The Project Gutenberg EBook of Half A Chance, by Frederic S. Isham

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: Half A Chance

Author: Frederic S. Isham

Release Date: December 3, 2004 [EBook #14249]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HALF A CHANCE ***




Produced by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson, and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team





HALF A CHANCE

BY
FREDERIC S. ISHAM

AUTHOR OF
UNDER THE ROSE
THE LADY OF THE MOUNT, ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HERMAN PFEIFER

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS





COPYRIGHT 1909
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

OCTOBER


PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N.Y.

       *       *       *       *       *




CONTENTS


PART ONE

    I MR. GILLETT'S CHARGE
   II A MESSAGE TO THE ADMIRALTY
  III AN UNAPPRECIATED BOUNTY


PART TWO

    I THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE
   II AT THE OPERA
  III A LESSON IN BOTANY
   IV TIDES VARYING
    V IN THE PARK
   VI A CONFERENCE
  VII INCIDENTS
 VIII A CHANGE OF FRONT
   IX AWAY FROM THE TOWN
    X A CONTEST
   XI WAYS AND MEANS
  XII FESTIVITIES
 XIII THE PRINCESS SUITE
  XIV AN ANSWER
   XV CURRENTS AND COUNTER CURRENTS
  XVI FLIGHT
 XVII THE UNEXPECTED
XVIII THROUGH THE FOG
  XIX THE LAST SHIFT
   XX THE PAPER
  XXI A CONDITION
 XXII NEAR THE RIVER
XXIII PAST AND PRESENT

       *       *       *       *       *




PART ONE

CHAPTER I

MR. GILLETT'S CHARGE


"By all means, m'deah, let's go down between decks and have a look at
them."

"Of course, if you wish, Sir Charles, although--Do you think we shall be
edified, Mr. Gillett?"

"That depends, m'lady,"--and the speaker, a man with official manners
and ferret-like eyes, shifted from one foot to another,--"on what
degree, or particular class of criminal your ladyship would be
interested in," he added. "If in the ordinary category of skittle
sharper or thimblerigger," with a suspicion of mild scorn, "then I do
not imagine your ladyship would find much attraction in the present
cargo. But, on the other hand," in a livelier tone, "if your ladyship
has any curiosity, or shall we say, a psychological bent, regarding the
real out-and-outer, the excursion should be to your liking. For,"
rubbing his hands, "a properer lot of cutthroats and bad magsmen, it has
never been my privilege to escort across the equator; and this is my
sixth trip to Australia!"

"How interesting! How very interesting!" The lady's voice floated
languidly. "Sir Charles is quite right. We must really go down. At any
rate, it will be a change, after having been shut up so long in that
terrible state-room."

"One moment, m'lady! There's a little formality that must be observed
first."

"Formality?" And the lady, who was of portly appearance and uncertain
age, gazed from the speaker standing deferentially before her, to a man
of size, weight and importance seated in a comfortable chair at her
side. "What does he mean, Sir Charles?"

"Regulations, m'lady--m'lord!" was the answer. "No one allowed on the
prisoners' deck without the captain's permission. There he is now."

"Then be good enough to beckon to him!" said the lady.

But this Mr. Gillett, agent of the police, discreetly declined to do;
Captain Macpherson was a man not to be beckoned to by any one; much less
by him. As he stood squarely in the center of the ship, he looked like a
mariner capable of commanding his boat and all the people aboard;
indeed, some of the characteristics of his vessel seemed to have entered
into his own make-up; the man matched the craft. Broad-nosed, wide of
beam, big, massive, obstinate-looking, the _Lord Nelson_ plowed
aggressively through the seas. With every square sail tugging hard at
her sturdy masts, she smote and over-rode the waves, and, beating them
down, maintained an unvarying, stubborn poise. But although she refused
to vacillate or shuffle to the wooing efforts of the uneasy waters, she
progressed not without noise and pother; foamed and fumed mightily at
the bow and left behind her a wake, receding almost as far as the eyes
might reach. Captain Macpherson looked after the bubbles, cast his
glance aloft at the bulging patches of white, and then condescended to
observe the agent of the police who had silently approached.

"Sir Charles and lady, and Sir Charles' party have expressed, Captain
Macpherson, the desire to obtain permission to visit the prisoners'
deck."

Captain Macpherson looked toward Sir Charles and his lady, the other
passengers lounging around them, a little girl, at the rail, her hair,
blown windward, a splash of gold against the blue sky. "What for?" said
the skipper bruskly.

"To have a look at the convicts, I suppose."

"What good'll that do them?" growled the commander. "Idle curiosity,
that's what I call it. Well, go along. Only, I'll hold you accountable,
and bear this in your mind, no tracts!"

"I don't think," replied Mr. Gillett with some asperity, "you need be
apprehensive on that score, Captain Macpherson. Sir Charles and m'lady
are not that sort."

"Well, keep them away from the bars. The weather has nae improved the
tempers of a few of the rapscallions, and they'd like naught better than
a chance for their claws."

"Thanks for the permission, and," a little stiffly, "the admonition,
which latter," turning away, "a man whose lifelong profession has been
dealing with convicts is most likely to stand in need of and heed."

Captain Macpherson frowned, stumped the other way, then looked once more
aloft, and, by the exercise of that ingenuity peculiarly his own, found
new tasks for the sailors. Aboard any ship, especially a ship of this
character, it was his theory and practice that discipline could not be
too strictly maintained and the men on the _Lord Nelson_ knew no idle
moments.

"May I go, too?"

The child with the golden hair desisted in her occupation of watching
the flying-fish and other _real_-winged creatures, and, leaving the
rail, walked toward the group that was about to follow Mr. Gillett. She
was a very beautiful girl of ten or eleven; slim, delicately fashioned,
of a definite proud type. But although she held herself erect, in an
unconscious patrician sort of way, there was, also, about her something
wayward and different from the conventional, aristocratic set. The
disordered golden hair proclaimed it, while in the depths of the fine,
blue eyes manifold changing lights told of a capriciousness out of the
pale of a stiffly decorous and well-contained caste.

"May I go, too, aunt?" she repeated.

"Why, of course!" interposed a blasé, cynical-appearing young man who
had just emerged from the cabin. "Don't know where she wants to go, or
what she wants to do; but don't say she can't; really you mustn't, now."

"Well, since you insist on spoiling her, Lord Ronsdale--"

He twisted a blond mustache which adorned a handsome face that bore many
marks of what is called experience of the world. "Couldn't do that!
Besides, Jocelyn and I are great chums, don't you know. We're going to
be married some day when she grows up."

"_Are_ we?" said the child. "The man _I_ marry must be very big and
strong, and must _not_ have light hair."

Lord Ronsdale laughed tolerantly.

"Plenty of time for you to change your mind, don't you know. Meanwhile,
I'll not despair. Faint heart, and so on. But," turning to Sir Charles,
"where is it she 'wants to go?'"

"To see the convicts."

"Convicts? Ah!" He spoke rather more quickly than usual, with accent
sharper.

"You didn't know who your neighbors were going to be when you decided so
suddenly to accompany us?"

"No." His voice had a metallic sound.

Sir Charles addressed Mr. Gillett. "Tell us something more definite
about your charges whom we are going to inspect. Meant to have found out
earlier in the voyage, but been so jolly seasick, what with one gale
after another, I for one, until now, haven't much cared whether we had
Claude Duval and Dick Turpin themselves for neighbors, or whether we all
went straight to Davy Jones' locker together. A bad lot, you have
already informed us! But how bad?"

"Well, we haven't exactly M. Duval or Mr. Turpin in the pen, but we've
one or two others almost as celebrated in their way. There's Billy
Burke, as desperate a cracksman as the country can produce, with,"
complacently, "a record second to none in his class. He"--and Mr.
Gillett, with considerable zest entered into the details of Mr. Burke's
eventful and rapacious career. "Then there's the ''Frisco Pet,' or the
'Pride of Golden Gate,' as some of the sporting papers call him."

"The 'Frisco Pet!" Lord Ronsdale started; his color slightly changed;
his lashes drooped over his cold eyes. "He is on board this vessel?"

"Yes; you remember him, my Lord, I dare say?"

"In common with many others," shortly.

"Many of the gentry and titled classes did honor him with their
attention, I believe."

"Why," asked Jocelyn, whose blue eyes were fastened very intently on the
face of the police agent, "did they call him such a funny name, the
'Frisco Pet?"

"Because he's a yankee bruiser, prize-fighter, or was, before the drink
got him," explained Mr. Gillett. "And originally, I believe, he hailed
from the land of the free. Some one brought him to London, found out
about his 'talents' and put him in training. He was a low, ignorant
sailor; could scarcely write his own name; but he had biceps and a thick
head. Didn't know when he was whipped. I can see him yet, as he used to
look, with his giant shoulders and his swagger as he stepped into the
ring. There was no nonsense about him--or his fist; could break a board
with that. And how the shouts used to go up; 'the pet!' 'a quid on the
pet!' 'ten bob on the stars and stripes!' meaning the costume he wore.
Oh, he was a favorite in Camden Town! But one night he failed them; met
some friends from the forecastle of a Yankee trader that had dropped
down the Thames. Went into the ring with a stagger added to the swagger.
Well, they took him out unconscious; never was a man worse punished. He
never got back to the sawdust, and the sporting gentlemen lost a bright
and shining light."

"Broke his heart, I suppose," observed Sir Charles.

"How could that break his heart?" asked the child wonderingly. "I
thought when people had their hearts broken--"

"Jocelyn, don't interrupt!" said the wife of Sir Charles. "Although," to
her husband, in a lower tone, "I must confess these details a little
tiresome!"

"Not a bit!" Sir Charles' voice rose in lively protest. "I remember out
in Australia reading about the fellow in the sporting papers from home,
and wondering what had become of him. So that was it? Go on, Mr.
Gillett! With your permission, m'love!"

The police agent proceeded. "After that it was a case of the rum and the
toss-pots, and when he was three sheets in the wind, look out for
squalls! He got put in quad, broke out, overpowered and nearly killed
two guards. Took to various means of livelihood, until they got him
again. Trouble in prison; transferred to the solitary with a little
punishment thrown in for a reminder. When he got out of limbo again, he
lived in bad company, in one of the tunnels near the Adelphi; hard place
for the police to rout a cove from. Then followed a series of rough
bungling jobs he was supposed to have been mixed up in. At any rate, he
got the credit. More hazards than loot! He had too heavy fingers for
anything fine; but he made it quite interesting for the police, quite
interesting! So much so, he attracted _me_, and I concluded to take a
hand, to direct the campaign against him, as it were."

Mr. Gillett paused; obviously in his case egotism allied to enthusiasm
made his duties a pleasure; he seemed now briefly commending himself in
his own mind. "Up to this time," he resumed, "our friend, the
ex-pugilist, had never actually killed any one, but soon after I engaged
myself to look after him, word was brought to the department that a poor
woman had been murdered, a cheap music-hall dancer. She had seen better
days, however."

Lord Ronsdale, who had been looking away, yawned, as if finding the
police agent "wordy," then strolled to the rail.

"Suspicion pointed strongly in his direction; and we got him after a
struggle. It was a hard fight, without a referee, and maybe we used him
a little rough, but we had to. Then Dandy Joe was brought in. Joe's a
plain, mean little gambler and race-track follower, with courage not big
enough for broad operations. But he had a wide knowledge of what we term
the thieves' catacombs, and, well, he 'peached' on the big fellow. Gave
testimony that was of great service to the prosecution. The case seemed
clear enough; there was some sort of contrary evidence put in, but it
didn't amount to anything. His record was against him and he got a heavy
sentence, with death as a penalty, if he ever sets foot in England
again."

"What," asked Mr. Gillett's youngest listener, "is 'peached'?"

"In school-girl parlance, it is, I believe, to 'tell on' some one."

"You mean a tattle-tale?" scornfully. "I hate them."

"They have their uses," he answered softly. "And I'm rather partial to
them, myself. But if you are ready, m'lord--m'lady--"

"Quite! Egad! I'm curious to have a look at the fellow. Used to like to
see a good honest set-to myself occasionally, before I
became--ahem!--governor!" And rising with alacrity, Sir Charles assisted
his lady from her chair. "Coming, Ronsdale?"

"Believe I won't go down," drawled the nobleman at the rail. "Air better
up here," he explained.

Sir Charles laughed, got together the other members of his party and all
followed Mr. Gillett to a narrow companion way. There a strong iron door
stopped their progress, but, taking a key from his pocket the police
agent thrust it into a great padlock, gave it a turn, and swung back the
barrier. Before them stretched a long aisle; at each end stood a
soldier, with musket; on one side were the cells, small, heavily-barred.
The closeness of the air was particularly and disagreeably noticeable;
here sunlight never entered, and the sullen beating of the waves against
the wooden shell was the only sound that disturbed the tomb-like
stillness of the place.

One or two of the party looked soberer; the child's eyes were large with
awe and wonder; she regarded, not without dread, something moving, a
shape, a human form in each terrible little coop. But Mr. Gillett's face
shone with livelier emotions; he peered into the cells at his charges
with a keen bright gaze that had in it something of the animal tamer's
zest for his part.

"Well, how are we all to-day?" he observed in his most animated manner
to the guard. "All doing well?"

"Number Six complained of being ill, but I say it's only the dumps.
Number Fourteen's been garrulous."

"Garrulous, eh? Not a little flighty?" The guard nodded; Mr. Gillett
whispered a few instructions, asked a number of other questions.
Meanwhile the child had paused before one of the cells and, fascinated,
was gazing within. What was it that held her? the pity of the spectacle?
the terror of it? Her blue eyes continued to rest on the convict, a
young fellow of no more than one-and-twenty, of magnificent proportions,
but with face sodden and brutish. For his part he looked at her,
open-mouthed, with an expression of stupid surprise at the sight of the
figure so daintily and slenderly fashioned, at the tangles of bright
golden hair that seemed to have imprisoned some of the sunshine from
above.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered hoarsely. "Where'd you come from? Looks
like one o' them bally Christmas dolls had dropped offen some counter in
Fleet Street and got in here by mistake!"

A mist sprang to the blue eyes; she held her white, pretty fingers tight
against her breast. "It must be terrible--here"--she said falteringly.

The convict laughed harshly. "Hell!" he said laconically.

The child trembled. "I'm sorry," she managed to say.

The fierce dark eyes stared at her. "What for?"

"Because--you have to stay here--"

"Well, I'm--" But this time he apparently found no adequate adjective.
"If this ain't the rummiest Christmas doll!"

She put out her hand. "Here's something for you, poor man," she said, as
steadily as she could. "It's my King George gold piece, date 1762, and
belonged to my father who wore it on his watch chain and who is dead.
Perhaps they'll let you buy something with it."

He looked at the hand. "If she ain't stickin' out her duke to me, right
through the bars. Blamed if she ain't! Looks like a lily! A bally white
lily!" he repeated wonderingly. "One of them kind we wonst run acrost
when the Cap. turned us adrift on an island, jest to waller in green
grass!"

"Don't you want it?" said the child.

He extended a great, coarse hand hesitatingly, as if half-minded to and
half-minded not to touch the white finger-tips.

"You ain't afraid?"

The golden head shook ever so slightly; again the big hand went toward
the small one, then suddenly dropped.

"Right this way m'lord--m'lady!" The face of the convict abruptly
changed; fury, hatred, a blind instinct to kill were unmistakably
revealed in his countenance as he heard the bland voice of the police
agent. From the child's hand the gold disk fell and rolled under the
wooden slab that served as a couch in the cell.

"Jocelyn!" The expostulating tones of the governor's wife preceded the
approach of the party. "What are you doing, child, so near the bars?"

"Good heavens!" Mr. Gillett seized the girl's arm and abruptly drew her
away. "My dear little lady!" he said. "Really you don't know the danger
you run. And near that cell of all of them!"

"That cell?" observed Sir Charles. "Then that is--"

"The convict I was telling you about! The 'Pet of 'Frisco.' The 'Pride
of Golden Gate.'"

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER II

A MESSAGE TO THE ADMIRALTY


The following night, Captain Macpherson in his cabin, rolled up
carefully the chart he had been scanning, deposited it in a copper
cylinder and drew from his pocket a small pipe. As he filled and lighted
it, exhaling the smoke of the black weed and leaning more comfortably
back in his low, swinging chair, the expression of his iron countenance
exhibited, in the slightest degree, that solace which comes from the
nicotine. Occasionally, however, he would hold his pipe away from his
mouth, to pause and listen. The weather had turned nasty again; above,
the wind sounded loudly. Now it descended on the ship like a
fierce-scolding virago, then rushed on with wild, shrieking dissonance.
The _Lord Nelson_ minded not, but continued steadily on her way.

Her captain emptied his pipe, glanced toward his bunk and started to
take off his coat. Human nature has its limit; he had passed many
sleepless nights and now felt entitled to a brief respite, especially as
the chart showed neither reef nor rock anywhere in the neighborhood. But
he had only one arm out of the garment when something happened that
caused him to change his mind; abruptly hurled to the other end of the
cabin, he found himself lying, half-stunned, on the floor. A hubbub of
noises filled the air, snappings, crashings, the rending of woodwork.

Captain Macpherson staggered to his feet, and, swaying like a drunken
man, stood a few moments holding his hand to his brow. Then his fist
clenched and he shook it at the cylinder that had fallen from the table.

"Ye viperous, lying thing!" he cried, and ran from the cabin to the
deck.

A single glance told all: two of the ship's giant spars had gone by the
board; entangled in her own wreckage, the vessel thumped and pounded
with ominous violence against some sunken reef. The full scope of the
plight of the once noble ship was plainly made manifest. Though thick
streams of scud sped across the sky, the southern moon at the moment
looked down between two dark rivulets, and cast its silvery glow like a
lime-light, over the spectacle. Captain Macpherson groaned.

"Mr. O'Brien!" he called loudly.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"How long do you give her?"

"Half an hour, sir."

The master shook his head. "She'll nae last that long." And holding to a
stanchion, he seemed like a man in a dream.

"Any orders, sir?" asked the chief mate.

Captain Macpherson recovered himself; his tone became once more quick
and incisive. "Ye're right; I'm gone daffy. We'll get this business over
in a decorous and decent manner. And, Mr. O'Brien--lest I have nae time
to speak of it later--should ye get ashore, and ever find yourself in
the neighborhood o' Piccadilly, be so gude as to drop into the admiralty
office and say Captain Macpherson sends his compliments, and--to the
diel with their charts!"

"I'll not forget, sir!" A number of orders followed.

As the chief mate disappeared to execute the commands he had received,
the harsh noises of the breaking ship, the seething of the sea about
her, the flapping of canvas, like helpless broken wings, was
supplemented by a babel of new and terrifying sounds, the screaming and
cursing of the convicts below, their blasphemous shrieking to be let
out! To this turmoil and uproar were added the frantic appeals and
inquiries of the passengers who, more or less dressed, had hurried to
the deck and who were now speaking to the master of the ill-starred
vessel. He answered them briefly: what could be done, would be done.

"It's a question of the boats, I suppose?" Sir Charles, one of the
calmest of the ship's cabin party, asked quickly.

"In ten minutes they'll be ready for the launching with nae lack of
water and provision. Get plenty of wraps and greatcoats. It'll be a bit
disagreeable, nae doubt, out yon in the wee craft!"

"Wee craft!" The voice of the governor's lady--she was clinging to her
husband's arm--rose shrilly. "You surely are not going to send us out
there in one of these miserable cockleshells?"

"M'love!" Sir Charles expostulated mildly drawing her closer as he
spoke, "it's the only chance, and--" Then to the captain
half-apologetically--"She'll meet it with me, as she has met danger
before, in the bush, like a true English-woman! But what," indicating
the convicts' deck, "what about them? It seems inhuman, yet if they were
let out--"

"They must not be!" Lord Ronsdale's metallic voice interposed quickly.
"I call upon you, Captain Macpherson, in the name of the women and
children--"

"I've thought about that," said Captain Macpherson shortly, and turned
to his task.

The boat was soon overhauled, the lockers and water-butt were filled,
and the passengers, one by one, set into it. On the whole, at that
moment for leaving the ship, their conduct left little room for
criticism; one or two of the women who had appeared on the verge of
hysterics now restrained audible manifestation of emotion. Sir Charles
proved a monument of helpfulness; assisted in placing the women here and
there, and extended a helpful hand to Lord Ronsdale, who had become
somewhat dazed and inert. Total darkness added to the difficulties of
their task, for the moon which until then had shone with much luster now
went behind a curtain of cloud. But Captain Macpherson coolly called out
by name the men to handle the life-boat, and, with no evidence of
disorder, they crowded in, none too soon! As the boat with its human
freight hung in readiness for the lowering, the remaining spar of the
_Lord Nelson_ fell with a mighty crash.

"Remember the name of your ship, lads!" Captain Macpherson's voice
seemed to anticipate a movement of panic among the seamen on deck; if
there had been any intention to "rush" the already well-loaded boat, it
was stayed. "Mr. Gillett, I'll be troubling ye for the keys to the
convicts' deck. Mr. O'Brien, get in and take charge. Steer southeast
with a bit of rag; it's your best chance to get picked up. Hold near the
ship until the other boat with the crew can come alongside. It's as well
to keep company. Are the lines clear? Let her go."

The boat was lowered and at the right moment touched a receding wave.
Captain Macpherson waited until the chief officer called out that they
were safely away, then gave his last order:

"And now, lads, ye can be lookin' to yourselves!"

They did; the master turned and with some difficulty made his way toward
the convicts' cells. Her decks soon deserted, the ship, like a living,
writhing thing, seemed to struggle and groan, as if every timber were
crying out in vain protest against the tragic consummation. But only an
irrevocable voice answered, that of the mocking sea beating harder, the
cruel sea, spotted here and there with black patches between which
splashes of light revealed the wild waves throwing high their curd in
the cold, argent glimmer. One of these illuminating dashes, as if in a
spirit of irony, moved toward the ship, almost enveloped it and showed
suddenly a number of mad, leaping human figures issuing with horrible
cries from one of the hatches.

"The life rafts! Old man said the boats were gone."

"Rafts good enough for the likes of us, eh? Well, he's paid for keeping
us down so long. Blime if I don't think Slick Sam killed him."

"The rafts!" Shrieking, calling down maledictions on the captain, they
ran about, when suddenly an angry black wave swept the deck; a few went
overboard with the hissing crest; several were hurled against the
bulwarks, limp, lifeless things, swirled back and forth. One of their
number, a big fellow of unusual strength, was shot toward the open
companionway leading to the main cabin; as he plunged down, he clutched
at and caught the railing. Considerably shaken, dripping with water, he
pulled himself together, and, raising a face, sodden and fierce, like a
beast brought to bay, he looked around him. The light of one or two
swinging lamps that had not yet been shattered revealed dimly the
surroundings, the dark leather upholstering, the little tables.
Uncertainly the convict paused; then suddenly his eyes brightened; the
lustful anticipation of the drunkard who had long been denied shone from
his gaze as it rested on a sideboard across the cabin.

"Bottles!" he said, steadying himself. "Rum! Well, I guess there ain't
much chance for any of us, and a man's a fool to go to hell thirsty!" He
had started toward the sideboard with its bright gleaming ware and its
divers and sundry receptacles of spirits and liqueurs, when suddenly his
look changed, and his jaw fell.

"What the--" A flow of choice Billingsgate, mingled with the sailor's
equally eloquent Golden-Gate, completed the sentence. The convict stood
stock-still.

From the door of a state-room at the far end of the cabin a figure
appeared. A great shawl draped the small form; the golden hair, a flurry
of tangles, floated around it. Clinging to a brass rail that ran along
the side of the cabin, she approached, her eyes all alight as if well
satisfied with something. Amazed beyond power of action, the man
continued to gaze at her, at the tiny feet in the little pink slippers,
at something she carried. "By the great horn spoon, the Christmas doll!"
he muttered hoarsely. Then forgetting his purpose, the bottles, he
lurched quickly toward her.

"Wat you doin' here?" he demanded.

"I slipped out," said the child, holding the rail tighter, as perforce
she paused to answer. "I thought it would take only a moment."

"Slipped out?" he repeated.

"Of the life-boat, I mean. It was dark and they didn't see me. I just
happened to think, and I had to do it. If I'd told them, they mightn't
have let me. It would have been very wicked if I'd gone away and
forgotten--don't you think so? And now I'm going back! Only I am afraid
I've been longer than I thought I would be. The door of my state-room
seemed to stick, and I was a few minutes getting it open."

Beneath disheveled masses of thick dark hair, the brutish face continued
to study the fairylike one; for the instant words seemed to fail him.
"Do ye mean," he observed, "you come back here for that measly
dicky-bird?"

"It isn't 'measly' and it isn't a 'dicky-bird!'" she answered
indignantly. "And I'll thank you not to call it that. It's a love-bird,
and its name is Dearie!"

"'Dearie'! Ho! Ho!" The ship reeled at a dangerous angle, but the
convict appeared not to notice; his voice rose in harsh, irresistible
rough merriment. "'Dearie'! And she thanks me not to call it names! It!
No bigger'n my thumb! Ho! Ho!" His laughter, strange at such a moment,
died abruptly. "Do you know what you've gone and done on account of
what's in that cage?" he demanded almost fiercely. "You've got left!"

"Left?" said she blankly, shrinking from him a little. "You don't
mean--oh, I thought I would be only a minute! They haven't really gone,
and--"

The great fingers closed on her arm. "They've gone and the crew's gone!
Both boats are gone!"

"Oh!" The big blue eyes widened on him; an inkling of her plight seemed
to come over her; her lips trembled, but she held herself bravely. "You
mean--we must drown?"

The thunder of seas breaking on the deck answered; a cascade of water
dashed down the companionway and swept round them. The man bent toward
the child. "Look a' that! Now ain't ye sorry ye come back?"

"I couldn't leave it to drown!" passionately--"couldn't!--couldn't!"

"Blow me, she's game!" With difficulty he maintained his equilibrium.
"See here: maybe there's a chance, if any of them's left to help with
the raft. But we've got to git out o' this!"

He passed his hand through her arm, awaited a favorable moment, and
then, making a dash for the stairs, drew her, as best he might, to the
deck. At the head of the companionway, the wind smote them fiercely with
sheets of foam, but his strength stood him in good stead, and bracing
himself hard, the man managed to maintain his stand; holding the child
close to him, he sheltered her somewhat from the full force of the
storm. As he cast his glance over the deck, an oath burst from his lips;
the convicts had succeeded in launching one of the rafts and leaving the
ship by means of it, or else had been carried away by the seas. Of
living man, he caught no sight; only a single one of the dead yet
remained, sliding about on the slippery planks with the movement of the
ship; now to leeward, now rushing in a contrary direction, as if some
grotesque spirit of life yet animated the dark, shapeless form.

From wave-washed decks the man's glance turned to the sea; suddenly he
started; his eyes straining, he stared hard. "Maybe they've missed you.
One of the ship's boats seems headin' this way!"

Her gaze followed his; at intervals through driving spray a small craft
could be discerned, not far distant, now riding high on a crest, now
vanishing in a black furrow.

"Are they coming back to save us?" asked the child.

The convict did not answer. Could the boat make the ship, could it hope
to, in that sea? It was easier getting away than getting back. Besides,
the opportunity for a desperate, heroic attempt to come alongside was
not to be given her, for scarcely had they caught sight of her, when the
stern of the _Lord Nelson_, now filled with water from the inflow at the
bow, began to settle more rapidly. Then came a frightful wrenching and
the vessel seemed to break in two.

"Put yer arms round my neck," said the man, stooping.

She put one of them around; with the other held up the cage. He opened
the door of the wickerwork prison and a tiny thing flew out. Then he
straightened. Both arms were around him now.

"'Fraid?" he whispered hoarsely.

The child shook her head.

An instant he waited, then launched himself forward. Buffeted hither and
thither, he made a fierce fight for the rail, reached it, and leaped far
out into the seething waters.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER III

AN UNAPPRECIATED BOUNTY


In the prime of his belligerent career the Pet of 'Frisco had undergone
many fierce contests and withstood some terrible punishments, but never
had he undertaken a task calling for greater courage and power of
endurance than the one he had this night voluntarily assumed. Dashed
about by the seas, he yet managed to keep to the surface; minutes seemed
to lengthen into eternity; many times he called out loudly. The arms
about his neck relaxed, but he held the child to him. Not for an instant
did the temptation come to him to release her that he might the more
surely save himself. Overwhelmed again and again by the waves, each time
he emerged with her tight against his breast; half-strangled, he
continued to fight on. But at length even his dogged obstinacy and
determination began to flag; he felt his strength going, when raising
his eyes he saw one of the small craft from the lost vessel bearing
directly down upon him.

The sight inspired new energy and effort; nearer, nearer, she drew; now
she was but a few yards away. Then suddenly the sheet of the life-boat
went out and the little sail fluttered like a mad thing, while the men
bent with might and main over their ash handles in the endeavor to obey
the commands of the chief mate in the stern. But despite skill and
strength she was not easy to steer; once she nearly capsized; then eager
hands reached over the side. The convict held up the child; a voice--the
police agent's--called out that they "had her"; and then the mate broke
in with harsh, warning yells.

"Pull port!--quick!--or we're over!" And at once the outreaching arms
returned quickly to their task; as the child was drawn in, oars dragged
and tugged; the life-boat came slowly about, shipping several barrels of
water. At the same time some one made the loosened sheet taut, the
canvas caught the gust and the craft gained sufficient headway to enable
her to run over, and not be run down by the seas. As she careened and
plunged, racing down a frothing dark billow, the convict, relieved of
his burden, clung to the lower gunwale. By a desperate effort he drew
himself up, when a face vaguely remembered--as part of a bad
dream--looked into his, with a dash of surprise.

"Eh?--Gimme a hand--"

The asked-for hand swept suddenly under the one grasping the side of the
boat, and shot up sharply. In the darkness and confusion no one saw the
act. The convict disappeared, but his half-articulate curses followed.

"The fellow's let go," muttered Lord Ronsdale with a shiver.

At the steering oar the chief mate, hearing the cries of the man, cast a
swift glance over his shoulder and hesitated. To bring the boat,
half-filled with water, around now, meant inevitable disaster; one
experiment of the sort had well-nigh ended in their all being drowned.
He knew he was personally responsible for the lives in his charge; and
with but an instant in which to decide, he declined to repeat the risk.

"He's probably gone by this time, anyhow," he told himself, and drove
on.

The convict, however, was not yet quite "gone"; as the boat receded
rapidly from view, becoming smaller and smaller, he continued
mechanically to use his arms. But he had as little heart as little
strength to go on with the uneven contest.

"He's done me! done me!" he repeated to himself. "And I ain't never
goin' to git a chance to fix him," he thought, and looked despairingly
at the sky. The dark rushing clouds looked like black demons; the stars
they uncovered were bright gleaming dagger points. "Ain't never!--the
slob!" And with a flood of almost sobbing invective he let himself go.

But as the waters closed over him and he sank, his hand, reaching
blindly out to grip in imagination the foe, touched something
round--like a serpent, or an eel. His fingers closed about it--it proved
to be a line; he drew himself along, and to his surprise found himself
again on the surface, and near a great fragment of wreckage. This he
might have discovered earlier, but for the anger and hatred that had
blinded him to all save the realization of his inability to wreak
vengeance. Now, though he managed to reach the edge of the swaying mass
from which the line dangled, he was too weak to draw himself up on the
floating timbers. But he did pass a loop beneath his arms, and, thus
sustained, he waited for his strength to return. Finally, his mind in a
daze, the convict clambered, after repeated efforts, upon the wreckage,
fastened the line about him again, and, falling into a saucer-like
hollow, he sank into unconsciousness.

The night wore on; he did not move. The sea began to subside; still he
lay as if dead. Dawn's rosy lips kissed away the black shadows, touched
tenderly the waves' tops, and at length the man stirred. He tried to sit
up, but at first could not. Finally he raised himself and looked about
him.

No other sign of the vessel than that part of it which had served him so
well could he see; this fragment seemed rent from the bow; yes, there
was the yellow wooden mermaid bobbing to the waves; but not as of old!
Poor cast-out trollop,--now the seas made sport of her who once had held
her head so high!

The convict continued to gaze out over the ocean. Far away, a dark
fringe broke the sea-line--a suggestion of foliage--an island, or a
mirage? Tantalizing, it lay like a shadow, illusive, unattainable as the
"forgotten isles." The man staggered to his feet; his garments were
torn; his hair hung over his brow. He shook his arms at the
island;--this phantasy, this vain, empty vision, he regarded it now as
some savage creature might a bone just out of its reach; from his lips
vile words fell--to be suddenly hushed. Between him and what he gazed
at, along the range of vision, an object on one of the projecting
timbers caught his eye. It was very small, but it gleamed like a spark
sprung from the embers of the dawn.

"The dicky-bird!" His dried lips tried to laugh. "Ef it ain't the
dicky-bird!" The bird looked at him. "Ef that doesn't beat--" but he
could not think what it "beat." The bird cocked its head. "Ain't ye
afeard o' me?" It gave a feeble chirp. "Well, I'm damned!" said the man,
and after this mild expression of his feelings, forgot to curse again.
He even began to eye the island with a vague questioning wonder, as if
asking himself what means might be thought of that would enable him to
reach it; but the problem seemed to be beyond solution. The wreckage,
like a great lump, lay supinely on the surface of the water; he could
not hope to move it.

The day slowly passed; the sun dried his clothes; once or twice the bird
made a sound--a plaintive little tone--and involuntarily the man moved
with care, thinking not to frighten it. But caution in that regard
seemed unnecessary, for the bird appeared very tame and not at all
averse to company.

Toward noon the man began to suffer more acutely from thirst, and
drawing out a sailors' oilskin pouch, one of the few possessions he had
been allowed by the police to retain, he took from it a piece of tobacco
which he began to chew. At the same time he eyed the rest of the
contents--half a ship's biscuit, some matches and a mariner's thimble.
The biscuit he broke, and threw a few crumbs, where the timbers were
dry, near the bird. For a long time it looked at the tiny white morsels;
but finally, conquering shyness, hopped from its perch and tentatively
approached the banquet. Hours went by; the man chewed; the bird pecked.

That night it rained in real, tropical earnest, and he made a water
vessel of his shoe, drank many times, ate a few mouthfuls of biscuit,
and then placed the filled receptacle where he had thrown the crumbs. As
he did so he found himself wondering if the dawn would reveal his little
feathered shipmate or whether it had been swept away by the violence of
the rain. The early shafts of day showed him the bird on its perch; it
had apparently found shelter from the heavy down-pour beneath some
out-jutting timber and seemed no worse for the experience. The man's
second glance was in the direction of the island; what he saw brought a
sudden exclamation to his lips. The land certainly seemed much nearer;
some current was sweeping them toward it slowly, but irresistibly. The
'Frisco Pet swore joyfully; his eyes shone. "I may do him yet!" he
muttered. The bird chirped; he looked at it. "Breakfast, eh?" he said
and tossed a few more crumbs near the shoe.

The second day on the floating bow, he brooded a great deal; the sharper
pangs of hunger assailed him; he grew desperately impatient, the
distance to the island decreased so gradually. A breeze from the coveted
shore fanned his cheek; he fancied it held them back, and fulminated
against it,--the beneficent current,--the providential timbers! A
feeling of blind helplessness followed; the sun, beating down fiercely,
made him light-headed. Hardly knowing what he did, he drew forth the
last little bit of the biscuit, ground it between his teeth and greedily
swallowed it. The act seemed to sober him; he raised his big hand to his
brow and looked at "Dearie"; through the confusion of his thoughts he
felt he had done some despicable thing.

"That weren't fair play, were it now?" he said, looking at the bird.
"That ain't like a pal," he repeated. The bird remained silent; he
fancied reproach in its bead-like eyes, they seemed to bore into him.
"And you such a small chap, too!" he muttered; then he turned his back
on the island, and, with head resting on his elbow, uttered no further
complaint.

That second day on the raft seemed much longer than the first; the
second night of infinitely greater duration than the preceding one; but
dawn revealed the island very near, so near, indeed, the bird made up
its mind to try to reach it. It looked at the man for a moment and then
flew away. Long he watched it, a little dark spot--now that he could no
longer see the ruby on its breast! At length it was lost to sight;
swallowed up by the green blur.

The small winged creature gone, the man missed it. "'Peared like 'twas
glad to leave such a pal!" he thought regretfully. The floating timbers
became well-nigh intolerable; he kept asking himself if he could swim to
land, but, knowing his weakness from long fasting, he curbed his
impatience. His eyes grew tired with staring at the longed-for spot; he
suffered the torments of Tantalus, and finally could endure them no
longer. So making his clothes into a bundle, he tied them around his
neck and slipped into the water.

Half an hour later found him, prone and exhausted, on the yellow sands.
Near-by, tall and stately trees nodded at him; close at hand a great
crab regarded him with reflective interest, hesitating between prudence
and carnivorous desire. Gluttonous inclination to sample the goods the
gods had provided prevailed over caution; it moved quickly forward, when
what it had considered only an unexpected and welcome _pièce de
résistance_ abruptly got up. The tables were turned; that which came to
dine was dined upon; a crushing blow demonstrated the law of the
survival of the fittest; the weaker adorned the board. The man tore it
to bits, ate it like the famished animal he was. More freely his blood
coursed; he looked around; saw other creatures and laughed. There seemed
little occasion for any one to starve here; the isle, a beautiful
emerald on the breast of the sea, became a fair battle-ground; all he
needed was a club and he soon found that.

For a week nothing of moment interrupted the even tenor of his
existence; he led the life of a savage and found it to his liking,
pounced upon turtles and cooked them, kept his fire going because he had
but few matches. Lying before the blaze at night, near a little spring,
he told himself that this was better than being behind prison bars;
true, he lacked company, but he had known worse solitude--the
"solitary." In it, he had lain on the hard stones; here he had soft
moss. If only he could reach out and touch those he hated--the unknown
enemy whose face had bent over him a fleeting instant ere he had struck
his hand from the gunwale; Dandy Joe and the police agent--if only they,
too, were here, the place would have been world enough for him. But
then, he felt, the time for the reckoning must come,--it lay somewhere
in the certain future. Unconscious fatalist, he nourished the conviction
as he nourished the coals of his fire.

Other means to enhance his physical comfort chance afforded him; the
fleshpots were supplemented with a beverage, stronger and more welcome
than that which bubbled and trickled so musically at his feet. One day a
box was washed ashore; a message from the civilized centers to the field
of primitive man! On its cover were the words, "Via sailing vessel,
_Lord Nelson_" followed by the address. The convict pried the boards
apart and gave a shout. Rum!--and plenty of it!--bottle after bottle, in
an overcoat of straw, nestling lovingly one upon another. The man licked
his lips; knocked off a neck, drank deep, and then, stopping many times,
carried his treasure to his bower.

Day after day turned its page, merged into the past; sometimes,
perforce, he got up, and, not a pleasant thing to look at, staggered to
the beach with his club. There he would slay some crawling thing from
the sea, return with his prize to mingle eating with drinking, until
sated with both, he would fall back unconscious among the flowers. But
the prolonged indulgence began to have a marked effect on his store;
bottle after bottle was tossed off; the empty shells flung aside to the
daisies. At length the day came when only two bottles remained in the
case, one full pair, sole survivors of the lot. The man took them out,
set them up and regarded them; a sense of impending disaster, of
imminent tragedy, shivered through his dulled consciousness. He reached
for the bottles and fondled them, started to knock the head from one and
put it down. Resisting desire, he told himself he would have a look at
the beach; the ocean had generously cast one box of well-primed bottles
at his feet; perhaps it would repeat its hospitable action and make him
once more the recipient of its bounty. The thought buoyed him to the
shore; the sea lapped the sand with Lydian whispers, and there, beyond
the edge of the soft singing ripples, he saw something that made him rub
his dazed eyes.

A box!--a big box!--a box as tall as he was! No paltry dozen or two this
time! Perhaps there was whisky, too; and the bubbling stuff the
long-necked lords had sometimes pressed upon him in the past, when he
had "ousted" his man and put quids in their pockets; or some of that
fiery _vin_--something he had once indulged in with a Johnny Frenchman
before he took to the tunnel, when he had been free to swagger through
old Leicester Square. Anyhow, he would soon find out, and, rushing
through the water, he laid a proprietary hand on the box. But to his
disappointment, he could not move it; strong though he was, its great
weight defied him. Ingenuity came to his aid, for, after a moment's
pondering, he left the box to the sea and made his way back to the
forest. When he returned he bore on his shoulder a straight, stout limb
which he had wrenched from a tree, and in his hand he carried a great
stone. The former became a lever, the latter, a fulcrum; and, by patient
exercise of one of the simple principles of physics, he managed, at
length, to transfer the large box from ocean to land.

To break it open was his next problem, and no easy one, for the boards
were thick, the nails many and formidable. A long time he battered and
battered in vain with his rocks, but, after an hour or so, he succeeded
in splintering his way through the tough pine. His exertions did not end
here; an inner sheeting of tin caused him to frown; more furiously he
attacked this with sharp bits of coral, cutting and bruising his hands.
Unmindful of pain, he was enabled at length to pull back a portion of
the protecting metal and reveal the contents of the packing-case. In his
befuddled, half-crazed condition, he had thought only of bottles; what
he found proved a different sort of merchandise.

Maddened, he tossed and scattered the contents of the box on the beach.
The ocean had deceived him, laughed at him, cheated him. He turned from
the shore unsteadily, walked back to his camp and knocked the neck from
one of the two remaining bottles. A few hours later, sodden, sottish, he
lay without motion, face to the sky. And as he breathed thickly, one
bleeding hand still holding the empty bottle, a bird from an overhanging
branch looked down upon him: a tiny bird, little bigger than his thumb,
that carried a bright, beautiful spot of red on its breast, cocked its
head questioningly.

       *       *       *       *       *




PART TWO

CHAPTER I

THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE


London, in the spring! Sunshine; the Thames agleam with silver ripples,
singing as it flows; red sails! Joyous London that has emerged from fogs
and basks beneath blue skies! Thoroughfares that give forth a glad hum;
wheels singing, too; whips that crack in sprightly arpeggios. On the
streets, people, not shadows, who walk with a swing; who really seem to
breath and not slink uncannily by! Eyes that regard you with human
expression; faces that seem capable of emotion; figures adorned in
keeping with the bright realities of the moment. London; old London
young again; grimy, repulsive London now bright, shimmering, beautiful!

In such a London, on such a day, about ten o'clock in the morning, three
persons whose appearance distinguished them from the ordinary
passers-by, turned into a narrow thoroughfare not far from the Strand.

"Quite worth while going to hear John Steele conduct for his client, I
assure you!" observed one, a tall, military-looking man, who walked with
a slight limp and carried a cane. "He's a new man, but he's making his
mark. When he asked to be admitted to the English bar, he surprised even
his examiners. His summing-up in the Doughertie murder case was, I heard
his lordship remark, one of the most masterly efforts he ever listened
to. Just tore the circumstantial evidence to pieces and freed his man!
Besides his profession at the bar, he is an unusually gifted
criminologist; takes a strong personal interest in the lowest riffraff;
is writing a book, I understand--one of the kind that will throw a new
light on the subject."

"Just what is a criminologist?" The speaker, a girl of about eighteen,
turned as she lightly asked the question, to glance over her shoulder
toward several persons who followed them.

"One who seeks to apply to the criminal the methods of psychology,
psychiatry and anthropology," he answered with jesting impressiveness.

She laughed. "But you said this Mr. Steele comes from our part of the
world, did you not, Captain Forsythe?"

"So I understand, Miss Jocelyn. Not much of a person to talk about
himself, don't you know,"--tentatively stroking an imposing pair of
mustaches, tinged with gray,--"but he has mentioned, I believe, living
in New Zealand; or was it Australia?"

"Australia?" the cold, metallic tones of the third person, a man of
about three-and-thirty, inquired. "Most likely the other place, or we
should have heard--"

"True, Lord Ronsdale!" said the other man, pausing before a great door.
"But here we are."

"'All ye who enter, etc'" laughed the girl.

"Not if one comes just to 'do' it, you know," was the protesting answer.
"Quite the thing to take in the criminal courts!"

"When one is only a sort of country cousin, a colonial, just come to
town!" she added, waving a small, daintily-gloved hand to the little
group of friends who now approached and joined them. "Captain Forsythe
is trying to persuade me it is a legitimate part of our slumming plan to
take in murder trials, uncle," she said lightly, addressing the foremost
of the new-comers. "Just because it's a fad of his! Speaking of this
acquaintance or friend of yours, Mr. Steele,--you are something of a
criminologist, too, are you not, Captain Forsythe?"

"Well, every man should have a hobby," returned that individual, "and,
although I don't aspire to the long name you call me, I confess to a
slight amateur interest."

Lord Ronsdale shrugged his shoulders, as to say, every one to his taste;
but the girl laughed.

"Slight?" she repeated. "Would you believe it, aunt"--to a portly lady
among those who had approached--"he never misses a murder trial! I
believe he likes to watch the poor fellows fighting for their lives, to
study their faces, their expressions when they're being sentenced,
perhaps, to one of those horrible convict ships!"

"Don't speak of them, my dear Jocelyn!" returned that worthy person,
with a shudder. "When I think of the _Lord Nelson_, and that awful
night--"

"You were three days in an open boat before being sighted and picked up,
I believe, Lady Wray?" observed Captain Forsythe.

"Three days? Years!" returned the governor's wife. "At least, they
seemed so to me! I thought every moment would be our last and goodness
knows why it wasn't! How we managed to survive it--"

"Narrow squeak, certainly!" said Lord Ronsdale, his lids lowering
slightly. "But all's well that ends well, and--"

"Every one behaved splendidly," interposed Sir Charles. "You," gazing
contemplatively at the girl, "were but a child then, Jocelyn."

She did not answer; the beautiful face had abruptly changed; all
laughter had gone from the clear blue eyes.

"She is thinking of the convict who saved her!" observed Sir Charles in
an explanatory tone to Captain Forsythe. "Quite an interesting episode,
'pon honor! Tell you about it later. Never saw anything finer, or
better. And the amazing part of it is, the fellow looked like a brute,
had the low, ignorant face of an ex-bruiser. He'd gone to the bad, taken
to drink, and committed I don't know how many crimes! Yet that man, the
lowest of the low--"

"You must not speak of him that way!" The girl's hands were clasped; the
slender, shapely figure was very straight. Her beautiful blue eyes, full
of varying lights, flashed, then became dimmed; a suspicion of mist
blurred the long, sweeping lashes. "He had a big, noble spark in his
soul. And I think of him many, many times!" she repeated, the sweet, gay
lips trembling sensitively. "Brave fellow! Brave fellow!" The words fell
in a whisper.

"Fortunate fellow, I should say, to be so remembered by you, Miss
Jocelyn!" interposed Captain Forsythe. "Eh, Ronsdale?"

"Fortunate, indeed!" the thin lips replied stiffly.

"Pity he should have been drowned though!" Captain Forsythe went on. "He
would, I am sure, have made a most interesting study in contrasts!"

She, however, seemed not to hear either compliment--or comment, but
stood for a moment as in a reverie. "I am almost sorry I was persuaded
to come here to-day," she said at length, thoughtfully. "I don't believe
I shall like courts, or," she added, "find them amusing!"

"Nonsense!" Sir Charles laughed. "I have heard his lordship has a pretty
sense of humor, and never fails, when opportunity offers, to indulge
it."

"Even when sentencing people?"

"Well; there is no need of turning the proceedings into a funeral."

"I don't believe I should laugh at his wit," said the girl. "And is this
Mr. John Steele witty, too?"

"Oh, no! Anything irrelevant from any one else wouldn't be allowed by
his lordship."

Here Ronsdale lifted his hat. "May happen back this way," he observed.
"That is," looking at Jocelyn Wray, "if you don't object?"

"I? Not at all! Of course, it would bore you--a trial! You are so easily
bored. Is it the club?"

"No; another engagement. Thank you so much for permission to return for
you--very kind. Hope you will find it amusing. Good morning!" And Lord
Ronsdale vanished down the narrow way.

The others of the party entered the court room and were shown to the
seats that Captain Forsythe had taken particular pains to reserve for
them. The case, evidently an interesting one to judge from the number of
people present, was in progress as they quietly settled down in their
chairs at the back. From the vantage point of a slight eminence they
found themselves afforded an excellent and unimpaired view of his
lordship, the jury, prisoner, witness and barristers. Presumably the
case had reached an acute stage, for even the judge appeared slightly
mindful of what was going on, and allowed his glance to stray toward the
witness. The latter, a little man, in cheap attire flashily debonnaire
if the worse for long service, seemed to experience difficulty in
speaking, to hesitate before his words, and, when he did answer, to
betray in his tone no great amount of confidence. He looked weary and
somewhat crestfallen, as if his will were being broken down, or
subjected to a severe strain, the truth being ground out of him by some
irresistible process.

"That's John Steele cross-examining now!" Captain Forsythe whispered to
the girl. "And that's Dandy Joe, as he's called, one of the police
spies, cheap race-track man and so on, in the box. He came to the front
in a murder trial quite celebrated in its day, and one I always had my
own little theory about. Not that it matters now!" he added with a sigh.

But the girl was listening to another voice, a clear voice, a quiet
voice, a voice capable of the strongest varying accents. She looked at
the speaker; he held himself with the assurance of one certain of his
ground. His shoulders were straight and broad; he stood like an athlete,
and, when he moved, it was impossible to be unconscious of a certain
physical grace that came from well-trained muscles. He carried his head
high, as if from a habit of thought, of looking up, not down, when he
turned from the pages of the heavy tomes in his study; his face conveyed
an impression of intelligence and intensity; his eyes, dark, deep,
searched fully those they rested on.

He had reached a point in his cross-examination where he had almost
thoroughly discredited this witness for the prosecution, when turning
toward a table to take up a paper, his glance, casually lifting, rested
on the distinguished party in the rear of the room, or rather it rested
on one of them. Against the dark background, the girl's golden hair was
well-calculated to catch the wandering gaze; the flowers in her hat, the
great bunch of violets in her dress added insistent alluring bits of
color in the dim spot where she sat. Erect as a lily stem, she looked
oddly out of place in that large, somber room; there, where the harsh
requiem of bruised and broken lives unceasingly sounded, she seemed like
some presence typical of spring, wafted thither by mistake. The man
continued to regard her. Suddenly he started, and his eyes almost
eagerly searched the lovely, proud face.

His back was turned to the judge, who stirred nervously, but waited a
fraction of a second before he spoke.

"If the cross-examination is finished--" he began.

John Steele wheeled; his face changed; a smile of singular charm
accompanied his answer.

"Your lordship will pardon me; the human mind has its aberrations. At
the moment, by a curious psychological turn, a feature of another
problem seized me; it was like playing two games of chess at once.
Perhaps your honor has experienced the sensation?"

His lordship beamed. "Quite so," he observed unctuously. "I have to
confess that once in a great while, although following a case very
closely, I have found it possible to consider at the same time whether I
would later have port or sherry with my canvasback."

Of course every one smiled; the business of the morning ran on, and John
Steele, at length, concluded his cross-examination. "I think, your
Lordship, the question of the reliability of this man, as a witness, in
this, or--any other case--fully established."

"Any other case?" said his lordship. "We are not trying any other case."

"Not now, your Lordship." John Steele bowed. "I ask your lordship's
indulgence for the"--an instant's ironical light gleamed from the dark
eyes--"superfluity."

"Witness may go," said his lordship bruskly.

Dandy Joe, a good deal damaged in the world's estimation, stepped down;
his erstwhile well-curled mustache of brick-dust hue seemed to droop as
he slunk out of the box; he appeared subdued, almost frightened,--quite
unlike the jaunty little cockney that had stepped so blithely forth to
give his testimony.

The witnesses all heard, John Steele, for the defense, spoke briefly;
but his words were well-chosen, his sentences of classic purity. As the
girl listened, it seemed to her not strange that Captain Forsythe, as
well as others, perhaps, should be drawn hither on occasions when this
man appeared. Straight, direct logic characterized the speech from
beginning to end; only once did a suggestion of sentiment--curt pity for
that gin-besotted thing, the prisoner!--obtrude itself; then it passed
so quickly his lordship forgot to intervene, and the effect remained, a
flash, illuminating, Rembrandt-like!

Time slipped by; the judge looked at his watch, bethought him of a big
silver dish filled with an amber-hued specialty of the Ship and Turtle,
and adjourned court. His address interrupted by the exigencies of the
moment, John Steele began mechanically to gather up his books; his face
that had been marked by the set look of one determined to drive on at
his best with a task, now wore a preoccupied expression. The prisoner
whined a question; Steele did not answer, and some one bustled the man
out. Having brought his volumes together in a little pile, Steele
absently separated them again; at the same time Sir Charles and his
party walked toward the bench. They were met by his lordship and
cordially greeted.

"A privilege, Sir Charles, to meet one we have heard of so often, in the
antipodes."

"Thank you. His lordship, Judge Beeson, m'dear, whose decisions--"

"Allow me to congratulate you, sir!" The enthusiastic voice was that of
Captain Forsythe, addressing John Steele. "Your cross-examination was
masterly; had you been in a certain other case, years ago, when the
evidence of that very person on the stand to-day--in the main--convicted
a man of murder, I fancy the result then would have been different!"

John Steele seemed not to hear; his eyes were turned toward the
beautiful girl. She was standing quite close to him now; he could detect
the fragrance of the violets she wore, a fresh sweet smell so welcome in
that close, musty atmosphere.

"My niece, your Lordship, Miss Wray."

Steele saw her bow and heard her speak to that august court personage;
then as the latter, after further brief talk, hurried away--

"Sir Charles, let me present to you Mr. Steele," said Captain Forsythe.
"Lady Wray--"

"Happy to know you, sir," said the governor heartily.

"Miss Jocelyn Wray," added the military man, "who," with a laugh,
"experienced some doubts about a visit of this kind being conducive to
pleasure!"

John Steele took the small gloved hand she gave him; her eyes were very
bright.

"I enjoyed--I don't mean that--I am so glad I came," said the girl. "And
heard you!" she added.

He thanked her in a low tone, looking at her hand as he dropped it.
"You,--you are making England your home?" His voice was singularly
hesitating!

"Yes." She looked at him a little surprised. "At least, for the present!
But how--" she broke off. "I suppose, though, you could tell by my
accent. I've lived nearly all my life in Australia, and--"

Sir Charles, interrupting, reminded them of an appointment; the party
turned. A slender figure inclined itself very slightly toward John
Steele; a voice wished him good morning. The man stood with his hands on
his books; it did not occur to him to accompany her to the door.
Suddenly he looked over his shoulder; at the threshold, she, too, had
turned her head. An instant their glances met; the next, she was gone.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER II

AT THE OPERA


When John Steele left the court toward the end of the day, he held his
head as a man who thinks deeply. From the door he directed his steps
toward Charing Cross. But only to wheel abruptly, and retrace his way.
He was not an absent-minded man, yet he had been striding unconsciously
not toward his customary destination at that hour, the several chambers
at once his office and his home. For a moment the strong face of the man
relaxed, as if in amusement at his own remissness; gradually however, it
once more resumed its expression of musing thoughtfulness. The stream of
human beings, in the main, flowed toward him; he breasted the current as
he had for many evenings, only this night he did not look into the faces
of these, his neighbors; the great city's concourse of atoms swept
unmeaningly by.

Turning into a narrow way, not far from the embankment, he stopped
before the door of a solid-looking brick building, let himself in, and
made his way up-stairs. On the third floor he applied another and
smaller key to another lock and, from a hall, entered a large apartment,
noteworthy for its handsome array of books that reached from floor to
ceiling wherever there was shelf space. Most of these volumes were
soberly bound in conventional legal garb but others in elegant, more
gracious array, congregated, a little cosmopolitan community, in a
section by themselves.

Passing through this apartment, John Steele stepped into that adjoining,
the sitting-and dining-room. The small table had already been set; the
sun's dying rays that shot through the window revealed snowy linen,
brightly gleaming silver and a number of papers and letters. They
showed, also, a large cage with a small bird that chirped as the man
came in; John Steele looked at it a moment, walked to a mirror and
looked at himself. Long the deep eyes studied the firm resolute face;
they seemed endeavoring to gaze beyond it; but the present visage, like
a shadow, waved before him. The man's expression became inscrutable;
stepping to the window, he gazed out on the Thames. A purplish glimmer
lent enchantment to the noble stream; it may be as he looked upon it,
his thoughts flowed with the river, past dilapidated structures, between
whispering reeds on green banks, to the sea!

A discreet rapping at the door, followed by the appearance of a
round-faced little man, with a tray, interrupted further contemplation
or reverie on John Steele's part. Seating himself at the table, he
responded negatively to the servant's inquiry if "anythink" else would
be required, and when the man had withdrawn, mechanically turned to his
letters and to his simple evening repast. He ate with no great evidence
of appetite, soon brushed the missives, half-read, aside, and pushed
back his chair.

Lighting a pipe he picked up one of the papers, and for some moments his
attention seemed fairly divided between a casual inspection of the light
arabesques that ascended in clouds from his lips and the heavy-looking
columns of the morning sheet. Suddenly, however, the latter dissipated
his further concern in his pipe; he put it down and spread out the big
paper in both hands. Amid voluminous wastes of type an item, in the
court and society column, had caught his eye:

     "Sir Charles and Lady Wray, who are intending
     henceforth to reside in England, have
     returned to the stately Wray mansion in Piccadilly,
     where they will be for the season. Our
     well-known Governor and his Lady are accompanied
     by their niece, the beautiful and accomplished
     Miss Jocelyn Wray, only child of Sir
     Charles' younger brother, the late Honorable
     Mr. Richard Wray, whose estate included enormous
     holdings in Australia as well as several
     thousand acres in Devonshire. This charming
     young colonial has already captivated London
     society."

John Steele read carefully this bit of news, and then re-read it; he
even found himself guilty of perusing all the other paragraphs; the
comings and goings, the fine doings! They related to a world he had
thought little about; a world within the world; just as the people who
lived in tunnels and dark passages constituted another world within the
world. Her name danced in illustrious company; here were dukes and earls
and viscounts; a sprinkling of the foreign element: begums, emirs, the
nation's guests. He saw, also, "Sir Charles, Lady Wray and Miss Wray"
among the long list of box-holders for that night at the opera, a gala
occasion, commanded by royalty for the entertainment of royalty, and,
incidentally, of certain barbarian personages who had come across the
seas to be diplomatically coddled and fed.

Folding his newspaper, John Steele turned to his legal papers; strove to
replace idleness by industry; but the spirit of work failed to respond.
He looked at his watch, rang sharply a bell.

"Put out my clothes," he said to the servant who appeared with a lamp,
"and have a cab at the door."

The opera had already begun, but pandemonium still reigned about the
box-office, and it was half an hour before John Steele succeeded in
reaching the little aperture, with a request for anything that chanced
to be left down-stairs. Armed with a bit of pasteboard, Steele was
stopped as he was about to enter. A thunder of applause from within,
indicating that the first act had come to an end, was followed by the
usual egress of black and white figures, impatient for cigarettes and
light lobby gossip.

"Divine, eh? The opera, I mean!" A voice accosted John Steele, and,
turning, he beheld a familiar face with black whiskers, that of Captain
Forsythe. "This is somewhat different from the morning's environment?"

"Yes," said the other. "But your first question," with a smile, "I'm
afraid I can't answer. I've just come; and, if I hadn't--well, I'm no
judge of music."

"Then you must look as if you were!" laughed the captain frankly. "Don't
know one jolly note from another, but, for goodness' sake, don't betray
me. Just been discussing trills and pizzicatos with Lady Wray."

For a few moments they continued their talk; chance had made them known
to each other some time before, and Captain Forsythe had improved every
opportunity to become better acquainted with one for whom he entertained
a frank admiration. Steele's reserve, however, was not easily
penetrated; he accepted and repaid the other's advances with uniform
courtesy but Forsythe could not flatter himself the acquaintance had
progressed greatly since their first meeting.

A bell sounded; John Steele, excusing himself, entered the auditorium
and was shown to his seat. It proved excellently located, and, looking
around, he found himself afforded a comprehensive view of a spectacle
brilliant and dazzling. Boxes shone with brave hues; gems gleamed
over-plentifully; here and there, accentuating the picture, the gorgeous
colors of some eastern prince stood out like the brighter bits in a
kaleidoscope. Steele's glance swept over royalty, rank and condition. It
took in persons who were more than persons--personages; it passed over
the impassive face of a dark ameer who looked as if he might have
stepped from one of the pages of _The Arabian Nights_, and lingered on a
box a little farther to one side. Here were seated Sir Charles and his
wife and party; and among them he could discern the features of Jocelyn
Wray--not plainly, she was so far away! Only her golden hair appeared
distinct amid many tints.

The curtain went up at last; the music began; melodies that seemed born
in the springtime succeeded one another. Perennial in freshness, theme
followed theme; what joy, what gladness; what merriment, what madness!
John Steele, in the main, kept his attention directed toward the stage;
once or twice he glanced quickly aside and upward; now in the dimness,
however, the people in the boxes conveyed only a vague shadowy
impression. How long was the act; how short? It came to a sudden end;
after applause and bravos, men again got up and walked out; he, too,
left his seat and strolled toward the back.

"Mr. Steele! One moment!" He found himself once more addressed by the
good-humored Captain Forsythe. "Behold in me a Mercury, committed to an
imperative mission. You are commanded to appear--not in the royal
box--but in Sir Charles'."

"Sir Charles Wray's?" John Steele regarded the speaker quickly.

"Yes," laughed the other. "You see I happened to mention I had seen you.
'Why didn't you bring him with you to the box?' queried Sir Charles. He,
by the by, went in for law himself, before he became governor. 'Only had
time to shake hands this morning!' 'Yes, why didn't you?' spoke up Miss
Jocelyn. 'You _command_ me to bring him?' I inquired. 'By all means!'
she laughed, 'I command.' So here I am."

John Steele did not answer, but Captain Forsythe, without waiting for a
reply, turned and started up the broad stairway. The other, after a
moment's hesitation, followed, duly entered one of the larger boxes,
spoke to Sir Charles and his wife and returned the bow of their niece.
Amid varied platitudes Steele's glance turned oftenest to the girl. She
was dressed in white; a snowy boa drooped from the slender bare
shoulders as if it might any moment slip off; a string of pearls, each
one with a pearl of pure light in the center, clasped her throat. In her
eyes the brightness seemed to sing of dancing cadenzas; her lips,
slightly parted, wore the faint suggestion of a smile, as if some
canticle or clear cadence had just trembled from them. The small shoe
that peeped from beneath silken folds tapped softly to rhythms yet
lingering; on her cheeks two small roses unfolded their glad petals.

"I trust Captain Forsythe did not repeat that absurd remark of mine?"
she observed lightly, when John Steele, after a few moments' general
talk, found himself somehow by her side.

"About 'commanding'?"

"So he did?" she answered gaily. "He told me he was going to. It is like
him; he poses as a _bel esprit_. Stupid, was it not?"

He answered a word in the negative; the girl smiled; where other men
would press the opportunity for a compliment he apparently found no
opening.

She waved her hand to the seat next to her, and as he sat down--"Isn't
it splendid!" irrelevantly.

"The spectacle, or the opera?" he asked slowly, looking into blue eyes.

"It was the opera I meant. I suppose the spectacle is very grand; but,"
enthusiastically, "it was the music I was thinking of--how it grips one!
Tell me what you think of _The Barber_, Mr. Steele."

"I'm afraid my views wouldn't be very interesting," he answered. "I know
nothing whatever about music."

"Nothing?" Her eyes widened a little; in her accent was mild wonder.

He looked down at the shimmering white folds near his feet. "In earlier
days my environment was not exactly a musical one."

"No? I suppose you were engaged in more practical concerns?"

He did not answer directly. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me
something about Rossini's music, Miss Wray?"

"I tell you?" Her light silvery laugh rang out. "And Captain Forsythe
has only been telling me--all of us--that you were one of the best
informed men he had ever met."

"You see how wrong he was!"

"Quite!" The blue eyes regarded him sidewise. He, the keen, strong man,
so assured, so invincible in the court room, sat most humbly by her
side, confessing his ignorance, want of knowledge about something every
school-girl is mistress of! "Or, perhaps, it is because your world is so
different from mine! Music, laughter, the traditions of Italian _bel
canto_, you have no room for them, they are too light, too trifling. You
are above them," poising her fair head a little higher.

"Perhaps they have been above me," he answered, his tone unconsciously
taking an accent of gaiety from the lightness of hers.

The abrupt appearance of the musicians and the dissonances attendant on
tuning, interrupted her response; Steele rose and was about to take his
departure, when Sir Charles intervened.

"Why don't you stay?" he asked, with true colonial heartiness. "Plenty
of room! Unless you've a better place! Two vacant chairs!"

John Steele looked around; he saw three vacant chairs and took one, a
little aside and slightly behind the young girl, while the governor's
wife, who had moved from the front at the conclusion of the previous
act, now returned to her place, next her niece. During the act, some one
came in and took a seat in the background; if Steele heard, he did not
look around. His gaze remained fastened on the stage; between him and
it--or them, art's gaily attired illusions!--a tress of golden hair
sometimes intervened, but he did not move. Through threads like woven
flashes of light he regarded the scene of the poet's fantasy. Did they
make her a part of it,--did they seem to the man the fantasy's
intangible medium, its imagery? Threads of gold, threads of melody! He
saw the former, heard the latter. They rose and fell wilfully,
capriciously, with many an airy and fanciful turn. The man leaned his
head on his hand; a clear strain died like a filament of purest metal
gently broken. She breathed a little quicker; leaned farther forward;
now her slender figure obtruded slightly between him and the performers.
He seemed content with a partial view of the stage, and so remained
until the curtain went down. The girl turned; in her eyes was a
question.

"Beautiful!" said the man, looking at her.

"Charming! What colorature! And the bravura!" Captain Forsythe applauded
vigorously.

"You've never met Lord Ronsdale, I believe, Mr. Steele?" Sir Charles'
voice, close to his ear, inquired.

"Lord Ronsdale!" John Steele looked perfunctorily around toward the back
of the box and saw there a face faintly illumined in the light from the
stage: a cynical face, white, mask-like. Had his own features not been
set from the partial glow that sifted upward, the sudden emotion that
swept Steele's countenance would have been observed. A sound escaped his
lips; was drowned, however, in a renewed outbreak of applause. The diva
came tripping out once more, the others, too--bowing,
smiling--recipients of flowers. John Steele's hand had gripped his knee
tightly; he was no longer aware of the stage, the people, even Jocelyn
Wray. The girl's attention had again centered on the actors; she with
the others had been oblivious to the glint of his eyes, the hard, set
expression of his features.

"Old friend, don't you know," went on the voice of Sir Charles when this
second tumult of applause had subsided. "Had one rare adventure
together. One of the kind that cements a man to you."

As he spoke, the light in the theater flared up; John Steele, no longer
hesitating, uncertain, rose; his face had regained its composure. He
regarded the slender, aristocratic figure of the nobleman in the
background; faultlessly dressed, Lord Ronsdale carried himself with his
habitual languid air of assurance. The two bowed; the stony glance of
the lord met the impassive one of the man. Then a puzzled look came into
the nobleman's eyes; he gazed at Steele more closely; his glance
cleared.

"Thought for an instant I'd seen you somewhere before, b'Jove!" he
drawled in his metallic tone. "But, of course, I haven't. Never forget a
face, don't you know."

"I may not say so much, may not have the diplomat's gift of always
remembering people to the extent your lordship possesses it, but I am
equally certain I have never before enjoyed the honor of being presented
to your lordship!" said John Steele. The words were punctiliously
spoken, his accents as cold as the other's. An infinitesimal trace of
constraint seemed to have crept into the box; Steele turned and holding
out his hand, thanked Sir Charles and his wife for their courtesy.

Jocelyn Wray gazed around. "You are leaving before the last act?" she
said with an accent of surprise.

He looked down at her. "Not through preference!"

"Ah!" she laughed. "Business before--music, of course!"

"Our day at home, Mr. Steele, is Thursday," put in the governor's lady,
majestically gracious.

"And you'll meet a lot of learned people only too glad to talk about
music," added the young girl in a light tone. "That is, if you were
sincere in your request for knowledge, and care to profit by the
opportunity?"

His face, which had been contained, impassive, now betrayed in the
slightest degree an expression of irresolution. Her quick look caught
it, became more whimsical; he seemed actually, for an instant, asking
himself if he should come. She laughed ever so slightly; the experience
was novel; who before had ever weighed the pros and cons when extended
this privilege? Then, the next moment, the blue eyes lost some of their
mirth; perhaps his manner made her feel the frank informality she had
unconsciously been guilty of; she regarded him more coldly.

"Thank you," he said. "You are very good. I shall be most glad."

And bowing to her and to the others he once more turned; as he passed
Lord Ronadsle, the eyes of the two men again met; those of the nobleman
suddenly dilated and he started.

"B'Jove!" he exclaimed, his gaze following the retreating figure.

"What is it?" Sir Charles looked around. "Recall where you thought you
saw him?"

Lord Ronsdale did not at once answer and Sir Charles repeated his
question; the nobleman mechanically raised his hand to his face. "Yes; a
mere fugitive resemblance," he answered rather hurriedly. "Some
one--you--you never met. Altogether quite a different sort of person,
don't you know!" regaining his drawl.

"Well," observed Sir Charles, "fugitive resemblances will happen!"

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER III

A LESSON IN BOTANY


John Steele was rather late in arriving at the house of Sir Charles Wray
in Piccadilly the following Thursday. But nearly every one else was
late, and, perhaps knowing the fashionable foible, he had purposely held
back to avoid making himself conspicuous by being prompt. The house, his
destination, was not unlike other dwellings on that historic
thoroughfare; externally it was as monotonous as the average London
mansion. The architect had disdained any attempt at ornamentation. As if
fearful of being accused of emulating his brother-in-art across the
channel, he had put up four walls and laid on a roof; he had given the
front wall a slightly outward curve. In so doing, he did not reason why;
he was merely following precedent that had created this incomprehensible
convexity.

But within, the mansion made a dignified and at the same time a pleasant
impression. John Steele, seated at the rear of a spacious room, where he
a few moments later found himself among a numerous company, looked
around on the old solid furnishings, the heavy rich curtains and those
other substantial appurtenances to a fine and stately town house. That
funereal atmosphere common to many homes of an ancient period was,
however, lacking. The observer felt as if some recent hand, the hand of
youth, had been busy hereabouts indulging in light touches that relieved
and gladdened the big room. Hues, soft and delicate, met the eye here
and there; rugs of fine pattern favored the glance, while tapestries of
French workmanship bade it wander amid scenes suggestive of Arcadia.
Many found these innovations to their liking; others frowned upon them;
but everybody flocked to the house.

The program on the present occasion included a poet and a woman
novelist. The former, a Preraphaelite, led his hearers through dim
mazes, Hyrcanian wilds. The novelist on the other hand was direct; in
following her there seemed no danger of losing the way. At the
conclusion of the program proper, an admirer of the poet asked if their
young hostess would not play a certain musical something, the theme of
one of the bard's effusions, and at once Jocelyn Wray complied. Lord
Ronsdale stood sedulously near, turning the leaves; Steele watched the
deft hand; it was slim, aristocratic and suggested possibilities in
legerdemain.

"An attractive-looking pair!" whispered a woman near John Steele to
another of her sex, during a louder passage in the number. "Are they--"

"I don't know; my dear. Perhaps. She's extremely well-off in this
world's goods, and he has large properties, but--a diminishing income."
She lowered her voice rather abruptly as the cadence came to a pause.
The music went on again to its appointed and spirited climax.

"Was formerly in the diplomatic service, I believe;"--the voice also
went on--"has strong political aspirations, and, with a wealthy and
clever wife--"

"A girl might do worse. He is both cold and capable--an ideal
combination for a political career--might become prime minister--with
the prestige of his family and hers to--"

John Steele stirred; the whispering ceased. My lord turned the last
page; the girl rose and bent for an instant her fair head. And as Steele
looked at her, again there came over him--this time, it may be, not
without a certain bitterness!--an impression of life and its
joys--spring-tide and sunshine, bright, remote!--so remote--for him--

A babel of voices replaced melody; the people got up. A number lingered;
many went, after speaking to their hostesses and Sir Charles. John
Steele, at the rear, looked at the door leading into the main hall
toward the young girl, then stepped across the soft rugs and spoke to
her. She answered in the customary manner and others approached. He was
about to draw back to leave, when--

"Oh, Mr. Steele," she said, "my uncle wishes to see you before you go.
He was saying he had some--"

"Quite right, my dear!" And Sir Charles, who had approached, took John
Steele's arm. "Some curious old law books I picked up to-day at a
bargain and want your opinion of!" he went on, leading the other into a
lofty and restful apartment adjoining, the library. Steele looked around
him; his gaze brightened as it rested on the imposing and finely bound
volumes.

"You have a superb collection of books," he observed with a sudden quick
look at his host.

"Yes; I rather pride myself on my library," said Sir Charles
complacently. "Lost a good many of the choicest though," he went on in
regretful tones, "some years ago, as I was returning to Australia. A
rare lot of law books, a library in themselves, as well as a large
collection of the classics, the world's poets and historians, went down
with the ill-fated _Lord Nelson_."

"Ah?" John Steele looked away. "A great mart, London, for fine
editions!" he said absently after a pause.

"It is. But here are those I spoke of." And Sir Charles indicated a
number of volumes on a large center table. John Steele handled them
thoughtfully and for some time his host ran on about them. A choice copy
of one of the Elizabethan poets, intruding itself in that august
company, then attracted Steele's attention; he picked it up, weighed and
caressed it with gentle fingers.

"Who shall measure the influence of--a little parcel like this?" he said
at length lightly.

"True." Sir Charles' eye caught the title. "As Portia says: 'It blesseth
him that gives and him that takes.' Excellent bit of binding that, too!
But," with new zest, "take any interest in rare books of the ring, full
of eighteenth century colored prints, and so on?"

"I can't say, at present, that the doings of the ring or the history of
pugilists attract me."

"That's because you've never seen an honest, hard-fought battle,
perhaps?"

"A flattering designation, I should say, of the spectacle of two brutes
disfiguring their already repulsive visages!"

"Two brutes?--disfiguring?"--the drawling voice of Lord Ronsdale who had
at that moment stepped in, inquired. "May I ask what the--talk is
about?"

Sir Charles turned. "Steele was differing from me about a good, old,
honest English sport."

"Sport?" Lord Ronsdale dropped into a chair and helped himself to whisky
and soda conveniently near.

"I refer to the ring--its traditions--its chronicles--"

"Ah!" The speaker raised his glass and looked at John Steele. The latter
was nonchalantly regarding the pages of a book he yet held; his face was
half-turned from the nobleman. The clear-cut, bold profile, the easy,
assured carriage, so suggestive of strength, seemed to attract, to
compel Lord Ronsdale's attention.

"For my part," went on Sir Charles in a somewhat disappointed tone, "I
am one who views with regret the decadence of a great national pastime."

He regarded Ronsdale; the latter set down his glass untasted. "My own
opinion," he said crisply; then his face changed; he looked toward the
door.

"Well, it's over!" the light tones of Jocelyn Wray interrupted; the girl
stood on the threshold, glancing gaily from one to the other. "Did you
tell my uncle, Mr. Steele, what you thought of his purchase? I see,
while on his favorite subject, he has forgotten to offer you a cigar."

Sir Charles hastened to repair his remissness.

"But how," she went on, "did it go? The program, I mean. Have you
forgiven me yet for asking you to come, Mr. Steele?"

"Forgiven?" he repeated. Lord Ronsdale's eyes narrowed on them.

"Confess," she continued, sinking to the arm of a great chair, "you had
your misgivings?"

He regarded the supple, slender figure, so airily poised. As she bent
forward, he noticed in her hair several flowers shaped like primroses,
but light crimson in hue. "What misgivings was it possible to have?" he
replied.

"Oh," she replied, "the usual masculine ones! Misgivings, for example,
about stepping out of the routine. Routine that makes slaves of men!"
with an accent slightly mocking. "And stepping into what? Society! The
bugbear of so many men! Poor Society! What flings it has to endure! By
the way, did your convict get off?"

"Get off? What--"

"The one you represented--is that the word?--when we were in court."

"Yes; he was acquitted."

"I am glad; somehow you made me feel he was innocent."

"I believed in him," said John Steele.

"And yet the evidence was very strong against him! If some one else had
appeared for him--Do you think many innocent people have been--hanged,
or sent out of the country, Mr. Steele?" Her eyes looked brighter, her
face more earnest now.

"Evidence can play odd caprices."

"Still, your average English juryman is to be depended on!" put in Lord
Ronsdale quickly.

"Do you think so?" An instant Steele's eyes rested on the speaker. "No
doubt you are right." A sardonic flash seemed to play on the nobleman.
"At all events you voice the accepted belief."

"I'm glad you defend, don't prosecute people, Mr. Steele," said the girl
irrelevantly.

"A pleasanter task, perhaps!"

"Speaking of sending prisoners out of the country," broke in Sir
Charles, "I am not in favor of the penal system myself."

"Rather a simple way of getting rid of undesirables--transportation--it
has always seemed to me," dissented Lord Ronsdale.

"Don't they sometimes escape and come back to England?" asked the girl.

"Not apt to, when death for returning stares them in the face," remarked
the nobleman.

"Death!" The girl shivered slightly.

John Steele smiled. "The penalty should certainly prove efficacious," he
observed lightly.

"Is not such a penalty--for returning, I mean--very severe, Mr. Steele?"
asked Jocelyn Wray.

"That," he laughed, "depends somewhat on the point of view, the
criminal's, or society's!" His gaze returned to her; the bright bit of
color in her hair again seemed to catch and hold his glance. "But," with
a sudden change of tone, "will you explain something to me, Miss Wray?
Those flowers you wear--surely they are primroses, and yet--"

"Crimson," said the girl. "You find that strange. It is very simple. If
you will come with me a moment." She rose, quickly crossed the room to a
door at the back, and Steele, following, found himself in a large
conservatory that looked out upon an agreeable, if rather restricted,
prospect of green garden. Several of the windows of the glass addition
were open and the warm sunshine and air entered. A butterfly was
fluttering within; in a corner, a bee busied himself buzzing loudly
between flowers and sips of saccharine sweetness. Jocelyn Wray stepped
in its direction, stooped. The sunlight touched the white neck, where
spirals of gold nestled, and fell over her gown in soft, shifting waves.

"You see?" She threw over her shoulder a glance at him; he looked down
at primroses, pale yellow; a few near-by were half-red, or spotted with
crimson; others, still, were the color of those that nodded in her hair.
"You can imagine how it has come about?"

He regarded a great bunch of clustering red roses--the winged marauder
hovering noisily over. "I think I can guess. The bees have carried the
hue of the roses to them."

"Hue!" cried the girl, with light scorn. "What a prosaic way to express
it! Say the soul, the heart's blood. Some of the primroses have yielded
only a little; others have been transformed."

"You think, then, some flowers may be much influenced by others?"

"They can't help it," she answered confidently.

"Just as some people," he said in a low tone, "can't help taking into
their lives some beautiful hue born of mere casual contact with some
one, some time."

"What a poetical sentiment!" she laughed. "Really, it deserves a
reward." As he spoke, she plucked a few flowers and held them out in her
palm to him; he regarded her merry eyes, the bright tints.

Erect, with well-assured poise, she looked at him; he took one of the
flowers, gazed at it, a tiny thing in his own great palm, a tiny, red
thing, like a jewel in hue--that reminded him of--what? As through a
mist he saw a spark--where?

"Only one?" she said in the same tone. "You are modest. And you don't
even condescend to put it in your coat?"

He did so; in his gaze was a sudden new expression, something so
compelling, so different, it held her, almost against her will. He
seemed to see her and yet not fully to be aware of her presence; she
drew back slightly. The girl's crimson lips parted as with a suspicion
of faint wonder; the blue eyes, just a little soberer, were, also, in
the least degree, perplexed. The man's breast suddenly stirred; a
breath--or was it the merest suggestion of a sigh?--escaped the firm
lips. He looked out of the window at the garden, conventional, the
arrangement of lines one expected.

When his look returned to her it was the same he had worn when he had
first stepped forward to speak with her that afternoon.

"Thank you for the lesson in botany, Miss Wray!" he said easily. "I
shall not forget it."

The other primroses fell from her fingers; with a response equally
careless if somewhat reserved, she turned and reëntered the library.
Lord Ronsdale regarded both quickly; then started, as he caught sight of
the flower in John Steele's coat. A frown crossed his face and he looked
away to conceal the singularly cold and vindictive gleam that sprang to
his eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER IV

TIDES VARYING


One evening about a fortnight later Lord Ronsdale, in a dissatisfied
frame of mind, strolled along Piccadilly. His face wore a dark look, the
expression of one ill-pleased with fortune's late attitude toward him.
Plans that he had long cherished seemed to be in some jeopardy; he had
begun to flatter himself that the flowery way to all he desired lay
before him and that he had but to tread it, when another, as the
soothsayers put it, had crossed his path.

A plain man, a man without title! Lord Ronsdale told himself Miss
Jocelyn Wray was no better than an arrant coquette, but the next moment
questioned this conclusion. Had she not really been a little taken by
the fellow? Certainly she seemed not averse to his company; when she
willed, and she willed often, she summoned him to her aide. Nor did he
now appear reluctant to come at her bidding; self-assertive though he
had shown himself to be he obeyed, _sans_ demur, the wave of my lady's
little hand. Was it a certain largeness and reserve about him that had
awakened her curiosity? From her high social position had she wished
merely to test her own power and amuse herself after a light fashion,
surely youth's and beauty's privilege?

But whatever the girl's motive, her conduct in the matter reacted on my
lord; the fellow was in the way, very much so. How could he himself pay
court to her when she frivolously, if only for the moment, preferred
this commoner's company? That very afternoon my lord, entering the
music-room of the great mansion, had found her at the piano playing for
him, her slim fingers moving over the keys to the tune of one of
Chopin's nocturnes. He had surprised a steady, eloquent look in the
fellow's eye turned on her when she was unconscious of his gaze, a
glance the ardency of which there was no mistaking. It had altered at my
lord's rather quiet and abrupt appearance, crystallized into an
impersonal icy light, colder even than the nobleman's own stony stare.
He had, perforce, to endure the other's presence and conversation, an
undercurrent to the light talk of the girl who seemed, Lord Ronsdale
thought, a little maliciously aware of the constraint between the two
men, and not at all put out by it.

What made the situation even more anomalous to Ronsdale and the less
patiently to be borne, was that Sir Charles understood and sympathized
with his desires and position in the matter. And why not? Ronsdale's
father and Sir Charles had been old and close friends; there were
reasons that pointed to the match as a suitable one, and Sir Charles, by
his general manner and attitude, had long shown he would put no obstacle
in the way of the nobleman's suit for the hand of his fair niece. As for
Lady Wray, Lord Ronsdale knew that he had in that practical and worldly
person a stanch ally of his wishes; these had not become less ardent
since he had witnessed the unqualified success of the beautiful colonial
girl in London; noted how men, illustrious in various walks of life,
grave diplomats, stately ambassadors, were swayed by her light charm and
impulsive frankness of youth. And to have her who could have all London
at her feet, including his distinguished self, show a predilection,
however short-lived and capricious, for--

"Confound the cad! Where did he come from? Who are his family--if he has
one!"

Thus ruminating he had drawn near his club, a square, imposing edifice,
when a voice out of the darkness caused him abruptly to pause:

"If it isn't 'is lordship!"

The tones expressed surprise, satisfaction; the nobleman looked down;
gave a slight start; then his face became once more cold, apathetic.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he said roughly.

The countenance of the fellow who had ventured to accost the nobleman
fell; a vindictive light shone from his eyes.

"It's like a drama at old Drury," he observed, with a slight sneer.
"Only your lordship should have said: 'Who the devil are you?'"

Lord Ronsdale looked before him to where, in the distance, near a street
lamp, the figure of a policeman might be dimly discerned; then, with
obvious intention, he started toward the officer; but the man stepped in
front of him. "No, you don't," he said.

The impassive, steel-like glance of Ronsdale played on the man; a white,
shapely hand began to reach out. "One moment, and I'll give you in
charge as--"

The fellow saw that Ronsdale meant it; he had but an instant to decide;
a certain air of cheap, jaunty assurance he had begun to assume
vanished. "All right," he said quickly, but with a ring of suppressed
venom in his voice. "I'll be off. Your lordship has it all your own way
since the _Lord Nelson_ went down." There was a note of bitterness in
his tones. "Besides, Dandy Joe's not exactly a favorite at headquarters
just now, after the drubbing John Steele gave him."

"John Steele!" Lord Ronsdale looked abruptly round.

The fellow regarded him and ventured to go on: "I was witness for the
police and Mr. Gillett, and he--Steele," with a curse, "had me on the
stand. He knows every rook and welsher and every swell magsman, and all
their haunts and habits. And he knows me--blame--" he made use of
another expression more forcible--"if he don't know me as well as if
he'd once been a pal. And now," in an injured tone, "Mr. Gillett calls
me hard names for bringing discredit, as he terms it, on the force."

"What's this to me?"

The fellow stopped short in what he was saying; his small eyes glistened
and he took a step forward. "Your lordship remembers the 'Frisco Pet?
Your lordship remembers him?" he repeated, thrusting an alert face
closer.

"I believe there was a prize-fighter of that name," was the calm reply.

"I say!" The fellow let his jaw fall slightly; he gazed at the nobleman
with mingled shrewdness and admiration. "Your lordship remembers him
_only_," with an accent, "as a patron of sport. Tossed a quid on
him"--with a look of full meaning--"as your lordship would a bone to a
dog. Perhaps," gaining in audacity, "your lordship would be so generous
as to throw one or two now at one he once favored with his bounty."

"I--favored you? You lie!" The answer was concise; it cut like a lash;
it robbed the man once more of all his hardihood. He slunk back.

"Very good," he muttered.

Lord Ronsdale turned and with a sharp swish of his cane walked on. The
other, his eyes resentfully bright, looked after the tall, aristocratic,
slowly departing figure.

As the nobleman ascended the steps of his club he seemed again to be
thinking deeply; within, his preoccupation did not altogether desert
him. In a corner, with the big pages of the _Times_ before him, he read
with scant interest the doings of the day; even a perennial telegram
concerning a threatened invasion of England did not awaken momentary
interest. He passed it over as casually as he did the markets, or a
grudging, conservative item from the police courts, all that the blue
pencil had left of the hopeful efforts of some poor penny-a-liner. From
the daily fulminator he had turned to the weekly medium of fun and
fooling, when, from behind another paper, the face of a gray-haired,
good-natured appearing person, quite different off the bench, chanced to
look out at him.

"Eh? That you, Ronsdale?" he said, reaching for a steaming glass of hot
beverage at his elbow. "What do you think of it, this talk of an
invasion by the Monseers?"

"Don't think anything of it."

"Answered in the true spirit of a Briton!" laughed the other. "I fancy,
too, it'll be a long time before John Bull ceases to stamp around,
master of his own shores, or Britannia no longer rules the deep. But how
is your friend, Sir Charles Wray? I had the pleasure of meeting him the
other morning in the court room."

"Same as usual, I imagine, Judge Beeson."

"And his fair niece, she takes kindly to the town and its gaieties?"

"Very kindly," dryly.

"A beautiful girl, our young Australian!" The elder man toyed with his
glass, stirred the contents and sipped. "By the way, didn't I see John
Steele in their box at the opera the other night?"

"It is possible," shortly.

"Rising man, that!" observed the other lightly. "Combination of brains
and force! Did you ever notice his fist? It might belong to a
prize-fighter, except that the hands are perfectly kept! You'd know at
once he was a man accustomed to fighting, who would sweep aside
obstacles, get what he wanted!"

"Think so?" Lord Ronsdale smoked steadily. "You, as a magistrate, I
suppose, know him well?"

"Should hardly go that far; taciturn chap, don't you know! I don't
believe any one really knows him."

"Or about him?" suggested the other, crossing his legs nonchalantly.

"Not much; only that he is an alien."

"An alien?" quickly. "Not a colonial?"

"No; he has lived in the colonies--Tasmania, and so on. But by birth
he's an American."

"An American, eh? And practising at the British bar?"

"Not the first case of the kind; exceptions have been made before, and
aliens 'called,' as we express it. Steele's hobby of criminology brought
him to London, and his earnestness and ability in that line procured for
him the privilege he sought. As member of the incorporated society that
passes upon the qualifications of candidates it was my pleasure to sit
in judgment on him; we raked him fore and aft but, bless you, he stood
squarely on his feet and refused to be tripped."

"So he came to England to pursue a certain line?" said Lord Ronsdale
half to himself.

"A man with a partiality for criminal work would naturally look to the
modern Babylon. Steele apparently works more to gratify that
predilection than for any reward in pounds and pence. Must have private
means; have known him to spend a deal of time and money on cases there
couldn't have been a sixpence in."

"How'd he happen to get down in Tasmania? Odd place for a Yankee!"

"That's one of the questions he wasn't asked," laughingly. "Perhaps what
our Teutonic friends would call the _Wander-lust_ took him there."
Rising, "My compliments to Sir Charles when you see him."

Lord Ronsdale remained long at the club and the card-table that night;
over the bits of pasteboard, however, his zest failed to flare high,
although instinctively he played with a discernment that came from long
practice. But the sight of a handful of gold pieces here, of a little
pile there, the varying shiftings of the bright disks, as the vagaries
of chance sent them this way or that, seemed to move him in no great
degree,--perhaps because the winning or losing of a few hundred pounds,
more or less, would have small effect on his fortunes or misfortunes. At
a late, or rather, early, hour he pushed back his chair, richer by a few
coins that jingled in his pocket, and, yawning, walked out. Summoning a
cab, he got in, but as he found himself rattling homeward to the
chambers he had taken in a fashionable part of town, he was aware that
any emotions of annoyance and discontent experienced earlier that night,
had suffered no abatement.

"Tasmania!" The horse's hoofs beat time to vague desultory thoughts; he
stared out, perhaps, in fancy, at southern seas, looked up at stars more
lustrous than those that hung over him now. Then the divers clusters of
points, glowing, insistent, swam around, and he fell into a half doze,
from which he was awakened by the abrupt stopping of the cab. Having
paid the man he went up to his rooms. On the table in an inner
apartment, his study, something bright, white, met his gaze: a note in
Jocelyn Wray's handwriting! Quickly he reached for it and tore it open.

"A party of us ride in the park to-morrow morning. Will you join us?"

That was all; brief and to the point; Lord Ronsdale frowned.

"A party!" That would include John Steele perhaps. Once before on a
morning, the girl's fair face and dancing eyes had wooed Steele away
from his desk, or the court, to the park.

Should he go? The note slipped from his fingers to the carpet; he
permitted it to lie there; the importance to himself and others of his
decision he little realized. Could he have foreseen all that was
involved by his going, or staying away, he would not so carelessly have
thrown off his clothes and retired, dismissing the matter until the
morrow, or rather, until he should chance to waken.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER V

IN THE PARK


Close at hand, the trees in Hyde Park seemed to droop their branches, as
if in sympathy with the gray aspect of the day, while afar, across the
green, the sylvan guardians of the place had either receded altogether
in the gray haze or stood forth like shadowy ghosts. In the foreground,
not far from the main entrance, a number of sheep and their young
nibbled contentedly the wet and delectable grass, and as some bright
gown paused or whisked past, the juxtaposition of fine raiment and young
lamb suggested soft, shifting Bouchers or other dainty French pastorals
in paint. The air had a tang; the dampness enhanced the perfumes, made
them fuller and sweeter, and a joyous sort of melancholy seemed to hold
a springtime world in its grasp.

Into this scene of rural tranquillity rode briskly about the middle of
the morning Jocelyn Wray and others. The glow on the girl's cheeks
harmonized with the redness of her lips; the sparkling blue eyes mocked
at all neutral hues; her gown and an odd ribbon or two waved, as it
were, light defiance to motionless things--still leaves and branches,
flowers and buds, drowsy and sleeping. Her mount was deep black, with
fine arching neck and spirited head; on either side of the head, beneath
ears sensitive, delicately pointed, had been fastened a rose, badge of
favor from a bunch nestling at the white throat of the young girl. She
rode with a grace and rhythmical ease suggestive of large experience in
the pastime; the slender, supple figure swayed as if welcoming gladly
the swing and the quick rush of air. Sometimes at her side, again just
behind, galloped the horse bearing John Steele, and, as they went at a
fair pace, preceded and followed by others of a gay party, the eyes of
many passers-by turned to regard them.

"By Jove, they're stunning! It isn't often you see a man put up like
that."

"Or a girl more the picture of health!"

"And beauty!"

Unconscious of these and other comments from the usual curious
contingent of idlers filling the benches or strolling along the paths,
the girl now set a yet swifter gait, glancing quickly over her shoulder
at her companion: "Do you like a hard gallop? Shall we let them out?"

His brightening gaze answered; they touched their horses and for some
distance raced madly on, passed those in front and left them far behind.
Now Steele's eyes rested on the playing muscles of her superb horse,
then lifted to the lithe form of Jocelyn Wray, the straight shoulders, a
bit of a tress, disordered, floating rebelliously to the wind.

As abruptly as she had pressed her horse to that inspiring speed, she
drew him in to a walk. "Wasn't that worth coming to the park for?" she
said gaily.

He looked at her, at the flowers she readjusted, at the lips,
half-parted to her quick breath.

"More than worth it."

"You see what you missed in the past," she observed in a tone slightly
mocking.

"You were not here to suggest it," he returned quietly, with gaze only
for blue eyes.

She suffered them to linger. "I suppose I should feel nattered that a
suggestion from little me--"

"A suggestion from little you would, I fancy, go a long ways with many
people." A spark shone now in the man's steady look; the girl seemed not
afraid of it.

"I am fortunate," she laughed. "A compliment from Mr. John Steele!"

"Why not say--the truth?" he observed.

She stroked her horse's glossy neck and smiled furtively at the soft,
velvet surface. "The truth?" she replied. "What is it? Where shall we
find it? Isn't it something the old philosophers were always searching
for? Plato, and--some of the others we were taught of in school."

He started as if to speak, but his answer remained unuttered; the man's
lips closed tighter; a moment he watched the small gloved hand, then his
gaze turned to the gray sky.

"So you see, I call compliments, compliments," she ended lightly.

He offered no comment; the horses moved on; suddenly she looked at him.
One of those odd changes she had once or twice noticed before had come
over John Steele; his face appeared too grave, too reserved; she might
almost fancy a stormy play of emotion behind that mask of immobility.
The girl's long lashes lowered; a slightly puzzled expression shone from
her eyes. It may be she had but the natural curiosity of her sex, that
her interest was compelled, because, although she had studied this man
from various standpoints, his personality, strong, direct in some ways,
she seemed unable to fathom. The golden head tilted; she allowed an
impression of his profile to grow upon her.

"Do you know," she laughingly remarked, "you are not very interesting?"

He started. "Interesting!"

"A penny for your thoughts!" ironically.

"They're not worth it."

"No?"

He bent a little nearer; she swept back the disordered lock; an instant
the man seemed to lose his self-possession. "Ah," he began, as if the
words forced themselves from his lips, "if only I might--"

What he had been on the point of saying was never finished; the girl's
quick glance, sweeping an instant ahead, had lingered on some one
approaching from the opposite direction, and catching sight of him, she
had just missed noting that swift alteration in John Steele's tones, the
brief abandonment of studied control, a flare of irresistible feeling.

"Isn't that Lord Ronsdale?" asked the girl, continuing to gaze before
her.

A black look replaced the sudden flame in Steele's gaze; the hand
holding the reins closed on them tightly.

"Rather early for him, I fancy," she said, regarding the slim figure of
the approaching rider. "With his devotion to clubs and late hours, you
know! Do you, Mr. Steele, happen to belong to any of his clubs?"

"No." He spoke in a low voice, almost harshly.

Her brow lifted; his face was turned from her. Had he been mindful he
might have noted a touch of displeasure on the proud face, that she
regarded him as from a vague, indefinite distance.

"Lord Ronsdale is a very old friend of my uncle's," she observed
severely, "and--mine!"

Was it that she had divined a deep-seated prejudice or hostility toward
the nobleman hidden in John Steele's breast, that she took this occasion
to let him know definitely that her friends were her friends? "Even when
I was only a child he was very nice to me," she went on.

He remained silent; she frowned, then turned to the nobleman with a
smile. Lord Ronsdale found that her greeting left nothing to be desired;
she who had been somewhat unmindful of him lately on a sudden seemed
really glad to see him. His slightly tired, aristocratic face lightened;
the sunshine of Jocelyn Wray's eyes, the tonic of youth radiating from
her, were sufficient to alleviate, if not dispel, ennui or lassitude.

"So good of you!" she murmured conventionally, as Steele dropped
slightly back among the others who had by this time drawn near. "To
arrive at such an unfashionable hour, I mean!"

His pleased but rather suspicious eyes studied her; he answered lightly;
behind them now, he who had been riding with my lady could hear their
gay laughter. Lord Ronsdale was apparently telling her a whimsical
story; he had traveled much, met many people, bizarre and otherwise, and
could be ironically witty when stimulated to the effort. John Steele did
not look at them; when the girl at a turn in the way allowed her glance
a moment to sweep aside toward those following, she could see he was
riding with head slightly down bent.

"Good-looking beggar, isn't he," observed the nobleman suddenly, his
gaze sharpened on her.

"Who?" asked the girl.

"That chap, Steele," he answered insinuatingly.

"Is he?" Her voice was flute-like. "What is that noise?" abruptly.

"Noise?" Lord Ronsdale listened. "That's music, or supposed to be!
Unless I am mistaken, _The Campbells are Coming_," he drawled.

"The Campbells? Oh, I understand! Let us wait!"

They drew in their horses; the black one became restive, eyed with
obvious disapproval a gaily bedecked body of men swinging smartly along
toward them. At their head marched pipers, blowing lustily; behind
strode doughty clansmen, heads up, as became those carrying memories of
battles won. They approached after the manner of veterans who felt that
they deserved tributes of admiration from beholders: that in the piping
times of peace they were bound to be conquerors still.

Louder shrieked the wild concords; bare legs flashed nearer; bright
colors flaunted with startling distinctness. And at the sight and sound,
the girl's horse, unaccustomed to the pomp and pride of martial display,
began to plunge and rear. She spoke sharply; tried to control it but
found she could not. Lord Ronsdale saw her predicament but was powerless
to lend assistance, being at the moment engaged in a vigorous effort to
prevent his own horse from bolting.

The bagpipes came directly opposite; the black horse reared viciously;
for the moment it seemed that Jocelyn would either be thrown or that the
affrighted animal would fall over on her, when a man sprang forward and
a hand reached up. He stood almost beneath the horse; as it came down a
hoof struck his shoulder a glancing blow, grazed hard his arm, tearing
the cloth. But before the animal could continue his rebellious tactics a
hand like iron had reached for, grasped the bridle; those who watched
could realize a great strength in the restraining fingers, the unusual
power of Steele's muscles. The black horse, trembling, soon stood still;
the bagpipes passed on, and Steele looked up at the girl.

"If you care to dismount--"

"Thank you," she said. "I'm not afraid. Especially," she added lightly,
"with you at the bridle!"

"Few riders could have kept their seats so well," he answered, with
ill-concealed admiration.

"I have always been accustomed to horses. In Australia we ride a great
deal."

"For the instant," his face slightly paler, "I thought something would
happen."

"It might have," she returned, a light in her eyes, "but for a timely
hand. My horse apparently does not appreciate Scotch airs."

"Ugly brute!" Lord Ronsdale, a dissatisfied expression on his handsome
countenance, approached. "A little of the whip--" the words were
arrested; the nobleman stared at John Steele, or rather at the bare arm
which the torn sleeve revealed well above the elbow.

The white, uplifted arm suddenly dropped; Steele drew the cloth quickly
about it, but not before his eyes had met those of Lord Ronsdale and
caught the amazement, incredulity, sudden terror--was it terror?--in
their depths.

"Told you not to trust him, Jocelyn!" Sir Charles' loud, hearty voice at
the same moment interrupted. "There was a look about him I didn't like
from the beginning."

"Perhaps he needs only a little toning down to be fit," put in Captain
Forsythe, as he and the others drew near. "A few seasons with the
hounds, or--"

"Chasing some poor little fox!" said the girl with light scorn.

"One might be doing something worse!"

"One might!" Her accents were dubious.

"You don't believe in the chase, or the hunt? Allow me to differ; people
always must hunt _something_, don't you know; primeval instinct! Used to
hunt one another," he laughed. "Sometimes do now. Fox is only a
substitute for the joys of the man-hunt; sort of sop to Cerberus, as it
were. Eh, Ronsdale?"

But the nobleman did not answer; his face looked drawn and gray; with
one hand he seemed almost clinging to his saddle. John Steele's back was
turned; he was bending over the girth of his saddle and his features
could not be seen, but the hand, so firm and assured a moment before,
seemed a little uncertain as it made pretext to readjust a fastening or
buckle.

"Why, man, you look ill!" Captain Forsythe, turning to Lord Ronsdale,
exclaimed suddenly.

"It's--nothing--much--" With vacant expression the nobleman regarded the
speaker; then lifted his hand and pressed it an instant to his breast.
"Heart," he murmured mechanically. "Beastly bad heart, you know, and
sometimes a little thing--slight shock--Miss Wray's danger--"

"Take some of this!" The captain, with solicitude, pressed a flask on
him; the nobleman drank deeply. "There; that'll pick you up."

"Beastly foolish!" A color sprang to Lord Ronsdale's face; he held
himself more erect.

"Not at all!" Sir Charles interposed. "A man can't help a bad liver or a
bad heart. One of those inscrutable visitations of Providence! But shall
we go on? You're sure you're quite yourself?"

"Quite!" The nobleman's tone was even harder and more metallic than
usual; his thin lips compressed to a tight line; his eyes that looked
out to a great distance were bright and glistening.

"Are you ready, Mr. Steele?" Jocelyn Wray waited a moment as the others
started, looked down at that gentleman. Her voice was gracious; its soft
accents seemed to say: "You may ride with me; it is your reward!"

For one restored so quickly to favor, with a felicitous prospect of gay
words and bright glances, John Steele seemed singularly dull and
apathetic. He exhibited no haste in the task he was engaged in;
straightened slowly and mounted with leisure. Once again in the saddle,
and on their way, it is true he appeared to listen to the girl; but his
responses were vague, lacking both in vivacity and humor. It was
impossible she should not notice this want of attention; she bit her
lips once; then she laughed.

"Do you know, Mr. Steele, if I were vain I should feel hurt."

"Hurt?" he repeated.

"You haven't heard what I have been saying." Her eyes challenged his.

"Haven't I?"

"Deny it."

He did not; again she looked at him merrily.

"Of course, I can't afford to be harsh with my rescuer. Perhaps"--in the
same tone--"you really did save my life! Have you ever really saved any
one--any one else, shall I say?--you who are so strong?"

A spasm as of pain passed over his face; his look, however, was not for
her; and the girl's eyes, too, had now become suddenly set afar. Was she
thinking of another scene, some one her own words conjured to mind? Her
mood seemed to gain in seriousness; she also became very quiet; and so
almost in silence they went on to the entrance, down the street, to her
home.

"_Au revoir_, and thank you!" she said there, regaining her accustomed
lightness.

"Good-by! At least for the present," he added. "I am leaving London,"
abruptly.

"Leaving?" She regarded him in surprise. "To be gone long?"

"It is difficult to say. Perhaps."

"But--you must have decided suddenly?"

"Yes."

"While we have been riding home?" Again he answered affirmatively; the
blue eyes looked at him long. "Is it--is it serious?"

"A little."

"Men make so much of business, nowadays," she observed, "it--it always
seems serious, I suppose. We--we are moving into the country in a few
weeks. Shall I--shall we, see you before then?"

"To my regret, I am afraid not."

"And after"--in a voice matter-of-fact--"I think aunt has put you down
for July; a house party; I don't recall the exact dates. You will come?"

"Shall we say, circumstances permitting--" "Certainly," a little
stiffly, "circumstances permitting." She gave him her hand. "_Au
revoir!_ Or good-by, if you prefer it." He held the little gloved
fingers; let them drop. There was a suggestion of hopelessness in the
movement that fitted oddly his inherent vigor and self-poise; she
started to draw away; an ineffable something held her.

"Good luck in your business!" she found herself saying, half-gaily,
half-ironically.

He answered, hoarsely, something--what?--rode off. With color flaming
high, the girl looked after him until Lord Ronsdale's horse, clattering
near, caused her to turn quickly.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER VI

A CONFERENCE


The book-worms' row, hardly a street, more a short-cut passage between
two important thoroughfares, had through the course of many years
exercised a subtle fascination for pedant, pedagogue or itinerant
litterateur. At one end of the way was rush and bustle; at the other,
more rush and bustle; here might be found the comparative hush of the
tiny stream that for a short interval has left the parent current. Dusty
and musty shops looked out on either side, and within on shelves, or
without on stands, unexpected bargains lay carelessly about, rare
Horaces or Ovids, Greek tragedies, ponderous volumes of the golden age
of the English poets and philosophers. Truth nestled in dark corners;
knowledge lay hidden in frayed covers and beauty enshrined herself
behind cobwebs.

Not that the thoroughfare, in its entirety, was devoted to books; nor
that it housed no other people than bibliomaniacs or antiquarians!
Higher, above the little shops, small rooms, reached by rickety
stairways, offered quiet corners for divers and sundry gentlemen whose
occupations called for discreet and retired nooks.

In one of these places, described on the door as "a private,
confidential, inquiry office," sat, on the morning following John
Steele's ride in the park, a little man with ferret-like eyes at a dusty
desk near a dusty window. He did not seem to be very busy, was engaged
at the moment in drawing meaningless cabalistic signs on a piece of
paper, when a step in the hallway and a low tapping at the door caused
him to throw down his pen and straighten expectantly. A client,
perhaps!--a woman?--no, a man! With momentary surprise, he gazed on the
delicately chiseled features of his caller; a gentleman faultlessly
dressed and wearing a spring flower in his coat.

"Mr. Gillett?" The visitor's glance veiled an expression of
restlessness; his face, although mask-like, was tinted with a faint
flush.

The police agent at once rose. "The same, sir, at your service; I--but I
beg your pardon; unless I am mistaken--haven't we--"

"Yes; a number of years ago on the _Lord Nelson_," said the caller in a
hard matter-of-fact tone. "We were fellow passengers on her, until--"

"We became fellow occupants of one of her small boats! An aging
experience! But won't you," with that deference for rank and position
those of his type are pleased to assume, "honor me by being seated, Lord
Ronsdale?"

As he spoke, he dusted vigorously with his handkerchief a chair which
his caller, after a moment's hesitation, sank into; Mr. Gillett regarded
the one he himself had been occupying; then, in an apologetic manner
ventured to take it. "Your lordship is well? Your lordship looks it.
Your lordship was, last I heard, in Australia, I believe. A genuine
pleasure to see your lordship once more."

The visitor offered no acknowledgment to this flattering effusion; his
long fingers rubbed one another softly. He looked at the table, the
window, anywhere save at the proprietor of the establishment, then said:
"I saw by an advertisement in the morning papers that you had severed
your connection with the force and had opened this--a private
consultation bureau."

"Quite so!" The other looked momentarily embarrassed. "A little
friction--account of some case--unreliable witness that got tangled
up--They undertook to criticize me, after all my faithful service--" He
broke off. "Besides, the time comes when a man realizes he can do better
for himself by himself. I am now devoting myself to a small, but
strictly high-class," with an accent, "clientele."

Lord Ronsdale considered; when he spoke, his voice was low, but it did
not caress the ear. "You know John Steele, of course?"

The ferret eyes snapped. "That I do, your Lordship. What of him?"
quickly.

The caller made no reply but tapped the floor lightly with his cane,
and--"What of him?" repeated Mr. Gillett.

Lord Ronsdale's glance turned; it had a strange brightness. His next
question was irrelevant. "Ever think much about the _Lord Nelson,_
Gillett?"

"She isn't a boat one's apt to forget, after what happened, your
Lordship," was the answer. "And if I do say it, her passengers were of
the kind to leave pleasant recollections," the police agent
diplomatically added.

"Her passengers?" The caller's thin lips compressed; a spark seemed to
leap from his gaze, but not before he had dropped it. "Among them, if
memory serves me, were a number of convicts?"

"A job lot of precious jailbirds that I was acting as escort of, your
Lordship!"

"But who never reached Australia!" quickly.

"Drowned!--every mother's son of them!" observed Mr. Gillett, with a
possible trace of complacency. "Not that I fancy the country they were
going to mourned much about that. I understand a strong sentiment's
growing out there against that sort of immigration."

The visitor's white hand held closer the head of his cane; the stick
bent to his weight. "_Were_ they all drowned, by the way?" he observed
as if seeking casual information on some subject that had partly passed
from his mind.

"No doubt of it. They were not released until the second boat got off,
and then there was no time to get overboard the life rafts!"

"True." Lord Ronsdale gazed absently out of the window, through a film,
as it were, at a venerable figure below; one of the species _helluo
librorum_ standing before a book-stall opposite. "Recall the day on that
mem