. I’m glad to know that you thought of me as I thought of you. That is my cousin’s child? She’s a pretty little thing. Young lady, I fancy I must be your uncle. Do you think – I’m too ugly?”

The little one shook her head; all her timidity seemed to have gone.

“No, I don’t think you’re ugly at all.” She spoke to Mary. “Do you think that he is ugly?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Mary!”

His voice, as he pronounced her name, sounded fuller than it had hitherto done. She looked him full in the face, asking a question.

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“All? Why, no, I’ve – a multitude of things.”

“Haven’t you just one?”

“Just one?”

“Do you know, can’t you see, that all these years – I’ve been waiting for you.”

Something in her manner seemed to overwhelm him with a sense of awe.

“And, after all, there is nothing left of me.”

“There is all I want.”

“Mary! You don’t understand, you’re speaking without thinking; be careful what you say.”

“You’re still a man.”

“Oh yes, I’m still a man, but – what a picture of a man! Oughtn’t I rather to say – what a caricature?”

“Does that sort of talk mean that you’ve ceased to care for me?”

“You know better.” There was so odd a tremor in his tone. Her voice was like a trumpet call.

“Then why don’t you know better too? Why don’t you know that there’s only one thing in the world for which I do care, for which I always have cared, for which I always shall care, to be your wife?”

“Maimed as I am?” Suddenly, as he looked at her, her whole being was shaken as by a storm of tenderness.

“Do you think I want to be your wife as you aren’t? I want to be your wife as you are! Raymond!”

For the third time that afternoon she sank upon her knees, this time beside the table. And the child said,

“Why, you’re crying again.”

She replied, “This time I do know why I’m crying, I’m crying for joy.”

Presently the man said, “I believe I’m crying too.”

The little one asked, “What is joy?”

And Mary answered, “This is.…”

A Fortune at a Find

— I —
CANVAS TOWN

Where Canvas Town stood, there stands now a town which knows not that city of tents and shanties, and scorns the connection. Towns spring up in a year, a day, and what was is forgotten. They say it is a place where big fortunes are to be lost and won. I daresay so it was in the early days. Won principally; there were few enough to be lost. We all came there beggars. When the gold came rolling in, a man struck his sticks, and went up town to spend it, or home to England and happiness. Still, there were a few who had an eye to the future, and settled down and saw the money grow and grow. I reckon they have their lot now. Those were the days to live in.

Tom Harris and I went out there; worth what we stood up in, and thirty-two pounds between us, passage money paid. I was Essex-born, was I; my father was a farmer, as was his before him; but the land was poor, and I, a roving fellow, left it to my brother, and went to the golden land. Tom Harris was a Cambridge man, a wild fellow, as wild a one as ever stepped, but to those who knew him true as steel, and a first-rate friend. He ruined himself, he did, and then he offered to come with me. So we went together.

It was a dear job, crossing then, and a miserable one at best. By the time we touched land we had had enough of the sea to last for a long spell. The first thing we did was to clear up for the diggings. By the time we got there there was precious little in our pockets, besides hope, and we were like a couple of young giants.

We looked about, and pitched upon a claim at the bottom of a slope, and marked it out and took possession by the right of first-comers. It was a good bit from the rest of them, out of call, as it were, snug and quiet by ourselves. I did not know what was likely soil and what was not; but Tom, who knew everything, he did, he said if there was gold anywhere there was gold there. So we pitched our tent; we two all by ourselves in that great land; and commenced to dig.

But bad luck followed us; we digged and we digged, but the land was as barren as the old soil in the Essex home. What we turned up was hardly worth the trouble of washing; things grew worse and worse with us every day; food got scarce, and money scarce; it was all we could do to keep body and soul together. Those were the evil times. But we stuck to it; we went to bed with heavy hearts and weary limbs, but we slept the whole night through, and when the morning dawned we rose fresh as larks, with hope renewed, to begin the same old weary day over and over again. Many a time did I long for Essex and the old home, and the folk I had left behind, for hearts grow rich in time; and so did ours.

At length things reached such a pitch that starvation stared us in the face, it did, and our daily toil just brought us daily bread. Work and work, hour after hour, and all we found was the dull red earth, damp and clayey, with here and there a grain of gold, which went straight to Wheeler’s to buy us bread and meat, for there was no trust there; it was money down, and if there was no money there was no food either. And all the time men were turning up their pounds and pounds every day; but no luck was ours.

And so things went on. And then came the bitterest time of all my life, and I have known some bitter times. Tom Harris went wrong; he bore up for weeks, he toiled and toiled; he stripped himself from the waist and worked from early morning to late evening harder than any navvy; and then he gave it up.

There was as bad a set in those diggings as you could meet anywhere; the very scum of the earth; men of all nations, and the worst of each; fellows who loafed about and stole for a livelihood, or did worse things than that. They were hated in camp, and feared too; they were the blight of the place. I don’t suppose any of us were very good, anything but it, but a lot of us were honest; what we earned, hard won, we liked to keep. Men did not care to stand on guard the livelong nights, with knives handy and revolvers near, and all sorts of traps to keep off thieves, or catch them if they came. Sometimes there were stand-up fights, regular pitched battles; I have seen men shot down like dogs, and carted off like dung, and left to the carrion birds; and they were little missed, either.

One night we lay smoking outside the tent, under a cloudless sky, the noise up camp coming down the valley. They were a noisy crew.

“Will,” said Tom, and he turned over to me, “I’ve had about enough of this.”

I had noticed he had been moping a day or two, seemed done up; and no wonder.

“For the matter of that,” said I, “so have I; but it’ll change in time.”

“In time!” said he. “In time? What time? When we’re dead, and done, and buried?”

“Not so long as that,” said I. “We’ll work, and wait, and hope, and see.”

Tom got up and looked down at me.

“Not for me,” said he, “no more for me. I’ve had enough of it.”

That night he went up to “The Digger’s Rest.” It was the beginning of many such nights. Every night he began to go; and it did him no good. But I said nothing. What could I say?

Then queer tales got about. Up at the “Rest” he fell in with an out-and-out bad lot, and chummed with them; one or two men with money were among them, and they fell to gambling.

One night Tom came home to me – I used to sit up for him, hoping and waiting for his return – he came staggering down the hill more than three parts drunk, and I heard him laughing to himself like a madman. When he got to the bottom he fell almost over me.

“Will,” he said, “Will, look at that.”

Only he said it with the liquor choking him, it sounded different. He put something in my hand. It was a lot of dust tied up in a leather bag. I could tell by the weight it was worth a hundred pounds or more.

“I say, Tom,” said I, “how came you by it?”

“Won it, my boy, off the fellows at the ‘Rest.’”

I put it down on the ground beside him.

“None of that sort for me,” said I; “keep it yourself.”

“What do you mean, you fool; I won it fairly?”

“But if you’d lost could you have paid it fairly?”

“But I didn’t lose,” said he.

“No,” said I, “you didn’t.”

He staggered to his feet and tried to stand still, but it was no good; he pitched over something and came down head-foremost. I went to him and helped him up.

“Tom Harris,” said I; “Tom Harris, you and I’ve been good friends, we’ve faced the evil days together, but by the Lord above us, you’re going wrong.”

He stood up again, steadier this time; he seemed sobered a bit.

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, “I know it. Mind your own business.”

He staggered into the tent, lay down and fell into a drunken sleep. He kept the gold dust in his hand.

The next night he came back late again. He was not so drunk as before, though he had been drinking; but he seemed wild with excitement.

“Will,” he said, coming on me suddenly, as I lay snoozing, real tired out, “I’ve lost it all.”

“Have you?” said I, knowing what he meant. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Which I was.

“You are!” said he.

I thought he was going to say something else, he seemed in a raging passion; but he checked himself, and went straight into the tent. I thought he had gone to sleep, but he had not; in a minute or two he came back. In the moonlight I could see his face working like a machine.

“Will,” he said, in a sort of whisper, “I owe fifty-seven pounds.”

“Owe fifty-seven pounds!” I said, jumping up as though he had struck me. “Who to?”

“Dot Danvers,” said he.

Dot Danvers! the biggest villain in the camp. They said he was an escaped convict; never was there a worse one unhung.

“Tom,” I said, “you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it,” said he, “upon my life I mean it.”

He said no more, but went into the tent and left me there. I never spoke to him again that night. I prowled about, to and fro, far into the morning; that fifty-seven pounds lay like a load of guilt upon my soul.

Then came the evil days.

Tom Harris did no work; as he said, he had given it up, and left me there to toil alone. He was like a man possessed, he was with Dot Danvers and his lot all day long, and I hardly saw him. All sorts of tales were brought to me, and I lived in hourly dread, for he was dearer than a brother to me.

One day I was digging away when Mat Reynolds came up. Reynolds was one of the straightest men in camp, and the steadiest, and they said he had most luck. I wondered what brought him there that hour of the day.

“Joscelyne,” said he, straightway, “Tom Harris has been lifting old Ned’s dust.”

Who old Ned was, no one knew. He was an old man, looking sixty every bit; a quiet, unassuming old fellow, working hard on a claim all by himself, setting an example to the younger ones.

When Mat Reynolds said that about my Tom, I gave no answer, but dropped my pick and knocked him down there and then. When he got up I thought he was going for me. But he didn’t.

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, “I’m not going to fight you, nor quarrel with you either. You’re right to hit out for your chum; but if you’ve got a hold on him tell him to take care of Lynch, for there are men in this camp whose blood is up.”

I knew what he meant. Judge Lynch was the law there. They had run a man up only the Thursday before, who was caught in the act of stealing, and his body dangled on the trees behind the hill at that time of speaking. I had not a word to say, and Mat Reynolds left me there all of a-shiver.

Had it come to this? My Tom – my Tom, a thief? No; never! God grant it so! I did what I had not done for years. I knelt down there in the open, dirt from top to toe, and prayed. And a fine mess I made of it! But I must say it did me good. Yet I was sorely troubled. I did no more work that day. It was not in me.

I went looking about for Tom, but he was nowhere to be found; and I waited for him, heartsick, and hungry, too; for I had not a grain of dust to buy me food. So the night came on.

At last he came. I saw him coming down the slope, and ran up to him.

“Tom, my lad,” I said, “Tom!”

He was sober enough; but he was grave, and there was a look in his eyes I did not understand.

“Will,” he said, “I’ve a secret to tell you.”

A secret! What secret? I shook. I thought I should go mad!

“I’m in love,” he said, grave as a judge.

In – love? Was that the secret he had to tell me? In the turn of feeling I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I hate a man who can’t control his feelings; anyone who calls himself a man, that is. Who to goodness in all camp was he in love with?

“It’s Nell Sanders,” said he, red as a rose, “up at ‘The Rest.’”

Nell Sanders! That was the girl behind the bar. They did say she was a good girl all over, and pretty too. How she got there goodness knows; a waif and stray most like. The talk was she had hard times at “The Rest.” That was because she kept so straight. They calculated that straight girls did not pay out there. To my mind I thought them wrong.

But there were other things upon my mind besides Nell Sanders.

“Tom, my lad,” I said, “’twixt me and the Lord, who took old Ned’s dust?”

“Have they been saying it’s me?” said he, in a regular passion. “Will Joscelyne, it’s a lie!”

I could have jumped for joy when I heard him. I never doubted Tom’s word. No – never!

“I told her tonight,” said he, his thoughts running on other things – and I was glad to see it – “and she told me to wait till I was a better man.”

He blushed redder than ever, as he said it in the softest tones.

“Quite right, too,” said I. “I hope she’ll keep you straight.”

“I hope she will,” said he.

We went into the tent. I guess he dreamt that night of Nell and love. Though I felt a bit hungry – I had had hardly a taste inside me the long day through – I slept too, and my dreams ran on old Ned, and who took his dust?

— II —
A FORTUNE AT A FIND

For some days after that Tom settled down to real hard work again. Eleven hours a day was the time we were at it, from six in the morning to seven at night, with half-an-hour for breakfast, and an hour and a half for dinner – little enough dinner we had. Still no luck. Toil and toil, we turned nothing but dirt. It was enough to tire any man; yet Tom stuck to it through all.

What kept him up to the mark was Nell Sanders. Every night when we had done work he used to clean himself, and hurry up to her. The way he used to talk about her! He used to go on by the hour. There never was such a woman as Nell Sanders, and I liked to hear him say it. He was in love with her heels over head.

I used to wait up for him, and when he came back he used to begin. If ever I wanted to go that way myself, I learned enough from him to go through half-a-dozen courtships. I heard no more about old Ned’s dust. They
did say the old man was nearly broken-hearted; but it was little attracted me up camp, and it was not likely I should go to catch up tales of that sort. Some things did come my way. One thing was that robberies came nigh every day. No one seemed to be clear who was at the bottom of them. The thieves were a deal too sharp, and the whole place was in a fluster. Another thing was, that more men than one or two were wild with my Tom because of the girl he had won.

It was not as though women were like blackberries, two or three apiece all round. No, women were scarce round there, one to every fifty men or so. When one man got her, the other forty-nine wanted his blood. And Nell Sanders, she was a prize, she was; the rarest prize in all the place. If she had liked she could have had ten men to every finger, and then ten more to each of her toes – men of substance, with their piles at the bank, who when they had a wife could keep her, which was more than Tom could do. I doubt if he had a copper to toss with. So they were wild that they should be left out in the cold, and he have all the fun. And I did hear that Dot Danvers was one of them.

Whether Tom had paid back that fifty-seven pounds lost money I never asked, and he never told me. I was only too glad to see he had cut the lot. All would have been right if the luck had changed; but it did not. We were nothing but paupers, and poor ones at that.

One night Tom came back and said Nell Sanders wanted to know me. I was all of a-tremble. The idea of speaking to a pretty girl after all that time was enough to fluster any man. Not that I was sorry; I was not. I had wanted to know her a good time back, and I was glad the chance had come.

So next evening I cleaned up, darned my breeches – if I had not been a regular loafer I should have done it long before – and started up with Tom.

It seemed he did not meet her at “The Rest.” He was too wide awake for that; but every night he had a turn out, and then they came together. The sun was gone, but it was light as day as Tom and I climbed over the slope.

It was just over the slope, across Smith’s Cut, on Blackguard’s Bank. They called it Blackguard’s Bank – which they do to this day – because Blackguard Bill, an out-and-out bad one, had been shot up there, and executed in due form of law.

She was at the trysting place first, was Nell. When she saw Tom coming, she ran half down the bank; but when she saw me with him she went back again. Then Tom left me and ran to her, and took her in his arms, and held her tight and long. And from what I saw of it with my back turned she seemed to like it, as though she had been used to that sort of thing before, and no wonder.

She was a pretty girl, and no mistake, and a good girl too, or I was wrong. Tall, and brown, and bonny, with great black eyes, a turned-up nose, the sweetest mouth, a good broad forehead – which I like in man or woman – and clustering brown hair gathered into a knot. She wore a big straw hat, tied under her chin, with room for Tom under it, and to spare; by which I mean nothing.

“This,” said Tom, meaning me, “is Will Joscelyne.”

Well, she looked at me right straight in the face, a good hard stare, as though she wanted to find me out all at once and know me. Then she held out her hand.

“Good-evening, Will Joscelyne,” said she, quaint like.

“The same to you, Nell Sanders,” said I, booby fashion.

And we shook hands, and were friends. I liked the look of her, true grit all through, and a good strong arm by the way she gripped my hand. We had a little talk, nothing much, then I left them – for I know what that sort are – on Blackguard’s Bank, to have it out alone together.

As I came down I almost fell over a man crouching in the bushes. He was up and away as quick as he could, with never a word to say. I did not have a good front look at him, but if it was not Dot Danvers it was his ghost. And the sight of him watching them down there brought evil thoughts into my head.

The next morning as I was working who should come up but Danvers himself as large as life. My blood boiled at sight of him.

He asked for my Tom.

“Tom Harris is not here,” I said, gruffly enough.

He was away somewhere just then.

“Then I’ll wait till he is,” said he, and squatted down.

I could not fight him without further notice, for I did not know how Tom stood with him, and I was afraid; but it would have been the best day’s work I ever did.

Directly after Tom came up. When he saw him waiting there he turned white as a sheet, which I trembled to see. Then they went off together, and Tom never came back the whole day through. To my certain knowledge he was with Dot Danvers that night, and not that night only, but many nights besides. Then the old evil days came back again, all of a sudden, when we were getting on so well – drunkenness and gambling, and no honest work. If I had seen Danvers that time I would have laid him low, if I had hung for it. But he kept dark.

Every day things grew worse; the robberies that took place made the whole place mad. You do not know what it is to feel nothing safe among men placed like that. I was obliged to listen to things without being able to contradict, which made me sick to think of. I hardly ever saw Tom; he stopped out whole days and nights together. At last it came to this, I either had to doubt Tom’s truth, or give the lie to my own common sense.

One night – I shall never forget it – in came Mat Reynolds as hard as he could tear.

“Joscelyne,” said he, “Where’s Tom?”

“Tom!” said I, fearing some new terror. “Why?”

“Wilson’s partners have been cleared out. They’ve got up a Vigilance Committee, and mean to take him and Danvers, and more of them.”

“Oh, Lord!” I cried. I thought I should have fallen down. That it should have come to this! My Tom! I clutched hold of Mat’s arm.

“I haven’t seen him for three days and more.”

Nor had I. He had come in in a drunken fit, slept it off, and gone away before I could say a word. And now my head was in a whirl.

“You’d better go and find him,” said Mat. “They’ll make short work of it if they get him, and quite right, too. I came up for your sake, not his.”

I waited for no more, but tore off like lightning to “The Digger’s Rest.” The whole camp was in a stir as I passed, but there was no Tom there. Then I ran to Blackguard’s Bank. There was Nell Sanders, waiting for him as she had done many times before; and he, as had happened often of late, had let her wait in vain.

“Nell,” I said, breathless with haste, “they’re after him.”

“After him?” said she, not understanding.

“The Wilsons have been robbed, and they say it’s him.”

“Him? My Tom?”

“They’ll lynch him if they get him, as sure as he’s alive. Where is he?”

“Where is he? Oh, Will! I wish I knew! I wish I knew!”

She fell a-crying. What could I do to comfort her. The moments went by on lightning wings; years seemed flying as we waited. After a bit Nell dried her eyes. Then she pulled herself together; she was herself again, her head clearer far than mine.

“Have you been to the hut,” said she.

“The hut?” said I. “Where’s that?”

“I’ll show you,” said she, and started off like the wind.

I found it hard work to keep up with her. All of a sudden I tripped over something, and fell full length. The moon was shining bright as ever. As I got up, even as I was, I could not help noticing that where I had fallen the ground glittered like molten metal. I was down on my knees in a second.

“Nell,” I cried, “what’s this?” She came beside me.

“Gold,” she cried. “Gold in the lump.” So it was. Right on the surface – right before our eyes! Solid gold! Gold in the lump! And they were after Tom.

— III —
TOUCH AND G0

What were we to do? There was only one thing to do. We ran down to the hut, and left it there. The hut was a tumbledown shanty, all hidden in the brushwood, in a sort of hole like. I never knew who it belonged to. That was the only time I saw it. We knocked at the door. No one answered. Then with a block of wood I hammered it down. There was no one there; not a stick, nor a chair, nor anything. No signs of Tom to be seen.

“What shall we do?” said I.

“Go back,” said Nell; “back home.”

We went. Where I had fallen we stopped, and looked for the gold. But the moon had gone under a cloud, and we could not see it. I marked the place that I might know it when I came again.

“Let us go on,” said Nell; “leave it till tomorrow.”

We went on. It was all dark now, dark as pitch; the clouds had come over the sky in a moment as it seemed. We had to feel our way, stumbling as we went over brushwood and roots of trees. We reached Blackguard’s Bank. Nell, listening for the slightest sound, took me by the arm and stopped me.

“What’s that?” said she.

I listened. The wind was rising among the trees, and over it we could hear the hum of distant voices, coming from the camp. A chill came on my heart. What with the excitement of the night and the find we had made, I was not myself.

“They are coming down the valley,” said she.

“Let’s go and see if he’s at home.”

We ran through Smith’s Cut as fast as we could. When we reached the lower ground we could no longer hear the distant hum. Climbing up the slope again it could be heard loud enough: shouts and cries, and noisy laughter.

“Have they got him?” said I, in dread.

“God grant it no,” said Nell.

We ran down the slope and reached the tent. There was no one there; it was just as I had left it. I struck a light. It shone on our faces white as sheets, with the perspiration standing out in great damp drops.

“What’s this?” said Nell, stooping.

She picked up a piece of paper; it was wrapped round a stone, and there was writing on it. Just then my match went out.

“Strike another,” said Nell.

I did. By its flickering light we read the paper. It was a scrawl, written by one who could neither write nor spell.

“Dick Philips se Tom Hars down crek foul pla.”

“Dick Phillips saw Tom Harris down the creek, foul play,” said Nell, interpreting. Dick Phillips was a rough and ready sort of fellow, who had taken a liking to me. “What’s it mean?” said she.

“It means he saw him down the creek,” said I.

“And more besides,” said she. “Oh, Tom! My love, Tom!” she cried.

The light went out. As we stood there in the dark, trembling, and thinking, there was a noise outside, and a figure came reeling and staggering in the darkness, and fell in a heap. It was Tom.

“Tom,” I said; “run!”

“I can’t,” said he; “there’s no run in me.”

“Will Joscelyne,” said Nell, in a low eager voice, “light a candle.”

I lit one, and brought it to shine on Tom. He lay all of a heap, face upwards, his legs bent under him, muddled and torn, trembling and shivering as though in a fit. His face was like the face of the dead, pinched and drawn, and his eyes twitched as though with pain. I never saw a man look worse.

“Tom,” said Nell; “what’s the matter, Tom.”

“Don’t know,” said he, in a queer voice. “I’m poisoned.”

He looked as though he were.

“Oh, where shall we hide him?” said Nell. Then, to me – “There’s been foul play, Will.”

I feared there had, but it was not the time to think of it then; we must think of him. We could not take him far, he seemed almost dead. The sound of voices came up the valley, sounding nearer. Nell ran to the door.

“They’re coming here,” she said; “they’re coming here for him.”

“Quick,” said I, “let’s hide him behind the bed.” I could hear them coming, nearer and nearer, shrieking and shouting, fast down the valley. The bed was a small movable affair, which we did up and put aside in daytime. We pulled it away and laid him near the canvas in a blanket. We carried him, Nell and I together, he could hardly move a limb. Then we pulled back the bed; it hid him, so that none could see. Then we waited.

Not long. Louder and louder grew the noise, nearer and nearer came the cries. They came in sight, a rowdy crowd, with torches and lanterns, shouting and yelling, some of them far gone in drink. Nell stood outside the tent, and faced them.

“What do you want?” said she.

“We want Tom Harris,” said one.

“He’s not here,” said she.

“That’s a lie,” said another, “Moses saw him sneaking in.” Moses was a Jew.

“Moses is a liar,” said she. “Where is he.”

“Don’t you call me a liar,” said he, from out the crowd. “I saw him drop down when he got in.”

“See here,” said Captain Sale, the head man through it all, “stand aside.”

A cruel man was Sale; his was the iron hand, as hung up men like dogs, and never showed mercy to a rogue. He was a judge, was he. He put his hand on Nell to put her by; she struck at him, but those behind took her and held her fast. Then he made to get inside the tent, but I was in the way.

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, “you’re no fool. We know he’s there, and we mean to take him. He’ll have fair trial, so help me.”

“Jim Sale,” said I, “this tent’s mine, and no one enters without a bullet through his head.” I had my six-shooter in my hand.

“If it comes to shooting,” said he, “you’ll be murdered, and he too.” Without so much as a warning he lowered his head, put his foot behind me, and butted me clean onto my back. He was a strong man, was Sale, but it was an unfair thing. Then they closed in, and held me down, nigh mad with rage.

Then all the crowd came on with a rush, the tent was swept away, the canvas fell on me, and they trampled over me as though I were but dirt; mayhap they never saw me lying there; I thought my time was over then. They found the bed, with Tom behind it, and they bore him away on their shoulders, away like fools, and left me lying there, bound hand and foot, beneath that canvas. I did hear it was all Sale and some of them could do to keep them from murdering him straight out.

And I lay there the livelong night; ay, how I racked, and how my thoughts went back to bygone days, yon Essex home, and quiet times, and how I wished that all were over, and I were dead; for that choking canvas was too much for any man, when, as it seemed to me, I think I was fairly done, someone came that way, and tried to lift the canvas, and failing that cut a slit and found me there. It was broad day, and the sun was in the heavens, and Dick Phillips bent over me, and then I gave it up, and swooned. He brought me to, somehow, with brandy – you never found Dick Phillips without his bottle.

“Say, Will Joscelyne,” said he, “you’d a-better be up and doing; they’re a-going to try Tom Harris under the tree.”

“Going to try him!” said I, and I was up in double quick time just then. “Let’s run to him.” We went, there and then, and by the way Dick said they had took Dot Danvers and another one, Abe Hall, a regular bad one, old and bad; and it seemed to him, said he, they meant to do for all three of them. Which was good news to hear; I could have knocked him down as he ran beside me. My blood was in a fever. I had my shooter in my pocket, and I swore by the powers above us I would lodge six bullets in six men if they brought it against my Tom.

At last we came up to them, under the Judge’s Tree, beyond “The Digger’s Rest.” All the camp was there; every man had left his claim to come to the trying. I shall never forget that day, no, not if I live forever. It was a morning as beautiful as I ever saw, not a cloud in the sky, the sun overhead, and a fresh breeze blowing from over the hills; and I mind that the English birds were singing, outside the “Rest.”

Under the trees were boards on trestles, with seats behind, one in the middle for the judge, six each side of him for the I mind the judge’s well, it was three-legged stool, higher than the table. The judge and the jury came out of the “Rest,” did they, and a crowd of the vigilance men with them, while I stood in the crowd eating my heart out, not myself at all, seeming dazed like.

The judge was Sale, Jim Sale, and the jury were square men; straight enough, but hard, fonder of hanging a man than letting him go. When Sale saw me standing in the crowd he came up and shook my hand, not because I wanted him to, but because I could not seem to help it.

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, “don’t you be a fool.”

Then he left me, I never speaking, and went and sat down, and the jury too, and the Vigilance men closed round the tree front and back, forming a circle, with their Colts stuck in their belts, and fine thick bits of wood in their hands.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the judge, when he had got settled, “pipes out.” And every man put out his pipe, crowd and all, and pocketed it; for that was law when Sale was judge, no smoking when a man was tried for his life. Then the judge had a talk to Nathaniel Bovert, the head juryman, sitting nigh him, while we waited. Then, when he had done, “Pass the word to bring them out,” said Sale.

They brought them from the prison house – a wooden shanty, was the prison house, about twenty yards, or thereabouts, behind the Judge’s Tree – all three of them. Dot Danvers was in the middle, tied tight; they did say he had made a hard fight for it; on his left was Abe Hall, on his right was Tom Harris, with Nell Sanders clinging on his arm. There was more life in him than there was last night, but he still looked fitter for a bed than aught else, and my heart went out to him. At the sight of him I plucked up, but when the crowd saw him and the other two, they yelled at them. So I turned round and told them what I thought. Then I tried to crush through the Vigilance men and get to him, but it was no good.

“Tom,” I cried, “Tom my lad, I’m here.” He looked up at the sound of my voice, and saw me, and nodded, and smiled, but he never said a word. I felt for him, standing like that before that rowdy crowd. Jim Sale saw me trying to shove through, and heard me shout.

“Now, Will Joscelyne,” said he, “don’t you be a fool!” Then, to Nell, “This won’t do, Nell Sanders. Get out.”

They put her away into the crowd. I tried to get to her, but the men stuck fast ’twixt me and her. Dick Phillips was by my side. Then Jim Sale began the trial.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I ain’t going to say much. You all know there’s been robberies but never the thieves to be found. We’ve had our suspicions – ay, we’ve had our suspicions a matter of three months now – but we’ve kept ’em dark. Yesterday, Tom Wilson’s partners were cleaned out, and they’ve laid information against the men as they said did it. Now we’re going to take evidence, and if the court find ’em guilty, we’ll hang ’em, no matter who they are” – this with a look at Tom and me; “and if it don’t, we’ll let ’em go, no matter what we thinks of ’em. Jabez Tarrant, and William Cole, come up.”

“Jabe!” “Will Cole!” shouted the fellows in the crowd, and they came forward. Jabez Tarrant and Will Cole were Tom Wilson’s partners.

“Swear ’em,” said the judge. They were sworn and told their tale.

They both slept under one tent. Night before last they turned in, with the dust to the tune of three hundred odd pounds buried in the corner. Some time after twelve they woke up, just in time to catch sight of a fellow creeping out of the tent. They were up and after him like two shots. It was a moonlight night; when they got outside he turned on them, and slashed at them with his knife. It was as light as day, and they could see him as well as though it were, and on their solemn oaths that man was Dot Danvers. He had a bag in his hand – their bag, that they swore – and he threw it to another man in front, a young man, they thought, who made off with it into the woods. They would have had Dot Danvers, in spite of his knife, if someone had not started up at his side, and knocked Jabe down with a bar of wood. That man, to the best of Will Cole’s belief, was Abe Hall. It was a fairly told tale, and sounded true.

“Don’t excite yourselves,” said Danvers, with a face of brass, “I was one and Abe was t’other.” He said nothing of my Tom.

“It wasn’t,” said Abe, in a yell.

“Abe Hall,” said Danvers, as impudent as you please, “you’re a liar and a skunk.”

“And who was the third man?” said Jim Sale.

“Tom Harris,” said Dot Danvers. When he said that there was a yell from the crowd. The Vigilance men closed in and held them back. Tom turned round and faced Danvers.

“Dot Danvers,” said he, “do you say that I was one?”

“I do,” said Danvers; “that is so.” Tom’s face flamed up so that I thought he was going to strike him.

“Boys, it’s a lie,” said he. That was to the crowd; he turned his back on Jim Sale and then:

“Tom Harris,” said Jim Sale, “this won’t do. Order in court! We don’t none of us take Dot’s word for anything; we’ve got to prove it.”

“Yas,” said Nathaniel Bovert, “we’re going to prove it to you.” Then I feared, for I saw they were against my Tom.

“See here,” said I; “this ain’t law, Judge, going against the prisoner.” They gave a yell at that, such as I thought they were going to be down on me without more talk. You see, they were wild at these many robberies, no wonder; but I was not going to lose my Tom for that. Over all the yelling I could hear Jim Sale’s voice.

“Will Joscelyne, don’t you be a fool.”

“Silence in the court!” said the judge and the jury along with him, “Order!” But they had to call it a long time before the crowd settled to that.

“Jabe Tarrant,” said the judge when he could be heard at anything under a yell, “what sort of a man was he as ran off with the bag?”

“Same sort o’ man as Tom Harris, same build, same height.”

“You didn’t see his face?”

“I wish I had,” said Jabe, “I’d have known him now.”

“Stand down,” said the judge. “Will Cole, did you see his face?”

“I didn’t,” said Cole, “but I saw his back right in the light, as near to me as I’m to you, his hat was off, and he had curly hair,” now my Tom had curly hair, “and if it wasn’t Tom Harris, it was his ghost.”

“Ghosts ain’t guidance here, Tom,” said the judge, “any questions to ask?”

“One,” said Tom. “What time was that?”

“It was nigher one than two,” said Cole, “but it was midnight a time before.”

“Thank you,” said Tom. Then earnestly, right in the hearing of us all, “It wasn’t me, Will,” said he, “you may take your oath to that.”

“Then it was your ghost,” said Will; and the crowd set up laughing at that; and I saw it was going against my Tom.

“Call up Moses,” said the judge. He shuffled out from among them, a mean-looking object; it was Moses watched Tom into the tent, and spied. When Tom saw it was him there was a queer look about him; and he looked at Danvers, and Danvers looked back at him, and never blanched.

“Swear him,” said Jim Sale.

“No,” said Moses, “by Father Abraham I will not swear.”

“Then don’t swear him,” said Jim Sale.

“Speak the truth, Moses,” said Nathaniel Bovert, looking at him sharp-like.

“I will, gentlemen,” said Moses, “so help me God. Which was the second time he had sworn by Him. Then he told his tale. The night of the robbery – or morning, as it was – he was coming through Smith’s Cut when he ran against a man among the trees. That man was Tom Harris. He had a leather bag in his hand. Moses asked what brought him there. The man said nothing but ran away and left him standing.”

“What brought you into Smith’s Cut at one in the morning?” asked Tom.

“I was going to see my brother Abe,” said Moses.

“Which he was, it’s true.” said Abe, among the crowd.

“Moses,” said Tom, quite calm; “do you know you’re lying away my life.”

“I ain’t,” said Moses, “you know it was you.”

“You know it was not!” said Tom, with sudden passion. “You villain! I believe you were the man yourself.”

“Of course,” said the judge, “prisoner always says chief witness done it himself. Anything more to say, Tom Harris?”

“Jim Sale, jury, and boys,” said Tom, standing straight, he looked fine just then, “before the great Lord who looks on us now, I was not that man. Do you think I would steal? No, I’m not so bad as that. I’ve been a bad man. I’ve known that long, but I never came to that. And you would not hang the wrong man because you haven’t got the right? That day I went down with Dot Danvers and Abe Hall, and they drugged me, I know that now – you drugged me,” said he, turning on Dot Danvers sudden.

“I did not,” said Danvers, “it’s a lie.”

“It is no lie,” said Tom, turning to the others. “And they left me there, and there I lay the whole night through; there in the shallows by the creek, and when in the morning I awoke I ached in every limb, and could not move. But in the after-day, when I could just drag one leg after the other, I got home, and when I got there you came and took me; and that’s all I know about the robbery.” In his last words he was very solemn, was he. “And that,” said he, “is the truth, the whole truth; and nothing but the truth, so help me God.” He bowed his head, and stood before us in his young strength and beauty, truth stamped on every feature.

“Gentlemen,” said Jim Sale, “the court is going to give its verdict.” You could have heard a pin drop. In the silence a girl slipped through the Vigilance men. It was Nell Sanders. They were going to take her back. “Let her stay,” said the judge, “she’ll do no harm. Gentlemen, them as says Dot Danvers done it, hands up; them as don’t, hands down.” Up went all the jury’s hands, like machinery, on the instant. The crowd they yelled.

“It’s a true bill,” said Danvers. “Freed at last. Curse that gold!”

“Now, gentlemen,” said the judge, “Abe Hall awaits you.”

Up went the hands again like clockwork. The crowd they yelled again.

“It wasn’t me,” screamed Abe, trembling as with ague, “’pon my soul, gentlemen, ’twas another man.”

“You liar,” said Danvers, “they’d swing you if it was.” There was a short pause.

“Gentlemen,” said the judge, graver like, “Tom Harris would feel obliged.” There was silence. Then up went the hands, slowly, one after the other, all twelve of them. The crowd they yelled fit to be heard from there to the sea. Tom never turned a shade. Then a woman speaking with all the passion of a breaking heart was listened to, Nell Sanders on her knees.

“Judge,” said she, “Jim Sale,” she said, “it was not him. My love! my love!” I felt for my shooter, but some thief had picked my pocket, and I was helpless. Then the judge gave sentence.

“You there,” said he, “you’ve been tried fair, down to the ground, and the jury say you’re guilty, and so do I; and now the sentence is that you are hanged.”

“Jim Sale,” said I, speaking up, “you know me; I’m Will Joscelyne, I am, and I’m straight and square, I am; and I say, don’t you hang Tom Harris without thinking – by the Lord, it’s murder. You give me three clean days, and I pass you my word, which was never broke to man or woman, if I don’t prove him innocent, then you may hang him without a word from me.”

Nathaniel Bovert whispered to Jim Sale, and they put their heads together.

“Boys,” said he, “we give those three days; this is Thursday – Friday, Saturday, Sunday – this court hangs no man on Sunday; Tom Harris, bar accidents, will be hanged first thing on Monday morning. Dot Danvers and Abe Hall will be hung up on the rising of this ’ere court – and serve you right.”

And they hanged them within fifteen minutes, the crowd approving; Abe Hall died like a hound; Dot Danvers was pluck all through. The last thing before he rose, he said:

“Boys, I sorrow for only one thing, I’d have liked Tom Harris alongside me.”

But there were three days first; and then if I could not do what I did not hope to do – they would hang him; though in my soul I knew him to be true.

— IV —
A MOONLIGHT FLITTING

I sat over by where the tent had been. It was the same day as the trial, in the evening, when the sun was going down; I had seen Tom, not that it had done much good to either of us, for, said he, “Will Joscelyne,” he said, “they mean to hang me, innocent or guilty.” And I almost feared they did. They were beside themselves in camp, just then, and meant to hang as many as they could get, for example’s sake.

So I sat over where the tent had been as the evening came, and thought. For I would have died for Tom any day, if it might be done. We went out there to the golden land, little gold we had had, and now it had come to hanging. Sitting there moping all alone, I heard someone coming nigh, but I never looked up, not I, my heart was down.

“Will Joscelyne,” said a voice, and I knew it was Nell Sanders.

“Eh?” said I; “it’s come to hanging.”

“Will,” said she, kneeling by me, “it’s I, Nell Sanders.”

“Nell,” said I, “they mean to hang him.”

“Nay,” said she, and though she spoke quite low, there was a quiver in her voice which thrilled upon my nerves, “he shall not hang.”

“Shall not?” said I – I was more a fool than I ought – “who says he shan’t?” She rose up from by me.

“I say he shan’t,” said she, “and I am his own love, Nell.”

I looked up at her, I could not help it, there was a thrilling in her voice which warmed my blood.

“Nell,” said I, “what shall you do?”

“Do?” said she. “I’ll tell you, Will. Get up, my lad.” She put her hand upon my shoulder and I stood up. “Do you think by Sunday night you’ll prove him innocent?”

“Not,” said I, “to that extent they’ll let him off, they mean to hang him.”

“Do you know,” said she, “what yonder prison house is built of?”

“Ay,” said I, “of timber logs.”

“And do you know,” said she, “there’s only timber logs ’twixt me and him?”

“Ay,” said I, “and only timber logs ’twixt him and gallows’ tree.”

“And do you know,” said she, “that I can burst those timber logs, and make him free?”

“Ay,” said I, “you with me to help you.”

“Then,” said she, “why won’t we do it?”

“But,” said I, “we will.”

“Ay,” said she, taking me by the hand, “by God’s help we will.” But even then I doubted it. As she and I stood there up came another, it was Dick Phillips.

“Will,” said he, “what will you do?”

“Free him!” said Nell.

“Free him?” said Dick, “it can’t be done.”

“It can,” said she, “and you shall see it.”

“You’ll be rash to try it,” said Dick, “men’s blood is up.”

“And so is mine,” said she, “and so is mine, and I am his own true love.”

“And I’m beginning to think,” said I, “that mine is too. Say, Dick,” I said, “why shan’t we do it?”

He scratched his head.

“You see,” said he, “there’s Bill Lomas there on guard, and they’d all be mad if he got loose.”

Suddenly Nell took me by the arm, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes flashed fire, her words came quick and fast in her excitement.

“Will,” said she, “Will, do you mind that gold?”

“Gold?” said I, “what gold?”

“Behind Smith’s Cut, what we saw a night ago.”

“By my head,” said I, “it had slipped me clean.”

And so it had, in the awful hurry of that past night and day I had forgotten it quite.

“Gold?” said Dick, “what gold?”

“Dick,” said I, “gold in the lump, solid metal.”

“Solid metal,” said he; and how his face it changed, “are you meaning it?”

“Ay,” said I, “that I am.”

“Where is it? Will Joscelyne, let me share and I’ll join to let Tom out.”

“You will?” said I.

“I will! by my soul I will.”

And I believed he would.

“Where’s a pick,” said I, “and shovel?”

“Have you one for me?” said Dick. I gave him Tom’s; Nell took a lantern and a tinder-box, and away we went. It was a dark night, we could scarcely see the way. We went across the Cut, and then by where I fell, but it was so dark nought could we see. We lit the lantern. It gave little light, and to guide us to the gold was more than it could do. Then the wind blew it out. I began to fear it was lost for good. We sat down upon a bank.

“There’s no gold,” said Dick.

“There was,” said I.

“That there was,” said Nell.

But there was no gold now. We sat and thought it over. It seemed to Dick that we had lied. As we sat silent, a cloud rolled by, and out came the moon.

“There,” said I, “there’s light at once.” There was, she lit the place with glory.

“By the Lord,” said Dick, falling on his knees, “what’s that?”

We fell by him. It was the place whereon the moon had shone that night, the solid gold. We up with our picks, and we were at it then and there, by the moon’s pale light. It was hard as rock, it was all we could do to drive our picks. We worked on while the moon was out, not more than half-an-hour I should reckon, and when she went in we stopped to gather what we dug.

But there was so much of it, large and small, we could not take it in our hands. So Nell slipped behind a tree, and off with her petticoat, coarse and thick, and strong. We laid it on the ground and heaped on it what we had dug. Then Dick and I each took a side, and we carried it away. We hid it underneath the fallen tent. Nell went to “The Digger’s Rest,” and Dick and I fell there asleep.

In the morning, when the daylight dawned, I woke Dick, and we drew the petticoat into the open. At sight of what was on it, we knelt down and played with it, like children, in our hands.

It was gold, solid gold, in such quantity we could do nought but wonder, in nuggets big and little, and there was one great piece bigger than my two fists put together, and they are not small. There were thousands and thousands of pounds lying there, a great fortune before our eyes – after all the toil that I had had, after all the fruitless days. And my Tom was to be hanged.

“See here, Dick Phillips,” said I, “we go shares in this, you, me, Tom and Nell, there’s enough for all.”

“Will,” said he, “God bless you, it’s many the time I’ve been nigh starving, and now all this.”

“Dick,” said I, taking three or four small nuggets, and putting them in my pocket, “I’m going to see Bill Lomas.” Bill Lomas was the prison watch.

“What,” said Dick, “you’re going to give him gold?”

“Yes,” said I, “I am. It buys friends, does gold!”

“Will,” said Dick, suddenlike, “let’s have Tom out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” said I, “that’s early work.”

“Not too early,” said Dick, “take my word. You go and square it up with Bill – he likes gold, does Bill,” putting his hand up to his mouth, as though it was a curious thing, “for tomorrow night, and I’ll go and see for a wagon down the wood, so that when he’s out we can go off together.”

“Dick,” said I, “you stand by me in this and you’ll not regret it.”

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, solemn, “that will I!”

We put back the petticoat again, he went his way and I went mine, to the prison house to see Bill Lomas. I had free entry, I had, in and out just as I liked. So when I got there, Bill led me in direct. So there was Bill Lomas and I all alone.

“Bill,” said I, going straight to it, “I’ve got a word to say.”

“What ’bout?” said he, driving the smoke into my face.

“I’m going to loose Tom Harris,” said I.

“What?” said he, staring at me like mad. “You tarnation idiot! Here!” – he was going to raise the alarm. I caught hold of him.

“Soft,” I said, “soft, my lad. You’re going to lend a hand in it.”

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, “you’re drunk. D’ye know, young fellow, I’m set to keep young Harris, and guard him I will until he’s dead.”

“Bill,” said I, taking a little nugget out of my pocket, “see here.” At sight of it his face changed.

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, “where did you get that?”

“Never you mind,” said I, “from honest earth, and what’s more, it’s yours, and as much more as you like to if you’ll lend a hand in this.” He held his tongue, and smoked, and looked at me.

“Will Joscelyne,” said he, “you’re an honest man.”

“I am,” said I.

“You’re a truthful man,” said he.

“I am,” said I.

“You wouldn’t do me, not for the sake of nowt.”

“Bill Lomas,” I said, “I would not.” He smoked silently. Then he took the nugget from my hand and looked at it; I took out another, larger, and tossed it from hand to hand, I saw his eyes gleam, though he did not see me looking.

“Say,” said he, “if I come in you’ll clear him from these parts.”

“I will,” said I, “and me with him.”

“Show me that claim tonight,” said he, “and it’s done.”

“It is,” said I, and we shook hands upon it. Then I went in to Tom and made things clear, then I went on to the Rest and had a word with Nell. That night Bill Lomas got a fellow to take his place on watch and came with me to see that claim. It was a clear moon. When we got there, to my mind there was no metal on the surface, but I reckon his eye took the lay of the land, for I saw it glisten, and we clinched the bargain on the spot.

The next night all was ready, Dick Phillips cleared the movables, gold and all, into a wagon – I never asked how he came by it – and Nell got such things of hers as she could smuggle into it, then he laid it snug up down beyond the creek. It was a misty night, about an hour after midnight when I went up to see Bill Lomas, the place was all anyhow, table on the floor, chairs in a heap.

“What’s this?” said I.

“Signs of a struggle,” said he, “ruffians over-mastered me.”

“Oh,” said I. I looked at him. He was a sharp lad, was Bill Lomas. There was a glass of something good on the table, with a little bottle nigh it. “What’s that?” said I.

“Your villainy,” said he. “You’ve got to drug me.”

“Got to what?” said I. I thought he must be joking.

“So that I may be found insensible, and nigh death’s door,” said Bill, with never a twinkle in his eye.

“Say, Bill,” said I, “take care.”

“Trust me,” said he, “I’m no fool.” He took his coat off, tore it down the back, and put it on again, tore his shirt well nigh to ribbons, rumpled his hair; then he uncorked the bottle, dropped a drop or two of something white into the glass, then smashed the bottle on the floor. There was a powerful bad smell. Then he emptied the glass at a go, and lay on the floor in the most uncomfortable position he could manage. There I left him.

When I came out with Tom, as I did a minute after, I don’t know if he was asleep or not, but he never stirred. Tom and I went quietly through the front door, and shut it behind us. There was never a soul abroad. We found Nell waiting on Blackguard’s Bank; she and him fell into each other’s arms, and stuck there for an age. Then we ran on and found Dick Phillips waiting by the creek. Whether anyone chased us, I never knew – none came within hail – but we got clear. And now we live all four in England, and Nell is Mrs Harris, and Dick and me live under the same roof-tree.

The gold we shared among us; and what do you think it rolled in? Say now, THIRTY-THREE THOUSAND GOLDEN SOVEREIGNS, SIR! Ay, it did that, though you may scarce believe it.

Sir Philip

How he did it he never knew – it was the act of a moment’s mad impulse. He had been out in the park all night – Hyde Park – evading, by some stroke of good fortune, the vigilance of the police on their nocturnal rounds. He had slept under a tree – the night had been both dry and warm; yet when he had roused himself in the morning he was conscious of being both damp and chilly. He had wandered down to the Row to see the morning riders – the liver brigade – conscious of being frantically hungry. His hunger grew as the moments passed. It was a glorious morning. Promenaders began to appear. Presently two men halted close by him to talk to a friend on a horse. One of them, an elderly and portly person, took a gold sovereign purse from his waistcoat pocket, and from it handed two coins to the equestrian. Kenneth Newstead could hear something of what they said – it seemed the two coins which were being handed over were satisfaction for some trifling bet. The equestrian passed on; the two men resumed their walk, the portly person brushing Newstead as he went. Kenneth, snatching at the ostentatiously displayed watch-chain, had both watch and purse in his hand in a flash. It was only when he saw them dangling at either end of the linked line of gold that he began to realise what he had done. It was an instant before the victim grasped what had happened.

“Good God!” he exclaimed, “the fellow has taken my watch and chain.”

The attention of his companion, who was a much younger man, being thus called to the outrage, the chase began. He made a grab at Newstead, who, easily evading him, vaulted over the railings onto the grass on the left, making, as it seemed, a beeline towards the Achilles Statue. A pantomimic change seemed to have taken place in the scene. The victim, whose age and build prevented his doing much in the way of pursuit, was proclaiming his wrongs to the world. Shouts began to rise from all sides. The victim’s companion, showing considerable agility, stuck to Newstead as close as he could. Kenneth was conscious that on the other side of the grass plot people awaited him. He thrust his booty into his jacket pocket.

He was aware that it would go ill with him if he was caught with it in his possession, but he had a grim feeling that it would really be safer in his possession, since, if he threw it from him, the watch would be damaged by the fall. Although he was faster than his pursuer he doubted that he would be able to throw him off before he reached the railings on the other side. He looked for the spot where there were fewest people, but, as he altered his course, they altered theirs, moving down so as to meet him – being nearly all men. But he would have to get over the railings somehow, and he told himself that he would be hanged if they should stop him.

Suddenly swerving, he chose a spot where there were only two elderly gentlemen. He was over with a rapidity which astonished himself. They made a snatch at him which he easily avoided, tearing past them towards the statue. He was aware that now he was on the pathway the hunt had swelled, that unless a miracle happened quickly, his course was run – among those behind was a park-keeper who shouted to a policeman who awaited him in front. People seemed to be at him from all sides, he struck out at them as he passed; perhaps because they did not show too much determination he slipped past them till he came to the policeman. With a trick of ju-jitsu, catching the officer by the elbow, in an instant he had him over on his back. The sight seemed to increase the hunters’ eagerness, to make them angry. The shouts redoubled. He seemed to be fighting with half-a-dozen people at once; they were too much for him, he would have to give it up, own himself done.

All at once he became conscious that a motor car was standing in the roadway by the railings; that someone in it was calling out to him, standing up, holding the door wide open. He increased his efforts, broke loose, was over the railings, through the door, in the vehicle – and the car was moving towards the Marble Arch before he had any clear conception of what was taking place.

The car was moving quickly, beyond the legal pace. The hunt was left behind. People still shouted, men and women turned to stare, without, however, any real notion of what they were staring at. By the time the car reached the Arch folks had even ceased to stare. It turned, unchallenged, into the roadway, and presently round a comer into a labyrinth of streets with which Newstead, even if he had had his wits about him, would have had to own himself unfamiliar.

But he was very far from being in command of his wits, that brief, hot chase had finished him. He lay, rather than sat, in the corner of the car, with his head hanging forward on his chest, panting for breath, trembling; to him it seemed that these things were happening in a dream. He was wholly unconscious of who was his companion; there was a tall, handsome girl beside him who had invited him into the car. She, on her side, said nothing, keeping to her own corner, watching him with a curious smile; there was something in her air which suggested that any interest which she might take in him was not only impersonal, but in a way, inhuman. She seemed to be quite indifferent to his obvious distress, to the fact that he seemed to be fighting there before her eyes for something very much like life; one felt that if he had actually been dying there, and she had known it, she would still have continued to observe him with the same odd smile.

She gave the chauffeur no instructions, nor did he once glance round at the unexpected passenger – the fact that he had on board a very doubtful character, for whose misdoings he might quite easily be made responsible, did not seem to concern him in the least. Steering the car round corner after corner he presently brought it to a standstill in front of a tall, narrow, old-fashioned house in a short shadowy street of old-time stucco houses. Steps ascended to the front door. The moment the car stopped, the door flew open and a man appeared, a male domestic. He came down to let the lady out of the motor. As she descended onto the pavement she made what, under the circumstances, was rather a singular remark:

“I’ve got him.” She nodded towards the still recumbent figure in the opposite corner. The man said nothing. He merely glanced at Newstead, who continued motionless as if oblivious of the fact that the car had stopped. The young lady said:

“I don’t think he has very many of his senses about him – you’ll have to get him out.”

She went up into the house, seemingly quite indifferent as to what might become of the man she had rescued. The chauffeur continued on his seat, speechless, immovable, looking neither to the right nor to the left – plainly he cared nothing for the passenger. The man-servant, getting into the car, lifting Newstead off the seat, carried him up the steps as if he were a child, and Kenneth Newstead was five feet eleven, and, though scanty fare had reduced him, he still weighed something.

A drug must have been given to him when they got him into the house, something which deprived him of the few shreds of sense he had left. When he returned to life and consciousness it was to find that someone was bending over him and touching him on the shoulder, someone who was addressing him in gentle, modulated tones.

“Sir Philip, her ladyship is waiting luncheon.”

Not unnaturally, in his dim state of semi-consciousness, he did not realise that these words were being spoken to him. But it seemed they were. A tall man, in a sort of undress livery, was stooping down towards him. He found that he was reclining on a couch in a room which he had not seen before, attired in garments which certainly were not his, any more than was the name by which the man had addressed him. This person seemed to take the bewildered way in which he looked about him as conveying an inquiry.

“Her ladyship wished me to tell you, Sir Philip, that she is awaiting luncheon if you will be so good as to come.”

Again the style and title “Sir Philip,” again the allusion to luncheon. Kenneth realised, with startling suddenness, that whatever else had happened to him his hunger had not gone. He still seemed to be playing a part in some queer dream, but his appetite was real. The word

“luncheon” suggested food. He got off the couch onto his feet, the man-servant assisting him to rise.

“May I be permitted to offer you my arm, Sir Philip, or would you prefer to do without it.”

The man’s manner was suavity itself. Newstead, as he replied, could scarcely have been more brusque:

“I don’t want your arm.”

The man opened the door; Newstead went through, the man saying:

“You will find her ladyship downstairs.”

Newstead descended the staircase which was in front of him, the servant a step or two behind. When he reached the foot, the man said, slipping noiselessly past him,

“Allow me, Sir Philip, to open the dining-room door; her ladyship is within.”

He opened a door in the hall on the left. Newstead entered. Within was a table laid for a meal. On the other side, before the fireplace, stood a woman. Newstead saw that she was tall, and young, and not ill-looking; he did not realise that he had seen her before. Not a word was spoken on either side. The man-servant, moving to the table, held out two chairs invitingly. The lady seated herself on one, Newstead placed himself upon the other. The man-servant, going to the sideboard, presently returned with some food upon two plates. One of them he set down in front of Newstead. Kenneth did not know what was on the plate; he did not inquire; he bolted it rather than ate it. The lady, observing him, addressed him for the first time:

“I don’t think if I were you I should eat quite so fast; the consequences may be bad for you.”

“If you’d gone practically without food for a week, you’d do the same.”

The reply was laconic, conveying a significance which was unusual in such an environment. The lady slightly raised her eyebrows, as if amused. The man-servant never moved a muscle. More food was given to Newstead; wine was poured into his glass; he had a copious meal. The lady seemed to enjoy the spectacle presented by a healthy man who was endeavouring to assuage the pangs caused by starvation.

“Have you finished?” she asked at last.

“Yes, I’ve had about as much as I want just now – thanks.”

The “thanks” came at the end, as if as an after-thought. She rose from her seat.

“Suppose we go into the next room.”

The servant opened the door; Newstead followed her into the adjoining apartment, which was apparently a drawing-room. The lady took up the same attitude in front of the fireplace in which he had seen her first. They observed each other for some moments.

“I suppose you will like some sort of explanation.” He said nothing. Although refreshed by food and wine, so he felt a better man, he still had the same queer feeling that these things must be happening in a dream. It seemed that she had some inkling of what was passing through his mind. She went on: “I presume you are aware that this morning I saved you from the hands of the police, and from the hands of a justly indignant mob.”

Then he recollected. It began to all come back to him – the snatching of the watch and chain, the pursuit, the motor standing in the road.

“Was it your car?” She nodded. “Why did you offer me your – hospitality?”

“Because I thought that if I did you one good turn you might do me another.”

“What good turn can I, a man in my position, do you – a woman in your position?”

She was silent for some seconds as if she were considering what kind of man he really was. Then she said, as coolly as if she were making the most commonplace of statements,

“I want to introduce you to someone as my husband.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yet it is quite simple. I met, recently, abroad, a person who, quite probably, will be here presently. I told him, for reasons of my own, that I had married his nephew.”

“But surely the man knows his own nephew, he’ll detect the imposture at sight.”

“He has not seen his nephew since he was an infant, more than twenty years ago. All he has seen of him is his photograph – and here it is.”

Taking a large photograph out of a case which was lying on a table she handed it to Newstead. He stared at her, then at it. When he saw the photograph he broke into exclamation:

“Good Lord! it’s Phil Charlton.” It was her turn to stare at him.

“Phil Charlton! Do you know him?”

“Do I know Phil Charlton! If you only knew what a funny question that seems; why, I’ve known him – since we were in the nursery together.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Do you?”

“I never saw him in my life. Is he a relation of yours, or only a friend?”

“He’s no relation, and I shouldn’t care to call him a friend, just now. You’ve pretended that you’re the wife of a man you never saw in your life, and you want me to pass myself off for him – we’re not in the least alike.”

“I’m not so certain; he’s tall and you’re tall; I should say he was something of your build.”

“But he’s clean shaven and has sandy hair, and has a scar across one cheek.”

“There’s a glass on the mantelpiece – look into it.”

He glanced at her as if struck by something in her tone. Moving quickly to the mantel-piece he stared into the glass which was over it; then started back as if he had been staring at a ghost.

“Who’s been playing tricks with me?”

His companion’s coolness was in striking contrast to his heat.

“You see, you have sandy hair, and it is parted in the middle like Sir Philip Charlton’s; you are clean shaven, and have a scar upon your right cheek.”

He glared at her as if he did not find it easy to believe that his ears were not playing him a trick.

“Does this mean that you’ve been practising – hanky-panky – on me?”

“Since I hope to introduce you to your own uncle, my wish naturally was that you should resemble his nephew as closely as might be. I don’t think you are as unlike him as you suppose.”

Newstead was gazing into the mirror as if the reflection was a stranger.

“I’m hanged if I know myself.”

“It is odd what a difference a few dexterous touches can make in a person’s appearance. You see the idea was to make you up as much like that photograph you have in your hand as might be.”

“You’ve managed to play the dickens with me anyhow. Who is this uncle of Charlton’s of whom you are speaking.”

“His name is Byrne – Horace Byrne. He was at Aix-les-Bains staying in my hotel; I heard all about him, he was the talk of the place. One day he came up to me, saying that he had learned that my name was Charlton, and as he had a nephew of that name he ventured to introduce himself. Then he told me all about his nephew; it appeared that he was a pretty sort of scamp, and as he was the only relative he had in the world the old man seemed to feel his bad behaviour deeply. That night I thought the old gentleman’s story over, and the next day I told him that all that he had said of his nephew was only too true, as I had the best of reasons for knowing, since I was his wife. Of course I did not tell him as baldly as I am telling you; we were under a shady tree together far from the madding crowd, and I led up to it artistically. Still, it did seem to take him by surprise – I had to explain that I called myself Mrs Charlton because I wished to drop the ‘Lady’ since I was not proud of the connection; as you know Philip Charlton is a bad egg. Then I told him a tale which would have drawn tears from a stone, and which touched him on his tenderest spot; he had several tender ones, the poor old dear.”

She smiled, as if there was something in the memory she recalled which appealed to her sense of humour.

“I am not going to spin this story out into three volumes, you must take a good deal of it for granted. I told him that his precious nephew had not only spent all his own money, of which fact he was already aware, but also most of mine as well, which was news to him, and had left me practically penniless. I hoped to get a good round sum out of him, and I did get something.”

“It was a risky game you were playing.”

It was probably the gravity with which Newstead spoke which caused her to laugh in his face.

“Of course it was, but I’m used to playing risky games, and, judging from what I saw this morning, I should say that you were also.”

He bit his lip as if her words had been so many pinpricks. “Then he began to ask me where my husband was. I told him, to begin with, that we were parted. So strong were his views on the sanctity of the marriage tie that he hoped very earnestly that our parting was but for a time. He wanted my husband’s address, in order that he might write to him and bring him to a proper sense of his misconduct. I assumed an air of delicate mystery; telling him that I was not sure myself of where he was – which I wasn’t, and I told him that I would go back to London and try to find out, and when I found him he was to come and see us. He wanted to come and help me to search, but that wouldn’t have suited me at all. I came alone, leaving him to complete his cure. I have been in constant correspondence with him ever since; now it seems, his cure is completed; I believe that yesterday he came to town; and now, as I told you, I shouldn’t be surprised if he turned up here this afternoon.”

“Have you let him suppose that you have found Charlton?”

“Well, not exactly. I thought it better to let him imagine that I was in communication with him, but that he was proving refractory and wouldn’t come.”

“And now?”

“Now he has come, at the moment in which his presence was most to be desired.”

“There are a good many gaps in your story which want – bridging.”

“Do you suppose I don’t know it? Didn’t I say that on this occasion I didn’t propose to let myself go to the extent of three volumes? It’s a miraculous stroke of luck that you should know Sir Philip Charlton, if you really do.”

“Do you imagine I’m that kind of person?”

“My good man, I saw you this morning bolting from the police, with a watch and chain which you had stolen in your possession; what kind of person do you imagine I suppose you are?”

Newstead obviously winced. He could have explained, or he thought he could, but, with such a one as she admitted herself to be, what good purpose would an explanation have served? She seemed to read what was passing through his mind.

“Of course I am aware that I made your acquaintance at a critical moment, and one on which it is hardly in good taste to dwell; and I’ve no doubt it was the first time you ever did anything of the kind; I hope you will also look on me as a first offender. At the same time you would have been in a very awkward position if it had not been for me, and I hope, especially as it will be very much to your own advantage, that you will do me a good turn in exchange for the one which I did you.”

“Tell me, exactly, what it is you wish me to do.”

“The misfortune is that I am afraid I can only give you an outline; I must trust to you to what I daresay you would call ‘bridge the gaps. I am going to introduce you to your uncle as the penitent prodigal; it is not at all necessary that you should appear too penitent; you can be positively objectionable to him if you like, especially if he asks awkward questions. I’ve only induced you to come at the very last moment, if you like you can hint that you intend to quit me again at the very earliest moment. But I think you’ll rather spoil the game if you do. You see, what I want him to do is to settle on us a substantial sum of money; if possible, one which would bring in a regular income.”

“Settle on us, or on you?”

“I suppose, in view of your notorious character, the settlement will have to be on me, and I shall have to hand you over your share.”

“My share? Of course I can confidently count upon getting it.”

“I think you can, if you consider. Of course the settlement will have to be a blind, I mean to get the coin into my own hands. I think that, if properly handled, he is the most trustful old gentleman I ever encountered.”

“Where has this old gentleman been that he has learned his trust in human nature?”

“I don’t know that he has much trust in human nature in the piece; you’ll find, for instance, that he has not much trust in you. But you see the position is a quaint one. He has heaps of money, he made it in South America, raising cattle, and other things, in the Argentine, and all sorts of places, he hasn’t been in Europe for more than twenty years. You’re his only nephew, his only sister’s child, and I’m your wife; you’re a bad lot, and I’m an injured saint. He has no one to give his money to but you, and as you’re not worthy—”

“You come in? I see – and I don’t.”

“That’s silly; aren’t you going to be a partner in the concern; how am I going to keep your mouth closed except by filling it; you’ve only to say half-a-dozen words, and the game is up. Really, when you come to think of it, it is I who am the trustful one, since all I know of you is that I saw you bolting from the police. I’ll give you anything you choose to ask in reason, if you will only help me to play the game. You know perfectly well that you are in a position in which you’ll he able to see that you get it. There’s the bell, someone is at the door, perhaps your uncle. Now don’t be an idiot, let me put that photograph away; take up any attitude you like, but help me play the game.”

“And suppose I refuse?”

“You won’t; I know nothing about you, but I know you’re not that kind. I not only saved you from gaol, but in saving you I risked gaol for myself; you’re not the kind who will do a woman an ill turn in exchange for the good one which I have done you. Just as I stood by you in Hyde Park this morning you’ll stand by me now.”

The pair stood confronting each other in silence. They could hear that the hall door was being opened; someone had entered, there were voices in the hall. It was perhaps something which she thought she saw in Newstead’s face which induced her to appeal to him again.

“It’s he, I heard his voice, he is coming. Tell me, before he comes, that I can count on you, or—”

She left her sentence unfinished; she had moved closer to him with something on her face which had robbed it of its charm. He still kept silence; indeed he had hardly a chance to speak before the door was opened and two men came in.

With the appearance of the first the woman was plainly familiar, she had glanced towards him with both hands stretched out, all smiles of welcome, the ugly look gone off her face which it had worn only a second before. The man who had come in first was elderly, slight, fragile, with deep lines on his face, and a trick of stooping, his whole bearing that of a man in bad health. He scarcely showed the disposition towards enthusiasm which the lady did. Something in his manner seemed to cool her ardour; she not only ceased to advance, but drew a little back, there flitted across her face a shadow of the look which had so changed it before. Apparently the alteration in her demeanour was largely owing to the presence of the second man; it seemed clear that to her he was as unwelcome as unexpected. He was much younger than the other man, probably somewhere in the early thirties; though he was tall, well set up, and not ill-looking, there was that on his countenance which not only spoke of an irregular life, but of an indecision of character which scarcely inspired confidence. He was immaculately attired. There was a pale pink carnation in his button-hole and a monocle in his right eye; his sandy hair, parted in the middle, was plastered close to his head; and his whole person exhaled an aroma of perfume. He was not by any means a formidable-looking person, yet had he been the most bloodthirsty of ruffians, the lady could hardly have shown more concern at sight of him. She stopped short at the outset of her gushing greeting to the elderly man.

“Dear Mr Byrne, this is really too utterly sweet.”

There she ceased, with an odd abruptness, as if something had happened to her tongue. She received no assistance from the elderly gentleman; there was that in his bearing which scarcely pointed to the warmth of interest of which she had been telling Newstead; it could scarcely have been more frigid.

An awkward silence followed. The lady looked from the old man to the young one; from the expression which was on the features of neither did she seem to receive much comfort; on the young man’s face in particular was a grin which had an insolent significance of which she was plainly uncomfortably conscious. The silence was broken in rather a peculiar fashion. The young man’s glance strayed from the lady to her companion. As it did so he broke into a series of ejaculations.

“Why – good God – who on earth – I’ll be hanged if it isn’t Kenneth Newstead! Why, my dear old chap, I’ve been searching for you high and low, I’ve set a private detective on your heels; but what in the name of all that’s wonderful have you been doing to your physiognomy? I had to stare at you devilish hard to be sure it was you.”

The stranger had moved across the room towards Kenneth, holding out his hand, and speaking with a warmth of which, judging from the limpness of his manner, one would scarcely have thought, just now, he was capable. Instead of reciprocating his show of friendliness, Newstead drew back, showing not only signs of embarrassment, but also of shame. It seemed that the stranger had reasons of his own for interpreting the singularity of his bearing in his own way.

“Newstead, I know that I treated you as a bounder, and worse, but I’m sorry, you don’t know how sorry I have been, upon my Samuel you don’t. I made a clean breast of it, and I’ve done my best to put everything straight; there isn’t a chap who doesn’t know how badly you’ve been treated, and who doesn’t want to be pals with you. It isn’t like you to bear malice. You can’t say anything too strong; I’ll take it lying down if you empty the whole blooming dictionary on me; only do give us hold of your hand, you’ve known all along that I should be all right if I wasn’t built on such dashed funny lines.”

He advanced his hand still further. Newstead put both his behind his back.

“Now it is I who am not worthy.”

“Kenneth, won’t you shake? You know we’ve been pals our whole lives long.”

“I’m a thief.”

“Don’t talk rot; do you think I don’t know that you wouldn’t touch a halfpenny that wasn’t your own to save you from starvation.”

“That’s all you do know; this morning I stole a watch and chain.”

“No! Good business! Where?”

“In Hyde Park, if the locality makes any difference.”

“In Hyde Park? This morning? Then – by Jove! you can’t have been the chap who relieved old Cockerton!”

“I haven’t the pleasure of knowing old Cockerton even by sight; but I shouldn’t be surprised. Is he a venerable, bow-windowed party who carries a big sovereign purse at the end of a chain as thick as your little finger?”

“That’s the identical; I saw you sprinting, you were about a hundred yards away, but I thought I knew you even from the back. You hopped over the railings, into a motor car, and off you went. You should have heard the cackling! It’s the talk of the town, I shouldn’t be surprised if it were in the evening papers, ‘The pickpocket and the motor car.’ But, my dear old chap, whose was the thing?”

It was not Newstead who answered, but the lady, with a presence of mind, all things considered, which did her considerable credit.

“It was I, Sir Philip Charlton, because, although Mr Byrne has not introduced you, I presume that you are Sir Philip Charlton, who was so fortunate as to be able to render Mr Newstead that little service.”

“You?” The stranger glanced from the man to the woman. “Are you – are you two pals?”

It was again the lady who replied; possibly she had learned from experience the valuable knack of keeping her head in the most delicate situations.

“Although I met Mr Newstead for the first time this morning, I trust that he does not look upon me altogether as an enemy. So conscious was I that, as you put it, the affair might create a mild sensation, that it is I who am responsible for the alteration which you see in his appearance; I thought it might be as well to take steps which might enable him to baffle too curious inquiry.”

Not only did Newstead say nothing, he did not even glance in her direction; and yet one felt, from something which flitted across his features, that he heard with what it would be mild to call feelings of surprise. The stranger seemed to have some vague notion of what his attitude really meant.

“I can’t say, old man, that the transmogrification exactly suits you; as far as looks go, I like you better as yourself.”

“Oh!” observed the lady, with a really charming smile, “he’ll be himself again in practically less than no time, and possibly an improved edition.”

She turned to the elderly man with a smile that had altered in character. “I don’t fancy, Mr Byrne, that it is necessary for us to enter into any very lengthy explanation, is it?” The accent which she laid on the “is it?” was masterly; it seemed to light even the serious countenance of the elderly gentleman with a glimmer of amusement.

“I don’t think that, in some ways, it is. Only there are some points which it would be well to have cleared. I understood you to say that you were Lady Philip Charlton.”

The lady evaded what was distinctly a very leading question with characteristic adroitness, and amazing impudence. She turned to the younger man with that smile of hers still more pronounced, and a twinkle in her eyes. 66 AID I? 9! The question seemed to tickle the person to whom it was addressed; almost, one might have said, to flatter him.

“To the best of my knowledge and belief you aren’t, not, that is, if I’m Sir Philip Charlton.” The lady did not seem to be in the least offended by his repudiation. She continued smilingly:

“So you are Sir Philip Charlton? I thought you were. So pleased to meet you, husband that might have been.” She made him a most becoming and gracious curtsey; then returned to the elderly man. “So that point’s cleared up.”

Mr Byrne was stroking his pointed chin as if on the whole he found the lady’s impudence almost amusing.

“There is another point, isn’t there?”

“Do tell me what it is.”

“Didn’t I, at Aix-les-Bains, advance – to Lady Philip Charlton, a – not inconsiderable sum of money?”

Still the lady showed no signs of being disconcerted; her presence of mind seemed inexhaustible. She clasped her hands.

“Why, so you did! I made a note of it at the time; I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to pay you back, it’s upstairs. So sweet of you to have been so kind; if you’ll excuse me I’ll go at once and get it. I shan’t be more than half-a-minute.”

She said this to them as she was standing at the open doorway, but she was. Silence followed her going. Then there was a sound as if the front door had been sharply opened and shut; then a noise in the street. As if moved by a common impulse the three men went to the window. A motor car was in front of the house. A man coming down the steps put a couple of handbags which he was carrying into the car. A woman who was close at his heels sprang into the car; she was the woman for whom they were supposed to be waiting. The man got in beside her; he was the servant in the undress livery. The car was off. Mr Byrne turned to the younger men.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if that is the last that we shall see of Lady Philip Charlton, at least for the present. Nor should I be amazed to learn that this is a furnished house which she has hired for this particular occasion, and that she has gone off with what is left of what she got out of me. Let her go. She was quite a charming woman; and one wonders what untoward combination of circumstances made it necessary, in her judgement, to play the rogue. Philip, who is this gentleman?”

“This, sir, is Kenneth Newstead, one of the best fellows in the world, and the straightest, whose shoe-strings I am not worthy to untie. He’s always treated me, and all the world, like a trump; but I’ve treated him – dashed badly. Kenneth, old man, let me introduce you to my uncle, Horace Byrne.”

Mr Byrne acknowledged the introduction with punctilious, old-fashioned courtesy.

“Mr Newstead, I’ve heard a good deal of you, but never anything to your discredit. I’m very pleased to have the honour of making your acquaintance. My nephew here tells me that he has treated you very badly; if he says so, I’m sorry to say that I’ve no doubt he has. Perhaps you’ll allow me, as his relative, his mother’s brother, and therefore unwilling that a son of hers should do any man wrong, to do all in my power to atone for what you have suffered at his hands. I may add, Mr Newstead, that you will make me happy if you will allow me to do this for the sake of my own peace of mind, leaving this – rascal out of the matter altogether.”

Kenneth, seating himself at the table, had hidden his face in his hands. The old man went and laid his hands upon his shoulders.

“Come, Mr Newstead, don’t make me more ashamed of my own kith and kin than I am already. I think I understand what you are feeling; but let me assure you that one soon forgets the evil days when they are past, and let me beg you to believe that there’s a good time coming.”

Kenneth Newstead said nothing. It seemed to him the strangest part of it all that, after the long night, in the twinkling of an eye, day should have broken, and the shadows fled away.