TABLE of CONTENTS

THE EMSDAM DISPATCHES

THE SWORD OF JUSTICE

A QUEEN IN HIDING

ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR H. BUCKLAND

I

DICK OXENHAM had a fascinating subject and a pretty audience of one. Naturally, with every condition favourable to silken dalliance, there was but one crumpled leaf in the heart of the lotus-flower. If only Lady Logsdail were a little less fond of the scent of the tuberose.

The charming drawing-room was faint and sickly with the odour of it. And Oxenham was a healthy man who always slept with the windows open. Still, the inert fragrance troubled him less than usual this afternoon for reasons presently to be unfolded. He never appreciated the careful carelessness, the dainty harmony of Lady Logsdail's salon more than at this moment.

In some fluffy nocturne in black and orange Lily Logsdail sat listening. The dim light, filtered through silken blinds and feathery palms, glistened upon diamonds and almond eyes and amber hair belonging to the cleverest woman in London. With practically a pauper husband, Lily Logsdail had contrived to stem the tide of impecuniosity, to keep up Logsdail Waters and 99A, Hill Street, with never a tradesman with the shibboleth of "account rendered" to trouble her. How the thing had been and was done remained a mystery. But then Lady Logsdail passed for the cleverest woman in London.

"You don't know how you interest me, Dick," she murmured.

"Extraordinary thing, isn't it," said Oxenham. "And it's been going on for months. By some means or other, every dispatch from the Foreign Office to our Embassy at Emsdam gets tampered with. And that's why I have been chosen by the Chief to take over the next important communication."

"What do the thieves gain, Richard?"

"Oh, well. Fair play to them, they don't do much harm. It has something to do with speculation on the London and Berlin Exchanges. Look what happened last week. Nicholson had the Emsdam dispatches. He swears they were never out of his possession for a moment, and yet, before they were fairly delivered, our wily birds were operating with a full knowledge of the contents of those letters. Any amount of money has been spent to probe the mystery, but absolutely in vain. And it's a decided feather in my cap that the Chief has chosen me for the next venture."

"Your merits are voluminous," Lady Logsdail laughed; "but I fancy that a little word or two dropped by myself to Sir James Sawbridge had its weight. He promised me he would test your mettle the first opportunity."

Dick murmured his thanks. He was a little disturbed by the information. He stooped down and picked up a glittering bauble from the floor.

"You'll lose that wonderful Medici ring of yours some of these days," he said. "Why don't you have it made a little smaller? If I had a unique diamond like that, I fancy I should take more care of it. A historic gem, too."

Lady Logsdail carelessly replaced the priceless trifle.

"And so you are going to baffle these mysterious gentry," she said. "Of course everything you say to your affectionate cousin Lily is sacred. Several of the cleverest men in the Foreign Office have failed where you hope to succeed. Now how do you propose to run the gauntlet of your foes?"

"I thought of something cunningly simple," Dick said lazily."A sort of spoof, don't you know. There was once a long-headed fellow in a tale I read, who wanted to hide something, so placed the thing where everybody could see it."

Lady Logsdail clapped her hands gleefully.

"The very thing," she cried. "I know the story you mean. It was written by Edgar Poe, and called 'The Purloined Letter.' Take my advice, and just place those precious dispatches in your portmanteau — an old, battered portmanteau, mind, that looks as if it wasn't worth owning. You can carry your dispatch-box with you, and fuss over it pompously. You might even go so far as to let your portmanteau travel by the luggage van."

"Think so?" Dick asked dubiously.

"Why not? There's your cunningly simple plan to perfection. Don't forget that you are dealing with amazingly clever people—people who know your errand whilst they are as trees to you. They will look for cunning and complexity, and never suspect a dodge like this. It is like the Fools' Mate at chess. And you say that you are carrying something important?"

"Very important, I fancy. Something between England and Germany and the Transvaal. If this thing is good, what a haul it would be for our financial friends! But they are going to be done this time, Lily."

Lady Logsdail was emphatically of the same opinion. She suggested several little improvements upon the scheme, such as Oxenham's seal being placed on his portmanteau.

"In fact," she concluded; "I have the very thing for you—a battered old Gladstone with half the hotel-labels of Europe on it. I'll have your initials placed on it, and send it round to you. What day do you start?"

"Thursday week," Oxenham replied. "To-morrow I'm going down to Tom Saxton's place for a week. When I've seen my tailor in the morning I'm free."

Lady Logsdail was interested. A badly-dressed man was a painful thing to her, and considering his face and figure, Oxenham was dreadfully lax as regarded sartorial matters. Lady Logsdail was emphatic that Dick wanted this and that and the other, and as the accredited agent of Great Britain to Emsdam it was his duty to go suitably attired.

"All right," Oxenham said meekly, "I'll send round the patterns and you shall choose 'em. Thank goodness, Felton, of Bond Street never worries one about trying on. He takes your measure and there you are. What is it—a new dress suit, a frock suit, and something neat in tweeds to travel in. Anything else?"

But Lady Logsdail was satisfied. A scheme had been hit upon which was certain to baffle the conspirators and bring the shining young light of the Foreign Office to the front. Her ladyship glowed with the virtuous feeling that comes from the knowledge of good things done for others.

"This is the first step to fortune," she said. "I don't despair of seeing you an Ambassador yet. With your birth and advantages—"

"And poverty, my dear Lily. Ambassadors are never poor men."

"But you could marry money; you could have done so a dozen times over. Look at the heiresses I have introduced you to."

Dick rose and groped for his hat. This was a subject that usually ended in driving him hence into a cold and unfeeling world.

"I never wanted to look at them," he said.

"As a rule they were not the sort of thing the poet and the painter would rave about. So long as you belong to another, what are all the women in the world to me."

Oxenham passed into the outer air. The pretty salon had been a thought stuffy. And Oxenham hated scents of any kind. With olfactory nerves freshened by the breeze he caught the suggestion of tuberose on his clothes.

"Why does Lily do it?" he muttered, as he lighted a cigarette. "I shall smell that confounded stuff for the rest of the day now."

II

When the time came, Oxenham saw that Lady Logsdail's instructions were carried out to the letter. The battered old portmanteau forwarded for the occasion might have belonged to the veriest tramp that ever made his home at "The Travellers." No station thief, with a proper respect for himself, would ever touch such a thing.

The portmanteau had been packed ready for the journey by Oxenham's man. Down amongst the contents, Oxenham thrust the precious dispatches. He had only to add the new dress suit that he was at present wearing—for he had been dining out—and the bag could be locked. With his own hands, Oxenham turned the key and sealed the lock with his signet ring.

"It's a bit of a risky game that I am playing," he muttered. "I have engaged to get those dispatches through untouched, and if I succeed very good. If I carried them in the ordinary way and was forcibly robbed, nobody could blame me. But if I came to grief and it leaked out that I had shoved the confounded things into my portmanteau—why—"

The thought was not a pleasant one, and Oxenham did not care to dwell upon it. The thing was done now and he would have to go through with it. Nobody could by any chance know of the scheme, and in any case the dispatches were in cipher. That would certainly baffle the thieves, who hitherto had had to be content with a lightning peep at the documents which they had managed to steal, and read and return without the carrier being any the wiser.

Nobody knew but Lady Logsdail. And of course she was all right. Even as Oxenham thought of her, the bedroom became faint with the smell of tuberose. Oxenham jerked open his window angrily.

"Confound the stuff," he cried. "I wonder where it comes from? I haven't seen Lily for days. And the room reeks with the perfume. What an ass I am to be sure! The smell comes from that old portmanteau. I shall carry the flavour of this wretched tuberose with me to Emsdam."

Oxenham was up betimes in the morning. The dispatch-box, his dressing-bag, and the mournful elderly portmanteau were all ready. There was plenty of time, and after an early lunch Oxenham found himself with a good hour to spare before he was due at the station.

"I'll go round and see Lily." he told himself. "She may have thought of another dodge that might come in useful."

But he found Lily Logsdail in no mood to discuss dodges artful or otherwise. The fair lady with the almond eyes and amber hair was on the verge of tears, or as near tears as a woman who values her complexion ever gets.

"What's the matter?" Oxenham asked. "Anything wrong with Jim?"

Lily Logsdail waved the suggestion aside impatiently.

"Do you think that I should distress myself like this over a mere husband?" she demanded scornfully. " I have had a great misfortune, Richard. My Medici ring—"

"Lost it. I suppose. I always said you would."

"That is the tenth time I've heard the same expression this morning. People who say such things ought to be led to the stake. Don't stay and worry me, Dick, there's a good fellow. I've been distracted since yesterday afternoon."

"I'm very sorry," Oxtnham said sincerely.

"I expect the ring will turn up again. Can I do anything in Zerlinden to-morrow? I stop there at night and go on to Emsdam in the morning. I shall dine with Lewis Annandale."

A quick spasm of pain crossed Lady Logsdail's face. She looked quite old and withered in the morning light for a moment. And the glance which she threw at Oxenham would hardly have been called cousinly.

"Give him my kind regards," she said. "No, you can do nothing for me, Dick, except to find my ring. Good-bye."

Oxenham accepted his dismissal philosophically. Under the circumstances, a tender parting was hardly to be expected, and, so far as the unfeeling man was concerned, the incident of the loss of the ring was soon forgotten, or remembered complacently by one who had prophesied the misfortune. But ere long the matter was destined to come back to Oxenham with tragic force.

Not without some misgivings, he saw his aged derelict of a portmanteau placed in the luggage van. Oxenham was more or less uneasy till Dover was reached, but the portmanteau was intact at Dover, and was still intact what time it was safely landed on the Zerlinden express.

"I won't look at the thing any more." Oxenham muttered. "It is certainly not beautiful, and any anxiety about the wreck might cause attention. And now let me go to sleep and forget all about it."

Sleeping, reading, and eating passed the time away until in the gloom of the next afternoon the express glided into the great glazed arch of Zerlinden station. Oxenham tumbled out sleepily on to the platform. It seemed to his excited brain that more than one pair of eyes were regarding him steadily. For it was here that the Emsdam dispatches were supposed to be perused by second sight, or something equally occult. And there were eyes upon Oxenham, but they belonged to a trio of detectives who were especially told off to follow the messenger. But of this Oxenham naturally knew nothing.

There was the ancient portmanteau on the platform. Oxenham handed it over to the porter who carried his dressing-bag and hat-box. The dispatch-box Oxenham appeared to be clutching affectionately. Not so much as a chip of wax was missing from the battered portmanteau.

Oxenham smiled grimly as he drove off to his hotel. He had outwitted the thieves this time. By means of their diabolical ingenuity they might have got a sight of the dummy papers in the dispatch-box, and much good might it do them. The simple scheme had worked like a charm.

The portmanteau was absolutely intact; a smell of tuberose was getting quite familiar by this time. And the dispatches were safe. Oxenham took out and unfolded his dress clothes lying on top and locked the leather bag away in his wardrobe. He had never felt on better terms with himself in his life than he did at that-moment. But, strange to say, the faint sickliness of the tuberose was still quite noticeable. As he drove towards the Lindenstrasse where Lord Lewis Annandale resided, the cab seemed to be full of it. Annandale was a man who posed as being out of suits with fortune. At a moment's notice he had foresworn all the delights of his native land, and taken up his residence in gloomy Zerlinden. A love affair, a curious twist of the brain, a penance were various reasons assigned for the freak. As to the rest, Annandale was a fine man, with a good record, and an intellect which had rendered him famous had he been a poor man. He greeted Oxenham with effusion, for they were old friends, and Oxenham had more than an inkling of his friend's story. After the first hearty greeting, Annandale fell back with his head in the air. His face paled, and he seemed to breathe with difficulty.

"Faugh!" he gasped. "You are scented, and with tuberose too! If this is a jest, all I have to say is, it is a sorry one."

Oxenham regarded his friend's flashing eyes and white lips with astonishment. The most placid of men was quivering with anger.

"My dear fellow," Oxenham stammered. "Really—"

But Annandale was himself again. He seemed to be almost childishly ashamed of his weakness.

"I'll explain to you presently," he said. "Now come in to dinner."

It was an excellent dinner, daintily served and cooked. Annandale was a man of taste and refinement; the table left nothing to be desired in the way of attractiveness, save that there were no flowers.

"I still retain my dislike to flowers of all kinds," said Annandale, expansive over the post prandial coffee and cigarette, "and you have often rallied me on the subject. The scent of blooms I abhor, and the scent of the tuberose I hold in special detestation. Hence my foolish heat just now."

"It was quite an accident," Oxenham hastened to explain. "I can trust you, so I'll tell you whence comes the odour of the tuberose, and why it is connected with my journey to Zerlinden."

And Oxenham proceeded to tell the whole story, not forgetting a meed of praise to Lady Logsdail en passant. Annandale listened intently. There was a bitter smile on his thin, sensitive lips. It was a long time before he spoke.

"I hope you'll come out all right," he said, "but I doubt it."

"What do you mean by that?-" Oxenham asked.

"I am about to tell you. I daresay that, in common with most people, you wonder why I chose to exile myself from England. Not so very long ago I was a penniless man, but somwhat envied because I was presumedly the heir to my uncle, Russell Annandale.

"He meant to leave me all his money, but he had a rooted objection to parting with any of it in his lifetime. And once upon a time I got into a deuce of a hole for want of a hundred or two, so I had to make a clean breast of matters. My uncle was at his Cheshire place at the time, and he asked me to go down and see him. The house was full of people, and 1 arrived on the day the old man was giving a big dance. I saw him, and a most unpleasant scene followed. Disgrace or not, my uncle refused to assist me.

"I had my consolation, for at the dance I met a girl whom I loved and who loved me in return. I had never expected to come across her there. She had been invited to the dance with friends with whom she was staying. I forgot my troubles for the time being. It was about supper time that something very unpleasant happened. As you know, the Annandale jewels are famous. There was one diamond in a particularly quaint setting—a Medici ring they called it— worth any money. And during the evening it had been stolen. My uncle had been showing it to a friend and had somewhat carelessly placed it on the mantelpiece in the library. Shortly after he found the case empty.

"Well, there was a fine to-do as you can imagine. The girl I spoke of was the only one who kept her head. She chaffed me merrily as to my prospective loss. And to console me for it she took a flower from her corsage and pinned it in my buttonhole. It was a tuberose."

Annandale paused as if lost in thought. Then he resumed:

"After the guests had all departed my uncle called me to him, and accused me of stealing the diamond. I was astounded. I demanded proof of my guilt. By way of reply my accuser handed me the empty case, quested that I should him what it was impregnated with. And surely enough it smelt strongly of tuberose. Then I knew why the prettiest and vilest woman in England had pinned that accursed flower in my buttonhole — the plain evidence of my crime to my uncle's eyes. Doubtless she had been watching near the library, and had guessed my uncle's suspicions as she saw him find the empty case and raise it to his nostrils.

"I was so astounded that I allowed myself to be literally driven out of the house with no protest on my lips. Oxenham, I was half mad that night with shame and anguish and the miserable knowledge that I had given my heart to such a woman. From that day to this I have not seen her, nor have I seen England. My uncle died before he could make another will, and so I am a rich man. And now you can understand why I abhor the scent of tuberose."

Oxenham was silent. His brain was in a whirl. That there was something more to come he felt certain. A feeling of helplessness, almost of fear, came over him. The Medici ring touched a harsh chord.

"Annandale," he said earnestly. "You are warning me in parables. Would you mind telling me the name of the woman who served you so badly?"

"Have you not guessed already, Dick?"

"I'm afraid so," Oxenham murmured.

"But I like to be certain."

"And so you shall, my dear fellow. The woman who has spoilt my life is none other than your cousin, Lady Lily Logsdail. Surely you need not ask now why I have told you this story."

"I've had a shock," said Oxenham, "a painful shock, and I won't deny it. And I would have staked the coat I am wearing on Lily's integrity."

"Dress coat, silk lapels, and all," Annandale replied cynically, "and yet there was a time when you swore to wear no evening attire with silk facings."

Oxenham regarded his coat with a strange puzzled expression.

"Tell you what it is," he said, "I'm going dotty. Two nights ago I wore this coat for the first time. No deception about it, for my name's inside. And I swear that the night before last the facings were plain. There's some underhand work going on here. Hang me if I don't feel frightened. The sooner I get my business over the better I shall be pleased. What are you smiling at?"

"You've made a mistake," said Annandale, "you must have done. My story has got on your nerves. Have a liqueur and another cigarette."

Oxenham returned to his hotel in due course with a heavy foreboding on his mind. He knew that something unpleasant was going to happen, but he would have been puzzled to determine what form it would take. Annandale's story had undoubtedly shaken him, and for the first time it seemed to Oxenham that he had been foolish to trust anyone with the mission that carried him to Emsdam. He knew now that his cousin was heartless and unscrupulous, and he began to fully appreciate the brilliant cleverness that had set the clumsy Logsdail bark afloat, and had steered it into the harbour of prosperity. There was something to Dick's mind especially repulsive in the cynical audacity that caused Lady Logsdail not only to steal the Medici ring, but also to wear it openly. True, Russell Annandale was dead, and his successor was not likely to expose the fraud in any case. But any woman with the slightest sense of shame would have kept the gaud under lock and key.

Vexed thoughts like these kept Oxenham tossing and turning the whole night long. He rose at length with a feeling of relief, nor was he himself again until he was fairly started for Emsdam.

The yellow portmanteau had been consigned to the custody of the guard again. It was absolutely intact, and in any case if the infernal jugglery had been practised, it had been done ere now. Not that Oxenham anticipated anything of the kind. The thing that most troubled him at present was the transformation of the facings of his dress coat. If he suffered from no mental delusion, some queer trick had been played upon him.

Oxenham's spirits rose as Emsdam was reached. The afternoon was well advanced, and the messenger knew that he had no time to lose if he were to see the Ambassador at Potsdam before the business day expired.

The dispatches were all right. Evidently they had not been touched. Once in his bedroom Oxenham hastened to don his frock coat and shiny hat as he stowed the dispatches away. Manlike, he had tumbled half the contents of his bag on the floor. His evening coat lay uppermost. Oxenham regarded it with dilated eyes.

The facings were absolutely plain! A queer, strange feeling of having been there and having gone through it all before possessed the bewildered man. Had his mind gone wrong over this trivial matter? Oxenham had heard of things of the kind, a passing delusion, some figment of the imagination.

"I'd better go and finish my business,and then go in for a lot of exercise," Oxenham muttered as he crept none too steadily down the stairs. "I'm a bit off it. And I fairly cry aloud with the smell of that diabolical tuberose."

The British Ambassador received Oxenham gravely. Though his lips were stern and set, there was just a suggestion of mirth in his grey eyes.

"Your papers appear to be intact, Mr. Oxenham," he said, "and now tell me what design you invented to baffle our mysterious enemies."

Oxenham complied with some little pride. The Ambassador listened with the same stern lips and germ of a smile.

"Excellent," he said; "under ordinary circumstances. it would have succeeded. But those opposed to us foresee everything."

"My lord," Oxenham cried, "you don't mean to say that—"

"1 do indeed, Mr. Oxenham. Some time yesterday and by some amazing means those people contrived to see and read your papers. I am convinced of that because to-day in Paris and London the same parties have been operating in stocks and shares which are naturally enhanced in value by these dispatches. You see, I knew pretty well what to expect. So you see you have failed, Mr. Oxenham, as others have failed before you."

"But, my lord," Oxenham grasped, "how in the world was it possible? Nobody could have touched my portmanteau. The seal was intact, the packet intact also. On the journey anything of the kind was out of the question. I shall wake presently and find it is all a dream."

The Ambassador was kindness itself. He saw that Oxenham was terribly distressed and shaken by his failure and disposed to take it keenly to heart.

"I hold you absolutely blameless in the matter," he said. "Your scheme was a good one, but, like many good schemes, has failed. I have a little plan of my own for teaching these people a lesson, but of that more anon. And now may I have the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening?"

Oxenham made the best excuse he could under the circumstances, and in sooth he was in no mood for the trivialities of social enjoyment. He wanted to be alone where he could think the matter out step by step.

So Oxenham ate his solitary cutlet and sipped his claret reflectively. Ere the subsequent cigarettes were finished his brain grappled the problem. The claret was pure and generous, the sense of bitter disappointment was passing away, and Oxenham's brain was no longer under the cloud of suspected delusions.

"Somebody has played a fine conjuring trick upon me," he muttered. "Of course, the coat I wore last night was not the same. A healthy chap like myself does not have that kind of delusion. Now, I wonder whether Lily had a hand in this thing. It was her influence that got me this job, and it was her scheme. After what Annandale tells me I am quite prepared to believe strange things of Lily. And there must be some clever way in which she has worked up the Logsdail finances. Now, let me see."

For a long time Oxenham lay back in his chair smiling, with a far-away look in his eyes. Gradually and bit by bit he began to see daylight before him. He was not given to romance as a rule, but this business had stimulated his powers of imagination. He was on the track at last.

Then he rose to his feet, and cast his cigarette into the fire.

"I've got it, by Jove!" he muttered. "That's it, right enough. First of all, I had better go and examine my portmanteau thoroughly. Nothing like making absolutely certain about this kind of thing."

In his bedroom Oxenham emptied his portmanteau by the simple expedient of turning it upside down on the bed. As he did so, a glittering object fell from a mass of underclothing and rolled on the floor. Oxenham grabbed it up, and held the flashing, flaming jewel to the light.

"Well, if this doesn't beat everything!" he gasped. "Now, I wonder how the lost Medici diamond ring got in here!"

III

By the time that Oxenham reached Dover, the situation was clear to him. At the psychological moment the key had been supplied, and the solution to the puzzle was in his grasp. But he had to be sure of his facts first.

It was some consolation to find that the Permanent Secretary at the Foreign Office was not inclined to be too severe upon the unfortunate messenger.

"On the contrary," the great personage said, "your scheme was a very neat one. The thieves have latterly had an uneasy feeling that they were suspected, hence the fact that they had to look for their information in another direction. Before a month is over we shall give them a lesson they are not likely to forget."

Oxenham did understand. If the smart coterie who were working the scheme ventured to speculate on the next information that fell into their hands, dire would be their financial confusion.

From the Foreign Office Oxenham drove away to his tailor's in Bond Street. The interview was not a long one, but quite satisfactory to Oxenham. He had information in his possession now that cleared up the whole mystery.

From there Oxenham returned home, he found his man, grave and subdued as usual, ready to receive him. The master studied the features of the man keenly. Hill's grave face was absolutely without expression.

"James," Oxenham asked abruptly, "what time did you pack my portmanteau on the evening before I started for Emsdam?"

"I did not pack it at all, sir," Hill replied.

"I had an urgent message to meet a friend and I left it to Emily, the housemaid here. She knows your wants quite as well as I do. sir."

"And at what time did you go to keep this appointment?"

"About five, sir. My friend didn't turn up, sir. He was going to Paris with his master, and I expect something detained him."

Oxenham passed off the matter with a trivial excuse for asking the question. A little later and he had an opportunity of a word alone with the pretty little housemaid. Oxenham's first query drove the colour from her cheeks and left her white and trembling. Emily had a great deal to say and took a long time to say it, but the stammering story was complete at last.

"You won't send me to prison, sir," she implored. "I—I didn't know."

"I fancy vou have been more a fool than anything else," Oxenham said. "All you have to do is to be silent, and you will hear no more of the matter. I know you will do this for your own sake. Now go."

A little later and Oxenham was on his way to Lady Logsdail's. He was fortunate in finding the almond-eyed, amber-haired divinity alone. Lily Logsdail was in the best of spirits; she seemed to find the world a pleasant one. She fluttered forward with a smile of welcome on her lips. But somehow Oxenham managed to drop into a chair without taking the outstretched hands. The perfume of tuberose floated breast-high in the warm air.

"You are a successful general," Lady Logsdail cried.

"On the contrary, I am a lamentable failure," said Oxenham. "The enemy were too sharp for me. To quote a card-player's expression, they saw my hand, and went one better."

Lady Logsdail looked ravishingly sympathetic.

"Poor fellow," she murmured, "and such pains as I took too."

"Your pains may have their reward yet," Oxenham said significantly. "But do not let us pursue so painful a topic. Have you found your ring?"

Lady Logsdail had not, needless to say. The loss hail caused her infinite grief. She had positively aged under her affliction.

"1 shall never see it again," she cried. "Never, Dick."

"There you are quite mistaken," Oxenham said grimly, "because the Medici ring is in my pocket at the present moment. I found it in my portmanteau amongst my clothes at Potsdam."

Lady Logsdail gasped as Dick produced the ring. Her face was ghastly pale, save for a red splash stippled on either cheek.

"I must have dropped it into the portmanteau," she said.

"No doubt," was the grim response; "but you see it was in the middle of the clothes. I expect it slipped off your linger last Wednesday afternoon when you came to my rooms and packed my portmanteau for me. You remember—the day you and the housemaid got Hill out of the way, and you were provided by the housemaid with a duplicate set of linen so that you could pack the duplicate portmanteau."

A ghastly pallor crept over the flush-red of Lady Logsdail's cheeks.

"You are either mad or dreaming," she said hoarsely.

"I am neither," Oxenham retorted. "My housemaid has confessed. The old portmanteau you gave me had a duplicate. You managed by visiting my chambers to get a duplicate set of linen, also an impression of my seal. Then you had the audacity to order from my tailor dual garments to those you knew I was going to take with me to Emsdam. When Felton's bill came in it would be as easy for the housemaid to keep it back till it came again as an 'account rendered,' you knowing how very careless I am with figures. Do you follow?"

Lady Logsdail nodded. Words were as jewels just then.

"Of course the portmanteau, facsimiles inside and out, were dexterously exchanged at Zerlinden by your confederates, and thus you had the dispatches in your possession for a whole night until the changes were rung again on the morning when I finally reached Emsdam. I congratulate you, Lady Logsdail."

"Give me my ring," the woman cried.

But Oxenham coolly replaced the bauble in his pocket.

"That goes to the proper owner, Annandale," he said. "He told me the story of the ring and the bloom of the tuberose a night or two ago. But for his catching the scent of that infernal flower, he would never have told me the history of his trouble and of the theft. After hearing that recital, and finding that ring where it was, I began to guess the rest. Take my advice, and abjure strong, sensuous perfumes for the future."

"How clever to find me out!" Lady Logsdail murmured softly.

The sly malice underlying the silky tones aroused Oxenham.

"Have you no sense of shame?" he cried.

"Not a bit," the woman said. "For the sake of the family you will not betray me, and as to the rest I have made £100,000. All's fair in love and war, my dear Richard. Are you going?"

"Going! Why should I stay! I was never rude to a woman in my life yet, and I never had a better excuse or a more fitting opportunity."

Lady Logsdail laughed. Dick can yet see the pearly flash of her teeth.

"Really," she said, "I fancy I should enjoy it. The sensation—from a man—would be so novel. My dear Richard, I—"

Oxenham had gone, slamming the door behind him.

"What strange creatures men are!" Lady Logsdail murmured. "They always hate a woman to be clever. And Dick was such a dear boy. Upon my word I am quite sorry, really I am very sorry—he found me out."

THE END

THE SWORD OF JUSTICE

ILLUSTRATED BY A.P. BALL

AFTER all said and done, the expectation was not quite as bad as the reality. But, then, it seldom is, as George Shannon told himself with a cynical smile. For a business man, he was gifted with a fine imagination. Frequently in his after-dinner leisure he had sat there weaving it out in his mind as a novelist knits the thread of a story.

Shannon was glad to be alone. He marveled at his own self-control, he almost admired the way in which he was concealing his trouble. For the last hour or two he had been gardening, busy among his flowers, as if he knew he could look forward with pleasure to the realization of the floral harvest. Yet, even while he was bending there among the petunias, or training the roses over the pergola, he knew perfectly well that someone else would reap the full beauty of the cream and damask blossoms.

It was hard lines, Shannon told himself. A sentimental man might have shed tears over it. It was all the more hard because he had seen this little paradise of his expanded in blossom, he himself had turned an arid desert into a galaxy of glory. He could recollect the time when the smooth lawns had been no more than ragged bare patches, when the house itself had been gaunt and stark in its white hideousness. That had been ten years ago. And now there was not a trimmer, neater, or more perfect garden within twenty miles of the city. It all would have to go. He would have to begin life over again. He would be lucky in the future if he had even so much as a cabbage patch.

He had not told anybody yet: even his wife did not know. For the best part of an hour they had been standing on the edge of the lawn, planning out a new and elaborate border, and Shannon had thrown himself into the matter with a zest and enthusiasm which fairly astonished himself. He was glad that his wife did not know yet; gradually a little scheme was forming in his mind whereby this precious Naboth's vineyard might be retained and the enemy clamoring at his gates worsted.

The scheme would entail the last price that man pays for anything, but, then, it would be for the best, and distinctly to the advantage of Mrs. Shannon and the children. She had been a good wife to him for twenty odd years. He was deeply and profoundly grateful, with the calm, tranquil affection of the man who knows that he has found the one woman in the world for him. No doubt it would be a terrible shock. But, then, Kate Shannon would never know the truth, and in time to come she would tell her children what manner of man their father had been, and how they could do no better than follow in his footsteps. She would have money, too. There would be no further anxiety as to the two boys at Harvard, and Kate could go to Germany to finish her education. There was grim satisfaction, too, in the idea of getting upon terms with Frederick Bramlay, and thus for the first time in that unscrupulous financier's history someone would get the best of him. Shannon actually smiled to himself as he pictured the scene up to the final moment when—

Actually he stood there making up his mind to that stupendous sacrifice with a smile on his lips. He noticed a stiff bent of grass rising from the velvet lawn. He put back a trail drooping from a rebellious climbing rose and fastened it tenderly in its place. Next year his wife would be doing the same thing. The savour of life would have come back to her, and she would have her children to look after. There were two sets of thoughts occupying Shannon's mind—the one set grim and ghastly, the other tender and romantic. Between these two he was arriving at a firm and definite conclusion. The argument was crystallized hard and firm before Shannon was interrupted by the arrival of a friend in the person of Raymond Clausen. These two had been schoolfellows, they had spent the best part of their lives in the city together; indeed, if there was one man whom Shannon could trust, it was Clausen.

"I didn't expect to see you here," the latter said.

"Probably not," Shannon smiled. "I ought to be biting my nails in the library, I suppose. It is a very odd thing, Raymond, but now the point has come, I don't seem to mind at all."

"Have you told the wife?" Clausen asked.

"Well, no, I haven't. I hadn't the heart to do so. When I got home to-night, I found Kate full of her project for making a new rose-garden. You will hardly believe it possible, but I have been throwing myself into the scheme just the same as if I had paid off my mortgage and the place belonged to me."

"I quite understand the feeling," Clausen said sympathetically. "It is infernally hard upon your wife and children. I suppose you haven't said anything to Bramlay about it."

Shannon shrugged his shoulders almost indifferently.

"What is the use?" he asked. "The man has no heart and no bowels of compassion. Did you ever know him do a good or kindly action in his life? There is a man who has thrown over friend after friend directly they have ceased to be of use to him. He gives nothing away. He is capable of any rascality, so long as he contrives to keep out of reach of the law. I declare I can scarcely contain myself when I think of the way in which he has treated me. It was I who lent him the money to give him his first start in life. I lent him five hundred dollars of my hard savings when I never expected to see it again. I pinched myself to give him his opportunity. And now how does he treat me? When he bought that fine house of his behind that belt of elms yonder, four years ago, he conceived the idea of turning this place of mine into a lodge. It never seemed to occur to him that I had an affection for this home of mine which cannot be measured by mere money. I refused to sell the place, of course; in fact, as you know, it is not altogether mine to sell. And what did that scoundrel do? He induced me to leave the old firm which I was with for years to become his manager. As true as we are standing here, Clausen, that man faithfully promised me a share of the business at the end of three years. And now mark the sequel. He dismisses me from his employ under the plea that I am slovenly and incompetent. He leaves me at fifty-five years of age to face the world again. And why does he do this? Simply because he knows that I shall be unable to keep up the payments on my mortgage, and that the house must come into the market. It is the old story of Naboth's vineyard over again. Fancy this from a man who is looked up to and respected. And yet every word I am telling you is absolutely true."

"Oh, I believe it," Clausen said. "What a pity it is that you can't think of some way of getting even with the scoundrel!"

A peculiar smile came over Shannon's face.

"I have thought of a way," he said quietly. "It is one of those queer ideas that come to all us of sometimes. I believe if I had not been a business man, I should have made a respectable poet. Let us walk up and down the lawn and talk it over. I wouldn't tell this to any other man but you... Now, suppose I am disposed to save all this, and insure the future of my wife and family by an act of personal sacrifice. Suppose that I know a thing or two about Bramlay which would damage him seriously if it became public. Oh, I don't mean blackmail in that sense of the word. Besides, I haven't the nerve to fight Bramlay openly, and possibly nobody would believe me. We'll argue, for instance, that there is going to be trouble over those copper mines in which Bramlay is interested. Mind you, it is by no means a pretty business, and the public have yet a good deal to learn about it. But Bramlay will come out of it all right, as he always does. And now let us carry the scheme a little further. Suppose I were to lose my nerve and take my own life, leaving letters behind me hinting that I was afraid of disclosures in connection with the Copper Syndicate, and leaving the public to believe that Bramlay was at the bottom of the whole thing. Oh, I could manage it easily enough. There would be a searching inquiry even beyond the reach of Bramlay's bribery and hush money, and after that, with all his wealth, he would become a marked man. The class of people he aspires to know would turn their backs upon him. What do you think of that?"

"It sounds like a modern novel," Clausen said, a bit cynically. "But it would be a mere act of timidity and revenge. I fail to see how your wife and family could benefit by a course like this. Your program is not complete."

"I am coming to that," Shannon said quietly. "We will suppose I write a letter not only to Bramlay, but also to Charlton, his private secretary. I go further still and write a letter to the same effect to you. This places the matter beyond Bramlay's power so far as burking investigation goes. No doubt Bramlay could purchase Charlton's silence, but he couldn't buy yours. After the thing is done and I am out of the way, you go straight to Bramlay and offer to sell him the letter I have written you for two hundred thousand dollars. Oh, you needn't smile, he would buy it fast enough. I tell you, he dare not face investigations. And yet, once I have put the knife to my heart or the pistol to my head, no power on earth could prevent an investigation if you read the letter I wrote you at the inquest. Do you see now?"

"Oh, it is convincing enough," Clausen replied. "And I would do it for you, too. There is nothing I should enjoy more than facing Bramlay with such a weapon in my hands. But you are talking absolute nonsense, my dear fellow, as you know as well as I do."

II

THE hour was getting late now, but Shannon was still in his garden. Clausen had been gone for a considerable time, and it was something past ten before Shannon crossed over to a nearby office and despatched a long telegram to his friend. He seemed easier in his mind now. There was a smile upon his face. He whistled a fragment from an operatic tune. As the clock was striking eleven he strode out of his own gate down the now deserted road till he came to an imposing pair of lodges which guarded the drive leading up to the magnificent old house where Bramlay, the great financier, had his home. Shannon did not hurry himself. He strolled casually along the drive until he stood in front of the house. His mind was not sufficiently distracted to blind him to the beauty of the flower-beds and the exquisite savor of the roses and the smoothness of the springy lawns. The house was more or less in darkness, save for the study, where the electric lights burned brilliantly. The long French windows were open, and as Shannon crossed the lawns he saw the figure of the financier half buried in an armchair and surrounded by a mass of papers in which he appeared to be absorbed. He was in evening dress, a slim, spare figure with a plain square face and a prominent jaw. There was only one thing which Bramlay lived for, and that was the making of money. It was doubtful whether he appreciated all the luxury and beauty of his surroundings, except as living evidence that he was a rich man who could afford to indulge his fancies.

Shannon strode into the room with the air of a man who is quite at home. Bramlay's hard features knitted in a frown.

"This is somewhat unexpected," he said coldly.

"No doubt," Shannon responded. "May I be permitted to sit down for a moment? I want to talk matters over with you. It will probably be the last opportunity I have."

"Will you take anything?" Bramlay asked.

"Presently, yes. But not until I have finished. Then you can ring your bell and ask one of the servants to bring me some soda-water. But we would better have our explanation first."

"What explanation?" Bramlay demanded.

"Oh, I am not likely to detain you long. I have no desire to stand between you and your money-making. If you will look at me, you will see that I am quite calm and collected; I am not carried away by trouble or anxiety; therefore, I tell you quite coolly that you are, without exception, the coldest and most deliberate scoundrel I ever came across in my life. When I came here this evening, I debated seriously in my mind as to whether I should kill you or hot. Sit still, man—there is nothing to be afraid of. I have too much respect for my family to take the work off the devil's shoulders in that way. But I think I can get even with you in another form—not through your heart, but through your beloved money."

"The man is mad!" Bramlay muttered.

"No," Shannon went on, "the man was never more sane in his life. You see, I have found you out. As a matter of fact, I found you out years ago, only I was too blind to see it. It would have appeared incredible to me that you could quietly sit down and plan the ruin of a man who helped you to attain your present position, simply because he refused to sell you a house and home of which he was fond. You built up your wealth by audacious and daring speculations. If you had failed, you would have accounted it no dishonor, you would have had no sympathy for those whom you ruined—and indirectly you have ruined a good many. Now, I am not concerned with the others, but I certainly am with my own flesh and blood. Because I refused to part with my little home, you worked out a scheme to obtain possession of it. By deliberate lies you induced me to leave my old firm—you said that if I would come to you, I should have a share in the business in three years, and that you would make it right for the boys after I was gone. You did this in cold blood, so that you could get rid of me at this particular moment, merely because you want my little place to turn into a lodge. Ah, you can't understand how I built that miniature paradise of mine, inch by inch and step by step, and how it became part and parcel of my life. It was enough for you that you should get the mortgage into your own hands and force me into such a corner that I should be bound to sell to you. Without the least compunction or a wink less sleep of nights, you would turn me out at fifty-odd years of age to begin the world again. My boys would have to come down from the university, and the girl shift as best she can. Mind, I am not reproaching you, because you are the kind of man who is beyond the reach of words. But you are not going to have my place. Oh, you can smile. Tell me, if you like, that the mortgage deeds are at this very moment in your safe. Tell me that it is only the matter of a few weeks. Don't you think so?"

"I am sure of it," Bramlay said with a sour smile.

"For once in a way you are wrong. I have nearly done with it now. I am practically at the end of my tether. But after I am gone, my dear wife will still live happy in the possession of her home. The boys will finish their course at Harvard, and the girl will go to Germany. And, what is more to the point, every penny of this money will come out of your pocket. Oh, you may scheme and trick and lie and cheat, but I have an imagination which goes further than anything you can conceive. There are scores of men in the world who would make much more efficient scoundrels than you if they would only stoop to the muck-rake and the refuse-heap where you make your money. Is my meaning plain?"

Bramlay shuffled about uneasily in his chair. He had never seen his late manager in this mood before. There was a calm assurance about him which rendered the financier uneasy.

"What are you driving at?" he asked suilenly.

"Ah, you begin to be uneasy!" Shannon cried. "You will be uneasier still before morning. Now, you must know that I am perfectly aware of all that has happened in the matter of those copper mines. I know you see your way to come out with clean hands, so far as public knowledge is concerned, because you can buy silence and choke the throats of your foes with your cheque book. But you couldn't choke public inquiry, which will be bound to follow when the coroner comes to hold an inquest on my body."

"Absolutely mad!" Bramlay muttered.

"No; I am as sane as you are. I have worked the thing out coolly and deliberately, just as you plot out your own dirty schemes, and I can see my way to the finish. Not for my own sake, but for the sake of my wife and my family I am doing this. And even then I should hesitate only I know perfectly well that when the thing is done and ended, you will see that no dishonor attaches to my name. Oh, you won't do this out of friendship. You will do it for the sake of your own miserable hide. But let me get on, because I am wasting time. Now he has got my telegram, my friend Clausen will be here at any moment. We will assume, if you like, that I have lost my nerve over those copper mines. I am afraid of what might come out at the inquiry. That is why I have decided to take my own life. But before so doing I wrote a long explanatory letter to your private secretary Charlton, and another to my friend Clausen, who naturally enough will produce this letter at the inquest. Come, your imagination can grasp perfectly well what is likely to follow. The thing will be in the hands of the police. The public will demand a thorough investigation, and ten thousand cheque books could not save your reputation then. I have only to raise my hand and pull a trigger and release half an ounce of lead, and that tiny bit of metal will bring all your schemes and all your happiness tumbling about your ears. Ah! I touch you now."

For Bramlay had risen suddenly to his feet. There was a peculiar pallor on his hard square face.

"For Heaven's sake, don't talk like that!" he said hoarsely. "But, then, of course you are only joking."

"Joking! I never was more serious in my life."

"Well, we will talk it over to-morrow," Bramlay said with a forced laugh. "You will think better of it then. I dare say we can arrange this matter. Let it stand over for a week."

"And give you time to make your plans accordingly? Oh, no. Do you suppose that I should ever trust you again! Besides, the mischief is done, the letters are already written. There is only one thing that would induce me to draw back now, and that is two hundred thousand dollars in cash counted out upon yonder table. I would not even take your cheque."

"You are not likely to get it," Bramlay said tartly.

"An answer worthy of the man," Shannon cried. "I might have known that you could not part with your money. But what I cannot effect this side of the grave I can reach for from the Other. And now ring your bell for my soda-water."

Bramlay was nothing loath to comply with the request. His voice was hard and strained as he gave the order. The footman came presently with a syphon and glasses on a tray. As Shannon stood up, something glittered in his hand.

"Your master is a thief and a scoundrel!" he cried. "Bear witness to-morrow that I said so. And now..."

The glittering object was raised to his head. There was a flash and a dull report, and Shannon lay on his face on the carpet, shot through the brain. With a hoarse cry Bramlay rose to his feet and rushed out into the hall. He stood there shaking from head to foot in a perfect ague of terror.

III

It was all over and done with. The little house at the corner of the road, behind drawn curtains, sheltered lamentation and woe and the tight stretching of human misery. There was uneasiness and anxiety, too, under the roof of the millionaire as he sat alone in his library an hour later. He had forced himself to stay in the library, though there was still that crimson stain upon the carpet. It seemed to him that he could still see the shadowy outline of Shannon's figure there. The whole scene rose before him. The prostrate body, the round-eyed, white-faced footman, and the outline of Clausen standing in the window with a telegram in his hand. Then there had been a confused blend of figures—policemen in uniform, a grim-faced inspector, and finally the disappeamce of Clausen in the direction of Shannon's house, with an intimation that he would be back presently to discuss certain important business with the financier. Was the man ever coming back? Bramlay wondered. And what did he really know? Had Shannon actually dispatched those letters, or did they exist only in his imagination? Finally Bramlay decided that the letters had been written. The whole thing had been too cool and deliberate to leave much doubt on that score. Inch by inch and link by link the plot had been elaborated until the last detail was complete. The letters had been sent to Clausen and Charlton. They would know all about it by this time. So far as Charlton was concerned, Bramlay knew exactly how to act. But, on the other hand, Clausen was a man of great intellect. He was Shannon's best friend, and he hated Bramlay from the bottom of his honest and independent heart. There would be no squaring him, as Bramlay very well knew. Here was a source of deep and abiding anxiety. But there was another thing that troubled the millionaire as well. Rack his brains as he would, he could not see to the end of Shannon's scheme; it was impossible to fathom his meaning when he declared that Bramlay should pay the price of his wife's future happiness and the prosperity of his family. What had the man meant?

Bramlay paced up and down the room. The clock on the mantelpiece was nearing the hour of one, and as yet Clausen had not kept his promise. He came a few minutes later through the still open window. His face was grave and set. The look of dislike in his gray eyes broadened and expanded.

"This is very good of you," Bramlay stammered. "I—"

"It is not good of me at all," Clausen said sternly. "I am here for no benefit of yours. I suppose you know why my poor friend shot himself. Now, don't lie and palter and prevaricate with me, because I have the whole thing in this letter which I hold in my hand. It was written to me this afternoon, so that I should get it by the last post this evening. In the meantime Shannon had asked me to go to see him, and while we walked up and down the garden after dinner he disclosed his scheme for getting even with you. He was so cool and calm about it I thought he was joking—I know now that he spoke in that way so that I should have a clear and comprehensive idea of what was passing in his mind. He knew that a small matter of business would compel me to get back to meet the last post, and there I found his letter. A little later on I received a telegram saying that the thing would be done to-night."

"But why?" Bramlay stammered.

"Why!" Clausen cried impatiently. "You cold-blooded rascal, just as if you don't know! Didn't you, with your lies and deceit, lure poor Shannon away from his employment where he was doing so well, and take him into your business? Didn't you work this thing all out in your mind so that you could rob him of the house he loved so well? Of course you did. And there you stand opposite me pretending you know nothing as to the causes which led up to this distressing business. Upon my word, if I consulted my own inclination, I would take you by the collar and thrash the life out of you. You pass for a man of resolution and courage—if you could see that ghastly face of yours in a glass now, you might have reason to doubt even that virtue. But you are puzzled and frightened. You want to know what is going to happen in the future. Well, you can come to the inquest to-morrow morning and see for yourself. You will know then."

"But those letters?" Bramlay stammered.

"I will be quite frank with you, Clausen. Shannon told me he had given the whole thing away in a letter to you, and another one to Charlton. Of course, so far as Charlton is concerned—"

"Oh, you needn't say it," Clausen sneered.

"I know perfectly well that you can stop Charlton's mouth. But you can't close my lips. You see, I have as much money as I happen to want, and if only I had known that this was going to happen, I would have lent poor Shannon all he needed to get out of your power. But, unfortunately, I didn't know that my friend was mad. He was so calm and collected that he would have deceived all the doctors in England. What he was discussing with me in grim earnest, I took to be no more than a cynical play of fancy. But Shannon had worked it all out to the last letter. I suppose he told you how he was going to punish you?"

"There was a threat of making me pay," Bramlay murmured.

"Precisely. And I am going to see it carried out. Some people might call it blackmail, but I don't think so. If I were to take you by the collar and thrash you now, you would forget all about it in a week. You would ask me to dine with you if you thought you could make two cents by doing so. Oh, I know you. Still, the sooner this matter is finished and done with, the better I shall be pleased. Shannon told you that he would make you pay, and that, moreover, he should go to his grave without any shadow of disgrace upon his memory. What you don't know, and what is puzzling and frightening you now, is how the thing is to be accomplished. How can Shannon reach you from the other side of the grave? How can he compel you to make his wife's old age comfortable and assured, so that she can live in her present house and educate her children?"

"I don't know," Bramlay said feebly.

"Very well, I'll tell you. Now, I know perfectly well that you have already made arrangements in your mind as to the way in which you are going to suppress the letter which Shannon wrote to your secretary. But it is no use doing that unless you would suppress my letter also. Mind you, I don't see how anything is to be gained by public investigation of that kind, so my conscience is easy on that score. There will be something for the creditors now, but if they go to law over it, nothing will be left. And now let us get to business. I am in possession of a certain letter which you badly need. As a matter of fact, the letter was sent to me so that I might sell it to you for a price, and if you refuse to buy, I am to produce it at the inquest. As I said before, nothing could be gained by this course. It is a suppressio viri at the worst. Besides, if we maintain a judicious silence on this point, the world will believe that poor Shannon went out of his mind in consequence of overwork or something of that kind, and thus he will get sympathy instead of contempt. Now, is it worth your while to buy that letter, to have the inquest settled in an hour, or are you prepared to face the thing out to the finish and court an investigation? I'll give you five minutes to decide. So far as I am concerned, it is a matter of indifference to me which determination you come to."

Bramlay paced up and down the room, a prey to his own disturbed thoughts. He was in a cleft stick, now, and he knew it. Shannon's had been no idle boast. He had stretched out a hand from beyond the grave, a hand so powerful that Bramlay could see no means of getting away from the grip of it.

"What do you want for the letter?" he demanded.

"Two hundred thousand dollars," Clausen said dryly.

"The very figure Shannon named!" Bramlay cried.

"Precisely. Now I think you understand exactly. You are going to give me your cheque for two hundred thousand dollars, and in return I will make you a present of the letter. I don't know what a good many people would say as to the morality of this transaction, but so far as I am concerned I don't feel that I am doing anything particularly wrong. And now, let there be no more beating about the bush. You may frown and shake your head, but from the very first moment you made up your mind to pay, and upon my word, I wonder at my own moderation. If I had demanded ten times the sum, you must have paid it. I have only one real regret over the matter, and that is my inability to let poor Shannon know how perfectly successful his plot has been. There are few men who have gone as far as he has for the sake of those dependent upon him."

But Bramlay was not listening. He took his cheque book from a drawer and placed on one of the pink slips a signature a great deal less steady than it usually was. He passed this across the table to Clausen and held out an eager hand for the letter. This he carefully burned with a match, and crushed the fragments into an ash-tray.

Clausen nodded in reply. Then he went out into the darkness and closed the French window carefully behind him.

THE END

A QUEEN IN HIDING

Published in The Central Queensland Herald (Rockhampton, Qld.), Thursday 5 July, 1934.

I.

There is still a mild feeling of surprise amongst certain circles of society at what is held to be the inexplicable conduct of Charles Montagu Stuart. So far as people can see, there is not the slightest reason why he should have given up his friends and his career and his beautiful estate in Devonshire to go and live on a more or less remote island a thousand miles or so from the Californian coast. There, is, of course, no scandal, because whatever Stuart's other failings may be, he is essentially a clean-living man, with a fine athletic record, and his property is absolutely unencumbered. It is usual in such cases to quote the old time-honoured phrase, 'cherchez la femme,' and in this respect it seems to the wiseacres that they have got to the bottom of the business. For, beyond all question, Mr. Charles Montagu Stuart is a married man, and not even his most intimate friend has ever had the privilege of seeing his wife.

Of course, all sorts of things are said about Mrs. Stuart. There are people who look solemn, and hint that they might say a good deal if they liked, but that it is best to be charitable. There are others who declare that Stuart has fallen a victim to an adventuress who possesses a great fascination for him. But this theory is slightly weakened by the fact that the Stuarts never come to England, where an assured position would be opened to the mysterious lady. As a matter of fact, nobody knows anything, and if society were really aware of the personality of Mrs. Charles Montagu there would be something like a sensation in Belgravia and Mayfair. For Charles Montagu Stuart can trace his descent without a shadow of a doubt back to the 'Merrie Monarch,' and, as far as blood is concerned, he is the equal of any prince whose name figures in the Almanach de Gotha.

It is now four years since people were beginning to ask themselves how much longer the state of things in the kingdom of Asturia was going to last. In these democratic times the world has little use for a scoundrel, even though he happens to be the occupant of a throne, and King Paul of Asturia was, perhaps, the choicest specimen of a finished blackguard that Europe possessed. Everybody knows how he came to the throne, and the act of bloodthirsty treachery that placed him there. In his day, King Paul must have been both clever and fascinating, or he would never have succeeded in persuading Princess Marie of Rheinbad to share his heart and throne. In the eyes of most people, the Grand Duke of Rheinbad is a philanthropist and a man of marked piety. There are others who regard him as a puritanical scoundrel, and one of the most successful humbugs who ever lived. At any rate, though the Grand Duke is a model of piety and the second son of a great reigning sovereign, he appeared to be quite willing, not to say eager, to see his daughter seated on the throne of Asturia. There were those who cried shame upon a match like this, but diplomatic reason prevailed, and Europe for the most part looked on complacently. Sentimentalists shuddered at the idea of a match between this drunken roue and a girl as bright and fascinating as the Princess Marie. But there it was, and there was an end of it. The Press no longer contained accounts of the princess's brilliant escapades. She was supposed to have settled down under the weight of her responsibilities and become a model queen. As a matter of fact, no slave in the Roman market, no poor Circassian girl sold into the terrors of the harem had a more cruel existence than Queen Marie. For three years this dreadful life continued, and then there was something like hope at last.

The people of Asturia had quite enough of it. They were getting tired of the king they seldom saw; they were groaning under oppression and tyranny which it was almost impossible to bear. Yet nobody who had a casual acquaintance of the city of Parva would have guessed the seething discontent which was festering beneath the surface. At any rate, Charles Montagu Stuart was not troubling himself much about that. For Parva just now was the gayest of the gay. There was one continual round of festivities. The cafes were thronged with a brilliant assemblage of visitors. There was little sign of poverty or distress here. Night after night Stuart was out somewhere or another. In his opinion there were no festivities elsewhere in Europe to compare with the public dances which were such a feature in the social life of Parva. And there was another reason, too. On one or two occasions lately Stuart had met a fascinating personality at these dances, and the flirtation had gone very far indeed. He had not the remotest notion who the girl was--but, then, in the brilliant Bohemian circle in which he mixed, a trifle like this mattered nothing. For the most part, these dances took the form of the bal masque, a favourite form of amusement to the Parvians, and thus the affair had the fascination which otherwise it might not have possessed. All that Stuart knew or cared was the fact that his lady friend was young and fascinating and beautiful, and he was not the less impressed because she had refused to give him her name, and had intimated that any excess of curiosity on his part would put an abrupt end to their acquaintance.

The last big dance which Stuart attended took place in the town hall at Parva on the night of November 14, 1903. Observing people noticed a very great lack of men, and that the military were more or less conspicuous by their absence. There had been strange hints and insinuations of late, and one or two diplomatists were having an anxious time of it. But this was not worrying Charles Stuart much, except that the anxiety was reflected to a certain extent in the beautiful eyes of his companion, who was obviously quite unhappy.

She had taken off her mask for a moment or two in the interval of a dance. She leant her golden head wearily against a bank of flowers. Evidently she was not herself tonight. Stuart was tender and sympathetic. He was wearing his very best manner, but could not win a smile from his companion.

"What is troubling you to-night, cherie?" he asked. "Why are you so sad? Is there nothing that I can do for you?"

The girl looked up, her eyes filled with tears. She replaced her mask hastily as a young officer in uniform bustled up and slipped a note into her hand. He was so young that even Stuart's feeling of jealously was disarmed. He saw the note opened, and after a hasty glance torn in to a thousand fragments. The mysterious woman's manner changed now; she became alert and vigorous.

"I must go," she whispered. "I cannot stay another moment. There is danger, and I must be at my post."

"And where may that be?" Stuart asked.

"At the castle," the fair stranger replied. "You did not know, perhaps, that I am connected with the Court. You may possibly have guessed it. But there is trouble on foot to-night--trouble so serious that all Asturia may be in a blaze to-morrow. And there is only one man to blame for it."

"You are speaking of the King," Stuart murmured.

The sensitive lips below the black velvet mask hardened.

"Who else?" she asked bitterly "Not that it matters in the least; there will soon be an end of all that. It only wants one brave man to put the match to the powder, and Asturia will be free. Hark! Did you hear that? What is it?"

Stuart strained his ears to listen.

"I am not quite sure," he said slowly. "It sounded to me very much like the sound of a rifle shot."

II.

They were hurrying along now through the strangely silent deserted streets in the direction of the castle--that grim fortress that frowns down upon Parva, the stronghold from which many a tyrant ruler of Asturia has cowed his subjects by a display of armed force. There was a feeling of tragedy in the air, there was something ominous in the very silence of the roads and boulevards, which as a rule at that time of night teemed with life and gaiety. The glamour of adventure was upon Stuart now; his spirits rose as he strode along by the side of his companion.

They stood at length under the shadow of the castle walls. The woman stretched out her hand and knocked twice upon a small oak doorway. A man in uniform threw back the gate and started as he saw who his summoner was. He drew himself smartly up to attention and saluted gravely. Nevertheless, his aspect was suspicious and he hesitated just a moment as Stuart followed.

"Stay here," the woman whispered. "I many want you; on the contrary, I may not. It is good to know that I have at least one honest gentleman upon whom I can depend, and if anything happens to you to-night, your blood will be upon my unhappy head."

"I am prepared to risk that," Stuart said passionately.

The woman held out her hand, and Stuart caught it to his lips. A moment later and he was alone. The fraction of a second saw the place plunged in the deepest gloom. Stuart was standing there vague and mystified, in a darkness which could be felt. It was no pleasant position, but he was not going to draw back now. That great events were being born he did not doubt for a moment. It was just possible that not far off a handful of oppressed and impatient Asturians were making history with rapid and complete success. As he stood there, his ears strained, there suddenly uprose a tremendous cry--the still air hummed to the sound of rifle shots. Out of the darkness somewhere came a body of unseen men, palpitating and growling like so many wolves who scent their prey. How he progressed and where he was going Stuart had not the least idea. He only knew that he was carried off his feet by the rush, that he was borne up a flight of narrow stairs into a long stone corridor, at the end of which a solitary light gleamed. The atmosphere was heavy and pungent now with the smell of powder; a dropping volley of rifle fire was being carried on somewhere; there were yells and shrieks and groans and a steady crackling roar as if the place were on fire, and no attempt was being made to stifle the conflagration.

Stuart was past surprise now, therefore it was no astonishment to him to note that for the most part the men around him were private citizens in evening dress. But apparently they had left the thin veneer of civilisation outside; they were like so many ravenous wolves now, and each man grasped a magazine rifle in his hand. There were scores more behind, pushing and struggling until the narrow passage was choked and gorged with this stream of infuriated humanity. Stuart drew a long breath of relief when at length he was forced through the passage into a big flagged hall beyond, where a handful of soldiers in uniform were firing indiscriminately into the advancing mob.

Stuart could hear the pinging hum of bullets, he could hear the lead pattering dully against the stone walls; he saw more than one man throw up his hands, he saw more than one of those blazed shirt-fronts trickling red and bloody. It was all so swift and fierce, all in so short a span of time, that he could not grasp it yet. He saw the floor littered in black and white, like some ghastly tesselated pavement; he saw the little group of red uniforms wave and bend as the incoming rush poured over them. Then he saw a huge apartment, almost barbaric in its splendour, wherein stood a little man with red hair and a pimpled, blotched face like that of a ferret. The man was in uniform, with an order or two blazing on his breast, and, though Stuart was not acquainted with the personality of the King of Asturia, he wanted no one to tell that here was the man himself, and that his moments were numbered.

A frenzied roar went up from a hundred throats, but the King did not flinch. Whatever his vices were, he was certainly no coward. He stood there with his back to the wall, a revolver in his hand.

"Come here!" they yelled. "Come down and take it like a man. The Queen--where is the Queen? Let us make an end of the whole brood at the same time! The Queen!"

"No, no!" others cried. "She is with us! She is with us! Whatever you do, save the Queen."

These latter cries were drowned by the calls of the majority. There was another rush, which seemed to surge right over the man with the red hair. Stuart could see a dapper boot and a portion of the red silk sock quivering convulsively on the floor; then two heels came together, and the reign of King Paul of Asturia was at an end. A silence fell over the rioters now. They lifted up their late King and laid his body on the table. Just for an instant the storm ceased, but it broke out again presently with renewed vigour. By this time the more lawless of the populace had got a grip of what had taken place; they came surging in through the great iron gates; they filled the place with their hideous clamour. And above all the angry hum of voices there was that continuous, incessant roar which proclaimed the fact that the castle was on fire. There were thousands of people now yelling for the Queen. The lust of blood was upon them; common humanity was swept to the winds.

Stuart's blood was boiling within him. He sighed for a squad of cavalry now to sweep these cowardly wretches away. And what harm had the Queen done them? There was no solitary soul there more the instrument of fate or the sport of circumstance than was Queen Marie.

But the horrors were piling up now; the fire was drawing nearer, and the heat of the place was intense.

Stuart turned to fight his way out. It was useless as well as dangerous for him to stay any longer. He wondered sadly enough what had become of his late companion in this inferno. He was realising now what he had lost. He plunged along, distracted and desperate, till he came face to face with a wall or flame. There was a corridor dark as the throat of a wolf on his left hand, and along this he turned, caring nothing what happened. It seemed to him that he could hear the sound of footsteps in front, as if his ear caught the sobbing breath of one who was in distress. Surely a woman was here? He could catch the subtle fragrance of her hair. She would have darted past him, but he stretched out a hand and detained her.

"You can't go that way," he whispered. "The castle is on fire. Do not be afraid. I have not the honour of being an Asturian myself, but perhaps that is in my favour, for I am not a murderer."

A white arm suddenly dropped round Stuart's shoulder. He felt a palpitating body quivering against his own. A faint voice called him by name; and then Stuart blessed all his gods and his guiding star, for here, surely enough, was his lady of the domino!

"Steady," he whispered. "Hold up. For God's sake, don't give way now! Tell me which way to go, for I am going to save you."

They were outside presently under the cold, cool air of heaven; they were struggling through a dense mob of people, the woman clinging to Stuart's arm and dragging her faltering legs behind her as if in the very paralysis of fear. She had a military cloak around her shoulders, and a helmet on her head. The collar of the cloak obscured her features. With all the courage and tenacity of despair, Stuart fought his way forward till the fringe of the crowd was reached. A small boy raised a shrill shout. He danced along in front of Stuart and his companion.

"The Queen!" he screamed. "Here is the Queen!"

There was no time for hesitation. Stuart reached out a long, sinewy hand, and caught the gamin by the throat. He did not relax his grip till they turned at length into a shady by-road with trees on either side. Here they walked along side by side till they came at length to where the moon was shining on the sea.

III.

For three whole days Stuart had seen nothing of his companion. She had sent him a message from her cabin from time to time that she hoped to be on deck to-morrow, when she would try and thank him for all his kindness. There were no European passengers on board that particular steamer, and Stuart was proportionately grateful. All be knew was that he had promised to accompany his mysterious friend to a certain island off the Californian coast, and what was going to happen after that he did not trouble to ask himself. In his masterful way he had his own views, but there would be plenty of time for expounding them later on. Meanwhile, he had been ashore, and had come back armed with a sheaf of papers, most of which were teeming with accounts of the recent events in Parva.

Stuart sat himself down in a shady corner of the deck, with a cigarette, to read. There were columns upon columns of it, all containing more or less excellent accounts of the death of King Paul of Asturia. A Republic had been proclaimed. The Asturians had made up their minds to manage their own affairs in the future. If there was any sympathy felt for anybody, it was for the Queen. On calmer reflection, people were beginning to find that the trouble was nothing of her doing. She had done her best for the people, but, after all, she had been powerless to stem the incoming tide; she had been deliberately sold by her hypocritical old scoundrel of a father to put money in his pocket. Stuart smiled grimly as he thought what the Grand Duke of Rheinbad's feeling would be when he came to hear what a free an enlightened Press had to say about him.

There was one deeper and more abiding mystery than all the others put together. The Queen had utterly and entirely disappeared; there was no trace of her to be found anywhere. Of course, it was more than possible that she had perished in the ruins of the castle, of which nothing remained but a few charred stones, to speak vengeance for a justly outraged people. The Queen had been seen in her private apartments just before the outbreak of hostilities, then she seemed to have vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed her up. But still it was known that scores of unfortunate and innocent persons connected with the Court had perished in the flames, and yet, remarkable to say, no trace of the Queen's jewellery could be found either. Most of these jewels were historic, and a full description of them was given in the papers.

It was nearly dinner time when Stuart was finished. There was still more to read as he sat on the deck in the moonlight. Presently there came to his side a pale, white, beautiful figure, and a hand was placed in his.

"I am glad to see you again," he murmured. "Sit down here and let us talk, but don't let your mind dwell too much upon the past. You are safe enough for the future. I have been reading all that terrible business; it is even worse than I had expected. I shall dream of it for years to come. But for the terrible fate of the Queen, I should, perhaps----"

"What of the Queen?" the tall woman asked.

"Ah, of course, you don't know--you haven't read. They murdered the King, of course. Upon my word, when I come to understand things, I can hardly blame them. But the Queen has vanished; she has not left a single trace behind. Most people seem to think that she perished in the ruins of the castle."

The woman by Stuart's side looked thoughtfully out to sea.

"She would be quite content to accept that verdict," she said. "At any rate, she is at peace now. But don't let us talk about that now; let me try and thank you for all your goodness and kindness to me. You have never made the faintest effort to find out who I am, and for that I am grateful. All I want to do now is to forget, to go away from the hated past and to live a life of peace and seclusion somewhere where I can be my own mistress and attend to my own garden. I have no money, but I have many valuable jewels which I can dispose of to bring me more than enough for my requirements. If you will see me settled, then you will add one more debt, and, above all, I ask you to keep my secret. You are a gentleman, and I know I can trust you; in fact, I know who you are and all about you. Now, what do you think of these? Do you think I could dispose of a few of them at a time without attracting suspicion?"

She drew from her pocket a shabby case or two, and threw back the lids so that the jewels sparkled like streams of fire under the soft southern moonlight. Stuart started back as if something had stung him. For a moment he did not speak; he was silent until he saw that his companion had turned her troubled eyes upon him.

"Presently," he said in a strained voice. "First let me tell you something. It is a story of an Englishman of fortune and family who deemed himself impervious to woman's beauty and woman's wiles. Of course, he meant to marry eventually, for the sake of the name and the race, but that appeared to be a remote contingency. Then that Englishman went abroad and met his fate. He met her at a masked ball which shall be nameless; he hadn't the remotest idea who she was or what was her name. He knew she was a lady, or she would not have been connected so intimately with the Court circles. But I give you my word of honour that until a moment or two ago that foolish Englishman had no idea that he was making love to a real Queen. You believe me, don't you?"

The woman faltered and hesitated. The sad, beautiful face was suffused in a crimson blush.

"Shall I tell you the truth, Charles?" she whispered. "I did know you were in love with me--I have known it all along; but I know you will forgive me. Think that from my childhood till now I never had a single soul who cared a scrap for me. When I was old enough to understand, I was deliberately sold to a hateful scoundrel to put money in my father's pocket; and when you came along, and you did not know me, and you showed me what a good man's love can be, why, then the temptation was too great, and for once I allowed myself to be human."

"You cared?" Stuart cried.

"Well, why not? Do you suppose I am different from other people? Do you suppose I would have cared what people said? But then, the hands were too strong for me. My father would have hunted me all over the universe. Now, like everybody else, he deems me to be dead; he thinks that I went down in that awful cataclysm. And now let me make a confession. I was not going to tell you anything; I was going to let events take their own way; I was going to live like other women do, for love stretched out both hands to me, and from the bottom of my heart I was proud and grateful. But I might have known that happiness and myself were destined to be strangers. I will not ask you to forgive me. I suppose you recognised the description of the jewels, and came to the conclusion that I am--well, that I am what I am."

"And thank God for that!" Stuart said in a tone that he strove in vain to render steady. "Would I have you anything else? It is the woman that I love. Our secret is our own, and if we act discreetly no one will be any the wiser. Perhaps, later on, when it pleases a benign Providence to remove your father from his sorrowing subjects, we may come back to England again. Dearest, is there another word to say?"

She stretched out her hands to his.

"Not one," she whispered; "no, not one."

THE END