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Title: The Saving Clause
Author: Sapper [McNeile, Herman Cyril] (1888-1937)
Date of first publication: 1927
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London; Hodder and Stoughton
   [undated, but probably the 1927 first edition, to judge from
   the number of pages and the list of the author's works]
Date first posted: 29 October 2013
Date last updated: 29 October 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1122

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, Elizabeth Oscanyan, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

Transcriber's notes can be found at the end of the book.






THE SAVING CLAUSE


                  *       *       *       *       *

                          BOOKS BY "SAPPER"

                          BULL-DOG DRUMMOND
                            THE BLACK GANG
                           THE THIRD ROUND
                           THE FINAL COUNT
                          THE SAVING CLAUSE
                             JOHN WALTERS
                            WORD OF HONOUR
                             SHORTY BILL
                              JIM BRENT
                           OUT OF THE BLUE
                             JIM MAITLAND
                           THE DINNER CLUB
                        THE MAN IN RATCATCHER

                  *       *       *       *       *



                          THE SAVING CLAUSE


                             By "SAPPER"



                     HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED

                                LONDON








                  *       *       *       *       *

                         _The Saving Clause_

                                  By

                              "_SAPPER_"

                    _Hodder and Stoughton Limited_
                               _London_



 _Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited,_
     _by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot._



                  *       *       *       *       *


Contents


     I -- THE SAVING CLAUSE

    II -- BILLIE FINDS THE ANSWER

   III -- THE RUBBER STRAP

    IV -- ROUT OF THE OLIVER SAMUELSONS

     V -- THE HORROR AT STAVELEY GRANGE

    VI -- CYNTHIA DELMORTON'S MISTAKE

   VII -- THE ELEVENTH HOUR

  VIII -- THREE OF A KIND

    IX -- THE IMPASSIVE FOOTMAN




I -- THE SAVING CLAUSE


I guess I don't hold with missionaries. I've been in most corners of
this globe, and I reckon that the harm they do easily outweighs the
good. Stands to reason, don't it, that we can't all have the same
religion, same as we can't all have the same shaped nose? So what in
thunder is the good of trying to put my nose on to your face, where it
won't fit? And it sort of riles me to see these good earnest people
labouring and sweating to do to others what they would only describe
as damned impertinence if those others tried to do it to them. Yet, as
I see it, there's no reason why the others shouldn't. 'Tisn't as if
any particular bunch had a complete corner in truth, is it?

But there are exceptions, same as to most things. And for the past
twenty years whenever I've said I don't hold with missionaries, I've
always added a saving clause in my mind. Care to hear what that saving
clause is? Right: mine's the same as before.

It was just after the Boer War that it happened. I'd come home: got a
job of sorts in London. Thought a few years of the quiet life would do
me good, and an old uncle of mine wangled me into the office of a pal
of his. Funny old thing my boss was, with a stomach like a balloon.
And I give you my word that he was the last man in London whom you'd
have expected to meet at the Empire on a Saturday night. It was sheer
bad luck, though I don't suppose I could have stood that job, anyway,
for long.

I'd met a pal there, you see, and I suppose we'd started to hit it a
bit. Anyway a darned great chucker-out came and intimated that he
thought the moment had come when we'd better sample the cool night air
of Leicester Square.

Well, I don't say I was right: strictly speaking, I suppose I should
have accepted his remark in the spirit in which it was intended. But
the fact remains that I didn't like his face or his frock coat--and we
had words. And finally the chucker-out sampled the cool night air--not
me. The only trouble was that just as he went down the stairs, my boss
was coming up with wife and family complete. And that chucker-out was
a big man: I guess it was rather like being hit by a steam roller.
Anyway the whole blessed family turned head over heels, and landed on
the pavement simultaneously with the chucker-out on top.

Again strictly speaking, I suppose I should have gone and picked them
up with suitable words of regret. But I just couldn't do it: I was
laughing too much. In fact I didn't stop laughing till I began to
run--the police were heaving in sight. Still you boys know what the
Empire was like in those days: so I'll pass on to Monday morning.

Not that there's much to say about Monday morning, except that it
closed my connection with the firm. The old man had a black eye where
the chucker-out had trodden on his face, and the hell of a liver. And
he utterly failed to see the humorous side of the episode. As far as I
could make out his wife had smashed her false teeth in the mle, and
was as wild as a civet cat; and only the fact that his own firm would
be involved had prevented him giving my name to the police. My own
private opinion was that it wasn't so much the firm he was worrying
about as himself. Still, that's neither here nor there: all that
matters is that my job in London terminated that morning.

Maybe you're wondering what the dickens all this has to do with
missionaries and my saving clause, but I'm coming to that part soon.
And I want you to realize the frame of mind I was in when I found
myself propping up the Criterion bar just before lunch on that Monday.
It may seem strange to you that a bloke like me could ever have
stomached quill driving in a City office, but the fact remains that at
the time I was almighty sick with myself at having got the sack. And
as luck would have it, I hadn't been in that bar more than five
minutes when a bunch of four of the boys blew in, whom I'd last seen
in South Africa. They were the lads all right, I give you my word:
four of the toughest propositions you're ever likely to meet in your
life. There was Bill Merton who had graduated in the Kimberley diamond
rush: Andy Fraser who had left Australia hurriedly, and it didn't do
to ask why: Tom Jerrold with a five-inch scar on his face that he'd
picked up in Chicago: and last but not least Pete O'Farrell.

Gad! he was a character, was Pete. A great big hulking fellow of about
six feet three, with muscles like an ox, and a pair of blue eyes that
went clean through you and came out the other side. I once saw him
tackle four policemen in Sydney, and get away with it. So did one
policeman who ran for his life: the other three went to hospital.

As soon as they saw me Pete let out a bellow like a bull, and led the
charge.

"If it isn't old Mac," he shouted. "Gee--boy, but it's great to see
you, even if your face is like a wet street. What's stung you?"

"I've lost my job, Pete," I said. "Upset the boss and all his
belongings into Leicester Square on Saturday night and got the boot."

"You mean you're at a loose-end," he said, and he looked at the other
three. "What about it, boys?"

"Sure thing," said Andy, "if he'll come."

"Of course he'll come," cried Pete. "Bring your poison into this
corner, Mac, and we'll put you wise."

So we went and sat down in a corner, and they told me the scheme. It
doesn't much matter what it was: it's got nothing to do with the yarn.
But it appeared they were sailing for South America the following
Friday, and they wanted to know if I'd go with them. Something to do
with a revolution in some bally little state, and Pete swore we'd all
make our fortunes.

Well, I guess if I hadn't been feeling so sick with myself I shouldn't
have gone. I ain't no lizard lounger myself, but from past experience
I knew that hunting with that bunch meant a pretty fast pace.
Particularly Pete. He was a darned good fellow, but if he got a bit of
liquor inside him, it was well not to contradict him. I will say, to
do him justice, it took more than a bottle of whisky to get him into
that condition, but whisky was only four bob in those days.

At any rate I did go. And on Friday morning we sailed in a tin-can
sort of effect from Liverpool. She was really a cargo boat that took a
few passengers, and she just suited our pockets. Moreover she was
going to call at some obscure spot, where none of the big lines
touched, and which, according to Pete, was the exact place from which
we could best start our operations.

We ran into bad weather right away, and by Jove! that old tub could
roll.

Mercifully we were all good sailors, and it wasn't until we went below
for dinner that we realized there was another passenger. She only
accommodated six, and up till then we had thought we were one short.
But there were six places laid at the table, with a seat at the end
for the skipper, who was on the bridge and had sent down word for us
to start without him.

The cabins led off the dining-saloon, and suddenly during a slight
lull in the ship's movement, Pete began to laugh.

"Holy Smoke! boys," he cried, "listen. Steward, who is the occupant of
the sixth seat, whom I hear enjoying himself in his cabin?"

The steward grinned.

"Gent by the name of Todmarsh, sir," he answered. "Ain't never been to
sea before. 'E's in a hawful condition."

"Well, I hope he doesn't make that row all night," said Pete. "I'm in
the next cabin. Good-evening, skipper. We've taken you at your word
and started."

"Quite right," said the captain, hanging up his oilskin. "We're in for
a bad forty-eight hours, I'm afraid."

"You've got the brass band all complete, anyway," grinned Andy. "Who
is Mr. Todmarsh, skipper?"

For a moment or two he didn't answer. From under a pair of great bushy
eyebrows he took us all in: then he chuckled.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I've had some pretty strangely assorted
bunches in this saloon during my time but I'll stake my oath that
mixing you five and Mr. Todmarsh will constitute a record."

It was Andy Fraser who turned pale.

"Don't say," he gasped, "that he's a parson."

"That's just what I do say," howled the skipper delightedly. "At least
he's a missionary."

"Steward--a double whisky," said Pete feebly. "Skipper--it ain't fair.
You ought to have had a notice hung over the side. Where's he going
to?"

"Same place as you," answered the other. "Then he's going up into the
interior. So you'll be able to look after him when he lands. It's the
first time he's left England."

Well, gentlemen, I don't want to tread on anybody's corns. I have
always had the highest respect for the Church myself, but I think
you'll agree with me that what the skipper said about ill-assorted
bunches was right. The trouble was that the ship was so small--at least
the passenger part of it--that you couldn't get away from one another.
And the prospect of three weeks cooped up with a devil-dodger was a
bit of a staggerer.

It was three days before we saw him, and then the staggerer became a
knock-out. I found Pete and Andy holding one another's heads on the
deck, and asked 'em what the trouble was. Personally I hadn't seen him
yet, and it was just as they began to sob in unison that Mr. Todmarsh
appeared from below. Gosh! I've never thought of such an
extraordinary-looking little bird in my life. Boys--that man had to be
seen to be believed. Making all due allowances for the fact that he
had been sick for three days without cessation, Todmarsh won the freak
stakes in a canter.

His face was pasty, and his eyes behind his spectacles were weak and
watery. He can't have stood more than five feet three, and his
physique was that of a stunted child.

"Good morning, Mr. Todmarsh," said Pete gravely. "Hope you're feeling
better."

"I thank you, yes," he answered, and at that moment Bill Merton and
Tom Jerrold hove in sight. Then they disappeared again quickly and I
saw 'em a minute or two later with their foreheads pressed against
something cold.

It was Pete who called a council of war, which was duly held in the
saloon over the forenoon bracer. Todmarsh, enveloped in a rug, was up
on deck, and we knew we shouldn't be disturbed.

"Look here, boys," said Pete, "that little guy is worse than anything
I could have believed possible. I reckon that the temptation to pull
his leg is going to be almost more than we can bear. But it seems to
me that since there are five of us and only one of him, it's up to us
to give the poor beggar a sporting chance. He must have a certain
amount of guts presumably to start off on his own, when he's made that
way. So I votes we play the game by him and treat him square. Anyway
no monkeying about with religion--that's his affair, not ours."

Well, we did our best. Pete only blasphemed twice at lunch, and Andy
darned near choked in biting off a story half-way through, that he'd
suddenly remembered was unprintable. But that guy was difficult. He
didn't _say_ anything on the subject of alcohol--but he looked a lot.
Still we could have stood that, and the general cramped style of the
conversation, if he hadn't come butting in after dinner.

We were playing poker, when in he comes from a stroll on deck. I'll
admit his arrival coincided with Pete's remarks on the subject of a
full house aces while Tom had fours, and for a moment or two we didn't
see him. But the next instant, blowed if he hadn't advanced to the
table and snatched up the pack of cards.

Well, I suppose, looking back on it now, that it showed a certain
amount of pluck. But at the moment it struck us as an unwarrantable
piece of impertinence.

"Look here, little man," said Pete ominously, "if that's your idea of
fun and laughter it isn't mine. Put back those cards on the table."

"Never," cried Mr. Todmarsh. "These are the devil's counters!"

"Devil's grandmother," said Pete getting up, and putting his hand on
the little man's shoulder. "See here, Mr. Todmarsh--you're a
missionary. I and my pals are not: it takes all sorts to make a world,
you know. But there's no reason why we shouldn't all live quite
happily together on board this ship, if you'll mind your business same
as we're going to mind ours."

"This _is_ my business," answered the other. "To play cards for money
is one step down the road to Hell."

"Well, I'm afraid we're too darned near the bottom of the hill to
worry about that," said Pete quietly. "Put back those cards on the
table."

"I will not," said Todmarsh defiantly.

For just a moment I thought Pete was going to lose his temper, and
Heaven alone knows what would have happened to the little blighter if
Pete had hit him. He'd have burst. However he didn't: he took both Mr.
Todmarsh's wrists in one of his hands and took the pack out of his
pocket with the other.

"Don't do it again," he said gently. "You're a stupid little man, and
you've got a lot to learn. But now you've lodged your complaint, and
salved your conscience: so, all I say to you is--don't do it again.
Next time I might hurt you."

And it wasn't until we were having our final nightcap that anyone
alluded to it again.

"You know," said Andy as he put down his glass, "he's mad and all
that, but for a thing of that size to do what he did to five fellows
like us--well, it's not too bad."

And that, I think, is what we all felt until the following day, when a
thing happened that changed the whole atmosphere. In the bucketing
we'd had, a lot of the cargo had got shifted, and the men were
straightening things up under the first officer. As a matter of fact
Pete and I for want of a bit of exercise were lending a hand
ourselves, and the job was almost done when a heavy case suddenly
toppled over and caught one of the sailors underneath.

My God! but it was a nasty sight. The poor devil had the lower part of
his body pretty well squashed flat: the mess was something frightful.
There he was screaming fit to beat the band, though it was obvious to
all of us that he was a goner. As I say--still, I'll draw a veil over
the details.

"Get the missionary, Mac," shouted Pete to me.

I raced off, and found him on deck.

"Accident, Mr. Todmarsh," I said. "Man dying. No hope."

I'd got him by the arm and was hurrying him along.

"You can say a prayer or something, can't you? It's a matter of
seconds."

It was: the poor chap's groans were getting feebler. A bunch of his
pals were round him, while Pete was holding up his head. They made
room for us as we came, and I heard Pete mutter--"Hurry: hurry."

And then I looked round: there was no missionary. He was being sick in
the corner: he was still being sick when the groans ceased. And it was
left to Pete to say--"God rest your soul, old chap."

Then he got up, and I can't say I blame him. He lifted Mr. Todmarsh
some five feet in the air with his boot, and left him where he lay.

"And if the little swab complains to the Captain, Mac," he said to me
grimly, "I'll do it again."

But he didn't complain: he shut himself into his cabin for twenty-four
hours. He didn't even come on deck when we sewed up in some canvas
what was left of the poor devil who had been crushed, and buried him
overboard.

"Ashamed to show his face," remarked Pete. "And that's the wretched
little coward who had the gall to speak about devil's counters."

It was about three o'clock next afternoon that he suddenly appeared
again. We were lounging about on deck--it was beginning to get almighty
hot--and he went straight up to Pete.

"I want to thank you, Mr. O'Farrell," he said, "for kicking me."

Pete stared at him.

"Are you trying to be sarcastic?" he said curtly.

"Far from it," answered the other. "The fact that you did what you did
is as nothing to the mental torture I've been suffering since it
happened. I failed that poor chap, and my only prayer is that I may
have a chance of atoning. It's no excuse to say that it was the first
time I'd ever seen an accident, and that the sight of it made me
physically sick. I failed him, and there's no more to be said. I
realize that I was just a rotten coward. And that's why I'm glad you
kicked me, because it's part of my punishment that I should realize
the contempt you rightly feel for me."

With that he was gone, leaving Pete staring after him speechlessly.

"Well, I'm damned," he muttered at length. "I reckon that little cove
has me beat."

He filled his pipe thoughtfully, and then he looked at me.

"What do you make of him, Mac?"

"Well, it _was_ a nasty sight, Pete," I answered. "And they say that
medical students often faint at their first operation. But for all
that if you hadn't kicked him yesterday, I should."

"I reckon I just felt wild at the moment," he said. "But now--somehow
or other--I wish I hadn't."

And for the next two or three days I often noticed a puzzled frown on
his face. He seemed to be trying to size the little man up. He used to
peer at him, when he wasn't looking, as if he was some strange
specimen, until we started pulling his leg about it.

"Can't help it," he grinned. "The blighter sort of fascinates me. I've
never met anybody like him before. But what for the life of me I can't
make out is what good he thinks he's going to do. I was leaning over
the side this morning talking to him. And there were a couple of
sharks in the water. So I told him a pretty lurid story of what I'd
once seen happen to a fellow bathing at Durban, when a shark got him.
I give you my word, boys, he was the colour of putty and shaking like
a leaf when I'd finished. Well, what I want to get at is what earthly
use a freak with nerves like that is going to be. Told me he always
suffered from a vivid imagination ever since he could remember: told
me--hullo! what on earth has bitten the skipper?"

The captain was coming along the deck towards us, and his face was
white.

"I've got the most appalling news, gentlemen," he said gravely.
"There's a case of plague on board."

"Good God!" Pete sat up staring at him. "Plague!"

"Yes. I'm sorry to say there's no doubt about it whatever. We've got,
as you know, no doctor on board, but I've seen plague before. And the
symptoms are absolutely unmistakable."

It was then that for the first time I noticed Todmarsh. His eyes were
fixed on the skipper's face, with a look in them of such terror as I
have never seen before or since. His lips were moving as if he was
trying to speak, but no words came.

"There is only one thing to be done," went on the captain, "and that
is to try not to think about it. I shall segregate the case
completely, but in a boat of this size it's very difficult. And since
I've been in contact with it I shall take my meals in future by
myself. But I thought it was only fair to warn you at once, gentlemen,
as to what has happened. I'll get every ounce I can out of her, but we
can't make land in under eleven days at the earliest."

"Plague!" Tony Jerrold got up suddenly. "I was in Canton in '94. We
had a hundred thousand deaths. Hell!"

He moved over to the side as the skipper left us--and I noticed that
Todmarsh had gone too.

"This is a proper lucky trip, boys," said Pete. "First a man crushed
to death, and now plague. The tame freak is a mascot all right."

He laughed, but it didn't ring quite true.

"Where is the little blighter?" he went on. "This will put the wind up
him."

"Probably gone below to pray," sneered Andy. "Plague! What the hell
did we come in this rank tub for?"

"Go to blazes," snarled Pete. "Sorry, Andy." He pulled himself
together. "No good quarrelling. I guess we're all in the same boat,
literally as well as metaphorically."

The breeze blew over, but it showed which way the wind had already
begun to set. I don't know if any of you gentlemen have ever had a
similar experience; if not I hope for your sake that you never will.
Hot as blazes: a dead flat calm: a small cargo boat with no doctor--and
plague. Men's tempers become a bit ragged: they get apt to see insults
where none are intended. And, what is worse still, you begin to watch
your next-door neighbour when you think he isn't looking. You see,
there's nothing to do: it's the inaction that frays one's nerves--and
the fear. You can banish it for a bit: you can forget it for a while
with the help of some whisky--but back it comes gnawing at you sooner
or later. Are you going to be the next victim?

The first afternoon it wasn't so bad. After all there was only one
case: with luck it might not spread. Besides we had something to amuse
us--Todmarsh. It was Andy who discovered him, sitting in a deserted
corner reading a medical book. And it was Andy who, of the whole bunch
of us, took the show hardest from the very beginning. Outwardly, at
least. It seemed to bring out all his worst points.

"Hullo! missionary," he said harshly, "reading about the plague, are
you? You don't need to read, my lad: I'll tell you."

And he did for five minutes, till Pete growled at him to shut up, and
Todmarsh sweated and shook like a man bereft of his senses.

"Don't worry, little man," said Tom Jerrold, "you'll be all right out
in the open here. As long as you keep away from infection."

"Is it terribly infectious?" quavered the other.

"To blazes with you," cried Pete angrily. "You haven't got the courage
of a louse. Why don't you draw a circle round yourself, and stop
inside it? We'll throw you your food."

It was the following morning that the first man died, and we had him
overboard almost before the life was out of his body. And that
afternoon there were two more cases. If possible it was hotter--the sea
more oily. There wasn't a breath of wind: the deck was like a burning
plate. And still ten days to go. But what finished us was that
Todmarsh seemed to have taken Pete literally. He hadn't actually drawn
a circle round himself, but when he wasn't below in his cabin he was
sitting as far away from us as possible. He used to eat his grub on
deck, and after he'd finished it he'd disappear for hours on end.

And we baited him--baited him brutally. I make no excuses for it: I was
as bad as the others. We used to form a ring round him, and rag him
cruel. This second exhibition of cowardice had put the tin-hat on. We
were none of us too happy ourselves: only, you see, you don't show
that sort of thing.

But it had no effect: he just stood there and sweated, and backed away
if any of us came close to him. It was the day that three men went
down with it, I remember, that Andy suddenly lost control of himself.
He made a sudden dart for the little man and shook him like a rat. And
Todmarsh screamed like a wounded hare.

"Stand away! Don't touch me!"

We pulled Andy off: he was mad for the moment and in another instant
he'd have flung him over the side.

"Quit it, Andy," growled Pete. "Leave the little swab to his own
devices."

And then came the worst thing of the lot: the saloon steward, William,
got it. That was when there were still five days to go, and he was the
tenth case. We found him groaning in the pantry when we went down for
lunch. And I guess it didn't improve our appetites. Poor devil--his was
a pretty rapid case: he was dead next morning.

And so we went on through that dead calm sea. Save for the fact that
we were now short-handed, even a gale would have been welcome--except
that it would have meant less speed. We never saw the skipper: he
regarded himself as being in quarantine. And there was nothing we
could do to help him. Pete and I shouted to him once--he was up on the
bridge--to know if we could assist. But he shook his head.

"I've got all the help I want," he answered. "And there have been no
fresh cases for two days--so perhaps we're through."

It was in the middle of that night that Pete came into my cabin and
woke me up.

"Mac," he said gravely, "the missionary is ill. Listen."

Through the open door you could hear him groaning, and we looked at
one another with the same thought in each of our minds. Illness in
that ship meant only one thing.

"We'll have to go to him, Pete," I said.

So we went.

"Don't come near me," he croaked at us as soon as we appeared. "I'm
not feeling well."

"Look here, Todmarsh," said Pete, staring at him, "there's no good
beating about the bush. I'm afraid your isolation tactics haven't
succeeded. You've got it."

"I know I have," he said hoarsely, and turned his face away.

He was delirious in a couple of hours, and all through another
interminable day we could hear him shouting about atonement and
cowardice. And there was nothing to be done except to listen and to
wait for the end.

"I'm sorry for the poor little devil," said Andy. "I'm sorry I baited
and ragged him. But, by Jove! you fellows, if ever there was a case of
cold feet getting punished this is it." Which is, I think, what we all
felt.

He only spoke one coherent word before he died, and that was to Pete
and me.

"I have atoned, haven't I?"

"Of course you have, my dear fellow," said Pete awkwardly. "And we're
deuced sorry and . . ."

He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly: the missionary was rambling
again. He was back once more in his childhood, and for a while we
listened to hopes and aspirations which sounded too pathetic for words
coming as they did from such a miserable specimen of humanity. To do
something big and great--that was his ambition: to be a leader of lost
causes--a man whom men would follow. This little undeveloped,
undersized creature.

And then suddenly he spoke one intelligent sentence.

"It will be all right, William. Quite all right on the other side."

For a moment he sat bolt upright, and his eyes behind his spectacles
were shining with a strange look of exaltation. Then he fell back: the
eleventh case had gone the way of the others.

"A gallant little gentleman," said a voice behind us. The skipper was
standing in the door. "I don't know what I'd have done without him."

We both stared at him speechlessly.

"And I'm glad you were with him to help him over the barrier, as he
has helped all the others."

"What's that?" stammered Pete.

"You knew, surely?" said the skipper, looking at him in surprise. "'It
will be all right, William. Quite all right on the other side.' And
he's said that to every one of them. He told me he was keeping away
from you for fear of infecting you."

And for the one and only time that he's ever done such a thing in his
life I should imagine, Pete O'Farrell broke down and sobbed like a
child.

Well--that's my saving clause. I don't hold with missionaries, always
excepting little Todmarsh. Another? Well--talking is dry work.




II -- BILLIE FINDS THE ANSWER


I

Now, as all the world knows, there are places in London where a
beneficent County Council permits a man to leave his motor-car for a
period of time which renders the concession absolutely futile. In
fact, the number of people who have had the last act of a play ruined
by the haunting fear of going to prison for over-staying the
time-limit has never been accurately ascertained. But it must run the
unemployed very close.

And it was in one of these places--to wit, St. James's Square--that a
large man was standing at three o'clock on an afternoon in June,
engaged in conversation with an obliging attendant.

"But," murmured the large man mildly, "it seems rather ridiculous."

The obliging attendant was understood to say that it was damned
foolishness. Or words to that effect.

"I have lunched excellently," went on the large man, "and I now want
to do some shopping. Close by here--in Jermyn Street. Yet, you tell me
it is necessary for me to get solemnly into my car--drive it to
Waterloo Place--and then walk all the way back."

"Two hours, sir," said the man in uniform. "Them's the regulations."

"And after two hours I must remove it from Waterloo Place and bring it
back here? Well, well--I suppose it's another step on the road towards
perfection."

He felt in his pocket for a coin.

"I am obliged to you for saving me from being shot at dawn," he
remarked, and at that moment an electric horn delivered itself with a
loud blast from a range of about one yard behind his back.

"Our celebrity returned," cried the driver.

The large man jumped: then a slow grin spread over his face.

"Confound you, Tubby!" he said. "But for the presence of ladies I
would take you out and stand you on your head. Monica--how are you?"

He strolled to the side of the car and leaned over the door.

"When did you get back, Jim," cried Monica Marsham.

"Last night," answered the large man, suddenly becoming acutely aware
of the third occupant of the car.

"Billie--this is Jim Strickland. Miss Cartwright."

A pair of very blue eyes under the rim of a little pull-on hat. . . .
A face, cool and faintly mocking. . . . A figure, slim and almost
boyish. . . . Thoroughbred hands, faultlessly kept. . . . A pair of
adorable silk-stockinged legs which a kindly fashion ordained should
be seen. Especially when sitting in a motor-car.

"How d'you do?" said Jim, gravely.

"But, Monica," said Billie, "I love the wrinkles round his eyes."

"Billie, you're the limit," remarked Tubby placidly. "Look here,
people, I must put the bus away: we're blocking the entire gangway."

And then--struck by a sudden thought----

"Jim--what are you doing this week-end?"

"Damn all," answered Jim. "Why?"

"Then come down and stop with old Louisa Arkwright at Henley."

"Do," cried Monica.

"You'll probably have to sleep in the bathroom," murmured Billie. "But
it's a very nice bath."

"Doubtless," remarked Jim. "The only drawback to your otherwise
excellent suggestion is that old Louisa Arkwright doesn't know me from
Adam."

"That doesn't matter a hoot, old lad," cried Tubby. "Her false teeth
will chatter like castanets at the thought of getting you. I mean it,
really, Jim. Look here, Monica can go and telephone through to her.
Tell her we've met you, and that we're bringing you down. I _know_
she'll be delighted to have you. Then you can motor down, and,
incidentally take Billie if you don't mind. She can show you where the
house is."

"I think I could bear it," murmured Jim gravely. "Provided Miss
Cartwright will trust herself to my driving."

"You'll come, then?" cried Tubby.

Very blue eyes they were under the rim of that pull-on hat.

"If she'll have me, I'd like to," said Jim. "Where shall I meet you,
Miss Cartwright? According to the Powers that be, I have to take the
car to Waterloo Place."

"I'll be there at five o'clock," she answered. "And we'll stop on the
way down for a cocktail."

And because those eyes were astoundingly blue under that little
pull-on hat, Jim Strickland, as he stepped into his Bentley, failed to
see a foreign-looking man who dodged rapidly behind another car--a man
whose teeth were bared in a snarl of satisfaction, a man who had heard
every word of the conversation.

If he had seen him, strange things might have happened in St. James's
Square on that sunny afternoon in June. As it was, life resumed the
even tenor of its way. For man must buy shirts and ties to cover his
nakedness, though God forbid that one should write of such a boring
proceeding.

Of one thing, however, it is necessary to write, before coming to
Waterloo Place at five o'clock. When a man has been hailed as a
celebrity, something must be said to justify the word. Otherwise he
might be a K.B.E. or an actor, or even an author--which would damn the
whole show from the very beginning. Also it conjures up visions of
unwashed men signing autographs for flappers. . . .

Now it is safe to say that not one single flapper had ever written to
Jim Strickland for his autograph. But then, except for two nieces who
adored him, not one single flapper had ever heard of his name. And
even they had to admit that his signature ranked lower in the great
scheme of things than that of the French mistress's brother, who had
once shaken hands with Rudolph Valentino.

True--he was a V.C. But the war was a back number. And when asked how
he got it his reply was unsatisfying to a degree.

"It was nothing, kids, nothing. I happened to be there, that's all."

A few men there were, in High Places, who had been heard to declare in
strict confidence over the port that twice since the war Jim
Strickland had altered our policy abroad--and altered it rightly. But
policy abroad is a tedious business--and, anyway, the remark was made
in strict confidence. And there were swarthy hillsmen from over the
Indian border who placed him only a little after the Almighty: and
Bedouins who had told him strange stories under the star-studded
African night: and hard-bitten sailormen who had affirmed with oaths
and curses that they would sooner have Jim Strickland beside them in a
tight corner than any two other men.

But of all those things he never spoke, and even to his nearest
friends Jim Strickland remained a bit of an enigma. That he
disappeared for months on end from the ken of man they knew, but where
he went to was a different matter. He would vanish abruptly without a
word to a soul; only to reappear just as suddenly--unchanged, save
perhaps for a little more brown on his face, a few more tiny wrinkles
round his eyes. And then for a space England would hold him--Ascot,
Cowes, Scotland; with mothers angling in vain and daughters running
round in small circles. But up to date Jim Strickland had shown no
signs of entering the holy paths of matrimony.

"What the deuce should I do with a wife, my dear fellow?" he was wont
to observe. "I shouldn't see the dear thing for more than two months a
year, and I'd have to pay for her for the other ten. Or someone else
would. I was nearly caught once, but, thank God! I had to go to Tibet
suddenly. And she'd married someone else by the time I got back. I
shall live and die a bachelor."

And after a while women of his acquaintance ceased to prophesy that he
was a liar, and began to believe that he really would. True, they
still dangled desirable girls in his path, but it was more from habit
than from any real hope of success. And Jim Strickland, who adored
pretty girls, was only too delighted that they should. The spreading
of the net in the sight of the wary old bird is always amusing--for the
bird.

Wherefore, that being that, and descriptions being at the best of
times intolerably tedious, we can come even as he did to Waterloo
Place when the clock still wanted five minutes to the hour of five.

He saw her at once curled up in the front seat of his car, smoking a
cigarette.

"Punctual person," he remarked, sitting down beside her. "Are you
certain you wouldn't like some tea before we start?"

She shook her head.

"It's hot and stuffy here. Let's drive--fast."

"But certainly," he said, and glanced at her sideways. Just the tip of
her nose and her firm little chin could he see: then he let in his
clutch. And in silence they drove along Pall Mall.

The girl sat motionless, staring in front of her--her hands linked
loosely in her lap. Evidently, she was in no mood for conversation,
and suddenly the contrast struck him between her and other women who
from time to time had driven in that same seat. No forced small
talk--no banal platitudes. . . .

"How do you like travelling, Mr. Strickland?" And: "Isn't your life
very dangerous, Mr. Strickland?"

Moreover, it seemed natural with this girl: she seemed so full of--he
searched for the word--full of repose. No, that was wrong: repose
conjured up elderly ladies of aristocratic appearance, knitting.

Self-possession. That was nearer the mark. The right type of
self-possession.

Once again he glanced at her sideways, and as he did so she turned and
met his eye.

"Do you want me to talk?" she said, quietly.

"I was just thinking how pleasant it was to sit beside someone and not
feel it necessary to do anything of the sort," he answered. "It's
rather a favourable sign, isn't it?"

"It may be a very dangerous one," she remarked.

"Pointing to boredom," he said, lightly.

She gave a short laugh, and, leaning forward, lit a cigarette under
cover of the wind-screen.

"I'm in a peculiar mood, Jim Strickland," she announced calmly. "I'm
out of conceit with life--rather more so than usual. Met an old cat at
my club."

He negotiated a lorry with care.

"I shouldn't have thought you were the type of person to be upset by
old cats," he said noncommittally.

They came to the new switch road, and she put her hand on his arm.

"Let her out--all out," she cried. "Seventy--eighty
. . . Go on, Jim--she'll do eighty-five."

The wind roared past them: the needle quivered past eighty-five--stayed
motionless at eighty-seven.

"Over ninety if she's tuned up," said Jim Strickland, slowing as they
came to the main road.

"I felt like that," she said, lying back in her seat.

"The old cat was very cattish, was she?"

"She insisted on giving me good advice," she answered.

"Nuff said," remarked Jim. "Men have died for less than that."

Once again she fell silent, a little frown puckering her forehead. And
it was not until they were approaching that celebrated hotel by the
river at Maidenhead that she spoke again.

"Mine is a Martini with an olive," she said. "And the point is, shall
I marry him or shall I not?"

For a moment Jim Strickland stared at her: then he burst out laughing.

"You really are an astounding person," he remarked.

"Why?" she answered calmly, strolling across the lawn at his side.
"You are just as capable of answering the question as my old cat at
the club. And she said yes. In fact she said it so often that it
sounded like bullets coming out of a machine-gun."

"Who is the fortunate individual?" asked Jim politely.

"You'll see him. He's stopping at Henley. By the name of Trevor.
George of that ilk. Stockbroker by trade. And full of money.
Good-looking and dances divinely."

"One trifling detail," murmured Jim. "Do you love him?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Can one afford to indulge in luxuries on the princely allowance of a
hundred a year?"

"Rotten," said Jim, curtly. "Cheap and rotten."

She stared at him, a hint of passionate anger in her eyes.

"It's easy for you to talk, Jim Strickland," she said, in a low voice.
"It's a problem that has never confronted you."

"True," he agreed. "Nor has a desire to commit forgery. But there are
some things about which one can make up one's mind without actually
encountering reality."

"And anyway," she went on, "what is love? You seem to have escaped it
yourself up to date?"

"Maybe," he answered, quietly. "Or shall we say that it has escaped
me? Not quite the same thing. In any case, what has that to do with
it? The fact that I am not married--which I presume is what you
mean--seems to me to be no adequate reason why you should do otherwise.
I have never fallen in love: therefore I am not married. You, on your
own showing, have never fallen in love: therefore you propose to get
married. 'Tisn't sense."

"It's sense all right." She was sitting very still staring across the
river. "Not the sense, perhaps, of romantic fiction: but common or
garden horse sense, Jim Strickland."

"Then there's no more to be said," he answered shortly. "Incidentally
I don't want to hurry you, but I think as the newcomer I ought to
arrive before dinner."

"I suppose you think me a pretty average sweep," she remarked, in a
low voice.

For a moment he did not answer; then he spoke very deliberately.

"I think that, without exception, you are the most attractive girl I
have ever met. And I loathe to hear you talking as you have done. It's
horrible: it's unnatural: it's not worthy of you. Shall we go?"

And it was only when she made no movement to rise that he noticed that
her eyes were swimming in tears.

"Sorry, Kid," he said gently. "No business of mine and all that.
But--don't."

Impulsively he put his hand on her shoulder: felt her quiver under his
touch. Then slowly his hand fell to his side, and, over her head, he
stared with unseeing eyes at a passing steamer. For in that brief
second of contact a new factor had entered into the situation. And
because he was thirty-seven, and the thoughts and habits of a
life-time are not easily broken, Jim Strickland shied away from that
new factor like a frightened colt.

At last she rose, having furtively dabbed her eyes with a pocket
handkerchief. The mocking smile had returned to her lips: the very
blue eyes under the little pull-on hat seemed bluer than ever because
of their mistiness.

"You're incorrigibly romantic, Jim," she announced calmly. "In fact,
not at all the sort of person for an impressionable young girl to be
alone with. But you're--rather a darling."

And then, abruptly, her eyes fell from his, and she began to fumble
with her hand-bag.

"I think we'd better go," she said, a little unsteadily. "It would
never do if you were late for dinner."

In silence he led the way to the car, wild, incoherent thoughts
pounding through his brain. In silence she got in and sat down beside
him. And that was the second time within the space of three hours that
Jim Strickland, of whom it was said that he possessed not one but
twenty pairs of eyes, failed to see a foreign-looking man, now
reinforced by a companion, who watched the car as it drove off with
barely concealed malevolence. If he had seen him, strange things might
have happened in Maidenhead on that sunny afternoon in June.


II

There is a type of man whom women find "so amusing, you know," and men
"quite a decent sort, but. . . ." And the "but" is left, as it were,
high and dry. Nothing specific to follow the qualification; nothing
that can be put into so many words; but--something. And to this type
belonged George Trevor.

Immaculately groomed, sleek of head, good-looking and with charming
manners, he was, undoubtedly, an acquisition to any house-party.
Moreover, being a very shrewd business man not only had he prospered
exceedingly on the Stock Exchange, but in addition he was able to
impart valuable private tips to such of his friends as he desired. And
the fact that those of his friends whom he desired to benefit were
almost invariably pretty women, may possibly help to etch in his
character.

He was standing in the hall performing rites with a cocktail shaker as
Jim Strickland drove up, and the girl introduced them to one another.

"Mr. Strickland has just motored me down, George," she remarked. "And
I won't have a cocktail as we stopped for one at Skindles."

With a little nod she turned and went upstairs, leaving the two men
together.

"I presume," said Trevor easily, "that one is not your limit."

"No," said Jim, with a faint smile, "it is not. But it will have to be
a quick one. I'm rather late."

To the outsider two very attractive men of totally dissimilar types,
casually talking banalities over a drink and a cigarette: to a thought
reader two utterly antagonistic personalities who disliked one another
at the very first clash, but being men of the world concealed that
dislike behind a discussion of Yorkshire's chances for the
championship.

To Jim Strickland, accustomed as he was to forming instant judgment on
his fellows, Trevor seemed all that he disliked most--a poseur of the
worst description. Which, to be just, was not quite fair.

To George Trevor, accustomed also to the quick summing up of character
though in a very different school, Strickland appeared conceited and
over-bearing. Which most certainly was not quite fair.

And so, when they went up to dress for dinner, they were each in the
condition in which, for the benefit of all concerned, it would be
better if they did not play bridge at the same table.

"The type of man," murmured Jim to his reflection as he shaved, "who
plays little tricks with matches."

And then he broke off and stared thoughtfully out of the window: he
was honest with himself always--was Jim Strickland. Was it entirely the
clash of two mutually hostile men: or was it very largely the bitter
instinctive rivalry of two male animals. Trevor was the man that
Billie was thinking of marrying: except for that, would he have felt
as he did? And suddenly his hand began to shake a little: he was back
at Skindles, and a girl with very blue eyes under a little pull-on hat
was fumbling with her hand-bag. A girl whose voice was not quite
steady. . . . A girl, who . . .

"Don't be a fool, Jim Strickland," he remarked firmly. "A man of your
age doesn't fall in love with a girl whom he has known for an hour."

For a moment his eyes narrowed: wasn't there something moving on the
other side of the lawn behind that bush? He leaned out of the window
to see better: then he gave a little laugh. Old habits die hard, but
this was England, not his usual hunting grounds. England, where people
kept gardeners--and a man could sleep with both eyes shut. . . .

The evening passed as such evenings do--bridge, a gramophone for
dancing, drinks for the thirsty. And if Jim Strickland and George
Trevor successfully avoided one another's society, only one other
person was aware of the fact. And that one other person, because she
was a hundred per cent. woman, secretly rather enjoyed it.

From the first moment that Billie had sat down to dinner next to
Trevor she had sensed the hostility between the two men. Which was
quite sufficient for any girl to start playing an age-old if somewhat
dangerous game. Just once or twice she remembered the look blazing in
Jim Strickland's eyes as they had stood together on the lawn at
Skindles, and when she did her heart beat a little quicker, and she
stole a glance at him over the table. Had he really meant it--that
unmistakable message? Or was it merely the passing feeling of a
moment.

Somehow it struck her that Jim Strickland was not that sort. From
George Trevor she would have expected it, and as the evening went on,
more and more did the absolute contrast between the two men come home
to her. And the result was not favourable to the stockbroker.

True he danced more divinely than usual, and that normally went a long
way with her. But on this occasion. . . .

"What's the matter with you, Billie?" he whispered half-way through
their second. "You're as cold as be damned to-night."

"Am I?" she answered. "You'd better go and dance with someone else."

It was at that moment that she saw Jim Strickland standing in the door
of the bridge-room staring at her. She smiled at him, but he turned
away a little abruptly--and the smile turned to a frown. When all was
said and done he had not the faintest right to criticize her.

"That's better," said Trevor a moment later. "Now you're dancing more
like yourself."

He, too, had seen Strickland in the door, and a faint smile flickered
round his lips. He'd show the blighter the terms he was on with
Billie. And because in modern dancing an exceedingly intimate, but
wordless, conversation can be maintained between the dancers, he
succeeded in reducing Strickland to a condition of silent fury which
boded ill for someone. He also succeeded in working himself into a
condition when the answer to his oft-put question to Billie could be
waited for no longer.

"Billie darling," he said a little hoarsely, "come outside with me for
a bit. Can't you say yes, my dear: I'm simply mad about you."

And so the crux had come: it was now or never. Dimly came the advice
of her female relative: dimly came worldly wisdom. Say--yes: say--yes.
And then, clear as a trumpet call, came four words--"It's rotten: it's
cheap." Came also the vision of a clean-cut, sunburned face; the feel
of a strong hand on her shoulder. . . .

"I'm sorry, George," she said steadily, "but I made up my mind
definitely to-day. I can't marry you."

"Why not," he demanded thickly. "I believe it's that damned fellow
Strickland."

"Don't be offensive," she said coldly. "I met Mr. Strickland for the
first time this afternoon. I can't marry you, because I don't love
you."

And then George Trevor lost his head. He flung his arms round her, and
before she could stop him he was kissing her on the lips, on her bare
neck.

"Let me go, you brute," she said, furiously. "Let me go, or I'll hit
you."

Sullenly he let her go, staring at her with smouldering eyes.

"I think," she said quietly, "that I hate you."

Without another word she walked back into the house, and up to her
room. Her mind was seething: she felt she had to be alone. And after a
while she undressed, and, turning out the light, sat down by the open
window. She had burned her boats now all right. She had deliberately
turned down the most eligible man of her acquaintance. But it wasn't
that she was thinking of--it was that remark of his--"I believe it's
that damned fellow Strickland."

Was it? Had he hit the nail on the head? And suddenly, with a little
rush of colour to her face even in the darkness, she knew that if it
had been Jim Strickland who had flung his arms round her and kissed
her she would not have told him to let her go.

One by one the lights went out in the house: one by one bedroom doors
shut as the house-party came to bed. And still she sat on by the open
window. Did things happen like that--suddenly, in an instant? To her of
all people--a girl who had asked what love was. Was she in love with
this man whom she had only just met? Was he in love with her?

She stirred restlessly in her chair: had she been a fool? Probably she
would never see him again after this week-end; he'd be away on one of
these strange trips of his. Not the marrying sort, as Tubby had said.
And yet in spite of everything she knew that she was glad she had
answered George Trevor as she had.

The bells rang out from the silent town across the river. One o'clock.

Two hours had she been sitting there, and a little stiffly she got up,
only to shrink back instantly behind the curtain. Two dark shapes were
stealing round the edge of the lawn coming towards the house.

Rigidly she watched them--burglars, of course. Saw them make a quick
run over a little patch of open ground, and get into the shadow of the
house. Peered out cautiously: realized they were just under her
window. Heavens! They'd probably come up through her room.

And then, suddenly, one of the dark shapes spoke in a low voice. The
night was still, and every word carried clear to the girl's ears.

"The third room from here. I saw him shaving."

The third room! The third room was Jim Strickland's. These men weren't
burglars: they were after Jim . . . And now her brain was ice-cold:
the need for action was instant and imperative. She opened her door
and tiptoed along the passage, to pause for a moment outside Jim's
room. No light came through the keyhole: he was evidently in bed. And
without further hesitation she went in.

She could see him in the dim light asleep, one arm flung loosely over
the bedclothes. And the next instant she was bending over him
whispering his name. Then she put her hand on his arm, and had to bite
back a scream as she found herself seized in a grip like a steel
vice--a grip which relaxed instantly.

"You," he muttered incredulously. "God! girl--what are you doing here?"

"Jim," she whispered urgently, "there are two men in the garden. And
they're coming to your room. I heard them talking under my window."

"You topper," he breathed, swinging out of bed. "You absolute topper."

She heard the thrill of excitement in his voice--realized that now she
was seeing Jim Strickland in the setting which was peculiarly his own.

"In that corner, Billie," he whispered. "I'm going to catch 'em as
they come in."

In his hand was the poker, and she laid her hand on his arm.

"Listen, Jim. I'll get into the bed. Then they'll think you're asleep.
You hide by the curtain."

"You darling," he muttered. "You perfectly priceless Kid."

And then, because she couldn't help it, she flung her arms round his
neck and kissed him on the lips.

"Slog the blighters," she whispered.

"Billie," he breathed. . . . "Billie, dear. . . ."

A faint noise outside brought him to his senses, and like a cat he
crossed the room towards the window. The Jim Strickland of many a
similar position was functioning automatically: but another Jim
Strickland felt his senses rioting with the remembrance of warm young
arms round his neck, warm young lips on his.

He stole a glance at the bed: she was curled up, apparently asleep.
And then he had absolutely to force himself to attend to the business
in hand.

Slowly, inch by inch, a head was appearing over the window-sill, but
he bided his time. Then the body came, a leg was flung over--and still
Jim waited. He wanted both of the men.

Came a sudden, sharp hiss, and with a furious curse Jim lunged and
struck. Straight in the face he got him, and the man toppled over
backwards without a sound, to crash in the flower-bed below. He had a
glimpse of the other, running like a hare across the lawn; then, sick
with anxiety, he turned towards the bed. Fool--thrice damned fool that
he was, not to have thought of a silent automatic. . . .

"Billie," he cried, and then--"Oh! my God."

On the sheet an ominous red stain was already spreading.

"Jim," she whispered faintly, "my leg feels all funny."

"My darling," he muttered in an agony, "he's plugged you with a
revolver."

"Did you get him, Jim?"

Her voice tailed off, she had fainted. And for just one second did Jim
Strickland hesitate: some things are a little bit difficult to
explain. Then, with a feeling of contempt for his momentary
indecision, he got to work. It was a nasty looking wound in the thigh,
and the bullet was still inside--but the danger, as he well knew, was
that it might prove septic.

"Expanding bullet," he muttered. "Curse the swine."

Into the wound went most of a bottle of iodine, and with a scream of
pain the girl came to.

"Steady, darling," said Jim. "It hurts like hell, I know--but it's got
to be done. Then we'll have a doctor here in no time and get the
bullet out."

He ripped a towel in pieces and bound up the wound, whilst Billie, the
bright colour flooding her face and neck, watched him.

"I'm going to tell them exactly what happened, dear," he went on
quietly. "And I'm also going to tell them we are engaged. It may make
things easier."

Already there were steps in the passage outside, and Lady Arkwright's
voice: "Who was that who screamed?"

"There, dear," said Jim, finishing the bandage. "Now leave it all to
me."

He went to the door and opened it.

"Lady Arkwright," he called, "will you at once telephone for a doctor?
Tell him that there's a case of a bullet wound in the thigh, with the
bullet still in. Say that the wound has already been dressed with
iodine."

"But what's happened?" cried his hostess.

"Explanations afterwards," said Jim, curtly. "Get the doctor." He saw
Monica and Tubby. "Monica--will you remain in my room with Miss
Cartwright?"

"And now," he glanced round the row of amazed faces, "since every one
in the house seems to be awake, I may as well explain what happened.
Shall we go downstairs for a moment? And first of all we may as well
see what has become of the gentleman in the flower-bed."

They thronged after him, too bewildered to speak, and pressed through
the front door in a bunch. The man was lying where he had fallen,
stone dead, his head almost split open; and in his hand he still
gripped the revolver.

"So," muttered Jim, half to himself, "it's Strabinoff at last. . . .
That man, ladies and gentlemen, has been trying to kill me for four
years. But for Miss Cartwright he would have succeeded to-night.
However, the point is immaterial; other far more important matters
must be explained."

They followed him back into the house, and quite shortly he told them
exactly what had happened.

"I may further add," he said when he had finished, "that only to-night
Miss Cartwright did me the very great honour of promising to become my
wife."

A confused medley of congratulations broke out, interrupted suddenly
by the arrival of the doctor.

"Gracious me," he exclaimed, "what's all this?"

"Would you take the doctor up, Lady Arkwright?" said Jim. "Once again,
explanations after. By the way, it's an expanding bullet, doctor."

He strode to the telephone and rang up the police; then, coming back,
he sat down on the fender. And sitting down, became acutely aware of a
man who, in the excitement he had forgotten all about--George Trevor.
He was standing at the foot of the stairs, smoking a cigarette, with a
cynical smile on his face.

"I congratulate you, Mr. Strickland," he said, with a slight sneer.

"On what?" said Jim, curtly.

"Shall we call it--a ready imagination?"

Jim Strickland rose slowly to his feet, and crossed the hall towards
him. The rest of the party had dispersed: the two men were alone.

"You imply," he murmured politely, "that I lied."

"As anyone else would do," returned the other equally politely, "in
similar circumstances."

"Will you come into the garden with me, Mr. Trevor?" said Strickland
gently. "You see, I'm going to break you up--and this is not my
furniture."

And at that, full blast, the hatred of George Trevor blazed out.

"This isn't one of your savage countries," he snarled. "We don't do
that sort of thing in England. You can keep your breaking up and your
seduction of girls for places where they belong."

"Indeed," murmured Jim, with a faint smile. "You are too kind."

Quite slowly his hands went out and fastened on George Trevor: quite
slowly he walked George Trevor through the hall and into the garden:
and then quite slowly he waded into George Trevor. He broke George
Trevor up methodically and thoroughly till George Trevor could neither
speak, nor hear, nor see; and, having done so, he flung him into one
of those trees that are known as monkey puzzles. And there he left
George Trevor and returned to the house feeling better.

The police had arrived: but for the moment Jim Strickland was not
concerned with the police. He was concerned with no one but the
doctor, who was just coming downstairs.

"Quite all right," he cried cheerfully, as he saw Strickland. "We've
got the bullet out, and she's going on capitally."

"Is she conscious?" said Jim.

"Very much so," said the doctor, with a faint smile. "Would you like
to go up and see her?"

"Would I like," remarked Jim, taking the stairs three at a time.

He opened the door of his room, to find his hostess and Monica with
Billie.

"Do you mind going?" he said shamelessly.

And they went.

Very blue eyes they were, shining up at him from the pillows, and very
dear and frank was the message in them.

"I thought," she said, "that when a man said he was engaged, he
usually went through the formality of asking the girl."

And then there comes a slight discrepancy. Jim Strickland swears it
was half a minute: the police-sergeant swears it was half an hour.
Anyway, it is absurd to haggle over such a trifling difference. The
fact remains that at the end of this doubtful interval a patient voice
was heard on the other side of the door.

"Look 'ere, sir, there's a dead man in the flower-bed--and a 'orrible
sight in the monkey puzzle--and can we get on with it?"

Moreover, that pillar of the Henley constabulary swears that the only
answer he got consisted of two words--

"We are."




III -- THE RUBBER STRAP


Do you know that game called "Are you there?" You may find it being
played in mess on guest night after dinner, and you will assuredly
find it included in any sports that may be held on an ocean-going
liner. Its rules are simple: its charm immense--to the onlookers. You
lie down on the deck facing your opponent grasping his left hand with
your own. Each of you in his right hand holds a rolled-up copy of an
illustrated weekly, or some similar weapon. A pillow cover is then
placed over each of your heads to blindfold you. At the word go, one
of you says: "Are you there?" The other answers "Yes," at the same
time moving his head into a position of safety. Any position may be
chosen so long as his left elbow remains on the deck, and his left
hand remains in yours. You then lift your right hand and aim a heavy
blow with the weapon it contains at the place where you imagine his
head to be. If you hit it you count one, and then it's his turn. You
go on till one or other of you is stunned. In fact, a great game--for
the onlookers.

And my reason for this brief dissertation on one pastime of the idle
rich, is that it was directly responsible for my hearing a very
strange yarn. I am aware that when a teller of stories prefaces one of
them with the remark that it is true, the sophisticated reader
prepares himself resignedly for a worse lie than usual. And so I won't
say that this is true, but merely that it was told me by an American
who claims to be a direct descendant of George Washington.

The game was over: the corpses had been laid out on the deck to cool.
Personally I had not competed: nor had the American. On the subject of
being butchered for a Roman holiday our ideas coincided remarkably. On
other points too, there seemed no great divergence in our opinions.

"I've some fruit syrup in my cabin," he remarked, thoughtfully
watching one of the corpses arise and stagger aft to die. "Also some
vermouth."

"I can supply gin and a shaker," I put in hopefully.

"Good," he said. "Are we there? Yes."

He mixed two of the best, and then he pulled out his cabin trunk and
started rummaging through the contents.

"See that?" he said. "What do you think of it?"

It was a piece of black india-rubber about fifteen inches long, an
inch wide and half an inch thick.

"A rather good weapon for 'Are you there,' I answered."

"I thought you'd say that," he grinned. "And used for just one blow at
a time it would be. Used another way. . . . See here. Put your leg up
on that bunk."

I did so, and he raised the rubber thong in his hand.

"I'm not going to hit you hard," he said. "But just see how long you
can stand it."

He started above my knee, and worked gradually up my thigh: then back
again. And he didn't hit hard. He hit no harder than the smack you
would give a naughty child, and a small child at that. Tap; tap;
tap--that rubber thong wound itself round my leg in a different place
each time. No one blow could even be said to hurt, and yet I only
stood twenty-five of them. There's no good suffering agony for
nothing. After about the tenth hit every single muscle and sinew in my
leg started shrieking at the same moment: after the twenty-fifth I
should have begun to shriek myself if I hadn't given in.

He smiled and mixed me another cocktail.

"A souvenir," he said, "of a very strange affair. That game this
afternoon put me in mind of it."

"Having half-killed me," I said, "the talking is on you. Fire ahead."

"It took place in Paris after the war," he began. "Everything,
including discipline, was a bit lax--same as it was in England. But the
war was over and nobody minded very much as long as things were kept
within reasonable bounds. I'd been in our Intelligence myself, and
when my division went back overseas I got leave to stop on in France
for a while.

"I was sitting in my hotel one morning, when in walked a man I knew
fairly intimately. His name was John Thripley, and he was in charge of
one of our big military stores. Not ordnance, but commissariat:
tobacco, ham, tinned beef, all that sort of stuff. I'd been over it
once while the fighting was on, and there was enough there to have fed
all the belligerent armies for a year.

"I gave him a hail, and he came over and sat down.

"'Morning, John,' I said. 'You look worried. Mice been at the cheese?'

"'In a manner of speaking,' he answered. 'Only they're damned large
mice. I'm floored, Bill, and that's straight: and it's a pretty
serious business.'

"'What's up,' I said. 'Can I help?'

"He shook his head doubtfully.

"'I'll tell you what it is, but I don't want it to go any further. You
know I'm in charge of 'A' dump, don't you? Well about two months ago a
bunch of indents were presented in the ordinary way for stuff. I think
there were about half-a-million cigarettes, and some boots and two or
three hundredweights of ham. Everything was perfectly in order--I've
examined the vouchers myself--and so the stuff was loaded on to the
lorry that had come for it, and the lorry was driven away.

"'Naturally I thought no more about it, until the next morning
produced another batch of similar indents from the same people. The
storekeeper brought it to me--by mere luck it happened to be the same
man who had handled the vouchers the previous day--and asked me what he
was to do. Well, there was only one thing to be done. I got on the
telephone to the people who wanted the stuff, and asked 'em what under
the sun they wanted with two such big demands on consecutive days.

"'The guy at the other end of the wire began to splutter and asked me
what the devil I was talking about. He hadn't sent in two indents:
he'd only sent in one. A lorry had left that morning for the stuff,
driven by a man named Wilson. And sure enough Wilson was there right
enough cursing good and strong at the delay. So there was nothing for
it but to load up the lorry and let him go. Whatever mistake had
occurred was nothing to do with him.

"'Back I went to the office and hauled out yesterday's indents. Not a
flaw to be found in 'em: they were, on the face of things, absolutely
genuine. So then I got on the telephone all the way round. I rang up
everyone I could think of, and asked them the same question. Had a
lorry--and I gave 'em the type of bus it was--turned up for them with
the following stores on board--and I gave 'em a detailed list of the
stores. No--it hadn't: same answer everywhere. But in case it did
arrive they'd ring me up.

"'Well--I never got deafened with that telephone bell. Not only the
stores but the whole blamed lorry were never heard of again. About
seventy-five thousand dollars' worth of stuff completely vanished.

There was always the possibility of accident, of course, and so I
promptly reported the matter to the police. But as the days went by
and no news came in, I had to come to the conclusion that we'd been
had all right, and that a bare-faced robbery had been committed right
under our noses.'

"'Just a moment, John' I put in. 'Did no one recognize the driver?'

"'I thought of that,' he answered, 'but it's a blank. The driver and
his mate had on goggles, and the other fellow who helped to load was
just an ordinary sort of bloke--quite inconspicuous. My storeman says
he might remember him, but he wouldn't swear to it. Don't forget Dick,
we get 'em in by the score daily, and if a bunch are out on a game
like that they're not going to employ a man with a wooden leg and a
strawberry mark on his face.

"'Now that was the beginning of it. Four days later, Anston who runs
'C' store loaded up two thousand pairs of boots, two thousand
cardigans, and two thousand suits of underclothes on another lorry.
And, damn it, that disappeared into the blue also. Over I went as soon
as I heard of it to see Anston, and we compared those indents. Not a
trace of resemblance in the writing--not a clue. His, to all
appearances, were just as genuine as mine, and there we were stung
again good and hard. It was obvious what had happened: it was obvious
that the stolen stuff had been sold to the French, or was being kept
in some secret place for disposal to them in due course. It was also
obvious that we were up against a thoroughly daring gang, of whom at
any rate some must be our own people.

"'So that very morning we called a general meeting of all the fellows
who were running stores to discuss what was to be done. They'd done it
twice now with success, and we felt pretty sure they wouldn't be able
to resist the temptation of trying it again. The point was how to
catch 'em. They weren't fools, and they must know that the loss had
been discovered. Recognition was well-nigh impossible. We had six big
depots lying some distance apart, and granted that they only tried one
robbery at each they'd be fairly safe in using the same men each time.
But since it was more than likely that there was a biggish gang of
them, there was nothing to prevent 'em changing round. So at last we
decided that the only thing to do, in the event of a big indent coming
in, was to ring up the formation making the demand and get it
confirmed before issue.

"'By Jove! Dick. We got some pretty blasphemous confirmation down the
telephone. What the hell, etc., etc.? Wasn't the indent there staring
us in the face? Were we trying to be funny? You see we weren't over
communicative as to why we were doing it? No one likes to admit he's
been soaked properly.

"'For a fortnight nothing happened. Then in comes Payton one morning
to see me, gibbering at the mouth with rage.

"'They've stung me, Bill. Three days ago. Jam, ham, tinned beef--every
darned thing you can think of. Best part of fifty thousand dollars'
worth. My telephone was out of action that morning, and I was
infernally busy. The indent was signed by Jack Cooper: I'd swear to
his signature in a thousand. If I've seen it once, I've seen it a
hundred times. It was a forgery.'

"'He lit a cigarette, and ramped up and down the office.'

"'I took it out to him, and damn it! it even deceived him. It wasn't
until we found there was no carbon duplicate in his office that he was
quite sure he hadn't signed it himself and forgotten about it.

"'Well that made three of us who had taken it in the neck and we were
getting sorer than Hell. Cartwright of "D" store, and the other two,
Mason and Digby, who hadn't been caught were kind of tolerant about
it--the implication being that we'd better come along to them and learn
our job. At least that was the idea until Cartwright loaded up a lorry
with a hundred thousand dollars' worth of stuff which was wanted
urgently. He verified everything: had the driver brought into his
office to have his photograph taken from about forty different angles,
and generally read the riot act all round. That lorry broke down
thirty miles out of Paris. The men had stopped at an inn to have their
lunch, and no power on earth would start the engine after. I'm no
motorist but I gather something had gone in the magneto.

"'Well luckily another lorry--an empty one--passed shortly after going
the same way. So they changed the stuff over, and that was that.
Cartwright swelled our numbers to four, though he swears it wasn't his
fault. Anyway none of the stuff was ever seen again.

"'And that left Mason and Digby. Mason started the ball rolling in
fine style. It seems one morning that he got suspicious of a driver
who turned up, and there being no flies on Jake Mason he was hit with
a brilliant idea. So he got himself nailed up in a packing case
reputed to contain tinned meat, and was loaded up with the rest of the
stuff. As far as I can make out he was put in upside down and had a
sixty mile drive, so he must have had a real fine morning. Still he
didn't care so long as he could run them to ground. He'd got two guns
with him, and he wasn't going to hesitate about using them.

"'Of course, as I said to him, it might have been a darned good show
if the lorry hadn't been a perfectly genuine one. But when they
unpacked Jake, the scene was a trying one. They first of all thought
he was trying to be funny: then they insisted he was mad. And when
poor old Jake tried to explain it wasn't a success. They had indented
for tinned meat, and Jake as a substitute left them cold. However, he
pacified them after a while, and went back to Paris by train, to find
the line in his office darned near fused with the blasphemy coming
over it from another quarter. What had happened to the lorry that had
started off that morning for Beauvais?

"'At the time Jake had been packed up in his box, so he sent for his
quarter-master. Yes--perfectly true. A lorry had started right enough,
and the quarter-master had not only rung up to find out that it was
all right, but in addition he knew the driver personally. They came
from the same town in the States.

"'And here, Bill, the matter becomes even more serious than before.
Up-to-date there had been no violence: this time there was. The driver
was found more dead than alive in a ditch: his mate is still in
hospital unconscious, and the lorry has never been seen again.'

"John Thripley lit a cigarette, and intimated that he was thirsty.

"'That's a very strange story, John,' I remarked. 'For five lorries to
disappear like that beats cock-fighting.'

"'Five lorries worth a quarter of a million dollars at a conservative
estimate,' he grunted. 'But it's not the money I mind so much--it's not
mine. What gets my goat is being stung like that. And the point is,
Bill, there is still the sixth lorry to go. Your criminal, and mark
you this is no ordinary man, is a darned conceited fellow. And I'm
open to a bet that he won't be happy till he's done in Digby. There's
another thing too: he's getting to the end of his tether or he
wouldn't have taken to violence. Highway robbery in broad daylight on
a main road is a pretty dangerous operation.'

"'They probably stopped the lorry and asked for a lift,' I said. 'And
then laid out the driver and his mate at a suitable opportunity. Have
you got no suspicions at all?'

"'Not the faintest vestige,' he answered. 'And the police seem as
floored as we are. They take up the line, and I hardly blame 'em for
it, that the criminals are our own people, and that we ought to be
able to look after our own affairs. Of course they don't actually say
that--but they imply it.'

"The door swung open at that moment, and an officer came in. I didn't
know him but John Thripley did, and I heard him whistle under his
breath.

"'It's Digby,' he said. 'And something has happened.'

"Just then the newcomer saw John, and came over to our table.

"'By God! Thripley,' he said grimly, 'I don't rest until I've caught
those swine. Have you heard what happened last night? It's
murder--cold-blooded murder this time.'

"'The devil it is,' said John. 'You can speak out: I've just been
telling my friend here all about it.'

"'I was sitting in my office the night before last about five
o'clock,' said Digby, 'when one of my sergeants came in.'

"'Look here, Captain,' he said to me, 'I reckon I've got a line on
those crooks.'

"'Good man,' I cried. 'Who are they?'

"'I'd sooner not say, sir,' he said, 'for I may be wrong.'

"'How did you get the line,' I asked him.

"'Well,' he said with a bit of a grin, 'there's a little cabaret
called the _Petit Souris_ where I go sometimes to have a drink and a
dance. And there's a girl there--Marie is her name, who seems to like
dancing with me. I was sitting at a table with her last night, and I
found I'd run out of cigarettes. So she pulls out a paper packet of
Fatimas and offers it to me.

"'Hullo! Marie,' I said, 'Where did you get these from? You're
becoming a proper little American.'

"'She laughed and told me that all the girls had them now as they were
so easy to get.

"'Is that so,' I answered. 'I didn't know you found it any easier to
get 'em now than before. Do the boys give 'em to you?'

"'She shook her head, and then suddenly she sat up in her chair and
laid her hand on my arm.

"'Do you see that man who has just come in?'

"'I looked over at the door, and saw an American soldier standing
there with a girl on each arm. He'd got the face of a Chicago tough,
but in about ten seconds you couldn't see him for girls. They were
round him like bees round honey.

"'He seems popular,' I said.

"'Because he gives away so many presents,' said Marie. 'Cigarettes,
and jam, and meat, and a pair of boots to Lisette's father, and . . .'

"'But I guess I wasn't listening, Captain: I was just staring at her
and then at him.

"'Where does he get them from, Marie?' I said.

"'She shrugged her shoulders: she wasn't interested in that.

"'But I don't like him,' she went on. 'He is a _cochon_.'

"Digby chewed savagely at his cigar.

"'There's no good my repeating the whole conversation,' he went on.
'All that matters is that my sergeant was pretty well convinced in his
own mind that this fellow knew a good deal more than was healthy about
these robberies. I don't know whether he gave himself away or not--he
must have: but the fact remains that I've just been to the mortuary to
identify his dead body. He'd been plugged through the heart at close
range. You could see the mark of the scorch on his coat.'

"'When did it happen?' I asked.

"'Some time last night,' he answered. 'And I don't quit Paris till
I've caught the guy who did it.'

"Which was a very fine sentiment, but easier to say than to carry out.
The sergeant had not mentioned the man's name: in fact Digby couldn't
say if he even knew it. All that we had to go on was that he looked
like a Chicago tough, and had been in this cabaret place two nights
previously. Also--and in this, so it seemed to me, lay our trump
card--that he was well-known and popular with the little ladies of the
quarter.

"Quite obviously the _Petit Souris_ was our jumping-off ground, but at
once there cropped up a difficulty. If this man was the man or one of
the men we wanted, he was pretty well certain to know both Digby and
Thripley by sight. And the instant he saw them in such an unexpected
haunt he'd be bound to smell a rat. Now we hadn't an atom of proof to
go on, and the one essential thing was not to scare our bird if we
were to have a hope of bringing it home to him.

"'There's only one thing to do,' I said. 'Let me go to this place
alone. I've got plain clothes here, and he won't know me. I'll get in
touch with this girl Marie if I can, and if I see this fellow I'll
remember his face and that will put us a step forward anyway. Once
he's known, it oughtn't to be difficult to get enough proof to convict
him.'

"So that evening I went off to the _Petit Souris_. I got there about
nine, and found it the usual sort of place. There were some twenty
girls there, a few Frenchmen and two or three Britishers. But there
was no sign of any American soldier.

"'Tell me,' I said to the waiter who brought my drink, 'is there any
girl here of the name of Marie?'

"'Mon Dieu, m'sieur,' he cried, 'half-a-dozen at least.'

"'I guessed that,' I answered. 'But throw your memory back, my lad,
three nights ago. Do you remember an American _sous officier_ who was
in here sitting at a table with one of those six Maries?'

"He gave me a quick look of suspicion, and I knew I'd started one
hare. His face assumed a look of bovine imbecility and he shook his
head. So many people came in that he had completely forgotten the
incident. He regretted it deeply, but he couldn't assist me.

"'You may keep the change,' I remarked, showing him a twenty franc
note, 'if your memory improves. But it must be the right Marie.'

"He hesitated: cupidity struggling with fear. Then suddenly he leant
forward on the pretence of drying the table with a napkin.

"'This is not a good place for Americans, sir,' he whispered. 'I would
go if I was you.'

"'Well you're not me,' I said. 'And I'm not going. Now then--has your
memory come back?'

"He shrugged his shoulders.

"'As M'sieur wishes. The girl you want is the one in green sitting by
herself three tables away.'

"'Good for you,' I said. 'There's the note.'

"He bustled away, and after a moment or two I glanced casually at the
girl. She was a pretty little thing, and I noticed she kept looking at
the door as if she was expecting someone. And very soon I noticed
another thing, too. All the other girls--at least all those who hadn't
got men with them--were looking at her surreptitiously and whispering
amongst themselves. Evidently there was some secret which concerned
her, and of which, so it struck me, she was in ignorance.

"Further it seemed to me that I was the object of a considerable
amount of interest. At first I thought it was simply because I was a
stranger, but after a while I began to realize that it was something
more than that. It's hard to explain exactly what I mean, but it
struck me that in some way my presence was being connected with this
girl Marie. It wasn't the waiter because I'd noticed it before I spoke
to him. It couldn't be me personally for I'd never been to the place
before, and no one there knew me. So it boiled down to the fact that
it must be because I was an American.

"Well there was no good wasting time. I was there to see Marie, and
get what I could out of her. So when I'd finished my drink I got up
and strolled over to her table, conscious that every girl in the room
was watching me.

"'Will you give me the pleasure of a dance, mam'selle,' I asked.

"She stared at me for a while without speaking.

"'I am not dancing to-night,' she said quietly.

"'Too bad,' I answered, sitting down beside her. 'I've been watching
you, and it seems to me you're waiting for somebody. I wonder if I can
guess who it is.'

"'Are you an American officer?' she asked.

"'I am,' I said. 'Why do you ask?'

"'Then, M'sieur--go away. This place is not safe for you. It is not
safe for any American. Mon Dieu! if I only knew what had happened
. . .'

"She broke off, and sat there twisting her handkerchief between her
fingers.

"'Happened to whom,' I asked her.

"'M'sieur--do you know a Sergeant Franklin?'

"Now that was the name of Digby's murdered sergeant: I'd asked him.

"'What do you know of Sergeant Franklin,' I said cautiously.

"'Listen, m'sieur--he was my friend. He promised that he would be here
last night--but he never came. And I must see him. I must warn him.'

"I took the bull by both horns.

"'Marie,' I said: 'Sergeant Franklin was murdered last night.'

"For a moment I thought she was going to faint. Her face turned the
colour of the tablecloth, and her breath came in little gasps.

"'Take a pull at yourself, my dear,' I went on. 'It's because of that
that I'm sitting here talking to you. Do you know who it was who
killed him?'

"But she hardly seemed to hear the question.

"'So that's what all the mystery is,' she whispered savagely. 'They
knew--these pigs.'

"She sat up suddenly and stared at the door.

"'Mon Dieu! he is early to-night. M'sieur, don't look round. For God's
sake don't look round. Do you want me to help you to find the man who
murdered Sergeant Franklin?'

"'Sure thing, Marie,' I said. 'But will you be all right. I don't want
to get you into trouble.'

"She laughed a little harshly.

"'What does it matter about me,' she cried impatiently. 'Don't you
understand that I loved him. And that brute--that devil killed him.
Because of what I said. Do you suppose I mind--now--if they kill me. As
they will.'

"She added those last three words under her breath.

"'Will you promise to do exactly what I say?'

"'I promise.' I saw there was no time for argument.

"'First--give me your address.'

"I told her the name of my hotel.

"'Good. To-morrow morning I will ring you up there. Then come to the
address I shall give you, and bring with you some friends. But now
to-night there is not much time. In a few seconds a man will come up
to this table. He will insult you: I, too, shall seem to agree with
him. Say nothing: answer nothing--just go.'

"She sat back in her chair laughing, and snapped her fingers in my
face. It was done so suddenly: her change of expression was so abrupt
that for a moment I was nonplussed. Then as a coarse voice spoke from
behind my shoulder, I understood.

"'And who under the sun may you be?'

I turned round to find an American private regarding me offensively,
and for a moment my temper almost got the better of me. I'd forgotten
that I was in plain clothes and that he couldn't know I was an
officer. He was a villainous looking swine--one of the type it's better
to avoid unless you're asking for trouble--and I guessed at once that
this was the Chicago tough of whom Sergeant Franklin had spoken to
Digby.

"'Get out,' he snarled. 'Beat it while the going's good, or you may
find yourself leaving feet first.'

"The girl laughed as I rose to my feet, and got rid of a choice bit of
Parisian _argot_ at my expense. And then for an instant the man turned
away to shout to the waiter and her eyes rested on his back. By Jove!
I've never seen such a depth of concentrated hatred on anyone's face
before or since. It was diabolical--devilish. But when I got to the
door he was sitting beside her with his arm round her waist, and she
was pointing a derisive finger at me. Evidently the game had
commenced. The point that worried the others was whether it was
genuine--or not.

"They were all round in my hotel early the next morning, to say
nothing of the Provost Marshal, and we discussed it while we waited.
Personally I felt sure that the girl was on our side, but they weren't
so certain. They hadn't seen that look in her eyes, and were sceptical
about the whole thing.

"'On her own showing,' as Digby said, 'this fellow has been giving
things away lavishly. Granted that it's the same man, didn't she tell
that poor devil Franklin so? So is she likely to split on him?'

"And at that very moment the telephone bell rang. I picked up the
receiver and from the other end came her voice.

"'Come at once to 15, Rue de St. Gare!'

"It was tense, that voice of hers--tense and quivering with excitement,
and her mood communicated itself to me.

"'Come on, you fellows,' I cried. 'The Kid has done what she said.'

"We tumbled into a couple of taxis, each of us with a gun in his
pocket. There was always the possibility of a trap, and we were taking
no chances. And in ten minutes we arrived at her house. She came down
to meet us at the door, and her face was white with dark rings under
her eyes.

"'Good morning, Marie,' I said, holding out my hand. 'What has
happened?'

"'Come and see,' she answered briefly, and led the way upstairs.

"We crowded into the room after her to find a strange sight
confronting us. Lashed hand and foot to a chair was the man I had met
the night before, and he was unconscious.

"'You want the truth,' she said quietly. 'All right: you're going to
have it. Go in there.'

"'Look here, Marie,' I said nervously. 'What are you going to do?'

"With a girl of that type you never can tell, and I had visions of
vitriol and other choice devices.

"'Don't be afraid,' she said contemptuously. 'I'll leave the brute for
you just as he is.'

"It was her bedroom we went into, and it was behind the chair where
the man sat bound so that he couldn't see us though we could see him.

"'Don't make a sound,' she said to us. 'I'm going to wake him.'

"She picked up a jug of cold water and flung it in his face, and after
a moment or two he gave a spluttering cough and his head moved.

"'What the hell has happened,' he muttered stupidly.

"Then he stared at the girl who was facing him across the table.

"'I'll kill you for this,' he snarled, and she laughed and picked up
that india-rubber strap.

"'What are you going to do with that,' he shouted and there was terror
in his voice.

"'Get the truth, you devil,' she answered.

"You could see the man's great muscles heaving and straining at the
ropes that held him, but she'd lashed him in too well, had Marie.

"'What's the good of the truth,' he screamed. 'I'll deny it after, and
there will be no proof.'

"'I'll chance that,' she said quietly, and started in on him with the
strap.

"Up one leg--down the other; up one arm--down the other; again and again
and again, while we watched, fascinated. At the beginning of the third
circuit he gave an awful groan and she paused.

"'Who killed Sergeant Franklin,' she asked.

"A flood of abuse was the only answer.

"At the beginning of the fifth she repeated the question, and by this
time the sweat had come clean through his clothes, and he was dripping
like a sponge. But he still stuck it.

"At the beginning of the seventh he gave in.

"'I did,' he croaked.

"'Why did you kill him,' she demanded.

"'Because he knew too much,' he muttered.

"'About you stealing the lorries,' she went on.

"'Of course,' he cried. 'What else? Let me get up, you devil; let me
get up.'

"'Not yet. I want the names of the men who have been helping you.'

"He gave 'em--half-a-dozen in all, and six men in the back-room jotted
down those names as he said them.

"'Now let me up, you she-cat,' he snarled. 'And may God help you when
I get my hands on you.'

"But Marie had slipped suddenly to the floor, and when we got to her
we found she'd fainted."

The American paused, fingering the rubber strap thoughtfully.

"What was the end?" I asked.

"The chair in America for him," he answered grimly. "Our methods of
examination are a little more drastic than yours, and we got the truth
pretty effectively out of his confederates. They were deserters--the
lot of 'em, and O'Brien, the leader, was an expert forger to boot.
Moreover he was wanted for murder on our side as well: so, as there
was a prejudice against killing an American in France they did the
good deed in America."

"And Marie?" I asked.

"They got her all right, though I don't know how. Someone gave her
away I suppose. Personally I never saw her again. But once--just before
I left Paris I was walking through the cemetery where Franklin was
buried. And there was a little bunch of cheap flowers on his grave.
They were old and faded, and I turned to an attendant near by:

"'Who put these here?' I asked.

"He shrugged his shoulders.

"'A girl, m'sieur,' he answered. 'And I have let them remain. They are
dead--but then so is she.'

"'What's that?' I cried. 'Marie dead.'

"'M'sieur knew her,' he said indifferently. 'But yes--she is dead. She
was stabbed in the heart not a hundred yards from the cemetery gates
the same evening that she put those flowers on the grave. Who by?
M'sieur, who knows?_C'est la guerre_, _n'est-ce-pas_--or very nearly.."




IV -- ROUT OF THE OLIVER SAMUELSONS


It is not advisable, when you speculate, to put your money into a tin
mine that contains no tin. Further, it is not advisable, when you
speculate, to put _all_ your money into anything. But if you combine
the two, and put all your money into a tin mine that contains no tin,
you are asking for the trouble that Major Jack Delmont asked for--and
got. And with him in the getting were his wife and his daughter,
Molly.

She was twenty-one when it happened, was Molly, and a combination of
the astounding good looks of both her parents. And since it was a
catastrophe impossible to conceal, she was present at the council of
war which was held in the Delmont household.

Her father--utterly penitent--invited them both to walk on his face and
roast him over a slow fire; her mother, after one "Oh! Jack, _dear_,
how could you?" went to her man and kissed him. Molly went for a walk.

She returned with her mind made up, and the next morning, having
bought a third return to London, she departed for the day.

"I am," she announced on her return, "going to do something terribly
original. I am going to be a governess."

"Ye gods!" said her father.

"Darling child," said her mother.

"Angels both," said Molly. "If Daddy will make a fool of himself, it's
up to me to show that there are still some brains in the family. So I
have taken a post to-day."

"You don't mean you've done it already?" cried her father.

"Who with, dear?" asked her mother.

"Mrs. Oliver Samuelson," said the girl. "Who says that's nothing?"

"Who the deuce is Mrs. Oliver Samuelson?" demanded her father.

"The world's worst horror," laughed Molly. "Told me she didn't allow
followers in the house. Joking apart, she's pretty grim, Daddy. Rolls
in boodle. The woman in the office, who seemed quite a human sort of
soul, told me about her. They've rented Ladbroke Towers."

"Ladbroke Towers!" cried her father. "Why, I used to shoot there with
the old man. He died about a year ago. It's a wonderful house,
Kiddie."

"So I gathered from Mrs. Oliver Samuelson," said the girl gravely.
"She expatiated at length on its charms, and her great friendship with
the present Earl, and the social life that she led, and so on and so
forth. Naturally, I was suitably impressed."

"I hate it, my dear," said her father gloomily. "What a blithering
idiot I was!"

"Dry up, my pet," laughed Molly. "It's no good going into all that
again."

"What's the family, Molly?" put in her mother.

"I gather my principal charge is one Oswald, aged nine. A child who
requires careful handling. Also, I am to help Mrs. Oliver Samuelson in
her correspondence."

"I hate it," repeated her father, and Molly promptly kissed him on the
top of his head.

"It won't be as bad as it sounds," she said, with a show of confidence
she was far from feeling. "And if it is, I can always chuck it."

Which was not a good prophecy. For, six months later, she found that
it was immeasurably worse than it had sounded, and she hadn't chucked
it. Times out of number she had been on the point of doing so, and
then the knowledge that the two people she loved most in the world
could just get on on the pension, if she wasn't there, restrained her.

The Oliver Samuelsons were an altogether beastly family. And, let it
be clearly understood, beastly is the _mot juste_. The family
consisted of five members: father, mother, daughter and two sons, and
it is a doubtful point as to which of the five was the most
unpleasant. In fact, the generally accepted theory was that it was
whichever you happened to be with last.

But they rolled in money--positively wallowed in it. Detach the Oliver,
and the reason is clear. Who has not heard of Samuelson's Certain Cure
for Chilblains, of Samuelson's Excellent Eradicator of Eczema, of
Samuelson's Perfect Paralyser of Pimples? Well--these were the people.

Now far be it from me to suggest that there is any reason why the
vendor of patent medicines should not be quite as charming a person as
anyone else. There is nothing inherently debasing about paralysing
pimples. There is, further, no earthly reason, as far as I can see,
why a man should not reap a large reward for performing such a
meritorious act. The cause of their beastliness was not that: it was
simply them. If Mr. Samuelson had been the Archbishop of Canterbury,
or a stockbroker, or even an author, he would still have been beastly.
And the same applies to the rest of them.

It was the successful manipulation of a hundred thousand pounds during
the rubber boom that caused the trouble. Before that they had been
content to be beastly in comparative obscurity, but when Mrs.
Samuelson had at last grasped the fact that they were millionaires,
her social aspirations, always there, though hitherto suppressed,
soared to dizzy heights. Such things have happened before: such things
will happen again. It matters not whether one likes it or doesn't like
it--the thing is inevitable. And, after all--why not?

The man who makes a million pounds may be, and very often is, a nicer
fellow than the heir to several thousand acres and a castle badly in
need of repair. And had that been so in the case of the Oliver
Samuelsons, these words would never have been written. At the risk of
repeating myself, I wish that to be clear. What I am about to relate
happened not because they were _nouveaux riches_, or patent medicine
vendors, but simply because they were beastly. Had Mr. Oliver
Samuelson been an author, as I said before, it would still have
happened. I can't make it clearer than that.

Why their social aspirations should have been settled on a country
place I do not profess to say. They none of them rode, shot or fished:
they were all of them profoundly bored anywhere except in London. But
since the motives inspiring the Oliver Samuelsons are, I am glad to
say, a sealed book to me, I can only record the fact that they decided
to obtain a country house--I beg your pardon, seat.

Now it so happened that, some three months previous to their momentous
decision, the Earl of Ladbroke had consumed his last glass of port and
been gathered to his forbears, leaving Ladbroke Towers sadly
encumbered. His wife was dead: his only son was prospecting somewhere
in the back of beyond. And the family lawyer was deteriorating badly
at golf through worry over death duties. If only he could let the
house, all might yet be well; but would the new Earl agree? And if he
did, could he find a tenant?

To him, then, there came one day, like a direct answer to prayer, Mr.
Oliver Samuelson. It was true that, dire though the necessity was,
there were moments when the lawyer wondered if the price was not too
great--moments when the full horror of his visitor sank into his soul.
But, being a man of stern determination and a vigilant custodian of
the Ladbroke interests, he banished these vacillating thoughts. He
explained politely that to sell was out of the question, but that he
had his lordship's authorization to let for five years. And he then
mentioned a figure the size of which staggered even him.

Mr. Oliver Samuelson didn't turn a hair. He ejected from his mouth a
considerable portion of chewed cigar; ground it into the carpet with
his foot, and announced that a few odd thousand this way or that made
no difference to him. And a month later the family was in residence.

Now, as all the world knows, Ladbroke Towers is situated in the centre
of the most cliquish county in England. And, as the months went by,
the fact gradually penetrated into the brain of Mrs. Oliver Samuelson
that, though money will obtain a country seat, money will not fill it.
Not, at least, with the people whom she was desirous of knowing.
Business friends of her husband were delighted to come and stay:
acquaintances of her son and daughter were only too ready to drink her
champagne and play poker till three in the morning. But the county
families remained icily aloof.

A few called--once, and there the matter ended. Invitations to shoot
and to dine were declined; the large ball given at Christmas was
exclusively attended by people from London. And there, but for one or
two things, the matter would have ended.

The first concerned the matter of the head keeper, a man whose father
and grandfather had been head keepers there before him. Annoyed by the
smallness of the bags, and refusing to realize that it was entirely
due to the badness of the shooting, Mr. Oliver Samuelson sacked him on
the spot. The fact that his wife was going to have a baby and that
there was no other cottage for him to go to, was nothing to do with
Mr. Samuelson.

"Get out, and get out quick. You're useless."

The second concerned a girl in the village and the heir to the
Samuelson fortune. An unpleasant case without a redeeming feature.

There were other things, too--things which revealed them in their true
colours; things which caused a letter to be penned by a gentleman who
signed himself Bimbo. It breathed a certain despair, that letter; the
writer realized that nothing could be done, since he was fully aware
that the state of the recipient's finances was even more hopeless than
usual. And the recipient, a vast young man with a large mouth and a
jink in his nose, mopped his forehead in the stifling heat and grinned
gently to himself. Then he sat down and answered Bimbo's letter. And
the envelope of the answer was addressed to His Grace the Duke of
Ledmonton. Moreover, its contents made that worthy nobleman sit up
with a gasp and hurriedly seek his wife.

"Impossible," she said. "Out of the question. Tiny has got 'em again."

It was some two months later that an extremely pretty girl, leading a
singularly unpleasant-looking little boy by the hand, walked through
one of the many copses which surround Ladbroke Towers. On her face was
an expression of utter weariness; in her free hand she carried a book.

Molly Delmont was very near breaking-point. If only that beast of a
man would leave her alone she could go on sticking it, but she knew
his character far too well by now not to realize the futility of any
such hope. Mr. Oliver Samuelson, junior--her present charge's
brother--was of the brand that regards a pretty governess as fair game.
It was his mother she was afraid of. Only too well did she know that
once that lady got an inkling of what was going on she'd be kicked out
of the house within an hour. And what on earth was she to do then?

She sat down in a leafy glade, and opening the book at random she
began to read mechanically. And it wasn't until she'd finished that a
little twisted smile crossed her lips as she realized what she had
been reading.

"There are no Prince Charmings to-day, dear. It's only a fairy story."

"What an exceedingly reprehensible statement to make to the young!"

With a little gasp of surprise she swung round--only to gasp again at
what she saw. Standing on his head in a clearing in the bushes was one
of the largest young men she had ever seen in her life.

"Most reprehensible," he repeated. "I'm surprised at you."

"What's that man doing that for?" demanded Oswald.

"I really don't know, dear," said the girl, sternly repressing a
strong desire to laugh. "Do you know you are trespassing?"

"That's why I'm standing on my head."

"But what on earth has that got to do with it?" she cried helplessly.

"Absolutely nothing," he agreed. "Do go on reading."

"But I can't go on reading with you standing on your head. It's
ridiculous."

"There I must beg to disagree," he remarked. "I take up no more room
this way than any other; I don't spoil the acoustics of the wood; in
fact, my position here doesn't affect the situation in the slightest."

"For goodness' sake," cried the girl, beginning to laugh helplessly,
"do get the right way up."

"As you will," said the large young man, resignedly.

In his normal position, he seemed even vaster than before. He was
wearing an old shooting coat and a pair of grey flannel trousers of
great antiquity, and as he rose to his feet he picked up a large
ash-plant stick. He was without a hat, and the sun striking through
the trees glinted on fair, crisp hair. His mouth was big; his nose had
a jink in it--but all the girl could notice were his eyes. Big, brown
eyes they were, steady and clear, and just at the moment bubbling over
with laughter.

"Who on earth are you?" she said at length.

"Prince Charming," he retorted gravely, to see her flush a little and
bite her lip.

"That," she said quietly, "is rather impertinent. As I said before,
you're trespassing; so do you mind going?"

"Strongly," he answered, sitting down on the grass. "In the first
place, I should hate you to think that I meant to be impertinent; in
the second, I want to talk to you."

"But I don't know you," she cried.

"I rather anticipated you might say that," he agreed. "Hence my method
of introducing myself. The ordinary common dictates of humanity
require that you should satisfy yourself that I'm not insane. And that
will take you a long time. May I smoke?"

He held out his case to her, but she shook her head.

"Oswald," she called out. "Don't go too far away."

"His name is Oswald, is it?" said the large young man, lighting a
cigarette. "May I be pardoned for stating that he seems to me a
singularly unpleasant child?"

"He's the most abominable little beast I've ever met," answered the
girl, and he saw that her eyes had suddenly filled with tears.
"He's----"

She broke off abruptly and rose.

"You must really go away," she said. "You don't understand."

"That's why I'm not going away," he answered. "I want to understand."

"He'll sneak to his mother about this--sneak in a beastly sort of way."

"Are you his----"

"I'm his governess," she broke in defiantly. "And if it wasn't that
I've got to, I'd sooner beg in the streets than have anything to do
with these horrors."

"I like the way you said 'horrors,'" he said, with a smile. "I must
make their acquaintance. The Oliver Samuelsons, aren't they?"

"Yes. You know this part of the country, do you?"

"Slightly," he answered gravely. "This is Lord Ladbroke's place, isn't
it?"

"Yes. He's abroad. And he let Ladbroke Towers to them for five years.
They've been here a year now."

"I gather from your tone that you think that a year too long."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It's nothing to do with me. They'd be equally horrible wherever they
were. But it makes me wild to think of a wonderful old place like this
being let to such people."

"Miss Delmont, may I ask for an explanation?"

They both turned round to find a short, stout woman regarding them
through lorgnettes.

"Where is Oswald? And who is this person?"

"He was here a moment ago, Mrs. Samuelson," said the girl, flushing,
and wondering if her last remark had been heard. "He can't be far
away."

"How often have I told you, Miss Delmont, about his getting lost?"

"Not much danger of that," said the large young man gravely. "Anyone
finding him would return him at once."

For one moment the lorgnettes quivered. Was it conceivable that this
unknown and badly-dressed young man intended anything by that remark?
But no; she dismissed the idea.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"At the moment, just standing on my feet," he answered. "But I can
quite easily stand on my head, if you like. In fact, I prefer it."

"You must be mad," she gasped, as the large young man promptly
proceeded to do so.

"Far from it," he answered happily. "Why don't you try it yourself?"

A choking sound came from Molly Delmont, instantly suppressed as the
voice she dreaded most in the world came from behind her shoulder.

"Hullo! What's all this? What's that fool doing there?"

The large young man resumed his normal position, and stared at the
newcomer. That sudden stiffening of the girl had not escaped his
notice, and the reason thereof did not seem hard to find. With eyes in
which there was no longer laughter, he took in every detail of the man
confronting him--the coarse neck, the hairy hands, the sensual
mouth--and what he saw was not good.

"Thought that would bring you to your senses," sneered the other. "You
don't mind frightening women, but when a man comes along----" He
shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "Get off this land, or I'll
have you run off."

The large young man smiled.

"I'm going. And you're quite right--it was entirely your appearance
that brought me this way up. I could see your legs far too well
before."

"What the devil do you mean?" snarled the other thickly.

"Your tailor ought to know better," said the large young man placidly.
"To send you out in plus fours is an outrage on public decency, and a
probable cause of civil riot."

The next moment he was gone.

"Doubtless somewhat rude," he murmured to himself as he strolled along
towards the road. "But how pleasant. Great Heavens! the half of these
people hath not been told me."

And then, somehow or other, the Oliver Samuelsons faded from his mind,
and the picture of a girl with blue-grey eyes that were filled with
tears replaced them.

"So there are no Prince Charmings to-day, aren't there?" He
apostrophized a squirrel that was regarding him from a tree. And then
he thought of the face he contemplated every morning when shaving.
"True, O Queen! I suppose you're right."

He stepped out on to the road, and stood a moment thinking. There
remained to be seen the father and daughter, and the large young man
was cogitating on the best method of bolting that particular badger
when he saw a car come out of the lodge gates some four hundred yards
away.

It came rapidly towards him, raising a cloud of dust behind it, and
his keen eyes saw at once that a man was sitting beside the driver. It
might be or it might not, he reflected, and since from earliest
infancy he had always believed in taking a chance, he stepped without
further ado into the centre of the road and stood there waving his
hands. There came a harsh scraping of brakes and the car pulled up.
Whereupon the large young man leant upon the bonnet and realized that
the chance had come off. Seated beside the chauffeur was the head of
the family of Oliver Samuelsons.

"You were exceeding the speed limit," said the large young man
accusingly.

Mr. Oliver Samuelson turned a deep magenta.

"What the----? Who the----?" he spluttered. "Are you in the police?"

"No," conceded the other. "I am not in the police. But, as a
law-abiding citizen, I felt impelled to reason with you. Once start on
the downward path of sin, and you'd be setting fire to churches next.
It's a fearful thing to set fire to a church, you know."

"Do you mean to say," howled the infuriated owner of the car, "that
you had the confounded impertinence to stand in the middle of the road
and wave your arms merely to tell me that I was exceeding the speed
limit?"

"Far from it," said the large young man. "But this is my only suiting,
and you were making such an infernal dust. Besides, I wanted to meet
you."

"You wanted to meet me?" spluttered the other.

"And now that I have, I don't ever want to do so again."

The large young man came round and stood by the door of the car, and
his face was very close to that of Mr. Oliver Samuelson.

"You miserable medicine-monger," he said grimly, "how dared you sack
Rodgers? You, who couldn't hit a sitting cat at five yards."

Then he stepped back.

"Don't let me detain you any more. If you're catching a train, I hope
you've missed it."

He watched the car drive off, and after a while he strolled on slowly
in the same direction.

"I have now seen eighty per cent. of the family," he murmured
thoughtfully. "I will take the daughter on trust."

                  *       *       *       *       *

"Well, Tiny--was I right?"

The large young man finished his whisky and soda and placed the empty
glass on the table beside him with some deliberation.

"My dear old Bimbo," he remarked, "unless with mine own eyes I had
seen them, I would not have believed them possible. But--and this is
the point--if it was only that, I wouldn't feel justified in taking any
further steps. After all, they cannot help their appearance, and old
Samuelson had a perfect right to refuse to cancel the lease and quit."

"You've heard from your lawyer definitely on that point?"

"I was in London when the answer arrived," said the other. "Bimbo--they
must go. Alexa, you tell me, was rude enough to say that I'd got 'em
again when you read her my letter. Well--it's cut and dried: I heard
two days ago. There's gold where I've been, and workable tin--and it's
mine. Even if I'm not a millionaire, I've got ample to keep the place
going. And, as I said before--the Oliver Samuelsons must go."

The Duke of Ledmonton thoughtfully lit a cigarette.

"How do you propose to do it?"

"That, old boy, shall be revealed in due course. But there's one thing
I can tell you now. Alexa and you will have to assist."

The large young man turned round as he got to the door.

"Have you seen the perfectly glorious girl with blue-grey eyes, whose
job in life is to look after Oswald?"

"Who on earth is Oswald?" spluttered the other.

But he spoke to an empty room: the large young man had already
departed on his more or less lawful occasions. Not that it mattered
much to him whether they were lawful or not: all that he cared about
was that they should be secret. And so it was with a distinct
appearance of stealth that, as dusk was falling, he approached a
certain building hidden in the woods some quarter of a mile from
Ladbroke Towers. It was an old chapel, which, owing to lack of money,
had been allowed to fall into disrepair.

It was a gloomy spot, and as he opened the door the air inside struck
dank on his face. But the large young man never hesitated; closing the
door carefully behind him, he disappeared into the gloom beside the
altar. And then there came a sudden click, and the chapel was empty.

Half an hour later another click might have been heard, as the large
young man, with a faint smile on his face, stepped back into the
chapel. And then with startling abruptness the smile faded and was
replaced by something very different.

"You brute; you brute--let me go!"

"Not much, my dear," came in a coarse, triumphant voice. "You're
altogether too pretty. I'm going to have a kiss."

Which, unfortunately for the heir of the Oliver Samuelsons, was where
he was wrong. What he did have was a vague sort of feeling that a
thing like a steam-hammer had met his face; a further vague sort of
feeling that the back of his head was being used as a pile-driver on a
stone floor--and then oblivion.

"Good Heavens! You haven't killed him, have you?"

Molly Delmont gazed at the motionless figure on the floor, and then
looked up, a little shyly, at the man who stood beside her.

"I fear not," said her companion gravely. "I think his jaw is broken,
but that's all."

"Where did you come from?" cried the girl.

"I told you this morning that fairy tales were not extinct," said the
large young man with a smile. "I just appeared because you wanted me."

For a moment or two he stared straight into her eyes--stared until
hers, misty and shining in the dim light, fell before his.

"I don't understand," she said, a little nervously. "What are you
doing here?"

"What are you?" he countered.

"I often come here," she answered. "And this evening that brute
followed me. What are we going to do about him?"

"Leave him where he is to cool," he said calmly. He took her by the
arm and gently forced her towards the door. "I don't particularly want
him to recognize me when he comes to--so let's go."

"But who are you?" she insisted.

"Well, you didn't like Prince Charming," he answered gravely. "So
shall we cite another fairy story--Beauty and the Beast?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, and the large young man saw the
colour rise in her cheeks. "I do wish you'd tell me what you were
doing in there."

"I will, if you promise not to pass it on."

"Of course I promise," she said, eagerly.

"I was seeking a method of ridding the locality of the Oliver
Samuelsons."

"In that chapel?" she said incredulously, and the large young man
nodded.

"In that chapel," he repeated.

"Well, you'll never do it," answered the girl. "They got a letter only
the other day from some lawyer in London asking them if they would
cancel the lease, and they were furious. The old man is as stubborn as
a mule. And, anyway"--she added curiously--"what on earth has it got to
do with you?"

"What do you bet I don't do it?" he said, ignoring her last question.

"Anything you like."

"I shall hold you to that," he said quickly. "And now I'm going. But
don't forget one thing. If that swine in there gives you any more
trouble, or if you want me at any time, drop me a line to--to----"

He hesitated for a moment or two.

"To Ely View Cottage," he concluded. "It's on the Duke of Ledmonton's
place. Address it care of Mr. Rodgers."

"Is that the man Mr. Samuelson sacked?" she said.

"It is. The Duke let him have a spare cottage on his place."

"You know Mr. Rodgers?"

"Very well indeed," said the large young man.

"And that's why you're doing this. To pay out the Samuelsons." With a
sudden little nervous movement she put her hand on his arm. "Do be
careful. I'd like to see them paid out; they deserve it. But they're
vindictive--and if they find out--Oh! you see they've got money, and you
haven't--And it's money that counts."

"Not in fairy stories," he interrupted gravely. "Then--it's only love."

And before she could think of anything further to say, he was gone.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Exactly how the fact that the Duke and Duchess of Ledmonton would
accept an invitation to dinner, should one be received from the
Samuelson family, became known to Mrs. Samuelson is one of life's
little mysteries. Perhaps it was due to a conversation between the
large young man and little Mrs. Carlton, which caused that charming
lady to laugh immoderately and then go and call at Ladbroke Towers.
Certain it is that some three weeks after the use of Mr. Samuelson
junior's head as a pile-driver, invitations had gone forth far and
wide requesting the county to dine, and, to Molly Delmont's stunned
surprise, they had all been accepted.

"It's amazing," she said to the large young man, whom she had happened
to meet--not, strangely enough, for the first time--in the ruined
chapel. "The whole bunch are coming to-night."

"It should be an amusing evening," he remarked gravely. "How is our
friend's jaw?"

"He's been in London ever since you hit him," she said happily. "But I
have no doubt he'll be back this afternoon. And, incidentally, what
about your bet now? This dinner will be the culminating moment of
their lives. They have arrived. The only way to get rid of them after
this will be to burn down the house."

"You have got the most angelic dimple," said the large young man
earnestly. "But apart from that, I shall be there."

"You'll be there? What do you mean?"

"Fairy story again," he answered. "The invisible man."

And certainly there was no sign of him that evening when the guests
had assembled in the hall, which was hardly surprising in view of the
fact that Molly had written out the invitations herself. But he was
such an amazing individual that she half expected suddenly to see him
standing on his head at the top of the stairs, or popping up through
the table at dinner.

He intrigued her so vastly, did that large young man. Rodgers' nephew,
so the worthy gamekeeper had told her, but still----. Of all the perfect
dears she had ever met----!

What made her feel so nervous was the fear that he would do something
rash. He was just the type who wouldn't care, and she'd hate it if
anything happened to him. And it was as she reached that stage in her
reflections that a loud, raucous laugh came from somewhere up in the
ceiling. A sudden silence settled on the table, and everyone peered up
into the dimness of the lofty dining-room.

"Good evening, Duchess," came in a harsh, metallic voice. "How are the
corns to-night? Samuelson's Certain Cure works wonders. Soak the feet
in hot water, at the same time consuming one of Samuelson's Perfect
Pink Powders."

Molly stole an aghast look at the Duchess, to find to her amazement
that she was apparently shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

"I would like to take this opportunity," continued the voice, "of
bringing to the notice of this august company all my wonderful
medicines. As a family we admit frankly that our habits are awful and
our appearance vile. That, however, does not alter the fact that we
can eradicate eczema, intimidate itch, and paralyse pimples. In proof
of this, ladies and gentlemen, a small box of my omnipotent ointment
will be presented free, gratis, and for nothing, to each of you on
your departure to-night. I thank you for your kind attention."

"Good evening, Duchess. How are the corns?"

"Good God!" howled Mr. Samuelson. "It's starting again."

                  *       *       *       *       *

The next day every servant was sacked: that evening at dinner, when
only the family were present, the most lurid revelations descended
upon their heads from the ceiling.

The following day an army of workmen appeared, with orders to discover
the accursed thing or perish in the attempt. Hardly were their ladders
in position when the family lawyer, whose golf still maintained its
erstwhile brilliance, was announced.

"You will bear in mind, Mr. Samuelson," he said suavely, "that I
cannot allow any tearing down of walls. I should regard that as a
structural alteration, which would automatically cancel your lease."

The day after, the workmen having departed, Mr. Oliver Samuelson
locked the dining-room door, and ordained that they should feed
elsewhere. That afternoon, from far and near, came callers in ones and
twos, in threes and fours, demanding with oaths and curses, with
prayers and blandishments, to be allowed to hear the ghost. And even
as they paused outside the door came the voice, muffled, it is true,
but quite distinct: "Have you tried my purple pills?"

Then the papers got hold of it, and reporters descended in hordes. A
prominent member of the Society for Psychical Research gave it as his
considered opinion that it was Mr. Samuelson's ectoplasm giving tongue
from the roof--or words to that effect.

And finally, Mrs. Samuelson's nerve broke. She flatly refused to
remain one day longer in the house. And her progeny backed her. It was
the end. Beaten all along the line, the Oliver Samuelsons returned to
their pristine obscurity, and with their departure silence came to the
dining-room. No more could one hear the merits of the omnipotent
ointment extolled: no longer were the habits of the Samuelson family
pointedly discussed.

The prominent member of the Society for Psychical Research claimed
that it proved his point: the reporters denounced the whole thing as
an advertising stunt that had misfired: the county breathed freely
again: and the vast young man emerged one morning from the ruined
chapel bearing in his arms a gramophone and several records.

"There used," he explained to Molly Delmont, who was waiting for him
outside, "to be a musicians' gallery in the dining-room, from which a
secret passage ran to the chapel. The gallery has been removed, but
the passage still remains. And that's that."

"But how did you know?" she asked.

"I was sort of brought up on the place, you see," he said gravely.
"But don't let's worry about that. All that matters is that I've won
my bet. And, you remember, don't you, what the wager was for?"

"No, I don't," she said, looking away.

"Anything I liked," he answered softly.

And suddenly she found both her hands in his.

"Molly, you know what I want."

"But, my dear," she cried, "it's madness. I haven't got a penny. What
should we live on?"

"Don't be basely utilitarian," he laughed. "I love you. That's all
that matters in a fairy story. Except one thing. You've got to love
me."

"Idiot," she whispered.

"Do you, darling, do you?"

"Of course, we're both qualifying for an asylum," she said helplessly.
"But I do: I can't help it. I take back what I said about there being
no Prince Charmings."

And still he looked at her gravely, but with a wonderful light in his
eyes.

"You darling," he said. "You darling. Molly--haven't you guessed? I'm
not Rodgers' nephew. And it wasn't for his sake that I drove those
people into outer darkness, but for yours and mine. We must have
somewhere to live. And I thought the old place would do."

"So you're Lord Ladbroke," she said, slowly.

"Terrible thing to have to admit," he answered. "But I am. Moreover,
we have a custom in our family. Every Ladbroke carries his bride
through the front door when she first arrives--and kisses her. I've
just invented a new one. In future, every Ladbroke will carry the girl
he is going to marry through the chapel door--and kiss her. The custom
starts now."

"But, my dear," she whispered. "I don't even know your name."

"Just Beauty and the Beast, darling. Though most people call me Tiny."

Half an hour later the new custom was still being rehearsed.




V -- THE HORROR AT STAVELEY GRANGE


I

"A fact pointing in a certain direction is just a fact: two pointing
in the same direction become a coincidence: three--and you begin to get
into the regions of certainty. But you must be very sure of your
facts."

Thus ran Ronald Standish's favourite dictum: and it was the
astonishing skill with which he seemed to be able to sort out the
facts that mattered from the mass of irrelevant detail, and having
sorted them out, to interpret them correctly, that had earned him his
reputation as a detective of quite unusual ability.

There is no doubt that had he been under the necessity of earning his
own livelihood, he would have risen to a very high position at
Scotland Yard; or, if he had chosen to set up on his own, that his
career would have been assured. But not being under any such
necessity, his gifts were known only to a small circle of friends and
acquaintances. Moreover, he was apt to treat the matter as rather a
joke--as an interesting recreation more than a serious business. He
regarded it in much the same light as solving a chess problem or an
acrostic.

In appearance he was about as unlike the conventional detective as it
is possible to be. Of medium height, he was inclined to be thick-set.
His face was ruddy, with a short, closely-clipped moustache--and in his
eyes there shone a perpetual twinkle. In fact most people on first
meeting him took him for an Army officer. He was a first-class man to
hounds, and an excellent shot; a cricketer who might easily have
become first class had he devoted enough time to it, and a scratch
golfer. And last, but not least, he was a man of very great personal
strength without a nerve in his body.

This, then, was the man who sat opposite to me in a first-class
carriage of a Great Western express on the way to Devonshire. On the
spur of the moment that morning, I had rung him up at his club in
London--on the spur of the moment he had thrown over a week's cricket,
and arranged to come with me to Exeter. And now that we were actually
in the train, I began to wonder if I had brought him on a wild-goose
chase. I took the letter out of my pocket--the letter that had been the
cause of our journey, and read it through once again.

  "Dear Tony," it ran, "I am perfectly distracted with worry and
  anxiety. I don't know whether you saw it in the papers, and it's
  such ages since we met, but I'm engaged to Billy Mansford. And
  we're in the most awful trouble. Haven't you got a friend or
  someone you once told me about who solves mysteries and things?
  Do, for pity's sake, get hold of him and bring him down here to
  stay. I'm nearly off my head with it all--Your distracted Molly."

I laid the letter on my knee and stared out of the window. Somehow or
other I couldn't picture pretty little Molly Tremayne, the gayest and
most feckless girl in the world, as being off her head over anything.
And having only recently returned from Brazil I had not heard of her
engagement--nor did I know anything about the man she was engaged to.
But as I say, I rang up Standish on the spur of the moment, and a
little to my surprise he had at once accepted.

He leant over at that moment, and took the letter off my knee.

"The Old Hall," he remarked thoughtfully. Then he took a big-scale
ordnance map from his pocket and began to study it.

"Three miles approximately from Staveley Grange."

"Staveley Grange," I said, staring at him. "What has Staveley Grange
got to do with the matter?"

"I should imagine--everything," he answered. "You've been out of the
country, Tom, and so you're a bit behindhand. But you may take it from
me that it was not the fact that your Molly was distracted that made
me give up an excellent I.Z. tour. It was the fact that she is engaged
to Mr. William Mansford."

"Never heard of him," I said. "Who and what is he?"

"He is the younger and only surviving son of the late Mr. Robert
Mansford," he answered thoughtfully. "Six months ago the father was
alive--also Tom, the elder son. Five months ago the father died: two
months ago Tom died. And the circumstances of their deaths were, to
put it mildly, peculiar."

"Good heavens!" I cried, "this is all news to me."

"Probably," he answered. "The matter attracted very little attention.
But you know my hobby, and it was the coincidence of the two things
that attracted my attention. I only know, of course, what appeared in
the papers--and that wasn't very much. Mansford senior and both his
sons had apparently spent most of their lives in Australia. The two
boys came over with the Anzacs, and a couple of years or so after the
war they all decided to come back to England. And so he bought
Staveley Grange. He had gone a poor man of distinctly humble origin:
he returned as a wealthy Australian magnate. Nine months after he
stepped into the house he was found dead in his bed in the morning by
the butler. He was raised up on his pillows and he was staring fixedly
at a top corner of the room by one of the windows. And in his hand he
held the speaking tube which communicated with the butler's room. A
post-mortem revealed nothing, and the verdict was that he had died of
heart failure. In view of the fact that most people do die of heart
failure, the verdict was fairly safe."

Ronald Standish lit a cigarette.

"That was five months ago. Two months ago, one of the footmen coming
in in the morning was horrified to find Tom sprawling across the rail
at the foot of the bed--stone dead. He had taken over his father's
room, and had retired the previous night in the best of health and
spirits. Again there was a post-mortem--again nothing was revealed. And
again the same verdict was given--heart failure. Of course, the
coincidence was commented on in the press, but there the matter
rested, at any rate as far as the newspapers were concerned. And
therefore that is as much as I know. This letter looks as if further
developments were taking place."

"What an extraordinary affair," I remarked, as he finished. "What sort
of men physically were the father and Tom?"

"According to the papers," answered Standish, "they were two
singularly fine specimens. Especially Tom."

Already we were slowing down for Exeter, and we began gathering our
suitcases and coats preparatory to alighting. I leant out of the
window as we ran into the station, having wired Molly our time of
arrival, and there she was sure enough, with a big, clean-cut man
standing beside her, who, I guessed, must be her fianc. So, in fact,
it proved, and a moment or two later we all walked out of the station
together towards the waiting motor car. And it was as I passed the
ticket collector that I got the first premonition of trouble. Two men
standing on the platform, who looked like well-to-do farmers,
whispered together a little significantly as Mansford passed them, and
stared after him with scarcely veiled hostility in their eyes.

On the way to the Old Hall, I studied him under cover of some
desultory conversation with Molly. He was a typical Australian of the
best type: one of those open-air, clear-eyed men who came over in
their thousands to Gallipoli and France. But it seemed to me that his
conversation with Ronald was a little forced: underlying it was a
vague uneasiness--a haunting fear of something or other. And I thought
he was studying my friend with a kind of desperate hope tinged with
disappointment, as if he had been building on Ronald's personality and
now was unsatisfied.

That some such idea was in Molly's mind I learned as we got out of the
car. For a moment or two we were alone, and she turned to me with a
kind of desperate eagerness.

"Is he very clever, Tom--your friend? Somehow I didn't expect him to
look quite like that!"

"You may take it from me, Molly," I said reassuringly, "that there are
very few people in Europe who can see further into a brick wall than
Ronald. But he knows nothing, of course, as to what the trouble is--any
more than I do. And you mustn't expect him to work miracles."

"Of course not," she answered. "But oh! Tom--it's--it's--damnable."

We went into the house and joined Standish and Mansford, who were in
the hall.

"You'd like to go up to your rooms," began Molly, but Ronald cut her
short with a grave smile.

"I think, Miss Tremayne," he said quietly, "that it will do you both
good to get this little matter off your chests as soon as possible.
Bottling things up is no good, and there's some time yet before
dinner."

The girl gave him a quick smile of gratitude and led the way across
the hall.

"Let's go into the billiard room," she said. "Daddy is pottering round
the garden, and you can meet him later. Now, Billy," she continued,
when we were comfortably settled, "tell Mr. Standish all about it."

"Right from the very beginning, please," said Ronald, stuffing an
empty pipe in his mouth. "The reasons that caused your father to take
Staveley Grange and everything."

Bill Mansford gave a slight start.

"You know something about us already then."

"Something," answered Ronald briefly. "I want to know all."

"Well," began the Australian, "I'll tell you all I know. But there are
many gaps I can't fill in. When we came back from Australia two years
ago, we naturally gravitated to Devonshire. My father came from these
parts, and he wanted to come back after his thirty years' absence. Of
course he found everything changed, but he insisted on remaining here
and we set about looking for a house. My father was a wealthy man--very
wealthy, and his mind was set on getting something good. A little
pardonable vanity perhaps--but having left England practically
penniless to return almost a millionaire--he was determined to get what
he wanted regardless of cost. And it was after we had been here about
six months that Staveley Grange came quite suddenly on to the market.
It happened in rather a peculiar way. Some people of the name of
Bretherton had it, and had been living there for about three years.
They had bought it, and spent large sums of money on it: introduced a
large number of modern improvements, and at the same time preserved
all the old appearance. Then as I say, quite suddenly, they left the
house and threw it on the market.

"Well, it was just what we wanted. We all went over it, and found it
even more perfect than we had anticipated. The man who had been butler
to the Brethertons was in charge, and when we went over, he and his
wife were living there alone. We tried to pump them as to why the
Brethertons had gone, but they appeared to know no more than we did.
The butler--Templeton--was a charming old bird with side-whiskers; his
wife, who had been doing cook, was a rather timorous-looking little
woman--but a damned good cook.

"Anyway, the long and short of it was, we bought the place. The figure
was stiff, but my father could afford it. And it was not until we
bought it, that we heard in a roundabout way the reason of the
Brethertons' departure. It appeared that old Mrs. Bretherton woke up
one night in screaming hysterics, and alleged that a dreadful thing
was in the room with her. What it was she wouldn't say, except to
babble foolishly about a shining, skinny hand that had touched her.
Her husband and various maids came rushing in, and of course the room
was empty. There was nothing there at all. The fact of it was that the
old lady had had lobster for dinner--and a nightmare afterwards. At
least," added Mansford slowly, "that's what we thought at the time."

He paused to light a cigarette.

"Well--we gathered that nothing had been any good. Templeton proved a
little more communicative once we were in, and from him we found out,
that in spite of every argument and expostulation on the part of old
Bretherton, the old lady flatly refused to live in the house for
another minute. She packed up her boxes and went off the next day with
her maid to some hotel in Exeter, and nothing would induce her to set
foot inside the house again. Old Bretherton was livid."

Mansford smiled grimly.

"But--he went, and we took the house. The room that old Mrs. Bretherton
had had was quite the best bedroom in the house, and my father decided
to use it as his own. He came to that decision before we knew anything
about this strange story, though even if we had, he'd still have used
the room. My father was not the man to be influenced by an elderly
woman's indigestion and subsequent nightmare. And when bit by bit we
heard the yarn, he merely laughed, as did my brother and myself.

"And then one morning it happened. It was Templeton who broke the news
to us with an ashen face, and his voice shaking so that we could
hardly make out what he said. I was shaving at the time, I remember,
and when I'd taken in what he was trying to say, I rushed along the
passage to my father's room with the soap still lathered on my chin.
The poor old man was sitting up in bed propped against the pillows.
His left arm was flung half across his face as if to ward off
something that was coming: his right hand was grasping the
speaking-tube beside the bed. And in his wide-open, staring eyes was a
look of dreadful terror."

He paused as if waiting for some comment or question, but Ronald still
sat motionless, with his empty pipe in his mouth. And after a while
Mansford continued:

"There was a post-mortem, as perhaps you may have seen in the papers,
and they found my father had died from heart failure. But my father's
heart, Mr. Standish, was as sound as mine, and neither my brother nor
I were satisfied. For weeks he and I sat up in that room, taking it in
turns to go to sleep, to see if we could see anything--but nothing
happened. And at last we began to think that the verdict was right,
and that the poor old man had died of natural causes. I went back to
my own room, and Tom--my brother--stayed on in my father's room. I tried
to dissuade him, but he was an obstinate fellow, and he had an idea
that if he slept there alone he might still perhaps get to the bottom
of it. He had a revolver by his side, and Tom was a man who could hit
the pip out of the ace of diamonds at ten yards. Well, for a week
nothing happened. And then one night I stayed chatting with him for a
few moments in his room before going to bed. That was the last time I
saw him alive. One of the footmen came rushing in to me the next
morning, with a face like a sheet--and before he spoke I knew what must
have happened. It was perhaps a little foolish of me--but I dashed past
him while he was still stammering at the door--and went to my brother's
room."

"Why foolish?" said Standish quietly.

"Some people at the inquest put a false construction on it," answered
Mansford steadily. "They wanted to know why I made that assumption
before the footman told me."

"I see," said Standish. "Go on."

"I went into the room, and there I found him. In one hand he held the
revolver, and he was lying over the rail at the foot of the bed. The
blood had gone to his head, and he wasn't a pretty sight. He was dead,
of course--and once again the post-mortem revealed nothing. He also was
stated to have died of heart failure. But he didn't, Mr. Standish."
Mansford's voice shook a little. "As there's a God above, I swear Tom
never died of heart failure. Something happened in that room--something
terrible occurred there which killed my father and brother as surely
as a bullet through the brain. And I've _got_ to find out what it was:
I've _got_ to, you understand--because"--and here his voice faltered for
a moment, and then grew steady again--"because there are quite a number
of people who suspect me of having murdered them both."

"Naturally," said Standish, in his most matter-of-fact tone. "When a
man comes into a lot of money through the sudden death of two people,
there are certain to be lots of people who will draw a connection
between the two events."

He stood up and faced Mansford.

"Are the police still engaged on it?"

"Not openly," answered the other. "But I know they're working at it
still. And I can't and won't marry Molly with this cloud hanging over
my head. I've got to disprove it."

"Yes, but, my dear, it's no good to me if you disprove it by being
killed yourself," cried the girl. Then she turned to Ronald. "That's
where we thought that perhaps you could help us, Mr. Standish. If only
you can clear Billy's name, why----"

She clasped her hands together beseechingly, and Standish gave her a
reassuring smile.

"I'll try, Miss Tremayne--I can't do more than that. And now I think
we'll get to business at once. I want to examine that bedroom."


II

Ronald Standish remained sunk in thought during the drive to Staveley
Grange. Molly had not come with us, and neither Mansford nor I felt
much inclined to conversation. He, poor devil, kept searching Ronald's
face with a sort of pathetic eagerness, almost as if he expected the
mystery to be already solved.

And then, just as we were turning into the drive, Ronald spoke for the
first time.

"Have you slept in that room since your brother's death, Mansford?"

"No," answered the other, a little shamefacedly. "To tell the truth,
Molly extracted a promise from me that I wouldn't."

"Wise of her," said Standish tersely, and relapsed into silence again.

"But you don't think----" began Mansford.

"I think nothing," snapped Standish, and at that moment the car drew
up at the door.

It was opened by an elderly man with side whiskers, whom I placed as
the butler--Templeton. He was a typical, old-fashioned manservant of
the country-house type, and he bowed respectfully when Mansford told
him what we had come for.

"I am thankful to think there is any chance, sir, of clearing up this
terrible mystery," he said earnestly. "But I fear, if I may say so,
that the matter is beyond earthly hands." His voice dropped, to
prevent the two footmen overhearing. "We have prayed, sir, my wife and
I, but there are more things in heaven and earth than we can account
for. You wish to go to the room, sir? It is unlocked."

He led the way up the stairs and opened the door.

"Everything, sir, is as it was on the morning when Mr. Tom--er--died.
Only the bedclothes have been removed."

He bowed again and left the room, closing the door.

"Poor old Templeton," said Mansford. "He's convinced that we are
dealing with a ghost. Well, here's the room, Standish--just as it was.
As you see, there's nothing very peculiar about it."

Ronald made no reply. He was standing in the centre of the room taking
in the first general impression of his surroundings. He was completely
absorbed, and I made a warning sign to Mansford not to speak. The
twinkle had left his eyes: his expression was one of keen
concentration. And, after a time, knowing the futility of speech, I
began to study the place on my own account.

It was a big, square room, with a large double bed of the
old-fashioned type. Over the bed was a canopy, made fast to the two
bedposts at the head, and supported at the foot by two wires attached
to the two corners of the canopy and two staples let into the wall
above the windows. The bed itself faced the windows, of which there
were two, placed symmetrically in the wall opposite, with a writing
table in between them. The room was on the first floor in the centre
of the house, and there was thus only one outside wall--that facing the
bed. A big open fireplace and a lavatory basin with water laid on
occupied most of one wall; two long built-in cupboards filled up the
other. Beside the bed, on the fireplace side, stood a small table,
with a special clip attached to the edge for the speaking-tube. In
addition there stood on this table a thing not often met with in a
private house in England. It was a small, portable electric fan, such
as one finds on board ship or in the tropics.

There were two or three easy chairs standing on the heavy pile carpet,
and the room was lit by electric light. In fact the whole tone was
solid comfort, not to say luxury; it looked the last place in the
world with which one would have associated anything ghostly or
mysterious.

Suddenly Ronald Standish spoke.

"Just show me, will you, Mansford, as nearly as you can, exactly the
position in which you found your father."

With a slight look of repugnance, the Australian got on to the bed.

"There were bedclothes, of course, and pillows which are not here now,
but allowing for them, the poor old man was hunched up somehow like
this. His knees were drawn up: the speaking-tube was in his hand, and
he was staring towards that window."

"I see," said Standish. "The window on the right as we look at it. And
your brother now. When he was found he was lying over the rail at the
foot of the bed. Was he on the right side or the left?"

"On the right," said Mansford, "almost touching the upright."

Once again Standish relapsed into silence and stared thoughtfully
round the room. The setting sun was pouring in through the windows,
and suddenly he gave a quick exclamation. We both glanced at him and
he was staring up at the ceiling with a keen, intent look on his face.
The next moment he had climbed on to the bed, and, standing up, he
examined the two wire stays which supported the canopy. He touched
each of them in turn, and began to whistle under his breath. It was a
sure sign that he had stumbled on something, but I knew him far too
well to make any comment at that stage of the proceedings.

"Very strange," he remarked at length, getting down and lighting a
cigarette.

"What is?" asked Mansford eagerly.

"The vagaries of sunlight," answered Standish, with an enigmatic
smile. He was pacing up and down the room smoking furiously, only to
stop suddenly and stare again at the ceiling.

"It's the clue," he said slowly. "It's the clue to everything. It must
be. Though what that everything is I know no more than you. Listen,
Mansford, and pay careful attention. This trail is too old to follow:
in sporting parlance the scent is too faint. We've got to get it
renewed: we've got to get your ghost to walk again. Now I've only the
wildest suspicions to go on, but I have a feeling that that ghost will
be remarkably shy of walking if there are strangers about. I'm just
gambling on one very strange fact--so strange as to make it impossible
to be an accident. When you go downstairs I shall adopt the rle of
advising you to have this room shut up. You will laugh at me, and
announce your intention of sleeping in this room to-night. You will
insist on clearing this matter up. Tom and I will go, and we shall
return later to the grounds, where I see there is some very good
cover. You will come to bed here--you will get into bed and switch out
the light. You will give it a quarter of an hour, and then you will
drop out of the window and join us. And we shall see if anything
happens."

"But if we're all outside, how can we?" cried Mansford.

Standish smiled grimly. "You may take it from me," he remarked, "that
if my suspicions are correct the ghost will leave a trail. And it's
the trail I'm interested in--not the ghost. Let's go and don't forget
your part."

"But, my God! Standish--can't you tell me a little more?"

"I don't know any more to tell you," answered Standish gravely. "All I
can say is--as you value your life don't fall asleep in this room. And
don't breathe a word of this conversation to a soul."

Ten minutes later he and I were on our way back to the Old Hall. True
to his instructions Mansford had carried out his rle admirably, as we
came down the stairs and stood talking in the hall. He gave it to be
understood that he was damned if he was going to let things drop: that
if Standish had no ideas on the matter--well, he was obliged to him for
the trouble he had taken--but from now on he was going to take the
matter into his own hands. And he proposed to start that night. He had
turned to one of the footmen standing by, and had given instructions
for the bed to be made up, while Ronald had shrugged his shoulders and
shaken his head.

"Understandable, Mansford," he remarked, "but unwise. My advice to you
is to have that room shut up."

And the old butler, shutting the door of the car, had fully agreed.

"Obstinate, sir," he whispered, "like his father. Persuade him to have
it shut up, sir--if you can. I'm afraid of that room--afraid of it."

"You think something will happen to-night, Ronald," I said as we
turned into the Old Hall.

"I don't know, Tom," he said slowly. "I'm utterly in the dark--utterly.
And if the sun hadn't been shining to-day while we were in that room,
I shouldn't have even the faint glimmer of light I've got now. But
when you've got one bit of a jig-saw, it saves trouble to let the
designer supply you with a few more."

And more than that he refused to say. Throughout dinner he talked
cricket with old Tremayne: after dinner he played him at billiards.
And it was not until eleven o'clock that he made a slight sign to me,
and we both said good-night.

"No good anyone knowing, Tom," he said as we went upstairs. "It's an
easy drop from my window to the ground. We'll walk to Staveley
Grange."

The church clock in the little village close by was striking midnight
as we crept through the undergrowth towards the house. It was a dark
night--the moon was not due to rise for another three hours--and we
finally came to a halt behind a big bush on the edge of the lawn from
which we could see the house clearly. A light was still shining from
the windows of the fatal room, and once or twice we saw Mansford's
shadow as he undressed. Then the light went out, and the house was in
darkness: the vigil had begun.

For twenty minutes or so we waited, and Standish began to fidget
uneasily.

"Pray heavens! he hasn't forgotten and gone to sleep," he whispered to
me, and even as he spoke he gave a little sigh of relief. A dark
figure was lowering itself out of the window, and a moment or two
later we saw Mansford skirting the lawn. A faint hiss from Standish
and he'd joined us under cover of the bush.

"Everything seemed perfectly normal," he whispered. "I got into bed as
you said--and there's another thing I did too. I've tied a thread
across the door, so that if the ghost goes in that way we'll know."

"Good," said Standish. "And now we can compose ourselves to wait.
Unfortunately we mustn't smoke."

Slowly the hours dragged on, while we took it in turns to watch the
windows through a pair of night glasses. And nothing
happened--absolutely nothing. Once it seemed to me as if a very faint
light--it was more like a lessening of the darkness than an actual
light--came from the room, but I decided it must be my imagination. And
not till nearly five o'clock did Standish decide to go into the room
and explore. His face was expressionless: I couldn't tell whether he
was disappointed or not. But Mansford made no effort to conceal his
feelings: frankly he regarded the whole experiment as a waste of time.

And when the three of us had clambered in by the window he said as
much.

"Absolutely as I left it," he said. "Nothing happened at all."

"Then, for heaven's sake, say so in a whisper," snapped Standish
irritably, as he clambered on to the bed. Once again his objective was
the right hand wire stay of the canopy, and as he touched it he gave a
quick exclamation. But Mansford was paying no attention: he was
staring with puzzled eyes at the electric fan by the bed.

"Now who the devil turned that on," he muttered. "I haven't seen it
working since the morning Tom died." He walked round to the door.
"Say, Standish--that's queer. The thread isn't broken--and that fan
wasn't going when I left the room."

Ronald Standish looked more cheerful.

"Very queer," he said. "And now I think, if I was you, I'd get into
that bed and go to sleep--first removing the thread from the door.
You're quite safe now."

"Quite safe," murmured Mansford. "I don't understand."

"Nor do I--as yet," returned Standish. "But this I will tell you.
Neither your father nor your brother died of heart failure, through
seeing some dreadful sight. They were foully murdered, as, in all
probability you would have been last night had you slept in this
room."

"But who murdered them, and how and why?" said Mansford dazedly.

"That is just what I'm going to find out," answered Standish grimly.

                  *       *       *       *       *

As we came out of the breakfast-room at the Old Hall three hours
later, Standish turned away from us. "I'm going into the garden to
think," he said, "I have a sort of feeling that I'm not being very
clever. For the life of me at the moment I cannot see the connection
between the canopy wire that failed to shine in the sunlight, and the
electric fan that was turned on so mysteriously. I am going to sit
under that tree over there. Possibly the link may come."

He strolled away, and Molly joined me. She was looking worried and
_distraite_, as she slipped her hand through my arm.

"Has he found out anything, Tom?" she asked eagerly. "He seemed so
silent and preoccupied at breakfast."

"He's found out something, Molly," I answered guardedly, "but I'm
afraid he hasn't found out much. In fact, as far as my brain goes it
seems to me to be nothing at all. But he's an extraordinary fellow," I
added, reassuringly.

She gave a little shudder and turned away.

"It's too late, Tom," she said miserably.

"Oh! if only I'd sent for you earlier. But it never dawned on me that
it would come to this. I never dreamed that Bill would be suspected.
He's just telephoned through to me: that horrible man McIver--the
Inspector from Scotland Yard--is up there now. I feel that it's only a
question of time before they arrest him. And though he'll get off--he
must get off if there's such a thing as justice--the suspicion will
stick to him all his life. There will be brutes who will say that
failure to prove that Bill did it, is a very different matter to
proving that he didn't. But I'm going to marry him all the same,
Tom--whatever he says. Of course, I suppose you know that he didn't get
on too well with his father."

"I didn't," I answered. "I know nothing about him except just what
I've seen."

"And the other damnable thing is that he was in some stupid money
difficulty. He'd backed a bill or something for a pal and was let
down, which made his father furious. Of course there was nothing in
it, but the police got hold of it--and twisted it to suit themselves."

"Well, Molly, you may take it from me," I said reassuringly, "that Bob
Standish is certain he had nothing to do with it."

"That's not much good, Tom," she answered with a twisted smile. "So am
I certain, but I can't _prove_ it."

With a little shrug of her shoulders she turned and went indoors,
leaving me to my own thoughts. I could see Standish in the distance,
with his head enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and after a moment's
indecision I started to stroll down the drive towards the lodge. It
struck me that I would do some thinking on my own account, and see if
by any chance I could hit on some solution which would fit the facts.
And the more I thought the more impossible did it appear: the facts at
one's disposal were so terribly meagre.

What horror had old Mansford seen coming at him out of the darkness,
which he had tried to ward off even as he died? And was it the same
thing that had come to his elder son, who had sprung forward revolver
in hand, and died as he sprang? And again, who had turned on the
electric fan? How did that fit in with the deaths of the other two? No
one had come in by the door on the preceding night: no one had got in
by the window. And then suddenly I paused, struck by a sudden idea.
Staveley Grange was an old house--early sixteenth century; just the
type of house to have secret passages and concealed entrances . . .
There must be one into the fatal room: it was obvious.

Through that door there had crept some dreadful thing--some man,
perhaps, and if so the murderer himself--disguised and dressed up to
look awe-inspiring. Phosphorus doubtless had been used--and phosphorus
skilfully applied to a man's face and clothes will make him
sufficiently terrifying at night to strike terror into the stoutest
heart. Especially someone just awakened from sleep. That faint
luminosity which we thought we had seen the preceding night was
accounted for, and I almost laughed at dear old Ronald's stupidity in
not having looked for a secret entrance. I was one up on him this
time.

Mrs. Bretherton's story came back to me--her so-called nightmare--in
which she affirmed she had been touched by a shining skinny hand.
Shining--here lay the clue--the missing link. The arm of the murderer
only was daubed with phosphorus; the rest of his body was in darkness.
And the terrified victim waking suddenly would be confronted with a
ghastly shining arm stretched out to clutch his throat.

A maniac probably--the murderer: a maniac who knew the secret entrance
to Staveley Grange: a homicidal maniac--who had been frightened in his
foul work by Mrs. Bretherton's shrieks, and had fled before she had
shared the same fate as the Mansfords. Then and there I determined to
put my theory in front of Ronald. I felt that I'd stolen a march on
him this time at any rate.

I found him still puffing furiously at his pipe, and he listened in
silence while I outlined my solution with a little pardonable elation.

"Dear old Tom," he said as I finished. "I congratulate you. The only
slight drawback to your idea is that there is no secret door into the
room."

"How do you know that?" I cried. "You hardly looked."

"On the contrary, I looked very closely. I may say that for a short
while I inclined to some such theory as the one you've just put
forward. But as soon as I saw that the room had been papered I
dismissed it at once. As far as the built-in cupboard was concerned,
it was erected by a local carpenter quite recently, and any secret
entrance would have been either blocked over or known to him. Besides
McIver has been in charge of this case--Inspector McIver from Scotland
Yard. Now he and I have worked together before, and I have the very
highest opinion of his ability. His powers of observation are
extraordinary, and if his powers of deduction were as high he would be
in the very first flight. Unfortunately he lacks imagination. But what
I was leading up to was this. If McIver failed to find a secret
entrance, it would be so much waste of time looking for one oneself.
And if he had found one, he wouldn't have been able to keep it dark.
We should have heard about it sharp enough."

"Well, have you got any better idea," I said a little peevishly. "If
there isn't any secret door, how the deuce was that fan turned on?"

"There is such a thing as a two-way switch," murmured Ronald mildly.
"That fan was not turned on from inside the room: it was turned on
from somewhere else. And the person who turned it on was the murderer
of old Mansford and his son."

I stared at him in amazement.

"Then all you've got to do," I cried excitedly, "is to find out where
the other terminal of the two-way switch is? If it's in someone's room
you've got him."

"Precisely, old man. But if it's in a passage, we haven't. And here,
surely, is McIver himself. I wonder how he knew I was here?"

I turned to see a short thick-set man approaching us over the lawn.

"He was up at Staveley Grange this morning," I said. "Mansford
telephoned through to Molly."

"That accounts for it then," remarked Standish, waving his hand at the
detective. "Good-morning, Mac."

"Morning, Mr. Standish," cried the other. "I've just heard that you're
on the track, so I came over to see you."

"Splendid," said Standish. "This is Mr. Belton--a great friend of
mine--who is responsible for my giving up a good week's cricket and
coming down here. He's a friend of Miss Tremayne's."

McIver looked at me shrewdly.

"And therefore of Mr. Mansford's, I see."

"On the contrary," I remarked, "I never met Mr. Mansford before
yesterday.

"I was up at Staveley Grange this morning," said McIver, "and Mr.
Mansford told me you'd all spent the night on the lawn."

I saw Standish give a quick frown, which he instantly suppressed.

"I trust he told you that in private, McIver."

"He did. But why?"

"Because I want it to be thought that he slept in that room," answered
Standish. "We're moving in deep waters, and a single slip at the
present moment may cause a very unfortunate state of affairs."

"In what way?" grunted McIver.

"It might frighten the murderer," replied Standish. "And if he is
frightened, I have my doubts if we shall ever bring the crime home to
him. And if we don't bring the crime home to him, there will always be
people who will say that Mansford had a lot to gain by the deaths of
his father and brother."

"So you think it was murder?" said McIver slowly, looking at Standish
from under his bushy eyebrows.

Ronald grinned. "Yes, I quite agree with you on that point."

"I haven't said what I think!" said the detective.

"True, McIver--perfectly true. You have been the soul of discretion.
But I can hardly think that Scotland Yard would allow themselves to be
deprived of your valuable services for two months while you enjoyed a
rest cure in the country. Neither a ghost nor two natural deaths would
keep you in Devonshire."

McIver laughed shortly.

"Quite right, Mr. Standish. I'm convinced it's murder: it must be. But
frankly speaking, I've never been so absolutely floored in all my
life. Did you find out anything last night?"

Standish lit a cigarette.

"Two very interesting points--two extremely interesting points, I may
say, which I present to you free, gratis and for nothing. One of the
objects of oil is to reduce friction, and one of the objects of an
electric fan is to produce a draught. And both these profound facts
have a very direct bearing on . . ." He paused and stared across the
lawn. "Hullo! here is our friend Mansford in his car. Come to pay an
early call, I suppose."

The Australian was standing by the door talking to his fiance, and
after a glance in their direction, McIver turned back to Ronald.

"Well, Mr. Standish, go on. Both those facts have a direct bearing
on--what?"

But Ronald Standish made no reply. He was staring fixedly at Mansford,
who was slowly coming towards us talking to Molly Tremayne. And as he
came closer, it struck me that there was something peculiar about his
face. There was a dark stain all round his mouth, and every now and
then he pressed the back of his hand against it as if it hurt.

"Well, Standish," he said with a laugh, as he came up, "here's a fresh
development for your ingenuity. Of course," he added, "it can't really
have anything to do with it, but it's damned painful. Look at my
mouth."

"I've been looking at it," answered Ronald. "How did it happen?"

"I don't know. All I can tell you is that about an hour ago it began
to sting like blazes and turn dark red."

And now that he had come closer, I could see that there was a regular
ring all round his mouth, stretching up almost to his nostrils and
down to the cleft in his chin. It was dark and angry-looking, and was
evidently paining him considerably.

"I feel as if I'd been stung by a family of hornets," he remarked.
"You didn't leave any infernal chemical in the telephone, did you,
Inspector McIver?"

"I did not," answered the detective stiffly, to pause in amazement as
Standish uttered a shout of triumph.

"I've got it!" he cried. "The third point--the third elusive point. Did
you go to sleep this morning as I suggested, Mansford?"

"No, I didn't," said the Australian, looking thoroughly mystified. "I
sat up on the bed puzzling over that darned fan for about an hour, and
then I decided to shave. Well, the water in the tap wasn't hot, so----"

"You blew down the speaking-tube to tell someone to bring you some,"
interrupted Standish quietly.

"I did," answered Mansford. "But how the devil did you know?"

"Because one of the objects of a speaking-tube, my dear fellow, is to
speak through. Extraordinary how that simple point escaped me. It only
shows, McIver, what I have invariably said: the most obvious points
are the ones which most easily elude us. Keep your most private papers
loose on your writing-table, and your most valuable possessions in an
unlocked drawer, and you'll never trouble the burglary branch of your
insurance company."

"Most interesting," said McIver with ponderous sarcasm. "Are we to
understand, Mr. Standish, that you have solved the problem?"

"Why, certainly," answered Ronald, and Mansford gave a sharp cry of
amazement. "Oil reduces friction, an electric fan produces a draught,
and a speaking-tube is a tube to speak through secondarily; primarily,
it is just--a tube. For your further thought, McIver, I would suggest
to you that Mrs. Bretherton's digestion was much better than is
popularly supposed, and that a brief perusal of some chemical work,
bearing in mind Mr. Mansford's remarks that he felt as if he'd been
stung by a family of hornets, would clear the air."

"Suppose you cease jesting, Standish," said Mansford a little
brusquely. "What exactly do you mean by all this?"

"I mean that we are up against a particularly clever and ingenious
murderer," answered Standish gravely. "Who he is--I don't know; why
he's done it--I don't know; but one thing I do know--he is a very
dangerous criminal. And we want to catch him in the act. Therefore, I
shall go away to-day; McIver will go away to-day; and you, Mansford,
will sleep in that room again to-night. And this time, instead of you
joining us on the lawn--we shall all join you in the room. Do you
follow me?"

"I follow you," said Mansford excitedly. "And we'll catch him in the
act."

"Perhaps," said Standish quietly. "And perhaps we may have to wait a
week or so. But we'll catch him, provided no one says a word of this
conversation."

"But look here, Mr. Standish," said McIver peevishly, "I'm not going
away to-day. I don't understand all this rigmarole of yours,
and. . . ."

"My very good Mac," laughed Standish, "you trot away and buy a ticket
to London. Then get out at the first stop and return here after dark.
And I'll give you another point to chew the cud over. Mrs. Bretherton
was an elderly and timorous lady, and elderly and timorous ladies, I
am told, put their heads under the bed-clothes if they are frightened.
Mr. Mansford's father and brother were strong virile men, who do not
hide their heads under such circumstances. They died, and Mrs.
Bretherton lived. Think it over--and bring a gun to-night."

                  *       *       *       *       *

For the rest of the day we saw no sign of Ronald Standish. He had
driven off in the Tremayne's car to the station, and had taken McIver
with him. And there we understood from the chauffeur they had both
taken tickets to London and left the place. Following Ronald's
instructions, Mansford had gone back to Staveley Grange, and announced
the fact of their departure, at the same time stating his unalterable
intention to continue occupying the fatal room until he had solved the
mystery. Then he returned to the Old Hall, where Molly, he and I spent
the day, racking our brains in futile endeavours to get to the bottom
of it.

"What beats me," said Mansford, after we had discussed every
conceivable and inconceivable possibility, "is that Standish can't
know any more than we do. We've both seen exactly what he's seen; we
both know the facts just as well as he does. We're neither of us
fools, and yet he can see the solution--and we can't."

"It's just there that he is so wonderful," I answered thoughtfully.
"He uses his imagination to connect what are apparently completely
disconnected facts. And you may take it from me, Mansford, that he's
very rarely wrong."

The Australian pulled at his pipe in silence.

"I think we'll find everything out to-night," he said at length.
"Somehow or other I've got great faith in that pal of yours. But what
is rousing my curiosity almost more than how my father and poor old
Tom were murdered is who did it? Everything points to it being someone
in the house--but in heaven's name, who? I'd stake my life on the two
footmen--one of them came over with us from Australia. Then there's
that poor old boob Templeton, who wouldn't hurt a fly--and his wife,
and the other women servants, who, incidentally, are all new since Tom
died. It beats me--beats me utterly."

For hours we continued the unending discussion, while the afternoon
dragged slowly on. At six o'clock Mansford rose to go: his orders were
to dine at home. He smiled reassuringly at Molly, who clung to him
nervously; then with a cheerful wave of his hand he vanished down the
drive. My orders were equally concise: to dine at the Old Hall--wait
there until it was dark, and then make my way to the place where
Standish and I had hidden the previous night.

It was not till ten that I deemed it safe to go; then slipping a small
revolver into my pocket, I left the house by a side door and started
on my three-mile walk.

As before, there was no moon, and in the shadow of the undergrowth I
almost trod on Ronald before I saw him.

"That you, Tom?" came his whisper, and I lay down at his side. I could
dimly see McIver a few feet away, and then once again began the vigil.
It must have been about half-past eleven that the lights were switched
on in the room, and Mansford started to go to bed. Once he came to the
window and leaned out, seeming to stare in our direction; then he went
back to the room, and we could see his shadow as he moved about. And I
wondered if he was feeling nervous.

At last the light went out, and almost at once Standish rose.

"There's no time to lose," he muttered. "Follow me--and not a sound."

Swiftly we crossed the lawn and clambered up the old buttressed wall
to the room above. I heard Ronald's whispered greeting to Mansford,
who was standing by the window in his pyjamas, and then McIver joined
us, blowing slightly. Climbing walls was not a common form of exercise
as far as he was concerned.

"Don't forget," whispered Standish again, "not a sound, not a whisper.
Sit down and wait."

He crossed to the table by the bed--the table on which stood the
motionless electric fan. Then he switched on a small electric torch,
and we watched him eagerly as he took up the speaking-tube. From his
pocket he extracted what appeared to be a hollow tube some three
inches long, with a piece of material attached to one end. This
material he tied carefully round the end of the speaking-tube, thereby
forming a connection between the speaking-tube and the short hollow
one he had removed from his pocket. And finally he placed a cork very
lightly in position at the other end of the metal cylinder. Then he
switched off his torch and sat down on the bed. Evidently his
preparations were complete; there was nothing to do now but wait.

The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece sounded incredibly loud in
the utter silence of the house. One o'clock struck--then half-past--when
suddenly there came a faint pop from near the bed which made me jump
violently. I heard Ronald drawing his breath sharply and craned
forward to see what was happening. There came a gentle rasping noise,
as Standish lit his petrol cigarette lighter. It gave little more
light than a flickering glimmer, but it was just enough for me to see
what he was doing. He was holding the flame to the end of the hollow
tube, in which there was no longer a cork. The little pop had been
caused by the cork blowing out. And then to my amazement a blue flame
sprang from the end of the tube, and burnt steadily. It burnt with a
slight hiss, like a bunsen burner in a laboratory--and it gave about
the same amount of light. One could just see Ronald's face looking
white and ghostly; then he pulled the bed curtain round the table, and
the room was in darkness once again.

McIver was sitting next to me and I could hear his hurried breathing
over the faint hiss of the hidden flame. And so we sat for perhaps ten
minutes, when a board creaked in the room above us.

"It's coming now," came in a quick whisper from Ronald. "Whatever I
do--don't speak, don't make a sound."

I make no bones about it, but my heart was going in great sickening
thumps. I've been in many tight corners in the course of my life, but
this silent room had got my nerves stretched to the limit. And I don't
believe McIver was any better. I know I bore the marks of his fingers
on my arm for a week after.

"My God! look," I heard him breathe, and at that moment I saw it. Up
above the window on the right a faint luminous light had appeared, in
the centre of which was a hand. It wasn't an ordinary hand--it was a
skinny, claw-like talon, which glowed and shone in the darkness. And
even as we watched it, it began to float downwards towards the bed.
Steadily and quietly it seemed to drift through the room--but always
towards the bed. At length it stopped, hanging directly over the foot
of the bed and about three feet above it.

The sweat was pouring off my face in streams, and I could see young
Mansford's face in the faint glow of that ghastly hand, rigid and
motionless with horror. Now for the first time he knew how his father
and brother had died--or he would know soon. What was this dismembered
talon going to do next? Would it float forward to grip him by the
throat--or would it disappear as mysteriously as it had come?

I tried to picture the dreadful terror of waking up suddenly and
seeing this thing in front of one in the darkened room; and then I saw
that Ronald was about to do something. He was kneeling on the bed
examining the apparition in the most matter of fact way, and suddenly
he put a finger to his lips and looked at us warningly. Then quite
deliberately he hit at it with his fist, gave a hoarse cry, and rolled
off the bed with a heavy thud.

He was on his feet in an instant, again signing to us imperatively to
be silent, and we watched the thing swinging backwards and forwards as
if it was on a string. And now it was receding--back towards the window
and upwards just as it had come, while the oscillations grew less and
less, until, at last it had vanished completely, and the room once
more was in darkness save for the faint blue flame which still burnt
steadily at the end of the tube.

"My God!" muttered McIver next to me, as he mopped his brow with a
handkerchief, only to be again imperatively silenced by a gesture from
Standish. The board creaked in the room above us, and I fancied that I
heard a door close very gently: then all was still once more.

Suddenly with disconcerting abruptness the blue flame went out, almost
as if it had been a gas jet turned off. And simultaneously a faint
whirring noise and a slight draught on my face showed that the
electric fan had been switched on. Then we heard Ronald's voice giving
orders in a low tone. He had switched on his torch, and his eyes were
shining with excitement.

"With luck we'll get the last act soon," he muttered. "Mansford, lie
on the floor, as if you'd fallen off the bed. Sprawl: sham dead, and
don't move. We three will be behind the curtain in the window. Have
you got handcuffs, Mac," he whispered as we went to our hiding place.
"Get 'em on as soon as possible, because I'm inclined to think that
our bird will be dangerous."

McIver grunted, and once again we started to wait for the unknown. The
electric fan still whirred, and looking through the window I saw the
first faint streaks of dawn. And then suddenly Standish gripped my
arm; the handle of the door was being turned. Slowly it opened, and
someone came in shutting it cautiously behind him. He came round the
bed, and paused as he got to the foot. He was crouching--bent almost
double--and for a long while he stood there motionless. And then he
began to laugh, and the laugh was horrible to hear. It was low and
exulting--but it had a note in it which told its own story. The man who
crouched at the foot of the bed was a maniac.

"On him," snapped Ronald, and we sprang forward simultaneously. The
man snarled and fought like a tiger--but madman though he was he was no
match for the four of us. Mansford had sprung to his feet the instant
the fight started, and in a few seconds we heard the click of McIver's
handcuffs. It was Standish who went to the door and switched on the
light, so that we could see who it was. And the face of the handcuffed
man, distorted and maniacal in its fury, was the face of the butler
Templeton.

"Pass the handcuffs round the foot of the bed, McIver," ordered
Standish, "and we'll leave him here. We've got to explore upstairs
now."

McIver slipped off one wristlet, passed it round the upright of the
bed and snapped it to again. Then the four of us dashed upstairs.

"We want the room to which the speaking-tube communicates," cried
Standish, and Mansford led the way. He flung open a door, and then
with a cry of horror stopped dead in the doorway.

Confronting us was a wild-eyed woman, clad only in her nightdress. She
was standing beside a huge glass retort, which bubbled and hissed on a
stand in the centre of the room. And even as we stood there she
snatched up the retort with a harsh cry, and held it above her head.

"Back," roared Standish, "back for your lives."

But it was not to be. Somehow or other the retort dropped from her
hands and smashed to pieces on her own head. And a scream of such
mortal agony rang out as I have never heard and hope never to hear
again. Nothing could be done for her; she died in five minutes, and of
the manner of the poor demented thing's death it were better not to
write. For a large amount of the contents of the retort was hot
sulphuric acid.

                  *       *       *       *       *

"Well, Mansford," said Standish a few hours later, "your ghost is
laid, your mystery is solved, and I think I'll be able to play in the
last match of that tour after all."

We were seated in the Old Hall dining-room after an early breakfast
and Mansford turned to him eagerly.

"I'm still in the dark," he said. "Can't you explain?"

Standish smiled. "Don't see it yet? Well--it's very simple. As you
know, the first thing that struck my eye was that right-hand canopy
wire. It didn't shine in the sun like the other one, and when I got up
to examine it, I found it was coated with dried oil. Not one little
bit of it--but the whole wire. Now that was very strange--very strange
indeed. Why should that wire have been coated with oil--and not the
other? I may say at once that I had dismissed any idea of psychic
phenomena being responsible for your father's and brother's death.
That such things exist we know--but they don't _kill_ two strong men.

"However, I was still in the dark; in fact, there was only one ray of
light. The coating of that wire with oil was _so_ strange, that of
itself it established with practical certainty the fact that a human
agency was at work. And before I left the room that first afternoon I
was certain that that wire was used to introduce something into the
room from outside. The proof came the next morning. Overnight the wire
had been dry; the following morning there was wet oil on it. The door
was intact; no one had gone in by the window, and, further, the fan
was going. Fact number two. Still, I couldn't get the connection. I
admit that the fact that the fan was going suggested some form of
gas--introduced by the murderer, and then removed by him automatically.
And then you came along with your mouth blistered. You spoke of
feeling as if you'd been stung by a hornet, and I'd got my third fact.
To get it pre-supposed a certain knowledge of chemistry. Formic
acid--which is what a wasp's sting consists of--can be used amongst
other things for the manufacture of carbon monoxide. And with that the
whole diabolical plot was clear. The speaking-tube was the missing
link, through which carbon monoxide was poured into the room, bringing
with it traces of the original ingredients which condensed on the
mouthpiece. Now, as you may know, carbon monoxide is lighter than air,
and is a deadly poison to breathe. Moreover, it leaves no
trace--certainly no obvious trace. So before we went into the room last
night, I had decided in my own mind how the murders had taken place.
First from right under the sleeper's nose a stream of carbon monoxide
was discharged, which I rendered harmless by igniting it. The canopy
helped to keep it more or less confined, but since it was lighter than
air, something was necessary to make the sleeper awake and sit up.
That is precisely what your father and brother did when they saw the
phosphorescent hand--and they died at once. Mrs. Bretherton hid her
face and lived. Then the fan was turned on--the carbon monoxide was
gradually expelled from the room, and in the morning no trace
remained. If it failed one night it could be tried again the next
until it succeeded. Sooner or later that infernal hand travelling on a
little pulley wheel on the wire and controlled from above by a long
string, would wake the sleeper--and then the end--or the story of a
ghost."

He paused and pressed out his cigarette.

"From the very first also I had suspected Templeton. When you know as
much of crime as I do--you're never surprised at anything. I admit he
seemed the last man in the world who would do such a thing--but there
are more cases of Jekyll and Hyde than we even dream of. And he and
his wife were the only connecting links in the household staff between
you and the Brethertons. That Mrs. Templeton also was mad had not
occurred to me, and how much she was his assistant or his dupe we
shall never know. She has paid a dreadful price, poor soul, for her
share of it; the mixture that broke over her was hot concentrated
sulphuric acid mixed with formic acid. Incidentally from inquiries
made yesterday, I discovered that Staveley Grange belonged to a man
named Templeton some forty years ago. This man had an illegitimate
son, whom he did not provide for--and it may be that Templeton the
butler is that son--gone mad. Obsessed with the idea that Staveley
Grange should be his perhaps--who knows? No man can read a madman's
mind."

He lit another cigarette and rose.

"So I can't tell you why. How you know and who: why must remain a
mystery for ever. And now I think I can just catch my train."

"Yes, but wait a moment," cried Mansford. "There are scores of other
points I'm not clear on."

"Think 'em out for yourself, my dear fellow," laughed Ronald. "I want
to make a few runs to-morrow."




VI -- CYNTHIA DELMORTON'S MISTAKE


Cynthia Delmorton was a singularly beautiful girl, and for all I know
is so still. Her figure was perfect: her face almost flawless. There
were critics who said that her nose was a trifle too long: there were
others, on the contrary, who denied the fact with oaths and curses.
But seeing that she had been painted by three of London's leading
artists who one and all declared that she was the most perfect thing
they had ever seen, the nose question cannot have been very serious.

Her origin was a little obscure. She lived in a charming house in
South Audley Street with an elderly lady who rejoiced in the name of
Aunt Hester. Moreover she undoubtedly had money--lots of it. There was
a rumour that the late Mr. Delmorton had really been Smithson and Co.
Ltd.--one of those charitable firms whose aim in life is to ease other
people's financial troubles by lending them money on note of hand
alone. And if such a base rumour over the lovely Cynthia could
possibly be true, she had certainly possessed the most notorious
blood-sucker in London as her father--a man without a tinge of mercy or
a thought of compassion.

The fact however remained, that she was extremely wealthy. Which was a
far more important matter than the method by which the money had been
obtained. And the result had been that divers men of all ages and
positions had laid their hands and hearts at her disposal. Some of
them had been genuinely infatuated by her beauty: others by her bank
balance. But one and all of them when their offer was turned down,
thanked almighty Heaven for their escape. Except one poor boob, who
blew out his brains . . . For the beautiful Cynthia had one very
unpleasant trait, which never manifested itself until the last moment.
She would lead a man on until he was well-nigh crazy--and then laugh in
his face.

Of course when the man she did decide to marry appeared, there would
be no laughter. At least if there was it would be carefully concealed.
But so far that lucky being had not arrived. And when he did he would
have to be something pretty special. Cynthia Delmorton was essentially
not one of those who--to paraphrase the well-known line--had danced with
Princes and kept the common touch. Nothing under an Earl would be good
enough for her final choice--and not a modern creation at that. But
until that blissful day arrived, she saw no reason why good-looking
men should not go wild about her, and throng her charming
drawing-room.

And then one spring that complete disrespecter of persons--influenza,
descended upon the house. Within an hour so did Sir William Harbottle,
London's most fashionable and futile doctor. He consumed a glass of
port and ate a biscuit, and with deadly accuracy diagnosed the
disease. He continued to descend at ten guineas a time, more port and
more biscuits, and finally pronounced his lovely patient convalescent.

"But, my dear young lady," he announced as he stroked her arm, "we
require setting up. We are a little run down."

The "we," needless to state, was a pleasing conceit of Sir William's:
no one regarding his ample presence need have panicked unduly.

"We will take a sea voyage."

"Dear Sir William," she murmured. "A sea voyage?"

"Where the bracing ozone will set us up again. Restore our wasted
tissues: remove our lassitude. And then we shall return fresh and
invigorated for the ardours of June in London."

And the more she thought of the idea the more she liked it. Up to date
her sea voyages had consisted of occupying a cabin whilst crossing the
Channel: this was going to be something quite different. Some new
frocks: a flirtation or two--there was bound to be some man on board
who would fill the bill: and a real rest cure.

Aunt Hester proved the first obstacle. For that usually malleable
woman having heard of Cynthia's decision, stuck in her toes and jibbed
definitely. Nothing would induce her to go on the sea. She loathed it
and detested it: she was always seasick--and in short, rather than do
so she would resign her position as Cynthia's companion.

"If you must have someone with you, my dear," she said, "why not ask
Marjorie. She's a nice girl: she won't get in your way and you'll be
doing her a real kindness as well."

Cynthia cogitated. Yes: Marjorie Blackton would do. Better perhaps
than Aunt Hester. Her idea of a companion was what most people would
describe as an unpaid maid, and if her Aunt was continually sea-sick
she would be more nuisance than she was worth.

"Write and ask her," she said thoughtfully. "Tell her that as far as
clothes are concerned, she can send any reasonable bill in to me."

Marjorie Blackton was an old school friend of hers. At least she was
the only girl at the very expensive place at which Cynthia had been
"finished" whom she did not actually dislike. For even at that age she
neither loved nor was loved by her own sex. But for some strange
reason Marjorie bestowed on her one of those peculiar adorations which
arise and flourish in girls' schools.

Strange, because it would have been impossible to find two more
totally dissimilar characters. Marjorie was everything that her idol
was not. Unselfish, utterly lovable, frank and open, she was the exact
antithesis of Cynthia. And the latter, though slightly flattered for a
time, soon took advantage of the state of affairs. She practically
made the younger girl her fag. It was "Marjorie, do this" and
"Marjorie, fetch that," from the beginning of term till the end. And
the same relationship had continued after they left school, though
necessarily not to the same extent.

Then quite suddenly Mr. Blackton lost most of his money, and for a
while Cynthia had debated whether to ask Marjorie to come as her
companion. As far as she was capable of affection for anybody she was
fond of her, but having given the matter due consideration she had
come to the conclusion that an older woman would be more suitable from
every point of view. And so she dismissed Marjorie from her scheme of
things, as was her custom when a person was no longer of use to her.
Now she proposed to bring her back temporarily into that scheme: a
proposal which met with the other girl's delighted approval as soon as
she heard of it.

And so, some three weeks later the two of them stepped into the boat
train at Waterloo bound for Southampton. The most luxurious cabin in
the _S.S. Ortolan_, 12,000 tons, of the Union Steamship Line had been
engaged: a number of immaculately-clothed young men, who had pleaded
in vain to be allowed to accompany them as far as the ship, clustered
round the carriage door.

"Now you must all promise to be good while I am away," said Cynthia
impartially. "And when I come back in June. . . ."

It was at that moment that the train began to move, but she managed
that every member of the group should think that her unfinished
sentence was addressed to him personally.

"Thank God that's over, my dear" she said languidly. "What a bore they
are. Do give me my rug, will you?"

She looked up with a sudden frown: a man was standing in the door
leading into the corridor. Moreover he seemed to be on the point of
depositing a weather-beaten suit-case on one of the spare seats.

"This carriage is engaged," she remarked haughtily.

The man turned round with a smile.

"Am I to understand," he said, "that you are the proud possessor of
six tickets? I'm really very sorry but this is the only compartment in
the train that isn't full."

"I gave orders that I required a carriage to myself," she said with
her most freezing look.

"Dear me," he answered politely. "If it wasn't for the fact that you
can't give orders for anything of the sort, I should say that someone
had blundered. However, what would you like me to do? Stand in the
corridor, or go into the guard's van?"

"If you persist in intruding," she said icily, "I would prefer that
you do so in silence."

"Why--sure," he remarked genially. "Doubtless we shall have lots of
time for conversation before we get to the Cape."

He buried himself behind a newspaper, leaving Cynthia gasping. The
Cape? Was this odious mortal going to the Cape with her? True he was
young, and of pleasing appearance, but he must clearly be put in his
place and punished. And she was an adept at doing both.

It was at that moment that she got her second shock. Marjorie was
undoubtedly smiling at the man behind her magazine; the man was
grinning at Marjorie behind his paper. She knew it: she had done it so
often herself with other men.

But what she could do was one thing: what Marjorie could do was quite
another. For her companion and a strange man to indulge in mutual
smiles at her expense was a state of affairs not to be tolerated for
an instant. And the small fact that she was completely wrong--that all
that had happened was, that Marjorie suddenly seeing him grinning at
her had involuntarily smiled back just because it was good to be
alive--cut no ice. She wouldn't have believed it anyhow; but then
Cynthia Delmorton's joy in living lay, not in just life but merely in
what she could get out of it.

They were running through Eastleigh when the man spoke again. Five
times during the journey had Marjorie got up to do something for
Cynthia--and three out of the five times she could far more easily have
done it for herself. And five times during the journey had an amused
and faintly contemptuous glint come into the man's eyes. But he
remained buried behind his paper until the train began to slacken,
when he folded it up.

"Would you care to sit at my table," he asked gravely. "I'm the second
officer, and I generally manage to collect a cheery bunch."

For a moment Cynthia stared at him speechlessly; the second
officer. . . .

"Surprised at my not being on board, I suppose," he went on
cheerfully. "Pretty exceptional, I agree. But the old man is a
sportsman, and my business was sudden and urgent. However, would you
like me to fix it up about the table?"

"I think it would be very nice," said Cynthia quietly, and Marjorie
glanced at her in some trepidation. She knew that tone of old--knew
what it portended. She knew that before the end of the voyage this
poor young man was going to wish he had never been born. And it was a
shame. . . .

But she couldn't warn him, and he rushed into the trap.

"Splendid. I'll arrange it. But I warn you from what I hear we're
going to have it a bit choppy as far as Madeira."

They did: and Marjorie for the first time began to see Cynthia in her
true light. She was loyal clean through: she tried to make excuses--but
the plain fact emerged that for selfishness her employer was in a
class by herself. True, she was ill--slightly, for a couple of days;
but until they anchored off Funchal Cynthia treated her and the
stewardess like a couple of slaves. Then she was graciously pleased to
emerge from her cabin, and show herself for the first time to the
admiring gaze of her fellow passengers.

"Well, well, how are you?"

A cheerful voice hailed the lovely invalid, and she looked up from her
deck chair to see their travelling companion. He looked different in
uniform; in fact honesty compelled her to admit that he looked
extremely nice in uniform. So she gave him one of her most bewitching
smiles, and confessed that she felt a little better.

"Good," he cried. "We shall be dancing to-night, and you must play a
bit of deck tennis. Miss Blackton is a nailer at it."

He moved off and she watched him cursing four Portuguese lace vendors
for blocking the gangway--watched him through narrowed eyes. How that
young man was going to suffer before she'd finished with him! And what
a lucky thing it was that he was really quite presentable; it made
things so much pleasanter for her.

"My dear! that is Cynthia Delmorton. You must have seen her pictures
in the _Tatler_ and _Sketch_."

The words carried to her during a sudden lull in the raucous babel
around her, and a sense of pleasant well-being stole over her. Yes;
she was Cynthia Delmorton . . . And the sun was shining, and the water
was blue, and the brown-skinned boys diving off the deck for
threepenny bits thrown into the water amused her. Also there was an
extremely bumptious and conceited young man to punish. She smiled
slightly to herself . . . Fancy wasting her time on an officer in the
Merchant Service. Still, she would do it quickly, and then turn to
worthier game.

"Mr. Fraser," she called gently as he passed--Marjorie had found out
his name--"won't you come and cheer me up? Besides I want to apologize.
I'm afraid I was rather rude to you in the train."

"Rude!" he laughed. "Not a bit. You were just natural. Sorry I can't
stop now, but I've got to see a man about a dog in the smoking room.
You shall apologize at lunch . . . You're sitting next to me."

And with that he was gone leaving Cynthia Delmorton utterly
speechless. Never in the course of her life had any man spoken to her
like that before. "See a man about a dog in the smoking room." When
she had invited him to sit by her . . . "Not rude: only natural." Was
the man mad?

He certainly showed no signs of insanity at lunch. He included her
breezily in the conversation; chaffed Marjorie Blackton, who had been
ashore and done the time-honoured toboggan trip over the cobbles from
Terreiro da Lucta, and finally challenged her to a game of deck quoits
later on.

"When you're a little stronger," he remarked, "you must play tennis."

And there was a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke, the sort of twinkle a
parent might have when dealing with a fractious child.

And so it went on. The trouble about the man was that he seemed
impervious to snubs. He had a hide like a rhinoceros; delicate satire
flew off him like water off a duck's back. Of course he missed the
point of it all--that was the reason. Completely lacking in breeding,
he was unable to understand her subtle irony.

And Marjorie, who understood it only too well, felt her heart grow
sick within her. At last her final delusions about Cynthia were gone.
Coming out to Madeira they had began to totter; by the time they were
crossing the line the crash was complete. Thank Heavens! Jim Fraser
didn't appreciate the position of affairs: that was her only
compensation.

And then one evening something occurred which brought her up with a
start. She was sitting out by herself on the boat deck, in the shadow
of one of the funnels, when two people passed her. They didn't see
her, but she recognized them at once . . . They paused between two of
the boats, not three yards away from her, and she heard Cynthia's
voice.

"You really are the most attractive man, Jim."

Marjorie could have screamed. It was too cruel. Surely, surely she
needn't carry her vindictiveness to such a point as that. The poor
devil had done her no harm: she cared not the snap of a finger about
him. But just to gratify her petty spite, she was going to lead him
on--and then shake with laughter in his face. Marjorie half rose; then
with a little gasp that was half a sob she crouched back again. For
Cynthia was in his arms.

With a sick numbness she watched him kiss her: heard Cynthia's low
triumphant laugh: heard her whispered "Darling."

Then she was gone, leaving him standing by the boats. For a second she
paused by the top of the companion, and her words floated back--"There
is always to-morrow."

For a little while he stood there; then suddenly with a little start
he saw Marjorie. He came over to her slowly, and sat down beside her.

"You saw," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," she answered gravely. "Very sorry. Oh! Mr. Fraser," she
went on impulsively, "don't think me impertinent and foolish. But
I--oh! it's so difficult to say."

He was staring at her steadily, and she went stumbling on bravely.

"You see--I know Cynthia. And I don't want to be disloyal to her--after
all, she's paying everything for me. But please, please be careful.
She's--she's different to most girls. She's been spoilt, I suppose--and
she doesn't mean to be cruel."

"No," he agreed quietly. "It's just natural."

But she hardly heard.

"She just plays with men . . . And then she turns them down without a
thought. Can't you see--oh! can't you see? I don't want to hurt your
feelings, but you must realize that she has the world at her feet, and
. . . and. . . ."

"And therefore is hardly likely to pay serious attention to the second
officer of the good ship _Ortolan_," he said, lighting a cigarette.

She looked at him surprised: he seemed singularly calm about it.

"That's why I am so sorry you saw," he concluded.

"But I don't want you to be hurt," she cried. "And you will be."

"Why don't you want me to be hurt," he said gently.

"Oh! because . . . Of course, I don't. I hate to see anybody hurt."

"You dear! You dear girl." And now she was staring at him in genuine
amazement, and dimly realizing that both her hands were in his. "I'm
only sorry you saw it, Marjorie, because I can't now do what I would
like to. At least not at this moment."

And then he too was gone, and after a while Marjorie got up a little
stiffly and went below. What on earth had he meant?

"My dear," said Cynthia, "too humorous! Our worthy pachyderm has
kissed me. Up on the boat deck."

"I saw you," she answered dully. "Oh! Cynthia--can't you leave him
alone?"

"What on earth do you mean?" cried the other. And then she suddenly
burst into a peal of laughter. "Why I believe you're in love with him
yourself."

"I am," said Marjorie gravely, and started to undress.

Of course this was too much of a scream altogether: it really added
relish to the jest. That Marjorie--demure little Marjorie--should have
fallen in love with the second officer was too exquisite.

"My dear," she cried, "but this is Romance with a capital R. Does he
reciprocate your feelings?"

"Of course he doesn't," answered the other flushing. "And Cynthia--you
won't say anything, will you?"

"My dear--trust me. Perish the thought that I should spoil love's young
dream. But I must insist on being allowed to deal with the dear man
just once. I'll let him down mildly, I promise you, but he has been
exceedingly rude to me--and he's got to take his gruel like a good
boy."

"But I'm sure he didn't mean it, Cynthia," said Marjorie miserably.

"Then he's got to learn. And anyway, my dear," she went on with a
smile, "you have the remedy in your own hands. Get him to take _you_
up on the boat deck to-morrow night."

"You know I don't stand a chance if you're about," said Marjorie
simply. "Anyway I'm nothing to him. But I don't think you're playing
the game. He's--he's not the type of man . . . It's not fair to a man
like him, Cynthia: it's not fair."

"Then he had better not go and see people about dogs, my dear, when
I've asked him to come and talk to me," said the other softly. "I
don't like men who do that. Besides he must be trained--if you're going
to marry him."

She got into her bunk and opened a book, and with a little shiver,
though the night was tropical, Marjorie followed her example. And when
at last she did fall asleep, she got no rest. For she dreamed without
cessation--dreams in which she saw Cynthia, gloating and devilish, and
a white-faced sobbing man--a man she tried to comfort, but who always
turned away from her.

It was the day after that a piece of information arrived in the
Wireless Bulletin, which for nearly six hours annoyed Cynthia
thoroughly. Marjorie saw it first, just as she was going in to
breakfast, and thought no more about it. The news that the Earl of
Axminster had been killed in a motor accident interested her but
little more than the fact that the French exchange was 129.47. It was
otherwise with Cynthia. Not that the death of that well-known and
sporting nobleman at the early age of fifty-six distressed her in the
slightest, but merely because it made her wish that she had acted
otherwise. And it is annoying when one cannot rectify a mistake. She
might now have been the Countess of Axminster. And she wasn't. Which
was a distressing thought--most distressing. Had not Hedderton--his
eldest son--sat in her pocket for a complete season? In fact she had
almost--but not quite--become Viscountess Hedderton. And if she had,
Hedderton would not have gone his fool journey to Central Africa,
picked up some horrible tropical disease and died. Undoubtedly most
annoying.

She recalled that last evening perfectly. She had known he was coming
for her answer, and during the afternoon she had finally made up
her mind--balancing the points for and against. And the result had been
against. Hedderton's father, she had decided, was more than likely to
live another thirty years, and that was too long to wait even for one
of the oldest titles in England. The fact that he was utterly
infatuated with her was his misfortune and not her fault. And so
without the smallest tinge of compunction she turned him down. She
could see him now--white-faced and stammering . . . He couldn't quite
understand: he'd been so sure . . . He had kissed her so often . . .
And she had laughed softly.

"My dear man," she had said, "if I married all the men who have kissed
me, I'd want an hotel to stow them in."

And he had failed to see the cheapness of the remark because, poor
devil, he was still infatuated. Instead he had gone off to Africa and
died. Not four months previously . . . Most annoying . . . In fact
when she went in to lunch she was feeling thoroughly irritable.

Jim Fraser was already there, and he bowed to her gravely. He was
looking strained about the eyes, she noticed: all through lunch he
hardly spoke. Hooked already: hardly worth powder and shot. Still in
her present mood she felt like making someone suffer, so she gave him
her sweetest and most alluring smile.

"I'm feeling terribly depressed," she murmured. "Poor Lord Axminster
is dead. Such a charming man."

A woman opposite looked at her with interest.

"Of course you knew him well, Miss Delmorton."

"Naturally," remarked Cynthia languidly. "You see, Hedderton and I
were very great friends."

Marjorie squirmed, and when Jim Fraser leaned forward with a puzzled
frown she could have screamed. She guessed what was coming.

"Hedderton," he said. "I don't quite follow."

"Viscount Hedderton," she explained politely. "Axminster's son. They
have different names, you know."

"I see," he answered. "I suppose that is done to make it harder."

She smiled, and glanced round the table.

"What funny ideas you have, Mr. Fraser. Yes--Hedderton died in Africa."

"And who is the heir?" asked someone.

"I really don't know," she answered. "He had no brothers. There was a
cousin of sorts, I believe."

She relapsed suddenly into silence; what was it Hedderton had said on
that point? It was a cousin--a very charming fellow, but a rolling
stone. Unmarried. Of course he might be impossible, but it was worth
while bearing in mind against her return to London. She would write
Aunt Hester a letter from Cape Town telling her to make enquiries
. . . It would be funny if, after all, she did pull it off. The
thought of it put her in quite a good temper again.

"Don't forget you promised to show me the Southern Cross to-night, Mr.
Fraser," she said as he rose from his seat.

"Am I likely to," he answered fervently.

And across the table her eyes met Marjorie's mockingly. Really life
wasn't so bad after all: it had its humorous side.

But it was a side that was taxed to the uttermost that evening. The
pachyderm was so terribly intense and gauche. And he would persist in
harking back to Lord Axminster's death.

"It must be wonderful," he said humbly, "to know all those people who
are just names to us, as intimately as you do."

He was holding her hand at the time, and gazing at her adoringly.

"I very nearly married Hedderton," she said softly. "But I'm glad I
didn't--now."

"And if you had," he puzzled it out, "you would be the--the Earless of
Axminster."

She gave a delighted gurgle of laughter.

"Countess," she corrected him. "But then, you see--the poor fellow is
dead."

"But I'm sure he wouldn't have gone to Africa if you had married him,"
he said gravely.

"Well, if he hadn't and was alive, and I had married him--then I should
be the Earless of Axminster. You delicious person."

"And instead of that," he cried eagerly, "you're going to be . . ."

Really, she'd die of suppressed laughter in a second. The pachyderm
was on the verge of proposing: she looked round to see if by any
chance Marjorie was about. This was going to be a thing too good to be
missed.

"What am I going to be?" she whispered.

"Cynthia--wouldn't you rather be my wife than the Countess of
Axminster?"

That finished it: self-control could stand it no longer. She burst
into a peal of laughter: then she pulled herself together. The thing
had become a bore; so she'd punish the pachyderm now and finish with
it.

"This," she said as soon as she had recovered herself sufficiently to
speak, "is the funniest thing that has ever occurred to me. My poor
dear young man, are you mad? Do you really imagine, even for one
second, that I should marry you?" Laughter again overcame her.

"But you deserved a little lesson, you know. As a matter of fact I
intended to give you a longer one, but I couldn't help laughing. You
were so supremely ridiculous."

Once more she began to shake.

"No, Mr. Fraser, I am afraid that I must decline the riotous future
you offer me. I feel it would be too much for my nerves. But as a
reward for having made me laugh, I'll tell you a secret. Put the
excellent alternative you gave me before Marjorie . . . Not that the
poor dear is ever likely to be Countess of anything, but still. . . ."

She rose with a smile--a smile which suddenly faded from her face. For
this uncouth boor was lying back in his deck chair, literally holding
his sides.

"Rich," he almost sobbed. "Not to say ripe and fruity. You're quite
right, my dear woman; we've hurried matters. This jest would have
stood another three days."

"What on earth do you mean?" she said.

And then he, too, rose to his feet, and stood facing her.

"Listen to me, Cynthia Delmorton," he said quietly. "In the course of
my wanderings round the globe I've met some pretty rotten women.
You're just about the rottenest."

"How dare you?"

In her stunned rage she could hardly get the words out.

"You're going to hear one or two home truths now," he went on calmly.
"You're a calculating, mercenary snob--and you killed Hedderton as
surely as if you'd shot him yourself. Only no jury, unfortunately,
could convict you. I happened to see him the night before he left for
Africa, poor devil."

"Will you kindly take me straight to the captain," she said icily. "I
can only conclude that you're drunk, and I wish to make a complaint."

"Certainly," he answered. "What are you going to tell him? That I was
drunk last night, too--when I kissed you?"

For a moment or two she stared at him white and rigid with rage. He
had got her, and she knew it: this common man had beaten her at her
own game. Why he had done it was beyond her: her brain was still too
dazed at the sudden turning of the tables to think clearly.

"You set out to teach me a lesson." He was speaking again. "I fully
intended that you should. Your only miscalculation was that I had
already determined to teach you one--one that you richly deserved. But
I admit that I never even dreamed that the lesson would prove quite so
subtly successful until this morning. And I'm profoundly sorry it has.
I was very fond of my uncle."

"Your uncle," she stammered. "What do you mean?"

"There was a cousin of sorts, I believe," he said gravely. "There was,
and--is. And he happens to be the second officer of the _Ortolan_."

"You mean," she almost screamed, "that you're Lord Axminster?"

"Precisely," he answered. "And since you have mercifully refused my
invitation to become my Earless, I think we might conclude the
interview. You see I want to follow your advice, and put the
alternative I gave you in front of Marjorie . . . Er--good-night. Oh!
and the captain's cabin is the fourth from this end . . . It's the big
one . . . And incidentally--one other small point. Had I not been
perfectly certain that you didn't know who I was, I should never have
risked proposing. The danger of your acceptance would have been too
great. Still it was kind of you to explain about us having different
names."

A moment later he was alone: Cynthia Delmorton still retained
sufficient thinking capacity to realize that, if she was going to have
hysterics, her cabin was the most suitable place. For a while he stood
looking after her: then half consciously he turned and stared over the
water towards Africa.

"Yes, old man," he muttered, "she killed you. And I loved you. Life's
a funny thing."

Then with a faint smile on his lips, he strolled down to the main
deck. They were dancing, and he stood in the smoking-room door
watching. Life, indeed, was a funny thing. And then he saw her, coming
towards him with a startled look on her face.

"What on earth has happened to Cynthia?" she cried. "She's in the most
extraordinary condition."

"Biting the bed clothes," he said lazily. "Splendid. I asked her a
question, you see, and she got the answer wrong. I asked her if she
would sooner be my wife or Countess of Axminster."

"Jim--you proposed. But I don't understand. Did she refuse you?"

"My dear," he cried, "you don't suppose I'd be as pleased as I am if
she'd accepted me. And now I want to ask you the same question. . . ."

And then suddenly he grew serious.

"Marjorie--Marjorie darling, come up on the boat deck. I don't make a
hobby of this, my dear--and there's a lot you don't understand. But I
haven't got time to explain it to you now--not until you've answered
that question. Will you marry me?"

"Jim--you're mad," she whispered. "And you can't propose in the
smoking-room."

"Can't I? I've just done it. But come up above and I'll do it again."

And she went. And she stayed. And an hour later he still hadn't
explained; explanations are tedious things. In fact it wasn't until
the following morning that she thought about the explanation, and then
for a while she couldn't grasp it.

For Jim wasn't at breakfast, and a note lay on her plate. She tore
open the envelope, and read the contents.

  "Second Officer Jim Fraser presents his compliments to the
  future Countess of Axminster, and trusts that the beautiful Miss
  Delmorton is not still biting the bedclothes. He further
  solicits her company at the eleven o'clock issue of beef tea.

                     "P.S. You're an adorable darling. Jim."




VII -- THE ELEVENTH HOUR


"Dangerous things--Primo Packs," remarked the nondescript man to me
with a faint smile.

I was focussing my camera for that oft-taken photograph of the Castle
of Chillon with the Dents du Midi in the background, and I stared at
him in mild surprise.

"What on earth do you mean?" I said. "Why--dangerous?"

"Take your photo," he answered. "The light is just right. And then, if
you have the time and would care to listen I'll tell you how the use
of a Primo Pack very nearly cost an innocent man his life."

It sounded good to me, and I told him so. A casual hotel acquaintance,
he had strolled with me along the shore of the Lake of Geneva that
morning. Quite a nice fellow, though a little dull, was the impression
he had given me; and I remember I wondered as I lit my pipe whether he
belonged to that portion of humanity that can tell a story, or the
other.

"They were a comparatively new innovation at the time when it
happened," he began. "The ordinary rolls, of course, were well known,
and the plate--so cumbrous and heavy for the average amateur--was the
only alternative for most people. I mention that fact, because to-day,
there would be but little possibility of a similar tragedy occurring.
The mechanism of the film pack is common property.

"With which preamble I'll get down to it. The first character I will
introduce to you is Sir John Brayling--fifteenth baronet. In many ways
he was quite a decent fellow, and yet he was never popular. Partially,
perhaps, because, though he lived in the centre of a sporting county,
he didn't care about sport. An occasional day with a gun was his
limit: the rest of his time he devoted to photography. In addition he
was apt to be a bit morose; if he gave a dinner party at Brayling
House it was even money that he would sit in almost unbroken silence
all through the meal. Which cannot be said to make for the gaiety of
nations.

"I have mentioned photography as being his obsession: he had
another--his wife. And small blame to him. Hester Brayling was the most
gloriously attractive woman. She was considerably younger than he
was--fifteen years to be exact, and she possessed every quality that he
lacked. She rode magnificently, and played tennis and golf better than
most. Also she was brimming over with _joie de vivre_.

"In her way she was undoubtedly very fond of her husband, but her
affection was not comparable with his. He simply idolised the ground
she walked on, and the great grief of his life was that there were no
children. And as they had been married seven years it rather looked as
if there never would be.

"It was when she was twenty-nine that Ronald Vane came on the scene.
He was a man in the early thirties--good-looking, wealthy and a
bachelor. He had taken a neighbouring house, and every mother of
daughters for miles around sat up and took notice. Quite legitimately,
too: Ronald Vane was one of the most delightful men I have ever met."

The nondescript man smiled as he lit a cigarette.

"Quite right," he said. "They did. I was down there a good deal at the
time, and I watched the affair developing under my nose. Vane sat in
her pocket out hunting: used to motor her over to play golf: danced
with her just as often as the dictates of society would allow. But--and
I want to make this clear--that was all. Vane was as straight a man as
ever lived: so was she--if I may be pardoned the Irishism.

"Now it happened that I was a fairly privileged person. I'd known
Hester since she was a child, and one day I seized a suitable
opportunity to talk to her. Foolish perhaps, but I was afraid of what
was going to be the result. So I tackled her point blank on the
subject.

"She looked at me quite steadily and shrugged her shoulders.

"'What am I to do, Bill?' she said. 'I'm in love with Ronald: he's in
love with me. One can't help a thing like that: it just happens. But
there's nothing more to it than that I can assure you.'

"'That's all right, my dear,' I answered, 'but how long is that state
of affairs going to continue? I don't want to appear an interfering
busybody, but, situated as you two are, only a miracle from Heaven can
prevent John finding out sooner or later. Don't forget that every
mother around here has already visualised Ronald as a prospective
son-in-law. And it isn't going to be long before one of them finds it
her duty to acquaint John.'

"She stared out of the window in silence for a while. Then--'What do
you advise?'

"I laughed.

"'My dear,' I said, 'I may be a fool, but I'm not a damned fool. I'd
sooner keep my breath. But as a plain statement of fact from a
partially sane onlooker I would offer you two suggestions. Either cut
the painter and go away with him, or else suggest to him that he
should give up the remainder of his lease and go big game shooting for
a couple of years or so. I admit that the novelty of my remarks almost
staggers me, but at this stage of the world's history it is hardly
likely that anyone will discover a new way out of your present
situation. It is not exactly the first time it has happened.'

"'I wonder what John would say,' she said thoughtfully. 'I should hate
to hurt him.'

"'You'll hurt him even more,' I answered, 'if he finds out by
roundabout means. And, Hester, this I do say with certainty: he's
bound to do so. If you were in London it might be different--but down
here it's hopeless. You and Ronald are both far too well known.'

"'I'll think it over, Bill,' she said. 'I suppose Ronald and I, like
most people in similar circumstances, have imagined that no one
guessed. We've let things drift. But if you've spotted it--so have
other people. I'll think it over.'

"At that I left it, and two days later I went back to London. She had
taken my remarks exactly as I expected she would: she wasn't the type
to be offended or annoyed. But I confess that during the next few
weeks I continually found myself wondering as to whether they were
going to bear any fruit."

The nondescript man paused and stared at a passing steamer.

"It's funny when one looks back on things," he continued after a
while, "and tries to trace cause and effect. Would the tragedy have
happened but for what I had said to her? Heaven knows. All I do know
is that some two months after that conversation, in the middle of the
month of July, I returned to my rooms for lunch to find a telegram
awaiting me. It was short and to the point and ran as follows: 'Come
at once. Hester.' So I threw some things into a suit-case and caught
the afternoon train.

"I was met at the station by a man whose face was vaguely familiar,
and who was in a state of considerable agitation.

"'You probably don't remember me,' he said. 'I'm John's brother.'

"I placed him then: I'd met him once some years before staying at
Brayling House. His name was Richard, and in character, appearance and
everything he was the exact opposite of John. Save for a slight family
likeness it was almost impossible to believe they were brothers.
Richard was fair where John was dark: Richard was one of those men who
can go on talking by the hour in quite an amusing way, and he was fond
of sport. In fact--John's antithesis.

"'What's the trouble?' I said as we shook hands.

"'John has been murdered,' he answered. 'And Ronald Vane has been
arrested for doing it.'

"I don't know how long I stood there staring at him foolishly: the
thing was so completely unexpected.

"'Hester wants to see you as soon as possible,' he went on. 'I've got
the car.'

"All the way up to the house I bombarded him with questions, but it
will make it clearer for you if I go on a few hours and tell you the
story as I pieced it together after having heard everyone.

"It appeared then, that after my departure some two months previously,
Ronald Vane himself had gone away for six weeks. And during that six
weeks Hester had somewhat naturally let things drift. On Vane's return
he and she had had things out, with the result that they decided that
the only fair and straight thing to do was to tell her husband.

"Accordingly, one morning Vane came over to Brayling House with the
definite intention of tackling Sir John. That was the day before the
tragedy took place. It was not a pleasant undertaking as you can
imagine, but Vane was not the man to shirk it.

"Well, to put it tersely, the interview was not a success. At first
Sir John had been so flabbergasted that he could hardly take it in.
But as soon as he had grasped that this unbelievable thing had
happened: that here standing in his house was a man who was calmly
informing him that he proposed in the near future to run away with his
wife, his rage became ungovernable. No one will deny that there was a
good deal of excuse for him: but he seemed totally unable to grasp the
fact that Vane was really doing the straight thing in telling him the
state of affairs, instead of leaving him to discover it as a _fait
accompli_.

"To cut it short, however, he went for Vane with a hunting-crop, and
Vane, who was considerably the more powerful man, had some difficulty
in wresting it away without hurting him. Which was the last thing he
wanted to do: he felt so desperately sorry for him.

"In the middle of what was practically a hand to hand fight a table
was knocked over, and the noise brought in the butler. He stood in the
doorway aghast at what he saw, and a moment later Vane having got
possession of the crop managed to half-push, half-throw Sir John away
from him.

"'Show this blackguard to the door,' Sir John panted to the servant.
'And never let him inside this house again or I'll sack you.'

"Well--Vane went. He got back to his house and rang up Hester, asking
her to come to him at once. But now a further complication had arisen.
Sir John, whose mood of ungovernable fury had been succeeded by one of
sullen rage, flatly refused to even consider the question of divorce.

"'I can't lock you up,' he said to his wife. 'I can't prevent you
going to him. But I can prevent you marrying him, and I will.'

"That, then, was the situation on the following morning--the morning of
the tragedy: a situation which, as you can well imagine, was common
property in the servants' hall. Moreover it was a situation which in
view of what was to come was just about as damning as it could well
be.

"At nine o'clock Sir John went out armed with his camera. There was
one particular bit of wood some half-mile from the house that he
apparently wanted to get. At a quarter past nine one of the gardeners
saw him focussing his camera: at half-past ten he was discovered by
another gardener with his head battered in lying on the ground in
front of his camera. Not much you say up to date to incriminate Vane.
Wait. At half-past nine two children, belonging to one of the keepers,
passed close to the glade. They were on their way to the village to do
some shopping for their mother, and when they came back they told her
what they'd seen.

"First they had heard two men shouting at one another. They'd crept up
behind some bushes to see Sir John and Ronald Vane having a furious
quarrel. Mark you, there was no doubt about the identification: they
knew Vane--everybody did, and, of course, they knew Sir John. They
watched for a little and then, getting frightened they ran away.

"Pretty black now you'll admit--but worse was to come. Vane himself
admitted that he had met Sir John that morning, and had had a terrible
row with him. He stated that he was on his way to Brayling House. It
was a short cut that he frequently used. Quite unexpectedly he saw Sir
John in front of him, and since it was he whom he was going to see he
stopped and spoke to him. He refused to say what the quarrel was
about: all he would say was that he had been unsuccessful in his
request and after, he thought, about ten minutes, he left Sir John and
returned to his own house, which he reached at ten-fifteen. Moreover,
he utterly and flatly denied that he had killed Sir John.

"But now even worse was to come. Vane had in his possession a very
heavy stick--almost a club. What strange freak of fate had induced him
to take it out with him that morning he couldn't say. He admitted that
he had done so: he further admitted that he lost his temper so
completely with Sir John that he flung the thing at his head. It
missed him, and fell in some bushes where Vane left it. It was found
in the bushes right enough, but with its top covered with blood. In
short, it was obviously the weapon with which Sir John had been
murdered.

"I suppose," went on my companion with a short laugh, "that if you
deliberately went out of your way in a work of fiction to surround
your hero with every damning circumstance you could think of, it would
be impossible to weave a tighter web than that which hemmed in Ronald
Vane. Motive, weapon, opportunity, witnesses--everything combined to
make his case hopeless from the start. In fact, on two or three
occasions when I went to see him he admitted as much to me.

"'That I didn't do it I know,' he said. 'But were I in the position of
the jury I should find myself guilty.'

"A further trouble was his inevitable unpopularity. To the man in the
street who believed in his guilt he was merely a scoundrel who not
only had fallen in love with another man's wife, but had murdered her
husband.

"I won't bore you with an account of the trial. From the start the
result was a foregone conclusion. Ronald Vane could bring no
witnesses, but he insisted on giving evidence himself. It was useless.
The jury only retired for a quarter of an hour.

"And then came the end, and the episode that lingers most in my mind.
Asked by the Judge if he had anything to say, I can still see Ronald
Vane, his arms folded, his face grave and a little stern.

"'Nothing, my Lord,' he said, and his voice was quite steady. 'You
have awarded me a perfectly fair trial. It is not your fault--nor is it
mine that you have come to the conclusion that you have. It is the
fault of a set of utterly unprecedented circumstances. I cannot but
believe that in time some fact will come to light which will prove my
innocence. And if it is too late'--for the fraction of a second his
voice shook--'do not reproach yourselves too bitterly. On the evidence
as it is I quite understand that your verdict is the only one
possible.'

"And I don't believe there was a person in court whose conviction of
his guilt was not a little shaken. He was a big man, Vane--big in every
way--and there was something about him as he stood there that was
great. No recrimination: no bitterness: almost, if I may be allowed
the analogy, was it a repetition of two thousand years ago.

"'Father forgive them for they know not what they do.'

"And then he disappeared from sight, and I led a white-faced woman
back to her hotel.

"I suppose you're wondering," he went on after a while, "as to when
I'm going to justify my original remark about Primo Packs. I'm coming
to it now. Hester had gone back to Brayling House: her brother-in-law
had insisted on that. And the days ticked on: days during which I
wandered aimlessly about, racking my brains for some clue, some
possibility that might have been overlooked. Nothing: it was a blank
wall. Sometimes I even began to wonder if he hadn't done it: gone mad
for a moment and killed Sir John without being aware of the fact.

"And then one morning I was in a chemist's shop getting some aspirin.
There was only one attendant and he was explaining to a customer the
working of a Primo Pack. I listened idly--I'm not interested in
photography--until a sudden sentence caught my ear.

"'As each film is taken one of these pieces of black paper is pulled
out and torn off. That has the effect of moving the taken film to the
back of the pack, leaving the next one in front.'

"Even then the possibility did not strike me: I just bought my aspirin
and walked out. And it was only as I sat down to lunch at my club that
a thought--a wild possibility--dawned on me. Wild though it
was--well-nigh crazy--it was sufficient to send me dashing and lunchless
to Scotland Yard.

"'Where,' I demanded of the first official I saw, are the various
exhibits in the Ronald Vane case?'

"He stared at me as if I was mad, and I realized I must take a pull at
myself. Anyway, I finally convinced him that I was a respectable
person, and he became quite helpful. You see Sir John had been using a
Primo Pack of which one film had been taken. Ronald Vane, in the
course of his evidence, had stated that he had waited while Sir John
had taken it: waited for him to enter up the details in his pocket
book. That film had been taken at 9.15, and the wild idea had occurred
to me that possibly another film had been taken too--one of which we
knew nothing, because it was still in the front of the pack."

"Great Scott!" I cried. "I get you. Only one piece of black paper had
been torn off."

"Two to be exact," he replied. "The covering and the one marked 1.
Both those pieces had been found. So that number 2 film was in
position for exposure. Had any photograph been taken on it?

"Jove! I don't think I'll ever forget that afternoon. I chased round
various departments trying not to be buoyed up by such a wildly
fantastic hope. A dozen times I solemnly adjured myself not to be a
fool: a dozen times I forced myself to remember that even if a
photograph had been taken the chances were a hundred to one against it
being of any use to us.

"However, at last we ran the man to ground who had developed number 1,
and to him I explained my idea. At first he was politely sceptical,
but after a time he began to share my enthusiasm.

"'We'll go and try,' he said. 'The pack is in my dark-room.'

"I don't think I'd got a dry thing on me by the time he started. He
was one of those maddeningly deliberate individuals, and in the state
I then was I felt I could have drowned him in a bath of his own
developer. He insisted on lecturing me on chemicals till I forgot my
manners and cursed him foolishly. And then he showed himself human and
apologised.

"The agony of the moment when he put the film in the dish!
Subconsciously I realized that it was the last chance: that if nothing
happened Ronald would die in two days. I closed my eyes: I couldn't
bear to look.

"'My God!' I heard his tense whisper. 'There's something coming out.'

"Wiping the sweat from my eyes I peered over his shoulder. And now he
was as keen as I was: almost without breathing we watched a picture
form and materialize on the yellow film.

"'Now we'll fix it,' he cried, 'and then we'll know.'

"His hand was shaking as he put the negative into a bath of hypo, and
then we both sat there and waited. It was an eternity, so it seemed to
me, before he took it out and opened the door. He held it up to the
light, and then he turned and looked at me gravely.

"'If anything was wanting,' he said, 'to prove Ronald Vane's guilt,
this film supplies the deficiency. If you will wait a moment I'll give
you a print of it.'

"He disappeared, and I think I cried. I had only vaguely glanced at
the negative; I had no idea as to what had caused his words. All I
could feel was the sickening reaction after hope that had risen to a
dizzy height.

"And then I began to think. If what he said was right, Ronald Vane
_had_ done it. And he hadn't: I felt he hadn't: I knew he hadn't.

"'An astounding photograph: quite astounding.'

"His voice cut into my thoughts, and I got up and bent over the dish
he had placed on the table. He was right: it was an astounding
photograph. Occupying half of it was Sir John's face. He was staring
towards the camera and above it, and in his eyes was a look of
dreadful terror. He was looking at someone who stood behind the
camera--someone whose shadow fell on the ground, someone with arm
upraised to strike. He was looking at his murderer.

"'Evidently adjusting his stop,' said the chemist. 'He looked up
suddenly: saw Vane coming for him and unconsciously pressed the bulb.'

"'Why should you assume it was Vane?' I said dully.

"He shrugged his shoulders, and turned away.

"'I apologize,' he said. 'But I fear, sir, that this photograph is not
going to help you to clear your friend.'

"'I suppose it won't,' I muttered. 'May I take it with me?'

"I spoke without thought: the thing was no good to me.

"'Certainly,' he answered courteously. 'And if you like I'll give you
a copy of the other one--the print of number 1 film.'

"I thanked him mechanically, and a few minutes after I left. So it was
no use: I began to wish I'd never overheard that chemist in the
morning. To have hoped so much and then suffer such a disappointment
was the refinement of cruelty.

"For hours that evening I sat staring at the two photos. The first was
just a clear-cut print of the glade with light and shade exquisitely
defined: it was the second that fascinated me. That monstrous
distorted shadow of the murderer: that ashen face of terror: the rest
of it the glade as in the first. Astounding as he had said: unique. No
such photograph had ever been taken before. And I found myself cursing
childishly because it couldn't speak when I shouted at it--'Whose is
that shadow?' Almost I tore it up, and then--suddenly . . ."

The nondescript man paused and lit another cigarette.

"Confound you, sir," I cried, laughing. "I understand your feelings
towards the chemist."

"Are you a mathematician?" he went on irrelevantly. "I am. And if you
are you will appreciate the feeling of almost frozen calm that comes
to the brain when the step of some intricate problem that has eluded
you for hours, reveals itself. Such became my condition suddenly--in
the twinkling of an eye. I have said that the second photograph showed
one half of the glade, and that had been the part of it at which I'd
scarcely glanced. Now with every sense alert I riveted my attention on
it. Then realizing I'd missed the last train I rung up and ordered a
motor car.

"It was dawn when I reached Brayling House, and I ordered the car to
wait for me in the road. It would be four hours at least before I
could prove my theory, but I was too excited to think of food. The one
essential thing--a cloudless sky--was present, and going to the glade I
sat down and waited.

"It was two months later in the year, and so I knew that times would
be different. That didn't matter. The actual directions of the shadows
would be different. And that didn't matter. The essential thing would
be the same.

"And it was. I dashed from the wood into the car, and drove to
Brayling House.

"'Hester,' I howled from the hall. 'It's all right. We'll save him.'

"I had a dim vision of a woman's white face with hope too marvellous
for words dawning on it: then I was back in the car driving full speed
for London. Only the Home Secretary would do for me, and I caught him
as he was dressing for dinner.

"'What on earth,' he began, as I burst past the butler into his room.

"'Sorry,' I gasped, 'I'm not an anarchist. Look at these two photos.
Ronald Vane case.'

"'Two,' he cried, 'I've only seen one.'

"I handed them to him in silence, and for a while he stared at them.

"'Well,' he said. 'What of it? I don't know how this second one was
obtained, but it doesn't seem to me to alter matters. That presumably
is Ronald Vane's shadow.'

"'It isn't,' I cried. 'It can't be. If Vane committed the murder, what
time was it done? It is a proven fact that he was back in his own
house at 9.45. Therefore the latest at which it was done--if he did
it--was 9.30. And if that is so those two photographs were taken within
a quarter of an hour of one another. Which is impossible.'

"'Why is it impossible?' he snapped.

"'Take number 1,' I cried. 'Do you see the end of the shadow of that
pointed tree on the ground? Now take number 2. Do you see where it is
in that one?

"'Now, sir, the sun cannot lie. I went down there this morning and
measured things, and do you know how long it takes for that shadow to
move that distance? One hour and five minutes. That second photograph
was taken at twenty minutes past ten, when Ronald Vane can be proved
to have been in his own house. The other shadow is the murderer all
right, but it's not Ronald Vane.'

"'Good God!' he said. 'Good God!'

"A narrow shave I think you'll agree," went on the speaker after a
moment. "And a shave which--given a roll of films--would never have been
necessary. Someone with due time at his disposal would certainly have
spotted it, had the two photos been developed simultaneously. But the
result was all right: Ronald Vane did not go to the gallows, and in
due course he married his Hester.

"But," I cried, "who did it? Was that ever found out? Whose was the
shadow?"

For a while he stared over the lake without speaking.

"No," he said at length, "it was never found out. The generally
accepted theory is that it was some tramp who meant to stun him for
his money, and then realizing what he'd done fled in a panic. Maybe
that's right: maybe not."

"You have a theory of your own," I demanded.

He smiled.

"About time we got back for lunch, isn't it? Or do you want to take
some more photographs? No. Then let's stroll. Only I've often wondered
what Sir John did between 9.30 and 10.15. Obviously he took no
photographs. Was he raging about the glade in a distracted way by
himself, or was he talking to someone else? If so, whom would he be
likely to talk to for such a long period? You remember I told you he
was inclined to be morose. Was someone lying up, hidden in the bushes,
who desired his death and seized such a golden opportunity for
throwing suspicion on another man?

"His brother Richard," he continued irrelevantly, "suffered like so
many younger sons from a champagne taste with a gin income. He has
since inheriting the property demolished all that part of the wood.
Both very natural things to do--but I wonder--"




VIII -- THREE OF A KIND


I

Henry Partington was a jovial-looking man of about fifty. His hair was
turning distinctly grey, but his face had that cheerful ruddiness of
colouring which made him appear several years younger. A permanent
twinkle in his clear brown eyes, and a pleasant, infectious laugh
completed the picture of a care-free, middle-aged man who found life
good, and who wanted other people to find it good also.

Being clean-shaven, the first impression he generally gave was that he
was a retired naval officer, and his intimate knowledge of various odd
corners of the globe helped the illusion. Other people, on the
contrary, were wont to put him down as one of that fine, but alas!
diminishing band of landed gentry whose principal occupations are
riding to hounds, shooting and fishing. And only one or two shrewd,
hard-faced men put him down for what he really was--a rascal who lived
by his wits.

But such a pleasant rascal! In fact it was his delightful charm of
manner that had made him a rascal in the first place. If he had been a
morose and forbidding individual, it is more than likely that he would
have become a bank manager of unimpeachable morals and intense
dullness. He had started life as a bank clerk, and it was the daily
contemplation of incomes so immeasurably larger than his own ever
could be, that had led him to formulate the simple rule that had been
his through life. And the rule was that any large difference between
his own worldly possessions and the other person's should be adjusted
as far as lay in his power and as soon as possible. Simultaneously
with arriving at this resolve he ceased to be a bank clerk, which was
just as well for all concerned.

He was what would be described professionally as a first-class
confidence man. He stole with the victim's full knowledge and
approval. And he stole so charmingly that the victim never had an
inkling that the operation was in progress. Frequently, in fact, the
poor fish returned for more. Investments, real estate, transactions
over jewellery, anything and everything came equally easily to Henry
Partington, provided a large wad of the money that passed remained in
his pocket. As a side line he counted on bridge for a thousand a year,
and billiards kept him in cigars. Even golf, with a handicap of
sixteen, paid for itself, and golf afforded the exercise necessary for
his figure.

It was just before he had reached the age of thirty that in a moment
of mental aberration he had taken unto himself a wife. Whether it was
to try and make amends for having swindled the poor girl's father out
of five thousand of the best, or whether he really loved her, was a
point Henry Partington had frequently debated in his own mind since.
But it was an academic debate since she died a year later when
presenting him with Joan, his daughter. And Joan, during the early
part of her life, was a sad worry to her father. As a small girl, and
later as a long-legged flapper, there was no evident niche for her in
Henry Partington's scheme of things. True, she lent an air of
respectability--allusions to my poor dear wife and motherless child
always impressed the ladies--but in her early days she was undoubtedly
more trouble than she was worth.

Until one day he woke with a slight start to the knowledge that his
daughter was a singularly pretty girl. He was smoking his after
luncheon cigar at a fashionable hotel on the South coast, and his
glance rested casually on the tennis courts. And there he perceived
his daughter holding a court. No less than seven young men were around
her, and the crowd seemed to be increasing. For a moment or two his
eyes narrowed: the train of thought that the spectacle had suggested
to his astute brain was not very pleasant. No: a thousand times--no.

But though he banished the idea from his mind at the moment, it had
returned. After all, she need never know: she could act in all
innocence. The more innocent she was, in fact, the better she would
act. And one day, a few months later, he finally threw his scruples
overboard.

"There's a young fellow here, my darling," he murmured, "young
Teffington, to be exact, whom I'd rather like you to be nice to. He's
a good boy, and he's a bit worried over some of his investments. I
thought I'd try and help him: a little private dinner in our
sitting-room, don't you know? If you give him one or two of your
angelic smiles, it will make the lad more at his ease."

So Lord Teffington got his smiles, and they cost him, at a
conservative estimate, a thousand pounds apiece.

It was rapid then: he didn't even try to fight against it. Joan became
bait, and the game went merrily on. And if at times the remnant of a
conscience pricked him for using his daughter in such a cause, he
assuaged it by assuring himself that as she had no idea what she was
doing, no blame could be attached to her. Which admirable piece of
casuistry might have had something to be said for it: if it had not
been built on a fundamental error.

Exactly when Joan began to have her suspicions, it is difficult to
say. They grew gradually in her mind, though she fought against them
indignantly at first. But she was no fool, and by the time she was
nineteen the polite myth of her father being something in the City was
finally exploded. She knew that he wasn't anything of the sort, and
though she was still far from realizing what a confounded old scamp he
really was, she had a pretty shrewd idea that his method of livelihood
would not stand a close scrutiny. In fiction, of course, she would
have broken away from him in righteous horror at this point, and
earned her own living as a governess; in practice she did nothing of
the sort. In the first place, she knew nothing about teaching; in the
second, no female parent would have employed her--she was far too
pretty; thirdly, and most important of all, such a proceeding would
have bored her to death.

And so she did what many people have done before her--she drifted. She
was genuinely fond of her father, and in spite of herself, his free
and easy philosophy of life made her laugh. For, after a while, though
the matter had never been definitely mentioned between them, that
astute gentleman had sensed that she was not quite so ignorant as he
thought. And imperceptibly the mask had dropped off when they were
alone, until, at the age of twenty, Joan had but few illusions left
with regard to her father's ideas on the subject of _meum_ and _tuum_.
Which was all very reprehensible, and might have ended Heaven knows
how unless Bill Longworth had appeared on the scene.

Bill was something completely different to anybody she had ever met
before. In her wanderings around hotels with her father the average
man Joan had encountered had been cast in a mould. It was, doubtless,
a good mould, but honesty compels the admission that it was a dull
one. They were all very nice boys, who played tennis and golf quite
well and danced quite passably: but sooner or later they all stammered
and became hot in the hand as a preliminary to blurting out their
undying passion. And there was another mould--not a good mould--of
elderly men who also grew hot in the hand. They made her sick.

And then, one August, when she and her father were staying at the
Grand Hotel at Westbourne, Bill Longworth arrived. It was tea-time,
and from behind her table she watched him covertly as he got out of
the bus. And as he disappeared into the hotel, he left her with a
vivid impression of clear blue eyes set in a keen, tanned face; of
physical fitness and intense virility; of well-fitting clothes on a
perfect figure. A bag crammed with golf clubs followed him, together
with several suit-cases plastered with the fancy labels of foreign
hotels and steamship companies.

"An undoubted lamb," she reflected in the vernacular. "Him for little
Joan."

"A soldier, I should imagine," remarked her father thoughtfully.
"Probably penniless, but they sometimes think they can play poker."

"Can't you ever get away from it, Dad," she cried, irritably. "One of
these days you'll strike a man who _can_ play, and get bitten good and
hard."

"Don't mock your poor old parent, my darling," he answered amiably. "I
have often struck such scoundrels in the past, and I always develop a
headache when I've lost a fiver."

She didn't see the stranger again till dinner, and then, as luck would
have it, he had been placed at a table directly facing her. And it was
over the fish that their eyes met and held for a second. Quite
accidental, of course--but a second is a deuced long time--on certain
occasions. Quite long enough to establish very pleasant hopes for the
future--or to completely annihilate them.

He really was astoundingly pleasant to look at. And unconsciously Joan
found herself building fancy pictures in her mind about him. A soldier
probably, as her father had said: a clean-cut, straight-living man,
with hard, cut and dried ideas on honour and the thing to do. And what
would he think of her if he knew? A wave of bitterness against her
father passed over her: she felt a sudden intense envy for the
red-cheeked dowdy girl at the next table eating her second large
helping of apple-tart. She would break away: she would. Go and
typewrite or something: at any rate be honest.

Still silent and distraite she followed her father into the lounge.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the stranger's tall, spare figure
standing by an open window, and then she resolutely tried to banish
him from her thoughts. Which, if she'd stopped to think of it, was a
very dangerous sign. . . .

She started talking to a dull and worthy woman next to her--one of her
father's many smaller irons in the fire. And then the band struck up
in the ballroom--the signal for an immediate rush of callow youths to
her side. But as she went to dance with the first her heart gave a
sudden little pound of excitement: her father was talking to the
stranger in the window.

He didn't come up to her till near the end, and then her father
introduced him. And there was a glint in Henry Partington's eyes which
his daughter interpreted perfectly. It filled her with a sick
hopelessness: it meant that something was doing. And Joan knew what
that something was. She wouldn't help him over this: she'd tell him
later that this stranger _must_ be left alone. Because--oh!
because. . . .

"You dance divinely, Miss Partington."

The band had stopped; the cool, grave voice in her ear pulled her
together. She looked up at him to find his steady eyes fixed on hers
with a strange, baffling expression in them.

"Are you staying long?" she asked lightly, as they left the room.

"My plans are always a little vague," he answered. "Are you?"

"About another month, I expect."

"That is my own present intention," he said, gravely. "I hope we shall
have some more dances."

For about a quarter of an hour he stayed with her talking, and all the
time she was conscious of that inscrutable look in his eyes. It
defeated her: she couldn't interpret it. It seemed at times so utterly
impersonal--almost as if she was a specimen under examination; and
then, quite suddenly, it would alter, and give her the intensely
personal message which she had received so often from men before and
never wanted till now.

For she made no bones about it to herself when she went to bed. She
had only seen him for a few hours and spoken to him for a few minutes,
but this man Bill Longworth could not be dismissed as all the others
had been. He was going to mean something in her life, and the question
was, how big a thing he was going to be. And her last coherent thought
before she fell asleep was that she would insist on her father leaving
him alone. On that point she was absolutely determined. . . .

But it is one thing to be determined about a thing: it is another to
carry that determination into effect. During the days that followed
Bill Longworth seemed to deliberately lay himself out to play straight
into her father's hands. He started off the very next morning by
announcing casually that he had a few thousands lying idle and that he
was wondering what to do with them. And Joan all but heard her
father's mental snort of pure joy, like a thirsty war-horse scenting
water in the distance.

So that she wasn't in the least surprised when Henry Partington
casually suggested some three days later that they should ask him to
dinner in their sitting-room.

"A little business talk, my pet," he remarked casually. "A very nice
fellow--young Longworth: plays a rattling good game of golf. But the
old man with his strokes managed to beat him all right."

"I wish you'd leave him alone, father," she said quietly. "You know
perfectly well why you want him to dinner. And so do I."

"My darling," he cried, "you misunderstand me this time, I assure you.
It is true that in the past certain schemes in which I have interested
myself have gone wrong, but I give you my word that on this occasion
I'm on a cast-iron certainty. Our fortune, my pet, will be made. And I
want that nice young fellow in on the ground floor with me."

She gave a short laugh and left the room. It wasn't the first time she
had heard similar sentiments from her father, and she knew exactly
what they were worth. And as she went to her room to change--she was
playing golf with Longworth in a few minutes--she came to a sudden
resolve. Without giving her father away--she was too loyal for that--she
would try and persuade him not to part with his money. It would be
difficult, but that couldn't be helped: it just had to be done.

They had played nine holes before she broached the subject, and the
half-round had opened her eyes to another aspect of the case--an aspect
which made her heart beat a little quicker, but which also made her
resolve the more imperative. Bill Longworth was a class golfer; anyone
could see that with half an eye. And not in a hundred years would her
father beat him, even with twice his allowance of strokes. Why,
therefore, had Bill lost? He _must_ have done it deliberately. And if
so--why?

There could be only one answer. Joan was no fool: she knew she
attracted him even as he attracted her. And he'd lost merely to
ingratiate himself with her father. Which didn't matter much over a
game of golf, but was a totally different thing when it came to
business.

"Were you playing very badly against my father, Mr. Longworth?" she
asked, as she watched him hit a screamer from the tenth tee.

"Couldn't get the putts down," he answered gravely, after she'd
driven. "Good shot."

She shook her head.

"I don't believe you," she said quietly. "Do you mind if we sit down
for a little. I want to talk to you."

"There is an excellent seat by the eleventh tee," he remarked. "Let us
smoke a cigarette there, and look at the sea."

"Mr. Longworth," she said, when the caddies had been dismissed to a
suitable distance. "Daddy has asked you to dinner to-night, hasn't
he?"

"An invitation greedily accepted," answered the man.

"Well, I want you to regard what I'm going to say in the strictest
confidence," she went on quietly. "Daddy is a dear, but--but he's got
one failing. He thinks he's a financial genius. He's always putting
his money into the most wonderful schemes, which invariably go bust.
And he's always persuading his friends to do likewise. He means it for
the--for the best, but that's not much comfort when you lose your
money. So I want you to promise me that whatever he says to you
to-night you won't part with any of your money. I'm--I'm sure you'll
only lose it."

She caught her breath a little quickly, and glanced at the man beside
her. He was staring out to sea, and the knuckles of the hand which
grasped the arm of the seat were gleaming white. And then he suddenly
relaxed and looked at her, with the look that no woman can mistake.

"You darling," he said under his breath. "You darling."

For a moment or two she was so amazed that she could only stare at him
blankly; then the warm colour flooded her cheeks, and her eyes fell.

"What do you mean?" she whispered faintly.

"Only that I adore you," he answered. "And what you've just said to me
has made me the happiest man in the world."

"But why? I don't understand." And she was staring at him blankly
again.

"I don't expect you do," he said, with a little smile. "And maybe you
never will. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except one
thing. Can you guess what it is?"

"No," she answered, very low.

"You angelic little liar," he laughed. "You care, Joan?"

For a while she stared at the ground: then she raised her eyes to his.

"Like Hell, Bill. But oh!--it's impossible. Let's go on playing."

For the moment there was no one in sight, and she felt his arm like a
steel bar round her waist. Gasping, half suffocated, she raised her
lips to his; then he let her go.

"Nothing is impossible, my beloved," he cried, triumphantly.
"Absolutely nothing. Come along and finish the round. I have an
irresistible longing to drive into the back of the gent in plus fours
with the strawberry fair isle."


II

"My dear," remarked Henry Partington complacently, "I am glad to say
that my brokers see their way to letting young Longworth have five
thousand founder's shares in that new company I am interested in. The
one I talked to him about at dinner that night."

It was three days later, and Joan and her father were sitting on the
front listening to the band.

"He returns, I believe, this evening," he went on, "and to-morrow
morning I will tell him the good news. Let us hope he won the cup; he
is undoubtedly a very good golfer."

With a little frown the girl contemplated her shoe: she felt out of
her depth. For Bill Longworth had come to dinner as arranged, and
instead of doing as she expected him to do--turn down her father firmly
but politely--he had opened his mouth for the hook wider than ever. And
here he was--caught.

True, when Henry Partington had left them alone for a few minutes
while he went to look for a prospectus, Bill had taken her in his arms
and kissed her till she was breathless and exhausted--but that was
nothing to do with it. And the next day he had gone off to Portsdown
to play for the Autumn Gold Cup.

What did it mean; what could it mean, except that he didn't believe
the warning she had given him? And she couldn't let him be swindled by
her father. Not Bill. She'd have to stop it even if it meant telling
him the truth. And if she told him the truth, what would he think?
What would he think of her?

"Dad, I beg of you--don't do it," she cried, suddenly. "I beseech of
you, don't take Bill's money."

"My dear child," he answered, pompously, "as I've told you before,
you're mistaken this time. This really is the goods: on my word of
honour, I assure you. I'm putting him into a gold mine."

With a little sigh of utter weariness, she rose.

"I'm going back to the hotel," she said. "I've got a bit of a
headache."

There was nothing for it: she'd have to tell him herself. And if it
meant the end, well--it was only fair that she should pay. It was the
price for being her father's daughter, and for acquiescing in his mode
of life. But until now she had never realized how terribly big it was
going to be.

She didn't see him until dinner-time, and then he came over to their
table with the usual lazy smile on his lips, and a special private
message in his eyes for Joan.

"Did you win," said Henry Partington.

"By two strokes," answered Bill Longworth. "Everything went well: in
fact a most successful trip. And how is Miss Joan?"

"The same as before," she said, forcing a smile. "You must tell me
about the game after dinner."

She would do it then; she'd get him alone and tell him the truth. Tell
him that she'd lied to him on the golf links when she'd implied what
she had about her father; tell him that they were just a pair of
crooks and swindlers, and that this wonderful scheme was just another
of the same old ramps. She could picture him now as he realized the
truth; see the light die out of those dear blue eyes of his; the
contempt and scorn on his face as he looked at her. But it had to be
done; yes--it had to be done. You can't kiss a man as she'd kissed
Bill, and swindle him.

And so, with her mind made up, she left the dining-room to find that
her father appeared to have made up his mind also. Henry Partington
had not lived the life he had for thirty years for nothing, and that
evening he remained glued to her side. Whether his astute mind
suspected something of the truth or whether it was pure chance, she
didn't know, but the fact remained that her father gave her no
opportunity for even the shortest of private talks with Bill. And
bed-time came without her having said a word.

She went up to her room leaving the two men together, and slowly
undressed. She must get at him somehow: to-morrow morning might be too
late. They were probably talking business now, and Bill was believing
everything her father told him. People always did: he was so terribly
plausible. And Bill would put down what she had told him on the links
as just a girl's ignorance.

She was in bed before the idea struck her, and she realized the only
thing to do. For a moment or two she hesitated as she glanced at her
watch. After midnight. . . . Then, with sudden, quick decision, as if
she was afraid of changing her mind, she got up and slipped on a wrap.
She opened her door and looked out; the passage was empty. And,
without any further hesitation she walked along it in the direction of
Bill's room.

She had seen the number in the visitors' book, and with her heart
beating in great thumps she stopped outside the door of 213. For a
moment she hesitated and almost fled back to her own room: then she
knocked.

There was a short pause during which she heard what sounded like the
rattle of golf clubs; then the door was opened and Bill stood looking
at her.

"Joan," he whispered. "What do you want? Come in, my dear."

He closed the door behind her, but made no movement to touch her. He
had evidently been polishing his clubs, for a mashie was lying across
the chair and some sandpaper was on the floor. And having cleared his
golf bag away from the easy chair, he stood watching her with that
same baffling expression in his eyes that she had noticed the first
time they met.

"Bill," she said steadily, "I've got something to say to you. I wanted
to say it after dinner to-night, but Daddy never gave me a chance. Are
you going to put any money into this scheme of his?"

"I think so," he answered. "It seems a very good opportunity."

She wouldn't meet his eye, and so she didn't see the tender look on
his face.

"Bill you mustn't," she stammered. "Oh! but it's difficult. Bill--I
lied to you on the links, don't you understand? I let you think that
Daddy was just an ass who always lost his own money as well as other
people's. I hoped that would be enough to put you off, but it
evidently hasn't. Bill, we're--we're crooks."

Once again she failed to see the sudden smile that glinted on the
man's face.

"That's how we live, Bill: by swindling people. You'll never see a
penny of your money again if you give father that five thousand."

She stared miserably into the empty grate, only to give a sudden
little gasp as his arms went round her and she felt his cheek against
hers.

"And why, girl of mine," he whispered, "are you telling _me_ all this?
You didn't tell the others."

She twisted in his grasp so that she faced him.

"Because I love you," she said simply. "And I didn't love the others."

"You darling," he breathed. "You darling. That's all I wanted to
hear."

His lips met hers, her arms stole round his neck. And then she pushed
him away.

"Bill, we're mad. Don't you see that what I've told you
makes--everything--impossible."

He stood up, and his smile was twisted.

"That's for you to say, my sweetheart. For I've got something to tell
you . . . My God! who's that?"

On the door had come a quick, imperative knock.

"Quick, Joan," he whispered. "Through there, and into the bathroom.
And not a sound, darling; not a sound. Lock the door."

Bill Longworth cast one rapid glance round the room and straightened
his tie. Then he strolled over to the door and opened it. Two men were
standing outside, with the assistant manager hovering nervously in the
background.

"Good evening, Bill," said the larger of the two men. "I presume you
know why we're here."

"You can presume anything you like," said Longworth pleasantly. "But
there's no need to do it in the passage."

The large man smiled.

"Then we'll come inside. Now Bill, where are they?"

"Where are what?" asked Longworth lighting a cigarette.

"Lady Gallader's diamonds," said the large man wearily. "We've got you
this time, Bill, and as we all want to go to bed it will save a lot of
trouble if you fork 'em out at once. Because if you don't I warn you
I'm going to find 'em if I have to rip up every floor board in the
room."

"Most interesting," drawled Bill. "At the moment, however, the
connection seems a little obscure. I gather Lady Gallader has lost her
diamonds; but why this vicious animosity towards my harmless
apartment."

"Look here, Bill," said the large man patiently, "in order that things
may be quite clear to you I'll tell you one or two small points that
you don't know. Last night at Portsdown Lady Gallader's house was
broken into, and her diamonds were stolen. Don't look bored: I haven't
come to the points you don't know yet. This morning at four o'clock,
Greystone--you remember Inspector Greystone--was out for a very early
walk. A pure fluke I admit, Bill; and bad luck for you. And he
happened to see a very old friend having a morning walk also. This
friend was coming from the direction of Lady Gallader's house. Been
paying a call, Bill, had you? So Greystone hid behind a hayrick and
wondered. Of course he knew nothing about the burglary, but he did
know a good deal about the other early walker. So he followed him back
to his hotel, and from then till now, Bill, you've never been out of
our sight. As soon as Greystone heard about the burglary, he 'phoned
me. Then he followed you in another car; I got a warrant to search you
and here we are. Bill those stones are on you, or they're in this
room. We know you haven't got rid of 'em to-day. And we're going to
have 'em, if it takes us a week. You've done us every time up-to-date,
but we've got you at last."

"Most interesting," said Bill languidly. "But to my uninitiated eye
the evidence seems a trifle flimsy. Is our one and only Greystone the
only man who is allowed to take an early morning walk?"

"What where you doing down there anyway," snapped the detective.

"Oh! ephemeral fame," sighed Bill. "Let me show you the morning paper,
MacAndrew. There--W. Longworth 72 + 73 = 145. And Lord Gallader himself
presented me with a lovely medal. One over fours, my boy--for two
rounds."

MacAndrew snorted.

"I'm not denying you can play golf. Maybe you'll want a bit of
practice after a few years' rest, though. Now then--where are they?"

"My dear Mac, I haven't got 'em. You've made a boss shot this time,
believe you me. As, I may say, you always have on other occasions. In
fact I regard myself as a most hardly used individual. This atmosphere
of harsh suspicion in which I live is not conducive to good putting."

"Cut it out," snarled MacAndrew. "If you won't tell us, we've got to
do it ourselves. But I can promise you, Longworth, you'll regret it.
Take that end of the room, Johnson, and start with the bed."

It was three o'clock before they had finished, and if Inspector
MacAndrew had not actually fulfilled his threat of ripping up the
floor boards he had done everything short of doing so. And he had
drawn absolutely blank.

"Damn you, Longworth," he cried angrily. "I know you've got 'em."

He was standing in the centre of the room regarding Bill Longworth
balefully. And Bill, who was carefully cleaning his niblick, looked up
with a pleasant smile.

"Sorry for your disappointment, Mac," he murmured, "but I told you
you'd made a howling error. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to
turn in. There's a big open competition at Le Touquet in three days,
and late nights are the devil for one's golf."

And then suddenly his eyes narrowed: MacAndrew was looking at the
bathroom door.

"What is through there, Bill?" he asked.

"My bathroom," answered Longworth, getting up and strolling over to
the door.

"Then I think we'll just search your bathroom, Bill," said MacAndrew
quietly.

"And I think you won't," replied Longworth, equally quietly.

A gleam of triumph had come into the Inspector's eyes.

"Getting hot, are we," he remarked grimly. "Longworth, I order you to
stand on one side."

"MacAndrew," said Longworth, and his face was set and strained, "I
give you my most solemn word of honour that there is nothing in the
bathroom that will interest you."

"That is a point I prefer to settle myself," answered the detective.
"Once again I order you to stand aside."

And Bill Longworth's forehead was wet.

"Look here, MacAndrew," he cried desperately, "if I tell you . . ."

And at that moment the bathroom door opened, and Joan stepped into the
room.

"My dear," cried Bill in agony. "Oh! my dear."

But Joan took no notice of him.

"Search the bathroom," said Joan scornfully to the Inspector. "And
then go."

For a while there was absolute silence in the room: then the Inspector
turned to Bill.

"You didn't want that door opened, Longworth--quite naturally. To
prevent it you were just going to tell me--what. 'If I tell you'--you
said."

"The great secret, MacAndrew. The thing I've never told a soul. But
I'd have told you to prevent this happening." His hands were clenched:
his face was stern. "Keep your eye on the ball, and your head still,
and in a year or two you'll win one of the monthly spoons."

A soft gurgle of laughter from Joan broke the oppressive tension, and
even the manager's face twitched into a smile.

"MacAndrew," went on Bill quietly, "you've made a mistake. It's true I
was out early this morning, I don't deny it. I couldn't sleep and I
went for a walk. But I don't even know where Lady Gallader's house
is."

"I've not made a mistake, Longworth," answered the other through his
clenched teeth. "That was your work last night. But as usual, you've
left no trace. Never mind, my friend: it's only a question of time
before I prove it."

"Well, laddie," said Bill wearily, "it's a question of half-past three
now. And as you said yourself, we all want to go to bed. Could we
postpone the proof till to-morrow, or rather till later to-day."

"We cannot," snarled MacAndrew. "You were going to tell me where you'd
hidden those stones, Longworth. And unless you do--now, this instant, I
shall make it my business to see that this young lady's presence in
your room--in that rig, is duly known to her father."

"You ineffable swine," said Bill tensely. "You supreme cur."

He was crouching a little, and his eyes, hard and merciless, were
fixed on the Inspector's face. And then, just as he was going to
spring, Joan's hand was laid on his arm.

"You will be a little late, Inspector," she said quietly. "I propose
to tell my father to-morrow morning first thing that I came round to
my fianc's room to-night to talk a certain matter over with him, when
you interrupted us."

She felt the muscles in Bill's arm relax, and not till then did her
hand drop to her side.

"Would you now be good enough to search the bathroom, and then go?"

But MacAndrew had had enough: and with a stifled curse he swung on his
heel and crossed to the door.

"Sooner or later, Longworth: sooner or later I'll catch you. And as
for you, Miss, I wish you joy of your choice. You've got the smartest
jewel-thief in Europe to-day."

But Bill Longworth was taking no notice: he was staring at the girl by
his side.

"Did you mean it, Joan?" he said a little hoarsely. "When you said--'my
fianc.'"

The detectives had gone: the two of them were alone.

"If you want me, Bill," she answered.

"If I want you," he almost shouted. "Why, I'm mad for you."

And then his hands dropped to his sides.

"But, my dear--it's the truth: what MacAndrew said."

"I guessed that," she said quietly. "And you were going to tell him
where the diamonds were, rather than that he should open that door?"

"Why yes, dear, I was," said Bill gravely. "Listen, my darling. That
was the thing I had to tell you. I've done it for years. It's I who am
the sinner--not you. I spotted your father for what he was within five
minutes. And I wondered about you. Did you know, or did you not? On
the golf links I was nearly sure: to-night you told me."

Half unconsciously he had picked up one of his brassies and was
balancing it in his hand.

"Joan, I'm sick of it. MacAndrew is right: sooner or later he'll catch
me. I want to marry and settle down. And you--oh! my darling--it was
first sight as far as I was concerned. But before I asked you I had to
make sure. So I played into your father's hands, and found out what I
wanted to know. And then when you came out of the bathroom and saved
the situation--why, Joan dear, the world just stopped for a moment.
Crooks, my darling, both of us: you such a tiny little one--me pretty
black. But if we run straight, Joan . . ."

"Why, yes, Bill, we'll do that."

His arms were round her: his face close to hers.

"We'll run straight, boy: and we'll run together."

And then a sudden thought struck her and she smiled.

"Where are the diamonds?"

"Where everything has always been," grinned Bill.

He took a screwdriver out of his pocket, and picked up a brassie.

"You pulled my leg once about the excessive number of my wooden clubs.
But I don't play with them all."

The brass plate was off the bottom of the club, and Joan saw that the
head was hollow. And in the cavity was something carefully wrapped in
cotton wool.

"They're all there, and in three of the other clubs," he said.

"But, Bill," she cried, "this is Daddy's precious pearl and diamond
tie-pin that he values so much."

"I know, my angel," he admitted. "I was going to give it back to him
to-morrow morning as a sort of solatium for not getting my five
thousand and for losing his daughter."




IX -- THE IMPASSIVE FOOTMAN


1

John Marwood stirred irritably in his chair, and pulled the shawl
tighter round his shoulders. On his face was the peevish, complaining
look which of late years had become chronic: his whole bearing
suggested the man who has a grievance against everything and
everybody: the man who has decided that life has not given him a
square deal. It makes no difference to such a man that in the game it
is often he who deals the cards: and that it is up to him to make the
best of the bad hands when they come. Far from not meeting trouble
half-way, the particular breed to which John Marwood belonged
anticipate it before it starts. They seize it, they canter back with
it, and they then exclaim triumphantly: "I told you so." In fact, the
only thing which seems to annoy them, and make them really aggrieved,
is when they can find nothing to complain about. It is a very rare
occurrence, and mercifully for John Marwood things were not as bad as
that. One of those wretched pin-pricks with which life delighted to
buffet him had occurred: no one had come to give him his
medicine. . . .

Out of the whole houseful of lazy, incompetent servants, not one of
them could take the trouble to remember his sufferings. He fumed
angrily and muttered under his breath. Three o'clock was the time for
his tonic: it was now nearly five past. And, of course, Grace was
out--she would be. Just when he wanted her. . . . And the fire wanted
attention. . . . Moreover, that symptom of his which he had described
to her last night, that sharp stabbing pain near the right shoulder
blade was becoming increasingly acute. He felt convinced it was
something serious, though his wife had not seemed very impressed when
he had told her. But then, she never was: she seemed to have
absolutely no conception of how he suffered.

Once again he moved irritably in his chair. Unless one of these fat
brutes brought his medicine shortly he could have to get up and ring
the bell. And any walking hurt his right leg abominably. But what did
they care? He might die at that moment, and not one of the great staff
he employed would feel one single twinge of regret. They would
afterwards, of course, when they were kicked out of a soft job into
the world. Then they might begin to realize what he had done for them,
and then it would be too late. He gloated over the thought for a
moment or two: he almost felt as if it would be worth while dying just
to score off them. But then, he wasn't likely to die: he never had any
luck. . . .

Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching the door, and the need for
rapid thought arose. When had he last endeavoured to show his callous
household a little of the torture he endured? Of course, it was acting
in a way--but a very necessary piece of acting. . . . Only it didn't do
to carry it out too often: otherwise it lost its point. . . . It was
as the knock came on the door, and the handle turned, that he
remembered it was at least a week since he had done it last, and that
it was, therefore, quite time to do it again. . . .

With an agility remarkable considering the agony in his right leg he
rose and took a couple of steps forward. Then he clutched the
mantelpiece with one hand, and his right side with the other. It was
as the door opened that he groaned. . . .

A man came in with a glass of medicine on a tray, and for a moment he
stood watching his master with a contemptuous smile on his face. Then
the mask of the good servant replaced it, and, coming forward, he
placed the medicine on the table, and solicitously helped the sufferer
back to his chair, where he lay with closed eyes.

"Your tonic, sir," murmured the servant, after a decent interval.

After a long pause Marwood looked wearily up at him. "How many of you
are there below?"

"Four, sir." The man's eyebrows went up slightly.

"Is it too much to hope that among four of you there is one who can
remember to bring me my tonic in time?"

"Very sorry, sir. The clock in the servants' hall is slow."

"Then, is it too much to hope that among four of you there is one who
can remember to put it right?" He put out a languid hand towards the
glass. "If it is too much to hope for, I suppose I shall have to
resign myself to the agony of getting up to ring the bell to remind
you." With a profound sigh he looked at the pink liquid. "Is this a
tablespoonful?"

"Yes, sir."

With an expressionless face the man watched Marwood drain the glass:
then, picking it up, he turned to go.

"Wait." Marwood's tired voice stopped him on his way to the door.
"What sum of money do I pay you a year?"

"Forty-eight pounds, sir."

"Forty-eight pounds." The speaker's eyes were closed: his weariness
seemed to be increasing. "Then do you think it would be possible for
you to tear yourself away from your arduous pleasures downstairs for a
sufficiently long period to attend to one or two of the things that so
very obviously want doing in this room? I am fully aware that my
comfort is a matter of supreme indifference to the entire household;
but, in return for your forty-eight pounds a year, I hope I am not
asking too much. For instance--the fire. It occurs to me that it might
be saved from complete extinction if you could bring yourself to place
a little coal on it."

As noiselessly as is humanly possible, the operation was performed,
and the man stood up. He had only given his employer the opportunity
for two agonized starts of nerve-wracked anguish, which was distinctly
annoying to the invalid. Making up the fire was the invariable
occasion of some of his very choicest flights of martyred cynicism.
(And what made the servants' hall snarl with rage was the fact that
for hours on end, when Marwood had given strict orders that he should
not be disturbed, the fire was kept up and tended by the sufferer
himself. Those were the occasions when he found the strength to totter
alone to the door, and hang on the outside a red board, which informed
the household that his nerves were in such a condition that he
required complete solitude.)

At length the man in the chair opened his eyes, and gazed at the
motionless servant. Long experience had taught him that the most
potent weapon in the world, with what he was pleased to term "the
lower orders," was a cold, malevolent sarcasm. Cursing anyone can
stand--so John Marwood never cursed. He specialized in the icy sneer,
and he was a fairly capable specialist. He enjoyed seeing a man writhe
under his tongue: it afforded him an intense satisfaction, which can
only be properly appreciated by the born bully. . . .

For a few moments the silence remained unbroken. There was no hurry,
and undue precipitancy always spoilt these interviews. Each particular
phase must be played to the end in order to get the full enjoyment,
and the present phase was the silent interlude. It varied with the
different servants, as to the length of time they could stand
Marwood's eye without growing restless. And this man gave the best
sport of all. In fact, on two or three occasions he had actually
beaten Marwood at his own game: forced him to speak before he had
intended to, before he had really prepared his remark. He stood now
calmly gazing out of the window, perfectly deferential, perfectly
self-composed, until Marwood could have struck him in his rage. He
felt that he would willingly have given all he possessed just to see
this man squirming and writhing in front of him . . . like a small boy
who impales an insect on a pin. . . .

"Is there anything more you wish, sir?" Quite calmly the servant
picked up the empty medicine glass.

"I suppose," said Marwood, striving to speak in his usual
expressionless voice, "that you consider you have fulfilled all the
obligations that can reasonably be expected of you in return for
forty-eight pounds a year. Nevertheless, if it is not too much to ask,
perhaps you would be kind enough to hand me that red volume from the
bookshelf."

The man crossed the room and returned with the book.

"You would, of course," remarked Marwood, "give it to me upside down.
And now--the evening paper . . . on that table . . ." He lay back
completely exhausted. "At five o'clock--not five past or ten past--but
at five, unless you are all too engrossed to think of the matter,
perhaps one of you would again bring me my tonic. And until then I do
not wish to be disturbed. Place the board on the door after you go
out, and if it is within your power I entreat of you do not make a
noise doing so."

"Very good, sir." With an inscrutable expression in his eyes the man
stood watching Marwood to see if he had any further instructions. But
the invalid apparently had not. He remarked "Forty-eight pounds a
year. My God!" twice, in a resigned whisper, and then complete
prostration supervened.

It was as the door was closing behind the servant that Marwood once
more found his voice.

"It was forty-eight pounds you said," he called feebly.

"Yes, sir." Very deliberately the man held the door open, and stared
at his employer's back. "In addition, however, there is a shilling a
month for insurance stamps, and the usual washing bills. I will
prepare a complete statement for you."

Marwood's eyes opened in speechless fury, and he sat up with a jerk.
But the door had shut, and the sound of the man's footsteps had died
away before he could think of a suitable answer to such a piece of
gratuitous insolence. . . .

After a while he calmed down, and opened the book on his knees. As
might have been expected, it was a medical treatise--one of the popular
type. Couched in comprehensible language, the symptoms of every
disease from housemaid's knee to consumption were set forth in its
pages, and there were very few of those diseases which, at some period
or other during the last six years, Marwood had not suffered from
according to himself. That he had been completely unable to find any
doctor who would support his diagnosis was merely a proof that all
doctors were fools. Far better results could be obtained, he had come
to the conclusion, by looking after oneself: and since chemists--who
were also a race of fools--had a rooted objection to making up
prescriptions unless they were ordered by a doctor, he had been
compelled by _force majeure_ to fall back on patent medicines. Of
these, he consumed annually an incredible amount: and only his
naturally strong constitution had enabled him to stand the strain.

This afternoon he was desirous of finding out what that sharp pain in
his right shoulder blade indicated. If he sent for one of those damned
doctors, he would be told it was liver, and recommended to take
exercise. . . . Exercise! Exercise!!! . . . With agonizing neuritis in
his right leg.

It was no question of liver, that he knew. Heart, possibly--no, that
was on the left side . . . or a tubercular growth. . . . There was a
slight swelling as far as he had been able to make out the night
before, by twisting round and moving a couple of looking glasses into
more favourable positions. And then the light had been wrong, and
Grace had come in and laughed at him. She would: there wasn't a soul
who cared in the whole house--not one. But they'd think differently
. . . they'd think differently--when . . .

Rigid, motionless, Marwood stared in front of him, gripping the arms
of his chair. Stab . . . stab . . . stab . . . an excruciating pain
had suddenly begun to pierce him like a knife. It started from the
region of his right shoulder and spread to his chest. With monotonous
regularity it continued, while the flames flickered in the grate, and
fantastic shadows danced round the darkening room. Stab . . . stab
. . . every four or five seconds: till his whole body seemed to be
burning with the agony.

Once he raised his voice in a feeble little whining cry. "Liver!
They'll say it's liver." He threw out his hands with an impotent wail,
only to put them back on the arms of the chair again, as the pain
jumped viciously with the movement.

And then slowly it died away; the stabs became fewer and fewer, and
finally ceased altogether. Very carefully he lay back in his chair,
and after a while put a shaking hand to his forehead. It was wet with
perspiration, and even at that moment he experienced a grim
satisfaction at this conclusive evidence of the agony he had suffered.
It was a pity Grace was not there to see. Then she wouldn't have
laughed.

He lay very silent, staring at the wall. He was still shaking from the
effects of the bout, though the relief from the actual pain was
exquisite. And it was not for half an hour that the satisfaction he
felt at this proof of his sufferings was replaced by another feeling
which at first he found hard to analyse. He shied away from the
analysis like a frightened colt; he assured himself that it was only
what he had known all along, though none of these cursed doctors would
believe him; he proved conclusively that it only showed what he had
always said--that he was a very sick man. But he proved it too
conclusively; he proved it so that at last he really did believe it
himself. And the feeling which replaced the satisfaction was
fear--sickening, gripping fear. He who had called Wolf so often when
others were about, and had raged fretfully because they had taken no
notice, realized suddenly that, in truth, the Wolf had come. And John
Marwood knew the conclusion of that fable.

Once again he wiped the sweat from his forehead, and, reaching out a
trembling hand, he raised a glass of water to his lips. His throat
felt dry and parched; the room seemed strangely hot. And then, with a
sudden crash a coal fell into the grate and lay there smoking.

With a little whimper of fear he dropped the glass and soaked himself
with water.


2

You may know Tearle's Tea Shop in a certain little street off
Shaftesbury Avenue; on the other hand, you may not. If you are
supremely great and very beautiful, you probably patronize
Rumpelmeyer's; if you aspire solely to the consumption of a good,
wholesome bun, an A.B.C. is not to be despised. In fact, London's
teashops are legion, and between them every taste from Tooting to
Mayfair, and thence down again to Whitechapel is catered for. But
there is only one Tearle's.

It would be hard to define the _clientle_ of Tearle's. All that one
can say is that once a Tearleite always a Tearleite. The tables are
sufficiently secluded to allow people to eat the mustard and cress,
which is Tearle's speciality, in decency; they are not so completely
hidden that it is unwise to take a step without a warning cough. In
short, it is Tearle's, and, if you don't know it, go there and find
out for yourself.

Grace Marwood had been sitting at her usual table in the corner for
ten minutes before Bryan Daventry came in. He saw her as he reached
the door, and, a little abruptly, he stopped and hung up his coat and
hat. There were other pegs vacant nearer her table, but, not for the
first time, Daventry wanted those few seconds' breathing space while
he was still too far away for her to see the expression on his face.
Because Daventry, being an ordinary decent man, to say nothing of
being a brilliantly successful doctor, had decided some months ago
that the intense, overpowering love he felt for Grace Marwood had got
to stop. Which, incidentally, is the sort of foolish thing a man does
decide.

He had never spoken about it to her. If you speak about love, and mean
it, to another man's wife, you cannot change the conversation to easy
prattle about the weather. Something will happen one way or the other;
either you will be taken at your word, or the lady will become
peevish. And neither of these alternatives appealed to Daventry. If he
had had to choose, it would have been the first without hesitation;
the thought of making Grace angry, of cutting out these occasional
meetings, when he could sit near her, and watch the little dark
tendrils of hair curling over her ears, could see the curve of her
cheek and the soft light in her wonderful deep blue eyes--the thought
of missing all that was inconceivable. And so he had compromised, as
has been known to happen before. He continued to meet her, and discuss
all those vague, intimate things which mean such a big side of life to
a normal human being. But he never mentioned love, and, of course, she
had no idea of his feelings on the matter. Which, incidentally, is the
sort of foolish thing a man does think.

"You're late, _mon ami_," she said, holding out her hand as he came
up.

"The ailments of the human race increase and multiply daily," he
answered gravely, taking a cup of tea. "I investigated two completely
fresh diseases to-day, and effectually cured both the proud
proprietors."

"Bright man! Have a bun."

"I looked out the Latin for cauliflower, and told 'em they were
suffering from that. Pleased as Punch--both of 'em. Then, with the help
of a little Eno's, suitably coloured----" He shrugged his shoulders.
"And what has Mrs. Marwood been doing to-day?"

"Existing, Bryan; just existing. John has discovered an entirely new
pain."

For a moment their eyes met, and then Daventry looked away a little
quickly.

"Where is the location this time?" he asked, stirring his tea.

"Oh, somewhere in his back. I found him balanced on his chest of
drawers last night, with his shaving glass in one hand, and an
electric torch that wouldn't work in the other, trying to see if there
was a swelling." She smiled--a fleeting, bitter smile. "Poor old John!"

"Poor old John!" echoed Daventry savagely. "My dear Grace, if poor old
John took a two-mile run in the Park, wet or fine, every morning of
his life for the next six months, there would be no new pains--as I
told him myself."

The girl gurgled gently. "I remember the occasion perfectly. His
remarks after you had gone, on your personal appearance, your ability,
your utter lack of even the remotest claim to be considered fitted to
qualify as an assistant to a dresser, are indelibly stamped on my
brain."

Daventry laughed with her, and for a while neither of them spoke.
There was never any necessity for speech between these two; it came
spontaneously when the spirit moved them; at other times they were
both very content to sit and watch the pictures that dance in the
flames, or twist gently upwards in the hazy blue smoke of a cigarette.
His dreams were always the same, impossible of fruition, and so, maybe
the more wonderful. With her they were not so clear; they were vaguer,
more rambling, less personal. She knew his feelings for her, not,
perhaps, in all their intensity, but she knew he cared. And as for
herself--well, only once had she really faced it. She had realized then
that if she was not in love with him, it was merely because it had
never been crystallized into so many words. Poor old John stood in the
way, and so what was the use? For a time after that realization she
had avoided Daventry, and then gradually their old intimacy returned,
their old visits to Tearle's were resumed. Not one word had Bryan ever
spoken to which John himself could have objected--but the knowledge was
always there. Underneath, smouldering fiercely, was the flame;
deliberately she ignored it. And if at times there came a faint
premonition of danger, she thrust it from her. Was there not
always--poor old John?

She took a cigarette from the case he was holding out to her, and
waited while he lit a match.

"How goes the research, Bryan?"

For a moment his eyes gleamed with the enthusiasm of the scientist;
then he grinned boyishly. And when Bryan Daventry grinned, people he
was with forgot he was a brilliantly successful investigator of
thirty-five; they regarded him as a schoolboy who had just been
presented with half-a-crown within sight of the tuck-shop.

"It's early days, Grace, to say for certain," he answered. "But I
believe honestly and candidly that I've got it. And if so----" His fist
clenched on the table, and under his breath he whispered again--"If
so----"

"If so----" She looked at him with shining eyes. "Why, you'll have done
what no one has done before, Bryan."

"That's so," he answered gravely. "Yes, that's so. But it's not so
much that I'm thinking of: it's the suffering thousands who have died
of it. Died in agony, Grace--hideous agony. It's the most awful
disease--cancer. And if one can save 'em in the future--if----" Once again
his eyes glowed fiercely.

"And when will you know if you are right?"

"Not for years--for certain." Quickly, incisively, his hands moved as
he spoke--strong, capable hands--the hands of a great surgeon. "You
see," he was talking rapidly, and the ash grew longer on her forgotten
cigarette, "one operates. Apparently everything is all right; the
growth is removed. But not for five, six, possibly ten years, can one
be certain that it will not return. By the old method it always did--in
a few months. Now, by my new way, I know it will not come back for
years: I hope it will not come back at all. But it's all experiment,
experiment, experiment. One must find cases; one must operate; and
then one must see. Because"--his fingers drummed on the table--"there is
a risk--a big risk."

"You mean that it is kill or cure?"

"More or less. At least, that's what they say." He laughed shortly.
"Old Sir Henry Darlington told me so this morning. He was very nice
about it; but he evidently regarded it as the enthusiasm of youth. So
do Birkett and Longworth." He paused for a moment and stared at the
girl. "I'll show 'em, Grace," he continued quietly. "I'll show 'em
that it's cure--not kill. And then----" His voice rang out with a
triumphant note; on his face was the look of the strong man who sees
success within his reach, and already tastes the sweets of it in his
mind.

The girl touched his hand with one of hers. "I know you will, Bryan,"
she whispered, and there was a wonderful light in her eyes. "I know
it. And oh! my dear, how proud I'll be of you."

She had spoken without thinking, spoken the thing that was uppermost
in her mind. And the smouldering flame seized its opportunity and
burst out. The doctor had gone; it was the man who sat beside her
staring into her eyes, with the unmistakable message blazing from his
own. She shivered, and tried to look away, but it was too late.

"Don't say it, Bryan, don't say it. For God's sake, don't say it."

"And why not, Grace? Why shouldn't one say the truth? You've known it,
my dear, all along."

He beckoned to the waitress, and paid the bill. Then, in silence, he
helped her on with her coat. Once his hand brushed her neck, and with
a sudden, ungovernable rush of joy he felt her shiver at his touch.

"I'm going to take you home," he said quietly. "There are one or two
things I must say to you; things which should have been said before."

He beckoned a taxi and gave the driver the address. Then he got in,
and the car shot out into Shaftesbury Avenue.

"You care, Grace," he said, still in the same quiet tone, and, taking
both her hands in his. "Thank God! I know it: I saw it in your
eyes. . . . But I'd just love to hear you say it, my dear . . . once."

"Oh! Bryan. . . ." Her voice was trembling, so that he could scarcely
hear the words. "What's the use, my dear . . . what's the use."

"I don't care what the use is just at the moment," he answered. "I
only know that I'm a man, and you're a woman, and that I've loved you
as I never believed I could have loved anyone for years." He was
bending towards her as he spoke. "My dear," he whispered hoarsely.
"Oh! my dear."

He caught her in his arms and kissed her; kissed her eyes, her hair,
her mouth. And after a weak, little fluttering attempt to push him
away, she wound her arms round his neck, and gave him back kiss for
kiss.

It seemed as if they could never stop, but at length, with a little
gasp she broke away from his arms and leant back in the corner of the
taxi, with closed eyes. He watched her hungrily by the light of the
passing lamps, taking in every detail of the exquisite profile. For
the time he was mad, past thought, past care, past everything save the
unutterable wonder of the woman he had held in his arms.

"It's all wrong, Bryan," she said wearily. "Why did you do it, my
dear--why?"

"As well ask a flower why it comes out in the sun," he answered
gravely. "I couldn't help it, Grace; I just couldn't help it." He took
one of her hands, and it lay in his, lifeless and inert. "We've been
playing with fire for a long while, dear; and I've known it. But I
couldn't have given up seeing you; you meant everything to me. You
tried once, I know--and that ought to have warned me. But, I suppose,
there are some things which are a bit too strong for us." He laughed
suddenly, and drew her to him again. "What's it matter, darling,
what's anything matter, except that you're you and I'm me." He was
whispering close to her ear, hardly conscious of what he said. "I love
you, you wonderful woman, adore you, worship you. . . . And I can't
think of anything else that counts two straws--not in the whole wide
world."

He tried to kiss the averted face, but this time she pushed him away,
gently but inexorably.

"John matters, Bryan," she answered quietly. "That's why I don't think
you must ever see me again."

"Not see you again!" With a short, amazed laugh the man looked at her.
"After this! My dear, you don't love John."

"No," she said, thoughtfully. "I don't . . . I don't think I ever
have--not really. It's been a sort of pity all along. But I'm married
to him."

"That difficulty has been got over before now," he answered grimly.
"Grace! dear girl of mine--you _can't_ tie yourself for life to a
receptacle of patent medicines."

"I have done so; that's the trouble." She looked at him gravely; then,
with a weary little laugh she turned and stared out of the window.
"Oh! Bryan, why did you do it?" The oft-repeated cry came again--came
with a catch in her voice. "I did so love our friendship; our teas
together: hearing about your work and life. It was the only thing that
made life possible. And now--it's over."

"A man and woman like you and I want more than teas and friendship,
Grace." With level eyes the man was staring at the driver's back: then
they fixed themselves on the cigarette carefully placed behind his
ear. "We deluded ourselves into thinking that we could cheat fate: we
failed. If you like, I failed. It doesn't matter very much, does it?
All that concerns us at the moment is what we are going to do now."

"What thousands of others have had to do before us," she answered
wearily. "Grin and bear it, Bryan--what else?"

"What else?" he cried fiercely. "Why everything else. Why should we do
as thousands of others have done? Why should we make ourselves
miserable because a lot of damned fools say it's the proper thing to
do. Grace--we've only got one life. It's ours to make or mar. My dear!
it's impossible for us to leave it like this--utterly, absolutely
impossible. We're nearly there now: I've got no time to _make_ you
feel as I feel--to _make_ you see the only solution." He took her hand,
and held it in both of his. "Come and have tea with me to-morrow.
Let's talk it over, Grace: let's see if we can't find a way out: let's
be sure. . . ."

The taxi drew up at the house, and he dropped her hand. "Will you
come?"

For a moment they stood together on the pavement facing one another.
Then, very slowly: "I don't know, Bryan: I don't know."

"Will you ring me up?" Eagerly he pleaded with her, clinging to every
second left.

"Perhaps," she answered. "But I've got to think things out--alone."

Then she left him, and the door closed behind her.

"Cold night, guv'nor." The driver's voice roused him from his
thoughts.

"Very cold," he answered. "Take me to the Junior Reform, please."

And, peering through the curtains of the house he had just left, stood
Grace Marwood, watching the red tail lamp of the taxi till it
disappeared round a bend in the road.


3

Dinner was never a very edifying meal in the Marwood household. Grace
had long given up the experiment of asking in any guests: in fact, the
last time had been four years ago. The remembrance of that occasion
still lingered in her memory. A certain flippant stockbroker had been
present, who insisted on capping every one of his host's symptoms with
those possessed by an aunt of his. In fact, the hypothetical aunt won
in a canter: the finishing touch being put on when the stockbroker
jovially comforted Marwood with the information that the old girl
wasn't dead yet.

And to-night, as she sat opposite her husband, Grace was trying to get
her bearings. In silence she had watched him hobble in between two
footmen: with weary contempt she had followed the old familiar
procedure. First the footstool was adjusted for the leg that had
neuritis: then the cushion was put behind his back. Finally one of the
men advanced with a purple liquid on a salver, which represented the
last brand of patent filth that was being tried. She had grown so used
to the whole programme that generally it meant nothing to her; it was
part of her life, and she had accepted it as such. The thought of
changing it in any way had simply never occurred to her: it was as
much part of John as his face.

But now, as the meal progressed, in silence as usual--(his latest idea
was that speech upset the digestion)--she was taking stock from a new
standpoint. Her mind went back to the day when they were married eight
years ago. She had been twenty-one--her husband ten years older: and
under the influence of the inscrutable aberration which affects people
at such times she had believed she loved him. She had known he was a
little delicate: but he played golf and tennis and occasionally rode
to hounds. And then, a few months after their marriage, he had had a
severe bout of typhoid fever. From that date things had gradually
grown worse, until about three years later an aunt had died
unexpectedly, leaving him all her money, thus enabling him to retire
from business and become a professional invalid. Step by step she
recalled the whole process; relentlessly she asked herself whether
she, herself, was to blame in any way. Supposing, when she first
noticed the way he was drifting, she had laughed him out of it--and
gone on laughing, till for very shame he had pulled himself together!
But it had all been so gradual: so impossible to say, "This ache of
yours is twaddle: and if there's anything in that one, for the love of
Heaven take a cold bath and go and skip in the garden." Besides, to a
woman of Grace's temperament it seemed so inconceivable that anybody
could _want_ to be ill. . . .

"My digestive tablet." Her husband's voice recalled her to the
present, and she looked across at him.

One of the footmen was bearing a small bottle forward on a tray. He
then poured out a wineglassful of warm water, and with great solemnity
John Marwood consumed his pill, to frown heavily on sipping the water.

"It is, I suppose," he remarked wearily, "too much to expect that you
would give me water of the right temperature. This is several degrees
too hot."

And suddenly Grace laughed. "Why don't you tickle your throat, John,
and slip it down like a dog? You'd get some exercise that way."

"My dear Grace"--he stared at her in pained surprise. "Are you trying
to be funny?"

For a moment she seemed about to speak; then she changed her mind, and
continued her dinner in silence. For the first time in their married
life she saw her husband as he really was: only too clearly she
realized the cause of her enlightenment. She was still undecided as to
what to do when they rose from the table: her mind seemed incapable of
grappling with the problem. It was so unexpected, so huge; it dazed
and frightened her. Two facts alone stuck out clear above everything:
she loved Bryan Daventry, and she was married to this--this receptacle
of patent medicines. . . .

"If you could spare me a few minutes, Grace," he remarked, with his
usual expression of studied politeness, "there is something I would
like to say to you in my study."

"I will come in shortly. There is something I have to say to you,
also."

She watched him totter from the room, supported by the two footmen:
then she moved to the fire, and spread out her hands to the blaze.
Once or twice she shivered, though the room was warm: then, turning
round, she studied her reflection in the long mirror opposite. She
looked at herself critically, as she would have looked at another
woman: then she summed herself up.

"I am pretty, prettier than nine women out of ten. My figure is good,
and so is my complexion. And I might as well be forty-eight with false
teeth, as far as John is concerned. Is it worth it?"

Again she crouched over the fire, striving to read the answer in the
flames. Bryan's face danced in front of her, and she pressed the back
of her hand to her mouth as if she could still feel his kisses, warm
and passionate, on her lips. It was impossible: she couldn't go on;
she would go to him to-morrow, and tell him. . . .

"Mr. Marwood is in his study, madam."

The footman's voice at the door roused her, and she rose to her feet.
And as she walked slowly down the passage to her husband's room there
was a faint smile on her face.

He was in his usual chair carefully muffled up in a shawl: sudden
changes of temperature were very apt to give him a chill. By his side
was the inevitable red treatise on diseases, and a jug of hot water:
his face bore its invariable expression of resigned misery. For a
while she stood on the other side of the fireplace watching him: then
she sat down.

"What is it you wish to say?" she asked.

"I can hardly anticipate that it will be of much interest to you," he
remarked. "What little consideration you ever possessed for my health
seems to have gone long ago . . . But still, in case anything should
happen to me, I feel it right to let you know what occurred this
afternoon. Possibly you remember that stabbing pain I mentioned to you
last night?"

"Yes, I do." Her voice was expressionless.

"I am honoured." He took a sip of hot water. "This afternoon when you
were out, and I, as usual, was alone--it returned. For half an hour I
suffered incredible agony, and I am convinced that something very
serious is the matter with me." He paused impressively. "It is not
that, however, which I wish to discuss with you: the matter is not
likely to interest you sufficiently. It is the question of business,
and money, in the event of my death. Would you be good enough to hand
me that account-book?"

But Grace made no effort to rise: her eyes remained steadily fixed on
her husband's face.

"How old are you, John? Forty, isn't it?"

"I hardly see the relevance of the remark: though I am flattered at
your intimate knowledge."

"Forty," she continued. "And we've been married eight years. Eight
years--time enough to have had two or three children."

"My dear Grace." He raised a protesting hand. "With my state of health
. . . Children . . ."

"What do you think those eight years have meant to me, John? Living
with a man the height of whose ambition is to discover a new pill."

"Really, Grace." Genuine amazement was dawning on his face. "You are
talking most strangely to-night."

"Am I?" she answered. "I wonder why. The only pity is that I didn't
start talking strangely, as you call it, rather sooner in our married
life. I'm very much afraid it's too late now."

"Too late for what?"

"What would you say, John, if I went away and left you?" She looked at
him curiously.

"Went away," he echoed. "Haven't you everything here that you want? A
comfortable house--servants--money. My dear Grace, I think you're mad."

"No, John--I'm sane for the first time. During these last few years,
I've watched you slowly become a useless thing. It's been so
gradual--the process, that it's been difficult, at any particular
moment, to put out a hand to try to stop it . . . Besides, I don't
know that I particularly wanted to. You were very happy; I, as you
have just said, had a comfortable house--servants--money. You were just
part of the house to me: exactly, John, as I was part of the house to
you." She watched the outraged horror which was slowly overspreading
her husband's face. "To-night at dinner, for the first time I realized
where we stood. I don't want a husband who is part of the house."

"And would it be indiscreet to ask what has caused this sudden
illuminating discovery?"

"Not at all. I was on the point of telling you. House--servants--money:
but can't you think of anything else, John, which a woman wants,
besides which all those things count for nothing?"

The man swallowed twice, and leaned forward, plucking at the arms of
the chair. "You mean," he muttered thickly, "that you're in love with
another man?"

"Another is hardly the right word. I've never been in love with you,
though, at one time, you might have made me so. But I am in love with
a man."

"Who is he? What is the blackguard's name?" His voice rose to a shout,
and he half rose to his feet.

Grace looked at him unmoved. "Why should you mind, I wonder? You don't
love me yourself: I'm just part of the furniture. You would infinitely
sooner read about a new symptom than talk to me."

"Don't argue," he cried, "don't quibble, damn you. Who is the man?"

She gave a short laugh. "You're very nearly human to-night, John. It's
the only time I've ever seen you behave like a man. But," she went on
quietly, "I am not going to tell you his name: at least--not at
present."

With a stupendous effort Marwood controlled himself and sat back in
his chair. "Is it too much to hope," he remarked in his usual voice
after a few moments, "that I shall be sufficiently honoured to be told
what you propose to do?"

The girl looked at him thoughtfully. "I haven't made up my mind myself
yet," she answered. "The thing has come so suddenly that I don't quite
know where I am. In one way, I'm sorry: anything which completely
uproots the old familiar landmarks is disturbing. But in another way,
John, I'm glad--wonderfully, wonderfully glad." She stared at the fire
in silence for a while, and the man watched her covertly. To all
appearance he had completely recovered his self-control: but behind
his mask of cynical indifference a volcano of fury and hatred was
seething. She had got clean through the joints in his armour: for the
first time, in so many words, she had told him that she knew his
ill-health was merely a pose. And such was the manner of the man, that
it was that fact which now made him boil with rage, far more than the
knowledge that she was in love with somebody else. He felt an insane
desire to punish her for his failure. . . .

"May I ask," he said at length, "when you made this interesting
discovery?"

"A long, long while ago," she answered quietly. "But it was only this
afternoon . . ."

"That things came to a head." Marwood laughed sneeringly. "And then,
as befits a dutiful wife, you immediately decided to give your husband
the joyful news."

"No. Oh! no, I didn't." She shook her head. "I decided to study you
from the new aspect: to try and think of you as a man and not as--well,
not as I have thought of you in the past. But it can't be done--not
here. Your surroundings are too strong; you can't break away from them
in this house. You had your digestive pill as usual, and I only just
averted a discussion on the new symptom. Now, I've got an offer to
make to you, John. I want to think of you as a man: I want . . . to
give you a fair chance . . . Will you come with me for two months--one
month even--to Switzerland, and go in for some winter sports? Will you
make an effort to break away from all this ridiculous twaddle--and live
once more, as a man should live? If you'll do that, and succeed--and I
know you will succeed--I'll make you: I promise you that I, on my part,
will give up the--the other man. I can't promise that I won't see him
again; but there shall never be anything more between us than there is
now--and that is nothing." She turned to her husband . . . "Well!"

But John Marwood made no answer. He had hardly heard the last part of
her words, as with agony unspeakable, the stabbing pain of the
afternoon again burned through his body. Rigid, gripping the arms of
his chair, he sat staring in front of him, while the torture wracked
him and the figure of his wife danced before his eyes.

At last, through clenched teeth he got out two words--"My back." Surely
she must see the pain he was in: surely even she must realize that
this was no pose, now.

But all Grace Marwood saw was the familiar spectacle of her husband
giving one of his usual performances. That was his answer to her
offer: and a bitter, contemptuous anger took possession of her.

"So that is your reply, is it?" she said slowly. "Another dumb Crambo
show. So be it: I will act accordingly."

Without a second glance at him she turned and left the room. As she
opened the door a gasping cry came from the man in the chair, but she
took no notice: she had heard those gasping cries before. They were a
very popular piece of business with the actor in question.

The matter was settled: to-morrow she would go to tea again with Bryan
Daventry; and then . . . The sight of the telephone made her pause,
and after a moment's indecision, she took the handle off the receiver.
She would ring him up now, and tell him.

"Mrs. Marwood speaking . . . Oh! is that you?
. . . I'll come to tea to-morrow . . . What . . . now
. . . Oh! I couldn't; it's so late . . ." Convention still pulled,
convention would probably have won. To go to a man's rooms at that
hour, even if it was quite safe . . . And then one of the footmen
walked past her with a bottle of green medicine . . . She turned to
the mouthpiece, her mind made up. "All right; in half an hour."

She heard the delighted cry of joy at the other end: with a faint
smile she replaced the receiver.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, as the butler came out of the
dining-room. "Parkins, I want a taxi in ten minutes." Then with the
smile still on her lips she went slowly up to her room.


4

"Bryan--stop!" With a breathless little laugh, she pushed him away.
"You know you're really a most violent person."

"Do you wonder," he answered, taking off her cloak, "when I actually
see you here, in the flesh, in my rooms? Why, you darling, I simply
can't believe it. I'll be waking up in a minute and finding that it's
really to-morrow morning, and that you are the elderly charlady, who
will infallibly give notice."

He pushed her gently into a huge chair by the fire, and then busied
himself getting some forks out of a sideboard.

"I don't want anything to eat, Bryan."

He looked at her with a grave smile. "I don't think, somehow, you've
had much dinner to-night. And"--he again busied himself with his
preparations--"I have here a bird, a little caviare, and a bottle of
Perrier Jouet. If I consume the whole bottle I shall be tight; if you
help me and don't eat--you'll be. _Voila tout._" He put a finishing
touch to the table, and then sat down opposite to her. "Has anything
happened?"

"Not at all unexpected." She gave a short laugh. "I told him after
dinner to-night that I'd fallen in love with someone."

"Ah! You told him that, my dear? Well?"

"I didn't tell him who it was--though he wanted to know."

"Somewhat naturally."

"But he isn't natural, Bryan. That's just the point: there's nothing
natural about him." Then, after a little pause: "I made him an offer."

"Yes, dear." His voice was very gentle. "What was it?"

"I told him that if he would come with me to Switzerland for two
months, or even one, and take up winter sports--if he'd show himself to
be a man and not what he is--I'd give that someone up." She heard his
breath come sharply. "I had to, Bryan; I had to give him the chance."

"And what did he say?"

"He said nothing." She laughed at the recollection. "He decided that
that was a suitable moment to give one of his celebrated invalid
performances. I'd told him that I'd known for years he was only
posing. I suppose he thought it was more important to try and convince
me on that point than to bother over such an utterly insignificant
thing as my being in love with another man. So I got it all
complete--including the shuddering gasp as I opened the door and left
him." She paused, her hands locked together on her lap. "It's finished
it, Bryan. . . . If he'd gone on raving and cursing as he did to start
with, I'd have tried again. I'd have made him come. I'd have given him
some chance even if not the one I suggested. But . . . now . . ."

With her breast rising and falling stormily, she stared at the fire,
and for a while the man watched her gravely. He could see the whole
scene as clearly as if he had been there himself, and as he looked at
the girl a great wonder took possession of him that any man could be
such an unutterable fool as to refuse her offer.

"So now you've come to me." He rose and sat down on the arm of her
chair.

"Yes." She looked up into his face. "Don't you want me?"

"Want you? My dear." He bent and kissed the upturned mouth, and for a
moment she clung to him.

"You do love me, Bryan--really and truly?"

"Really and truly," he answered with a little smile. "So much that
. . ." He rose abruptly and stood by the fireplace with his back to
her. "So much that I'm afraid. You see, I'm only a man, and not a
particularly righteous specimen at that."

"Afraid! What of?"

He knew she was standing just behind him, and with a sudden gasp he
swung round and caught her in his arms.

"I'm afraid because friendship isn't enough, Grace: because you know
that it isn't and I know that it isn't. Because I want you
immeasurably more than that; because I want everything you can give
me; because I want you--all of you." He held her at arm's length and
stared into the eyes which met his without flinching. "We're neither
of us children; we both of us know exactly what it means. And, my
dear, sooner or later, it is the woman who pays. That's what makes me
afraid. It's no good hoping that we shall be exceptions to the rule;
everybody has always hoped that, and found they were wrong." Gently he
pushed her backwards and forwards, and though his lips were smiling,
his eyes were grave and serious. As he had said, they were neither of
them children, and he, at any rate, knew exactly where he stood. The
trouble is that an exact knowledge of one's proximity to the top of
the cliff is not of great value if there's a landslip.

"I ought not to have asked you to come round to-night, my dear," he
went on slowly. "But then we don't always do what we ought, little
girl . . . not always. And I couldn't help it; I couldn't help it.
When I heard your dear voice at the other end of the line--why, I just
went mad." He gave a whimsical laugh, and the girl laughed too.

"Ah! but did you, my dear?" she said. "I loved your madness."

"But would you love it, Grace, if it went on?" he answered soberly.
"Would there not come a time when you'd say to me, 'The madness is
past; we must be sane.' And you'd find it was too late?" His eyes
searched her face hungrily, and suddenly he threw back his head and
laughed. "What fools we are--what damned fools! Day after day, night
after night, I've imagined this, Grace: thought of it--longed for it.
I've seen you sitting in that chair opposite me; I've held
conversations with you. And then I've woken up to reality and done
some work." His hands fell to his sides, and he laughed again.

"It is reality, Bryan," said the girl with an adorable smile. "I'm
here."

"Do I not know it?" he cried roughly. He seized her in his arms and
rained kisses on her face--mad, passionate kisses that left her gasping
and breathless. "That's why I'm such a fool. . . . You're here; I can
see you, touch you. The dream has come true; and now--I'm afraid."

With a weary little sigh the girl sat down. She felt suddenly
tired--tired and hopeless. She knew he was right, and yet . . .

"What are we to do, Bryan?" Helplessly she appealed to him. "I can't
go back to him. It isn't as if he wanted me--he doesn't. He's just
utterly selfish. And why should I?"

"For no reason at all, dear, as far as he's concerned." Even at that
moment the complete change of _rle_ appealed to him with cynical
humour. "He's absolutely unworthy of the smallest consideration. It's
you I'm thinking of . . ."

"But if I'd sooner, Bryan. . . . Surely if I'm prepared to risk it
. . ." Her hand was on his arm, pulling him towards her. "Don't you
understand, my dear . . . I--I love you?"

Blindly he turned towards her and held out his arms. What did it
matter? . . . And at that moment the telephone bell rang.

With a muttered curse, Daventry took off the receiver.

"Speaking. . . . Oh! it's you, Arbuthnot, is it?
. . . Where from?" His back was towards the girl, and she did not see
the look of amazement which was spreading over his face. She could
hear the low metallic voice of the man at the other end, punctuated
occasionally by a word or two from Bryan. The speaker seemed to have a
lot to say, and idly she wondered who he was . . . Arbuthnot: the name
conveyed nothing to her. And then she ceased to bother, and simply lay
back, watching the man she loved. What a man he was; how utterly worth
the sacrifice. After all, why should people find out? Why shouldn't it
just be their secret--his and hers? And perhaps in time she could fix
up something--arrange a divorce somehow, and . . .

"Finished your old talk?" He had put down the receiver, and was
standing motionless, still with his back to her. "Then come over here
at once--I'm jealous."

After a while he turned round, and with a little cry, the girl rose.

"What is it, Bryan? What has happened?"

"How long has your husband had this pain in his back?" The question
was so completely unexpected that for a moment she could only stare at
him speechlessly.

"What do you mean?" she stammered at length.

"I've just been talking to Doctor Arbuthnot." His voice was devoid of
all expression. "He is with your husband now. He tells me that he is
suffering from a malignant cancerous growth, and suggests that I am
the only man in London who can possibly save his life. He further
remarks that it is an admirable opportunity for me to test my new
cure."

For what seemed an eternity, there was silence in the room; then, very
slowly, Daventry crossed to the girl. And after a little while he
spoke again with a dreadful deliberation.

"I'm going round to see your husband now. Isn't it damned funny?"


5

In the hall below Grace Marwood waited while Daventry made his
examination. She felt dazed and a little stunned by the suddenness of
it all; barely conscious of the presence of the servants who seemed to
be ceaselessly going up and down the stairs to her husband's room on
different errands. So preoccupied had she been with her thoughts that
she had almost forgotten to play her necessary _rle_ of ignorance as
Dr. Arbuthnot told her the dreadful news.

"I have telephoned for Doctor Daventry," he murmured. "A specialist,
Mrs. Marwood . . . young, but extraordinarily brilliant. Should be
here at any moment. . . . Until then, perhaps, it would be better if
you did not see your husband. It might upset him, you know. Why not
have a glass of wine and a biscuit?"

At length the worthy doctor had left her alone, only to return in a
few minutes and introduce Bryan Daventry. The solemn introduction had
seemed in keeping with everything; she had felt a wild desire to
scream with laughter, and only Bryan's quiet, steady eyes had pulled
her together. Then the two men had left her alone and gone upstairs to
her husband . . .

She glanced at her wrist-watch impatiently. Half an hour. Surely they
could have found out in half an hour. Cancer . . . John with cancer
. . . John really ill, in agonizing pain. It was impossible--all
imagination, as usual. Arbuthnot was an old fool. . . . But why half
an hour if it was only imagination? Bryan wouldn't take half an hour
diagnosing a case of imagination. . . . He was far too clever to be
deceived, and once he knew, he was far too straightforward not to say
what he thought. . . . If it was imagination that is . . . If not . . .

Ah! if not, what then? It altered everything at once. John with one of
his countless little aches and pains was one thing; John with cancer
was quite another. Dimly she tried to realize what it would mean--how
it would affect her life, but her brain would not respond. It seemed
to be whirling in a series of vicious circles, with a jeering fate
grinning at her through the centre of each.

"You thought to escape, did you?" it mocked. "You thought you could
take matters into your own hands? Well, let's see what you make of
this card I've just dealt you."

Cancer! And suddenly Grace Marwood passed her hand over her forehead
with a little cry. After all, he was her husband, and for the last
half-hour her thoughts had principally centred on what this thing
would mean to her--not on what it would mean to him. . . .

She looked up as a door above opened, and her heart began to beat a
little faster. They had decided--she could hear their low voices--and in
a moment or two she would be told, one way or the other. Slowly the
two doctors came down the stairs, and crossed the hall towards her,
while she peered at Bryan's inscrutable face, trying to read what was
in his mind.

"Well!" Her dry lips traced the word rather than spoke it, and Bryan
Daventry pulled forward a chair for her.

"Sit down, Mrs. Marwood." For a moment their eyes met; then he looked
away again quickly. "I am afraid that what Doctor Arbuthnot feared is
quite correct." His voice was very quiet, and he kept his face half
averted from the woman he loved. "Your husband is undoubtedly
suffering from a cancerous growth; though it will be necessary for me
to make another examination to-morrow."

"Is he in great pain?" she whispered.

"Very great, while it lasts; but it is intermittent," answered
Daventry.

"And what--what are you going to do?" She was still staring at Bryan,
but it was Doctor Arbuthnot who answered.

"You probably don't know, Mrs. Marwood," he murmured, "that Doctor
Daventry has recently been engaged in the most exhaustive research
work into this very disease. And it will be necessary for you and your
husband to come to a decision." He glanced inquiringly at Daventry,
who remained motionless, staring at the fire. After a slight pause, he
turned back to Mrs. Marwood. "A decision, my dear lady, and a grave
decision. As you probably are aware, science up-to-date has produced
no certain cure for cancer. The growth can be removed with a knife,
but in practically all cases it returns again. I may say in all cases
when it has gone so far as I fear is the case with your husband.
Consequently, speaking humanly, you have your first alternative for
certain. An operation; the gradual return of the growth; a further
operation. And finally the time when another operation is of no
avail."

"And what is the second alternative?" Her words seemed to come from a
great distance as she asked the question to which she already knew the
answer.

Doctor Arbuthnot cleared his throat, and again glanced at Daventry.
"The second alternative is this. Doctor Daventry in his research work
believes that he has discovered a cure for this dreadful disease,
which will prevent its return in the course of a few years. In other
words, he believes that one operation by his process would be
sufficient. But the process has not yet been put to the test of time.
It may be that he is wrong, that the growth will return. . . ."

"In which case my husband would be no worse off than under the first
alternative," said Grace Marwood, still in the same detached voice.
She felt as if she was acting in a play.

"Yes, but there is another thing," began Doctor Arbuthnot, slowly
rubbing his hands together. "Perhaps Dr. Daventry----"

At the direct request, Bryan Daventry swung round, and stared at the
woman.

"The other thing, Mrs. Marwood, is this. By my method your husband
might die at once." Arbuthnot had turned away and was studying an old
print on the wall; for the moment he was forgotten. "He might die at
once," repeated Daventry slowly.

"That is the second alternative. . . ."

Her breath coming quickly, her knuckles gleaming white on the arms of
her chair, Grace Marwood stared at Bryan's face. It was the sort of
situation which happened in books--impossibly unreal--grotesquely
absurd. And once again the feeling that she was acting in some
dreadful play came over her. Bryan's eyes were still fixed on her; the
ticking of the hall clock sounded incredibly loud.

"He might die at once," she repeated foolishly. "Perhaps it would be
better--I mean----" she added hurriedly as she saw him stiffen and grow
rigid--"I mean even that would be better than years of horrible
suffering."

But still she stared at him fascinated, and he stared back, while the
worthy Doctor Arbuthnot passed on to another print.

"Supposing my operation was successful," Bryan Daventry was speaking
again--speaking mechanically, "your husband would require the most
constant and unremitting attention for many years to come. He would
have to leave England and live in a warmer, drier climate . . . the
South of France, perhaps, or some place like that. He would, in fact,
be an invalid, and an invalid in reality," he added as an
afterthought.

She glanced at Doctor Arbuthnot--he was at the other end of the
hall--then she stood up suddenly.

"Bryan," she whispered. "Bryan, what does it mean--to me--to you and I?"

"It means," he answered slowly, "the most devilish temptation that a
human being can well be subjected to. Because--Grace," and for a moment
his hand gripped her arm, "no one _can_ ever find out."

"Well, have you explained everything to Mrs. Marwood?" Bryan's hand
dropped to his side as Arbuthnot approached. "It is a risk, of course,
my dear young lady," continued the doctor, swinging his pince-nez
between his fingers, "a great risk. But as an old practitioner, who
has been forced in the course of many years to see much of the
dreadful agony which goes with this hideous scourge, I would venture
to suggest to you that the risk is worth while. To see a dearly loved
one in the throes of the most fearful pain, to realize that no medical
skill can alleviate that pain, is a very terrible thing. And that,
Mrs. Marwood, is what it must come to under the old methods--my
methods. Doctor Daventry is of the younger school, and, in medicine as
in other things, youth will be served. Anything, anything is better
than the future which I can offer your husband--even death at once." He
paused, and laid a kindly hand on her arm.

"Then it is your advice, Doctor Arbuthnot," she said steadily, "that
my husband should put himself in Doctor Daventry's hands?"

"Yes," answered the old doctor gravely. "That is my advice."

"I will tell him what you say." Her voice came still steady, but her
eyes avoided Bryan Daventry. "Shall I go to him now?"

"Certainly. But don't over-excite him. Daventry and I will come round
again to-morrow."

With a slight inclination of her head, she left the two men and passed
up the stairs. And it was as they heard the door of John Marwood's
room open and close that Arbuthnot turned to his companion.

"A fine girl," he remarked. "And a dreadful tragedy. But, my young
friend--it's _your_ chance."

"Precisely," murmured Daventry. "Precisely. It's my chance. Shall we
say eleven o'clock to-morrow morning for our further examination?"


6

Her husband was propped up in bed as Grace entered his room. For a
moment she stayed close to the door, watching his profile; then she
crossed to his side and stood looking down at him.

"Have they told you?" He opened his eyes as he spoke.

"Yes, John. . . . I'm sorry." Even as she said it the pitiful
inadequacy of the words mocked her.

"You are more than kind," he murmured. "I trust that my trifling
ailment has not interfered in any way with your plans this evening--or
curtailed your enjoyment."

His wife bit her lip and turned away. It was going to be hard;
everything had always been hard with John. He seemed to take a delight
in making it so. But in that one brief look at his face before he had
spoken the die had been cast, the decision made. She hardly realized
it herself yet; the events of the past two hours were still too fresh.
But one thing she did realize with an awful horror, which left her
tongue-tied--for a time downstairs she had actually
contemplated--murder. Not exactly that, of course. Not murder, but an
accident . . . one of the alternatives. . . . And Bryan had
contemplated it too. She, an ordinary normal woman; and--murder.

She shuddered a little, and as quickly as possible, so as not to
disturb him, she put some coal on the fire. Murder. . . . The word
danced at her out of the flames. . . . Murder. To kill her husband, or
to connive at his death, so that she might be free to marry the
murderer. She shuddered again, then she rose and stood at the foot of
the bed. Thank God! the madness was past; the only possible course was
plain to see. Whatever was best for her husband must be done; if
necessary, another opinion must be taken, and . . .

"Have they told you the alternatives?" John Marwood's harsh voice
broke in upon her train of thought.

"Yes, John," she answered gently. "They told me just before I came
up."

"And can you detach your thoughts sufficiently from the fortunate man
who has obtained your affection to give your opinion on them?" He
closed his eyes wearily and lay back on his pillows.

"I want you to understand one thing quite clearly," returned his wife,
still in the same gentle voice. "The fact that you have cancer
completely alters everything. Had I known earlier in the evening I
should never have spoken to you about it. . . . As it is, I want you
to try and forget what I said, if you can. It was--oh! I was irritated,
because I thought you were shamming."

The man laughed--a little malevolent laugh. "What a dreadful shock it
must have been to you when you found I wasn't. But whatever the cause,
my dear Grace, of your interesting confession, the fact remains that
you have confessed. And it is a source of great grief to me that we
shall apparently have to leave London and go and live abroad for some
years. It is dreadful to think of you being parted from him." He
raised a feebly protesting hand. "Would it be asking too much of you
not to shake the bed?"

"You propose, then, to let Doctor Daventry try his new cure?" she
asked slowly.

"That is my intention at present," returned her husband. "What do you
think about it?"

For a moment she hesitated; then: "I think we ought to get another
opinion."

"May I ask why? I am fairly well conversant with the subject of
cancer, and what that fool Arbuthnot says is quite correct. There is
no cure known for it at present, and to continue suffering this agony
for the rest of one's life is not an alluring picture. Whereas
Daventry--if he is successful--will cure me of the pain, though still
leaving me an invalid for some years."

"I quite understand the attraction of the idea," Grace could not
forbear the thrust. "But there's another thing, John. Doctor
Daventry's cure may do as you say, but it may prove--fatal, almost at
once."

He raised himself on one elbow, and his face went white. "He told me
there was very little fear of that, and, Grace"--the man's voice was
trembling--"he said that he had every hope that it would prove
successful. . . . Why--why--you see, it will be his first case, and it's
very important to him that it should prove a cure. So he's bound to
take extra care, isn't he? I mean . . ." His voice tailed off, and he
sank back, frightened and shaking.

She watched him contemptuously. What a miserable specimen he was. And
then a wave of pity came over her. After all, cancer might make anyone
a coward.

"I'm sure he'll be successful," she said reassuringly. "He told me
this afternoon that he felt absolutely confident that he'd discovered
the cure."

It was out before she had realized what she was saying. Had he noticed
it? Had he noticed the slip? Why, oh, why had she not said this
evening? She had only meant to comfort him, cheer him up--and, without
thinking, if he put two and two together, she had told him the name of
the man she loved.

The shaking of his hand had ceased; he was staring at her from his
pillows intently.

"You met Doctor Daventry this afternoon?" he asked slowly.

"I did; full of his new discovery." Her tone was light, a shade too
light; and suddenly John Marwood laughed.

"How interesting," he murmured. "How very interesting. And where did
you meet Doctor Daventry?"

"At tea." She had recovered herself; at all costs she must rid his
mind of this suspicion. "Lady Grantley had quite a crowd."

But the suspicions of a suspicious nature are not allayed so easily,
and though John Marwood said no more, she was conscious during the
remaining two minutes she stayed with him that he was watching her
covertly the whole time. Bryan's name was not mentioned again--nor was
her meeting with him alluded to; but as she bent over her husband and
kissed him--a thing she had not done for months, and which he suffered
resignedly--her uneasiness returned in full force. She felt
instinctively that he knew. Then when she reached her own room she
felt inclined to laugh at her fears. After all, why on earth should he
put such a construction on her words? It might be as well, however, to
warn Bryan when she saw him to-morrow. . . . John had a habit of
asking disconcerting questions.

He had, and he had no intention of waiting till the next day to do so.
He waited just long enough to hear his wife's door close; then he
reached out a languid hand and picked up the telephone by his bed.
With many moans and expressions of pain, which he periodically
indulged in even when alone, he rang up Lady Grantley's house.

"It is Mr. Marwood speaking," he said to the butler who answered him.
"Did Mrs. Marwood leave her vanity bag behind to-day when she had tea
with her ladyship? She did not have tea, you say? Really. I must have
misunderstood Doctor Daventry. He told me he thought he'd seen it
there. What? Doctor Daventry was not there either? Oh, my mistake.
Sorry to have disturbed you."

He replaced the telephone, and lay back on his pillows. So it was
Daventry, after all, was it? And they thought themselves damned
clever, did they? And they didn't see that they'd played right into
his hands? Oh, no. They couldn't see that they'd given him a weapon
which made him safe . . . Safe . . . And if by any chance any accident
did occur. . . . He chuckled horribly, almost resigned to such a thing
happening, so wonderful was his dream of revenge. Only he must catch
them red-handed, must have an absolute certainty to go on. Nothing
less than that would be sufficient.

And as he lay gloating in anticipation, suddenly the pain began again.
Stab--stab--stab; the red-hot skewers ran through him, while he writhed
and moaned, biting at the sheets in his agony.

It was half an hour later that the impassive footman, whom he hated,
found him whimpering like a little child.

"Your medicine, sir," he remarked, supremely unconcerned at the
spectacle. "Also the washing bill you wished to see. And I feel sure
you will be glad to hear that the kitchen clock has been put right."

Without another glance at the figure in the bed, he left the room,
closing the door noiselessly. And it was only as he stood in the
passage outside that his face became convulsed with a dreadful fury.
But in a moment it had gone; it was just the deferential, well-drilled
man-servant who joined the rest of the staff in the servants' hall.

"Your call, Simpson," said his partner, lighting a cigarette from the
stump of an old one.

The impassive footman glanced at his cards. "I go one heart," he
remarked quietly.

"'Ow's the old swine to-night?" demanded another player.

"Mr. Marwood seems much as usual," returned Simpson. "One heart it is.
You go down, partner."

The man who had asked the question snorted, but he said nothing more.
They often used to remark on the fact in the servants' hall that
Simpson seemed different--somehow.

"Keeps 'isself to 'isself," as the cook had summed it up on one
occasion. And so it had been allowed to remain.


7

It was at half-past eleven the following morning that Doctor Arbuthnot
descended the stairs in search of Grace Marwood. Daventry was still
with her husband in his room, though the further examination had been
finished some quarter of an hour previously.

"I must be going, Mrs. Marwood." The old doctor patted her hand and
smiled. "Between ourselves I wasn't really wanted at all this morning.
Merely professional etiquette----"

"And what have you finally decided, Doctor Arbuthnot?"

"To let Doctor Daventry operate. Your husband won't hear of anything
else. Seems more cheerful this morning." He smiled at her, and once
more patted her hand. "You must keep him like that, my dear young
lady. Keep him cheerful and smiling. . . . Worth ten years of life to
smile. . . . Well, I must be off. Daventry will tell you everything
when he comes down."

The worthy man bustled away, leaving Grace in a thoughtful mood. It
wasn't like John to be cheerful: since she'd known him he never had
been. And, like an idiot, she had forgotten to mention anything about
Lady Grantley to Bryan before he went up to her husband. For a moment
or two she thought of going upstairs and interrupting them; then it
struck her that seeing her in the room with Bryan might recall
suspicions to her husband's mind. That for a while he had suspected,
she was positive; but ever since she had left his room the preceding
night she had been endeavouring, more or less successfully, to
persuade herself that she had reassured his mind. And that morning,
when she had gone in to see him, he had certainly seemed quite
pleasant and normal--as far, that is, as John Marwood ever succeeded in
being anything of the sort. He had restrained his paroxysm of silent
laughter till the door had closed behind her. . . .

She looked up as a step sounded in the passage above, and the next
moment Bryan Daventry was coming towards her down the stairs.

"Has Arbuthnot gone?" He stood in front of her, looking into her eyes.

"Yes." She nodded gravely. "He said you would tell me everything. Will
you come in here?"

In silence he followed her into the sitting-room and closed the door;
then in silence he stood by the mantelpiece looking down at her.

"Bryan," she said abruptly, "I was mad last night."

"So was I. May I smoke?"

"Of course. Do you realize, Bryan, that for a moment--I played with the
idea of--of murder?"

"So did I." He gave a short, hard laugh. "I played with it--or, rather,
it played with me--all through the night."

"And now?" She breathed the question half fearfully.

"Why now, my dear, your charming husband will have the pleasure of
being my first case. And everything which medical skill and careful
nursing can perform, will be devoted to prolonging his damned life,
and restoring him to perfect health."

He laughed again, harshly and bitterly. "It's not entirely altruism,
Grace; I don't flatter myself on that point. But there are things one
can't do, I suppose. And to put it on the lowest and most selfish
motive, such a foundation for our life together--afterwards--would not
prove a source of abiding happiness." He took a few steps up and down
the room, while the woman watched him from her chair by the fire.

"Tell me, Bryan: did he ask you anything about Lady Grantley this
morning?"

He stopped in his walk. "Lady Grantley!" he echoed in surprise. "No.
Why on earth should he? I hardly know the woman."

Grace Marwood gave a sigh of relief. "Thank Heavens! But don't forget
if by any chance he should, you had tea there yesterday. . . . And we
discussed your new cure for cancer."

Briefly she told him of her slip the night before, and he nodded
comprehendingly.

"I've got it, dear," he said, as she finished. "With a nature like
this, you've got to be mighty careful. Though I must say he seemed
positively genial this morning." He took a few steps forward and stood
by her chair, while his fingers played absently with her hair. "Oh!
Grace, my darling," he whispered, "what a dirty trick of Fate. What a
dirty trick."

Swiftly he bent and kissed her neck, where the little soft tendrils of
hair left the smooth whiteness of her skin, and she shivered under his
touch.

"Will it really mean the South of France, Bryan?" she asked slowly.

"Yes, darling." His voice was grave. "Or some warm spot like that."

"And shall I never see you?"

His hands clenched by his side, and the veins stood out on his
forehead.

"My God!" he muttered; "you must see me. I can't imagine life with you
blotted out completely. I shall come over and see how he's getting on,
every now and then--and touch your hand, Grace, and hear your voice and
look into your eyes. And then I shall come back again to blankness and
work; while you stay out there with blankness and him. . . . A real
pukka invalid at last. . . . The goal obtained. . . . Ordered to be
one by a live doctor. . . . Why, the blighter is gloating over the
prospect already."

For a while they fell silent, staring at the fire; then very gently
she took one of his hands in her own.

"You must write to me, Bryan; tell me how things go with you. I
couldn't go on without that."

"Write." He echoed the word scornfully. "Write. Oh, yes! I'll write.
Send you bits of paper with letters and words scrawled on them. . . .
A wonderful substitute for you--the flesh and blood of you--your whole
glorious body. What's the good of a letter when there's nothing else
to follow--except another letter, and then another?"

Abruptly he dropped her hand, and strode to the window, where he stood
with his back to her, staring across the street outside. Faintly the
roar of distant Piccadilly came into the quiet room; the monotonous,
deadening sound which forms the eternal accompaniment to London's
comedies and tragedies. The human units may laugh or cry, may be born
to strut their allotted span and disappear unnoticed whence they came,
but the buses still run past Hyde Park Corner. . . .

"I think I'll go, Grace." Slowly he turned and faced her. "I'm not
very sure of myself to-day. The operation will take place to-morrow,
here. I'll make all the necessary arrangements about nurses, and
Arbuthnot will give the ansthetic. Only light food for dinner
to-night, and nothing to-morrow morning."

"Very well." A little pale, but quite composed, she rose as he spoke.
"There's only one thing, Bryan, I want you to know. Out of the madness
last night has come sanity, but the possible alternative still
remains. You have said so yourself--before we knew anything about John.
Should he die, I shall know that you did everything in your power to
make the operation a success. You understand that."

"He mustn't die; he won't die." Roughly he took her in his arms.
"Don't you see, Grace. I daren't let him die--I daren't."

"But you're only human, Bryan."

"I don't care--I may be. But John Marwood--_must_ not die. . . . Not
after what we've--said, and thought. . . ."

For a while he held her at arm's length, devouring her hungrily with
his eyes; then with a smothered cry he drew her to him, and covered
her face with kisses. "My darling," he whispered again and again--"My
darling."

And at that moment the door opened and John Marwood entered.

"A most entertaining spectacle," he murmured. "Would it be indiscreet
to ask if this is your normal method of procedure, Doctor Daventry?"

He was clad in his dressing-gown and as he closed the door with
ostentatious deliberation, Bryan Daventry had a fleeting glimpse of a
dark, impassive face peering over Marwood's shoulder from the hall
beyond. It was the footman who had been at hand during his examination
that morning, and in that one brief second, before the door closed,
the thing which dominated his mind was not the master, but the man.
For there was a strange, inscrutable look on the footman's face--a look
of mingled mockery and scorn. And it seemed to Daventry that the
object of the look was not himself, but the malevolent hobbling figure
in the dressing-gown.

"I repeat, Dr. Daventry," gasped the harsh voice, as the sick man sank
into a chair, "is this your usual method of conducting your cases?"

With a slight frown the young doctor thrust his hands into his pockets
and stared at his patient; the situation was undeniably awkward.

"No, Mr. Marwood," he remarked at length, "it is not my usual
procedure."

"Indeed," murmured the other. "Most gratifying! Then might I be
permitted to ask why am I thus honoured?"

Daventry glanced at Grace; she was staring at the fire, one foot
tapping ceaselessly on the fender. Then with a slight shrug of his
shoulders, he turned back to Marwood.

"The reason, I should imagine, is fairly clear," he remarked gravely.
"I love your wife."

"How kind of you." Marwood gave a grating chuckle. "And judging by
the--shall we say--amorous position I found you in, one might almost be
led to suppose that my wife loves you?"

His cold eyes searched his wife's face, and after a moment she nodded.

"I told you yesterday, John," she said quietly, "that I was in love
with a man."

"Only neglecting to mention his name," he returned. "But I may say
this has hardly come as a surprise after what I found out last night.
After your departure my dear Grace, I took the precaution of ringing
up Lady Grantley. And, to my horror and surprise, I found that not
only had you not been to tea there yesterday, but that Doctor Daventry
as well had not honoured her with his presence. Wherefore, by a
process of inductive reasoning, partially interrupted by a bout of
intense agony, I came to the conclusion that you had lied to me. Why
lie on such a matter, unless there is something to conceal? And then,
remembering our interesting and harmonious chat after dinner, I put
two and two together. One is glad to have such indisputable
confirmation that the answer is true."

Hunched up and malignant, John Marwood sat in his chair, while his
venomous eyes rested first on the doctor and then on his wife.

"You neither of you seem very loquacious," he snarled.

"You seem to be supplying that end of the business," said Daventry
calmly.

"Don't talk to me like that, damn you," shrieked the other, his voice
shaking with rage. "Have you got no shame whatever, you scoundrel,
coming into a man's house and making love to his wife, when he is at
death's door upstairs."

"If you don't stop exciting yourself, you'll have another bout of
pain," said the doctor, still in the same calm voice, and the threat
had the desired effect.

With a great effort John Marwood controlled himself, though the
seething volcano of hatred in his mind still showed on his face.

"If I did, it would probably afford you endless amusement," he
sneered.

"Endless," agreed Daventry. "And now, in view of what has occurred, it
might be as well to come to the point. As a form of entertainment,
this conversation bores me. I have told you I love your wife; she has
told you she loves me. But I wish you to understand quite clearly, Mr.
Marwood, that there has never been anything more between us than what
you saw to-day."

The invalid gave a grating laugh, but Daventry continued unmoved. "In
one way, I am glad you found out; it absolves me at once from the
necessity of operating on you. I therefore throw up the case, and
either you or I can invent some good reason to palm off on Doctor
Arbuthnot."

He paused, fascinated against his will by the hideous silent laughter
of the man in the chair.

"So you intend to throw up the case, Doctor Daventry, do you?"
chuckled the other. "Refuse to operate, do you?"

"Somewhat naturally, I assume that you would prefer I did not,"
replied Daventry slowly. "And anyway, I would prefer not to."

"Do you count?" asked John Marwood suavely. "Do your wishes matter
vastly?"

"They matter everything, Mr. Marwood," snapped the doctor. "On every
ground I throw up the case, and refuse to operate."

"Then, Doctor Daventry," said the other slowly, "I shall institute
divorce proceedings against you forthwith. There's no good laughing,
because neither you nor my wife will find it a laughing matter. I
don't say that I should get my divorce, but--well, you won't forget,
will you, that I took the precaution of having a witness this morning.
And I don't think it would do you much good professionally, Doctor
Daventry; and I don't think it would do my wife much good socially,
Doctor Daventry. In fact," his voice rose to a hoarse snarl, "I'll
drag you both in the mud, and then I'll laugh at you."

"You won't laugh for long, Mr. Marwood," answered Daventry, his face a
little white. "You'll be dead."

"I'll laugh long enough to see you hounded out of your profession.
I'll laugh long enough to see everybody's door closed against my
wife."

"You inhuman devil," said Daventry slowly. "Your mind is more diseased
than your body."

"Perhaps it is," sneered the other. "At any rate, I don't go round to
other men's houses professionally, and then seduce their wives." For a
second he cowered back as if afraid Daventry would strike him; then, a
little more calmly, he continued. "So you had better decide--and decide
at once. Either you operate to-morrow, or the world will have another
tit-bit of scandal to digest over its meals."

With his hands still in his pockets, Bryan Daventry walked over to the
window. Once more the roar of the traffic came plainly to his ears--a
contrast to the dead silence of the room behind. He heard the sudden
rustle of Grace's dress as she moved, then absently he stared at a man
opposite who was busy polishing the outside of a window. He was
sitting on the ledge in one of the wooden flower stands beloved of
London houses, and the doctor idly wondered what would happen if the
outside gave way. The earth would fall on to the pavement, but would
the man? And if he did, would he still continue to whistle that damned
tune from the Alhambra?

"Why are you so anxious that I should operate, Mr. Marwood, in view of
what you know?" His voice sounded singularly lifeless to his ears.

"Because I consider you are the best man for the purpose."

Once again there was silence in the room. The window polisher was
standing up to his work now, and two errand boys were staring at him
enraptured.

"I suppose you have remembered what I told you," continued Daventry,
"that there is a chance of my cure proving fatal?"

"I hope not, Doctor Daventry, for both our sakes--and my wife's." The
voice was soft and menacing, and Daventry swung round on his heel.

"What do you mean?"  he said quickly.

"Why," murmured the other, "I merely alluded to a very natural
precaution on my part. Should anything happen to me--which, in the
hands of a man of your skill, I do not anticipate for a moment--I shall
leave a letter to be opened at my death. I shall, of course, make no
accusation in it; I shall merely state--with the witness's signature
attached--what I happened unfortunately to see this morning. And if
people are uncharitable enough to draw their own conclusions----"

"Stop!" thundered the doctor. "That settles it. Under no circumstances
whatever will I undertake the operation under such conditions."

"Really." John Marwood smiled gently. "Then I will tell my lawyers to
institute proceedings at once."

"But, John, think." For the first time Grace Marwood intervened, and
her husband with studied politeness listened to her. "Such a bargain
is wicked--unfair. It's a new cure--untried; and Doctor Daventry told
you last night that there was the chance of its proving fatal. The
bare chance . . . against absolute recovery. You can't--you simply
can't--make such a condition."

"Nevertheless, I do. Doctor Daventry need not accept it unless he
wishes."

"In other words," said Bryan in a hard voice, "it's heads I win, tails
you lose, Mr. Marwood."

"More or less, more or less," agreed Marwood. "With one slight
modification. In the happy event of the operation being brilliantly
successful, we both win, my dear Daventry--in fact, we all three win. I
become completely cured; you lay the foundation of a still more
brilliant reputation; Grace continues her social career in complete
safety. It is," he murmured, "a form of insurance to produce, if
possible, additional care--when under the ansthetic. Accidents will
happen--and they mustn't--not this time." His cold eyes fixed themselves
on the young doctor. "You see, I am in a very difficult position. The
one man who would benefit most by my death is the one man in whose
hands I must place my life. Do you blame me for
taking--er--precautions?"

For a long while Daventry stared at him in silence, and if John
Marwood had expected a furious outburst at his insult he was
disappointed. For Daventry's thoughts were not in the room; they were
centred round a fantastic, ghastly, mental struggle waged through the
sleepless hours of the past night. And it seemed to him that a
Fate--inexorable but just--had confronted him. It was retribution, and
only the success of his skill could wipe out his sin. The challenge
was thrown down; so be it; he would accept the challenge. He could not
do less.

"Very well, Mr. Marwood," he answered slowly. "I agree. I will operate
to-morrow as I arranged."

Without another word he left the room, and as he closed the door, his
patient's harsh, grating chuckle came to his ears.

"Your coat, sir."

He turned to find the impassive footman holding his overcoat in
readiness.

"Might I ask if you are operating to-morrow, sir?"

"I am," said Daventry briefly.

"I trust you will be successful, sir."

Bryan Daventry looked at him quickly, and for a moment the eyes of the
two men met. And behind the footman's steady glance there lurked the
ghost of a smile.


8

To say that John Marwood felt pleased with himself would be totally
inadequate. For the remainder of the day he literally hugged his
cleverness to his bosom; he turned it over and over in his mind; he
reviewed it from every conceivable angle. To have combined a subtle
revenge with the maximum chance of his own complete cure struck him as
being the work of a genius. The fools! The treacherous fools! And when
the operation had proved successful, he wouldn't give them away
publicly--that would finish things far too quickly. He'd just hold his
knowledge over their heads, and every now and then he'd give the wheel
another little turn so as to keep them on the rack. He even thought
out a few of the remarks he could say to his wife, as he sat in his
invalid chair on the sunny promenade at Nice or Cannes; biting,
sarcastic little sneers which would make her writhe . . . And at
intervals her lover would come out to examine him, and he could watch
the two of them together as a cat watches a mouse--gloatingly. Because
he'd got them; _got them_; GOT THEM; and as he realized it he shook
both his fists in the air, and the sweat glistened on his forehead
with the strength of his passion.

A faint twinge of pain sobered him down; he must be careful--just at
present--not to excite himself. Afterwards it would be different--after
he was cured. But until then he wanted no return of that vile agony.
Besides, there was one more thing that had to be done before the
operation took place--in case anything should happen. He refused to
allow himself to consider it as anything but the barest
possibility--everybody said Daventry was the most brilliant of the
younger surgeons--but just in case of accidents it had to be done.
Besides, in every way it was the most subtle touch in his whole
scheme, and from the artistic point of view it was inconceivable that
it should be omitted. He'd have to get that impassive brute of a
footman to do his share of it, so tact would be necessary. It was a
pity he hadn't always been quite so polite to him as he might have
been.

For a quarter of an hour the silence of the room was only broken by
the scratching of a pen on paper. The first effort he tore up in
disgust--it failed in pungency; but the second proved more
satisfactory, and when he had read it through and digested it, he rang
the bell by his side.

"Ah, Simpson," he said as the door opened, "I am sorry to have to
disturb you at this unusual hour, but the circumstances are peculiar."

The footman's eyebrows went up at such an unheard-of speech, and his
shoulders shook slightly. Then, with exactly the right touch of
deference, he stepped to the side of the bed. "Not at all, sir," he
murmured. "What can I do for you?"

"It's a terrible thing, Simpson," continued Marwood in a low, sad
voice, "to have to discuss with anyone; but it is made easier in your
case, because you saw the occurrence. I allude--to what happened--this
morning. What we both of us saw when--when I went into the sitting-room
downstairs."

"A most regrettable incident, sir," said Simpson sympathetically.

"One finds it difficult to know what to do," remarked Marwood, staring
at the fire. "Very difficult. I am an invalid and, of course, Mrs.
Marwood is young; but still----" He sighed heavily.

"Such an incident should not go unpunished, sir," returned Simpson
firmly.

"I agree, Simpson; I agree." Apparently the fool was going to be easy.
"But what can I do? My hands are tied. They made a bargain with me--me,
a man with cancer. Unless I consented to their--acquaintance
continuing, Doctor Daventry refused to operate. And he's the only man
in London who can cure me. Simpson, I am powerless in his hands."

For a moment the footman seemed to have some difficulty in speaking.
Then--"Monstrous, sir," he murmured. "Atrocious."

"Unless I condone their sin, he leaves me to a lingering death of
agony. What can I do?" Weakly he stretched out his hands. "And what is
worse, Simpson, is that there is a chance of the cure proving fatal,
as you may know, it's a new and untried one. Supposing it did prove
fatal--and it is so easy for a mistake to occur in such matters." He
looked meaningly at the footman, who inclined his head slowly.

"Undoubtedly, sir," he remarked. "It is a very awkward position for
you to be in."

"No one to turn to--not a soul," said John Marwood, piteously.
"Deserted even by my wife. It's not fair, is it? Not a square deal.
And so I've written a letter, Simpson, which I want you to witness;
and I shall send it to my lawyer to be opened in the event of my
death." He glanced covertly at the man standing beside him, but his
face was expressionless. "You don't mind doing that for me, do you?"

"Far from it, sir. I shall be delighted."

And John Marwood's fists clenched ecstatically under the bedclothes.

"I'll read you what I've written, Simpson," he continued after a
moment. "It's not very long:

  'I, John Marwood, suffering from cancer, from which terrible
  malady I am to be operated on to-morrow morning by Doctor Bryan
  Daventry, who will carry out his new cure for the first time,
  write these words, which will only be revealed in the event of
  my death. On going downstairs this morning, I discovered my
  wife, Grace Marwood, in the arms of Bryan Daventry, who had just
  concluded a professional visit to the house. They admitted their
  love for one another, and openly boasted to me of their
  misconduct in the past. Further, Doctor Daventry threatened to
  throw up the case and refuse to operate unless I condoned their
  guilty relations in the future--thereby condemning me to a
  lingering death or a shameful alternative. But more was to come.
  There is in his new cure, he admits, the possibility of a fatal
  result almost at once; from the expression on his face as he
  said it, I read the sinister intention at the back of his mind.
  I believe the operation will prove fatal--_in my case_.

  'And so, standing, as I fear, at the threshold of eternity, I
  put these facts on paper, for people to draw their own
  conclusions.

                                    'John Marwood.'"

He glanced at the man beside him, but the footman's face was as
impassive as ever; then he looked back at the paper in his hand.

"Under that, Simpson, I have added the following, which, if you will,
and if you think it just, I will ask you to sign:

"'I'--let me see, what is your Christian name?--'Charles,' you say--'I,
Charles Simpson, footman in the employ of John Marwood, Esq., hereby
state that on the morning of November 25th, 1919, I saw Grace Marwood
in the arms of Doctor Daventry, who had just concluded a professional
visit to my employer.'"

"If you will sign that, Simpson, I will write a covering letter to my
lawyer, and then seal up that statement."

"Certainly, sir," answered Simpson. "A very just accusation."

And John Marwood might not have permitted himself the luxury of a
sardonic smile had he seen the look on the footman's face as he
signed. But since his back was turned away from the bed, his employer
could hardly have been expected to.

"Thank you, Simpson." He glanced at the signature, and then, just
before he folded the paper up, he glanced at it again.

"Your writing seems vaguely familiar to me," he remarked jovially.
"And very good writing it is too. Well, there it is--with the covering
letter. Will you post it for me this afternoon, Simpson?"

"Certainly, sir. Is there anything else you require, sir?"

"No, thank you. Oh! except one thing. Forty-eight, you said, I think.
You're wrong, Simpson; sixty in future."

"I thank you, sir," murmured the footman from the door.

He went out, closing it without a sound. And it was only as he got to
the top of the stairs that he paused and listened. For the bed in John
Marwood's room was shaking as a bed will shake if the occupant is
convulsed with laughter.


9

It was in the same sitting-room in which the hideous bargain had been
made the previous day that Grace Marwood waited for the result of the
operation. Since Bryan had left the morning before she had only seen
her husband once, and then only for a few minutes, with a nurse
present the whole time.

She had remained in her own room, shunning the servants as far as
possible. That the whole household knew by now she was fully
aware--especially as she had never particularly liked Simpson. But as
the day passed by she came to the conclusion that they must be a
particularly good brand. Keenly alert though she was for the faintest
trace of veiled insolence, she could detect nothing. Her maid was a
little more solicitous for her comfort, perhaps, but otherwise
absolutely as usual; Parkins, the butler; Mrs. Johnson, the cook--in
none of them could she see the slightest difference. And after a while
she ceased to worry; what did such a trifle as the opinions of
servants matter compared to the other things at stake?

Whatever happened, the future seemed to hold no hope. At best--or was
it at worst?--a vista of dreary years tied to a professional invalid
who knew her secret and who could be trusted to remind her of the fact
every day. And if not that--she drew a deep breath--if her husband did
die! What then? For Bryan, professional ruin--or, at the very least,
the rest of his life spent under a cloud of ominous blackness. For
herself--social ruin.

Almost she wished that he had stuck to his original refusal; at any
rate, that would have settled the matter definitely. And there could
have been no suspicion then of the far more dreadful accusation which,
however unfounded, would be bound to get about, if--there was a fatal
result. Resolutely she refused to think of it; Bryan, with his genius,
would succeed--must succeed.

She had had one glimpse of him as he passed through the hall an hour
ago, and he had seemed to her like a man in a dream. Doctor Arbuthnot
had been with him, and another doctor who, she gathered, had come more
or less as a spectator. And then the door upstairs had closed, and for
an hour she had been waiting. Would they never finish?

Once she had crept to the foot of the stairs to listen, but everything
was silent. At that moment Bryan was operating; at that moment the
wheel of Fate was turning--turning one way or the other. But which?
With a shudder she went back to the sitting-room. Would they never
finish?

Suddenly she stiffened and sat upright; a door above had opened, and
someone was coming down the stairs. It was a man's step, and she
waited tensely as he crossed the hall.

It was Doctor Arbuthnot, and he stood for a moment by the door,
smiling at her.

"A most successful operation, my dear Mrs. Marwood," he announced.
"Your husband has stood it wonderfully, and----"

She rose to her feet, holding to the arm of her chair for support, and
suddenly the old doctor's kindly face became blurred and indistinct.
There was a roaring in her ears and then a merciful oblivion. And
Doctor Arbuthnot, catching her as she fell, turned as Bryan Daventry
and the other doctor entered the room.

"Fainted," he said briefly. "The news proved too much. Just help me
lift her on to that sofa."

For a few moments they bent over her; then, as the colour began to
return to her cheeks, Bryan Daventry stepped back and stood watching
her from near the fireplace.

"Just rest a little, Mrs. Marwood," Doctor Arbuthnot smiled
reassuringly. "I broke the good news too abruptly, I'm afraid, and you
fainted."

She slowly opened her eyes and stared round the room. What had he
said--"stood it wonderfully?" So the wheel had turned; Fate had
decided. And at that moment her eyes and Bryan's met and held. Then he
looked away, and she lay back once more.

"A most brilliant operation, Daventry." The doctor she did not know
was speaking. "You are to be congratulated. A great step in medical
science."

"Thank you," answered Bryan, and his voice was dull and lifeless. "He
stood it well. And in ten years or so we shall know for certain."

The woman stirred restlessly. Ten years! Oh! God--and then the others
after that. . . .

"I am much obliged to you for letting me witness it," continued the
other. "And it will be interesting to know from time to time how Mr.
Marwood progresses."

"Most," assented Bryan. "I'll let you know, Birkett--keep you posted
with the latest bulletins." He held out his hand abruptly. "Good-bye.
Glad you managed to come, in spite of the short notice."

"Glad you asked me," returned the other cordially. With a slight bow
to Mrs. Marwood he left the room, and Doctor Arbuthnot glanced at
Bryan Daventry curiously.

"Difficult fellow to get hold of is Birkett," he said. "Usually too
busy to eat."

"I made a particular point of his coming," said Daventry shortly.
"Rang him up late last night. Don't you bother to wait, Arbuthnot. I'm
going to have another look at the patient when he's quite out of the
chloroform."

"Right." With a smile he held out his hand to Mrs. Marwood. "Don't
move; lie still a bit longer. And in a short while you'll have your
husband out of bed and free to travel to some nice warm climate. I
envy you, my dear young lady, envy you. My old bones like an English
winter less and less each year."

With a cheerful wave to Daventry he fussed out of the room, and it was
not until they heard the front door close behind him that Grace
Marwood sat up on the sofa and stared at Bryan dully.

"Ten years--of hell. And not over then. I don't think I can, Bryan."

"You must, my dear; and so must I." He gave a little mirthless laugh.
"It's the penalty we've got to pay." Then, contemptuously--"He reminded
me of the letter he had sent his lawyers this morning, before I
began."

"I think that's what sticks in my throat more than anything," said the
girl slowly. "He thinks he threatened you into operating--and operating
successfully. And he'll never let me forget it."

"What does it matter what he thinks?" answered Daventry wearily. "At
any rate, you are safe now. Of the mentality of a man who would drive
such a bargain the less said the better; but that he was in a position
to do so is an indisputable fact. He knew I wouldn't let you suffer--if
there was the faintest possibility of avoiding it." Mechanically he
lit a cigarette. "Well, I took him at his word, and he's not going to
die--though I brought Birkett round in case of complications. My debt
to him--our debt to him--is absolutely sponged out. As far as a human
being may say such a thing, I have given him back his life. And if,
Grace," his voice grew hard, "in the days to come he grows too vile,
and you can't stand him--well, my dear, send for me, and I'll come.
There is a limit to the demands one human being may make on another."

For a while he stood in front of her, watching her gravely; then, very
gently, he raised her to her feet.

"My dear, dear woman," he whispered, and, bending forward, he kissed
her on the lips. For a moment she clung to him, then, with a little
smile, he raised both her hands to his lips. "It's a funny world," he
said, slowly, "damned funny. Take care of yourself, my darling."

Abruptly he turned away, and long after the door had closed behind him
she stood where he had left her. Then at last, with a pitiful little
moan, she sank down by the sofa and covered her face with her hands.
And the inexorable turning of the wheel through the dreary future
creaked mockingly through her brain.

For two hours she crouched there motionless; then with slow, lagging
steps she passed through the hall and up the stairs to her husband's
room.


10

It was a week before the hospital nurse could be dispensed with--a
wasted week to John Marwood. Only on rare occasions had he seen his
wife alone--and never the doctor. Whenever Daventry had been the nurse
had remained in the room, which had necessitated his bottling up his
verbal arrows, or so disguising them that they had lost half their
sting.

He had tried congratulating Daventry once on the success of the
operation, in a way which only just veiled the innuendo underneath,
but the result had not been a success.

The cold, frozen stare which had greeted the remark on the part of the
nurse, who cordially loathed her patient, and the contemptuous
indifference of the doctor himself, had stung him to the boiling point
of fury. But he could wait: there was plenty of time yet to make his
wife and her lover feel the lash. It was typical of the man that he
always thought of Daventry as her lover, though at the bottom of his
mind he knew he was not.

With his wife he had been a little more successful. He had had the
satisfaction of seeing her flinch and change colour at his sneers, but
she had deigned no answer, and had finally left the room in silence.
But it didn't matter: there was plenty of time--years yet--to revenge
himself on the guilty pair.

The nurse left in the morning, and it was in the afternoon, after a
light lunch, that life began to look really good to John Marwood. That
cursed, thin-lipped woman would badger him no longer; he was free:
free to enjoy himself. . . . He had written the preceding day to his
lawyer, requesting him to return the sealed letter, as the necessity
for it no longer existed, and he was expecting to get it back by the
next delivery. A wise precaution--to wait till the nurse had gone,
undoubtedly: she looked the sort of woman who would read
anything. . . . He hadn't quite made up his mind yet whether he would
destroy it or not. There didn't seem to be much object in keeping it,
and yet it was rather a pity to do away with such a literary gem,
especially with Simpson's signed statement underneath. A useful
document to possess: he particularly liked that phrase, "at the
threshold of eternity." No: on mature consideration he would keep it.
Quite possibly it would come in handy later on.

A knock came at the door, and a footman brought in the mail. Yes:
there was a letter right enough from his lawyer's firm, and he picked
it out and put it on one side to deal with later. Then, with a sudden
change of expression he picked it up again: it struck him that it
seemed very thin to contain any enclosure. In fact, he realized at
once that it didn't, and hurriedly slit open the envelope.

  "Dear Sir," it ran . . .

  "In the absence of our Mr. Gatehouse on a short holiday we beg
  to say in reply to yours of yesterday's date that we are unable
  to find any trace of the sealed letter to which you refer."

And he had addressed it to Gatehouse, care of his firm, so that in
case he was away it would be opened by them.

"Tell Simpson to come to me," he said querulously to the footman who
was making up the fire.

"Very good, sir." The man departed, and John Marwood again read the
brief, typewritten letter. "Unable to find any trace." What did the
fool mean?

"Simpson," he cried agitatedly, as the impassive footman came into the
room, "you remember that letter I gave you to send to my lawyer the
day before I was operated on?"

"Perfectly, sir." A quick change came over his face, as if the
question was a little unexpected, and necessitated a change of plan.

"Well, I've just had a letter saying they never had it." In his
excitement he sat up in bed, and as his eyes fell on the footman his
jaw dropped foolishly. "Wh--what on earth are you doing, Simpson?" he
stammered.

"Locking the door, Mr. Marwood," returned Simpson imperturbably, "in
order to ensure that no one will interrupt our little
conversation. . . ."

"But I--I don't understand. Who is going to interrupt us? And, damn
you, who told you to sit down?" John Marwood was rapidly losing his
temper. If this impertinent fellow thought he was going to presume,
he'd soon find his error. His presence was no longer in the least
degree necessary: in fact, in many ways it might be a good thing to
get rid of him at once. And then, with a sudden, unspeakable rage, he
saw that this impassive, insufferable servant had drawn from his
pocket the very letter which he had been told to send to the lawyer
over a week ago. He sat there, lolling in his chair, holding it
loosely between his fingers, and on his face there hovered a faint,
mocking smile.

"Is it too much to hope," said Marwood icily, "that I may be honoured
with some small explanation?"

"Far from it, John Marwood," returned the other. "It is in order that
you may have an explanation in full that I have locked the door."

The invalid's eyes narrowed. To be called John Marwood--by one of his
footmen! What was it--blackmail? He became uneasily aware that some of
the statements in his death-bed accusation were, to put it mildly,
somewhat exaggerated. But this man couldn't know that: anyway, he
couldn't prove it.

"In the first place," continued Simpson impassively, "shall we
consider this interesting effusion? Is it too much to say that it is
an abominable tissue of vile and malicious lies from start to finish,
which by reason of the time when it was written would have carried
conviction in the event of your death?"

"You impertinent scoundrel," spluttered Marwood. "Give me that letter
at once."

Simpson laughed. "Always ready to learn, John Marwood, I continued to
listen outside the door of the sitting-room that day, after you had
left the vantage point of the key-hole and gone in. And so I happen to
know what really occurred. This--" he twiddled the letter between his
fingers and thumb, "hardly seems to be exactly--shall we say--accurate.
You seem to be finding it a little difficult to speak, so while you
compose yourself--for I have a little more to say to you, John
Marwood--I think I will take the precaution of removing that hand-bell
from your reach. And I may say," he continued, as he resumed his seat,
"that if you shout, I shall gag you."

The man in bed stared at him with dilated eyes: was he mad--or
dreaming?

"In the first place," said Simpson, leaning forward and speaking in
his usual dispassionate voice, "do you really think that I'm a footman
by trade?"

"I--I----" stammered Marwood, "I've never thought about it."

"Do you remember, John Marwood, in the days when you had a business, a
certain confidential clerk to whom, for some reason or other, you took
a dislike?"

"My God!" muttered the invalid weakly. "You're . . ."

"Beginning to come back, is it? Yes--I'm Henry Firebrace: whom you
sacked without a character, because in the vile meanness of your petty
bullying soul you knew he despised and loathed you. You faked up a
reason--anything was good enough, and you sacked him, at a time when
clerks were a drug on the market, and his wife was having her first
child. He tramped all over London, John Marwood, looking, begging for
work--but no one wanted clerks, certainly not those without a
character. And he couldn't get work." The speaker's dark eyes glowed
sombrely. "No work, John Marwood--no money. And his wife was having her
first child. Do you know what happened? The child was born dead, and
the mother died two days later. . . ."

A log hissed and spluttered in the grate, while the man in bed stared
fascinated at the speaker. Henry Firebrace! Now that he knew, he
marvelled he had never recognized him before, great though the change
was.

"He made one appeal to you, John Marwood, if you remember. Told you
the reason of his appeal. . . . Went--down--on--his--knees. . . . And you
laughed in his face, and told him that yours was a business company,
and not a babies' crche." The man in the chair swallowed twice: then
in the same level voice he continued:

"For a while after his wife had died, Henry Firebrace went mad. And
while he was mad he committed a burglary, and was caught by the police
and sent to prison. When he came out the war had just started, and the
thought of it appealed to him. So Henry Firebrace died, and Charles
Simpson enlisted, and in the ordinary course of affairs was called on
to kill a German every now and then. . . . And one night he started to
think, John Marwood. The Germans whom he killed had never done him any
harm: many of them, doubtless, were quite decent, pleasant fellows. So
if he killed them, was there any logical reason why in the fullness of
time he shouldn't--provided he came through all right--kill the man who
had done him such grievous harm?"

"One is war: the other is murder," said Marwood thickly.

"True: but this thinker was not concerned with such niceties. All he
could bother with was the thought that he would infinitely sooner put
a bayonet into the stomach of the man he hated, than into that of a
complete stranger, even though he was a German. So he played with the
idea, John Marwood: and the more he played with it--the more he liked
it." The footman's eyes, hard now and merciless, were fixed on the
trembling man in bed.

"In due course he was demobilized, and having found out where you
lived, he applied for a post as your footman. He heard you were an
invalid, and if he had found that in truth you were--that you were, in
reality, a sick man--he might even at the eleventh hour have stayed his
hand, and foregone his revenge. Instead, he found that you were even
viler and more utterly inhuman than you had been in the past, and that
your peculiar faculty for inspiring hatred in those around you had
grown with the years. So he decided to bide his time. . . ."

With a trembling hand Marwood wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"He liked to gloat over you, John Marwood, and say to himself, 'Some
day I will do to him what in the past he did to me.' And not one
single word you spoke, not one single act you did, ever tended to
inspire in him one vestige of pity. He saw you for what you
are--utterly and infinitely despicable. And then came the day when they
found you had cancer." He paused and smiled slowly. "Once again he
decided to give you a chance: cancer is a sufficient punishment in
itself. Once again the brief twinge of mercy was killed at birth--even
as his child was born dead, John Marwood--by the interview he overheard
in the sitting-room. And then--this letter." He held it up in front of
the other's face, and this time he laughed gently. "This letter . . .
which you so trustingly gave him to post. Had you died, John Marwood,
under the operation, it would have been handed direct to Doctor
Daventry--even as it will be handed to him after your death--now."

With a strangled scream Marwood started up, only to be hurled back
again on his pillows by the impassive footman.

"He didn't want you to die," continued Simpson. "He told Doctor
Arbuthnot that he trusted the operation would be successful. And it
was, John Marwood, wonderfully so. So successful that for the past
week, from what he knows of your mentality, you have been gloating
over the future in front of you. A revenge such as you love is yours
for the asking--so you have been thinking: and in that dark, fetid mind
of yours you have been planning every detail of it. . . . And now, you
wretched brute, it's going to be snatched away from you." With his
face blazing with implacable hatred he rose and stood over the
cowering man. "For you're going to die, John Marwood; even as my wife
died: and as you die just remember that your wife will be able to find
happiness at last with the man she loves--and that he has been started
on the road to fame by you."

His hands were on Marwood's throat, and as the terrified man's mouth
opened in a plea for mercy, the footman slipped in a gag. Then he
released him and stood back watching the agonized terror in the
rolling eyes. After a moment he turned away and took a bottle off the
shelf. He filled a wine glass standing on the table by the bed, and
then once more he bent over the other man.

"A little prussic acid, John Marwood," he murmured, and deftly holding
his hand steady, he poured the contents of the glass into the other's
mouth. His eyes bored into his victim's brain as he carefully caught a
few drops that were spilled on his handkerchief. Then, with a quick
wrench, he extracted the gag. . . .

For a moment or two he watched the writhing, convulsed man: then, as
impassively as ever, he took three or four of the bottles off the
shelf and placed them on the table.

And before he softly turned the key in the door and left the room, the
body of John Marwood had ceased to writhe. Prussic acid is rapid in
its action. . . .


11

It was two hours later, in the middle of tea, that a violent peal on
the bell of John Marwood's room disturbed the assembled servants.

"He seems to be becoming convalescent," murmured Simpson.

"Go up and see, will you?" ordered Mr. Parkins. "Our period of peace
is over, I suppose."

Simpson rose and walked to the door, only to come back in a moment or
two looking a little agitated.

"It's Mrs. Marwood, Mr. Parkins. I think something has happened. You'd
better come."

Majestically the butler rose and followed the footman--only to pause
and turn white at what he heard.

"Dead, madam?" It was Simpson who was speaking. "Impossible. Why, when
I left Mr. Marwood. . . ." He ran up the stairs quickly.

"Ring up Doctor Daventry at once, Parkins," said Grace Marwood. "Oh!
it's dreadful. . . ." She sank into a chair, half fainting.

"Doctor Daventry will be round at once, madam," said the butler, in a
shaking voice, and as he spoke Simpson came down the stairs.

"I fear, madam, there is no doubt what has happened," he murmured
gently. "By some extraordinary error, Mr. Marwood must have taken a
dose of prussic acid in mistake for his tonic. Both bottles are on the
table by his bed: but the glass smells strongly of the poison."

The appearance of her maid cut short any further conversations, and
the butler and Simpson retired once more to the servants' hall to
discuss the sudden tragedy.

"Undoubtedly prussic acid," said Simpson. "The smell is unmistakable:
the effect almost instantaneous. And if he drank the whole glass it
was enough to kill ten men."

"What was it doing there at all?" demanded the butler.

Simpson shrugged his shoulders. "Something to do with Doctor
Daventry's treatment, I expect. It's labelled 'poison,' and marked
'for external application only.'"

"Well," declaimed Mrs. Thomson, "it don't seem right to speak ill of
the dead, and 'im not cold--but for all that, I says 'Good riddance.'
And I don't mind who 'ears me, neither. Lor! Mr. Simpson, you 'ave a
nerve, you 'ave. Going on with your tea, an' all. An' just seen 'im
dead."

Simpson smiled. "We got used to it in France, Mrs. Thomson, you know.
A little more sugar this time, please."

"What was he doing when you left him?" said the butler after a while.

"Taking his tonic--as far as I could see," remarked Simpson, helping
himself to jam.

"The person I'm sorry for is that there young doctor," remarked Mr.
Parkins, sententiously. "After being so successful--for this to
happen."

"Quite, Mr. Parkins: quite," agreed Simpson. "However, these accidents
will happen."

"You're quite right, Simpson," remarked the butler, reminiscently.
"They will. Why, when I was with Lord Nairn. . . ."

But the providential arrival of one of the footmen saved them from the
remainder of the oft-told harrowing details.

"The doctor wants to see you, Simpson. Up in the bedroom."

As impassively as ever, Simpson left the room.

"I understand you saw Mr. Marwood last?" Bryan Daventry was standing
at the foot of the bed as he entered.

"I did, sir--to the best of my belief." He glanced at the figure in the
bed over which the bedclothes had been completely pulled.

"What was he doing?"

"Preparing to take his tonic, sir, I think. I heard the sound of
bottles clinking as I left the room."

"How came this bottle of prussic acid on the table beside the bed?"

"I really couldn't say, sir. A most unfortunate tragedy." His steady,
inscrutable eyes met those of the doctor, and after a while he felt in
his pocket and produced a paper. "This might interest you, sir," he
murmured. "I found it on the floor when I came up after Mrs. Marwood
had discovered her husband's death."

Casually, Bryan Daventry glanced at it: then, as he read, his face
grew black with rage. It was John Marwood's "death-bed" accusation.

"The infernal blackguard," he muttered.

"Precisely, sir," remarked the footman. "An infernal blackguard."

"Do you object if I burn that?" said the doctor slowly.

"If you don't, sir, I shall."

For a moment or two Daventry studied the paper in his hand: then he
stared at the footman. "It looks as if something had been cut off at
the bottom," he remarked slowly.

"Now you mention it, sir, so it does," agreed Simpson. "Shall I put it
in the fire?"

In silence they watched it burn: then the footman stabbed the ashes
with a poker till nothing but a fine dust was left.

"I don't quite understand you, my friend," said Daventry,
thoughtfully.

"Indeed, sir," murmured the footman.

"Have you always been a footman?"

"Always is a long time, sir," remarked Simpson, quietly. "Might I ask
if you have definitely decided on the cause of Mr. Marwood's death?"

"Yes, my friend, I have. Mr. Marwood died as the result of a dose of
prussic acid administered----" he paused, and--was it his imagination, or
was there, indeed, the ghost of a smile lurking again behind those
expressionless eyes--"administered inadvertently, by himself."

"In mistake for his tonic," murmured the footman.

"In mistake for his tonic," agreed the doctor.

Simpson moved towards the door, and it was just as he was opening it
that he spoke once more. And this time his voice was a little
different.

"An infernal blackguard is dead, Doctor Daventry. It may be of
interest to you and Mrs. Marwood to know that your secret has died
with him."

He left the room: and for a long while Bryan Daventry stood frowning
at the closed door. Then, with a last look at the motionless figure in
the bed, he too, went out. . . . And dimly through the window came the
roar of the traffic from distant Piccadilly.



                               THE END.




Transcriber's Notes for "The Saving Clause"

Regularized Periods following chapter and section numbers.  Removed
the few which were there. Other tans this, punctuation has been regularized.

The page references are all original page numbers.

45: typo: changed ' to " in: _"Listen, Jim._

47: typo: changed _once_ to _one_ in: _And for just one second did
Jim Strickland hesitate_.

60: typo: inserted space after _any_ in _of whom at any rate some
must be our own people._

110: typo: inserted period for space in _bring him down here to stay.
I'm nearly off my head with it_

155: typo: changed ' to " in _"If you must have someone with you, my
dear,"_

156-157: typo: changed _felt_ to _left_ in _had continued after they
left school_

169: spelling typo: changed _relasped_ to _relapsed_

193: typo: inserted missing single close quote in _unconsciously
pressed the bulb.'_

197: typo: inserted dash at end of sentence lacking any punctuation:
_things to do--but I wonder--"_

201: missing section number added

207: typo: added missing space in _any rate_

238: typo: replaced hyphen with dash in: _fear--sickening, gripping
fear._

typo: replaced space with a period at the end of a sentence: _an
A.B.C. is not to be despised._

257: spelling typo: changed _familar_ to _familiar_

259: spelling typo: changed _viola_ to _voila_ in _Voila tout._

295: typo: added period at end of sentence and paragraph.

305-306: spelling typo: changed _its_ to _sit_ in: _who told you to
sit down?_






[End of The Saving Clause, by Sapper]
