Date: 1909-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Crime; Mystery; Suspense; Romance
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain worldwide.

LIVE MEN’S SHOES

RICHARD MARSH

MobileRead Edition
2021

The story begins with a jolt — literally: Our hero is awakened in the dead of night by a terrific earthquake in Sicily, resulting in his dramatic rescue of a rather mysterious young lady. As events unfold, we learn of a most unusual inheritance; we meet strange and sinister characters; and always, we encounter the question of identity: identities ambiguous, mistaken, exchanged, assumed. Is there a key to unlock the puzzles? A twisty tale of mystery and suspense, with a thread of romance.

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

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

CONTENTS

LIVE MEN’S SHOES

… Titlepage / About

1 … The Quaking Earth
2 … A World of Water
3 … The Girl on the Balcony
4 … A Singular Conversation
5 … When Friend Meets Friend
6 … The First Words of a Letter
7 … A Visitor for Mr. Talbot
8 … Sam
9 … Tossing the Caber
10 … The Lady Returns
11 … Lady Betty
12 … After the Wedding
13 … Keeping His Contract
14 … The Lady Decides to Go
15 … Mr. and Mrs. Talbot Go Home
16 … “Open Sesame”
17 … The First Night at the Monks
18 … The Wicket Gate
19 … Shut Out
20 … The Master Key
21 … An Unanswered Question
22 … The Telephone
23 … Judith
24 … The Marquis of Polhurston
25 … A New-Fashioned Woman
26 … A Few Words with Some Gentlemen
27 … A Key to the Combination
28 … Mr. Talbot’s Explanation
29 … The Robbers’ Cave
30 … Telling All
31 … A Question of Saying Good Night
32 … Understanding

— I —

THE QUAKING EARTH

He was wide awake. It seemed to him that something very strange must have happened to the world; the bed, the room, the house, the earth, seemed trembling – was trembling. Trembling? As he lay and wondered something shook the bed, raised the foot, kept it raised; it was as though he stood upon his head. And the din! Crashing and roaring as if the very house was being rent to pieces. It was so strange that, half dazed, he wondered if this were not some strange nightmare. Crash again; that was real enough, the foot of his bed which had remained raised, came down with a bang on to the floor – with such a bang that he had to grip the sides to save himself from being thrown out. Then, after the hubbub, silence; the more marked because the noise was so great. For a second or two he lay motionless, then, realizing that something untoward had occurred, he slipped out of bed, moved a step forward and – stayed himself just in time. Strong man though he was, knowing nothing of what weak folk call nerves, he found himself trembling like an aspen leaf. In the pitchy darkness he stretched his foot out, cautiously, inquiringly.

“Great Scott! what has become of the floor!”

It seemed to have vanished; the solid ground had gone; he seemed to be standing on the brink of an abyss; another half step and he would have been over. While he hesitated, bewildered, the end of all things seemed to be threatened again. The room rocked so that, taken unawares, he not only nearly lost his footing, but was within an ace of being thrown over the unseen precipice. And crash, smash; such a clamour, such a tumult, as of buildings falling, as of people’s voices, as of some strange, mysterious something, which filled the night with terror.

“As I’m a living man, it’s an earthquake; and – something like an earthquake!”

Beyond a doubt it was as he said. He had heard of earthquakes, and read of them, was aware that Messina had been the scene of more than one. Here, clearly, was another; one in which he was apparently set down to play an unexpected part. This hotel in which he was, was seemingly on the point of being resolved into its original component parts.

Where were the matches? The electric light? Very gingerly he moved towards the end of the bed at which the button was. It was a curious experience. The boards seemed to have sprung up from the floor; he struck his naked shin against some unseen obstacle with unpleasant force; he nearly tripped over what felt like a hole in the floor; he seemed to have gone quite a journey by the time he felt with outstretched hands, the wall. Then he had to find the button. Something had happened to the wall itself; it was uneven; there were apertures, through one of which he thrust his hand. When at last he found the button and pressed it, again and again and again, nothing happened.

“As I might have expected, the electric light has gone with the rest of the world.”

Since he felt that he must have a light – through the darkness he knew not anything, he hardly dared to move – he started to hunt for the matches. A real hunt it proved. He lost his bearings; he knew he had placed them on the little table at the other end of the bed, but six feet, he believed, from where he was standing; yet it was quite a while before he reached it. Then he found the table was overturned; he had to grope among what seemed the débris of what was left on the floor.

“That feels like them; – thank goodness, it is! The box is nearly full; thank goodness again for that – I never thought that a match could be worth so much.”

He lit one. The first object upon which the flickering flame fell was a candle in a candlestick. He snatched it up. The candle was broken, yet it was better than many matches. He lit it, held it straight in his palm, and, with its aid, surveyed the scene.

“It’s as well,” he told himself, “that I have a light; if I tried to do much moving without one, there would be an end of me. What’s come to the room?”

He might well ask; the greater part of it had vanished, – much more than half of it. All that remained was a narrow ledge just wide enough for his bed; within two feet of the side of his bed the floor ended. He peered over the chasm beyond, screening the candle with his hand to prevent it from being blown out. There was chaos below; he could not be sure in that uncertain light, but it looked as though below was the bottom of the pit. He turned to his bed; glanced at the table overturned on the floor. Everything which was on it had fallen with it; apparently a curious collection. Gold, silver, bank notes, jewels; – what looked like a necklace of diamonds, gleamed up at him from below. The board from which it had fallen had been forced out of its place; part of the necklace had slipped over the edge; a little more and it would all have gone. He picked it up, with the other things; restored the table to its feet; placed the various articles upon it. An odd collection they made; he commented upon it.

“His treasures; – they look like treasures now; worth how much in sterling, how little in fact. Ten, or fifteen thousand pounds, did he say? And I’m – worth? Just nothing; nothing at all!” He raised his voice and called, “Talbot!” No reply. Again, louder, “Talbot! Talbot! – confound you, Talbot, why don’t you answer me?”

Within reach of his hand was a door which led to a neighbouring room. He struck at it with the palm of his hand, calling as he did so.

“Talbot! Talbot! Why on earth, man, don’t you answer?”

He gripped the handle of the door, tried to open it. The handle would not even turn; as was the case with the rest of the room, something had happened to the door. He banged and banged at the panels, with a sort of hysterical violence; as if he were resolved that, at any cost, someone should hear. But there was only silence, broken by the noise of his banging. He stopped, seemed to consider, and glanced round him.

“My word! What’s become of my clothes, my bag, all my personal belongings? It’s true they were scanty, but better even a few than none at all. I remember distinctly that I put the clothes I took off on a chair which ought to be somewhere about over there. Now, as there is no over there, it’s goodbye to chair, and clothes, and all. In which case what price me? If I could only get that beggar Talbot to confess that he’s alive!”

He started calling again.

“Talbot! Talbot! Why in the name of thunder don’t you speak to a man? Do you want me to shout at you till I’m hoarse?” Again he caught at the handle of the door, shaking it with might and main. “The thing will have to open somehow, if I have to knock it down. The ceiling, I suppose, has fallen and it’s got jammed. The mischief is, there seems to be nothing which I can use as a battering-ram; it will have to be a case of trying to burst it open with my shoulder.”

He withdrew perhaps a couple of feet, and, with his right shoulder advanced, rushed at the door with all the force of which he was master. He was unexpectedly successful. Not only did the door give way in front of him, but something overhead gave way with it; as if the door had served as a support to the wall in its immediate neighbourhood. Bricks, plaster, rubbish of all sorts, came pelting down on him. He drew back as quickly as he could, shaking himself as a dog might do.

“That’s a pretty sort of thing to happen; I have done it with a vengeance. A little more and it looks as if I might have brought down all that’s left of the place. Anyhow, I’ve got rid of the door.”

The candle still burned with a flickering flame, casting just light enough to show that there was a great hole in the wall where the door had lately been. Portions of plaster still kept falling; it seemed not unlikely that there was still more to fall. Going close to the aperture he again called to the someone whom he believed to be beyond.

“Now then, you ass of a Talbot, if that hasn’t roused you nothing ever will. D’you hear me? Speak!”

But none spoke.

“This becomes a case for inquiry; I’ll start exploring – though it’s not such easy travelling as it might be to a barefooted man.”

Taking the candle carefully he began to scramble over the heap of rubbish which marked the place where the door had been. As he had put it, it was not easy going for one who had nothing on his feet. He had cut and scratched himself more than once, before he reached the other side. So soon as he was within the adjoining room, he stayed to look about him. The draught seemed greater; it was not easy to keep the flame intact; the light it gave was but a poor one, yet sufficed to show a scene of devastation if possible even more complete than that from which he had just now come.

“Where on earth’s the bed, and – Talbot?”

Nothing was to be seen of any bed. The whole room had vanished with the exception of a narrow ledge of flooring which ran along the wall by which he was standing. Not only was the room gone, but the ceiling overhead; even the floor above: – the room above seemed to have been precipitated into the chasm which yawned beneath. The roof of the building itself had gone; the early morning air blew down. So far as he was able to judge, the whole of the building on the other side had entirely vanished; room after room, along the whole corridor. He was conscious of a sensation to which he had hitherto been a stranger; a feeling of what was very like fear; the catastrophe was so unexpected, so awful, so complete. Was the whole hotel gone; his room all that was left? And the people who were in it? Last night the place was full; he had been given the only room which was left. Had the people, the guests of the hotel, the men, women, and children, the pleasure-seekers, the travellers in search of health – had they gone too? All of them! He remembered the two pretty girls who had been sitting at the little table near to that at which he himself had dined – sitting with a grey-haired lady whom he had taken to be their mother, who had laughed and chattered all through the meal. He could not help but hear a good deal of what they said. They had been talking of the splendid time they had been having, of the still more splendid time they hoped to have. They had had rooms along his corridor; he had seen them going into one – was their room gone, and the two English girls, and their mother, with it? He shut his eyes, as if to squeeze out the sudden tears which had blinded them. He could have leaned his face against the wall and cried his heart out; he had become a child, frightened of the dark; he had ceased to be a man.

But, with an effort, the impulse passed. After all, he was a man; and here, of a surety, was a man’s work to be done. He had better start to do it. Talbot had gone. If he had been in bed, sleeping, when the shock came, in all human probability there had been an end of him. This fool of a Talbot; worse than a fool! With his wild propositions; his incitement to crime; his devilish temptation. The one solid fact remaining was that he himself was alive – and in want of clothes. On the ledge on which he stood were clothes, plenty of them – an open portmanteau full. They were Talbot’s; but what of that? What was Talbot’s was his; the man would have had it so himself a few hours ago. It was absurd to stand on ceremony. Placing the candle for security upon the floor, as rapidly as possible, he began to attire himself in Talbot’s clothes; taking the first that came, choosing nothing, indifferent whether the clothes matched. They fitted as if they had been made for him; but he had known they would do that, having good reason for his knowledge. Even the boots were a perfect fit. Being completely dressed, he returned to what was left of his own room, gathered together the money, the jewels, the odds and ends which were on the little table, stuck them into his pockets; and having done so, paused to consider what he should do next.

— II —

A WORLD OF WATER

He wondered what the time was. It was still quite dark, but there was a suspicion in the air, as it were, of a gleam of light; he had a feeling that the dawn was not very far off. His bed was up against the wall, the windows were on the opposite side of the room. So far as he could make out, the wall on that side remained intact; the blinds were still drawn to the windows. He guessed that the glass in at least some of the windows was broken, for the blinds were agitated as by a slight current of air. Apparently the corridor which led to the staircase had entirely disappeared. The door which opened on to it was divided from him by some seven or eight feet of emptiness which it seemed to him it was impossible to cross.

He knew very little about the plan of the hotel. How he was to reach the solid ground – if, in Messina that night, there was any solid ground – was a problem which he found it difficult to solve. His room was on the second floor. He had an idea that the staircase was nearer to the adjoining room than to his. He returned through the hole in the wall to make out what he could. Leaning over the edge of the chasm he could just make out that in the room below there was a wider ledge than that on which he stood.

He arrived at a sudden resolution. Kneeling, he lowered himself over the side of the broken boarding and hung by the full length of his arms. It was only when he was swinging in the air that he thought of the candle which he had placed on the floor above. The matches were in his pocket. The boards were apparently only just strong enough to sustain his weight. It would probably only involve disaster were he to attempt to swing himself up again. He would have to leave the candle; at least, from where it was it gave just light enough to lessen the shadows. He let himself go. He alighted, as he had hoped, on what was left of the floor beneath; but, so frail was it that, as his feet touched it, it gave way. He found himself dropping; it seemed to him that he must be falling through an immensity of space; yet by some stroke of good fortune, when he stopped, it was on something soft – something which felt like a heap of bedding. Yet the fall had shaken him. It was some seconds before his wits returned. Then, as he tried to raise himself, he found that something ailed his ankle; it had been twisted under him. He feared for a moment that the hurt was serious; but he could not afford to be hurt. He gritted his teeth, and, with an effort, rose to his feet; the ankle hurting badly, as he stood up straight. And he felt for the matches.

He was in what had apparently been a sitting-room; it was so cumbered with litter of all sorts and kinds that it was not easy to determine what the room had been, but just in front of him was a door – a door which stood wide open. It was such a welcome sight that without hesitation he passed right through it; the match went out. He lit another. It was a passage, which led to somewhere. He moved along it perhaps half a dozen steps; again the match went out. These matches were a nuisance; he regretted the candle which he had left above. As he was about to light yet another match, a sound came to his ears; one which so startled him that both the match and the box fell from his hand. It was the sound of a human voice. It was not audible then, but it had been, for sure. He listened intently. He asked—

“Who is there? Who is that? Was that someone calling?”

He spoke in English because he had no Italian; he could only hope that the owner of the voice he had heard might understand. A sound came back to him.

“Help! Please help me! For God’s sake help me.”

It was a feminine voice; it spoke in perfect English. More, it was a familiar voice, he was sure he had heard it before. But from where did it come? He tried to find out.

“Of course I will help you; where are you? In this darkness, and in this state of chaos, it is not easy to make out where anybody is.”

“I don’t know where I am; something has fallen on me; I can’t move. Haven’t you a light?”

He tried another match. “Now, speak again – where are you?”

“Here, here!”

He was, as the light of the match made plain, at the end of a passage. He passed round the corner, then stopped – just in time, the floor went no farther; only emptiness was beyond.

The match went out.

“I seem to be standing at the edge of a precipice; are you below there?”

“I tell you I don’t know where I am. Haven’t you a light?”

“I have matches; but they are of little use. As soon as one is lit, it goes out again; but I’ll try what I can do.”

With a flickering match held between his fingers, he leaned over and peered into the depths below.

“Can you see me?”

“I can see you; can’t you see me? I am almost straight beneath you.”

Just when it was most required, again the match went out. With the help of another he saw the speaker. She was on a ledge of flooring which was only some six or seven feet below where he was standing. How she had ever got there was a mystery. Some sort of cupboard had fallen so that it lay half across her, pinning her legs to the ground. As quickly as he could he was by her side, moving this time with all possible care, lest his weight might cause fresh disaster. Then, still in the darkness, he reached out his hand.

“Put out your hand; let me feel yours.”

Fingers were lightly pressed against his; his closed round them.

“Are you badly hurt? Do you think, if I raised this thing, you’d be all right?”

“I think so, only be careful; the whole place seems tottering. If you are not cautious we may fall again.”

“See, here is a box of matches; deal gently with them, they are all the light we have. You strike one, and by its light I’ll see what we can do.”

The light gleamed out, it was held by trembling fingers. “I’m going to put my shoulder against this cupboard, or whatever the thing is, and I’ll raise it; try, when I’ve raised it, if you can move. Ready? Take care of the match – now.”

It needed all his strength, the cupboard was heavier than he had supposed; he managed to raise one end a foot or two.

“Now can you move?”

The match had gone out; the answer came through the darkness.

“Yes, I’m free.”

There was silence; he lowered the cupboard as gently as he could.

“Where are you? Is all right?”

No reply; he spoke again.

“I hope there’s nothing wrong; tell me, where have you gone? This darkness makes things so difficult. Strike another match.”

Still no reply. Either the girl had vanished, or something was wrong. He moved gingerly forward, his foot came in contact with something soft and yielding; he stooped quickly over, it was the girl he had freed – she lay still and motionless at his feet. It seemed that she had fainted. He felt for the matches; they had fallen from her fingers on to the floor. He found them just as his foot was about to crush them out of shape. As he was in the act of striking one she came back to life with a question.

“Where am I?”

His heart seemed to give a leap within him, moved, more than he had supposed was possible, by the voice of a stranger.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “that’s good! You’re all right. I can’t tell you just where you are, because I don’t know where I am; but I can tell you that you’re with me, and that while you’re with me you’re pretty safe. Are you hurt? Can you move? Are you in pain?”

A sigh seemed to come back at him through the gloom.

“I don’t know, I don’t believe I’m hurt, at least not very much; and I don’t believe that I’m in pain, but I feel so queer; I’ve – I don’t know how I feel. Has – has the world come to an end?”

“That’s more than I can say; but something very like it, I verily believe. I’m a stranger to the hotel; I only arrived last night.”

“I remember you. I saw you in the dining-room; you had the table next to ours – you and your friend.”

“My friend? Yes – my friend! I was forgetting my friend.”

Even among those strange surroundings, and in that darkness, there was something in his voice which seemed to strike her as strange.

“Why? Where is your friend?”

“That’s what I’m wondering, and hope before very long to find out. But you say that you remember me; how do you manage to do that?”

“Oh, I noticed you, and – I saw you again just now by match-light, and – I remembered your voice.”

“That’s queer, because, do you know, I remembered yours. When I heard it first, up above there, I said to myself, I’d heard that voice before, and I remembered it was yours. But, tell me, we’re in a tight place, you and I! I hope you’ve been longer in the hotel than I have, and know it better; then perhaps you’ll be able to tell me where we are, and how we’re going to get out.”

In the silence one felt that she was trying to arrange her thoughts.

“I do know the hotel, I ought to, I’ve been here before, more than once; but it seems to me as if a miracle has happened and the whole world been turned upside down. I’m not sure, but I believe that this room opens into the hall – I think that it’s behind us. Strike another match, and see if there is not a door.”

He did as she bade him, and there, sure enough, was a door, but divided from them by such a mass of impedimenta – parts of the building itself, furniture, luggage – that it was not easy to decide which was the best way to reach it. He laughed ruefully; it sounded anything but cheerful, that laugh of his.

“It strikes me that we shall have to do some climbing to reach your door. Can you climb unaided, or shall I help you?”

“I think that I can manage.”

She did manage – with his assistance; and when they reached the door they found that, as had been the case with the one above, it was jammed.

“The door which led from my room to that of my friend was stuck fast, like this; and when I used force to open it, I nearly brought the whole place down about my ears. Shall I try the same means with this; do you think I dare? Dragging at the handle won’t open it; it will have to be a case for force, let the results be what they may. We can’t stay imprisoned here.”

This time, less force was needed than had been the case before. The door fell away; fortunately, nothing fell with it. They passed through it, side by side. As she had surmised, the hall was on the other side. The match he lighted showed that it was so, showed also that it was so littered by all sorts of things that it bore no more any resemblance to the ordinary hall. Beyond them, on the other side, over, as it were, the intervening mountain, was the door which led into the street; the gate to comparative safety.

“If we are once through there,” he told her, “we shall, I hope, be at least out of immediate danger. Come – let’s go; and be thankful that we have at least escaped with our lives.”

She held him by the wrist and checked him. She spoke quickly, in a voice which trembled, as he felt she herself was trembling.

“But – the others? Lucy? And mother? Where – where can they be? I – I can’t leave them.”

“My dear young lady, for the present I fear you must. What can you do – what can I do, in this darkness, this ruin? In the morning when the light has come, when it is possible to see, then it may be possible to do something; I promise you that then something shall be done. There is the friend – my friend – of whom you spoke, he is somewhere in this heap of ruins, which once was an hotel. I can’t leave him here, I won’t; it’s a thing not to be thought of; but, to save him, I must have light. Wait till the day comes. In the mean time, we shall do no good by staying here; come, let’s get out into the air, if we can.”

He told himself, sometimes, in the days which followed, that he had found it easier, often, to cross the Atlantic, or the continent of America, from sea to sea, than he found it, that morning, to cross that hall, with the girl, and gain with her the street beyond. When, at last, they reached the great hall door, they found it, not only bolted and barred against them, but jammed so fast that it was beyond their power to force it open. All the glass in the great windows had been broken; that is, holes had been made in the middle, while big pieces of plate glass formed a sort of fringe at the bottom. It was necessary to force these pieces of glass out before they were able to pass through the window. Then, when the girl was in the very act of descending into the street, she gave a sudden cry.

“Something has happened to the pavement – it has gone; I can’t touch it with my feet.”

He helped her to return; then, while she sat upon the window ledge, he lit still another match, so that he might learn, if possible, by its aid, what had happened. The earthquake had wrought a miracle. The ground below the window had opened; there yawned a black pit, whose bottom he could not see.

“It looks as if this were no go; let’s try one on the other side of the door. Perhaps nothing’s happened there.”

That time they were more fortunate. When he had cleared the glass away, leaning out, he saw the pavement beneath still looked as it was wont to do.

“I think that I’ll get out first; when I find that everything is all right, you’d better follow.”

He passed through; his voice came to her from without.

“It seems solid enough; at any rate just where I’m standing, and immediately round about. Now, if your ladyship pleases to come.”

Presently the girl was by his side. They stood in silence. Not a sound disturbed the stillness. They might have been in a city of the dead. Then he spoke; with a sort of catching in his throat.

“So far so good; only, the worst of it is, it isn’t so very far. What’s to be done next? All the lamps seem to have gone by the board; we can hardly find our way through this sort of thing by the aid of matches; and, anyhow, to what harbour of refuge are we to direct our steps; had we not better wait, after all, for the daylight, and hope for the best?”

He felt that she came closer to him; as if in his near neighbourhood, she found safety.

“I don’t know – I don’t know what to say, or what to do. We – we are in God’s hands; that’s all that I can say.”

“Does that mean – stay where we are, and wait for God’s direction?” Suddenly he took her hand in his, and held it tight. “What’s that?”

It was not easy to say; save that it was the sound of a great noise.

“The earthquake! ” she cried. “It’s coming again!”

“It’s not only the earthquake; it’s – something else as well. What’s the meaning of that noise? It’s like the sound of rushing water.” He seemed to be listening. “Can – can it be the sea? On this side, where we are, we must be a quarter of a mile from the shore. What can have happened to the sea?”

She did not answer him; she never answered him, there was no time. As she had said, the earthquake had come again; the ground shook beneath their feet, so violently that it shook them apart; then it rose, and fell. There was the din of many sounds; buildings seemed toppling down about them on every side; the air was filled with dust; a great wind came rushing down the street! He cried to her—

“Look out! Where are you? Give me your hand! Don’t – don’t let yourself be carried away, or I may never find you again; there’s something going to happen – something worse than all the rest. What’s this wet that all at once is in the air? What’s that sound of rushing water? Good God! Look out! Where’s your hand? It’s the sea!”

It was the sea; as it seemed, all the sea; as if the whole body of the ocean had been poured upon the land. He had her hand; indeed, he had both of them; with sudden consciousness of the terror that was coming, even amidst the shaking of the world, he reached out to her, and caught her by her hands, and strove to hold them tight; and strove in vain. He might as well have striven to hold back a locomotive engine that was moving at full steam, as to continue to hold her in his grasp against that fury of the maddened sea. He was borne off his feet; swirled round and round, like a cork, amidst what seemed to be a whirl of frenzied water. He was carried, now to the surface, now, as it seemed, down to the very bowels of the ocean. For him, all was over; the world had indeed come to an end. And the girl – what did it matter to him, since he was drowning like a rat in a hole, what had become of the girl?

— III —

THE GIRL ON THE BALCONY

It was broad day; and he was still alive; of those two facts he was cognizant, but of nothing more. Presently he realized something else – he could not move. Seeking for the cause of this he learned that he was lying among what seemed to be the ruins of a house, or of many houses; it was not easy to believe that all that he saw represented the ruins of one house only. Apparently a balk of timber had, in some way, been carried right across him, so that it pinned his body to something which was beneath; something, which, when he moved, moved also. The discovery made him consider. What would happen if he continued to move; what would give way under him; he was conscious that the balk of timber hurt him; he gave a sudden twist; something twisted with him, and he fell – not far; but two or three feet. At least he was free from the balk of timber.

He realized something else – he was wet; and everything about him was wet. Then he remembered the rushing water; and started to think. It would seem that, at least for the present, the earthquake was over; probably the last form it had taken had been the rushing water – that seismic wave. What damage had it done? So far as he could judge, it had done all the damage it could to Messina. It seemed that he was in some sort of cellar; or in some hole which the earthquake had made in the ground. If what he saw about him was a sample of the piece, then Messina was a city of the past. And its inhabitants – what had become of them? It seemed that there were none of them within sight or call of him.

He could do no good by staying there. He started to clamber out; and in doing so made two more discoveries. One, that though stiff and cold and wet, and probably bruised, he was not seriously hurt. His limbs were whole; he could move with ease and freedom. Another, that he need not seek far to learn what had become of some of Messina’s inhabitants. Having gained the balk of timber which had lain across him, he looked about him to see what was the next best step to take, and perceived that within a foot or two of where he himself had just now been was another person; not only one, but two, three, several – from the post of vantage upon which he stood he could see quite a number. He called to them; but he did not need their silence to tell him what he knew already – that they were dead. Probably, within a few feet of where he stood were a score of corpses, male and female, for the most part nearly naked, caught in their beds, asleep, and killed before they had time to wake. Seemingly, he was the only one alive. That fresh discovery filled him with a sense of curious discomfort; he scrambled out of the pit as fast as he could.

It was difficult to learn when he was free of the pit. Apparently, he was in what had been one of the principal streets; there was little likeness to a street about it then. One side of lit was all torn open, as if some great plough had come down it and cut a mighty furrow. On the other side, that on which he was, there was no continuous furrow, but there was a multitude of holes, both big and little; some with perhaps ten or twenty feet between them; some so close together that there was but a knife-like edge of dividing earth. The trouble was he did not know which way to go. Only yesterday he had landed at Palermo. This was the first glimpse he had had of Messina in the daylight. Between the furrow on one side, and the holes on the other, there was, as it were, a narrow winding pathway, which led, with gaping intervals, up and down the street. But even this was difficult to follow, because of the débris under which it was continually hidden. Should he follow it as best as he could, to the left or the right? He chose the right, because that led uphill, and he felt that the higher he ascended the safer he might be.

After he had done ten or twelve minutes of some of the hardest walking he had ever done in his life, he reached what he presumed was meant to be the corner of a street; for there, some fifteen feet above the ground, was a plaque which bore its name – the Via San Camillo. It became easier going. The houses on either side were but carcases, but the street itself had only here and there been tom open. He heard voices; the first sign he had had that there was anything left alive in Messina. He went a little farther. The voices seemed to come from a street. He came to a place where four streets crossed. Looking down one, he perceived at a little distance what seemed to be an open space; possibly a marketplace. From where he was, it seemed to contain quite a crowd of people; most of them in the strangest attire, some of them scarcely in any attire at all. Some of them seemed to be crouching in groups upon the ground, raising their voices in meaningless wails; others were gathered together in groups, gesticulating, shouting about he knew not what.

He hesitated. Should he join them? To what end? They were probably Italians, or Sicilians, who would not understand a word he said, or be able to give him any assistance if they did. Yet – they were alive, in this city of the dead; that was something. He made to move towards them, when something caused him to change his mind – the sound of a voice; a woman’s voice. And at the sound recollection came back to him. He remembered the girl of the night before; with whom he had fought his way out of the hotel; who had been tom from him by the resistless wave. Could it be possible that she also still lived, and this was her voice which called to him again.

He stood to listen, it certainly was not. He would have known her voice again; he did not know this one. It came again; he looked to see from whence. Although guided by the sound it was some moments before he learned whereabouts its owner was. His eye travelled up a high building which stood in front of him. It rose perhaps seventy feet. Almost at the top, outside a window, was a little balcony. On this balcony, leaning over the slender iron railing, was what looked to him, standing in the street below, to be a very young girl; not only very young, but very beautiful. She uttered some words in a language which he took to be Italian. He replied—

“I am afraid I am too ignorant to understand what you say; haven’t you any English?”

Her response came instantly. “Indeed, oh indeed! I am English. I have been out here all night, can you do nothing to help me?”

Her tones faltered, there were tears in her voice.

“Help you? Why, indeed! just wait half a second till I can get my bearings. Is there any means of getting up to you inside the house?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t; I’m afraid that everything has fallen, except part of my bedroom and this balcony; and every minute, all through the night, I have feared that this would fall too. Every time I move, the balcony, the whole place, shakes.”

“Does it? Then don’t you move too much; it will have to bear your weight as well as mine; just let me see how it’s best to be managed, and I’ll be with you.”

A moment’s glance showed that it was a promise that it was easier to make than to perform. The entire house, with the exception of the outer wall, seemed to have collapsed. The glass in the front windows was shattered; he could see through most of them into what was the void beyond. He was quick to perceive that it was just as impossible for her to descend from the back as it was for him to mount to her.

Two men, whom he supposed, from their somewhat nondescript uniform, to be either soldiers or police, came hurrying down the street which led to the open space. He hailed them, and addressed them in the only tongue with which he was familiar. They shook their heads; would have passed on, had he not prevented them by taking each by an arm. When he had brought them to a standstill, he withdrew his hands, and pointed to the girl on the balcony. They glanced up at her; one of them said something which the girl understood. She answered eagerly. The man said something to her again; then spoke to his companion; both of them shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders. The girl called out to them more eagerly even than before. Although the actual words they uttered were unintelligible to him, the Englishman divined, with tolerable accuracy, the meaning of the scene. The girl was pleading to them for help, which they declared it was impossible to render. The discussion came to a sudden close, they shouted out to her some final words, and before the Englishman could stop them, had begun to move hurriedly across the road. He let them go, realizing that to attempt to detain them would be fruitless. But he favoured them with some parting compliments.

“Gentlemen, whether you are soldiers or policemen, I do not know; but I do know that you are curs, as well as cowards!”

They paid no heed, probably understanding nothing that he said. He gave his attention to the girl on the balcony.

“What did they say, those – Italian cavaliers?”

Her tones were even more tremulous than they had been before.

“They say that no one can help me, that it wouldn’t be safe even to try; that only a long ladder would reach me, that they don’t know where to get one, and that even if they did, the walls would go toppling down if they tried to rest the end against them. And” – her tones shook still more – “I believe they’re right; that no one can help me; and I must stay here till the balcony falls, and I fall with it.”

He laughed, and shouted back at her. “You foolish child! If you’re an old lady, later, I apologize; but you only seem to me a child from where I am – don’t you talk nonsense in imitation of those gentlemen; I’ve done queerer climbs before today; only wait, I’ll be with you almost before you know it.”

His eyes had been busy; he had perceived what might be a possible way to reach her. The walls had yielded to the strain, and here and there, as the eye travelled upwards, there were cracks which were large enough to give shelter to an agile man’s fingers and toes; while, in more than one place, pieces of the wall had fallen away, leaving crevices which might serve as supports. Yet, it was not an easy road to travel. Surely only a monkey, or some such creature, might count on ascending such a ladder in safety. But he had considered long enough; the position would not be improved by waiting; he began to climb up the face of the wall, hand over hand. The first ten or twelve feet were not so very difficult; afterwards the trouble began. But this man moved so deftly, so surely, clung to so little, almost as a fly seems to cling to the surface of a wall. The girl, leaning over, gripping the iron railing with her two hands, looked down at him, scarcely seeming to breathe. He had gained a window ledge upon the second floor. He stood on it, not only for the sake of the rest which it afforded, but in order to learn which way he had better go next.

“It’s pretty good training for an acrobat, this sort of thing; luckily I’ve had some training in that line of business. The question is, which way am I to go next; it doesn’t look very promising outside, I think I’ll try the inside for a change. Is there anything on the other side of that balcony of yours? on the room side I mean.”

“Part of the floor remains, perhaps three or four feet in places, but it’s all crumbly; I’m afraid almost to stand on it lest I should fall; I’m sure it won’t stand your weight as well as mine. You’d better go back and let me be. What good will it do if you do get up here?”

“I’ll show you when I’ve got! – I promised you I’m going to get. – There, I’ve got this window open, and there’s a bit of flooring on the other side, I’ll try that way.”

He passed through the window on to the “bit of flooring” to which he had alluded. On that side, the way up was, if not easy, at least more obvious. A beam had fallen from the floor above in such a fashion that while one end of it rested on a sort of ledge, the other was still in the room in which it had originally had a place. A cat might swarm up it; he started to emulate the cat. Directly it had to bear his weight, it gave an enormous shudder, turning half over. Had it not been for his agility and presence of mind, he would have fallen off it into the depths below; and in falling would probably have brought the beam itself, and no small portion of the building, with him. That certainly would have been the end of the girl on the balcony.

But he did not fall. He not only kept his hold, but, presently, when the beam was steadier, began to push his way up it. It was a delicate process. He had to keep his own balance as well as the balance of the beam. He succeeded in doing both, and gained what was left of the floor of the room above.

By now, the girl had left her balcony, and was kneeling on the narrow ledge of flooring immediately above his head. There was scarcely more than a dozen feet between them; yet the most difficult problem remained – how those dozen feet were to be passed.

“I suppose,” he said to her, “that you couldn’t trust yourself to swing over those shivery, shaky boards of yours; I think I might be able to lift you down if you could.”

“I’ll try; but don’t you see how every time I move, everything shakes. And will that floor you are on hold both of us?”

“We can but try. Lower yourself just where you are, and hold on till I give you the word. Stay; haven’t you any bedding up there? If so, hand down all you’ve got – sheets blankets, counterpane, and that sort of thing.” She vanished from his sight. Evidently she was doing as he told her. Every step she took, and each of them was plainly audible, he could see the bare boards tremble. She reappeared.

“I’ll throw them one by one; – here’s two sheets, some blankets, a counterpane. Will that do?”

“Excellently; – only one thing more; have you such a thing up there as a pair of scissors?”

“I believe I have; I think I saw one just now as I was picking up the bedclothes. Yes, here it is. Shall I throw it down?”

“If you’ll be so very good. Thank you; – well thrown! Now, if you think you can manage to lower yourself over the brink; – only, as it seems rather a shivery brink, make yourself as light as you can.”

The girl obeyed him; she was swinging in mid air, holding on to the edges of the tremulous boards above as best she could. Her feet were a little above his reach. He could not lift her down; she would have to let go, and trust to his catching her. This he explained.

“The trouble is the whole place is so delightfully rickety. When I say ‘go,’ let go without a jerk; – I’ll catch you without a jerk. – Let go!”

She did let go. He stood a little on one side; as she came he held out his arms, meaning to take her about the waist. But, as his arms closed round her, something went. One of the boards on which he was standing went crashing down below, his left foot went through the space which it had left. He kept his hold of the girl, or she would have gone over the edge. He, as it were, sat down suddenly, with the girl in his arms. There was a great clatter; one might almost have thought that the earthquake had come back again. Missiles from above came smashing down about them: a great piece fell out of the wall quite close to where they were; the ledge of flooring seemed to dip and bend; part of it went; fortunately the part on which they were remained. When the clatter was over he spoke to the girl.

“That’s a pretty near thing; – I thought that that was going to be a case that we were done for.”

She answered while she still was in his arms.

“I told you it was not safe, I warned you; – I told you not to come.”

“What harm’s befallen me because of coming?”

At such an instant it would have been a ridiculous thing to say, but he could have told her that he had been repaid by her being where she was. She disengaged herself; she stood upright; – he was oddly conscious how fair she was, and how straight. Her tone was at once both tremulous and petulant.

“Now, what are you going to do? I can’t drop on to the floor beneath, because there is no floor left to drop on; and I can’t climb down the wall the way that you climbed up. I tell you, you had much better have let me be.”

“And I tell you that I don’t in the very least agree with you; this is going to be an adventure which we shall both of us remember to the very last day of our lives – and our lives are going to be long ones too. I’m not going to ask you to climb down any wall; – what do you think we’re going to do with those bedclothes? And the scissors? You’re sure to be better with scissors than I am; – what you’ve got to do is to cut these blankets and sheets into strips, and what I’ve got to do is to knot them together so that they make a rope by which you can descend to what I used once to call terra firma; but, after this experience, I doubt if I’ll ever be disposed to call it that again.”

She took the scissors, and with rapid fingers began to cut the bedclothes into strips, as he directed her; and as fast as she cut them, he tied one strip to another. In a very few minutes they had a lengthy rope. He lowered it through the window; it reached to within a few feet of the ground.

“You’ve another blanket there; cut that up – and the trick is done; we’ll have a rope which will be almost equal to a ladder.”

The strips of blanket were joined to what had gone before; the end of the rope dusted the ground.

“All that remains, is to make this rope fast to something, and then I’ll see you go down it first, and when you’re at the foot I’ll follow.”

She looked at him with doubtful eyes.

“I don’t doubt that it’s strong enough to bear me, but, afterwards, will it bear you?”

“I’ll be bound it will; there’s some strength in that rope; – it will bear you, and afterwards me, and if needs be a dozen other men as well. Now, if you please, make the first attempt. Mind you hold tight, I’ll do my best to keep it clear of the wall but I shan’t be able to do much, so be sure and not let it take the skin all off you as you go down.” She stepped on to the window ledge. “Gently! – it’s pretty rickety. Now kneel, give me your hands; here’s the rope, grip it firmly; I’ll keep hold of your hands and lower you till you’re over the edge; – then be sure and get a good hold of the rope; lower yourself – you know how to do it, and if you keep your head you’ll be as right as rain.”

— IV —

A SINGULAR CONVERSATION

“You’ve saved my life; but for you I should certainly have died.”

“That’s not so sure; this is the time of miracles.”

“Yes, and you were the miracle that came my way.”

“Well, I’d sooner have been that than anything else in the world.”

“Why should you say such a thing; has the world nothing better to offer you than to risk your life for a perfect stranger?”

They were standing face to face on what was, at least temporarily, solid ground. By the aid of the improvised rope she had come down safely, and he had followed quickly after her. The rope hung idly in the breeze in proof of it. She looked into his face as if to find out what manner of man he was. It was not easy to tell by her demeanour whether she was satisfied by her inspection. One detail she had noted.

“Why, you seem sopping wet.”

“That was that rush from the ocean which served as a climax to the rest of the fireworks, and which almost did for me. I shouldn’t be surprised if it has drowned half the people in Messina; no man could live in water which handles one as that wave did me. Did none of it come your way?”

She shook her head; he noticed what a pretty one it was. He was inquiring in his mind as to her age; he had had little experience in such matters, but he set her down as certainly not more than twenty-one. She had no colour, but her skin seemed soft as a child’s.

“I saw no wave, but I wondered what the noise was, as if there were a great storm at sea; I suppose that was the wave.”

“I guess it was. How came you to be where I found you?”

“I can hardly tell you; I hardly know; I was asleep, when I awoke it had happened. It was dark, and I was afraid to move; when it was light I got out on to the balcony; there I stayed till I saw you; that’s all I know.”

“Were there no other people in the house?”

“Many; I cannot tell you how many, but I believe the house was full. It was a sort of boarding house, a pension. You see, it belonged to Madame Bianchi, there is her name on that plate at the door.”

He hesitated, having a question on the tip of his tongue, yet hardly knowing how to ask it.

“Had you – any relatives in the house, or were you a lone lorn boarder?”

In her turn she hesitated; he wondered why. It was a simple question to answer. She did not convey to him the impression that it pained her, but rather that she was casting about in her mind what answer she could give.

“Oh no, I was not alone, I was not a lone lorn boarder, as you put it; I was there with my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, with my father; he and I were there together.”

He felt sure that she had hesitated before the first time she had said “father”; as if she were not sure what word to choose. But when, in a sense, he had challenged her, she had repeated the word “father” with, as it seemed, in her tone, a ring of defiance.

“Then – is your father safe?”

“I’m afraid not; I – I don’t know what has become of him; I’m afraid to think. His room was not on the same floor as mine; I don’t quite know where it was, it was on one of the lower floors, I know that. So perhaps he is safe; I – I hope he is.”

He was observing her very closely; there was something within him that made him do it. In his distinctly varied career women had played an insignificant part. With one like this he had never come into personal association before. Although the type had been to him hitherto an unknown factor, he recognized it at sight; his intuition on some subjects was marvellously quick. He knew without anyone telling him, that this was a lady, in a very special sense; a member of the sort of society with which he had never mixed. Dishevelled, half-dressed, a thing, as it were, of feminine shreds and patches, he was sure that she was one of a world into which he had never entered. He liked her for it; more, though the word might seem exaggerated, he loved her for it. He wanted to learn something about her; not everything; he had reasons of his own for not wishing to learn everything about anyone; but enough to enable him to gain an insight into the kind of person she actually was. None knew better than himself that his own position was a peculiar one; he was as sure, as if she had told him, that about hers there was something curious too. She was not the sort of person who would be likely to be on the top floor bedroom of a cheap boarding-house; she spoke, not exactly callously, but certainly with an odd indifference of the person whom she had said was her father. It was not natural that so young a girl should appear so unconcerned about the fate of so near, and presumably, so dear, a relation. He was convinced, though he could hardly have said why, that she had told him what was, in plain fact, something very like an untruth; her father had not been with her in that boarding-house. He began to put her through a curious sort of cross-examination; he was conscious that she answered his questions, sometimes with a touch of mental reservation, often with a little air of resentment.

“Were you alone in the house with your father?”

“How do you mean, alone? I told you the house was nearly full.”

“Had you no other friend there?”

“Oh yes, I had friends! I hoped that more than one was my friend.”

“And they are all – gone?”

“How can I tell? You know as well as I do. I told you I know nothing. You saw me on the balcony; you see the house; you know what has happened; I suppose they’re there.”

She pointed towards the tottering wall.

“What I meant was, had you no other relatives in the house? A mother, a sister, a brother; either there, or in Messina, or perhaps somewhere else in Sicily?”

She paused before she answered, standing very straight, looking him right in the face with her clear grey eyes.

“There is not one creature who cares for me in all the world, not one.”

He smiled, as if there had been something in her manner or her words that tickled him.

“Then we are in the same case, you and I; it seems that we are a pretty lonely pair.”

“Are you not married?”

It was apparently some inward reflection which caused him to give his lips a curious little twist.

“Married? Not I; do I look as if I were a married man?”

“What a thing to say; how can any man be said to look as if he were married?”

“That’s more than I can tell you; I certainly have got no wife. Like you, I haven’t a friend in the world; and, as I’m so much older than you, I’m in a much worse plight, because I have had time to make friends.”

“I don’t believe that you’re so friendless as you say. You must at least have one friend; think, isn’t there one?”

Her question seemed to affect him in rather an unexpected fashion; he smiled, as if at his own thoughts.

“Well, if you put it in that plain way, I’m not so sure. It’s like this; last night I had something like a friend; my one friend in the whole world; a man in a million, in many millions; he was that indeed; but, today, whether I have him still or no is more than I can say. But you, if your father is not safe, if you’re so friendless, so utterly friendless as you suggest, and, frankly, that does seem incredible to me—”

“Why should it seem incredible?”

There was a whimsical gleam in his eye.

“That question of yours is a bit of a puzzler; it’s not an easy one to answer – without offence. I can only say that you don’t strike me as being the sort of girl who is likely to be without – a single friend.”

“I can’t help how it strikes you; I tell you that I am, I am!” She held out her hands with a little gesture, as if to emphasize her words. “At this moment I am utterly alone – entire, completely, alone! in the world.”

“You’ll excuse my asking you – by fate or circumstance you and I have been drawn closer together in a very few minutes than some folks are in years; that’s the excuse I plead if I seem to pry; I don’t want to pry, I just want to be of help to you, as I was just now, that’s all; – do you mind explaining to me how I am to understand your answer. You say that you are quite alone in the world; I take it that doesn’t mean that you’re without a reasonable share of that very useful friend, hard cash.”

She was still. Although she drew a little away from him, as if something in his words had caused her to shrink from a too close contact, she continued to search his face with her unflinching eyes. She stumbled a little in her speech.

“You’ve no right to ask me such a question, no right; I – I didn’t mean you to.”

“Now, there I differ from you, all the way. I don’t want to set myself up as having done anything at all; but, honestly, I do think I’ve earned the right to ask you a little plain question like that. We’re a lonely pair; if I thought that you could help me, do you think I wouldn’t let you? Why,” – again he gave his lips what seemed that characteristic little twist – “if you could help me I’d love you to.”

“You know that I can’t help you; that’s why you say it.”

“I’m not so sure; perhaps one day, and not such a very far off one either, you may be able to give me just the kind of help I badly need; don’t flatter yourself that I won’t take it, because as sure as you and I are living, I will. Now, about that little question of mine: may I take it that you’ve what some folk think the best friend of all friends – money?”

“I’ve not even that friend; you’ve no right to ask me, and I don’t know why I tell you; we’re strangers, just strangers! You’ve saved my life, but that makes no difference!”

“Doesn’t it? There again I’m not with you. I think it does.”

“And I think it doesn’t, not in the sense I mean. All the same, it’s true, perfectly true; while—” there was a perceptible hesitation – “while my father lived, if – if he is dead, it was different, but now – all I have in the world you see.”

“Then you’ve a very great deal.”

For an instant she did not seem to grasp his meaning; then his tone, his looks, his manner, made it clear to her with sudden vividness. The colour came into her hitherto pale cheeks; she moved back from him almost as if she were afraid. She seemed to be without words. Something in her attitude moved him to apology.

“I beg your pardon; perhaps I hadn’t ought to have said that, not just now, and here; but all the same, as you said just now, it’s true – perfectly true. For in my judgement you have a very great deal; you’ve that which is worth all the money in the world; that’s a dead sure thing, though I beg your pardon because I said it. But let’s get back to where we were. If you mean that you’ve no money, why that’s all right, because I have – I have a store full. I’ve so much money that I don’t know just now how much I have got; and that again is true.” He smiled at her, as though his words had a humorous intention. “It’s lucky that I brought some of it away from my hotel, or we perhaps would have been a little awkwardly fixed. See, I’ve a pocket full; that best of all currency, all Bank of England notes, fresh from the Bank.”

He held out to her the notes which he had picked up from the floor the previous night when seeking for escape from what had been left of the bedroom which had so suddenly been transformed into a death-trap. He had his other hand in the pocket into which he had stuffed, on the same occasion what, under the circumstances, was such an odd assortment of jewels; but he said nothing to her of them.

“Now, look here, what you and I have got to do, first of all, right straight away, is – get. We’ve got to quit this part of the country; I don’t mind a little excitement, but too much of it palls; there’s too much of it round here. Another thing, who knows, with this earthquake business, it may start again at any minute. I’d a feeling only a short while ago, while we’ve been standing here, that there was something a little – trembly about this bit of ground we’re standing on.”

“I felt it too; it was another slight shock. I believe there often are slight shocks in this part of the country; someone told me that sometimes they come many times a day, for days together; people think nothing of them.”

“Oh, don’t they? Well, I do; from this time on I shall never feel what ought to be the solid ground beneath me showing signs of fluidity, without thinking much more about it than I’ve the power of putting into words. Do you think we’ll be able to get out of this place, at once, with the help of money? Right out of the country, clear out, as clear out of it as we can be; and to do that, where can we get? My knowledge of local geography is more than limited; this is a case in which I’m in need of help from you. I told you that I probably should before very long; and, you see, I am.”

“I don’t know if there are any trains – if the ferry’s running.”

“Trains? Ferry? What have trains to do with any ferry?”

“I suppose you came over on the train from San Giovanni; and that’s brought over by the ferry.”

“I did not; I came from Palermo, where I landed from a crazy old tramp which had brought me right away from the other side of America – one of the worst passages I ever had, and I’ve had some bad ones. That was only last night; it was worth having a passage of that sort in order to enjoy, at the end of it, a little experience such as I had last night. If I’d guessed what I was coming to, I don’t think I should have come; yet I’m glad I did come. I wouldn’t have missed that earthquake, not – well, I wouldn’t have missed it. You said something about trains and a ferry, but you haven’t said how we’re to get away from here and where we’re to get to.”

“Why should you expect me to be able to tell you such a thing as that? We’d better go down to what was the harbour; someone may be able to tell you there.”

“Which is the way? You’ll have to show me; in this place I know nothing; I’m in your hands; you’ve got to help me.”

“I’ll take you to the harbour, or the quay; they’re neither of them five minutes from here; that won’t be helping you.”

“You think not? We keep on differing; we’re at it again. If you take me down to either of those places, you’ll be doing more for me than you’ve any notion of. But – one moment, just one moment before we start. As you put it, just now, you and I were strangers: we’re no longer quite that; we’re not perhaps friends; I don’t suppose that I’m exactly the sort of person of whom you’re likely ever to make a friend.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, am I?”

“How can I possibly say? I’m not so good a judge of character as you seem to suppose. I might as reasonably say that I’m not the kind of person of whom you’d be likely to make a friend.”

“You wouldn’t say that – you wouldn’t; you’re wiser. But what I was getting at was this; we’ll leave that question of friendship alone; I’ve a fancy that the best friends are often those who talk about it least; anyhow, we are acquaintances, and we’re going to get out of this place together; and, as to that extent, we’ll be companions, don’t you think it would be just as well that we should know each other’s names? What’s yours?”

“Mine? My name?” There was perceptible hesitation; with that rapidity which, sometimes, was a trick with him, he jumped to a conclusion. “My name is – Hallam.”

“Hallam? just Hallam? Miss Hallam?”

“Kate Hallam.”

“Kate Hallam? I like that name; somehow, it’s not just the sort of name I thought you had, but – I like it. Kate Hallam.”

Again something in his tone, or manner, or in the way in which he looked at her, brought the blood to her face, and a queer look to her eyes. It almost seemed as if she were trying to regard him with something which was very like defiance; as if she dared him to doubt her.

“I’ve told you my name; now what is yours?”

His answer came quickly; one might have suspected him of a desire to avoid even the semblance of hesitation.

“My name is Talbot – Percival Talbot.”

She eyed him as if startled.

“Talbot? That’s very strange; I – that is, some friends of mine, once knew some people named Talbot.”

He was observing her intently; with his eyes looking right into hers as if he sought for something that might be in them.

“It’s not such an uncommon name, is it – Talbot?”

“I suppose not; but I believe that one of these Talbots was rather an uncommon kind of person.”

“Uncommon! In what sense? I hope there’s nothing uncommon about me, in a disagreeable sense. Where did your Talbots live; and what was it made them uncommon?”

“They lived in Cornwall.”

This time, beyond a doubt, he started, in unmistakable surprise.

“In Cornwall? Now, we do seem to be getting into the regions of the odd, because, do you know, one of my Talbots lives in Cornwall. Let’s get closer to it; just in what part of Cornwall did your Talbot live?”

“On the Helford river, just above Helford village, in a house called ‘The Monks.’”

His blue eyes were wide open; they had an odd effect, those blue eyes of his, set, as they were, under a thatch of dark hair in a bronzed face.

“It seems to me that I have come right to the land of miracles. I live on the Helford river, just above Helford village, in a house called ‘The Monks.’ It begins to look as if I were one of that lot of Talbots which those friends of yours knew something about. Now I wonder what it was about them they knew, which could be called uncommon.”

The girl in front of him seemed positively frightened. She had drawn away from him till she was right against the crumbling wall; her eyes were opened as wide as his had been, in them had come a look of actual terror. That she had all at once become afraid of something was obvious; what the something was was not so clear. Nor, for some reason, did he attempt to discover; he preferred, apparently, to take the fact for granted, and to ignore it. He changed the subject with a brusqueness which she could hardly help but notice.

“Well, Miss Hallam, since we’ve been duly introduced, and, it seems, know something about each other, if you’ll be so good as to lead the way to one of those places you mentioned, I’ll be obliged.”

— V —

WHEN FRIEND MEETS FRIEND

All Messina seemed to have gone down to the quay.

They made, after a grotesque fashion, a tragic assembly: There were all sorts and conditions of men and women, and of children. Surely never before was seen a crowd in such strange attire. Some of them were hardly dressed at all: some were in the most incongruous garments. There were women in clothes which were ostentatiously meant for men; while there were men who wore apparel which was just as notoriously meant for women. It was not easy to tell the rich from the poor, except that one had a feeling that it was the poorest who made the most noise. And they did make a noise, that Sicilian crowd. Not improbably, nine out of ten had lost all that they had, both kin and kind. Many of them had gone to bed the night before, rich, not only in relatives, but also in more material possessions. The night had changed all that. It was not to be wondered at that they bewailed, a trifle too audibly, their bitter fate.

It was a scene of confusion, the wrecked buildings at the back; the riven road, rendered almost impassable by all sorts of obstacles; the sea, which had not only encroached right over the harbour wall, and as yet refused to yield the ground which it had claimed, but was swaying to and fro, with a sort of sullen anger, as if moved by some hidden force, which one could not but feel might threaten at any moment some new form of terror and devastation. The people rushed here and there, exclaiming, gesticulating, as they went. Persons who were apparently officials of some sort, only made confusion worse confounded by their excited and ill-considered efforts to restore calmness and order. There were ships at some little distance from the land, and the object of all those people was to get on board them. Boats plied to and fro. Wherever they approached, a rush was made to them. Had the people had their way they would all have been instantly overloaded and swamped.

The scene seemed to afford Talbot enjoyment which was not shared by his companion. She seemed to see only the pathetic side; it was rather the grotesque which appealed to him.

“Nice level-headed lot these people seem to be. I’ve seen these Dagoes in a stew before – for losing their heads there’s nothing beats them. I wonder if there’s a white man anywhere with a grain of sense! That’s the man we have to look for; let’s hope we’ll find him quick.”

The girl looked at him with a glance that was hardly flattering.

“Why do you speak like that? Surely you don’t understand. These people are hungry, they even want bread. And the children, the poor little children; see how they’re crying. Do you think it isn’t enough to drive a mother mad to know that her child is crying for food which she can’t give.”

He eyed her, in his turn, as if he deprecated her hard judgement.

“Sorry I spoke; I meant no harm. It’s only just occurred to me that this is one of those moments in which those who keep their senses best about them are likely to be the ones who come out on top. If I could talk their language, I’d talk to them. Please don’t hit me, I’m not dead to all human sympathy, I’m not; but it does strike me that this is a case in which a little talking, from the right man, of the right kind, might do them good. Hullo! what was that I heard? It sounded like English. Hi! you, sir! As a person who can only speak English, might I have just one word with you? My word! if you’re not an officer of the King’s Navee. You’re the finest sight I’ve seen since I don’t know when.”

The person addressed was a young man in the undress uniform of a naval lieutenant. Fresh faced, fair haired, he was the only collected person they so far had seen. He turned to them with a ready smile; at the sight of the lady he raised his cap.

“Excuse me, I’m in a hurry. Everyone’s like that just now, but – is there anything I can do for you?”

“There’s one thing you can do; just give us some idea of where we can find a ship, or a boat, or something which will take us away from here, to somewhere else. I don’t care to mention it, but, all the same, money is no object; and, if this is a case in which money can do any good by talking, talk it shall, as much as ever you like.”

The sailor’s smile grew broader. “I see, sir, that you’re American.”

“Then, sir, you see wrong. It’s true that I’ve been in America for quite a while, and in moments of excitement it perhaps shows; but, all the same, I’m as English as you are, and as proud of it. But about that ship?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you myself, but perhaps I may be able to take you to someone who can.”

“You do that, and you can write me down your grateful servant.”

Again the young man smiled, and began to thread his way among the exclamatory crowd. He commented on them to the girl as he went.

“Poor beggars! They make rather a fuss, it’s a way they have. But, this time, they’ve some excuse – a lot of them have lost all their coin, and all their friends as well.”

“Do you think that I don’t know it? I know them, and understand them, perhaps better than you do. It’s all I can do to – to listen. How can one help them? What can one do? I – I feel as if it would drive me mad.”

Her words seemed to take the youngster by surprise.

“I’d no idea you understood; I thought your – your friend said that you only spoke English.”

“I believe he only speaks English; I’m beginning to wish that I did, too.”

The youngster looked a trifle mystified, as if he were asking himself what might be the connection between them. He brought them to a man in the nondescript attire affected by some officers of the mercantile marine.

“This is Captain Briggs, whose ship, the Bella Jones, lies over there. He is, I understand, taking passengers for Naples. Perhaps he may have room for two more.”

The lad touched his cap and strode away.

Captain Briggs, a little man, with sandy whiskers and watery eyes, looked at the man and woman in front of him. He spoke with a strong Cockney accent.

“Want to go to Naples, do you? You ain’t the only ones. Couldn’t get a ton of cargo, let alone passengers, yesterday. Now the whole blooming place wants to get on board at once, especially them as hasn’t got a cent in their pockets. Free board, free clothes, free passage, that’s what most of them is wanting; but there’s some slight error somewhere. I’m as ready to do folks a good turn as any man alive; but the Bella Jones don’t belong to me, and she ain’t out for charity. Have either of you got any money; or, if I take you on credit, am I likely to get something for it later on?”

“Credit is not wanted, or charity, Captain Briggs. I’m ready to pay – down on the nail – any sum you choose to ask, in reason, if you’ll give this lady and myself a passage to Naples. When are you starting?”

“As soon as I can. I’ve sent someone along the coast to see if he can find a telegraph station anywhere; this ’ere earthquake can’t have done for all the lot of ’em. I want to get a message through to my owners in London. The Bella Jones is out here to do one kind of thing, and now I’m being more than a little pushed to do quite another. Owing to certain private circumstances I don t want to what looks like disobey orders altogether on my own responsibility. As soon as I learn that a message can get through, I’m off, and before, if the chap I sent don’t look slippy. I believe we’re down below the line now. The Bella Jones is not the boat that once she was; if there’s anything like a sea, we’ll have all our work cut out to get to Naples with the lot we’ve got on board already. They’ll be wanting me to take a few hundred more if I stop here, and, though I’ve got the softest heart in the world, I’d rather not.”

Talbot turned to the girl. “Sounds as if we’d better get on board at once.”

She went a little aside, as if she wished to say something which she would rather not have overheard.

“I don’t like it. I don’t think that it’s fair. Why should you pay perhaps an exorbitant sum to take me to Naples? And when I am at Naples – what then? I tell you I haven’t a penny in the world. How am I to repay you? I will not be charged upon your hands.”

He laid his fingers softly on her arm, and he smiled. “Quit talking. This is where you help me. I’ll discuss the financial question with you, if you like – and all the other questions – when we’re on board the Bella Jones. What you’ve got to do is just to get on board her; then – why then, start talking.”

“But what you want me to do, what you seem to suggest, is so – incredible. What must you think of me? Going away without endeavouring even to learn what has become of him?” she checked herself – “of my father. You can’t wish me to leave Messina without knowing what has become of him.”

He still had his fingers on her arm. Possibly he had not noticed they were there; and he still smiled.

“Rest easy. What I think of you perhaps one day I’ll let you know. As for your father – it doesn’t look as if this ship was off just yet awhile. You go on board of her – promise me you will, and promise you’ll stay there till I come. I’ll make every inquiry that can be made, and I’ll leave instructions if my own inquiries come to nothing, that news is to be sent on at once to Naples. Trust me; you will not regret it. Now go on board. You do no good by coming with me, you’d be in my way if anything, and I’m not going to leave you here with this crowd on the quay; and promise that you’ll wait for me on board till I come.”

She seemed to be turning over something in her mind; he wondered what it was; he fancied he could nearly guess.

“I’ll go on board, and I promise to wait there till you come, which isn’t very much to promise.”

“Isn’t it? Well, there again we’re not agreed. Captain Briggs, this is Miss Hallam!”

The captain cut him short. “No relation to the chaplain here? The Reverend Hallam? He knows me pretty well, does Mr. Hallam, and I know him.”

When he glanced at her, Talbot saw the captain’s question had brought a flush to the girl’s cheek, but she spoke up boldly.

“That is the Mr. Hallam. I’m afraid that something very serious has happened to him. He was with me in the Pension Bianchi; there’s nothing left of it to – day. I don’t know what has become of him. Mr. Talbot here has been so good as to say he will use his utmost endeavour to find him.”

Mr. Talbot spoke. “In the meantime I wish Miss Hallam to come on board. If I have any news I will bring it to her, or, if possible, I will bring Mr. Hallam himself.” He was eyeing her as he said this; – the girl perceptibly changed colour. He went hurriedly on. “Or Miss Hallam can return later, when things have settled down a bit. Naples is not the other side of the world. I want you to tell her, Captain Briggs, that she’ll do no good by staying here while matters are in their present state of confusion.”

“Not a morsel. What the gentleman says is right enough. The best place for you, young lady, is on board my ship. There’ll be time for the gentleman to find out things before we start, and you’ll be off his mind. There’s one thing puzzles me. I’ve known the Reverend Hallam a good many years, off and on, and I never knew that he was married.”

Perhaps the girl did not hear his final words; she paid no heed to them. She was in the boat, which a sailor was making fast with a boat-hook to the side of the quay, when Talbot left her. He was accompanied by quite a little crowd of Sicilians, whom the captain, at his request, had engaged to accompany him, and assist in his prospective exploration. One of them spoke a little English. The others had no tongue but their own. The man with a little English led the way. Talbot found they were passing the hotel at which he had spent the night – there was the name in huge gilt letters right across the front. The name was about all that was left of it. He was surprised to see what a chaos of ruin it had become. He wondered where about his room had been, and – his friend’s. From the front he found it was not easy to be sure. It had been somewhere on the third floor at the back; he knew that. He was certain of nothing else. He had even forgotten the number – if he had ever learnt it.

He had arrived just before dinner, to find not only that his friend awaited him, but that he had already engaged a room, adjacent to his own, and presumably made all arrangements for his stay. His ostensible errand was to learn what had become of Mr. Hallam – it was at least as important to him to be quite certain what had become of his friend.

The door of the hotel was open. He had not been able to open it the night before, no doubt the rushing torrent of water which had followed that further shock of earthquake had been stronger than he. People were in what was left of the hall; some of them seemed to be making explorations on their own account; he had already seen enough to know that honest men’s misfortune was the thieves’ opportunity. Plunderers were abroad, searching for loot; he took it for granted that some of them were in the hall of the hotel. He went into it himself. His English speaking assistant tried to stop him, explaining that this was not the Pension Bianchi; he waved him aside and went his own way. So soon as he was within what was left of the building, before he had time to look about him, a voice addressed him in rough and ready English.

“Why, old chum, this is something like; so you’ve won through. I’d as lief see you as a straight flush, and sooner. Let’s have a look at you, General. I’ve always said that you were never born to be drowned; you were born for something big, you were. Give us your hand; that’s all alive oh! I’d bet a trifle, as quick as ever with a gun. Where’s the Kid?”

The speaker was a big, burly man, with red hair, red face, and red whiskers, each of a different shade. He was dressed in a suit of check tweed which made his personality a somewhat striking one. What looked like a diamond pin was in a red necktie, of still another shade, while a bundle of seals, and similar trifles, dangled from a thick gold chain which passed from pocket to pocket of his waistcoat. Talbot’s manner conveyed the impression that the stranger was much more pleased to see him than he was to see the stranger. His tone was as reserved as the other’s was effulgent; his words were few.

“I had no idea, Mr. Farrell, that you took so warm an interest in my well being. How did you get here?”

“In the motor-boat – a cockle shell for size, but a clipper to go. When the news got to Palermo, nothing could stop me. I came the only way I could find, and didn’t they shoot me for the passage. You didn’t think I took so warm an interest in your welfare? General, you know better than that; there’s only one person in the world in whom I take a warmer, and that’s the Kid. It seems, General, that you’re all right; the Kid, is he all right too?”

There was an expression in Mr. Farrell’s bloodshot eyes, as he regarded the other, which scarcely suggested the warmth of feeling of which he had spoken. In the other’s eyes, as he looked back at him, there was no friendship at all. Talbot’s eyes were of that shade of blue which are apt to serve rather as a veil to their owner’s feelings; but, just then, there certainly was no friendship in them for Mr. Farrell. His reply was curt, and to the point.

“The Kid’s all right.”

“All right, is he?” Mr. Farrell plunged the fat fingers of his two great hands into his waistcoat pockets, and, with his legs apart, and his head cocked a little on one side, he favoured the other with what was perhaps intended for a benevolent smile. “General, what exactly might you mean by ‘all right,’ where the Kid’s concerned?”

“I mean exactly what I say. What should I mean?”

“Now if you put that, what might you mean, I could have answered you, because, where the Kid’s concerned, when you said he was all right, you might have meant that he was dead. I don’t know that it mightn’t be all right for you if he was.”

“It so happens that he isn’t; he’s as alive as you or I.”

“Is that so? Indeed? You always were a lucky one, but it looks as if, this time, your luck was just a trifle out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now it’s my turn to mean what I say. You understand very well what I mean, General, now don’t you? So the Kid’s alive? At this time of asking? Lived right through the earthquake, did he, and – all this? Where is the Kid?”

The other did not hesitate for a second; the answer came hard upon the question.

“He’s on a steamer in the harbour, which is presently about to start for Naples. His nervous system is not in the very best condition, as you’re aware, and he’s had about enough of Messina.”

“I shouldn’t wonder – I shouldn’t wonder but what he had. As you say, I do know that his nerves are jumpy.” One of the bloodshot eyes was closed in a wink. Mr. Farrell turned to a big book which was propped up on a board which had once been part of the floor. “Here’s the hotel register. I was looking through it when you came in; there are both your names, his first, then yours: both in his handwriting. Looks queer, your name does, in the Kid’s handwriting. I always think he writes as if a drunken fly were walking across a sheet of paper. How came he to sign for you?”

“Haven’t an idea. Thanking you, Farrell, for your kindly interest, I’m afraid I must be off; just looked in as I came along to see if there was anything left of the place; but I’m off up the street to make a call at what is left of the Pension Bianchi.”

“Is that so? I’ll come with you; then I’ll come on with you to that steamer in the harbour. What did you say the name was, the name of the steamer on which the Kid is?”

“I didn’t mention the name.”

“Didn’t you now. Well, as I say, I’ll come on with you, General, and perhaps you may be able to get me aboard that steamer. I’d like to have a talk with the Kid, for various reasons. It’s quite a time since I saw him, and things have changed for him since then. There’s a little matter of business between us two, which perhaps he’d like to settle.”

“This is not a time to talk business; I’m afraid I can’t take you on board that steamer; and if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t come with me. I’m in a hurry; I have to attend to some business of my own; – as I told you, I just looked in. I’ll tell him that I saw you.”

As Mr. Talbot was turning to go, the red-headed man laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder.

“General, it won’t quite do. You know I’ve come a matter of six or seven thousand miles to settle that little business with the Kid, which has been waiting a good many years for a settlement. I don’t want to intrude; so if you’ll give me the name of the steamer on which the Kid is to be found, I’ll not thrust my society on you; I’ll make my own bee line to it.”

Again there came an instant answer.

“The steamer’s name is the Amstel, she’s out from Amsterdam; they don’t seem to have made up their minds on board, but I think they’re going to Genoa.”

The speaker’s quick eyes had seen the words “Amstel, Amsterdam” on a ship which was riding in the harbour. Mr. Farrell scrutinized him as he might have done a doubtful piece of money.

“There’s one thing I always have liked about you, you’re not like many men, in a general way – a liar. Amstel? Amsterdam? It so happened that I caught a glimpse of that craft myself; and a rotten old tub she looked as if she were. You’re quite sure the Kid’s aboard of her?”

“I can only tell you that he was aboard of her when I saw him last; they were just about to sail. I dare say, by the time you get to the quay side, she’ll have gone; in which case you’ll miss the Kid, and have to postpone that business of yours until some future date. Now, with your permission, I’ll be off.”

Once more he made as if to go; once more the other’s hand detained him.

“General, another jiffy, if you please.” The red-headed man’s manner changed with startling suddenness. The benevolent smile became a singularly unpleasant grin, which bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the snarl of some wild beast in a bad temper. His voice sank to a husky whisper; there was a threat in every tone of it. “You’re not playing any game with me? Not up to any of your pretty tricks? You’ll be a fool if you are. I’ve got you there.” He held out his open right hand, palm uppermost. “I’ve only got to shut it to squeeze you out of shape. Is the Kid alive?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“I know you’ve told me, and I know very well – too well! – what sometimes your telling’s worth. Do you swear that he’s alive? Will you take an oath that’s strong enough to hold you?”

“I tell you, for the third or fourth time, he’s alive.”

“Unhurt?”

“Unhurt.”

“In his right mind?”

“As much as he ever is.”

“On board the Amstel?”

“On board the Amstel.”

“You swear it – by – by the soul of your mother?”

“I’ll take no oath; what I have said, I have said; that’s enough for me; it’ll have to be enough for you.”

Mr. Farrell looked uglier, if possible, even than before. He hunched his shoulders, and clenched his fists; eyeing the other with what was all at once a very unfriendly look indeed.

“If what you’ve told me is true, it’ll be enough for me – and it’ll be enough for me if it’s a lie. God help you, General, if it is a lie; you know how I’m fixed, and how I’m bound to get within touch of the Kid; I’d have had first innings with him if it hadn’t been for your infernal luck. What I went through when I heard of this earthquake over here! I thought to myself if anything happened to the Kid, what price me? General, you’d better be dead than lying to me now; I’ll do worse than kill you if you are.”

— VI —

THE FIRST WORDS OF A LETTER

The lights of Naples were dimly visible. A steamer has travelled from Messina to Naples in about ten hours; some do in less; the Bella Jones was not one of them. She took about fourteen hours, under favourable circumstances. It was nearly midnight. They hoped to be at the quay side in about two hours. Such of the passengers as were not prostrated by seasickness were on the alert, and eager. Life had been to most of them a continuous monotony; something fresh was about to occur; a new page was about to be turned. Who could tell what might be on it? It was a question which they excitedly put to each other.

Kate Hallam and Percival Talbot leaned over the side close together. Many things seemed to have happened since they had left Messina in the morning. To judge from their manner they might have known each other for years instead of for a few short hours. Friendship is not an affair of time; sometimes the seed is sown in the morning, and the flower is in full bloom before night. Particularly is that apt to be the case where a man and a woman are concerned.

It was she who was speaking; her eyes roamed towards the far-off lights.

“It seems a very long while since I was in Naples.”

“And I was never there.”

“It really is the most ridiculous thing; I’m like – really, I don’t know what I am like. I seem to be so preposterously helpless; what am I going to do when I get there? I’ve not a rag of clothing except what I stand up in; and – after all, they’re nothing but rags.”

“I wish you’d let me tell you something; I’ve been trying to tell you all day long, but – you’ve kept stopping me.”

“Have I? I’m not conscious of having kept you from saying anything; you have said some – very remarkable things.”

“I just want to tell you who I am, and all about it; and then I want to make you a proposition.”

She was silent, and he also; apparently he was waiting for her sanction.

“You see,” she said at last, “it’s this way. I’m not at all sure that I want to give you my confidence, and that makes it seem scarcely fair that I should allow you to give me yours. You might tell me a secret which I would, truly, rather not hear, and which you, certainly, might afterwards regret.”

“I’ve never regretted a thing I’ve said or done in all my life.”

“That can’t be true; we’ve all of us said and done things which we’d rather we hadn’t; I know I have.”

“I fancy it’s an affair of the constitution. I quite admit that I’ve done plenty of things which it would be just as well I hadn’t done, but – I’ve done them; and I don’t care. I’m built that way.”

“I’m afraid I’m not. I rather wish I were.”

“You’re side tracking again; but I’m going to jump the points. Listen. My story’s – so much of it as I’m going to tell you – a short one; and I’m going to tell it, if only in order that you may know, so far as I’m concerned, just where you are. You know my name’s Talbot – Percival Talbot. You know something of the Talbots – I’m not going to ask you what it is. I expect you know something about my late lamented uncle, the lamented Reginald. He, I’m bound to allow it, was a shade unusual.”

“I’ve heard that he was a person of marked individuality.”

The words were so drily uttered that they moved the man to quiet laughter.

“Marked individuality? I see you – knew something about him; it’s a good phrase. We never hit it off together – perhaps because I also am a person of marked individuality.”

“I should fancy you were.”

“Thank you; I won’t ask if you’re using the words in the same sense. You can say what you like. We didn’t hit it off together; but I was all the kith and kin he had, and on his deathbed, he remembered it. I never expected to get a penny of his money; I believe he made most of it in some funny way.”

“I believe that also.”

He glanced at her quickly through the darkness.

“I perceive you know a good deal about the gentleman. I was on the Yukon River, having one of the worst times in my life, when I had the news. I wouldn’t believe it; I simply couldn’t. It wasn’t only that I was down at my last dollar, I was, as it seemed to be, hopelessly on the wrong side. I’ll tell you something – and this is a secret; I’d forgotten all about the old chap. I’d seen and heard nothing of him for so many years that his very existence had passed out of my memory, as if he’d never been. And then there came the news that he was dead – why, I’d taken it as a dead sure thing that he was dust and ashes five and twenty years ago, and he’d just died, and left me all he had. – I was quite prepared, on reflection, to believe that he was dead; and also that – as it said in the letter – that he’d left me all he had, but I was not going to believe that that amounted to anything. News of my good fortune got about round there, and there were some that offered me congratulations; and they wanted to know how much I’d got. I told them that I was ready to have a square bet with any one of them that it wouldn’t pan out at more than a hundred dollars; there wasn’t one of them that took it.”

He paused; she was conscious that he was laughing. She had already discovered that he had this trick of silent laughter. More than once since she had met him, he had obviously enjoyed some private joke. He went on.

“I wrote to the firm of lawyers who had sent me that first letter, asking if what my uncle had left me amounted to much; because I was pretty comfortable out there – comfortable! You should have seen me! – a ragged pair of breeches and part of a shirt, and not another thing besides; but they weren’t to know that – that’s another secret between you and me. I just added that if it was only a trifle of money that they’d better just send it along, because my affairs were in a state which would make it inconvenient for me to quit that part of the country, unless it was very well worth my while. And we – that’s to say, I borrowed the money from a credulous friend to pay for the stamp. Next mail brought me a letter to say that my uncle had died a very rich man; I couldn’t just say how rich. His money – some of it – was invested in securities which it was not easy to price exactly, but, they went on to observe, that they thought that I might safely consider myself the possessor of a million – pounds not dollars.”

He turned round so that he faced her, marking his words with his right index finger on the open palm of the left hand.

“Mind you, when I first got that letter, I laughed – just laughed; but there was something in the same envelope which made me stop laughing – that was a draft for a thousand pounds sterling, made payable to me. It was the sight of that which startled me to believe. I’d never had so much money in my life before, not all at one time; and – you’ll smile – my first feeling when I saw it was uneasiness. There were gentlemen in the immediate neighbourhood, some of them walled themselves friends of mine, who would have laid Messina in ruins for half that sum, to say nothing of cutting one man’s throat or mishandling a gun!”

Again he stopped, shrugged his shoulders, threw out his hands with a gesture which might mean anything.

“That’s the first chapter of the story, and, up to now it’s pretty nearly the last. I cashed that draft, and left that ——— almighty country alive. I got to Palermo, as I told you, to be nearly killed in the night; and – here I am. The inquiries which I have made have shown that it’s all true that was in that letter. I’m a – plutocrat, with land, and houses, and barrels full of money; and till this morning, I was, I verily believe, the most forlorn, downhearted creature on this earth. Now, I hope it’s going to he different. You remember what I said: that, sometime, before very long, I should want help from you. I do; I want it now.”

“Yours is a very interesting, and a very romantic, story! I thank you very much for telling me.”

His closing words had apparently been unnoticed.

“Do you really thank me? With you I don’t want it merely to be a matter of words. If you mean to thank me – for anything, you’ll prove it.”

“I don’t quite follow what you mean.”

“I’ll try to make it plain—” He paused, as if he were at a loss what to say next, and eyed her as if he sought for inspiration in her face. “What’s the shortest time on record in which a man has told a girl that he loves her?”

“Mr. Talbot!”

“Miss Hallam! You haven’t replied to my inquiry. I’ll tell you why I put it. I’m going to make what I fancy may be a record on my own account. I fell in love with you at sight; when you were up on that balcony, and I was down in the street, I believe I loved you. I know I’d have gone through – anything to get at you. When you dropped into my arms I was sure I loved you; when we reached the street I was surer still; and, every moment since, that – conviction has been gaining. So you see, it comes to this, that I fell in love with you at sight, and I’m telling you so within – well within, I suppose, eighteen hours of our first acquaintance. Would you think that that’s a record of its kind?”

“I’ve not the vaguest idea.”

“I’m not asking you if you love me, I’ve sense enough to be sure you don’t. I’m just asking you – to help me. I don’t know quite how to put it; women have never been much in my line; and you’re the first real lady I’ve spoken to – well, to be quite frank, I shouldn’t wonder but that you’re the first real lady I’ve ever spoken to. I want you to know that I’m that kind of ruffian, so that we may start fair, and, later, you shouldn’t be disappointed. Of course I want you to be my wife; and, if you see no reason, I don’t, why you shouldn’t be my wife tomorrow, or as soon as the laws of this country permit. But if you’re not prepared, and I dare say you’re not, to admit, right off, that you’ll be my wife, either now, or soon, or ever, why then – and this is where the difficult part comes in – this is where I want you to help me. Say you will.”

The girl had listened to this amazing harangue in such perfect silence that it was not easy to guess how it affected her. She leaned over the side of the vessel, with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, and her face turned towards the approaching lights of Naples, so motionless, that it was easy to imagine that she listened as one who dreams. Even when she spoke, she did not move. Her voice was hardly raised above a whisper; one wondered, though her tones were steady enough, if it was because she did not dare to trust herself to speak in her ordinary tone of voice.

“How can I help you?”

“This way – to begin with.”

He held something out to her in his hand.

“You mean by taking your money – that which you are offering me in your hand. You pretend that by doing that I should be helping you. In what way?”

“It’s not easy to explain.”

“I should fancy not.”

“You know I love you, because I told you so; and perhaps you knew it before I told you. I’ve heard that women do.”

“Don’t be too utterly ridiculous.”

“Anyway, you know it now. Perhaps it won’t be necessary for me to enter into what looks as if it’s going to be a very difficult explanation, if you’ll answer my question right now. Will you be – some time – my wife?”

“I really cannot credit that you’re in earnest, it sounds so perfectly crazy! I’ve a sort of feeling that all the time you’re making fun of me, perhaps because you think I’m so young, or so simple, or – or something else.”

“You know better; I’m sure a girl like you knows when a man’s in earnest. I wouldn’t play tricks with you, for – well, I wouldn’t; and you know it.”

Suddenly, drawing herself away from the vessel’s side, she stood upright and confronted him.

“I don’t know if we’re both stark mad, that – that down there was enough to make us; tonight I’ll tell you this, and this only: I’ll take from you, as a loan, ten pounds.” He separated the banknotes he was holding, and held out to her a couple.

“Two fives; now you are beginning to help me.” She laughed; and the sound of her laughter was so surprising, so musical, and rang so true, that the sheer joy that was in it moved him to laughter too. “Why, then you can laugh. Think of it; and it isn’t so very long ago that I was wondering if you ever could; that was the one thing I was fearing I should miss; and there’s going to be no miss after all.”

She threw back her head with something in the action which was almost childlike.

“You are perfectly mad! Either that or – you’re beginning to make me suspicious. I really am beginning to wonder if you’re in the habit of going round the world and telling girls, after twelve hours’ acquaintance, that you loved them at first sight.”

He had his hands in his jacket pockets, and shook his head, as he eyed her quizzically.

“Do you think it?”

“I say I’m beginning to wonder.”

“And I say you’ll get no farther than the beginning, because you’re a very poor judge of masculine nature if you think, after what we’ve gone through today, that I’m that kind of specimen.”

“I won’t tell you what I think – tonight. We’re getting near to Naples; I’ve got ten pounds – of yours. That’ll be enough to pay for a night’s lodging at quite a respectable hotel, and leave something over for the purchase of a distinctly necessary garment or two in the morning. At what hotel would you propose to stop!”

“What do I know about the hotels of Naples? Just nothing. I’d like to stop at the same hotel that you do – that’s all.”

“I’ve not the very slightest objection to your doing that.”

“Then, in the morning, you’ll perhaps allow me to continue this conversation at the point at which we have left off.”

She regarded him with an odd smile. “We’ll leave the morning till the morning comes.”

•   •   •   •   •

The arrival of the Bella Jones in the port of Naples was evidently regarded by the Neapolitans as a memorable event; late though it was, no small portion of the inhabitants were down on the quay. So soon as the vessel came within hearing inquiries were shouted from the land. Clearly it was known that she came from Messina. Some asked after relations; some wanted to know if friends were on board; some inquired if this or that building had been injured. In the din of vociferation it was not easy to determine what any individual shouter did want to know; only that each wanted to know something. It was not easy to effect the landing. Officials were there to keep the people back. Their efforts were crowned with but little success. Mr. Talbot and the girl had to force their way through seemingly frenzied crowds; not a few of whom insisted on attending them to an hotel. And in the hotel they had to reply to a rain of questions.

At last it was realized that both of them were tired. It seemed impossible to eat food in comfort in any of the public rooms; well-meaning folk thrust themselves upon them with what it was not easy to make them understand were unwelcome attentions. But, in the end, the girl was ushered into a sleeping-chamber and was left alone. One might have imagined that her first impulse would have been to undress, and get between the sheets; it seemed, however, that she was disposed to do nothing of the sort. For much longer, probably, than she knew, showing no signs of fatigue, she paced up and down, and from side to side of the room, as if she were some caged wild creature. She was re-enacting, in the chambers of her brain, the events of the preceding four and twenty hours. Every now and then, such was her preoccupation, as if oblivious of the fact that she was alone, she broke out into audible speech. There was one sentence which, in some form or other, she repeated again and again.

“To think that it should be Talbot of the Monks! To think it! Only to think it! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

The last was a question which she put to herself perhaps a hundred times, and on each occasion without finding even the shadow of an answer.

Alone in his apartment Mr. Percival Talbot showed at least more outward self-control; but even he was apparently in no haste to get into bed. He began by delivering himself of sufficiently trite observations.

“This is a queer old world and I’m not sure if the folks in it aren’t queerer.”

He passed from the general to the particular.

“I’m a beauty, upon my word, I am! I’ve been all kinds of a beauty; but it seems that I’m going to be a new kind now; a new kind altogether. I’d never thought that this kind was in me; which only shows that one of the last people you ever do know – is the one inside.” He tapped his finger against his chest. “It’s a surprise, that’s a fact, to know that I can be this kind; and I’m inclined to think that it’s a gratifying surprise, because one result will be that I shall marry – Miss Kate Hallam. I’m half disposed to believe that that earthquake spared me just in order to do that.”

He began to unrobe – commencing by taking the things out of his pockets. First of all a little heap of money, gold and silver; then quite a comfortable bundle of English banknotes. He counted them, seeming satisfied with the result.

“There’s quite a lot of them still left. I shouldn’t have thought he could have managed to keep such a lot of them for so long. There’s enough to see me over to England – and Miss Kate Hallam; and then – why then – I’ll touch that million!”

Out of another pocket he took a handful of jewels – feminine jewels; rings, bracelets, brooches, ornaments of various kinds – and a necklace. He stretched that out in front of him, regarding it with well-deserved admiration.

“That’s a beauty. I do know something about diamonds, and I say that that’s a beauty – a real tip-topper. Old-fashioned setting – gipsy setting for diamonds is wicked, cruel; but the stones are stones, none of your South African rubbish, Brazilian, every one of them. I wonder where he got it from. As for that tale he told – oh yes, I know all about the tales that he could tell. I’ll have those stones re-set, and round her neck – my! round her neck!”

He proceeded to take off his jacket; as he did so, he became aware that something was in the inside breast-pocket.

“What’s that? Letters? Why, of course, if I wasn’t forgetting – it’s his jacket, and – his letters. Perhaps, as things are, I shall be pardoned if I take a liberty.”

He had what seemed to be three or four letters in his hand, some in envelopes, some without. Something else was with the letters; he stared as he saw a photograph.

“Stars and bars – what in thunder’s this? Who on earth? A woman; and a pretty one. What was she to him? He never mentioned a woman to me; and I thought there was nothing he did not talk about to me. These look as if they were a woman’s letters – they are.” Opening one, he began to read it, but went no farther than the opening words: “‘My dearest husband’ – Great Caesar’s Ghost!”

— VII —

A VISITOR FOR MR. TALBOT

The next morning a note was brought to Mr. Talbot while he was still dressing.

“I’m going to have coffee in my own room. Afterwards I am going to shop. Will join you at luncheon at one.”

There was no signature, but he knew very well from whom it had come. He liked the writing, neither too large nor too small, firm, clear – the writing of one who should know her own mind.

“Going shopping, is she? with the change out of a ten-pound note. She won’t be able to make any what you might call extravagant purchases with that.” He surveyed himself in the mirror. “It occurs to me I might do a little shopping too. I don’t quite fancy continuing to reside in another man’s clothes – though I’ve had to do it before today. And at luncheon I’ll be in time.”

He was. It still wanted some minutes to one when he entered the small and not particularly comfortable apartment which he had engaged as a private sitting-room. Presently the girl was ushered in; she glanced round as if inquiringly.

“Is this your own room?”

“It is – or yours – whichever way you would like it. The fact is, I find that those little happenings at Messina are quite a topic here, and that as I played a quite involuntary part in them, I am regarded as a public character, and it’s embarrassing.”

“I’ve had the same experience; people have almost mobbed me in the streets. Perfect strangers have asked me questions which I couldn’t answer. I – I don’t like it.”

“Here you’re safe. No one will pass that door without your sanction. I’ve told the landlord that we’re not at home to callers; and as to kind inquirers, I hope we don’t want them. I see you’ve – done some shopping.”

A faint tinge of colour came into her cheeks. There was something about her bearing which he did not comprehend – she seemed nervous – anxious.

“Yes, I’m – I’m afraid I’ve spent more than ten pounds; it seemed to go such a little way. I’ve – I’ve got some bills; they – they trusted me.”

He did not like to tell her so, but he felt that the change which had been made in her appearance was worth, what she called, “some bills.” Possibly the frock she wore would not have been regarded as quite up-to-date in the Rue de la Paix; he thought it one of the most exquisite he had ever seen. It became her so. And the hat – the small, dainty toque, which, matching the dress, seemed to nestle in the wealth of her pretty brown hair. If he had thought her a person of high degree before, now she seemed to be a queen; more than ever there was about her a something which he could not have described, which seemed to set her apart from other women he had known. And, though she was so young, in years – he was convinced little less than a child – she had, in spite of her nervousness, an air of self-possession, of repose, of distinction, which sat on her infinitely well.

“Certainly they trusted you; who wouldn’t? I hope you haven’t forgotten how I wanted you to help me by spending all the money you can.”

They lunched in the public dining-room; she said she would rather. The room was full; they were objects of much curiosity. More than once they were addressed by utter strangers; Talbot turned them off with a laugh. Although he did his best not to seem to do so, he was watching the girl all the while. He noted how each time when someone approached their table, she seemed to start; how, at every movement in the room, she glanced over her shoulder, as if eager to learn who it was had entered. That she was not at her ease was plain. He tried to keep the conversation on an ordinary general footing, but failed. He smilingly drew her attention to the fact that he also had been shopping.

“Aren’t you struck by the transformation which has been made in me? I’ve been visiting the Neapolitan tailors; going in rather heavily for what, on the other side, they call ‘reach-me-downs.’ The tailors wanted me to think that the experiment was a success, but I’m not so sure.”

Thus challenged, her eyes ceased, for a while, their nervous wandering, and rested on him. He was not a bad looking man – of a certain type. Nearly six foot high, lean, even grizzled, with aquiline nose, and keen blue eyes, which looked out almost frostily from sunken caverns. His cheeks and chin were shaven; the bones looked through. On his upper lip was a short, stiff moustache, without points at the ends. His hair was very short, of that shade of black which early turns grey. There was a suggestion of grey all over him. Even through the bronze of his skin something grey looked through. He sat bolt upright – which was unusual in these days of lolling men and women – with his head set well back, his shoulders open. She noticed his hands, how long, and lean, and brown, they were. Though he had such slender fingers they suggested strength – indeed, that was the dominant note of the whole man – strength. One had but to look at him to guess that bodily, physically, mentally, and in a sense, even morally, he was strong. This girl, though nothing but a girl, was no mean judge of character. She told herself that this was a man who would make a first-rate leader of a forlorn hope. The clothes he had bought did not fit him badly, though in cut and the details there was something which, from an English point of view, was a trifle flamboyant. It was with rather a poor apology for a smile that she tried to tell him so.

“I think the tailors were quite right; you do justice to your purchases.”

He was about to thank her laughingly for the quis-eyed [sidelong] compliment, when she stopped him – with that in her manner which was very far from laughter. Indeed, she seemed more perturbed than she had been even in those first moments of her escape from the balcony. Her voice dropped to a whisper; a startled look was in her eyes. She looked from side to side as if to learn who might be watching or listening.

“I – I have had rather a disagreeable adventure.” She spoke in little jerks. “I – I have seen someone who I didn’t know was in Naples, whom I thought was very far away, who – who I would rather not have seen.”

He did not know what moved him to put to her the question he did.

“Man or woman?”

She distinctly hesitated before she answered. “A – a woman?”

“Did she see you?”

“I – I don’t think she did; I’m sure she didn’t; if she had—”

She leaned towards him right over the table, positive terror in her eyes and on her face.

“Mr. Talbot, I want to leave Naples as soon as I can.”

“That’s easy. We’ll get a timetable from the waiter, and leave by the first train which starts after luncheon. We shan’t want much time for packing.”

They were seated at a small round table; she still leaned over it, as if unconscious of what she was doing. Her face was close to his. Something came into her eyes which genuinely startled him, they were so very much like tears. Her lips trembled; she fastened her small white teeth onto the lower one as if to keep it still. Nothing she could have done could have so disturbed him; he was tongue-tied – fearful of what she might do next. As if perceiving the fear which was in him, she drew back; he could see she was making an effort to regain her self-control.

“You – you remember what you talked about last night?”

“I do; I’ve been remembering it ever since.”

“Of course, it was absurd.”

“You said so at the time. You’re not eating your luncheon; you ought to, if you’re going to do much travelling.”

“I don’t want any luncheon – I can’t eat – how can I eat when—”

She had been speaking almost like an angry child, that reposeful air decidedly in the background. As if conscious of bad behaviour, she was all at once remorseful. There flitted across her face the wintriest of smiles.

“I beg you pardon, I – I am so sorry; I’ve the very worst temper, so I warn you. I will try to eat my luncheon.” She picked up her knife and fork. “But I must talk to you.”

“You see me listening, and eating too. You were reminding me that last night I asked you to be my wife, and I’m reminding you that you said you’d talk to me about it this morning. Please talk; that is, say that you will be, and that I’m to fix it up as soon as ever it can be done.”

“But I tell you that I want to leave Naples as soon as I can.”

“I’m agreeable; leaving Naples will suit me down to the ground. London’s my objective. If you don’t mind we’ll go straight through to London this afternoon. There I’ll get a special licence, and pass it on to you, on the understanding that it’s to be enforced at the very first convenient moment. Will that suit?”

She seemed, as was not at all surprising, as if she did not know what to say – as if she were a prey to conflicting feelings. She presented, what all in a second, struck him as being a picture of pleasing confusion.

“You know absolutely nothing at all about me; as little as you would know of the first woman you might meet in the street. I may be a person of the very worst character, with a frightful past, with the most disreputable associations. I haven’t told you much, but the little I have told you may be a tissue of untruths. You may look as black as you please, because I’ve already perceived that you can look black—”

“You bet I can.”

“Or you may laugh if you choose; but the idea that, under such circumstances, you can really want to marry me, is too mad a one for contemplation.”

“You know nothing about me, except what I’ve told you, which may all be lies!”

“That’s true.”

“Then we’re even. Haven’t you ever asked yourself why Brown married Mrs. Brown? I have, and I’ve never found out. I doubt if even Brown could tell me. It’s a lottery, that’s what marriage is; that’s the real truth, though it is a chestnut. All the forethought in the world won’t guarantee you one of the prizes. It seems to me, honestly, that we’ve as good a chance of drawing one as anybody else. I’m prepared to take my chance – I’ll be very glad to do it. I’ve come into one fortune, and if I get you for a wife I shall come into another – on that I’m betting. And if you take me for a husband, you’ll have one who believes in a woman having a good time, and who’ll do his best to give you one, right on, from today, to the end. Give me a trial.”

“That’s just it. You marry for always; there are no trials allowed. Suppose, as is very likely, after trying me, you’re disappointed; you’d find it poor consolation if I told you that it was your own fault, because from the very beginning I’d warned you how it would be.”

“All the words you say are true, yet not one of them counts. I’d like you to be my wife; but I am not pressing you to say you will. You say you want to get away from Naples. Good! Have you any objection to trying London?”

“Not the least.”

“Then that’s settled. I’ll have a talk with the porter, or with someone who knows; he’ll be able to tell us what’s the very first moment we can get away.”

In the privacy of her own bedroom, to which she retreated after lunch, Miss Hallam conducted herself very much as she had done the night before. Obviously, she was mentally disturbed, there was something on her mind, from which she could not escape. She strode about the room; she sat on chairs; buried her face in her hands; she knelt on the floor, and hid her face in the bedclothes; she sprang up, with clenched fists and flashing eyes; she glared at herself in the looking-glass, and called herself names.

“You wretch! You – you horrible thing! You, who pretended to think so much of yourself! Whoever, and whatever, he may be, he’s worth – oh, dozens of you. But this I swear – if – if I do – I’ll – I’ll do all that’s in me to make him happy!”

Her hands went up to her face; she swayed to and fro as if borne first this way, then that, by the stress of her emotion.

Mr. Talbot, in his sitting-room, on the other hand, evinced all the signs of perfect satisfaction. He smiled to himself as he lighted a cigar.

“That’s good – that’s first rate – we’re marching – in the right direction – it’s just all right. She’s a daisy; a daisy! Why, she’s all the flowers of all the fields, and of all the greenhouses too, for that matter, bound up in one perfect bouquet. In those new clothes of hers – my word! what a picture: worthy of the finest frame, and the best place, in the finest gallery, among the finest pictures in the world. And – we’re marching.”

He took his cigar out of his mouth to see that it was properly lighted. A waiter came into the room, who spoke English.

“There’s a lady, signor, who wishes to see you – most particularly.”

“A lady? Didn’t I give orders to admit no callers? I want to see no lady. What’s her name?”

The man’s manner was so extremely humble, that Mr. Talbot at once decided that the visitor, whoever she might be, had given him very solid reasons to announce her.

“She did not give her name; she said it was unnecessary. She wants to see you most particular – she says she’s an old friend of yours, you know her very well.”

“She refuses to give her name, and says I know her very well?”

He was, possibly, about to more than hint a contradiction, if he had had time; but he had not. A hearty, unmistakably English voice exclaimed without—

“I don’t think there’s anyone living who knows you better, Percy old boy!”

There stood, just inside the open doorway, a tall, bulky, woman, with a fine complexion, and suspiciously fair hair. She held out both hands to him. She had evidently not thought it necessary to stop for the waiter to usher her in.

— VIII —

SAM

The lady was standing at the open door; the waiter was just inside the room. Talbot stood, cigar in hand, about the centre. They regarded each other for a moment in silence, then the waiter, in some insinuant fashion, persuading the lady to come a little further in, sidled past her, and, vanishing, closed the door behind him. The visitor and Mr. Talbot were alone together. Rather an odd little scene took place.

The lady, hitherto, had worn an air which might not inappropriately be called gushing. One would not have been amazed if, now, she had rushed at Mr. Talbot, and, with or without his consent, had insisted on taking both of his hands in hers. One had a feeling that that really had been her intention; but that a quite unlooked-for something prevented her putting it into execution. She had even made a couple of steps towards him, when she paused – to stare. Her manner changed; something happened to her face – its expression altered altogether. Gush had given place, not only to surprise, but to what was very like bewilderment.

“To what,” inquired Mr. Talbot, with courtesy which was a little chilly, “am I indebted for this pleasure?”

His attitude, his words, seemed to cause the visitor’s puzzlement to grow; She showed an inclination to stammer.

“I – I really must apologise, but – there’s some mistake.”

“Of what nature?”

“I – er – I was told that Mr. Percival Talbot was here; it was him I wished to see. The – the waiter must have shown me into the wrong room.”

Mr. Talbot replaced his cigar between his lips, carefully adjusting it at the proper angle. He was eyeing the lady as if he would have liked too see right through her.

“You wished to see Percival Talbot.”

“I did. I heard that he was in the hotel, that he’d escaped from the dreadful earthquake in Messina and, as he is a very old and very dear friend of mine, I wished to offer him my congratulations, being quite sure that he would have been glad to receive them.”

“I apprehend it’s another Mr. Percival Talbot you’re looking for.”

“Another? Is your name Talbot too – Percival Talbot?”

“It is; though I’m not so fortunate as to be that very old friend of yours.” Moving towards the door he turned the handle. “I sympathise with you; it must be very annoying to meet a stranger where you expected to find an old friend.”

He opened the door. “I am sorry you should have been put to unnecessary trouble.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Talbot, but – one moment; is it possible that you are a relation of my Mr. Percival Talbot? My Mr. Talbot resides in Cornwall. He has lately inherited a considerable property from his uncle – and he was in Messina. The identity of name is such an odd coincidence that – you may know something of each other.”

“Again I am unfortunate. I am the only person of my own name with whom I have any acquaintance. I can only reiterate my regrets.”

It seemed that it was almost against her will that he bowed the lady from the room. As he shut the door upon her, he smiled. For some seconds he remained on the same spot, his hand upon the handle, as if he listened.

“She has gone. I wonder who she is. I might have asked her name, but it might have led to a discussion into which I had no wish to enter. I suppose I must expect a good deal of this sort of thing; and some of them may not be quite so easy to get rid of. I ought to prepare some general plan of campaign.”

The visitor, on the way to the front door, stopped to exchange a few words in tolerably fluent Italian with the clerk in the office.

“Did I understand you to say that Mr. Talbot arrived last night from Messina?” The clerk bowed. “Did he register?”

The clerk produced for her inspection the visitors’ book. There was the name, in bold, strong characters, which might almost have been written by the end of the pen-holder instead of by a nib, “Percival Talbot, London.”

“I see he doesn’t mention at what address he stayed at Messina.”

“You have there, Signora, all the information he has given us.”

She went out into the street. As she turned a corner, there was a gentleman strolling up and down, swinging a silver-mounted cane, a cigarette in his mouth. He probably thought himself quite a good-looking person; and he was not bad-looking, after an unprepossessing fashion. He was of medium size, slight, with a waxed moustache which was turned up at the ends, patent leather shoes, clothes which fitted him almost too well, and, as one could see, as he raised an ungloved hand to his cigarette, on his little finger was a gorgeous diamond ring. He and the lady were evidently acquaintances. Apparently, though he had been waiting for her coming, he was surprised to see her return so soon. His curt inquiry made that plain.

“What’s up? I didn’t expect you back yet awhile; isn’t he in? I thought they said he was in.”

“Sam, there’s something in the wind.”

“What the dickens do you mean?”

“He’s not our Talbot.”

“Not – what do you mean he is not our Talbot?”

“He’s no more like him than you are.”

“But his name’s Talbot – Percival Talbot, and he’s from Messina.”

“That’s all right; but he’s not our Percival Talbot for all that.”

“Tell that for a tale! You’ve been spoofed!”

“That’s as may be, but I don’t see how. Don’t let’s stand here, we shall be noticed, let’s walk.” They started off, side by side, down the street, at so leisurely a pace that it might have been called a crawl rather than a walk. “It’s a queer start, anyway. I asked this one if he knew any other Talbot; he said he didn’t. He’s a cool hand, he had me out of the room almost before I knew it. I was so taken aback when I saw it wasn’t him, I could do nothing but stare.”

“I tell you you’ve been spoofed; he’s a nice one, Mr. Talbot is. He’s one of those white-livered curs who you never know where to have. Slippery!” The man laughed, not cheerily. “Look at the game he’s played with us – a thing like he is. When I think of it, I—”

He expectorated on to the pavement, as if that was the most forcible way in which he could express his feelings.

“There’s nothing of the white-livered cur about this one; you should have seen the way he looked. I know a man when I see one. And he’s a man.”

“That’s no reason why he shouldn’t be on the cross, is it? I tell you again that you’ve been spoofed. I don’t know how, but somehow; I feel it in my bones. But I’m not going to be done, not again, not at this time of day; and you’ll find the rest won’t either. Mr. Talbot! He’s got – what hasn’t he got of ours? Don’t tell me he hasn’t, because he has; and I’m going to get it out of him – we all of us are. If we have to – I didn’t say what. I tell you what, I’ll go and have a look at this fine chap of yours – this man. I’ll lay he’s a man, he is!”

“That was what I was going to suggest; you go and have a look at him. You may have seen him somewhere before. I haven’t. If I had I should have known him before; he’s not the kind that’s easily forgotten. Only – I shouldn’t ask for him – you get a look at him on the quiet.”

“Do you think I’m a simpleton? That I’m on the advertising lay? Not much. I’ll just hang about till he comes out. It’s easy to do that sort of thing in an hotel; and I’ll have a good look at him as he comes out. If I have seen him anywhere before – and I shouldn’t wonder if I had – it’s just possible that it may be worth my while to bring that fact to his recollection.”

— IX —

TOSSING THE CABER

Mr. Talbot had come downstairs with the seeming intention of taking a stroll. As he came into the hall of the hotel, a lady was talking to the clerk, who had come out of his office as if with the intention of doing her honour. She was young, and good to look at, and she was dressed in a fashion which was calculated to appeal to the feelings of the average hotel clerk. He probably had not a doubt but that she was a veritable grande dame, and the normal person of his type is, as a rule, a very keen judge of a woman of fortune, birth, and breeding. As Mr. Talbot approached the clerk seemed to direct the lady’s attention to him. Talbot distinctly heard him say, in perfectly correct English—

“This is the gentleman who came with Miss Hallam.”

The lady turned to look at him. He was conscious of a curious feeling as he saw her face. Where had he seen one not unlike it before? There was a likeness to someone he had seen, and yet an unlikeness. He raised his hat as she slightly bowed to him – even the movement of her head recalled someone.

“Pardon my speaking to you, but this gentleman tells me that you came last night with Miss Hallam from Messina. You must have had a terrible experience. There’s something the matter with the wires, and we seem to be able to get no very reliable news; but it’s currently reported that the city is in ruins.”

“I must say that, on this occasion, even report is hardly exaggerated. Things are pretty bad there.”

“Is that so? How dreadful! Is it correct that you came with Miss Hallam?”

“I had that pleasure.”

“I must ask you to understand that it is not mere curiosity which prompts me; but would you mind telling me if she’s any connection of the Reverend David Hallam, who is the English chaplain at Messina?”

Talbot considered before he answered. If he did not answer, the stranger might wish to see Miss Hallam. Something told him that Miss Hallam might not wish to see her. He would give the required information, then trust to his ready wit to keep the stranger from troubling the girl. He remembered what she had said about having seen someone whom she would rather not see here. Possibly this was the person, though there was nothing in her appearance which, to his thinking, hinted at the disagreeable.

“She is Mr. Hallam’s daughter.”

“His daughter?” The other smiled. “She can hardly be that. I know Mr. Hallam very well, and he’s not married.”

Mr. Talbot did not for an instant lose his presence of mind. He only smiled.

“In that case it would seem that yours is not the same Miss Hallam.”

“Again, I don’t see how that can be. Surely there can only be one David Hallam, who is the English chaplain at Messina. May I see Miss Hallam?”

“For what purpose?”

The lady seemed surprised that he should not at once have acceded to her request.

“If Miss Hallam is even a distant connection of Mr. David Hallam’s, I am quite sure she will very readily see me? Mr. Hallam is an old friend.”

“I happen to know that Miss Hallam wishes to see no one.”

That his words did not please, the lady’s demeanour showed. She drew herself up a little straighter; she turned away from him with what was evidently meant to be a touch of disdain.

“I will send my name up to Miss Hallam by one of the waiters.”

“Excuse me, but it will be no use if you do.”

The stranger looked at him with a gleam in her eyes – a gleam which recalled the likeness to someone else still more forcibly. Obviously she resented his attitude; her intention was to snub him.

“Still, with your permission, or – without, I shall do myself the pleasure of sending Miss Hallam my name.”

The man in front of her was not easy to snub; he was quietly persistent. The gleam which had grown more pronounced in her eyes seemed only to move him to a smile.

“May I ask you to be so good as to tell me what it is you want with Miss Hallam?”

“I don’t know by what title you ask, but I don’t mind telling you. I’m not going to hurt her. It so happens that I have a very dear friend who was, temporarily, residing with Mr. Hallam. If, as I suppose, Miss Hallam was an occupant of the same house, then she will be able to give me news of my friend; and, to get that, I am willing, sir, to brave even your wrath.”

The gleam in her eyes became a malicious one. “What is your friend’s name?”

“There are reasons why I should not tell you.”

“I was merely thinking that I might be able to give you the information you require.”

“Were you also a resident in the Pension Bianchi?”

“I knew something of its inmates.”

“Indeed? Then—” She stopped, and seemed to change her mind. “May I ask your name, sir?”

“My name is Talbot, Percival Talbot.”

Neither of them noticed a man with a waxed moustache who was turning over some newspapers which were on a side table. As the name was mentioned, this gentleman showed signs of the liveliest interest. He swung right round on his heels and stared at the speaker as if he found it difficult to credit the evidence either of his ears or eyes. Had the pair on the other side of the hall not been so occupied with each other, they could hardly have failed to be struck by the singularity of his bearing. He stood staring at Mr. Talbot, his glance travelling up and down him as if he were so strange an animal, that, try as he might, he could not place him.

The keenly observant Mr. Talbot, who, one sometimes felt, seemed to have eyes at the back of his head, would undoubtedly have observed the persistent staring of the gentleman with the waxed moustache, and, probably, would then and there have called him to account for it, had it not been that all his attention seemed to be concentrated on the even more extraordinary bearing of the lady in front of him. When he mentioned his name, it was as if he had struck her across the face; she could not have shrunk from him more swiftly, or with a more marked appearance of distress. She had, all at once, become another woman. All the stiffness, the disdain, the malice, seemed to have gone clean out of her. The pupils of her eyes were dilated, and her jaw had dropped open. She seemed to cower, as with terror and surprise. Her condition moved Mr. Talbot to sympathy. The cause of it was so inexplicable that he almost felt that he had been guilty of some unconscious misconduct.

“I beg your pardon, but I hope that I’ve said, and done, nothing to offend – to hurt you. If I have, it was unintentional.”

Words seemed to come from her with difficulty.

“Did you say that your name was Talbot – Percival Talbot?”

“That certainly is my name.”

“Not – of the Monks?”

“I regret if the fact distresses you, but I am Percival Talbot, of the Monks.”

The effect of this announcement on the lady was as surprising as it had been before. She drew herself up again – straighter, stiffer, more disdainful, than before. The gleam in her eyes had become a positive glare – almost a glare of hatred.

“If I had had the faintest notion you were that – individual, I certainly should not have troubled you.”

Without another word, or the slightest attempt at a parting salutation, she slipped past him, across the hall, and through the front door of the hotel. He made no attempt to stop her, but he looked after her as she went. His was one of those faces which are not easy to read; they are so apt to be well under their owner’s control; but he who ran might read the meaning of the expression which was on his face then. Puzzlement was written large all over it.

Quite clearly he had not a notion what ailed the lady. Not impossibly, had she been a man, he would have resorted to drastic measures to extort a satisfactory explanation; the fact that she was a woman was the accident which proved too much for him.

It so chanced, however, that he immediately had an opportunity of dealing with a man. The gentleman with the waxed moustache still remained. He had observed the lady’s exit, and now continued to observe the man from whom she seemed to have fled. Presently, he approached him. He addressed Mr. Talbot in a tone which, it almost seemed, was intentionally insolent.

“Now she’s gone I should like to have a word with you.”

For the first time the other became conscious of his presence; the discovery did not seem to please him. As regards insolence, his tone went one better than the other’s; he could not have spoken more brusquely to a dog.

“Well, sir, have it.”

“I’m going to – a word of a kind. I’m going to start with a question. Do you mean to tell me that you – you! – are Percival Talbot, of the Monks?”

“I mean to tell you nothing of the sort; so far as you’re concerned, I mean to tell you nothing.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Bluff! I heard you just now tell that lady that you’re Percival Talbot, of the Monks. Now I’m going to tell you something. I’ve met some liars, but all of them put together wouldn’t make one like you. Now you’ve got it!”

And the speaker had it too, after a different fashion. It would seem that he had mistaken his man. Perhaps the other was in an irritable mood; the departed lady might have got upon his nerves. Possibly he was looking for a chance to let himself go. And the gentleman with the waxed moustache offered him one.

There were a brisk few seconds in the hall of that hotel; not impossibly the gentleman with the waxed moustache was taken by surprise. The other made no attempt at a verbal reply to his insult; but hardly had he ceased speaking than he found himself gripped by the throat. Talbot moved with a rapidity which suggested that he was accustomed to find himself in situations in which quickness was of the first importance. The gentleman with the waxed moustache tried to struggle, but in half a dozen seconds the breath was being choked out of his body so effectively that all the life seemed to be oozing out of him. Talbot picked him off his feet, by the throat; he carried him to the door. He swung his body round in a semicircle, then he flung him down the steps, across the pavement, which, at that point, was fairly broad, and out into the road. As a mere throw it was not a bad one. Where the gentleman who had been thrown fell, there he stayed.

Mr. Talbot, outwardly perfectly calm, stood on the top of the steps and watched for him to rise; and as he watched, he smiled, as if something had tickled him. People came rushing in all directions; some in the street, some from different parts of the hotel. They were all of them shouting at once; some of them seemed as if they would have liked to bestow their attentions on Mr. Talbot, and then to see something in his demeanour which caused them to change their minds. They clustered round the gentleman in the road instead. After a minute or two, with their assistance, he got upon his feet. He turned his face towards the hotel, a very white face it was just then. When he saw Mr. Talbot standing on the steps, he instinctively shrank back. Mr. Talbot, noticing the gesture, laughed out loud. He waved his hand to him.

“I wish you good day, sir!”

Turning, he went back into the hotel. When it was clear that he had gone the gentleman with the waxed moustache found his voice, and shouted after him – a little quaveringly—

“Percival Talbot, of the Monks, are you. I’ll make you wish you’d been dead before you said it!”

— X —

THE LADY RETURNS

At the top of the stairs Mr. Talbot found Miss Hallam, white faced, agitated, tremulous. She spoke in tones which were hardly audible.

“I’ve been listening.”

It is possible that the gentleman was a little startled; had he been aware that he had such a spectator, his conduct, in certain respects, might have moved on rather different lines. Without replying he led the way into the sitting-room. When he had closed the door, she repeated her statement.

“I’ve been listening. I couldn’t help it – I had to. I heard her voice and – I had to listen.”

From the reference to “her,” he thought it possible that she had not been cognisant of the proceedings of “him.” He trusted, indeed, that it might be so, and that she still remained unconscious of the episode of the gentleman with the waxed moustache.

“Was the lady who favoured me with her inquiries the person you had seen in the town – and – wished to avoid?”

“Yes.”

The word came falteringly from her lips. She presented a picture of distress which moved him more than he would have cared to say. If he would only have dared to comfort her. But while, apparently, he was casting about for something appropriate to say, she went hurriedly on.

“That’s the kind of person I am; I dare say you suspected before. Now, of course, you’ve no doubt. You heard what she said about Mr. Hallam; about, I mean, his having no wife.”

“I heard, I fancy, all that she said – and cared nothing. I’ve an inward conviction that if there is anything which you think it is necessary I should be told, that, one day, you will tell it. In the meanwhile I am quite content to wait. Where you are concerned, what strangers may have to say is a matter of indifference to me.”

She had fastened on a word of his.

“Strangers? But she was no stranger, at least to me; she’s – she’s—”

He closed her sentence for her.

“She’s never mind who or what, just now; there’s plenty of time in front of us to do any amount of telling. What we have to do now is to be sure that we don’t miss our train. Please do me a favour – I’ve a right to ask one. Dismiss all worries from your mind until our journey, which is so shortly to begin, is ended.”

He put out his hands; as if unwittingly she yielded him hers. As they were standing face to face, a voice exclaimed—

“Betty!”

The lady who had recently swept with such scant ceremony from the hall of the hotel, had, seemingly, changed her mind, and returned. Unannounced she had entered the room; she was standing in the open doorway, surveying the scene which was being enacted within with amazement and displeasure. The girl turned at the sound of her voice.

“Helena! ” she exclaimed.

She made as if to withdraw her hand, and move away from Mr. Talbot; but he would not have it. He increased the pressure on her fingers just sufficiently to keep her a temporary prisoner. The lady at the door came right into the room; she closed the door behind her; she regarded the girl with eyes which seemed to blaze both with scorn and anger.

“Is it possible, Betty, that you are in your sound senses? You have behaved like an idiot already. I have been chasing you all over Europe; but this transcends anything. To think that I should find you here, under an assumed name, alone, with this man – of all the men in the world! You, who have set up for yourself such a high standard, to permit yourself to associate with Mr. Percival Talbot!”

She could not have crowned the name with more contempt had she assailed it with epithets. The owner of the name so scornfully alluded to turned to her with a smile. He still managed to retain possession of the girl’s fingers.

“My name seems to have rather a singular fascination for you. As, so far as I am aware, you are wholly a stranger to me, I’m at a loss to guess in what the fascination consists. May I ask you to be so good as to explain. What is there so dreadful about the name of Percival Talbot?”

The stranger did not vouchsafe him the information he required; her manner could scarcely have been more contemptuous had he been some badly behaved lackey.

“To you I have nothing to say. Betty, it is incredible to me how you can allow yourself to be contaminated by that person’s touch. Fortunately you have your hat on; have the goodness to come with me at once.”

As if taking it for granted that her commands would be instantly obeyed, she half turned towards the door. The girl withdrew her fingers from the other’s hand.

“Let me go,” she said. He let her go. She went a step or two away from him; not, however, towards the door, but further back into the room. She addressed the stranger. “Helena, I can’t come.”

Her voice though low was clear. One felt that though she might seem to falter, she meant what she said. The stranger’s scorn was possibly meant to be crushing.

“Can’t? Or you won’t? Are you suggesting that you’re not a free agent? Really, Betty, you surpass anything. After all, you’re not such a child as you would like people to suppose! You surely have arrived at an age at which you are responsible for your actions.”

“You have never treated me as if you thought so.”

The words seemed to convey a sting – they obviously increased the other’s anger.

“I’m not going to enter into a discussion with you here; even you can hardly wish that. Are you aware who this person is?”

She pointed a gloved finger towards Talbot. The gentleman smiled, as if both the reference and the gesture amused him.

“That’s exactly what I’m beginning to wonder myself. I am so weird a being, it would seem, in your imagination, madam, that I’m inclined to ask if I really and truly know who I am myself.”

Paying no heed to his interruption, the visitor raised her voice in addressing the girl.

“This person is Percival Talbot, of the Monks. He himself told me so a few minutes ago. I tell you now lest, as I hope, for the sake of your own sense of decency, is the case, you should not have been aware of the fact before.”

The girl did not reply; she seemed speechless. He answered for her, with courteous irony.

“I think we may tell this lady that her kindly information is after all not needed.” He spoke to the girl. “I have made known my identity to you already.”

The girl looked at him with what seemed to him to be a great agony in her eyes. “You did. I have known from the first.”

The stranger spoke as if she would like her words to be so many stings—

“If that is the case, Betty, then you are beyond my comprehension altogether, that you should be so shameless as to admit it! What unfortunate chance has thrown you in this man’s society I don’t know; your own action may have rendered it difficult for you to dismiss him. Now that’s all over. If this is your room send him out of it; if it is his come out of it at once with me. Is it his?”

“It is his room.”

“Then come!”

The stranger spoke with a tone of authority. She came forward as if she would enforce obedience. As she advanced the other retreated, as if, above all things, she shunned her near neighbourhood.

“Helena, I shall not come. One moment, please, let me speak. It is no use your – your looking at me like that; it’s no use your trying to begin everything all over again. What is done, is done, and cannot be undone. I’ve told you already that I intend, in future, to live my own life. When you stormed at me I assured you that I would bring no discredit – if it could be brought – on the family name.”

“How dare you say that? Betty, don’t you dare to talk like that – and before this man.”

“Please, Helena, don’t make a scene; I’ve had enough of scenes.”

“You’ve had enough – you! Do you think, then, that it is I who love them. Betty, don’t be a little – a little idiot; don’t let’s argue here. Come away at once.”

Again the speaker seemed as if she would have liked to take the girl by the shoulders and lead her, willy-nilly, from the room; and again the girl drew away.

“It’s no good, Helena, I am not coming. You have tried to use force before, you and – and someone else; but it’s no use your trying to use it now. Mr. – Mr. Talbot will protect me.”

“Mr. Talbot certainly will, though I should hardly think that this can be a case in which his protection is required. An instant, madam; Miss Hallam—”

“Miss Hallam!” The wealth of scorn with which she echoed the name! The gentleman repeated it with quiet persistence.

“Miss Hallam just now begged for an opportunity to be allowed to speak; now permit me a few words. I would point out to you, in the first place, that this is my room; and, in the second, that you are not here by my invitation.”

“Do you suppose that, under the circumstances, your invitation was required – yours!”

“I believe also that you were not invited by Miss Hallam.”

This time, although, as he repeated the name, his look seemed to challenge her, she merely shrugged her shoulders.

“This is a case, my good man, in which invitations are not required; I’m here to do my duty. I confess that I don’t understand how that can be, but I rather suspect that you have very little notion of what the position really is. If you are not a more ignoble person than I believe you to be, you will advise this lady, for her own sake, to come with me; or, which will, perhaps, be as well, if you leave the room for five minutes, I may be able to bring her to a state of reason. I have that to say to her which it is impossible to speak of in a stranger’s presence.”

He turned to the girl.

“You heard, Miss Hallam. I’m in your hands. What is it you would wish me to do? To advise you to go with this lady, or to leave the room?”

The girl’s rejoinder made her feelings perfectly clear.

“Please do neither.” She seemed, all at once, to gain courage; her manner increased in assurance; she spoke firmly, as if she wished her words to be taken as final. “I repeat, Helena, that it is no use. I am not coming with you, either now, or ever. Henceforward our lives are divided. You will certainly go your way, perfectly regardless of anything I may wish or say, and I shall just as certainly go mine. Nothing will be gained by your staying here, or by your making a scene. I have crossed Europe to get away from you; nothing will induce me to put myself in your power again. Please go.”

The stranger seemed divided between anger and scorn.

“You little – oh, you worse than fool. I believe that you are mad; not only actually mad – you’ve been mad all your life – but legally mad as well. You ought to be put under restraint, then perhaps you’d come to your senses.”

The girl’s tones were as cool as the other’s were heated.

“You’ve made more than one attempt already to put me under what you call restraint, and you almost succeeded. Can you imagine that I’m likely to give you the chance to make another, which this time, if I were quite helpless, and at your mercy, might be quite successful? No, thank you, Helena! while this gentleman is here I’m not at your mercy. I’m sorry to have to ask you again to go.”

Mr. Talbot, crossing the room, held the door invitingly open.

“I trust, madam, that, under the circumstances, you will forgive me for pointing out once more that this is my room._ You cannot wish me to ring for the waiter. You showed yourself in, were it not in accordance with your sense of dignity if you showed yourself out?”

The stranger plainly did her best to ignore both him and the open door; she addressed herself to the girl.

“And you really wish me to regard your decision as conclusive?”

“I do.”

“Knowing all that it involves?”

“I am not responsible for what it involves.”

“Don’t you try to play the hypocrite, and to pretend; you will be responsible for everything.” She paused, as if for the girl to answer; but the girl said nothing. She merely looked at her, with tightly pressed lips, and eyes which shone. “You don’t intend to answer?”

The gentleman interposed. “Pardon me, Miss Hallam has answered. Do not compel me to be discourteous to a lady, madam.”

He finished the sentence in his own fashion by waving his fingers airily towards the door. The lady’s words showed that she was at last disposed to act upon what could scarcely have been a plainer hint.

“I’m going, my good man; pray don’t suppose that I would wish to remain for a single instant in a place in which you are.” He bowed, and smiled. She spoke to the girl. “As for you, Betty, I quite realize that – this person may be rather beyond my strength; so I don’t propose to attempt to take you with me by – force; but, pray don’t imagine on that account, that you are to be allowed to disgrace us at your own sweet will; you’re not. I’ll have you watched; in a few hours there’ll be someone here who has more influence with you than I have; then you’ll be talked to more persuasively.”

Turning she passed through the open door.

— XI —

LADY BETTY

Having closed the door, Mr. Talbot moved towards the centre of the room. He looked at his watch. His tone suggested a desire to ignore the fact that anything unusual had taken place.

“The day’s advancing; I hope that everything’s in order for the start.”

Her tone was as charged with meaning as his had been the reverse.

“Nothing is ready for what you call the start – nothing.”

Still his manner was unruffled. “Is that so – really? I thought you said, a little while ago, that everything was ready.”

All the coolness seemed to have gone from her voice; she could have hardly spoken more hotly.

“But don’t you see that everything is different now? Is there nothing you can see; or is it that you won’t see?”

“I have always endeavoured to make it a rule of life – to see nothing more than I have wished to see. All I wish, just now, is to know that you are ready, and in spite of your little excursion, I still venture to hope you are.”

“And I tell you that I am not. Do you know who that is whom you just now turned out of the room?”

He seemed to be moved to some slight show of surprise.

“Isn’t that rather an – original way of putting it?”

“Oh, I quite know I wished her to go; but, all the same, although you did it so politely, you turned her out; and – and I thank you for it.”

“So long as you thank me, I am happy.”

“That was my sister.”

“So I was inclined to surmise – you see the likeness was so striking. Within sixty seconds of her speaking to me in the hall, I said to myself, ‘This is Miss Hallam’s sister, or – I’m a Dutchman.’ And that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I’m not.”

“Her name is not Hallam – nor is mine.”

“That, also, I surmised.”

“Oh, did you; then you knew from the first that I was a humbug. And pray, what else have you, what you call, surmised?”

“The only other thing which I have surmised is, that I understood you to say that you were quite ready for the train whenever it chose to start.”

“Don’t be so – do you know, when you talk like that, I don’t know if you’re making fun of me or not; that is, if you’re not meaning to be rude. You needn’t answer. My sister’s name is Fotheringham – Lady Helena Fotheringham; and mine is Betty, we are sisters of the Marquis of Polhurston, who is not alone our only brother, but, though we’ve tons of relatives – I believe we’re related, in some degree, to half the peerage – he’s the only relative we have who counts. So now you understand.”

“Do I understand that – you are Lady Betty Fotheringham?” She slightly inclined her head. “The first moment I saw you on the balcony I said to myself – you’re not to laugh at me, I truly did – ‘That’s a great lady’ – and it shows, since I never met one in the flesh before, how sure a judge of the article I am. Lady Betty Fotheringham – your most obedient servant – I am honoured altogether beyond my deserts.”

“Pray what do you suppose yourself to mean by all that – nonsense? Are you wishing to add insult to insult; because when I tell you that my brother is the Marquis of Polhurston, you – you – know perfectly well what that means.”

Mr. Talbot was eyeing her with something in his bearing which almost amounted to deprecation; as if, for something, he begged her to excuse him.

“You must always have clearly before you that, to all intents, I am fresh from the backwoods – not at all abreast with the procession. I take it, from your – warmth that – I think you said, the Marquis of Polhurston – that he ought to convey something to my mind, which, unfortunately, he doesn’t.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Absolutely; on – social subjects you don’t know how ignorant I am. Remember what I told you of my life during the last goodness knows how many years.”

“That’s all very well, but – there’s something here that I don’t understand. You say you are Percival Talbot of the Monks—”

“Exactly; and the name seems to convey something to you – some, I fear, uncomfortable something – which I don’t understand.”

“But it’s so – so inexplicable.” She waved her hands in the air as if she were feeling for something which eluded them. “It places me in so difficult a position; as if it were not bad enough for me already. Don’t you know – but you must know, of course you know!”

She stopped, as if she took it for granted that the unfinished sentence must be intelligible to him.

“Apparently I ought, of course, to know; but, the mischief is, I don’t. Please tell me, if it wouldn’t be subjecting you to too much inconvenience, just briefly, what I ought to know; if you think, that is, the knowledge desirable, as tending towards a better – understanding.”

“Don’t you know that your uncle, Reginald Talbot, sent my brother to prison.”

That the question was unexpected, one had only to glance at him to be sure; so unexpected that it seemed to cause him to lose his presence of mind.

“Surely – surely – surely—” He seemed unable to bring his stammering sentence to a close. “I had no idea – Forgive me, but – it’s my turn – are you – can you be serious?”

“Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know it?”

“This is the first time in my life I have heard of your brother’s existence; how then can I know anything of what – you have spoken?”

“But I always understood that – at least in part – it was through you it happened.”

“We are at cross purposes; as I knew nothing of what you refer to, how can it have had anything to do with me?”

“Then – then they’ve deceived me even more than I thought. I’ll tell you the story.”

“If you’d rather not – if it pains you, please don’t.”

“You heard what my sister said just now; she thinks – at least it was she who told me – that the fault was really more yours than George’s. I’ve got to tell you whether it pains me or not. Now, you must know who I am, and all about me; and, as regards you, I’m not going to remain any longer in the dark.”

For some seconds she observed him in silence, with clenched fist, flaming cheeks, shining eyes, compressed lips. He had a feeling she was judging him; striving, while she sought for words with which to clothe her thoughts, to discover what manner of man he truly was. He knew that that was a quest in which she would inevitably fail.

“I’ll tell the story, right from the beginning, just as if you knew nothing at all about it. While my father was alive my brother was, of course, George Fotheringham. Your uncle was a money-lender.”

“A—” Talbot seemed to have been on the point of saying something, and to have checked himself when the words were actually on his lips. He said something else instead. “I do not wish to question any words that you may utter, but it would seem that I am even more ignorant than I thought. You say my uncle was a moneylender; was that so really? I have always understood that he was born a rich man, and that he remained a rich man all his life.”

“That may be so; I dare say you are right. I have always understood that he was a very strange character; perhaps with him money-lending was a hobby, that he did lend money at a high interest, I am certain; he lent my brother some, kept on lending till my brother owed him more than he could pay. Then he would lend no more until my brother took him some bills on which he did lend more. I have always been told that you and George were associated in those days.”

“I assure you that this is the first I have ever heard of him.”

“Then – then – I don’t understand; it seems all a mystery to me. Why should they have said such things if they were not true?”

“That is more than I can tell you. People will say things.”

“The bills were forgeries. I don’t know exactly what happened, but my father would not pay; I believe he could not. He had never been a rich man; he had extravagant tastes; his own tastes, as well as my brother’s, had made him poor. At any rate your uncle prosecuted – my brother. I have always been told that you ought to have been prosecuted as well; I don’t know why – I don’t pretend to understand things; but you got away, they said, with your uncle’s connivance.”

“A pretty character they seem to have made me out to be. Will you believe me if I give you my word?”

“If you tell me, I will believe you implicitly.”

“Thank you; in saying that you have done me the greatest service which was ever rendered to a man by a woman. I will never forget it. Lady Betty Fotheringham, I never met your brother in my life. I was never mixed up with him, even remotely, in any trouble about bills. I was never in any danger of prosecution. I never, as you would seem to hint, ran away, with, or without, avuncular assistance. I have done – curious things; but – not one like that.”

“I am quite sure you didn’t – now that I know you.”

“That is the handsomest compliment I was ever paid. I will remember that also. You are giving me so many – pleasant things to remember.”

“My brother was sent to prison – for two years.”

“By my uncle?”

“By your uncle. My father never recovered from the blow. It was dreadful for all of us, but for him it was worst of all – he was his only son. He died while George was still in prison; when he came out he was the head of the house – the Marquis of Polhurston.”

The girl said this with a little touch of scorn which recalled to him her sister.

“My father had left little but debts. The estate was encumbered; as you know, in England land will bring little. The Polhurston income has always come from the land; there are thousands of acres, many of which are unproductive, none of them bringing very much. Helena and I were about as poor as we could be. We didn’t mind so much – we had grown used to it; we seldom had had any money; but with George – it was different. He had debts; money had to be found to pay them; and then – he must live. How he did live, I don’t quite know, but I can guess.”

“I have always understood that for a man in his position there is always one opening. Couldn’t he have married?”

“You mean – money. In the first place who, with a great deal of money, and only a great deal would have been of any use, would have been likely to marry him with his record; and, in the second, he was married already, and not to money; to – I can’t help saying it, to nothing. Polhurston must have been born under some inauspicious star. He’s quite clever – I sometimes think he’s too clever; perhaps that’s the reason. He has never succeeded, so far as I know, once in all his life, in doing quite the right thing – the thing he ought to have done. He has always managed to get himself into a muddle, of one kind if not of another; pretty bad muddles some of them have been. It wasn’t till he got himself into the worst muddle of all that we found out that he was married; he had been for quite a long time, and had been keeping her in the background, with difficulty I believe. She had been most unwilling to be kept.” The girl sighed. “Anyhow, he couldn’t marry – money, when he had a wife already who had none.”

The other’s tone was dry.

“That brother of yours seems to be rather an unlucky man.”

“Now he’s gone from bad to worse; he’s found another money-lender, and he’s done the same thing over again; worse, if anything, than before. I don’t pretend to understand it all. I don’t pretend even to know the exact truth; I only know what they have told me. I don’t suppose they’d tell me the whole truth, but only just as much of it as – suits them.”

Pausing, she turned suddenly away, looking towards the window, as if she were unwilling to face him.

“He calls himself – this new money-lender – Herbert – Claude Herbert; but I understand that a little while ago his name was Lewinsky – Isaac Lewinsky. He was born in Poland, of Polish parents; but he came to England when he was quite a child, so that now he is, practically, as English as I am; that is what they are never tired of repeating. He is very rich; his father left him a lot of money, and he has made much more. He wants to give up business, and enter society, that’s why he became, a little while ago, Claude Herbert. He seems to be under the impression that it might not be easy for him to get into the sort of society he aims at; he thinks it might be easier if he had a wife; so he wants to marry me.”

Again she paused, and stood very still. He drew a long breath.

“Now I begin to understand. A delightful sort of character I take Mr. Claude Herbert to be.”

He could see there was a twitching in her back.

“He’s – he’s unutterable. I thought, at one time, that I might; of course I would do a great deal for Polhurston, to say nothing of Helena.”

“You don’t mean to say that your sister is on Mr. Herbert’s side?”

“She can’t very well help it; if George got into trouble again, it might be very serious for her.”

“Clearly, and for you.”

“But for her – in a special sense. She’s as good as engaged to – to someone who, I believe, is very fond of her, and who’s in quite a good position. Of course, if anything happened to Polhurston – he won’t be able to marry her; and – you see what I mean.”

He did see; he read the whole sordid story as clearly as if she had told it in three volumes.

“That brother of yours does indeed seem to be – unlucky.”

“It’s – it’s all so – so unspeakable. It’s dreadful every way I look. It seems that Mr. Herbert gave my brother to understand that if I would marry him – though I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to gain by marrying me, – I can’t imagine; but it seems he said that if I would marry him he’d forgive Polhurston his debt; and that if I didn’t he’d – he’d get him sent to prison again. So I tried to make up my mind that I would marry him; I even as good as told them that I would; and – they’ve told him. Then – then he came and began to make love to me; and – and – I knew I couldn’t; I couldn’t! I’d sooner – I’d much sooner have died; I’d rather he’d have killed me than made me his wife.”

“I presume you told them so, and there was an end of the matter.”

He said so, but he didn’t think it. He was quite prepared with a sequel of her tragic tale; though it hurt him that she should have had to tell it.

“It was very far from being the end of it. Polhurston was afraid for his life; and Helena was almost as bad. If they could they’d have made me marry him; they did try. I don’t say that they were wrong. I don’t want to blame them; I – I understand what it meant to them; only I simply could not marry him; I’d much rather have died. I ran away. I got out of the house at night, when they weren’t in it; and I went to Messina. I hadn’t much money. I’d just about enough to take me there; but it was the only place of which I could think. I knew that in the season David Hallam was the English chaplain. He had once been Polhurston’s tutor; and we girls had been his pupils too; in a sort of way he and I had always been great friends. He was, I do believe, the only real friend I’d ever had in my life. He’d always seemed to understand my point of view. I’d a feeling that if I went to him he’d help me; that he would not only hide me, that he might even find me something to do by which I might earn my living. But when I got to Messina he wasn’t there.”

“Not at the Pension Bianchi?”

“No; he had gone on a tour. He was writing a book on the Greek theatres; you know there are a good many ruins of Greek theatres in Sicily. He’d gone to look at them. He didn’t know that I was coming; I hadn’t told him – I hadn’t dared to tell him, lest he should say I wasn’t to. I didn’t think he would, but he might have done; situated as I was, I didn’t dare take any risk.”

“Then do I understand that he was not an inmate of the Pension when the earthquake wrecked it?”

“He’s not been there since my arrival. He’s somewhere in the neighbourhood of Syracuse.”

“Then, in all probability, he’s alive.”

“And, I hope, uninjured; which is more than I am. You see that my injuries are past all mending. What a despicable part I’ve played towards you. What lies I’ve told you. And yet I only did that because lies are less shameful than the truth. Now, however, you do know me – thanks, in a measure to Helena; so, in a sense, she’s done me an unintentional favour; for I doubt if I ever should have had courage to tell you the whole hideous truth if she had not forced my hand. I’m afraid, at the moment, that I cannot discharge what I fear is my considerable pecuniary indebtedness to you; but I’ll do so at the very earliest possible moment. In the mean time, I thank you very much; you’ll perhaps never know how much I do thank you; and – I’ll say good day.”

She had turned from the window and was again looking him straight in the face. As she finished speaking she would have moved towards the door had he not checked her.

“Lady Betty!”

“Mr. Talbot?”

“You are a person of your word.”

“It looks like it – after what I’ve told you – the lies and lies I’ve told you.”

“Why lies? You were in no sense bound to make a confidant of the first stranger you chanced upon; especially one who showed so much impertinent curiosity as I did. If you chose to call yourself Miss Smith, or Miss Brown, or Miss Robinson, you were within your rights. Surely you must see that. I do. The point is, that you gave me your word that you were quite ready for the train if the train was ready for you; and, presently, it will be.”

“You cannot wish to have, even as a travelling-companion, such a creature as I am, coming of such a stock, with such – such fresh shame staring me in the face!”

He looked at his watch. “Lady Betty, the train starts in half an hour. I shall just have time to pay the bill, get our few belongings on a cab, and get to the station in time to catch the train.”

— XII —

AFTER THE WEDDING

The wedding breakfast was held in a private sitting-room of a London hotel. There was one guest – the parson who had married them; and he was at a loss to determine which was the queerer, the marriage or the feast. The Reverend Austin Collins was quite a nice young man; he was almost fresh from the university – it was his first curacy; he was as yet apt to look at life out of laughing eyes. That marriage ceremony had seemed to him quite funny. The solitary pair in the empty church; he felt sure that the man, who seemed to have quite a gift for silence, was not at all a bad fellow, after a fashion of his own. He was, plainly, very fond of his bride, his manner towards whom was marked by what struck the curate as almost a curious chivalry. The bride’s manner impressed him with a feeling that she really hardly knew whether she was on her head or heels; and she was so pretty – “Top hole,” he called her, in his unclerical slang; and such good form – he would have been prepared, had he not been a parson, to have bet anything that she was a clean-bred one. Indeed, he went so far as to tell a friend afterwards that she was exactly the sort of girl he would have liked to have had married to him.

“But, my dear chap,” he told this friend, “something was upsetting her badly; it was not my business to ask questions; there was a special licence, and everything all right, but if it wasn’t a runaway match, it was something very like it. I know that watching her made me feel quite nervous; she gave me the feeling that she expected that someone would come into the church at any moment, and cut the proceedings short. Why she was marrying him I couldn’t make out; there again, it wasn’t for me to pry, but while anyone could see that he cared no end for her, she gave me the impression that she didn’t care a pin for him.”

If anything that impression was heightened by the feast which followed. His conviction grew that Talbot was quite a decent sort of fellow – he had given him something like a fee; Mr. Collins’ income was such that that was a comfortable fact; he was surer than ever that the newly-made bridegroom was deeply attached to his wife. Nothing, however, in the lady’s manner hinted to him that she was, to put it gently, a sentimental wife. As he put it afterwards, she ate nothing, and she drank nothing, and she said nothing, and she did nothing, except look as if she were sitting on a row of up-turned pins. Anyone looking less like the regulation happy bride, certainly in his limited experience, he had ever seen.

He made a feeble attempt, before the feast was ended, to propose the usual toast. He did not get on to his feet, but he raised his glass, and he inclined his head to each of them in turn.

“Mrs. Talbot” – he did not know that, by rights, she was Lady Betty Talbot, and, in deference to the bride’s wishes, it had already been arranged between them that the “Lady” should be dropped – “Mr. Talbot, may long life, health, happiness, be yours; and – when the time for the silver and the golden, and the diamond, weddings come, may you look back across the vista of intervening years, with happy eyes towards this morning.”

He drank to the toast; and, with a smile, the bridegroom acknowledged it.

“Mr. Collins, those are good wishes of yours, and we thank you for them – my wife and myself. That’s the first time I’ve called her wife; but I guess I’ll have done it a good many thousand times before that diamond wedding, of which you spoke, comes round, and, between ourselves, I’ve a kind of conviction that I shall love the word more each time I use it – right to the end; and you may take it from me, Mr. Collins, that I shall never forget the part you’ve played today.”

Mr. Talbot went downstairs, when the time for his going came, to see the curate off the premises. When he returned his bride was standing before the fireplace, looking down at the blazing coals. She was still attired in the frock in which she had been married; which was as little like the orthodox wedding-gown as it could well have been – indeed, there was nothing about her to show that she had just been married. She did not turn as she heard him open the door; and he, on his side, made no attempt to go too close to her. He seemed, rather, to make an effort to speak in as matter-of-fact a tone of voice as possible.

“Well, that’s over. Wonderful how soon you can be married, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

Her voice was barely audible. She still kept her eyes fixed on the flaming coals. He went on.

“I used to think, once upon a time, that a sort of miracle happened when you were married; and that you felt quite a different sort of person afterwards to the one you were before.”

“I suppose we all have our – fancies on such subjects.”

“I suppose we have. Nice fellow, Collins; not many parsons have come my way; but if there are many of them like him, I’ll be wishing that more might. Let’s hope that that toast of his will not have been drunk in vain.”

He was silent; and she was silent too. There was what seemed, under the circumstances, to be an almost ominous pause; which, at last, was broken by the lady.

“You’ve been very quixotic.”

She said it a little stiffly. He had re-seated himself at the table, and was twisting the stem of an empty wineglass round and round between his fingers. He did not glance up at her as he replied; it was to be noted that neither looked at the other during the brief conversation which ensued.

“As how?”

“In – doing as you have done.”

“I don’t see it.”

“I hope you never may; – that’s the very best thing I can wish you.”

“I never shall see that I’ve been quixotic in marrying you. Doesn’t it occur to you as within the range of possibility that it may be the other way about; – that you’ve been Donna Quixote?”

“Why should it? How could it be; when I’ve everything to gain, and, literally, nothing to lose.”

He was smiling, as if to himself; they were still looking away from each other, so that she saw nothing of his smile.

“Do you know, that it’s just struck me that I’ve never asked you your age. I had to give it when applying for the special licence; but I did that out of my own head.”

“What age did you give?”

“Twenty.”

“You were right; I was twenty rather more than six months ago. The idea at one time was that I should be married to Mr. Herbert when I was twenty-one, and in that fashion celebrate my twenty-first birthday.”

“Really? That seems rather droll; we’ll celebrate it, you and I, in another fashion, with your ladyship’s permission. By that time we may have grown to know each other a little.”

“We may.”

Again her voice was only just audible. Something seemed to tickle him more than ever, so that his smile expanded.

“Who knows what wonders the future may have in store; especially when we contemplate the immediate past. If, in six months’ time, we do know each other – I wonder what we shall know.-But I am keeping you.” He stood up. “I have, as you’re aware, an appointment; it’s nearly time. I can hardly say how soon I shall be back; I may be in to tea. Shall I see you again today?”

“If you like.”

Once more the scarcely audible tone of voice; she could certainly not have spoken more faintly if she wished to be heard at all.

“Let’s begin as we mean to go on; and you know the arrangement was that, as my wife, you should be as free as you were before; indeed, if I understand the matter rightly, freer. We’re to be on the footing of strangers just as long as you choose; here, where we remain but for tonight, as well as in our own home; for which, I presume, you still wish to start tomorrow morning.”

“I want to get out of London as soon as ever I can.”

“Do you think you will not wish to get out of Cornwall?”

“I hope not – I do hope not.”

“We shall see; you may not find the air of Cornwall more congenial than that of town. However, with you, I hope for the best. I must be off; those lawyers of mine will think that I am never coming; I have a sort of fancy that they’ve all kinds of wonderful things which they wish to tell me.”

He was already on his way to the door when she stopped him.

“Shall you tell them you are married?”

“Not a word – to them, or to anyone. That is an announcement which must come from you. Indeed, from my point of view, it hardly seems that we are married. Mr. Collins has done his share; but – marriage, in very truth, that – and the announcement of it – that – is with you.”

He passed out of the room. When he had gone she turned to the fire, and, drawing herself up very straight, looked towards the door, and all at once she seemed as hot as hitherto she had been cold. She put to herself a curious question.

“Why didn’t he kiss me? He didn’t even after we were married, when we were in the vestry, and were signing our names in the book – why, I thought every husband did it, even if only as a mere matter of form. He mayn’t care for me even as for one little prick of his fingers; but, before that wretched Mr. Collins, I do think that that was almost an insult.”

And at that moment she looked as if she thought it.

— XIII —

KEEPING HIS CONTRACT

The offices of Messrs. Wilson and Skaines, solicitors, were in Bedford Row, on a top floor. They consisted of three rooms, one, a sort of outer den, was occupied by the hobbledehoy who was euphoniously called “our clerk”; the second, which led out of it, was inhabited by Mr. Skaine, the junior partner; the third, and largest of the three, was the peculiar haunt of Mr. George Wilson, who was, those who had dealings were apt to say, the firm. Mr. Skaines was in the senior partner’s room. Mr. Wilson was a diminutive person, with a long narrow face, and a tendency towards bowed shoulders – an unhealthy-looking man. Skaines was short and rotund, with small round eyes and a snub nose; about him there was something which was distinctly prosaic. Mr. Wilson, seated at a table which was littered with documents of all sorts and shapes, and colours and sizes, was studying some papers. He glanced up from them towards his partner, who was standing near him on his left.

“What surprises me, Skaines, is that he should have the – we’ll call it courage, to show his face in England at all; particularly as, so far as I can gather, pluck was always very far from being his strongest point.”

Mr. Skaines rubbed his hands together; his broad mouth parted in a grin.

“He does – it does seem rather bold of him.”

Mr. Wilson, leaning back in this chair, tucked his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat.

“That’s not the word, Skaines – it’s not the word. To speak of nothing else, there are such a number of – his friends, who are anxious to have a few words with him on the strict Q.T., very strict Q.T., Skaines, that I wonder how he dare. Then, of course, there are other little – difficulties, which he may, and very probably will, have to reckon with, and they’re, some of them, of such a very delicate nature, that really, Skaines, my wonder grows.”

“P’raps it’s only a flying visit he proposes to make.”

“For his own sake one can’t help hoping so; the more flight there is about it – that is, the more he gets above the solid ground, and the sooner he’s off again – the better – for him. Do you know, Skaines, that if certain people do get hold of him, I shouldn’t be surprised if he had to stay in England quite a considerable time, and – under most uncomfortable conditions. Quite bold of him to come at all, very bold; and I always understood from his late lamented uncle, who was as sound a judge of character as ever lived, that he hadn’t, so to speak, enough courage to put over a threepenny bit. Sly he was, deep, artful, ready to play any dirty game that might be going; but, if he lost, and the time came to pay the stakes, he didn’t mind who he put in the cart – he was sure to be missing.”

“Quite a remarkable character; almost as remarkable as his uncle.”

“Reginald Talbot, the robber, some of them used to call him; and the best of it was he knew it, and didn’t mind in the least – he was unique; that nephew of his, who we are shortly about to see, was a sample of quite a different brand. A character, not a doubt of it; but a character of a sort even I shouldn’t care to have anything to do with. His uncle now, though he was a robber – and, strictly between ourselves, as big a blackguard as ever lived – he was a gentleman, in his own peculiar way. He might stop short at nothing, but he was always ready to face the music, when the band began to play. There’s nothing, unless I’ve got him all wrong, of the gentleman about this one; and as for facing the music, at the first sound of a penny tin whistle he’d drop into the bottom of the nearest ditch, caring nothing for the mud, if there was enough of it to cover him; and there he’d stay, till be felt pretty certain that the performance was concluded.”

“You never actually saw him, I believe?”

“Once only, in the distance, and from the back. He struck me then that he was long and lean. But here’s his portrait; we’ll recognize him from that.”

He handed Mr. Skaines a photograph. That gentleman had just commenced to examine it when the clerk came into the room.

“Mr. Percival Talbot.”

Mr. Wilson got out of his chair. “Show him in, Berkeley, at once. Give me that photograph, Skaines; don’t you go, I’ll introduce you; you have a good look at him, size him up, then, as soon as you’ve done that, you’d better let business call you away.”

The visitor entered the room, pausing for an instant on the threshold, as if to enable him to gain some idea of what was before him. Mr. Wilson moved forward – in his bearing, as he did so, there was something which suggested surprise.

“Mr. Talbot – Mr. Percival Talbot – this is indeed a pleasure. Your uncle, Mr. Talbot, was my greatest benefactor. I am rejoiced to be able to offer a welcome to his – his – nephew.”

Mr. Wilson apparently meant to be effusive; somehow both his voice and his manner lacked sincerity. He held out his hand. The other took it in a grip which caused a very singular expression to come on the solicitor’s face.

“Glad to meet you, sir, though I don’t know who you are.”

The lawyer was nursing the hand which the other had released.

“Good Lord, Mr. Talbot, how strong you are! I’m half inclined to think that you’ve crushed some of the bones in my hand. You – you certainly possess most unusual strength, and you should be tender with a weakling. I, Mr. Talbot, am Mr. Wilson – George Wilson – your uncle’s right-hand man, and intimate adviser. I am the only man who was ever in your uncle’s confidence. This is my partner, Mr. Skaines. Mr. Skaines was also – highly esteemed by your late uncle.”

Instead, it seemed, of offering the newcomer one of his hands, he preferred to continue to rub the pair of them together; possibly he was warned by Mr. Wilson’s face. He looked at the visitor with his small, black eyes, as if desirous of acting on his partner’s hint – “to size him up.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Talbot, very glad indeed. I think, Mr. Wilson, that I had better leave you and Mr. Talbot together; that – you know, that little matter must be attended to.”

“Just so, Mr. Skaines, just so; if anything should arise which requires your interposition, I’ll – I’ll venture to send for you – I’ll venture to send for you.”

Mr. Skaines disappeared into the adjacent chamber. Mr. Talbot, advancing, saw on the littered table something which caught those quick eyes of his. Without hesitation, before the other could interpose, he picked it up.

“What’s this? My portrait? Where did you get this? How comes it to be here? I thought this thing had been destroyed; perhaps you will be so good as to explain how it comes to be in your possession.”

The lawyer did not give a direct answer to the other’s question. He sat down on his own chair, motioning with his hand towards another chair which was on the opposite side of the table.

“Sit down, Mr. Talbot, pray sit down. Quite a striking likeness I call that, unusually striking.”

“I asked you how you got it.”

“From your uncle, Mr. Talbot, from your uncle.”

“From my uncle? How the devil—” He checked himself; possibly because he noticed an odd look which was in the lawyer’s eyes. “Have you any idea, sir, how my uncle came to get it?”

The lawyer, pressing the tips of his fingers together, looked up at Mr. Talbot with a keen sideways glance, and he leaned back in his chair.

“You sent it to him yourself, Mr. Talbot; surely you have not forgotten.”

The other seemed to consider a moment before he spoke.

“I have forgotten. When did I send it, and under what circumstances?”

“That I can scarcely tell you; but it certainly is odd that the fact of your having sent it should have slipped your memory. It’s to be hoped that your memory in other matters is not so – frail. I happen to know that your uncle set great store upon this portrait, Mr. Talbot; I really believe that it was in part owing to it that he made you his heir.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Talbot sat down. He drew the chair close up to the table, resting his arms upon it, he leaned across it, and looked, very steadily, into the lawyer’s face.

“You say, sir, that your name is Wilson.”

Probably, if he had been asked, the solicitor would unhesitatingly have asserted that the capacity to conceal his feeling was not only a necessity of his profession, but one in which both nature and practice had made him an adept. He returned Mr. Talbot look for look; there was no change in his expression, his voice, his bearing; yet a shrewd observer would have said that, not alone was this man surprised, but that, in spite of his efforts to conceal the truth, with each second his amazement grew. One felt, in short, that the man in front of him was not at all the kind of man he had expected to see; that he was so different that the sheer volume of the difference bewildered him. He replied to the other’s question.

“I say that my name is Wilson because – it happens to be. Surely, Mr. Talbot, it is a name with which you are familiar?”

“That’s the point which I was about to approach. I’m familiar with nothing. Is there anything which causes you to think the contrary?”

“That, Mr. Talbot, is not an easy question to answer – as you must be aware.”

“It is possible that I may have to ask you certain questions; in answering them be so good as to take it for granted that I am aware of nothing. Just, as you would say yourself to a witness, answer them. I have not yet seen my uncle’s will.”

“It is at your service; that is, a certified copy. The original has, of course, been filed. You will find it rather a curiosity; but then, your uncle was a curiosity.”

“What’s in the will?”

“It is contained in two or three lines. He left you all of which he died possessed – as he words it, in the sure and certain confidence that you were the proper sort of person to come into such an inheritance.”

“Proper sort of person? I see. Were those the precise words he uses?”

“The precise words.”

“Were they intended to convey a compliment?”

The lawyer made a slight movement with his shoulders.

“Frankly, I should not say they were; your uncle was not the sort of man to pay compliments, especially – if I may be candid – especially to you. I will tell you the whole story if you like; that is, the whole story of the will, and how you came to inherit. I can assure you it was a question of touch and go; until a few minutes before his death he had left you nothing. Would you like me to tell you the story?”

“By all means; tell me everything; it’s everything I want to know.”

A sinister smile flickered across the lawyer’s face. “You mayn’t find it altogether – gratifying, what I have to say.”

“It’s not gratification, on those lines, I am seeking. I want – facts; agreeable or not – facts.”

“You shall have them, as many of them as you please. You say that I’m to take it that you are aware of nothing; but I imagine that I may presume you do know that – he was not very fond of you.”

“He had no reason to be.”

The lawyer seemed struck both by the other’s words and manner; his tone was grim.

“So I gathered – from your uncle. Although it is correct to say that he did not like you, it would be still more correct to assert that he disliked you with an intensity of which only his nature was capable. He disliked many people, your uncle did; he disliked most people; he would have gone a good deal out of his way to prove it; sometimes he did, as those pecuniarily concerned discovered to their cost. But, of all people, he – I can’t help using the word – he hated you the most. I take it that you had – given him reasons for hating you.”

The lawyer watched the other’s face very closely under his partially closed eyelids; and learned nothing for his pains. The visitor did not move a muscle. His manner could not have been more self-possessed, or curter.

“Go on; what’s the story of how I came to my inheritance, if he loved me so?”

“I think I am justified in saying that in making you his heir, your uncle did it out of no good will; but, rather, though it may sound strange, as an act of vengeance. My impression is that he felt that he never had been even with you while he was alive; but that he’d try to get even after he was dead.”

The solicitor altered his position. He sat up straighter in his chair. He pointed to the photograph which the other had replaced on the table.

“That portrait, as I have told you, had something to do with it; it played rather a singular part. Up to within an hour of his death he had no notion to whom to leave his property.”

“By the way, what did he die of?”

There was what seemed to be a significant pause before the answer came.

“The doctor, a local worthy, certified that he died of an obscure affection of the heart. I never heard the name before. I believe the medical gentleman himself had to hunt it up out of a textbook.”

“Where did he die?”

“At the Monks; I trust that I am not again presuming in supposing that you do know that that is rather a singular habitation, and – remote. You’ll find that its singularity has become more marked, very much more marked, should you propose to visit that part of the world.”

“I intend to go down to Helford tomorrow morning.”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows, as if the statement was unexpected.

“To the village, or the house?”

“The house. Do you suppose that I should go to the village without going to the house – my house? I suppose it is my house, isn’t it, and ready for my occupation?”

“Undoubtedly; as ready as it is ever likely to be. But – do I understand that you really propose to go down to the Monks tomorrow morning?”

“Certainly I’m going, why shouldn’t I? Your tone suggests a reason. What reason is there why I should not go to my own house at the earliest possible moment?”

The lawyer rubbed his chin, as if the question suggested a knotty problem. He spoke as one who is not desirous of saying all that is in his mind.

“I’m not prepared, on the spur of the moment, to say that there are any precise reasons.”

“Are there any servants there?”

“Oh yes, there are servants; your uncle’s servants. There are a man and his wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Eva; Eva acted as a sort of watchdog to your uncle, and – other things as well. He was, I fancy, a good deal in his confidence. His wife is cook and housekeeper; and there are three maids, Eva’s nieces. There is quite an efficient establishment for a bachelor; your uncle was comfortable enough.”

“If that is so, why did you hint just now that I’d better not visit the Monks?”

“Quite candidly, Mr. Talbot, if you know of no reason – I don’t.”

“I see that there’s something at the back of your mind, which, probably, in time, I shall discover for myself. How about that story of yours?”

“I received one afternoon a telegram from your uncle requesting me to go down to him on the following day. I went. Falmouth is the nearest station to Helford; at least, that is the station which they always use; though I believe that, as the crow flies, Helston is actually the closest. Your uncle’s motor met me at Falmouth; latterly he went in largely for motorcars; he had three or four of them – one or two of them are of very high power; he used them sometimes to take him up to London, preferring a car to a train. He told me once that a man who owned a powerful car had an express train at his front door; one which started at his hour, not the timetable’s; and which ran, to suit his convenience, day and night. When I reached the Monks, I found your uncle seemingly in the best of health. I told him so. His rejoinder startled me. ‘Think I’m looking well, do you?’ he said. ‘That shows how much you know about it. In a few hours, at most, I shall be dead.’”

“Was he in bed?”

“Not he; he was marching about the room which he used as a study, looking as hale and hearty as I ever saw him look in his life. Seeing that I stared, he added something which made me stare still more. ‘I’ve only up till midnight to live; I’m under contract to die before tomorrow morning.’”

“I suppose he was jesting?”

“You could never tell; you remember what kind of man he was.”

“Never mind what I remember; you tell your tale. I repeat that I suppose he was jesting; and you say—?”

“I say that it was not always easy to decide when he was in jest and when in earnest. I knew him pretty well; better, apparently, even than you did.”

“That would be quite easy.”

“And I’ve come to feel that he was often most in earnest when he seemed to be least so; he liked to play tricks on people, even if it was only to the extent of puzzling them. ‘I’ve sent for you,’ he went on, ‘because I’m in a bit of a quandary. I’m a warm man, Wilson – a very warm man.’ As if I didn’t know that he had more money than, literally, he knew what to do with.”

“If that were so, how came he to play the part of a common usurer?”

The solicitor spread his hands out in front of him. “How came he to play all sorts of parts? Because it was his whim. I asked him what was the nature of the quandary to which he referred. ‘You’re a lawyer,’ he replied, ‘and you know, a warm man like I am ought to make a will before he dies. I’ve made no will, and my time is near; and that’s the trouble.’ Still I saw nothing about him which could cause him to speak in such a strain; he didn’t seem depressed, nor in pain; he seemed in what to him were quite high spirits, and he kept walking about the room, smiling to himself now and then, as if amused. ‘You have sent for me,’ I said, ‘to draw up for you a form of will.’ He replied that he had, but that, unfortunately, he didn’t know to whom to leave his money.”

“One question, Mr. Wilson, by way of interrupting you; was my late lamented uncle perfectly sane?”

Again the lawyer seemed to find the question a knotty one. When he spoke, it was slowly, as if he considered the meaning of each word before he uttered it.

“It is a point on which I am not entirely prepared to commit myself; it is one which I would rather leave to a medical man. He was, always, since I have known him – perhaps I’d better say original; to more than that I am not disposed at the moment to commit myself. That night he certainly struck me as being as sane as ever he was; he apparently did not know to whom he wished to leave his money. He spoke of various charities; but he had always been in the habit of speaking of all charities as organized robberies. He mentioned various persons by name – not always courteously. He even spoke of making what I would call a freak will; of leaving his money to some person or persons unknown, under what struck me as being absurd conditions. Not for some time did he refer to you.”

“Did you make no suggestions?”

“I did; but – as they went unheeded, it doesn’t matter what they were. All the time he kept stalking about in the same restless fashion, looking less like an invalid than any man of his age I ever saw; and you will remember he was over eighty.”

“Was he so old as that? And still in the possession of his senses – and the rest of his powers?”

“To me he seemed as sound a man as you or I. He went to a bureau and began to search among a mass of papers. I wondered what he was looking for. He brought some of the papers to a table which was in the centre of the room. As he was sorting them something fell out from among them which was in an envelope. ‘What’s that envelope?’ he said. ‘What’s in it? I don’t remember putting it here.’ Out of the envelope he took a photograph. At sight of it he burst out laughing. ‘Wilson!’ he shouted – the tone in which he spoke amounted to a shout. ‘I’m out of the trouble! here’s the very man I want.’ He held out to me the photograph – this photograph.”

The solicitor drew the other’s attention to the portrait which lay upon the table. Talbot, picking it up, stared at it fixedly as if it presented to his mind a conundrum to which he could find no solution.

“How did he get hold of the thing; that’s what beats me. It’s my portrait, sure enough; and it looks like a recent one.”

The solicitor, who had been watching him with every appearance of interest put in a word.

“I should say it had been taken within the last few months – certainly within the last twelve. It is you to the life; I never saw a better likeness.”

“Within the last twelve months? You think so; then that narrows the ground. Consciously there has been no portrait taken of me within anything like the last twelve months; there’s no artist’s name on it, nothing to show who took it. However it reached him, it wasn’t sent by me.”

“Whoever did send it seems to have done you a service, though, to be plain with you, I’m not sure, as yet, if it was a good or a bad one. So far as I was able to judge it was that, and that only, which recalled you to your uncle’s recollection.”

“And on the strength of this portrait he left me everything he had?”

“Not, I fear, with the most affectionate intention. He said, ‘Than my brother’s son there is no greater knave or cur unhung; he deserves to be made to smart; if I leave him what I have he’ll be punished as he merits.’ Then he added, ‘Wilson, if ever you see him – he’ll never have the courage to show his face at the Monks – and I doubt if he’ll venture to set his foot on English ground, but if ever you do see him, tell him what I’ve just now said as my last message.’”

“You’ve obeyed him, Mr. Wilson.”

“And then I drew up the will, as it stands, at his dictation. It was duly witnessed by John Eva and Susan his wife. Not long afterwards – within, perhaps, half an hour, your uncle went to bed. He emptied a tumbler of whisky-and-water before he left the room. As he was going through the doorway he stopped to say, ‘I wonder, Wilson, where you and I will be if ever we meet again.’ That was the last I saw of him, alive. While it was yet dark John Eva came to my room and woke me out of sleep. ‘Mr. Wilson,’ he said, ‘the master’s dead.’ I’ve always felt that there was an understanding between your uncle and John Eva which was beyond; my comprehension. It seems that there was an electric bell in your uncle’s room which rung in Eva’s. According to Eva this bell had roused him. He hastened to your uncle’s room and found him dead in bed, turned over on his side, with his hand still raised towards the push-piece of the bell; the inference being that he had died while in the very act of ringing. Eva volunteered a statement which struck me as peculiar. ‘I noticed,’ he said, ‘by the master’s clock on the mantelpiece, which he always kept quite right, that it was ten minutes to twelve – and he was already dead.’ Putting two and two together, remembering what your uncle had said about his being under contract to die before midnight, Eva’s words were – shall I say, in the nature of a singular coincidence. I am disposed to the opinion, Mr. Talbot, that, if I may so phrase it, there was more in your uncle’s end than meets the – superficial – eye.”

“On the other hand, it may have been only a coincidence.”

“Exactly; as you say, on the other hand, it may be only a coincidence, to those who prefer that point of view.”

“I’ll have the matter threshed out when I get down to the Monks. I take it Eva’s still there.”

“Oh yes, Eva’s still there; and I should say, likely to remain.”

“Where I’m concerned, Mr. Wilson, take my advice and venture on no prophecy. You seem to wish to convey the impression that my uncle’s was a very singular establishment. Now that I am going to be master there, its singularity – if there’s an unpleasant side to it – will vanish. I intend to be the master of my man. Now, sir, before going into the question of what is the exact character of the various properties of which I have become owner – you no doubt are prepared to give me a list of them – is there anything further which you would like to add, for my information?”

— XIV —

THE LADY DECIDES TO GO

So soon as the new client had gone, Mr. Wilson had an interview with his partner, who popped eagerly out of one door as Talbot went through another. The rotund little man was all agog with curiosity. “Well, Wilson, what’s he like?”

The senior partner was standing before the fireplace, with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, and a look on his face which puzzled Mr. Skaines. Wilson’s manner was disposed to be judicial.

“You ask me, Skaines, what he’s like; and that’s exactly what I can’t tell you; I wish I could. I can tell you this much – he’s not in the least what I expected. I think I may say that I’m not easily surprised; but he has surprised me.”

Mr. Skaines seem to be quivering with anxiety to grasp his partner’s meaning.

“As how? In what way has he surprised you? Is he – worse than you expected? but – I shouldn’t think he could be that.”

“That’s not it, Skaines; that’s not it at all. He’s not the sort of man I expected; I almost feel as if someone had been playing me a trick; and – I’m not so sure that that isn’t the explanation.”

“In what, exactly, does the difference lie; in just how is he different to what you expected?”

“In every way. For instance, I’ve always understood that he was a coward, a white-livered cur; the sort of gentleman who’d be up to any dirty game and then turn tail, and play the sneak to escape the consequences. Skaines, he’s a better plucked one than his uncle.”

“Nonsense; you’ve – you’ve made a mistake. He’s imposed on you; his whole record’s against it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder, Skaines, if there was imposition somewhere; but – it’s not there. Don’t tell me that I don’t know a well-plucked one when I see him; you know my record, and you know better. That man who’s just gone out of that room wouldn’t be afraid of the devil himself; he’s the sort what doesn’t know what fear is – on that I’ll stake my reputation.” The junior partner’s bewilderment was, in its way, grotesque. “But – then – what – what becomes of everything? You confidently reckoned on his being the sort you could knead like a piece of putty; with his record it looks as if we shouldn’t have any difficulty in doing that. You don’t mean to say that he’s going to be too much for us. Wilson, everyone seems to agree that he’s a born actor; that he can play at being anything; he’s been playing now at being a man of courage. But when you tackle him, as you will do presently, he’ll crumple up. He must, or where shall we be?”

The senior partner observed the junior with what was perhaps meant to be a thoughtful eye.

“Skaines, my present mood is one of non-committal. I’ve had a facer; I own it. I’ve, so to speak, been as nearly as possible knocked out, in a fashion of which I never dreamed. I’ll have to pull myself together a bit before I quite know where I am. But get the idea out of your head that I’ve mistaken my man, because I haven’t; other people may have done. Perhaps a miracle has happened which has transformed him, made an altogether different man of him. Such things have happened. Of the possibility, or otherwise, of that, it is yet too early for me to judge. But whatever his uncle, or anyone, may have thought, he’s no coward; and he’s no weakling. He’s the kind of man who would hold up the Bank of England single handed; and who, if, afterwards, he found himself cornered, would blow his brains out rather than give himself up. Another thing; between ourselves, Skaines, he’d blow our brains out rather than let us come it over him too strong; and I shouldn’t be surprised if before very long he did make a hole in our friend John Eva.”

The junior partner’s bewilderment, if anything, had grown more rather than less.

“But aren’t you forgetting, Wilson, what it will mean to us if – if he slips through our fingers?”

“I’m forgetting nothing. I tell you I must have time to think. We’ve got a harder nut to crack than I expected, and – it will take time to crack it. But on one thing you may go nap, that when he gets down to the Monks, and begins to get an idea of what the state of things there really is, there’ll be one of the finest flares up that secluded little spot has ever seen.”

•   •   •   •   •

Mr. Percival Talbot walked back to his hotel; partly because he felt that the exercise might do him good, and partly because he wanted to turn things over in his mind. For all he knew his wife was waiting for him; he could not be sure, but it was possible. He and she were on so curious a footing that he could not be sure of anything; but it was possible that she might ask him questions. If she did, it was desirable that he should be prepared with answers. He had anticipated a strange story; the one he had been told surpassed all his anticipations. He told himself, over and over again, that he didn’t know what to make of it. He made to himself a confession.

“If I’d foreseen that sort of thing, I’d have played my cards differently. I’d have held my tongue about the Monks; and certainly would not have talked about taking Mrs. Talbot there – to her. I’ve gone out of my way to put myself into a hole. I don’t believe that, round about those parts, there is at all the sort of atmosphere that is suited to her constitution; and yet, if I tell her so, what then?”

He tapped the ferrule of his cane against the pavement as he walked; his pace slackened; a look came over his face which illumined it. In repose his face seemed hard and cold; but it was odd how, when he smiled, all the hardness and the coldness vanished, and he became a really handsome man.

“There’s no one in the world like her; she mayn’t be aware of it herself, but I believe she’s beginning to like me. When she knows me a little, and she’s got used to the idea of our being man and wife, I wouldn’t be surprised if she got to like me really; I’ve heard that when a woman knows that a man loves her she can’t help liking him, even though she mayn’t love him. She’s quick, is my lady; I don’t fancy there’s much that escapes those beautiful grey eyes of hers, and the quick brain that’s behind them; before very long she’ll know I love her, though I’m a pretty sort of ruffian. And, when she knows I love her, she may forgive me – for being some of the things I am.”

He brought his stick down so smartly on the pavement that the passers-by looked round to see what was the matter.

“But that’s all over; the ruffian part’s clean done with; I swear it.”

Some sudden train of thought seemed to bring him to another frame of mind; a less jubilant and a more rueful one. “At least, I would swear it, if – it weren’t for the yarn which that hatchet-faced scoundrel has just been pitching me. If I were still a single man I rather fancy that the Monks would be just the house for me; looks as if there’d be always something doing there to give you enough occupation in the daytime to make you sleep at night. But – for a wife, it’s not the place at all; no, it’s not the kind of place. I wish I knew how to keep her away from there. I’ve said I’d take her; I’ve promised to take her; and she’ll want to go. I’ll see what a little persuasion will do in the way of inducing her to try another place instead; but – I’m not very sanguine. She’ll want an explanation; she won’t be persuaded without it; and – I’ve none to give.”

The lady was waiting; though when he first entered the sitting-room, the fact was not very plain. The electric light had not been turned on, the room was in partial darkness; coming out of the light he could see nothing. Presently a voice came to him from the direction of the fire. He perceived that the lady was taking her ease in an armchair which she had drawn up close to the hearth, content, it seemed, to enjoy her own thoughts, with her only light the dancing flames.

“I thought you were never coming back.”

The tone seemed to him to convey a reproach. He was immediately apologetic.

“I’m so sorry that you expected me before, but I walked here from Bedford Row. Shall I turn on the light?”

“If you don’t mind I’d rather you didn’t; I always have liked this half light, just the flames. I’m glad you have come back; I was getting rather tired of my own society.”

“If I’d only guessed I’d have – I’d have rushed; but that solicitor chap prosed and prosed, and – I suppose he kept me longer than I thought.”

“You sound tired.”

He was standing on the other side of the hearth, looking down at her, and thinking what a pretty picture she made, as the quickly changing flames first lit up a part of her, and then the whole, and came and went.

“Do I? Perhaps I was a little tired; though I wasn’t conscious of it till you said so. It was very sweet of you to notice it.”

She ignored his last words.

“And did he tell you many wonderful things?”

“They were very wonderful, some of them; some of them rather disagreeably so. Lady Betty?”

“I wish you’d drop the ‘Lady’; I thought we agreed it should be dropped; I’d rather you called me Mrs. Talbot than that.”

“You call me Mr. Talbot.”

“That’s different. I say you can call me Mrs. Talbot if you like.”

“Mrs. Talbot, would you mind very much if, tomorrow, we didn’t go to the Monks after all?”

“Why do you ask me?”

“Because – well, because I wish to know.”

He saw that her face was turned towards the fire, and that she watched the flames; he suspected that she saw more than the flames. Her voice was colder than it had been.

“I should mind very much; more than I care to say. You promised me that, so soon as we were married, we should go to the Monks; and I’ve relied upon your promise.”

“Then you shan’t rely in vain; we’ll stick to our programme. We’ll start in the morning.”

There was again a perceptible pause before she spoke.

“What has that solicitor person said to you which inclines you to part with what was your original intention?”

On his side also there was a pause.

“I’m afraid that the Monks may not be so comfortable a home for you as I had hoped, at least, for the present.”

“What would you propose to do if we didn’t go?”

“I should have to go.”

“You would have to go? And what would become of me?”

“I should only go perhaps for a day or two. I would make every arrangement for your comfort while I was away.”

“Thank you; but I’d rather you didn’t do anything of the kind. I – I think you’re very unkind.”

There was something in her voice which made him tremble.

“Betty!”

Apparently neither of them noticed that her Christian name had slipped out from between his lips.

“If you insist upon my remaining behind, of course I will. I believe that one of the duties of a wife is to obey.”

“You – you quite mistake me; whether wilfully or not I don’t know; it was only of your comfort I was thinking; I would rather do almost anything than leave you behind.”

“Then take me with you.”

“I’d love to – you don’t know how I’d love to – though it’s my bounden duty to warn you that, from what I have been told, it’s not at all the sort of place to which I ought to take a lady.”

“Why do you call me a lady? You will harp upon the lady. I suppose I am your wife. I rather fancy that you’ll find that I belong to what I believe is the new school of wives. I think I’m of opinion that a wife ought to be able to go wherever her husband goes; and by that I mean that what is a fit place for him is also a fit place for her.”

“That sounds very well in theory; though I’m not sure that it would work out in practice. I warn you that the Monks may turn out to be not at all the sort of place you’d like it to be; but if, in the face of that warning, you’ll honour me with your society while I am there, I’ll be delighted.”

She gave what was distinctly a sigh. “You don’t sound as if you’d be delighted; but I’ll favour you with my society all the same. You said you’d take me to the Monks; and I’m going.”

— XV —

MR. AND MRS. TALBOT GO HOME

When the train drew up at the platform of Helford station it was already dark. Mr. Talbot, alighting, spoke to the porter who had opened the carriage door. “Is there anyone here to meet me? I wired instructions for a car to be here. My name is Talbot, of the Monks.”

He noticed that, as he uttered the name, the porter glanced round at him with a stare of surprise.

“Talbot, are you Mr. Talbot?”

There was something in the accent in which the man pronounced the name which was not entirely complimentary.

“I am Percival Talbot; I’ve already told you so. Is there anyone here to meet me?”

“I believe there is a motorcar waiting for you outside, if you’re Mr. Talbot, of the Monks. There’s the driver, I expect he’s looking for you.”

Mr. Talbot, with his wife by his side, walked down the platform to where a man, attired as a chauffeur, stood looking about him, as if in expectation of someone who had not come. He was a short, broadly built, uncouth-looking man, hardly of the type of the ordinary chauffeur. He observed Mr. Talbot approaching with his wife with an incurious eye, seemingly not supposing that they had anything to do with him. When, therefore, Mr. Talbot spoke to him, he looked up with an air of surly wonder.

“Are you from the Monks?”

“What’s that to do with you – begging your pardon, sir?”

The last words were evidently prompted by a perception that this was not at all the sort of person with whom it might be safe to be rude.

“Is it your habit to speak like that to strangers? If it is, I’d advise you to be rid of it. It happens to have a good deal to do with me whether you come from the Monks, since I am Mr. Percival Talbot.”

The man seemed amazed to the verge of incredulity.

“You – you. I beg your pardon, sir, but you’re – you’re Mr. Talbot? Not – not my Mr. Talbot, you can’t be.”

“Answer my question, man. Are you from the Monks?”

“I am.”

“Then why couldn’t you say so at first. You seem to be half an idiot. Is the car outside?”

“The car is outside. But, excuse me, sir, I can’t help thinking there’s – there’s some mistake. You – you can’t be the Mr. Percival Talbot I’ve come to meet; not as he was described to me.”

“I can’t say what description has been given you, but I sent a wire this morning giving orders to meet this train, and I am Mr. Percival Talbot. Now for the car; my wife does not like waiting.”

“Your—” He gazed at the dainty feminine figure which stood beside the tall form who so briskly addressed him, as if she were some phenomenon. “Begging your pardon again, sir, but – this lady – is she coming with us?”

“You ass. You may be an old servant of my uncle’s, but I doubt if you’ll be mine for long. In my wire I said that I was coming with Mrs. Talbot. Didn’t the person who sent an oaf like you tell you that?”

The fellow presented such a picture of complete bewilderment that Mr. Talbot might have seen something in him to laugh at had he not been so angry. He stared at the lady, then at the gentleman, and back again at the lady, as if he found it difficult to credit the evidence of his own senses.

“Not a word was said to me about a lady; however—”

Mr. Talbot cut him short. “That’ll do, my man. I’ve had enough of you. Here’s the luggage. Where’s the car?”

The man led the way, awkwardly enough, as if unwillingly; the lady and the gentleman followed. A huge motorcar, with a Limousine body, was standing without. Its flaming acetylene lamps outblazing the station lights, and throwing shadows all around them. Soon the newly married pair, seated side by side, on the luxuriant cushions, were being borne quickly away. Since their arrival at the station the lady had been silent; now she said, with a little spice of malice—

“I congratulate you on your car – it’s a beauty; but I’m afraid I can’t congratulate you on your man.”

“He doesn’t seem to be unnaturally bright.”

“Is it that? Or is it because you’re so completely different to what you ought to be, according to the description which was given to him? I’m not at all sure that even now he believes you’re the person you claim to be. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if at any moment he stopped short, and made another effort to make sure.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you found that sort of thing pretty general hereabouts – the inability to recognize me. I rather fancy that the Percival Talbot who is returning to the Monks does not at all resemble the Percival Talbot who was known there once upon a time.”

“Is that so? Then perhaps they won’t admit us without a discussion. But I do hope they’re expecting me; it might be awkward if they had nothing ready in the way of accommodation. Didn’t you make it plain that I was coming?”

“Quite plain; as plain as it could be made in a telegram. The driver’s an ass. There’s been some blundering, and it wasn’t made so clear to him as it might have been. But they expect you, and as for accommodation, I promise you you shall have as handsome accommodation as the Monks can supply.”

The car whirled onwards. It was impossible to see through the windows what kind of country they were passing. Evidently all signs of a town had been left behind. There did not seem to be a light upon the road; without the blackness seemed pitchy. It was a cold night. The windows were closed. An electric lamp in the roof shed its radiance within; they could see each other well enough; and they could see, if they tried, the glare cast by the blarios on the road in front.

“I rather think,” said the lady, as, leaning forward, she tried to peer through the window beside her, “that we are rushing through a series of narrow lanes. On this side we seem to be quite close up to the hedge; I shouldn’t wonder if there isn’t only just room for us to get along. I know these Cornish lanes; if we met another vehicle it would be a question of someone turning back. That driver of yours is taking the car along, considering; let’s hope he knows the road, as well as the car; it’s a great long body; and I shouldn’t wonder if we’re going well over thirty miles an hour. Have you any very clear recollection of the country round about?”

“It’s as strange to me as it is to you.”

“But you have been here before.”

“It seems to me that if I have it must have been in the spirit rather than in the flesh; for I’ve a profound conviction that this Percival Talbot has never been on this road before.”

“But you must have been; I suppose you have been to the Monks before, if only on a visit.”

“If so, then it really seems to me that it must have been in some former state of existence. I assure you that I’ve but the dimmest notion of what we’re going to see; and that the Monks, inside and out, will be as much a novelty to me as to you.”

“Then, if you are so strange to it as all that, it seems to me that they won’t be a bit to blame if they hesitate to let you in.”

A not unmusical wailing sound rose in the air, repeated three times over; it was the siren attached to the car. All at once they became conscious that they had dashed through what seemed to be an open gateway; as if that siren had been a signal, bidding someone open the gates to let them through.

“It strikes me that we are nearing your ancestral hall.”

“I fancy that was a gate which we went through.”

“It’s darker than ever outside. We must be running through an avenue of trees. Hullo! – we’re out of it; this seems like the open. I believe I can smell the scent of the sea. Here’s the house.”

The car stopped before a door which already stood wide open. Lights in the hall shone out. Two figures stood in the open doorway – a man and a woman. The man came forward as if to open the door; but apparently the chauffeur had called to him. Instead of opening the door, he moved aside to talk to the driver. Mr. Talbot, opening the door from within, first descended himself, then assisted his wife to alight. They moved towards the open doorway. A voice, that of a man who talked to the chauffeur, called out to them.

“One moment, please; who are you?”

Talbot vouchsafed no answer till his wife and himself were actually in the house. In the hall there was a tall, dark-faced woman. The man’s voice was heard without, calling to her.

“Susan, stop them! Don’t let them go in; they’ve come to the wrong house; there’s some mistake.”

The woman interposed herself in front of them, as if she would prevent them advancing further. The speaker came hastily into the hall. He was a man of about the middle height, who, in spite of his white hair, conveyed the impression that he was still in possession, not only of health, but of strength. There was something masterful about the man; in his square jaw; in his deep-set dark eyes; in his carriage. There was that in his attire, and, indeed, about his whole personality, which suggested a seafaring man. He might have been the captain of some trading ship, used to command, and careful to be obeyed. The bewildered look which had been on the chauffeur’s face, was at least as obvious on his, as he stared from one to the other of the newcomers. His tone was peremptory; his manner brusque.

“There’s some mistake here. You’re not Percival Talbot.”

It was the lady who spoke first. Looking at her husband she seemed half to sigh and half to smile.

“I told you so. I said that someone would hesitate to let you into your own house.”

Her husband, paying no heed to her, confined his attention to the man.

“You are John Eva?”

“But you’re not Percival Talbot.”

“And I am Percival Talbot. You had my wire this morning, telling you to prepare for my wife and myself?” Eva, seemingly in a state of mental confusion, was searching the other’s face, as if he could not make him out at all.

“You’re – did you say your wife? Come, now, that is too much.”

“Didn’t you have my wire?”

“I had a wire – but that about a wife, I thought was meant as a joke.”

“Why should it be meant for a joke? Eva, you’re as dull as the driver there; and, I fear, as badly trained. I hope you’re not a sample of the rest of my uncle’s establishment.”

“Your uncle’s? Your uncle’s establishment I”

He laid a stress upon the pronoun as if he doubted its applicability to the person in front of him.

“Come, Mr. Eva, I’ll talk to you afterwards; you and I will very soon come to an understanding. Mrs. Talbot is tired, show her to her room. I hope it’s not very far from mine. Are you Mrs. Eva – the housekeeper? Show Mrs. Talbot to her room – do you hear?”

The man replied.

“She heard, and so did I, but before anybody is shown to any room, perhaps you’ll tell me what you mean; I’m too old to be caught with salt. As for your being my Percival Talbot – as I said just now, you’ve come to the wrong address. Sorry to seem rude, but perhaps you’ll tell me who you are, and what you want?”

The lady seemed to find the speaker’s dogged attitude amusing. She laughed outright.

“This really is too funny. I didn’t think I should be so true a prophet. Is it possible that we have come to the wrong address? – as this person so pleasantly suggests.”

Her husband’s imperturbability never seemed for a moment to forsake him; he still confined his attention to the man.

“I should be sorry to have any – unpleasantness, at so early a stage in our acquaintance, Mr. Eva, so allow me, quite courteously, to inform you that the mistake is not mine, but yours. I am Percival Talbot – be still, sir, and let me speak! I repeat, I am Percival Talbot, the owner of the Monks. I believe this is the Monks.”

“This is the Monks all right; but as for your being—”

“Take my advice, man, and leave your sentence unfinished; or – there’ll be unpleasantness. If you wish to remain in my service for the night you’ll obey me instantly, and you also, woman. Show my wife at once to her room. If you don’t, you’ll be conducted off these premises; your connection with the Monks will cease with an abruptness which will surprise you. Now, woman, are you going to do as I tell you; or – are you going through that door?”

He pointed to the doorway, on the other side of which the motorcar was standing.

“Well I’m damned!”

“If you’re not, my man, you very soon will be.”

The dark-faced woman intervened.

“John! Excuse me, sir, but he means all right, and perhaps there’s some misunderstanding which you’ll be able to explain. You’d better leave it anyhow until the morning.” She looked at her husband with a glance which seemed to convey to him a wealth of meaning. She turned again to Talbot. “Did I understand you to say, sir, that you want two rooms; one for the lady, and one for yourself?”

“I do.”

“Because, sir, we have only one room ready; but another can be got ready very quickly if you wish it. There are plenty of rooms in the house, though it is a long time since any of them were occupied. Will you come, madam?”

She addressed the lady. Mr. Talbot asked, “Shall I come with you?”

She half-laughingly shook her head, as if she were of two minds.

“I don’t think you need, do you? I think I shall be quite safe in Mrs. Eva’s hands. What about dinner; are we going to have anything to eat, and when?”

“Dinner is being prepared for – Mr. Talbot.” She gave a sideways glance towards the claimant to that name. “There will be ample for two. It will be ready in half an hour, or when you please.”

“I shall be ready in half an hour; shall you?”

The question was put to her husband.

“Quite. Which is the dining-room?”

“I will send a maid up to show madam the way.”

Mrs. Talbot and the dark-faced woman ascended the broad staircase, Talbot remaining at the foot until they had reached the landing. His wife, looking over it, made a little movement to him with her hand; then passed from sight. He turned to the man, who had remained a silent spectator of his wife’s interference.

“Now, John Eva, where can I have – a few words with you?”

The man’s words were scarcely an answer; he was plainly in a discontented mood.

“I don’t know why my wife’s taken that young woman upstairs – she’s no right to take her; and as for leaving things till the morning – we’ll see. Here, you’d better come this way; you and I will have that little understanding.”

Going through a door, which was on the left of the hall as he entered, the man turned on the electric light. Mr. Talbot followed.

“There appears to be electric light all over the house.”

“Oh yes, there’s electric light all over the house.”

“How is it generated – you must be some distance from a town.”

“We do generation ourselves; and as for being some distance from a town – if you’re Percival Talbot, you ought to know how near to a town we are. Now what’s the game? Who are you?”

The speaker had suddenly assumed an air of aggressiveness. He looked at the other with his head held well back and his shoulders squared as if he were some insubordinate sailor. Though there was nothing which could be called aggressive in the other’s manner, there was an easy assurance which was more effective.

“You place me in rather a delicate position, John Eva.”

“Don’t be so handy with your John Evas – I’m not John Eva to you.”

“I’m fearful that you won’t be anything to me very long, John Eva. No nonsense, my man. You are making one of the most serious mistakes you ever made in your life. I’m not the Percival Talbot you expected – but I am Percival Talbot, all the same – owner of this house and the land on which it stands, of all that it contains, of everything Reginald Talbot left behind him.”

“I don’t believe it; if you’re not the Percival Talbot I expected, and I know you’re not without your telling me, you’ve no more right to be in this house than the first passing tramp.”

“John Eva, you really are a foolish fellow; and you really are making a serious mistake. I have proof of what I say – the fullest possible proof. I know all about you, what kind of man you are, the position you have occupied in what was my uncle’s house.”

“Your uncle’s.”

“My uncle’s – and if you’ve any shadow of a shade of a doubt that the late Reginald Talbot was my uncle, and that I am his heir, you had better keep it to yourself, because as sure as you attempt to air it – you’ll find yourself on the outside of the Monks forever. As I’ve said, I’m not the Percival Talbot you expected, but I am a man who means what he says – and that one wasn’t. Now, John Eva, do we understand each other, or am I to start – by putting you off my property.”

“You’re a marvel, that’s what you are – a marvel. That you should have the face to stand there and – and talk to me.”

He was cut short in what seemed to be the middle of his sentence by the other’s wagging a monitory finger in his face.

“Now, now, now! John Eva, be discreet.”

“But that you should come this tale about that being your wife, when you’ve got a wife already, and all the country knows it, and who she is, and where she is, and all about her, that – that does beat anything.”

“John Eva, we’ll go into these matters on a future occasion, and – I promise you we shall arrive at an understanding before we’ve done. Just now, kindly show me to a room in which I can get ready for dinner.”

He laid his hand upon Eva’s shoulder. The men looked at each other. There was something in his glance which persuaded the other. Without another word, turning, he held the door open for the other to pass out.

“I don’t know which room my wife has prepared for you – I’ll have to ask her. Susan!”

He called to his wife.

— XVI —

“OPEN SESAME”

They dined in a low-ceilinged room, with oak-panelled walls.

“What a pretty room,” exclaimed the lady, as soon as she entered.

Two or three water-colour sketches were on the walls. She went up to look at one of them.

“Why, that’s really charming – quite extraordinarily good.”

“It ought to be; it’s by Fragonnard – one of his best.”

The speaker was John Eva; It seemed that he was to wait on them, assisted by a black-haired girl, with oval face and olive skin, typically Cornish. He called her Phoebe. Talbot remembered what the solicitor had told him – how the household consisted of three of John Eva’s nieces. Probably this was one of them – distinctly a pretty girl. More than once through the meal he caught her looking at him in a way which made him wonder what was passing through the young woman’s mind. When Eva observed her glances the expression which came on his face doubtless made it clear to her that he resented them. Talbot was pretty sure that a comedy was being played by the uncle and the niece to which he would have liked to have had the key.

“By Fragonnard, is it,” remarked the lady, as she took her place at the table. “Your uncle had good taste – that is, if he was responsible for all this. It’s one of the most delightful rooms I’ve seen for quite a time. There’s nothing in it which isn’t a comfort to the eye.”

Although the words were addressed to her husband, Eva chose to take them as if they had been intended for him. His face relaxed into a grim smile.

“The things in this room are worth thousands of pounds; they’ve come from all sorts of people, and places. There is nothing here which isn’t as good of its kind as it can be. These plates on which I’m serving you the soup, were once in the Vatican at Rome. More than one pope has eaten off them. There’s the Papal arms on each; you’ll recognize them if you know anything about that sort of thing. These plates are worth a small fortune.”

The man’s manner was peculiar; surly, yet deferential; familiar, yet respectful.

“Come from the Vatican, do they? Are they in daily use, such precious plates; or are they brought out tonight for our special benefit?”

“Mr. Reginald Talbot wouldn’t have anything on his table that wasn’t pretty nearly priceless. There are some of the finest dinner services in the world in this house. If he wasn’t using this one, he’d have been using another which was just as valuable.”

“How do you know they come from the Vatican?”

The question was asked by Mr. Talbot. Eva looked across at him, sudden fire in his eyes, as if he resented both the inquiry and the quarter from which it came.

“I do know. I’ve the history of pretty nearly everything in this house at my fingers’ ends, and, if needs be, I could give you chapter and verse for it.”

“What’s the story of these particular plates. How did they come from the Vatican – to my uncle?”

“In the same way in which many other things did.”

“And what way was that?”

“That’s a question which just now I’m not prepared to answer.”

Husband and wife exchanged glances. The lady smiled. The old man’s tone said, plainly, that so far as he was concerned the subject was closed. The hint was taken. Mr. Talbot asked no more questions. The meal was a good one; if it had been prepared by Mrs. Eva, then she was an excellent cook. It would seem that the late Mr. Talbot liked good food as well as good everything else.

“Will you have your coffee in here?” asked Eva, when they had finished.

They said they would. Eva and his niece departed, leaving them to enjoy their dessert; which was as good as the rest of the dinner.

“Peaches in February – and such peaches as these.” The lady held one of them up, which, as far as its exterior went, was as fine a specimen of its kind as might be desired. “Was your uncle a magician, and is this an enchanted palace. I never had a better dinner in my life, or one which was more exquisitely served, and cooked.”

“I’m with you there; somebody in the house works wonders. If this is the sort of meal which he was in the habit of having every night, my uncle must have done himself uncommonly well, few men better.”

“He’s an oddity, your Mr. Eva. Did you believe his story about the plates that came from the Vatican?”

“I’m beginning to find myself in the mood to believe in anything. I’m quite expecting to find that this house is the abode of mystery. I don’t know much about such matters, but I have eyes, and – a modicum of common sense. Look at that dish on which those peaches are; it’s solid gold; and mark the workmanship; that was done by an artist. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that that was the work of a great goldsmith, and that it came from some place almost as famous as the Vatican. But this room gives me the feeling that I’m in a sort of museum. Haven’t you noticed that there’s nothing which suggests that it’s been in the possession of the Talbot family for long? Mr. Reginald Talbot must have been a collector of quite a curious kind.”

The lady laughed. It was to be observed that while he seemed full of thought, she was in the highest spirits, and disposed to see a jest in everything.

“I think it’s all delightful. The first thing tomorrow I’m going over the whole house; I’ll examine the collection; that is, if we’re to be allowed to remain the night. It looks as though we were; though, at one time, I didn’t think we were even going to be allowed to enter; but as now they’ve given me a most comfortable bedroom, with the most marvellous bed in it – I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that it came out of the Quirinal; it reminds me of those beautifully carved Spanish beds I’ve read about; and I’m supposed to sleep in it; and, as that’s the case, I’m beginning to feel more hopeful. Yet I can’t help feeling that nothing would please that nice man, Eva, better than that we should spend the night – anywhere but at the Monks.”

“Have no fears on that score; Mr. Eva and I have already got half way towards an understanding; we’ll be all the way before very long. They have given you a comfortable room?”

“Comfortable is scarcely the word – it’s superb. It was meant for you. I can’t understand these people. How was it that, although you told them in your wire that I was coming, they were so convinced I wasn’t, and, not only made no preparation, but were so astounded to see me when I did come?”

“Madame, I don’t understand them either; that’s the task we have in front of us – to understand all sorts of things.”

She was silent; her whole attention seem centred on the peach she was eating. When she spoke, although she still smiled, her tone had changed; it was pitched in a lower key.

“I shall have to understand you.”

“Do you think you’ll find that difficult?”

“I’m not sure; I didn’t think I should at first; during those first few hours I thought I understood you altogether; which shows how great a simpleton I was; because, now—”

She had left a hiatus at the end of her sentence. He tried to get her to put it in.

“Yes – now? What now?”

“Now – I’ve more than begun to suspect that I don’t understand you even a little bit. Like this house, you’re an abode of mystery.”

“I’ve heard of mysteries which are worth solving.”

“Oh yes, so have I.”

“I hope you find me one of them.”

“Maybe, who knows? I may tell you that I always did like mysteries.”

“Does that mean, that – someday – perhaps, you’ll like me?”

His tone was eager. She rose from her chair with a glance towards him which was part laughter, part something else; perhaps it was a quality in that something else which made his blood move quicker.

“Someday? Who can answer for someday? Let’s hope that tomorrow will be fine. I think if you don’t mind I’ll retire to that wonderful bedroom which I hope is going to be mine, at any rate, for tonight. I’m just a wee bit tired; perhaps it’s the journey from town, and the excitements of the day.”

“May I escort you to the door of your wonderful room?”

“Why of course you can.”

They went up the staircase side by side. At the top she turned to the right, then to the right again, and again to the right.

“You’re sure we’re going the right way? These twists and turns remind me of a maze.”

“Oh, we’re going right enough; and here is the door of the wonderful room.”

She was about to turn the handle when the door opened and the girl, Phoebe, who had helped to wait on them at dinner, came out.

“I’ve been seeing that everything was comfortable. Is there anything I can do for you? I was a lady’s maid before I came here.”

“Thank you; you are very good; but I won’t trouble you – at least tonight.”

The girl, with a slight inclination of her head, moved from them along the passage. The lady commented on her carriage as she went.

“She’s Cornish. See how well she holds herself; I noticed her at dinner. Most of the Cornish girls are like that – they need no drilling to get them to keep their shoulders down and their heads well up. Thank you for your escort. Would you like to see the room before you go?”

“If I may have a peep at it.”

She led the way in. He examined the apartment with what seemed an almost curiously inquisitive eye.

“It’s large enough.”

“It is – largish. I shall feel lost in it; but – I’ll get used to that. One thing, there are plenty of lights, and plenty of everything; and – that’s something. What I’m wondering is – it is such a very big house – does anyone else sleep near me?”

“My own room is just round the corner here. I’ll keep watch and ward over you; any change you would like to have made, shall be made in the morning.”

“Thank you; if, in the morning, we’re not sent packing. It’s nice of you to take so much trouble to see that I am comfy. Good night.”

“Good night.”

They did not shake hands; he bowed, and left the room. When he had gone, she remained standing just where he had left her, staring at the closed door, almost as if she resented its being closed, and hoped it would be opened again.

“He’s very slow at taking a hint; but perhaps he doesn’t want to; but, in that case, I don’t see what I’m doing here, or – or why he brought me. I don’t call this being married.”

The gentleman was pursuing quite a different train of thought as he moved along the passage.

“Confound John Eva! I shouldn’t wonder if that’s the very room in which the old man died. I didn’t dare to hint at it to her, but – I shouldn’t wonder. The look of that great bed gave me the creeps. I thought of what Wilson said – of the old man being found on it, dead, with his face turned towards the wall, and his finger still feeling for the push piece of the electric bell. If it should be haunted! I’ve a mind to invent some excuse, and get her to come out of it, and take my room instead. But I doubt if she’d come unless I gave her adequate reasons; that I’d rather be excused from doing.”

He’d arrived at the end of the passage. He paused to look about him.

“I said my room was just round the corner; but it evidently isn’t. I’m hanged if I know where it is; this place is like a rabbit warren. There’s someone coming; Phoebe again. She’s turning down some other passage; that won’t do. Hi! young woman!”

The girl disappeared; but, when he hailed her, she returned.

“Can you tell me where my bedroom is?”

She pointed along the passage down which she had apparently just now come.

“It’s the third door on the right, sir.”

Without waiting for him to speak, she disappeared again. By the time he had reached the point at which she had been, there was nothing to be seen of her.

“Now, where’s she got to? This is a rabbit warren. Tomorrow I’ll explore the place from roof to cellar. I’d like to know what kind of house it is I’m in; it strikes me that there’s a good deal in this house that’s quite worth knowing. Third door on the right, she said? I seem to remember this passage; ah, here it is.”

The room which he had entered was a smaller one than that in which he had left the lady; yet it was sufficiently large. He looked about him.

“The resemblance to a curiosity shop is as strong as ever; none of these things strike one as being family heirlooms of the Talbots. They look, somehow, as if they had been gathered from all quarters of the world. What’s this?”

He had crossed to where a table stood, about the centre of the room. On it was an oblong blue envelope. He took it up. Not only was it sealed in two places at the back, but a piece of tape had been passed all round it, and attached by other seals to the envelope. There was writing on the front of it.

“This envelope is to be given to Percival Talbot, if he ever has courage enough to set foot in the Monks.”

This was written in the upper left-hand corner. Below, in the corner on the right, was something else.

“To Percival Talbot. Examine this envelope closely. If either of the seals has been broken, or show signs of having been tampered with, twist John Eva’s neck – if you have grit enough – before he twists yours.”

He read both these intimations several times over, as if to make sure that nothing had escaped him.

“I wonder how this envelope got here; and what that young woman has had to do with it. Phoebe, John Eva called her. All through dinner I felt that she was taking an interest of rather a singular kind in me. I wonder if she’s going to turn out to be a friend in the enemy’s camp? There should be something notable inside this envelope. Whose is the writing? Clear, but crabbed. I’ve never seen it before.”

He was turning the envelope over, and round and round. As he did so he examined the seals, one by one.

“I don’t see how I can investigate them much more closely, unless I use a microscope; and, without its aid, I’m prepared to maintain that they’ve none of them been tampered with. Now, they are going to be broken – by Percival Talbot. This will be a memorable moment. Who’s guessing what’s inside?”

He had torn open one end, and was peering, with a quizzical smile, at what it might contain.

“There seems to be nothing but a single sheet of paper. Is it a codicil to a will? Or is it a charge which has been laid upon me? Am I to perform some deed of derring do before I am to be allowed to come into what is my own? Or – is some great secret about to be unfolded? Here goes! Mysterious enclosure, out you come.”

The “mysterious enclosure” took the form of half a sheet of ordinary commercial letter paper. On it were seven words. On the top, in one line, three, “THE ROBBER’S CAVE.” Two or three inches below, on the second line, two more, “OPEN SESAME.” A little further below, his own surname, in capitals, with a division between each, thus: “P-E-R-C-I-V-A-L.” At the foot of the page was a single word, “Noon.” He was to be excused if, the more he stared, the greater his bewilderment became.

“I suppose this does mean something; after all this elaboration and care, and show of mystery, it should mean something, and something really interesting; but – it gravels me. It’s to be given to Percival Talbot, if he’s pluck enough to set his foot inside the Monks; and if any of these sixteen seals – there are sixteen, because I’ve counted them – shows any signs of tampering fingers, he’s to twist John Eva’s neck. Such precautions will infer that the envelope contains a prize. What a prize! This common half sheet of paper, on which there is nothing but such cabalistic intimations. ‘The Robbers’ Cave’ – that sounds like a reference to Ali Baba. They had a cave, those forty thieves. And ‘Open Sesame’ – that was the password by which they entered it. But ‘Percival’ – why Percival, spread out in that pretentious fashion, each letter by itself, as if there were something esoteric about each one. And then, what cryptic significance is to be attached to ‘Noon’? If Phoebe brought this envelope, she ought to know where she got it from, and she may have some glimmer of an idea what it contains; and, if that is so, she ought to have a clearer notion than I have what’s the answer to the riddle. I think, when occasion offers, I’ll talk to Phoebe.”

— XVII —

THE FIRST NIGHT AT THE MONKS

He found himself sitting up in bed, with a sense of having been startled out of sound slumber. Something had roused him. What? He had a muddled impression that it had been some noise. Now, the silence continued unbroken. He strained his ears to listen. All at once, what was that? A tap, tap, tapping, quite close to him. It ceased; where had it come from? He had a feeling that it had been meant for him, as a signal. Again, tap, tap, tap; smartly, three times over. What an idiot he was. Of course, it was someone tapping at the door, at the panel of his bedroom door.

“Who’s there?”

To his own ears his voice sounded strangely in the darkness. No one replied; the tapping had stopped. What did it mean.

“Who is that at the door?”

Again no answer, but the tapping came again, three times again, louder than before; and someone cried, in tones which seemed to render the darkness hideous—

“Take care.”

It was a cry of warning. In an instant he was out of bed; in another he was at the door, in the passage without. There was no one there. But he heard the sound of footsteps running. Someone was running at top speed along a corridor close at hand. He called out.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

No answer; but he still heard the steps, going farther and farther away; then – what was that? Voices. Whose? Raised in anger, one of them in fear. Then a clanging sound, as if the closing of a heavy door. Was that a woman’s scream?

He got back into his bedroom, now wide awake, all his senses on the alert.

“Where the deuce is that electric light. I thought it was on this side of the door.”

He found the clip, and switched it on. Matters wore a different aspect in the light. Darkness changes the face of things. His door was still open; the light streamed out into the passage.

“If the kind friend who tapped at my door is somewhere in the neighbourhood, he – or she – will see that light, and know that at least I’m wide awake.”

He stepped back into the passage. All seemed quiet again; but as he listened he began to perceive that the silence was only superficial. He could hear something. Was it someone moving? That was a voice – more than one. A cry! – as of someone in pain, or terror, or both. That cry brought him to the sticking point. He went back into the bedroom, donned a dressing-gown, and a pair of slippers, then looked about him for something else. There was a revolver. The feeling had been so strong upon him that he was amidst queer surroundings, in which anything might happen, that he had placed it on the little cupboard beside his bed, so that it might be ready to hand. He slipped it into his pocket. There was a question of light. The house outside his room was black. There were, no doubt, switches somewhere which had only to be touched to make the corridors radiant with electric light, but he had not a notion where. He had no candle in his room. He would have to find his way as best he could in the darkness. He might come across one of the switches as he went.

He was out in the passage. The sounds came from the left. A dozen steps brought him to a place where the passages crossed; there was blackness on every hand. He might easily lose his bearings, in the darkness, in that great rambling house, there was nothing easier. In that case, what should he do? It would hardly be dignified if he had to make a hubbub, and arouse the household in order to call attention to his plight.

Again – a noise. Footsteps, voices – he could hear them distinctly, they were not far from him – on his right. He plunged into the darkness, all but crashing into a wall. He felt his way along it, moving less rapidly. There was a break in the wall, the door of a room; after an interval, another; he passed three or four. He came to what was apparently the end of that passage. There seemed to be another again upon his right. The sounds were more audible – there was a light. It was another passage, he could see right down it, to where a light was being home along what was probably another at the end. He quickened his pace, reached the end as the light vanished. Its disappearance confused him. He did not know where he was, was not sure even of the direction in which his own room lay. What had become of the light? It had come from the corridor which was now on his left. He began to feel his way along it in the hope that it might come again.

What was that? Voices – close to his hand. He stood still. Beyond a doubt they were close. And he saw something – a thin pencil of light on the ground. He understood. He was standing by a door, the light shone under it, the owners of the voices were within. It did occur to him, then, that he was probably on a wild goose chase after all! that, perhaps, nothing remarkable was taking place. It might be Mr. and Mrs. Eva’s bedroom on the other side of that door. He would cut a pretty figure should one of them come out and find him there, playing, as it seemed, the eavesdropper. The suspicion with which the man already regarded him would be strengthened, with reason.

None the less, he would have to do something. He really did not think that, in the darkness, he would be able to find his way back to his own room unaided. He hesitated, listening, as it were unwittingly. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Eva who were speaking; the voices which were audible on the other side of the door were men’s. If there was a woman with them, she was still. It was ridiculous, his standing there, mumchance, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Stretching out his hand, finding the handle of the door, he turned it; it yielded; the door opened; he entered the room.

“Who the Satan’s that?”

He recognized the voice, it was John Eva’s. He was standing by a table; close to him was another man, who looked as if he had lately come out of the open air. He wore a heavy overcoat; a scarf was wound round his neck; he had not troubled to remove his dark cloth cap. Not unnaturally, both men stared at him with all the signs of surprise. Each had a hand in a pocket. Mr. Talbot would have been prepared to wager a trifle that in each pocket was something of the nature of a gun. It was he who broke the silence.

“Eva, who is this – gentleman? Is it your custom to receive visitors at this hour of the night?”

His question did not tend, seemingly, to diminish Mr. Eva’s sensation of surprise. He glowered at the newcomer as if he owed him an apology, and had not the slightest right to ask him such a question.

“You are the limit, my God, you are! Coming in like this, and then asking me a thing like that; what business is it of yours who I receive, and when?”

“You’ll find that it is very much my business; clearly, you and I are still very far from a perfect understanding. I have asked you who this gentleman is, who enters my house like a thief, at dead of night; if you don’t answer me, I shall have to get an answer from him. Once more, who is he?”

The man referred to had removed his cap, as if in deference to the newcomer’s presence. He was clearly not easy in his mind. He addressed himself, in a low voice, to Eva.

“Excuse me, Mr. Eva, but who is this gentleman?”

Eva looked at the speaker, then at the tall figure in the dressing-gown. Although it could not be said that he went so far as to smile, yet it would seem, from a twitching about the corners of his lips, as if he saw something in the situation which struck him as comic.

“Allow me to introduce you two gentlemen to each other. You ought to know each other. I shouldn’t wonder if, after a fashion, you’re both in the same line of business.” He jerked his thumb towards the newcomer; and this time he did grin, but it was not agreeably; he spoke to the man beside him. “This is – the new master of the Monks; the old gentleman’s nephew, Mr. Percival Talbot. And this, Mr. Talbot, is – a party of the name of Johnson; an old – I think, Mr. Johnson, I might say, friend of the old gentleman?”

Mr. Johnson was wiping his mouth with the back of his cap, as if he did not quite know what to make of the speaker’s manner.

“You certainly might say friend, Mr. Eva; the old gentleman wasn’t a bad friend to me, in his way; and I’m sure I’ve always been a good friend to him.”

“As well as customer, eh Johnson?”

“We certainly did do one or two little deals together, the old gentleman and me; good customers, I should say, we were, the one of the other.”

“There’s not a doubt of that, Mr. Johnson. You – have been very good customers, as you put it, the one of the other, you and the old gentleman. This, Mr. Percival Talbot, is Mr. Johnson, of – we’ll say, of London.”

“Yes, you might say of London.”

Mr. Johnson was still drawing the back of his cap across his lips, as it were, furtively, as if he did not at all know what he was doing. He still did not convey the impression of being at his ease.

“As well – as of other addresses.”

“Of course, there have been other addresses, at times, here and there; you can’t always keep to the same address.”

“It’s not easy, especially in your line of business.” Plainly, Mr. Eva was enjoying himself; his whole countenance suggested humorous appreciation. “Seeing, Mr. Talbot, that Mr. Johnson was an old friend, and an old customer, of – your late uncle, I dare say he might like to be the same with you, if agreeable to you. That would suit you, Johnson, wouldn’t it?”

“Down to the ground, right down to the very ground; nothing would suit me better, nothing in this world, if it would be agreeable to Mr. Talbot. You’d find me a very good customer, Mr. Talbot, a very good customer indeed, and always fair, and square, and open, and above board, same as the old gentleman did. You ask Mr. Eva here.”

“I’m obliged to you, Mr. Johnson, but – you’re a little beyond me. In what sense were you a customer of my uncle, and my uncle a customer of yours?”

“Oh, in a good many senses, Mr. Talbot, lots of different kinds of senses. You ask Mr. Eva here.”

“That is perfectly right, Mr. Johnson, you were. Your uncle’s old friend, Mr. Talbot, has come here on business tonight at great personal inconvenience to himself.”

“Oh yes, it was inconvenient, decidedly inconvenient; but I can’t study my convenience when it comes – to friendship and business, and that; can’t afford to, no, I can’t afford to.”

The speaker drew himself up with what was probably meant to be a jaunty air; as a jaunty air it was a failure. There was something about Mr. Johnson which it was impossible to associate with jauntiness. Mr. Talbot spoke again.

“Yet – I am at sea. Business? – at this time of night? Was this the hour at which you used to do business with my uncle?”

“Always, Mr. Talbot, always about this time.”

“What kind of business were you in the habit of doing with my uncle in the small hours of the morning?”

Pressed for a direct answer Mr. Johnson did not seem to find it easy to give one; one felt that indirectness was bred in him.

“Well, Mr. Eva, perhaps you might be able to tell Mr. Talbot better than I can. I – that is, Mr. Talbot, I – I never was much of a dab – when it came to talking. You tell Mr. Talbot, you tell him, Mr. Eva, you’d do it so much better than I should.”

Thus exhorted, Mr. Eva did his best; but, even in the face of Mr. Johnson’s compliments, he did not seem to find it exactly easy. He reached the point by a way of his own.

“Your uncle – was a large buyer of curiosities; as I hinted to you when you were at table; of valuable curiosities, of all sorts and kinds. Nothing, that was really worth having, the old gentleman wasn’t willing to make an offer for. He’s bought one or two trifles, that way, from Mr. Johnson; hasn’t he?”

“Oh, a good many things he’s bought from me, oh, a good many; not always at what I thought was quite a fair price. He was a hard man, very hard, and – I’m bound to say it, Mr. Eva, cruel, the old gentleman was; he liked to be cruel, the old gentleman did, you know he did.”

“I know he had one or two little jests with you, Johnson.”

“Jests, you call them; and little! My God! Well, he’s gone, and – and so we’ll let them things be. Go on, Mr. Eva; you – you talk to Mr. Talbot.”

“One or two rather interesting items the old gentleman bought from Mr. Johnson, at what he thought was a fair price.”

“Oh, Mr. Eva! Mr. Eva! Now – a fair price! Oh, Mr. Eva!”

The speaker held up both his hands, as if in protest against John Eva’s imputation. Mr. Talbot interposed; as if he found them long-winded.

“Can’t either of you men speak plainly; what’s all this you’re trying to hide under a cloud of words? Eva, you speak of my uncle buying what you call curiosities from a man like this. What kind of curiosities do you mean?”

“Well, Mr. Johnson has brought one or two with him tonight, of the same kind.”

Talbot had been conscious that there was something on the table by which the two men were standing; something which, it would seem, had been taken out of a coarse canvas bag, and which now reposed on the top of it. What the something was Eva proceeded to make clear. It consisted of more than one item.

“Do you know anything about necklaces, Mr. Talbot? because, if you do, here are one or two which you might find worth looking at. In their way they are, I believe, what you might call unique.”

Mr. Johnson eagerly thrust in his word. “Oh, they are, they certainly are; they’re the finest in the world of their kind; as I ought to know.”

“As Mr. Johnson said, he ought to know; it’s his business to know a good deal about this kind of thing.”

“It is, Mr. Eva, you’re right there, it is; and, though I say it as perhaps shouldn’t, in my line of business there’s no one can touch me, I don’t care whether it’s in Europe or anywhere.”

“There are four necklaces here, Mr. Talbot, one, rubies; two, emeralds; three, pearls; four, quite a nice string of diamonds. Here they are, Mr. Talbot, as I said, you’ll find them quite worth looking at.”

From the index finger of his right hand four gleaming circlets were suspended. Mr. Talbot, advancing, took them from him. He examined them, moving close to the electric light to enable him to see them better.

“These are remarkably fine necklaces.”

“Remarkably is the word – they are. The diamonds aren’t bad, but the pearls are better, and the emeralds better still – emeralds are strong in the market just now.”

“Very strong, Mr. Eva, very strong indeed, emeralds are; and the price of them rising every day. You couldn’t get an emerald necklace like that, at the present moment, not for love or money.”

Disregarding Mr. Johnson’s interpolation, Mr. Eva went on; there was a gleam in his eyes as if he were treating of a theme which really did appeal to him. “But the rubies, Mr. Percival Talbot – that’s the necklace. The old gentleman had a special taste for rubies; he liked the colour. He said that the proper ruby was of the hue of the blood which lies nearest to the heart. And then, while if they were all put on the market – that might, and that’s waiting, to be put – there’d be a glut of diamonds; there’s no fear that it will ever be like that with rubies – not of really fine stones. Those chaps at Kimberley have got safes filled with some of the finest diamonds that ever came out of Africa. They daren’t try to sell them, because, if they did, down would go the market. But there’s no one in the world has got even so much as a small waistcoat-pocket full of rubies – worth calling rubies. You might search the world over, and you wouldn’t find another lot to match that lot which you’ve got there. It’s not a question of price, they’re not to be had.”

“One would think, Eva, to hear you talk, that Mr. Johnson is a friend of yours, as well as of my late uncle’s.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Isn’t it pretty obvious? You say he’s come here to sell. Is it policy for the buyer to extol to the seller’s face the value of the goods which are being offered? Does anyone do it who is not a particular friend of the seller?”

“I see what you mean; you’re talking of what you don’t understand. If that wasn’t first-rate stuff he wouldn’t dare to show his face with it here. He has brought one or two doubtful parcels in his time; and the old gentleman didn’t omit to let him know it, did he, Mr. Johnson?”

Mr. Johnson looked as if he were afflicted by singularly unpleasant recollections.

“He was – oh, he was a beauty, he was. I don’t want to say anything against the old gentleman to you, Mr. Talbot, but he was a fair old devil – that’s what he was.”

“If you describe him correctly, Mr. Johnson, I don’t understand why you should have continued to deal with him.”

Mr. Johnson seemed as if he were not quite willing to make it clear how that was so.

“Well, you see, the fact is – there aren’t many about, not with his command of money; he’d bushels of it – bushels; barrels full; he was full to bursting with money, the old gentleman was. You don’t often come across a party with coin like he had, with, what you might call, tastes like he had.”

“And, by tastes, you mean—”

“Well – who’d care to deal with chaps like me for – for goods like I have to offer; and, mind you, my goods are goods, they are.”

John Eva proceeded to throw light on Mr. Johnson’s somewhat cryptic remarks.

“It comes to this. Johnson can’t set his own price on what he’s got to sell; he’s got to take what we choose to give him. When he was offered a good thing the old gentleman was the first to admit it; but it didn’t follow that he was going to pay a fancy price for it on that account; not he – it was all the other way. The fact, for instance, that there’s not another ruby necklace like that in the world, makes the market for it limited. The old gentleman wouldn’t give its value for it – nothing like it; Johnson, here, knows that; he’s reason to. But he also knows that he’d give more than anybody else would, and knowing that, from experience – hard experience, sometimes; for once or twice he did try to place his goods elsewhere; that’s what made him keep on being the good customer he and the old gentleman were to each other. I say again, that that’s one of the finest ruby necklaces in the world; and yet I’m no particular friend of Johnson’s; he’ll tell you it’s rather the other way; and, though I do say it, my saying so won’t benefit him, because, you see, he’ll have to take what he can get. He’s an illustration of the proverb, that beggars can’t be choosers.”

“It occurs to me, gentlemen, that there’s some confusion of thought in your ideas of what constitutes a good customer.”

This was Mr. Talbot. About his little speech there was what seemed to’ strike the two men in front of him as being a flavour of something which was a trifle unpleasant. Eva replied; surliness taking the place of what for him had been enthusiasm.

“How do you mean? Do you think you could teach me how to work my business, or the old gentleman either?”

“I’m more than inclined to think that I could teach you several things. How did these necklaces come into your possession, Mr. Johnson?”

The question, and the tone of it, seemed to take the gentleman addressed by surprise – uncomfortably. He seemed to be searching about for a satisfactory answer.

“In the – in the – oh, just in the ordinary – ordinary way of business.”

“And what might you call the ordinary way of business? I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Johnson, that I don’t like your looks at all; you don’t impress me as being the kind of person who is likely to be in the possession of such gems as these – except in the extraordinary way. Answer my question at once, sir, and explicitly. How did you become possessed of these jewels?”

Mr. Johnson seemed to like the speaker’s tone and manner less and less. His discomposure visibly increased.

“Really, Mr. Talbot, really.” At that point he stopped short, turning to Eva as if for aid. “You know, Mr. Eva, I don’t quite follow what this gentleman means. I didn’t come here to be asked questions of that kind. I didn’t come here to be asked questions at all. It’s always been my motto, as between gentlemen, that no questions were to be asked. Perhaps you’d talk to Mr. Talbot instead of me. I don’t quite know what he’s driving at – straight, I don’t.”

Eva glanced towards the distressed speaker oddly. With astonishing suddenness, considering his age and build, he moved towards Talbot. In an instant, without giving the slightest warning of his intention, he had whipped the necklaces out of that gentleman’s unresisting hand. With at least equal rapidity Mr. Talbot followed him as he retreated.

“You scoundrel! ” he exclaimed. “Where are you? What infernal trick is this?”

The moment the spoil had been snatched from him, even while he still felt Eva’s hand against his, the room had been plunged into darkness. As he moved forward all that he grasped was the empty air. He felt about him wildly, on either hand, to find nothing, and no one, within his reach. There was a sound as of someone moving across the room; he made a dash in its direction, to go crashing into the table, which, propelled by the violence of his onslaught, went skidding on well-oiled casters across the floor, while he went smashing, head foremost, on the ground. By the time he had picked himself up he had no doubt that he was alone. A door had been shut as he fell. He felt something on the carpet at his side.

“A matchbox, by all that’s holy – and matches in it. That’s the first stroke of luck I’ve had tonight.”

He struck one. By its light he saw that, as he had expected, the room was empty. Under cover of the darkness the pair had vanished. They had taken their booty with them; there was not a visible trace either of the canvas bag or of the necklaces.

“Now what shall I do; raise the house, or take a beating?” There was a switch of the electric light quite close to him; he clicked it on.

“Between them, they did that smartly. I ought to have been prepared; it was my simplicity. I didn’t expect an adventure of this sort would mark the first night spent in my family mansion – a family mansion, with a vengeance, it seems to be.”

Crossing to the door he opened it. “They haven’t locked me in and made me a prisoner. I take it they were so sure of giving me the slip that they didn’t think it mattered. I think that, on the whole, the best thing I had better do is to go back to my room, which I may be able to find with the assistance of this box of matches. Tomorrow, or some tomorrow, I’ll have a talk with Eva – a big talk it will be when it does come off.”

It was not altogether easy to discover the whereabouts of his bedroom, even with the assistance of the matches; he would have found it still harder had it not been for the fact that, on quitting it, he had not only left the electric light turned on, but also the door open. On reaching the end of the proper passage its whereabouts were unmistakable. He passed into it, and closed the door behind him.

“Thank goodness, I’m here at last! I don’t remember to have ever welcomed a bedroom more. What’s this?”

He was taking off his dressing gown when he saw that there was a piece of paper on his pillow. When he picked it up he found that on it, in rude letters which imitated print, as if they were the work of someone with whom calligraphy was not the strongest point, were four words:

“Your uncle was murdered.”

— XVIII —

THE WICKET GATE

The next morning was ushered in by sunshine. There was the promise of one of those delicious days which are not unknown in Cornwall, even at the beginning of March. Mr. and Mrs. Talbot met at breakfast, which was served in the same room in which they had dined. The lady was already in it when her husband entered. She was standing at the window looking out upon the grounds.

“How beautiful it all seems to be outside. Directly I’ve had breakfast I’m going exploring.”

“Indoors, or out?”

“What a question to ask on a day like this, after the apologies for weather we’ve had in town. Rain and fog, and oceans of that oily black slush which is peculiar to London. Out of doors first, if you don’t mind; and, afterwards, I’ll explore the house?”

“May I come with you?”

“If you would like to I should be very pleased.”

“I should like; thank you. Did you sleep well?”

“I believe I fell asleep directly my head was on the pillow, and stayed asleep until a maid knocked at my door to inform me that it was half-past eight, and to ask at what time I would like breakfast.”

She looked as if she had slept well; she was a picture of radiant health, and youth, and beauty. Her night had been undisturbed. It was clear that he need not ask her if it had been. Again John Eva waited at table, assisted by a different maid; she was shorter and stouter than Phoebe; but though she seemed duller and more countryfied, the family likeness was so strong as to suggest that she was her sister. He called her Faith.

Nothing in the man’s manner, as he handed Mr. Talbot the various dishes, hinted at the adventure of the night. He could not have been more unconscious of it had it altogether escaped his memory. On his part, Talbot said nothing, and showed nothing either. There was one moment in which his eyes met the man’s, and while they met, a message went from one to the other; with that exception their relation to each other could not have been of a more commonplace kind. There were letters on the table, and papers.

“So the post is in; it does come to this part of the world; and fairly early, it would seem.”

It was at that moment that the men’s glances crossed, and that the message was transmitted.

“The Plymouth papers are today’s; the London papers yesterday’s, and there’s the Evening Standard of yesterday afternoon. I thought – Mrs. Talbot might like to see them.”

“Mrs. Talbot would like to see them, thank you, Eva.”

The lady tore open the wrappers. “I ought to have read yesterday’s papers, but I didn’t. Somehow I never can read with comfort when in a train.”

She began to read the Daily Telegraph there and then, propping it up in front of her so that she might be able to eat and read both at the same time. There were three or four letters for the gentleman, two of which he seemed to find of interest. One was from Mr. Wilson, the senior partner of Messrs. Wilson and Skaines; the other was from Italy; it seemed to interest him more than the other. The letter itself was typewritten; it was from an address in the Via Garibaldi, Messina.

Sir,

In compliance with your instructions I have had careful search made for John Barry. He was not among those injured or killed by the destruction of the Hotel Trinacria.

As he read this, Mr. Talbot glanced quickly towards the lady, as if startled, and as if anxious to learn if she was observing him. He had no ground for anxiety on that score, she was buried in her paper. He read on, with an absorbed interest which seemed scarcely justified by the formal words.

The register has been found containing the visitors’ names. I find, by it, that he occupied room 124, and you No. 12 5. I note that the same person signed for both. Both rooms were, to all intents and purposes, utterly destroyed. Your escape, uninjured, appears miraculous. Mr. John Barry could hardly have been so fortunate. It appears, however, that he was not in his room at the time of the shock. The night porter, who is among the saved, distinctly remembers his going out. He says that Mr. Barry came into the hall about two a.m. and asked him to let him out. The porter did as he requested him. The porter adds that he never returned; he would have known it if he had, as it would have been his duty to open the door. Where he went the porter has no notion. He said nothing which could give the man an insight into his intentions.

There is, I must add, this curious fact about the porter’s statement: he maintains that it was you for whom he opened the door, and not for Mr. Barry. Of course, in the face of what you tell me, the facts are against the man. It must have been Mr. Barry who went out, and the man must be mistaken. This is the more remarkable since you had been in the hotel several days, and the porter was, therefore, familiar with your identity, while Mr. John Barry had only been there a few hours, and must, consequently, have been a stranger to the man. I can only suppose that Mr. Barry resembles you in some degree, and that that accounts for the porter’s error.

What became of Mr. John Barry, after he had quitted the hotel at that early hour of the morning there is nothing to show. I fear that though he escaped destruction in the hotel Trinacria, he found it elsewhere. The most rigorous search has resulted in nothing which throws light upon his fate. At the same time, it should not be concluded that there is no hope of a fortunate sequel. The search is being continued, and I have given instructions to various agents which may result in a favourable report at any moment.

I am, sir, your obedient servant,

Thomas Grimley

The lady still read her paper, oblivious of the fact that, not content with a single perusal, Mr. Talbot read Mr. Grimley’s communication a second time, with, if possible, a greater show of interest even than before. It might have contained a puzzle which he was as anxious, as he was unable, to find out. He communed with himself when, having at last laid the letter down, he returned to the consideration of food upon his plate.

“Went out, did he? That must have been – afterwards. When he was probably drunk – drunker even than when I left him. He must have been in a pretty state. No wonder the porter knew him, he had probably seen him like that before. The question now is: Where did he go, and what became of him? That early morning escapade of his gives the position quite a different aspect.”

He was disturbed in his communing by an exclamation from the lady.

“What do you think! The Tarbet jewels have been stolen!”

“Have they? And, pray, what are the Tarbet jewels?”

“What are the Tarbet jewels? Do you mean to say that you don’t know? Why, the Countess of Tarbet is a sort of cousin of mine; and as for the Tarbet jewels, they’re a tradition. The Tarbet necklaces! Do you mean to say you’ve never heard of them?”

John Eva had been standing at the sideboard, giving some instructions to the maid. When the lady first exclaimed, he brought his instructions to a close; as if, instead of speaking, he preferred to listen.

“Here’s all about them in The Telegraph – more than a column. I thought everyone had heard of the Tarbet necklaces: there are four of them – four famous ones; that is – diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and rubies. They are all quite wonderful; but I always understood that the ruby necklace is the finest in the world, there are all sorts of stories told about the way in which the stones of which it consists were brought together. I have been told that people were engaged in looking out for them in different parts of the world for more than fifty years; and now, it’s stolen; and the emeralds, and pearls, and diamonds too. Mr. Eva! What are you trying to do?”

It seemed as if John Eva were trying to snatch the newspaper out of her hands; as if unable to restrain himself any longer he had come hurriedly across the room, with a seeming intention of taking it from her with or without her consent. Only the quickness with which she moved it aside prevented him from laying hands on it. Mr. Talbot, springing to his feet, had advanced to the lady’s side; but before he got there the episode was already closed. For an instant it had seemed that Eva was resolved to have the paper from her yet. Then, as if suddenly changing his mind, he swung round and left the room almost at a run. Mr. Talbot, who had not yet spoken a word, stood close to his wife’s side staring at the door through which the man had fled. It was the lady who spoke.

“Is – really, it is a very curious house – is that person mad?”

“There or thereabouts.”

“What was he trying to do? Did you see? He actually tried to snatch the paper from my hands. What could have made him do a thing like that? Was he all at once possessed?”

“I should imagine he frequently is. There will have to be changes in this house, my lady. It’s very much a bachelor’s establishment, just at present.”

“Do bachelor’s servants often behave like that? If they do they must have more singular establishments even than is generally supposed.”

“My uncle was a bachelor of a very singular kind. All that will be altered when I’ve got my footing. It promises to be difficult going just at first.”

“Evidently. Do you think it was what I was saying about the Tarbet necklaces which started him off like that?”

“Who knows! The man’s a crank, and, I fancy, something worse. He’ll have to be dealt with shortly. I don’t know if you’ve finished breakfast, but, if so, I should like a mouthful of air.”

As he spoke he was folding up the letter from Mr. Grimley and placing it in the breast-pocket of his jacket. The lady rose from her chair.

“Mr. Eva can have the paper if he wants it, and all the others as well.”

“Thank you, I think not.”

Mr. Talbot took up the paper which the lady had laid upon the table, placing it with the others, as if he purposed retaining them in his keeping. His wife was moving towards the window.

“Can’t we get out this way? I suppose the window will open; and it’s the shortest road.”

Her husband proved that it would open by opening it.

“I don’t want a hat,” she said as she stepped on to the terrace without, “or a coat, or a wrap, or anything – I just want air. Ah, this is better! Do you know, I find the atmosphere of the Monks a little stifling. I hope it won’t become more trying the longer we stay. Your John Eva seems to be capable of most things. Has he said any more about your not being the person you claim to he. Is he likely to insist on our going today?”

“What John Eva says to me is not of so much importance as what I am about to say to him, as will be presently shown. Isn’t this weather something like? Can’t you feel that the spring is coming?”

It was a delicious morning – dry under foot, clear over head; the warmth of a south wind in the air, or they would not have been able to wander, hatless, wrapless, in thin shoes, here and there as fancy took them. The grounds were extensive. Even at that period of the year, when the trees were leafless, and the grass was bare, they were not unpleasing. They afforded plenty of variety: there were level spaces, ups and downs, nooks which promised when the sun grew stronger to be transformed into bosky dells.

“How large is this estate of yours? And have you any idea in which direction we are going, and where we shall be when we have got there?”

“I am unable to give information on either of those points; but there’s someone ahead there who seems to be observing us somewhat shyly, and who may have the knowledge that I haven’t. Hullo! you there; a word with you, sir, if you please!”

The person he hailed was a young man of perhaps three or four and twenty; of unprepossessing appearance. He had a scar on one side of his face, which looked as if it might have been made with the end of a red hot poker. His nose was either broken or malformed; there was a shifty look in his bloodshot eyes, as if, conscious of his lack of personal charm, he resented its being observed. He carried a heavy stick; he wore corduroy breeches, grey gaiters, a waistcoat fashioned out of some skin. He might have been either a gamekeeper or a poacher.

“Who are you?” inquired Mr. Talbot.

“Sayers, my name is.”

“As you’re probably aware, since you are possibly a servant in my employ, I am Mr. Talbot, your new master. What position do you occupy on my estate?”

The man seemed either unwilling or unable to answer. His explanation was not very lucid when it came.

“I just go about, and – and see to things.”

“Your duties would seem to he of rather an uncertain kind. Can you tell me what is the exact size of the estate?”

“I can’t rightly, but I have heard that there are two or three thousand acres.”

“That sounds a little vague. Which is the nearest gate, and how far is it from here?”

The man’s answer was curious.

“There is no gate – at least, none that you can get through. It’s just as difficult to get out of here as it is to get in; and there’s a few tried to get in as haven’t succeeded.”

“In which direction is the sea?”

“That’s over there – the other side of the gate; leastways, just the other side is Helford River, and that’s salt water, though you have to go maybe half a mile to get to the open sea.”

“On the other side of the gate? I thought you said there was no gate?”

“I said that there was none that you could get through; and nor there ain’t.”

“Why, if there is a gate, can’t I get through it?”

“Because it’s locked.”

“Who has the key?” The man hesitated, as if disinclined to answer. “Have you the key?”

“Not me. I can’t rightly say who has the key, not now, I can’t; but Mr. Eva, I expect he knows.”

“And we can’t get out without applying first to Mr. Eva; and we can’t get over it?”

“Get over it? Why I dare say it’s twelve foot high – all spikes at the top.”

“That doesn’t sound quite practicable for vaulting. And do you mean to say that that is the only way of – getting out of this?”

“There’s what we call the lodge gate, but that’s right on the other side, on the Falmouth Road. There’s only those two gates.”

“But isn’t there a fence we can get over, or a hedge we can get through?”

“What hedges there are – if you call them hedges – are higher than the gates, and the thinnest of them are three or four feet thick, and laced with barbed wires, not more than two or three inches apart, right up to the very top. A cat couldn’t get through, let alone a man; there have been two or three who’ve been well paid out for trying.”

“It sounds very much as if we were in a prison.”

“So you might just as well be, so far as getting out’s concerned. No one ever got into the Monks as wasn’t wanted, and no one ever got out either.”

“Thank you, Sayers. I’ll have a talk with Eva about what seems to me to be his rather odd domestic arrangements.”

They passed on. The lady said, so soon as the man was out of hearing—

“What a very hospitable place this home of yours does seem to be; when the stranger does arrive within the gates, it seems quite likely that he may never he allowed to go out of them again. Look! – your Mr. Eva has called to Mr. Sayers. I shouldn’t be surprised if they’re discussing us. A pretty pair they are. I don’t know to which I am drawn most. Off goes Mr. Eva, and here comes Mr. Sayers hastening after us. What command has Mr. Eva laid upon him?”

John Eva having vanished again down the winding path which twisted and turned among the trees, Sayers came hurrying towards them.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” he exclaimed, while he was still a few feet away, “Mr. Eva’s given me the key. If you like I can let you out, sir – and the lady.”

Mr. Talbot glanced towards his wife, as if to learn her wishes. The proposal seemed to please her.

“I think I should rather like to see what is on the other side of the Monks, since Mr. Eva has been so very kind in the matter of the key.”

“Hand it over; we’ll let ourselves out.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think you’ll be able to do that; it’s a very special kind of lock, as wants understanding. If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll show you how to manage it, if you’ll come this way.”

They followed him down a woodland path. He brought them to one of the most remarkable gates they had ever seen. It was set in a granite wall on either side. Mr. Talbot rapped against it with his knuckles.

“What’s it made of?”

“Steel – all steel; two inches thick.”

There was a small wicket gate set in the larger one, which Sayers was unlocking. He drew it open.

“If you follow the road upon your left,” he explained, “it’ll take you down to Helford River. There’s a ferry on the other side if you want to go across.”

“Thank you, Sayers. The key if you please.”

The lady had already stepped through the wicket gate, and was standing on the other side.

“I’ll open the gate when you come back.”

“I prefer to open it myself. In case you shouldn’t happen to hear me when I return; and I can hardly expect you to hang about here for an indefinite period of time, I should find myself in rather an awkward situation, bearing in mind what you say about the impossibility of getting into the Monks. Come, my man, the key.”

Mr. Talbot was standing close to the wicket. Instead of complying with his request the fellow gave him a sudden push which was plainly intended to send him flying through the gate whether he would or would not. Taken unawares Mr. Talbot stumbled, and was all but forced through the narrow opening. The man’s purpose was frustrated by his own eagerness. Bringing the wicket quickly to, Mr. Talbot’s legs were caught by that part of the main door which was near the ground, before he had time to disengage them, thus forming an effective barrier. He might have suffered very serious injury had it not been for the presence of mind which brought the lady so swiftly to his assistance. She came with all her force against the threatening wicket. It seemed as if Mr. Sayers was taken by surprise in his turn. Endeavouring to get rid of the obstacle caused by Mr. Talbot’s legs with one hand, he had but another with which to retain his hold of the door. The lady’s unlooked-for onslaught drove the wicket backwards in spite of his single hand. Assisting her husband to his feet there ensued a lively twenty seconds or so. The husband and wife proved too much for Mr. Sayers; they not only kept him from shutting the gate, but they succeeded in re-entering the grounds. Recognizing that the game was up, Sayers evinced an inclination to take to his heels, which Mr. Talbot prevented his doing by seizing him by the shoulders, twisting him round like a teetotum, and treating him as he had tried to treat his master. The master, however, had better success than the man. In a remarkably short space of time the wicket was swung to with a clang, Sayers being on one side – the outside – and Mr. and Mrs. Talbot on the other – the inside. Mr. Sayers’ voice was heard without, threatening all kinds of pains and penalties.

“You let me in! D’you hear! You let me in, and quick too! You’ll be made to pay for this You wait!”

Mr. Talbot’s voice replied, suavely.

“I intend to. I also intend that you shall wait – out there I shall be able to prove that what you said was true. If it’s anything like so difficult to get in as you hinted, you’ll never set foot inside the Monks again.”

He turned, heedless of the curses which were hurled at him over the top of the gate. The lady, stooping, picked up something which was lying on the ground. She handed it to the gentleman, who informed Mr. Sayers of the fact.

“I may tell you, for your own personal satisfaction, that the key is not lost – I have it. You were quite right in saying it was a very special kind of key; it looks as if it could be put to various uses. Perhaps John Eva will thank you when he knows you’ve given it to me.”

More curses came over the gate. Judging from the tone of his voice, and the language he used, Mr. Sayers was very angry indeed. The lady spoke.

“There is John Eva. I expect he’s seen everything. I shouldn’t wonder if he was coming to help that – article outside. Now he seems to have decided that discretion is the better part of valour; he’s making off among those trees as fast as his legs will carry him.”

— XIX —

SHUT OUT

“I would remind your ladyship that I warned you that the Monks might not prove to be a very comfortable residence for a lady.”

“I know you did. What then?”

Although they had gone some little distance from the gate, an occasional hint of what sounded very like an abjuration came to them through the sunlit air. The lady put her question to him as if she dared him to answer it. His manner was humbler than hers.

“Only this: that I fear that my anticipations in that direction may prove to fall short of reality.”

“Well, suppose they do; we’ll grant it. What then?” When his answer seemed slow in coming she asked another question. “I suppose I may take it that, in a way, I am your wife, since we were married in a church. Weren’t we married in a church?”

“Of course we were; though it’s been pressing on me more and more every moment since how I may have wronged you in allowing it.”

“In allowing what?”

“In allowing you to – join yourself to such as I am.”

“I’m not going to discuss abstractions; I prefer to deal with facts. I am your wife; Mr. Collins said so; and I’ve always understood that a wife’s place was near her husband; especially during the first week of her having been married. That’s why I’m at the Monks; and, also, that is why I’m going to stay; at least, that is one of the reasons. Another reason is that, while I’ve read about such places – such places as this, I mean – I’ve never been in one before; and, as I’ve often thought I’d like to be, if you turn me out now that I am here – you’ll have to treat me as Mr. Sayers tried to treat you; and if you think that would he the proper way to treat a person whose only fault is that she happens to be your wife, then I can only say that your standard of propriety isn’t mine. Please, sir, mayn’t I stay?”

Turning, she looked at him from under her long lashes with one of those glances which, each time he met them, seemed to set something tingling within him; they seemed even to have on him the singular effect of making him shy; which, in a person of his constitutional self-possession, was remarkable indeed.

“That’s – that’s – rather an unfair way of putting it; when – you must know that there’s nothing I should like better.”

“Than what?”

“Than that you should not leave me.”

“Then why were you about to suggest that I should go. I know you were.”

“For your own sake; not for mine. You don’t know what sort of place it is.”

“I can guess just enough to want to know more. I feel as if it were a sort of enchanted palace, and that your uncle was the magician who lived here.”

“I tell you what I strongly suspect it really is, a den of thieves.”

“Truly? You don’t say so. How delicious!”

“I’ve very grave doubts if we shall either of us find it delicious by the time we’ve done. That paragraph in the paper you were reading about the robbery of the Tarbet jewels, and especially the Tarbet necklaces: do you know why that worthy Mr. Eva was so disturbed when he heard you speak of it, and why he was so anxious to gain possession of the paper?”

“I don’t. Do you? I don’t think you were very nice if you did, because it did seem so mysterious; and while I’m very fond of a mystery, as all properly constituted people are, I do like it to be explained.”

“I couldn’t explain it very well at this moment; and I didn’t intend to explain it now.”

“Thank you, for nothing. I don’t know if you’re of opinion that a husband is entitled to keep the explanation of a mystery hidden from his wife; if you are, I don’t think I am.”

“Somewhere in the middle of the night – to be more precise, about half-past two this morning – the Tarbet necklaces were offered me, on what, I fancy, would have been very advantageous terms, by a gentleman named Johnson.”

“Percival! – I – I – I beg your pardon. I – I mean—”

The lady stopped, apparently in acute distress. Something had caused her cheeks to flame. She was as one brought suddenly to confusion. The gentleman did not offer her the assistance he might have done; instead, he put to her a question which seemed to make her agitation more rather than less.

“Yes – you mean? What, exactly, do you mean? Why have you stopped?”

“I meant – of course, I meant – Mr. Talbot.”

“I don’t see why you should. My name is Percival.”

“No doubt.”

“And I am your husband.”

“And I am your wife.”

“I believe that it’s the general custom for a wife to address her husband by his Christian name.”

“Ours, I fancy, is not a case in which what you call the general custom could be said to apply. However, we won’t discuss that question now. Pray what did you mean by saying that the Tarbet necklaces were offered you at half-past two this morning? Why, when I spoke about their having been stolen, you said that you’d never even heard of them?”

“Nor had I – under that particular name.”

“Then, for the second time, what did you mean be saying that they were offered you by a gentleman named Johnson? And – who’s Johnson?”

“A person, I fear, not of the very best character.”

He told her the story of his having been disturbed in his sleep; of his wandering through the darkened house; of his interview with John Eva and the stranger; of the unexpected fashion with which it had been brought to so abrupt a conclusion. As she listened her wonder plainly grew, and also her bewilderment. When he ceased she broke into a torrent of questions.

“But – I don’t understand. What did it all mean? Why did they turn out the light, and vanish in that mysterious way, and leave you all alone in the darkness. And where did they vanish to? And who was that very mysterious Mr. Johnson? And how can you be sure, since the name was never mentioned, that those were the Tarbet necklaces? And however did they come to be in his hands, if they were?”

“I’m afraid that latter question is only too easily answered. The necklaces were stolen. If Mr. Johnson was not the actual thief, he was an accomplice.”

“Do you actually mean to infer that the man you saw in the middle of the night was the man who stole Emma Tarbet’s jewels? If he was, why ever did he bring them here?”

“In the answer to that question lies the chief reason why I think the Monks may not prove a desirable residence for you.”

“Oh, indeed?” The lady was holding her chin up in the air as if she were quite prepared to differ from his reasons, whatever they might be. “Then perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell me what the answer is; it ought to he a most remarkable one.”

“It is. Perhaps I haven’t what a lawyer might call proof, but I’m prepared to back my opinion. The late Reginald Talbot was a truly extraordinary man, with extraordinary tastes; one of them made him, for causes which I do not pretend to understand, one of the most dangerous enemies which society can have – a receiver of stolen goods.”

“Percival! I mean—”

“You mean – Percival; thank you. All the same, I would rather that you called me Jack.”

“Jack? Why ever should I call you Jack, when your name is Percival? And you haven’t another Christian name, as I noticed when you signed the register. I don’t suppose there ever was a wife who knew less about her husband, as regards things generally, than I do.”

“I believe my name is Percival, and that, legally, it is my only Christian name.”

“You believe? Aren’t you sure? Aren’t you certain what your own name is?”

His words were scarcely an answer to her question. “I’ve always been called Jack, by – by those who knew me best; and – and I’ve grown to like the name.”

“What I was about to say, when you interrupted me, was, do you really think your uncle was – what you said?”

“I’ve unfortunately not a doubt of it – and that Mr. Johnson was one of his regular customers. He’d have bought those necklaces, at his own price, without asking any questions, as he had bought similar goods from Mr. Johnson on previous occasions, and, I’ve no doubt, from many others of Mr. Johnson’s kidney. More – I’ve no doubt that he was a purchaser of stolen goods on a scale of unparalleled magnificence. I smelt a rat when Eva spoke last night at dinner of those plates which he said came from the Vatican; I shan’t be surprised to learn that practically everything which the house contains was obtained by my uncle – from gentlemen like Mr. Johnson.”

“This is really quite – I don’t know if the word ought to be romantic.”

“I’m sure it oughtn’t.”

“I’m not so sure. The notion that a great house like that is a sort of museum for the exhibition of valuables belonging to everybody but the present owner, is not – it really isn’t without its romantic side.”

“Considering that I’m the present owner, where do I come in – on the romantic side – and you? You can’t wish to be the wife of the heir to all kinds of promiscuous plunder.”

“Somebody has said that no millionaire can be an honest man; but the heritors don’t seem to mind.”

“Suppose the late Reginald Talbot had bought the Tarbet necklaces from Mr. Johnson, and left them to me, would you like to wear them, as my wife?”

“I see what you mean; I believe I’d like to see how I looked in them.”

“How far would your wish in that direction go?”

“Well, of course I’d return them to the poor dear Countess, but, I own, it would be rather a blow.”

“Doesn’t it look as if we’d have to return to their owners all the other contents of the Monks? What interest Eva supposes himself to have in them I don’t know; but I’ve an idea that it’s because he already can see the course which I am likely to take, that he directed our friend Sayers to put me, and you, on the other side of the gate. And you’ll find he’ll renew the attempt before very long?”

“Do you mean that he will seriously try to put you off your own property?”

“He won’t stop there; a man who has been associated with thieves and scoundrels his whole life long, as he has been, is not likely to stick at a trifle. That is one reason why I would hazard the proposition that the Monks is not likely to prove a comfortable residence for you.”

“If I went, would you stay behind?”

“I certainly would not allow John Eva to drive me out of my own house.”

“And you think I would. Thank you very much; I mayn’t have quite so much courage as you, but I’m not an actual coward. I’m just as willing to let Mr. John Eva do his worst with me as you can be to let him measure swords with you. I’m here; I stay.”

“There’s another thing; look at that.”

He handed her the envelope which he had found in his bedroom on retiring to rest. She turned it, curiously, over and over.

“What is it? And what does this writing on the front mean?”

“Look inside.”

She drew out the half-sheet of paper, which merely served to increase her bewilderment.

“Is it a joke somebody has been having with you? Or is it one which you propose to have with me?”

“My first impulse was to conclude that it was a joke, and there leave it; circumstances, since then, have caused me to adopt another point of view. As I happen to know old Talbot – my uncle that was – was known as the Robber; probably with reason. Notice the first line on that piece of paper.”

“I’m noticing it as hard as ever I can.”

“Then you see what it is – ‘The Robbers’ Cave’; probably in his own writing. You’ve read ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves?’”

“What a question to ask a decent person. Where do you suppose I was dragged up? I used to know parts of the ‘Arabian Nights’ pretty nearly by heart, but ‘Ali Baba’ was one of my favourite stories.”

“The Robbers’ Cave was where the Forty Thieves stored all their ill-gotten plunder. Considering the kind of man he was, it’s at least possible that my late dear uncle had a Robbers’ Cave of his very own.”

“And according to you the whole of the Monks is a sort of robbers’ cave.”

“But he may have had a cave within a cave. I shouldn’t be surprised if that paper means that he did have – one in which he stored such trifles as, say, the Tarbet necklaces; it’s quite on the cards that he bought such trifles over and over again. It was necessary that he should have some particular place in which to keep them; one of whose existence his henchman, Eva, could not help but be cognizant; but, at the same time, one to which that worthy could not gain access. That scrap of paper as good as tells me so; it says that he had such a cave, to which entrance was obtained by the magic formula ‘Open Sesame’; and, in his own fashion, he tells me what the modern variation of the formula is. There, being a gentleman with a sense of humour which was all his own, he stayed his hand, leaving me to find out, if I can, what his information precisely means. In other words, the paper tells me that somewhere in the Monks there’s a secret storehouse, which contains perhaps fabulous hoards of unknown treasures, and it leaves me to find out where it is; it gives me the key to open the door, but my own wit must inform me how it is to be used.”

“And you mean to say_ that that isn’t romantic? Perhaps that’s another reason why Mr. Eva is so anxious to put you on the other side of the gate – he doesn’t want you to discover the whereabouts of the Robbers’ Cave.”

“I believe you’re right. Eva, of course, must know where it is, and he probably also knows that somewhere there is the means of getting at it – this key. He wants the key very badly, for purposes of his own; and probably it is his fear that by some chance I may light upon it first which causes him to regard me as the unwelcome guest.”

“Couldn’t you make him give you some idea of where this – storehouse is? Oh, Jack – I beg your pardon.”

“You needn’t – as I’ve already told you.”

“I need; I very much need. Why should I call you by your Christian name when I observe that you don’t seem to be even acquainted with mine?”

“Betty.”

“Jack!”

“Thank you.”

She paused as if for him to say something else; one had a suspicion that she found his silence disappointing. She went demurely on.

“What do you think is inside the Robbers’ Cave?”

“Sugar and spice and all that’s nice. I say – what’s that?” They had gained the top of a slight ascent. He had paused to look about him. The question was prompted by the expanse of water, land, and sky which was stretched out in front of them. It was a view worth looking at. A wide stream ran down to the open sea, between banks which rose high above it on either side, and which were clothed, even at that period of the year, with greenery.

“That must be Helford River, of which Mr. Sayers spoke. Isn’t it beautiful? Who would have thought it was so near? Why, it’s just all lovely; somehow it does me good to see it. How the sun shines upon the waters! Don’t ever dare to hint of turning me out of the Monks after seeing this. I’ll never go till I’ve been on that river, and in it. Doesn’t it look too tempting? What a place for a swim! See, there’s a boat – perhaps it’s the ferry; I’ll row up and down it, and over every inch, before I go – if you will only let me. And I’ll sail, and sail, and sail. Can you manage a sailing boat?”

“I’ve managed a few – on some strange waters.”

“So have I; so we ought to be able to manage one together. Wouldn’t you like to have me as captain, and to ship as crew?”

“Give me the chance – that’s all.”

“I’ll give you the very first chance that offers. But, first of all, and to begin with, let’s go and search for the Robbers’ Cave. Let’s go straight back to the house, and search it from top to bottom, from attic to basement – and then we’ll see. Don’t you feel like coming to look with me for the Robbers’ Cave?”

He laughed, looking at her with something in his eyes which made her laugh too.

“I fancy that you’ll not find the task of searching made quite so easy as you suppose.”

“Who wants it to be made easy? I’d much rather it wasn’t easy. I’d sooner have all sorts of excitements and adventures, and perils to overcome – something which will make your blood really hot, and make you feel twice the person you thought you were. Hurry; I’m simply longing to start with adventure number one.”

She went quickly down the slope, staying at the foot for him to join her. Together they wandered through the wood towards the house. It might have been an enchanted forest, and some of its enchantment came on them. There was that in their looks and manner, in the tones of their voices, in the way they moved, which said so. They came to the edge of the trees, and there was the house, at a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. They were still on higher ground. The land fell, then rose again; on the top of the opposite summit rose the house, but still below them. For the first time they saw it as a whole.

“It’s not a bad sort of house to look at,” she said; “it’s quite a big one. In spite of the pessimistic attitude of your mind, my lord, I can’t help feeling that it might be made a very – pleasant home. Come, please, and do let’s start exploring.”

They passed more rapidly over the intervening space.

“Why, what’s happened to the window?”

“It looks as if someone had closed the shutters.”

“What singular-looking shutters – they remind me of those steel shutters which they let down before shop windows. Which is the window we came out of? It’s gone. Perhaps they’ve lowered the shutters as some people do the blinds, to prevent the sun from damaging the carpets and the furniture. What a quaint idea!”

The gentleman’s tone and manner were oracular. “You said you’d like to start on adventure number one. I shan’t be astonished if you’re about to do it.”

“What do you mean? Your tone’s quite – quite frightening.”

She did not look as if she were frightened, but rather as if she enjoyed, by anticipation, what she suspected was about to come.

“We’re not going to get into the house through any of those windows; and I’ll not be amazed if the front door, and all the other doors, prove to be as difficult to get through as the windows.”

“You don’t really imagine that anyone would venture to try to keep us out of our own house in broad daylight?”

“I think, as I have told you already, that John Eva would venture to do anything. Since the windows seem shut against us, let’s try the door.”

His doubts turned out to have been well founded. Not only was it probable that the front door was closed, but a sort of shutter had been let down in front of it which made it difficult to understand how they were going to attract the attention of those who might be within. Striking it with his fist was altogether futile, as he quickly proved; he made no impression on the metal, and, probably, no sound which was audible on the other side. There was no sign of either bell or knocker. He fetched a pebble, and hammered with that; he might as well have hammered at the solid wall. He turned to the lady with a smile.

“It occurs to me that John Eva has ventured, and that we are shut out – and that he means to keep us out. In which case we’re likely to be in somewhat of a fix. If we can’t get into the house, and we can’t get out of the grounds, are we to wander about until we starve?”

She smiled back at him, seeming to take the position even less seriously than he.

“Isn’t it fun!”

“You’re likely to find it fun, if we have to camp out in the open, foodless, for days and days; it isn’t always high noon, and the sun doesn’t always shine. Candidly, John Eva has us at such a disadvantage that I haven’t a notion what we’re going to do. Hullo! Weren’t those footsteps? Perhaps here’s someone who can tell us.”

— XX —

THE MASTER KEY

Someone approached them round the side of the porch, someone who’d hitherto been concealed because she had kept so close to the wall – the someone was a girl. She spoke in a whisper.

“Hush! don’t seem to speak to me, or to see me either; they can both see and hear from inside. Cross to that clump of trees, and, when you’re well in the shadow, and hidden from the house, wait. I’ll join you by a way of my own.”

The speaker was the olive-skinned maid who had assisted John Eva in waiting at dinner on the previous evening – whom he had called Phoebe. She wore her servant’s cap and print dress; husband and wife both wondered what she was doing there; about her was an air of mystery, however, which prevented their inquiring there and then. They followed with their eyes the direction in which she pointed – towards a spot where the trees, which bordered the drive on either side, were thickest. Mr. Talbot took the hint she gave. He spoke, as if he were addressing his wife, in an undertone.

“We’ll go straight there; be as quick as you can.” Then out louder, “Since it would appear that John Eva does wish to shut our own house against us, we’ll reconnoitre, especially as nothing seems likely to be gained by staying here.”

Descending the steps, they strolled off side by side; paying no heed to the girl who still stood close up against the wall. As they went, he said—

“I’ve a suspicion that that’s the girl who brought the envelope to my room last night, and who roused me later on; in which case it is just possible we’ve a friend at court.”

“I don’t quite see what good she’s likely to be able to do us, even if we have.”

“Nor I; but that’s no reason why we shouldn’t be hopeful, particularly as, at the present moment, hope seems to be the only asset which we have.”

“Jack.”

“Betty.”

This time no apology was offered for the use of the Christian name.

“In the words of that silly refrain which people not long ago were shouting – Are we downhearted?”

“Not consciously, as yet, but you can hardly expect me to enjoy that scoundrel’s insolence in shutting you out.”

“Me out? Is that all you care about?”

“Chiefly; I’ve a feeling that I’ve brought you into this—”

“Which is absurd, because you didn’t; you didn’t wish to bring me, but I came – and I know that I shall be very glad I did come, if you will only let me.”

“I’m afraid that you don’t realize how uncomfortable things may be made for you, if – well, for instance, if I, personally, have a scrimmage with John Eva; and I assure you that, after this, I shall feel very much like trying to wring his neck.”

“I don’t think that I should quite like to see you wring his neck in front of me – that is, if it wouldn’t hurt you very much not to. But here’s the clump of trees, and where is Miss Phoebe?”

They had not long to wait for her. She had, as she had put it, come by a way of her own, which had kept her obscured from their view; for, presently she hailed them from behind, speaking this time in a more audible tone of voice, but still not loudly.

“Come further into the wood; there are spy-holes all over the house – you never can tell who’s looking, or what they may see or hear.”

“So far as we’re concerned they’re welcome to see and hear exactly what they please: what have you to be afraid of?”

“Of uncle and aunt – especially uncle.” She looked about her anxiously; there was no doubt that her nervousness was genuine. “You don’t know uncle. He’d think nothing of—” The sentence was finished by a shudder. “I don’t care to think what he’d do to me if he knew that I was out here, talking to you.”

“Doesn’t he know that you are here?”

“Not he; do you think I’d be here if he did?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t; still less do I see why you’re afraid of your uncle.”

“That’s because, as I say, you don’t know him. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to me if he found out that I did anything to help you.”

“Was it you who brought the envelope to my room last night?”

The girl started back in evident alarm. She had taken off her cap, probably with the idea of appearing less conspicuous. Her face seemed very white against the darkness of her hair. Again she cast anxious looks about her.

“Envelope? What envelope? I don’t know anything about any envelope. I – I know nothing about anything.”

“Not even about the visit to the Monks last night of a gentleman named Johnson?”

The girl’s alarm seemed to increase. “You mustn’t talk about such things; you mustn’t. I – I tell you I know nothing.”

“I take it that you’ve got out of the house by some door which will enable us to get in.”

“That I haven’t; there is no way out when the shutters are down.”

“How do you account for your presence here?”

“I knew what they were going to do, so I – I slipped out without their knowing it. They didn’t know I was outside, or they’d have soon fetched me in.”

“Pray why did you, as you put it, slip out – to render us some service? Or to play the sort of part which Mr. Sayers tried to play just now?”

“Sayers! Joe Sayers! It’s – it’s partly because of him that I’m here.”

“How – because of him?”

The girl’s terror had given way to what was very like a little anger.

“They want me to marry Joe Sayers, uncle and aunt do. I – I believe uncle, he’s afraid of Joe, because – because he knows too much. He’s got money, and so he may have; but I wouldn’t marry Joe Sayers, not if he’d a ship full of money.”

“I’m bound to say that, so far, I’m on your side, and against your uncle and your aunt. If he’s anything like his looks he certainly is not a beauty.”

“A beauty? He’s a devil, that’s what Joe Sayers is. I saw you put him out of the gate just now, and – and I was glad to see it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if he stayed on the other side of that gate some time.”

“Not he; there’s ways of getting back again, and none knows them better than he.”

“Do you mean to say that there are ways of getting back into the house, from outside, when the shutters are down?”

“I’ll be bound he’s back in it by now.”

“But I thought you said that there was no door by which anyone could get either in or out.”

“Nor is there; but there’s a way, and I’m going to show it you. That’s – that’s what I stopped out for; though I believe uncle would kill me if he knew.”

“Your objection to Joe Sayers must be very strong, if what you say is true, and you really do risk your life for some remote idea, which I don’t fathom, of making yourself disagreeable to him.”

“It isn’t only that I don’t like Joe; there’s – there’s someone else. And – that’s not all. I – I think that perhaps I’d better tell you.”

“I think so also.”

The girl seemed to have something on her mind of which she wished to be rid, yet of which she was afraid to speak. As if moved by her agitation, Mrs. Talbot did her best to reassure her. It was she who spoke.

“Let me tell you something. Your uncle may be a very terrible person, and I quite believe he is; but I do declare to you that he’s not one scrap more terrible than Mr. Talbot, and not nearly so likely to prove so good a friend. And it’s just possible that you mayn’t find me a bad friend either. You may take my word for it that you won’t regret anything which you may do for us. What is it you wish to tell us?”

“It’s – it’s about old Mr. Talbot.”

“What about him?”

“He – he took rather a fancy to me, and used to say to me things which uncle didn’t know about. If he’d guessed he’d soon have found a way of getting me off the place.”

“Against old Mr. Talbot’s wishes?”

“I don’t know if I can make it quite plain to you, but it was this way. Old Mr. Talbot was afraid of my uncle, and my uncle, he was afraid of him. You see, they were afraid of each other.”

“I think I understand; each had something on his conscience, and neither had much trust in the other.”

“That’s about what it came to. The old gentleman used to talk to me sometimes about Mr. Percival here, to say things which he didn’t want my uncle to know about. And that’s what puzzles me.”

She was looking at the gentleman with her big dark eyes wide open.

“What is it that puzzles you.”

It was the gentleman who asked the question.

“Well, sir, I don’t mean no offence, but you do.”

“In what way?”

“The old gentleman, he used to talk to me about you, as I’ve said. But he’d got you all wrong; you’re not at all the sort of gentleman he thought you were. In some ways more like a baby you were, than a grown man, according to him. You don’t look as if you were much of a drinker to me.”

Mr. Talbot smiled, as if amused either by the girl’s simplicity or by her frankness.

“I don’t think I am what is commonly known as much of a drinker.”

“The old gentleman used to make out that you were always in drink. ‘If you ever find him sober,’  ‘if he ever is sober,’ he’d say, and things like that. And then he made out that you’d no more pluck than a mouse, and as if you weren’t very much stronger than one. ‘It’s a nurse he wants,’ he told me once; someone to protect you from uncle and aunt, and Mr. Wilson and that lot. ‘They’ll cut him up between them, and make mincemeat of him,’ I remember his saying once. But, asking your pardon, and meaning no offence, you don’t seem to be a bit like that to me.”

“He has a certain amount of courage, and is a little stronger than a mouse; and I don’t somehow think that your uncle and his friends will find it altogether easy to cut him up into pieces and turn him into mincemeat.” This was Mrs. Talbot speaking. She turned to her husband with a quizzical look in her eyes. “It’s most extraordinary; you seem to be a surprise to everyone. No one seems to have expected you to be the kind of person you actually are. What is the explanation? How has so singular a misapprehension arisen?” Without waiting for her husband to answer, she turned again to the girl “And what else did the late Mr. Talbot tell you?”

“He said that if ever Mr. Percival came here – which he didn’t think he ever would do; he thought he’d never dare – he’d want a friend; and, as any friend was better than none I was to do for him what I could. The very night before he died he made me promise that I would. He knew I didn’t altogether get on with uncle and aunt, and perhaps that’s why he trusted me.”

“Thank you, Phoebe; as you justly say, any friend is better than none, and I rather think you’d make a good one.”

“And I think so too.”

As she said it Mrs. Talbot slipped her arm through her husband’s, as if this was a matter in which she meant to be associated with him. Mr. Talbot looked as if he appreciated her near neighbourhood.

“Now, Phoebe, tell us, please, what has happened to the house, that they’ve shut us out so effectively?”

“There’s iron shutters to every window and to all the outer doors; and they can all be worked by a single spring. Whenever the old gentleman wanted, he’d only to turn a spring, and they were all shut straight off; and when they are shut it’s as hard to get into the house as if it were a fortress.”

“But what’s the idea? Why should he have wished to make it so hard to get into his house?”

Phoebe pressed her lips tightly together, and shook her head.

“That’s more than I can tell you. I wasn’t in Mr. Talbot’s secrets, nor in my uncle’s either; but I do know there were strange goings-on, and that both of them have always seemed afraid lest anyone should get into the house without their knowing it. It’s the same with the grounds – it’s like a great prison, the Monks is; and it’s known to be such over all the country side. You’ll never find any trespassers here, any more than you would in the County Gaol; and as for getting out for a walk, or such-like, they make as much fuss about it as if you wanted to go to the moon.”

“Then are we to understand that we are shut out of the house till it pleases your uncle to let us in?”

“You’ll have to wait a good while for that. If he has his way he’ll never let you in; he’d never have let you through the’ gates last night if he’d known what kind you were. He thought you were the kind the old gentleman talked about; that you’d be like dough in his fingers, so that he could do with you just whatever he pleased. When he heard you were coming he told aunt, in my presence, that the Monks, and all that was in it, was already as good as his; and that before you’d been in the house a week he’d make it really his, or he’d know the reason why. He and Mr. Wilson wouldn’t have let the old gentleman make the will he did, if they hadn’t been sure of getting the better of you. When you turned out to be so different to what he expected, he was in such a rage last night that, if it hadn’t been for aunt, I do believe he’d have got rid of you, somehow, no matter how. There was the lady, too, she made it more difficult; if he’d got shut of you, he didn’t know what he’d do with her.”

The lady in question looked archly up at the gentleman at her side.

“You see? Do you hear? What don’t you owe to me? If you’d left me behind, as you wished, what wouldn’t the disappointed Mr. Eva have done to you?”

“You remember my telling you how I’d confidently counted on your doing me a service before very long, which should be the greatest service in the world. Wasn’t it my prophetic soul which was speaking? Already it looks as if I owed you my life.”

“If you did, it would but be tit for tat; but I don’t suppose, for an instant, that John Eva would go quite the length at which this young woman hints. – You haven’t yet told us, Phoebe, if we are to await your uncle’s pleasure.”

The girl addressed Mr. Talbot, leaning towards him, speaking eagerly, hurriedly, in lowered tones, as if fearful of a listener.

“I saw you put Joe Sayers outside the gate; and, when you shut the wicket, the lady, she picked up the key, which Joe had let drop out of his hand. I suppose you’ve got it still.”

He took the key referred to out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Here it is; Sayers said it was an uncommon kind of key, and so it seems to be – as if it were fashioned for a Bramah lock of some unusual size and pattern.”

“It’s the master key; it opens everything – everything!” The girl repeated the word as if she wished it to convey some special meaning to his mind. “It was Mr. Talbot’s own key; he never let it out of his keeping. Uncle, he had keys for different things; but with the master key I don’t believe that the old gentleman ever trusted him. Uncle took it off him, after he was dead; he’s been trying experiments with it ever since, but he hasn’t succeeded in doing anything up to now. He only lent it to Joe Sayers for a moment, and because he hadn’t another key on him. So soon as you were outside, and the gate was closed on you, he’d have had it back again. It was when you got hold of it that I expect he made up his mind to keep you out of the house so long as it was in your possession.”

“If, as you say, it opens everything – does it open those shutters?”

“No key will do that – there’s no lock to them: they’re worked by a spring from inside the house; but it does open something which will let you into the house, and if you come with me I will show you.”

She began to walk quickly, not towards, but from the house, keeping as much as possible in the shadow of the trees. They followed. When they had continued to walk for five or six minutes, Mr. Talbot asked a question.

“But where are you leading us? Not to the house; each step takes us further from it.”

“I’m taking you to the lodge gates; you get into the house from there.”

“And how far is the lodge gate from the house?”

“By the drive, more than a mile – it’s a little less the way we’re going.”

“But I don’t understand how access is to be gained to the house at a point which is distant from it more that a mile.”

“I’ll show you – if you’ll keep hold of the key.”

They reached a part where the trees ended. An open space of perhaps a hundred yards intervened between them and a pair of strange-looking gates which were twin brothers to those through which Joe Sayers, by means of a trick, had endeavoured to thrust them.

“Those are the lodge gates,” intimated Phoebe.

“But where is the lodge?”

“There is none; there was one once, but there was trouble about it, and the old gentleman, he had it taken down.”

“Then who opens the gates?”

“They’re opened from the house; and only to people who are expected, or if it’s known who they are.”

“Is there a telephone outside, by means of which the stranger without makes known his identity to those within?”

“There’s no telephone, but there’s a bell, for those who know where to find it, and just how it ought to be rung. It gives a signal. If it’s the right one, then the gates are opened; if it’s the wrong one, a party might keep on ringing till the Day of Judgement, and no notice would be taken.”

“But how are provisions, and letters, and things of that kind, brought to the house?”

“As for provisions, they manage about them, and as for letters, there’s a letterbox in the wall; they’re dropped in there, and parcels too, if they’re not too big.”

“But I still don’t understand how we personally are going to get into the house from here.”

“I’m just going to show you. Sometimes when the gates are opened for a visitor the house itself is shut, and he’s kept standing here till it’s been found out just what he wants, then he’s taken to the house by what is called a covered way; and here’s the door which opens into it.”

On either side of the gate trees were planted, so thickly as to serve as a screen to the wall. Phoebe moved to those which were on the right, passing behind them, they keeping close at her heels. Between the trees and the wall there was a space of about three feet, which was constructed of undressed stone. She searched the stone with her eyes, as if seeking for some particular spot on it.

“I’ve only been in this way once; they don’t allow us girls to go in and out, they know better than that. But the old gentleman, he brought me here one day, when uncle and aunt were both at Truro. He brought me out just here, and he bade me pay particular attention, so that I might know the place again. But that’s more than a month ago; I haven’t been here since – I haven’t dared. It isn’t so easy to remember as I thought it would be.”

“What did he tell you to look for?”

“A piece of cement, with a bit of stone sticking out of it, like a point. The bit of stone was a sort of a handle; you pulled at it, and the cement came clean away, and there the keyhole was behind.”

The lady joined in the search with the eager curiosity of a child.

“Isn’t this delicious! A piece of cement with a bit of stone sticking out of it, and you pull at the stone and there the keyhole is behind? This is the ‘Arabian Nights’ come to life. Aren’t you thrilled? I am; twitters are going all up and down me. Where is that piece of cement with a bit of stone?”

Her husband laughed at her. “Let’s hope you’ll not find it too twittery before we’re through; as you’re aware, unpleasant things did happen to people even in the ‘Arabian Nights’.”

“That’s what makes it so exciting. Do you think anything very unpleasant is likely to happen to us? Is there an ogre waiting on the other side of that keyhole? Where is that piece of cement?”

“There are several bits of stone which stick out; I have had a tug at each of them, but each declines to budge.”

“The old gentleman said that that had been done on purpose, so that strangers couldn’t tell the right one, and it mightn’t look conspicuous.”

“Here is a hit of stone, which isn’t very prominent, but – please do let me pull at it. Jack! I’ve got it! It’s come clean away! And – I do believe that there’s the keyhole! It’s given me such an attack of the twitters that I’m positively shaking.”

“Perhaps if I were to put my arm about you, you might be glad of the support.”

“Jack!”

He did put his arm about her, without the lady showing any marked kind of objection. Together – very close together – they examined the lady’s discovery.

“I can’t say that I can see anything which can be exactly called a keyhole; the disappearing cement seems to have disclosed nothing but a small square of metal.”

Phoebe explained. “That is the keyhole; you see what the old gentleman called that raised boss. You press the key against it, and it slips in.” Acting on her suggestion, Mr. Talbot proved that her words were true – the key did slip in. “That’s right; now press it right home. Mr. Talbot, he said the key was to be pressed right home. Now turn it – not to the left, as you generally do turn a key, but to the right, sharp.”

Mr. Talbot did as he was told, with a result that was certainly surprising; what had seemed to be part of the solid wall slid into the wall beyond on the right, disclosing an aperture which was just large enough to admit a full-grown man.

— XXI —

AN UNANSWERED QUESTION

“Is this,” inquired Mrs. Talbot, in tones of mock awe, “the veritable entrance to Aladdin’s cave?”

“It is much more likely, I fear, to be the entrance to the Robbers’ Cave.”

As he said this Phoebe glanced sharply at him, as if she suspected his words of having a hidden meaning.

“It’s the entrance to the house,” she said, “by the covered way.”

The lady had her pretty nose inside the aperture.

“But, it’s just pitch dark.”

“There’s the electric light; if you will let me go in first, madam, I will show you.”

Phoebe passed into what seemed to be the solid wall. Presently a bright light showed how far it was solid. The lady went next, her husband last. They were standing at the end of what seemed to be a passage, which was probably more than four feet wide. In the roof were electric lamps, by whose lights they perceived that the passage stretched far away in front of them. Floor, walls and ceiling were painted a vivid white. It was as though they looked down a long whitewashed tunnel whose end was mystery.

“You have the key?” asked Phoebe. Mr. Talbot held it out. “Don’t let it leave your possession for a moment, sir.”

“If I can help it, I don’t intend to. Are we to leave this door open while we are continuing our adventures?”

The girl pressed her thumb against what seemed to be a defect on the whitewashed wall. The door slipped to as noiselessly as it had opened; the daylight was shut out.

“And if we want to open it again?”

“It shuts with a spring, but it can’t be opened without the key.”

The girl commenced to move swiftly down the tunnel. The lady asked, half in a whisper, of the gentleman—

“If anything happens to her what shall we do?”

“I fancy she knows what she’s up to, and nothing is likely to happen – just yet.” Following closely at Phoebe’s heels he asked her a question. “Is there anything in the house to show them what is going on down here? Can they hear us talking?”

The girl shook her head. “They don’t know anything, and they can hear nothing either. The old gentleman told me so; they weren’t afraid of anyone getting in who wasn’t wanted.”

They walked on in silence for what seemed many minutes; the passage seemed endless. The atmosphere was not bad, though there was something in the air which was certainly not exhilarating.

“It reminds me,” said Mrs. Talbot, “of the catacombs at Rome; the place doesn’t seem damp, yet it’s musty, and one feels as if one were walking through a tomb.”

Phoebe still pressed on. Suddenly the passage turned sharply to the left. After a few more yards the girl stopped. She pointed with her outstretched hand.

“That door there leads into the house; you’ll want the key again.”

“Is this the only key by which entrance can be gained to this mysterious place?”

“My uncle has his own keys. He has one which opens that door, and another which opens the one which we came through; but yours is the only key which opens all of the doors – the master key. You’ll find this door easy to unlock; the keyhole’s visible; all you have to do is to turn the key to the right.”

“And what’s on the other side?”

“A sort of cupboard. When we get into it, I’ll stay behind. You get out of it by an ordinary door into a passage which opens on to the hall. You and the lady had better go straight on. When my uncle sees you, as he’s sure to do, I expect that there’ll be – trouble. Please – please don’t tell him that it is through me that you have got in, or that you’ve seen me, or anything about me. He will pay me out if you do – later, if he doesn’t now.”

“I assure you that he shall not be made wiser by so much as a word from us.” Pressing the key into the keyhole, he turned to his wife: “Are you ready?”

She nodded gaily. He gave the key a twist; as before, what seemed to be a part of the solid wall slid away.

“This time I’ll go first.”

Phoebe whispered to him as he went. “Go quietly, and listen; there may be somebody who hears you.”

Mrs. Talbot followed. The girl, switching off the electric light before bringing up the rear, turned the passage through which they had come into a blot of darkness. When she joined them they were in shadow.

“I can’t see my hand before my face; isn’t there a light in here? What sort of place is this?”

It was the gentleman speaking; the girl who replied –

“There is no light in here; the old gentleman told me he wouldn’t have one. Just in front of you there’s a door, just an ordinary door; you’ve only to turn the handle and you and the lady will find yourselves in the house; as I told you, in a passage which opens into the hall.”

“And what shall you do?”

“I shall stay behind; when there’s a chance I’ll slip out. Perhaps they haven’t found out that I’ve been outside. I was supposed to be working upstairs; I may be able to get back to my work without their suspecting.”

Mr. Talbot, finding the handle for which he had been feeling, turned it; a door opened, light streamed in, and he stepped out, his wife beside him. He shut the door behind him. The passage in which they were was empty.

“It would seem that our entrance is unforeseen; it’ll be a pleasant surprise for Eva.” He was looking at the door through which they had just come. As Phoebe had put it, it was just an ordinary door, looking as if it led into an ordinary room. “Who would think that behind that commonplace exterior lay hidden all those wonders.”

“I assure you,” declared the lady, “that I’m in a mood to take it for granted that there are wonders everywhere in this magician’s castle.”

A few steps along the corridor brought them into the hall. One result of the closed shutters was that the whole house was illuminated by electric light, so that, at midday, it seemed as if they were in the middle of the night. The doors of more than one room opened on to the hall. As they appeared someone started up out of one of the great oaken chairs: it was the chauffeur who had met them at the station, and who, unwillingly enough, had brought them to the Monks. The sight of them seemed to fill him with amazement. He could hardly have stared at them with wider open eyes had they been ghosts. The words which came from his lips showed the state of his feelings.

“Goodloramighty! Where have you sprung from!”

He did not wait for them to tell him; he made a dash at a door which was on the side of the hall on which they were standing. He probably moved as quickly as he could, but Mr. Talbot had the advantage. With a single step he was between the man and the door to which he was moving.

“Mr. Eva!” shouted the chauffeur. “Look out! He’s back again!”

The words were plainly meant to serve as a warning to whoever was in the room beyond. Mr. Talbot and the chauffeur reached the door nearly together; but Talbot was the few inches in front which counted. Flinging open the door he was the first in the room. The chauffeur shouted another warning.

“Take care, Mr. Eva – he’s coming in!”

Mr. Talbot already was in before, after all, John Eva was prepared for his coming. There was a clanging of metal; something had been shut with a resounding bang. It had been done so quickly that Mr. Talbot could not have said what. Eva, swinging round, stood and stared at him every whit as wonder-struck as the chauffeur had been.

“How in thunder did you get here?”

The question was gasped rather than spoken. Eva was so plainly taken aback that, after an instant or two, it looked as if he were trembling on the verge of a fit: his face turned a dull brick red, the veins stood out on his forehead, his breath came with difficulty. When Mrs. Talbot, coming through the door, placed herself at her husband’s side, his surprise was changed to rage.

“What damned trick’s this? How did you get here? Who let you in?” His tone was raised to a shout. “Tell me, how the devil did you get here?”

Talbot’s coolness was a striking contrast to the other’s frenzy; the man’s fury seemed but to amuse him.

“Why, Eva, what ails you? You look as if, if you allow yourself to become only a little more excited, you’d do yourself a mischief.”

Mr. Eva, instead of becoming cooler, became, if it was possible, hotter still. For several moments he seemed as if either he could not trust himself to speak or speech failed him. When he did speak it was to repeat his former question with almost grotesque emphasis.

“How did you get here? Did you hear me ask you? You tell me; curse you, tell me, how did you get here?”

It pleased Mr. Talbot to pretend that the question surprised him.

“Why, Eva, where’s the mystery? Do you imagine that I’m not acquainted with – shall I say, the peculiarities of my own home? Pooh, pooh, man! – absurd. Tell me, Eva! – did you close the shutters by accident or by intention?”

John Eva ignored the question; he appealed to the chauffeur, striding towards him across the room to shout at him the better.

“How did they get in? You tell me! Do you hear? You tell me! Don’t you try to fool with me, Ben Pritchard, or by God, you’ll smart for it; how do they come to be here? Tell me, hang you, who’s let these two in here!”

He shrieked at the man with such maniacal fury that, as if fearing personal violence, he shrank away from him. It was Mr. Talbot who replied, as pleasantly as ever—

“What is the use of asking the man a question which he can’t answer? Eva, do show some common sense. What explanation can our presence here possibly require when, as you are perfectly well aware, I had the master key?”

John Eva glared at him. “What do you know about the master key?”

“You were watching Mr. Sayers’ little manoeuvres at the wicket gate. You must have seen him drop the master key, and me put it in my pocket. With that in my possession, as you know quite well, everything was easy.”

John Eva continued to glare, his attitude recalling a savage hound filled with desire to spring on an enemy. Apparently he had more self-control than the hound might have had. He shook himself, as the dog might have done; seeming to shake off some of his frenzy. He made a visible effort to regain the coolness which he, perhaps, was conscious would alone make him a match for his antagonist.

“I’m going to look into this. I’ll have this out with you; don’t you think tricks can be played with impunity on me, either by you or anyone else.” He snarled at the chauffeur in a fashion which still recalled an angry cur. “Out you go; I’ve had enough of you; if I find out, and I shall find out, that you’ve had a hand in this, it’ll be the worst morning’s work you’ve ever done.” He turned on the lady, still like the cur. “And out you go too; I don’t care who you are or what you call yourself. I’ll have your room instead of your company. What I’ve got to say to him I’ll say to him alone, so I’ll just trouble you to take yourself outside this room, with that lout Pritchard.”

The lady’s disdain was perfect; had he been in fact the cur which he resembled, she could not have regarded him with greater contempt, or more perfect self-possession.

“Is it possible that you are speaking to me?”

Eva still metaphorically – though the metaphor was not very far from being a fact – foamed at the mouth.

“You know very well I’m speaking to you; none of your fine airs with me. Out you go!”

“Eva!”

His name was pronounced, quietly enough, by Mr. Talbot.

“I’ll talk to you fast enough; you wait. I’ll Eva you! But I’m going to get her out first; and if you’ve got any sense you’ll tell her to go!”

For answer Mr. Talbot moved towards the door. Eva mistook his purpose.

“You’re not going! Don’t you think you’re going!”

“Stand aside.”

“Don’t you think you’re going to leave this room until I’ve done with you, because you’re not; she’s going, but by the Lord, I’ll see you stay!”

“I asked you to stand aside.”

“And I tell you I won’t. You go back to where you were! I’ll deal with you when she’s gone. You send her out!”

Something unexpected happened to Eva. Mr. Talbot lifted him clean off the ground as if he were a child, and, with an odd movement of his hand, slipped him behind him. In another instant he was across the room and at the door. The chauffeur was standing in the open doorway staring in with gaping curiosity. Mr. Talbot spoke to him quietly—

“Be so good as to take yourself a little further back.”

The man obeyed; the door was closed. Mr. Talbot was standing with his back to it. It had been done so quickly that Eva had not yet woke to a clear consciousness of what was happening. Mr. Talbot’s manner could still hardly have been pleasanter.

“I should advise you, Eva, before you bluster, to take a few elementary lessons in what is called Ju-Jitsu. I’ve just practised on you what is held by the professors of that art to be quite a simple little trick. And – here’s another piece of advice – be careful how you address my wife. Don’t you venture to issue commands to her. The question of whether she goes or stays is for her; and, in a lesser degree, for me. It has nothing at all to do with you.” He addressed his wife: “Would you rather stay or go? Since Eva probably proposes to be insolent, it may be necessary for me to keep his insolence within bounds, and – that may not be agreeable for you. How is it to be?”

“I stay.”

“Good; then that is settled. Now, Eva, what remarks have you to make?”

“I’ve remarks enough to make, but – I tell you I’ll not make them while that woman’s in the room. You send her packing!”

“John Eva, you’ve been used to dealing with an old man; with women, and with creatures like that chauffeur and Joe Sayers. With them you played the bully – with impunity. With so much impunity that you have possibly come to regard yourself as a man who, with a word, can inspire fear in anyone you have to deal with. If that is the case, you’re under a misapprehension. The next time you so far forget yourself as to speak to, or of, my wife with the slightest disrespect, you will have practical experience of how serious a mistake you have made. What remarks have you to make to me?”

It was only necessary to observe John Eva a little closely to suspect that, even against his will, he was impressed by the other’s words and manner. He continued to glare at Talbot as if he were, in all respects, the most amazing object he had seen; indeed, if he meant what he presently went on to say such was the case.

“You are – the record! I’ve had to deal with a good many queer ones in my time, but you do beat all. Your air of injured innocence; the way you carry it off, when all the time you know I know the sort of thing you really are – you are a masterpiece! What is the use of keeping on kidding me? I suppose you two are in the game together.” He spoke to the lady: “I suppose you know as well as I do that he’s no more the Percival Talbot he pretends to he than – than I am; or than you are. Look here, how did you get hold of this?”

He held out to her a photograph. She glanced at it.

“The question rather is, how did you get hold of it?”

“I’ve been running the rule over those things of yours upstairs; you don’t suppose I was going to leave a stone unturned to find out who you were, and him – I’m not quite so simple. Wherever the pair of you may have tumbled from, I’m pretty sure it’s not the skies. I found this photograph among your things – I’m frank with you – that’s how I got it; how did you?”

She turned to her husband, who still was standing with his back to the door.

“What shall I say to this remarkable person, who frankly admits that he has been prying among my belongings, and taking liberties with what he found? He seems to have stolen my brother’s photograph.”

“Your – what’s that you say; your – what? I know who this photograph is, so don’t you try to bluff me on those lines; what I ask is – how do you come to have it?”

“Is it necessary that I should ask your permission – or is it even necessary that I should explain how I come to have my brother’s photograph?”

“Stow that stuff about your brother; have you as much face as he has? I tell you I know whose this photograph is.”

“Whose?”

“Not long ago he was Lord George Fotheringham, now he’s the Marquis of Polhurston. Do you think that I don’t know?”

“Exactly, it’s as you say; and the Marquis of Polhurston is my brother.”

“Do – do you mean that?”

“Distinctly; before my marriage I was Lady Betty Fotheringham.”

“If – if that’s the truth, then – then he’s had you too.”

He made clear that her husband was the “he” he referred to by pointing at him with his finger. “Or – have they had you between them? Is that what it means?” He addressed the man who still stood before the door: “Who are you; and what’s the game that you’re playing? I don’t suppose it’s any use asking you!” He spoke again to the lady: “I don’t know who he is, and I dare say maybe you don’t either; but I’ll tell you something which oughtn’t to be news to you. It was Percival Talbot who sent your brother to gaol. It was all his doing. He got your brother into a hole – if the Marquis of Polhurston is your brother – and he left him there, like the cur and sneak he was, and for what he’d done, your brother had to pay the piper.”

She spoke to her husband: “You told me that you had nothing to do – with what happened to my brother.”

It was Eva who replied—

“And he told you true – he didn’t. Whatever other lies he’s told you, that was no lie. I dare say he never heard your brother’s name, for all I know, till perhaps the other day.”

“He said he hadn’t.”

“He did, did he. Then I shouldn’t be surprised if he’d told you the truth again. He’s a masterpiece! Tell me – he says that you’re his wife – how long have you been married to him?”

“How long? Since the day before yesterday.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Not – not very long.”

“He’s standing there – you see he’s standing there; you ask him, in my presence, if he’s the Percival Talbot who’s the nephew of old Reginald Talbot of the Monks – of this house.”

John Eva spoke with an excitement which was almost unnatural. It was obvious that not only was the eagerness genuine, but also that, in spite of herself, it affected the lady. She seemed in doubt what to make of it, what to do. She glanced at him, then at her husband, who, maintaining his position, showed no sign of having turned a hair. Eva pressed on her what amounted to his entreaty.

“You ask him in my presence! You ask him now.”

She regarded her husband with what was but a poor imitation of a smile.

“Of course, I know that what he wishes me to do is absurd; but – you hear what he says. There can be no harm in your telling me, in his presence, that you are who I know you are. Tell him so.”

“Just what do you wish me to tell him?”

Eva explained to the lady – as if explanation were needed.

“You ask him to tell you, in my presence, if he’s the Percival Talbot who was the nephew of old Reginald Talbot of the Monks. That’s just what you want him to tell you.”

“I’m sure you can have no objection in doing what he asks.”

“If I have to deal with John Eva, I will deal with him, in my own way. Am I dealing with him or with you? Is it his question or yours?”

The man by the door still spoke pleasantly enough; but all at once, as it were, a little chilly. The lady seemed to resent this chilliness.

“What does it matter whose question it is? It will be equally easy to answer.”

“Any question which comes from him I treat as it deserves; but with a question which comes from you it is different.”

There came a sort of prompting from John Eva, as if he were bidding her to stick to her guns.

“He’s shuffling. I knew he would. He isn’t all face; and he knows that with this” – he held up the photograph – “I can nail his lie to the counter. You put the question to him as coming from yourself. Let’s see how he treats you. Let me tell you something else. If he’s the man he’s trying to make you believe he is, he’s committed bigamy – Percival Talbot is married already. He was married in Manaccan Church, just outside the grounds. There’s a copy of his marriage certificate in this house; I’ll show it you if you like, and I’ll show it him. And his wife’s living, and known to all the people round about. You ask him what he’s got to say to that.”

The lady showed signs of a warmer interest than she had hitherto felt. She not only held herself a little stiffer, her tone was less genial, more authoritative, that it had been.

“Is that true?”

“Is it you who ask the question?”

“Yes! This time it is.”

“Then – I’m really very sorry. I can only hope that you’ll show a leniency to me that I’m afraid you won’t. Just at the moment-1 hate to put it baldy, though I have to – I decline to answer.”

“What is it you decline to answer? You’ve heard a definite statement made. You can’t wish to leave it uncontradicted.”

“You are my wife, you may depend on it.”

He smiled and, on this occasion, his smile did not seem to please her.

“I don’t see how I am your wife if what he says is true.”

The gentleman was silent, although she paused, as if giving him an opportunity to speak. “Have you nothing to say?” Her manner was austere. His smile, if anything, grew more pronounced; conveying, as his smile was apt to do, the impression that he was enjoying a private joke, an impression which did not seem to gratify the lady.

“I’m in a difficult position.”

“So I’m beginning to believe.”

“Won’t you leave the subject until I’m able to tell you that the position has grown less difficult.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That is just what is so hard to explain.”

There came another prompting from John Eva. “He’s shuffling, as I told you. You make him answer.”

The lady did not appear grateful for the advice; at least, she snubbed the adviser.

“Will you he so good as not to speak to me again until I speak to you? You have said things which I dare say are quite untrue; and now, perhaps, you’ll leave the rest to me.” She addressed her husband: “I think that it might be better for you to come somewhere where we shall be alone. Would that solve the difficulty of which you speak?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if it would. If he gets you alone he’ll tell you any tale, and perhaps get you to believe it, as he’s done already. What you’ve got to do is to get an answer to your question in my presence. If you can’t get one it’s because he knows how easy it is for me to prove that he’s a liar.”

“Eva, be careful of your language. Remember my friendly warning.”

This was the gentleman.

John Eva was defiant. “The game’s up, my lad. Your game I mean. What you’d better do, if you take my friendly warning, is to take yourself out of this house, and out of the country, while you’ve still a chance to do it.”

“Mr. Eva,” said the lady, “will you please be so good as to leave this room, at any rate for a few minutes? I wish to be alone with Mr. Talbot.”

When John Eva hesitated the gentleman opened the door.

“This way, my man, if you please.”

The speaker’s manner could not have been more suave or firmer. Eva looked from the gentleman to the lady. Something which he seemed to see in her face decided him.

“I’m coming. Though I’m no more your man than you are mine; and maybe you won’t be much better off for my going.” He spoke to the lady. “I shall be just outside; if there’s anything you want – information, or anything like that – you’ve only got to call, and it’s at your service. He seems to have duped you once; he’s got face enough to try to do it again; but all I ask you is, don’t you let him.”

He moved across the floor, pausing in the doorway to favour Mr. Talbot with what was anything but a friendly grin. Then he went out. The gentleman shut the door. Husband and wife were left alone together.

— XXII —

THE TELEPHONE

“Is that all you have to say?”

The inquiry came from the lady. As, hitherto, the gentleman had not uttered a syllable the question was suggestive. She stood about the centre of the room, very straight, very stiff, with that in her bearing which warned him that whatever he might say she was prepared to criticize. He was close to the door, easy, self-possessed, as if he found the position amusing. When she asked her question his amusement seemed to grow.

“So far I’ve said nothing.”

“That is why I asked if that is all you have to say.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you wish me to say.”

“You must be rather slow of comprehension. Much slower than I supposed. I am your wife?”

“I hope you are.”

“What do you mean by you hope I am?”

“Precisely what I say. I’ve always understood that marrying a woman makes her your wife, and I’m distinctly under the impression that I married you.”

“Who did you marry before you married me?”

“No one.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.”

“Then” – one could see that her breath came a little quickly – “what did that man mean by what he said about your having married a woman in Manaccan Church; about there being a copy of the marriage certificate in the house; about her – about her being known to everyone?”

The gentleman spread out his hands in front of him with a gesture which might have implied deprecation, and certainly hinted at amusement.

“I told you just now that I am in a difficult position. I am – I wonder if you’d believe me if I tell you that I’ve no more idea what the man meant than you have.”

She seemed to be considering his words, as if she found them something of a puzzle.

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“That I can quite understand. I repeat, I’m in a difficult position.”

“In what sense? You certainly are very mysterious.”

“That, also, I admit.”

“He says that it was through you that my brother was sent to prison, and I’ve always been told it was, but you’ve said it wasn’t; that you had nothing to do with it. What is the truth? Don’t you see what it must mean to me not to be able to tell; not to know who I can trust?”

“You can trust me.”

“But can I? Can I? What is the truth about my brother?”

“It is as I told you. I have never had anything to do with him of any sort or kind.”

“You heard what that man said; why did you not deny it to his face?”

“I am not concerned with anything John Eva may have to say.”

“But I don’t understand! I don’t understand!”

“Can’t you take me upon trust. I’ve not asked, and shall not ask, very much of you; until, perhaps, a little later.”

The girl – after all, she was only a girl – seemed to be using her eyes as if she wished that they had the power of the Rontgen Rays to see right into him. One judged, from the shadow which seemed to settle on her face, that the result was not wholly to her satisfaction. Her voice sank.

“Then am I to understand that – that the chief charge he makes is true? I feel that there’s truth somewhere in what he says. What I want to know is, where? He speaks of what he knows, of what could easily be contradicted and shown to be false, when he says that Percival Talbot was married in Manaccan Church, and that it was because of him that my brother had to suffer. You say that you have never before been married, that you had nothing to do with my brother; therefore it would seem to follow that you’re not Percival Talbot.”

“That would seem to follow. You reason like a logician.”

“Then that’s the trick you’ve played on me, as well as upon these people! I’m beginning to understand. I gave you the first name which came to me, and you did the same; only I owned up before it was too late, and – and it seems you haven’t. If I’m not Mrs. Talbot, who am I?”

“Now you’re entering regions into which, just now, I am really not prepared to follow.”

“What do you mean by that? More mysteries. You’re all mysteries! Can’t you give a plain answer to a plain question; knowing – knowing what the answer must mean to me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid I can’t do. I ask you to exercise a little patience.”

“Patience!” She flung out her hands in front of her, as if she appealed to the high heavens. “In such a matter, you – you ask me to have patience!”

“Precisely. Why not? Let me point out to you that whatever the result may be I cannot see how you will suffer.”

“Not if it turns out that I’ve no right to own my name, or, rather, to the name I thought was mine? Not if it’s proved that you’re an impostor, and, pretending that you’re that dead man’s heir, have gained entrance to this house by false pretences? No wonder that man has been so bitter; that he tried to keep you from coming in, and was so eager to put you out! Why, he’s entitled to set the entire establishment at you, and to have you carried out by the arms and legs if you resist, and deposit you on the public road. In such a case, do you think that I shouldn’t suffer?”

“You deal in suppositions, not pretty ones, and then father them on me. Is that fair?”

“Will you answer the question, like an honest man, not – not shuffle with it. Are you that dead man’s nephew?”

“As, at this moment, I don’t propose to answer the question, nor intend to shuffle, I can only move – that the debate’s adjourned.”

He said this with a smile which only evoked from her an angry glare. Her cheeks flamed with passion; her eyes blazed with rage; she clenched her fists as if she would have liked to use them on him. For some moments anger, or some similar emotion, held her dumb. When she spoke it was with a coldness which was too studied to be real; one felt the fire which was underneath.

“I understand. That is quite enough. Open the door.”

He obeyed. Without a glance in his direction, straight as a ramrod, head held high in the air, she marched past him, out of the room. He could see that John Eva, waiting without, welcomed her, as it were, with open arms. He shut the door; a grim look took the place of the smile.

“This is going to be a harder knot to unravel than I supposed. I’m not sure that I wasn’t a fool to have ever had a hand in tying it. If it comes to cutting it there’ll be damage done.” Then, all at once, the smile came back, so that it lighted his whole face. “Each time I see her I think her prettier, daintier, dearer, than I did before; but I never loved her as – I love her now.”

Suddenly there came a sound which diverted the tension.

“What on earth is that? A bell – of sorts; I believe it’s a telephone bell. Is there a telephone in the house? It’s just the thing they would have, in a house like this, where cost doesn’t seem to have been counted; but, if there is, where is the thing? It sounds as if it were somewhere in the room. Whoever’s ringing is very insistent in trying to draw attention. Is it hidden in the wall? The place is so full of tricks that – By George! that looks as if it might be a door; and – there’s a keyhole. How about that marvellous master-key.”

He took it out of his waistcoat pocket.

“It does fit; and it is a door; and there’s the telephone beyond. The late Reginald Talbot seems to have had his house fitted up with all conveniences, but to have been peculiarly anxious to keep them all to himself. The bell keeps going. Who’s ringing?”

He picked up the receiver to inquire. An answer came back which seemed to startle him. He lowered the receiver in his surprise.

“Great Scott! Whose voice was that? It can’t be. What tricks a man’s fancy plays him.”

He returned the receiver to his ear.

“Who’s that speaking?”

The reply seemed to rob him of his seemingly immovable sang froid. The whole expression of his face was changed; even his voice, as, in his turn, he answered, might have belonged to another man; whoever was at the other end of the wire had the power of rousing him to most unusual excitement. Words were spoken by him which were audible enough, and, doubtless, words came back of which nothing could be heard in the room; but that they were audible to him his demeanour showed. He lowered the receiver when, apparently, the conversation was at an end, and looked about him round the room like a man who was not sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“Who says that the days of miracles are past?”

While he still seemed to be waiting for an answer to the inquiry he had put to the empty air, the door opened to admit John Eva. When that individual saw him standing with the receiver in his hand his sensations plainly were not pleasant ones.

“What are you doing there. What fresh games are you up to? Damn me if you can be left alone for a moment without your being up to something! How did you get that door open?”

“Really, Eva, your memory seems to be a short one. Have you already forgotten the master key?”

The other did not seem to appreciate the fact of its existence being brought to his recollection.

“You hand that key to me! What are you doing at that telephone?”

“I’ve had a message.”

“From whom?”

“From the dead.”

Eva started, as if both suspicious and anxious.

“What do you mean, from the dead? I ask you who you had a message from?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Why should you tell me? Because the message was for me.”

“Are you so sure?”

“No message ever comes to this house except for me. You tell me who that message was from! Hark here, my lad, the game’s up, you’re found out; even that young woman’s awake to the trick you’ve played her. A nice sort you must be to go and mix yourself up with a breed like that.”

“Take care, Eva, take care.”

“Curse your taking care! You come off your high horse, my lad, before it bucks and lands you in the mud. The only way you can save your skin is to make a clean breast of it to me. Who are you? Where’s Percival Talbot? How come you to be masquerading in his shoes? Tell me the straight truth and you may get off easy. Lie to me; try any more of your games, and I’ll have you stripped, and tarred, and feathered, and chucked into Helford River; that at the very least; you may think yourself lucky if you get off with that. Why, you silly fool, if you wanted to pretend to be someone, you shouldn’t have made it Percival Talbot. You may thank your stars you’re not him! The police have been looking for him for years – and more than the police. There are chaps who’d give – what wouldn’t they give to get within reach of him. If you were the man you aren’t, in this house or out of it, your life wouldn’t be worth living. Now – straight! – who are you? Was it he who put you up to the game you’re playing? I shouldn’t wonder if it was. I’ll say so much for you; it’s just the sort of game he would play, and nicely you’ve walked into the trap – the trap he laid. Out with it, who are you?”

The other had regained his self-possession; as if the fact of John Eva’s so nearly losing his was sufficient to enable him to do that. His smile had returned, and with it his appearance of perfect ease and quiet enjoyment. His manner was as suave as ever, his voice as gentle, his courtesy as marked.

“I’m beginning to arrive at the conclusion – that’s a roundabout way of opening the sentence, but you’ve got it – I say that I’m beginning to arrive at the conclusion that this is a house of many questions. I’ve had them rained on me ever since I entered it. And now you ask another; in fact, several others. At any rate,I will answer one of them, though I have given you the information you require before, you shall have it again. You ask me who I am. I’m the man who owns this house, and all that thereunto appertains.”

Something either in his words or manner seemed to make John Eva visibly uneasy.

“What’s the good of talking like that? What is the use, when, as you know, I know better?”

“You don’t even think you do. I’m a reader of men’s faces, Eva, and in yours I see doubt, and I’ve seen it all along. You don’t understand – but you’re afraid. If you hadn’t been you’d have taken steps to be rid of me ere this.”

“So I have. I told that blundering idiot Sayers to chuck you out; and I’ll have you out before very long, don’t you flatter yourself that I won’t.”

“It’s you who flatter yourself, John Eva, and it’s you who’ll be put out; and somewhere about here” – the speaker tapped his fingers against his left breast – “you know it, that’s what makes your skin so yellow. Conscience is working havoc with you, though you’re a bold man. You’re afraid.”

Eva made as if to speak, but the other checked him. “One moment, my man, and let me continue. You asked for information, and I’m giving it. You spoke of what you termed my ‘game.’ I’m beginning to understand yours, and – your friends’; and what a disappointment it must be, to all of you, to find that the real Percival Talbot is so different to the shadowy creature of your dreams. That fantastic being has gone, so far as you’re concerned, forever; while I am here, literally, for good, in a sense which I fear is beyond your comprehension. You’d better get the affairs which have been entrusted to your keeping in order, because, presently, you’ll be called to strict account.”

The speaker opened the door, and, without the other attempting, either by word or deed, to stop him, he left the room. John Eva, left alone, stood staring at the door through which he had passed, as if something uncanny had just gone through it, and had left behind it a sense of fear.

“Who is he?” he inquired of himself. “What is his game? When dealing with such carrion as – as he was, you never can tell. He was as full of tricks as Old Nick himself; whether he’s playing this trick now, or – this chap, Satan only knows. What’s to be done?”

He began to move restlessly about the room as if seeking for an answer.

“If I’d only guessed; if I’d only foreseen, he should never have made that will, or, no one should have been the wiser, even if he did. But who could have guessed? It looked as if it were going to be a gift, whatever that rat might do. He couldn’t even wriggle; we had him tight. But this chap, whatever his game may be, I – I don’t like the looks of him.”

His glance fell on the telephone, which was still in plain sight. It seemed to give him inspiration.

“I’ll get on to them, that’s what I’ll do, while there’s still time. I wonder who that message was from he’d just been taking before I came in. Could it have been from them? To think that, after all these years, I should have these tricks played on me by a chap who’s sprung up out of the ground; just when I’d made sure that everything was going to be all right.”

He picked up the telephone receiver, and signalled to the operator at the other end.

— XXIII —

JUDITH

“I presume, since this is not a prison, at least in the dictionary sense, that it is possible to take an occasional walk outside the grounds without very serious consequences.”

The lady had on her fur toque, which became her very well. The weather was still spring-like. The gentleman, taking advantage of it, was taking his ease in a long chair on the terrace. He looked up at her from the papers he was studying.

“Does that mean that you’d like to take a walk?”

“It does. I’ve been here, I’m beginning to forget how many days, whether it’s three or four or five.”

“It isn’t five.”

“It may be six.”

“Nor is it six.”

“However long it is, all the exercise I’ve had, is round and round the grounds, like a squirrel in a cage.”

“Do squirrels in cages go round and round the grounds?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean. I want to go for a walk outside the Monks without being afraid of being refused admittance when I think proper to return.”

“I promise you that you shall be re-admitted on the instant, at any hour of the day or night you choose. In what direction would you like to walk?”

“Over there; through the gate through which Mr. Sayers – who, by-the-by, I haven’t seen since – tried to make you go.”

“Perhaps Mr. Sayers took the little lesson he learnt by heart. Would you like to go alone, or may I have the honour of offering you my escort?”

He had risen from his seat, and with the papers gathered in a bundle, observed her with a smile which she did not reciprocate.

“I’m obliged to you; but I already have an escort. Phoebe!”

That young woman came through the window, attired for walking. The lady addressed her—

“Mr. Talbot seems to think that we shall be tolerably sure of being allowed to re-enter; so I think we’ll take that walk you told me about.”

The trio moved across the grounds towards the gate in question. A sort of truce had reigned in the house; not unlike the calm which presages the storm. John Eva had not been openly aggressive. He had waited at the meals which had come and gone without giving any outward demonstration of what might be going on within. Talbot, on his side, had seemed perfectly content to let things go as they pleased, without once shedding his air of unruffled ease. His wife had gone her own way, bestowing little of her company on him, or on anyone. She had discovered that the house contained a library, in which there were rich stores of books; there she seemed to have been content to spend a large portion of her time. Not only had nothing happened, but a stranger might have seen no hint that anything was about to happen; yet each inmate of the house had grounds for suspecting that strange things were happening all the while. When the three had reached the gate, Mr. Talbot took out his key.

“Phoebe seems to have been quite right when she said there was nothing it wouldn’t open. I haven’t found it fail yet, and I’ve tried it in one or two queer places. I was reading an advertisement this morning of a key, which was also called a master-key, which would open five hundred locks, all of them different, and yet which was so small that you could attach it to your watch-chain as a charm. This one is hardly so small as that one seems to be, but it’s quite as powerful.”

He had been unlocking the wicket gate while he had been speaking.

“There – the other side of the Monks for you. To which gate do you propose to return?”

The lady looked at the maid.

“To this one, madam.”

“In – about – what space of time?”

Once more the lady referred to the maid, who seemed to be rather at a loss.

“In – I suppose, madam, in about an hour; it might be a little less, or – or it might be a little more.”

“If you’ll return, say, after three-quarters of an hour, and will rap against that gate, with a stick or a stone, I think I may promise you that it shall be opened before you’ve had time to count twenty. I wish you a very pleasant walk; on a day like this, and in this country, I cannot doubt but that you’ll have one.”

The lady moved off with the maid in apparent unconsciousness of the fact that he had removed his cap and wished them well. So soon as they had started, returning through the wicket, he shut it after him; and, having done so, turned certain things over in his mind.

“It would be unfair to spy on them, yet I’m prepared to bet a trifle that I could exactly describe the way they’re going. What a singular world this is.”

With this trite utterance he glanced at the papers which he had been carrying in a bundle under his arm.

“And what a pretty scoundrel that dear dead man does seem to have been.” A name which was on the paper he was holding seemed particularly to catch his eye. “Lewinsky – Ike – Ike – Lewinsky – Lewinsky. How frequently the name recurs. Who would recognize Claude Herbert under such a style and title? Or would associate him with such delicate transactions? And to think this was the gentleman they would have her marry. She could hardly fare worse with me; there’s that consolation in store for her whatever comes.”

Mrs. Talbot and Phoebe walked briskly. The lady looked about her on the familiar trees and hedges, with an air of relief.

“I feel,” she said, “as if I were doing something I oughtn’t to do. There have been moments when I’ve doubted if I should ever get outside that place again.”

“There have been times when I’ve felt that way myself – plenty of them. Once for nearly nine months I never came out of the grounds.”

“Wouldn’t your uncle let you come? What a delightful relative he seems to be.”

“It wasn’t uncle only; it was the old gentleman as well. I don’t know the rights of it, but he’d been up to something, he and uncle together, which had made a fine to-do. I believe he wanted folks to think that everyone in the house was dead, or something like it. Sometimes for days together the shutters were down all over the house. ’Twas only at nights we were allowed to put our noses out into the grounds. I fancy that in the daytime there were those who were watching to see if there were signs of anyone being alive.”

“What a cheerful time you must have had?”

“There have been some strange doings at the Monks, all the countryside knows that; and, unless I’m wrong, there’ll be some stranger still.”

The lady glanced behind her as if in sudden trepidation.

“Hush! you mustn’t talk like that. How far off did you say she lived?”

“Over above the village, at a place which they call Penance. It used to be a fine farmhouse once upon a time; her people have lived there, they do say, for hundreds of years; and I have heard that they’ve been getting poorer and poorer all the time. Manaccan churchyard is full of them. There’s Luxullions on no end of tombstones.”

“And she’s the last of the race.”

“They say so; there’s no other Luxullion anywhere, that anyone’s heard tell of – except over in the churchyard there.”

They went a little distance further. The lady stopped with exclamations of pleasure, as, at a turn of the road, a wonderful picture was unfolded before her. Phoebe pointed out the various features on the landscape.

“That’s Helford River; on the other side is Passage; that round the point is Durgan. My lad’s a Durgan chap – he’s worth a dozen Joe Sayers; he’s poor because his dad’s a cripple, and he has to keep the home, as well as himself, by the fishing – and it’s often the fish they won’t be caught. That below there is Helford village, a bit of a place, with the houses right on top of the water – but there’s many that think it’s pretty; so it is, when the tide is full. That’s Manaccan beyond there; you can just see the spire, where the fig tree grows. Penance is on the left; very soon you’ll see the house.”

Ere long they not only saw but reached it – a two-storeyed house, seeming to have been built mostly of timber, with thatched roof and dormer windows. No doubt it had once been a flourishing farm, but its glory had departed. Decay had gone so far that repair seemed no longer feasible; the best that could be done was to pull down and build again. They crossed what had perhaps been a garden, but in which now there was nothing but weeds, to a door which stood half open, because, apparently hanging by a single hinge, it was not easy to shut. As they approached, a figure appeared in the doorway, which it needed a moment’s inspection to assure them was that of a woman. Her long red hair was hanging loosely over her shoulders, all tangled, looking as if it had not known comb or brush for many a day. She wore over the upper part of her form what seemed to be the wreck of a man’s coat; whether it was skirt or petticoat which covered the rest of her it was not clear. She wore neither shoes nor stockings – the two articles seemed to comprise the whole of her attire.

Yet she was not ill-looking. Her body was well poised upon her feet; one suspected, in spite of her disfiguring garments, that she had a fine figure. Her skin, though marked by the freckles which often accompany red hair, was smooth as satin; white teeth showed through her well-shaped lips. Her eyes, which had once been her best feature, were now her saddest; they bespoke the vacant mind.

She watched the two women approach without showing any sign either of interest or curiosity; though strangers, and, still more, visitors, must have been rarities to her.

It was Phoebe who addressed her. “Judith, I’ve brought a friend to see you.”

“A friend? I have no friends.”

The reply, though probably true enough, was rendered sadder by the listless tone in which it was spoken; as if she were indifferent whether she had a friend or not.

“May we come in?”

For answer, the woman moved aside. The pair went in, to find themselves in a room which was unexpectedly clean. The furniture, though simple, was sufficient; it, as well as the apartment, was spotlessly clean.

“Why,” remarked Phoebe, looking about her, “there’s not a room in all these parts, Judith, that’s neater than yours.”

“Aye, I keep it neat against my husband’s coming home.”

Phoebe glanced at the lady, as if to convey a hint to her to observe the woman’s words.

“Is he coming home – your husband?”

“Any day he may come home; there’s no telling. Sometimes at night I think I hear his footsteps in the lane, and I go out, and I call to him; but it isn’t him. I seem to hear him oftenest when there’s a wind on the waters; maybe it’s in a storm that he’ll come home.”

“How long have you been waiting for him?”

There was infinite pathos in the woman’s reply. “I can hardly tell – years and years; it seems more than half my life that I’ve been waiting, but he doesn’t come. But he will – sometime. He used to say he couldn’t abide old women; so I hope it will be while I have still my youth. I’m only twenty-nine – I mark my age upon this calendar; ’tis all those years that he’s been gone.”

“What is your husband’s name?”

The question came from the lady.

“His name is Percival.”

The lady’s small teeth bit into her lower lip. “Percival what?”

“Percival Talbot. Everyone knows my husband’s name, and all about him. He’s a gentleman, and lives at the great house; you can see it if you go up on the hill behind – quite clearly, you can. It’s called the Monks. I used to see his signal from the hill that he was coming. We were married in Manaccan Church here, no one knowing a word of it; ’twas on a wet morning, I mind it well. He paid the curate to hold his tongue. No one guessed it till the child was born – then I had to tell. That made him angry. He would not see that it was for the child’s sake. They say his uncle turned him out; ’twas then he went away.”

She turned, as if wearily, towards the door. All the time she had been speaking she had worn a listless air, as if she were repeating an oft-learned lesson, which was without interest to her.

“And have you never seen him since he went away?”

“Only when I’ve been dreaming; but I shall someday.”

“And the baby – is the child still living?”

“’Tis dead and gone; ’tis in Manaccan graveyard; it was a pretty boy. I’ve a fancy that if he’d lived, his father would have come back to look at him; though he was so angry when he saw him first.”

“Have you a portrait of your husband?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Is that like him?”

The lady held out a photograph for her to look at. The woman glanced at it languidly, as if it were without interest to her; then, in silence, moved to the door. The lady gazed after her, repeating her question.

“Doesn’t it recall your husband – this portrait?”

The woman gave no heed, as if the matter had nothing to do with her. The lady spoke to the maid.

“Do you think she understands? Show it to her; get an answer if you can.”

Phoebe crossed to the doorway, photograph in hand.

“Judith, I want you to look at this, and tell me if it is like your husband. The lady thinks she knows him, and may be able to tell you where he is. Is this picture like him?”

The woman gazed at it, still listlessly; then away again to the open door. Her reply could hardly have been more oracular.

“Maybe it is – maybe it isn’t.”

That was all which could be got out of her. When the maid handed her back the photograph, the lady, from her own point of view, was justified in saying—

“She’s a very exasperating woman.”

The woman referred to began to repeat, in a sing-song sort of voice, as if it were a recitation she had learnt by heart, the statement she had already made to them.

“His name is Percival – Percival Talbot. Everyone knows my husband’s name, and all about him. He’s a gentleman, and lives at the great house; you can see it if you go up on the hill behind – quite clearly, you can. It’s called the Monks.”

— XXIV —

THE MARQUIS OF POLHURSTON

Even before the three-quarters of an hour was up, Mr. Talbot, having opened the wicket gate, was awaiting the return of the lady and the maid. Stepping through the gate, he looked up and down, as if wondering which way they might be expected to come. Then he tried a little experiment. Inserting the key into the lock on that side of the gate, he tried if it would turn. Finding that it would, he pulled the gate to sharply, and shut himself out. Then again he inserted the key and the gate re-opened. Apparently the result of the experiment struck him as satisfactory.

“I don’t see how they’re going to keep me out if I want to get in, so long as I’ve the key, unless they tamper with the lock; and I fancy the workmanship of the lock is so excellent, and is set so ingeniously in the solid steel, that they’ll find it difficult to do that. Short of setting up a barricade, or preparing to receive me with, say a park of artillery, I’m master of the situation – while I’ve the master key.”

While, with his hands in his jacket pockets, he waited and mused he became conscious that a gentleman was approaching along the path on the left, to whom he became more and more an object of interest the nearer he approached. He was unmistakably a gentleman, as he came sauntering along, jauntily swinging a little cane which was suspended by the crook handle from his finger. Hardly the sort of person one would expect to see in that remote corner of the world. He raised his green felt hat as he came nearer, addressing Mr. Talbot with what struck that gentleman as being a very musical voice. He withdrew a cigarette from his lips with the fingers of his gloved left hand.

“I’m frightfully sorry to trouble you; but I’ve just come over from the other side of the river – from a place they call Passage – in a ferry boat, and the ferryman gave me directions which I’m finding it a little difficult to follow. I’m looking for a house called the Monks.”

“Didn’t the ferryman tell you it would be rather difficult to find?”

The stranger laughed as if Mr. Talbot had been guilty of a joke.

“He did give me some idea of the sort, and, to tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to find it – in the sense, that is, of getting close to it. I believe that is rather a difficult thing to do. All I want is to find out its whereabouts. I suppose you couldn’t direct me?”

“May I ask, giving you question for question, why you want to know the whereabouts of the Monks?”

The stranger favoured the speaker with what might have almost been called an impertinent stare, as if he wondered what the fellow meant. Then laughed again, as at a second joke.

“I don’t mind telling you, if you’re anxious to know. It’s no particular secret. I believe a chap named Talbot lives there.”

“What’s his Christian name?”

The stranger, after a moment’s consideration, emitted a cloud of smoke.

“I see you’re posted in the local history. I hear old Reginald’s dead.”

“You knew him?”

“In a kind of a sort of way, once upon a time – as one does know those sort of people. The chap I mean is named Percival. He’s the old one’s nephew.”

“Have you business with him?”

The stranger looked, this time not without reason, as if he asked himself what the fellow would be up to next.

“My dear sir! if I should happen to have business with the gentleman I’ve named, what business is it of yours?”

“It’s my business to this extent: I am Percival Talbot.”

“You are Percival Talbot? Is that so?”

The stranger did a very singular thing. He turned right round as if, for some reason, he did not wish the other to see his face. While still in that position he asked, as if for the express purpose of changing the subject of conversation—

“I rather lost my bearings as I came along. I believe that is the Helford River over there.”

“I believe it is.”

“If that’s the case then there is, or, at any rate, there used to be, a house over on the right there – a farm sort of place – called Penance.”

“You may be right.”

There was something odd in the tone of both men’s voices. One felt that there might be more in what they said than appeared on the surface.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt I’m right. I used to know this part of the country rather well.”

“Then how came you to have forgotten the whereabouts of the Monks?”

Seemingly the stranger did not hear the question. It went unheeded.

“There used to live at Penance some people named Luxullion. They’d a daughter – Judith. As handsome a girl as you’d meet on a long summer’s day. I wonder what’s become of her. I suppose you’ve never heard of Judith Luxullion?”

“Why do you ask?”

“My good sir, you reply to each of my questions with another. Let’s put it down to idle curiosity.” Wheeling, the stranger turned his face again to the other. In some subtle fashion his expression had changed. In the gaze he fixed upon him there was not only this time unmistakable impertinence, there was something else as well. “May I ask, Mr. Talbot, if you’re married?”

There ensued a curious interval, during which the two men eyed each other in a manner which seemed to be more pregnant with meaning than any words could have been. At last Mr. Talbot spoke—

“You say I reply to each of your questions with another. I’m going to do it again. I’ve told you who I am. Who are you?”

Again an interval of silence. The stranger threw away his cigarette. Then he rested both hands upon his cane, leaning slightly forward, so that it bent beneath the pressure.

“I’m the Marquis of Polhurston.”

It was said lightly, airily, yet with insolence which was indescribable. Mr. Talbot did not wince, yet it was as if he had been struck a blow, a careless, scornful blow, as with a glove, across the cheek. He offered no comment on the statement. He turned towards the wicket gate.

“This is the Monks, as you’re probably aware.”

“I – guessed.”

“If you will favour me with your company for a few minutes, I think it is possible that you and I shall have something which we should like to say to each other.” Mr. Talbot beckoned to the open wicket with an inviting hand.

“I agree that we may have; but – aren’t there stories told – about this charming place – shall we say, of – yours?”

“I fancy that’s a subject in which you are as well informed as I am.”

The marquis observed him with a glint of malice. He had fine eyes. Mr. Talbot thought how like, yet how unlike, his sister’s they were.

“Again we’re in agreement; yet, on the other side of that gate, aren’t you at home; while I – where, conceivably, might I be?”

“Do you suppose I’m that kind of person?”

Again the two men seemed to search for something which might be in each other’s eyes. Raising the point of his cane from the ground, the marquis flicked it, as he might have done the lash of a whip.

“You ought to be. It seems a natural inference. Yet, perhaps you’re not.” He pointed at the wicket with his cane. “When that gate is shut, it’s shut, so I have been told. Would it be shut on me if the fly walks into the parlour?”

“It shall be left open, if you prefer it; or it shall be opened on a word from you.”

The marquis gave a slight movement with his cane, as if it were a confession of faith. He stepped to the wicket, the other followed, the gate was shut.

The promenade of the lady and her maid extended over a good deal longer than three-quarters of an hour. Possibly more than twice that time had elapsed before they reappeared.

The lady seemed a little troubled in mind. She glanced at the watch upon her wrist, observing its statement of the time with some show of irritation.

“Of course the wretched thing’s all wrong, it always is. I believe it’s stopped, and I’m sure I wound it up last night, or – or sometime. I wonder how long we’ve been?” The maid shook her head, as if to imply that she had not a notion. “What did he say we were to do; hammer with a piece of stick or a stone? Can you see anything which will do?” Phoebe picked up a good-sized lump of the granite of which the Cornish roads are made. The lady eyed it askance. “You’d better hammer. You won’t be able to make much noise with that, and if he isn’t quite close, I don’t see how he’s going to hear.”

The girl started to use the stone as a knocker. The lady’s prediction was falsified. The sound of the knocking was heard very clearly. The wicket had only been struck three smart taps when it was opened. A gentleman came out, with Mr. Talbot close behind him. The lady stared at this gentleman as if he were one of the most amazing spectacles she had ever seen, He, showing no signs of surprise, lifting his green felt hat, greeted her with a sunny smile, plainly finding her a very ordinary person, while she continued to stare at him as if he were a ghost.

“Polhurston!” she exclaimed. In her pronunciation of the name there was a whole catalogue of adjectives.

“Betty – how well you’re looking. You do credit to the Cornish air. You’re quite the most delightful object my eyes have rested on since my arrival.” He turned to Mr. Talbot. “I say, that’s not bad for a brother.”

His lordship’s jaunty bearing seemed to add to the lady’s astonishment.

“Polhurston, what – what does this mean? What are you doing here?”

“Really, Betty, that’s too bad – too bad!” He wagged his cane at her, then glanced at Phoebe. “Don’t you think this young woman might be excused?”

“Phoebe, will you return to the house.”

The girl passed through the wicket. The lady looked from one gentleman to the other as if at a loss to which of them she should apply for information. The marquis relieved her of her dilemma by giving her an explanation of his own.

“Betty, you’ve not behaved well: you’ve been and gone and married my best friend without giving me, your only masculine relation, the tiniest hint of what it was you meant to do. Now was that fair? Of course, the second I found out, I came – to call. And – I’ve called. I propose to give myself the pleasure of calling again at a very early date. Lucky I’ve met you – I’m just off.”

“Off where?”

“Oh, just there, just there!”

“Just where?”

“My dear Betty, don’t ask questions, there’s no habit I so much dislike. Guard yourself against it; it grows on one. Goodbye! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you so – I believe the right word’s ‘blooming.’”

Apparently his lordship would have marched off then and there, but the lady stayed him.

“Polhurston, don’t be so absurd, if for once in your life you can help it. I insist on your explaining.”

“Explaining? I? It’s you who should explain; but do I insist? No, I – I am generous. I really must be off. By the way, Helena sends her love and congratulations, and – all that kind of thing; and, I expect, someday she’ll send a present – pair of silver snuffers, or something equally touching.”

The lady still held him by the sleeve, or he would certainly have gone.

“Is – is Mr. Talbot really a friend of yours?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Where are your ears? And they are such pretty ones! The best friend I ever had; no marriage you could have made, by the most wonderful good luck, could have pleased me better.”

It seemed that Mr. Talbot placed his own interpretation on something he saw in the lady’s eyes.

“You may have something to say to each other; you’ll find me just inside.”

He disappeared through the wicket. His lordship made a characteristic comment on his going.

“You see, he knows you want to say all sorts of disagreeable things, so he gives you a chance of saying them; that man has tact in a superlative degree. Please don’t say them. The mere fact that the man has given you the chance should make you pause. My dear Betty, I am so glad to have seen you; I must be off.”

“You’ll not go till you’ve answered one or two questions; so you’d better try your utmost to be serious. Have you seen my husband before?”

“Betty!”

“Have you?”

“Betty, how often have I dreamed of such a man in the most delicious dreams, and you ask me if I have seen him before.”

“I’ve heard a great deal about Percival Talbot from Helena, as well as from you. Is the Percival Talbot you said so much about my husband?”

“Betty, reflect, I implore you! What has not the world suffered because of woman’s curiosity? I don’t want to go back to ancient history. By the greatest fluke, and without the least deserving him, you’ve got an ideal husband. As your brother, I take the profoundest interest in your happiness and welfare. I do assure you they could not be in safer hands than they are. Someday, if you must ask questions, I may answer them, perhaps. I won’t promise. But I’ll answer none now!” He called through the wicket. “Talbot, I must ask you to take your wife inside. I must go, and she won’t let me. I told you how important it was that there should be no delay. Betty, if you won’t let me go I shall have to request your husband to haul you off.”

The impetuous nobleman, freeing himself with a sudden little twist, actually went running down the road, calling over his shoulder as he went—

“Shall I give your love to Helena? What shall I tell her you’d like for a present?”

When, having rejoined her husband, the pair were proceeding towards the house the lady’s manner was frigid. The gentleman tried to make conversation.

“Did you enjoy your walk?”

Ignoring the polite inquiry, the lady made a somewhat surprising remark of her own.

“I wish you wouldn’t take it so much for granted that I’m an utter idiot.”

He smiled, possibly in the hope of lessening the tension.

“On the contrary, I am convinced that you are the wisest of women.”

There was no symptom of the lady’s having been appeased by the compliment; scorn was added to coldness.

“Do you think that sort of speech pleases me? What an opinion you must have of my intellect. Your conduct towards Polhurston shows that you think less of it even than I imagined; since it is quite plain that you have given him an explanation which you have refused to give to me. That explains his behaviour. You see, I know him. Yet, considering our relations towards each other, I should have thought you might have given an explanation to your wife, especially as she has asked for one over and over again, rather than to her brother.”

“I have not given an explanation to your brother of any sort or kind.”

“You must have said something to him which was satisfactory, or he would not have gone off as he has done, evidently much more contented than I am.”

“Does that mean that you would have liked to have gone with him?”

“I am not sure.”

The lady became still more poker-like, and her dainty nose rose yet higher in the air. If her words hurt him, he showed no sign.

“When you are sure; or even when you think you’re nearly sure, you’ve only to say a word, and – the gates fly open.”

“I know you’d be only too glad to be rid of me.”

“You know that that’s untrue.”

“I believe you think I’m just a doll.”

“You don’t.”

“I say I do, and I do!” The lady brought her foot down on the ground with more violence than was necessary to enable her to take a forward step. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t treat me as a doll. I want to trust you but you won’t let me.”

“You are again mistaken. I assure you you have my most entire permission.”

She looked at him as if she could almost have wished that her glance could have been a blow. Plainly she did not regard his as one of those soft answers which are presumed to turn away wrath. So far, indeed, was that from being the result, that her coldness, all at once, became something very much like rage.

“I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that you can say more disagreeable things than anyone I ever met.”

“That is rather a tragic conclusion at which to arrive after so short an experience of married life. I – I am very sorry.”

“Oh no, you’re not; you care nothing for what I say, and still less for what I think.”

“There is nothing which I care for more.”

“If that were true you wouldn’t treat me as you are doing. What did you say to Polhurston, and what did Polhurston say to you? I quite expected him to fly in your face. I’ve heard him say things of you which have made my blood run cold; and instead of that, you seem to be on the best of terms, and he speaks of you as his friend.”

“Surely to you there can be no cause for regretting that?”

“It’s all very well; but I – I want to know what you’ve said or done to smooth him over. You’ve worked a miracle, and, as your wife – if I am your wife—”

“You are my wife. I am ready to repeat the fact just as often as you choose, because it gives me pleasure. Each time I say, ‘You are my wife,’ I – I know I am happy.”

“Then, if I am your wife, why don’t you treat me like a wife?”

“Betty! if I may call you Betty.”

“Don’t be silly; you can’t go through life calling me Mrs. Talbot, if – if that is my name.”

“Do you ever dream?”

“Of course I do.”

“I’ve had one dream continually of late. It’s a dream of the day on which, as you yourself put it, I shall treat you as my wife.”

She recalled what the woman of Penance had said, how she dreamed of the husband whose return she had awaited for all those years. For some reason her thoughts went back to her, and she shuddered.

In the house John Eva was deciphering a telegram. It was in some private code. The key to the code was contained in a book which he had open by his side. With its aid he translated the message word by word. This he did not seem to find it very easy to do; one or two of the words appeared to baffle him. Even when he had deciphered them he did not seem to be quite sure that his version was correct. Perhaps it was because the meaning they conveyed was so amazing that he found it hard to credit it. At last he had what he made of it written out on a piece of paper.

To John Eva, the Monks, England.

The Marquis of Polhurston murdered Percival Talbot on the night of the earthquake; that is the explanation of what you are trying to make out. Who your man is I can guess. Don’t wonder you found him a hard nut to crack; he is that kind of man. But I have his measure. Will soon rid you of him when I come, and I am coming straight away.—

Ben Farrell.

The telegram had been despatched from Messina.

— XXV —

A NEW-FASHIONED WOMAN

“Phoebe.”

The maid looked up from her sewing as the lady came into the room. She had come to be regarded as if, temporarily, she was in the lady’s particular service. She was a quiet, well-mannered girl, with a knack of speaking only when speech was wanted. The young wife had shown an inclination to treat her as a companion as well as a maid. Perhaps each saw what was in the other’s heart, with the intuition of one woman where another is concerned. It was possible that there was between them a bond of sympathy, which was none the less there because it was referred to by neither.

Mrs. Talbot was restless; as if she were the victim of an attack of the fidgets which gradually grew stronger the more she tried to be rid of it. All day she had seemed to have been seeking for something to do, and unable to find it. She had begun to read book after book, throwing each in turn aside. She had tried wandering about the grounds; she had tried to write, covering several sheets of paper with she alone knew what, only to tear them up again in what seemed to be a momentary fit of petulance. Now, as a last resort, she had come to the room in which the girl was busy sewing, as if in search of human society.

“Phoebe, would you like to be married?”

It was an odd question to ask the girl. Phoebe glanced up and down again, she was always working. The one thing of which she seemed to be incapable, was idleness. She seemed to be considering what answer to give, as if not unnaturally taken aback by the suddenness of the inquiry. But the lady was impatient.

“Really, Phoebe, you sit there as if you’d lost your tongue. I never saw such a house as this is for speechless people. If I don’t find somebody to talk to before very long, something will go.” She did not say what the something would be, but went rapidly on. “Did you hear what I asked you? Would you like to be married?”

“To the right lad, I would; but not to Joe Sayers.”

“What’s your objection to Joe Sayers? Is it merely because he’s ugly, and surly, and horrid? I can assure you that some husbands don’t seem to think it necessary to be anything else but horrid. By the way, where is he? I haven’t seen him since that first time.”

“He’s generally up to no good, is Joe Sayers; you may be pretty sure that he’s up to mischief when he’s out of sight. I’m thinking that he and uncle are up to something.”

“What do you mean by up to something?”

“There’s something in the air. Don’t you feel it? I do. I’ve known the Monks and its ways so long that I’ve come to have a sort of second sight. There’s something going on which means trouble to someone, and that before we’re very much older.”

“Do you really think so? I’ve a disagreeable feeling of the kind myself, and I can’t get rid of it. Phoebe, I want to ask you a question; you’re to answer it as truly and as frankly as if we were sisters. You know that woman at Penance, that Judith. Do you think that it was my husband who married her?”

The girl raised her eyes, and, this time, kept them on the lady’s face, as if in wonder.

“You’re not thinking that, are you? It’s not that that’s troubling you?”

“How do you know there is anything which is troubling me?”

“That’s easy to see.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Phoebe’s answer, when it came, was couched in language for which the other was possibly unprepared. She spoke with singular earnestness.

“Doesn’t your own heart tell you? Can’t you see deep enough into his? He’s not the kind of man that lies to a woman. He’d no more do wrong to you than you’d do wrong to him. All his trust’s in you; is none of yours in him?”

“How do you know that he’s any trust in me? It doesn’t look like it. He tells me nothing. I’ve asked him all sorts of questions, about things that I ought to know, that I’ve a right to know, and – and he’s answered none.”

Phoebe looked at the lady as if she wondered at her violence; then, glancing down again, resumed her sewing in silence, an attitude which the lady very evidently resented.

“You’re a very trying person, Phoebe. I don’t know what I’ve said which should make you look as though I’d said something I ought not to have done.”

The girl’s reply was a trite one. “If I were to let slip what’s on my tongue you’d be angry.”

“For goodness’ sake don’t mind my feelings; let anything what you call ‘slip’ rather than continue to just put your needle in and out as if you were a mechanical figure. I insist on your telling me what you were going to say.”

“I was just going to say, ma’am, that if it was my husband I’d trust him, and just ask no questions, if he loved me as yours loves you.”

The hot blood came into the lady’s cheeks. “Phoebe! How dare you! What do you mean – that is, I’d no idea you were going to say anything like that, or I shouldn’t have let you say it, but, as you have said it, perhaps you’ll tell me how you know he loves me.”

“Any fool can see that.”

“You use extraordinary language. I don’t know what reason you have for saying such a thing; suppose I can’t?”

“You can.” Once more the girl looked up with something in her eyes which, when she saw it, seemed to startle the lady not a little. “Do you mean to say that you can’t see when a man loves you, and he your own husband? Why, ’tis as plain as the day. There’s not a thing in the world he cares for that much compared to you.” She made a movement with her needle. “There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you; I’m sure of it. It’s for your sake that he gives no answers to your questions, and maybe he lies awake of nights, grieving that, though it is for your own sake, he can’t tell you all he wants. For you he’d face death and judgement, caring nothing what becomes of him; ’tis all he thinks of, to give you pleasure. It’s because you’re not happy he’s unhappy.”

“How do you know that I’m not happy?”

“You’d be different if you were.”

“And still more, how do you know that he’s unhappy?”

“That he’ll always be until you’ve told him that you love him.”

“Phoebe! You – you do talk the most ridiculous nonsense. If – if I’d ever dreamt you could have said such things I certainly wouldn’t have interrupted you. I read in a book the other day that it’s only people of the lower middle class who fall in love.”

“If it was a man that wrote the book, he was a thing of small account; you know it.”

“Please don’t take my knowing things so much for granted. As for the stuff you were talking about Mr. Talbot, it only shows how poor a judge you are of character. There is not a shred of sentiment in Mr. Talbot, and I doubt if he cares for me as much as he does for a cigar.”

“You’ll know better when you’ve lost him.”

“Lost him? Am I going to lose him?”

“Maybe before very long.”

“Phoebe! What do you mean?”

Phoebe looked the lady steadily in the face.

“Do you think because my uncle’s been still so long, he’s going to let things stay as they are? There are things going on in this house which I don’t understand; but as sure as I am sitting here, there’s trouble brewing for your husband. I’ve noticed things, and heard them, nights as well as days, if you haven’t; and each morning, when I wake up, I say to myself, I wonder if they did anything to Mr. Talbot last night, and what it was.”

“You do make the most terrible suggestions; I – I fancy myself, sometimes, that I hear noises in the night – as of people moving.”

“People are moving.”

“What people?”

“I can guess, though I don’t certainly know. There are things in this house which are worth, I’ve been told, cartloads full of money; and my uncle, and some of his friends, have come to look upon them as if they were their own – I’ve heard my uncle say it. Your husband’s made it plain that he doesn’t mean to let them have their own way; they’d think nothing of putting him in a hole in the ground if there’s no other way of getting rid of him.”

“Phoebe!”

“What I keep asking myself is if he knows it; I’ve tried to give him a hint more than once; but he’s taking no hints from the likes o’ me. Yet, I say it again, I’m as sure of it as that I’m sitting here, that there’s trouble coming to him very soon.”

It was later on the same day that the lady had a brief, but sufficiently singular, conversation, with her husband. She was pacing restlessly up and down the terrace when he came to her through the library window. He had a cigar between his lips, which, at sight of her, he threw away.

“I’ve been wondering where you were; may I speak to you?”

“Why did you throw away your cigar? You hadn’t half smoked it.”

“I – I thought it might be more courteous.”

“Courteous! Need you stand on such ceremony with me? And since when is it discourteous for a husband to smoke in his wife’s presence, when he knows she likes him to?”

His manner could not have been meeker had he deserved reproach.

“I’m sorry if I did what I ought not to have done; but, like the small boy, I meant no harm. But, after all, a cigar is a trifle, and I have something serious at present to say to you.”

“It seems so long since you’ve said anything to me at all that this takes me rather by surprise.”

Though it seemed likely that her words were meant for prickles, to sting him, he remained unruffled.

“I hardly know how to deal with you when you talk in that strain; especially as I wish to ask you a favour.”

“Is it possible that I can do you a favour?”

“Betty – you mustn’t talk like that; if you understood you wouldn’t.”

“But I don’t understand; and, so far as I can judge, you don’t mean that I shall.”

“I intend that you shall understand this much; that I think it advisable that, for the present, you should leave the Monks.”

“Leave the Monks? Pray why? Are you going?”

“No; I shall stay.”

“Then so shall I.”

“Betty – you mustn’t.”

“All the same, I shall – unless you throw me out.”

“You know I can do nothing of the kind; but – you don’t understand.”

“I understand this much, that my place is where you are; since you are my husband, and I am your wife – though only in name.”

Although he did not know it, she was quivering from head to foot. Phoebe’s words kept ringing in her ears; they were the more audible the graver he became.

“I trust that it will only be for a short time, our – parting; but, truly, you must go; I shall have to insist even at the risk of your misjudging me. And today; shall we say in an hour? If you can manage to be ready. You needn’t take much luggage, and I’ve already told Phoebe to pack your box.”

She turned on him with a sudden flash of anger. “You’ve told Phoebe to pack my box? How dare you!”

His manner was as gentle as hers was agitated. “It won’t do, your being – angry. A motor will be ready as soon as the box is packed; I hope to be able to accompany you to Falmouth station, with your very kind permission. My idea is that you should take Phoebe with you, and that you should have a few days in town.”

“In town? But I thought that, at this time of day there was no train.”

“I propose to engage a special, which will take the pair of you in comfort. They’ve had a hint that a train may be required; I shouldn’t be surprised if you find it waiting for you when you get to the station.”

“This is a conspiracy.”

He referred to his watch.

“May I order the car to be ready in an hour – shall we make it sooner?”

“You can make it never – never – never! And now I hope you understand. I’m as capable as you are of meaning what I say; and when I said just now that I’d not leave the Monks, unless you have me thrown into the road, or have me treated in some similar agreeable fashion, I meant it.”

She had a queer consciousness that her outspoken defiance, so far from offending him, gave him something like positive pleasure. Perhaps her sense of intuition had all at once grown keener, though there was nothing to show it. Indeed the gravity of his bearing approached to the verge of sternness.

“There are reasons which render it necessary that you should do as I wish you – that you should go.”

“I dare say there are, of the most solid kind; there may be enough of them to pave all the country roads – but I shan’t.”

“And if I say you must?”

“Very well – you say it; and I suppose the next step will be that you’ll take me up in your arms, and carry me to the gates, though you’ll find me a trifle heavy, and throw me out into the road; you’ll find that that’s the only kind of must that will be of the slightest use to you.”

“But if I tell you that it may be dangerous if you stay?”

“You’re one of those old-fashioned men who think that, where a woman is concerned, they’re entitled to do all the talking; I’m one of the new-fashioned women who think they aren’t. You hint that it may be dangerous for me to stay; very good. I’m not denying it; is it the same for you?”

“Be so kind as to leave me out of the question.”

“I will – if you’ll leave me.”

“Then, with you, my wishes have no weight.”

“How much weight have mine with you?”

“I’ve no desire, as you’re perfectly well aware, to—”

“Throw me out into the road? It’s very nice of you; all the same, you have a desire, and, pray, what may it be?”

“Betty, if I promise that you shall return in the morning, will you leave the Monks for tonight?”

“I thought so; now I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“It’s tonight there are going to be ructions.”

Her words seemed to take him aback; he stared at her, as if with a lack of comprehension.

“What may you suppose yourself to mean?”

“John Eva and all his tender-hearted friends are going to try to get even with you tonight, and – you want to get rid of me, in order that they may have every opportunity of doing so. Jack – you told me to call you Jack – and I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

Across his face, whose expression at that moment was sufficiently saturnine, there flittered the shadow of a grim smile.

She stood close up to him, as if near neighbourhood lent her confidence.

“Jack, you remember when you first saw me, waiting for death, on what was left of the balcony at the Pension Bianchi.”

“Am I likely to forget?”

“You risked your life to save mine, risked it again and again, though – you must admit it – I begged you not to; wouldn’t you have thought yourself, if you’d done as I asked you, a pretty poor thing? You’re that kind of man.”

“I hope I am.”

“I thought then, and I’ve thought since, and I think now, that no braver man could have lived than you were then – and I’ve no doubt that you’re just as brave today – that you always have been; that bravery’s so grown to be a habit with you that you’re incapable of being afraid – of anything; yet I was mistaken, you are afraid.”

“Yes, you are quite right, I am – I’m afraid for you.”

“Don’t you understand, can’t you see it, that your fear is nothing compared to mine? Haven’t you sufficient imagination to enable you to realize, dimly, what I should have to bear all through the night, if I was – there – and you were here. They talk of people’s hair going white in a single night – I believe mine would – and in the morning, Jack, think what I’d be like in the morning, what was left of me. If you were still alive—”

“My dear Betty, don’t let your imagination lead you astray to that extent; in the morning I shall be just as much alive as I am now, just as hale and hearty.”

“Will you?”

“I shall. I admit – since your woman’s wit has helped you guess that during the course of the night I may have one or two adventures; but I shall suffer no ill-effects. Indeed, I’m rather looking forward to a pleasant evening’s entertainment.”

“Are you? And while you’re being entertained, I’m to be bored in town with only that girl to keep me company. Every word you utter makes your case worse. So far, I’ve had a pretty dull time at the Monks; directly a little entertainment’s coming on, you wish to get rid of me. No, it will not do. Jack, I stay.”

It seemed as if, in spite of himself, he had to smile – it was a real smile this time, not merely a shadow.

“I – I love you for it.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so.”

“You shall stay, if you’ll promise me one thing.”

“I shall stay, though I promise you nothing. What is it you want me to promise?”

“Betty, tonight a select party of the choicest scoundrels are going to receive John Eva’s hospitality; mind you, I’m not positively certain of it, but I suspect it. They may want to interview me.”

“You mean they will want.”

“They will find me, I say it without meaning to be presumptuous, one of the most difficult persons to interview they ever have encountered. Still the interview may be quite a lively one; it’s bound to be; and, when interviews of that kind are lively in a certain sense, women – I mean no offence, indeed, I can scarcely pay you a greater compliment than I do by saying that women are not wanted. What I wish you to promise me then, is, that when you go to bed tonight, you’ll lock your bedroom door, and go to sleep and keep asleep. Should anything disturb you, and I’ll do my best to see that peace is kept, you’re to turn over on the other side, and under no circumstances whatever unlock your bedroom door. Please promise me you won’t.”

“I’ll promise you nothing.”

Even before her sentence was completed she was out of reach and running from him, so that he could not have detained her even if he would. She was through the library window, and out of sight, before he had clearly realized that it was her intention to elude him. He remained to stare at the window through which she had vanished.

“It isn’t much I’ve had to do with women.” The words were spoken out loud, as if there had been someone to hear. “I wonder if they’re all as easy to manage.”

The lady, still running like some wild thing, dashed into the room in which Phoebe continued to sew.

“Phoebe, it’s tonight; he wants to send me to London with you because – they’re coming. What do you think – they’ll do to him?”

The maid’s mind was quite made up on that subject; and she gave it the clearest possible expression.

“If he doesn’t do what they want him to, they’ll kill him.”

— XXVI —

A FEW WORDS WITH SOME GENTLEMEN

It was someone tapping at the bedroom door, not loudly yet firmly. Within Mr. Talbot smiled. Although the hour was so late he had not retired to bed. He was seated at a little table, which was nearly hidden by a mass of papers which he studied intently; some seemed letters, some plans of buildings, and others were columns of figures. There was also what appeared to be a kind of scrapbook, which, from the look of it, contained an alla-podrida [stew] of curious information. There were photographs of persons as well as things. Attached to the portraits of persons were what seemed to be biographical notes, while to the photographs of objects were other notes, both historical and descriptive. When he heard the tapping, Mr. Talbot looked up from the papers, glanced at his watch, smiled, and continued his studies.

“It isn’t necessary that I should hear them the first time; let them knock again – a trifle harder. How still it is! In this silence sounds travel; I hope they won’t become too audible – there may be someone in the house asleep.”

The knocking was repeated, as he had foreseen, louder; an interval, then again. Five times they knocked, without a sign from within; then there was a crash against the panels.

“That sounds like the butt of a revolver; they grow impatient. If I let them continue to knock, how long, I wonder, would it be before they sent a bullet through the door? Now that would make a noise; so – I’ll recover my sense of hearing. Anyone there?”

It was the voice of an angry man which answered.

“Chuck that nonsense – you know very well there’s somebody here. If you don’t open the door pretty sharp we’ll open it for you.”

“Is that you, John Eva? What keeps you out of bed at this time of night?”

“You open the door.”

“Coming, coming. Why all this hurry? Is the house on fire?”

He showed no signs of haste; before rising from his chair he put away the papers with which he had been engaged in a drawer in the table, the scrapbook in some curious hiding-place with which he seemed to be acquainted up the chimney, some odds and ends in the breast pocket of his jacket. Unfriendly tones on the other side of the door continued to warn him of the unpleasant consequences which would result from delay. Leisurely, having disposed, to his satisfaction, of the letters and papers, he turned the key and opened the door. Four men stood without – John Eva, the man who had acted as chauffeur, whose name was Ben Pritchard, Joe Sayers, and the fourth person – a big, burly, bald-headed man, who, from his appearance, might have been a prize-fighter or a pugilist. Talbot caught his eye directly the door was opened; the two men measured each other, as if each were conscious that the other, from a purely physical point of view, was worth consideration.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Pray, Eva, how comes it that these gentlemen are out of bed, and disturbing my slumbers at this hour of the night?”

He seemed quite at his ease, as if their presence amused him. Eva’s surliness was in striking contrast to his affability.

“It seems to me that you’re not very much disturbed; you haven’t been between the sheets.”

“Perhaps that’s because I have a taste for burning the midnight oil. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“We’ll tell you all about that when we get you downstairs; we’ve got a few words to say to you which can’t very well be said here. If you take my advice you’ll come right along without giving us any trouble.”

“Has no one ever told you, Eva, that your manners are the most unfortunate part of you? Perhaps if you had been told in time, it would have been changed for the better. I’m often willing to oblige when I’m spoken to civilly; when I’m spoken to your way, I’m not.”

For answer Eva glanced at his companions. With a quick movement the big man was at Talbot’s back; the bedroom door was shut behind him so as to cut off his retreat; the other three stood close up to him with that in their bearing which scarcely signified a pacific intention.

“Now, quick! Are you coming on your own or are we going to make you? You’ll get no damned civility from us, and we’ll stand no damned nonsense from you. Are you coming, or – how is it to be?”

The other still showed no sign of being ruffled. His manner could not have been more courteous had they treated him with every mark of deference.

“So pressing an invitation I’m not inclined to refuse; you flatter me by showing so strong an inclination for my company. Certainly I’ll come, on the instant.”

“Then do it – this way.”

As if by prearrangement Eva moved on a pace or two in front, the chauffeur and Sayers kept on his right and left, while the big man brought up the rear close behind. This order of going seemed to tickle Mr. Talbot’s sense of humour.

“Gentlemen, you really are too condescending; you favour me with quite a royal escort.”

The slight touch of would-be humour went unnoticed. The four men moved silently on, with the one in the centre, so silently that one would have had to have been a light sleeper to have become conscious, even in the stillness of the night, that anyone was moving. Down the staircase, across the hall, to the room in which was the hidden telephone. For one instant Eva stopped in front of the door; Talbot had become aware that the other three had drawn closer; the door was opened – with a sudden thrust from the big man at the back he was projected into the room. It was not a dignified entrance. It was all he could do to save himself from falling. Most men would have lost their temper; when he had regained his perpendicular, and was firm upon his feet, he showed no sign of having lost his. He turned to the big man with a smile.

“Pray accept my apologies for having done anything to cause you to think it necessary to use so much exertion.” He looked about him. “Gentlemen, your friend pays you a poor compliment in imagining that I could be so unwilling to enjoy the charms of your society.”

There were some dozen persons in the room, all men. Two or three he recognized, and greeted with words which stung them all the more because they were so genially uttered. “Surely you are the gentleman who called on me in the hotel at Naples, and whose name I believe to be Elkins, and whom I assisted into the middle of the street, showing such a disposition to save you trouble.”

The person addressed evinced very little inclination towards geniality. His manner rather suggested a snarl.

“I’ll give you some assistance before I’ve done with you, my cock bird; and I promise you, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

“It shows that you’re not without redeeming traits, the disposition to redeem your promises. Why, surely, it’s my old friend Farrell – Bully Farrell. I haven’t seen you since the morning in the hotel at Messina after the shaker.”

The red-headed man smiled back at Mr. Talbot, a smile which gave him rather an ogre-like appearance, his wide jaws opening to show his large yellow teeth.

“And I haven’t seen you, but I’ve heard of you; seems to me I’ve heard of nothing else. I always did give you credit for nerve, General, but you’ve gone beyond my highest expectation; considering that you must have known that all the cards were dead against you, it beats me how you ever had the sauce to play this kind of game.”

“I think you will remember that I always was ready to play almost any kind of game, even when the cards were against me. You perhaps haven’t forgotten a little game that was once played in which a knife was driven through the back of a man’s hand and nailed it to the table. He had the winning card under that hand, and yet he never played it. Would you ever let your hand be treated like that, if you’d the winning card?”

The question seemed to give Mr. Farrell anything but pleasure. He glared at the speaker almost as if he were an ogre. Suddenly he held out his right hand, palm downwards.

“There’s the scar, where your knife went through; I didn’t kill you for it then—”

“No, you didn’t kill me for it then.”

“I did not; but I’ll kill you for it now, and I’ll leave more than one mark on you where my knife goes in.”

“Hadn’t you better put an edge on it while the other gentlemen are talking. You and I, sir, have not met before in the flesh, though it so happens that I know you very well, you’ve no idea how well, by – shall we say, by reputation? Though that’s such a funny word to apply to you.”

This was said to an individual whom one was rather surprised to see in such society, he was so resplendent and so redolent of money. Short, a trifle stout, thick black hair, carefully oiled and brushed, a heavy, beautifully trimmed moustache, a double chin, pendulous cheeks, thick moist lips, a prominent nose, velvety eyes framed in little beds of fat – characteristic of the modern Jew with whom the world had gone very well. He was dressed in quite good taste; the only point in his attire which afforded grounds for criticism was the splendid diamond pin which made radiant his neat green neck-tie. Something in his bearing hinted that he was not quite at ease in the galley in which he found himself; when accosted by Mr. Talbot in what, to him, was clearly an unexpected fashion, his uneasiness became something very like ill temper. His manner was not so refined as that of so well-groomed a gentleman ought to have been.

“Don’t try any of your bluff with me, my man, nor any of your impudence either. I’m as great a stranger to you as you are to me. You don’t even know my name.”

“Which of them? because, as you know even better than I do, you’ve had several. I can’t pretend to know them all, where there are so many, but I’m acquainted with two or three. I don’t think you ever knew your father, but you probably remember as well as I do the name by which your mother was known in that little Polish town in which you saw the light. Then there was the name you bore when you first saw the inside of a Russian prison. Then there were others under which you masqueraded until, on your arrival in England, you traded on the sympathies of your supposed compatriots in that Whitechapel ghetto as the suffering son of an ill-used sire, Isaac Lewinsky. Some of the adventures which mark your career before you became transformed into Mr. Claude Herbert, are known to others present almost as well as to me. This is but a slight sketch of your career Mr. – Claude Herbert; the details can be filled in, down to some singularly small minutiae, when required by the police.”

The well-tailored gentleman’s face, while Mr. Talbot had been speaking, presented a fine study of varying emotions. Surprise, bewilderment, rage, chased each other across what ordinarily was probably an immobile mask. He would, doubtless, have stopped the speaker almost at the start, had it not been that amazement robbed him of his presence of mind. When at last he did speak, it was with spluttering fury. His anger was so great that it even caused him to forget his well-trained English accent.

“Who are you? Where did you learn these lies about me? Who told you of these things, which are all untrue?”

“I will tell you from whom I learnt what you call these things, together with many others. I learnt them from Mr. Reginald Talbot. I may add, also, that from him I learnt many interesting facts in the history of every person I see in this room. Although some of us meet for the first time in the flesh, I have seen every one of you before. Mr. Talbot had an excellent portrait gallery, in which you all figure, some of you over and over again. When that interesting collection reaches the hands of the police, you’ve no idea what unpleasant results will follow; and, if you are not extremely careful, it will reach the police before any of you are very much older.”

That the statement impressed those who heard it in spite of themselves, their attitude and look made sufficiently plain. Still uninterrupted, Mr. Talbot went pointedly on.

“There are gentlemen present whose lives will be worth only a very few hours’ purchase; at the very least, the liberty of every one of you will be seriously curtailed. You are all of you aware that I’m not speaking without good grounds, while, if you doubt it, my lawyers here, who also acted in devious deals for Mr. Reginald Talbot – Messrs. Wilson and Skaine – will be able, out of the fullness of their legal knowledge, to give you all the assurance you require. I’m rather surprised, Mr. Wilson, to see you occupying the place you do. I should have thought that caution, apart from other considerations, would have induced a man of your ability to have placed himself in a position as remote from danger, of different sorts, as was practically possible.”

Mr. Wilson, who was on a chair behind the leather-covered writing-table, at which were seated other gentlemen, had been regarding Mr. Talbot ever since his appearance in the room with a rather pallid smile. Paying no heed to the personal application of the speaker’s words, he addressed himself to those around him.

“Isn’t there rather a confusion somewhere? Is this gentleman here to talk to us or for us to talk to him?”

“Oh, we’ll talk to him in a minute; before we start let him finish. There won’t be much talk left in him by the time we’ve done; so let’s give him all the chance to give us useful tips he wants.”

The speaker was Mr. Farrell. He was followed by a thin, cadaverous individual, who, from his attire and get up, might have been mistaken for a dissenting parson. There seemed to be something the matter with his throat, as if it were partly stopped up, so that his words came through it in a sort of sibilant whisper.

“It’s hardly probable that our dear friend here can tell us anything about ourselves that we don’t know already; at the same time one would like to know where that collection of portraits to which he refers is to be found, if it is to be found, and isn’t a mere invention of his own; since it is self-evident that it would be better in our keeping than in anybody else’s.”

John Eva spoke. “I know what he’s talking about and where it’s to be found; we’ll deal with him first, we’ll leave all the rest till afterwards. So far as I’m concerned I’ve had enough of his chatter. Look here, my lad, don’t you speak again till you’re asked; each time you do, you’ll get paid for your trouble.”

“Am I asked to speak now?”

Without warning, the big man who, throughout, had remained close behind him, struck him a blow with his clenched fist on the side of his head, which sent him staggering across the room and all but bore him off his feet. He blundered unwittingly against Mr. Farrell, who resented the insult by striking him, in his turn, on the other side of his head, and sending him staggering back again.

“Whose toes are you treading on, you clumsy clown? I’ll learn you!”

The other gentlemen laughed, some of them with great guffaws, as if the jest was excellent. Mr. Talbot, when he had ceased to stagger, drew himself up, with a little shake of his head, and seemed about to speak, then changed his mind. John Eva congratulated him on his reticence.

“That’s right; you keep a tight hold on that tongue of yours. You see what comes of talking, and that’s only a beginning.”

Mr. Wilson was the next speaker, his pallid smile still more pronounced.

“Pray pardon me, but aren’t we wasting time; hadn’t we better come to the subject which brought us here? By the time we’ve brought this person to a clear comprehension of what his position really is, he may have come to his senses – shall we begin?”

— XXVII —

A KEY TO THE COMBINATION

All eyes were fixed on Mr. Talbot, as if each man were summing him up. He bore their inspection very well. No one to look at him would have supposed that he had received two stinging blows so recently; he held himself so straight, about his lips there was such a suggestion of careless scorn. One felt that he held these men cheaply, though they were twenty to one. Possibly the understanding among the confederates was that the lawyer should conduct the proceedings. He leaned back in his chair, as he had done in his office, with his legs crossed, and the tips of his fingers pressed together. When he spoke it was in a passionless, even monotone, as if he wished to conceal the interest which he felt in the matter as much as he could.

“When, some little time ago, you came to see me at my office, introducing yourself as Percival Talbot, the nephew of old Reginald, I was struck by the fact that you were not at all the sort of person I had expected you would be. But it seemed so audacious a thing that, under the circumstances, an impostor should attempt to take advantage of my simplicity, that in spite of my surprise it did not occur to me that you could be any other than the individual you pretended to be.”

When the lawyer spoke of his simplicity, what was possibly an ironical smile flitted across the face of more than one of his listeners.

“Yet what I had not even suspected actually proves to be the truth. You are no more Percival Talbot than I am. That you should ever have advanced such a claim points to an amount of impudence, to speak, at the moment, of nothing else, which is so colossal as to be almost incredible. I now not only know that you are not the man whose name you assumed, I know who you are, and all about you.”

The lawyer referred to a sheet of paper which had been lying on the table in front of him.

“Your name is Barry – John Barry. You have spent some years of your life in America, where you have lived by what I will politely call your wits, and fared badly. Lately you have spent some time in the Klondike region, looking for gold, and not finding it. There you met Percival Talbot, who was in hiding, for reasons of his own. You became, to some extent, his companion; you wormed yourself into his confidence. He probably told you of his rich uncle, whose only relative he was. You appear to have begun at once to trade upon the information which he gave you. An idea must have taken root in your head as to what it might be made to mean to you – you had the assurance to send old Talbot your photograph, and to pretend it was his nephew’s.”

“That’s a lie.”

As he spoke, anticipating the onslaught of the big man behind him, spinning round like a top, Mr. Talbot, evading the blow which was aimed at him, as a penalty for having spoken, proceeded to reply in kind, and struck his assailant once, twice, and even thrice, with such rapidity and precision, that the fellow, taken wholly unawares, in spite of his height and bulk, was sent crashing to the ground. A pretty hubbub arose. A dozen rushed at the one. Had it not been for the lawyer’s voice, which rose high above the tumult, it might have fared ill with him.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Order please, order! Wasn’t it understood between us that there should be none of this sort of thing until the proper time?”

Threatenings and cursings came from the big man as he raised himself from the floor.

“Let me get at him; I’ll make pulp of him for this, by God I will.”

Mr. Wilson persisted in his intervention. “Bennett, I forbid you! Do as you like when I’ve done with him, but don’t you touch him till I have.”

The solicitor spoke as with a voice of authority. The big man showed no inclination to obey.

“Do you think I’m going to let him handle me, send me to grass as if I were a ninepin – a swine like him! Not much, I’m not.”

The lawyer, on his side, stuck to his point. “It was agreed that my ruling should be obeyed, and I’ll have it obeyed. You shall repay him with interest all he’s given you, presently; but there’s been delay enough already – I’ll have no more.”

John Eva whispering something in his ear, the big man listened to what was possibly the voice of reason. Muttering to himself something which was probably unfriendly, keeping his fists by his side, he let the lawyer have his way. Before resuming his remarks, Mr. Wilson favoured Talbot with what was possibly meant to be a few words of warning.

“Unless you are more unwise even than I imagine, you won’t try that sort of thing again, or I’ll have you tied down to a chair, and Bennett shall beat your face to a jelly.”

Settling himself again in his chair, the lawyer continued with the same evenness of intonation.

“I say you sent your photograph to old Talbot, and passed it off as his nephew, and you say that’s a lie.”

“It is a lie.”

“With what intention, then, did you send the photograph?”

“I never sent it.”

“Then who did?”

“I cannot tell you. I never saw the photograph till I saw it on your table, nor did I know of its existence.”

“Your words hint at something which I do not find it easy to credit; however, it is not of much consequence, I’ll leave it. Old Reginald Talbot died; I communicated the fact to Percival Talbot; and you replied to me, in your own handwriting, and using his name. That, I take it, you don’t dispute. You are at liberty to answer my question; you needn’t be afraid of Bennett.”

“I am not afraid of Bennett.”

He looked at the gentlemen in question with something on his face that was certainly not fear – it was something which the big man resented.

“You’re not afraid of me now, but when I start on you, before I’ve done you will be – I’ll turn your heart to water.” Once again Mr. Wilson interposed. “That’ll do, leave all that till afterwards. Answer my question, Barry.”

“My name is not Barry.”

At this Mr. Farrell broke into laughter. “Oh come, don’t tell that tale in front of me – it’s a bit too thin. How many years have I known you as Jack Barry – eh, General?”

“Just as many years as I’ve known you as a thief.”

A full-mouthed imprecation broke from the red-headed man’s lips; he apparently shared Bennett’s inclination to come to close quarters. The lawyer stopped him.

“Now, Mr. Farrell, I won’t have it – you can all of you make him pay with interest later. You either hold your life as worth very little or you are many kinds of a fool.”

This was said to Talbot, who, still seeming sublimely at his ease, looked at those about him as he might have looked at so many curs.

“I’ll tell you at what price I do esteem my life – compared to the lives of such carrion creatures as these, its value is beyond even your capacity of imagining. Come, my man, you just now spoke about delay – aren’t you a little slow yourself in coming to the point? I’m getting tired.”

“You’ll get more than tired by the time we’ve done with you.”

“Why don’t you put a gag into his mouth and tie him to a seat?”

This was the cadaverous man who recalled a parson. The well-tailored gentleman put in his word.

“I think myself that all these preliminaries are not wanted. Isn’t it enough that he knows that we know all about him?”

“Perhaps you would like to take him in hand yourself Mr. Herbert.”

The solicitor’s tone was slightly acid. The other’s acceptance of the proposition was perhaps unexpectedly brusque.

“I will, if you don’t mind. Listen to me, my friend.”

There came instant interruption. “Don’t venture to call me your friend, you skinful of villainy.”

Mr. Herbert waved his hands with a gesture which seemed to signify that such a remark was wide of the point.

“I’m not going to call you names, and I’m indifferent what language such a man as you may use to me. I’m a man of business, and I am here for business. Somewhere in this house there’s a strong-room. We’ve reason to believe that you’re aware of the fact. You know what a strong-room is.”

“I’ve heard of such things.”

“I dare say you’ve heard of this one. This is a strong-room of very special construction. It’s not easy to get into it unless you know the way, and it’s not meant to be easy. We have reason to believe that not only do you know where the strong-room is, but that you know how to get into it. Do you?”

“Make yourself a little plainer.”

“I will, if you think it’s necessary; though I rather imagine you’re playing with us and wasting time. There’s only one way of getting into this strong-room. There are two series of locks. In the first series there are eight locks – letter locks; you know what I mean. They can be set to any letter, and unless you know the letters to which they are set you’ll never open them. Then again, that series and the second series are governed by a time clock. The whole lot of them can only be opened at a certain moment of a certain hour, what that moment is, only the person who has set the clock knows. Old Talbot had the management of the strong-room, he set the letters and the clock, and died without telling anyone what the combination was. In all matters of business he was a careful man, and as it would have been very awkward for him to lose the key to the combination, it’s pretty certain that, lest it escaped his memory, he put it down on paper. We’ve reason to believe that’s what he did do, and that that paper has fallen into your hands. Has it?”

“One among you must have rather a logical sort of mind, a mind capable of drawing inferences – which of you is it? Wilson, is it you?”

Mr. Herbert tapped on the table with his fingers. “Answer my question – have you the key to the combination?”

“How came anybody to guess that I was likely to have it?”

“So you have got it!”

The words were spoken, as it were, with a sudden snap.

Mr. Talbot became conscious that in the twenty pairs of eyes which were fixed upon him, there all at once had come a hungry look. The discovery seemed to tickle him. His manner became quite jaunty.

“I had it! Certainly I had it.”

The admission caused the tense silence of the onlookers to be suddenly broken. Several of them began to speak at once.

“What did I tell you?” cried John Eva, within his voice something very like a ring of triumph. “Didn’t I say he’d got it? He may be as deep as the devil and as clever, but he can’t fool me. I knew he’d got it. Wilson, what did I tell you?”

“If he has it, we have.”

This was the lawyer. Five or six of the men crowded about Talbot. This time it was Mr. Herbert’s voice which rose above the tumult.

“Stand back, you men, don’t behave like a lot of fools; let’s do this thing in order.” The men withdrew a foot or two, at least, giving Mr. Talbot room to breathe. The speaker went on. “You admit that you had the key to the combination.”

“Why use the word admit? Nothing affords me greater pleasure than to give you the information. As you say, I had the key to the combination.”

“I notice you used the past tense – is that intentional?”

“That’s as you choose to take it.”

“Do you mean that you had, or that you have it?” Mr. Talbot seemed to hesitate, as of malice prepense. All those eyes seemed hungrier still, hanging on his answer. In his own glance, as it travelled from one to the other, was what looked very like a twinkle.

“One would almost think, from the way in which you put the question, that I was some sly dog of a lawyer, using words to juggle with.”

“Never mind what I think of you. Have you that key now.”

“Suppose – I only say suppose – I were to tell you that I’ve mislaid it, or lost it, or that an accident had happened to it – what then?”

“You admit that you had the key, but you haven’t got it now. You can’t have got rid of it very long, not long enough to forget what it was – you’ve got it in your mind.” Mr. Herbert tapped his forehead with the tip of his finger. “What was it.”

“Aren’t you going too fast? I didn’t say I hadn’t got it.”

“Answer! Have you got it?”

“I have.”

“Where?”

In asking the question Mr. Claude Herbert seemed, metaphorically, to spring at the other across the table.

“Where? You ask me where I’ve got it?”

“You heard me.”

“Now, suppose – again I only say suppose – I were to tell you—”

“If you don’t answer my question I’ll have the words forced out of your throat.”

“Wouldn’t that be rather a difficult thing to do? You might find it so.”

“You’ll find yourself in queer street if you play with us any longer; answer my question – where’s the key?”

“It’s here.”

With an air of the most complete indifference, as if murder did not look out of each of those men’s eyes, from the left outside pocket of his jacket, he took an envelope – a long blue envelope. A dozen hands would have snatched it from him, but he was quicker than them all; before the owners of the hands knew how it had been done, the envelope was in Mr. Herbert’s fingers.

“Stand back,” exclaimed that gentleman, when the owners of the hands showed an inclination to throng even about him. “Did you hear me tell you to stand back? How do you suppose we are to do any business if you are such fools? I will tell you all about this envelope, and what is in it, if you’ll only have a moment’s patience.”

They drew a little back, but not far; each of the men seemed to be listening with eyes and ears and all his senses.

“To begin with, on the outside of the envelope there is this written – it is in old Talbot’s writing; presently you shall see for yourselves that it is in his writing – in one corner there is this, ‘This envelope is to be given to Percival Talbot, if he ever has courage enough to set foot in the Monks.’ So, you see, the old gentleman knew very well, as we all knew very well, that the real Percival would not have so much courage, for very many reasons.” Mr. Herbert looked up from the envelope at the man from whom he had it. “Who gave you this?”

“No one gave it to me; I – found it.”

“You found it! What do you mean? Where did you find it?”

“What does it matter where he found it? Let’s get on. It’s you who’s delaying now. What’s in the envelope?”

This was Mr. Farrell. Mr. Herbert took the interruption in good part.

“You’re quite right, Farrell, quite right; we’ll stick to our muttons. On the other corner of the envelope there is this, also in the old man’s writing: ‘To Percival Talbot. Examine this envelope closely; if either of the seals has been broken or show signs of having been tampered with, twist John Eva’s neck, if you have grit enough, before he twists yours.’ You hear? Can you not fancy it’s the old man speaking, trusting no one, scratching everyone.”

“Get on with what’s inside the envelope.”

This again was Farrell.

“This is what is inside the envelope, a sheet of paper, and on it, still in the old man’s writing, ‘The Robbers’ Cave,’ now we have it, you remember how he always used to speak of it as The Robbers’ Cave. ‘Open Sesame,’ what is the meaning of that?” No one attempted to enlighten his ignorance on the subject of the old-world story. “Now we are coming to it closer still, ‘P-e-r-c-i-v-a-l,’ Percival; one, two, three, four, there are eight letters. There we have the key to the letter locks; it was not a bad idea of the old man’s. And here is the key to the time clock, at last! ‘Noon.’ Here, Mr. Wilson, here, gentlemen, is the key to the combination, the strong-room is already ours, all the riches of the Robbers’ Cave. Eva, where is that key?”

“Give me hold of that sheet of paper, let me have a look at it.” The request came from John Eva; the paper was passed to him. He studied it attentively. “That’s it, right enough; the artfulness of that old beauty! Get away, there, and let me come; and mind, you chaps, when the door is open, hands off. When the door is open no one goes inside but me. I shall be in full sight all the time, so you’ll be able to see that I play no tricks. You keep this side of the door, that’s all.”

The men made way to let him pass. He went up to the further end of the room, to where he had been when Mr. Talbot first made the acquaintance of the chamber. He touched what was no doubt a spring; the apartment was panelled, from floor to ceiling, with woodwork, painted white. About an inch of the panelling falling back as on a hinge, disclosed a keyhole beyond. He inserted a key, which was one of many which he had upon a bunch; the panelling came away, revealing beyond what was evidently a door of a safe of some description, painted the familiar black and green.

“There you are, my lads, the entrance to the Robbers’ Cave, on the other side of which there’s wealth enough to make the Lord only knows how many millionaires; it’s all of it ours, though we were very nearly done out of it. Now for the Open Sesame. I dare say some of you know what that means better than our honoured friend Mr. Herbert. You see those eight round spaces, which are at present blank; there are twenty-six letters behind each of those; they’re on a sort of reel, you slide them round like this: there’s A for you, and B, and C, and so on – you see the idea? You’ve not only got to find the right letter in one of those spaces, you’ve got to find it in all of them; if you don’t happen to know what the right letters are, if you’ll try to work out how many changes eight times twenty-six letters are capable of, you’ll have some faint idea of what that means. Since the old gentleman died, I’ve been standing before this door day after day, trying to get those letters right. I haven’t done it, and I doubt if I ever should do it, without this paper. Now it’s just dead easy, You see, you turn this reel till we get P, this till we get E, this R, now C, I, V, A, L; there you are, Percival. That’s the beginning; now for the clock. There are two ways of managing this clock. You set it to a certain hour, and you start it going – it’s a thirty-day clock, this is; only at the hour to which you set it, on each day, can the locks be opened – that is, supposing you’ve got the letters right; if you wait till a minute past that hour, you have to wait till the next day, which is sometimes awkward. If you wish to avoid the risk of that awkwardness, you set the clock but you don’t start it going; you just move the hands round like this, to the proper hour, and, having got the letters right, you’ve got it all right. Pretty, isn’t it? Wonderful ingenuity is shown nowadays in things like this, if you’ve got the money to pay for them; this strong-room – his Robbers’ Cave, as he called it – took I shouldn’t like to tell you how long to build, and cost a fortune. He got it guaranteed from the men who built it that nothing short of dynamite, and plenty of it, and lots of time to put it in the proper places, would ever open it without the combination, and then the odds were that you wouldn’t have it open even then. Now, just watch the beautiful simplicity.”

He chose two keys from his bunch. “With this one we slide the shield aside, like this; here we have the keyhole of the lock proper; here’s the key to it; we give it a little twist, it turns all the locks at once – it’s amazing how easily they move – and the strong-room is open; like this.”

John Eva’s little exordium had been followed with the closest interest, which made it seem the more unfortunate that the practical demonstration with which he intended to follow it should have fallen flat. He had, as it were, introduced his experiment with some touches which were, in their way, almost dramatic; it was to be regretted that the experiment itself should have proved so complete a failure. The “beautiful simplicity” of which he had spoken was conspicuous by its absence; the locks did not move so easily as, according to him, they ought to have done. Indeed, they did not move at all; he could neither turn nor twist the key; the more he tried, the more immovable it stayed.

“What’s wrong with the thing?” inquired Mr. Farrell.

“What’s wrong with the thing?” John Eva turned to the questioner a face which was of an apoplectic purple. “Everything’s wrong, that’s what’s wrong with the thing. We’ve been tricked, either by this beauty or by the old one; what’s on this sheet of paper is no more the key to the combination than I am. And I’m betting a trifle that he knows it.”

— XXVIII —

MR. TALBOT’S EXPLANATION

The men’s faces were turned from the strong-room door towards Talbot, a subtle change in their expression. Only a few moments before they had been all agog with expectation, watching eagerly for their hopes to be crowned. Disappointment had taken the place of anticipation; sullen looks were bent on Talbot which might at any instant become ferocity. Mr. Herbert put a question.

“You’re quite sure, Eva, that the key won’t turn?”

“I couldn’t be surer. I tell you, he’s tricked us.”

“But how can he have done that? I don’t understand.”

“Have you been playing any of your hocus-pocus games with that piece of paper before you gave it us just now?” This was Farrell, who glared at Talbot as if he would rather have struck him. Talbot answered, with a smile which did not soften the other’s features.

“Hocus-pocus is rather in your way than in mine, as witness the back of your hand.”

“Stow your sauce. I’ll pay you for all that shortly. What have you done to that paper since, as you say, you found it?”

“It has never passed out of my keeping. It has not been tampered with either by me or by anyone else. It left my hands in exactly the same condition in which it reached them.”

“Then it looks as if the old man had been playing one of those jests upon us, of which he was so fond – first upon his nephew, and afterwards on us, because, no doubt he guessed that it was with us that in the end his nephew would have to deal. Either the key to the combination was buried with him, or – it is still to be found.”

This was Herbert. The solicitor interposed.

“I’m not so sure. I’ve a notion that there’s more in the position than meets the eye, and that our friend there knows it.” The allusion was to Talbot. “I’ve been watching him closely. While Eva was giving us his interesting lecture, I noticed how it amused our friend. When he was setting the combination I noticed that our friend’s amusement seemed to grow at the cock-sureness with which Eva took it for granted that he had only to turn the key and the thing was done. I asked myself if he was having a game with us, and what kind of game it was. Now I fancy I begin to understand.”

Eva broke into heated language.

“If we were to beat the life clean out of him it would serve him right. When I think of the games he has played on us I feel like— But what’s the use of talking?” He moved a step nearer to Talbot. “What have you been doing with that paper?”

The one man’s coolness was in almost grotesque contrast to the other’s heat.

“I’ve already said – nothing.”

“I know what you’ve said. What I’m after is what’s behind what you say. To whom have you shown that paper?”

“To no one.”

“Have you another one – like it? Have you another paper with another key? What else was inside that envelope?”

“I have no other key; so far as I know there is none in existence. And there was nothing else inside that envelope.”

“Then – then where’s the trick? I know there is one, I’ll swear it, by the look, the sound, the smell of you. As sure as I’m alive, you’re standing there chuckling inside you because you think you’ve got us on a little bit of string, and it makes you laugh to think what fools we are. I ask you again, what’s the trick?”

“Your excitement’s wasted. There is no trick. Whatever you, in your warmth, may suppose, I’ve every reason to believe that that is the only key to the combination which Reginald Talbot left behind.”

“Did you know it was the key to the combination before you gave it us tonight?”

The inquiry came from Wilson who, if the thing could be, was watching him with even keener eyes than the others.

Talbot seemed to consider, then replied, “I did.”

“You knew that was the key to the combination before tonight? I repeat the question because I want to have your answer clearly.”

“I am willing, nay anxious, to make myself as clear as I possibly can – I did.”

“Then you knew that somewhere in this house there was a strong-room.”

“I did.”

“How did you come by that knowledge?”

“In a sense, and in a degree, John Eva told me.”

“Eva? told you? Is that true?”

“It’s a lie, a damned lie. He’s all lies. Do you think I’d have told him a thing like that? I’d sooner have torn my tongue out by the roots.”

“Do you hear what Eva says?”

“Quite clearly. Yet what I said was true.”

“Do you mean to say I told you that in this house there was a strong-room?”

Eva thrust his angry face unpleasantly close to the other’s, as Mr. Talbot did not scruple to tell him.

“Take yourself a little farther off, my man, I object to your too near neighbourhood. I’m ready to answer your questions, and to give you information, but don’t come too close. That’s better. What was it you asked?”

“Do you mean to say that I so much as breathed a hint to you about that?”

Eva pointed to the door which was the centre of so much interest.

“Not intentionally, possibly. I think it likely you would much rather not have given me intentional information. Accidentally you certainly did.”

“What do you mean by accidentally?”

“You remember that first morning when I returned to the house by the covered way? Pritchard here tried to prevent my coming into this room. In spite of him I came. When I entered I found you here. The instant I put my nose inside that door there was a clanging sound. You were standing over here, and there was nothing to show what had made the sound. But I’ve a knack of putting two and two together. I thought that it might be worth my while to subject this room to a thorough examination. I found what it was that made the clanging sound; it was the outer door. That’s why I say that in a sense, and a degree, my information came from you.”

“Did you open this door? Out with it; make a clean breast of the whole business.”

“To use your phrase, I’ll out with anything you please. You’ll be tickled to death before I’ve done, to find how much I shall out with. Certainly I opened that door.”

“And – you saw that door on the other side?”

“Naturally, having normal powers of vision.”

John Eva gave utterance to a mighty oath. He held his clenched fists above his head.

“Then now we’ve got it!”

The solicitor, as it were, endorsed his statement. “I believe we have.”

Men exchanged angry murmurs. Mr. Herbert gave shape to the thought which was in their minds, pointing a podgy finger at Talbot.

“You saw the door; you had a key; you knew the combination. Did you set the combination?”

“It took me longer than it did John Eva just now, but I succeeded in the end.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I made a discovery.”

“What was the discovery?”

“That old Talbot had not been playing a trick, but that in fact the words upon that piece of paper were the key to the combination.”

“Is that so? They were? And you opened the door?”

“What astonished me, as John Eva just now hinted, was, when the combination was once set, how easily the door was opened. A little twist, the kind of twist you give to your watch when winding it – the door came gently open.”

“And – you went in?”

“Is there anyone present who, under such conditions, would not have gone in? I am not more than human; and there was every reason that I should. Of course I went in, and stayed quite a while; made quite a call. Nor was it the last call I’ve made by any means. Eva here had been trying to puzzle out the combination. When he stopped trying, and had gone about his business, I took his place, and paid my call.”

“If I’d only known it! You – you—!”

Eva left the sentence unfinished; as if he could find no adjective which could give anything like adequate expression to his feelings. Men looked at each other. Some of them breathed quicker, as if the speaker’s audacity brought the air more rapidly in and out of their lungs. Farrell broke into a laugh.

“I always have maintained that the General was the coolest hand I ever struck, but – this does beat anything. What’s on the other side of that door is our common property. We’ve brought it together, with the sweat of our brows, at we only know what risk, from all the corners of the world. And you’ve the nerve to stand there, and tell us to our faces, that – you’ve been making free with it. You’ve seen men killed in your time for less than a dollar. It’s a question here of millions of dollars – millions! And you grin in our faces I’ve seen men die grinning. Is that how you mean to go?”

Talbot made no reply, he seemed content to meet the other’s savage glare with all the outward symptoms of unruffled calm. Mr. Herbert made haste to check what might turn out to be an untimely exhibition of ill-temper.

“Now, Farrell, once more, that sort of thing won’t do – as yet; business first, pleasure afterwards. Listen here – you say you’ve been inside the strong-room more than once. I’ll not ask you now what you’ve taken out of it; soon we will learn for ourselves. What was the combination which you used to open the door?”

“I’ve told you; you have it on the paper.”

“If that is the case why will the combination not act now? What have you done to the lock?”

“I’ve done nothing to the lock.”

“You have done something. What have you done?”

“Only, actually, the merest trifle.”

“What do you call the merest trifle? Again – answer me! What have you done?”

“I’ve changed the combination.”

“You – you have changed the combination!” The words came from the well-tailored gentleman with a sort of gasp, as if the thing suggested was almost inconceivably monstrous. Hubbub began again. This time Talbot owed immunity to the unexpected fact that Farrell did his best to keep the others off him.

“Now, gently, boys, gently; don’t smash the man before we’ve got out of him the one thing we’re after; where’s the sense of that?”

Mr. Farrell was supported by Messrs. Herbert and Wilson, and by others.

“That’s right, Farrell; if you men will only show a little common sense and exercise a little patience, we shall get on quicker; give the fellow room to breathe. So you changed the combination? That was the merest trifle you talked about, and that was all you did. Not much, was it?”

To judge from the fashion in which he asked the question, Mr. Herbert deemed it a very great deal.

“Of course, such things are relative; I was thinking of the time it occupied, and the labour it cost me. It was perhaps rather in that sense that I spoke of it as the merest trifle.”

“You altered the combination – good. Then you know what it is now?”

“You can hardly conceive that I should be so foolish, having altered it, as not to take a particular note of what the alteration was.”

“You took a note – good. Where is the note?”

“Here.”

Mr. Talbot touched his brow with the tip of his finger.

“You have made no note on paper?”

“I haven’t. One can never tell into whose hands such a note might fall, and I was afraid. In such matters do you think one can be too cautious?”

“Never mind what I think; I question you. What is the combination?”

“You mean what is the combination which will enable you to open the lock at the present moment.”

“That is what I mean; you know that is what I mean.”

“Why should I tell you? You might make use of it.”

A hoarse laugh came from Farrell. “We might make use of it! This man’s a wonder.”

Talbot went placidly on. “You see, this is a matter in which there are many points to be considered – that strong-room contains my property.”

“Your property? You talk about your property? You have still the face.” Mr. Herbert looked angrier than he had done hitherto. “I will tell you one reason why you should give us the combination – of your own free will – because, if you do not do it of your own free will – we will make you.”

“How would you propose to do that?”

“We will show you – quick. Give us the combination – inside of thirty seconds.”

Mr. Herbert, taking out a beautiful gold watch, held it in front of him, his eyes upon the dial plate.

“And if I refuse – inside of thirty seconds?”

“Five seconds, ten, fifteen; half the time gone, be quick with your answer. Thirty seconds; tie him down.”

Men came at Mr. Talbot from all sides, men eager to be at him. His voice rang out, buoyant, careless.

“Now the fun begins.”

“What is the meaning of this? What are you cowards doing to my husband?”

The voice which asked the question was a woman’s; it too rang out above the din. Men turned. So much had they been occupied with other matters that they had left the door unguarded. Probably it was because they had taken it for granted that they were secure against intrusion that they had allowed it to remain unlocked. Advantage had been taken of their confidence. While they were already about to make short work of the man who defied them, the door had been opened and two women had come into the room. One, who was a little in front, was the man’s wife; the other, who was a little nearer to the door, was her maid. It was the man’s wife who had asked the question. Possibly, in spite of their occupation with other things, and their heat, there was not one of those present who was not struck by her appearance. But one in particular was struck more than all the others, and made it unmistakably plain. This was Mr. Herbert, who stared at her as if she were a spectacle of a most astounding order.

“You! ” he exclaimed. “From where do you come? What is it you are doing here?”

“I am here because this is my home, and – this is my husband. Rather, what are you doing here, uninvited, at this hour of the night, in my husband’s house, and mine?”

She moved to her husband’s side; they, as if unwittingly, making way for her to come. He, putting his arm about her waist, said laughingly—

“I wondered if they’d disturb your slumbers.”

She said nothing, but continued to look Mr. Herbert very straight in the face.

— XXIX —

THE ROBBERS’ CAVE

Possibly when Mr. Claude Herbert entered the Monks that night he little expected that he would have to run through all the gamut of emotions before quitting it again, or he might have preferred to stay outside. He had been unpleasantly surprised by the man; yet it seemed that that was as nothing to what he was enduring from the wife. The sight of her seemed to have robbed him of his senses. The whole interest of the scene seemed to be centred round the sensations he evidently was passing through.

“Do you – mean to say – that you’re – this fellow’s – wife.”

The words came from him with a gasp between each; his frame was shaken as by the force of some uncontrollable emotion. Her tone was icy; she seemed to be surrounded by an atmosphere of frigidity.

“It is the one scrap of knowledge of which I am proud – the knowledge that I am his wife.”

The effect of her words on Mr. Herbert was not nice to witness; it was as if he had been attacked by a curious sort of hideousness. For some seconds he seemed to struggle in vain to recover the power of speech.

“You – you – damn ———!”

There was a swift movement from Mr. Talbot; had the lady not caught his arm with both her hands, Mr. Herbert might have smarted.

“Let him say what he pleases; what does it matter what such as he may say.”

It seemed that Mr. Herbert had a good deal to say, in an inchoate rush.

“So – so this is what it means. They told me, that sweet sister of yours, and that dear brother, that you were ill, so ill that the doctors would allow you to see no one, that you were with friends in a privacy which was not to be broken. No one could see you. I might write to you – have you had my letter?”

“I’ve never had a letter from you in my life. I should put one in the fire the moment I found it was from you.”

“I have sent you letters, flowers, presents, all kinds of things; they told me – your sister, your brother – that you had all that I sent you, and that you were pleased, but you could not write to thank me because you were ill; and now you tell me that you are this man’s wife. Where did you meet him? How did you come to know him, this – this scum of the streets?”

The lady had drawn a little closer to her husband when Mr. Herbert spoke of the letters and the presents he had sent her, and her cheek paled. Her bearing, when she replied, was more glacial even than before.

“I have never said one word which could cause you to suppose that I desired the pleasure of your acquaintance. You forced it on me. The first chance I had I sought a refuge in which I should be free from the persecution of your presence.”

“So, when they said – your sister, your brother – that you were ill, that you were with friends, that you had my letters my presents, for which you thanked me, they lied?” The girl said nothing, she only continued to look at him with her great wide-open eyes. “You do not answer? Good; we shall see. There was nothing that I would not have done for you. I would have given you high position, great wealth, everything; I would have given your sister money so that she might buy herself a husband; I would not only have forgiven your brother for having robbed me, I would have done that for him which would have rendered it unnecessary that he should rob me again. But you have married – I cannot believe it, though you tell me – you have married this jailbird, this refuse of the gutter; you have chosen him instead of me. Good! You have made your choice, you shall pay for it; your sister, your brother, your husband, shall pay for it too. I will so manage that your sister would rather she had gone on to the streets for a living than endure what she shall have to endure. Your brother – that forger, that thief, that felon, by tomorrow night I will have him back in gaol – he shall be an old man when the prison gates open to let him out; you know that that I can do, and I will. As for – as for this – this – creature that you call your husband, he is the greatest rogue of whom I ever heard, he has even tried to play the rogue with us; it is the last day that he shall play at anything – I tell you it is the last time. You have sealed his fate, if he had not done it for himself already. He shall tell us what we want to know, what is the combination which unlocks that door. We will tear it from him with red-hot irons if there is no other way; and after he has told us – afterwards, we shall see. This I promise you, never again shall you be proud to say he is your husband – when we have done with him. Take that woman away from him. Now, my man, you’ve had your thirty seconds; do not think this – this girl can save you. For the last time, what is the combination which unlocks that door?”

“Your threats, Mr. Claude Herbert, make me shiver in my shoes.” He did not look as if they did, but that is by the way. “Rather than run even the remotest risk of that dire fate at which you hint, I’ll make haste, not only to tell you the combination, I’ll show it you, and prove it is the right one by opening the door for you myself.”

The lady, who still stood at his side, cast at him a pleading glance which he apparently ignored. He moved from her towards the strong-room door – the observed of all observers.

“This time,” warned Eva, “none of your tricks, or you’ll be sorry.”

“This time, John Eva, there shall be none of my tricks, – as you will see. How can I play what you call tricks, with all of you standing there, observing me with such friendly glances. Silence for the combination, mark well! To commence, the clock is right; it should be set, as you perceive it is, at the hour of twelve, call it midnight or noon, as you please. It’s the lettering that’s wrong; there should be two words, not one; I ask you, Mr. Claude Herbert, to pay particular attention to what those two words are. Now, D-E-A-R, dear there’s the one word; W-I-F-E, wife, there’s the second; dear wife – there’s the pair, and the key to the letter locks. I put my key into the lock, and, you observe, how easily it turns; the strong-room is open; the entrance to the Robbers’ Cave.”

As he said, the door did open. As it began to move there was a forward movement among the men in the room; to be checked when the great door, swinging right back, revealed, in the entrance, a man in the uniform of an Inspector of Police. Of all the surprises they had had that night, that was the greatest. Mr. Talbot motioned towards the undesired vision with his hand.

“Gentlemen, Inspector McCarthy, of the Criminal Investigation Department; I believe he is as well known to some of you as all of you are to him. One moment, gentlemen, you have not yet seen all there is to see. Mr. Herbert, Mr. Wilson, John Eva, will you act as a committee of inspection and step with me into the Robbers’ Cave. Betty, will you come too, dear wife!” The girl came quickly towards him across the room, her face all shining. “I may as well tell you, gentlemen, that when that door was opened it rang a bell, of which some of you may have heard; when that bell rang, a large number of your friends, the police, who have been specially imported into Cornwall for this occasion, entered the grounds of the Monks, and, I fancy, are already waiting for you outside. Inspector McCarthy, may I rely upon your keeping an attentive eye upon these gentlemen, while I’m – inside the Robbers’ Cave?”

The Inspector’s tone was officially cold and dry. “You may; these chaps know me.”

“Now, you three men, step into the Robbers’ Cave; you wanted to enter it, and you shall.”

Unwilling enough, the three men did as he bade them; as if the events of the last few seconds had, at least temporarily, deprived them of their power of offering resistance. The apartment in which they found themselves was of considerable dimensions; as John Eva had said, it was evidently a strong-room of an unusual type, and, one might add, of unusual size. Clearly air came from somewhere, even when the door was closed, because the atmosphere, though warm, was not unpleasant. In the middle of the floor, which was of solid steel, was a camp bedstead; between the bedclothes was a man; a man whose head was propped up on pillows, and who looked at them, as they approached, with eyes which were already partially covered with the glaze which comes with death.

“How goes it?” asked Mr. Talbot, as he advanced.

A second man was seated by the side of the first, a young man, whose clear skin and shrewd eyes spoke of the health which the other had lost forever.

“You are only just in time – it’s coming very close.”

He spoke almost in a whisper, yet the other heard. Words came from him, in a husky voice, which sounded like the faint echo of another.

“Yes – it’s – coming – very close, and – aren’t I – glad?”

He was evidently peering from one to the other with his dimmed eyes – lighting on a face which he recognized. “Why – it’s John Eva! Eva – you – old brute – how the devil are you. Where’s – Judith.”

A figure had been standing at the back as they came in – the figure of a woman. As he spoke she came forward; it was the woman of Penance. In appearance she was greatly changed. The odds and ends of garments in which we have seen her clad, had given place to a neat, well-fitting costume of dark blue serge. She wore both shoes and stockings. Her hair had been brushed and dressed so that it was as a coronal of red gold about her head. The vacant look had passed from her face and eyes. As at the sound of the man’s voice she went quickly to him in the bed, her countenance was illumined; when, kneeling beside him on the floor, she bent towards him, one could see that her face was beautiful.

“Kiss – me.”

The two words could not have been more faintly uttered, yet they were distinctly audible to the curious little crowd which stood about him; to the woman on her knees they might have been the sound of angels singing. She touched lips to his. He spoke again.

“Say – you – forgive me.”

“I have nothing to forgive.”

At that moment she perhaps thought she spoke the truth; sometimes, when a woman loves, she remembers nothing but her love.

Once more the voice from the bed; he spoke to the man whom we have known as Percival Talbot.

“Old boy – this – is my – wife – you’ll – take care – of her.”

“As if she were my own; and in saying that I speak for my wife also.”

“True heart!”

It was the woman on her knees who said that; surely a stranger misconception of the truth could hardly have sped the dead man on his way. Because the man was dead, almost before the words were actually uttered, and the head of the kneeling woman was pillowed on his breast.

“John Eva, you recognize who this is?”

“That’s the old master’s nephew, I ought to know him – I’ve nursed him in his time. And to think that, to me, you should have tried to pass yourself off as him.”

“I never did; I told you that I was Percival Talbot of the Monks – and I am.”

— XXX —

TELLING ALL

Husband and wife were together in the apartment which the lady had hitherto used as her own particular bedroom. Both seemed afflicted by a microbe of restlessness, the complaint with him taking the form of an inclination to pace continually up and down the room, with variations from side to side. She confined herself to a single armchair, in which she managed to assume a variety of positions; now seated on it decorously, with her feet on the floor; now curled up on the seat with her feet beneath or beside her, now perched on the arm.

“I’m going to begin,” the gentleman was saying, “right at the beginning, though it’s disgracefully late and long past the hour at which you, at any rate, ought to have been in bed.”

“I’m not prepared to admit that I ought to go to bed a moment before – say, anyone else; and I do object to a person beginning a story either in the middle or at the end, especially if it’s a good one, as it is just possible yours will be.”

Her pretty lips were wrinkled by a smile, there was a twinkle in her eyes, a soft flush upon her cheeks, it was surprising how young she looked, and how delightful.

“I was born John Barry; my father was a Nottinghamshire farmer. My mother died when I was a small thing, my father followed her when I was twelve, and at fourteen I ran away from the persons who were supposed – it was distinctly a supposition – to be my guardians. I started life, on my own account, as a sailor, seeing salt water for the first time when I shipped aboard a vessel. I soon had enough of a sailor’s life, and afterwards – well, afterwards, I believe I tried my hand at everything. I’ve never tried to make a list of the things I’ve been, but if there’s anything I haven’t I should like to know what it is; I’ve practised all sorts of trades and professions in all parts of the world, and in some of its queerest corners. I’ve made money, and I’ve lost it; gone well fed, and sometimes hungry, worn real nice clothes and, sometimes, the nearest equivalent to none. But amidst all my ups and downs, my roughs and smooths, I’ve never once stopped smiling.”

“I quite believe it; the first time I saw you, far down in the street below, you were smiling; if the sight of the predicament I was in couldn’t take your smile away I should fancy nothing ever could; and you’re smiling now.”

“Ah, now’s the time to smile. Why, at this moment I feel like – I’ll tell you presently what I feel like, and perhaps do more than tell you.”

That tender flush upon the lady’s cheeks became a trifle more pronounced, as if his words had caused it. He went swinging on.

“At last, after all sorts and conditions of adventures, which maybe someday I’ll tell you—”

“You shall; I’ll see to it.”

“I found myself in the Klondike region, among men who were looking for gold. The gold rush was over, I had a knack of being the day after the fair, it was little enough of the yellow dirt I found. One night something struck against the door of my hut. Both hut and claim with which it was connected had belonged to someone else who had chucked the business up, long ago, in despair. It was a little out of the township; visitors were scarce. When I went out to see who was there, I stumbled across a man who was lying on the ground right across my doorway, drunk, helplessly, speechlessly drunk. How he had managed to get there I never found out, and he was never able to tell me. I carried him, and kept him in the hut all night.”

“Was he a stranger?”

“Absolutely; as disreputable-looking a stranger as you ever set eyes upon – filthy, ragged, with the marks of a bad egg all over him. In the morning he told me that his name was White. A few days afterwards, after another drunk, his memory played him a trick, and he said his name was Carter. He’d all sorts of names if you listened to him, but one didn’t need to be extra wide awake to know that he’d never mentioned the right one. We became – you’ll laugh, but we became – sort of chums.”

“Then he wasn’t such a very bad egg, after all?”

The gentleman made a gesture that was possibly meant to express the superlative degree.

“My original estimate was a thousand miles inside the truth. He was, in all respects, the very worst lot I’ve ever come across.”

“Then, however did you become even ‘sort’ of chums? Was it because you were kindred spirits?”

“I’ve always had a weakness – for lame dogs. For those of them who’ve lost their character there’s a tender spot still. I told the man straight truths every time I met him, more than once I nearly broke his head; all the same I suffered him, he was such a helpless, hopeless devil. In a kind of a way I was so sorry for him that I almost grew to like the man.”

“It seems incomprehensible; but I suppose some people’s tastes are as curious as their ways.”

“He was half his time in mortal terror. He got drunk to escape his fears. He was afraid of something, by day and night. But it wouldn’t have been good manners for me to let him know I noticed it, and he never dropped a hint, that could be called a hint, until one evening.”

The speaker paused, as if in the cinematographic picture at which, mentally, he gazed, he was trying to arrange events in their proper order. The lady watched him. At that moment she was curled up on the seat with her feet beneath her. He was standing by the door directly in her line of vision. There could be no doubt that she took the greatest interest in his tale in spite of the unholy hour.

“I’d had a bad day, in fact, several bad days; indeed, as a matter of fact, several bad weeks. I’d about made up my mind to throw the whole thing up and move on elsewhere. So far as I could see there wasn’t much gold thereabouts for anyone, certainly there was none for me. I was smoking my pipe, and wondering where I should get to next, and how, when he came in. He was sober – for him. He never was quite sober, in a positive sense, but he was as near to it as he ever got. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘how would you like to have the handling of a pile of money; none of your little dirty piles, which the fools here count piles, but an almighty lot of it, hundreds of thousands of pounds.’ I laughed at him. ‘If you’re wanting me to lend you another dollar, it’s off, I can’t – the bank’s gone broke.’  ‘Why should I want you to lend me a dollar – when I’ve got this.’ He held out some pieces of paper, the sight of which gave me quite a feeling. He passed them over. They were banknotes – Bank of England notes. “There’s five hundred pounds there, and they’re yours.’  ‘Mine? What do you mean by saying that they’re mine?’ Then he began to tell me.”

He had to take two or three turns up and down the room before, apparently, he could get himself into proper mettle to continue his tale. The lady said nothing; only, since from her position on the seat it was not easy to follow his wanderings, she uncoiled herself and perched upon the arm.

“He told me a queer tale, that first evening, and – I wouldn’t believe it; at least not until he’d given me proof, and then I didn’t believe it all. In dealing with him it was always hard to know where the lies ended and the truth came in. He said he’d given me the wrong name, which was nothing, for no one knew what anyone’s name was out there, to be sure of it. He said that his name was Talbot, Percival Talbot, and he had an uncle who lived in Cornwall, at a place called the Monks. A fine place it was according to him, with a great house, and no end of wonders. This uncle was dead, there was proof of that much in the letters he showed me from a firm of solicitors in London; and he’d left him all his money. In the letters there was also proof of that. The queer part came afterwards.”

Again the speaker paused, as if to make a further attempt to arrange his ideas in their proper places. Clearly, from the way in which her eyes never left his face, the lady’s interest had not grown less.

“It’s not easy to tell the tale just as it happened, especially with your eyes keeping my heart on the jump.”

“Whatever do you mean by my eyes keeping your heart on the jump? I’m doing nothing to your heart, even if you have one.”

“Even if I have one! Well, we’ll come to that. I just wish you to understand that I’m trying to tell you this tale so that you can see how it all came about as plainly as if it had all been done in front of you, and, as it’s such a mighty queer tale, that isn’t easy.”

“You go straight on, leaving all comments that require to be made to me. If necessary, I’ll make them when you’ve finished.”

“Before we parted, that evening I’m telling you about, he’d made me a proposition, perhaps the most singular proposition that was ever made to any man.”

“I can guess what it was.”

“I dare say you can. You – you’ve got your wits about you; but, all the same, you let me tell my story.”

“That’s what I’m wanting you to do, only you won’t get on. Can’t you see how I’m all on pins and needles for something to happen – worth happening.”

“According to him he was under a cloud, though I didn’t need him to tell me that. A good many men were round there. He was under such a cloud that he didn’t want to have to go back to England at any price, even to get the fortune which his uncle had left him. So he made me this proposal. He put it that money couldn’t do much for him, his constitution had gone, his power of enjoyment had gone, practically everything had gone, except his thirst. The only thing for which he cared on earth, and could do, was drink; and I’ve a notion he didn’t really care for that. The man was dying, even then. I’m no doctor, but I’ve not knocked about in the way I have without being able to form a pretty shrewd idea of what the insurance folk call a man’s expectation of life. He never had been strong, and he wasn’t exactly young, he was older than I am, and what strength he’d had he’d thrown away. He was physically, mentally, and morally the weakest creature I’d ever met, whether drunk or sober. You could topple him over with the tip of your finger.”

The speaker moved his finger through the air as if to illustrate his meaning.

“All he wanted, he said, was enough money to keep himself alive, without having to work. As a matter of plain fact I doubt if he’d ever done a day’s honest work in his life; any time he’d sooner steal, and he never was ashamed to beg. I’m sorry to say he was that kind of man. On five hundred pounds a year, he said, he could do very well, while on a thousand he’d be a prince. His uncle had left him many thousands a year, only to get them it would be necessary that he should put in an appearance in England, and that he daren’t do. I asked him what was the special reason why he dare not, but it was one of his peculiarities that he was congenitally incapable of giving a straight answer to a straight question. He shuffled, owned, unblushingly – he never blushed – that he had always been a coward, that he’d never had a grain of courage in his entire composition. The apologies for nerves which he had had, had long ceased to be even apologies. He hadn’t behaved prettily in England – that was how he put it. There might be trouble in store for him if he returned. Not what I should call trouble – that again was how he put it – because my nerves were like iron, and I didn’t know what fear was.”

“Do you?”

“I’ve been afraid of you.”

“Of me!”

“Again and again.”

“Then you’ve hid it.”

“I was so much afraid of you that I was afraid to let you know I was afraid. However, we’re coming to all that later. The point he was trying to make was that what would be the death of him, wouldn’t make me turn a hair, because each of us was built that way. Then came the proposition. Briefly it was this. He would assign me all that his uncle had left him, transfer it to me in a deed of gift. I was to assume his name, come over to England, pose as Percival Talbot, take possession of his uncle’s estate and revenues, and out of them pay him a thousand pounds a year, the idea being that I was to act as a sort of whipping-boy, face the trouble of which he was afraid, and, if it couldn’t be avoided – and he pretended that he thought it could – take the punishment he had merited; while he was to take up his abode in some congenial spot, under a style and title which should entirely conceal his identity, and enjoy, in peace, his thousand pounds a year, without running the risk of suffering unpleasant consequences.”

“That was a nice proposal to make.”

“It was. I’ve said it was; and, when he made it, I refused point blank, though he renewed it again, and again, and again. I became sick of his importunity. Though, at the same time, I am free to admit – I don’t want you to think that I’m any sort of a heroic character – I’m free to admit that he made an impression on me of a sort. You see, constitutionally, I’m a daredevil sort of person.”

“I should say you were.”

“And education hasn’t made me better; I’ve seen and done so many things that it’s grown to be a sort of habit to take them all alike, and to be always ready for the next adventure, without caring very much what it was. After a fashion that idea of his appealed to me; the more I thought about it, the more I liked it, and the less I could see that there was anything about it that was necessarily wrong. All the same, as I’ve said, I refused, and I stuck to my refusal. The end of it was that he went to Europe, by himself.”

“And you stayed behind?”

“I did; and he hadn’t gone twenty-four hours before I told myself that I was a fool; you see, I’m admitting it. He offered me five hundred pounds when he was starting; he said that I might want it, that he owed me money, which was true enough, that now he’d money to burn, that I’d been doing him all the good turns, and that I should be doing him another if I’d take it. But I wouldn’t. Somehow, I didn’t feel as if I’d like to take his money, or his uncle’s. The result was that about a month after he’d left, I had one of the worst times I’ve ever had. Everything went wrong, luck seemed dead against me, I couldn’t do anything that was right. I don’t think that I was ever in a tighter place. My word! You should have seen me. When I think of what I looked like then, I feel as if I ought to be booted for having the assurance to stand where I am standing now.”

“I don’t; and there’s no one here to do it, unless you’d like me to try and make use of the toe of my slipper.”

“A scarecrow wasn’t in it with me; nor any guy you’ve ever seen. You’d have run at the sight of me.”

“That I never should; I don’t believe I ever should have run at the sight of you, unless it was in your direction.”

“And hungry! I’ve begun to think that I’d forgotten what good food was. Then a letter came from him; such a letter. I’ve got it, and one day I’ll show it you. I’d never dreamed that he could be so eloquent with a pen. I knew his tongue was the strongest part of him; but that letter was, in its way, the finest thing I’ve ever come across. He told me he was in Sicily, dying, and wanting to die; alone, without a creature who’d speak a decent word to him. I knew what he meant by that, he’d always said that I was the only one who’d ever treated him as if he were a white man; and, considering the kind he was, the wonder was that even I, even with my weakness for lame dogs, had done it. He entreated me – I seemed to hear him talking as I read what he had written, and though you may laugh again—”

“I haven’t laughed once yet.”

“It was as though his voice was speaking out of the grave – because, in a sort of a way, I could see he was in a grave, and a pretty deep one – reproaching me. He started on the old story again, harping on that proposal of his, and putting it, somehow, in a way, which, when I saw it on paper, I found it hard to resist. He implored me, if I wouldn’t do what he wanted, at least to come to him in Sicily, by the quickest route, and the very next boat. He had reckoned what was the shortest time in which I could get there, and he said that if I wasn’t there within a very few days of it, when I did come, I should find him dead; and then, if I liked, I might lay the flattering unction to my soul that I had killed him; a fact on which I might congratulate myself since he had made his will in which he had appointed me his heir. He enclosed a draft for five hundred pounds, and wound up with another page of the most piteous entreaties which I should say were ever put down on paper.”

“I presume that then you went to Sicily.”

“I did; I cashed the draft, stood myself a square meal, clothed myself in suitable garments, booked a passage on the first convenient steamer, and, in about a week, was journeying to Palermo. If I had supposed that the man was changed I should have been disillusioned within a few minutes of landing. He had assured me that if I would let him know by what ship I was coming he would meet me at the port of debarkation. We had a wireless installation on board; I sent him a message to let him know the day and, approximately, the hour at which I might be expected. When I reached Palermo he wasn’t there; I went on to the hotel at Messina from which his letter had been addressed, to find that he had been in bed more than a week, drunk. The money had certainly done him no good; a glance at him was enough to tell me that. Before he could only drink when he had the money; now he could keep drinking all the time, and, plainly, that was what he had been doing. Of course he had his tale to tell; and now, knowing more than I did then, I’ve come to think that there was more truth in it than at that time I supposed.”

The speaker took two or three more turns up and down the room, as if he had come to a difficult point in his oration.

“He said that he simply didn’t care to show his face out of doors, scarcely out of the room; there were people about who had already treated him very badly, and who, if they had the chance, would treat him still worse. It was all my fault; and if it hadn’t been for me he never would have come to Europe. What he wanted to do, and what he would have done, was to go to one of the Southern States of America, and there live like a gentleman for the few remaining years of his life, in solitude and peace. I kept him from doing that by making it absolutely essential that he should come to Europe. He tossed me an envelope. In it he said was his will; he certainly would only have a very few weeks to live if he continued to live as my action was forcing him to live now, and as, after he was dead, I should have what I wouldn’t have now, although I knew perfectly well that my having it would keep him alive, perhaps when he was dead, and I’d killed him, I should be content. It was wild talk; he was not absolutely drunk, but he had been soaking steadily for days, and probably weeks, so that he didn’t care what he said, or how he said it. His misery was real enough, and when he started crying so that his sobs seemed to be shaking him to pieces, I – well, I collapsed. When I left his room to go into my own it was on the understanding that he was to have his way. I got into bed, and went to sleep, and then the end of the world came. I woke to find the earthquake was shaking Messina, and all in it, as if it were a city made of cards. You know the rest.”

— XXXI —

A QUESTION OF SAYING GOOD NIGHT

She was perched on the arm of the chair. Getting off it she curled herself up on the seat instead; from that post of vantage she surveyed the man in front of her; he was four or five feet from the chair, standing very upright, looking, not at her, but at something which he seemed to see in space, a curious light in his eyes. She asked—

“Then was it on the morning after you saw me on the balcony?”

“It was; and it was only then that I really began to make up my mind. When I did begin, the process was very rapid – it was done in a flash. You’ll laugh—”

“You keep on saying I shall laugh; but I haven’t laughed once, yet.”

“But I believe I fell in love with you in that first moment when I saw you high above me on the balcony.”

“That’s absurd!”

“By the time I’d reached you I was dead in love. When I was standing by you in the street I had already vowed that if you wouldn’t be my wife no other woman should.”

“I never heard anything so ridiculous; I told you you were ridiculous, even at the time.”

“That fixed my resolution, the determination that you should be my wife. I took the plunge, and told you what I did.”

“You told me your name was Percival Talbot, and it wasn’t.”

“That’s the odd part of it, it was. So bent was the original owner on having his own way, and of clearing all difficulties out of my path which could prevent his having it, that he actually changed my name for me before I came, taking all the necessary steps, by way of deed poll, which should transform John Barry into Percival Talbot.”

“Do you mean to say he did it without your knowing. But he couldn’t, could he?”

“Before I went with you to church, or even took out a marriage licence, I laid the whole facts, as I knew them, before counsel, learned in the law, and received an assurance that I certainly had the right to call myself Percival Talbot.”

There came a sound from the lady on the chair which was very like a sigh.

“Why ever didn’t you tell me that before?”

“How long was it after our first encounter that I told you what my name was?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t very long afterwards before other people said it wasn’t, and – and some of them kept on saying it. If you only knew how often I have wondered if I’d any right to sign myself Betty Talbot, and – what I’ve suffered. And yet, do you know, although all sorts of people have said all kinds of things, in your hearing and out of it, and – and your manner has been most aggravating, I’ve always trusted you. That first moment when – I’m going to be reminiscent, you saved my life, and I stood by you in that ruined street, something told me that at your side I always should be safe. Wasn’t that absurd?”

“Then truth’s absurd, because, so far as a man may say it, you always will.”

“In some ways – I’m bound to say it, in this our hour of mutual confession – you’ve disappointed me.”

“As for instance.”

“Well, you see, it’s rather difficult to explain.”

“Try; I’ve got over my difficulty, you get over yours.”

“You said – you loved me. Of course I knew it was ridiculous to talk of that kind of thing after an hour or two’s acquaintance; still, since you did say it, I was hardly prepared for what followed.”

“Have I ever said, or done, anything which could cause you to suppose, for a single instant, that I didn’t love you?”

“Well, that depends upon the way in which you look at it. It wasn’t so much what you said, as what you didn’t say, or what you did, as what you didn’t do. You were – all right, till we were married, and then you were horrid.”

“Pray how?”

“I’m not going to tell you if you don’t know, and that’s all about it; one thing I may remark, that I’ve always understood that it’s the custom for a husband to kiss his wife, at least in the vestry, when the register is signed. I’m sure that preposterous little curate thought there was something very curious about the whole affair when you showed not the slightest inclination to kiss me.”

“A natural grievance.”

“Oh, not a grievance; it merely showed where your inclination lay.”

“And do you suppose that every time a man doesn’t kiss a woman it’s because he lacks inclination.”

“I should scarcely put it quite like that. Since when is it the custom of a husband to speak of his wife as a woman. Isn’t she supposed to be to him the woman, the one and only woman in the world; and isn’t he supposed to treat her, within limits, as he likes?”

“In a general sense that’s true; but, after all, I’d married you under something very like false pretences. You didn’t know the whole truth about me. When you did it was quite possible that you would say that I had no right to marry you at all; and, I’ve no doubt, I hadn’t. When that time came I wanted you to feel that, although you were my wife in name, it was in name only; so that, if you wished to put me from you, you might be able to go back to the old life exactly what you were when you left it. I regarded myself rather as your guardian than your husband, though I had to make myself your husband before I could be your guardian.”

“Is that why you didn’t observe the usual forms?”

“Hasn’t what has happened since shown that I was justified? You say you trusted me, and I know that in a sense you have; but, all the same, there have been moments in which you’ve thought I was a very curious character.”

“I think so now. Does that make any difference? If you’d taken me in your arms, say, on that first afternoon, when you came back from your solicitors and found me toasting myself by the fire in our sitting-room, and – kissed me, I should have known you did it because you loved me, and because you couldn’t help it, and – I’d have forgiven you, and whatever sort of character you turned out to be – I’d have loved you because you loved me. I wasn’t afraid of your turning out to be a very bad character; though that there was something you were keeping from me I knew. I’m not an idiot; but I felt pretty certain it was nothing of which you need be ashamed. What I didn’t know, and what I’ve been wondering ever since, is – whether you were so good as to give me the right to call myself your wife, out of condescension, because you pitied me, or because you loved me?”

“It was a little of both, I think.”

“Oh, do you? Then I wish there was something large, and hard, and heavy, which I could throw at you.”

“Sweetheart.”

“You call me that at last.”

“Can’t you see some of the things I foresaw then? and I didn’t foresee half the truth. If I’d realized what my lame dog of a friend meant by his allusions to the little trouble which he was unwilling to face, I really think that I’d have let him go his own way.”

“What became of him?”

“What you said about your brother being mixed up with Percival Talbot was quite true, though I didn’t know it at the time, and I wasn’t the Percival Talbot you supposed I was. It seems that your brother had gone to Messina looking for you. When I left him, my benefactor was prompted by the liquor which was in him to go out for a stroll, probably in search of mischief. Your brother was strolling also—”

“Probably also in search of mischief.”

“That I cannot say; possibly he was in search of you. Could you be exactly defined as mischief? Anyhow, he met Talbot, and there was a scene. Your brother owed him a grudge, and he appears to have done his best to pay it. Precisely what did take place, Polhurston only knows; and I rather fancy he is not the sort of person to say more than he can help. Someone seems to have jumped to the conclusion that your brother murdered him outright, but I’m disposed to think that he was hurt more by the earthquake than by Polhurston. I had a correspondent who was looking out for Talbot, and he found him. He was dying.”

“Because of what – my brother did to him?”

“So far as I can gather, not at all. It was the earthquake did it. Part of a building fell on him, and nearly crushed the life right out of him. He probably lay there for hours; when they found him he was as good as dead. He knew that he was dying. The knowledge seems to have made of him a different man. So many men die better than they have lived. He expressed a wish, to my correspondent, to return to England, to the Monks here; I arranged that he should come. His reluctance to return to England was owing to the fact that he was wanted by the law. If he escaped the police, there were others, desperate criminals, who, for reasons of their own, would have seized the first chance which offered to take his life. He was a very lame dog indeed. For his own sake, as much as for anything else, I informed the police that he was coming, and arranged that he should be met by the Inspector on his arrival. Nominally, he was a prisoner; actually, that Inspector was his guardian. I had him brought down here. I knew what John Eva and his friends were planning, having sources of information of which they had no notion. I knew that their great coup was to be brought off tonight. Last night, when Eva was out, completing his final arrangements for my destruction, I had Talbot brought into the house, in charge of the Inspector and the doctor; the person you saw at his bedside was a medical man. I introduced the three of them to the strong-room where there already was his wife.”

“Then you knew that he was married?”

“All along; and how ill he’d used her, yet how she loved him! I’m inclined to think that sometimes the worse men use women the more they’re loved.”

“Does that explain any faint regard I may have for you?”

A smile, which perhaps meant much, was the only answer she received.

“Old Talbot had several things in view when he had that strong-room constructed; among others he appears to have thought it possible that one day it might serve him as a shelter – if the scent became too strong. There are excellent arrangements for lighting, heating, and ventilation., It was Talbot’s own choice, he insisted on being housed in the strong-room, thinking that only there he would be safe from his friends. The doctor said it would make no difference. It was a question of only a few hours in any case; so he had his own way. So there’s another part of the story, which I hope you understand.”

“There’s still a part I don’t, and that’s the part Polhurston’s played. You seem to have had eyes and ears for everyone. I suppose you know what kind of person my brother is, that he’s a very lame dog too.”

“I’ve hopes of your brother.”

“That’s very good of you. I’m not sure if it isn’t more than I have.”

“I’ve arranged for the payment of his debts—”

“Was that the meaning of the interview he had with you that morning, when – I’d been with Phoebe to Penance? Did that explain why you parted such good friends?”

“It may have had something to do with it. He’s a character, your brother. I’m sure he has good points. If he only has something like a regular income—”

“Which you are to provide?”

“However small, I believe you’ll find he’ll do you credit even yet.”

“And have Mr. Herbert’s claws been drawn?”

“My dear child, compared to that scamp, your brother’s a first-class saint. Claude Herbert, alias Isaac Lewinsky, had, for nominal profession, the trade of a usurer; as a matter of fact, his real business was that of a receiver of stolen goods. Old Talbot, as you’re aware, did a bit of money-making by way of an amusement. He seems to have been a curiosity, old Talbot does, with some of the blood in him which went to the making of a good, old-fashioned Cornish wrecker. He seems to have liked doing things he ought not to do for the sheer joy of doing them, out of pure devilry. In the practice of his money-lending he made the acquaintance of Isaac Lewinsky. It appears to have been Lewinsky who first put into his head what first-rate sport it would be to go in, wholesale, for the trade of dealer in stolen goods. The pretty pair seemed to have started in a sort of way as partners. Then there came – a rift in the lute. Talbot, who was a real old desperado, as he went through life, quarrelled with everyone he met. His love for fighting even grew with advancing years. He quarrelled with Lewinsky, and he defied him. The whole ingenious arrangements of his house appear to have been intended to serve as a defence against his whilom friends of Lewinsky’s kidney, as much as against anyone else.”

“As I have remarked on a previous occasion, he seems to have been a dear old man.”

“He was – oh, he was. All the same, he got Lewinsky, and Lewinsky’s friends, in a cleft stick, and he and they knew it. There’s evidence enough in this house, if I chose to use it, to send the many-named Claude Herbert to penal servitude for life in England, and consign him to what he would probably regard as a still worse fate in other countries. Knowing that I know what I do, he’d no more dare to lay a finger on Polhurston than on me. It would be impossible to say anything stronger. Your brother’s relieved of that incubus forever.”

“And does all the property which that dear old man bequeathed to his charming nephew, and which his nephew passed on to you, consist of stolen goods and such-like desirable things?”

“Not a bit of it. There are some wonders about the place in that line, and especially in the strong-room – you shall see some of the jewels which are there. No crowned head has finer. In fact, I more than fancy that some of them have belonged to crowned heads in their time. Every effort will be made to trace the source from which they came; in some cases it won’t be easy. But where their owners can be found or their heirs, those unconsidered trifles shall be returned to them; with, if they desire, such sums in cash as shall be considered proper compensation for the time that they have been deprived of them. I promise you I’ll cleanse the Augean stable, and set the Monks in order. But when that’s done, and everything has been returned about which there is even a possible room for doubt, there’ll be an abundance left, you’ve no idea how much. You’ll be a rich woman.”

“You mean I shall be the wife of a rich man.”

“It’s the same thing. I say it in all sincerity, I’ve small use for money; it was that as much as anything else which made me hesitate to accept the lame dog’s offer. I’ve lived on nothing for so long that I can get all the material things my soul desires for very little. It was only – when I was standing by you in the Messina street that I made up my mind that I did want lots of money, to make it yours. There’s a proposition which I wish to make and leave it for your consideration before I say good night.”

“Before you say – what”

“Before I say good night.”

“Oh, you are going to say it.”

“When I’ve made my proposition. And it’s this. I am Percival Talbot, and you are Mrs. Percival Talbot, that’s sure enough. You shall have every assurance if you’re still in doubt. At the same time, it’s not a name of which I’m over-fond. It’s served its purpose, and – it’s none the sweeter on that account. What do you say to dropping it; to going through the deed poll business all over again? To returning to my old name, of which I’ve never had reason to be ashamed? In short, my proposition is that we should cease to be Mr. and Mrs. Percival Talbot and be Mr. and Mrs. John Barry. I leave it for your consideration, and say good night.”

“Where are you going – when you’ve said good night?”

“Have you any notion what the hour is. It’ll be broad daylight before you’re properly asleep.”

“I asked you, where are you going when you’ve said good night?”

“To my own room, to give you a chance of closing what I am sure must be those tired eyes of yours.”

For the first time she got right out of the chair and stood straight up, something in her bearing which in some subtle fashion had transformed her. There was a new intonation in her voice. She spoke with a little something which was almost rage.

“Are you my husband? Am I your wife?”

“Betty!”

She walked to the door, right past him. She turned the key in the lock; made sure that the door was fast; took out the key and slipped it into the bosom of her dress. Then turned to him, and said, her eyes all shining, and her cheeks all fire—

“Now say good night!”

— XXXII —

UNDERSTANDING

It was the strangest day, the one which followed. The lady was radiant, in spite of what most people would have considered many drawbacks.

“For the first time,” she announced, “I feel as if I had got a home, a house of my own.”

She said this at breakfast, which that morning was a meal of quite a different kind to those which had hitherto been placed upon the table. She glanced at the gentleman who was wrestling with an over-boiled egg. His comment was practical.

“I always have heard that the inhabitants of Cornwall aren’t great on cooking. It seems as if someone had been trying to find out how long it would be necessary to boil an egg in order to convert it into a bullet which could be safely guaranteed to penetrate a six-inch plank.”

“That’s Faith. Phoebe tells me that as a cook her sister isn’t of much account, and that the only thing she can be reckoned on to do is to boil fish until it’s tender.”

“I understand; the more you boil fish the tenderer it grows until it becomes all tenderness. Perhaps she’s got the same ideas on the subject of an egg, and that’s where she’s made an error. Then, am I to take it that you are supposed to run this house with that one pair of sisters, for how long?”

John Eva and his friends had effected their escape. While the little group had been gathered round the bedside of the dying man, Eva had taken advantage of what seemed a favourable opportunity to slip out of the room. His friends had followed; without seeing anything of the body of police to whom reference had been made, they got clear away from the Monks. It did not occur to them till afterwards that this had been done with the connivance of those whom they supposed to be interested in their capture.

“It was arranged,” her husband told the lady afterwards, “that they should be given a chance to bolt. We might have had them easily, there were police enough about; had they put up any sort of a fight we should have had them. I wanted to have no personal hand in bringing them to book. It wouldn’t have been nice to have started our married life with a series of criminal prosecutions, which would have furnished the public with conversation on subjects which we would just as soon they should leave alone. And McCarthy was willing, and his crowd. Those gentlemen will have had such a scare that I shouldn’t wonder if they were to get out of this country as fast as they can get. The police will call with warrants on one or two of them, and I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s found that they’re gone.”

He looked at the lady with something which bore a close resemblance to a wink. Quite what he meant was not clear, but he proved to be a true prophet. The charming house in Curzon Street in which Mr. Claude Herbert kept one of the finest bachelor establishments in town, never saw its master again, so far as is known. The premises in Cork Street in which he did business at sixty per cent or thereabouts, were run, for some little time, single handed, by his managing clerk. Then one evening they were closed at the usual hour, and continued closed until the weeks had been turned into months and the months into years. Those offices in Cork Street came to be regarded almost as subjects for romance. On the morning of the day after which they were closed for good, an individual appeared in the house in Curzon Street, who paid the servants their wages, and dismissed them then and there. Soon afterwards vans appeared. The whole contents of the house were loaded into them. Bills were pasted in the windows announcing that it was to be let, and the place was left deserted. Claude Herbert must have done pretty well; though not so well perhaps as at one time he hoped and expected. Possibly, having ceased to be Claude Herbert, he has returned to his native land, where he lives rich, honoured, and aged.

That estimable firm of solicitors, Messrs. Wilson and Skaines, have also retired from active exercise of the profession, at least, so far as England is concerned. It has been whispered that there is a person in New York, who is by way of being an attorney at law, who is beginning to have quite a considerable connection among people who would be much better off if their characters were dubious, who is very much like George Wilson. Of John Eva nothing has been seen or heard. That night his wife went with him, which explained why breakfast in the morning was a curious meal. Whatever else she was, she was an admirable cook, while her husband was an artist in his management of a table. Mrs. John Barry, which is the present cognomen of the lady of whom we have seen a great deal, is of opinion that her husband knows more about that curious pair than he chooses to pretend.

“Phoebe,” she said to him the other day, “is very anxious about her uncle and her aunt. It’s only natural, because, after all, they are her uncle and aunt. I believe she thinks that something dreadful has happened to them both, and it keeps her from sleeping properly at night.” John Barry – who needs no introduction – took from his lips the cigar which he was smoking, and examined the ash.

“Tell her,” he remarked, “that I don’t think her well-earned slumbers need be broken by – any fears of that kind.”

That was all he said. The lady would have liked him to say more, but she had begun to know him sufficiently well to be aware that it was not easy to get him to talk of matters on which he preferred to keep still. She gave the message to Phoebe after a fashion of her own.

“Your uncle and aunt are perfectly all right, Mr. Barry says so; at least, if he didn’t quite say that – he meant it. I shouldn’t wonder if before very long I was able to give you all particulars. Phoebe, why don’t you marry?”

The transition was sudden; a fact of which the maiden, judging from her looks, was fully conscious.

“How can I, when he’s no money? There’s scarcely any fish been caught over at Durgan for this ever so long; it’s been hard for him to make five shillings a week – and how can we marry on that, when he’s his father to keep?”

The lady had placed herself on a chair; from the way in which her smooth brow was wrinkled she was evidently considering a knotty problem.

“Phoebe, there are going to be changes at the Monks.”

“Going to be? There have been.”

“Yes, and there are going to be still more; the establishment is going to be entirely reorganized. That’s a phrase which I saw in a newspaper and which I think is rather a good one. The house is going to be kept up in quite a different style; Mr. Barry is going to have the game properly looked after, so that he can have some shooting; and we’re going to keep a yacht. Do you think that young man of yours could look after a yacht and keep it in proper order, and perhaps a boat or two, and give us some hints about the fishing, and in that sort of way make himself generally useful?”

“To be sure he could.”

“Then perhaps you’ll tell him to come up and see me. We’re going to have those silly steel gates, which were nothing else than prison gates, pulled down, and we’re going to have Christian gates instead, with a lodge at each. I was thinking that, if you were married to a person who could do what I was saying, you might occupy the lodge which is near the river, with your husband, and, if his father were an invalid, there might be room for him. Now, Phoebe, be sure you tell him to come and see me.”

She did not wait for the maid’s assurance, or for her thanks, but went straight off to her husband. He was writing letters. Without the least regard for his occupation she placed herself on the table close to his pen. Young women of today, even nice young women, and nice young wives, have sometimes a quite singular habit of treating tables as if they were chairs.

“Stop writing,” she told him. “I’m going to talk to you.”

She made sure of her wishes being respected by taking the pen out of his hand.

“I was writing,” he explained, “a rather important letter.”

“Then it can wait; I’ve something to say to you which is more important still. As you observed on a memorable occasion, I’m going to begin at the beginning. I’m a married woman.”

“Hear, hear! I mean, so you are; that is, who said you weren’t?”

“I cannot conceive anyone saying anything so utterly ridiculous. I repeat, at last I am really a married woman; and as I consider the state a desirable one for the average healthy woman to enter, I’m – on the warpath.”

“So soon? My hat! This looks promising for me.”

“Silly! I’m not on the warpath so far as you’re concerned, as yet. I was merely about to observe, when you interrupted me—”

“I didn’t interrupt you.”

“When you interrupted me – if I say you did, you did, even if you didn’t – that, as I am happy, though married, I should like to make others happy too.”

“A most worthy sentiment; hear hear! You might say it over again; where’s my pen? There’s really no reason why I shouldn’t continue writing while you’re making remarks of that kind.”

“You shan’t have your pen, and you can’t continue writing, and I’m coming to the point. Phoebe is going to be married, and Faith is going to be married, and one is going to have one lodge, and the other the other, so that we shall have two sisters at different ends of the estate.”

“The said lodges not being yet built, or even thought of, it is to be hoped, for their own sakes and for the sakes of their husbands, that they’re not going to be married tomorrow.”

“When they’re ready for the lodges, the lodges will be ready for them; I’ll see to that. And there’s Mrs. Percival Talbot, of Penance, the real Mrs. Percival Talbot, I want you to do something for her. You know, if her husband had been anything but the kind of man he was, this would have been all hers.”

“Do you suppose that fact hasn’t loomed very prominently in my mind’s eye? When I discovered her existence, I told him that, in my opinion, at least half of what his uncle had left him should be his wife’s. He said she wouldn’t want it; and she doesn’t. I’ve been talking to her, personally, and by proxy – proxy taking the shape of my lawyer, Glendale.” By then his affairs had been placed in the hands of another firm of lawyers, of quite a different type from that of Wilson and Skaines. “Mrs. Talbot is a lady who knows her own mind; she’ll have none of the old man’s money. We’ve had difficulty in persuading her, between us, to accept even a tiny regular income; but she’s yielded at last. Penance is to be put into shape and order; she’s to keep a maid, and she’ll be happy.”

“I believe she will. Now that he’s come back – even though coming back means that he lies buried in Manaccan churchyard – she’s quite a different woman since his coming. The knowledge that he wanted to come, even though it was only to die, and that he asked her to kiss him – at the end, before he closed his eyes and lips forever, the knowledge has been to her like the grain of mustard seed which grows into a great tree. She told me herself only yesterday that she is the happiest woman in all these parts; and I dare say she thinks she is; but of course I know better.”

“I believe you think that you know everything.”

“At least I know a woman who’s happier. There’s another thing. I’ve had a letter from my sister, Helena, this morning, to say that she’s engaged; he’s spoken at last; and – that’s the top brick from the chimney, that was all that I wanted. All that I require to make me perfectly content is that you should ask her to come down here, with her young man.”

“Do you remember that interview we had with her – at Naples? How she warned you to have nothing to do with me; and how she wanted to pronounce against you a ban of excommunication.”

“She didn’t understand; and I didn’t then.”

“You’ve lighted on a vital truth which would make a first-rate text for a mighty sermon, the difference which comes with understanding. I’ve a theory that if a man and woman understand each other, that’s happiness. We’ve begun.”

“If this is only beginning, do you think – do you really think – that there’ll be an improvement as we go on?”

“Betty, we’re going to understand each other more and more, until we attain to that perfect understanding which casteth out all fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you now; I never was, and I’m sure I never shall be; if I am afraid at all, a teeny-weeny bit afraid, it’s because I am so happy.”

— THE END —