HE CAUGHT HOLD OF MY HAIR AND SAWED IT FROM MY HEAD

# JUDITH LEE

SOME PAGES FROM HER LIFE

BY
RICHARD MARSH

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON

## [COPYRIGHT]

First Published in 1912

## CONTENTS

## LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

HE CAUGHT HOLD OF MY HAIR AND SAWED IT FROM MY HEAD (From a drawing by W.R.S. Stott)

“SO YOU’VE BEEN MAKING MORE MONEY,” SHE SAID (From a drawing by J.R. Skelton)

“I TELL YOU HE HAS GOT A BOMB ON A LITTLE TABLE BY HIS BED” (From a drawing by J.R. Skelton)

I STRUCK HIM AGAIN AND AGAIN (From a drawing by J.R. Skelton)

## JUDITH LEE

### I.
THE MAN WHO CUT OFF MY HAIR

My name is Judith Lee. I am a teacher of the deaf and dumb. I teach them by what is called the oral system—that is, the lip-reading system. When people pronounce a word correctly they all make exactly the same movements with their lips, so that, without hearing a sound, you only have to watch them very closely to know what they are saying. Of course, this needs practice, and some people do it better and quicker than others. I suppose I must have a special sort of knack in that direction, because I do not remember a time when, by merely watching people speaking at a distance, no matter at what distance if I could see them clearly, I did not know what they were saying. In my case the gift, or knack, or whatever it is, is hereditary. My father was a teacher of the deaf and dumb—a very successful one. His father was, I believe, one of the originators of the oral system. My mother, when she was first married, had an impediment in her speech which practically made her dumb; though she was stone deaf, she became so expert at lip-reading that she could not only tell what others were saying, but she could speak herself—audibly, although she could not hear her own voice.

So, you see, I have lived in the atmosphere of lip-reading all my life. When people, as they often do, think my skill at it borders on the marvellous, I always explain to them that it is nothing of the kind, that mine is simply a case of “practice makes perfect.” This knack of mine, in a way, is almost equivalent to another sense. It has led me into the most singular situations, and it has been the cause of many really extraordinary adventures. I will tell you of one which happened to me when I was quite a child, the details of which have never faded from my memory.

My father and mother were abroad, and I was staying, with some old and trusted servants, in a little cottage which we had in the country. I suppose I must have been between twelve and thirteen years of age. I was returning by train to the cottage from a short visit which I had been paying to some friends. In my compartment there were two persons beside myself—an elderly woman who sat in front of me, and a man who was at the other end of her seat. At a station not very far from my home the woman got out; a man got in and placed himself beside the one who was already there. I could see they were acquaintances—they began to talk to each other.

They had been talking together for some minutes in such low tones that you could not only not hear their words, you could scarcely tell that they were speaking. But that made no difference to me; though they spoke in the tiniest whisper I had only to look at their faces to know exactly what they were saying. As a matter of fact, happening to glance up from the magazine I was reading, I saw the man who had been there first say to the other something which gave me quite a start. What he said was this (I only saw the fag-end of the sentence):

“… Myrtle Cottage; it’s got a great, old myrtle in the front garden.”

The other man said something, but as his face was turned from me I could not see what; the tone in which he spoke was so subdued that hearing was out of the question. The first man replied (whose face was to me):

“His name is Colegate. He’s an old bachelor, who uses the place as a summer cottage. I know him well—all the dealers know him. He’s got some of the finest old silver in England. There’s a Charles II salt-cellar in the place which would fetch twenty pounds an ounce anywhere.”

The other man sat up erect and shook his head, looking straight in front of him, so that I could see what he said, though he spoke only in a whisper.

“Old silver is no better than new; you can only melt it.”

The other man seemed to grow quite warm.

“Only melt it! Don’t be a fool; you don’t know what you’re talking about. I can get rid of old silver at good prices to collectors all over the world; they don’t ask too many questions when they think they’re getting a bargain. That stuff at Myrtle Cottage is worth to us well over a thousand; I shall be surprised if I don’t get more for it.”

The other man must have glanced at me while I was watching his companion speak. He was a fair-haired man, with a pair of light blue eyes, and quite a nice complexion. He whispered to his friend:

“That infernal kid is watching us as if she were all eyes.”

The other said: “Let her watch. Much good may it do her; she can’t hear a word—goggle-eyed brat!”

What he meant by “goggle-eyed” I didn’t know, and it was true that I could not hear; but, as it happened, it was not necessary that I should. I think the other must have been suspicious, because he replied, if possible, in a smaller whisper than ever:

“I should like to twist her skinny neck and throw her out on to the line.”

He looked as if he could do it too; such an unpleasant look came into his eyes that it quite frightened me. After all, I was alone with them; I was quite small; it would have been perfectly easy for him to have done what he said he would like to. So I glanced back at my magazine, and left the rest of their conversation unwatched.

But I had heard, or rather seen, enough to set me thinking. I knew Myrtle Cottage quite well, and the big myrtle tree; it was not very far from our own cottage. And I knew Mr. Colegate and his collection of old silver—particularly that Charles II salt-cellar of which he was so proud. What interest had it for these two men? Had Mr. Colegate come to the cottage? He was not there when I left. Or had Mr. and Mrs. Baines, who kept house for him—had they come? I was so young and so simple that it never occurred to me that there could be anything sinister about these two whispering gentlemen.

They both of them got out at the station before ours. Ours was a little village station, with a platform on only one side of the line; the one at which they got out served for quite an important place—our local market town. I thought no more about them, but I did think of Mr. Colegate and of Myrtle Cottage. Dickson, our housekeeper, said that she did not believe that anyone was at the cottage, but she owned that she was not sure. So after tea I went for a stroll, without saying a word to anyone—Dickson had such a troublesome habit of wanting to know exactly where you were going. My stroll took me to Myrtle Cottage.

It stood all by itself in a most secluded situation on the other side of Woodbarrow Common. You could scarcely see the house from the road—it was quite a little house. When I got into the garden and saw that the front-room window was open I jumped to the very natural conclusion that some one must be there. I went quickly to the window—I was on the most intimate terms with every one about the place; I should never have dreamt of announcing my presence in any formal manner—and looked in. What I saw did surprise me.

In the room was the man of the train—the man who had been in my compartment first. He had what seemed to me to be Mr. Colegate’s entire collection of old silver spread out on the table in front of him, and that very moment he was holding up that gem of the collection—the Charles II salt-cellar. I had moved very quietly, meaning to take Mr. Colegate—if it was he—by surprise; but I doubt if I had made a noise that that man would have heard me, he was so wrapped up in that apple of Mr. Colegate’s eye.

I did not know what to make of it at all. I did not know what to think. What was that man doing there? What was I to do? Should I speak to him? I was just trying to make up my mind when some one from behind lifted me right off my feet and, putting a hand to my throat, squeezed it so tightly that it hurt me.

“If you make a sound I’ll choke the life right out of you. Don’t you make any mistake about it—I will!”

He said that out loudly enough, though it was not so very loud either—he spoke so close to my ear. I could scarcely breathe, but I could still see, and I could see that the man who held me so horribly by the throat was the second man of the train. The recognition seemed to be mutual.

“If it isn’t that infernal brat! She seemed to be all eyes in the railway carriage, and, my word, she seems to have been all ears too.”

The first man had come to the window.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Who’s that kid you’ve got hold of there?”

My captor twisted my face round for the other to look at.

“Can’t you see for yourself? I felt, somehow, that she was listening.”

“She couldn’t have heard, even if she was; no one could have heard what we were saying. Hand her in here.” I was passed through the window to the other, who kept as tight a grip on my throat as his friend had done.

“Who are you?” he asked. “I’ll give you a chance to answer, but if you try to scream I’ll twist your head right off you.”

He loosed his grip just enough to enable me to answer if I wished. But I did not wish. I kept perfectly still. His companion said:

“What’s the use of wasting time? Slit her throat and get done with it.”

He took from the table a dreadful-looking knife, with a blade eighteen inches long, which I knew very well. Mr. Colegate had it in his collection because of its beautifully chased, massive silver handle. It had belonged to one of the old Scottish chieftains; Mr. Colegate would sometimes make me go all over goose-flesh by telling me of some of the awful things for which, in the old, lawless, blood-thirsty days in Scotland, it was supposed to have been used. I knew that he kept it in beautiful condition, with the edge as sharp as a razor. So you can fancy what my feelings were when that man drew the blade across my throat, so close to the skin that it all but grazed me.

“Before you cut her throat,” observed his companion, “we’ll tie her up. We’ll make short work of her. This bit of rope will about do the dodge.”

He had what looked to me like a length of clothes-line in his hand. With it, between them, they tied me to a great oak chair, so tight that it seemed to cut right into me, and, lest I should scream with the pain, the man with the blue eyes tied something across my mouth in a way which made it impossible for me to utter a sound. Then he threatened me with that knife again, and just as I made sure he was going to cut my throat he caught hold of my hair, which, of course, was hanging down my back, and with that dreadful knife sawed the whole of it from my head.

If I could have got within reach of him at that moment I believe that I should have stuck that knife into him. Rage made me half beside myself. He had destroyed what was almost the dearest thing in the world to me—not because of my own love of it, but on account of my mother’s. My mother had often quoted to me, “The glory of a woman is her hair,” and she would add that mine was very beautiful. There certainly was a great deal of it. She was so proud of my hair that she had made me proud of it too—for her sake. And to think that this man could have robbed me of it in so hideous a way! I do believe that at the moment I could have killed him.

I suppose he saw the fury which possessed me, because he laughed and struck me across the face with my own hair.

“I’ve half a mind to cram it down your throat,” he said. “It didn’t take me long to cut it off, but I’ll cut your throat even quicker—if you so much as try to move, my little dear.”

The other man said to him:

“She can’t move and she can’t make a sound either. You leave her alone. Come over here and attend to business.”

“I’ll learn her,” replied the other man, and he lifted my hair above my head and let it fall all over me.

They proceeded to wrap up each piece of Mr. Colegate’s collection in tissue paper, and then to pack the whole into two queer-shaped bags—pretty heavy they must have been. It was only then that I realized what they were doing—they were stealing Mr. Colegate’s collection; they were going to take it away. The fury which possessed me as I sat there, helpless, and watched them! The pain was bad enough, but my rage was worse. When the man who had cut off my hair moved to the window with one of the bags held in both his hands—it was as much as he could carry—he said to his companion, with a glance towards me: “Hadn’t I better cut her throat before I go?”

“You can come and do that presently,” replied the other; “you’ll find her waiting.” Then he dropped his voice and I saw him say: “Now you quite understand?” The other nodded. “What is it?”

The face of the man who had cut my hair was turned towards me. He put his lips very close to the other, speaking in the tiniest whisper, which he never dreamed could reach my ears: “Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.”

The other whispered, “That’s right. You’d better make a note of it; we don’t want any bungling.”

“No fear, I’m not likely to forget.” Then he repeated his previous words, “Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.”

He whispered this so very earnestly that I felt sure there was something about the words which was most important; by the time he had said them a second time they were printed on my brain quite as indelibly as they were on his. He got out of the window and his bag was passed to him; then he spoke a parting word to me.

“Sorry I can’t take a lock of your hair with me; perhaps I’ll come back for one presently.”

Then he went. If he had known the passion which was blazing in my heart! That allusion to my desecrated locks only made it burn still fiercer. His companion, left alone, paid no attention to me whatever. He continued to secure his bag, searched the room, as if for anything which might have been overlooked, then, bearing the bag with the other half of Mr. Colegate’s collection with him, he went through the door, ignoring my presence as if I had never existed. What he did afterwards I cannot say; I saw no more of him; I was left alone—all through the night.

What a night it was. I was not afraid; I can honestly say that I have seldom been afraid of anything—I suppose it is a matter of temperament—but I was most uncomfortable, very unhappy, and each moment the pain caused me by my bonds seemed to be growing greater. I do believe that the one thing which enabled me to keep my senses all through the night was the constant repetition of those mystic words: “Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.” In the midst of my trouble I was glad that what some people call my curious gift had enabled me to see what I was quite sure they had never meant should reach my understanding. What the words meant I had no notion; in themselves they seemed to be silly words. But that they had some hidden, weighty meaning I was so sure that I kept saying them over and over again lest they should slip through my memory.

I do not know if I ever closed my eyes; I certainly never slept. I saw the first gleams of light usher in the dawn of another morning, and I knew the sun had risen. I wondered what they were doing at home—between the repetitions of that cryptic phrase. Was Dickson looking for me? I rather wished I had let her know where I was going, then she might have had some idea of where to look. As it was she had none. I had some acquaintances three or four miles off, with whom I would sometimes go to tea and, without warning to anyone at home, stay the night. I am afraid that, even as a child, my habits were erratic. Dickson might think I was staying with them, and, if so, she would not even trouble to look for me. In that case I might have to stay where I was for days.

I do not know what time it was, but it seemed to me that it had been light for weeks, and that the day must be nearly gone, when I heard steps outside the open window. I was very nearly in a state of stupor, but I had still sense enough to wonder if it was that man who had cut my hair come back again to cut my throat. As I watched the open sash my heart began to beat more vigorously than it had for a very long time. What, then, was my relief when there presently appeared, on the other side of it, the face of Mr. Colegate, the owner of Myrtle Cottage. I tried to scream—with joy, but that cloth across my mouth prevented my uttering a sound.

I never shall forget the look which came on Mr. Colegate’s face when he saw me. He rested his hands on the sill as if he wondered how the window came to be open, then when he looked in and saw me, what a jump he gave.

“Judith!” he exclaimed. “Judith Lee! Surely it is Judith Lee!”

He was a pretty old man, or he seemed so to me, but I doubt if a boy could have got through that window quicker than he did. He was by my side in less than no time; with a knife which he took from his pocket was severing my bonds. The agony which came over me as they were loosed! It was worse than anything which had gone before. The moment my mouth was free I exclaimed—even then I was struck by the funny, hoarse voice in which I seemed to be speaking:

“Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.”

So soon as I had got those mysterious words out of my poor, parched throat I fainted; the agony I was suffering, the strain which I had gone through, proved too much for me. I knew dimly that I was tumbling into Mr. Colegate’s arms, and then I knew no more.

When I came back to life I was in bed. Dickson was at my bedside, and Dr. Scott, and Mr. Colegate, and Pierce, the village policeman, and a man who I afterwards knew was a detective, who had been sent over posthaste from a neighbouring town. I wondered where I was, and then I saw I was in a room in Myrtle Cottage. I sat up in bed, put up my hands—then it all came back to me.

“He cut off my hair with MacGregor’s knife!” MacGregor was the name of the Highland chieftain to whom, according to Mr. Colegate, that dreadful knife had belonged.

When it did all come back to me and I realized what had happened, and felt how strange my head seemed without its accustomed covering, nothing would satisfy me but that they should bring me a looking-glass. When I saw what I looked like, the rage which had possessed me when the outrage first took place surged through me with greater force than ever. Before they could stop me, or even guess what I was going to do, I was out of bed and facing them. That cryptic utterance came back to me as if of its own initiative; it burst from my lips.

“ ‘Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway!’ Where are my clothes? That’s where the man is who cut off my hair.”

They stared at me. I believe that for a moment they thought that what I had endured had turned my brain, and that I was mad. But I soon made it perfectly clear that I was nothing of the kind. I told them my story as fast as I could speak; I fancy I brought it home to their understanding. Then I told them of the words which I had seen spoken in such a solemn whisper, and how sure I was that they were pregnant with weighty meaning.

“ ‘Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway’—that’s where the man is who cut my hair off—that’s where I’m going to catch him.”

The detective was pleased to admit that there might be something in my theory, and that it would be worth while to go up to Victoria Station to see what the words might mean. Nothing would satisfy me but that we should go at once. I was quite convinced that every moment was of importance, and that if we were not quick we should be too late. I won Mr. Colegate over—of course, he was almost as anxious to get his collection back as I was to be quits with the miscreant who had shorn me of my locks. So we went up to town by the first train we could catch—Mr. Colegate, the detective, and an excited and practically hairless child.

When we got to Victoria Station we marched straight up to the cloak-room, and the detective said to one of the persons on the other side of the counter:

“Is there a parcel here for the name of Cotterill?”

The person to whom he had spoken did not reply, but another man who was standing by his side.

“Cotterill? A parcel for the name of Cotterill has just been taken out—a hand-bag, scarcely more than half a minute ago. You must have seen him walking off with it as you came up. He can hardly be out of sight now.” Leaning over the counter, he looked along the platform. “There he is—some one is just going to speak to him.”

I saw the person to whom he referred—a shortish man in a light grey suit, carrying a brown leather hand-bag. I also saw the person who was going to speak to him; and thereupon I ceased to have eyes for the man with the bag. I broke into exclamation.

“There’s the man who cut my hair!” I cried. I went rushing along the platform as hard as I could go. Whether the man had heard me or not I cannot say; I dare say I had spoken loudly enough; but he gave one glance in my direction, and when he saw me I have no doubt that he remembered. He whispered to the man with the bag. I was near enough to see, though not to hear, what he said. In spite of the rapidity with which his lips were moving, I saw quite distinctly.

“Bantock, 13 Harwood Street, Oxford Street.” That was what he said, and no sooner had he said it than he turned and fled—from me; I knew he was flying from me, and it gave me huge satisfaction to know that the mere sight of me had made him run. I was conscious that Mr. Colegate and the detective were coming at a pretty smart pace behind me.

The man with the bag, seeing his companion dart off without the slightest warning, glanced round to see what had caused his hasty flight. I suppose he saw me and the detective and Mr. Colegate, and he drew his own conclusions. He dropped that hand-bag as if it had been red-hot, and off he ran. He ran to such purpose that we never caught him—neither him nor the man who had cut my hair. The station was full of people—a train had just come in. The crowd streaming out covered the platform with a swarm of moving figures. They acted as cover to those two eager gentlemen—they got clean off. But we got the bag; and, one of the station officials coming on the scene, we were shown to an apartment where, after explanations had been made, the bag and its contents were examined.

Of course, we had realized from the very first moment that Mr. Colegate’s collection could not possibly be in that bag, because it was not nearly large enough. When it was seen what was in it, something like a sensation was created. It was crammed with small articles of feminine clothing. In nearly every garment jewels were wrapped, which fell out of them as they were withdrawn from the bag. Such jewels! You should have seen the display they made when they were spread out upon the leather-covered table—and our faces as we stared at them.

“This does not look like my collection of old silver,” observed Mr. Colegate.

“No,” remarked a big, broad-shouldered man, who I afterwards learned was a well-known London detective, who had been induced by our detective to join our party. “This does not look like your collection of old silver, sir; it looks, if you’ll excuse my saying so, like something very much more worth finding. Unless I am mistaken, these are the Duchess of Datchet’s jewels, some of which she wore at the last Drawing Room, and which were taken from her Grace’s bedroom after her return. The police all over Europe have been looking for them for more than a month.”

“That bag has been with us nearly a month. The party who took it out paid four-and-sixpence for cloak-room charges—twopence a day for twenty-seven days.”

The person from the cloak-room had come with us to that apartment; it was he who said this. The London detective replied:

“Paid four-and-sixpence, did he? Well, it was worth it—to us. Now, if I could lay my hand on the party who put that bag in the cloak-room, I might have a word of a kind to say to him.”

I had been staring, wide-eyed, as piece by piece the contents of the bag had been disclosed; I had been listening, open-eared, to what the detective said; when he made that remark about laying his hands on the party who had deposited that bag in the cloak-room, there came into my mind the words which I had seen the man who had cut my hair whisper as he fled to the man with the bag. The cryptic sentence which I had seen him whisper as I sat tied to the chair had indeed proved to be full of meaning; the words which, even in the moment of flight, he had felt bound to utter might be just as full. I ventured on an observation, the first which I had made, speaking with a good deal of diffidence.

“I think I know where he might be found—I am not sure, but I think.”

All eyes were turned to me. The detective exclaimed:

“You think you know? As we haven’t got so far as thinking, if you were to tell us, little lady, what you think, it might be as well, mightn’t it?”

I considered—I wanted to get the words exactly right.

“Suppose you were to try”—I paused so as to make quite sure—“Bantock, 13 Harwood Street, Oxford Street.”

“And who is Bantock?” the detective asked. “And what do you know about him, anyhow?”

“I don’t know anything at all about him, but I saw the man who cut my hair whisper to the other man just before he ran away, ‘Bantock, 13 Harwood Street, Oxford Street’—I saw him quite distinctly.”

“You saw him whisper? What does the girl mean by saying she saw him whisper? Why, young lady, you must have been quite fifty feet away. How, at that distance, and with all the noise of the traffic, could you hear a whisper?”

“I didn’t say I heard him; I said I saw him. I don’t need to hear to know what a person is saying. I just saw you whisper to the other man, ‘The young lady seems to be by way of being a curiosity.’ ”

The London detective stared at our detective. He seemed to be bewildered.

“But I—I don’t know how you heard that; I scarcely breathed the words.”

Mr. Colegate explained. When they heard they all seemed to be bewildered, and they looked at me, as people do look at the present day, as if I were some strange and amazing thing. The London detective said: “I never heard the like to that. It seems to me very much like what old-fashioned people called ‘black magic.’ ”

Although he was a detective, he could not have been a very intelligent person after all, or he would not have talked such nonsense. Then he added, with an accent on the “saw”:

“What was it you said you saw him whisper?”

I bargained before I told him.

“I will tell you if you let me come with you.”

“Let you come with me?” He stared still more. “What does the girl mean?”

“Her presence,” struck in Mr. Colegate, “may be useful for purposes of recognition. She won’t be in the way; you can do no harm by letting her come.”

“If you don’t promise to let me come I shan’t tell you.”

The big man laughed. He seemed to find me amusing; I do not know why. If he had only understood my feeling on the subject of my hair, and how I yearned to be even with the man who had wrought me what seemed to me such an irreparable injury. I dare say it sounds as if I were very revengeful. I do not think it was a question of vengeance only; I wanted justice. The detective took out a fat note-book.

“Very well; it’s a bargain. Tell me what you saw him whisper, and you shall come.” So I told him again, and he wrote it down. “ ‘Bantock, 13 Harwood Street, Oxford Street.’ I know Harwood Street, though I don’t know Mr. Bantock. But he seems to be residing at what is generally understood to be an unlucky number. Let me get a message through to the Yard—we may want assistance. Then we’ll pay a visit to Mr. Bantock—if there is such a person. It sounds like a very tall story to me.”

I believe that even then he doubted if I had seen what I said I saw. When we did start I was feeling pretty nervous, because I realized that if we were going on a fool’s errand, and there did turn out to be no Bantock, that London detective would doubt me more than ever. And, of course, I could not be sure that there was such a person, though it was some comfort to know that there was a Harwood Street. We went four in a cab—the two detectives, Mr. Colegate and I. We had gone some distance before the cab stopped. The London detective said:

“This is Harwood Street; I told the driver to stop at the corner—we will walk the rest of the way. A cab might arouse suspicion; you never know.”

It was a street full of shops. No. 13 proved to be a sort of curiosity shop and jeweller’s combined; quite a respectable-looking place, and sure enough over the top of the window was the name “Bantock.”

“That looks as if, at any rate, there were a Bantock,” the big man said; it was quite a weight off my own mind when I saw the name.

Just as we reached the shop a cab drew up and five men got out, whom the London detective seemed to recognize with mingled feelings.

“That’s queered the show,” he exclaimed. I did not know what he meant. “They rouse suspicion, if they do nothing else—so in we go.”

And in we went—the detective first, and I close on his heels. There were two young men standing close together behind the counter. The instant we appeared I saw one whisper to the other:

“Give them the office—ring the alarm-bell—they’re ’tecs!”

I did not quite know what he meant either, but I guessed enough to make me cry out:

“Don’t let him move—he’s going to ring the alarm-bell and give them the office.”

Those young men were so startled—they must have been quite sure that I could not have heard—that they both stood still and stared; before they had got over their surprise a detective—they were detectives who had come in the second cab—had each by the shoulder.

There was a door at the end of the shop, which the London detective opened.

“There’s a staircase here; we’d better go up and see who’s above. You chaps keep yourselves handy, you may be wanted—when I call you come.”

He mounted the stairs—as before, I was as close to him as I could very well get. On the top of the staircase was a landing, on to which two doors opened. We paused to listen; I could distinctly hear voices coming through one of them.

“I think this is ours,” the London detective said.

He opened the one through which the voices were coming. He marched in—I was still as close to him as I could get. In it were several men, I did not know how many, and I did not care; I had eyes for only one. I walked right past the detective up to the table round which some of them were sitting, some standing, and stretching out an accusatory arm I pointed at one.

“That’s the man who cut off my hair!”

It was, and well he knew it. His conscience must have smitten him; I should not have thought that a grown man could be so frightened at the sight of a child. He caught hold, with both hands, of the side of the table; he glared at me as if I were some dreadful apparition—and no doubt to him I was. It was only with an effort that he seemed able to use his voice.

“Good night!” he exclaimed, “it’s that infernal kid!”

On the table, right in front of me, I saw something with which I was only too familiar. I snatched it up.

“And this is the knife,” I cried, “with which he did it!”

It was; the historical blade, which had once belonged to the sanguinary and, I sincerely trust, more or less apocryphal MacGregor. I held it out towards the gaping man.

“You know that this is the knife with which you cut off my hair,” I said. “You know it is.”

I dare say I looked a nice young termagant with my short hair, rage in my eyes, and that frightful weapon in my hand. Apparently I did not impress him quite as I had intended—at least, his demeanour did not suggest it.

“By the living Jingo!” he shouted, “I wish I had cut her throat with it as well!”

It was fortunate for him that he did not. Probably, in the long run, he would have suffered for it more than he did—though he suffered pretty badly as it was. It was his cutting my hair that did it. Had he not done that I have little doubt that I should have been too conscious of the pains caused me by my bonds—the marks caused by the cord were on my skin for weeks after—to pay such close attention to their proceedings as I did under the spur of anger. Quite possibly that tell-tale whisper would have gone unnoticed. Absorbed by my own suffering, I should have paid very little heed to the cryptic sentence which really proved to be their undoing. It was the outrage to my locks which caused me to strain every faculty of observation I had. He had much better have left them alone.

That was the greatest capture the police had made for years. In one haul they captured practically every member of a gang of cosmopolitan thieves who were wanted by the police all over the world. The robbery of Mr. Colegate’s collection of old silver shrank into insignificance before the rest of their misdeeds. And not only were the thieves taken themselves, but the proceeds of no end of robberies.

It seemed that they had met there for a sort of annual division of the common spoil. There was an immense quantity of valuable property before them on the table, and lots more about the house. Those jewels which were in the bag which had been deposited at the cloak-room at Victoria Station were to have been added to the common fund—to say nothing of Mr. Colegate’s collection of old silver.

The man who called himself Bantock, and who owned the premises at 13 Harwood Street, proved to be a well-known dealer in precious stones and jewellery and bric-à-brac and all sorts of valuables. He was immensely rich; it was shown that a great deal of his money had been made by buying and selling valuable stolen property of every sort and kind. Before the police had done with him it was made abundantly clear that, under various aliases, in half the countries of the world, he had been a wholesale dealer in stolen goods. He was sentenced to a long term of penal servitude. I am not quite sure, but I believe that he died in jail.

All the men who were in that room were sent to prison for different terms, including the man who cut my hair—to say nothing of his companion. So far as the proceedings at the court were concerned, I never appeared at all. Compared to some of the crimes of which they had been guilty, the robbery of Mr. Colegate’s silver was held to be a mere nothing. They were not charged with it at all, so my evidence was not required. But every time I looked at my scanty locks, which took years to grow to anything like a decent length—they had reached to my knees, but they never did that again—each time I stood before a looking-glass and saw what a curious spectacle I presented with my closely clipped poll, something of that old rage came back to me which had been during that first moment in my heart, and I felt—what I felt when I was tied to that chair in Myrtle Cottage. I endeavoured to console myself, in the spirit of the Old World rather than the New, that, owing to the gift which was mine, I had been able to cry something like quits with the man who, in a moment of mere wanton savagery, had deprived me of what ought to be the glory of a woman.

### II.
EAVESDROPPING AT INTERLAKEN

I have sometimes thought that this gift of mine for reading words as they issue from people’s lips places me, with or without my will, in the position of the eavesdropper. There have been occasions on which, before I knew it, I have been made cognisant of conversations, of confidences, which were meant to be sacred; and, though such knowledge has been acquired through no fault of mine, I have felt ashamed, just as if I had been listening at a keyhole, and I have almost wished that the power which nature gave me, and which years of practice have made perfect, was not mine at all. On the other hand, there have been times when I was very glad indeed that I was able to play the part of eavesdropper. As, to very strict purists, this may not sound a pleasant confession to make, I will give an instance of the kind of thing I mean.

I suppose I was about seventeen; I know I had just put my hair up, which had grown to something like a decent length since it had come in contact with the edge of that doughty Scottish chieftain’s—MacGregor’s—knife. My mother was not very well. My father was reluctant to leave her. It looked as if the summer holiday which had been promised me was in peril, when two acquaintances, Mr. and Mrs. Travers, rather than that I should lose it altogether, offered to take me under their wing.

They were going for a little tour in Switzerland, proposing to spend most of their time at Interlaken, and my parents, feeling that I should be perfectly safe with them, accepted their proffered chaperonage. Everything went well until we got to Interlaken. There they met some friends who were going on a climbing expedition, and, as Mr. and Mrs. Travers were both keen mountaineers, they were very eager to join them. I was the only difficulty in their way. They could not say exactly how long they would be absent, but probably a week; and what was to become of me in that great hotel there all alone? They protested that it would be quite impossible to leave me; they would have to give up that climb; and I believe they would have done so if what seemed to be a solution of the difficulty had not turned up.

The people in the hotel were for the most part very sociable folk, as people in such places are apt to be. Among other persons whose acquaintance we had made was a middle-aged widow, a Mrs. Hawthorne. When she heard of what Mr. and Mrs. Travers wanted to do, and how they could not do it because of me, she volunteered, during their absence, to occupy their place as my chaperon, assuring them that every possible care should be taken of me.

In the hotel were stopping a brother and sister, a Mr. and Miss Sterndale. With them I had grown quite friendly. Mr. Sterndale I should have set down as twenty-five or twenty-six, and his sister as a year or two younger. From the day on which I had first seen them they had shown an inclination for my society; and, to speak quite frankly, on different occasions Mr. Sterndale had paid me what seemed to me to be delicate little attentions which were very dear to my maiden heart. I had some difficulty in inducing people to treat me as if I were grown up. After a few minutes’ conversation even perfect strangers would ask me how old I was, and when I told them they were apt to assume an attitude towards me as if I were the merest child, of which I disapproved.

What attracted me to Mr. Sterndale was that, from the very first, he treated me with deference, as if I were at least as old as he was.

On the third day after Mr. and Mrs. Travers had left Mrs. Hawthorne came to me with a long face and a letter in her hand.

“My dear, I cannot tell you how annoyed I am, but I shall have to go to England at once—to-day. And whatever will become of you?”

It seemed that her only sister was dangerously ill, and that she was implored to go to her as soon as she could. Of course, she would have to go. I told her that it did not matter in the least about me; Mr. and Mrs. Travers would be back in a day or two, and now that I knew so many people in the hotel, who were all of them disposed to be friendly, I should be perfectly all right until they came. She must not allow any consideration for me to keep her for a moment from obeying her sister’s call. She left for London that afternoon; but, so far from everything being perfectly all right with me after she had gone, the very next day my troubles began.

They began in the morning. I was sitting on the terrace with a book. Mr. Sterndale had been talking to me. Presently his sister came through an open French window from the lounge. Her brother went up to her; I sat still. She was at the other end of the terrace, and when she saw me she nodded and smiled. When her brother came up to her, he said something which, as his back was towards me, of course I did not catch; but her answer to him, which was very gently uttered, I saw quite distinctly; all the while she was speaking she was smiling at me.

“She has a red morocco jewel-case sort of a thing on the corner of her mantelshelf; I put it under the bottom tray. With the exception of that gold locket which she is always wearing it’s the only decent thing in it; it’s full of childish trumpery.”

That was what Miss Sterndale said to her brother, and I saw her say it with rather curious feelings. What had he asked her? To what could she be referring? I had “a red morocco jewel-case sort of a thing,” and it stood on a corner of my mantelshelf. I also had a gold locket, which, if I was not, as she put it, always wearing, I did wear pretty often. Certainly it was the only article in my jewel-case which was worth very much; and with a horrid sort of qualm I owned to myself that the rest of the contents might come under the definition of “childish trumpery.” She said she had put something under the bottom tray. What bottom tray? Whose bottom tray? There were trays in my jewel-case; she could not possibly have meant that she had put anything under one of them. The idea was too preposterous. And yet, if we had not been going to St. Beatenberg I think I should have gone straight up to my bedroom to see. I do not know how it was; the moment before I had been perfectly happy; there was not a grain of suspicion in the air, nor in my mind; then all of a sudden I felt quite curious. Could there be two persons in the house possessed of “a red morocco jewel-case sort of a thing,” which stood on a corner of the mantelshelf, in which was a gold locket and a rather mixed collection of childish trumpery? I wondered.

The evening before we had arranged to make an excursion to St. Beatenberg on the Lake of Thun—five or six of us. I was dressed ready to start when Miss Sterndale came through that French window. She also was ready, and her brother. Presently the others appeared. I was feeling a little confused; I could not think of an excuse which would give me an opportunity of examining my jewel-case. Anyhow, I kept trying to tell myself it was absurd. I wished I could not see what people were saying merely by watching their lips.

My day at St. Beatenberg was spoilt, though I kept telling myself that it was all my own fault, and nobody else’s. Every one was gay, and full of fun and laughter—every one but me. My mood was so obviously out of tune with theirs that they commented on it.

“What is the matter with you, Miss Lee?” asked Mrs. Dalton. “You look as if you were not enjoying yourself one little bit.”

I did not like to say that I was not; as a matter of fact, when they rallied me I said that I was—but it was not true.

When I got back to the hotel and was in my bedroom, I went straight up to that “red morocco jewel-case sort of a thing” and looked at it. It was locked, just as I had left it. Clearly I had been worrying myself all day long about nothing at all. Still, I got my keys and opened it; there was nothing to show that the contents had been touched. I lifted the two trays—and I gasped. I do not know how else to describe it—something seemed all at once to be choking me, so that it was with an effort that I breathed. In the jewel-case, under the bottom tray, was a pendant—a beautiful circular diamond pendant, of the size, perhaps, of a five-shilling piece. It was not mine; I never had anything so beautiful in my life. Where did it come from? Could Miss Sterndale have put it there? Was that the meaning of her words?

I took the pendant out. It was a beauty; it could not be a present from the Sterndales, from either the sister or the brother. They must have known that I could not accept such a gift as that from strangers. And then, what a queer way of making a present—and such a present!

As I looked at it I began to have a very uncomfortable feeling that I had seen it before, or one very like it, on some one in the house. My head, or my brain, or something seemed to be so muddled that at the moment I could not think who that some one was. I had washed and tidied myself before I decided that I would go down with the pendant in my hand and, at the risk of no matter what misunderstanding, ask Miss Sterndale what she meant by putting it there. So, when I had got my unruly hair into something like order, downstairs I went, and rushed into the lounge with so much impetuosity that I all but cannoned against Miss Goodridge, who was coming out.

“Good gracious, child!” she exclaimed. “Do look where you are going. You almost knocked me over.”

The instant I saw her, and she said that, I remembered—I knew whom I had seen wearing that diamond pendant which I was holding tightly clasped in the palm of my hand. It was the person whom I had almost knocked over, Miss Goodridge herself—of course! One of the persons in the hotel whom, so far as I knew anything of them, I liked least. Miss Goodridge was a tall, angular person of perhaps quite thirty-five, who dressed and carried herself as if she were still a girl. She had been most unpleasant to me. I had no idea what I had done or said to cause her annoyance, but I had a feeling that she disliked me, and was at no pains to conceal the fact. The sight of her, and the thought that I had nearly knocked her over, quite drove the sense out of my head.

“Oh, Miss Goodridge!” I exclaimed, rather fatuously. “You look as if something had happened.”

“Something has happened,” she replied. “There’s a thief in the house. I have been robbed. Some one has stolen my pendant—my diamond pendant.”

Some one had stolen her diamond pendant! I do not know if the temperature changed all at once, but I do know that a chill went all over me. Was that the explanation? Could it possibly be—— I did not care to carry even my thought to a logical finish. I stood there as if I were moonstruck, with Miss Goodridge looking at me with angry eyes.

“What is the matter with the child?” she asked. “I did not know you dark-skinned girls could blush, but I declare you’ve gone as red as a lobster.”

I do not know if she thought that lobsters were red before they were boiled. I tried to explain, to say what I wanted to say, but I appeared to be tongue-tied.

“Can’t you speak?” she demanded. “Don’t glare at me as if you’d committed a murder. Anyone would think that you had been robbed instead of me. I suppose you haven’t stolen my pendant?”

She drew her bow at a venture, but her arrow hit the mark.

“Oh, Miss Goodridge!” I repeated. It seemed to be all I could say.

She put her hand upon my shoulder.

“What is the matter with the girl? You young wretch! Have you been playing any tricks with that pendant of mine?”

“I—I found it,” I stammered. I held out to her my open hand with the pendant on the palm.

“You—you found it? Found what?” She looked at me and then at my outstretched hand. “My pendant! She’s got my pendant!” She snatched it from me. “You—you young—thief! And you have the insolence to pretend you found it!”

“I did find it—I found it in my bedroom.”

“Did you really? Of all the assurance! I’ve always felt that you were the kind of creature with whom the less one had to do the better, but I never credited you with a taste for this sort of thing. Get out of my way! Don’t you ever dare to speak to me again.”

She did not wait for me to get out of her way; she gave me a violent push and rushed right past me. It was a polished floor; if I had not come in contact with a big arm-chair I should have tumbled on to it. My feelings when I was left alone in the lounge were not enviable. At seventeen, even if one thinks oneself grown up, one is still only a child, and I was a stranger in a strange land, without a friend in all that great hotel, without a soul to advise me. Still, as I knew that I was absolutely and entirely innocent, I did not intend to behave as if I were guilty. I went up to my room again and dressed for dinner. I told myself over and over again as I performed my simple toilette that I would make Miss Goodridge eat her words before she had done, though at that moment I had not the faintest notion how I was going to do it.

That was a horrid dinner—not from the culinary, but from my point of view. If the dinner was horrid, in the lounge afterwards it was worse. Miss Sterndale actually had the audacity to come up to me and pretend to play the part of sympathetic friend.

“You seem to be all alone,” she began. I was all alone; I had never thought that anyone could feel so utterly alone as I did in that crowded lounge. “Miss Lee, why do you look at me like that?” I was looking at her as if I wished her to understand that I was looking into her very soul—if she had one. Her smiling serenity of countenance was incredible to me, knowing what I knew. “Have you had bad news from home, or from Mr. and Mrs. Travers, or are you unhappy because Mrs. Hawthorne has gone? You seem so different. What has been the matter with you the whole of the day?”

I was on the point of giving an explanation which I think might have startled her when I happened to glance across the room. At a table near the open window Mr. Sterndale was sitting with Miss Goodridge. They were having coffee. Although Miss Goodridge was sitting sideways, she continually turned her head to watch me. Mr. Sterndale was sitting directly facing me. He had a cigarette in one hand, and every now and then he sipped his coffee, but most of the time he talked. But, although I could not even hear the sound of his voice, I saw what he said as distinctly as if he had been shouting in my ear. It was the sentence he was uttering which caused me to defer the explanation which I had it in my mind to give to his sister.

“Of course, the girl’s a thief—I’m afraid that goes without saying.” It was that sentence which was issuing from his lips at the moment when I chanced to glance in his direction which caused the explanation I had been about to make to his sister to be deferred.

Miss Goodridge had her coffee-cup up to her mouth, so I could not see what she said; but if I had been put to it I might have made a very shrewd guess by the reply he made. He took his cigarette from his lips, blew out a thin column of smoke, leaned back in his chair—and all the time he was looking smilingly at me with what he meant me to think were the eyes of a friend.

“It’s all very well for you to talk. I may have had my suspicions, but it is only within the last hour or two that they have been confirmed.”

She said something which again I could not see; his reply suggested that she must have asked a question.

“I’ll tell you what I mean by saying that my doubts have been confirmed. A man was passing through this afternoon with whom I have some acquaintance—the Rector of Leeds.” I wonder he did not say the Bishop of London. “He saw—our friend——” He made a slight inclination of his head towards me. “At sight of her he exclaimed: ‘Halloa, there’s that Burnett girl!’ For a parson he has rather a free-and-easy way of speaking; he’s one of your modern kind.” I believed him! “ ‘Burnett girl?’ I said. ‘But her name’s Lee—Judith Lee.’ ‘Oh, she calls herself Lee now, does she? That settles it.’ ‘Settles what?’ I asked, because I saw that there was something in his tone. ‘My dear Reggie,’ he said (he always calls me Reggie; I’ve known him for years), ‘at the beginning of the season that girl whom you call Judith Lee was at Pontresina, staying in the same hotel as I was. She called herself Burnett then. Robberies were going on all the time, people were continually missing things. At last a Russian woman lost a valuable lot of jewellery. That settled it—Miss Burnett went.’ ”

Miss Goodridge turned so that her face was hidden; but, as before, his reply gave me a pretty good clue as to the question she had asked.

“Of course I mean it. Do you think I’d say a thing like that if I didn’t mean it? I won’t tell you all he said—it wouldn’t be quite fair. But it came to this. He said that the young lady whom we have all thought so sweet and innocent——”

Miss Goodridge interposed with a remark which, in a guessing competition, I think I could have come pretty near to.

He replied:

“Well, I’ve sometimes felt that you were rather hard on her, that perhaps you were a trifle prejudiced.”

Miss Goodridge turned her face towards me, and then I saw her words.

“I’m a better judge of feminine human nature than you suppose. The first moment I saw her I knew she was a young cat, though I admit I didn’t take her to be as bad as she is. What did your clerical friend say of her, of the Miss Burnett whom we know now as Miss Lee?”

I did not wait to learn his answer—I had learnt enough. What his sister thought of my demeanour I did not care; I had been dimly conscious that she had been talking to me all the while, but what she was saying I do not know. My attention had been wholly taken up with what I did not hear. Before he began his reply to Miss Goodridge’s genial inquiry I got up from my chair and marched out of the lounge, without saying a word to Miss Sterndale. When I had gone a little way I remembered that I had left my handkerchief—my best lace handkerchief—on the table by which I had been sitting. Even in the midst of my agitation I was conscious that I could not afford to lose it, so went back for it.

Miss Sterndale had joined her brother and Miss Goodridge. Two or three other people were standing by them, evidently interested in what was being said. I found my handkerchief. As I was going off with it Miss Sterndale turned round in my direction, without, however, thinking it worth her while to break off the remark she was making, taking it for granted, of course, that it was inaudible to me. I came in, as it were, for the tail end of it.

“… I am so disappointed in her; I have tried to like her, and now I fear it is only too certain that she is one of those creatures of whom the less said the better.”

That these words referred to me I had not the slightest doubt. Yet, while they were still on her lips, presuming on her conviction that they were hidden from me, she nodded and smiled as if she were wishing me a friendly good night.

The treachery of it! Now that I am able to look back calmly, I think it was that which galled me most. Her brother, with his gratuitous, horrible lies, had actually been pretending to make love to me—I am sure that was what he wished me to think he was doing. What a fool he must have thought me!

That was a sleepless night. It was hours before I got between the sheets, and when I did it was not to slumber. The feeling that I was so entirely alone, and that there was not a soul within miles and miles to whom I could turn for help, coupled with the consciousness that I had scarcely enough money to pay the hotel bill, and, what was even worse, that Mr. and Mrs. Travers had gone off with the return-half of my ticket to London, so that I could not go back home however much I might want to—these things were hard enough to bear; but they seemed to be as nothing compared to that man and woman’s treachery. What was their motive, what could have induced them, was beyond my comprehension. It was a problem which I strove all night to solve. But the solution came on the morrow.

I soon knew what had happened when I went downstairs. Miss Goodridge had told her story of the pendant, and Mr. Sterndale had circulated his lie about his clerical friend. Everybody shunned me. Some persons had the grace to pretend not to see me; others looked me full in the face and cut me dead. The only persons who were disposed to show any perception of my presence were the Sterndales. As, entering the breakfast-room, I passed their table, they both smiled and nodded, but I showed no consciousness of them. As I took a seat at my own table, I saw him say to his sister:

“Our young friend seems to have got her back up—little idiot!”

Little idiot, was I? Only yesterday he had called me something else. The feeling that he was saying such things behind my back hurt me more than if he had shouted them to my face. I averted my gaze, keeping my eyes fixed on my plate. I would learn no more of what he said about me, or of what anyone said. I was conscious that life might become unendurable if I were made acquainted with the comments which people were making on me then. Yet, as I sat there with downcast face, might they not construe that as the bearing of a conscience-stricken and guilty wretch? I felt sure that that was what they were doing. But I could not help it; I would not see what they were saying.

Later in the morning matters turned out so that I did see, so that practically I had to see what the Sterndales said to each other. And perhaps, on the whole, it was fortunate for me that I did. I had spent the morning out of doors. On the terrace the Sterndales were standing close together, talking; so engrossed were they by what they were saying that they did not notice me; while, though I did not wish to look at them, something made me. That may seem to be an exaggeration. It is not—it is the truth. My wish was to have nothing more to do with them for ever and ever; but some instinct, which came I know not whence, made me turn my eyes in their direction and see what they were saying. And, as I have already said, it was well for me that I did.

They both seemed to be rather excited. He was speaking quickly and with emphasis.

“I tell you,” he was saying, as I paused to watch, “we will do it to-day.”

His sister said something which, as she was standing sideways, was lost to me. He replied:

“The little idiot has cooked her own goose; there’s no need for us to waste time in cooking it any more—she’s done. I tell you we can strip the house of all it contains, and they’d lock her up for doing it.”

Again his sister spoke; without, because of her position, giving herself away to me. He went on again:

“There are only two things in the house worth having—I could give you a catalogue of what every one has got. Mrs. Anstruther’s diamonds—the necklace is first-rate, and the rest of them aren’t bad; and that American woman’s pearls. Those five ropes of pearls are worth—I hope they’ll be worth a good deal to us. The rest of the things you may make a present of to our young friend. The odium will fall on her—you’ll see. We shall be able to depart with the only things worth having, at our distinguished leisure, without a stain upon our characters.”

He smiled—some people might have thought it a pleasant smile—to me it seemed a horrid one. That smile finished me—it reminded me of the traitor’s kiss. I passed into the house still unnoticed, though I do not suppose that if I had been noticed it would have made any difference to them.

What he meant by what he had said I did not clearly understand. The only thing I quite realized was that he was still making sport of me. I also gathered that that was an amusement which he proposed to continue, though just how I did not see. Nor did I grasp the inner meaning of his allusion to Mrs. Anstruther’s diamonds and Mrs. Newball’s pearls—no doubt it was Mrs. Newball he meant when he spoke of the American woman. The fine jewels of those two ladies, which they aired at every opportunity, were, as I knew perfectly well, the talk of the whole hotel. Probably that was what they meant they should be. When Mrs. Anstruther had diamonds round her neck and on her bosom and in her ears and hair and round her wrists and on her fingers—I myself had seen her wear diamond rings on all the fingers of both hands and two diamond bracelets on each wrist—she was a sight to be remembered; while Mrs. Newball, with her five strings of splendid pearls, which she sometimes wore all together as a necklace and sometimes twisted as bracelets round her wrists, together with a heterogeneous collection of ornaments of all sorts and kinds, made a pretty good second.

Not a person spoke to me the whole of that day. Every one avoided me in a most ostentatious manner; and every one, or nearly every one, had been so friendly. It was dreadful. If I had had enough money to pay the hotel bill, as well as the return half of my ticket home, I believe I should have left Interlaken there and then. But the choice of whether I would go or stay, as it turned out, was not to be left to me.

Depressed, miserable, homesick, devoutly wishing that I had never left home, almost resolved that I would never leave it again, I was about to go up to my room to dress for what I very well knew would only be the ghastly farce of dinner, when, as I reached the lift, a waiter came up to me and said that the manager wished to see me in his office. I did not like the man’s manner; it is quite easy for a Swiss waiter to be rude, and I was on the point of telling him that at the moment I was engaged and that the manager would have to wait, when something which I thought I saw in his eye caused me to change my mind, and, with an indefinable sense of discomfort, I allowed him to show me to the managerial sanctum. I never had liked the look of that manager; I liked it less than ever when I found myself alone in his room with him. He was a youngish man, with a moustache, and hair parted mathematically in the centre. In general his bearing was too saccharine to be pleasant; he did not err in that respect just then—it was most offensive. He looked me up and down as if I were one of his employés who had done something wrong, and, without waiting for me to speak, he said:

“You are Miss Judith Lee—or you pretend that is your name?”

He spoke English very well, as most of the Swiss one meets in hotels seem to do. Nothing could have been more impertinent than his tone, unless it was the look which accompanied it. I stared at him.

“I am Miss Lee. I do not pretend that is my name; it is.”

“Very well—that is your affair, not mine. You will no longer be allowed to occupy a room in this hotel. You can go at once.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. The man was incredible.

“You know very well what I mean. Don’t you try that sort of thing with me. You have stolen an article of jewellery belonging to a guest in my hotel. She is a very kind-hearted lady, and she is not willing to hand you over to the police. You owe me some money; here’s your bill. Are you going to pay it?”

He handed me a long strip of paper which was covered with figures. One glance at the total was enough to tell me that I had not enough money. Mrs. Travers was acting as my banker. She had left me with ample funds to serve as pocket-money till she returned, but with nothing like enough money to pay that bill.

“Mrs. Travers will pay you when she comes back, either to-morrow or the day after.”

“Will she?” The sneer with which he said it! “How am I to know that you’re not at the same game together?”

“The same game! What do you mean? How dare you look at me like that, and talk to me as if I were one of your servants!”

“I’m not going to talk to you at all, my girl; I’m going to do. I’m not going to allow a person who robs my guests to remain in my house under any pretext whatever. Your luggage, such as it is, will remain here until my bill is paid.” He rang a bell which was on the table by which he was standing. The waiter entered who had showed me there. He was a big man, with a square, dark face. “This young woman must go at once. If she won’t leave of her own accord we must put her out, by the back door. Now, my girl—out you go!”

The waiter approached me. He spoke to me as he might have done to a dog.

“Now, then, come along.”

He actually put his hand upon my shoulder. Another second, and I believe he would have swung me round and out of the room. But just as he touched me the door was opened and some one came rushing in—Mrs. Anstruther, in a state of the greatest excitement.

“My diamonds have been stolen!” she cried. “Some one has stolen my diamonds!”

“Your diamonds?” The manager looked at her and then at me. “I trust, madam, you are mistaken?”

“I’m not mistaken.” She sank on to a chair. She was a big woman of about fifty, and, at the best of times, was scant of breath. Such was her agitation that just then she could scarcely breathe at all. “As if I could be mistaken about a thing like that! I went up to my bedroom—to dress for dinner—and I unlocked my trunk—I always keep it locked; I took out my jewel-case—and unlocked that—and my diamonds were gone. They’ve been stolen!—stolen!—stolen!”

She repeated the word “stolen” three times over, as if the heinousness of the fact required to be emphasized by repetition. The manager was evidently uneasy, which even I felt was not to be wondered at.

“This is a very serious matter, Mrs. Anstruther——”

She cut him short.

“Serious? Do you think I need you to tell me that it’s serious? You don’t know how serious. Those diamonds are worth thousands and thousands of pounds—more than the whole of your twopenny-halfpenny hotel—and they’ve been stolen. From my trunk, in my bedroom, in your hotel, they’ve been stolen!”

The way she hurled the words at him! He looked at me, and he asked:

“What do you know about this?”

What did I know? In the midst of my confusion and distress I was asking myself what I did know. Before I could speak the door was opened again and Mrs. Newball came in. And not Mrs. Newball only, but six or seven other women, some of them accompanied by men—their husbands and their brothers. And they all told the same tale. Something had been stolen from each: from Mrs. Newball her five strings of pearls, from Mrs. This and Miss That the article of jewellery which was valued most. I am convinced that that manager, or his room, or probably his hotel, had never witnessed such a scene before. They were all as excited as could be, and they were all talking at once, and every second or two some one else kept coming in with some fresh tale of a dreadful loss. How that man kept his head at all was, and is, a mystery to me. At last he reduced them to something like silence, and in the presence of them all he said to me—pointing at me with his finger, as if I were a thing to be pointed at:

“It is you who have done this! You!”

Some one exclaimed in the crowd: “I saw her coming out of Mrs. Anstruther’s room.”

The manager demanded: “Who spoke? Who was it said that?”

A slight, faded, fair-haired woman came out into the public gaze.

“I am Mrs. Anstruther’s maid. I was going along to her room when I saw this young lady come out of the door. Whether she saw me or not I can’t say; she might have done, because she ran off as fast as ever she could. I wondered what she was doing there, and when my mistress came I told her what I had seen, and that’s what made her open her trunk.”

“What Perkins says is quite true,” corroborated Mrs. Anstruther. “She did tell me, and that made me uneasy; I had heard something about a diamond pendant having been stolen last night, so I opened my jewel-case, and my diamonds were gone.”

“Mine was the diamond pendant which was stolen by this creature last night,” interposed Miss Goodridge. “She came to my room and took it out of my trunk. Since she did that it seems not impossible that she has played the same trick on other people to-day. If she has, she must have had a pretty good haul, because I don’t believe there is a person in the hotel who hasn’t lost something.”

The manager spoke to an under-strapper.

“Have this young woman’s luggage searched at once, in the presence of witnesses, and let me know the result as soon as you possibly can.”

As the under-strapper went out I noticed for the first time that Mr. Sterndale was present with the rest, and almost at the same instant his sister came in. She looked about her as if wondering what was the cause of all the fuss. Then she went up to her brother, and he whispered something to her, and she whispered something to him. Only three or four words in each case, but my heart gave a leap in my bosom—I mean that, really, because it did feel as if it actually had jumped—courage came into me, and strength, and something better than hope: certainty; because they had delivered themselves into my hands. I was never more thankful that I had the power of eavesdropping—you can call it eavesdropping, if you like!—than I was at that moment. Only a second before I had been fearing that I was in a tight place, from which there was no way out; which would mean something for me from which my very soul seemed to shrink. But God had given me a gift, a talent, which I had striven with all my might to improve ten, twenty fold, and that would deliver me from the wiles of those two people, even when hope of deliverance there seemed none. I feel confident that I held myself straighter, that trouble went from my face as it had done from my heart, and that, though each moment the case against me seemed to be growing blacker and blacker, I grew calmer and more self-possessed. I knew I had only to wait till the proper moment came, and the toils in which they thought they had caught me would prove to be mere nothings; they would be caught, and I should be free.

All the same, until that moment for which I was waiting came, it was not nice for me—standing there amidst all those excited people, between two porters, who kept close to either side of me, as if I were a prisoner and they had me in charge; though I dare say it was as well that they did keep as close to me as they did, because I fancy that some of the injured guests at that hotel would have liked to give me a practical demonstration of what their feelings towards me were.

That under-strapper came back in a surprisingly short space of time with a hand-bag—a brown bag, which I recognized to be my own.

The agitated guests crowded round him like a swarm of bees. He had difficulty in forcing his way through them. The manager did his best to keep them in something like order—first with a show of mildness.

“Ladies, gentlemen—gently, gently, if you please.” Then, with a sudden ferocity: “Stand back, there! If you will not stand back, if you will not make room, how can anything be done? Keep these people back!”

To whom this order was addressed was not quite clear. Thus admonished, the people kept themselves back—at least, sufficiently to enable that under-strapper to pass with my bag to the table. The manager said to him:

“Go to the other side; what have you in that bag?” When, as he said this, his guests evinced an inclination to press forward, he threw out his arms on either side of him and positively shouted:

“Will you not keep back? If you will keep back, everything shall be done in order before you all. I ask you only to be a little sensible. If there is so much confusion, we shall not know what we are doing. I beg of you that you will be calm.”

If they were not precisely calm, the people did show some slight inclination to behave with an approach to common sense. They permitted the bag to be placed on the table, and the manager to open it, having first put some questions to the young man who brought it in.

“Where did you find this bag?”

“In her room.” I was the “her,” which he made clear by pointing his finger straight at me.

“Was anyone else present in the room at the time you found it? Did you find anything else?”

“There were three other persons present in the room. That bag was the first thing I touched. When I opened it and saw what was inside, I thought that, for the present, that would be enough. I think you also will be of my opinion when you see what it contains.”

Then the manager opened the bag. He looked inside, then he turned it upside down and allowed the whole contents to fall out on to the table. Of all the extraordinary collections! I believe there were articles belonging to every person in the hotel. When you came to think of it, it was amazing how they had been gathered together—in what could only have been a short space of time—without the gatherer being detected. As for the behaviour of the guests of the hotel, it was like Bedlam broken loose. They pressed forward all together, ejaculating, exclaiming, snatching at this and that, as each saw some personal belonging.

“Keep back! Keep back!” shouted the manager. “Will you not keep back?” As he positively roared at them they did shrink back as if a trifle startled. “If you will only have a little patience each lady shall have what belongs to her—if it is here.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s voice was heard above the hubbub:

“Are my diamonds there?” Then Mrs. Newball’s “And my pearls?”

The under-strapper was examining the miscellaneous collection which my bag had contained with all those women breaking into continual exclamations, watching him with hungry eyes. He announced the result of his examination.

“No; Mrs. Anstruther’s diamonds do not appear to be here, nor Mrs. Newball’s pearls; there is nothing here which at all resembles them.”

The manager held out towards me a minatory finger; every one seemed to have developed a sudden mania for pointing, particularly at me.

“You! Where have you put Mrs. Newball’s pearls and Mrs. Anstruther’s diamonds? Better make a clean breast of it, and no longer play the hypocrite. We will find them, if you do not tell us where they are, be sure of it. Now tell us at once.”

How he thundered at me! It was most embarrassing, or it would have been if I had not been conscious that I held the key of the situation in my hand. As it was, I minded his thunder scarcely a little bit, though I always have hated being shouted at. I was very calm—certainly the calmest person there—which, of course, was not saying very much.

“I can tell you where they are, if that is what you mean.”

“You know that is what I mean. Tell us at once! at once!”

He banged his fist upon the table so that that miscellaneous collection trembled. I did not tremble, though perhaps it was his intention that I should. I was growing calmer and calmer.

“In the first place, let me inform you that if you suppose I put those things in my bag—the bag is certainly mine—or had anything to do with their getting there, you are mistaken.”

My words, and perhaps my manner, created a small diversion. “What impudence!” “What assurance!” “Did you ever see anything like it?” “So young and so brazen!” “The impudent baggage!” Those were some of the things which they said, which were very nice for me to have to listen to. But I was sure, from a glimpse I had caught of Mr. and Miss Sterndale, that they were not quite at their ease, and that was such a comfort.

“No lies!” thundered the manager, whose English became a little vulgar. “No foolery! No stuck-up rubbish! Tell us the truth—where are these ladies’ jewels?”

“I propose to tell you the truth, if you will have a little patience.” I returned him look for look; I was not the least afraid of him. “I am going to give you a little surprise.” I was so conscious of that that I was beginning to feel almost amused. “I have a power of which I think none of you have any conception, especially two of you. I know what people are saying although I do not hear them; like the deaf and dumb, who know what a person is saying by merely watching his lips.”

There were some very rude interruptions, to which I paid no notice whatever. An elderly man whom I had never seen before, and who spoke with an air of authority, advised them to give me a hearing. They did let me go on.

I told them what I had seen Miss Sterndale say to her brother on the balcony the morning before. It was some satisfaction to see the startled look which came upon the faces of both the brother and the sister. They made some very noisy and uncivil comments, but, as I could see how uncomfortable they were feeling, I let them make them. I went on. I told how unhappy I had been all day, and how, when I returned, I found under the bottom tray of my jewel-case the diamond pendant. How, astounded, I went down to ask Miss Sterndale why she had put it there, and how, encountering Miss Goodridge bewailing her loss, utterly taken aback, I held out to her her pendant in a manner which, I admitted, might very easily have seemed suspicious.

By this time the manager’s room was in a delightful state of din. Mr. and Miss Sterndale were both of them shouting together, declaring that it was shocking that such a creature as I was should be allowed to make such monstrous insinuations. I believe, if it had not been for that grey-haired man who had suddenly assumed a position of authority, that Miss Sterndale would have made a personal assault on me. She seemed half beside herself with rage—and, I was quite sure, with something else as well.

I continued—in spite of the Sterndales. I could see that I was creating a state of perplexity in the minds of my hearers which might very shortly induce them to take up an entirely different attitude towards me. I told of the brief dialogue which had taken place between the sister and brother that very morning. And then you should have seen how the Sterndales stormed and raged.

“It seems to me,” observed the grey-haired man to Mr. Sterndale, “that you protest too much, sir. If this young lady is all the things you say she is, presently you will have every opportunity of proving it. Since she is one young girl among all us grown-ups, it is only right and decent that we should hear what she has to say for herself. We can condemn her afterwards—that part will be easy.”

So I went on again. There was very little to add. They knew almost as much of the rest as I did. Some one had effected a wholesale clearance of pretty nearly every valuable which the house contained. I did not pretend to be certain, but I thought it extremely probable that it was Miss Sterndale who had done this, while her brother kept the owners occupied in other directions. At this point glances were exchanged. I afterwards learned that Mr. Sterndale had organized a party for an excursion on the Lake of Brienz, which had been joined by nearly every one in the place with the exception of Miss Sterndale, who was supposed to have gone for a solitary expedition up the Schynnige Platte. When Miss Sterndale saw those glances, as I have no doubt she did, she commenced to storm and rage again, and continued to the end. I do not think, even then, she guessed what was coming; but she was already more uncomfortable than she had expected to be, and I could see that her brother felt the same. His face was white and set; he looked like a man who was trying to think of the best way in which to confront a desperate situation.

I went on to explain, quite calmly, that as, owing to the machinations of Mr. Sterndale and his sister, every one in the house had come to look upon me as a thief, their evident intention was to allow suspicion to be centred on me, and that that was why they put those things in my bag.

“But what were they going to gain by that?” asked the grey-haired man, rather pertinently. His question was echoed in a chorus by the rest—particularly, I noticed, by the Sterndales, who laid emphasis on the transparent absurdity of what I was saying.

“If you will allow me to continue, I will soon make it perfectly clear to you what they were going to gain. If you remember, when Mr. Sterndale was talking to his sister on the balcony this morning, I saw him say to her that there were only two things in the house worth having——”

Here Mr. Sterndale burst into a very hurricane of adjectives. The grey-haired man addressed him with rather unlooked-for vigour.

“Silence, sir! Allow Miss Lee to continue.”

Mr. Sterndale was silent. I fancy he was rather cowed by what he saw in the speaker’s eyes. I did continue.

“The only two things which, according to Mr. Sterndale, were worth having were Mrs. Anstruther’s diamonds and Mrs. Newball’s pearls. If they put the whole of the rest of the stolen things into my bag it would be taken for granted that I was the thief, and they would be able to continue in unsuspected possession of the two things which were worth much more than all the rest put together.”

The moment I stopped the clamour began again.

“And where do you suggest, young lady,” asked the grey-haired man, “that those two articles are?”

“I will tell you.” I looked at Miss Sterndale and then at her brother. I believe they would both have liked to have killed and eaten me. They can scarcely have been sure, even then, of what I was going to say, but I could see that they were devoured by anxiety and fear. “I have told you that I can see what people are saying by merely watching their lips. When Miss Sterndale came into the room she whispered something to her brother, in so faint a whisper that her words could have been scarcely audible even to themselves; but I saw their faces, and I knew what they had said as plainly as if they had shouted it. He told her that he had Mrs. Anstruther’s diamonds in the pocket of the jacket he has on.”

I paused. The first expression on Mr. Sterndale’s face was one of blank astonishment. Then he broke into Billingsgate abuse of me.

“You infernal liar! You two-faced cat! You dirty little witch! I’m not going to stay in this room to be insulted by a miserable creature——”

He made for the door. “Stop him!” I cried. As he reached the door it was thrown back almost in his face, and who should come into the room but Mr. and Mrs. Travers. How glad I was to see them! “Stop him!” I cried to Mr. Travers. “Stop that man!” And Mr. Travers stopped him. “Put your hand into the pocket of his jacket and take out what he has there.”

Mr. Travers, knowing nothing of what had been taking place, must have been rather at a loss as to what I might mean by such a request; but he did as I told him, all the same. Mr. Sterndale struggled; he did his best to protect himself and his pocket; but he was rather a small man, and Mr. Travers was a giant, both in stature and in strength. In a very few seconds he was staring at the contents of his hand.

“From the look of things, this gentleman’s pocket seems to be stuffed with diamonds. Here’s a diamond necklace.”

He held one up in the air. Heavy weight though she was, I believe that Mrs. Anstruther sprang several inches from the floor.

“It’s my necklace!” she screamed.

“And where are my pearls?” demanded Mrs. Newball.

“Miss Sterndale whispered to her brother that your pearls were inside the bodice of her dress.”

The words were scarcely out of my lips before Mrs. Newball sprang at Miss Sterndale, and there ensued a really painful scene. Had she not been restrained, I dare say she would have torn Miss Sterndale’s clothes right off her. As it was, some one opened her bodice, and the pearls were produced.

The scene which followed was like pandemonium on a small scale. It seemed as if every one had gone stark, staring mad. Guests, manager, and staff were all shouting together. I know that Mrs. Travers had her arm round me, and I was happier than—only a few minutes before—I thought that I should ever feel again.

We did not prosecute the Sterndales—which turned out not to be their name, and they were proved not to be sister and brother. Law in Switzerland does not move too quickly; the formalities to be observed are numerous. I did not very much want to have to remain in Switzerland for an indefinite period, at my own expense, to give evidence in a case in which I was not in the faintest degree interested. The others, the guests in the hotel, did not want to do that any more than I did. Their property was restored to them—that was what they wanted. They would have liked to punish the thieves, but not at the cost of so much inconvenience to themselves. So far as we were concerned, the criminals got off scot-free; but, none the less, they did not escape the vengeance of the law. That night they were arrested at Interlaken on another charge. It seemed that they were the perpetrators of that robbery in the hotel at Pontresina which, according to Mr. Sterndale, his apocryphal clerical friend had laid at my door. They had passed there as Mr. and Mrs. Burnett, and were found guilty and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. I have not seen or heard anything of that pseudonymous brother and sister since. I hope I never shall.

To find out what people are saying to each other in confidence, when they suppose themselves to be out of the reach of curious ears, may be very like eavesdropping. If it is, I am very glad that, on various occasions in my life, I have been enabled to be an eavesdropper in that sense. Had I not, at Interlaken, had the power which made of me an eavesdropper, I might have been branded as a criminal, and my happiness, my whole life, have been destroyed for ever.

### III.
CONSCIENCE

I had been spending a few days at Brighton, and was sitting one morning on the balcony of the West Pier pavilion, listening to the fine band of the Gordon Highlanders. The weather was beautiful—the kind one sometimes does get at Brighton—blue skies, a warm sun, and just that touch in the soft breeze which serves as a pick-me-up. There were crowds of people. I sat on one end of a bench. In a corner, within a few feet of me, a man was standing, leaning with his back against the railing—an odd-looking man, tall, slender, with something almost Mongolian in his clean-shaven, round face. I had noticed him on that particular spot each time I had been on the pier. He was well tailored, and that morning, for the first time, he wore a flower in his button-hole. As one sometimes does when one sees an unusual-looking stranger, I wondered hazily what kind of person he might be. I did not like the look of him.

Presently another man came along the balcony and paused close to him. They took no notice of each other; the new-comer looked attentively at the crowd promenading on the deck below, almost ostentatiously disregarding the other’s neighbourhood. All the same, the man in the corner whispered something which probably reached his ears alone—and my perception—which seemed to be a few disconnected words:

“Mauve dress, big black velvet hat, ostrich plume; four-thirty train.”

That was all he said. I do not suppose that anyone there, except the man who had paused and the lazy-looking girl whose eyes had chanced for a moment to wander towards his lips, had any notion that he had spoken at all. The new-comer remained for a few moments idly watching the promenaders, then, turning, without vouchsafing the other the slightest sign of recognition, strolled carelessly on.

It struck me as rather an odd little scene. I was constantly being made an unintentional confidante of what were meant to be secrets; but about that brief sentence which the one had whispered to the other there was a piquant something which struck me as amusing—the more especially as I believed I had seen the lady to whom the words referred. As I came on the pier I had been struck by her gorgeous appearance, as being a person who probably had more money than taste.

Some minutes passed. The Mongolian-looking man remained perfectly quiescent in his corner. Then another man came strolling along—big and burly, in a reddish brown suit, a green felt hat worn slightly on one side of his head. He paused on the same spot on which the first man had brought his stroll to a close, and he paid no attention to the gentleman in the corner, who looked right away from him, even while I could see his lips framing precisely the same sentence:

“Mauve dress, big black velvet hat, ostrich plume; four-thirty train.”

The big man showed by no sign that he had heard a sound. He continued to do as his predecessor had done—stared at the promenaders, then strolled carelessly on.

This second episode struck me as being rather odder than the first. Why were such commonplace words uttered in so mysterious a manner? Would a third man come along? I waited to see—and waited in vain. The band played “God Save the King,” the people rose, but no third man had appeared. I left the Mongolian-looking gentleman still in his corner and went to the other side of the balcony to watch the people going down the pier. I saw the gorgeous lady in the mauve dress and big black picture-hat with a fine ostrich plume, and I wondered what interest she might have for the round-faced man in the corner, and what she had to do with the four-thirty train. She was with two or three equally gorgeous ladies and one or two wonderfully attired men; they seemed to be quite a party.

The next day I left Brighton by an early train. In the compartment I was reading the Sussex Daily News, when a paragraph caught my eye. “Tragic Occurrence on the Brighton Line.” Late the night before the body of a woman had been found lying on the ballast, as if she might have fallen out of a passing train. It described her costume—she was attired in a pale mauve dress and a big black picture-hat in which was an ostrich-feather plume. There were other details—plenty of them—but that was enough for me.

When I read that and thought of the man leaning against the railing I rather caught my breath. Two young men who were facing each other at the other end of the compartment began to talk about the paragraph in tones which were audible to all.

“Do you see that about the lady in the mauve dress who was found on the line? Do you know, I shouldn’t wonder a bit if it was Mrs. Farningham—that’s her rig-out to a T. And I know she was going up to town yesterday afternoon.”

“She did go,” replied the other; “and I’m told that when she started she’d had about enough cold tea.”

The other grinned—a grin of comprehension.

“If that’s so I shouldn’t wonder if the poor dear opened the carriage door, thinking it was some other door, and stepped out on to the line. From all I hear, it seems that she was quite capable of doing that sort of thing when she was like that.”

“Oh, quite; not a doubt of it. And she was capable of some pretty queer things when she wasn’t like that.”

I wondered; these young gentlemen might be right; still, the more I thought the more I wondered.

I was very much occupied just then. It was because I had nearly broken down in my work that I had gone for those few days to Brighton. I doubt if I even glanced at a newspaper for some considerable time after that. I cannot say that the episode wholly faded from my memory, but I never heard what was the sequel of the lady who was found on the line, or, indeed, anything more about her.

I accepted an engagement with a deaf and dumb girl who was about to travel with her parents on a long voyage, pretty nearly round the world. I was to meet them in Paris, and then go on with them to Marseilles, where the real journey commenced. The night before I started some friends gave me a sort of send-off dinner at the Embankment Hotel. We were about half-way through the meal when a man came in and sat by himself at a small round table, nearly facing me. I could not think where I had seen him before. I was puzzling my brain when a second man came across the room and strolled slowly by his table. He did not pause, nor did either allow a sign to escape him to show that they were acquaintances, yet I distinctly saw the lips of the man who was seated at the table frame about a dozen words:

“White dress, star in her hair, pink roses over left breast; to-night.”

The stroller went carelessly on, and for a moment my heart seemed to stand still. It all came back to me—the pier, the band of the Gordon Highlanders, the man with his back against the railings, the words whispered to the two men who had paused beside him. The diner in front of me was the Mongolian-looking man; I should have recognized him at once had not evening dress wrought such a change in him. That whispered sentence made assurance doubly sure. The party with whom I was dining had themselves been struck by the appearance of the lady in the white frock, with the diamond star in her hair, and the pink roses arranged so daintily in the corsage of her dress. There had been a laughing discussion about who was the nicest-looking person in the room; more than one opinion had supported the claim of the lady with the diamond star.

In the middle of that dinner I found myself all at once in a quandary, owing to that very inconvenient gift of mine. I recalled the whisper about the lady in the mauve dress, and how the very next day the body of a lady so attired had been found on the Brighton line. Was the whispered allusion to the lady in the white dress to have a similar unpleasant sequel? If there was fear of anything of the kind, what was I to do?

My friends, noticing my abstraction, rallied me on my inattention.

“May I point out to you,” observed my neighbour, “that the waiter is offering you asparagus, and has been doing so for about five minutes?”

Looking round, I found that the waiter was standing patiently at my side. I allowed him to help me. I was about to eat what he had given me when I saw some one advancing across the room whom I knew at once, in spite of the alteration which evening dress made in him—it was the big, burly man in the red-brown suit.

The comedy—if it were a comedy—was repeated. The big man, not, apparently, acknowledging the existence of the solitary diner, passed his table, seemingly by the merest chance, in the course of his passage towards another on the other side of the room. With a morsel of food on his fork poised mid-way between the plate and his mouth, the diner moved his lips to repeat his former words:

“White dress, star in her hair, pink roses over left breast; to-night.”

The big man had passed, the morsel of food had entered the diner’s mouth; nothing seemed to have happened, yet I was on the point of springing to my feet and electrifying the gaily dressed crowd by crying “Murder!”

More than once afterwards I wished I had done so. I do not know what would have happened if I had; I have sometimes asked myself if I could say what would not have happened. As a matter of fact, I did nothing at all. I do not say it to excuse myself, nor to blame anyone, but it seemed to me, at the moment, that to do anything was impossible, because those with whom I was dining made it so. I was their guest; they took care to make me understand that I owed them something as my hosts. They were in the merriest mood themselves; they seemed to regard it as of the first importance that I should be merry too. To the best of my ability I was outwardly as gay as the rest of them. The lady in the white dress, with her party, left early. I should have liked to give her some hint, some warning—I did neither; I just let her go. As she went across the room one or two members of our party toasted her under their breath. The solitary diner took no heed of her whatever. I had been furtively watching him the whole time, and he never once glanced in her direction. So far as I saw, he was so absorbed in his meal that he scarcely raised his eyes from the table. I knew, unfortunately, that I could not have mistaken the words which I had seen his lips forming. I tried to comfort myself with the reflection that they could not have referred to the vision of feminine loveliness which had just passed from the room.

The following morning I travelled by the early boat-train to Dover. When the train had left the station I looked at my Telegraph. I read a good deal of it; then, at the top of a column on one of the inside pages, I came upon a paragraph headed: “Mysterious Affair at the Embankment Hotel.” Not very long after midnight—in time, it seemed, to reach the paper before it went to press—the body of a young woman had been found in the courtyard of the hotel. She was in her night attire. She was recognized as one of the guests who had been staying in the hotel; she had either fallen or been thrown out of her bedroom window.

Something happened to my brain so that I was unconscious of the train, in which I was a passenger, as it sped onwards.

What did that paragraph mean? Could the woman who had been found in her night attire in the courtyard of the Embankment Hotel be the woman who had worn the white dress and a diamond star in her pretty brown hair? There was nothing to show that she was. There was nothing to connect that lightly clothed body with the whispered words of the solitary diner with a touch of the Mongol in his face; yet I wondered if it were not my duty to return at once to London and tell my story. But, after all, it was such a silly story; it amounted to nothing; it proved nothing. Those people were waiting for me in Paris; I could not desert them at the last moment, with all our passages booked, for what might turn out to be something even more fantastic than a will-o’-the-wisp.

So I went on to Paris, and, with them, nearly round the world; and I can say, without exaggeration, that more than once that curious-looking gentleman’s face seemed to have gone with me. Once, in an English paper which I picked up after we had landed at Hong-Kong, I read about the body of a woman which had been found on the Great Western Railway line near Exeter station—and I wondered. When I went out into the streets and saw on the faces of the people who thronged them something which recalled the solitary diner at the Embankment Hotel—I wondered still more.

More than two years elapsed. In the summer of the third I went to Buxton, as I had gone to Brighton, for a rest. I was seated one morning in the public gardens, with my thoughts on the other side of the world—we had not long returned from the Sandwich Islands—and I was comparing that land of perpetual summer with the crisp freshness of the Buxton air. With my thoughts still far away, my eyes passed idly from face to face of those around me, until presently I became aware that under the shade of a tree on my left a man was sitting alone. When I saw his face my thoughts came back with a rush; it was the man who had been on the pier at Brighton, and at the Embankment Hotel, and who had travelled with me round the world. The consciousness of his near neighbourhood gave me a nasty jar; as at the Embankment Hotel there was an impulsive moment when I felt like jumping on to my feet and denouncing him to the assembled crowd. He was dressed in a cool grey suit; as at Brighton, he had a flower in his button-hole; he sat upright and impassive, glancing neither to the left nor right, as if nothing was of interest to him.

Then the familiar comedy, which I believe I had rehearsed in my dreams, began again. A man came down the path from behind me, passing before I had seen his face, and under the shady tree paused for an instant to light a cigarette, and I saw the lips of the man on the chair forming words:

“Grey dress, lace scarf, Panama hat; five-five train.”

His lips framed those nine words only; then the man with the cigarette passed on, and I really do believe that my heart stood still. Comedy? I had an uncomfortable conviction that this was a tragedy which was being played—in the midst of that light-hearted crowd, in that pleasant garden, under those laughing skies. I waited for the action to continue—not very long. In the distance I saw a big, burly person threading his way among the people towards that shady tree, and I knew what was coming. He did not pause even for a single instant, he just went slowly by, within a foot of the chair, and the thin lips shaped themselves into words:

“Grey dress, lace scarf, Panama hat; five-five train.”

The big man sauntered on, leaving me with the most uncomfortable feeling that I had seen sentence of death pronounced on an innocent, helpless fellow-creature. I did not propose to sit still this time and allow those three uncanny beings, undisturbed, to work their evil wills. As at the hotel, the question recurred to me—What was I to do? Was I to go up and denounce this creature to his face? Suppose he chose to regard me as some ill-conducted person, what evidence had I to adduce that any statements I might make were true? I decided, in the first place, to leave him severely alone; I had thought of another plan.

Getting up from my chair I began to walk about the gardens. As had not been the case on two previous occasions, there was no person in sight who answered to the description—“Grey dress, lace scarf, Panama hat.” I was just about to conclude that this time the victim was not in plain view, when I saw a Panama hat in the crowd on the other side of the band. I moved quickly forward; it was certainly on a woman’s head. There was a lace scarf spread out upon her shoulders, a frock of a very light shade in grey. Was this the woman whose doom had been pronounced? I went more forward still, and, with an unpleasant sense of shock, recognized the wearer.

I was staying at the Empire Hotel. On the previous afternoon, at tea-time, the lounge had been very full. I saw a tall lady, who seemed to be alone, glancing about as if looking for an empty table. As she seemed to have some difficulty in finding one, and as I had a table all to myself, I suggested, as she came near, that she should have a seat at mine. The manner in which she received my suggestion took me aback. I suppose there are no ruder, more ill-bred creatures in the world than some English women. Whether she thought I wished to force my company upon her and somehow scrape an acquaintance, I cannot say. She could not have treated my suggestion with more contemptuous scorn had I tried to pick her pocket. She just looked down at me, as if wondering what kind of person I could be that I had dared to speak to her at all, and then, without condescending to reply, went on. I almost felt as if she had given me a slap across my face.

After dinner I saw her again in the lounge. She wore some very fine jewellery—she was a very striking woman, beautifully gowned. A diamond brooch was pinned to her bodice. As she approached I saw it was unfastened; it fell within a foot of where I was sitting. I picked it up and offered it to her, with the usual formula.

“I think this is your brooch—you have just dropped it.”

How do you think she thanked me? She hesitated a second to take the brooch, as if she thought I might be playing her some trick. Then, when she saw that it was hers, she took it and looked it carefully over—and what do you suppose she said?

“You are very insistent.”

That was all, every word—in such ineffable tones! She was apparently under the impression that I had engineered the dropping of that diamond brooch as a further step in my nefarious scheme to force on her the dishonour of my acquaintance.

This was the lady who in the public gardens was wearing a light grey dress, a lace scarf, and a Panama hat. What would she say to me if I told her about the man under the shady tree and his two friends? Yet, if I did not tell her, should I not feel responsible for whatever might ensue? That she went in danger of her life I was as sure as that I was standing there. She might be a very unpleasant, a very foolish woman, yet I could not stand by and allow her quite possibly to be done to death, without at least warning her of the danger which she ran. The sooner the warning was given the better. As she turned into a side path I turned into another, meaning to meet her in the centre of hers and warn her there and then.

The meeting took place, and, as I had more than half expected, I entirely failed to do what I had intended. The glance she fixed on me when she saw me coming and recognized who I was conveyed sufficient information. It said, as plainly as if in so many words, that if I dared to insult her by attempting to address her it would be at my own proper peril. None the less, I did dare. I remembered the woman in the mauve dress, and the woman in the white, and the feeling I had had that by the utterance of a few words I might have saved their lives. I was going to do my best to save hers, even though she tried to freeze me while I was in the act of doing so.

We met. As if scenting my design, as we neared each other she quickened her pace to stride right past. But I was too quick for her; I barred the way. The expression with which, as she recognized my intention, she regarded me! But I was not to be frightened into dumbness.

“There is something I have to say to you which is important—of the very first importance—which it is essential that I should say and you should hear. I have not the least intention of forcing on you my acquaintance, but with your sanction——”

I got as far as that, but I got no farther. As I still continued to bar her path, she turned right round and marched in the other direction. I might have gone after her, I might have stopped her—I did move a step or two; but when I did she spoke to me over her shoulder as she was moving:

“If you dare to speak to me again I shall claim the protection of the police; so be advised.”

I was advised. Whether the woman suffered from some obscure form of mental disease or not I could not say, or with what majesty she supposed herself to be hedged around, which made it the height of presumption for a mere outsider to venture to address her—that also was a mystery to me. As I had no wish to have a scene in the public gardens, and as it appeared that there would be a scene if I did any more to try to help her, I let her go.

I saw her leave the gardens, and when I had seen that I strolled back. There, under the shady tree, still sat the man with the touch of the Mongol in his face.

After luncheon, which I took at the hotel, I had a surprise. There, in the hall, was my gentleman, going through the front door. I spoke to the hall porter.

“Is that gentleman staying in the house?” The porter intimated that he was. “Can you tell me what his name is?” The porter answered promptly, perhaps because it was such an unusual name:

“Mr. John Tung.” Then he added, with a smile, “I used to be in the Navy. When we were on the China station I was always meeting people with names like that—this gentleman is the first I’ve met since.”

An idea occurred to me. I felt responsible for that woman, in spite of her stupidity. If anything happened to her it would lie at my door. For my own sake I did not propose to run the risk. I went to the post office and I sent a telegram to John Tung, Empire Hotel. The clerk on the other side of the counter seemed rather surprised as he read the words which I wished him to wire.

“I suppose this is all right?” he questioned, as if in doubt.

“Perfectly all right,” I replied. “Please send that telegram at once.”

I quitted the office, leaving that telegraph clerk scanning my message as if he were still in doubt if it was in order. In the course of the afternoon I had another idea. I wrote what follows on a sheet of paper.

> “You threw the woman in the mauve dress on to the Brighton line; you were responsible for the death of the woman in the white dress at the Embankment Hotel; you killed the woman who was found on the Great Western line near Exeter station; but you are going to do no mischief to the woman in the grey dress and the lace scarf and the Panama hat, who is going up to town by the five-five.

> “Be sure of that.

> “Also you may be sure that the day of reckoning is at hand, when you and your two accomplices will be called to a strict account. In that hour you will be shown no more mercy than you have shown.

> “That is as certain as that, at the present moment, you are still alive. But the messengers of justice are drawing near.”

There was no beginning and no ending, no date, no address—I just wrote that and left it so. It was wild language, in which I took a good deal for granted that I had no right to take; and it savoured a good deal of melodrama and highfalutin. But then, my whole scheme was a wild-cat scheme; if it succeeded it would be because of that, as it were, very wild-cat property. I put my sheet of paper into an envelope, and I wrote outside it in very large, plain letters, “Mr. John Tung.” Then I went into the lounge of the hotel for tea—and I waited.

And I kept on waiting for quite a considerable time. It was rather early for tea, but as time passed and people began to gather together, and there were still no signs of the persons whose presence I particularly desired, I began to fidget. If none of them appeared I should have to reconsider my plan of campaign. I was just on the point of concluding that the moment had come when I had better think of something else, when I saw Mr. John Tung standing in the doorway and with him his two acquaintances. This was better than I had expected. Their appearance together in the public room of the hotel suggested all sorts of possibilities to my mind.

I had that missive prepared. I waited until I had some notion of the quarter of the room in which they proposed to establish themselves, then I rose from my chair and, crossing to the other side of the lounge, left on a table close to that at which they were about to sit—I hoped unnoticed—the envelope on which “Mr. John Tung” was so plainly written. Then I watched for the march of events.

What I had hoped would occur did happen. A waiter, bustling towards the new-comers, saw the envelope lying on a vacant table, picked it up, perceived that it was addressed to Mr. John Tung, and bore it to that gentleman. I could not hear, but I saw what was said. The waiter began:

“Is this your letter, sir?”

Mr. Tung glanced, as if surprised, at the envelope which the man was holding, then took it from between his fingers and stared at it hard.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“It was on that table, sir.”

“What table?”

“The one over there, sir.”

Mr. Tung looked in the direction in which the man was pointing, as if not quite certain what he meant.

“How came it to be there? Who put it there?”

“Can’t say, sir. I saw an envelope lying on the table as I was coming to you, and when I saw your name on it I thought it might be yours. Tea, sir?”

“Tea for three, and bring some buttered toast.”

The waiter went. Mr. Tung remained staring at the envelope as if there were something in its appearance which he found a little puzzling. One of his companions spoke to him; but as his back was towards me I could not see what he said—I could guess from the other’s answer.

“Some rubbish; a circular, I suppose—the sort of thing one does get in hotels.”

Then he opened the envelope, and—I had rather a funny feeling. I was perfectly conscious that from the point of view of a court of law I had not the slightest right to pen a single one of the words which were on the sheet of paper inside that envelope. For all I could prove, Mr. Tung and his friends might be the most innocent of men. I might find it pretty hard to prove that the Mongolian-looking gentleman had whispered either of the brief, jerky sentences which I had seen him whisper; and, even if I could get as far as that, there still remained the difficulty of showing that they bore anything like the construction which I had put upon them. If I had misjudged him, if my deductions had been wrong, then Mr. Tung, when he found what was in that envelope, would be more than justified in making a fine to-do. It was quite possible, since I could not have eyes at the back of my head, that some one had seen me leave that envelope on the table, in which case my authorship might be traced, and I should be in a pretty awkward situation. That woman in the grey dress would be shown to have had right on her side when she declined, with such a show of scorn, to allow me even to speak to her. So, while Mr. Tung was tearing open the envelope and taking out the sheet of paper, I had some distinctly uncomfortable moments. Suppose I had wronged him—what was I to do? Own up, make a clean breast of it—or run away?

I had not yet found an answer when I became perfectly certain that none was required. My chance shot had struck him like a bombshell; the change which took place in his countenance when he began to read what was written on that piece of paper was really curious. I should have said he had a visage over whose muscles he exercised great control—Mongols have as a rule. But those words of mine were so wholly unexpected that when he first saw them his expression was, on the instant, one of stunned amazement. He glanced at the opening words, then, dropping his hands to his sides, gazed round the room, as if he were wondering if there were anyone there who could have written them. Then he raised the sheet of paper again and read farther. And, as he read, his breath seemed to come quicker, his eyes dilated, the colour left his cheeks, his jaw dropped open. He presented a unique picture of the surprise which is born of terror.

His companions, looking at him, were affected as he was, without knowing why. The big, burly man leaned towards him; I saw him mutter:

“You look as if you’d had a stroke. What’s the matter? What’s that you’ve got there? Don’t look like that. Every one is staring at you. What’s up?”

Mr. Tung did not reply; he looked at the speaker, then at the sheet of paper—that time I am sure he did not see what was on it. Then he crumpled the sheet of paper up in his hand, and without a word strode across the lounge into the hall beyond. His two companions looked after him in bewildered amazement; then they went also, not quite so fast as he had done, but fast enough. And all the people in the lounge looked at each other. The manner of the exit of these three gentlemen had created a small sensation.

My little experiment had succeeded altogether beyond my anticipation. It was plain that I had not misjudged this gentleman. It would be difficult to find a more striking illustration than that presented by Mr. John Tung of the awful accusing conscience which strikes terror into a man’s soul. I could not afford to let my acquaintance with these three interesting gentlemen cease at this moment; the woman in the grey dress must still not be left to their tender mercies.

After what seemed to me to be a sufficient interval, I left my tea and went after them into the hall. I was just in time. The three men were in the act of leaving the hotel. As they were moving towards the door a page came up, an official envelope in his hand.

“Mr. John Tung? A telegram for you, sir.”

Mr. Tung took it as if it were some dangerous thing, hesitated, glanced at the men beside him, tore it open, read what was on the flimsy sheet of pink paper, and walked so quickly out of the building that his gait almost approached a run. His companions went after him as if they were giving chase. My wire had finished what those few plain words on the sheet of paper had begun.

I was lingering in the hall, rather at a loss as to what was the next step that I had better take, when the woman in the grey dress came out of the lift, which had just descended. A cab was at the door, on which was luggage. Although she must have seen me very clearly, she did not recognize my presence, but passed straight out to the cab. She was going up to London by the five-five train.

I no longer hesitated what to do. I, too, quitted the hotel and got into a cab. It still wanted ten minutes to five when I reached the station. The train was standing by the platform; the grey-frocked lady was superintending the labelling of her luggage—apparently she had no maid. She was escorted by a porter, who had her luggage in charge, to a first-class carriage. On the top of her luggage was the tell-tale thing which has probably done more harm than good—the dressing-bag which is so dear to the hearts of many women, which ostentatiously proclaims the fact that it contains their jewels, probably their money, all that they are travelling with which they value most. One has only to get hold of the average travelling woman’s dressing-bag to become possessed of all that she has—from the practical thief’s point of view—worth taking—all contained in one portable and convenient package.

At the open door of the compartment next to the one to which the porter ushered her the big, burly man was standing—rather to my surprise. I thought I had startled him more than that. Presently who should come strolling up but his more slightly built acquaintance. Apparently he did not know him now; he passed into the compartment at whose door he was standing, without a nod or a sign of greeting. My glance travelling down the platform, I saw that standing outside a compartment only a few doors off was Mr. John Tung.

This did not suit me at all. I did not propose that those three gentlemen should travel with the grey-frocked lady by the five-five train to town. Rather than that I would have called in the aid of the police, though it would have been a very queer tale that I should have had to tell them. Perhaps fortunately, I hit upon what the old-time cookery books used to call “another way.” I had done so well with one unexpected message that I thought I would try another. There were ten minutes before the train started—still time.

I rushed to the ladies’ waiting-room. I begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from the attendant in charge. It was a queer sheet of paper which she gave me—and on it I scribbled:

> “You are watched. Your intentions are known.

> “The police are travelling by the five-five train to London in attendance on the lady in the grey dress. If they do not take you on the road they will arrest you when you reach town.

> “Then heigh-ho for the gallows!”

I was in doubt whether or not to add that last line. I dare say if I had had a second or two to think I should not have added it; but I had not. I just scrawled it off as fast as I could, folded the sheet of paper, slipped it into the envelope, which I addressed in large, bold letters to Mr. John Tung. The attendant had a little girl with her of, perhaps, twelve or thirteen years old, who was acting as her assistant. I took her to the waiting-room door, pointed out Mr. Tung, and told her that if she would slip that envelope into the gentleman’s hand and come back to me without having told him where she got it from, I would give her a shilling.

Officials were examining tickets, doors were being closed, preparations were being made to start, when that long-legged young person ran off on her errand. She gave Mr. Tung the envelope as he was stepping into the carriage. He had not time even to realize that he had got it before she was off again. I saw him glance with a startled face at the envelope, open it, hurriedly scan what was within, then make a dart into the compartment by which he was standing, emerge with a bag in his hand, and hurry from the station. Conscience had been too much for him again. The big, burly man, seeing him going, went hurrying after him, as the train was in the very act of starting. As it moved along the platform the face of the third man appeared at the window of his compartment, gazing in apparent astonishment after the other two. He might go to London by the five-five if he chose. I did not think it mattered if he went alone. I scanned the newspapers very carefully the next day; as there was no record of anything unusual having happened during the journey or afterwards I concluded that my feeling that nothing was to be feared from that solitary gentleman had been well founded, and that the lady in the grey dress had reached her destination in comfort and safety.

What became of Mr. Tung when he left the station I do not know; I can only say that he did not return to the hotel. That Buxton episode was in August. About a month afterwards, towards the close of September, I was going north. I started from Euston station. I had secured my seat, and, as there were still several minutes before the train went off, I strolled up and down the platform. Outside the open door of one of the compartments, just as he had done at Buxton station, Mr. Tung was standing!

The sight of him inspired me with a feeling of actual rage. That such a dreadful creature as I was convinced he was should go through life like some beast of prey, seeking for helpless victims whom it would be safe to destroy—that he should be standing there, so well dressed, so well fed, so seemingly prosperous, with all the appearance about him of one with whom the world went very well—the sight of him made me positively furious. It might be impossible, for various reasons, to bring his crimes home to him, but I could still be a thorn in his side, and might punish him in a fashion of my own. I had been the occasion to him of one moment in which conscience had mastered him and terror held him by the throat. I might render him a similar service a second time.

I was seized with a sudden desire to give him a shock which would at least destroy his pleasure for the rest of that day. Recalling what I had done at Buxton, I went to the bookstall and purchased for the sum of one penny an envelope and a sheet of paper. I took these to the waiting-room, and on the sheet of paper I wrote three lines—without even a moment’s consideration:

> “You are about to be arrested. Justice is going to be done.

> “Your time has come.

> “Prepare for the end.”

I put the sheet of paper containing these words into the envelope, and, waylaying a small boy, who appeared to have been delivering a parcel to some one in the station, I instructed him to hand my gentleman the envelope and then make off. He did his part very well. Tung was standing sideways, looking down the platform, so that he did not see my messenger approaching from behind; the envelope was slipped into his hand almost before he knew it, and the boy was off. He found himself with an envelope in his hand without, I believe, clearly realizing whence it had come—my messenger was lost in the crowd before he had turned; it might have tumbled from the skies for all he could say with certainty.

For him the recurrence of the episode of the mysterious envelope was in itself a shock. I could see that from where I stood. He stared at it, as he had done before, as if it had been a bomb which at any moment might explode. When he saw his own name written on the face of the envelope, and the fashion of the writing, he looked frantically around, as if eagerly seeking for some explanation of this strange thing. I should say, for all his appearance of sleek prosperity, that his nerves were in a state of jumps. His lips twitched; he seemed to be shaking; he looked as if it would need very little to make him run. With fingers which I am sure were trembling he opened the envelope; he took out the sheet of paper—and he read.

When he had read he seemed to be striving to keep himself from playing the cur; he looked across the platform with such an expression on his face and in his eyes! A constable was advancing towards him, with another man by his side. The probability is that, scared half out of his senses, conscience having come into its own, he misinterpreted the intention of the advancing couple. Those three lines, warning him that he was about to be arrested, that his time had come, to prepare for the end, synchronized so perfectly with the appearance of the constable and his companion, who turned out to be a “plain clothes man” engaged in the company’s business, that in his suddenly unnerved state he jumped to the conclusion that the warning and its fulfilment had come together—that those two officers of the law were coming to arrest him there and then.

Having arrived at that conclusion, he seems to have passed quickly to another—that he would not be taken alive. He put his hand into his jacket pocket, took out a revolver, which had no doubt been kept there for quite another purpose, put the muzzle to his brow, and while the two men—thinking of him not at all—were still a few yards off, he blew his brains out. He was dead before they reached him—killed by conscience.

They found his luggage in the compartment in which he had been about to travel. The contents of his various belongings supplied sufficient explanation of his tragic end. He lived in a small flat off the Marylebone Road—alone; the address was contained in his bag. When the police went there they found a miscellaneous collection of articles which had certainly, in the original instance, never belonged to him. There were feminine belongings of all sorts and kinds. Some of them were traced to their former owners, and in each case the owner was found to have died in circumstances which had never been adequately explained. This man seemed to have been carrying on for years, with perfect impunity, a hideous traffic in robbery and murder—and the victim was always a woman. His true name was never ascertained. It was clear, from certain papers which were found in his flat, that he had spent several years of his youth in the East. He seemed to have been a solitary creature—a savage beast alone in its lair. Nothing was found out about his parents or his friends; nor about two acquaintances of whom I might have supplied some particulars. Personally, I never saw nor heard anything of either of them again.

I went on from Euston Station by that train to the north. Just as we were about to start a girl came bundling into my compartment whom I knew very well.

“That was a close shave,” she said, as she took her seat. “I thought I should have missed it; my taxi-cab burst a tyre. What’s this I heard them saying about some one having committed suicide on the platform? Is it true?”

“I believe there was something of the kind; in fact, I know there was. It has quite upset me.”

“Poor dear! You do look out of sorts. A thing like that would upset anyone.” She glanced at me with sympathetic eyes. “I was talking about you only yesterday. I was saying that a person with your power of what practically amounts to reading people’s thoughts ought to be able to do a great deal of good in the world. Do you think you ever do any good?”

The question was asked half laughingly. We were in a corridor carriage. Two women at the other end of it suddenly got up and went, apparently, in search of another. I had been in no state to notice anything when I had got in; now I realized that one of the women who had risen was the one who had worn the grey dress at Buxton. She had evidently recognized me on the instant. I saw her whisper to her companion in the corridor, before they moved off:

“I couldn’t possibly remain in the same compartment with that half-bred gipsy-looking creature. I’ve had experience of her before.”

I was the half-bred gipsy-looking creature. The experience she had had of me was when I saved her life at Buxton. That I did save her life I am pretty sure. I said to my friend, when they had gone:

“I hope that sometimes I do do a little good; but even when I do, for the most part it’s done by stealth, and not known to fame; and sometimes, even, it’s not recognized as good at all.”

“Is that so?” replied my friend. “What a very curious world it is.”

When I thought of what had happened on the platform which we were leaving so rapidly behind, I agreed with her with all my heart and soul.

### IV.
MATCHED

This gift of mine of entering into people’s confidence, even against their will, has occasionally placed me in the most uncomfortable situations. Take, for instance, what I will call the Affair of the Pleasure Cruise, or Matched.

The story began at Charing Cross Station. I had just entered the station and was looking about for the platform from which my train was going to start, when I saw one man hurrying up to another. I do not know what it was which caused him to catch my eye, unless it was that he was in such desperate haste, and was so covered with freckles, and had such a very red moustache; but I distinctly saw him say to the other—what he meant I had not the dimmest notion; some of the language he used was strange:

“She’s done a bunk all right, and is away with the best of the swag. Here’s her brief.” He handed to the other man what looked to me like a continental railway-ticket. “I don’t fancy the bloke is going; you’ll have to go on and get the lot out the other end. It’s worth having, you know; we’ll be able to plant it easily. You understand? Move yourself; the train’s just starting.”

The man addressed did move himself, tearing through a gate over which was a board inscribed “Folkestone Harbour and Continent.” His doing so made me think of Mr. Brookes. I had been to his wedding that morning, and had, indeed, only just come away from the reception which followed. I had gathered that he and his bride were to travel by that boat-train.

Thinking thus about the bride and bridegroom, who, since the train had started, I took it for granted were already on their way, what was my surprise to see coming through the wicket on to the platform which the boat-train had just quitted—Mr. Everard Brookes! He had discarded the orthodox “frocker” in which he had been married, and in which I had seen him last, for a grey tweed suit—but it was he. And he seemed to be in a state of great disturbance, as if he were looking for some one he could not find. A railway official was on either side of him, each of whom seemed doing his best to calm his obvious agitation. What struck me as the strangest part of it was that he was alone. An idea occurred to me as I walked towards him.

“Mr. Brookes,” I asked, “have you missed your train? You haven’t let your wife go off alone?”

“She hasn’t gone on alone,” he rejoined. “She isn’t in the train at all.”

“She might have been in the train, you know, sir,” struck in one of the officials. “It’s not easy to make out every one who’s travelling in a long train like that.”

Mr. Brookes turned on him with a show of anger which I knew was quite foreign to his character.

“I tell you I saw her go through the gate as clearly as I see you now, but though I watched for her to come back she never returned, although I never once took my eyes off the gate; that I am prepared to swear.”

He turned to me with an explanation of his discomposure which filled me with surprise.

“We were standing, my wife and I, outside the compartment in which I had reserved our seats, when, about ten minutes before the train was due to start, she said to me: ‘Everard, I’ve forgotten something. I must go and see about it at once. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She got into the compartment, took her travelling-bag off the seat, and was about to hurry down the platform. I asked her what she had thought of so suddenly; if it was something she wanted I offered to go and get it for her. She laughed at me. ‘You stay where you are and let no one get into our carriage. I’ll be back in less than a minute.’ She was off before I could stop her. I thought it rather odd that she had thought of something so very pressing at the last minute, and had actually taken her bag with her, which contained all her belongings. I saw her go down the platform and through the gate; then, when I had waited two minutes, I strolled down the platform to see if I could discover her. I could see nothing. I was afraid to go through the gate lest we should miss each other, so I stood close to the gate, and I’ll swear that no one the least like her came through it.”

Mr. Brookes took off his bowler hat and passed his handkerchief across his brow. I had never seen him so disturbed.

“It occurred to me, after I had been waiting some little time, and the train was due to start, that, at her suggestion, I had put the tickets in her bag and practically all my money. I did not know what to do. I had never been in such a position in my life; I had not dreamt that I could be in such a position. They were calling out, ‘Take your seats,’ and were shutting the doors. What had become of Clare? I could not imagine. I could not go without her. Our luggage was in the train, I could not ask the officials to delay the train on our account, and while I was in a state bordering on distraction the issue was taken out of my hands—the train started; and now”—turning to one of the officials—“this man wants me to believe that she was in the train after all. I am perfectly certain that she was nothing of the kind. What has become of her I don’t know, but I’ll swear she wasn’t in that train.”

The amazing part of it was that he never did know what had become of her—the bride had left the bridegroom on the eve of their wedding journey and vanished into space. Unfortunately, there were one or two suspicious circumstances about that vanishing. She had taken her brand-new dressing-case with her, a present from him, which contained all their portable property which was worth having—besides two hundred pounds in English money which was to have been spent upon the honeymoon. Mr. Brookes never saw any of that again. The heavy luggage which had gone on by the train was claimed at the Gare du Nord by an individual who produced the checks for it, as well as the keys, which permitted of the Customs examination—and that vanished. The wedding reception had been held at a South Kensington hotel, at which the presents had been exhibited. Before Mr. Brookes got back to it some one called for the presents, armed with a letter from Mrs. Brookes—it seemed that she had made arrangements with the hotel people before she left to hand over the presents to some one who was to call for them—and they were never seen again.

The thing was very well done; Mr. Brookes found that he had been robbed in almost every direction in which he could have been robbed. To an onlooker it had its comical side, but it was a tragedy to him. He told me afterwards that, in one way or another, he reckoned he had been done out of more than a thousand pounds—to say nothing of his wife.

He had gone on one of those cruises, which are so in vogue nowadays, to the Norwegian fiords. On the boat was a most charming lady, a Miss Clare Percival. He was a well-to-do bachelor, about forty years of age—the lady struck him as being the wife he had been looking for for years. Affairs of that sort on yachts I believe grow rapidly. Ere long she owned that she liked him, when he asked her; before they reached England—I think it was a twenty-eight-day cruise—the liking had turned to love, or so she said. Three weeks after they were back in London they were married—that episode at Charing Cross Station was the result. The whole affair was decidedly funny—except for the mourning bridegroom.

About eighteen months afterwards I went for a yachting cruise—mine was to the Morocco coast and all sorts of pleasant-sounding places. Our party—we were called a “party”—consisted of about fifty persons. We had not been two days at sea when I had become impressed by two facts. One was that we had on board the proprietor of “Ebenezer’s Grey-Blue Pills” and samples of his large and ebullient family, and the other was that among the passengers was a lady whose appearance had the most singular effect on me. The moment I saw her I had a feeling that I had seen her somewhere before, but for the life of me I could not think where and when.

She was a delightful person; full of resource, skilled in all sorts of what are known as “parlour tricks”; she could sing and recite, tell funny tales, perform conjuring tricks, and play on the piano and the banjo and the fiddle, and, what was then the latest craze in musical instruments, the balalaika. She was good at bridge—some of the people said she was the best lady-player they had seen, and her knowledge of the sort of games which are calculated to amuse a general company was simply abnormal. She seemed to have lots of money, and some pretty dresses and some nice jewels. Before we were out of the Bay of Biscay she was the most prominent and popular person on board. By that time she had given people to understand, in a casual kind of way, that she had been an actress, and that she had been a singer, and that she had been an entertainer, and that she had written things and painted things—but I was commencing to wonder if she had ever been Mrs. Everard Brookes.

I frankly admit that the idea first came into my head because of the similarity of the cases; Mrs. Brookes had once been a single lady on a yachting cruise, and here was Marianne Tracy—she took pains to explain exactly how “Marianne” ought to be spelt—occupying precisely the same position. Of course, that was merely a coincidence; lots of single ladies go on yachting cruises, and they are all of them charming and respectable; and beyond that coincidence there was nothing, absolutely nothing. She bore no physical resemblance, from what I remembered, to Mrs. Brookes. I had only seen that lady once, and that was at her wedding, and I had a more or less vague recollection that she had fair hair, which matched her complexion, and that she was tall and slender, and, to my mind, uncomfortably prim; just the colourless sort of person one would expect Mr. Brookes to marry. Miss Tracy was black as night—black hair, black eyes, black eyebrows, and even the faintest shadow of what might be a black moustache. She was no taller than I was, but she was much plumper, and she was full of vivacity and high spirits; and as for prim—I do not wish to do the lady an injustice, but even by abuse of language one could not call her prim. She was hail fellow with every one on board—the officers, the passengers, the stewards, the crew, and, I dare say, the stokers down below; she had a knack of making friends with every one with whom she came in contact. Seeing, as I do, a great deal more than many people suppose, I was not a little tickled by some of the conversations in which I saw her take a very active part. She was a flirt. Before we were out of the Bay I believe that most of the male creatures on board, of all sorts and kinds, were under the impression that she was in love with them.

It was that faculty which I possess of seeing so much more than many folks guess which caused my vague suspicion to take, by degrees, a very concrete form. It was the evening on which we were leaving Gibraltar, where we had spent the day. Most gorgeous weather—the sky was ablaze with stars. I was prowling about the ship when, in a corner on the lower deck, I came upon an individual the sight of whom gave me quite a start. He was in a steward’s uniform, but I had certainly never seen him on board before. Whatever his duties might be, they had never brought him into the passengers’ saloons; I should have recognized him on the instant if they had. His was a face which, once seen by an observant pair of eyes like mine, was not likely to be forgotten, even after a lapse of eighteen months—and that period of time had passed since I had seen him.

The last, and first, time I had beheld that gentleman was at Charing Cross Railway Station on the afternoon on which Mrs. Everard Brookes had disappointed her husband by vanishing on the eve of their honeymoon. He was the individual who had hurried up to a masculine acquaintance and told him, right in front of me, that some one feminine had “done a bunk all right,” and was “away with the best of the swag”; and had handed him what he called “her brief,” and which had seemed to me to be a continental railway-ticket. There was no mistaking those freckles and that flaming moustache—or, indeed, the man as a whole.

My surprise at seeing him there was so great that for some seconds I did not realize whom he was talking to; then I saw that it was Miss Marianne Tracy; and, as I watched what they were saying, I began to understand. He said to her:

“The best of the old girl’s things he takes care of; those diamonds and pearls which we got the office about, which the old girl flashes around, are in a bag which he keeps in his locker. Some of the girls’ things are in it too; I dropped into the cabin as if by accident the other morning, and I saw him put them into his bag.”

The man winked at her when he said “by accident”; I have no doubt that Miss Tracy grasped his meaning. I had had no intention of playing the spy—I had made no attempt to conceal myself; so that when Miss Tracy looked round, as she did just at that moment, she saw me at once. With perfect presence of mind she came straight up to me.

“Taking a stroll about the ship, Miss Lee?”

I do not know what possessed me; I do sometimes yield to impulse, and I did then. This person did seem to me to be such an impudent piece of goods that, without counting the cost, I felt bound to have a shot at her—and I did then and there. I looked her very straight in the face, and with what I am sure was the most perfect civility I asked her a question.

“Aren’t you Mrs. Everard Brookes?”

She did not change countenance—the baggage! She must have had a front of brass. She just looked at me inquiringly, and she smiled, and she said:

“So! We have met before, Miss Lee!”

She put her lips together, and she gave a tiny little whistle; it was scarcely audible, but I fancy it was heard by some one, because, without a moment’s warning, some one, stealing on me from behind, put something over my head which blocked out all the light and made it difficult for me to breathe, and I was dragged down backwards on to the deck. I would have screamed when I got there, only a hand was pressed against my mouth, on the outside of the stuff which covered my face, and I could not utter a sound. The same hand held me down tight, another took me by the throat and almost choked me, while a second pair of hands took hold of my wrists and tied them together, and then did the same to my ankles. I could not struggle, because the pressure on my mouth and throat seemed to be driving the sense all out of me. Then two hands were slipped under the cloth, my jaw was forced open, something was thrust into it—and there was I as helpless as a trussed fowl, and incapable of uttering a sound.

I am free to admit that it was very well done, evidently by persons who had done that sort of thing before. I had not the use of my eyes, but, if I could trust my ears, not a word was spoken nor an instant wasted. Presently two pairs of hands lifted me by the head and heels; I was carried a few feet, and deposited under what I have no doubt was cover, and there I remained for I have not the faintest notion how long. And in the cabin, as I was perfectly aware, they were waiting for me to make a four at bridge. I could picture Miss Tracy explaining how I had been overcome by a sudden headache, and how I had asked her, with their permission, to take my place; and as I continued to lie in that ignominious position I have no doubt that the creature who had been chiefly instrumental in putting me there was playing my hands.

Time passed; the hours went by—they seemed to me years—and as I was wondering if I had become an old woman and my hair had turned grey, I was lifted again by two pairs of hands, though I had not heard a sound of anyone approaching. I was carried this time some distance; a rope was tied round my waist, and immediately afterwards I became pleasantly conscious that I was being lowered over the side of the ship. I took it for granted that my two friends, desirous of avoiding the noise of a splash, had adopted this method of dropping me into the sea. I feared my end had come, and was momentarily expecting to come in contact with the water, when I went plump against something solid instead, and on what I had bumped against I stayed. The tension of the rope ceased. I was being lowered no longer; apparently I was on, or in, something. I suppose I was there some minutes before I discovered that the ligature which bound my wrists together was not so taut as it had been, and it did not take me very long after the discovery was made to wriggle both my hands loose. Then I put them up and pulled that covering off my head and face. I found it was a canvas-bag which had contained something undesirable, because my eyes, and nostrils, and mouth were full of grits, and something gritty was worrying my hair and skin. I took the gag out of my mouth; they had actually used a piece of cotton waste. Then I sat up, and I learned that I was in a small boat, which was all alone on what—literally to me—was a trackless ocean. My sensations on making this discovery were of the most exhilarating kind. I would have cried if I had thought it would do any good. As a matter of fact, I was consumed with rage; my one craving was to get that freckled man and that false woman by their throats, one hand at the throat of each, and knock, knock, knock their heads together; there would not have been much left of them if I had had a chance of knocking them together then. I would have just smashed them up like egg-shells.

I nursed my pleasant dreams of being revenged on them for quite a while. Then I untied my ankles, got on the one seat in the boat, and looked around. There was nothing to see, except water; and there was too much of that. I must have been lying for hours with that disgusting bag over my head, because it was clear, from the appearance of the heavens, that the dawn was on the point of breaking. It did break; I floated on, and on, and on. All of a sudden I saw something straight in front of me which caused me to get on to my feet and stare with all my might.

It was land—I believed it was land; I was sure it was land. It was ever so far away; but if I only had—then I realized that there was a pair of oars on board that boat. Whether that pretty couple had put them there on purpose, with the intention of giving me a chance to save my life, I have never known—but there they were. Presently I put them in the rowlocks, and I was pulling for dear life. I can row, but never before or since have I rowed as I rowed then. I sincerely hope I shall never have such a long pull again. I reached land, or I should not be telling the story. When I did I just lay down and felt as if I were as good as dead. If there had been so much as a ripple on the sea, I doubt if I should ever have gained the shore at all—my strength was utterly spent; but not only was the sea as calm as a mill-pond, but I have been told since that there is a strong current in that part of the world which sets towards the land. No doubt that helped to carry me in as much as my straining at the oars.

I want to get over this part of the story as fast as possible. I don’t like to think of it even now. After a while I became conscious that people were standing by and looking down at me. I never knew quite who they were, but I suppose they were Moors, because I had got ashore in Morocco. They could not speak English, and I could not speak what they spoke, so neither side understood a word of what the other side said; but I followed them, because a man took me by the wrist and made me go to a disreputable-looking sort of village, which I dare say an artist would have called picturesque; but I like my villages to be clean and wholesome, and that certainly was not. There I met an old man who had some English, of rather a curious kind; he must have acquired it in some strange company, because every third or fourth word was an oath; still, it was better than nothing. I knew, of course, that the yacht was making for Tangier, and I asked him how far that was. As far as I could gather from what he said, it was about six months’ journey; but I did not believe it was anything of the kind, because I knew that the yacht expected to get there early that day, and in that cockle-shell of a boat I could not possibly have gone very far out of its course.

As a matter of fact it was four days before I reached Tangier. The sight I must have presented when I got there! I walked nearly all the way. I had never had a wash, or been able to brush or comb my hair—considering when I was lowered into that small boat I was in full evening-dress. I had on a costume of sky-blue satin covered with chiffon, the corsage cut low, no sleeves, a pair of blue silk stockings to match, and the flimsiest of shoes. When you have got those details clearly in your mind, and remember that I had spent a night at sea, rowing in a small boat, and that afterwards I walked for four days on the roads of Morocco, without once coming within sight of soap or water, brush or comb, I don’t think I need say any more of what I looked like when I reached Tangier.

I created a sensation when I did get there; for that matter, I created a sensation all along the road. I was the centre of a highly amused mob of the inhabitants of the place, when, of all people in the world, who should I encounter but the proprietor of Ebenezer’s Grey-Blue Pills, his wife, his son, his two daughters, together with other passengers from the yacht which I had so unintentionally quitted. And they fell on me all at once, not with sympathy, but with accusations of robbery and theft.

We all adjourned to the house of the British Consul, and half the population of the town seemed to be waiting in the street without. There I was informed that jewels, and other valuables, belonging to John T. Stebbings, had been taken out of his cabin on the night I had gone, and every one took it for granted that they had gone with me. So there I was, charged with leaving that yacht of set purpose and intention, with no end of valuables belonging to other people.

Looking back, I find that I have omitted something; it comes back to my mind at this moment just as it did then. It is not very much—just a trifle; but one of those trifles which turn the scale.

As, on that eventful night, Miss Marianne Tracy looked round and beheld me, she was in the very act of saying something to her freckled friend. I only saw her lips form part of the sentence; how it began I do not know, and it never ended. The words I saw her lips form were only these:

“… the Villa Hortense, in the Street of the Fountain——”

In the excitement of the thrilling moment which immediately ensued I think I scarcely realized that those words had reached my brain—anyhow, I should not have known to what they referred. But in that room in the Consul’s house, confronted by my accusers, they came back to me. I even had some inkling of what they might mean.

I told my tale. They listened with an amazement which grew; then, when I had come nearly to an end, and I felt that I had made some sort of impression, I asked the Consul a question:

“Is there in this town a Street of the Fountain?”

He said there was; he ventured on a statement, eyeing me sharply.

“You have been here before—this is not your first visit to Tangier?”

I told him not only that it was, but that I hoped it would be my last. I explained the circumstances in which I had seen the words uttered. How he stared, and how they all stared, as if I were some wonderful creature! It is a continual source of amusement to me how many people think I am doing something wonderful when I am merely putting into practice the principles by the teaching of which I make my living.

“I understand,” I added, “that Miss Tracy left the yacht the night before last, to spend a day or two ashore. I think it possible that you will find she prefers to remain ashore when the yacht goes.” I put another question to the Consul: “Do you happen to know, sir, if in the Street of the Fountain there is a house called the Villa Hortense?”

“By repute I know it very well. It is a house which, at various times, has had some curious occupants—persons of whom somewhat queer tales have been told. I believe that at the present moment it is without a tenant.”

“I venture, in spite of your belief, sir, to express my belief that if Mr. John T. Stebbings would like to learn something about the jewels belonging to Mrs. Stebbings and the Misses Stebbings, he cannot do better than make inquiries at the Villa Hortense, in the Street of the Fountain.”

They all trooped off to that poetically named street; I tried to get it into their heads that that was not the most desirable way of making what ought to have been a discreet approach. Each was willing that some one else should stay behind, but was bent on going him or herself. So they all of them went together. Some one, I do not know who, had lent me an aboriginal sort of wrap which I believe was called a burnous; that covered the worst of me, but there was still enough of me visible to make me one of the most striking figures in that singular procession.

The Street of the Fountain proved to be very narrow, so the procession had to tail off, whether it wished to or not. From the outside the Villa Hortense seemed to be quite a good-sized house. While people were wondering how we were going to get in I turned the handle and opened the door. The door led directly into a room. As I entered I saw a feminine figure passing through a door which was on the other side. Although she looked quite different, I knew that she was Miss Marianne Tracy. As I made a dash at her she shut the door with a bang, I heard a key turned in the lock and bolts shot home. As the door was a solid construction, apparently six inches thick, my desire to get through it had to be postponed. Others had come in after me, and they were eyeing with surprise the contents of the room—which certainly were rather amazing. There were articles of clothing which had undoubtedly belonged to Miss Tracy, and what is known as a “transformation,” which had probably belonged to her too, to say nothing of some odds and ends of an extremely intimate kind. The great discovery was made by Mrs. Stebbings and her two daughters; they dashed forward with a chorused cry: “Father’s bag!”

There, on a sort of stool, was the bag which Mr. Stebbings had kept in his locker, and which had contained the most valuable possessions of the feminine part of the family. There were some of them left still—what the family seemed to regard as unconsidered trifles; the articles really worth having were there no more. They had probably gone with the lady who had locked and bolted—on the other side—that extremely solid door. While we were assimilating this interesting fact a person garbed as a sailor appeared in the doorway and informed us, at the top of his voice, that if we wanted to continue our yachting cruise we had better get on board at once, as the boat was on the point of starting.

There was a nice to-do. Every one seemed to be strongly of the opinion that the captain was an exceptionally unreasonable person; but, as no one wished to be left behind, a common inclination was shown to rush to the shore. As nobody was more eager to get on board than I was, for divers reasons, I kept well to the front. We reached the quay just as the ship’s boat was about to put off, and I was the first one in. They all came tumbling after me. We discussed the captain’s conduct on the way to the ship, and we kept on discussing it to the end of the voyage. He was tried by a sort of court-martial, no two members of which agreed.

Mr., Mrs., the Misses, and Master Stebbings were of opinion that the captain ought to have kept the ship at Tangier while search was made for that disreputable woman, and at least endeavoured to recover their valuable property. As the ship had stayed there already much longer than she ought to have done, the captain made it quite clear that his first duty was to the owners, and that if the Stebbings family had wished to remain they might have done so and come on by another ship. But as their remaining property was on board and they had only a few pounds on their persons, it was not strange that they had not seen their way to act on the captain’s suggestion. Mrs. Stebbings asked him pointedly if he thought she could live for a fortnight in the clothes she stood up in, and the young ladies hinted that he was not the kind of person they had taken him for. So the captain retired, and I should not be surprised if he bullied the crew. I believe efforts were made by wireless to ascertain the woman’s whereabouts and to regain the Stebbingses’ gems, and that directions were given to leave no stone unturned which should bring these things about. But, so far as I know, nothing ever came of what was done.

The yachting cruise went on, under a sort of blight. Everything seemed different without Miss Tracy and the Stebbingses’ gems. The numerous inquisitions which were held on me, and the myriad questions which I had to answer, caused me seriously to consider whether it would not be desirable to remain at one of the ports at which we touched and continue my journey later. But the truth was that I had had enough of yachting, and the one thing for which I craved was to have done with that pleasure trip and get back home. I did get back home—we all got back home—and I think that most of us parted from each other in the hope that we might never meet again.

This story is episodical, with an interval between each episode. There was another interval of about eighteen months, during which I managed to keep myself alive, though, for the most part, I was badly over-worked; and one afternoon I went to call upon a friend who was staying at the Hotel Metropole in town. I stayed in the lounge while she went to write some letters. Right on the other side was a party of Americans. They seemed to be so much amused by what they were talking about that I could not help watching them, and I saw one of them tell this story. He struck me as a man who had been in this world about sixty years, and who had lived them every one.

“Have I told you about Alexander King?”

He asked the question, and with one accord his listeners said that he had not; so he told them then.

“Last fall Alexander went on a pleasure cruise to the coast of Florida. On board there was a lady—I don’t mean that there weren’t other ladies on the ship, but she was the only one for Alexander. Alexander had had three wives already, and he told me himself that he thought enough was as good as a feast; but the sight of her made him think he’d try again. All the way there and back he made hay of that young female’s heart to such an extent that, when he got back to New York, nothing would suit him but that he should rush off to the first handy place, and make her the fourth Mrs. King. But she was not taking any; she was a modest creature, and wanted time to prepare her mind. So he gave her time, as little as she would let him give her, and he spent most of it in buying such articles as New York had to sell; so that when they had the wedding he had quite a nice collection to pour into the lap of his bride. They were going to Tennessee for the honeymoon, and they went down to the depot, and they boarded the train. And just before the train was going to start she remembered that she had forgotten something somewhere, and she caught up a bag which contained all he had worth having, as well as some trifles of her own, and she started off to get it. And she left Alexander alone in the train—and he’s been alone ever since. Yes, boys, he has. That train started with Alexander alone in it, without even his bag. She had recommended him, like a good and thoughtful wife, careful of her husband’s interest, to put all his cash into that bag, and everything he had worth taking; and he had acted on her advice, and now the bag was gone, and she with it. That’s the last he’s ever seen of either. Yes, boys, that’s a fact. What honeymoon he had he spent all alone, which didn’t amount to much; and, from what I have heard, it would seem that he has been spending most of the money he had left on telegraphing descriptions of the bag and the lady to every part of the world. He has met with no success so far, and I take it that his money will give out before he does. So he’s a widower once more.”

His hearers laughed, and I had to laugh—he had such a comical way of telling a story—but I laughed with rather a wry face. I had no doubt that Mrs. Everard Brookes, and Miss Marianne Tracy, and Mrs. Alexander King were one and the same person. The audacity of the creature was almost incredible! I believe I should have gone across to them and told them so, only just then my friend came up and insisted upon bearing me off without giving me a chance to explain.

A few days afterwards I was in Bond Street, when a beautifully attired lady came out of a shop, and stopped to stare at me. I could not believe my eyes—it was Marianne Tracy, though transformed into quite another being. Her coolness was almost supernatural.

“It is Miss Lee, isn’t it? I thought it was. I’m so glad to have met you.”

That was all she said, in the sweetest tone of voice. Then she got into a gorgeous motor-car, which I had been conscious had been standing at the kerb, and as she pulled the door to she leaned over and said:

“By the way, how did you enjoy that little trip to sea?”

Before I could answer the car was off. What was I to do? I could not run after it; it was lost in the traffic before I had got my wits about me. I could not give a description of the car—I had scarcely noticed it; I was not sure either of the shape or colour. That woman had slipped through my fingers, merely because her presence of mind was greater than mine. If I had only kept my head enough to take her by the throat in the middle of Bond Street!

A week afterwards I had a call from Mr. Everard Brookes. He began to talk about his wife—he still called her his wife. The man struck me as being more than half a lunatic. He told me that he had more than once thought of going into mourning. The very notion! I thought of what her feelings would have been if she had seen him in widower’s weeds. He said that he felt that in the first flush of his agitation he had misjudged her; he was sure that she had cared for him; he had had proofs of it. I wonder what they were. He was nearly convinced that she had been the victim of one of those tragedies of which one reads in the newspapers; she might have been run over by a motor-bus; he had a morbid feeling that he himself would one day be run over by a vehicle of that description. Something had happened to her, he believed; one day it would be made known what it was.

I hoped that it never would, for his sake. He was one of those men who—because nothing ever has happened to them—like to think that something has happened to them at last—something wonderful, altogether out of the common way; that they have been the victim of some supreme tragedy. I doubt if he would have made much of a husband, anyhow. He was actually happy under the delusion that some strange, mysterious fate had in some altogether incomprehensible way robbed him of what might have been his life’s bright star. His existence might have been so blissful had Destiny only stayed its hand. It is my belief that he endeavoured to make this clear to everybody he met after five minutes’ acquaintance; so that, if he lost his wife before she was really his, at least he had an object in life.

The next morning I met William B. Stebbings, the son of Ebenezer’s Grey-Blue Pills, and, as soon as he had made up his mind who I was, the very first words he said to me were:

“I say, Miss Lee, I’m going to be married—yes, I am; and I hope to see you there; you must have a card. It’s on Tuesday week.” Then, though we were out in the open street, he closed his left eye and winked. “Have you ever heard anything of Miss Tracy? She was a dandy of a girl, she was; and, between ourselves, I believe that she didn’t object to me. If it hadn’t been for that little upset, matters between us might have gone farther than—— Well, strictly between ourselves, I don’t mind telling you that she told me herself that she would like to be my wife; she meant it too. She was fond of me, that girl was. Pity she made such a mistake.”

I did not know to which mistake he alluded, and I did not ask him. I did not want to know. He was an extremely plain, clumsily built, stupid young man; and I was half inclined to wish that she had married him. Where women are concerned, men are the most amazing things. What all those men, of different ages, different tastes, different altogether, saw in her was beyond my comprehension. The proof that she had a fatal fascination for the male animal came to me in still stranger shape only a few days later.

I was standing in one of the Tube stations, when a decently dressed young man came up to me and took his cap off.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Miss Lee? I don’t suppose you know who I am, but I remember you because of Miss Balfour.”

“Miss who?” I asked. I was quite certain I had never seen him before; he was almost a gentleman and quite nice-looking, about twenty-three or four.

“Miss Balfour spoke to you in Bond Street, now rather more than a fortnight since. You were passing when she came out of a shop and spoke to you, and then she got into the motor-car. I was the chauffeur. She told me afterwards who you were.”

“So she calls herself Miss Balfour now, does she?” A light was beginning to dawn on me. “I shall be very much obliged if you can tell me where Miss Balfour is to be found at the present moment.”

He pulled rather a long face.

“I wish I could; that is what I hoped you would be able to tell me.”

“No one is less likely to be able to tell you about the movements of the woman who, according to you, now calls herself Miss Balfour than I am. Are you no longer in her employ?”

He shifted his cap a little to one side and scratched his head. I thought what a rueful-looking object he was all at once.

“Well, it’s rather a long story. It’s like this.” He paused, as if to try back to the beginning. “I wasn’t exactly in her employ; the fact is, an uncle of mine left me a legacy, and I laid it out in buying a motor-car, meaning to hire it out to people who wanted one. It’s a first-rate car, and I wanted to get at people of better class. Miss Balfour hired it—first by the day, then by the week, and then by the month. We used to go off together for tours in the country, and”—he began to look sheepish—“she made herself very pleasant to me. Of course, she paid my expenses, and nothing would suit her but that we should take our meals together—late dinner and all that; and—well”—he looked more sheepish—“she began to make out that she had taken a liking to me, and, of course, I liked her; so then I gave her the motor-car.”

“You did what?” I almost shouted in that Tube station.

“You see, we were going to be married——”

“Oh, you were going to be married!”

“Of course; I knew she’d got lots of money, and that it would be a first-rate thing for me, and so I thought, there being only one thing I could give her worth having, that was the least I could give her, so I gave her the motor-car, thinking,” he quickly added, “that, as what was hers would be mine, it would make no difference, and that it would be as much mine as ever; only the mischief was I gave it her before witnesses; and that very same night, if she didn’t get up in the middle of the night, and go down to the garage, and take the car out, and drive off with it, and I’ve seen nothing of either of them since.”

This was such an astounding story that if it had not been for the sincere air of depression which marked the man I should have thought that he was having a joke at my expense; but he was serious enough, as he had good reason to be.

“It was no use my going after her, even if I had known where she was, because, of course, she hadn’t stolen the motor-car, seeing that I had given it to her in the presence of witnesses—and that’s how it was.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve lost your motor-car?”

“It looks as if I had. I did hear by a sort of side-wind that she’s taken it to France, but, seeing that it’s hers, I don’t see what I can do to her if she has. She’s had me fairly. It was one of the best motor-cars that money could buy; I didn’t grudge anything in the way of fittings.”

He sighed. My train came up, and I left the youth lamenting. He was only another example of what absolute idiots all sorts and conditions of men, old and young, can make themselves over a woman.

It was not very long afterwards that a letter reached me which bore the Paris post-mark. As a specimen of—I will call it courage—I give it verbatim. There was no date and there was no address.

> “My dear Miss Lee—may I call you Judith? …”

It was at this point that I realized that the letter was from that woman. Might she call me Judith! I read on—with my teeth set pretty close together.

> “When I saw you the other day in Regent Street—I don’t know if you saw me; I was in a motor-car and you were walking—quite a wave of emotion passed over me. It was so sweet to see again one of whom one has such sunny memories. And you were looking so well; a little older, perhaps, but a few years more or less would make no difference to your appearance. I should have liked to stop my motor-car and begged you to have a cup of tea. I cannot help sending you just a line to say so, if only to recall to your recollection one who I hope you look upon as an old friend.

> “A great change is about to take place in my life. I am shortly to be married—to a Russian merchant of immense wealth. One has to be married some time. I wonder if you will ever be? There are men who will marry anything—who knows?

> “I had no idea until the other day that you were the famous Judith Lee. It was a surprise. I had heard so much about you—about how wise and clever and wonderful you were. You are not the least like what I expected. And yet how beautiful it must be to be able to read people’s thoughts, even the secrets of their hearts, as I am told you can. Who would have thought it? I shall look forward to meeting you again some day, in order that you may teach me some of the strange magic—I am bound to call it magic—of which you are such a mistress. You will find me an apt pupil; don’t you think you will?

> “You must be able to do a great deal of good in the world with such a gift as yours. I love doing good—don’t you? It must be so nice to detect an improper person directly you see one. Your friendship for me was almost a certificate of character. If only it had not been so brief—but the night was fine, and the boat was handy, and we did not tie you very tight.—Your affectionate friend, Marianne Tracy.

> “Pray remember me to the gentleman whose name you once mentioned to me—Mr. Everard Brookes. Is he married?”

The audacity of the woman in writing to me at all! And such a letter, with such innuendoes! I could hardly contain myself till I got to the end. For quite two days after I had received that effusion I could hardly bring myself to speak civilly to a single person I came across. And even now sometimes I tingle all over when I think of it—and that was ages ago, and I have never heard of nor seen the woman since.

### V.
THE MIRACLE

People sometimes say that they envy me because, with my power of reading thoughts—that, they say, is what it comes to—I must have so many opportunities of doing people good. It must be so sweet, they add, with what I occasionally feel to be an irritating smirk, to be able, with very little trouble to oneself, to benefit one’s fellow-creatures. That sort of remark is very easy to make, but it is not easy to benefit one’s fellow-creatures. And as for doing people good, it is surprising how many people would rather not be done good to. Take that case of what happened at Dieppe.

I was spending my summer holidays at Dieppe. I had been there about a fortnight. One evening I was sitting, all alone by myself, on the terrace outside the Casino. I had been dancing; my partner had gone to fulfil another engagement, and, as I was not engaged for that dance, I had asked him to leave me where I was. I was taking my ease in a long chair close to the sea-wall. In front of me, in the glow of the electric light, people were seated at little tables having refreshments. At one of these was a gentleman whose name I knew, talking to one who was to me a complete stranger.

The first gentleman’s name was Armitage—Cecil Armitage. He was an amazingly handsome young man, perhaps in the late twenties. He was staying in my hotel, and was the cause of no little amusement to some of the other visitors. He, a young man of seven or eight-and-twenty, evidently of birth and breeding, was paying the most marked attention to a woman who was one of the greatest jokes in Dieppe—Miss Drawbridge.

Miss Drawbridge, commonly known as “Gertrude” to people who had never spoken to her in their lives, was a sort of standing dish at Dieppe. She was supposed to have been there longer than the oldest inhabitant; she had certainly been a frequenter for quite a number of years. What I had seen of her I rather liked. She was staying at my hotel, and there was a time when she had asked me to share her table; and, although that time had passed and she never asked me to share it now, we were still on quite good terms. She was certainly a curious person—people who haunt the same foreign watering-place year after year generally are; and what an extremely presentable young man like Cecil Armitage could see in her was a mystery—unless it was her money.

Imagine the sensation which stirred the air when it became known that this perfect Adonis was engaged to “Gertrude.” Had not Miss Drawbridge announced the fact herself, I fancy few people would have believed it. And the things which were said of Miss Drawbridge, especially by some of the women! The men just sneered.

There was I on the terrace, in my long chair (I could say things about men, but I think I had better get on with my story), and there was Mr. Armitage, drinking what looked to me very like absinthe—fancy drinking absinthe at that time of night, or, so far as that goes, at any time!—and talking to a perfect stranger. Of course, the man was quite entitled to be a stranger; but I have seldom seen a man whose looks I liked less. The contrast between him and Mr. Armitage was amazing. He was a sallow, hatchet-faced man, with an upturned moustache—which I hate!—and something the matter with one of his eyes which made him seem to be looking in two directions at once. Nor did I like his manner towards Mr. Armitage; he seemed to me to be positively bullying him. That was one reason why I watched what they said, and some very surprising observations—I cannot say I heard—I saw. And, as always is the case on such occasions, I could not have gained a more intimate acquaintance with them had they bawled them in my ear.

The first thing I saw was the stranger’s thin lips contorting themselves as, in what I imagined to be an angry undertone, they formed these words, which I have no doubt, judging from the expression of his face, he snapped out at Mr. Armitage as if he were an angry terrier:

“Don’t you make any mistake about it, my boy. I’ve not come over to Dieppe to be fooled with. I’m either going to have you or the money in four-and-twenty hours. If I have to have you, it will be penal servitude, and then the smile will come off that pretty face of yours.”

Mr. Armitage was not smiling at that particular moment, as anyone could see; on the contrary, he looked very much disturbed. The way in which he leaned across the table helped me to realize the earnestness which I felt sure was in his voice as he replied to the other’s threat, in words which, as I saw each fresh one shaped on his lips, surprised me more and more.

“Don’t be absurd, Clarke. I can’t perform the impossible. I can’t get it in four-and-twenty hours; but you shall have your money, with a thumping interest, if you will only give me reasonable time.”

“And pray, what do you call reasonable time, my beautiful—forger?”

“It won’t take very much to make me break this glass against your face, Clarke. You may have the whip-hand of me, but I’ll break your neck before you get a chance of laying the lash across my back.”

I held my breath, expecting every moment to see something dreadful happen. The way Mr. Clarke snarled back at him!

“That’s the tone you take, is it? You talk to me like that again, and I’ll have you jailed to-night. Do you think you can both rob and murder me? I say you’re a forger—forger—forger! Now you touch me with a glass, or anything else, if you dare. This will be the last time you ever show yourself in a decent place if you do.”

There was a pause. Mr. Armitage leaned so far forward that I quite expected that he would take the other by the throat and strike him with his glass. I was just on the point of jumping up and doing something which would divert his attention, when he seemed all at once to change his purpose, and, leaning right back, positively laughed.

“What nonsense it is, Clarke, our talking like this. You’ll do no more good by calling me names than I should do by knocking you down. I tell you again, you shall have your money, with thumping interest, if you’ll wait.”

“I know a good deal about you, my lad—about all there is to learn—but I don’t know where you’re going to get anything like that amount of money from, unless you’ve found some one else to rob.”

I thought Mr. Armitage would resent this remark as he had done the others, and I believe that for a moment it was his intention to do so, but again he changed his purpose, and I saw these remarkable words come from his lips instead:

“I have—I’ve found a woman.”

It was not strange that Mr. Clarke looked at him as if he wondered if he was in earnest; then he asked, with a smile which made him an even more unpleasant-looking person than before:

“What woman have you found this time?”

“If you are suggesting, as you appear to be, that I ever have robbed a woman up to now, I can only inform you, Clarke, with all possible courtesy, that you are a liar. I have not always treated women well—few men have; but no woman has ever suffered in pocket because of me up to the present time of speaking.”

“That’s between you and your conscience. Who is the woman you purpose, according to your own statement, to rob, at the eleventh hour?”

“It’s the woman I intend to make my wife.”

“Oh, so there is a woman you’re going to make your wife—at last. What about——” I do not know what he was going to say; Mr. Armitage stopped him so suddenly, and positively shook his fist in his face.

“Stop that, Clarke; don’t you mention any names. You keep your tongue between your teeth. I’m going to marry the woman I’m going to marry because I’m a thief, and because I’m such a cur that I shrink from paying the penalty. She’s a wretched old fool who comes all to pieces; Heaven knows what’s left of her when the various aids to beauty are put away for the night; but she’s got money, and she’s willing to give me money, enough to be rid of you and save myself from the treadmill. That’s why I’m going to enter the bonds of holy matrimony, and that’s a perfectly frank confession; franker, I dare say, than most men make in similar circumstances.”

“This sounds as if it were going to be a marriage of real affection; a genuine love-match.” The sneer which was on Mr. Clarke’s face as he said this; the indescribable look which was on Mr. Armitage’s as he replied:

“If you only knew how I hate the woman; how every pulse throbs with loathing when she comes near me.” He gave what seemed to me to be a great sigh. “As I live, it’s a comfort to say that to some one. It makes me ill to be in the same room with her—got to that stage already. Heaven knows how far it will go by the time we’re married. I shouldn’t wonder if I were to murder her on our wedding night.”

“Is that so really? What a honeymoon you’ll have if you do. Is the lady young?”

“Young! I shouldn’t care to ask her age for fear of the depth of the lie she’d tell me; she’s at least old enough to be my mother—my grandmother, for all the woman that’s left in her.”

“What a very charming couple you will make—full of vivacity! Has the lady physical charm?”

“She never had, I tell you she takes all to pieces nowadays. She is one of those women the ladies’ papers always suggest to the masculine mind; she gets her hair from one of the persons advertised on the back pages; her complexion from some wretched harridan whose advertisement is to be found a page or two in front; her figure from a person the editor specially recommends—at so much a time; and her teeth from the Lord knows who. Oh, she’s a regular specimen of love’s young dream.”

“Is she really? She must be a walking nightmare. What is the fortunate lady’s name? I take it she has tons of money.”

“Her name is Drawbridge, and she has, at any rate, enough money to pay you, Clarke.”

“I hope there will be a little left for you when I am paid, I do really, my dear boy.”

“Well, there may be or there mayn’t; but I’m marrying her to get the money to pay you, and that’s the whole, plain truth.”

Mr. Armitage was about to rise from his chair when the other leaned right over the table and stopped him.

“One moment, Armitage, one moment. When are you going to touch that money, eh?”

“I can’t tell you the exact day now, can I? I only proposed to her yesterday. It was your telegram that brought me to the sticking-point.”

“I’m afraid I shall have to push you a little beyond the sticking-point. I’m in a hole myself. I’m pressed for money. I’ve got to find at least five hundred pounds in four-and-twenty hours.”

“Is that true?”

“Perfectly true. I shall be in a very inconvenient position if I don’t find it; and it’s got to come from you. You’ll be in a more inconvenient position than I shall if it doesn’t; so that’s plain. I’ve come all the way to Dieppe to make it clear to you that it is plain. Can you get five hundred pounds out of your fair lady between this and to-morrow night? If you can I’ll wait a few days for the rest, but five hundred I’ve got to have before I go to bed to-morrow night; or—you know the alternative if I don’t. That engagement will be off; I don’t suppose even she will want to marry you after you’ve done a term of penal servitude. There’s something else—I should like a hundred to-night.”

“I haven’t ten pounds left in the world. I’m practically broke; I’ve been losing steadily ever since I’ve been at this place.”

“Then it looks as if you’ll have to get a hundred for me and a bit over for yourself. I’ve got to have my hundred, and the other four to-morrow.”

Mr. Armitage, looking steadily at the other, seemed to see something in his face which made it clear that he meant what he said. A grim look came on his own face as I saw him say: “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’d better. Where is the lady?”

“Punting, in the club; playing baccarat.”

“Then you’d better cut off to the club as fast as ever you can, and take her by the scruff of the neck and squeeze that hundred out of her while she’s got it to squeeze. After you’re married you’re not going to let her play baccarat with your money, are you? She’ll make a pauper of you if you don’t take care.”

“You mind your own business, and leave me to manage my matrimonial affairs after my own fashion.” Mr. Armitage got up from his chair. “Where shall I find you, at the hotel or here?”

“You’ll find me all over the place, my lad, don’t you make any mistake. I’m not going to lose sight of you till I’ve got my money, or got you in jail. You can go, but just you understand I shall be close behind you—and I’m not the only one who’ll be close behind you either. If you keep looking over your shoulder you’ll see two or three—friends of mine.”

Mr. Armitage took himself off, with an air of indifference which was very well done; he could not have had a very careless feeling in his heart. Almost immediately Mr. Clarke followed with the evident intention of dogging his steps. And I was left alone, nearly overcome by feelings which were altogether indescribable.

What on earth was I to do? It was no business of mine, this affair of the old maid and the young bachelor. She must have known what a risk she was running when she agreed to his preposterous proposal. If, by what I will call an accident, I had become acquainted with facts which made the gentleman’s position in the matter abundantly clear—still, it was no concern of mine.

But it was no use my talking to myself like that. I could not allow a person of my own sex to enter into what I knew would be such a hideous marriage without making some attempt to lay before her the facts upon which my knowledge was based. In other words, here was one of those opportunities for doing good of which people were so fond of talking; and, if the thing was in my power, good should be done.

I got up from my seat and went in search of Miss Drawbridge; finding her, as I had expected, in that part of the building which is found in every French casino, and which—I presume ironically—is called “Cercle privé,” as if it ever is, in any sense of the word, a “club,” or has anything “private” about it. She was seated at one of the baccarat tables, and I could see at a glance that she was winning; she had quite a quantity of bank-notes in front of her, and kept adding to the store. Presently the bank was closed and the players rose. Miss Drawbridge rose too, with her spoils in a white satin handbag. As she moved towards the door Mr. Armitage came into the room, with Mr. Clarke not very far behind him. When he accosted her, I thought, as I suppose every one else did in the room, what an extraordinary couple they were—to think that they were ever going to be married. I saw him ask her, with an attempt at a smile:

“Well, what luck? How many banks have you broken?”

Her back was towards me, so that I could not see her answer, but I guessed what it was from his rejoinder.

“That’s great news.” I fancy he hesitated. Would he have the assurance to ask for that hundred pounds for Mr. Clarke without a moment’s warning? He approached the subject by what I suppose he meant to be a delicate way. “I’m awfully glad you’ve had a bit of luck, because the fact is it’s all the other way with me; I can’t do anything right, and, between ourselves——” I saw him hesitate again; I imagine that the decent man which was in him made it difficult for him to ask a woman for money when it came to the pinch.

What she said I could not see, but I conceive of her as saying, struck by his hesitation: “Well, and what is it, between ourselves?”

He made a stumbling effort to explain what it was he wanted.

“You know, it’s like this: I’m awfully pushed for coin. If you could manage to lend me, say, a hundred out of those winnings of yours——”

She cut him short. I could not tell with what words, but her hand dived into her white satin bag just as they passed through the swing-door out of sight.

Two or three minutes afterwards, when I returned to the Casino, I saw in the crowd round the “little horses” Mr. Clarke sidle up to Mr. Armitage. Both their faces were in plain sight. I could see Mr. Clarke ask:

“Well, have you got it? Has the sweet young thing been kind?”

Mr. Armitage turned away, as if the other’s gibe had roused him to sudden anger; but I saw him hand his companion something as he moved away, and I knew what it was. A few minutes later I saw Mr. Armitage again, going towards the club. He was addressed by a fat, florid-looking man, with an exaggerated moustache. A moustache sometimes screens a man’s mouth almost completely; but his was so formed that, despite the absurd dimensions of that hirsute adornment, I could see his lips distinctly. He said to the man he had stopped, with what I fancied was an evil gleam in his bold, blood-shot eyes:

“I’m sure Mr. Armitage has a five-pound note which he can spare for an old friend who’s a little on his uppers.”

Mr. Armitage recognized him with what was evidently not a start of satisfaction.

“So it’s you, Morgan, is it? What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were——”

Mr. Morgan raised his finger to his lips, to prevent the other bringing his sentence to a close.

“Quite so—we won’t say where. How about a five-pound note, Mr. Armitage, for a very old friend?”

Mr. Armitage looked at him angrily for a few seconds, then grabbed something out of the pocket of his dinner-jacket which might have been a hundred-franc note. He thrust it into the other’s hand and, without waiting for a word of thanks, went quickly on. Mr. Morgan looked at what he had been given, then he looked after the donor—the expression on his face was not that of a grateful man.

I found Miss Drawbridge sitting at the very table on the terrace which had been lately occupied by Mr. Armitage and his friend. As I took the chair in front of her she said to me:

“That’s right, come and talk to me—and have something.” She herself was having some curious concoction in a big glass; for me she ordered a lemon-squash. “I’ve had a good night, my dear. It seems as if I can’t lose at baccarat lately—as if my luck had turned; I’m sure it’s about time it should. You look a little moped. What’s been troubling you?”

I considered for a second or so; then I decided, by degrees, to make the plunge. I approached the subject by what I meant to be a roundabout fashion of my own.

“I’ve just learnt something rather disagreeable.”

“Have you? That’s easy; the difficulty is to learn anything else. Is it private, or for publication?”

“I’ve just learnt that a man who I thought was rather a decent sort is a thief and a rogue, and two or three other things which are rather worse.”

“When you’ve had my experience of life, my dear—which Heaven forbid you ever will—you’ll know that that sort of thing is quite common with a man—you must take a man at his own valuation, my dear. We should never get one at all if we took them at ours.”

“This man is not only going to marry a woman for her money, but because he doesn’t know where he will get money from if he can’t from her, and if he doesn’t get her money at the earliest possible moment he’ll be sent to jail. He’s a thoroughly all-round bad lot, the man is, though he doesn’t look it.”

Miss Drawbridge had her fish-like eyes—they always looked as if they had been boiled—fixed on me with a watery stare.

“What’s the gentleman’s name?” I knew from her manner that, as the children have it in their game, she was “getting warm.” “Does it begin with the first letter of the alphabet?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“What have you found out about Mr. Armitage? Stay—before you speak I ought to tell you that what you say will in all probability be repeated to him; and while I’m about it I ought, perhaps, to tell you something else—and that is not a very easy something to say.”

She sipped at her glass; then she took a cigarette out of a gold case and began to smoke. I thought what an extremely unprepossessing person she seemed. I wondered by what process of evolution a sweet, simple, fresh, clean young girl had become transformed into such a being. Rather to my surprise, and a good deal to my confusion, she showed an unexpected capacity to read my thoughts.

“You don’t think I’m very much to look at, do you? I’m not; I never was. Time has not improved me, either outside or in. When I was young I was very poor. For seven years I was governess at sometimes twenty, sometimes thirty pounds a year, and lived upon my earnings—if you know what that means. I couldn’t expect to get married on that, could I? And no one wanted me anyhow, though I wanted to marry very badly. I never remember the time when the one thing of which I dreamed was not to become some decent man’s wife. It sounds funny, doesn’t it? Isn’t it a shocking confession to make? I wonder how many women would make it if they told the truth?”

She flicked the ash from her cigarette. I was beginning to wish that I had left her alone, that I had not embraced an opportunity of doing her good.

“When I was about thirty-eight I came into a lot of money from an uncle, whom I don’t remember to have ever seen. It turned my head; I thought that money could do anything. I decided that now I would marry, and that I would marry just the sort of man I had always hoped I would do. You see, I had practically no knowledge of the world at all—how can a woman have who has lived a life like mine? It took seven or eight years to make it clear to me that, in thinking because I had got money I could marry the sort of man I wanted to, I was a fool.”

She smiled, and the whole of her face seemed to be dislocated to enable her to do so, and she beckoned the waiter to fill her glass.

“Men wanted to marry me—oh yes; but they were the kind of men whom I would not, as the saying is, have touched with the end of a barge-pole. I sent them about their business. Whenever I saw a masculine creature to whose appearance I particularly objected, I knew that, sooner or later, he would ask me to be his wife—which was nice. No one else ever did, so I made a fool of myself by way of seeking consolation. I know they call me ‘Gertrude’ here, and some equally silly name at other places which I favour regularly with my society. As a matter of fact, my name is Elizabeth. Since my mother died, when I was a girl, no one has ever called me by my Christian name—think of that!”

The waiter brought her a fresh edition of that curious concoction; she put the glass to her lips.

“Don’t suppose that my desire to marry grew less as my years grew more; that’s a silly notion which some young girls seem to have. If I have to advertise for a husband, I’m going to have one before I die; so you can imagine what it means to me that Cecil Armitage has asked me to be his wife. I don’t know that I’m particularly fond of him; I’m quite aware that he isn’t at all fond of me. But he’s so young—you don’t know what a young man means to a woman like me—and so handsome, so beautiful, so healthy, so strong, so well shaped! In my most sanguine moments I never dreamed that I should have such a perfect specimen of a man for my very own. Of course, I shall have to pay for him—you needn’t tell me that; my experience is that one always has to pay for anything that’s worth having—and generally through the nose. I expect to have to pay through the nose for him. I’ve got more money than some people think, or, I believe, even than he suspects. I believe he thinks that I’ve got two or three thousand a year; I’m a rich woman, my dear. My money has gone on increasing and increasing, and now I don’t spend a tenth of my income. I don’t mean to let him know how much money I really have; he’d want too much if I did. I don’t suppose for a moment that he isn’t what I’ve seen described as ‘shop soiled’; he wouldn’t want to get money out of me at the price of making me his wife if he wasn’t in a nasty hole. And, bless you, I don’t mind that; I’ve grown out of all my illusions. You can tell me all you know against him if you like, though I don’t know how you found out; it will give me a pull over him when it comes to talking matters over a little later on. Nothing you can tell me to his discredit will surprise or hurt me in the least. I’m prepared to pay a good lump sum to get him clear of all his messes, then I’m going to have one of the finest weddings ever seen in town; I’ve had a special sum set apart for it for years. Won’t he make a picture of a bridegroom? I never dreamed that I should marry a man like him.”

Her cigarette being nearly consumed, she lit another, while I looked at her with, I have no doubt, amazement in my eyes and something like terror in my heart. I had never supposed that there were such women as she existing in the world, who looked at what, to me, were sacred things from such a point of view. It seemed to me that I was listening to some one in a nightmare when she went on.

“There will be crowds of people at my wedding; you can always get crowds of people if you don’t care what it costs to get them. And the papers will be full of it; the ladies’ papers send their own lady reporters to weddings, and give pages and pages, and lots of illustrations, if you make it worth their while. It’s all a question of making it worth their while. I tell you that with such a bridegroom I’m going to have the wedding of the season; and I do believe you thought you were going to choke me off him by telling me that he is what you call a thief. You funny little thing! How many really honest men do you suppose there are, if the truth were known?”

I had nightmares because of Miss Drawbridge that night—real nightmares. I had a broken and disturbed night absolutely on her account, and I got out of bed with the feeling strong upon me that, if I could possibly help it, that, to my mind, impossible marriage should not take place—I would do that unfortunate woman good in spite of herself.

When I got down almost the first person I saw was Mr. Cecil Armitage, looking so glum, so unhappy, so desperate, and, I could not but think, so ashamed of himself, that my resolution was strengthened—particularly when, as I was having my coffee and roll, the man Morgan, with the huge moustache, came and planted himself at my table, and actually began to talk to me.

“I rather fancy, Miss Lee, that you are interested—shall I say?—in our mutual friend Armitage?”

He seemed to have got my name off pat, though where he had got it from I could not think; how he dared to address me I could not think either. I had never seen the man except the night before in the Casino for about thirty seconds—and then at a distance. I did not answer him, I just looked at him; he went on:

“I may mention I am Captain Morgan, of the Fusiliers.” I think it was the Fusiliers, I know it was some regiment—as if I cared. “I’m an old friend of Mr. Armitage, and if you like I can place you in possession of certain facts concerning that gentleman——”

I did not wait for him to finish. I got up and walked off, leaving my coffee and roll unfinished. I dare say if I had stopped to finish them he would have offered to sell me secrets about Mr. Armitage for five pounds apiece. I had an instinctive feeling that he was that kind of man.

It is quite the thing at Dieppe to go down to the quay to see the boat come in from Newhaven. After déjeuner, as there was a pretty stormy sea, I thought I would go and see what the passengers looked like. As I was going I fell in with Mrs. Curtis, one of the dearest old ladies I have ever met. She was an American, and, so far as I could make out, had been doing Europe very much on her own, although she had a husband who everybody said was a millionaire. It seemed that he was coming to Dieppe by that very boat.

“I haven’t seen him,” she told me, “for more than six months. He’s so occupied with business that he hasn’t time to spare for such a trifle as a wife, except between whiles. I understand that he’s been making another million dollars. I wish he wouldn’t; every fresh million he makes only seems to fill him with the desire to make more; and as we’ve neither kith nor kin, and are just a lonely old couple, what we’re going to do with all the money I can’t think.”

It was a funny thing to say, but then people do say funny things, and there are such funny people, and so much of the world does seem queer. A few people have too much money and so many have nothing like enough—it’s all a jumble.

When the boat drew up at the quay she began to wave her handkerchief with all her might to an elderly gentleman who stood on the deck, and he began to wave his to her; so I drew off in order that they might meet without being worried by a stranger. As I was strolling off the quay after most of the people had gone, a girl who had a small brown bag in her hand looked at me as if she wondered if I were very dreadful, and then as if thinking that perhaps I was not, summoned up courage to speak to me.

“Can you tell me,” she asked, “the name of a cheap and respectable hotel where—where I can go alone?”

I told her of one which I thought answered that description—I offered to show her where it was. She was quite the prettiest girl I had seen for ages, with a face, I thought, which had character and strength, as well as being good to look at. I fell in love with her at sight. She did not accept my offer to show her to the hotel, but she thanked me for giving her the name; and then, after favouring me with a further inspection, she made a remark which took me aback.

“I believe that in these foreign places, if they have been there any time, English people begin to know each other by name as well as by sight. Will you pardon my asking how long you’ve been here?” I told her. Then came a staggering question: “Can you tell me if there is now staying in Dieppe a gentleman named Cecil Armitage?”

“SO YOU’VE BEEN MAKING MORE MONEY,” SHE SAID

I informed her that to the best of my knowledge and belief there certainly was. I do not know what there was in my tone which she resented, but there seemed to be something; because, barely thanking me, she gave me a cold little nod and walked on.

That evening, after dinner, I was sitting in the Casino gardens when I saw a fragment of conversation between Mrs. Curtis and her newly returned husband which both amazed and tickled me. I may say at once that, unless I blindfold myself, whether I want to or not I cannot help seeing what people are saying whenever I look out of my eyes. I was rather in the shadow, and they were in the full glare of the electric light, so that I could not help seeing them. The old lady was speaking when I saw them first.

“So you’ve been making more money?” she said; and as she said it she looked at her husband rather severely.

“I’ve been making a pile, Elinor; a regular pile. I wish money wasn’t so easy to make, or that I hadn’t the knack of making it.”

As he said it he looked to me as if he groaned. In spite of the severe expression on the old lady’s face I dare say there was a twinkle in her eye.

“And what are you going to do with it now you’ve made it?”

“I’m hanged if I know—I’ll be bothered if I do. It’s of no use to me; and I suppose it’s of no use to you, is it?”

“None whatever. I’ve all the money I’m ever likely to need and rather more; it’s piling up at the bank as it is, so that I’m ashamed to look my bank-book in the face, there’s such a lot of it. I wonder you can’t find some better occupation for your time than making money when you’ve got more than you want already.”

The old gentleman, bending towards her, took her hand in his. I could see how his face softened as he touched her, and how hers softened too.

“I tell you what I should like to do with some of that last money I’ve been making—I’d like to do some one a good turn. Do you think it would be easy? I don’t mean just give it away to the first Tom, Dick, or Harry who thinks he wants it—there are plenty of them. You don’t happen to know of a man, woman, or child to whom a certain amount of money would mean the difference between heaven and hell? There must be such people in the world somewhere. Wouldn’t you like to set some fellow, who wasn’t quite a bad one, on his legs, or give some woman, who was very much in need of it, happiness—if money could do it?”

She did not answer, but I fancy she pressed the hand which was holding hers, and I stole off. I did not dare to stay longer for fear I really should be intruding.

I walked as far away from them as I could get, to the other end of the terrace, where I was a witness of quite a different scene. There was Mr. Armitage, standing close up against the sea-wall, looking out across the night-black sea; and somehow his attitude told me that it could not be blacker than his mood. I paused a little distance from him and sat on the wall itself. I wondered how long he would stay. I did not wish to intrude—I had nearly been intruding at the other end—but I did not wish to go; I had a right to be somewhere. After a while he turned, and I thought he was going; then out of the darkness there came—I knew no more than he did from where—the figure of a woman. When she saw him she stopped, and he stopped also. There was a lamp close to the sea-wall which let me see their faces, and how, at the sight of each other, they changed. Then I saw each pair of lips form at the same moment a Christian name—“Cecil!” “Margery!” and in an instant they were in each other’s arms. I had to stop and look at them, because this was the girl I had met on the quay, to whom I had lost my heart. They were silent for quite a perceptible period, as if each was content to know that the other was there. Then, as he held her at arm’s length, I saw him ask her:

“Margery, how do you come to be here?”

And I saw her answer, with the light of love all over her:

“I came for you.”

“For me? Good God!” The hands which had held her fell to his sides; he seemed to stagger as if he had been dealt a blow. “Margery, you shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to come; I couldn’t help coming; I couldn’t stay away. I thought you might want me.”

“Want you? As if there’s ever likely to be a time when I don’t want you! I was half beside myself for want of you then.” She moved forward; he put up his hands as if to stop her. “You mustn’t, you mustn’t.” He drew himself a little more erect. “Margery, I’m going to be married.”

There was a look on her face as if she were bracing herself to bear.

“Is that true? Is it quite, quite certain that you’re going to be married?”

“It’s either that or jail.”

“You are sure—perfectly sure?”

“Absolutely. Clarke is here; he wants his money; he’ll take a warrant out if he doesn’t get it soon. I can only get it from—her.”

There was such an accent on the pronoun—I knew it from the look which was on his face. I could see she winced.

“I know; I’ve heard all about her. I don’t know what to advise you to do. You know you will be committing a great sin—if you marry her.” I noticed that both parties seemed to avoid mentioning her name. “I know you, Cecil, your weakness and your strength. I do not think you will ever cease to love me.”

“I am as sure of that as that you and I are standing here; it’s the only thing of which I am sure. You are part and parcel of my life, of my very being.”

“That being so, do you think you ought to marry—her, even to save yourself?”

“It’s not only to save myself—it’s to save you. If I don’t marry her I shall be sent to jail—there’s no alternative. Then, when I come out, as likely as not I shall marry you.”

“Well—what then?” The smile which lighted up her face was one which, my instinct told me, only comes to the woman who holds the world well lost for love. Her question made him flame into anger.

“What then? Everything then! Margery, you shan’t marry a jail-bird—you shall not. If I’m to be branded as a felon I’ll never carry on the brand to you, and to our children—never, never. As God is my witness, you shall not be a felon’s wife. So the thing resolves itself into this: If I don’t marry this woman I shall become a jail-bird—Clarke will make me one; then—you’ll be such a temptation to me, Margery. I’ve been tempted once and I’ve fallen, but what was that temptation compared to you? I’ll not dare to risk it. So it’s good-bye, Margery. I’ve no right to kiss you; the mere thought of your lips against mine drives me mad. I’m going—I’m going to marry that woman—and I’m going to her now.”

And apparently he went—he positively ran. And the girl never turned even to follow him with her eyes, but remained stock still where he had left her; then did as he had done—looked out across the night-black sea.

I sat still and watched her till I could bear it no longer; then I went to her and said:

“Will you come with me, please, while I speak to some friends?” She glanced at me as she might have done at a ghost; I do not think she quite realized that I was a creature of flesh and blood. So I reached out and took her by the hand and said to her again: “I—I think I can help you if you’ll come with me while I speak to some friends.”

She did not utter a sound, or try to. I think her heart was broken. She just let me take her by the hand and lead her where I would; she moved as if she were a docile child. I saw, in the distance, that Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were still where I had left them; so I placed her on a chair within sight, and I said, as if I had been speaking to a child:

“Sit there, please, and don’t move; in a few minutes I hope I’ll be able to come to you again with some good news.”

She sat down with meek and heart-rending obedience—she was such a picture of misery I could have cried; but I bore up till I got to Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, even though I believe there was something moist in the corners of my eyes. I got to the heart of my subject without any sort of preamble.

“You know, Mrs. Curtis, I told you that I was a teacher of the deaf and dumb, and that I could tell what people are saying by watching their lips?”

“Of course you did, my dear. This is my husband, who has just come to me from New York City. Fred, this is Miss Judith Lee, of whom I was speaking to you. She’s a very wonderful young woman, and I hope she’s going to be my very dear friend.”

I did not wait for Mr. Curtis to speak; I just went on. I could see he was beginning to look at me with a sort of wonder.

“I just saw you and Mr. Curtis talking, and I saw him say to you that with some of the money he had just been making he would like to set some fellow, who wasn’t quite a bad one, on his legs, and give some woman, who was very much in need of it, happiness. Well, I know just such a pair, and if he meant it I can give him a chance of doing, right now, exactly what he said he wanted to do.”

They looked at me, and they looked at each other, which I did not wonder at—I was so hot and eager, so very much in earnest. With that girl sitting there, right in my line of vision, I felt that I had got to take these people’s hearts by storm; and I was not going to stick at a trifle in doing it. Mr. Curtis asked, with something in his voice which made me wonder if he was quizzing me, but I did not care if he was:

“Who are your deserving couple, Miss Lee?”

Then I told them all about it, in just as few words as I could, and as close to the point as I could get them. It did me good to see how quick he was at getting at my meaning. I had heard a deal about American quickness; I saw an example of it then. I believe that before I had finished he understood it all—just got at what I wanted him to get. The quizzical note was still in his voice when he made what, from an Englishman, would have seemed a simply amazing speech, but which seemed to come quite naturally from him.

“If fifty thousand dollars—that is, ten thousand pounds sterling—would do for this lady and gentleman what you want to do, you can have the cash to-night, on one condition, Miss Lee—that you don’t say from whom it comes. You’re to regard that as your secret and mine.”

In about three minutes I went tearing off after Mr. Armitage. I found him sitting at a table in a corner of the restaurant, a suspicious-looking glass in front of him and a most dismal expression on his face. Just as I reached him I saw Mr. Clarke coming in at the other end, but I paid no attention to him.

“Mr. Armitage, I want you to come with me at once on business which is to you almost a matter of life and death.”

He looked at me as if amazed, which was not odd. I fancy I seemed pretty excited, and my acquaintance with him was of the slightest. But I gave him no chance to talk. Almost before he knew it, I was sailing down the room with him at my side. We encountered Mr. Clarke, who tried to stop us.

“Armitage, there’s something which I’ve got to say to you.”

I gave him no chance either.

“Then you’ll have to have something. Mr. Armitage has business which won’t permit of an instant’s delay.”

And I bore that young man right past him. I dare say they both of them thought I was mad. I was conscious that Mr. Clarke was looking after us as if he would like to bite me, but did not dare; he did not even dare to try to speak to Mr. Armitage again. I believe Mr. Armitage did ask some questions, but he got no answers; I took him at such a pace to my hotel that he had not time to ask many. I had arranged with Mrs. Curtis that she should carry off the girl to her private sitting-room. As I opened the door, with the young gentleman in tow, she came out, and she slipped into my hand what I knew to be a wad of notes. Then I showed Mr. Armitage into the room, and when he saw the girl and the girl saw him their faces were a study.

Off I went, without any preamble, as hard as I could to the point.

“I have no time to waste in explanations—at least, not now; I merely want you to understand that owing to circumstances over which I have practically no control I know all about you—and that’s all. I believe, Mr. Armitage, that you have some regard for this young lady, whose name I don’t happen to know, except that it’s Margery. Is it correct that you have a regard for her?”

The bewildered look with which that young man regarded me, as if he wondered if something had happened to the foundations of the world!

“I have only the pleasure of knowing you very slightly, Miss Lee; I’m afraid I don’t understand——”

I stopped the flow of his eloquence with a wave of my hand.

“We shall be able to talk about all that later. In the meanwhile, may I ask you to inform me if you have a regard for this young lady? You’ll find it worth your while to say just ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ I know you are supposed to be engaged to Miss Drawbridge, but that doesn’t matter. Will you please answer my question?”

“I don’t know what use you intend to make of the information, but I have no objection, since you appear to know already, to telling you that Miss Stainer is dearer to me than anything else in the world.”

“I knew it, but I preferred to get the fact from you. Without thrusting myself too much upon your confidence, may I ask, Miss Stainer—I should prefer to call you Margery, but as it seems your name is Stainer——”

“Please call me Margery,” she murmured—just murmured; I could see the words better than I could hear them.

“May I ask, Margery, if you have in the least degree any feeling of the same kind for Mr. Armitage?”

She did not answer—she looked at me. I don’t know what she saw on my face, but she seemed to see something which induced her to draw close and take my right hand in both of hers, and—that was all; but I understood; as I immediately made clear.

“That being the case, it is evidently desirable that you should be married at the earliest possible moment”—you should have seen their faces—“and a friend has placed funds at my disposal which will enable you to do so. Please don’t speak, not yet. Mr. Armitage, you’ve been doing something disgraceful; I’m ashamed of you. How much do you owe that man Clarke?”

That bewildered look on his face was increasing; he seemed all eyes.

“How do you know I owe him anything? Has he been telling you?”

“He has not; and I’m the only one who is to ask questions. You can ask all you like later on, but at present please content yourself with answering mine. How much money do you owe that objectionable Clarke person?”

“It was eight hundred, but now he makes it out to be a thousand.”

I did not ask what hold the man had over him, not out loud; but I dare say the question was formulated in my brain. I cannot explain how it was, but I seemed to see the answer in his eyes, or somewhere: “He’s got a forged acceptance.” And it gave me such cold shivers down my back that I went hurrying on.

“Mr. Clarke will be paid his thousand pounds; and you will sit down at that table and write on that sheet of paper a list of the moneys you owe; they will all be paid—out of the fund which I have at my disposal. Now, do not ask questions, but do as you’re told. Yes, it is a miracle if you like to think it so, it’s the miracle which is going to be the making of you. Now, sit down and write.”

He sat down and wrote; it took him some minutes. A young gentleman cannot be expected to set down all he owes in an instant; I dare say there were omissions in that list of his when it was finished, though it came to a nice little total as it was.

“That’s a very great deal of money,” I told him when I glanced at it. “Nearly three thousand pounds. It’s dreadful that a young man who is practically penniless should owe all that. If, by a miraculous interposition, it is paid, is this sort of thing going to recur? Wait before you answer. You will leave Dieppe to-night, by the boat which starts at half-past one. Miss Stainer will leave also, in charge of a lady who is a very dear friend of mine. You will go to London, there you will obtain a marriage licence, and the day after to-morrow, which will be Thursday, you will be married.”

“Oh!” Margery gasped. I had to put an arm round her waist to hold her steady.

“You will book two berths by the boat which starts for New York on Saturday. On your arrival there employment will be found for you, and you will be provided with funds which will enable you to live until your salary falls due. The future will be in your own hands. Live decently, keep out of debt, work like an honest man should do who has given hostages to fortune, and there’s no reason I know of why you shouldn’t be the happiest couple in the world—because you are starting with a very valuable capital, your love for each other. Now, Margery, you’re not to do that.”

The girl, having come close up to me, had laid her head against my breast and was crying. I had to comfort her.

“Now, my dear, you must keep your head; you mustn’t give way; there are heaps of things you must do. To-morrow you must buy your trousseau, and all sorts of things you will have to have; and—now, Margery, if you will keep on crying you’ll make me cry too, you will—and I won’t.”

And I did not cry; I never do. I look upon crying as an absurd feminine weakness; and if I did, it was nothing to speak of.

Everything happened as I intended. They left by the early morning boat—Mr. Armitage was so shamefaced. He was still bewildered; even as the boat was starting I believe he had a sort of feeling that his brains were addled. Mrs. Curtis shared a cabin with the girl. And Mr. Curtis stayed behind with me.

The next morning I interviewed Mr. Clarke. I sent for him to Mr. Curtis’s sitting-room, and he came. Mr. Curtis was present to see that everything was fair. I began at the visitor before his nose was well inside the door—I did have such an objection to the man.

“Mr. Clarke, I presume you’re aware that you have placed yourself in a very serious position?”

He glared at me as if he wondered who I was; then he looked at Mr. Curtis, and perhaps that kept him from saying some of the things he would have liked to say.

“You have in your pocket a forged bill of acceptance which you received, well knowing it to be forged, and which you have used for the purpose of extorting blackmail. I need not tell a person of your experience that by so doing you have placed yourself within the reach of the criminal law.”

He began to bluster.

“Who the deuce are you, and what do you mean by talking to me like this?”

“Mr. Armitage has instructed me to act on his behalf.” I laid some notes on the table. “There is the money he owes you. You’ll give me the bill you hold and a quittance in full of all the claims you have against him.”

The man made quite a pretty little scene—or, rather, he tried to; because a few remarks from Mr. Curtis brought him to before he had really got under weigh. When he left that room he had got his money, and I had the bill and the quittance and everything I wanted. Then I interviewed Miss Drawbridge.

I found her in the courtyard of the hotel having what she called her “aperitive.” As always, I came to the point with her at once.

“Miss Drawbridge, Mr. Armitage wishes me to tell you that the engagement which he entered into with you is at an end. As you made it clear to me that there was no sentiment about the matter, I am sure you will excuse my treating it as a business proposition—which is off.”

She did not seem to mind my talking to her like that in the very least. She was a most extraordinary woman. Instead of my taking her aback, she took me.

“That’s all right. I’ve been turning matters over in my mind, and I think myself that it would be better to cut the loss. Between ourselves, I’ve almost decided to marry Captain Morgan. He’s a gentleman I’ve known for some considerable period. Every time I meet him he asks me to marry him, and I think, on the whole, he will suit me better than Cecil Armitage; he’s more my sort.”

I believe my breath failed me. The rapidity with which she adjusted herself to fresh matrimonial prospects was a trifle startling. I saw that the person whom she called Captain Morgan was coming out of the hotel.

“You were so kind as to lend Mr. Armitage a hundred and fifty pounds, which he returns, and for which he thanks you. I think you’ll find that correct.”

I laid a hundred and fifty pounds in bank-notes on the table and tore off. Captain Morgan was within a yard or two.

I left with Mr. Curtis by the afternoon boat for London. The next day that affectionate pair were married. Mr. Curtis gave the bride away, and I was her bridesmaid. Afterwards we had quite a festive time with Mr. and Mrs. Curtis. On the Saturday Cecil and Margery sailed. I doubt if they had realized the situation even then. I believe they still thought it was a miracle—and it was.

It was a miracle which materialized and, if I may mix my metaphors—and I shall if I choose—bore fruit and flourished. Mr. Curtis, that miracle-worker, gave Cecil a post in his own business—a small one at first, but which rapidly grew in importance. Cecil Armitage proved himself to be an excellent man of affairs; hard-headed, shrewd Mr. Curtis both trusts and likes him. Margery wrote to me only the other day that she and Cecil were the happiest pair in the United States of America. That seems a tall order; I hope there are lots of couples who are as happy as they are—but they are happy.

The same mail brought me a letter from Mrs. Curtis. She said she hoped to see me before very long with a husband of my own. She never, never will. Never, never, never!

### VI.
“AULD LANG SYNE”

One of the few cases in which I had any association with the police was in connection with the affair of the shooting in Great Glenn Street.

There was, about that time, an epidemic of shooting in that part of London in which the inhabitants, for the most part, are certainly not natives of the great city. The police had made a raid upon a club which they had reason to believe was in reality nothing but a gambling house. On their gaining entrance the lights had been extinguished and firearms had been used by persons who, in the darkness, had been invisible. Three of the constables had been shot—one of them had been killed on the spot, the two others seriously wounded. In the confusion the assassins had escaped. My connection with the matter began on a Tuesday morning, some three weeks after the tragedy had taken place. On the preceding afternoon an arrest had been made in a house in Park Street. The man had made a desperate resistance; there had been shooting on both sides. He had actually killed two officers before he himself was rendered helpless. On the Tuesday morning of which I speak I had business in the City. I learnt, casually, that Park Street was quite close to the spot to which my business took me. I thought I would go and see what sort of place it was; but only persons who could prove that they had business there were allowed to pass into it.

When I saw the crowds which thronged the approaches I wished to go no farther. I never saw such faces. Seldom has that gift of mine for reading what people are saying merely by watching their lips had on me a more curious effect.

On the fringe of the crowd on my right was a thin, undersized, yet intellectual-looking man, on whose sallow cheeks the blue beginnings of a beard lent him an appearance which was almost ghastly. There could be no doubt that he was a foreigner, and one who was ill at ease. He kept giving furtive glances round him, as if he feared that something unpleasant might come at any moment from either side. Presently something did come. A ginger-haired man, with a greasy cloth cap on the back of his head, came shambling past me. He paused as if to look about him. A more unpleasant-looking person one could hardly imagine. Suddenly he caught sight of the individual I had been observing. As he did so his whole being changed. It reminded me of what one reads of the wild beast which bristles and quivers at the sight of its prey. Moving stealthily towards the man with the sallow cheeks, he gripped him by the shoulder. The man, springing from the ground, leaped forward as if to tear himself free, but he of the ginger hair had him in too fast a hold. They eyed one another. Words came from the sallow man’s lips, a torrent of them; I could see them, but what they meant I had no notion. They were in a language of which I had no knowledge.

One thing was evident from the words I saw him utter—he spoke with a strong accent. I had a vague general idea, but his exact words I could not have reproduced. The ginger-haired man turned round so that I could see the whole of his face. There was no mistaking what he said. The words he uttered were sufficiently startling:

“I’ve only got to say a word to these blokes here, and they would tear you to pieces. You mind what you’re saying.”

Whatever the other might have been saying, the ginger-haired man’s words affected him in a manner which it was not pleasant to see. There was an odd movement in his throat, as if there were something the matter with the muscles. Then he spoke again, just two or three words. That time I could see what he said.

“You go away—you let me go.”

“If I let you go, where shall I see you to-night? Don’t you make any mistake about it, I’ve got to see you.”

The other replied:

“Why have you got to see me? What for?”

“Some one will be on the road to the gallows by this time to-morrow if I don’t see you to-night—and you know who.” It was obvious from the sallow man’s bearing that he did. I was conscious of an uncomfortable sensation as I realized the fact. The ginger-haired man went on: “That is, if they don’t out him before the hangman does. I’ve only got to say half a dozen words and the hangman will never have his chance—these here coves would do him out of his job.”

The look in the sallow man’s eyes became accentuated, but for the moment the faculty of speech had gone. The ginger-haired man continued instead.

“All right, you needn’t speak if it hurts you to try. I shall be at Sam’s to-night at ten sharp. I shan’t stop if I don’t find you there; I shall go straight off and make a few remarks to some gentleman who will pay me handsomely for every one of them—and don’t you make any mistake about it.”

The instant he disappeared the sallow-faced man slipped into a street which was in front on the right.

I also departed—in a singularly disturbed state of mind. In the first place, I wished that I had never come; and in the second, I had a most uncomfortable feeling that by my coming I had placed myself in possession of information for which, figuratively, all London was groping. This feeling of discomfort was strengthened by an incident which immediately followed.

A few paces ahead two men were strolling side by side. They were apparently foreigners of the decent mechanic class. At the end of the street they stopped. One of them turned towards the other. I saw him say:

“Come into Sam’s; I’ll introduce you.”

At the corner where they were standing was a shop-front which reminded me of a type of café one finds abroad. There was a good-sized window; the lower half was painted a deep chocolate colour; across the upper half a muslin curtain was drawn which badly needed washing. It was to the building to which this window belonged that the speaker had referred with a motion of his hand. Sam’s? The ginger-haired man had advised the sallow-faced alien to meet him at Sam’s at ten o’clock. Could this be the Sam’s to which he had referred? The pair in front passed through a swing-door. I hesitated. There was nothing to show what the place might be—no name, no sign, no anything. I saw two constables advancing towards me. I addressed them.

“Can you tell me what that place is?”

I motioned towards the window at the corner of the street. They eyed me with what seemed inquiring glances.

“That’s Sam’s,” said one; as he said it he smiled, as if something in my question had amused him.

“Are ladies admitted?”

“Ladies? Well, I don’t know about ladies—it depends upon what you call ladies. Chaps take their wives and sweethearts, and plenty of women—respectable women—go in there by themselves; but as for ladies—well, begging your pardon, I don’t suppose many of Sam’s lady customers pay quite so much for their frocks as I dare say you do.”

“Is the proprietor’s name Sam?”

“I don’t suppose he pays rates and taxes under that name, if that is what you mean. I fancy he is a Pole or a Russian, though he speaks English as well as you or I do; but everybody about here knows him as Sam.”

That night I paid a visit to Sam’s. I had to go, drawn there by a magnet which was stronger than I. The compelling cause was the little scene which I had witnessed between those two men. If they would be there I felt that I must be; that I had to be there, if only to see if they were. I could not make up my mind whether I should, or should not, communicate with the police. I had an intuition that if that meeting did take place, confidences might be exchanged which the police might consider it extremely desirable that they should share. And yet—I could not decide. Not improbably a telephone was available at Sam’s; in a moment a message might be sent to the nearest station; I could give them notice, at the last minute, that assistance might be required, in time for it to reach me.

It was about twenty minutes to ten when I arrived at Sam’s. I need hardly say that I was not wearing the frock to whose cost the policemen had rather pointedly alluded, for I had no wish to have the attention of Sam’s customers attracted to the splendours of my costume. I passed the place four or five times before I actually entered.

When I was in I wondered why I had hesitated as to entering. It seemed quite respectable and fairly clean; and some of the customers, both male and female, were of a better class than I had expected from what the policeman said.

The apartment into which one came after passing the doors was a good large one. I dare say there were between twenty and thirty marble-topped tables, some of them quite large ones. At nearly all of them people were seated; trade was brisk, and there was a babel of voices. I took my seat at a table at which there were already a couple seated. In the hasty glance which I had given round the place I had been unable to discover either of the actors in the scene of the morning. Most of the people seemed to be drinking coffee. I ordered a cup. As it was being brought I looked carefully round; the whole place was visible from where I sat; it was certain that neither of the men was there. I glanced at the clock. It wanted four or five minutes to ten. I sipped my coffee when it came, and found it surprisingly good.

What the people around were talking about I had not a notion; watching their lips told me nothing. I had a feeling that more than one language was being spoken. If there were a dozen, they were all equally unknown to me.

The minutes passed. It was just on ten o’clock when the swing-door opened and the man with the ginger hair looked in. He was probably the only Englishman there. I thought of what I had heard of the unpleasant type of countenance found among low-class aliens. He was to my mind by far the most unpleasant-looking creature there. He glanced round. Not seeing the person he sought, he came farther in and searched more minutely. He glanced at the clock, hesitated, then took a seat at a table near the door. He ordered a cup of coffee from the waiter. When it came he began to swallow it in little gulps, glancing every moment at the clock. The minute-hand marked ten minutes past. He emptied his cup and rose to his feet, muttering something to himself. He might as well have shouted at the top of his voice; it could not have been more audible to me. His face seemed to be distorted by a sudden frenzy of rage.

“I’ll pay him!” Those were the three words he muttered; they were followed by a string of oaths. Then he moved as if to go, and as he did so the sallow-faced man came in.

In the white glare of the electric light he seemed sallower than ever. He was a curious figure as he stood there with one hand still on the swing-door; so short, so slight, such a bundle of nerves; yet, as it were, all instinct with electricity. When he saw the ginger-haired man he held himself straighter, as if he had stiffened; as in the morning, a look came into his eyes which was half rage, half terror. No greetings were exchanged. The new-comer placed himself on a vacant chair. The ginger-haired man sat down on the opposite side of the table. From where I was I could see them perfectly. Then the ginger-haired man said:

“Another half-minute and you’d have been too late.”

The sallow man, resting his arms on the table, seemed to consider the other’s face. Then he spoke in what was no doubt a whisper, which only reached the ears of the man whom he addressed. His accent must have been less marked than it had been in the morning, because I saw so clearly what he said.

“What do you think to gain by going to the police?”

“They offer a reward, don’t they?”

“I see—it is like that—it is the money you are after; so!”

“You take care what you’re saying; you keep a gag on that tongue of yours, or you’ll be sorry.”

“You continually threaten. If it was me you threatened I would not mind—not that.” He made a little movement with his hand. “But my friends—my brother—that is another thing.” The speaker leaned farther forward; probably he dropped his voice still more. “You are a brave man to threaten, to my face, to sell my brother to the police for money.”

The only effect which his words had on the ginger-haired man was to make him angry.

“Do you think I’m afraid of you, or of your friends either? I’ll learn you, if you talk to me like that. I’ll call Sam over here and tell him right out what will settle you and your brother too!”

“My brother did not mean to shoot them.”

“What do I care? You tell that to the police; it don’t interest me.”

“He was a fool. He meant to frighten them; but he had the wrong pistol, and in the dark he did not know it. He thought the pistol was loaded with blank cartridge.”

“I say again, you tell that to the police, it don’t interest me. I don’t care what he meant to do or what he did; that’s his affair, not mine. It’s business I’m after.”

“What do you mean by ‘it’s business you’re after’? What do you want from me?”

The ginger man had been sitting back in his chair. Now he also leaned over the table, so that their faces almost met. He uttered one word: “Money!”

“So! It is money you want from me? You know very well I have no money.”

“I know that I want a hundred pounds from you—and I know I’m going to get it.”

“You’re a fool! I have no hundred pounds, nor have I the moon.”

“You’re going to pay me by instalments, so much a week, until the whole is paid. You’re going to start by giving me this week five golden goblins.”

“I tell you I have not the money; I do not know where to find it.”

“How much have you got on you?”

“Three or four shillings—and that is all the money I possess.”

“Hand it over.”

The sallow-faced man stared as if he did not comprehend.

“But if I give you all that I have got I shall have nothing left. I do not know where the next money is to come from; I shall have none with which to buy food for to-morrow.”

“You hand over what you’ve got, and you turn your pockets inside out to prove that it’s all you’ve got.”

“Do you think I am the sort that will let himself be robbed by such as you? And if I say ‘No,’ what then?”

“Your brother will be in quod to-night—that’s what then. I’ll begin by telling Sam and the blokes here that you’re the brother of the chap that’s wanted for the shooting in Great Glenn Street; they’ll look after you. Then there’ll be some one who’ll get him—don’t you make any mistake about it.”

The sallow man’s big eyes seemed to have grown on a sudden still larger, as if they had been distended by the stress of his emotion. His lips twitched.

“You don’t know where he is!”

The ginger-haired man did not respond upon the instant. Possibly, realizing how the other hung upon his expected answer, he chose to play upon his feelings. When he did speak it was with that hideous grin which made his evil face seem positively diabolical.

“Oh yes, I do know; I know as well as you do—perhaps better.”

“Then where is he?”

“Your precious brother is at No. 3 James Buildings, in the third-floor front—that’s where he is. The room don’t belong to him; it belongs to a lady, and the rent’s a week behind. Perhaps that’s news to you. The lady is trying to find the money to-night to pay the rent in the morning.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s tellings, how I know. I’ve a way of finding out things when I want to. Look here, I’ve had enough of talking. Are you going to hand over?”

“I will give you a shilling to-night, and I will see if I can find some more for you in the morning.”

“A shilling! My crikey, there’s generosity! A shilling for your brother’s life! Chuck that! You’ll not only hand over all the coin you’ve got, you’ll give me your watch and chain and every blessed thing you’ve got about you. And if you can’t find me some more by the morning, I’ll have the clothes off your back. That’s what you’re going to give me as a start for your brother’s life, my lad. Quick, too! Hand over, now, or I’ll call Sam. Which is it to be?”

The ginger-haired man stretched out a huge, filthy hand, palm uppermost, across the table. The other met his eyes, saw what was in them, then proceeded to empty the contents of his pockets into the upturned palm—a pocket-knife, a wooden pencil, a packet of cigarettes, all sorts of oddments, even to his pocket-handkerchief. Still the ginger-haired man was not satisfied.

“Sure that’s all? There’s not much here, you know. You haven’t got a revolver? It’s not a nice thing to carry about with you if it’s loaded.”

“I have nothing of the kind, I swear to you. I never had such a thing; I am not that sort of man.”

“I thought you might have your brother’s. If you haven’t, perhaps you will be able to get it for me. I shall be at the corner of Market Street at half-past eleven to-morrow morning. I am going to have five pounds out of you somehow this week, or—you know what. And don’t you dare to be ten minutes late.”

The ginger-haired man rose from his chair, thrusting the other’s miserable belongings into the side-pocket of his jacket as he did so. Then, pushing the swing-door back, he passed into the night.

I was endeavouring to make up my mind what course I ought to pursue. As I watched the sallow man I kept repeating to myself, “3 James Buildings.” There could be no doubt who was the occupant of that third-floor front; or, at least, it seemed to be clearly my duty to give the police the earliest possible opportunity of resolving what little doubt there was. I asked the waiter, who was a dwarf-like person with scarcely a hair on his parchment-coloured scalp, if there was a telephone in the house. He informed me that there was not, but that there was a public telephone within a couple of minutes’ walk. While I was speaking to the waiter the sallow man, getting quickly off his chair, went swiftly through the swing-doors. Following him in less than half a minute, I found him on the pavement without, talking to a young woman who had a check shawl drawn over her head. They were carrying on what seemed to be an animated conversation, in what was probably a foreign tongue. Cutting it suddenly short, he went hurrying down the street at what was very nearly a run. The girl stood looking after him. Then, I presume, hearing my footsteps, she glanced round towards me. She had quite a pleasant face; was scarcely more than a child—possibly seventeen or eighteen; but in her eyes was that uncomfortable look of something more than terror which had lent such grisly character to the face of the man I could still see hurrying through the street.

I left her there and went to seek the telephone. It was in a small tobacconist’s shop. The people at the exchange put me on at once.

“Is that Scotland Yard?” I asked. “Who is that speaking? Put me on to Inspector Ellis. I am Judith Lee. I have an idea that I can put you on the track of the man you want for the shooting in Great Glenn Street.”

There came along the wire a sound which was very like an ejaculation of surprise, even of incredulity.

“Are you serious, Miss Lee? Where are you speaking?”

“I want you to send half a dozen men in plain clothes, made up to look as little like policemen as they can manage, to the corner of Perrivale Street as soon as possible. Let them go singly and appear not to know each other when they get there. I fancy it’s a ticklish job they’ll have to handle. The great thing is not to arouse suspicion till the thing is done. You had better come with them. How long will it be before you are there?”

“I’ll be there as soon as a taxicab can bring me.”

“Will you be there, say, in fifteen minutes?”

“Before that—probably in less than ten.”

When I came out of the telephone-box there were two women standing under a lamp-post on the edge of the pavement. I recognized one as the girl with a shawl over her head who had been outside Sam’s talking to the sallow man. The other was bare-headed, so that I could see her scanty grey hair and how her face was seamed with wrinkles. They were so absorbed in what they were saying that they did not notice me standing at the door of the telephone-box. They seemed to be in a state of almost hysterical agitation; unless I erred, tears were in the voices as well as in the eyes of both. I looked at their lips, expecting to find that they were still speaking in that unknown tongue, and that, therefore, what they were saying was sealed from me. After watching them a moment, however, it struck me that, while they were not speaking in English, some of the words they uttered were not unfamiliar.

A few months before the occurrences of which I am writing I had received an invitation from certain persons who were starting an institution for the education of deaf-mutes in the town of Posen, in the province of that name, in that part of Eastern Germany which is adjacent to Poland. I was invited for a month, but I stayed four. I had a fair knowledge of German before I went, but the variety of the language which was spoken in that part was new to me. Before, however, I came away it had become more familiar. I had only to watch the two women standing under the lamp-post closely for a few seconds to perceive that that was the tongue they were speaking.

At first I merely caught a word here and there. Only by degrees did I obtain anything like a clear insight into what they were saying. When I did understand I lost words here and there, so that I had to guess at them, but I learnt sufficient to render me thankful that I had been able to learn so much.

One of the first words I caught was “bomb”—which in German is “Bombe.” My interest in their conversation grew when I realized that the word was being formed on the younger woman’s lips again and again, and the sense in which it was being used. She repeated the same statement two or three times.

“I tell you he has got a bomb on a little table by his bed.”

“But why a bomb?” the elder asked.

“Because he will not be taken. I have a particular

“I TELL YOU HE HAS GOT A BOMB ON A LITTLE TABLE BY HIS BED”

way of entering the room; he would know in a second if it was anyone else who wished to enter. He says that if anyone tries to enter the room, some one who is not me, he will push the bomb over on to the floor—and that will be the end of everything.”

“He must be mad to have a thing like that at his bedside. Suppose the table were to tumble over?”

“That would be the end! I tell you I am afraid to go near it, to look at it. I would not touch it for all the money in the world. It is made of some sort of glass; he says that if you hold it in your hand and squeeze, closing your fingers on it sharply, like that”—she demonstrated her meaning with her outstretched hand—“that would be enough. What I have suffered because of that thing!”

The girl covered her face with the edge of her shawl, as if to hide from herself the dreadful picture her imagination had conjured up. The tears were streaming down the old woman’s wrinkled cheeks.

“He must be mad,” she wailed, “to have a thing like that beside his bed.”

“That is not the worst,” continued the girl. “How can I tell you what I suffer when I return? When I am going up the stairs my knees tremble so that I can scarcely mount them; I tremble so that I can hardly think of the signal which tells him it is I. Consider what would happen if I made one little slip; he would not wait to give me a chance to put it right—he has sworn it. That same moment the bomb would fall.”

The two women were reducing themselves almost to a state of nervous collapse by their own words. They both of them trembled and cried.

“What is the signal which you give?” asked the elder.

“It begins when I enter the house. I give one whistle—like that.” She gave utterance to a clear, bird-like note. “As I ascend the stairs I sing, something different nearly every day. He is so afraid that some one will hear me and imitate that he makes me continually change. To-night it is to be a verse of an English song—like this.”

As I stood on the step of the telephone-box she sang, just above her breath, so that the air reached me, the chorus of “Auld Lang Syne,” with the strangest accent.

“It is an English song; I do not know what it means. He sang it to me—you know how well he sings.”

“He can still sing?” There was an anxious note in the elder woman’s voice.

“Yes, a little; enough to make me understand. I do not ask him to explain; I copy him as nearly as I can; for him that is sufficient. I sing this song as I am ascending, my knees shaking, my tongue dry in my mouth. When I reach the top, I pronounce what he calls the password loud enough for him to hear it on the other side; to-night it is ‘Gruss.’ Then I knock on the door, three times; first one tap, then two taps, then three taps; then I go in, and I sigh with thankfulness because I am still alive. Then I see the bomb upon the table, and I am worse than ever, because the sight of it terrifies me more than I can tell you.”

“But there are other people in the house; they cannot go through all this performance each time they go in or out?”

“That is where you are wrong; there is no one else in the house; except that one, all the rooms are empty—that has been arranged. See, I have here the street-door key; with that I let myself in; and——”

The elder woman interrupted her, without glancing in my direction; so that if I had not been observing her lips I should not have guessed that it was to me she referred.

“Why does that woman stay so long upon the step? You see how she is watching us?”

The younger answered not a word. Without a look in my direction she glided away, up the street on my left; while, without so much—so far as I could perceive—as a peep towards me, the elder went trudging past me on the right.

Within a very few minutes I was at the corner of Perrivale Street. As I neared it a man came and accosted me.

“Miss Lee? I thought that you were not coming, that some hoax had been played. I am Mr. Ellis—you telephoned to me just now.”

“Where are the men I asked you to send?”

“They are about the street, separately. They will gather at a word from me. They are in charge of Inspector Davis, who is standing in front of that shop-window smoking a pipe.”

I noted the burly figure to which he referred. So far as I could judge, there was nothing to point to the presence of his six policemen. He went on:

“Where is this man of whom you spoke? Are you sure that you are on his track, or is it merely surmise?”

“This is going to be a much more delicate business, Mr. Ellis, even than I supposed. The man who tries to arrest him will do so not only at the peril of his own life, but of the lives of others.”

“Do you mean that there will be more shooting? We are prepared for that.”

“I do not mean that there will be more shooting.”

I told him of the conversation with which I had just been made acquainted. He heard me with growing amazement.

“Do you mean to say that the fellow has a bomb with him in his room, which he will explode if anyone tries to take him? He will do for himself if he does. Where’s the gain?”

“That I cannot tell you. These people seem to have their own ideas. He will not only do for himself and his would-be captor, or captors, but he’ll work wholesale havoc in the neighbourhood. That is a consummation not to be desired.”

Mr. Ellis’s manner suggested that he was excited.

“But, even if you are right, even if the fellow is such a hideous monster—because he is a hideous monster, is he to defy us, to escape us? Are we not to take him? What are we to do?”

“I’ll tell you what we will do. I will take him.”

“You! You will take him! What do you mean by you will take him? Do you imagine that we will allow you to do our work, to do what we dare not do, to run a risk which we should be afraid to take? You are dreaming.”

“I am not dreaming. It is because I am very wide-awake that I make the proposition. There will be not only risk in your case, there will be certainty. It would be absolutely certain that you would bring destruction upon innocent heads; while, in my case, there will be practically no risk at all. Let me explain.”

He condescended to listen as I went scampering on.

“This girl, from whom I learnt about the bomb, is the only person who is allowed to approach his room. You must remember that the house is empty. She is the only person he permits to enter. I propose to pretend to be her.”

“Do you mean that you’re going to make up to imitate her? He would probably detect you in an instant.”

“Not at all. I’m not going to try to imitate her in appearance. Haven’t I been telling you about the elaborate series of signals by which she announces to him her coming, and how she described them in detail to the other woman? They’re what I’m going to imitate. I know them off by heart. Before he’s begun even to suspect that there’s anything wrong I shall be in his room.”

“There is, I am free to admit, a certain amount of sense in your suggestion. The idea of imitating the girl’s signals is not bad; but if you try that we shall have to enter the house with you—some of us, at any rate; and, keeping close at your heels, go into the room with you, and trust to luck to down him before he’s reached his bomb. There are women in the force. I’ll get one here. You can tell her about the signals, she can work them instead of you. It’s her business—as I said, each to his job.”

“And don’t you realize that by this time that girl has probably gone back to him, or may go back at any moment, and that then your chance is lost? If anything is to be done, it must be done at once—now, and I will do it.”

“Where’s the fellow to be found?”

“He’s at 3 James Buildings, in a room on the third-floor front.”

“That’s just round the corner, less than a minute from here. If you and I go on in front, my men will follow.”

He turned into a narrow side-street. There was not a soul in sight. A woman came out of a doorway on the left perhaps a dozen yards in front of us. I whispered to my companion:

“That’s the girl—the one I saw talking about the bomb. She is probably going to him now; if she gets to him first we are done.”

Mr. Ellis made a curious sound—I think he did it with his tongue between his teeth. The girl hurrying along in front stopped and looked round, as if to see from whom it came. Two men, appearing from what I take it was an alley on the right, were on her before she could move. Each had her by an arm.

She never uttered a sound or attempted to struggle. When we got to her she seemed paralysed with terror—trembling as if, without the support of her captors, she would have fallen.

Mr. Ellis spoke.

“You two had better look after her—take her to the station; detain her till I come.” He addressed the girl. “Do you speak English?”

“I have no English.” It was with difficulty that she spoke. Then she saw me. “You!” she exclaimed in German. “You were on the step.”

I said to Mr. Ellis:

“Can’t I have her shawl? It might enable me to carry the deception a little further if I have it. He’ll spot the trick at once if I enter the room with a hat and jacket on. Apparently she wears neither.”

They took her shawl. Removing my hat and jacket, entrusting them to the men who had her in charge, I donned the shawl in their place. A notion seemed to dawn on her of what the proceeding meant. She began all at once to struggle violently, breaking into voluble speech.

“Off with her,” directed Mr. Ellis. “We don’t want any fuss here.”

I sped on in front. After a second or two he joined me.

“James Buildings is the next turning on the left,” said Mr. Ellis. “You had better go on ahead. When you have got the door open we will follow—my men are all here. But for Heaven’s sake run no more risk than you can help.”

His words were sounding in my ears as I stole down the narrow street. All the windows seemed to be in darkness; there was not a creature to be seen. As I went a thought suddenly occurred to me—I had no key. The girl had spoken about gaining admission with a key. It seemed that the only thing to be done was to go back to her in search of it.

As I decided that the only thing to be done was to return and tell Mr. Ellis of my stupidity I drew the shawl closer around me and—something struck me quite a smart blow over the breast as I swung the corner over. There was something concealed in the shawl. I felt for it; something hard was tied in a knot in the corner. I unloosed it. It was a key—possibly the key I wanted.

I hurried on with the key in my hand. Odd numbers were on one side of the street, even on the other. The door of No. 3 was in a shocking state. I could see how grimy the windows were, and how the blinds which veiled them were in keeping. There was not a glimmer at one of them. I was just about to insert the key into the lock when I thought of the whistle the girl had said she always gave before she did so. I am rather a good whistler; but it was odd how, on a sudden, I had become doubtful of my capacity. With difficulty I produced the note. I had not intended it to be a loud one, yet it seemed to me that it must have been audible streets away. Then I put the key into the lock and opened the door.

As I did so some one came up behind me. It was Mr. Ellis. I had seen him coming, but so noiselessly had he moved that I had heard nothing. Four other men came after him. We entered the hall—I first, Mr. Ellis and his four men after me. The moment my foot crossed the threshold I began to sing the chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.” The girl’s voice had been soprano; hers had struck me as being very soft and sweet; I felt that mine was shriller. I tried to pronounce the words as she had done, so that they seemed to an English ear to be so much gibberish. I do not know to what extent I succeeded in rendering it as she would have done; I do know that singing that immortal chorus under such conditions had on me the most singular effect. I wondered what effect the performance was producing upstairs.

One of the constables had a dark lantern, by whose light we ascended the uncarpeted, rickety staircase. Two men remained below to keep an eye on the street; Mr. Ellis and the two others went up with me. Not a word was spoken; my singing was the only sound there was. I was through the chorus before we were up the second flight of stairs, so, in order to cover a possible stumble on the part of the men behind me, I started it again.

We reached the third floor. There was a door immediately in front of us. As I paused my heart was beating so noisily that it seemed to me it must be audible to whoever might be within.

I gritted my teeth as I knocked at the door—one tap; then knocked again—two taps; another interval—three taps. Then I grasped the handle, turned it, opened the door, and went into the room, with my heart in my mouth.

The programme we had arranged was that I was to enter the room alone, divert the attention of the man within, then give a tiny whistle, and Mr. Ellis and his companions were to appear, and ensure his never reaching the bomb at all.

When I opened the door it was to find that there was darkness in the room. This was unlooked for. I had expected to find a light of some sort, if only a candle or a lamp. It was a strange sensation to enter a room of which I knew nothing and could see nothing, with the consciousness strong upon me that it was occupied by a desperate, blood-stained wretch, who had that hideous weapon of destruction within reach of his fingers. No words of mine could describe my feelings. I did not know whether to move or to speak, or what to do. Any instant, in the darkness, before we knew what he was about to do, the bomb might be thrown—death would be on us.

I longed for a light; yet how was I to get one, ignorant as I was of the geography of the room and of what it contained? I ventured to move, and struck against the back of a chair. He must have heard. I had a sudden feeling that the dreadful silence could not continue. I summoned up my knowledge of the sort of German the girl had spoken.

“Where are you? Why do you not speak to me? Why are you hiding? Why is it so dark?”

When I had put my four questions I had a fresh access of fright. Now I felt the bomb must come, but it did not. The silence continued, and on the instant I became conscious of a quality in the silence which made me behave as if I had lost my head. I broke into reiterated exclamation, throwing open the door.

“Give me a light! Give me a light! Give me a light!”

The constable turned the shutter of his dark lantern, and allowed its light to travel round the room.

“What’s that,” he asked, “upon the bed?”

The light was resting on what seemed to be a truckle bed, on which something was lying. It was a man, huddled up anyhow, partially dressed, amid some filthy scanty bed-clothes. I thought for the moment he was dead. But as we looked he turned slowly over on to his side, and stretched a lean, brown hand towards an old deal table within a foot of his bedside, on which was a quantity of the sort of wool which they use for stuffing chairs. Resting on this was what looked like one of the gleaming glass balls which serve as decorations for Christmas-trees.

It burst on me what it was. Ere his hand got there I snatched it up. As I did so he rolled off rather than rose from his bed, jerking towards me his claw-like fingers. I shrieked; I had to. Mr. Ellis and his men rushed forward. Some one caught the man by the shoulder. The instant he was touched he collapsed on the floor—dead; so near he had been to dying when we came in.

Later inspection by experts made it clear that the glass ball I had caught up was a bomb of a particularly diabolical sort. Had it been exploded in that small room the whole of James Buildings might have been destroyed with their inhabitants. Death, however, removed its owner before he had been able to put his benevolent design into execution.

The girl whose shawl I had annexed made a statement to the police, by which it appeared that the man’s name was Stepan Grilovitch. His chiefly had been the hand which had dealt out death in Great Glenn Street. There the shooting had taken place in a darkened room. As, in the circumstances, was not surprising, a shot from one of his friends had struck him; he had been conveyed to that upper room, where he had been in charge of the girl ever since. The wound had gangrened. A doctor might have prevented it; on the other hand, a doctor would almost certainly have sent him to the gallows. He preferred to die in another way instead. What became of his brother I do not know; he has never crossed my orbit since. Nor, thank goodness, have I seen anything more of the man with the ginger hair.

I shall never forget mounting that rickety staircase, singing “Auld Lang Syne”; or those awful moments in the pitch-black room.

It was only afterwards I remembered that when I reached the top of the staircase, before tapping at the door, I had omitted to give what the girl said Stepan Grilovitch called the password: “Gruss!” What a shudder went all over me in the first shock of recollection! Sometimes that shudder comes over me still.

### VII.
ISOLDA

Experience has taught me that people discuss the most confidential matters in public places; chiefly, probably, in establishments in which persons eat and drink in public. I have often been disconcerted in a restaurant by the discovery of the amazingly intimate themes of the conversations which are being carried on around me. It is on such occasions that the gift I have of learning what people are saying by merely looking at their faces becomes a very questionable possession. I have had to keep my eyes fastened on my plate to avoid having observations forced upon me which were certainly intended for no one but the individual to whom they were addressed. Once, when I was lunching with Mr. Carryer at the King’s Restaurant, I actually saw a girl proposing to a man—she was quite a pretty girl too; I had been admiring her hat. I saw her say to the man with whom she was sharing a table:

“Arthur, won’t you marry me? Say you will. I don’t believe you have any idea how fond I am of you; I’d love to be your wife.”

I did not see what his reply was; I looked away, feeling that this was certainly a case in which a third person was not company. I had scarcely got over the embarrassment which my unintentional eavesdropping had occasioned me when Harry Carryer said:

“You see that fellow over there? That’s Isolda.”

I did not dare to lift my eyes; I might be forced to glance in the direction of that table, and goodness only knew what the couple might be saying. I just murmured a question:

“And who may Isolda be?”

“I thought every one knew who Isolda was. He’s the fortune-telling Johnnie, chiromancer, palmist, or whatever he calls himself, whom every one is rushing to consult. Women tell me that they think he is so beautiful, and are quite rude when I tell them that I don’t think so.”

I knew to whom Harry was referring without looking, though to please him I looked again. There was a person seated alone at a table on our right, the moment I saw him I had set him down to be something of the kind. As I observed him, Mr. Carryer went on talking.

“All sorts of queer tales are told about Isolda. I know a girl who never does a single thing without consulting him; she made me swear that I wouldn’t tell her mother how often she goes to him, but I have often felt that I should like to—silly idiot! Then I know a married woman who declares that he told her the exact sum an uncle of hers would leave her, and the precise date on which he would die, three years before the event came off—she is quite mad with me when I say I don’t believe it.”

Isolda was a tall, narrow-chested, thin-faced, large-lipped, big-eyed, long-haired, dandified individual, who, I felt sure, reeked with perfume. Presently a man crossed the restaurant and took a seat at Isolda’s table. In appearance he was a contrast to Isolda—short, thick-set, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, even at that distance I was convinced that he smelt of the country and the open air. Harry Carryer proceeded to regale me with a variety of anecdotes in which Isolda was the chief character; some of them were such odd ones that I glanced at him again. The red-faced man was speaking with such emphasis that I had to see what he was saying.

“You understand, I am going to post you up in everything about her, and you must let it off on her as if you had got it from the stars. You are to tell her that the consumption of which her sister Elsie died was brought on by a broken heart, because she was in love with a dark man with a slight cast in one eye—that’s Tom Harvey; I know she was spoons on him—she couldn’t marry him because he had got no money. Then you are to tell her that her fate is mixed up—well, describe a man like me; lay it on thick. Tell her I have proposed to her five times—which I have; and that if she don’t take me when I make it the sixth there’ll be no end of a rumpus. And, look here—this is what I particularly want you to tell her.”

The speaker, leaning over the table, I have no doubt dropped his voice to a whisper—he had grace enough to do that.

“Tell her that she once cheated at baccarat, that the secret is known to two persons, and that the only way she can save herself from a scandal is by marrying me. Tell her also that she owes money for bets—so she does, a good bit—and that exposure is bound to come unless she protects herself by becoming my wife. Make it as hot as you please—you can invent two or three things for yourself if you like; she’s expecting such a lot from coming to see you that she’ll swallow anything. My idea is that you give her a regular fit of the blues; if you manage things properly, when I propose to her again, to-night or to-morrow, she’ll accept me right away—and if she does accept me I’ll give you fifty pounds.”

Isolda made merely one remark.

“Fifty pounds is not a large sum—for a wife.”

I was conscious that Harry Carryer was saying: “You seem to be taking a great interest in the Isolda chap; do you think he’s so beautiful?”

“I don’t; you know I’m a student of character—I was studying his.”

As a matter of fact I was amused by the expression which had come on the red-cheeked person’s face; he was staring at the palmist as if he would have liked to hit him.

“Fifty pounds isn’t bad pay for a few minutes’ talking; you will have to say something to her, anyhow; I’m giving you a distinct leg-up by dropping you a hint or two.” Isolda said nothing; he was apparently engrossed with the contents of his plate. The other plainly resented his silence. “Well, aren’t you going to tell her what I want you to? I would never have sent her to you at all if I’d thought you were going to turn up rusty. You’ve done this sort of thing for me before.”

“At your request I told a friend of yours that a certain horse would win a race which you knew it would not win, and it didn’t. It is possible that she lost a considerable sum of money by backing it.”

The other smiled; I did not at all like the look on his face when he smiled.

“She did—a pot full; she came a regular cropper; served her right—I owed her one: that made us even. Are you going to do this for me now?”

“I tell you again that fifty pounds is not a large sum—for a wife.”

“How much do you want?”

“At least a hundred.” The palmist ate his luncheon as if the conversation had no interest for him. The other did not look pleased.

“A hundred?—for ten minutes’ talk?—You’ve a conscience!”

“Can as much be said for you?—Some people have none.”

“If I give you a hundred, will you make it a dead certainty for me?”

“I will follow out your instructions; you are aware that I am an artist in such matters.” Something which might have been a smile flitted across the speaker’s curious features; the other seemed to be screwing himself to the sticking-point.

“Very well, you shall have a hundred; only mind—I trust you.”

“Fifty now and the rest to-morrow.”

“What do you mean by fifty now? You shall have your money when the job’s done.”

“I’ve told you my terms. You must excuse me, I have an appointment; I have stayed too long.” The speaker made as if to rise; the other laid his hand upon his arm.

“Sit still—I’ve a cheque in my pocket; you shall have your fifty. What difference does it make, to-day or to-morrow?”

The speaker produced a blank cheque and a fountain-pen. As he was filling up the cheque the palmist asked:

“What is the lady’s name—this time?”

“The lady’s name—this time—is Lucille Godwin. She is coming from Hyde Park Gate. I impressed on her the necessity of being punctual—she will be with you at three-thirty sharp. I told her to wear a sprig of white heather; as I believe it’s not your custom to ask your clients for their names; it impresses them so much more to find that you know them without asking; that sprig of white heather will tell you who she is. Here’s your cheque; you shall have the same to-morrow if the job is well done.” The slip of paper changed hands.

“And if she doesn’t wear the sprig of white heather?”

“She’ll have cornflowers in her hat; cornflower blue is her favourite colour; it does become her. She thinks cornflowers bring her luck—she’s always got one stowed away somewhere about her.”

“That’s the most significant item of information you’ve given me yet; it’s possible that I may be able to make more of that than of anything else. I wish you good morning.”

He slipped the cheque into his waistcoat-pocket as he rose from his chair. I was struck by his, of course, fanciful resemblance to a bean-stick—he was so tall, so straight, so slender. I do not think I ever saw a thinner man, nor one more beautifully tailored. His frock-coat, shaped to his figure, coming to below his knees, emphasized both his slimness and his height. There was a weird something about the garment which suggested a cassock; as he moved between the tables, the observed of all observers, he might have been a priest rather than a layman.

“Queer looking fish,” commented Mr. Carryer, with a certain acidity. “You are like all the rest of the women, you’re more interested in him than in your lunch; what you all see in him I can’t imagine.”

“Nor can I.” I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was just after two; I wondered if I could communicate with Miss Lucille Godwin before she started for Isolda. I asked the waiter for the telephone call book. Harry surveyed me, as I searched its columns, with disapproving glances.

“If you’ll hand that over to me I shall probably be able to find the name you’re hunting quicker than you; your coffee is getting cold.”

“I’m looking for a person named Godwin. Ah, here we are—Godwin; there seems to be lots of them, they are all over London—Hyde Park Gate, that looks like the one I’m after. If you don’t mind, I rather want to send a telephone message.”

I went out and sent it. This is the sort of dialogue which took place.

“Yes!—Who’s there?”

“Is that Mrs. Godwin’s?—I want Miss Lucille Godwin.”

“I’ll go and fetch her; what name, please?”

“Ask her to be quick—I’ve something very important to say to her.” I ignored the question; the person at the other end departed. Apparently I had hit upon the right Godwin the first time of asking. I waited for several seconds; suddenly the sound of a girlish voice reached my ears.

“Yes?—Who are you?—What do you want?—I’m in a hurry—I’ve got an appointment—I’m just rushing off to keep it.”

“You are going to Isolda.”

There was a note of surprise in the clear young voice.

“How do you know that? Who are you? I don’t recognize your voice. To whom am I speaking?”

“You are wearing a sprig of white heather for luck.”

“Who told you that?—What do you mean?—Whoever are you?”

“I want you to pay particular attention to what Isolda says to you. He has been told to tell you that your sister Elsie really died of a broken heart, because she was in love with a Mr. Harvey.”

“Good gracious!—Who told you that? Will you tell me who you are!”

“He has also been told to tell you that your fate is mixed up with a short, square man, with red cheeks and blue eyes, whom you will recognize from his description.”

“Why, that’s George Ratton; this is awful! Before you say another word will you please tell me who you are?”

“He’s also been told to tell you that you once cheated at baccarat.”

“Oh!” A shriek came over the wire. “Please—please tell me who you are.”

“Also that you owe money for bets; that cornflowers are your favourite flowers, and that you carry a cornflower about with you for luck. Isolda has been told these things about you in order that he may convey to you the idea that he has occult powers which he doesn’t possess. The blue-eyed person has proposed to you five times; he hopes, with Isolda’s help, that you will accept him at the sixth time of asking. Be on your guard. Good-bye.”

I hung up the receiver and walked away. Something had constrained me to give Miss Lucille Godwin a friendly warning; a man who could conspire with such a creature as Isolda against the girl he professed to love was the kind of person one ought to be warned against. Having conveyed that warning I felt that I had done all that was required of an utter stranger. I did not wait for Miss Godwin’s acknowledgments; I left her to act on the hint I had given, or to ignore it, as she chose.

Some days afterwards I was glancing down the advertisement columns of a daily paper when these words caught my eye:

> “Will the stranger who sent the telephone message to L.G., about two-fifteen on Friday last, communicate at once with L.G. at her address, and so render a very great service.”

“L.G.”? I considered a moment. Clearly those were the initials of Lucille Godwin. About two-fifteen on the previous Friday I had sent a telephone message to Lucille Godwin. Could the advertisement refer to me? I was reading the paper in my own sitting-room, after breakfast; there was a telephone at my elbow—I should not be likely to do much harm by ascertaining. I again looked up Miss Godwin’s number; found it; and was presently informed that the connection was made. There came, unless I was mistaken, the same voice over the wire.

“Yes, who are you?”

“Can I speak to Miss Lucille Godwin?”

“I don’t know about Miss Lucille, but I dare say you can speak to Miss May. What name, please?”

“If Miss Lucille can’t come, send Miss May.” I wondered why Miss Lucille could not come. All at once there came a voice which was very like the one I had heard on Friday, but not quite the same.

“Yes? Who are you? I am May Godwin.”

“Do you happen to know anything about an advertisement which appears in to-day’s Morning Post?”

“Oh dear, are you the person who telephoned on Friday? Please tell me who you are. Come and see me, or let me come and see you; I’m in such frightful trouble.” Something in her voice suggested distress.

“Are you Miss Lucille Godwin’s sister?”

“Of course I am; you know I am. Please tell me to whom I am speaking.” Then, with a sudden burst, which somehow made me wonder if it were a child who was speaking: “Oh, please will you come and help me? Lucille told me all about what you said to her—it was she who put the advertisement in, and now she’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared? What do you mean by disappeared?”

“She went out two days ago, and nothing has been seen or heard of her since—suspense is driving me half out of my mind. Papa and mamma are both abroad, but they’re coming back to-morrow, and what will happen if Lucille isn’t here I daren’t even imagine.”

The speaker’s voice was broken by what sounded very like a sob.

“Have you no idea of what’s become of your sister?”

“Yes, I have; that’s the worst of it. Oh, please come and see me—do, do, do!” Each note of exclamation was emphasized by a sob.

“Have you no friends to whom you can apply? I am an utter stranger.”

“That’s one reason why I want you to come. If I go to any of our friends they’re sure to give Lucille away, and then I don’t know what will happen. Oh, please come and see me; please!—please! You must know something about us, or you wouldn’t have sent that message—I like the sound of your voice, I can hear that you’re a woman, and I’m sure that you can help me. Oh, please—please do come.”

As the tearful, eager, young voice kept flashing her entreaties along the wire, I was turning things over in my mind; interference with matters which were no concern of mine was leading me, as so often was the case, much farther than I wanted to go. I had nothing very particular to do that morning; the speaker’s anxiety and distress seemed genuine enough; after all, there was no real reason why I should not run round and see what all the pother was about; why and where Miss Lucille Godwin had disappeared, and what help this frantic young lady supposed I could render. I said:

“I’ll be with you in about twenty minutes; will that suit you?”

There came to me what almost amounted to a scream of joy.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!—Please do come as fast as ever you can.”

About twenty minutes afterwards I was knocking at the door of a big house at Hyde Park Gate. It was opened by a footman.

“Can I see Miss May Godwin?”

A slender figure came rushing across the hall; an eager face looked at me in the open doorway. “Are you——”

“I’ve just been talking to you over the telephone.”

“Of course—yes—please come in; do you mind coming up to our room, Lucille’s and mine?”

I did not mind where I went, having once embarked upon the enterprise. She led me to a pretty sitting-room on the second floor, evidently the sanctum of something both feminine and young. Everywhere were those odds and ends, trifles, knick-knacks, which are dear to the souls of very young girls.

“Please will you sit down? May I ask you for your name?”

The speaker assumed a dignity which became her rather well; the telephone had not misled me; she was extremely young. I set her down as just turned sixteen; her skirts barely reached her ankles. She was quite small, I dare say not much over five feet, very slight and dainty, with small features, bright eyes, and the sweetest mouth. I fell in love with her at sight.

“My name is Judith Lee.”

“I am May Godwin.”

“So I imagined; I recognized your voice.”

“What do you know of us, Miss Lee?”

“Absolutely nothing; if possible, less than that.”

“But——” The girl looked mystified, as if she were confronted by a problem which was rather beyond her. She screwed her mouth up into the most delicious pout. “Didn’t you send a telephone message to Lucille last Friday?”

“I did.”

“Then you must know something about us, because you told her the most private things, some of them known only to herself, and some, at most, to two or three others.”

“Before I answer your questions, will you tell me if I understood you rightly that your sister has disappeared?”

“She went out two days ago, and I’ve seen and heard nothing of her since.”

“You knew where she was going?”

“Well, in a way I did, but—— Oh, I wish I knew who you are; won’t you tell me, please?”

It was rather a wail than an appeal. The dainty face was distorted as by a spasm of pain.

“Is your sister older than you?”

“Of course she is—she is nearly four years older—she has just turned twenty-one.”

Then it seemed that the speaker was seventeen—she scarcely looked it.

“I don’t wish to encroach upon your confidence; what I said to your sister over the telephone I learnt by the merest accident. Did she go to see Isolda?”

“Of course she did—he told her exactly what you said he would; he made her so wild that she told him that she knew he was going to say it—and there was quite a scene; she said that she felt that he would like to kill her.”

“What has happened since?—Understand, tell me nothing if you’d rather not.”

She knit her brows in dire perplexity.

“I’ve simply got to tell some one. Things can’t go on as they are; to tell any of our friends would be to give Lucille away.” She eyed me very hard, as if she were trying to discover what kind of person I was. “Can I trust you?”

“You can.”

“Then I will. I liked your voice, and now I like your looks, Miss Lee. You are sure your name is Lee?” Under the circumstances the question was a pretty naive one; I assured her that it was. She favoured me with a further scrutiny, then seemed to come to a final resolution. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Then she drew a long breath, as if she sighed with relief. Her tongue began to move almost faster than I could follow it.

“George Ratton—you know George Ratton?”

“Short, square, red cheeks, blue eyes.”

“That’s George; then you do know him?”

“I saw him once.”

“When Lucille came back from Isolda she wrote him such a letter! When he came over the next morning, she wouldn’t see him. He wrote a note in the hall—when he sent it up by Tomkins, she sent it back unopened. Then he sent her a telegram; she had to open that, because, of course, until she opened it she didn’t know who it was from—such a telegram! He begged and prayed of her to see him, let him explain, not to condemn him unheard—in that telegram there were over a hundred words—and there was a reply paid. She made me fill it up with just seven words: ‘Wire received. Lucille has nothing to say.’ Soon after there came another telegram. She made me open that, and when I told her who it was from she wouldn’t let me read it; then he called to see me, and she wouldn’t let me see him; he was quite rude to Tomkins.”

“May I ask if you two girls are in the house alone?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this.” To do her justice she did seem rather confused; then her face was irradiated by a smile which, to my thinking, made her perfectly lovely. “The fact is, we’ve been a pair of perfect idiots. I may as well admit it, as that is where all the trouble began. Mother and father are abroad; we didn’t want to go, so they put Mrs. Cotterill in charge. Of course, Mrs. Cotterill is quite nice, but we found her rather trying, so we got up a scheme to get rid of her, so that we might have a fortnight’s perfect time before the mater and pater came home. It was rather a neat scheme”—I was sure it was from the way that young woman’s eyes danced in her head. “I won’t tell you about it now; it was a perfect success in one way, but in another it was a dreadful failure—almost from the moment that Mrs. Cotterill left the house everything began to go wrong. Lucille quarrelled with Jack——”

I ventured to intrude a query. “May I ask who Jack is?”

“Jack? Oh—well, Jack’s Jack; he’s the one that Lucille is really in love with, and every one approves of. They are engaged, and were to be married this year; but now, of course, it’s impossible to say. Sometimes Lucille is rather trying; it can’t be expected that Jack is to put up with everything; so when he told her, as far as I can make out, quite politely, that he really couldn’t, Lucille declared that she would never speak to him again—and that’s how the trouble began. She started encouraging George Ratton, who may be fond of her, but I’m nearly sure is fonder still of her money—she’s got some now and will have a great deal more. Everybody says how frightfully hard up George is, and anyhow he’s not a very nice person, or he would not induce her to gamble and bet as he does—but when I told her so, she quarrelled with me, so that I had half a mind to wire to Mrs. Cotterill to come back again. She has always been mad to go to one of these palmist people, but both mamma and papa have forbidden her. Of course, every one is full of Isolda; we know lots of people who have been to him, and George Ratton so cracked him up, that nothing would satisfy her but that she should go. Just as she was starting there came your telephone message. How did you find out those things you told her?”

I explained. The excitable child broke into rhapsodies, as if I were some extraordinary person.

“Oh, how wonderful! Oh, how I should like to be you! How lovely it must be to be able to tell what people are saying.”

I cut her short. “There are one or two matters which require my attention; would you mind telling me what has happened to Lucille?”

“I was getting to it. When she came back from Isolda she was as mad as a hatter; she can fire up when she likes, and there must have been quite a scene. This is Thursday. On Tuesday morning she had a wire from Jack Upcott, telling her he had been frightfully unhappy, begging her to forgive him, entreating her to meet him, of all places of the world, in Richmond Park. ‘Why Richmond Park?’ I said when she showed me the telegram. ‘How can I tell?’ she answered. ‘Perhaps because it’s the loneliest place round London. I think it’s quite a good idea of his. We can spend the day in the park, have dinner somewhere, and then drive back to London in the moonlight.’ ‘There doesn’t happen to be a moon just now,’ I said. ‘Oh, of course you are frightfully literal,’ she snapped, and off she bounced.”

“There may be a very simple explanation; she may be staying with Mr. Upcott’s friends; there must be lots of persons who would be willing to have her as a guest.”

“Of course there are—that’s just what I thought she was doing, though I thought it jolly mean of her to leave me all alone in the house after the plans we had made; but last night there came a letter for her in Jack Upcott’s handwriting, postmarked Nice. It seemed queer that he should be writing to her from Nice on the same day on which he had been telegraphing in town asking her to meet him in Richmond Park. I hesitated, and hesitated, and hesitated; then at last I opened the envelope; then I saw at once that somewhere there must be something wrong. It was just a short note to say that since she didn’t want him in London, he thought he had better try Nice for a change, and that when she did want him she had only to send a wire and he would return at once; I expect that if Lucille had opened the envelope herself she’d have first of all been madder than ever, and then afterwards sent him a wire. One thing was clear—he couldn’t be in two places at once; I didn’t sleep a wink all night, wondering where Lucille was, and what it all meant. This morning, while I was having breakfast in bed, some one came with one of Lucille’s visiting-cards, and said that she had sent him for the desk which stood on her writing-table, her jewel-case, and her dressing-bag. I said I would be down as soon as I could to see the messenger, but when I did get down, he was gone. Tomkins says that he was quite a respectable-looking person, in a light overcoat and a grey felt hat; but evidently he had not courage enough to wait and see me. Here is the visiting-card he brought.”

As I looked at the card she handed me I saw that there were three lines pencilled on the back in very minute writing. “Desk on writing-table. Jewel-case in drawer. Dressing-bag in wardrobe.”

“Is this your sister’s handwriting?”

“Not the least bit like it—she writes a great, big, sprawly hand. I’ve never seen that writing before; I’m sure I should remember if I had, it is so very tiny. Who can that man have been who brought the card? Where can he have got it? What did he want those things of hers for? Why didn’t he wait for them?”

“I fancy that the answer to your two last questions is pretty obvious. What was she wearing when she went out on Tuesday?” The girl gave me a long and minute description. “How did she propose to get to Richmond, and whereabout in the park was the meeting to take place?”

“They were to meet at the gate on Richmond Hill, and she dashed off without giving me the faintest notion of how she was going to get there.”

“When do you say your parents are returning?”

“To-morrow; if Lucille isn’t back before they arrive there will not only be a frightful rumpus, but they will probably find out all sorts of things that will put us into their black books for ages to come; I tell you we’ve behaved like a pair of perfect idiots.”

That at least was clear enough; I only hoped that nothing worse would come of their folly than what she called a “frightful rumpus.” I went up to a large photograph of a very pretty girl which stood on the mantelshelf.

“That’s Lucille,” the girl informed me. “How odd that you should know so much about her and yet have never seen her. She’s tremendously pretty—very, very fair; her hair is almost white—and shines. When it’s parted in the middle she looks a perfect saint, as if butter would never melt in her mouth—but it does. She says that she’s as full of life as a kitten; and I tell her, and also of mischief; then she tries to scratch me. But, truly, she’s a real good sort, and if you only stroke her the right way there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for anyone.”

The girl was perhaps a trifle incoherent; but she gave me a pretty clear idea of the person in the photograph.

“Obviously, the first thing we have to do is to find out where your sister is,” I told her as I went. “I promise nothing, but I think it’s possible that I may be able to do that before very long—in time to permit of her reappearance before Mr. and Mrs. Godwin return to-morrow; though, mind you, I don’t hesitate in saying that I think it’s quite possible that you both deserve that ‘frightful rumpus’ of which you spoke.”

She put her head on one side, like some dainty bird, and gleamed at me—as a bird might have done.

“Are you quite sure that you never did anything that you oughtn’t to have done, and that you never felt how lovely it was to do it? I believe that the very best and wisest people sometimes feel that they’ve got to do what they ought not; I know that Lucille and I do. Don’t you?”

I left her question unanswered—and I went to lunch at the King’s Restaurant. I gathered, from certain trifles, which I had noticed on the preceding Friday, that this was the place at which Mr. George Ratton, the short, square, red-cheeked, blue-eyed young man, made it his custom to lunch; not only had he seemed familiar with the staff, but he had not paid his bill—as though he kept a running account. I thought it just possible that he might lunch there again on that Thursday morning. I had not been seated five minutes before he came in—going straight to a table which was evidently reserved for him, and which was not quite so well in my line of sight as I might have wished. Other tables were in the way, so that I could only see him clearly when he was in certain positions. It struck me that he looked worried, and that it was with an effort he smiled as he nodded to various acquaintances who were possibly, like himself, habitués. Nothing happened, except that food and drink were brought to him, which he seemed to enjoy. As both his meal and my own drew towards a conclusion, I was considering what steps I ought to take to obtain from him certain information which I required. Should I accost him there? or should I allow him to leave and address him in the street? I had still not made up my mind upon the point, when a person whom I had already noticed moved towards the table at which he was seated.

This person looked as if he might be an actor—a comedian for choice. He was of barrel-like proportions; a small, almost bald head, shaped like a Gouda cheese, and nearly of the same colour, was set on a short, thick neck, as a climax to his enormous body. His attire was striking. The ends of a bright blue necktie, tied in one of those flamboyant bows which are dear to a certain type of French student, flowed loosely over an extensive shirt front, which was of another shade of blue. He carried a wide-brimmed straw hat in his hand, and as he approached Mr. Ratton he waved it at him as a sort of salute. He stood where I could see him clearly—there was no mistaking what he said.

“Excuse me, sir, but might I have a word with you? I believe you are Mr. Ratton—George Ratton.”

There was something flamboyant in the words he chose, in the way he pronounced them; if he was not an actor, he ought to have been. Mr. Ratton seemed to eye him rather askance.

“My name is Ratton, sir; but I have not the pleasure, I think, of knowing you.”

“No, sir—yet I know you; more persons know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows; no personal allusion intended.” Mr. Ratton coloured up as if he thought the allusion very personal indeed. The stranger, resting both hands on the end of the table, addressed him in what I presume he meant to be a confidential whisper. “I came here, Mr. Ratton, in the express hope of seeing you; I have something to say to you which, I venture to assert, you will not only find interesting and important, but also to your advantage—possibly, very much to your advantage.”

“What may that something be? May I ask your name?”

“My name does not matter, sir—no, it does not matter.” The speaker made a movement with his hat as if to signify how little it did matter. “With your permission, sir, I will take a seat.”

When he did sit down, without, so far as I could judge, having permission accorded him, I had to move my seat in order to get anything like a satisfactory sight both of Mr. Ratton and of him. This took some seconds, and I had to pick up the conversation at a point which necessitated my guessing at what had been already said. The stranger was leaning right over the table, and Mr. Ratton was still very red, as if he resented his words and manner and his appearance altogether. The barrel-like man was saying, with what, no doubt, were bland, unctuous, softened tones:

“He was naturally hurt by the feeling that you had sold him.”

I fancy Mr. Ratton’s tones were considerably louder, and were certainly less bland.

“I told him, and I tell you, that I won’t have it said that I sold him; I’ll allow no one to say it.”

“You tell him what to say to the young lady, then you tell the young lady what you said to him—what is the inference one draws? In consequence he is placed in an extremely unprofessional position—by you.”

Mr. Ratton seemed to be growing momentarily redder in the face.

“What he meant, and what you mean by saying that I said a single word to the young lady is beyond me altogether; I told him it was a lie—I don’t know who you are, but I tell you the same.”

The stranger gave a little movement of his hand, as if deprecating the other’s warmth; he seemed calm enough.

“However that may be, he was placed in an unprofessional position—by some one—the fact remains. The young lady as good as told him he was a humbug. No man in his position cares to be spoken to like that, especially by a client on whom he had every reason to believe he was about to make a profound impression. No one, I am sure, can exaggerate the pain the whole affair has caused him—it touched him on his tenderest spot. He vowed he would be even with you both—for his reputation’s sake. The consequence is that the young lady has disappeared.”

“Disappeared? What the devil do you mean?”

Mr. Ratton not only raised his voice, he half rose from his chair; the lunchers looked round at him. The stranger was the soul of suavity.

“Gently, Mr. Ratton, gently. If your feelings are likely to be too much for you, had we not better continue our conversation outside?”

Mr. Ratton sat down, apparently conscious that he had allowed his feelings too much play.

“What do you mean by telling me that the young lady has disappeared?”

The big man, touching the tips of his fingers together, moved them softly to and fro.

“The young lady has disappeared. That, Mr. Ratton, is what I mean.”

“If he has been playing any of his hanky-panky tricks with her I’ll wring his long-drawn-out neck; that to begin with.”

“I cannot, of course, say if her disappearance has any connection with the injury which was done to his feelings, but—it is at least a coincidence.”

“If you don’t tell me what you mean in plain English——”

“Now you’re getting warm again. Had we not better continue our talk outside, where there is no risk of your making a scene?”

Not only the people who were lunching, but the staff of the restaurant, were taking rather marked interest in the proceedings of that little table. Mr. Ratton’s agitation was obvious; one felt that it was as much as he could do to keep himself from throwing a bottle at the big man’s head. He had realized that that was not the place in which to indulge in amusements of that kind. He got up from his chair.

“You’re quite right; we had better have this talk outside; so perhaps you’ll be so good as to come outside at once.”

The other seemed less eager.

“If you’ll be so good as to sit down again.”

“I prefer that we should go outside. We don’t want to have a row in here.”

“Why should there be what you describe as a ‘row’? My dear sir, I come with an olive branch, not a sword. I believe that the dearest wish of your life is to marry this young lady. Very well, I’m as good as authorized to say that opportunity can be afforded you to marry her at once.”

Mr. Ratton eyed the speaker in a very curious way, as if he heard what he said with emotions which were too strong for expression. He declined the other’s invitation to resume his seat, but stood with his hands on the back of a chair, as if he might be moved at any moment to use it as a weapon of defence.

“I can’t talk about that sort of thing in here. I don’t know who you are; but whoever you are, you will be so good as to come to my rooms and I’ll talk to you there.”

“Nothing could give me greater pleasure, Mr. Ratton, than to come to your rooms. There we shall be able to arrive at an understanding of the most cordial kind, in a very brief space of time.—After you, Mr. Ratton, after you.”

Mr. Ratton led the way across the restaurant, looking like a very excited country gentleman; the barrel-shaped man followed, apparently enjoying to the full a delicious piece of comedy. I watched them go in a rather uncertain frame of mind; their precipitance was unexpected. I hardly knew whether to remain where I was or to follow them. A moment’s consideration—and I remained. Instead of hurrying away, I took my time over what remained of my luncheon. I was putting two and two together after a fashion of my own; the more I reflected, the less hazy the situation became. If my inferences were right, I ought to be able to treat these gentlemen to another act in the comedy which the barrel-shaped man seemed to be enjoying.

To begin with, I sent a telegram to Miss May Godwin as follows: “I am coming to dine with your sister and you to-night. Trust that eight o’clock will be convenient.—Judith Lee.” Then I summoned the head waiter.

“Do you know a palmist who calls himself Isolda?”

The man smiled benignantly; I fancy he thought he saw something in my words which was not there.

“Very well indeed, madam; he’s one of our regular customers.”

“Do you know where he lives? I thought you might be able to tell me.”

“As to where he lives, that I do not know; but the address at which he receives clients, that I do know; I will write it down for madam.”

He wrote it down. Isolda’s studio, as he called it—there are studios of so many different kinds—was in Bond Street; that popular resort of curious characters. At a quarter to four I paid him a call. His “studio” was, it seemed, on the first floor; at the top of a rather steep flight of stairs was a door painted black; near the top, on the right-hand corner, in small red letters, was the word “Isolda.” I knocked. The door was almost instantly opened by a youngish man. I entered without waiting for the invitation which something in his manner suggested that I might not have received. He eyed me askance.

“What is your business, madam?”

I did not answer; I was looking about me. I was in a sort of ante-room, apparently the young man’s own quarters. On some pegs in a corner were a grey felt hat and a light grey overcoat; their presence gave me the clue I wanted. He repeated his question, it struck me, rather surlily.

“I asked, madam, what your business was.”

“I wish to see Mr. Isolda.”

“Has madam an appointment?”

“I have not.”

“Then it is impossible that madam can see him. Mr. Isolda only sees clients by appointment made several days ahead.”

“Is that so? I rather fancy that he will make an exception in my case. I am going to see Mr. Isolda now.”

The man seemed doubtful, as if he did not know what to make of me.

“I assure madam that it is impossible. Mr. Isolda only sees clients who have no appointment under very special circumstances for a very special fee.”

“Mr. Isolda will see me without any fee at all.”

The young man sought in another direction for an explanation for what clearly struck him as my peculiar manner.

“Perhaps madam is a friend of Mr. Isolda?”

“I am not—thank goodness! I am very much the other way. Young man!”

He started at the tone in which I said “Young man.” He was probably older than I was. “Madam!” he exclaimed, as if about to remonstrate with my inclination towards over-familiarity. I allowed him to go no further.

“This morning,” I told him, “you called at a house in Hyde Park Gate, and you endeavoured to obtain, by false pretences, a writing-desk, a jewel-case, and a dressing-bag. Is there any reason why I should not at once give you into the custody of the police?”

The change which took place in that young man’s manner; all at once he seemed to go at the knees, as if a couple of inches had gone from his stature.

“I—I—I think you are making a mistake,” he stammered. Apparently he was under the impression that he had to say something, and as he did not know what to say he said that.

“Oh no, I’m not, as you’re perfectly well aware. Let me give you a piece of information; it is not impossible that the police will be here in a few minutes, on business with which you are not immediately concerned. If you are on the premises when they arrive you will certainly be arrested with your principal, and unpleasantness will probably follow. If you prefer not to be found on the premises you can take yourself off. You are the best judge of which course you prefer.” He looked about him like a rat which seeks a way out of a trap; glanced towards the door at the other side of the room. “No, you can’t give Mr. Isolda warning. If you don’t want to be found, you’ll make yourself scarce inside of thirty seconds, by my watch.”

When he saw how I regarded it, he went straight to those pegs, took down the grey felt hat and the grey overcoat; put the hat on his head, the coat over his arm, and, without even so much as a word, went hurriedly out of the door through which he had admitted me; still another illustration of how conscience can make a coward of a man. Within ten seconds of his going through one door I crossed the room and passed through another. It opened into a sort of passage way, on either side of which were what I can only describe as cubicles, screened by heavy curtains. I presume that in them expectant clients waited until it pleased the great man to admit them to his presence. At the farther end of this passage way a corridor branched off to the right and left; there were doors in both directions. I stood still and listened; voices were coming from a door on the left. I walked up to it; turned the handle; ushered myself in.

I found myself in what Isolda probably intended to be a really remarkable room; it struck me as rather worse than tawdry. What appeared to be black velvet screened both the walls and ceiling; a green carpet covered the floor; in the centre was a table covered with a scarlet tablecloth; on this table was what seemed to be a large solid glass sphere—I believe that in Isolda’s trade an article of that kind is known as a “crystal.” There were odds and ends about the room which were perhaps meant to be awe-inspiring, but which were merely silly. There seemed to be no window to the room, which reeked of what, perhaps, was some variety of incense; although it was broad day outside, and the sun was shining, a single electric light flamed in the ceiling.

Three men were the occupants of what seemed to me to be this stuffy and extremely undesirable apartment—and as I stood there in the doorway facing them, an excessively surprised three men they seemed to be. One was the great Isolda himself, another was Mr. George Ratton, and the third was the man with the barrel body and the cheese-shaped head. They had, apparently, up to the moment of my entrance, been engaged in an animated discussion, which my unlooked-for appearance, in the middle of it, brought to a very awkward close. The great Isolda was the first to speak.

“Who are you? and what do you want in here?”

He struck a bell which was on the scarlet-covered table.

“It’s no use your ringing that bell,” I informed him; “the tool whom you sent to Hyde Park Gate this morning on a felonious errand has deemed it discreet to fly from the wrath which is coming.”

My words seemed not only to add to their surprise but to confuse them. The long man and the round man eyed each other as if in doubt what this thing might be. Mr. Ratton said:

“Isolda, who is this young lady?”

I answered for the great Isolda.

“I, Mr. Ratton, am Nemesis. Mr. Isolda, if I may add what seems to be an unaccustomed prefix, is a worker of wonders; I represent that power which brings those wonders to naught, proving them to be the poor antics of a clumsy charlatan.”

Isolda cried, with what he probably meant to be crushing dignity:

“Brayshaw! Put this woman outside at once.”

The command seemed to be addressed to the barrel-shaped person. There was dignity neither in the manner of his approach nor in the words he used.

“Now, young woman, out you go; we’ve seen your sort before; we want none of your nonsense here. Not another word—outside! I don’t want to touch you, but I shan’t hesitate to do so if you make me.”

I smiled at the barrel-shaped man; the idea of such a creature putting me out of the room really was too funny.

“I will recommend you, Mr. Brayshaw, not to touch me, unless you wish to discover what an extremely ugly customer a woman can be.”

He tried to touch me, stretching out his hand with, I fancy, the intention of taking me by the shoulder; I am quite sure, before he knew what had struck him, he was on his back on the floor. The others stared as if they had witnessed some remarkable feat; as a matter of fact, the man was as incapable of offering resistance to a normally robust person, who had had even a smattering of physical training, as if he had been a barrel of lard.

“If you will be advised by me, you will allow me to make the remarks I intend to make without any interruption, because, in any case, I intend to make them.”

Mr. Ratton made a movement as if to induce the great Isolda to act on my advice.

“Let her speak—the lady seems to be a bit of a character. Are any of these remarks of yours meant for me, or would you rather I went?”

“I would rather you stayed. You, Mr. George Ratton, have conspired with this—creature against a young girl, whose honour and happiness it should have been your first duty to guard at the risk of your own.”

Mr. Ratton again went very red in the face—it was queer how red he did go. “What the dickens do you mean?” he muttered.

“Last Friday afternoon you bribed him to make certain statements to her, which you hoped would induce and, indeed, practically compel her to become your wife. A monstrous marriage it would have been!”

I told them what some of these statements were. He was divided between astonishment and rage.

“How in thunder do you know that I said anything of the kind?” He turned to Isolda. “Did you tell her? Is that the secret of your pretending that I gave the show away? If you did——”

He clenched his fists—for the instant it looked as if matters might be breezy. I interposed.

“Mr. Ratton, God sometimes uses the foolish to confound the wise, and gives to the weak power to bring the strong to confusion. Your accomplice charges you with having, to use your own phrase, given the show away. You attribute to him the same offence; whereas it was I who gave you both away. I saw what you said; I warned your intended victim over the telephone. She came to this man armed with a knowledge which enabled her to convict him of imposture out of his own mouth. The shame of his detection, and of her plain speaking, rankled. He sent her a telegram signed by the name of the man whom she intends to marry, asking her to meet him in Richmond Park. In Richmond Park she was met by one of this man’s emissaries, who drugged and kidnapped her. He holds her at present in confinement, and sent this thing just now to the King’s Restaurant with a proposal to hand her over to you for a consideration, so that you might practise such vile arts as you thought proper to force her to become your wife, and use her money to pay your debts—which are some of them, as you are aware, of a very peculiar kind, and give you something approaching a respectable position in society. How the law punishes such offences as yours you know; I would put it instantly into action were it not that I am reluctant to allow that ignorant, innocent, unsuspecting child—in everything that counts she is but a child—to run the risk of becoming the leading figure in a hideous public scandal. If she is back again in her own home, sound in mind and body, this evening by seven o’clock sharp, I may keep silent. If she is not, by a quarter-past, warrants shall be issued against all three of you; I promise you they shall be put into execution.”

I turned to the door, and, with the handle in my hand, while they eyed me as if amazement had deprived them of the power of speech, I delivered my parting words:

“You understand—for her—home, at seven; or for you—jail, at a quarter-past.”

On that I went, leaving them to make such comments on their visitor as they might think most appropriate. More than once, during the intervening two or three hours, I wondered if I had been wise; if, for the girl’s sake, I ought not to have taken more active steps to bring them to a proper sense of what the situation required. It was with feelings which were distinctly mixed that I alighted from the taxi-cab which drew up at the door of the house in Hyde Park Gate a few minutes before eight. The moment, however, that the door was opened, I knew that my knowledge of masculine human nature had not been at fault, and that my fears, at least in one direction, had been baseless. As I entered the hall I saw May’s dainty face peeping over the staircase. When she saw who it was she came rushing down the stairs, two or three at a time, and tore towards me. When she was, to all intents and purposes, in my arms, she said, in what was intended as a whisper for my ear alone:

“Oh, Miss Lee, Miss Lee, Lucille has come home. Do come upstairs and see her.”

I went upstairs, and on the threshold of the drawing-room there stood a tall, slim maiden, dressed in some wonderful concoction of cornflower blue, with flaxen hair, in which there was a natural waving ripple, which was parted in the middle and brushed close to her well-shaped head. I thought of what her sister had told me; in a sense she certainly did look as if butter would not melt in her mouth—all the same, as May had admitted, I felt sure that it would; there was that light and laughter in her eyes which, when one is very young, goes hand in hand with mischief.

“I am Lucille Godwin; it was you who sent me that telephone message; I put an advertisement in the paper asking whoever it was to communicate with me. It is just as well you did, because I meant to put it again and again, until you did; I might have been almost ruined if I had had to keep on putting it in for years.”

“Have you anything to do,” asked May, “with her being here now?”

“There have been certain incidents since I saw you this morning. I don’t know if there will be time to speak of them before dinner is ready.”

“Dinner won’t be ready till at least half-past eight, so just you tell us everything. Please—please! I’m simply boiling over with wanting to know.”

I told them what had happened since the morning. Their excitement was amusing. They interrupted me with interjections, ejaculations, exclamations of horror and surprise. When I had finished, Lucille clasped her hands in front of her with what might almost have been the rapt enthusiasm of a medieval saint; she looked the character too.

“Oh, it’s just simply wonderful. Listening to you sends little thrills all up and down my back. Do you know you’re a miracle worker, Miss Lee?”

“Should I be intruding myself upon your confidence if I asked where you have been since last Tuesday?” I replied.

“That’s just it—I don’t know. Isn’t it awful? But I tell you what I do know. I took a cab up to Richmond Park Gate. Instead of Jack, who I was dying to see, a dapper little man, in a grey overcoat and a grey felt hat——”

“The same man,” interposed May, “it must have been—who brought her card this morning, and wanted her jewel-case and things.”

“I saw that grey overcoat and grey felt hat this afternoon,” I observed.

“He said that Jack was waiting with a motor down by the Penn Ponds. Something had happened to the engine, and he was waiting to see it put right. Would I mind walking down to him? I thought it rather odd, but I didn’t see what else I could do, so I walked down. As we went—I remember we were right off the road, close to a plantation—the man took a box out of his pocket, and said Mr. Upcott had told him to give it to me. When I opened it, there were chocolates inside. Of course, Jack knows how fond I am of chocs, and I supposed he sent them to beguile the way. I put one in my mouth and I bit it in half. It seemed to be full of some queer tasting liqueur, which I had swallowed before I knew it, and—that’s all I remember.”

“What do you mean by ‘that’s all you remember’?”

“I mean what I say. The next thing I do remember is that I had rather a headache, and was feeling stupid, and couldn’t make out where I was. Then, all at once, I realized that I was in a railway carriage which was standing at a platform, and that an official of some sort was standing at the open door of the compartment, looking at me as if he wondered what was wrong. ‘Your ticket, please, miss. Isn’t that it in your hand?’ There was something in my hand; I held it out to him; he took it, and off he went, so I suppose it was my ticket, but how it got there, or where it was from I have not the vaguest notion. Presently the train stopped again. I asked a porter who came to the door what station it was. ‘Waterloo, miss—any luggage?’ I told him that I had no luggage, but I wanted him to get me a taxi-cab. He got me one. I told the driver to drive me home; he did; and here I am. That’s every bit I know about it. Who’s that at the front door? It can’t be——”

Who it could not be she did not say. These were lively young ladies. May rushed to the door and listened. Footsteps were heard ascending the staircase. May threw the door wide open and a tall young man came in, his countenance wreathed in smiles.

“Oh, Jack!” cried Miss Lucille Godwin. “Oh, you darling, darling Jack!”

Almost before I knew it, and quite regardless of my presence, she was in the new-comer’s arms. He seemed a hearty young man.

“You are a nice sort,” he told her. “Directly after I wrote you that note from Nice I won a handful at the tables; with it I bought a necklace, which I felt bound to bring you straight away. So here I am, and here’s the necklace.”

He held out to her a string of gleaming stones which he had taken from a flat leather case.

“Oh, Jack, what a beautiful necklace! What a treasure you are! Please will you put it on.”

As we watched he fastened it round her lovely neck; for all they seemed to care, May and I might not have been present. The girl said to him, with a look of the demurest malice:

“Now, Jack, I forgive you. If you only knew what a wretch I’ve felt, and how I’ve wanted you!”

“Well, you won’t have to want any longer.”

As the young man was saying this in what I take was his heartiest manner, a footman appeared at the door to inform us that dinner was served. Jack took me down, the two girls following arm in arm behind. I have seldom spent a livelier evening.

The next morning, when I went to Bond Street, I found that Isolda was missing, as I had anticipated might be the case. It seems possible that he had kept that helpless girl unconscious for two whole days by means of repeated injections of one of the numerous preparations of morphine, as doctors nowadays keep patients in the later stages of cancer oblivious of their sufferings sometimes for weeks; nor might it have been the first time he had tried the same villainous trick. He probably still practises on feminine credulity elsewhere, but, so far as I know, he has not reappeared in London. Nothing has been seen either of him or of his barrel-shaped friend. Lucille Upcott—she has not long been back from her honeymoon—told me the other day, with that demure air which, where she is concerned, may mean anything, that she had recently heard that Mr. George Ratton had established himself on a ranch in Argentina. Whether Mr. Upcott has been made acquainted with the various passages which marked a certain week I cannot say; whenever I see him he seems to radiate happiness.

### VIII.
WAS IT BY CHANCE ONLY?

It is not easy to determine what part accident plays in the affairs of daily life. I have not been able to decide where, so far as I was concerned, it began, and where it ended, in what was known to the public as the Fulham Mystery. Who can say, for instance, that it was not by design—the design of a force beyond our ken—that I entered that tea-shop in the Brompton Road? It was full of people, as at that hour of the day, I take it, it generally is. Was it by chance that two persons were seated at the table next to mine? Was there not an intention even in that? Anyhow, there they were—a dark-haired girl and a red-headed youth.

The girl was, after a fashion, good-looking; it was not a fashion I care for. Her nose was too thin; her eyes, though undoubtedly fine ones, were, to my mind, too big—I have seldom seen larger ones. They were what I call roving eyes. One felt that they were taking in half a dozen things at once. I had not the slightest doubt that she noticed me, but she took it for granted that since she and her companion spoke in whispers, so that their words were only audible to themselves, my watching them was of no consequence at all.

What first attracted my attention towards their table was not only the singularity of their appearance—and the fiery-headed youth, with his thin face, high cheek-bones, small eyes, deep-set in a web of freckles, presented an even more remarkable appearance than the girl; what really in the original instance caught my eye was the pantomime the girl was going through. She had a handkerchief in her hand, with which she was going through some quite singular evolutions. Her lips, which were very red, were rather prominent; the sort of lips which, from my point of view, when she was speaking, were as easy to read as large print. I was not the only person who was watching her evolutions with the handkerchief—I fancy she rather liked attracting attention—but I was the only person who, because of the key I had to the words which formed on her lips, had any notion what she was after.

I saw her say to the red-headed youth, in a whisper which was so faint that I am sure it only just reached his ears:

“There are all sorts of ways of signalling; you can signal with anything; soldiers have found out that. You can signal with a blind; almost any information can be conveyed to a passer-by by the way in which you draw it up. Now, take your case; it’s impossible to meet you again. I’m only meeting you now by a tremendous risk.”

The youth said something. He had his hand up to his face, so that I could not see what it was, but I guessed it was something tender. His whole attitude was that of an adoring lover. The girl went on.

“Of course I care for you. You know I care for you. Should I ask you to do this for me if I didn’t?”

Again the youth said something which again I lost; and again the girl went on, with a sigh which I would have bet anything was a pretence.

“My dear Dan, if you only knew how, when you talk like that, you make me quiver. But we mustn’t speak of such things now—there isn’t time; there really isn’t time enough for me to try to make you understand, so pay particular attention. You want to know when the coast is clear, don’t you?”

What he answered I could not say. She continued:

“If you want to do this thing for me—and if you care for me as you say you do, you must want to—it must be done at the first opportunity which offers. And as I may not be able to get at you in any other way——”

He took his hand away from his mouth, so that I could see what he said.

“Couldn’t you write?” he asked.

“My dear Dan!” She looked shocked. “Think of the danger. Do you want me to place myself in your hands as I have done in his? Of course I know I can trust you—you needn’t fly out; but I shall never be easy in my mind again. No, no, no, writing is out of the question. We must try some other way, so pay attention to me. You know the window of my room?”

“I’ve looked at it often enough.”

He still had his hand away from his mouth. I thought, as I saw him speak, what an odd mouth it was, and how his curiously saturnine face was lighted up by his smile.

“Then look at it more carefully than ever each time you pass. If the blind is drawn right down or right up it will mean nothing; if it is half-drawn, a little crooked, at an angle like this”—she demonstrated with her handkerchief—“it will mean—Meet me here, at this tea-shop, this afternoon at four. I have taken it for granted that you will pass at the usual hour, so that you will have plenty of time.”

“Of course I shall pass at the usual hour. I hope that tell-tale blind of yours will be at that angle to-morrow. I’ve got it well fixed in my mind’s eye.”

“If—now pay particular attention—if it’s drawn up more than half-way, and is crooked on the other side, like this, that will mean that the coast will be clear, and the angle at which the blind is set will tell you the day and the hour. Now, just you notice very carefully.”

She was going to manipulate her handkerchief, and I was watching with some curiosity to see how she was going to do it, when, considerably to my surprise, she changed the subject altogether. With the corners of the handkerchief still between her fingers, and with exactly the same expression on her face, she said:

“There’s the girl at the table next to you staring at us in a way which I don’t quite like. Of course she can’t hear, and she wouldn’t understand if she did, but I think I’ll just wait and see how long she’s going to stay. In the meantime I think I’ll have another cake. Don’t look round; she’ll know I’ve noticed her.”

Of course I understood that the reference was to me, and I was not exactly pleased. Apart from the question of good manners, I do not wish to let anyone be aware that they have been observed by me. Clearly I had been staring at them more intently than I supposed. So I called the waitress, paid for my tea, and went. I had no wish to intrude upon their confidence, nor to give them ground for comment on my breeding.

Two days afterwards I went to lunch with some friends near The Boltons. When I left them I walked to the Fulham Road, meaning to catch a motor-bus. On my way I passed down a street of rather shabby-looking houses, in which there was only one other pedestrian besides myself—a man who was approaching, on the same side, from the other end. As he came nearer I recognized, with some amusement, that it was the red-headed youth of the tea-shop in the Brompton Road. I doubt if he noticed me at all; his glance was fixed on the houses on the other side of the way. When he was twenty or thirty feet away from me, stopping short, he stared harder than ever. There was something in his attitude and in the way he stared which suggested considerable agitation. I looked to see what could have caused it.

Immediately facing him was a house which was like its fellows, but rather less shabby perhaps, as if it had been more recently painted. My eyes, passing over its front, rested on one of the windows of the upper floor—on the other side of which was a very crooked blind. That blind quite startled me, especially when I coupled it with the young man’s evident emotion. I thought of the girl with the handkerchief, how she had explained how one could signal with a blind. Did she live in the house at which he was staring, or who did live there? Was some one signalling to him with that crooked blind?

I was convinced not only that he understood what the signal was, but that its meaning occasioned him something like actual distress. He stood staring, as if unwilling to credit his eyes. Then, as if conscious of my approach, he broke again into movement, and, quickening his pace, went past me at a speed which was very nearly a run. He never glanced at me; I doubt if he realized whether I was a man or a woman.

Here was a pretty problem on which I had stumbled—ought I to write by chance? Who lived in that house? Who was responsible for the position of that blind? What was the meaning it was intended to convey? I will not say that I puzzled over these things; that would be to speak too strongly; but, as I have a trick of doing, I kept them, as it were, in some pigeon-hole in my mind. The next day the papers were full of what came to be known as the Fulham Mystery.

George Ryder had been murdered in a house in Helena Grove, Fulham, not very far from the road in which I had met that red-headed youth. At first it looked like a commonplace murder—if a murder ever is commonplace. It was afterwards that features began to appear which caused it to occupy so prominent a place in the public interest. George Ryder was a young man of thirty-seven. Not long before he had been knocked down, at night, presumably by some sort of motor vehicle. He was picked up near Barnes Common insensible; he had concussion of the brain. When, several days afterwards, consciousness returned, he could only say that he had been crossing to the other side of the street at a point where four roads met, and that a car, coming round one of the corners, had knocked him down. It was afterwards shown that he had been spending the evening with some bachelor friends, and that he was not perhaps so sober as he might have been, so that the fault was not altogether with the car; but that was no reason that it should have gone on and left behind it no sign by which it could be identified.

He had nearly recovered from the effects of this accident when he was murdered—at five o’clock on an April afternoon. He was alone in the house—by what really seemed to be a most curious chance. It was the servant’s afternoon out; his nurse, who had charge of his case, had gone out to take tea with a friend; his wife and four-year-old child were left at home. Just before five a telegram was brought to his wife, informing her that her mother, who lived at Hampstead, had had another attack, and was dying; if she wished to see her alive she must go at once. Only a week before her mother, who suffered from a weak heart, had had an attack from which she had only by a miracle recovered. Mrs. Ryder showed the telegram to her husband. Both the maid and the nurse were to be back at six. He declared that he wished to rest, that he would be all right till they returned, and that she was to go without delay to see her mother. She left the house between a quarter and twenty past five, taking, at her husband’s request, her little girl with her. The nurse, whose name was Verrion, returned before her appointed time. As was her custom, she entered the house with a latch-key at about a quarter to six. She was going into her bedroom, when, struck by the silence of the house, she opened the door of Mr. Ryder’s room, to see how her patient was. He was lying on the floor, dead—some one had struck him a heavy blow on the temple with an electro-plated candlestick which lay beside him.

The whole tragedy had taken place inside twenty minutes—the twenty minutes which intervened between Mrs. Ryder’s going out and Nurse Verrion’s coming in. Nurse Verrion brought in a doctor who lived on the other side of the street, who gave his opinion that Mr. Ryder had been dead about a quarter of an hour—so that the murder must have been committed probably not more than ten minutes after his wife went out.

Just before seven a taxi-cab drew up in front of the house, and Mrs. Ryder came rushing out of it; that telegram which had reached her just before five had been a hoax. She had found her mother, if anything, in better health than usual. Amazed, wondering what the thing meant, oppressed by a consciousness that her husband might still be alone in the house, she had rushed back home, to find her husband dead.

This, succinctly, was the Fulham Mystery, as it was presented to the public. Not a trace of the murderer was discovered. There was nothing to show that anyone, except Mr. Ryder, had been in the house during those fatal twenty minutes. Suicide was out of the question, as well as accident. It was shown conclusively that neither by accident nor design could he have dealt himself that fatal blow. There were those who suspected both the wife and the nurse. It was, however, made perfectly clear that husband and wife were on excellent terms; there was, besides, the almost unconscious testimony of the intelligent four-year-old child, who told how her father had gone to the door to see them off, and kissed her before she started; so that he must have been alive when his wife went out. Nurse Verrion, on her part, established two facts—she was accompanied by a friend to the house, who only left her as she opened the door, and that within three minutes she was at the doctor’s on the other side of the way. George Ryder had certainly not been killed within those three minutes.

For reasons which I can hardly define, I took more interest in the Fulham Mystery than I generally do in matters of the kind. Of course it was the merest coincidence, but it did strike me as odd that I should have met the red-haired youth that same afternoon, and have been puzzled by the agitation he showed as he stared at the signalling blind. I suppose I met him, so far as I could judge, at about half-past three, some two hours before the murder took place within a quarter of a mile of where I saw him. I recalled what the girl had said at the tea-shop—that her object was to let him know, as I took it, by means of a signal conveyed by the blind in her room, when the “coast was clear.” Two hours afterwards the coast had been cleared in Helena Grove in a truly singular manner. However, I told myself, the thing was the merest coincidence; the puzzle of the signalling blind remained, and, more or less vaguely, I continued to wonder.

Whether, again, the second chapter of this strange story owed its inception to mere chance, he would be a bold person who ventured positively to affirm. I was spending the week-end on the cliff at Boscombe. George Ryder had been dead two years; the Fulham Mystery, still unsolved, had practically slipped from the public mind. I arrived on the Friday, and had to leave on the Monday afternoon. On Monday morning, since rather a cold wind was blowing, I enjoyed the open air in the pretty, sheltered public gardens, from which the cliff on either side keeps off the wind. I occupied a chair under a tree. On the other side of the path, perhaps a dozen yards from where I sat, a lady was the sole occupant of a seat. We were both of us reading. An exclamation caused me to glance up from the page of my book. A lady, holding a child by each hand, had come along the path; at sight of her the occupant of the seat had sprung up; the two women were staring at each other as if each saw in the other a ghost.

The woman with the two children seemed to be the more amazed; it was she who had uttered the exclamation. I judged her to be perhaps thirty years of age, but she looked so worn and worried that she might have been younger than she seemed. Her clothing was worn and shabby—I noticed that she wore old black cotton gloves; it was not easy, from her appearance, to judge to what station of life she belonged.

The person who had risen from the seat was the first to speak; though I could not hear her, I could see distinctly what she said. Her expression was one of sheer bewilderment, as if she were still in doubt of the other’s identity.

“Annie!—It is you!—Have you tumbled from the sky? Where have you been hiding? What are you doing here? And who are these?—these two young people? Where is your own small daughter? Surely this is not she.”

The woman addressed as Annie seemed to be so overcome by the other’s unexpected appearance as to be almost incapable of speech. She seemed to be positively frightened, giving nervous glances on this side and that, as if afraid of she alone knew what. When she spoke, although I heard nothing, I could see from the twitching of her lips that her voice was tremulous. Agitation made her stammer.

“Laura, I—I never expected to see you; I—I can’t stop now, but I—I want to speak to you very much; I would like to speak to you. I—I’ve got to take these two children to a friend’s, just—just over there; but I’ll be back in—in ten minutes, if you’ll wait for me—here.—Laura, say you’ll wait for me.”

She seemed to me to be gasping for breath, as if the strength of feeling which she put into the appeal that the other would stay for her was almost more than she could bear. Her friend’s bewilderment seemed to be growing. The expression in her eyes showed clearly that she could not make the speaker out.

“Stay for you?” She smiled, as if to reassure her. “Of course I’ll stay for you, ten minutes, or as long as you like. Only—don’t forget I’m waiting.”

The woman, with her two charges, hurried off. I hardly knew whether to go or stay. Where I was I was partially screened from the occupants of the seat by a big rhododendron; I could probably see them better than they could see me. I was perfectly comfortable where I was; I really saw no reason why I should move, so I stayed where I was.

I imagine that it was nearer twenty than ten minutes before the other returned; when she came she was nearly running. When she sat down beside her friend her breath was coming in little gusts.

“They—they kept me longer—than I thought they would. I—I couldn’t get away. I—I’m not my own mistress, and—and when people want me to stay—I have to.”

I could see that the other’s puzzlement was momentarily growing.

“But, my dear Annie, what do you mean by you’re not your own mistress?”

“I’m—I’m a nursery governess. Didn’t you know I was a nursery governess?”

“A nursery governess?” The speaker’s surprise was so marked that she gave a little bound on her seat. “You!—Annie!—A nursery governess! But I thought that George Ryder——”

The other put her hand upon her arm, glancing about her as if in sudden terror.

“Hush!—I’m not Mrs. Ryder now—at least I don’t call myself that. I—I call myself Mrs. Brown.”

“You call yourself Mrs. Brown!—Annie—I understand you less and less. Are you ashamed of your husband’s name?”

“Indeed no. But when I told people that I was Mrs. Ryder they began to ask me questions; and when they found out that I was Mrs. George Ryder, and—and that it was my husband who was—murdered, they didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

“But why ever not? It wasn’t you who murdered him.”

“I don’t know that, exactly, they thought it was.”

“Exactly? But, my dear girl, I never heard anything so monstrous. Do you mean to say that anybody ever dared to let such an idea enter their heads?”

“Laura, I don’t mean to say anything at all, but I have to live. And when people found out who I was, they wouldn’t give me a chance, so—I call myself Mrs. Brown. If they found out, in my present situation, that I—I wasn’t Mrs. Brown, they’d turn me off at a moment’s notice.”

“But what do you mean by you’ve got to live? Didn’t your husband leave you plenty of money?”

“Not a penny, or, at least, only a few pounds. And shortly after, my mother died, and she left nothing. So there was I, with my child to keep, with nothing to live on.—Laura, you don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“But I thought that your husband not only had money of his own, but that he had excellent expectations.”

“He did; but nobody seems to have understood, and that has made it seem so much harder. His aunt, Mrs. Dawson, told him herself that she had left him all her money; and so she had, but her will was rather oddly worded. She left all her money to her nephew George Ryder, but if he died before she did, then all her property was to go to her other nephew, Athelstan Ward. The will was an old one; it had been made before George and I were married, or, I think, in case of George’s dying first, she might have left something to me, to say nothing of his child. We were great friends, she and I. She was always very fond of me, and I am sure she would have altered her will to that effect if she had ever dreamt that matters would turn out as they did. She was ill when George was—killed. Some one, stupidly enough, went blundering into her bedroom, crying out that George had been murdered. The shock had such an effect on her that it brought on a paralytic seizure, from which she never recovered. In less than a month afterwards she was dead. By her will, as I have explained, she left nothing to George, who was dead, and nothing to me, or to Daisy either. Everything went to Mr. Ward.”

“What a very unfortunate state of affairs for you. Did Mr. Ward do nothing? He must have seen the iniquity of such an arrangement.”

“Athelstan Ward had never expected to inherit anything. He and his aunt did not get on at all; he had offended her in all sorts of ways. At the last upset they had she had told him that she would leave him nothing. He knew that everything was left to George, who was her favourite nephew. When she died he was a clerk in the city, at a salary of something over a hundred a year. The news that he was the heir almost turned his head; at least I hope that was the explanation of his conduct to me. He told me to my face—gratuitously—that I would never get a farthing out of him. He said that George would have stuck to the lot, and he meant to do the same. I had—I had to keep Daisy and myself as best I could.”

“But what has become of the man? What a dreadful creature he must be!”

“He’s married, that’s all I know about him. He married Miss Lisle.”

“What, Lily Lisle? The girl with the dreadful eyes, who acted as Mrs. Dawson’s companion? I never could stand her; I never could make out why Mrs. Dawson kept her in the house. I could have told her some tales about her.”

“Mrs. Dawson liked her well enough, I believe; though, in the end, in a sense, she was the actual cause of the old lady’s death, because it was she who rushed into her bedroom screaming out that George Ryder was murdered. However she could have done such a thing, considering that the doctor had warned her to allow nothing to disturb or agitate the old lady, was beyond me altogether. It turned out that she and Mr. Ward had been engaged, under the rose, for ages. After the will was read they were married—within a week or two. Everyone believed that the old lady was well off, but no one guessed how well off until things were gone into. She had not been living on a quarter of her income, and had been investing the other three-quarters as it came in. I’m told that she left over two hundred thousand pounds. Think what even a little of it would have meant to Daisy and me. I’m getting twenty-five pounds a year, and out of that I have to clothe myself and keep my child. They give me lodging, and my food, such as it is, but if I could only manage to earn a little more money.”

“How long are you free now? I’m staying at the Burlington Hotel. Can’t you come and lunch with me?”

“I’m free for this afternoon. My mistress, Mrs. Levison, is out. The children have gone to lunch with a friend. If—if I’m not too shabby, I should like to come and lunch with you very much. It would be a treat.”

The two got up from their seat and walked away. I remained where I was, thinking. It did seem extraordinary that I should have been there when such things were being talked about—things which brought back such odd memories. The girl with the “dreadful eyes,” could she, by any chance, have had any connection with the young woman whose singular eyes had attracted my attention in the tea-shop in the Brompton Road? And Mr. Athelstan Ward—was he red-headed? I wondered.

Suppose that those two chance encounters, in the tea-shop in the Boscombe public gardens, had put into my hands the key to the unsolved mystery, would that not be something very like a miracle? If I had had anything tangible to go upon, I would have spoken to those two women then and there. But what a figure I should have cut if my fashion of putting two and two together had proved all wrong. I might never have seen Mrs. Dawson’s companion in my life—if they had mentioned where Mrs. Dawson had lived I might have got nearer to certainty—and Mr. Athelstan Ward might be a bald-headed gentleman of portly presence. I should have been regarded as a meddler. I have suffered in that direction more than once in my time; I had no wish to suffer again. I endeavoured to dismiss the whole subject from my mind, and went up to Waterloo by the afternoon train.

That the third and last chapter of my connection with the Fulham Mystery seemed to have been brought about by fortuitous circumstances I am ready to agree; but that it was by accident only I am not so sure. So strange a sequel to such singular beginnings, to my mind suggests design.

Nearly another two years elapsed, and I was at Eastbourne, staying with some friends at a big hotel on the front. My friends had gone up to town for a day or two, and I was left in sole possession of their apartments. One morning I was walking rapidly along the Parade. The sky was blue, but the east wind, of which Eastbourne is perhaps rather too fond, did not breathe warmth. One had to move quickly if one wished to keep warm. As I was about to move over to what I hoped was the warmer side of the road, I was accosted by a woman selling flowers. I had already passed two or three, at whom, I am afraid, I had not even glanced; but something about this one’s method of address and manner caused me to look at her. Where, I asked myself, had I seen her before? Her face seemed familiar. I had gone past her perhaps half a dozen steps when it came back to me. The Boscombe public gardens, the two women on the seat—surely this was Mrs. George Ryder. And yet it was impossible. She would not be selling flowers in a public road.

I must have been mistaken, a chance resemblance had taken me in. I thought I would go back and, while buying some of her flowers, have a good look at her. Anyhow, I could always do with a few flowers.

It was Mrs. Ryder—or the resemblance was supernatural. Of course she had altered: she had grown so thin; her cheeks were hollow; her eyes cavernous, even hungry; her skin seemed to be all furrows; yet that she was the woman whom I had seen sitting on the seat, telling her friend the tragic story of the will which had passed her by, I was certain. What to say to her, what to do—these were points on which I could not make up my mind. I bought nearly all her flowers; her gratitude was piteous. Then I gave an order for more, and directed her to bring them to my hotel the next morning at a certain hour. I left her there, standing in the bitter east wind, which I hoped she did not feel to be quite so bitter as before, while I walked away, wondering by what possible means she could have reached so dreadful a position. She was a lady; such a short time ago a happy wife, with such prospects of happiness in front of her—and now selling pennyworths of flowers in the gutter. It was an object lesson on the mutability of human affairs.

I kept thinking of her, even when I got back to the hotel. She was with me all that day; when I was dressing for dinner, as I was going down to the great meal of the day. What sort of dinner was she having—there was much hunger in her eyes, she looked so hungry altogether—and where?

In the absence of my friends I was the solitary occupant of their table. I was down early, and watched the people coming in. I had just finished my fish course when four or five persons came down the room, at the sight of one of whom I almost jumped.

It was the girl of the tea-shop, she of the dreadful eyes. I was sure it was she, though she was altered out of all conscience. To begin with, she was beautifully dressed—rather too well dressed, in fact, for such a place. Her hair was dressed in a way which was really an exaggeration of the latest fashion; she held herself as if she were a person of importance. She had filled out, grown plumper; in many respects she had altered altogether. Yet it was she—surely no other woman in the world could have such eyes as she had. They seemed to have grown larger; they roved as much as ever. They passed all round the room, resting, I should say, on every one in it, as she moved with her party towards their own table.

I observed the other members of her party as they took their seats. Remembering the quickness with which she had noticed my observation when we met for the first time, I did it as furtively as possible. One thing I saw at once—the red-headed youth was not there. This was by way of being a surprise; somehow I had taken it for granted that he would have been. There were three other men and two other women. One of the other men was her husband. I was sure of it from the obvious way in which he was acting as host. She was hostess, the others were guests.

The man, who I was convinced was her husband, was the antipodes of that red-headed youth. He was rather under-sized; his scanty brown hair was parted in the centre and plastered down at the sides. He wore glasses; his clothes did not seem to fit, his shirt front bulged; altogether he appeared to me about as insignificant an individual as one might expect to see. I could not believe that that woman had married him for love. I was as sure as if she had told me so that he was not the sort of man she admired, and that when she decided to become his wife it was for very solid and sufficient reasons.

The head waiter was coming down the room. That was not the first time I had stayed at that hotel; he and I were old acquaintances.

“Can you tell me who those people are who have just come in?”

His manner as he answered was most discreet. He smoothed an imaginary crease out of the tablecloth.

“It’s a dinner party. The lady and gentleman who are giving it are Mr. and Mrs. Athelstan Ward; they arrived this morning—old customers; this is their fifth or sixth visit.—Have you everything you want?”

I assured him that I had. He departed, and my appetite went with him; the feelings which came rushing over me left me no desire to eat.

So, actually, this was Mr. and Mrs. Athelstan Ward, and my wild surmise had been right. The crooked blind in the top window of the house in the street leading off the Fulham Road—the girl whom I had seen demonstrating with her handkerchief how one may signal with a blind had done it; it had been crooked because she had carefully arranged it at the precise and proper angle. In that house Mrs. Dawson had lived, the aunt of the man who had been murdered two hours after I saw that crooked blind. At that time, if what Mrs. George Ryder had told her friend in the public gardens at Boscombe was true, this girl was engaged to the other nephew, who, in a certain eventuality, of which he seemed to have been ignorant, was to benefit by his aunt’s will; that eventuality, by which the girl was to benefit as much as Mr. Ward occurred within two hours of that crooked blind having been seen by that red-headed youth—with whom she had arranged that particular signal. For what purpose?

A cold something stole up my spine as I groped about for an answer. She knew the delicate state of Mrs. Dawson’s health, she was her companion; the physicians had laid on her a special charge; yet the moment the news of the tragedy reached her, well knowing that she ought to do nothing of the kind, she rushed into the presence of the aged invalid, who was really and truly at her mercy, and struck her down by yelling out the news at her.

Things began to look very ugly. Was it by accident, or design, that I was stumbling on these things? What I still had to understand was the relation between the red-headed youth and the girl. That, when I saw them together in the tea-shop, he was her lover I was convinced. Not impossibly, he was so beside himself with love of her, that he was ready to be guilty of any folly, or perhaps worse than folly, for her dear sake; unless I erred, he was that sort of youth. Could she have used him as a tool and then thrown him over? Unless I erred again, she was that sort of girl; it was an action of which she was quite capable. Apparently she had attained the object of her ambition; she was prosperous, as happy, perhaps, as it was in her nature to be. What had become of the red-headed youth? The widow of the murdered man was selling flowers in the gutter.

A page came down the room with a telegram on a waiter. He handed it to Mrs. Athelstan Ward. With a murmured apology to her guests, she tore it open. I do not think I ever saw such a change take place on a woman’s face in public as took place on hers as she read that telegram. She appeared to be incapable of concealing the effect it had upon her. What was the dominant expression on her countenance I could not say; fear and rage were two. She seemed unconscious that the boy was waiting, that her guests were looking at her—until her husband’s voice recalled her to herself. He was facing me. As he pronounced his words with a punctilious correctness which I should say was characteristic of the man, I saw clearly what he said.

“My dear Lily, from whom is your telegram? It appears to be of absorbing interest. Permit me to see it.”

He held out his hand across the table. Then she came back to herself, after a fashion. She looked, or rather she glared, at him. When she saw his outstretched hand, and caught his meaning, she crushed the telegram up into a ball, thrust it into the bosom of her dress, and turned to the page, who instantly departed. She was sitting sideways to me, so that it was not easy for me to read the reply which she made to her husband; but I am quite sure that it was not an expression of her willingness to let him see that telegram.

I resolved to keep my eye on Mrs. Athelstan Ward. By way of a beginning, I thought it might be just as well to see if she would recognize me. To reach the private sitting-room which my friends had at the other end of the building it was necessary for me to pass her table, which I presently did, with something like ostentation. As I approached she looked at me, and I at her. I could see that she recognized me, and was aware that I did the same to her. Her face changed again, and a look came into her eyes which haunted me long after I had quitted the room. The hungry look in the eyes of the murdered man’s widow, and now that dreadful look in hers—they were with me that night even in my dreams.

The next morning I got up early; I could not sleep, and I hate lying between the sheets with my eyes wide open. My window looked out across the garden. As I peeped to see what sort of weather it was, I saw Mrs. Athelstan Ward come through the great front door of the hotel. She was dressed for walking. Crossing the garden to the street, turning to the right, she moved quickly in the direction of Beachy Head. I had one of those intuitions to which I am subject. I felt sure that the purpose which had taken her out at that extremely matutinal hour was of interest to me. It was not only chance which had taken me to the window at just that moment. I dashed into the bath, rushed into my clothes—I do not believe anything feminine can dress quicker than I can—and was out in the street in I am afraid to say how few minutes. Mrs. Ward was out of sight, but I knew the direction in which she was going, and off I tore.

Presently I saw her. She was walking almost as quickly as I was, and was nearly at the point where one begins to ascend the grassy slopes towards Beachy Head. That some special attraction was drawing her to Beachy Head at seven o’clock in the morning I felt convinced. She went round to the right—evidently she knew the shortest way. When I reached the grass I went straight on; I did not wish to keep too closely in her footsteps, lest she should look round and see that she was followed. The ascent at the part at which I took it was pretty steep. I was a little short of breath when I gained the ridge, and was sufficiently on the level to enable me to see what was ahead. There was Mrs. Ward some distance in front, striding rapidly along what I knew to be the better path. She was nearly out of sight when I gained the point from which one can see the top of the Head. A minute or two later some one came out of the little hotel which lies in the hollow on one side, and crossed to her. So this was it—she had an appointment with something masculine; it was a man who had joined her, on the top of Beachy Head, at an hour when they were likely to have it all to themselves.

I had with me a pair of those folding opera-glasses which lie down flat, so that they occupy scarcely any space at all. I focussed them on to the pair in front. I was anxious to see who the man might be. Something within me gave quite a little jump—I never have been able to get quite the better of that sort of thing—as I recognized the red-headed youth of the tea-shop and the signalling blind. Their backs were towards me, so of course I could not see what they were saying, but one had only to observe the man’s gestures to be able to form a very shrewd guess that the subject under discussion was of paramount interest to him. He was talking both with heat and volubility. The woman, on the other hand, was stiff and rigid—suggesting no desire to hear him, and disapprobation of whatever he might be saying.

They passed the signal station, passed the lighthouse, moved on towards Birling Gap, he still talking nineteen to the dozen, she listening with what I would have been willing to bet was contempt. Presently they stopped on a little knoll which was just on the other side of the lighthouse. Down I dropped in a little grassy dell which was just large enough to contain me as I lay full-length, face downwards, and raised myself just sufficiently on my elbows to permit me to have a view of the knoll in front.

I was particularly anxious that they should not see me. That the Fulham Mystery was going to be solved at last some instinct told me, and by that pair ahead. I did not intend to run any risk of losing what I had so long sought. They might, if they looked closely, have seen the top of my hat, but they would have been no wiser if they had. With the aid of that pair of folding glasses I watched their faces.

They were good glasses, the definition was excellent, the morning was clear; they were at a distance, as the crow flies, of perhaps under a hundred yards. When they turned my way I could see even the slightest movement of their lips as well as if they had been within a dozen feet.

It was some seconds, however, before they did turn my way. She had placed herself upon a sort of natural seat, formed by a ridge of earth, with her face at not quite the proper angle to allow of my seeing her mouth; he stood close up to her, saying something which—as he said it—needed a great deal of gesticulation. Suddenly, however, she stood up, fronting him, and also me, and I saw her say, as distinctly as if she had been speaking within reach of my hand:

“It’s no use your ranting. What I’ve said I’ve said, and as I’ve no more to add, there’s an end of it.”

He was silent for an instant. I was sure that he was silent from the way in which he stood motionless. Then he also turned slightly, occupying such a position that, while he looked across the sea, his mouth was as visible as if he had looked at me. I followed his answer through the glasses. He did not gesticulate that time; he spoke rather with what struck me as being an air of profound conviction.

“Lily, if ever there was a heartless devil in the shape of a woman, you are she.”

She replied, with a little flick of the cane she was carrying:

“You’ve told me so before. The remark is not in the least novel. Have you brought me here to make it again?”

“You have lied, and lied, and lied to me.” His gesticulations recommenced. “You have fooled me practically my whole lifelong. I have stolen for you—you know how often you have induced me to steal for you——”

“You didn’t need much inducement.” Her air was contemptuous.

“I did not; you are right. There was nothing I would not have done for you at a word from you; at last, at a word from you, I committed murder.”

“Put it that way if you like. From my point of view you made a mess of the whole thing; I never wanted you to actually kill the man.”

“No, you wanted me to play him some infernally clever trick which would result in his killing himself—as you afterwards killed that old woman. That was as much a murder as mine was. But I was not born with the instinct of killing, as you were, so I blundered, and had to do the poor wretch out of his life with an actual blow. And then you denied me my reward.”

“I never promised you anything.”

“Not in so many words; you were much too clever. But you know what you wished me to understand that you had promised me, and how, afterwards, you robbed me of the price which you had made me believe I was to receive.”

“Listen to me.” Her attitude became all at once that of a person who was giving utterance to a final decision. “You have been to me a continual nuisance—not practically all your life, but actually all your life. There was a time when I tried to put up with you, though it wasn’t easy. You’ve always been a penniless beggar, so that if you wanted to make me a present you had to steal it; now you throw it in my face. Afterwards—you know when—I explained that if a certain person were to die before a certain time it might be an advantage both to you and to me.”

“Especially to you.”

“Yes—especially to me; that is obvious.” The air of scorn with which she said it! “I took the greatest pains in explaining to you how, if certain things were done, other things would necessarily follow. You offered to do them. If you had done them as I had explained no crime would have been committed.”

“No legal crime, you mean; it would still have been murder.”

“Murder for which you can’t be punished doesn’t count. Do you suppose that if I had known you were going to do what you did I would have allowed you to do it?”

“I’m not so sure; I have my doubts. You were very keen, you know.”

“Yes, but not keen like that; I’m not such a fool.—Well, anyhow you did do it—the wrong way. And I had to bear the brunt.”

“You had to!—You beautiful creature!—You miserable thing!”

The marked variety of emphasis with which he delivered himself of these two remarks was most perceptible through the glasses.

“It is easy enough for you to speak in that cock-a-doodle sort of tone, but the fact remains that it is as I said. To begin with, haven’t I kept you ever since?”

“Kept me!—My God!—Kept me! When I think of how and why you’ve kept me, how often I wish that he had killed me instead of I him.”

“He didn’t. If you really wished it, you made a mess even of that.—Now you have the assurance to send me that telegram.—It came to me last night, in the middle of a dinner party, ordering me to come and meet you here. And now that I’ve come, what is it you want me to do? You want me to desert my husband, to throw away everything for which I’ve worked and struggled, and—think of it!—to come and live with you. Let me tell you this—I wouldn’t live with you if there wasn’t another man in the world; I wouldn’t willingly stay in the same house in which you were, or even in the same town. I’ve grown to hate you—if you only knew how I hate you as I see you standing there, and how willingly I’d see you tumble dead at my feet.” She drew a great breath—the glasses made it perfectly plain. “I believe I should go back to Eastbourne almost a happy woman again if I knew that you were dead.”

“You mean that?”

“I never meant anything half so much.”

“Then—you shall go back a happy woman.”

They were standing within a few feet of the edge. The turf sloped downward. He ran down this little slope; when he had run as far as he could, he gave a sort of jump and sprang into space more than five hundred feet above the rocks below. The woman was left alone on the knoll. I was so taken aback by the horror of the thing that my joints seemed to have got locked; my limbs seemed rigid.

There stood the woman, alone, and there I lay watching her through the glasses. For several seconds we remained motionless, as if incapable of movement. Then, with what seemed to me to be a violent effort, I scrambled on to my feet and went rushing towards the woman across the intervening grass. When she turned and saw me coming, she staggered—she obviously staggered, and I thought she would have fallen. But, recovering herself just as she seemed to have lost her balance, she stood awaiting me. When I got to her I took her by the arm; I was beside myself with a strange sort of passion—when I look back I understand how people feel when they kill each other. At that moment I certainly felt like killing her.

“You’ve murdered him,” I gasped. “I’ve a mind to send you after him.”

“Send me.” Her face was white; her great eyes glared at me; but she never flinched. “I am perfectly willing that you should send me after him. He’s better off than I am.”

The consciousness which came to me, even in that terrible moment, that this might be so, gave my thoughts a new direction. Still gripping her by the arm I turned and shouted: “Help! Help!” Two men came running out of the coastguard station; they were followed by a third, and then a fourth. When she saw them coming she asked me, as coolly as if it were the most casual question:

“What are you going to tell them?—Lies?—He jumped over of his own accord.”

I said nothing to her, but when they came within hail I called to them:

“A man has just jumped over the cliff; he was with this lady.”

“I did not know he was going to jump,” she declared. “I believe he’s mad.”

The coastguards took her address and mine, then began to search for what was left of the man. People came out of the hotel; women and children came out of the coastguards’ station; on that lonely cliff, even at that hour of the morning, a small crowd began to assemble. I took the woman back with me to Eastbourne, holding her by the arm all the way.

“You needn’t hold me,” she said, when we were half-way down. “With you holding me like this it is not easy to walk on this rough ground. I shan’t run away. Besides, why should I run away? There’s no reason why I should run.”

But she knew better. I kept my hold. My friends had a private sitting-room at the hotel, on the ground-floor, to which admission was gained by a separate entrance. I led her to that sitting-room.

“Where are you taking me?” she remonstrated. “You’ve no right to keep hold of me like this; you are hurting my arm. I’m not your prisoner.”

I paid no heed. When I had got her into the sitting-room I rang the bell.

“Send up to Mr. Stephens, in number one hundred and twenty, and tell him that I shall be glad to see him here as soon as he can make it convenient to come.”

“Who’s Mr. Stephens?” asked the woman, as soon as the waiter had gone. “And what are you going to say to my husband? And who are you, anyhow?—Who are you?—Let go of my arm.”

She spoke savagely, trying to shake herself loose. But she was weaker than I, and she could not do it.

“I am Judith Lee,” I told her. “I am going to tell your husband everything I know about you.”

“And what do you know? I only saw you once before in my life.”

“Only once.—You will presently hear what I know about you, if you have not already guessed.”

I think she had; I saw it on her face. Almost immediately her husband came hurriedly into the room. He seemed disturbed.

“I am told that Miss Lee wants to see me. Are you Miss Lee? What are you doing here with my wife?”

I told him—she kept still. I told him everything; she never even attempted to interrupt. As I pieced my story together I think she began to have a feeling that I was something almost supernatural—that she was afraid of me. I fancy that she recognized in me the pointing finger which, though it sometimes seems to move so slowly, touches the criminal on the spot at last, showing that from the very first, when all seemed most secure, there was already starting in pursuit the avenging hand of justice.

I told about that interview on which I had tumbled in the tea-shop; about the experiment with the handkerchief illustrating the signals which might be made with a blind—how her eyes seemed to distend as she heard me! I spoke of the chance meeting with the red-headed youth, who was staring at the crooked blind, and then of the murder which was done two hours afterwards. I passed the next two years and came to the interview which I had witnessed in the Boscombe gardens. When I narrated what the dead man’s wife had said to her friend, Mr. as well as Mrs. Athelstan Ward stood there like images of guilt stricken by their own consciences. Then came the story of what had happened that morning. When I repeated, word for word, the conversation which had taken place between the guilty pair, the woman sank on to the floor, and the man seemed dazed. Then came the horror of the suicide which she had prompted.

“I am aware,” I said, “that it would be difficult, Mr. Ward, to bring home against your wife the full measure of her guilt to the satisfaction of a criminal court. I admit the dexterity with which she has eluded responsibility. On one condition I am willing to let her go with you, to wherever you may choose to take her, and to hold my tongue. She has done all these things to gain possession of the fortune left by the late Mrs. Dawson. Render an account of the money she left; resign all claim to it; transfer it in its entirety to the woman to whom it rightfully belongs, and I will leave Mrs. Ward to her conscience. I do not, at this moment, suggest on your part complicity with your wife, though I cannot but feel that at some period you have probably had some sort of guilty knowledge. But if you ask why you should make this sacrifice to cover her, I will remark that I believe, if the whole truth were to be made public, that it would be held that you, at any rate, have no claim to the money which you pretend to have inherited. That is a point for you to consider. I may add that I communicated last night with the authorities at Scotland Yard, and that a detective is coming to Eastbourne by the first train which leaves London. If this matter is settled as I have suggested before he appears—so far well; if not, the matter will pass out of my hands into his. I have sent a message to a friend, who is staying in the hotel, Mr. Arthur Stephens, a solicitor of high standing. He will probably be here in a minute or two, ready to draw up a formal assignment to Mrs. George Ryder of what ought to have been hers at the beginning. I must ask you to give your answer, Mr. Ward, at once. How is it to be?”

I could see that his lips were dry; with the tip of his tongue he moistened them. His voice was husky.

“I—I’m willing to do what you wish, Miss Lee. I am willing to do everything, and anything, if only you will say nothing to anyone else of what you have just now been saying to us.”

Then I knew that my surmise had been correct, and that he had at least some sort of guilty knowledge of his wife’s nefarious conduct. Arthur Stephens entered.

“I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Stephens, but I am in pressing need of your services. This is Mr. Athelstan Ward. He is in possession of certain property, to which he has no title; at any rate, no moral title. Conscious of that fact, he wishes to assign it to the rightful owner. I want you to draw up a short form which shall give legal and valid expression to that wish of his. Afterwards, I may have to request you to go with him into matters of account. That you will be able to do later in the day. At present, all I ask you to do is to draw up a brief form which shall have the effect I have mentioned.—Here are pen, ink, and paper.”

Within a very few minutes that form was drawn up. As Mr. Ward was in the act of affixing his signature the door opened, and some one else I knew came in.

“This,” I explained, “is Inspector Ellis of Scotland Yard.—Inspector, this is Mr. Athelstan Ward. He is about to sign a document; perhaps you wouldn’t mind acting as one of the witnesses to his signature.”

The paper was signed and witnessed. Then I made certain other explanations. I kept within the letter of my bond, and I gave Mr. and Mrs. Athelstan Ward to understand that if they did not keep strictly within the letter of theirs, their trouble was only just beginning. After breakfast the Inspector and Mr. Stephens went up to London with that undesirable husband and his still less desirable wife. In the evening they returned to Eastbourne. They rendered their report: Mr. and Mrs. Ward had been called to a strict account; in the course of the day they had been stripped of every farthing of their ill-gotten gains. Berths had been booked for them on a steamer which was leaving the very next day for a South American port. They were informed that a certain amount of money would be credited to their account when they landed; with that they would have to begin the world afresh. Whether they succeeded, or failed, they would return to England at their peril. I do not think that either of them is ever likely to set foot on English soil again.

Soon after the quartette quitted the hotel on their way to London I kept an appointment which I had made the day before. A woman, who was selling flowers, was shown into the sitting-room. I met her on the threshold.

“Come in,” I said. “I am very glad to see you.”

She seemed alarmed, as if the way in which I tried to be friendly and treat her as an equal was terrible—since decent treatment from any quarter was a thing she was unused to.

“Please don’t look so frightened; there’s nothing to alarm you. I have asked you here because I want the flowers I see you have brought, and also because I wish to tell you something which I fancy you will think very wonderful, and also, I hope, very pleasant. I believe you are Mrs. George Ryder.”

At once she turned to flee, but I had her by the hand.

“Please—please don’t call me by that name—please don’t.”

“Why not, since it is your name? Is it not your name?”

“How do you know it’s my name? Who told you it was my name? Is it written on my forehead?”

Her looks were so wild that she looked almost like a person who was out of her senses. When I began to tell her, in her turn, my story, the change that took place in her! Many times have I been thankful for the gift which God gave me—never, I think, more thankful than I was then. She has often told me since that she felt, more and more, as the tale unfolded, that she was in the presence of a miracle—a miracle of blessing. I doubt if she has ever quite rid herself of the notion until this hour.

When I explained that she was to have the money which was meant for her husband, after all, and laid before her Mr. Athelstan Ward’s assignment, she broke into dry-eyed sobbing.

“Do you know”—the words broke from her between her sobs—“my child is dying for want of sufficient and proper nourishment—she is dying of starvation, and now—thank God!—thank God!”

### IX.
UNCLE JACK

Why are some men so silly—so many men—nearly all of them? I was once almost prevented from doing a man a very signal service by the very singular delusion he was under that I was in love with him. I was staying at the Cliftonville Hotel at Margate with a Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, and their daughter Netta, who was a pupil of mine. Netta, although deaf and dumb, was an extremely intelligent young lady of about eighteen, and by no means ill-looking. She and I were having tea one afternoon in the gardens on the cliff. She could speak quite well when she chose—although she had never heard a sound in her life, but there were occasions on which, if only for convenience’ sake, she used the sign language. She used it then. She said to me:

“Watch those two women who are having tea at the table under the tent.”

I had noticed the pair. They were under the shade of a big umbrella which rose from the centre of the table at which they were sitting, and the top of which could be adjusted at any angle. As I glanced round, induced to do so by Netta’s words, I saw one say to the other:

“What about John Finlayson?”

The other was smoking a cigarette as she stirred her tea. She withdrew the cigarette, expelled the smoke, and I saw her say:

“I don’t know whether or not to marry him.”

“My dear,” rejoined the first speaker, “if you are ever likely to get a chance of marrying him, take my advice and do.”

The smoker considered; then she smiled—rather as if she sneered.

“I’m not so sure. You can pay too dear even for a husband with money; Finlayson would bore me stiff inside a week. What I want is ready cash—you could do with a little.”

“You bet.” The reply was to the point, if not elegant. Then the speaker added: “I could do with more than a little, I could do with a lot—I fancy you could too.”

The smoker indulged in a whiff; she sipped her tea; then she asked, as if she were putting a very serious question:

“Meg, what do you say to a thousand golden sovereigns—could you do with them?” The other glanced sharply at the speaker—I never saw a woman whose eyes were more flagrantly made up in the broad daylight. She was made up altogether, but her eyes were the worst. I thought they were dreadful. She answered, echoing the other’s words.

“Could I do with a thousand golden sovereigns?—Just couldn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t stick at a trifle to get them?”

“My love, I’d stick at nothing—I’d rob a bank.”

“I wouldn’t for anything suggest your doing that; besides, I think we could get them easier out of Finlayson than out of a bank.” Then she added something which rather startled me. “See how those two creatures at the next table are watching us; they can’t possibly hear what we are saying, but suppose we talk of something else.”

I dare say we had been rather more attentive to them than was good manners—that chance shot of hers went home. Netta laughed outright—she can read lips almost as well as I can; I taught her how to do it—I could have shaken her. To be accused of eavesdropping was not nice; especially as, although the speakers might not know it, we had been caught in the very act. I did not look again in their direction. A few minutes after I got up with Netta and walked away.

“Did you see what they were saying?” she asked me as we went. Of course I had seen; I had an uncomfortable feeling that they knew that I had seen. No consideration of the kind seemed to trouble Netta. She continued: “It was of Uncle Jack that they were talking.”

That was precisely the point—it was because of that that I had watched. Mr. John Finlayson was Mrs. Hastings’ brother—Netta’s uncle; a bachelor of about forty years’ standing, with a good opinion both of himself and of his money. There was a great deal of the latter; but so far as I was able to judge, there was nothing of the former worth considering. All the same, I did not like to feel that he was being talked about in that fashion by those two striking-looking women who were the talk of the place, and that in Margate is saying something.

Some persons—probably most of them of the masculine sex—might think that the one who had been smoking was beautiful; and she certainly was what I believe is called “a very fine young woman.” She was probably nearly six feet high; she held herself very straight; her figure was perfect; her features were regular; her hair wonderful; her clothes expensive. How much she owed to nature and how much to art was a problem I should not have cared to determine. What any decent man can see in a person of that kind I suppose we women never will understand; I had reason to suspect that Mr. Finlayson saw a good deal. He had taken her and her companion out with him in his motor-car; he had dined at their table; and, very much to his sister’s disgust, had associated himself with them in more ways than one. All the same, I had been startled to see the young woman hint that if she chose she could marry him; I had no idea that matters had gone so far as that; what his sister would say if she knew I really almost trembled to think. Keen-witted Netta seemed to read my thoughts.

“Shall I tell mamma,” she asked, “what I saw them say?”

I hesitated—it was not an easy question to answer; then I said:

“I don’t think, if I were you, I should—it would only upset her; and probably they were only talking nonsense.”

Netta was silent till we had quitted the garden; then as we were crossing the road to the hotel she said, still speaking in the sign language:

“I shouldn’t wonder if Uncle Jack did marry Miss Parsons—I believe I nearly caught him kissing her last night on the veranda.”

She spoke with a little malicious smile; I was aware that she had not too high an opinion of her relative, but her words took me aback. Before I could reply, her mother came towards us down the steps, with Mr. Finlayson himself at her heels.

Mrs. Hastings bore Netta off into the town; Mr. Finlayson returned to the balcony of the hotel, and I went with him. He was a scanty-haired little man, inclined to stoutness. A monocle was rarely absent from his right eye, and he wore two tiny tufts of hair upon his upper lip, which he had once confided to me he thought made him look French, and which I thought made him look ridiculous. He had inherited a large fortune from a relative, had never done anything useful—so far as I could see, his chief occupation was changing his clothes. I do not know how many suits he had, but I do not think it is any exaggeration to say that he changed from head to foot half a dozen times a day. My belief is that the majority of men are conceited—in that respect he was far ahead of his fellows. Yet, since his sister and her husband had shown themselves very good, and thoughtful, and generous to me, and I owed them many kindnesses, I felt that I could not allow his simplicity to make him the victim of that intriguing young woman, who called herself Parsons, without at least attempting to put him on his guard.

The veranda of the Cliftonville Hotel runs along the road, being raised a few feet above the pavement. As I stood there with him, Miss Parsons and her friend, coming out of the garden across the way, passed close by us. Mr. Finlayson acknowledged their presence with a sweeping bow, and Miss Parsons smiled—a smile which evidently pleased him.

“Most attractive young lady that—don’t you think so?” He was the sort of person who always spoke of a woman as a lady. “Very odd how strange some ladies are. My sister, now, has taken up a most extraordinary position as regards Miss Parsons—she simply doesn’t like her.”

“I fancy Mrs. Hastings’ instinct in such matters is generally to be relied on. Of course, Mr. Finlayson, you are much older than I am, and should know more of the world——” He cut me short.

“I don’t know about being much older, Miss Lee; but there’s no doubt that I do know more of the world. A man in my position would.”

He spoke with a smirk which I thought comical.

“In spite of your wider knowledge of the world, Mr. Finlayson, I hope you won’t mind my suggesting that it might be the part of wisdom to be on your guard against Miss Parsons.”

“My dear Miss Lee, I’m always on my guard against all ladies—I know them. I always say to myself when I meet a fresh one: Now what designs has she on me? In such matters I’m the soul of caution.”

The man was perfectly absurd; what he meant by his last words I could not guess. If I had not felt that the danger was a very real one, and was thinking more of Mr. and Mrs. Hastings than of him, I would have left him alone in his conceit.

“Is it not possible that you imagine yourself to be better acquainted with the sex of which I am a member than you really are? Isn’t it conceivable that Miss Parsons, for instance, may understand you better than you do her?”

His rejoinder was so preposterous that I could have shaken him.

“What I said to my sister I say to you—jealousy in a lady’s breast takes many forms; Eleanor is jealous of Miss Parsons, and so are you. You will excuse me saying so, won’t you?—but facts are facts.”

“Facts are facts!” Despite his impertinence I was disposed to laugh at him. “On what conceivable grounds do you say that I am jealous of—that woman?” He gave a sort of little hop.

“There you are—‘that woman’—the very phrase betrays you. Now, Miss Lee, permit me for one moment. I do not say that jealousy in your case is unbecoming—quite the contrary. I’ve had—shall we say an idea?—for some time past that your feelings towards me were—of the most flattering kind. I have known you, off and on, at frequently recurring intervals, for about three years. During that time I have observed you with, I may say, growing interest. The result has been that I have come to the conclusion that you are in all respects an estimable young lady—yes, Miss Lee, I really mean it. I discussed you with my sister——”

“You discussed me with your sister!”

“Yes, and with her husband; and they both agree that, since the period has arrived at which it is desirable that I should have an establishment of my own, although the difference in our fortunes is immense, you are a young lady eminently fitted to become the head of it. Therefore your jealousy of the fascinating Miss Parsons is excusable, but, I assure you, baseless; one does not marry such persons; no, no, do not suppose it for one moment. My choice, Miss Lee, is fixed on you—there is no reason why I should not take advantage of this opportunity to tell you so; it may relieve your mind. I have cause to know that the announcement of our engagement will relieve my sister’s mind. Therefore, with your permission, I will make that announcement this—no, not this evening at dinner, I happen to have an engagement this evening”—he wore a slight air of confusion—“but—on the first occasion which offers.”

When he stopped, which he did just as I was wondering when he was going to, I could only gasp. A foolish person I had always supposed him to be, but such folly eclipsed my conception of him altogether. What he expected me to say I do not know; he beamed at me with a most fatuous air; but when he permitted himself to put out his hand and touch my glove, I rapidly withdrew. He affected to be amused.

“My dear Miss Lee—what harm is there, even in such a public place as this?—especially as our relations to each other will soon be public property.”

I saw that it was necessary to make myself quite plain to this little man.

“Mr. Finlayson, I won’t pretend that I don’t understand what you have been talking about, though anything funnier I never heard.”

“Funny?—My dear young lady!—Nothing was further from my intention than to be funny.”

“That’s the funniest part of it—that anyone could be so unintentionally funny. I don’t know if I may take it that you have just been offering me your hand in marriage?”

He nodded his head like some brightly hued and foolish bird.

“Exactly, precisely—you have it—there is that way of putting it.”

“As you observe, there is that way of putting it—though I notice that is not the way you put it; you seem to be under the impression that you have only to throw your glove at my feet and I will pick it up and be grateful. I don’t know what gave you that impression; you are quite mistaken if you suppose that I ever meant to. You certainly have amused me, Mr. Finlayson; I always have felt that you were a funny little man; but as for anything else—I, at an early age, made up my mind to live and die an old maid, and if anything could strengthen my resolution, it is the fact that there are in the world such funny little men as you, and that some women, poor souls! have to have them as husbands.”

I just walked off the balcony and left him there. It so chanced that as I entered the hotel Miss Parsons came into the hall. Not a little to my surprise—it was an afternoon of surprises—she addressed me.

“I should like to say two or three words to you, Miss—I believe it—is Lee. May I ask why, since you are quite a stranger to me, you take such an interest in my movements?”

It was no use my telling her that I did not know what she meant, because I did. Her assault, coming so quickly after my surprising interview with Mr. Finlayson, took me aback. I had no answer ready. She went on:

“This afternoon, to give an example of the sort of thing I mean, you and that deaf and dumb young woman, whose governess I believe you are, watched my friend and myself while we were having tea, as if you were doing your very best to overhear every word we said. I don’t like that sort of thing; don’t let it happen again, or I may show my dislike in a way you won’t like.”

She walked off, with her nose in the air, very much as I had just walked off from Mr. Finlayson. Had I been the dirt beneath her feet she could not have treated me with more contempt—and in that public place!

I could hardly have said, when I reached my bedroom, with whom I felt maddest—with her, Mr. Finlayson, Netta, or myself; Netta, for calling my attention to them first of all; Mr. Finlayson, for his astonishing stupidity; Miss Parsons, for her studied insolence; myself, for ever having had anything to do with any of the three. But the crowning blow was to come. I was stamping up and down, feeling that I must do something to some one, when Netta came into the room; without an instant’s warning she burst out with:

“Well, why wouldn’t you marry him?” I stared, wondering if I could have understood her; she repeated the question with a clearness which put the matter beyond all doubt. “Why wouldn’t you marry Uncle Jack when he asked you?”

“Netta!—What are you talking about?—What do you mean?”

She explained, with a horrible lucidity.

“I was on the cliff on the other side of the garden. I looked over the hedge, and there were you with Uncle Jack on the balcony—and I saw a good deal of what you were saying.” She was, as I have already said, quite an adept at lip-reading, especially in the case of persons she knew well. “I didn’t see all he said, but I did see that he was what he meant to be proposing; then you strutted off as if you were twenty feet high—which is a trick you have—and left poor Uncle Jack despairing. Why on earth wouldn’t you marry him?”

I could not tell her—plainly the absurdity of the affair did not appeal to her so clearly as it did to me. I could not even try to explain—I do not often lose my temper with my pupils, but I nearly lost it with Netta then. Her persistence nearly drove me mad. When she had gone, on one point, it seemed to me, there were no two opinions—Cliftonville was no longer the place for me. I would not stop and confront the insolent Miss Parsons, with whom I wished to have no sort of traffic; still less would I give the keen-eyed Netta a chance of enjoying herself at my expense, in observing my efforts to avoid her singular relation. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings were leaving in two or three days in any case. I had had a letter that morning from an aunt who was passing through London, and who wanted me, if I was in town, to meet her. I resolved that I would be in town that night. I packed my trunk; scribbled a note to Mrs. Hastings; and departed for the station—without anyone of the least consequence, so far as I knew, becoming conscious of my departure. I congratulated myself on the manner in which, avoiding explanations, I had contrived to slip away. But I got no farther than the station; in spite of the fashion in which I had congratulated myself, I did not go to town that night.

I reached the station several minutes before my train was due to start. The arrival platform was crowded with passengers; a train had just come in from London. As I went towards the bookstall to buy some papers I passed two men whose appearance had a curious effect upon me; I was conscious of what I call one of those premonitory little shivers which I say are sent to me as warnings—it may be a mere superstition, but it is one which I hold strongly, that certain evil things emanate, in a sense which is perhaps my own, an atmosphere to whose presence I am acutely sensitive; it gives me what I call a premonitory shiver. That shiver went all over me as I passed those two men, and it startled me. Close behind them were two other men. I saw one of them say to the other:

“See those two? The one on the right is Chicago Charlie. It isn’t often he’s walking about; if he’d had his rights he’d have been strung up long ago. I shouldn’t like to be within reach of him if I’d anything on me worth having; he’s more like a wild beast than a man. I wonder what his game is down here—some one’s in for trouble. I could tell you some tales of him.”

I should have liked him to tell me some of those tales—I could not have said why, but I should. He was a hard, weather-beaten individual, who looked as if he might have had some queer experiences of his own. At the bookstall I turned and looked after the two men who had passed me. A woman was coming down the platform to meet them; it was the woman who had been having tea with Miss Parsons at the next table to ours. Her presence there gave me shock number two. She greeted the pair with an air of a familiar acquaintance; was “Chicago Charlie” Miss Parsons’ friend as well as her own?

They were going out of the gate at the end of the platform; I went to a door on the left, and, hurrying, got there first. Under cover of the paper I had bought I watched them coming; the woman was too engaged in talking to her companions to notice that a female was holding her newspaper up in front of her face. I saw Chicago Charlie ask:

“What’s the fellow’s name?”

“John Finlayson—he’s soft as butter—one of nature’s own mugs. She says he’s good for fifty thousand pounds—if properly handled.”

“Soft as butter, is he? And he’ll be handled by a master. If there’s anything left when I’m through with him he can keep it.”

She looked at him sharply. I should very much like to have known what her answer was, but I could not see from the back of her—they were past before she spoke again. Apparently, since they paid no heed to the cabman who hailed them, they were going to walk to where they were going. What was I to do? I had my ticket, my luggage was labelled, my train was due; I had advised Mrs. Hastings of my departure, I had washed my hands of Mr. Finlayson for ever and a day, what might happen to him was no concern of mine; the obvious course was for me to carry out my intentions and go to town. And yet—— That was it—and yet!

It is contrary to every instinct in my being to stand by and see anyone, even the meanest of God’s creatures, in danger without offering help—such help as I can offer; or even helping without offering, if it comes to that. It was certainly impossible for me to offer to help Uncle Jack. He had misunderstood me once; he should have no chance of misunderstanding me a second time.

There was the sound of a whistle; a train was steaming into the station—my train. I should have to hurry if I meant to catch it—they would send my luggage by it, since it was labelled, if I went or not. That consideration did start me moving. I rushed over to the departure platform; caught a porter—my porter—in the act of putting my luggage into the van; stopped him, explaining that I had changed my mind and did not propose to travel by that train; induced him to take my luggage back and put it on to a cab—and then looked to see if the three persons on whom my interest was centred were still anywhere in sight. They were; they were at a distance of perhaps two hundred yards, and were moving at a leisurely pace towards the town. I said to the cabman:

“I suppose your horse can go slowly?”

The cabman grinned; he thought I was joking.

“It isn’t his fault if he ever does anything else—about two miles an hour is what he likes—either that or standing still.”

“I don’t want him to stand still, but two miles an hour will about suit me; I want to read my paper and enjoy this beautiful evening. You go straight along at not more than three miles an hour—until I give you further directions.”

That cabman carried out my instructions to the letter; we certainly did not exceed the limit I had imposed, and I pretended to read my paper. The trio in front were going about as fast as we were—straight on, with us still about two hundred yards behind. Presently I saw them turn into an hotel overlooking the sea. When we reached it I stopped the driver.

“Pull up, please. I want to see if they can let me have a room here.”

They could, rather a pleasant one, looking towards Cliftonville. Then it struck me that it was about time to consider. I was quite aware that I had done an eminently foolish thing. I had given way to my irresistible inclination to meddle in other people’s affairs without having the faintest notion what sort of meddling it was going to be. What kind of mental standard Miss Parsons’ friend might have I did not know; unless she was extremely unobservant, she had taken sufficient stock of me that afternoon to know me again. Even if she had not noticed me before, I had noticed her several times, and had an idea that she was supposed to be a Mrs. Hammond. Miss Parsons had a room at the Cliftonville—where Mrs. Hammond was staying I did not know; she might not be residing at the hotel in which I had taken a room, but might merely have entered, with the two men, for the purpose of refreshment. I had to risk that—I have taken a good many risks of that sort in the course of my adventures; what I did not want to risk was the chance of being recognized.

Reluctantly—I do not like to do it, though there are occasions when I have to—I say, reluctantly I took out of a case which was in my trunk an article which is known as a “transformation.” It is simply amazing what an alteration is produced in a woman’s appearance by a change of hair—if the change is well done. My hair is very dark brown; it has been called black, but I doubt if there is any really black hair in the world. When I am crowned with scarlet, a casual acquaintance would have to stare and stare, and yet be in doubt. “Transformation” is a polite synonym for a wig; the one I donned that night was scarlet. I touched my countenance here and there—I did not want the contrast between my complexion and my hair to be too striking; attired myself in my most gorgeous robe—I had a notion that a red-haired, unattached young woman, in an hotel at Margate, ought to be gorgeous; and I went down to dinner. The first thing I saw when I entered the dining-room was a table at which were seated Mrs. Hammond and her two male acquaintances.

As I entered Mrs. Hammond bestowed on me the glance which, under such circumstances, every woman does bestow on every other woman. But for that I was prepared; I was pretty nearly certain that she did not recognize me as a person whom she had ever seen before. There was a difficulty about my table. All the small tables were occupied. The waiter offered me the choice of sharing a very small table with a pimply-faced old gentleman, who looked as if he might be a publican, or of a seat at the large table which occupied the centre of the room. I accepted the latter; although I did not tell that waiter so, nothing could have suited me better. There were seats at the table for I suppose a dozen people; I was quite content, at least on that occasion, to be one of a crowd, especially as it was decorated with old-fashioned ornaments in the shape of epergnes and tall vases full of flowers, and my chair was directly in front of a structure, half metal, half glass, than which nothing could have served me better as a screen. The table with which I was concerned was directly in my line of vision; I had only to lift my eyes from my plate to see the three persons who were at it perfectly, while I was behind a quantity of flowers and foliage which made it impossible for them to see me at all without a special effort. One trial I foresaw I should have to face—on one side of me was a middle-aged man, on the other was a mere boy. I thought it not improbable that before very long they would both of them be trying to talk to me. That I did not mind; my attention does not wander because I have to listen to inane remarks; my eyes serve me quite as well when I am talking.

Mrs. Hammond had on a not unbecoming dress of violet silk; her hair was fair—I fancy it was as much hers as my scarlet crown was mine. Chicago Charlie had what seemed to be rather a nice diamond in the middle of his shirt front. His companion was a big, bullet-headed man, who looked as if he were something in the prize-fighting line. “Charlie” was a lean, hatchet-faced man, with an over large nose, too wide a mouth, a protruding chin. He had small blue eyes, which had the fixed, stony stare of the glass beads which you see in the head of a doll. Had he only known it, his mouth was his most unfortunate feature; every word he uttered was so distinctly shaped on his long, thin lips, that, from my point of view, he might as well have shouted. I have no doubt that they spoke in the most decorous, subdued tones—they had need to do so, for they said some very curious things—but that made no difference to me; that man’s mouth was like a magnifying glass, giving almost uncanny prominence to every syllable he uttered. The first words of his I saw were sufficiently startling.

“What did I do to him? I killed him, that’s what I did to him. They think nothing of that sort of thing out there; it’s a man’s business to see—that he isn’t killed.”

He raised his glass of champagne and emptied it. Mrs. Hammond and the other man exchanged glances; I fancied they were asking each other if the speaker was to be taken seriously. For my part, I set him down as that homicidal type of criminal who holds human life of no account at all; who, indeed, in the gratification of his own lusts, holds nothing of any account. Mrs. Hammond remarked, as she carefully removed the head and tail from a smelt on her plate:

“You know, Charlie, there mustn’t be any killing here. As some French gentleman said—I believe it was a Frenchman—in England that’s not a crime, it’s a blunder; no man’s life is worth to you so much as your own.”

Charlie’s reply was characteristic.

“I’m not so sure of that; I have met men—and women—for whom I’d be glad to swing.—How long has Finlayson been here?”

“Baby says that he came down last week, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that he did. She’s a curiosity, Baby is. She’s been down here about a month; I’ve been here nearly three weeks. It seems that she began planning this almost directly after she came, but she never so much as breathed a word about it to me till this afternoon; for keeping a thing dark I never saw her equal.”

“Baby Parsons can hold her tongue better than any woman I ever met.” This was the bullet-headed man. “I’ve been in more than one little game with her, when silence was everything, so I know.”

“There are times when a dumb woman is more precious than rubies.”

As he delivered himself of this profound sentiment, Charlie smiled. Mrs. Hammond retorted—and I smiled as I saw what she said:

“Then in that case there’s a girl stopping up at the Cliftonville who ought to suit you—she’s deaf and dumb. She’s in charge of some governess kind of creature whose neck I’d like to wring.”

It was at those latter words I smiled. I wondered if her desire would have been intensified if she had suspected the identity of the scarlet-headed creature at the centre table. It was towards the end of the meal that the trio began to touch upon the topic which interested me most; I feared that they might never touch on it at all, preferring to leave so delicate a theme for private discussion. Probably what they ate and drank loosened their tongues; or they might have been excused for taking it for granted that speaking together in lowered tones, at their own particular table, they were as private as need be. They probably were not aware that there was in the world such an ability for taking notes as was possessed by the creature with the scarlet head. The table had been cleared for dessert, when, without any preamble, Chicago Charlie plunged into the very middle of things.

“So Mr. Griffiths, or Miss Parsons, or both of them together, have taken a house in a retired neighbourhood, at a convenient distance from this town, in a position in which uninvited interruptions need not be feared; and to this house the excellent Mr. Finlayson has been invited for a little evening party.”

“Prefaced by a little dinner for three, like ours—Bob Griffiths, Baby, and Uncle Jack.” So Mrs. Hammond—for she was the speaker—had picked up the Hastings’ trick of speaking of him as “Uncle Jack.” “There was some idea of having the Kitten in for dinner, and so making the party square, but it was felt that even Uncle Jack might find her a little hard to swallow. The Kitten will eat with her knife, and is never quite sure whether to use her fork or her fingers.”

“The Kitten,” observed the bullet-headed man, who seemed to answer to a variety of names—I had seen them address him as “Lobster,” “Arthur,” and “Puncher”—“is a child of nature. If it weren’t that she will get outside the contents of a bottle, I know few women I’d sooner have beside me in a row.”

“I presume,” continued Charlie, “that the programme is that Mr. Finlayson is to be well done at dinner, so that he can be done better afterwards, when we come in to complete the party.”

Mrs. Hammond explained, leaning over the table with a cigarette between her lips:

“Baby has found out all about him; he is so fond of braying that any woman can do that who likes—I don’t know any girl who’s better at that sort of thing than Baby is. It seems that he has been telling her all about himself—the silly ass! A mortgage of over fifty thousand pounds has just been paid up; the money is lying at his banker’s. He’s going to buy something with it when he’s made up his mind what—stock, I mean; in the meanwhile, as Baby says, there’s a chance for some one.”

“That certainly is so; when we have got the confiding Mr. Finlayson to ourselves, there ought to be a chance for all of us. I’m not greedy; so long as I get my bellyful that’s all I want.” Charlie took his cigar from between his lips and examined it. “The smokes in this hotel do not seem to be so good as they might be, if this one I’ve got is a fair sample.”

The bullet-headed man looked at his watch.

“Isn’t it about time we start? What time are we supposed to get there?”

“No particular time, Baby said—somewhere about ten. They dine at eight; Uncle Jack is very fond of his food, and of his wine; to do him really well, as Charlie put it, takes time. The idea is to get him just drunk enough to make him think that he is still sober.”

“It’s past half-past nine. How are we to get there?”

“Taxi-cab; Baby’s got a friend who drives one. He’s going to call for us.”

“Hanged if Baby doesn’t seem to have friends everywhere. At what time is this particular friend of hers to call? Perhaps he’s come.—Waiter, see if there’s a taxi-cab outside.”

The waiter presently returned with his report: “There is a taxi-cab outside, sir.”

“Good; we’ll be with him in a minute.”

This was the bullet-headed man. Charlie struck in:

“I don’t promise that I’ll be with him in a minute. When I’ve had a decent dinner I hurry over my coffee for no man; as for gulping my liqueur, you may as well throw it down the sink.” Then he asked a question which solved for me what I had been fearing might become a problem. “By the way, where is this house at which the party is to be held? Even when I’m in a strange country I like to know as nearly as may be where I am—I may have to find my way back on my lonesome.”

Mrs. Hammond gave him the information he wanted, and at the same time she gave it me; if she had only known that I needed it so much more than he did!

“The house is called ‘The Wilderness’; it is off the Broadstairs Road, lies back perhaps two hundred yards, is approached by an avenue of trees. Everybody about here knows ‘The Wilderness’; it’s a house which has had a history.”

“To which another page is to be added to-night.” If Charlie had only known how true that was, his smile might have been less suggestive of amusement. “If our dear Mr. Finlayson only knew what pleasures are in store for him!”—and if only the speaker had known!

I left the trio at table; Mrs. Hammond and the bullet-headed man wanted to go, but Charlie declined. It seemed that, to him, coffee was a sacred rite, to say nothing of the liqueur which was to follow—I fancy that after a good dinner he was not a very persuadable person. The three pairs of eyes were fixed on me as I went out; I saw Charlie say:

“That’s rather a fine girl; bit of a stepper.”

Mrs. Hammond said: “I can’t think where I’ve seen some one like her before.”

If only she had cultivated the faculty of observation! Her puzzlement tickled me. I was in the highest spirits, foreseeing that, quite possibly, I was in for the sort of adventure that I loved. I slipped on a long, black coat, with a hood attached, which I drew over my head, and I took a taxi-cab—preferring to take mine off the rank. I did not wish to light, if I could help it, on another of Baby’s many friends. There was a taxi-cab waiting at the door of the hotel; I eyed the driver—wishing to take particular note of him for future reference. I even noted the number of his vehicle.

There were plenty of taxis on the rank. I did not hail the first, but walked past them all, until I saw a lonely taxi in the distance, moving slowly, with its flag up. I advanced towards it.

“Do you know a house called ‘The Wilderness’?”

“On the Broadstairs Road?—Mr. Macfarlane’s?”

“Mr. Macfarlane is not there now, is he?”

“I couldn’t say; I fancy he’s about the town, I saw him only the other day; he’s a gentleman what’s very well known, Mr. Macfarlane is. I know the house you mean. I don’t know that I care to go there at this time of night—there’s my fare back. It’s a lonely place, his house is. There won’t be a soul about. I shall have to come back empty.”

“Don’t you worry about that; I’m going to keep you; I’ll see that you have a fare back. Are there more roads to the house than one?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, there is, but one of them isn’t a very good one; it gets to the back of the house, the servants’ entrance.”

“You take me by that road—and move. I suppose you can move?”

He grinned—as the cabman had done at the station. “She can do about forty—a bit more, if she’s pressed.”

“Then—I think you might press her. By the way, is there a lodge at the back entrance?”

He shook his head. “No lodge anywhere that I know of.”

“How far is the back entrance, to which that other road takes you, from the house itself?”

“Oh—may be——” He pushed his cap back. “I couldn’t rightly say, it’s a good distance; the grounds are large, and the house stands in the middle.”

“In the house would they hear a taxi-cab approaching along that road?”

“It depends; you see, it’s lonely out there, and in the country, at night, sound travels; there’s no reason why they should know it was me coming along.”

That was sound reasoning, in its way. I got in the cab; we started. I do not know at what pace we travelled, but we did move pretty fast. I know that the vehicle stopped before I expected. The driver came to the door. “Here’s the house, miss, and this is the back entrance—through the gate. Do you want me to drive you in?”

I alighted. There was no moon, but it was a starlight night, and I could see the gate quite plainly.

“Thank you—I want you to wait here till I come back. I suppose if I go through the gate and follow the path I shall have no difficulty in finding the house?”

“Not a bit, miss—you’ve only got to go straight on; there’s a broad drive; as it gets near the house there’s a turning on the left which goes round to the front; but, if you want the servants’ entrance, you don’t turn—you go straight forward.”

“I may be some time, perhaps an hour; but if I’m more than an hour, you had better come up to the house and knock until some one answers—I may require assistance.”

He stared at me as if he did not understand my words—and was not sure that he liked them if he did understand. I quite expected him to ask me for a deposit which would at least guarantee his fare, because for all he knew I might never be coming back at all; in which case, after waiting an hour, he would look awkward. But I imagine that he was of a trusting disposition, or that I inspired confidence; he let me go without a hint of the kind, just touching his cap as I walked off.

It was darkish along that avenue; when—as in places they did—the trees met overhead, I had simply to grope my way. The house came rather with the force of a surprise; there were no lights at the windows—I was on it before I knew that it was there, pulling up only just in time to save myself from blundering into a door.

I waited and listened. There seemed to be no sound on the other side. I tried the handle; the door yielded at once—I slipped through it without a moment’s hesitation. I seemed to be in a sort of entry—there was a light in what was probably a passage round the corner. I explored—there was a passage, and there was a light, a flaring jet of gas; but still not a sound nor a creature in sight. Nothing venture, nothing win, was ever a motto of mine; I sped along that passage, reached a flight of steps, ascended them. There was a glass panelled door at the top, on the left a sort of recess into which it opened; as I reached it I heard steps approaching; I drew back into the recess. Two women appeared; they pushed back the door wholly unconscious of me.

“I thought I heard some one come up the stairs,” said one to the other; “didn’t you?—just as we were coming along?”

“It was your fancy,” replied the other. “There’s no one down there to come upstairs.”

They descended; I waited some moments, then slipped through the door. I was in quite a decent sized hall, lighted by incandescent gas; I could hear voices, but could see no one. Advancing, I came upon rather a good staircase, with lights above. Up I went. The door of a room stood wide open, the brilliant lights came from within. On the left was another door, closed. I chanced it and went through. Where I was I had no idea—all was dark. I had a small electric torch in my pocket, and I switched it on. Apparently I was in a sort of sitting-room; there were double doors on the other side. I went to them, switching off my torch. All at once I heard voices—and a laugh. I had had my doubts about the voices, I had none about the laugh. Anyone who had heard Uncle Jack’s queer little cackling laugh could scarcely fail to recognize it when heard again. Mr. Finlayson was entering the adjoining room with, at least, one companion. I could only catch one other voice besides his, a woman’s—it was Miss Parsons. Were they two alone? I listened, but could not make sure; I should have liked to try the handle of that door and peep. Just as I had almost decided that I might venture, there was the sound of other voices—at least three or four. Then a man said, in what I should have called rather boisterous tones—every word he said was audible to me:

“These people have found their way here at last—I believe, Mr. Finlayson, you know Mrs. Hammond.”

Uncle Jack’s rather ringing voice replied, with another cackle of laughter:

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. I know Mrs. Hammond—of course I know Mrs. Hammond, very well indeed—don’t I, Mrs. Hammond?—Pleased to see you.”

“Not so pleased to see me as I am to see you, Mr. Finlayson; I pay you no compliment in saying that.”

“It’s very good of you to say so; I always like people to be glad to see me—especially if it’s a lady.”

The boisterous voice was heard again.

“Mr. Finlayson, allow me to introduce you to my two friends—Colonel Stewart, of the United States army, a distinguished officer whose name is no doubt well known to you; Mr. Arthur Poyntz, a first-rate sportsman, like yourself.”

I took it that Colonel Stewart was “Chicago Charlie,” and that Mr. Arthur Poyntz was the gentleman with the bullet head. There was a good deal of loud talking, all joining in paying the most egregious compliments to Mr. Finlayson, he swallowing them all with continual little cackles of laughter; I felt sure that he must have been very well done at dinner. Then in a little lull in the conversation, I heard Miss Parsons ask:

“What are you gentlemen going to play?—I believe poker is your game, Mr. Finlayson.”

Uncle Jack laughed—I doubt if he would have been able to explain why; and, as if it were a signal, the others broke into a simultaneous roar of laughter—I have no doubt that they would have been able to explain what caused that mirth. They saw the joke better than he did. The boisterous voice exclaimed:

“Mr. Finlayson, you’re bad to beat—I’ve no doubt all games are the same to you. I shouldn’t wonder if you learnt poker on your mother’s knee.”

“No, no, no. I assure you I did nothing of the kind. I have played the game, oh yes—as you say. I’ve played a good many games, and I don’t say I mightn’t be able to hold my own.”

The boisterous voice spoke again. “Hold your own! I don’t pretend to be a poker player, Mr. Finlayson, in the presence of a man like you I’m timid; I expect we all are.”

“There’s no reason why you should be—not the slightest—you will find me merciful—not a bit alarming.”

“I’ve got some poker chips somewhere. Ah, here they are. Now, boys, to business—I tell you quite frankly, Mr. Finlayson, I’m frightened of you. Miss Parsons, may I ask you to see that we have something to drink? Mrs. Hammond looks as if she were thirsty; Mr. Finlayson looks as if he would like something to drink. You’ve got all the chips you want, gentlemen? Good! Who deals?”

For several minutes the voices were subdued; there were occasional bursts of Uncle Jack’s cackling laughter.

“You’re clearing us all out, Mr. Finlayson. I told you how it would be—I shall have to have more chips. How goes it, Colonel?”

“More chips for me. Mr. Finlayson plays the game as I never saw it played before, and I thought I had seen it played most ways. Mr. Finlayson, you’re a remarkable player.”

Uncle Jack cackled and said:

“I do seem to have got the best of it—I told you I’d played the game before—seem to have most of the chips, haven’t I?—I don’t know how much these chips are worth?”

The boisterous voice rejoined: “You’ve got nearly ten thousand pounds’ worth of chips in front of you, Mr. Finlayson, and here am I buying two thousand five hundred more. We’ll be ruined if this goes on.”

“What!” There was a vibrant note in Uncle Jack’s voice which suggested that the speaker’s words had got through the vinous mists which fogged his brain. “Ten thousand pounds’ worth of chips! You don’t mean to say—— What is the value of each chip?”

“The white are ten pounds, the blue are fifty, the red are a hundred, the green are five hundred. We started with two thousand five hundred pounds’ worth of chips each, and you’ve got them nearly all.”

“But I—I had no idea.” In Uncle Jack’s tremulous tones there was no hint of an inclination to cackle. “Really, you know, this kind of thing is quite out of my line—altogether out of my line. I—I never gambled in my life—I’m not a gambler.”

“I don’t know about being a gambler, Mr. Finlayson. You’ve won ten thousand pounds of our money.”

“But I—I had no notion we were playing for such stakes. What am I to do with these—these chips? We’ve none of us paid for them.”

“I’ll pay for mine right now, sir, if you don’t mind. It’s the general custom for gentlemen in the circles in which I move to pay for their chips at the end of the game. But since you put it that way, I’ll put my money up.” This was unmistakably Chicago Charlie. I wondered how much money he really had—that was money. “Here, Mr. Griffiths, is two thousand five hundred pounds in Bank of England notes.” Although I could not see them, I doubted. “You’re banker; perhaps you’ll just go through them, and at the end of the game pay this gentleman with that money for any of my chips he may have won; and while I’m at it, I’ll have two thousand five hundred pounds’ worth more. And here are the notes, sir.”

The tone of Uncle Jack’s voice when he spoke again gave me some notion of the expression which was on his countenance as he beheld Chicago Charlie’s off-handed manner of dealing with such enormous sums.

“But, my dear sir, I repeat that I never dreamed of playing for such stakes.”

“If the stakes are not large enough for you, Mr. Finlayson, the value of the chips can be raised. We are not children, sir. It may be but a trifle that you’ve won, but, as my friend Griffiths remarked, you have won our money, so what’s the use of talking?—Arthur, it’s you to deal. Mr. Finlayson, your very good health; I like a good game once in a while; I’ve brought a little money with me here to-night, and may you win it all—you’ll find me all smiles if you do. Won’t you drink to me, sir?”

I fancy Uncle Jack did drink to him—in imagination I could see how he did it; his state of fluster; his tremulous hands, causing him to take a bigger drink than he had meant to—and he was in a state in which every thimbleful counted. I supposed the cards were dealt. Several hands were played—I should like to have seen how Mr. Finlayson played them. I could not make out who won; comparative silence reigned—they spoke in lowered voices; only a word or two got through to me. My fingers itched to turn the handle of that door. Then, after an interval of several minutes, during which only murmurs came to me now and then, the boisterous voice was raised.

“I say, you know, I don’t mind a rousing good game, but isn’t this getting rather serious? I don’t know, Mr. Finlayson, if you’re keeping count of the losses—Miss Parsons keeps ladling out the chips—and now you’re cleaned out again. How much has Mr. Finlayson had?”

“I’ve got it all down on this piece of paper.” It was Miss Parsons who replied. “That last lot makes twenty eight thousand six hundred and fifty pounds.”

“What!” This was a sort of shriek from Mr. Finlayson.

“Sure you’re right?” This was the man with the boisterous voice.

“I don’t pretend to be very good at addition—I put down the figures as I give him each lot of chips; you’d better add it up yourself.”

I took it that a paper was handed to Mr. Griffiths, who cast up the various amounts which were on it.

“That’s all right—twenty-eight thousand six hundred and fifty, didn’t you say? There were ten thousand which he had from me. I don’t know how far you’re prepared to go, Mr. Finlayson, but that makes nearly forty thousand.”

“I’m good to go on all night. I’m spoiling for a rousing gamble; what’s forty thousand pounds!” This was Chicago Charlie; I wondered if he had as many farthings of his own in the world.

There was another silence; then Mr. Finlayson began to speak in weak, quavering accents, which made it impossible for his words to reach me. The crisis was approaching—I had to hear what he said; I resolved to risk opening the door; I calculated that they would be so absorbed in listening to and watching him that a slight movement of the door would go unheeded. I had better fortune than I had hoped. I turned the handle, noiselessly—to find that it opened inwards, and that it was screened on the other side by curtains, so that what I had done was entirely unnoticed. I was even able, without being perceived, to glance between the curtains and observe what was happening in the room beyond.

It was a large room, well lit by several inverted incandescent gas-burners. There was a card-table in the centre, at which four men were seated—Chicago Charlie, on his left Mr. Poyntz, opposite Mr. Finlayson, on his right a bullocky sort of man, whom I took to be Mr. Griffiths. There was a little table between each two men, on which were glasses; evidently Mr. Finlayson, for one, had been drinking much more than he should have done, possibly assisted by Mrs. Hammond, who sat on his left to see that his glass was kept filled, and possibly, also, to inform the others what sort of cards he had. On his right was Miss Parsons, with a box divided into partitions, in which were ivory counters of different colours, which are used for the game of poker, and are known as “chips.” Chicago Charlie was leaning back, a big cigar in his mouth, on his face an insolent grin. Poyntz was eyeing Mr. Finlayson as a dog might a rat on which he proposes presently to spring. Griffiths was apparently cast for the part of the genial host, who desires above all else to avoid unpleasantness. The only unhappy looking person present was Uncle Jack. He was sober enough to know that he had made a consummate ass of himself, but too drunk to understand clearly how he had managed to do it, and, still less, how he was to avoid paying the penalty of his folly. The others eyed him with amusement as he did his best to make his position plain.

“You must understand, gentlemen, that I am no gambler—never was. It’s against my principles. My idea was a little friendly game—I had no intention to play for high stakes—so let’s hope there’s no harm done.”

“Certainly there’s no harm done. What’s forty thousand pounds to a man like you?” This was Charlie—the insolence of his grin grew more pronounced; I wondered how often he had played the same sort of part in similar scenes. Uncle Jack tried to wag his finger at him.

“Excuse me, sir—I beg your pardon, Colonel; I forgot for the moment that you were a military gentleman—I say, excuse me, but forty thousand pounds is more money than I ever had in my life.”

Charlie took his cigar from between his lips and carefully knocked off the ash. “And will you excuse me, Mr. Finlayson, if I say you are a liar?”

“Sir! What—what language do you use!”

Griffiths interposed. “Come, Colonel, isn’t that sort of thing a little irregular? We’re all friends here; Mr. Finlayson is both a gentleman and my particular friend.”

“Mr. Griffiths, I’m a man of peace, as you’re aware, so I merely make this remark—Mr. Finlayson has lost to me twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds; if Mr. Finlayson will hand me his cheque for that amount I will consider the matter closed.”

“Very handsomely said, Colonel, very handsomely indeed. How do you stand with Mr. Finlayson, Poyntz?”

“Mr. Finlayson has lost a few hundred to me, but as he seems to be a bit on the wrong side, they can stand over.”

“I say the same, Mr. Finlayson. You’re just on sixteen thousand down to me, but I’ll wait.”

“I won’t wait; it has always been my rule to play for cash, as all my friends are aware.”

“It’s quite right, Colonel, and a very good rule too. So all you need do, Mr. Finlayson, is to give Colonel Stewart a cheque for the twenty-three thousand odd you are down to him, and we’ll leave the other little matters for friendly discussion later on. You have your cheque-book on you, Mr. Finlayson?”

“No, sir, I have not, sir. And if I had it would make no difference. I—I—I give you my word—I’m not a fool.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” The Colonel rose in sudden wrath.

“Now, Colonel—gently.” This was Griffiths, the peacemaker.

“Are you prepared to pay me, sir, the twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds you owe me in cash?”

Drink seemed to be having the effect of making Uncle Jack sleepy; he looked up at the irate Charlie with heavy eyes.

“I am not, sir—I am not prepared—to pay it—at all.”

“This is too much—you dirty little hound!”

Charlie, leaning over the table, lifted Uncle Jack off his chair and bore him across the green cloth as if he were but the small quadruped he called him. The action suggested that Charlie was strong. Then, laying him flat across the board, he ran his fingers through his victim’s pockets with a swiftness and dexterity which hinted at much practice. He held up a pocket-book.

“We’ll see what you have in this, sir.” He proceeded to do so. “You may not have a cheque-book on you, sir, but you do appear to have a cheque.” He unfolded one which he had taken from the pocket-book. “Now, sir, pen and ink will be given you, and you will fill up that cheque in my favour for twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds—at once, without any further nonsense.” He picked him off the table, sat him on a chair. “Griffiths, where’s a pen and ink?” Those requisites were produced by Miss Parsons. “Here, sir, are pens for you to choose from; find one which suits your hand and fill up this cheque. Try this one, sir—if you don’t take hold of it——”

It was not necessary for Charlie to finish his sentence, because Uncle Jack did take hold. A woeful spectacle he presented, after the ignominious manner in which he had been handled—a fuddled, muddled, frightened little man, with those three great men, and two big women, looking down at him. Charlie continued to play the part to which he was accustomed.

“Now, sir, have you got well hold of that pen? Draw that cheque in favour of Colonel Frederick Stewart for twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds, put your usual signature at the bottom and leave it open. Why aren’t you doing as I tell you, sir?”

“I—I’d rather not,” stammered Uncle Jack.

“Then you’re a thief, sir. As it is the custom in the part of the world in which I was raised for a gentleman to shoot a thief at sight, if you don’t get a move on you and fill up that cheque, I’ll put the contents of this gun inside you.”

Charlie, producing a revolver from some part of his person, pointed it at Uncle Jack, whose terror was so great as to be almost ludicrous.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he wailed. “I’ll draw the cheque.”

He made haste to do as he was bid. Charlie checked his enthusiasm.

“Steady, sir, steady, or your handwriting will be all shaky, and you’ll spoil the cheque. Just you fill up this cheque, without a shiver or a shake, in your usual handwriting—and you’ll make a friend of me for life.”

Whether the prospect held out to him by the other’s words charmed Uncle Jack I cannot certainly say; he filled up the cheque with what appeared to be a surprisingly steady hand. The others watched him. Charlie picked up the cheque when he had finished. He handed it to Griffiths.

“Seems all right.”

The two women and Poyntz came and looked at it over his shoulders as he held it between his fingers.

“It does seem all right,” he admitted, “as far as seeming goes.”

“I’ll see that it is all right. You keep him here a night. I’ll go up by the first train. If they make any fuss at the bank, I’ll put them on to the telephone. You see that he tells them to cash it—they probably know his voice. Only don’t you let him play the fool by seeming to hesitate.”

“I’ll make it my business to see to that.” This was Poyntz, who smiled as he spoke. “Trust me. Hadn’t you better put him to bed straight off, perhaps with something which will help him sleep?”

“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t—we’ve done with him.” Griffiths turned to Miss Parsons. “You can manage a little something, can’t you?”

Drawing a tiny bottle from her corsage, Miss Parsons took from it what seemed to be a minute globule, which she dropped into a glass, drowned in whisky to which she added soda and held to Uncle Jack.

“Drink that up, old man,” she told him. “It’s a night cap.”

It seemed to me that the time had come for me to interfere. For a minute or so I had been conscious of certain sounds without the house for which I had been waiting. While the dashing lady was endeavouring to induce her poor little dupe to take the tumbler, with its drugged contents, between his tremulous fingers, drawing the curtains asunder, I stepped into the room. Mine was quite an effective entry—they stared at me as if I were some strange object dropped from the skies. Before either of them had a chance of speaking or of moving, I whistled. I am rather a good hand at whistling. My whistle rang through the house. Before it died away, or they had an opportunity to recover from their amazement, half a dozen men came streaming through the door—uniformed policemen, with an inspector at their head. Him I addressed.

“That man, Inspector, with the revolver in his hand, is Chicago Charlie, a well-known American crook, for whom, I have no doubt, the police have had inquiries.”

Charlie’s stupefied astonishment was almost funny. For once in his life he had been caught napping. He stared at the inspector, then his glance came back to me—which was where he made a mistake; for while he glared in my direction two policemen stole on him from behind, one gripped the wrist which held the revolver and snatched it from him, while round the other wrist his colleague snapped a handcuff. His surprise was complete; he did not even attempt to struggle. He merely thundered, ornamenting his words with adjectives which I am unable to reproduce:

“Who in the name of all that’s wonderful are you?”

“I’m a person,” I informed him, “who takes a great interest in characters like you, and your friends. I am already well known to Mr. Finlayson; not so well to Miss Parsons; and only slightly to Mrs. Hammond. Allow me to recall myself to their recollections—I am Judith Lee.”

As I spoke I removed the scarlet transformation—and how they stared! It is surprising what a difference a little thing like that does make, under certain circumstances, to unobservant eyes. While seated at dinner, watching what that trio was saying, I had been scribbling a note on the back of a menu card, which I slipped into an envelope brought me by the waiter. When I left the dining-room I gave instructions that it was to be taken at once to the police station. In that note I had made it clear what I expected in that remote house, rightly named “The Wilderness,” and requested that adequate assistance might be sent; a certain signal was to advise me of the arrival of that assistance; my whistle was to serve as a signal for the police to enter. Everything worked as smoothly as could have been desired; that little party had quite a different ending from what had been intended. Uncle Jack was taken back to the hotel; his cheque was retrieved; the two ladies and three gentlemen who had proposed to share the proceeds of that cheque between them spent the night as His Majesty’s guests.

The unfortunate part of the business was that later the ridiculous little man expressed himself, to me as well as to others, as absolutely convinced that my action in the matter was inspired by the affection I felt for him. I have reason to doubt if even the plainest possible language from me sufficed to drive the preposterous notion wholly from his head. As I asked at the beginning—why are some men so silly?

### X.
MANDRAGORA

So many things come about by what seems accident, a caprice of chance. In this world few things seem hidden from me; I am a sort of general confessor to the universe at large; only the confessions are both involuntary and unconscious. So often, where people are gathered together, I have only to look about me to share their thoughts, their confidences, their secrets. How often I have made a special effort not to do so. Only once, perhaps, in a thousand times do I light on something worth a second thought, and then it is by the merest hazard.

Take what I call the case of George Young. Who would suppose that while eating a hasty lunch in a crowded restaurant I should have picked up the first threads of what was destined to prove one of my not least interesting experiences?

I had returned from week-ending with a friend, and was having lunch at the railway station dining-room before returning to my work. The place was crowded, with that miscellaneous assemblage which is the peculiarity of such places. Just as the waiter had brought me what I ordered, two men, coming hurriedly in, took the only two vacant seats in sight, at a little round table next to mine. Something in their appearance attracted my attention. They were of different ages. One was about thirty, tall, dark, square-faced; the other was possibly nearly twice that age, a little white-haired man, who looked as if his health was failing. What caught my attention chiefly was that he seemed to be in such a curious state of nervousness. He could not keep still; some part of his body was always in motion; watching him gave one the jumps. At last his companion commented on it; they were sitting sideways to me, so that I could see both their faces. The younger man spoke in a most matter-of-fact way, between the mouthfuls of cold roast beef which he was eating.

“If I were you, Hutton, I should take something for it.”

It was the first time either had spoken; perhaps it was the unexpectedness of the remark which caused the elder man to give a sort of lurch in his chair. He replied with his fork suspended between his mouth and his plate:

“For what?”

The other answered with a stolidity which was almost bovine:

“For whatever it is you’ve got.”

The elder looked as if, for a moment, he did not grasp the other’s meaning; then he sighed—a sigh which seemed to come from the very depths of his being.

“Ah, Walker, I wish I could take something for it; but—who can minister to a mind diseased? Mandragora would have no effect on me.”

Then he sighed again. An unpleasant look came upon the other’s face; then he said:

“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense; what do you suppose is the good of it?”

“There is no good in it—that’s the worst of it; there’ll never be any good in anything any more; we’ve murdered goodness. You’re a different type of man from me.”

“Thank heaven!” The speaker took a long drink of beer.

“For one thing, I am nearer the grave than you are; perhaps that’s why I’m so much more disposed than you to think of what’s beyond it. I never thought that I should go to the Judgment Seat with such a crime to answer for; I don’t know what I shall say when I get there. If I feel like this now, what shall I feel like then?”

“If you don’t stop talking like that, taking up that pose, you and I will quarrel.”

“I’m not afraid of that, Walker; I’m inclined to wish that you and I had quarrelled before. Rather Dartmoor with Young than hell with you.”

“You are a pretty creature, Hutton; didn’t the first suggestion come from you? When we saw the way which things were going, didn’t you hint to me, pretty clearly, that our only chance was to put Young in the cart?”

“I dare say; I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t know how it all began; I only know what it’s come to; and, Walker, I’m afraid to think of how it’s going to end. What shall I say when I’m before the Judgment Seat of God?”

“Hutton, I can’t think what’s come to you; you didn’t use to be this kind of man. You’ll worry yourself into actual illness if you don’t look out.”

“I’m a sick man already, sick unto death.”

Although they were unaware of the fact, I had become more absorbed in their conversation than in my lunch; I thought, as he said that, how he looked it. There was a quality in the coming shadow which seemed to be upon his face which went to my heart. His companion took another mouthful of beef and another drink of beer.

“Of course, if it pleases you to feel like that, I can’t help it, can I? Only—let me give you a tip. You played a trick on George Young, don’t you try to play a second on me. It won’t benefit you to go to the Judgment Seat with two crimes to answer for.”

“That’s true; don’t I know it? That’s what holds me in bonds. I’d have made a clean breast of things before this if I were the only one who would have to suffer; but we stood together at a critical moment for both of us, and—how can I play the traitor to you?”

The younger man put down his knife and fork and, sitting back in his chair, regarded his companion fixedly. He pressed his lips close together; a savage something came into the expression on his face.

“Hutton, we did this thing together, but the first suggestion came from you. If I thought that because of any sophistical nonsense, or because your digestion was out of order, you were meditating putting me where we put him—I’m not sure that I wouldn’t kill you.”

“I wish you would kill me, Tom; if it weren’t that you’d have to pay the penalty, I’d say do it at once. I dare not determine my own life; but—God forgive me for saying so—if some one would do it for me—I’d be grateful. You don’t know it yet, but one can be in hell even in this life; I know it—because I’m there.”

His sincerity seemed to impress his younger companion, who looked at him as if seeking words with which to answer; then, as if finding none, he summoned the waiter, paid their joint bill, and rose from his chair.

“Come on,” he said; “aren’t you ready?”

“Yes,” said the old man, with the oddest smile, “I am ready.”

They went out; they had got through their lunch in a very few minutes. Since their entry I had barely touched mine. I had, before I knew it, become a confidante in a tragedy under circumstances which had deprived me of the little appetite I had had. I sat with that old man’s face in front of me long after they had gone. What would he have done if he had had the remotest idea that the brown-faced girl at the next table was drinking in the words which revealed his agony? Would his companion have liked to kill me? There was one of the moot cases which I was often putting to myself. Ought I to carry a board in front of me—“Warning to all those present! I can tell every word you are saying by merely looking at your faces”? Or ought I to go to each individual separately, observing, “Do be careful what you say—I have only to glance at your lips to know what it is. You just now asked the waiter for the mustard; suppose you had been discussing the family skeleton, I should have known what it was”? Neither of those courses commended itself to me; still I ought not to have watched the two men at the little table next to mine; yet—at the moment it had seemed as if I could not help it. For days afterwards I kept asking myself what was the nature of the tragedy which made that old gentleman so willing that his companion should kill him.

In the late summer of that year I went to a seaside town, which I will call Easthampton. I believed it to be an obscure hamlet, until, on getting there, I found it impossible to rent a bed and sitting-room, either for love or money. It seemed that every house in the place was crammed to the roof. When I had received the same answer for about the twentieth time, I asked the flyman, who was taking me from one likely house to another, if there was still another he could think of.

“I can’t say, miss, that there is; at least there is a cottage in the fields about half a mile along the shore in which you might find accommodation, but I can’t say that I know much in its favour.”

“Do you know anything against it?”

“I can’t say exactly that I do, not against the house itself, that is.”

There was something in his tone which, ordinarily, might have prompted me to ask him what he meant; but there was my box, and there was I, and neither of us wanted to go back to town, and the outlook began to appear desperate. I told him to drive me to that cottage. It turned out to have just the accommodation I was looking for and to be quite a charming cottage in itself. It was not overburdened with furniture, but there was all I needed, and the rooms were spotlessly clean. Then, I liked the landlady: she was quite a pretty woman, possibly not more than twenty-six years old. She told me she had one child, a girl of six, and kept no servant but did all the work herself. When I touched on the question of terms, she asked if I thought fifteen shillings a week too much. As at the last house at which I had made inquiries they had told me that their terms at that time of the year were a guinea and a half per room, without extras, which amounted to I do not know how much more, I thought them absurdly little. I entered on my tenancy then and there.

I was never in more comfortable quarters. I had been threatened by one of those nervous collapses which do come to me when I have been overworked, and rest, comfort, and fresh air were the three things of which I had need. I found them all three at Laurel Cottage. And my landlady was a most charming person; no make-believe lady, but a very real one. Before I had been in the place four-and-twenty hours I was wondering how she could have come to be where she was. Although she showed herself unusually competent to do the work she had undertaken, I was certain that only very lately had she done anything of the kind.

She was very reticent. She told me that her name was Mrs. Vinton, and that she was a widow—her husband had been dead three years. I could see that she was very poor, but she never allowed a hint to escape her that she had ever occupied a different position. Since she was practically my sole companion, I saw a good deal of her. Mine was the only sitting-room the house contained. I asked her to share it with me, she and her little girl. She did bring her sewing and sit with me nearly every evening, and often I sat with her in the kitchen, which was quite as comfortable as my sitting-room. I never met a woman who had a finer gift of silence. She could sit for hours and say nothing; not because she had nothing to talk about; she was not only a highly educated woman but she had seen a great deal of the world. She had been to most of the places I knew, and to many I did not. What cause she had for silence I could not tell; she had a cause; she could talk freely, and brightly, and charmingly enough upon all sorts of subjects when she could forget it; then memory would return, and in an instant she would become almost like one of the dumb folks with whom so much of my life was spent.

I admit that she interested me greatly; in a way she mystified me still more. One or two trifles set me wondering. One evening, as I was going to my room to change my blouse for dinner, the door of the bedroom which she shared with her small child was wide open. She was putting the maid to bed. The child, kneeling at her mother’s knee, was about to say her prayers; the mother, bending over, said to her:

“I want you, Nellie, to pray for papa to-night very specially indeed; it’s his birthday.”

Tears fell from her eyes on to the child’s fair hair. I had left my walking shoes downstairs and was moving very quietly; I suppose that was why she had not heard me come. I just glanced in as I passed, and that was all I saw her say—and that left me with a feeling of having intruded on a sacred confidence. Yet in such fashion am I constituted that I could not help thinking—though it was no business of mine. I had been there ten days. She had told me, in so many words, that her husband was dead—had been dead three years; she had told me so more than once. If he had died three years ago, why did she direct her child to pray for him so specially because it was his birthday? She was not a Roman Catholic, she was a member of the Church of England. She did not pray for the souls of the dead; why had she made such a point of wishing her child to do so?

The very next day something else occurred. I made another intrusion on her confidence—I protest, quite unwillingly. It was when I was passing the kitchen window, which, like the bedroom door on the previous evening, was wide open. I could not help seeing that Mrs. Vinton was on her knees beside the kitchen table, that she had a photograph in her hands, that tears were streaming down her cheeks, and that her lips were forming words.

“My dear! my dear! May the Lord God bless and keep you, and send you back to me before my heart is quite broken.”

The words were undoubtedly addressed to the original of the photograph which she had in front of her. Plainly, there was a skeleton in this lady’s cupboard. Why did she say her husband was dead if she prayed the Lord God to send him back to her? It struck me that if he were to come back to her before her heart was broken he would have to be pretty quick. That some secret grief was eating into her soul was pretty clear. Observation has convinced me that a grief shared is a grief halved. This woman was fighting alone when she had much better have some one else at her side. I was so drawn to her that I was prepared to be that some one. I resolved to force her confidence.

It was the following evening, after dinner. We were at my sitting-room window, looking out across the wheat-field which divided us from the sea. Although she had done her best to hide it, I felt pretty certain that she had been crying nearly all day long. She looked worn and white, and almost like one at despair’s last gate.

“If you are not careful, Mrs. Vinton, you will make yourself ill.”

With this remark I broke a silence which was becoming almost painful. She started, and her cheeks were flushed with pink—I did not like the way in which that pink flush came and went.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, with startled eyes.

“Because it is so obvious. I wonder if you’ll forgive me if I say something. Do you know that each of us has been keeping a secret from the other?”

“What do you mean?” Her surprise seemed to increase. The sewing, which she had seemed for some time to have lacked energy to continue, slipped from her unconscious fingers on to the floor.

“The secret I have kept from you is that I have the gift of seeing what people say by merely watching their lips, even if they are speaking to themselves.”

“I don’t understand. How can you possibly do that?” Her eyes seemed to grow larger; they were very pretty eyes. She sat straight up on her chair; just now she had seemed to be a limp rag, I was certainly putting life into her.

“The secret you have been keeping from me is that your husband is still alive.” I had done it then—she got off her chair with quite a jump.

“Miss Lee!”

I thought she was going to say things to me, pointed things; she would have been quite justified. What she actually did was to collapse in a sort of heap on to the floor, pillow her head on the seat of the chair on which she had been sitting, and burst into tears. It was my turn to be startled. I sat for a moment silent, then, kneeling beside her on the floor, I put my hands on her shoulders, whispering:

“I am so sorry to have intruded on your confidence, but I could not help it; I would not have said a word about it, only I felt you were in such trouble and I thought that I might help; I can be of help at times. Keep your own counsel if you like; if you like I will never speak of it again; but if you think it just possible that a human being can be of help—give me a chance.”

She stood up, the tears still streaming down her cheeks.

“I am ashamed of myself, Miss Lee. I have been ashamed ever since I told you I was a widow, and afraid, because I knew you would find out; I suppose some one has been telling you something.”

“Not a word. All I know you have told me yourself.” I explained to her how that was. Her tears ceased to fall; the expression on her face was like a note of exclamation. “You see, it is because of this gift I have of reading people’s most secret thoughts—sometimes, as in your case, even against my will—that I thought I might be of some little help to you; that gift of mine has been of help to people now and then.”

“I don’t see how you can be of help to me; I am past helping; that’s—that’s where it is. It’s quite true, as you say, that my husband is alive; but he might as well be dead, because he’s in prison.”

She said it with what I dare say she meant to be an air of defiance, but even as she spoke she shuddered, and she put her hands up to her face. Her words were unexpected. I do not know why, but I had taken it for granted that he had deserted her, or that for some reason they had parted. I had not thought it was like that; I felt ashamed of myself for having touched upon so tender a spot. I told her so.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Vinton; I did not guess it was that way—please forgive me; still, perhaps I can be of help to you—please give me a chance. Don’t think me conceited—sometimes I have wrought wonders.”

Neither her attitude nor her words were encouraging; she stood very straight, her hands to her sides, her cheeks very white, her voice suddenly grown hard and cold; something in her manner went to my heart.

“My husband was sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude; he has served three; under those circumstances, I don’t see what help you, a perfect stranger, can be to me. I had a little money when—when it happened, but it is nearly all gone. I thought to make a little by letting lodgings, but I have not made enough to pay the rent even of this cottage.”

“I might at least be able to send you some lodgers.”

“Do you think people will come and lodge with me when they know who I am? They whisper all sorts of things about me in Easthampton—I know. I don’t suppose anyone knows the whole truth about me, I have done my best to hide it, but even as it is they shun me as if I were the plague. I sometimes think that I must create an atmosphere about me in which decent creatures cannot breathe.”

“That is nonsense; I have never breathed better than since I knew you; I believe that I am fairly decent.”

I was at a loss for things to say, the situation being one for which I was so utterly unprepared. Had I realized what was the real story of the missing husband, I might have had my mind in order; as it was, the thing of which I was chiefly conscious was that banalities were out of place. Presently she gave me unlooked-for help, while inflicting on me what was very like a snub.

“This is a subject, Miss Lee, on which you have forced my confidence—I am not sure, quite fairly; whether you go or stay, on one point there must be no misunderstanding—it is a subject on which you must never speak to me again. But before quitting it for ever, I should like to make myself clear to you on one matter; the jury found him guilty, the judge sent him to prison for fourteen years, the world thinks that punishment well merited; but I know that my husband is innocent. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll see about your dinner.”

She turned to leave the room; but something within made it impossible for me to let her go—at least without an effort to detain her.

“Mrs. Vinton!—One moment, please! Don’t you see that if your husband is innocent, that is just the point on which I might be able to help you?”

Again her manner was not encouraging; she looked me up and down as if I were some one distinctly undesirable.

“Help me?—You?—How can you help me?”

“I might be able to make your husband’s innocence clear to the whole world.”

Her pretty face was distorted by a smile which was worse than tears.

“You must forgive me, Miss Lee, but circumstances have made me suspicious of the whole world. Why should you, an entire stranger, take such an interest in a woman who lets you lodgings for a fortnight or three weeks? Do you suppose that if it were an easy thing to establish my husband’s innocence that I should not have done it long ago? I truly believe I have done all that can be done; do you seriously think that you could succeed where I have failed? You say you have wrought wonders; I do not know who you are, nor anything about you; you will have to work a miracle to restore my husband to his former place among his fellow-men; yet I tell you he is innocent.”

“Even miracles may be worked. You say that he is innocent. I have sufficient confidence in your judgment, Mrs. Vinton——”

“My name is not Vinton; nor is my husband’s. His name is George Young.” I suppose it was because I started that she added: “Now you will probably adopt a different tone; in common with all the world you held my husband to be guilty.”

“I know nothing of either your husband’s innocence or guilt.”

“You recognized his name; you must be acquainted with his case. The newspapers made it one of the topics of the hour.”

“Nearly four years ago I left England for a long tour round the world; your husband’s trial must have taken place while I was away. If there was an account of it in any of the few English papers I saw during my absence I never read it.”

“I saw you start when I said my husband’s name was George Young; if you did not know it, why start as if you did?”

Her tone was suspicious, even resentful.

“I have a retentive memory; I keep all sorts of facts there as it were in pigeon-holes; I had a feeling, when you mentioned it, that I had heard your husband’s name before, and was wondering in which pigeon-hole it was.”

“You probably heard it in connection with his trial; how else could you have done? What is the matter with you? Why do you jump up like that?”

“I do believe I’ve found the pigeon-hole,” I said. “Of all the extraordinary things. Talk about wonders.” I sat down again as suddenly as I had risen. “You have heard how the mouse helped the lion; I honestly think it is within the range of possibility that I may be able to help you. You say your husband’s name was George Young—tell me all about him; although what you say is quite true, and I am an entire stranger, I don’t think you will regret it. With what was he charged?”

She hesitated; looked at me very fixedly; then she asked herself, as if unwillingly—her lips moving so slightly that only my keen eyes could have caught the words which were shaped on them:

“I wonder if I can trust her?”

“Yes,” I exclaimed, the instant her lips had formed the words, “you can; Mrs. Young, you can trust me wholly.”

How she stared!—as if I were some amazing object.

“Miss Lee!” she gasped. “What—what do you mean?”

“Did I not tell you that by merely looking at a person’s lips I can tell what he is saying—even, sometimes, what he is thinking? I saw the words upon your lips, ‘I wonder if I can trust her,’ and I tell you that you can. I do not wish to gush, or to indulge in any high-fallutin, but I should not wonder if I turned out to be one of the best friends you ever had. Now tell me with what your husband was charged.”

Abandoning her intention of quitting the room to look after my dinner, she had sunk upon a chair, seeming like one who was suffering from shock. Her words limped a little.

“My husband was managing clerk to a firm of solicitors. He was about to be made a partner when it was discovered, that, among other things, a large number of securities which had been entrusted to his principals for safe-keeping were missing. They were very fond of George, and for his sake as well as their own they did their best to try to conceal the facts, in hope of restitution. There was a trust fund of rather more than twenty thousand pounds of which they were custodians; when the trustees wanted the money, it was gone; they charged George with taking it. Other charges were made against him in the course of the trial; but it was on that charge that he was found guilty and sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude. I have newspapers upstairs containing a full report of his examination before the magistrate, and afterwards of his trial. You can read them if you like; you will see that nothing can be clearer than the evidence against him; yet I tell you he is innocent.”

The story, told thus baldly, did not sound very lucid; it would have to be told at much greater length and with much more attention to detail if even the rudimentary facts were to be adequately grasped; but it was not those facts I was after. My thoughts were travelling in a direction of their own; they were in that railway refreshment-room, in which two men were lunching at a little table next to mine—two men whose conversation had so oddly affected me almost willy-nilly. Had they been sent to that particular table, and had I been directed to watch them, by what almost seemed to be a special Providence? I might be on a wrong tack altogether; it behoved me to be careful; I felt my way.

“What was the name of the firm by which your husband was employed?”

“Hutton—Hutton and Walker. Young Mr. Hutton had died sometime before the discoveries were made. The firm consisted of old Mr. Hutton, the senior partner, and Mr. Walker.”

“Was his name Thomas Walker? and did Mr. Hutton sometimes call him Tom?”

“You know the firm—or do you know Tom Walker? His name was Tom. I was almost engaged to him once, and should have been quite, if George had not—well, you know.”

A faint flush tinged her white cheeks; I wondered if that had had anything to do with the position Mr. Walker had taken up.

“Was Mr. Hutton a little man, all a bundle of nerves?”

“His nerves were strong enough before the trouble began; he was a very able man; his health broke down after it was over—he grew old all of a sudden. Now he is ill and, I believe, unhappy—at least he says so. It seems to have been almost as great a trouble to him as to me; once he found out where I was and came to see me; he was so changed that I hardly knew him. I cannot help thinking that he has my movements watched, because when I came here I not only concealed my address, but I changed my name. Yet the other day he wrote to me, a curious, rambling letter, parts of which almost suggested that he was in his second childhood. He is at Torquay, and hints that he does not expect to leave it again alive. But that I can hardly believe. He wants me to go and see him, but—I couldn’t.”

“What is his address at Torquay? It is just possible that I may go and see him.”

“You? Then you do know him?”

“I saw him once in my life—and I am not quite sure of that, but I think I did. He is not conscious of my existence—but it is possible that he soon will be.”

“You are very mysterious; I don’t understand you in the least. I tell you everything, you tell me nothing; I hope I have not been even more foolish than usual—that you are not going to make an improper use of what I have said.”

“Mrs. Vinton, or Mrs. Young, whichever it is: experience, if not nature, has made of me a non-committal, cautious kind of creature. I wish to make no positive statement, but I think it just possible that before many weeks have passed the miracle of which you spoke may not seem so impossible as you supposed.”

She plied me with questions, to which, I fear, she received but scanty answers. I was not sure that I had not said too much already; she grew quite excited. I had no right to raise her expectations, or to drop so much as a hint which might cause them to be raised. As perhaps I am prone to do, I had only jumped to conclusions from what might be quite insufficient premises; I had absolutely nothing positive to go upon; it might be the merest will-o’-the-wisp I was chasing; all the same, when she had given me old Mr. Hutton’s address at Torquay, and had gone to bed that night, I was convinced that something like a gleam of hope had come into her life, the responsibility for which lay on me. It was a pretty heavy responsibility, because if I failed to perform what the ordinary observer would have said was an impossibility her last fate would be worse than her first.

I went to Torquay the very next day, having to go right across London to do so. A tedious journey it was; especially as the nearer I came to my destination the stronger became the feeling, not only that I might be engaged on the veriest wild-goose chase, but that anyhow I was mixing myself up in matters which were not the slightest concern of mine, and behaving, generally, like a weak-minded busybody, who would put a finger into other people’s pies. So conscious was I of my folly, that when the train stopped at Exeter I got out of my carriage, resolved to go no farther; only when the train was on the point of restarting did I clamber back again, my impedimenta in both hands. It was the thought of the white-faced woman who was hoping such great things of this wild-cat expedition which urged me on again.

On arrival at Torquay I put up at an hotel on the Strand; dined; spent a very dull evening; and went to bed. The next morning when, waking up, I remembered where I was and what I was there for, I asked myself what on earth I was to do. I had no plan of campaign. I could hardly go to the rooms of that ailing old man and charge him with all sorts of misdemeanours on the strength of a few words he had uttered in a public dining-room, which, perhaps, he had never meant at all—or which, at any rate, had never been intended to bear the significance I had given them. I dressed, had breakfast, went into the public garden on the other side of the road, armed with a book and a newspaper. After I had had enough of reading, which was pretty soon, I wondered what I was to do next, I had hoped that inspiration would come while reading; it had not; it had had the cheering result of having left me more conscious of the futility of my quest. Rising from my seat, I began to walk about. There were not many people in the garden—I never have seen many people in Torquay. Somehow, in spite of its pleasant situation, it always seems to me to be one of the places which have been, and which now wear an air of decay. Even most of the people you do see there seem to be “have beens”—the few adults in those public gardens struck me as relics of humanity. I wondered what their pasts had been. There was an elderly woman alone on one seat, who was certainly an old maid, and a very old lady alone on the next, who looked as if she never could have been young; and on the third there was an old gentleman——

I stopped as I was approaching that old gentleman, suddenly conscious of a little catching of the breath. I had seen that old gentleman before—once; it was to see him a second time that I was there. He would certainly never recognize me; I was convinced that he had not recognized me in the first instance; yet it was with an effort that I brought myself to continue my walk in his direction, and it was with a feeling of absurd nervousness that I marched slowly past him. I need not have troubled—he paid not the slightest heed to me. He sat back in his seat, and his eyes were closed; but not even the most unobservant could have supposed that he slept—there was a look upon his face which no sleeper ever has. I thought of what Mrs. Young had told me he had said in his curious, rambling letter—that he did not expect to leave Torquay alive. He had not been very far from the mark there. He looked to me like a very sick man indeed; smaller than when I had seen him first—as if he had lost both flesh and vitality.

I passed and repassed him six times; not once did he change his position—he seemed at least to have acquired the art of keeping still. I was wondering whether or not to address him, and what method of address to employ, when I had another little shock of surprise. Some one else had entered the gardens; a tall, upstanding, quite young man, who certainly did not look as if he were a relic of the past. It was the square-faced man who had sat with the other at the adjoining table. He struck me as being the kind of man who does observe; I had an uncomfortable feeling that he had noticed me on what was likely to prove that momentous occasion. He eyed me as we passed each other as if my face was not entirely unfamiliar—as if he were asking himself where he had seen it before. It would matter little if he recalled the occasion; yet for some reason I had a feeling that I would rather he did not.

He went one way, I the other; I had no doubt that he was making for the old man on the seat. Turning into a side path upon the left, I turned again into another narrower path which ran parallel with the broad one I had left. I retraced my steps along it. Between the intervening shrubs and trees I could see the seats on the broader walk. When I came abreast of the one on which the old man had been sitting, he was talking to the new-comer. I was particularly anxious to know what was being said. A clump of rhododendrons was between us, high enough, unless particular search was made for a suspected presence, to serve as a screen. Standing as far back as I could without losing sight of the two men’s faces, I made it serve as a screen for me, and I watched, so far as I could, what was being said upon the seat.

The younger man came up while the elder still had his eyes closed. He stood for a moment observing him; then he greeted him: “Good morning.”

The old man opened his eyes, looking up at him as if he were not quite sure who he was; then he said:

“It will never be a good morning to me again—never, never.”

The other smiled ironically.

“Isn’t that rather a strong thing to say on a morning like this, when the sun’s in a cloudless sky?”

“Nor will there be any sun again for me—ever; for me there is only outer darkness.”

I could see from the look on the younger man’s face that he sneered.

“Aren’t you slightly melodramatic? Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I have not slept well since the day on which George Young went to jail; his going murdered sleep. All night I lie in agony.”

“You were saying the other day how you longed for something to give you sleep; here is something.”

The speaker took out of a waistcoat pocket a small, blue phial, offering it to the old man on his open palm. The old man looked at the phial and then up at the face of the person who offered it.

“What is it?”

“Mandragora.”

“Will it give me sleep?”

“If you choose; sleep which will know no waking.”

The two men exchanged looks, such strange ones; then the elder took with tremulous fingers the phial off the other’s palm. Then, when he had got it, he shut his eyes again. The younger, without another word, passed on. I saw him leave the gardens by the gate which was at the other end of the walk; I felt sure that he had not seen me. I waited—if I could help it I was not going to lose sight of the phial which was in the old man’s hand. Presently an empty Bath chair came down the walk. The chairman, assisting the old man to enter, began to draw him away. I followed. They stopped at what I recognized to be the house in Belgrave Road which Mrs. Young had given me as Mr. Hutton’s address. The old man entered the house leaning on the Bath chair man’s arm. The chairman, coming out again, went off with his chair; he was one of the unobservant sort; I doubt if he even noticed my existence. I walked up the road, then back again. Twenty minutes had elapsed since the old man entered. It was one of those lodging-houses in which the hall door proper is never closed in the daytime; you have only to turn the handle of the inner door to enter. I particularly did not wish to give warning of my coming; I preferred to announce myself. Turning the handle, I passed into the hall. I had noticed that the Bath chair man had led the old gentleman into a room on the left. After momentary hesitation I turned the handle of that room, and, without any sort of ceremony, passed in. It was, as I had expected, a sitting-room. There was a big arm-chair on one side. On this, propped up by cushions, was the old man. I perceived, in an instant, that my intuition had not been at fault—that I was only just in time. He had a small, blue phial in his hand; the cork was out; he was in the very act of raising it to his lips. I crossed the room, and it was in my hand almost before he knew it. There was no label on the phial, but one sniff at its contents was enough to tell me what it was.

“Do you imagine, Mr. Hutton, that by committing suicide you’ll escape the consequences of crime? That when you stand before the Judgment Seat you’ll be able to excuse yourself by pleading that you murdered yourself because you had murdered another?”

He stared at me as if I were some supernatural visitant; his jaw dropped open, his head fell back, he was one great tremble. I went on:

“When you allowed George Young to be sent to prison for the crime of which you were guilty, you practically committed murder—you slew the better part of him, his character and reputation; to say nothing of the unceasing torture which you propose to inflict on him for fourteen long years. Conscience has you by the throat; God punishes in this world as well as the next; do you think this will save you from the wrath to come?”

I alluded to the phial. He stammered out a question.

“Who are you?”

“I am the voice of the avenging angel, calling you to account for the evil you have done and still would do. You foolish old man! Are you so ignorant as not to know that only through repentance comes forgiveness? Repent!—there is still time—and God’s infinite mercy will give you peace at last.”

He gasped—I thought every moment he would collapse.

“If I only thought it—if I only could believe it!”

“Surely your own common sense must tell you that there is at least more chance that way than this.” I held out the phial. “Take your sin to God; show that you repent of it; try to right the wrong which you have done; make public atonement; it is not improbable that that way you will know once more the comfort of a mind at ease.”

“I do not know who you are, where you come from, what you want with me; but—if I only could believe that by doing what you say I could be at peace again with God and man.…”

He did believe before I had done with him, or, if his faith was not so perfect as it might have been, he did as I wished. He made a complete confession of the whole painful business. I wrote down every word he said. Then I read over to him what I had written; the landlady was called in, and in her presence and mine he signed it. The landlady, by the way, seemed surprised to see me, and rather disposed to wonder who I might be and how I came to be where I was. When she had gone again—with her curiosity unsatisfied—and I was alone again with Mr. Hutton, I was struck by what I have noticed on other occasions—that there is some truth in the saying that “Open confession is good for the soul.” Confession had done him good—visible and obvious good; he owned as much. His tongue once unloosed he became positively loquacious. He told me many things about himself which enabled me to understand the situation better than the bare outlines of the formal confession he had just now made.

His son had been the thief—his only child. When detection threatened, to escape punishment he had committed suicide. There was a good deal in this part of his story which impressed me in a manner which I tried to hide from him. The son had poisoned himself; how he had obtained the poison remained a mystery. And not only so, the tragedy had been handled in such a fashion as to make it appear that George Young had been to blame for it. At the trial certain evidence was produced which made it seem that he had been Young’s victim; that he was of such a sensitive nature that, rather than face what must be the result of George Young’s villainy, he preferred to die. As I heard this part of the tale I thought of the phial which had been given to the old man and I drew my own conclusion.

I was with Mr. Hutton altogether about four hours—I even lunched with him. It was a strange lunch. When I left I returned to my hotel—to find a telegram awaiting me. It was in answer to one I had sent while I had been following that Bath chair. I smiled as I read it; I glanced at the clock, and I thought I saw my campaign finished. I had learnt from Mr. Hutton where Mr. Thomas Walker was staying; he was in a house—in the higher part of the town—which belonged to a relative of his, and of which, in his relative’s absence, he was, with the exception of some sort of servant, the only occupant. About a quarter to four, at which time the London express reaches Torquay, I went to call at Mr. Thomas Walker’s—leaving a note for a person whom I told them I presently expected.

The address the old man had given me was “Tormohan, Ilsham Road.” Any idea I might have had of introducing myself to Mr. Walker as I had done to Mr. Hutton vanished directly I saw what kind of place “Tormohan” was. It was shut off from the main road on which it stood by a high wall. Admission was gained by a gate which opened on what was presumably some sort of passage-way; the way to get that gate to open was to pull at the old-fashioned bell which hung beside it. I pulled; when nothing particular happened I pulled again; I pulled four times before the door was opened a few inches, and the square-faced man looked through the opening. Rather an odd dialogue took place—which I commenced.

“Mr. Thomas Walker?”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I wish to see you on very important business, and my name is Judith Lee.”

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“It is possible; if you will open the door a little wider, I shall be able to come in.”

“I don’t know that I want to see you—why do you want to see me?”

“I think I shall be able to satisfy you that I do want to see you when you have allowed me to enter.”

He opened the door just wide enough to allow me to enter, and I went in; the moment I was in he closed it. Now I rather wanted that door to be left open; but as I did not see my way to tell him so in so many words, I suffered him to close it. We were, as I had expected, in a sort of passage covered with a glass roof. He led the way to the house; I followed. We passed through another door, which, this time, was opened by turning a handle. We went into a dark hall, and then into a room at the back which was shadowed by a big tree which grew nearly up to the window; if it had been my house I should have had that tree cut down in less than no time. When we were in the room he eyed me with what I felt were inquiring glances.

“Did I understand you to say that you are Miss Lee? On what business, which is of such great importance, do you wish to see me? I should have told you, if you had not said your business was so very important, that I was alone in the house; the woman who acts as servant is out; which explains why you were kept waiting at the door and why I answered your ring myself.”

It did occur to me as I observed him that it would have been the part of discretion to have postponed my visit until I was accompanied by the person whom my telegram had brought from town; but I had all at once become convinced of this man’s utter baseness to such an extent that I was consumed by a desire to bring him to book on my own account, before the law began to deal with him. The thought of the innocent man, despairing, desperate with a sense of wrong, wearing his life out within the prison walls which must seem to him like some hideous, mocking, unending nightmare; and of the woman, young, pretty, gentle, delicate, refined, with her white face, hopeless eyes, broken heart, longing with a longing which she knew never would be gratified for the beloved husband of whom she had been so foully and cruelly bereft; these rose before me, moving me to sudden rage, so that I broke into language which amazed Mr. Thomas Walker.

“The business which has brought me here is to tell you that you are a contemptible, cowardly, murderous scoundrel, and that the hour is struck in which your sins are going to find you out; that, in the first place.”

I rather fancy that that fashion of opening the ball took him rather by surprise. He stared as if he wondered if I were mad. Then he smiled oddly.

“That, in the first place—and in the second?”

“In the second, I am going to enter into details by way of recalling certain facts to your recollection.” Then I jumped at my fences without stopping to consider what was on the other side. “How many years ago is it since you began to incite young Frank Hutton to rob his father?”

At that he did change countenance; I had found a safe landing on the other side of the fence.

“What on earth are you talking about? Who are you? and what do you want with me?”

“You taught Frank Hutton to be a thief—in a small way at the beginning, on a large scale later on. You shared his ill-gotten spoils, yet, when detection threatened, you so played upon his fears that you induced him to commit suicide in order to escape the consequences of what were more your misdeeds than his. Did you, a lawyer, forget that when A assists B in committing suicide, A is guilty of murder? When you put the poison within Frank Hutton’s reach, knowing perfectly well the use he was about to make of it, you committed murder; for that murder the law is presently going to call you to account. Part of the business which has brought me here is to tell you so.”

The way in which he looked at me! I already began to suspect that his fingers were itching to take me by the throat. He merely said:

“Is that so? May I ask from what quarter you have acquired the facts on which you base your rather surprising observations?”

I did not answer him; I just went on, warming to the work as I did so. The feeling was growing momentarily stronger that this man was one of those unspeakable creatures who are dangers to whom ever they are brought in contact with.

“Not content with destroying young Frank Hutton, soul and body, to cover your own offences, you proceeded to wreck his father’s happiness, and to lead him into crime. You lied to him about his son; you were so skilful as to be able to make him believe that his boy was the sole offender; and then, pretending that it was your desire to spare him shame, you put it into his head to lay the burden upon an innocent man; you were so skilful as to make it seem that the suggestion came from himself and not from you. You unutterable thing!”

This time, when I paused, he said nothing; I was aware that he was all the more dangerous on that account. But I cared nothing—so intent was I on speaking my mind.

“You made black seem white; you manufactured false evidence; you lied, and lied, and lied—and George Young was sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude; thief, murderer, liar, you have succeeded in doing that. I have no doubt you hoped that you were safe at last—you short-sighted fool! The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine—your sort they grind to powder. You are already being slipped between the stones—your course has run.”

That time, when I paused, the grimace which distorted his face was rather a grin than a smile. He asked:

“In the name of all that’s marvellous, from what madhouse have you been permitted to escape?”

“When you planned that grand coup, putting the onus of all your guilt upon an innocent man and shutting him up for fourteen awful years, you overlooked one small point—that all men are not devils; that to some is given the power to repent of their sins; and so poor a judge of character are you, that you were unaware that your own partner, your first victim’s unhappy father, was one of them. From the moment he sinned, he began to repent.”

He interrupted me—speaking for the first time savagely.

“Have you been talking to old Hutton? Has he been coaching you in this tissue of nonsense?”

As before, I left his questions unanswered; I simply went on:

“Fortunately for himself, your partner was one of those who cannot know happiness unless his conscience is clear and he is at peace with God; better be whipped in this world than through all eternity. Had you in your composition even a trace of the things which make for goodness you would have been moved by his remorse. Instead, you have made of it a mock; you seem to be all evil; instead of joining yourself with him in an act of atonement, you pressed him towards further crime. You had his son in your mind. By inciting him to self-murder you believed yourself to have escaped one danger. You hoped, by inducing the father to imitate his son, you would escape another. To-day—only a very little while ago—you murdered him.”

It was, if I may be allowed to say so, my coup de théâtre; I had planned it from the first; it produced the effect I had intended. He became, on an instant, another man. His skin became livid, his lips trembled, words stuck in his throat, fear touched his heart.

“What—what do you mean?”

I believe he meant to say more but could not; he shrank back from me as if in physical terror. I gave him no quarter. I held out my right hand, palm uppermost. On it was the small blue phial.

“Do you know that?”

He looked at it as if it were some dreadful thing; again he stammered his question: “What—what do you mean?”

“This morning I saw you give that phial to your partner, Michael Hutton. He has long had it in his mind to escape from the weight of remorse which has made life intolerable to him, as you are well aware. I saw you give him this phial a few hours ago in the public gardens. He said to you, ‘What is it?’ You replied, ‘Mandragora.’ He asked, ‘Will it give me sleep?’ You said, ‘If you choose; sleep which will know no waking.’ You let him take the phial between his shaking fingers, and you walked off, knowing that you had left death behind you.”

“Who are you? How do you know these things?”

“My knowledge is of God. He has given me the power to put to confusion such men as you.”

There was a momentary silence; he cast shifty glances round him, as if he sought on every side some way of escape, finding none. Presently he asked, moistening his parched lips with the tip of his tongue before he was able to pronounce his words:

“Is—is old Hutton dead?”

“Do not imagine that that will profit you; he made complete confession. The whole story is set down in black and white, signed by his own hand. This phial will avail you nothing.”

Suddenly I realized that he was eyeing the tiny glass bottle with a new expression in his glance.

“I don’t believe it’s empty.” He said it almost as if he were speaking to himself. He drew closer. “I don’t believe the contents have been touched.”

He made a sudden grab at the phial; I withdrew it just in the nick of time. There was a sound of an unmusical bell.

“Who is that?” he asked; he was probably so obsessed by other thoughts as to be unaware that he had all at once acquired the trick of speaking his thoughts out loud. “It is some one at the outer door; who can it be?”

I said: “Had you not better go to the door and see?”

He looked at me. As I have remarked, he was one of your observant men who have a trick of seeing what is beneath the surface. I suppose he saw something on my face which set his own thoughts travelling.

“Is it some one for you?”

“It is some one for you.”

“For me?”

“At last.”

“Is that so? Some one for me—at last.” He stopped; there was silence; the bell rang again. I was just about to suggest again that he should go and see who was at the outer door when—he leaped at me. No other word but “leaped” would so well describe the manner of his assault. And I was unprepared. He had me by the throat before I had even realized that danger threatened. I was to blame; I ought to have been on my guard. As it was, so swift were his movements, so strong his grip, that I was already finding it hard to breathe before I had a chance to pull myself together.

I am a woman, but I am no weakling. I have always felt it my duty to keep my body in proper condition, trying to learn all that physical culture can teach me. He had the start of me; as I said, he was already choking the breath out of me before I was able to pull myself together; when I did, he did not find me so helpless as he perhaps had hoped. I only recently had been having lessons in jiu-jitsu—the Japanese art of self-defence. I had been diligently practising a trick which was intended to be used when a frontal attack was made upon the throat. His pre-occupation, his insensate rage, his unpreparedness, which was even greater than mine had been—these things were on my side. Even as, I dare say, he was thinking that I was already as good as done for—I tried that trick. His fingers released my throat, and he was on the floor without, I fancy, understanding how he got there, I doubt if there ever was a more amazed man. When he began to realize what had happened, he gasped up at me—he was still on the floor—

“You—you——” While he was still endeavouring to find adjectives sufficiently strong to fit the occasion, the person came into the room for whose attendance I had telegraphed to Scotland Yard. In the note I had left at the hotel I told him to follow me at once, and if he was not able to obtain instant admission to the house, then he was to use means of his own to get in quickly; I had had a premonition that I might have trouble with Mr. Thomas Walker. He had some useful skeleton keys in his pocket, which had once been part of a skilful burglar’s outfit; when there came no answer to his ringing, he promptly opened the front door with them.

Mr. Thomas Walker understood what the new-comer’s presence meant; he needed no explanation. In the struggle I had dropped the blue phial, a fact which he realized quicker than I did. Before I knew it had fallen, he—still on the floor—had snatched it, had the cork out, was putting the bottle to his lips—

“Stop him!” I cried. “It’s poison!”

I cried too late; before we could reach him he had emptied the phial—he was dead—as quickly as if he had been struck by lightning. The phial had contained sufficient cyanide of potassium to kill fifty men. The death he had meant for his partner was his instead.

Representations were made to the authorities; Michael Hutton’s confession was placed before them, together with certain facts which came to light when examination was made of Thomas Walker’s papers. George Young was pardoned—for what he had never done. Old Mr. Hutton was arrested—he died before the magistrate’s examination was concluded; it was found that he had made a will by which all he possessed was left to the man he had so cruelly injured.

I was only in Torquay one night and part of a day; on the night of that day I slept in London. The following morning I returned to Easthampton. I had told myself, more than once, what a foolish person I was to meddle in such unpleasant matters which were no concern of mine; but when I explained to Mrs. Young what had happened, and saw the look which came upon her face as she listened and began to understand—I was not so sure that I had been foolish after all.

### XI.
“8 ELM GROVE—BACK ENTRANCE”

This story is, in many respects, such a strange one, that it is not easy to know how to set it down; whether to tell it backwards, or to commence at the beginning. It is on that account that I preface it with a remark that when, one afternoon, I was at the Arnolds’, and the parlourmaid came into the room with a tea-tray in her hands, at the sight of her I was so startled that I nearly dropped the pastel I was holding.

But the story did not begin there. It began when I was returning from spending an evening with some friends at Blackheath. I came back by the Greenwich tram; I had to return or I would have stayed the night with my friends, who were most reluctant to let me go. I believe it was the last tram. It was most dreadful weather. I had the vehicle to myself until it was boarded by two men, whom I should have described as of distinctly suspicious appearance. They sat in perfect silence till one of them rose to get off, when the other said to him in tones which were inaudible to me:

“Now don’t you make any mistake—8 Elm Grove—back entrance. Got it right?”

“Of course I’ve got it right. What do you take me for? Think that in my position I’m likely to make a mess of a thing like that?”

The speaker had a large square bag, made of what seemed to me to be a piece of old red carpet. It seemed to be full of something which was so heavy that it was all he could do to carry it. The car stopped; he got off; the other man remained. He was a square-faced, dark-visaged person; his cloth cap was crammed close down over his head. His cheeks were blue with the promise of a beard which badly needed a razor. As was the case with the man who had just departed, there was nothing to screen his lips, so that to me the words which they had uttered had been obvious.

Presently the car stopped again; a policeman got on. At sight of him the man started. If it had been possible, he would undoubtedly have got off. But it was too late. The policeman shook, as well as he could, the rain off his cape; left it near the door of the car, then entered and took his seat. He looked about him. He saw the black-visaged man, and the man saw him; plainly they knew each other. The man looked murder; the policeman grinned.

“So it’s you,” he said. “I didn’t know you were out.”

The man replied with a sort of venomous fury.

“Who asked you what you knew? You mind your own affairs, and don’t you talk to me when you’re not wanted to; that’s not your duty; you do your duty and leave me alone.”

“All right, Chippy, no harm intended. I hope you’ll keep out longer this time than you did last.”

The man made no reply; if looks could have killed there would certainly have been an end of that policeman. I wondered what had been the meaning of that reference to “8 Elm Grove—back entrance”; and what had been the contents of that bag. I should rather have liked to ask a question or two. The car stopped in the Westminster Bridge Road. The three of us descended. The policeman went his way; I presume the black-visaged man went his; I know that I went mine. I should probably have forgotten the incident had it not been for something which happened not many days afterwards—which brought it all back to my memory with a rush.

I was standing in Piccadilly, waiting for an omnibus. A shabby, unpleasant-looking individual was standing not very far from me, an ancient billycock crammed over his eyes, his hands in his breeches pockets, a broken clay pipe in the corner of his mouth. Suddenly some one came hurrying across the road, threading his way among the vehicles with the dexterity which is the birthright of a certain sort of cockney. He was an undersized youth, whose attire was in the last stage of decay. Apparently he wore no shirt; his coat was buttoned up to the neck, the collar turned up. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets as if he were unwilling to expose them to the air; I had a feeling that in one of those pockets there might be something about whose safety he was anxious. He went straight to the unpleasant-looking gentleman with a pipe in his mouth. The man’s lips formed themselves into a question.

“Got it?” The youth nodded, casting quick glances behind him and on either side. The man went on: “Then I told you what to do with it—if I was you, the sooner the better. Remember what I said? 8 Elm Grove—back entrance. Don’t you make any mistake.”

The youth passed into an entry which leads into Jermyn Street, and was gone before I had realized where I had encountered that unpleasant-looking person’s words before. “8 Elm Grove—back entrance”—that was what the black-visaged man had said in that Greenwich tramcar to his companion, who got out carrying the heavy carpet bag. My bus came up before I had quite grasped the singularity of this, and it was only after I had taken my place that I was inclined to think that I had been perhaps a trifle hasty. That unpleasant-looking person might have been worth a little observation.

I dare say it was a fortnight afterwards that I was at Waterloo Station. There had been a race-meeting on the line; I doubt if there are many places where one can see more evil-looking faces than at Waterloo Station on such an occasion as that. It sometimes seems to me that the place is full of the sweepings of the prisons. The race-goers were returning; a cheap train was in. I drew away from the horde of men who all at once crowded the platform. As I looked about me, thinking of what a great artist would make of these singular countenances, I noticed a man in a fawn-coloured overcoat go up to a short and sturdy person who—with his legs wide apart and his hat cocked on the back of his head—immediately accosted him. I saw quite distinctly what he said.

“Hullo, George! I’ve been waiting for you. What luck?”

The other replied—I saw his answer; I wished I had not. His mouth vomited forth foulness. He had had no luck; he had not been within ten miles of a winner; he had come back stony broke. The other looked at him; he had a toothpick between his lips, which he shifted from side to side.

“Then it’s about time we did something, ain’t it, George? As far as coin goes I’m about where you are. How about the girl? We’re ready for her.”

“She comes out of Wandsworth prison to-morrow morning at six sharp, and I’m going to be there to meet her; that’s what about the girl. She’ll be ready as soon as we are.”

“I suppose she’ll be all right.”

“You bet she will; I’ll see to that. She does what I tell her or—she’ll be sorry; she will.”

“Are you going to marry her, George?”

“Marry her?—Me?—Me marry her?—She won’t dare to ask me.”

“Suppose she cuts up rough—girls do sometimes, you know.”

“Yes, and so do men. That girl cares for me. I’ll show you how she cares for me before we’ve done with her.” The speaker smiled—a thin, horrible smile. “She’ll do just as I tell her without so much as a whimper; she’d go through hell for me, and she shall.”

“She comes out to-morrow morning? Perhaps she’d better stay inside.”

“They won’t keep her, not this time they won’t. I shouldn’t wonder if next time she makes more of a stay. When a woman’s been really useful to you, it’s just as well to have her for once in a while out of your way.”

“But this one’s very young, ain’t she?”

“All the better, you can work them easier when they’re young; and when they’re young they are so fond of you—that makes it easier still.”

The two men grinned, and I could have struck them for it. The man who had been racing stood closer up to the other, he showed him something which was in his overcoat pocket. What it was I could not see; but I saw him say, in tones which were clearly meant to reach the other only:

“I’ve got a little something here—out of a lady’s bag.”

“Seems to me you’re always fond of the ladies, George. I suppose it’s another case of 8 Elm Grove—back entrance.” Again the two men grinned. “I have got a bob left; suppose we have something liquid.”

The pair moved off to the refreshment-room. I had been a spectator of one of those scenes of which I see more than I like; I had been made, after a fashion, a confidante of two individuals who I had no doubt whatever were seasoned criminals. And again there had been that reference to “8 Elm Grove—back entrance”; I could guess at what was the nature of the something which the fellow had in his overcoat pocket, but what stuck in my mind—what hurt me most—for when they were gone I felt as if I were smarting all over—were their allusions to the girl who, the next morning, was coming out of Wandsworth prison. To what a fate she seemed to be coming; as the short man had hinted, she had much better stay inside. The fellow in the overcoat was, to a superficial eye, not bad-looking. He was about five foot nine or ten, slightly built, upright; about him an air of jauntiness. His features were fairly regular—he had a tiny moustache; but apart from the fact that he had those whity-blue eyes which I, sometimes perhaps unjustly, associate with cruelty and treachery, there was in his whole expression a something mean, underhand, cunning, which would have made me, had I stood near him in a crowd, look after my belongings very carefully. He was, in short, the sort of person whom I would have expected to “find” something in a lady’s bag. The idea that he was going to get a young girl into his hands at the moment she was coming out of the jail to which she had been sent for what, probably, was her first offence; that she should be at his mercy to be fashioned into whatever thing of evil he might choose; this was an idea which I found it very hard to digest. The result was that at a very early hour the next morning I set forth on a quixotic errand. Before six o’clock I was outside the gates of Wandsworth jail.

Early though it was, I was not the first arrival. Perhaps a dozen people were there before me—such specimens of humanity. There was nothing to be seen of the man in the fawn overcoat. It suddenly burst upon me that I should not be able to recognize the girl to whom he and his companion had referred unless he addressed her first. While I was glad enough that he was not there, in his absence what was I to do when the discharged prisoners began to come out? I decided to await events.

The prison clock had struck six some minutes when the great gate which fronted us swung back—and a procession came out. Such a procession! Whether such a procession is a daily occurrence I cannot say; I imagine not. Probably chance had it that a number of sentences should terminate together; I should say that more than twenty persons emerged through the gates. I presume that they were liberated at such a matutinal hour in order that they might re-enter the world before people were up and about to observe from whence they came; yet, early though it was, nearly without exception, each prisoner was met by some one at the gate. For those who had no personal friend, there was a Salvation Army lass and a bearded individual who bore the insignia of that great organization. A slight, grey-headed man in tweeds who had a notebook in his hand was, I took it, a representative of some society.

I kept my eye on the gate. No one at all resembling the person I sought had, so far, appeared. Then, at the tail of the procession, she came; I knew her in a moment. As she came, there appeared, I could hardly have said from where, the man in the fawn-coloured overcoat. He was dressed precisely as he had been on the previous afternoon. He lifted his hat as she appeared, took her hand, and kissed her before us all; and all at once she was in his arms crying as if her heart was breaking.

It was a delicate situation—by me wholly unexpected. I could hardly interfere in such a tender meeting; on what grounds? Because of something I had not heard but seen the man say the previous afternoon. If I proffered such a reason I might be laughed to scorn. I might have misjudged him; I might have got the thing all wrong. How she cried; how tenderly he soothed her. So far as intervention went, it struck me with unpleasant force that I had not a leg to stand upon. I let them pass me, the man’s arm round the weeping girl’s waist—I making no attempt to thrust myself upon them. He led her to a taxi-cab, which was standing by the kerb at a little distance. As they entered and the cab drove off I recognized what a wild-goose errand I had come upon.

The procession ceased; the gates reclosed; prisoners and their friends went their several ways. I moved off, with the feeling strong upon me that I might just as well have stayed away. I went so slowly that the others who went with brisker steps, before I had gone any distance, were out of sight. Just as the last of them had vanished round a corner, round that same corner there came a woman running—a matronly woman, in a state of what, to me, seemed frenzied agitation. She was moving quicker than I should say she had done for many a year. When she got to me she stopped, her breath failing her.

“Have they—have they come out?” she gasped.

“Do you mean the prisoners—from the jail?”

“Of course I do. Who else would I mean?” She spoke like a person from the country, setting her old-fashioned bonnet straight with trembling hands. “I meant to have been here before, and I ought to have been, only my train was late. Do you know if they’ve come out, young woman?”

“Some minutes ago; they’ve all of them gone their different ways.”

“Then—my daughter—has she come out?”

In her voice there was a note of anguish and of terror. Her agitation increased. An idea occurred to me.

“Was your daughter a slight, dark-haired young woman, with big brown eyes?”

“That’s my Mary, miss; did you see her, miss? If she’s out, where is she? She knew I was coming; she might have guessed my train was late; where has she gone?”

“If she’s the young woman I suppose, she was met by a slightly built man, with very light blue eyes, who took her away with him in a taxi-cab.”

The woman shrieked, positively shrieked, out there in the open street. I have seldom been more startled.

“You don’t mean to say she’s gone with him! She can’t, she can’t! Not when she knew that her mother was coming to meet her and take her home! I’m her mother, and I tell you, she’s my girl.”

Before we parted I had heard her story and the story of her daughter’s downfall. A painful one it was, though I am afraid it is one which is only too common. The poor old lady was nearly broken-hearted. I saw her to the railway station, into the train which was to take her back home—alone. I promised that I would make all the inquiries that could be made; and though I was occupied with very many matters, I did my best.

But more than three months passed, and I learned nothing of the whereabouts of her erring daughter until that afternoon when I was at the Arnolds’ and that parlourmaid came into the room with the tea on a tray. She was the young woman whom I had seen that morning emerge from Wandsworth Prison, whom her mother, because the train which brought her had been behind the scheduled time, had been too late to meet. It was not surprising that I nearly dropped the pastel I was holding; which brings me to the real beginning of my tale.

Mrs. Arnold’s drawing-room is a charming room; in the best sense of the word, a feminine room—delicate, refined, delightful. Amy Arnold had had her portrait done by a fashionable pastellist; it had just come home; I had been looking at it when tea appeared. That parlourmaid struck such a jarring note; she, as it were, projected me into another world. Those doubtful characters on the Greenwich tram; the young thief in Piccadilly; the pair of rascals at Waterloo; the scene at the Wandsworth Prison gate—that dreadful procession, with the girl at the tail; the despairing mother who had lost her child—all these things came back to me in a series of discordant notes as the parlourmaid put down the tea-tray. The shock was so sudden that I hardly knew what to do; the pastel did not fall, but I laid it on my lap lest it should fall next time.

It was undoubtedly the girl; her uniform made a difference, but there was no mistaking her. I doubted if she had noticed me or what an effect her entrance had had on me. I had probably gone unobserved by her in the little crowd outside the prison gate.

When she had left the room I hardly knew what to say. They continued to speak of the pastel; my thoughts were with the maid. As I thanked Amy for the cup of tea she gave me I asked if the servant who had brought it in was not a fresh one.

“Do you mean Jane?” she asked.

“Is her name Jane?” I inquired.

“Jane—or to give her her full style and title—Jane Stamp. I suppose she has been with us about six weeks.”

“Nearly two months,” chimed in her mother, “and a very nice girl she is, and a good servant. She is quite refined for a servant, yet not a bit above her place. Don’t you think she’s pleasant looking?”

“I think she looks pale.”

“She is pale. I fancy she has troubles of her own. I have suspected her, more than once, of crying.”

“Where did you get her from?”

“Through an advertisement. I got sick of the creatures they sent me from the registry offices, so I tried an advertisement in the Post. She was the result.”

“Did you have a character with her?”

“Of course I had a character.” Mrs. Arnold opened her eyes as if I had suggested something utterly monstrous. “Does she look to you like a girl who hasn’t a character? She was three years in her last place; she only left it just before she came to me.”

“Where was her last place?”

“She was with some people named Reynolds who had a flat near the Marble Arch—9A Waterman Mansions.”

“Did you see Mrs. Reynolds?”

“Of course I saw her; do you suppose that I should be satisfied with a written character? My dear Judith, what are you thinking about? I called one afternoon. She was rather a florid-looking person, but the character she gave Jane was excellent. She only parted with her because they were giving up the flat. I have found that sometimes servants don’t come up to the characters I have had with them, but I must say that, up to the present, Jane hasn’t given me any cause for dissatisfaction. Of course, I’m aware that new brooms sweep clean, but I am venturing to hope that I’ve found a jewel at last. You seem to be very interested in Jane.”

I was—though Amy spoke casually. We returned to the subject of the pastel. Amy thought that the artist had given her a little too much colour; but while we talked my thoughts were with the parlourmaid. I was wondering what I ought to do. I knew that her name was not Jane Stamp—nor Jane anything; I knew that she had not been three years in her last place, nor, at any time, with people named Reynolds. I knew, in short, a great many things about her which would have surprised Mrs. Arnold not a little. The question I had to answer was—was it my duty to tell her what those things were? That would mean instant dismissal for Jane Stamp. No mistress would keep her in her house after such a revelation. And that would mean something of which I did not care to think for the maid. Placed as she had been, she could only have obtained such a situation by methods which would not bear the light of day; but, having obtained it, might she not intend to do her best, and, profiting by her past painful experience, be resolute not to sin again?

I went away from Mrs. Arnold’s leaving these questions unanswered. I admit that I was desirous of avoiding the responsibility of arriving at a too hasty decision. A few hours should make no difference; I would employ them in making certain investigations of my own. Afterwards it would be time enough to speak to Mrs. Arnold—or to Jane.

The first thing I did when I reached home was to get out a directory. I looked up the Elm Groves; as I had expected, there were plenty of them; there seemed to be Elm Groves in all parts of London. One at New Cross attracted my attention. My knowledge of that locality was not very exact, but I took it that that tramcar had been somewhere about New Cross when that man with the carpet bag got out. So far as I could judge, there might be an Elm Grove within quite a short distance of where he had alighted; and No. 8, at the time that directory went to press, was empty. It might have become occupied since then. At any rate, I thought I would go and see; and I went, by the Greenwich tramcar.

When we had gone some little distance I asked the conductor if he knew of any Elm Grove in that district. He did not; tramcar conductors never do know anything about places which are not immediately on their line of route. But there were persons who had heard my question—then the car was as full as it could hold—who were able to supply me with the information I required. I received the most precise directions from more than one of my fellow-passengers as to how I was to reach Elm Grove; but precise as they were, it did not prove an easy place to find.

Elm Grove was one of those surprises which one often encounters in suburban London; it was a relic of the past; a street of old-fashioned, solidly built houses, each standing in its own garden. There seemed to be about a dozen on either side. I came to No. 8—there was nothing to show that it was to let. A person came out of what I took to be No. 10, whom I addressed.

“Can you tell me,” I asked, “if this house is to let?”

He was rather a fussy-looking person, with a red face and whiskers to match.

“That’s more than I can tell you,” he replied; “and, so far as I know, more than anyone else can tell you either. I have been here going on for five years, and it was like that when I came, and it’s like it still. I believe that some of the rooms are furnished, because I have seen lights in some of the windows, and I have heard that people have been seen going in and out—but not by me. Between ourselves, round about here that house is looked on as a bit of a mystery.”

He went his way and left me thinking. The front gate was locked. Remembering that there had been some mention of a back entrance, I went to the end of the road and turned to the right, and presently came upon a sort of narrow lane which I proceeded to explore. These were evidently the back doors to the houses in Elm Grove. Clearly some of them were never used; some of them were overgrown with cobwebs and creepers; one or two were boarded up. Then I came to a door which did show signs of occasional usage. It was not easy to determine the number to which it belonged—but I tried the handle. It yielded and the door was open. Trusting that my boldness might have no serious result, I passed through—to find myself in a garden which was a mere wilderness of weeds. I do not think I ever saw one which suggested more shocking neglect. There were thistles and nettles which came up to my waist. It was only after momentary inspection that I perceived that there was a sort of pathway through them; one which I fancied had been lately used. The vegetation on either side had been quite recently trodden down by somebody’s feet; I should have said by the feet of more than one person. Pursuing my way along this apology for a path, I found that it led to what had probably once been a solidly constructed outhouse but which was now nothing but a ramshackle shed. The door, which hung on a single hinge, looked as if, were it moved in either direction, it might fall off. I looked to see what might be on the other side of that door; I can only excuse my persistent curiosity by saying that I felt convinced that there was something very odd about No. 8 Elm Grove. The shed was littered with all sorts of what seemed rubbish, mostly so buried under a wealth of dust, and dirt, and cobwebs that it was not easy to guess what they might once have been.

There was one exception to this state of dust and dirt, and that instantly caught my eye. In the corner stood what might have been a huge corn bin; it was painted a dark green; it was covered by a lid which seemed to be still intact—which was more than could be said for anything else inside that shed. On the lid was an old packing-case. That green-painted bin would have been all the better for another coat of paint, but in other respects it was in such a good state of preservation that it piqued my curiosity. I removed that packing-case, and found that in the lid there was an aperture something like the slit in a post-office letterbox, only on a slightly more generous scale. It almost looked as if that packing-case had been meant to conceal its presence. I had shut the garden gate as I had entered. As I was wondering what that slit might mean, I heard the gate softly opened and closed. There was a quantity of rubbish at the other end of the shed. It was in a state of indescribable dirt and confusion. Bolting towards it, I used it, so far as the thing was possible, as a cover, crouching down behind it, regardless of the creatures of all sorts whom I suspected my advent had disturbed.

Steps were approaching; I did not know how much of me was visible, but I did not dare to risk the noise which would result from an attempt to alter my position. Some one came quickly into the shed—a decently dressed boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age; not at all the sort of person I had expected to see. He had a good-sized leather bag in his hand. Going straight to the bin in the corner, taking a key out of his pocket, he slipped it into a lock which I had not noticed, and part of the front came away in the shape of a door—of sufficient size to enable him to thrust his entire body into the bin. When he came out again his hands were filled with a number of different-sized packages, done up, for the most part, in the rudest fashion—some in pocket-handkerchiefs, some in grimy rags, some in scraps of newspapers. One or two were secured in well-corded sheets of brown paper; but, generally, they were innocent of string, or of anything which could secure whatever they contained.

The boy made no attempt to examine them. He quickly counted them—I could see his lips moving as he did so; nine he made the number. He dropped them into his leather bag, which he shut with a snap, relocked the door of the bin, and passed out of the shed as quickly as he had come in—without once glancing in my direction. Apparently it had never occurred to him as possible that anyone could be in the shed beside himself.

So soon as I heard the garden gate open and shut again, regardless of the state I was in, making the best of my way through the nettles and the thistles, I was after him. When I reached the entry he was already at the other end; when I gained the end, he was turning another corner. I quickened my pace, determined, if possible, to see where that bag was going; but it proved not to be possible, for when I caught sight of him again he was getting into a taxi, which stood waiting by the pavement, and whose head was turned the other way. I believe I would have boarded that cab if I had had a chance, and made a snatch at that leather bag; but before I had an opportunity to do anything the vehicle had passed from sight, and I was left lamenting. Pursuit was out of the question. There seemed to be no cabs at all in that part of the world; that taxi had been brought from a distance. The only means of locomotion seemed to be the tramcar, and by that I returned to Westminster Bridge.

My rooms were at the bottom of Sloane Street; Mrs. Arnold’s house was in an old-fashioned square within five minutes’ walk. My impulse, when I arrived home, was to go round to her at once and warn her against Jane Stamp. But for two or three reasons I did nothing of the kind. In the first place I was in rather a bad temper, and I have made it a rule never to do anything of the slightest importance when I am the least like that. Then I was dirty, tired, and hungry, and it was dinner-time, and, also, I was in rather a mystified frame of mind. I felt that when I had washed and changed and had had something to eat I might be able to look at the position with clearer eyes.

After dinner I decided that I would do nothing, at any rate until the morning. I had half a mind to get on to the telephone and talk to them at Scotland Yard about “8 Elm Grove—back entrance”; I had very little doubt about the meaning of that bin in the corner of the shed, nor about the contents of the parcels which the boy had taken out of it, nor the place to which they were being taken. The bin, I fancied, represented an ingenious system of dealing with stolen goods. I wondered how many of them were scattered over London; who were the enterprising persons who had their contents cleared, as if they had been pillar-boxes, at stated intervals. None the less, I left that telephone alone, deciding that that also was a matter which might be left to the morning. At what to me was an early hour I went to bed. However, going to bed I found was one thing; going to sleep was another. Ordinarily I sleep well; no sooner do I lay my head upon the pillow, and close my eyes, than slumber comes—I sleep till it is time to get up. That night, for what I have since thought must really have been some occult reason, I could not sleep. I had to think—and when, in bed, one starts to think, it is nearly always fatal. As the minutes slipped by I became conscious of what I cannot but call an extraordinary obsession—it seemed to me that some one was calling to me at Mrs. Arnold’s. Of course, the feeling was a ridiculous one, but there it was. Worse—it became stronger and stronger. At last, getting out of bed, switching on a light, donning a dressing-gown, I went into the sitting-room to read. But the feeling followed me there—it was really too absurd. I told myself that it was absurd; yet I began to have a most uncomfortable doubt as to whether there might not be something in it after all.

Then something curious happened—I thought so then, I think so now. I dare say it will read like nonsense, written down in cold blood—but the actual thing was indescribable. All at once it was borne in on me that my presence was needed at Mrs. Arnold’s house, that something was happening which made it necessary that I should be there. I did not ask if I might not be in one of those super-sensitive states of mind in which nothing is easier than to delude oneself. I put away the book which I was reading; I returned to my bedroom, dressed, let myself out into the street.

I had glanced at the time while dressing and noticed that it was after two; as I stepped on to the pavement a clock somewhere struck the quarter. It was not a pleasant night—or rather morning. The air was filled with a hazy dampness; it did not exactly rain, but everything was wet. So far as I was able to judge, not a soul was in sight; nor was there anywhere a sound. It was one of those rare moments between the night and the day in which the whole great city seems to be either dead or sleeping. I have known them before, and also since, but I do not recall one in which I was so struck by the perfect stillness. I walked round to Mrs. Arnold’s without seeing a creature on the way. So soon as I had gained the street the poignant feeling that some one stood in need of my instant help had passed away. Its going was quite a relief; while it lasted it had seemed to press upon some nerve in my brain. I stepped out quickly, but when I came to Tedworth Square I slackened my pace. Mrs. Arnold’s house was at the corner, on the other side of the garden.

I cannot explain the motives which prompted me that night; I can only say that directly I reached the square something told me that, if it were possible, it was of the first importance that I should not allow my movements to reveal my presence. I stole along the railings, eyes and ears wide open, with a felonious stealthiness which I am sure would have inspired a constable with just suspicion.

When I was close to Mrs. Arnold’s I paused; if only because my ears were so wide open that I became conscious of a sound. Two voices were speaking—in what was little more than a whisper. Soft though their utterance was, I knew that they were angry—that one of the speakers was more angry than the other. I crept a few feet farther—to the pillar on one side of Mrs. Arnold’s gate. The voices came from her garden; the gate was open. I wished I could have seen the speakers; it was impossible to hear. I wondered what they were talking about, after two o’clock in the morning, in Mrs. Arnold’s garden. Suddenly one of the voices was raised—not much, but just enough to enable me, with my wide-open ears, to catch what was said.

“I tell you she says that she won’t open. How the—something—do you think I’m going to make her? If I could get hold of her it would be dead easy, but how do you suppose I’m going to get at her when she’s the other side of the window?”

The second voice was audible—I fancy, expostulating with the other for speaking so loud. I slipped through the open gate, on to the grass—Mrs. Arnold’s old-fashioned house is detached and has quite a garden in front. A sudden idea had come to me—I guessed at the identity of those two speakers and at what they were doing there. They were so absorbed in what they were saying, and I was so noiseless, that I saw them long before they saw me—a tallish man and a shorter one, carrying on an animated discussion beneath their breath.

The shorter man seemed all at once to lose all control over his temper; he slightly raised his voice; I strained my ears.

“If she won’t she won’t; there’s an end of it—I’m off. No wild-cat games for me, that wasn’t in the bargain. Her letting us into the house and putting everything ready is one thing; what you are after is quite another—and not for me; it wouldn’t be for you if your monkey wasn’t up.”

The other man blazed out. “By ——, I’ll kill her!”

“Yes, I dare say you’d like to; and expect me to take a hand in that. No, thank you, not for me. There’d be trouble if we were found here, and as we’ve already been here longer than I like, or bargained for—I’ll say good night. You’d better come along with me.”

“As she won’t let me into the crib, as she swore she would, I’ll get in without her, and if I once have my hands on her throat——”

He left his sentence unfinished; the other continued to remonstrate—both were speaking louder than perhaps they knew.

“Now don’t you be a fool; you don’t want to get into trouble, do you? The idea was to get her into trouble and keep out of it ourselves. You’ll be able to get hold of her before very long and give her all the handling she needs. Now you come along with me. What’s that?”

I had been standing under the shadow of a tree; unconsciously I had touched one of the lower branches. Both men spun round.

“By ——!” exclaimed the shorter man, “there’s some one there.”

He stood not on the order of his going—he went at once, before he had really finished speaking, and so quickly that in the same instant, as it seemed, he was through the gate and out of sight. The other hesitated—then he would have followed—but that I would not have. The tale which the girl’s mother had told me; the facts with which I was myself acquainted; the threat which I had just heard him utter against his miserable dupe; the conviction which I had that it was his set purpose to use her for his own horrible ends, to ruin her body and soul, and then to cast her aside, caring nothing if she spent years of her life in jail to pay for his misdeeds—I say that these things rose up within me, so that when he tried to follow his shorter friend I would not let him.

I rushed out of my hiding-place, and I caught him by the coat—he still wore that fawn overcoat—and I yelled with the full force of a healthy, vigorous pair of lungs:

“Police! Police! Help! Murder! Thieves!”

It was, perhaps, not the most dignified course I could have taken, but there was no time to consider; I did the only thing which, on the spur of the moment, it seemed to me I could do—I yelled and I stuck to him. And I will undertake to say that the noise I made travelled a considerable distance. So he seemed to think. For some seconds he let me hold him without making the slightest effort to break away; whether it was because he was dazed by the suddenness of my attack or amazed at the penetrative quality of my voice I cannot say.

“It’s a woman!” he ejaculated, as if that great truth had only just burst on him. “Stop that noise and let go of my coat, or—you’ll be sorry.”

I remembered that those were the words he had used on the platform at Waterloo to illustrate what would happen to his unfortunate victim if she dared, even in one jot or tittle, to call her soul her own; and the memory inflamed me.

“Oh no, I shan’t be sorry,” I told him; “I shall be glad; it is you who will be sorry. Police! Help! Thieves!”

Loudly I yelled again. He tried to shake me off; then finding that it was not so easy he caught me by the wrist. As he did so, I heard the window open in the house behind him, and a woman’s voice cried out:

“George!—Don’t hurt her!—Go, George, go! go!”

The last repetition of the word “go!” rose through the air like a trumpet; or rather like a frenzied shriek. The woman’s whole force was in the injunction the word conveyed. He released one of my wrists, put his hand into his overcoat-pocket, swung round—I was for the moment stunned by the unexpected report of a pistol. Before I had even the dimmest suspicion of his intention, he had dragged a revolver out of his pocket, and fired at the shrieking woman at the window. Just one queer sound came from her, then all was still.

“I said I would give you something for yourself,” he remarked, speaking to the place where the woman had been as coolly as if he were making some commonplace observation, “and that’s it. I don’t think you’ll want any more.”

“You’ve killed her!” I screamed; “you murderous villain, you’ve killed her!”

I tried to grip him by the throat. Had I been cooler I might have done it, and held him fast—I might at least have been upon my guard; but I was in such a storm of rage that I neglected the most simple precautions. He was not the kind of man with whom, at such a moment, it was safe to do that. He swung suddenly back towards me and struck me with the muzzle of his pistol on the forehead. Down I went, and, to convey a famous phrase, the further proceedings interested me no more.

Nearly all the rest of the story was in most of the papers. What my screams and shouts had begun the report of his pistol finished—the whole neighbourhood had been alarmed. So soon as he had felled me, before he could even attempt to escape, the police were on him. It was the girl who had called herself Jane Stamp who had appeared at the window, and, aiming perhaps better than he knew, he shot her dead. She probably never spoke a word after his bullet struck her. For her it was perhaps as well. It is easy to be optimistic, and even sentimental, if you have no actual experience of the hard facts of life; if you have, it is difficult to see what promise of happiness life could have held for a woman who had begun as she had done. Beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt she was more sinned against than sinning; but in such matters the world has a standard of its own, and, even if it seems to forgive, when a woman has at the back of her what she had it never forgets.

They hung him. At the last moment strength had been given the girl to refuse to play the despicable part he had planned. She was to have let him into her mistress’s house—it contained many valuables. She was so to arrange matters that they would be placed within easy reach. She was even to drug not only Mrs. Arnold and her daughter but also her fellow-servants; he had supplied her with all that was necessary to do this in the most up-to-date manner. While they were drugged the house was to have been ransacked. But the girl was not all bad; the good rose up within her preventing her from descending to quite such depths of treachery and crime. She refused, after all, to carry out the programme he had planned, or even to admit him into the house—and for that he shot her. The first time I ever appeared in a witness-box was to give evidence against him. The judge complimented me on what he called the courage which I had shown; I congratulated myself on having been the means of bringing such a wretch to justice.

As to “8 Elm Grove—back entrance”—I told that story to certain officials at Scotland Yard. That same afternoon the messenger was trapped as he was dropping the contents of the bin into his leather bag. There was nothing on him to show who he was or whence he came. Even when they questioned him he told them, with unnecessary plainness, what would happen to them before they got anything out of him; so they got something out of the driver of the taxi-cab instead. The lad tried to give a warning whistle, but even as his lips were shaped to whistle a hand was clapped across his mouth. The vehicle was waiting, as before, by the pavement. Instead of the small boy, two adults went up to the driver, in whom one of them instantly recognized an old acquaintance.

They induced him to talk. To begin with, they made him drive to Scotland Yard. There it was made plain to him that unless he supplied certain information he would find himself in an extremely unpleasant position; so plain was this made to him that, after what was really only natural hesitation, he supplied it. He placed the police on the track of one of the greatest combinations for dealing with stolen goods which the criminal world has ever seen.

As is so often the case in these cosmopolitan days, the heads of the business were abroad. To begin with, the police had to content themselves with the tails. As I had surmised, “8 Elm Grove—back entrance” was only one of a dozen branches in all the different parts of town; so that when a man stole, let us say, a watch, he had only to go to the nearest, attaching to it his name or pseudonym, and within a very short space of time there would come to him, at an address which was previously arranged, its value in cash.

Thief and receiver never saw each other. On the face of it there was nothing to show that the thing was stolen; while the person who had “found” it never knew who had rewarded him for his ingenuity. The business had gone on for years; it might have gone on for years longer had not those two men had the misfortune to have me as a fellow-passenger in the Greenwich tram.

One need not remind those learned in worldly lore that, sometimes, great events from little causes spring.

### XII.
THE RESTAURANT NAPOLITAIN

One of my most thrilling adventures was the result of my desire to look out of as many of life’s windows as one may. My friend Dr. Rodaccini, an Italian physician, practising among his compatriots in London, being aware of my insatiable curiosity, suggested to me that I might find something of interest in a function to which he had been invited. It was a ball given by the restaurant keepers, and waiters, who had come from a certain district in Italy, and who associated themselves in a sort of club. Dr. Rodaccini, as the physician to whom most of them went when attacked by illness, was to be an honoured guest. He invited me to go with him, and I went.

The ball was held in a street off Leicester Square, in a series of good-sized rooms, which I understood were, in the ordinary way, used by theatrical companies for purposes of rehearsal. The rooms were filled by as cheerful, light-hearted, well-dressed an assembly as one might wish to see. Every one danced; girls and boys in their early teens, men and women with snowy hair.

Not long before I had been to Italy on one of those errands which sometimes did take me abroad; an institute had been established for the oral instruction of the deaf and dumb, and my services had been retained to assist the staff in putting the work on a sound footing. I have, as I may have remarked before, what is called the gift of tongues, and I had come back to London knowing Italian almost as well as my mother tongue. The dancers struck me as a whole as being like a lot of grown-up children, and I saw with amusement the distinctly odd things which some of them said to each other. Then, all at once, amid the general gaiety, I came upon what might be the beginning of a tragedy.

The band was playing a waltz. I had had as partner a very energetic gentleman, whose name I had not caught. A few turns round the room at his idea of what was the proper rate of speed to dance a waltz was enough for me. “Let’s rest,” I said—so we rested. I was rather put to it for breath, but he, who was by no means as young as he had been, and was shaped like a barrel, was positively gasping. Chairs were not so plentiful as they might have been. We stood by an open doorway through which I hoped some air might come. I glanced about me. I had noticed all the evening an extremely pretty, fair-haired girl who had been an object of much attention from the men. When an Italian girl has fair hair she is nearly always worth looking at—this one was lovely. So a good many of the men seemed to think. Her partner of the moment was, in his way, almost as good-looking as she was; one did not need to have as good eyes as I have to suspect that they would have liked to be partners in something more than a dance. As I watched them, a short, broad, stout man, with a round, bald head, and no neck, took the girl’s partner by the arm and drew him away from her. The girl’s face had been all smiles and gaiety, but at sight of him she changed countenance, shrank away from her partner, and slunk off towards the other end of the room. Her act was eloquent. The big man drew the younger towards the wall, and going close up to him, whispered in his ear. No doubt his intention was that his words should be private and confidential, but as I had my eyes upon his face, and he had one of the most easily read mouths I ever saw, what he whispered was plain enough to me.

“It is not enough to warn you?—Good!—You have been warned for the last time. I do not waste words on such as you.”

The big man gave the youngster a contemptuous push which sent him cannoning against an advancing couple, and came with the little, rapid steps of a short-legged, fat man towards where I was standing. Just as he had nearly reached us the couple with whom the youngster had collided stopped within a couple of feet of where we were. The big man instantly addressed the lady, again in what he no doubt meant to be a confidential whisper.

“Pardon, madam, if I speak to Gaspare—for one moment. It is important.”

The lady yielded her partner with what struck me as a curious smile. Indeed, there was a curious smile on Gaspare’s face as he went off with the big man—and the big man himself was smiling. There was something about the fashion in which these three people smiled which gave me quite a shiver. One felt, somehow, that with neither of them was it natural to smile. When the big man and Gaspare had passed through the open doorway by which we were standing I said to my companion:

“Do you happen to know who that gentleman with the bald head may be?”

He replied—as if he knew him well:

“That is Signor Alessandro of the Restaurant Napolitain, in Greek Street. His restaurant is well known. You find there macaroni, spaghetti, and all that, in a hundred different ways. He is a rich man, Signor Alessandro—a man who is well esteemed.”

He might be; but somehow I felt that he never would be esteemed by me. I have been told that it is because I am a woman that I like and dislike so hastily—but I do; and the moment I saw Signor Alessandro, the well-esteemed proprietor of the Restaurant Napolitain in Greek Street, I disliked him.

I disliked him still more when, a short time afterwards, I saw him walking off with the fair-haired girl, her arm through his, as if she were an unwilling captive. She was not looking very gay then. Her cheeks were white; fear was in her eyes. The good-looking youngster with whom she had been dancing stood against the wall as she went past. She never glanced at him—I felt she dare not—but the big man whispered—I saw his words quite distinctly:

“I will settle with you to-night.”

Although he did his best to meet the other’s gaze, I had a notion that the muscles of the young man’s face were twitching; Signor Alessandro smiled. I was sure he squeezed the girl’s arm with unpleasant force—I saw her start. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, as if both afraid and ashamed. The young man made as if he would have rushed after the vanishing pair, but he was stopped by some one who touched him on the arm; it was the lady with whom Gaspare had been dancing. She whispered in her turn, and I saw her words. She spoke the broadest Neapolitan.

“Are you, then, in such a hurry for the finish?”

She just whispered her question and went on; and that young man seemed to cling to the wall as if it were a friend.

I suppose I was the only one present who had been conscious of the drama which was brewing. My instinct told me there was more to come, but I did not know that there would be so short an interval between the first and second acts.

When I had had enough of the dance I left. It was a lovely night—even in that street off Leicester Square. Dr. Rodaccini suggested that we should stroll a little before he put me into a cab. I was willing. He took me along a street whose name I do not know. Presently we came to a house with an archway which led, it seemed, into some sort of yard. In this archway some one was lying. I saw him first—I stooped to see what was wrong. It was the youngster who had danced with the fair-haired girl. He lay on his face, quite still.

“Doctor,” I cried, “what’s the matter with him?”

But somehow I knew before I was told—a knife had been driven into his back, and he was dead. The thing made me hot with rage; it seemed so hideous, so monstrous, so cruel, so out of harmony with all that had gone before—that he should have been struck down and killed almost on the threshold of the ballroom by a coward who had not even dared to attack him from the front. When others came to render what assistance they might I stole away. I do get into great furies sometimes. It seems to me that horrible wickedness forces one to be furious. The sight of that dead young man recalled Signor Alessandro, of the Restaurant Napolitain; how he had whispered that he would settle with him that night. He had kept his promise within a few minutes of its being given—this was the settlement. Now I would settle with him.

I had no evidence to take to the police. I could not say to them—I know it is this man who did it because of certain words which I saw him whisper. They would want more evidence than a whisper that I had not heard, but seen—they would be right in wanting it. I meant to get that evidence in my own way. I had some idea of the whereabouts of Greek Street—I would find the Restaurant Napolitain.

I had to be directed twice—by a policeman and the driver of a taxi-cab; they both stared at me as if they wondered what I would be at, marching over the pavements, in full evening-dress, in search of Greek Street. At last I came to it. There was the name on the wall at the corner.

As I stood there I became conscious that a man was on the pavement on the other side of the road. A window opened in the house in front of which he was standing. A woman put her head out. I knew her—she was the woman who had been dancing with Gaspare. Then I knew that the man on the pavement was Gaspare. The electric light shone on the woman’s face so that I saw it as clearly as if it had been the brightest day. She spoke as before in the Neapolitan of the streets. She began with a question.

“Well, is it done, the little business with Emilio?”

He said something which I could not see, since his back was towards me, but I could guess what it was from her rejoinder.

“That is fifty pounds in your pocket—and also mine—eh, Gaspare?”

Again I could not see what he said, but it made her laugh. Then, diverting her attention for a moment from her friend, she saw me.

“Hush!” she said, “there is some one opposite; I will see you to-morrow, at the usual time.” She withdrew her head—then instantly put it out again. “Bring the money—my share!”

Again she laughed—and again withdrew. This time the window shut and the blind came down—and the man on the pavement turned, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood and looked at me.

I was not in the least afraid of him—although I knew that only a few minutes before he had murdered that young man, like a coward, for the sum of fifty pounds. If any good purpose would have been served I would have gone across to him and said a word or two which would have surprised him. He might have tried to put his knife into me—but I don’t think he would have succeeded.

But what I wished to do could not be done by confronting him; he was the mere tool, the hireling, whose price, apparently, was fifty pounds, of which the woman who had so odd a sense of humour would have her share. I wanted the man who had paid the money, the master, the man who found everything in his purse—even murder. So I waited to see what the gentleman on the other side of the road would do.

It seemed that he did not know what to make of me, and presently he crossed the road to see if he could succeed better if he had a nearer view. I still waited. He came right up to me and stared me in the face. I did not move. I fancy he knew still less what to make of me when he saw me closer.

“You have been to the ball?” he asked. I said nothing. “Are you deaf, or do you not understand Italian?” When I still said nothing, he tried again. “You speak English—only?” He himself spoke English rather well. When I still said nothing, it began to dawn on him that I meant to say nothing. He shrugged his shoulders. “Very well; I wish you good night, miss. I hope you will not catch cold.”

With his hands in his coat-pockets he strolled off down Greek Street. I turned and watched him as he went. This was an impudent villain—with an assurance which was amazing. Perhaps the blood was still wet on his hands—the knife secreted somewhere on his person—yet he bore himself with an air of greater ease than I did. His was the coolness, within and without, of the man whose conscience was at peace; while I—I was burning. I watched him as he went—he was so entirely at his ease that he did not even take the trouble to look round to see if I was doing so. He paused under a lamp which, attached to a building, projected over the pavement. At that hour—it was perhaps two hours after midnight on a summer morning—the lamp was unlighted; I wondered if, when lighted, it served as an advertisement of the Restaurant Napolitain. He rapped at the door with his knuckles; somebody must have been awaiting him—he was almost instantly admitted.

When he was in I strolled up the other side of the road. It was as I thought—the lamp was an advertisement. It was by no means a large or a pretentious establishment. Over a small window, which was divided into three long panes, was a board—“Restaurant Napolitain. Alessandro.” Exactly; it was all as I had expected—was Gaspare being paid for the work he had done? Almost exactly opposite was an entry which ran by a picture theatre. I drew a little back into it and waited.

Not very long. Hardly ten minutes. Then the door of the restaurant opened—two men came out—Signori Gaspare and Alessandro. I could hear their voices, but I could not see their faces. After a few words they parted—Gaspare went back down the street, Alessandro came out on to the pavement, in search, perhaps, of the clean air, which he certainly must have wanted. He remained there after Gaspare had turned the corner. As he was about to return indoors, I darted out of my entry and quickly crossed to him.

“I want to speak to you,” I said.

He turned and looked at me.

“Pardon?” It was a question—he was probably wondering where I had come from; a second before the street had been empty.

“I want to speak to you,” I repeated. “I’ll come inside.”

I was inside before he guessed my intention and he was still on the doorstep. Clearly this was a restaurant; in the uncertain light I could see the marble tables. Presently he followed, coming closer to me than I liked.

“What do you mean by coming into my place like this? I will have no nonsense. You make a mistake if you think so.”

Possibly he mistook me for some improper character, whose intentions were of the worst. I did my best to disabuse him. I had no clear plan of action, I just felt that I wanted to strike—and I struck.

“That fellow Gaspare, with whom you were talking, has just killed a young man named Emilio.”

I could not see his face very clearly, but I think it very probable that he was startled.

“Of what are you talking?” He spoke very quietly. He was one of those big men with soft voices, whom a wise woman never trusts.

“You know very well of what I’m talking. He killed him at your instigation; you’ve just paid him fifty pounds for doing it.”

I rather lost my head, or I should have chosen my words more carefully, or felt my way a little first. I knew the man was dangerous. He pushed the street door to—the hinges must have been well oiled; it shut without a sound.

“Don’t you dare to touch me!” I was a little scared; the darkness was like a shroud; the silence was ominous.

“Come,” he said, “I want to talk to you.”

He gripped me by the wrist and began to pull me along. My wrists are not made of putty; his must have been made of steel. Besides, he took me unawares—I was powerless to offer any effectual resistance. I caught at a marble table as we passed. He snatched me away without pausing in his stride. He must have had cat’s eyes; he steered through the various impedimenta without coming into contact with so much as a chair.

We came to a door, which he opened. We were in a passage with stairs and a light somewhere above.

“I advise you to release me,” I told him, “and to be careful what you do. However it may be in Naples, you can’t commit murder with impunity here.”

He said nothing, but he caught me in some way by the shoulders and began to run me up those stairs as if it had been level ground. I am agile, but his agility was amazing. I have heard of men called “chuckers out,” who spend their lives in ridding public-houses, and similar places, of unwelcome characters, regardless of their size or disposition to be violent. Even in the midst of my rage, as he hustled me up the stairs, I caught myself wondering if he had ever been a chucker out—he handled me with a skill which must have been the fruit of experience.

We came to a landing; he swung me round a corner and along a passage; at the end there was a door through which he thrust me; having done so, he shut it, and I heard him turn the key. He himself remained outside. All was still—there was not a sound to show what he might be doing.

It would be silly to attempt to describe my feelings—they were chaotic. For some seconds I stood shaking with rage and gasping for breath. I realized what an idiot I had been in saying nothing to Dr. Rodaccini, to the police, to anyone, before turning out on this mad adventure. No one had a notion where I was. If Signor Alessandro chose to make an end of me in any of the various ways of which he was doubtless master my fate might remain undiscovered for all eternity—how was anyone to guess that in such an insane fashion I had visited the Restaurant Napolitain?

When I again became, in some degree, mistress of myself I tried to think what was the best thing I could do. My first impulse was to resort to the feminine device of screaming, to make the night hideous with my yells and screams. My feelings would have been relieved if I had done so if no other benefit had ensued. But I caught my tongue between my teeth just as I was starting, and waited for the impulse to pass.

If I had been a man I should have had matches about me somewhere, and I should have been able to see in what sort of place I was. Being a matchless woman I had to feel. First along the wall. I was in a good-sized room—I took twelve fairly long steps before I came to a corner which showed I was at the end of it. It seemed to be a sitting-room; there were chairs and a couch and a table. When I came to the table something caused me to put up my hand. I touched something overhead—it was the bulb of an electric light. It suggested that the room was lighted by electricity; then in that case somewhere about it there ought to be a switch. I got back to the wall, moved slowly along it, feeling up and down for what I sought. I came to a fire-place, then to something which I knew was the push-piece of an electric bell. I pressed my thumb upon it and kept it there; if a bell was ringing it was beyond my hearing, and anyhow, I didn’t want anyone to come into that room while it was still in pitchy darkness. I pursued my investigations—and found what I sought. In an instant the room was lit in a fashion which after the previous darkness was almost dazzling.

It was a sitting-room. There were two doors; one which I took to be that through which I had been propelled; and a second, by the fire-place, which perhaps led to an adjoining apartment. What I took to be the window was guarded by heavy dark green curtains. When I drew them I found that behind were iron shutters, painted white; there was nothing to show if there was a window on the other side, or if they were ever opened.

I sat down on a chair feeling rather bewildered. Clearly this was a curious place I was in. It was necessary that I should regain my presence of mind, and get hold of as much common sense as I could. Soon my courage, which had gone a little at the knees, stood up straight again. Probably, if I stayed there, sooner or later Signor Alessandro would return, and I ought to be prepared to meet him. I looked round for something which I could use as a weapon. There was a poker standing up against the fire-place, but I did not fancy that a poker would be of much service against him.

I examined the doors, first the one through which I had come, striking the panels, first with my open palm and then with my clenched fist. It was as solidly constructed a door as I have met; it would need a great deal of breaking down.

Then I went to the other door. There was a small brass bolt my side. I drew it back—nothing resulted. I had seen that kind of door before—there was probably a bolt on either side. I got that poker, gripped it hard, and brought the point with all my force against the panel. I did it twice—the third time the point went through. I used that poker as a lever and broke away enough of the woodwork to enable me to insert my hand and arm. I felt for the bolt which I believed to be on the other side—and found it—slipped it back, and the door was open.

I waited to see what was going to happen next. This might be a trap—there might be some one in that room waiting for me to enter. There seemed to be no one. I looked through the open door; it was a sleeping apartment. There was a bed, the usual equipments of a bedroom; I entered. The room was certainly empty. By aid of the light which came from the room I had just left I saw that there was a switch near to the bed. When I got the room lighted I saw something which pleased me almost more than anything else could possibly have done.

In that bedroom there was a telephone; there was the receiver on the mantelpiece. I rushed to it. With what anxiety I waited to learn if my call had been heard! It might be a telephone for domestic purposes only; if so I had better be careful what I said, Signor Alessandro might be at the other end. No, it was the kind of telephone I wanted. In a second or two there came the operator’s familiar query:

“What number, please?”

I asked for a number which I knew very well. There was another interval of waiting, during which I do believe I heard my own heart beating. Then there came the operator’s voice again.

“You’re on.”

And, almost in the same instant, there came another voice.

“Who are you?”

I dare say my voice trembled as I asked a question in my turn.

“Is that Scotland Yard?”

“Yes—who is speaking?”

I fancy I very nearly jumped—I knew I was within reach of a friend.

“Judith Lee. Can I speak to Inspector Ellis?”

“If you’ll hold the wire, Miss Lee, I’ll ascertain.”

I held the wire—I did hope they would not cut me off. What seemed to me at that moment to be the faintest voice I had ever heard answered before they had a chance.

“I’m here—just come in and just going out. What’s up?”

“I’m up—a tree.”

I fancy my voice quavered, and that a smile came back along the wire.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Lee. Can we do anything to help you down? Where are you?”

“I’m in the Restaurant Napolitain, in Greek Street, which I believe belongs to a man named Alessandro.”

“We know the gentleman very well. What on earth are you doing there?”

“There’s been murder done—in a street near Leicester Square.”

“How do you know that? The report has only just come in.”

“A young man named Emilio has been murdered by a man named Gaspare, at the instigation of the Alessandro who owns this restaurant; I believe he paid Gaspare fifty pounds for doing it. I can’t stop to tell you how I know it; but perhaps you can guess. Instead of like a wise person communicating at once with you, I was so wild with rage at the cruelty of the thing that I was idiot enough to think I could tackle Alessandro single-handed. He has locked me in a room on the first floor of his restaurant, which seems to have no window, and which I can’t get out of.”

A cheery voice came back.

“That’s all right.” It did not seem to be all right to me. “We’ve had an eye on Signor Alessandro and his Restaurant Napolitain for a good long time. I’m obliged to you for putting the game into our hands. We shall probably be with you inside ten minutes.”

“Mind you are.”

Whether he heard or not I could not determine; there came no answer. I asked twice if anyone was there, but as no voice came back I took it that I had been disconnected. All I could do was to wait for deliverance to come. Ten minutes was not a very long time, even placed as I was, but I earnestly trusted that that period of time might not be very much exceeded.

They seemed to me to be a pretty long ten minutes. I had no means of knowing how the time was passing. There was a clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece, but it had stopped, and apparently wanted winding up, because it declined to go even when I set the pendulum swinging. There were no signs of any key with which to wind it—so I actually started to count six hundred slowly; at least that might give me some idea of how the minutes were going. I had got as far as three hundred—half the allotted period—when I caught the sound of a footstep in the passage without. It was not a very audible footstep, but my ears were wide open. Then I heard some one turning the key in the lock.

I had still that poker in my hand, and something in the feel of it not only set my courage up but gave me an idea. I thought of taking refuge in the bedroom; a moment’s reflection told me that I should gain nothing by doing that; I should be just as accessible to whoever might want me. I would try another way. First of all I switched the light off, then I stood by the side of the door at which it opened, and I held that poker tight; and the moment the door began to open, and I dimly saw the figure of a man without, I raised that poker above my head, and I brought it down with all my might.

Something had happened to some one—some one who went down on to the floor with quite a thud. I leaped right over him. There, in the passage beyond, was Signor Alessandro; I knew him—and that time I was on to him before he knew that I was coming. I struck him with the point of that poker in the chest, and I think I hurt him, because he made a curious sound, staggering back without making any effort to seize me as I passed.

He stood at the turn in the passage which led to the restaurant below, so that his huge figure blocked the way. There was a staircase beyond, so I made for that. I went up it three steps at a time. There was a light on the landing at the top—a passage to the left; one to the right. I chose the one to the right. There was a door at the end. I did not stop to consider what might be beyond, but I caught hold of the handle, and turned it. The door yielded—I found myself in a room with the fair-haired girl whom I had seen dancing with the youngster who was dead.

That did startle me. I had been occupied with so many other things that, at least for the time being, I had forgotten her existence. It was a bedroom—not by any means a large one, nor over furnished, nor over tidy. A ball-dress was thrown over a chair—the dress in which she had been dancing. Her hair was hanging loose over her shoulders—even then I thought what beautiful hair it was. She was standing in a stooping position, with her arms held out as if to ward off a blow. Apparently she had taken me for quite another person from whom she had reason to fear the worst. When she saw me I am inclined to think she was more frightened even than before; and really it was not surprising if she took me to be some sort of apparition.

Having realized on whom I had intruded, I paid attention first not to the occupant of the room, but to the door. I tried to lock it. There was no key.

“Where’s the key to this door?” I asked.

She replied to my question with one of her own.

“Who are you?—What do you want?—What do you mean by coming in here?”

I persisted in my inquiry.

“Haven’t you a key to this door?”

She shook her head. “No—they won’t let me have one. I used to have one, but they took it away.”

I did not stop to ask who “they” was, I was too pressed for time.

“Haven’t you anything with which you can keep the door fastened against intrusion—even for a few moments? Help me with that chest of drawers and the bed. If we can get them up against this door we may manage to keep them out just long enough.”

Without understanding what it was I would be at she did as I asked. Together we rigged up a sort of barricade. As she helped she rained questions.

“Who are you? Who is coming? Of what are you afraid? What has happened? Tell me, I beg of you.”

She spoke quite good English, but with a strong accent of Southern Italy. She was getting almost as excited as I was.

“They have killed Emilio.”

I spoke in her own language. She stared at me, her hands against her breast. Her voice dropped, the pupils of her eyes expanded.

“Emilio!—I feared it!—How do you know?—Who are you?—I feared it. Alessandro swore that he would do it. When I saw him speak to Gaspare I feared still more.”

“What is Alessandro to you? Are you his wife?”

“He is the patron; he wants me to be his wife, but I do not want to marry him; it is my mother who would force me. If it were not for him she would starve. He is a rich man, Alessandro. He says to my mother: ‘If Lucrezia will marry me’—I am Lucrezia!—‘all will be well. I will give you a regular income; you may live in comfort for the rest of your life. If not—out into the street you go; you die in the gutter, you starve, besides the other things you know I can do to you.’ He can do many things, Alessandro. ‘As for the nonsense Lucrezia talks,’ he says, ‘Young girls do not know their own mind. You bid her to marry me, I will see that she obeys her mother.’ But I do not want to marry him—I do not.”

“What position do you occupy in this place?”

“I am the cashier. I have been here nearly a year. I wish I had never been here at all. Until lately Emilio was a waiter. He is from the same village from which I come; we have known each other all our lives. How can I help but be fond of him, since he is so kind, so generous, so tender, and so thoughtful—and also he is so handsome.”

“Are you the only woman in the house?”

“In general there are two others. We had, all three of us, a holiday until the morning. I was to sleep with my sister, whose husband has a restaurant at Brixton. But when Alessandro saw me dancing with Emilio he said that I must come home with him. I did not dare to disobey. He threw Emilio out of the restaurant, not yet a fortnight ago, because of something he thought he had discovered—I don’t know what. Since then he has been scolding me all the time. Gaspare told me only the other day that if I was not more attentive to Alessandro’s wishes, more careful to keep him in a good temper—I know what he meant!—he was afraid that something might happen to Emilio.”

“Who is this man Gaspare? It is he who is the actual murderer.”

“Oh yes, I know—it is always like that.”

“Always like that?—What do you mean?—Who is this man?”

The girl dropped her voice still lower; she glanced round as if fearful that a listener might be hidden in the corner. Clearly the girl, with her susceptible Sicilian temperament, was half out of her mind with fear, and grief, and I don’t know what besides. I was the match and she was tinder—my appearance had set her all aflame.

“I don’t know who you are, or why I tell you—but I feel you may be a friend, and I am so much in need of a friend. I have not one friend in all the world, for even my mother is against me. And now that you say Emilio is dead—it is still worse. I will be revenged on them, I will be revenged! You ask me who Gaspare is. I will tell you. I care not what they do to me; since it is he who has killed Emilio I will tell you. He is of the Mafia—Alessandro is of the Mafia—all of them are of the Mafia. This house, this Restaurant Napolitain, this is where they meet; I will show you the room in which they have their meetings. Gaspare is just back from America—it is not the first time he has been there, not the first time he has been chased by the police; I know. They think I don’t, but I do. As for Alessandro, with him it has come to this; he scarcely dares to show his face in the street for fear of the police. They are after him all over Europe, and if they once catch him—rich or poor—ah!—it is all over with him. I know, and he knows I know. It is partly because he knows that he so wishes to make me his wife. He thinks he shuts my mouth, but now that they have killed Emilio I will open it to its widest. I care not what they do to me! No, no, I care not!”

I do not remember to have ever before seen anyone in such a whirlwind of passion. At least at that moment she struck me as being more mad than sane. None the less she had her wits about her. Suddenly, with a gesture, she requested silence; the whisper in which she spoke was only just audible.

“There are footsteps on the stairs—who is it? Who is coming?”

“There are two of them. Alessandro is one, I think Gaspare is the other, but I am not sure. Whoever it is, I hit him with this poker.”

“This is good. I hope you hit him hard. I will hit him hard when I have a chance, I promise you. I also have a knife.”

To my amazement she stooped and whipped a gleaming blade out of her stocking. I foresaw lively times ahead. I did not wish Inspector Ellis to come and find me engaged in a fight to death with understudies for carving knives. I deemed it desirable to get that knife from that fair-haired damsel.

“Do not use that; let me have it.”

“Why should I let you have it? No, no, I will keep it for myself. I can use it better than you.” I did not doubt that for a moment. I had no desire to emulate her in that direction. Before I could say so she continued. “Be still! They are there, outside the door—more than one.”

As she spoke some one without tried the handle. When it was found that the door would not yield a soft voice demanded, in the broadest argot of Naples.

“Lucrezia, what have you against the door? Don’t fool, open at once.”

The girl said nothing. She beckoned to the other side of the room.

“To this cupboard.” Throwing back a door which was covered with the same paper as the wall she disclosed an aperture behind. “That is a door at the back; it is locked. They do not think I have the key, but I have. I am not such an idiot as they suppose.”

While she took a key from some curious hiding-place in her corsets she burst, as it were, into a sudden flood of explanation.

“This house is old, very old, hundreds of years old. It belongs to the Mafia, it was they who built it, it is their head-quarters in London. Strange things have happened in London—they happen still, though the people of London do not think it: what do they know of their own city, the people of London? This house could tell them tales—to which they would not listen. The police—they guess—but without proof—what can the police do without proof in London? And they have never had any proof at all, only what they guess.”

While words had been pouring from her at the rate of I do not know how many a minute, she had been unlocking that door. The lock seemed to be a trifle unmanageable. I doubt if the key she was using had been meant for it. But at last it stood open—just as the door of her bedroom yielded to the vigorous attack which was being made on it from without. As I passed through the door at the back of the cupboard I saw Alessandro rush into the bedroom, and behind him Gaspare. I thought they would catch the girl, but she was too quick for them. With surprising speed she had whipped the key out of the lock, she was through the door, had shut it, and was locking it again on the other side. The closing of the door had left us in pitch darkness—some vigorous Sicilian adjectives were coming from the other side of it.

“Where are we?” I asked. “I can see nothing.”

“This is a recess—here is another door; it is not locked.” She opened it, but it did not make things much clearer. “These steps lead down into the restaurant. Be careful, they are steep—it is little more than a ladder.”

Those steps were certainly steep. I went down backwards, as down a ladder. In the darkness it was not easy. The girl’s voice as she followed came from above.

“At the bottom is a door. They think it is locked, but it is not. I am not so simple as they suppose.”

I began to be of that opinion myself. There, sure enough, was a door, and it was not locked—it yielded to a turn of the handle. I could not see her, but I felt her arm. Her voice seemed less confident.

“This is the restaurant; I do not know what we can do now; the door into the street is certainly locked, and shuttered. I promise you I will use my knife. Have you a knife? I know of a place in which there is one—you can have that. Come.”

She began to lead me among the marble-topped tables through which I had been so unceremoniously conducted by Signor Alessandro. Her kind offer to furnish me with a knife did not appeal to me in the least.

“I want no knife,” I told her, “nor must you use yours. We shall not improve matters by making bad worse. Besides, the police are coming.”

She stopped so suddenly that she pressed me against the sharp corner of a marble table.

“What do you mean by the police are coming? Who has told them? How do you know?”

“I sent a message to a friend of mine at Scotland Yard—through the telephone.”

“The telephone? Then—you have been in that room?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that room. I have been in a room, a bedroom. Alessandro locked me in a sitting-room. I broke down the door which divided it from the next room—which is a bedroom; and there was the telephone.”

“There is only one apartment in the house in which there is a telephone, and that is the one which belongs to the chief of the Mafia. He is there sometimes for days without anyone knowing he is in the house—or, I fancy, even in England. There has been history made in those two rooms—I know it, although I am only a girl. Here’s the knife of which I told you.”

She thrust something into my hand, which I refused to take.

“Thank you, I would rather do without it. Inspector Ellis promised that the police should be here within ten minutes. The ten minutes must have more than gone. They will be here before any harm can be done to us.”

“You think so? We shall see. Gaspare and Alessandro move quickly—they will hide us where the police will never find us. For my part, I have no faith in the police, they always come a little too late—I know. I have a knife, and I will use it. If you are wise you will take this one and use it also.”

I still refused to fasten my fingers round the handle which she pressed against them, though there was that both in her tone and her words which grated on my nerves. I quite believed that Alessandro and Gaspare did move quickly, I had seen proofs of it; nor did I relish her allusion to a place in which they could hide us which the police would never find; it seemed to suggest a state of preparation for all eventualities which I did not fancy. Nor did I relish her hint that the police might come too late. Altogether, when presently a door at the back opened, I was more than ever disposed to wish that my adventurous spirit had not lured me into the Restaurant Napolitain. After all, the quarrels of the mad Sicilians were no affair of mine. I had a strong feeling that the less I saw of the working of that remarkable organization, the Mafia, the better it might be for my health.

I did not need that girl to tell me what the opening of that door portended, I knew it for myself—but she did tell me.

“You see now they come—we shall soon know which it is to be—us or them; down behind my desk.”

We were standing behind the sort of counter which served as buffet and caisse combined. She drew me down as the door opened—but I peeped round the corner. Alessandro came in, and behind him Gaspare; I fancied the latter held himself as if he were in pain; that poker, which I still retained, had not come down for nothing. Alessandro held an electric torch above his head. It tickled me—even then!—to see them whisper to each other, wishing to remain unheard, while all the time the flare of that torch upon their faces told me everything they said.

It was Gaspare who whispered first. “They are not here.” His glance travelled over the restaurant.

Alessandro’s eyes also searched. “They must be here. If they are not here, where are they? They could not get out of the house.”

“Have we searched it all?”

“Where have we not searched? You know the house almost as well as I do.” There was a moment’s pause, then Signor Alessandro added, with what I had no doubt was genuine feeling: “I will cut both their throats when I get them.”

“Lucrezia’s?—her pretty throat?”

“From ear to ear. I will send her to Emilio. And that black-faced devil’s spawn, only let me get her within reach of my hand.”

The last delicate allusion, I took it, was to me. Even allowing for the poetic licence which one associates with the wild tongue of Sicily, the prospect which these two gentlemen offered to the imagination was not alluring; to say nothing of the fact that I was solemnly convinced that they would do their best to be as good as their word.

“We have to get them first,” I saw Gaspare whisper. “Before you talk of cutting throats, let us have throats to cut.”

The girl behind me did something, tried to change her position, or to keep under cover—anyhow she moved, and a board creaked just loudly enough to be audible. Alessandro heard. Leaning towards Gaspare I saw him whisper:

“They are behind the caisse—we have got them—quick! You go one side and I the other.”

“Look out,” I whispered to the girl, “they know where we are. We will give them a chase before they get us.” I stood up straight, and by way of a little diversion I brought the poker down on the top of the counter. “You pair of murderous villains,” I cried, “do you think you have us at your mercy? We’ll teach you better!”

In my excitement, giving the poker a flourish, I swept half a dozen bottles off the buffet, and they fell crashing to the floor.

“Is that your black-faced beauty?” inquired Gaspare aloud. “It looks as if she means to ruin you—she starts to destroy your stock in trade.”

“Do you suppose, you idiot,” retorted Alessandro, “that there is anything in those bottles? They are dummies with which I dress the counter.”

“Be careful how you come.” This was the girl, who was standing by me even more excited than I was. She was flourishing a knife in either hand. “For each of you I have a knife. I will pay you with them for Emilio.”

Acting on Alessandro’s advice, they came at us from either side. As Alessandro passed, leaning over the counter, I knocked the torch out of his hand, and in the same instant, turning towards Gaspare, I struck him with the poker a blow which was more than brother to the first. He staggered back with curses which were deep, but not loud. I was past him in a flash. I hesitated whether to make towards the door which I knew led to the staircase; but he made a grab at me and almost caught my skirt. I rushed across the restaurant among the marble tables.

“Gaspare! Gaspare!” It was Signor Alessandro’s voice, considerably raised. Apparently he was having a little argument with Lucrezia, of which in the darkness he was not getting the best. There was a crash—what had happened I did not know; it sounded as if more bottles had fallen to the floor. Then I knew that Lucrezia, following my example, had got past Alessandro and was seeking refuge among the marble tables. Then there was silence—broken by Alessandro’s voice. It sounded as if he were a little discouraged.

“Gaspare, I believe that cat has knifed me in half a dozen places; my fingers are wet with my own blood.”

Then came Gaspare’s voice—he seemed angry. I should not like to report his exact language; your true Sicilian can be vigorous; but in effect he said:

“That black-faced friend of yours has struck me for a second time with that poker. I swear to you all by the saints that she shall not strike me again. Give us some light, we can do nothing in this darkness. Where are your switches?”

Alessandro said something which I could not catch; but I could hear him moving, and presently the whole place was flooded with electric light.

“Can they see these lights outside?” asked Gaspare.

“Not a glimmer. The door and windows are so constructed that from the street nothing can be seen.”

“Then to business!”—and Gaspare started to carry out what I presume was his idea of business.

There ensued a scene as remarkable, I take it, as any which was ever enacted in a London restaurant. They chased us, those two men. In the hand of each was a knife; I dare say Gaspare’s was still stained with Emilio’s blood. I knew quite well what would happen if he got that knife within reach of me. I also knew that at any moment the police might be knocking at the door. If Inspector Ellis had carried out his undertaking literally they would have been there before; I scouted Lucrezia’s idea that they were always too late. At any instant they might arrive and all would be well. Still, I did hope that they would not be very long, because—— Then Gaspare came towards me.

I suppose in that restaurant there were a dozen marble-topped tables—oblong, round, and square. Most of the chairs had been piled upon the tables—I was entrenched behind a row of them. When Gaspare came towards me at one end I pushed them towards him; he swept the lot of them upon the floor—and came round my side of the table towards me. I retreated as he came. He followed. He was not the sort of man who would have seemed to the casual critic as likely to be quick upon his feet; but he was—he was quicker than any man I had ever met before; how he did it I could not understand. I am quick—every one has always told me so, and I know it. I never moved quicker than I did then—but I could not get away from Gaspare. Among the tables we twisted and twirled; sometimes I vaulted them, sometimes I ran round—he was always just beyond reach of me, and only just. I began to realize that I was bound to be caught. In that circumscribed space I could not get away from him; and presently he had me, just when I least expected it. I had pushed a chair in his way and he fell over it, and in falling he caught me by the skirt with so sure a hold that he all but dragged me over backwards. I reached round at him with the poker, struggling to get free. I struck him again and again, but though he was still in difficulties with the chair I could not make him loose his hold. He was cursing with an intensity which was significant. I did not give him a chance to get upon his feet—I knew if he once did that there would be an end of me. He was still mixed up with that chair—I dragged both him and it forward. He held me with his left hand; suddenly I felt something prick me—I knew he had struck me with the knife which was in his right. Frantically I whipped round again at him with the poker. I fancied I had struck the wrist which held the knife, but I was not sure. I leaped forward—as his feet were still entangled in the chair it must have been all that he could do to retain his hold. But he did. I wondered what would happen if my skirt gave way. It was made of one of those flimsy stuffs which one uses for a dance dress. If I relinquished my skirt, could I get out of it, leave it, without me inside, in his hands? I tugged and tugged; I felt the stuff tearing; I felt sure I must have hurt his wrist or he would have been at me again with his knife. I was straining every nerve to tear myself loose, when all at once the skirt did give way—but not with the result I had hoped for. As it yielded, the strain being unexpectedly relaxed, I slipped, and he, probably without intention, gave an unlooked-for jerk. Down he went on his face, and down I went on him—backwards. At that same moment there came a hammering at the front door, a loud, insistent hammering—and I knew that Inspector Ellis’s ten minutes had expired.

With the sound of the knocking there came a scream from Lucrezia, something very like a roar from Alessandro. I was conscious that they were striking at each other with their knives, and that each was getting home in turn. Then I felt Gaspare’s knife in my shoulder. I twisted myself round—I felt it again. I caught him by the wrist; he slipped the knife from his right hand to his left—I do not know how, but he did it. It pricked me again.

Out in the street they were breaking down the door. The force of their blows shook the building. That door had been constructed on sound if peculiar principles. It was not easy to break it down. In my agony—because Gaspare’s knife hurt—I wondered how long they would take to do it. As Lucrezia had put it—would they be too late—for her, as well as for me? Those men were like two wild beasts—if they could kill us first they would care nothing for what might happen to themselves afterwards.

I STRUCK HIM AGAIN AND AGAIN

Gaspare got at me with his knife again and again, but he never had a chance to get home with a good straight blow; somehow I managed to break the force of each one before it reached me. But he had cut me all about the neck and shoulders. I was a reek of blood; I saw it falling on his face and on his hands. If they did not get that door down in a second or two it would be too late. Then I reeled, and Gaspare got up, and I thought it was too late.

That I am still alive to tell the tale is sufficient proof that it was not too late—I have been told by the merest fraction of a second. Inspector Ellis informed me that when he and his men succeeded in forcing an entrance he saw a man on his knees, with a knife held above his head, and a woman immediately in front of him, upon the floor; that he rushed forward and caught Gaspare’s wrist just as it was in the act of descending. When Gaspare turned and saw him, somehow—the Inspector assured me he did not know how it was done; but I had seen him perform similar feats before and could understand how that was—Gaspare slipped from his hold, stood up straight, buried the knife in his own bosom, and fell down right across me, dead.

Lucrezia had even a worse time than I had—and I was nearly three weeks in the ward of a hospital. They took Signor Alessandro alive—all the world knows that he expiated his crimes upon the gallows. There are still three marks upon my chest in front which I am told will never pass away, so I am not likely to be without reminders—if any were needed—of my adventure—which, when I look back, was really as mad a one as it could have been—at the Restaurant Napolitain.

[The End]

## TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

These short stories were originally serialized in the The Strand Magazine volumes 42-44 (1911-12). The _Strand_ series was consulted for many of the changes listed below.

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g., notebook/note-book, passage way/passage-way, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Abandon the use of drop-caps.

Fix some quotation mark pairings.

[Chapter III]

Change “The comedy—it it were a comedy—was repeated” to if.

“the envelope, which I addressed in large bald letters to” to bold. Also add a comma after large.

“engaged on the company’s business” to in.

[Chapter IV]

“that episiode at Charing Cross Station was the result” to episode.

[Chapter V]

“then he looked after the door—the expression on his face” to donor.

[Chapter VI]

“Moving stealthily towards the man with the shallow cheeks” to sallow.

[Chapter VII]

“conflower blue is her favourite colour” to cornflower.

[Chapter IX]

“That cabman carried out my instructions to the letter we certainly did not exceed the limit I had imposed” add a semicolon after letter.

“ran his fingers through his victim’s pockets with a swftness” to swiftness.

[End of text]