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 The Missioner

 BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

 Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of
 Sinners," "The Master Mummer," etc.

 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

 BY FRED PEGRAM

 A. L. BURT COMPANY

 PUBLISHERS         NEW YORK




 _Copyright, 1907,_
 BY THE PEARSON PUBLISHING COMPANY.

 _Copyright, 1907,_
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

 _All rights reserved._

 Published January, 1909.

 Fourth Printing




[ Illustration: "DO YOU MIND EXPLAINING YOURSELF?" SHE ASKED.
 [Page 23.] FRONTISPIECE.]




CONTENTS

BOOK I


 CHAPTER                                               PAGE

     I MISTRESS AND AGENT                                1
    II THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY                        13
   III FIRST BLOOD                                      22
    IV BEATING HER WINGS                                32
     V EVICTED                                          41
    VI CRICKET AND PHILOSOPHY                           52
   VII AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC                            61
  VIII ROSES                                            70
    IX SUMMER LIGHTNING                                 78
     X THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR                    85
    XI THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS                         93
   XII RETREAT                                         100
  XIII A CREATURE OF IMPULSE                           105
   XIV SEARCHING THE PAPERS                            114
    XV ON THE SPREE                                    121
   XVI THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON                        129
  XVII THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY                          138
 XVIII LETTY'S DILEMMA                                 147
   XIX A REPORT FROM PARIS                             155
    XX LIKE A TRAPPED ANIMAL                           162


BOOK II

 CHAPTER                                               PAGE

     I RATHER A GHASTLY PART                           172
    II PLAYING WITH FIRE                               180
   III MONSIEUR S'AMUSE                                188
    IV AT THE "DEAD RAT"                               196
     V THE AWAKENING                                   204
    VI THE ECHO OF A CRIME                             210
   VII A COUNTRY WALK                                  218
  VIII THE MISSING LETTY                               227
    IX FOILED!                                         235
     X MYSTERIES IN MAYFAIR                            244
    XI THE WAY OF SALVATION                            253
   XII JEAN LE ROI                                     262
  XIII THE KING OF THE APACHES                         271
   XIV BEHIND THE PALM TREES                           281
    XV THE ONLY WAY                                    289
   XVI MAN TO MAN                                      296
  XVII LORD AND LADY BOUNTIFUL                         304




THE MISSIONER

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

MISTRESS AND AGENT


The lady of Thorpe was bored. These details as to leases and repairs
were wearisome. The phrases and verbiage confused her. She felt obliged
to take them in some measure for granted; to accept without question the
calmly offered advice of the man who stood so respectfully at the right
hand of her chair.

"This agreement with Philip Crooks," he remarked, "is a somewhat
important document. With your permission, madam, I will read it to you."

She signified her assent, and leaned wearily back in her chair. The
agent began to read. His mistress watched him through half closed eyes.
His voice, notwithstanding its strong country dialect, had a sort of
sing-song intonation. He read earnestly and without removing his eyes
from the document. His listener made no attempt to arrive at the sense
of the string of words which flowed so monotonously from his lips. She
was occupied in making a study of the man. Sturdy and weather-beaten,
neatly dressed in country clothes, with a somewhat old-fashioned stock,
with trim grey side-whiskers, and a mouth which reminded her somehow of
a well-bred foxhound's, he represented to her, in his clearly cut
personality, the changeless side of life, the side of life which she
associated with the mighty oaks in her park, and the prehistoric rocks
which had become engrafted with the soil of the hills beyond. As she saw
him now, so had he seemed to her fifteen years ago. Only what a
difference! A volume to her--a paragraph to him! She had gone out into
the world--rich, intellectually inquisitive, possessing most of the
subtler gifts with which her sex is endowed; and wherever the passionate
current of life had flown the swiftest, she had been there, a leader
always, seeking ever to satisfy the unquenchable thirst for new
experiences and new joys. She had passed from girlhood to womanhood with
every nerve of her body strained to catch the emotion of the moment.
Always her fingers had been tearing at the cells of life--and one by one
they had fallen away. This morning, in the bright sunshine which flooded
the great room, she felt somehow tired--tired and withered. Her maid was
a fool! The two hours spent at her toilette had been wasted! She felt
that her eyes were hollow, her cheeks pale! Fifteen years, and the man
had not changed a jot. She doubted whether he had ever passed the
confines of her estate. She doubted whether he had even had the desire.
Wind and sun had tanned his cheeks, his eyes were clear, his slight
stoop was the stoop of the horseman rather than of age. He had the air
of a man satisfied with life and his place in it--an attitude which
puzzled her. No one of her world was like that! Was it some inborn gift,
she wondered, which he possessed, some antidote to the world's
restlessness which he carried with him, or was it merely lack of
intelligence?

He finished reading and folded up the pages, to find her regarding him
still with that air of careful attention with which she had listened to
his monotonous flow of words. He found her interest surprising. It did
not occur to him to invest it with any personal element.

"The agreement upon the whole," he remarked, "is, I believe, a fair one.
You are perhaps thinking that those clauses----"

"If the agreement is satisfactory to you," she interrupted, "I will
confirm it."

He bowed slightly and glanced through the pile of papers upon the table.

"I do not think that there is anything else with which I need trouble
you, madam," he remarked.

She nodded imperiously.

"Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hurd," she said.

If he felt any surprise, he did not show it. He drew one of the
high-backed chairs away from the table, and with that slight air of
deliberation which characterized all his movements, seated himself. He
was in no way disquieted to find her dark, tired eyes still studying
him.

"How old are you, Mr. Hurd?" she asked.

"I am sixty-three, madam," he answered.

Her eyebrows were gently raised. To her it seemed incredible. She
thought of the men of sixty-three or thereabouts whom she knew, and her
lips parted in one of those faint, rare smiles of genuine amusement,
which smoothed out all the lines of her tired face. Visions of the
promenade at Marienbad and Carlsbad, the Kursaal at Homburg, floated
before her. She saw them all, the men whom she knew, with the story of
their lives written so plainly in their faces, babbling of nerves and
tonics and cures, the newest physician, the latest fad. Defaulters all
of them, unwilling to pay the great debt--seeking always a way out!
Here, at least, this man scored!

"You enjoy good health?" she remarked.

"I never have anything the matter with me," he answered simply. "I
suppose," he added, as though by an afterthought, "the life is a healthy
one."

"You find it--satisfying?" she asked.

He seemed puzzled.

"I have never attempted anything else," he answered. "It seems to be
what I am suited for."

She attempted to abandon the _rôle_ of questioner--to give a more
natural turn to the conversation.

"It is always," she remarked, "such a relief to get down into the
country at the end of the season. I wonder I don't spend more time here.
I daresay one could amuse oneself?" she added carelessly.

Mr. Hurd considered for a few moments.

"There are croquet and archery and tennis in the neighbourhood," he
remarked. "The golf course on the Park hills is supposed to be
excellent. A great many people come over to play."

She affected to be considering the question seriously. An intimate
friend would not have been deceived by her air of attention. Mr. Hurd
knew nothing of this. He, on his part, however, was capable of a little
gentle irony.

"It might amuse you," he remarked, "to make a tour of your estate. There
are some of the outlying portions which I think that I should have the
honour of showing you for the first time."

"I might find that interesting," she admitted. "By the bye, Mr. Hurd,
what sort of a landlord am I? Am I easy, or do I exact my last pound of
flesh? One likes to know these things."

"It depends upon the tenant," the agent answered. "There is not one of
your farms upon which, if a man works, he cannot make a living. On the
other hand, there is not one of them on which a man can make a living
unless he works. It is upon this principle that your rents have been
adjusted. The tenants of the home lands have been most carefully chosen,
and Thorpe itself is spoken of everywhere as a model village."

"It is very charming to look at," its mistress admitted. "The flowers
and thatched roofs are so picturesque. 'Quite a pastoral idyll,' my
guests tell me. The people one sees about seem contented and respectful,
too."

"They should be, madam," Mr. Hurd answered drily. "The villagers have
had a good many privileges from your family for generations."

The lady inclined her head thoughtfully.

"You think, then," she remarked, "that if anything should happen in
England, like the French Revolution, I should not find unexpected
thoughts and discontent smouldering amongst them? You believe that they
are really contented?"

Mr. Hurd knew nothing about revolutions, and he was utterly unable to
follow the trend of her thoughts.

"If they were not, madam," he declared, "they would deserve to be in the
workhouse--and I should feel it my duty to assist them in getting
there."

The lady of Thorpe laughed softly to herself.

"You, too, then, Mr. Hurd," she said, "you are content with your life?
You don't mind my being personal, do you? It is such a change down here,
such a different existence ... and I like to understand everything."

Upon Mr. Hurd the almost pathetic significance of those last words was
wholly wasted. They were words of a language which he could not
comprehend. He realized only their direct application--and the woman to
him seemed like a child.

"If I were not content, madam," he said, "I should deserve to lose my
place. I should deserve to lose it," he added after a moment's pause,
"notwithstanding the fact that I have done my duty faithfully for four
and forty years."

She smiled upon him brilliantly. They were so far apart that she feared
lest she might have offended him.

"I have always felt myself a very fortunate woman, Mr. Hurd," she said,
"in having possessed your services."

He rose as though about to go. It was her whim, however, to detain him.

"You lost your wife some years ago, did you not, Mr. Hurd?" she began
tentatively. As a matter of fact, she was not sure of her ground.

"Seven years back, madam," he answered, with immovable face. "She was,
unfortunately, never a strong woman."

"And your son?" she asked more confidently. "Is he back from South
Africa?"

"A year ago, madam," he answered. "He is engaged at present in the
estate office. He knows the work well----"

"The best place for him, of course," she interrupted. "We ought to do
all we can for our young men who went out to the war. I should like to
see your son, Mr. Hurd. Will you tell him to come up some day?"

"Certainly, madam," he answered.

"Perhaps he would like to shoot with my guests on Thursday?" she
suggested graciously.

Mr. Hurd did not seem altogether pleased.

"It has never been the custom, madam," he remarked, "for either my son
or myself to be associated with the Thorpe shooting parties."

"Some customs," she remarked pleasantly, "are well changed, even in
Thorpe. We shall expect him."

Mr. Hurd's mouth reminded her for a moment of a steel trap. She could
see that he disapproved, but she had no intention of giving way. He
began to tie up his papers, and she watched him with some continuance of
that wave of interest which he had somehow contrived to excite in her.
The signature of one of the letters which he was methodically folding,
caught her attention.

"What a strange name!" she remarked. "Victor Macheson! Who is he?"

Mr. Hurd unfolded the letter. The ghost of a smile flickered upon his
lips.

"A preacher, apparently," he answered. "The letter is one asking
permission to give a series of what he terms religious lectures in
Harrison's large barn!"

Her eyebrows were gently raised. Her tone was one of genuine surprise.

"What, in Thorpe?" she demanded.

"In Thorpe!" Mr. Hurd acquiesced.

She took the letter and read it. Her perplexity was in no manner
diminished.

"The man seems in earnest," she remarked. "He must either be a stranger
to this part of the country, or an extremely impertinent person. I
presume, Mr. Hurd, that nothing has been going on in the place with
which I am unacquainted?"

"Certainly not, madam," he answered.

"There has been no drunkenness?" she remarked. "The young people have, I
presume, been conducting their love-making discreetly?"

The lines of Mr. Hurd's mouth were a trifle severe. One could imagine
that he found her modern directness of speech indelicate.

"There have been no scandals of any sort connected with the village,
madam," he assured her. "To the best of my belief, all of our people are
industrious, sober and pious. They attend church regularly. As you know,
we have not a public-house or a dissenting place of worship in the
village."

"The man must be a fool," she said deliberately. "You did not, of
course, give him permission to hold these services?"

"Certainly not," the agent answered. "I refused it absolutely."

The lady rose, and Mr. Hurd understood that he was dismissed.

"You will tell your son about Thursday?" she reminded him.

"I will deliver your message, madam," he answered.

She nodded her farewell as the footman opened the door.

"Everything seems to be most satisfactory, Mr. Hurd," she said. "I shall
probably be here for several weeks, so come up again if there is
anything you want me to sign."

"I am much obliged, madam," the agent answered.

He left the place by a side entrance, and rode slowly down the private
road, fringed by a magnificent row of elm trees, to the village. The
latch of the iron gate at the end of the avenue was stiff, and he failed
to open it with his hunting crop at the first attempt. Just as he was
preparing to try again, a tall, boyish-looking young man, dressed in
sombre black, came swiftly across the road and opened the gate. Mr. Hurd
thanked him curtly, and the young man raised his hat.

"You are Mr. Hurd, I believe?" he remarked. "I was going to call upon
you this afternoon."

The little man upon the pony frowned. He had no doubt as to his
questioner.

"My name is Hurd, sir," he answered stiffly. "What can I do for you?"

"You can let me have that barn for my services," the other answered
smiling. "I wrote you about it, you know. My name is Macheson."

Mr. Hurd's answer was briefly spoken, and did not invite argument.

"I have mentioned the matter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton, sir. She agrees with
me that your proposed ministrations are altogether unneeded in this
neighbourhood."

"You won't let me use the barn, then?" the young man remarked
pleasantly, but with some air of disappointment.

Mr. Hurd gathered up the reins in his hand.

"Certainly not, sir!"

He would have moved on, but his questioner stood in the way. Mr. Hurd
looked at him from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. The young man was
remarkably young. His smooth, beardless face was the face of a boy. Only
the eyes seemed somehow to speak of graver things. They were very bright
indeed, and they did not falter.

"Mr. Hurd," he begged, "do let me ask you one question! Why do you
refuse me? What harm can I possibly do by talking to your villagers?"

Mr. Hurd pointed with his whip up and down the country lane.

"This is the village of Thorpe, sir," he answered. "There are no poor,
there is no public-house, and there, within a few hundred yards of the
farthest cottage," he added, pointing to the end of the street, "is the
church. You are not needed here. That is the plain truth."

The young man looked up and down, at the flower-embosomed cottages, with
their thatched roofs and trim appearance, at the neatly cut hedges, the
well-kept road, the many signs of prosperity. He looked at the little
grey church standing in its ancient walled churchyard, where the road
divided, a very delightful addition to the picturesque beauty of the
place. He looked at all these things and he sighed.

"Mr. Hurd," he said, "you are a man of experience. You know very well
that material and spiritual welfare are sometimes things very far
apart."

Mr. Hurd frowned and turned his pony's head towards home.

"I know nothing of the sort, sir," he snapped. "What I do know is that
we don't want any Salvation Army tricks here. You should stay in the
cities. They like that sort of thing there."

"I must come where I am sent, Mr. Hurd," the young man answered. "I
cannot do your people any harm. I only want to deliver my message--and
go."

Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round.

"I submitted your letter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said. "She agrees
with me that your ministrations are wholly unnecessary here. I wish you
good evening!"

The young man caught for a moment at the pony's rein.

"One moment, sir," he begged. "You do not object to my appealing to
Miss Thorpe-Hatton herself?"

A grim, mirthless smile parted the agent's lips.

"By no means!" he answered, as he cantered off.

Victor Macheson stood for a moment watching the retreating figure. Then
he looked across the park to where, through the great elm avenues, he
could catch a glimpse of the house. A humorous smile suddenly brightened
his face.

"It's got to be done!" he said to himself. "Here goes!"




CHAPTER II

THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY


The mistress of Thorpe stooped to pat a black Pomeranian which had
rushed out to meet her. It was when she indulged in some such movement
that one realized more thoroughly the wonderful grace of her slim,
supple figure. She who hated all manner of exercise had the ease of
carriage and flexibility of one whose life had been spent in athletic
pursuits.

"How are you all?" she remarked languidly. "Shocking hostess, am I not?"

A fair-haired little woman turned away from the tea-table. She held a
chocolate éclair in one hand, and a cup of Russian tea in the other. Her
eyes were very dark, and her hair very yellow--and both were perfectly
and unexpectedly natural. Her real name was Lady Margaret Penshore, but
she was known to her intimates, and to the mysterious individuals who
write under a _nom-de-guerre_ in the society papers, as "Lady Peggy."

"A little casual perhaps, my dear Wilhelmina," she remarked. "Comes from
your association with Royalty, I suppose. Try one of your own caviare
sandwiches, if you want anything to eat. They're ripping."

Wilhelmina--she was one of the few women of her set with whose Christian
name no one had ever attempted to take any liberties--approached the
tea-table and studied its burden. There were a dozen different sorts of
sandwiches arranged in the most tempting form, hot-water dishes with
delicately browned tea-cakes simmering gently, thick cream in silver
jugs, tea and coffee, and in the background old China dishes piled with
freshly gathered strawberries and peaches and grapes, on which the bloom
still rested. On a smaller table were flasks of liqueurs and a spirit
decanter.

"Anyhow," she remarked, pouring herself out some tea, "I do feed you
people well. And as to being casual, I warned you that I never put in an
appearance before five."

A man in the background, long and lantern-faced, a man whose age it
would have been as impossible to guess as his character, opened and
closed his watch with a clink.

"Twenty minutes past," he remarked. "To be exact, twenty-two minutes
past."

His hostess turned and regarded him contemplatively.

"How painfully precise!" she remarked. "Somehow, it doesn't sound
convincing, though. Your watch is probably like your morals."

"What a flattering simile!" he murmured.

"Flattering?"

"It presupposes, at any rate, their existence," he explained. "It is
years since I was reminded of them."

Wilhelmina seated herself before an open card-table.

"No doubt," she answered. "You see I knew you when you were a boy.
Seriously," she continued, "I have been engaged with my agent for the
last half-hour--a most interesting person, I can assure you. There was
an agreement with one Philip Crooks concerning a farm, which he felt
compelled to read to me--every word of it! Come along and cut, all of
you!"

The fourth person, slim, fair-haired, the typical army officer and
country house habitué, came over to the table, followed by the
lantern-jawed man. Lady Peggy also turned up a card.

"You and I, Gilbert," Wilhelmina remarked to the elder man. "Here's luck
to us! What on earth is that you are drinking?"

"Absinthe," he answered calmly. "I have been trying to persuade Austin
to join me, but it seems they don't drink absinthe in the Army."

"I should think not, indeed," his hostess answered. "And you my partner,
too! Put the stuff away."

Gilbert Deyes raised his glass and looked thoughtfully into its
opalescent depths.

"Ah! my dear lady," he said, "you make a great mistake when you
number absinthe amongst the ordinary intoxicating beverages. I
tell you that the man who invented it was an epicure in sensations
and--er--gastronomy. If only De Quincey had realized the possibility
of absinthe, he would have given us jewelled prose indeed."

Wilhelmina yawned.

"Bother De Quincey!" she declared. "It's your bridge I'm thinking of."

"Dear lady, you need have no anxiety," Deyes answered reassuringly. "One
does not trifle with one's livelihood. You will find me capable of the
most daring finesses, the most wonderful coups. I shall not revoke, I
shall not lead out of the wrong hand. My declarations will be touched
with genius. The rubber, in fact, is already won. Vive l'absinthe!"

"The rubber will never be begun if you go on talking nonsense much
longer," Lady Peggy declared, tapping the table impatiently. "I believe
I hear the motors outside. We shall have the whole crowd here directly."

"They won't find their way here," their hostess assured them calmly. "My
deal, I believe."

They played the hand in silence. At its conclusion, Wilhelmina leaned
back in her chair and listened.

"You were right, Peggy," she said, "they are all in the hall. I can hear
your brother's voice."

Lady Peggy nodded.

"Sounds healthy, doesn't it?"

Gilbert Deyes leaned across to the side table and helped himself to a
cigarette.

"Healthy! I call it boisterous," he declared. "Where have they all
been?"

"Motoring somewhere," Wilhelmina answered. "They none of them have any
idea how to pass the time away until the first run."

"Sport, my dear hostess," Deyes remarked, "is the one thing which makes
life in a country house almost unendurable."

Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.

"That's all very well, Gilbert," she said, "but what should we do if we
couldn't get rid of some of these lunatics for at least part of the
day?"

"Reasonable, I admit," Deyes answered, "but think what an intolerable
nuisance they make of themselves for the other part. I double No Trumps,
Lady Peggy."

Lady Peggy laid down her cards.

"For goodness' sake, no more digressions," she implored. "Remember,
please, that I play this game for the peace of mind of my tradespeople!
I redouble!"

The hand was played almost in silence. Lady Peggy lost the odd trick and
began to add up the score with a gentle sigh.

"After all," her partner remarked, returning to the subject which they
had been discussing, "I don't think that we could get on very well in
this country without sport, of some sort."

"Of course not," Deyes answered. "We are all sportsmen, every one of us.
We were born so. Only, while some of us are content to wreak our
instinct for destruction upon birds and animals, others choose the
nobler game--our fellow-creatures! To hunt or trap a human being is
finer sport than to shoot a rocketing pheasant, or to come in from
hunting with mud all over our clothes, smelling of ploughed fields,
steaming in front of the fire, telling lies about our exploits--all
undertaken in pursuit of a miserable little animal, which as often as
not outwits us, and which, in an ordinary way, we wouldn't touch with
gloves on! What do you say, Lady Peggy?"

"You're getting beyond me," she declared. "It sounds a little savage."

Deyes dealt the cards slowly, talking all the while.

"Sport is savage," he declared. "No one can deny it. Whether the quarry
be human or animal, the end is death. But of all its varieties, give me
the hunting of man by man, the brain of the hunter coping with the wiles
of the hunted, both human, both of the same order. The game's even then,
for at any moment they may change places--the hunter and his quarry.
It's finer work than slaughtering birds at the coverside. It gives your
sex a chance, Lady Peggy."

"It sounds exciting," she admitted.

"It is," he answered.

His hostess looked up at him languidly.

"You speak like one who knows!"

"Why not?" he murmured. "I have been both quarry and hunter. Most of us
have more or less! I declare Hearts!"

Again there was an interval of silence, broken only by the stock phrases
of the game, and the soft patter of the cards upon the table. Once more
the hand was played out and the cards gathered up. Captain Austin
delivered his quota to the general discussion.

"After all," he said, "if it wasn't for sport, our country houses would
be useless."

"Not at all!" Deyes declared. "Country houses should exist for----"

"For what, Mr. Deyes? Do tell us," Lady Peggy implored.

"For bridge!" he declared. "For giving weary married people the
opportunity for divorce, and as an asylum from one's creditors."

Wilhelmina shook her head as she gathered up her cards.

"You are not at your best to-day, Gilbert," she said. "The allusion to
creditors is prehistoric! No one has them nowadays. Society is such a
hop-scotch affair that our coffers are never empty."

"What a Utopian sentiment!" Lady Peggy murmured.

"We can't agree, can we?" Deyes whispered in her ear.

"You! Why they say that you are worth a million," she protested.

"If I am I remain poor, for I cannot spend it," he declared.

"Why not?" his hostess asked him from across the table.

"Because," he answered, "I am cursed with a single vice, trailing its
way through a labyrinth of virtues. I am a miser!"

Lady Peggy laughed incredulously.

"Rubbish!" she exclaimed.

"Dear lady, it is nothing of the sort," he answered, shaking his head
sadly. "I have felt it growing upon me for years. Besides, it is
hereditary. My mother opened a post-office savings bank account for me.
At an early age I engineered a corner in marbles and sold out at a huge
profit. I am like the starving dyspeptic at the rich man's feast."

Captain Austin intervened.

"I declare Diamonds," he announced, and the hand proceeded.

Wilhelmina leaned back in her chair as the last trick fell. Her eyes
were turned towards the window. She could just see the avenue of elms
down which her agent had ridden a short while since. Deyes, through half
closed eyes, watched her with some curiosity.

"If one dared offer a trifling coin of the realm----" he murmured.

"I was thinking of your theory," she interrupted. "According to you, I
suppose the whole world is made up of hunters and their quarry. Can you
tell, I wonder, by looking at people, to which order they belong?"

"It is easy," he answered. "Yet you must remember we are continually
changing places. The man who cracks the whip to-day is the hunted beast
to-morrow. The woman who mocks at her lover this afternoon is often the
slave-bearer when dusk falls. Swift changes like this are like rain upon
the earth. They keep us, at any rate, out of the asylums."

Wilhelmina was still looking out of the window. Up the great avenue, in
and out amongst the tree trunks, but moving always with swift buoyant
footsteps towards the house, came a slim, dark figure, soberly dressed
in ill-fitting clothes. He walked with the swing of early manhood, his
head was thrown back, and he carried his hat in his hand. She leaned
forward to watch him more closely--he seemed to have associated himself
in some mysterious manner with the mocking words of Gilbert Deyes. Half
maliciously, she drew his attention to the swiftly approaching figure.

"Come, my friend of theories," she said mockingly. "There is a stranger
there, the young man who walks so swiftly. To which of your two orders
does he belong?"

Deyes looked out of the window--a brief, careless glance.

"To neither," he answered. "His time has not come yet. But he has the
makings of both."




CHAPTER III

FIRST BLOOD


A footman entered the room a few minutes later, and obedient, without a
doubt, to some previously given command, waited behind his mistress'
chair until a hand had been played. When it was over, she spoke to him
without turning her head.

"What is it, Perkins?" she asked.

He bent forward respectfully.

"There is a young gentleman here, madam, who wishes to see you most
particularly. He has no card, but he said that his name would not be
known to you."

"Tell him that I am engaged," Wilhelmina said. "He must give you his
name, and tell you what business he has come upon."

"Very good, madam!" the man answered, and withdrew.

He was back again before the next hand had been played. Once more he
stood waiting in respectful silence.

"Well?" his mistress asked.

"His name, madam, is Mr. Victor Macheson. He said that he would wait as
long as you liked, but he preferred telling you his business himself."

"I fancy that I know it," Wilhelmina answered. "You can show him in
here."

"Is it the young man, I wonder," Lady Peggy remarked, "who came up the
avenue as though he were walking on air?"

"Doubtless," Wilhelmina answered. "He is some sort of a missionary.
I had him shown in here because I thought his coming at all an
impertinence, and I want to make him understand it. You will probably
find him amusing, Mr. Deyes."

Gilbert Deyes shook his head quietly.

"There was a time," he murmured, "when the very word missionary was a
finger-post to the ridiculous. The comic papers rob us, however, of our
elementary sources of humour."

They all looked curiously towards the door as he entered, all except
Wilhelmina, who was the last to turn her head, and found him hesitating
in some embarrassment as to whom to address. He was somewhat above
medium height, fair, with a mass of wind-tossed hair, and had the smooth
face of a boy. His eyes were his most noticeable feature. They were
very bright and very restless. Lady Peggy called them afterwards
uncomfortable eyes, and the others, without any explanation, understood
what she meant.

"I am Miss Thorpe-Hatton," Wilhelmina said calmly. "I am told that you
wished to see me."

She turned only her head towards him. Her words were cold and
unwelcoming. She saw that he was nervous and she had no pity. It was
unworthy of her. She knew that. Her eyes questioned him calmly. Sitting
there in her light muslin dress, with her deep-brown hair arranged in
the Madonna-like fashion, which chanced to be the caprice of the moment,
she herself--one of London's most beautiful women--seemed little more
than a girl.

"I beg your pardon," he began hurriedly. "I understood--I expected----"

"Well?"

The monosyllable was like a drop of ice. A faint spot of colour burned
in his cheeks. He understood now that for some reason this woman was
inimical to him. The knowledge seemed to have a bracing effect. His eyes
flashed with a sudden fire which gave force to his face.

"I expected," he continued with more assurance, "to have found Miss
Thorpe-Hatton an older lady."

She said nothing. Only her eyebrows were very slightly raised. She
seemed to be asking him silently what possible concern the age of the
lady of Thorpe-Hatton could be to him. He was to understand that his
remark was almost an impertinence.

"I wished," he said, "to hold a service in Thorpe on Sunday afternoon,
and also one during the week, and I wrote to your agent asking for the
loan of a barn, which is generally, I believe, used for any gathering of
the villagers. Mr. Hurd found himself unable to grant my request. I have
ventured to appeal to you."

"Mr. Hurd," she said calmly, "decided, in my opinion, quite rightly. I
do not see what possible need my villagers can have of further religious
services than the Church affords them."

"Madam," he answered, "I have not a word to say against your parish
church, or against your excellent vicar. Yet I believe, and the
body to which I am attached believes, that change is stimulating. We
believe that the great truths of life cannot be presented to our
fellow-creatures too often, or in too many different ways."

"And what," she asked, with a faint curl of her beautiful lips, "do you
consider the great truths of life?"

"Madam," he answered, with slightly reddening cheeks, "they vary for
every one of us, according to our capacity and our circumstances. What
they may mean," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "to people of
your social order, I do not know. It has not come within the orbit of my
experience. It was your villagers to whom I was proposing to talk."

There was a moment's silence. Gilbert Deyes and Lady Peggy exchanged
swift glances of amused understanding. Wilhelmina bit her lip, but she
betrayed no other sign of annoyance.

"To what religious body do you belong?" she asked.

"My friends," he answered, "and I, are attached to none of the
recognized denominations. Our only object is to try to keep alight in
our fellow-creatures the flame of spirituality. We want to help
them--not to forget."

"There is no name by which you call yourselves?" she asked.

"None," he answered.

"And your headquarters are where?" she asked.

"In Gloucestershire," he answered--"so far as we can be said to have any
headquarters at all."

"You have no churches then?" she asked.

"Any building," he answered, "where the people are to whom we desire to
speak, is our church. We look upon ourselves as missioners only."

"I am afraid," Wilhelmina said quietly, "that I am only wasting your
time in asking these questions. Still, I should like to know what
induced you to choose my village as an appropriate sphere for your
labours."

"We each took a county," he answered. "Leicestershire fell to my lot. I
selected Thorpe to begin with, because I have heard it spoken of as a
model village."

Wilhelmina's forehead was gently wrinkled.

"I am afraid," she said, "that I am a somewhat dense person. Your reason
seems to me scarcely an adequate one."

"Our belief is," he declared, "that where material prosperity is
assured, especially amongst this class of people, the instincts towards
spirituality are weakened."

"My people all attend church; we have no public-house; there are never
any scandals," she said.

"All these things," he admitted, "are excellent. But they do not help
you to see into the lives of these people. Church-going may become a
habit, a respectable and praiseworthy thing--and a thing expected of
them. Morality, too, may become a custom--until temptation comes. One
must ask oneself what is the force which prompts these people to direct
their lives in so praiseworthy a manner."

"You forget," she remarked, "that these are simple folk. Their religion
with them is simply a matter of right or wrong. They need no further
instruction in this."

"Madam," he said, "so long as they are living here, that may be so.
Frankly, I do not consider it sufficient that their lives are seemly, so
long as they live in the shadow of your patronage. What happens to those
who pass outside its influence is another matter."

"What do you know about that?" she asked coldly.

"What I do know about it," he answered, "decided me to come to Thorpe."

There was a moment's silence. Any of the other three, Gilbert Deyes
especially, perhaps, would have found it hard to explain, even to
realize the interest with which they listened to the conversation
between these two--the somewhat unkempt, ill-attired boy, with the
nervous, forceful manner and burning eyes, and the woman, so sure of
herself, so coldly and yet brutally ungracious. It was not so much the
words themselves that passed between them that attracted as the
undernote of hostility, more felt than apparent--the beginning of a
duel, to all appearance so ludicrously onesided, yet destined to endure.
Deyes turned in his chair uneasily. He was watching this intruder--a
being outwardly so far removed from their world. The niceties of a
correct toilet had certainly never troubled him, his clothes were rough
in material and cut, he wore a flannel shirt, and a collar so low that
his neck seemed ill-shaped. He had no special gifts of features or
figure, his manner was nervous, his speech none too ready. Deyes found
himself engaged in a swift analysis of the subtleties of personality.
What did this young man possess that he should convey so strong a sense
of power? There was something about him which told. They were all
conscious of it, and, more than any of them, the woman who was regarding
him with such studied ill-favour. To the others, her still beautiful
face betrayed only some languid irritation. Deyes fancied that he saw
more there--that underneath the mask which she knew so well how to wear
there were traces of some deeper disturbance.

"Do you mind explaining yourself?" she asked. "That sounds rather an
extraordinary statement of yours."

"A few months ago," he said, "I attended regularly one of the police
courts in London. Day by day I came into contact with the lost souls who
have drifted on to the great rubbish-heap. There was a girl, Martha
Gullimore her name was, whose record for her age was as black as sin
could make it. Her father, I believe, is the blacksmith in your model
village! I spoke to him of his daughter yesterday, and he cursed me!"

"You mean Samuel Gullimore--my farrier?" she asked.

"That is the man," he answered.

"Have you any other--instances?" she asked.

"More than one, I am sorry to say," he replied. "There were two young
men who left here only a year ago--one is the son of your gardener,
the other was brought up by his uncle at your lodge gates. I was
instrumental in saving them from prison a few months ago. One we have
shipped to Canada--the other, I am sorry to say, has relapsed. We did
what we could, but beyond a certain point we cannot go."

She leaned her head for a moment upon the slim, white fingers of her
right hand, innocent of rings save for one great emerald, whose gleam
of colour was almost barbaric in its momentary splendour. Her face
had hardened a little, her tone was almost an offence.

"You would have me believe, then," she said, "that my peaceful village
is a veritable den of iniquity?"

"Not I," he answered brusquely. "Only I would have you realize that
roses and honeysuckle and regular wages, the appurtenances of material
prosperity, are after all things of little consequence. They hear the
song of the world, these people, in their leisure moments; their young
men and girls are no stronger than their fellows when temptation comes."

Deyes leaned suddenly forward in his chair. He felt that his
intervention dissipated a dramatic interest, of which he was keenly
conscious, but he could not keep silence any longer.

"To follow out your argument, sir, to its logical conclusion," he said,
"why not aim higher still? It is your contention, is it not, that the
seeds of evil things are sown in indifference, that prosperity might
even tend towards their propagation. Why not direct your energies, then,
towards the men and women of Society? There is plenty of scope here for
your labours."

The young man turned towards him. The lines of his mouth had relaxed
into a smile of tolerant indifference.

"I have no sympathy, sir," he answered, "with the class you name. On a
sinking ship, the cry is always, 'Save the women and children.' It is
the less fortunate in the world's possessions who represent the women
and children of shipwrecked morality. It is for their betterment that we
work."

Deyes sighed gently.

"It is a pity," he declared. "I am convinced that there is a magnificent
opening for mission work amongst the idle classes."

"No doubt," the young man agreed quickly. "The question is whether the
game is worth the candle."

Deyes made no reply. Lady Peggy was laughing softly to herself.

"I have heard all that you have to say, Mr. Macheson," the mistress of
Thorpe said calmly, "and I can only repeat that I think your presence
here as a missioner most unnecessary. I consider it, in fact, an----"

She hesitated. With a sudden flash of humour in his deep-set eyes, he
supplied the word.

"An impertinence, perhaps!"

"The word is not mine," she answered, "but I accept it willingly. I
cannot interfere with Mr. Hurd's decision as to the barn."

"I am sorry," he said slowly. "I must hold my meetings out of doors!
That is all!"

There was a dangerous glitter in her beautiful eyes.

"There is no common land in the neighbourhood," she said, "and you will
of course understand that I will consider you a trespasser at any time
you are found upon my property."

He bowed slightly.

"I am here to speak to your people," he said, "and I will do so, if I
have to stop in these lanes and talk to them one by one. You will pardon
my reminding you, madam, that the days of feudalism are over."

Wilhelmina carefully shuffled the pack of cards which she had just taken
up.

"We will finish our rubber, Peggy," she said. "Mr. Deyes, perhaps I may
trouble you to ring the bell!"

The young man was across the room before Deyes could move.

"You will allow me," he said, with a delightfully humourous smile, "to
facilitate my own dismissal. I shall doubtless meet your man in the
hall. May I be allowed to wish you all good afternoon!"

They all returned his farewell save Wilhelmina, who had begun to deal.
She seemed determined to remember his existence no more. Yet on the
threshold, with the handle of the door between his fingers, he turned
back. He said nothing, but his eyes were fixed upon her. Deyes leaned
forward in his chair, immensely curious. Softly the cards fell into
their places, there was no sign in her face of any consciousness of his
presence. Deyes alone knew that she was fighting. He heard her breath
come quicker, saw the fingers which gathered up her cards shake. Slowly,
but with obvious unwillingness, she turned her head. She looked straight
into the eyes of the man who still lingered.

"Good afternoon, Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said pleasantly. "I am sorry to
have troubled you."

Her lips moved, but she said nothing. She half inclined her head. The
door was softly closed.




CHAPTER IV

BEATING HER WINGS


Never was a young man more pleased with himself than Stephen Hurd, on
the night he dined at Thorpe-Hatton. He had shot well all day, and been
accepted with the utmost cordiality by the rest of the party. At dinner
time, his hostess had placed him on her left hand, and though it was
true she had not much to say to him, it was equally obvious that her
duties were sufficient to account for her divided attention. He was
quite willing to be ignored by the lady on his other side--a little
elderly, and noted throughout the country for her husband-hunting
proclivities. He recognized the fact that, apart from the personal side
of the question, he could scarcely hope to be of any interest to her.
The novelty of the situation, Wilhelmina's occasional remarks, and a
dinner such as he had never tasted before were sufficient to keep him
interested. For the rest he was content to twirl his moustache, of which
he was inordinately proud, and lean back in his chair with the
comfortable reflection that he was the first of his family to be offered
the complete hospitality of Thorpe-Hatton.

Towards the close of dinner, his hostess leaned towards him.

"Have you seen or heard anything of a young man named Macheson in the
village?" she asked.

"I have seen him once or twice," he answered. "Here on a missionary
expedition or something of the sort, I believe."

"Has he made any attempt to hold a meeting?" she asked.

"Not that I have heard of," he replied. "He has been talking to some of
the people, though. I saw him with old Gullimore yesterday."

"That reminds me," she remarked, "is it true that Gullimore has had
trouble with his daughter?"

"I believe so," young Hurd admitted, looking downwards at his plate.

"The man was to blame for letting her leave the place," Wilhelmina
declared, in cold, measured tones. "A pretty girl, I remember, but very
vain, and a fool, of course. But about this young fellow Macheson. Do
you know who he is, and where he came from?"

Stephen Hurd shook his head.

"I'm afraid I don't," he said doubtfully. "He belongs to some sort of
brotherhood, I believe. I can't exactly make out what he's at. Seems a
queer sort of place for him to come missioning, this!"

"So I told him," she said. "By the bye, do you know where he is
staying?"

"At Onetree farm," the young man answered.

Wilhelmina frowned.

"Will you execute a commission for me to-morrow?" she asked.

"With pleasure!" he answered eagerly.

"You will go to the woman at Onetree farm, I forget her name, and say
that I desire to take her rooms myself from to-morrow, or as soon as
possible. I will pay her for them, but I do not wish that young man to
be taken in by any of my tenants. You will perhaps make that known."

"I will do so," he declared. "I hope he will have the good sense to
leave the neighbourhood."

"I trust so," Wilhelmina replied.

She turned away to speak once more to the man on her other side, and did
not address Stephen Hurd again. He watched her covertly, with tingling
pulses, as she devoted herself to her neighbour--the Lord-Lieutenant of
the county. He considered himself a judge of the sex, but he had had few
opportunities even of admiring such women as the mistress of Thorpe. He
watched the curve of her white neck with its delicate, satin-like skin,
the play of her features, the poise of her somewhat small, oval head. He
admired the slightly wearied air with which she performed her duties and
accepted the compliments of her neighbour. "A woman of mysteries" some
one had once called her, and he realized that it was the mouth and the
dark, tired eyes which puzzled those who attempted to classify her. What
a triumph--to bring her down to the world of ordinary women, to drive
the weariness away, to feel the soft touch, perhaps, of those wonderful
arms! He was a young man of many conquests, and with a sufficiently good
idea of himself. The thought was like wine in his blood. If only it
were possible!

He relapsed into a day-dream, from which he was aroused only by the soft
flutter of gowns and laces as the women rose to go. There was a
momentary disarrangement of seats. Gilbert Deyes, who was on the other
side of the table, rose, and carrying his glass in his hand, came
deliberately round to the vacant seat by the young man's side. In his
evening clothes, the length and gauntness of his face and figure seemed
more noticeable than ever. His skin was dry, almost like parchment, and
his eyes by contrast appeared unnaturally bright. His new neighbour
noticed, too, that the glass which he carried so carefully contained
nothing but water.

"I will come and talk to you for a few minutes, if I may," Deyes said.
"I leave the Church and agriculture to hobnob. Somehow I don't fancy
that as a buffer I should be a success."

Young Hurd smiled amiably. He was more than a little flattered.

"The Archdeacon," he remarked, "is not an inspiring neighbour."

Deyes lit one of his own cigarettes and passed his case.

"I have found the Archdeacon very dull," he admitted--"a privilege of
his order, I suppose. By the bye, you are having a dose of religion from
a new source hereabouts, are you not?"

"You mean this young missioner?" Hurd inquired doubtfully.

Deyes nodded.

"I was with our hostess when he came up to ask for the loan of a barn to
hold services in. A very queer sort of person, I should think?"

"I haven't spoken to him," Hurd answered, "but I should think he's more
or less mad. I can understand mission and Salvation Army work and all
that sort of thing in the cities, but I'm hanged if I can understand any
one coming to Thorpe with such notions."

"Our hostess is annoyed about it, I imagine," Deyes remarked.

"She seems to have taken a dislike to the fellow," Hurd admitted. "She
was speaking to me about him just now. He is to be turned out of his
lodgings here."

Gilbert Deyes smiled. The news interested him.

"Our hostess is practical in her dislikes," he remarked.

"Why not?" his neighbour answered. "The place belongs to her."

Deyes watched for a moment the smoke from his cigarette, curling
upwards.

"The young man," he said thoughtfully, "impressed me as being a person
of some determination. I wonder whether he will consent to accept defeat
so easily."

The agent's son scarcely saw what else there was for him to do.

"There isn't anywhere round here," he remarked, "where they would take
him in against Miss Thorpe-Hatton's wishes. Besides, he has nowhere to
preach. His coming here at all was a huge mistake. If he's a sensible
person he'll admit it."

Deyes nodded as he rose to his feet and lounged towards the door with
the other men.

"Play bridge?" he asked his companion, as they crossed the hall.

"A little," the young man answered, "for moderate stakes."

They entered the drawing-room, and Deyes made his way to a secluded
corner, where Lady Peggy sat scribbling alone in a note-book.

"My dear Lady Peggy," he inquired, "whence this exceptional industry?"

She closed the book and looked up at him with twinkling eyes.

"Well, I didn't mean to tell a soul until it was finished," she
declared, "but you've just caught me. I've had such a brilliant idea.
I'm going to write a Society Encyclopædia!"

Deyes looked at her solemnly.

"A Society Encyclopædia!" he repeated uncertainly. "'Pon my word, I'm
not quite sure that I understand."

She motioned him to sit down by her side.

"I'll explain," she said. "You know we're all expected to know something
about everything nowadays, and it's such a bore reading up things. I'm
going to compile a little volume of definitions. I shall sell it at a
guinea a copy, pay all my debts, and become quite respectable again."

Deyes shook his head. His attitude was scarcely sympathetic.

"My dear Lady Peggy, what nonsense!" he declared. "Respectable, indeed!
I call it positively pandering to the middle classes!"

Lady Peggy looked doubtful.

"It is a horrid word, isn't it?" she admitted, "but it would be lovely
to make some money. Of course, I haven't absolutely decided how to spend
it yet. It does seem rather a waste, doesn't it, to pay one's debts, but
think of the luxury of feeling one could do it if one wanted to!"

"There's something in that," Deyes admitted. "But an encyclopædia! My
dear Lady Peggy, you don't know what you're talking about. I've got one
somewhere, I know. It came in a van, and it took two of the men to
unload it."

Lady Peggy laughed softly.

"Oh! I don't mean that sort, of course," she declared. "I mean just a
little gilt-edged text book, bound in morocco, you know, with just those
things in it we're likely to run up against. Radium, for instance. Now
every one's talking about radium. Do you know what radium is?"

Deyes swung his eyeglass carefully by its black riband.

"Well," he admitted, "I've a sort of idea, but I'm not very good at
definitions."

"Of course not," Lady Peggy declared triumphantly. "When it comes to the
point, you see what a good idea mine is. You turn to my textbook," she
added, turning the pages over rapidly, "and there you are. Radium! 'A
hard, rare substance, invented by Mr. Gillette to give tone to his
bachelor parties.' What do you think of that?"

"Wonderful!" Deyes declared solemnly. "Where do you get your information
from?"

"Oh! I poke about in dictionaries and things, and ask every one
questions," Lady Peggy declared airily. "Would you like to hear some
more?"

"Our hostess is beckoning to me," Deyes answered, rising. "I expect she
wants some bridge."

"I'm on," Lady Peggy declared cheerfully. "Whom shall we get for a
fourth?"

"Wilhelmina has found him already," Deyes declared. "It's the new young
man, I think."

Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders.

"The agent's son?" she remarked. "I shouldn't have thought that he would
have cared about our points."

"He can afford it for once in a way, I should imagine," Deyes answered.
"I can't understand, though----"

He stopped short. She looked at him curiously.

"Is it possible," she murmured, "that there exists anything which
Gilbert Deyes does not understand?"

"Many things," he answered; "amongst them, why does Wilhelmina patronize
this young man? He is well enough, of course, but----" he shrugged his
shoulders expressively; "the thing needs an explanation, doesn't it?"

"If Wilhelmina--were not Wilhelmina, it certainly would," Lady Peggy
answered. "I call her craving for new things and new people positively
morbid. All the time she beats her wings against the bars. There are no
new things. There are no new experiences. The sooner one makes up one's
mind to it the better."

Gilbert Deyes laughed softly.

"If my memory serves me," he said, "you are repeating a cry many
thousand years old. Wasn't there a prophet----"

"There was," she interrupted, "but they are beckoning us. I hope I don't
cut with the young man. I don't believe he has a bridge face."




CHAPTER V

EVICTED


Victor Macheson smoked his after-breakfast pipe with the lazy enjoyment
of one who is thoroughly at peace with himself and his surroundings. The
tiny strip of lawn on to which he had dragged his chair was surrounded
with straggling bushes of cottage flowers, and flanked by a hedge thick
with honeysuckle. Straight to heaven, as the flight of a bird, the thin
line of blue smoke curled upwards to the summer sky; the very air seemed
full of sweet scents and soothing sounds. A few yards away, a procession
of lazy cows moved leisurely along the grass-bordered lane; from the
other side of the hedge came the cheerful sound of a reaping-machine,
driven slowly through the field of golden corn.

The man, through half closed eyes, looked out upon these things, and
every line in his face spelt contentment. In repose, the artistic
temperament with which he was deeply imbued, asserted itself more
clearly--the almost fanatical light in his eyes was softened; one
saw there was something of the wistfulness of those who seek to
raise but a corner of the veil that hangs before the world of
hidden things--something, too, of the subdued joy which even the
effort brings. The lines of his forceful mouth were less firm, more
sensitive--a greater sense of humanity seemed somehow to have descended
upon him as he lounged there in the warmth of the sun, with the full joy
of his beautiful environment creeping through his blood.

"If you please, Mr. Macheson," some one said in his ear.

He turned his head at once. A tall, fair girl had stepped out of the
room where he had been breakfasting, and was standing by his elbow. She
was neatly dressed, pretty in a somewhat insipid fashion, and her hands
and hair showed signs of a refinement superior to her station. Just now
she was apparently nervous. Macheson smiled at her encouragingly.

"Well, Letty," he said, "what is it?"

"I wanted--can I say something to you, Mr. Macheson?" she began.

"Why not?" he answered kindly. "Is it anything very serious? Out with
it!"

"I was thinking, Mr. Macheson," she said, "that I should like to leave
home--if I could--if there was anything which I could do. I wanted to
ask your advice."

He laid down his pipe and looked at her seriously.

"Why, Letty," he said, "how long have you been thinking of this?"

"Oh! ever so long, sir," she exclaimed, speaking with more confidence.
"You see there's nothing for me to do here except when there's any one
staying, like you, sir, and that's not often. Mother won't let me help
with the rough work, and Ruth's growing up now, she's ever such a strong
girl. And I should like to go away if I could, and learn to be a little
more--more ladylike," she added, with reddening cheeks.

Macheson was puzzled. The girl was not looking him in the face. He felt
there was something at the back of it all.

"My dear girl," he said, "you can't learn to be ladylike. That's one of
the things that's born with you or it isn't. You can be just as much a
lady helping your mother here as practising grimaces in a London
drawing-room."

"But I want to improve myself," she persisted.

"Go for a long walk every day, and look about you," he said. "Read. I'll
lend you some books--the right sort. You'll do better here than away."

She was frankly dissatisfied.

"But I want to go away," she declared. "I want to leave Thorpe for a
time. I should like to go to London. Couldn't I get a situation as
lady's help or companion or something of that sort? I shouldn't want any
money."

He was silent for a moment.

"Does your mother know of this, Letty?" he asked.

"She wouldn't object," the girl answered eagerly. "She lets me do what I
like."

"Hadn't you better tell me--the rest?" Macheson asked quietly.

The girl looked away uneasily.

"There is no rest," she protested weakly.

Macheson shook his head.

"Letty," he said, "if you have formed any ideas of a definite future for
yourself, different from any you see before you here, tell me what they
are, and I will do my best to help you. But if you simply want to go
away because you are dissatisfied with the life here, because you fancy
yourself superior to it, well, I'm sorry, but I'd sooner prevent your
going than help you."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh! Mr. Macheson, it isn't that," she declared, "I--I don't want to
tell any one, but I'm very--very fond of some one who's--quite
different. I think he's fond of me, too," she added softly, "but he's
always used to being with ladies, and I wanted to improve myself so
much! I thought if I went to London," she added wistfully, "I might
learn?"

Macheson laughed cheerfully. He laid his hand for a moment upon her arm.

"Oh! Letty, Letty," he declared, "you're a foolish little girl! Now,
listen to me. If he's a good sort, and I'm sure he is, or you wouldn't
be fond of him, he'll like you just exactly as you are. Do you know what
it means to be a lady, the supreme test of good manners? It means to be
natural. Take my advice! Go on helping your mother, enter into the
village life, make friends with the other girls, don't imagine yourself
a bit superior to anybody else. Read when you have time--I'll manage the
books for you, and spend all the time you can out of doors. It's sound
advice, Letty. Take my word for it. Hullo, who's this?"

A new sound in the lane made them both turn their heads. Young Hurd had
just ridden up and was fastening his pony to the fence. He looked
across at them curiously, and Letty retreated precipitately into the
house. A moment or two later he came up the narrow path, frowning at
Macheson over the low hedge of foxgloves and cottage roses, and barely
returning his courteous greeting. For a moment he hesitated, however, as
though about to speak. Then, changing his mind, he passed on and entered
the farmhouse.

He met Mrs. Foulton herself in the passage, and she welcomed him with a
smiling face.

"Good morning, Mr. Hurd, sir!" she exclaimed, plucking at her apron.
"Won't you come inside, sir, and sit down? The parlour's let to Mr.
Macheson there, but he's out in the garden, and he won't mind your
stepping in for a moment. And how's your father, Mr. Hurd? Wonderful
well he was looking when I saw him last."

The young man followed her inside, but declined a chair.

"Oh! the governor's all right, Mrs. Foulton," he answered. "Never knew
him anything else. Good weather for the harvest, eh?"

"Beautiful, sir!" Mrs. Foulton answered.

"Were you wanting to speak to John, Mr. Stephen? He's about the home
meadow somewhere, or in the orchard. I can send a boy for him, or
perhaps you'd step out."

"It's you I came to see, Mrs. Foulton," the young man said, "and 'pon my
word, I don't like my errand much."

Mrs. Foulton was visibly anxious.

"There's no trouble like, I hope, sir?" she began.

"Oh! it's nothing serious," he declared reassuringly. "To tell you the
truth, it's about your lodger."

"About Mr. Macheson, sir!" the woman exclaimed.

"Yes! Do you know how long he was proposing to stay with you?"

"He's just took the rooms for another week, sir," she answered, "and a
nicer lodger, or one more quiet and regular in his habits, I never had
or wish to have. There's nothing against him, sir--surely?"

"Nothing personal--that I know of," Hurd answered, tapping his boots
with his riding-whip. "The fact of it is, he has offended Miss
Thorpe-Hatton, and she wants him out of the place."

"Well, I never did!" Mrs. Foulton exclaimed in amazement. "Him offend
Miss Thorpe-Hatton! So nice-spoken he is, too. I'm sure I can't imagine
his saying a wry word to anybody."

"He has come to Thorpe," Hurd explained, "on an errand of which Miss
Thorpe-Hatton disapproves, and she does not wish to have him in the
place. She knows that he is staying here, and she wishes you to send him
away at once."

Mrs. Foulton's face fell.

"Well, I'm fair sorry to hear this, sir," she declared. "It's only this
morning that he spoke for the rooms for another week, and I was glad and
willing enough to let them to him. Well I never did! It does sound all
anyhow, don't it, sir, to be telling him to pack up and go sudden-like!"

"I will speak to him myself, if you like, Mrs. Foulton," Stephen said.
"Of course, Miss Thorpe-Hatton does not wish you to lose anything, and I
am to pay you the rent of the rooms for the time he engaged them. I will
do so at once, if you will let me know how much it is."

He thrust his hand into his pocket, but Mrs. Foulton drew back. The
corners of her mouth were drawn tightly together.

"Thank you, Mr. Stephen," she said, "I'll obey Miss Thorpe-Hatton's
wishes, of course, as in duty bound, but I'll not take any money for the
rooms. Thank you all the same."

"Don't be foolish, Mrs. Foulton," the young man said pleasantly. "It
will annoy Miss Thorpe-Hatton if she knows you have refused, and you may
just as well have the money. Let me see. Shall we say a couple of
sovereigns for the week?"

Mrs. Foulton shook her head.

"I'll not take anything, sir, thank you all the same, and if you'd say a
word to Mr. Macheson, I'd be much obliged. I'd rather any one spoke to
him than me."

Stephen Hurd pocketed the money with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Just as you like, of course, Mrs. Foulton," he said. "I'll go out and
speak to the young gentleman at once."

He strolled out and looked over the hedge.

"Mr. Macheson, I believe?" he remarked interrogatively.

Macheson nodded as he rose from his chair.

"And you are Mr. Hurd's son, are you not?" he said pleasantly.
"Wonderful morning, isn't it?"

Young Hurd stepped over the rose bushes. The two men stood side by side,
something of a height, only that the better cut of Hurd's clothes showed
his figure to greater advantage.

"I'm sorry to say that I've come on rather a disagreeable errand," the
agent's son began. "I've been talking to Mrs. Foulton about it."

"Indeed?" Macheson remarked interrogatively.

"The fact is you seem to have rubbed up against our great lady here,"
young Hurd continued. "She's very down on these services you were going
to hold, and she wants to see you out of the place."

"I am sorry to hear this," Macheson said--and once more waited.

"It isn't a pleasant task," Stephen continued, liking his errand less as
he proceeded; "but I've had to tell Mrs. Foulton that--that, in short,
Miss Thorpe-Hatton does not wish her tenants to accept you as a lodger."

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton makes war on a wide scale," Macheson remarked,
smiling faintly.

"Well, after all, you see," Hurd explained, "the whole place belongs to
her, and there is no particular reason, is there, why she should
tolerate any one in it of whom she disapproves?"

"None whatever," Macheson assented gravely.

"I promised Mrs. Foulton I would speak to you," Stephen continued,
stepping backwards. "I'm sure, for her sake, you won't make any trouble.
Good morning!"

Macheson bowed slightly.

"Good morning!" he answered.

Stephen Hurd lingered even then upon the garden path. Somehow he was
not satisfied with his interview--with his own position at the end of
it. He had an uncomfortable sense of belittlement, of having played a
small part in a not altogether worthy game. The indifference of the
other's manner nettled him. He tried a parting shaft.

"Mrs. Foulton said something about your having engaged the rooms for
another week," he said, turning back. "Of course, if you insist upon
staying, it will place the woman in a very awkward position."

Macheson had resumed his seat.

"I should not dream," he said coolly, "of resisting--your mistress'
decree! I shall leave here in half an hour."

Young Hurd walked angrily down the path and slammed the gate. The sense
of having been worsted was strong upon him. He recognized his own
limitations too accurately not to be aware that he had been in conflict
with a stronger personality.

"D---- the fellow!" he muttered, as he cantered down the lane. "I wish
he were out of the place."

A genuine wish, and one which betrayed at least a glimmering of a
prophetic instinct. In some dim way he seemed to understand, even before
the first move on the board, that the coming of Victor Macheson to
Thorpe was inimical to himself. He was conscious of his weakness, of a
marked inferiority, and the consciousness was galling. The fellow had no
right to be a gentleman, he told himself angrily--a gentleman and a
missioner!

Macheson re-lit his pipe and called to Mrs. Foulton.

"Mrs. Foulton," he said pleasantly, "I'll have to go! Your great lady
doesn't like me on the estate. I dare say she's right."

"I'm sure I'm very sorry, sir," Mrs. Foulton declared shamefacedly.
"You've seen young Mr. Hurd?"

"He was kind enough to explain the situation to me," Macheson answered.
"I'm afraid I am rather a nuisance to everybody. If I am, it's because
they don't quite understand!"

"I'm sure, sir," Mrs. Foulton affirmed, "a nicer lodger no one ever had.
And as for them services, and the Vicar objecting to them, I can't see
what harm they'd do! We're none of us so good but we might be a bit
better!"

"A very sound remark, Mrs. Foulton," Macheson said, smiling. "And now
you must make out my bill, please, and what about a few sandwiches? You
could manage that? I'm going to play in a cricket match this afternoon."

"Why you've just paid the bill, sir! There's only breakfast, and the
sandwiches you're welcome to, and very sorry I am to part with you,
sir."

"Better luck another time, I hope, Mrs. Foulton," he answered, smiling.
"I must go upstairs and pack my bag. I shan't forget your garden with
its delicious flowers."

"It's a shame as you've got to leave it, sir," Mrs. Foulton said
heartily. "If my Richard were alive he'd never have let you go for all
the Miss Thorpe-Hattons in the world. But John--he's little more than a
lad--he'd be frightened to death for fear of losing the farm, if I so
much as said a word to him."

Macheson laughed softly.

"John's a good son," he said. "Don't you worry him."

He went up to his tiny bedroom and changed his clothes for a suit of
flannels. Then he packed his few belongings and walked out into the
world. He lit a pipe and shouldered his portmanteau.

"There is a flavour of martyrdom about this affair," he said to himself,
as he strolled along, "which appeals to me. I don't think that young man
has any sense of humour."

He paused every now and then to listen to the birds and admire the view.
He had the air of one thoroughly enjoying his walk. Presently he turned
off the main road, and wandered along a steep green lane, which was
little more than a cart-track. Here he met no one. The country on either
side was common land, sown with rocks and the poorest soil, picturesque,
but almost impossible of cultivation. A few sheep were grazing upon the
hills, but other sign of life there was none. Not a farmhouse--scarcely
a keeper's cottage in sight! It was a forgotten corner of a not
unpopulous county--the farthest portion of a belt of primeval forest
land, older than history itself. Macheson laughed softly as he reached
the spot he had had in his mind, and threw his bag over the grey stone
wall into the cool shade of a dense fragment of wood.

"So much," he murmured softly, "for the lady of Thorpe!"




CHAPTER VI

CRICKET AND PHILOSOPHY


"The instinct for games," Wilhelmina remarked, "is one which I never
possessed. Let us see whether we can learn something."

In obedience to her gesture, the horses were checked, and the footman
clambered down and stood at their heads. Deyes, from his somewhat
uncomfortable back seat in the victoria, leaned forward, and, adjusting
his eyeglass, studied the scene with interest.

"Here," he remarked, "we have the 'flannelled fool' upon his native
heath. They are playing a game which my memory tells me is cricket.
Everyone seems very hot and very excited."

Wilhelmina beckoned to the footman to come round to the side of the
carriage.

"James," she said, "do you know what all this means?"

She waved her hand towards the cricket pitch, the umpires with their
white coats, the tent and the crowd of spectators. The man touched his
hat.

"It is a cricket match, madam," he answered, "between Thorpe and
Nesborough."

Wilhelmina looked once more towards the field, and recognized Mr. Hurd
upon his stout little cob.

"Go and tell Mr. Hurd to come and speak to me," she ordered.

The man hastened off. Mr. Hurd had not once turned his head. His eyes
were riveted upon the game. The groom found it necessary to touch him on
the arm before he could attract his attention. Even when he had
delivered his message, the agent waited until the finish of the over
before he moved. Then he cantered his pony up to the waiting carriage.
Wilhelmina greeted him graciously.

"I want to know about the cricket match, Mr. Hurd," she asked, smiling.

Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round so that he could still watch the game.

"I am afraid that we are going to be beaten, madam," he said dolefully.
"Nesborough made a hundred and ninety-eight, and we have six wickets
down for fifty."

Wilhelmina seemed scarcely to realize the tragedy which his words
unfolded.

"I suppose they are the stronger team, aren't they?" she remarked. "They
ought to be. Nesborough is quite a large town."

"We have beaten them regularly until the last two years," Mr. Hurd
answered. "We should beat them now but for their fast bowler, Mills. I
don't know how it is, but our men will not stand up to him."

"Perhaps they are afraid of being hurt," Wilhelmina suggested
innocently. "If that is he bowling now, I'm sure I don't wonder at it."

Mr. Hurd frowned.

"We don't have men in the eleven who are afraid of getting hurt," he
remarked stiffly.

A shout of dismay from the onlookers, a smothered exclamation from Mr.
Hurd, and a man was seen on his way to the pavilion. His wickets were
spreadeagled, and the ball was being tossed about the field.

"Another wicket!" the agent exclaimed testily. "Crooks played all round
that ball!"

"Isn't that your son going in, Mr. Hurd?" Wilhelmina asked.

"Yes! Stephen is in now," his father answered. "If he gets out, the
match is over."

"Who is the other batsman?" Deyes asked.

"Antill, the second bailiff," Mr. Hurd answered. "He's captain, and he
can stay in all day, but he can't make runs."

They all leaned forward to witness the continuation of the match.
Stephen Hurd's career was brief and inglorious. He took guard and looked
carefully round the field with the air of a man who is going to give
trouble. Then he saw the victoria, with its vision of parasols and
fluttering laces, and the sight was fatal to him. He slogged wildly at
the first ball, missed it, and paid the penalty. The lady in the
carriage frowned, and Mr. Hurd muttered something under his breath as he
watched his son on the way back to the tent.

"I'm afraid it's all up with us now," he remarked. "We have only three
more men to go in."

"Then we are going to be beaten," Wilhelmina remarked.

"I'm afraid so," Mr. Hurd assented gloomily.

The next batsman had issued from the tent and was on his way to the
wicket. Wilhelmina, who had been about to give an order to the footman,
watched him curiously.

"Who is that going in?" she asked abruptly.

Mr. Hurd was looking not altogether comfortable.

"It is the young man who wanted to preach," he answered.

Wilhelmina frowned.

"Why is he playing?" she asked. "He has nothing to do with Thorpe."

"He came down to see them practise a few evenings ago, and Antill asked
him," the agent answered. "If I had known earlier I would have stopped
it."

Wilhelmina did not immediately reply. She was watching the young man who
stood now at the wicket, bat in hand. In his flannels, he seemed a very
different person from the missioner whose request a few days ago had so
much offended her. Nevertheless, her lip curled as she saw the terrible
Mills prepare to deliver his first ball.

"That sort of person," she remarked, "is scarcely likely to be much good
at games. Oh!"

Her exclamation was repeated in various forms from all over the field.
Macheson had hit his first ball high over their heads, and a storm of
applause broke from the bystanders. The batsman made no attempt to run.

"What is that?" Wilhelmina asked.

"A boundary--magnificent drive," Mr. Hurd answered excitedly. "By Jove,
another!"

The agent dropped his reins and led the applause. Along the ground this
time the ball had come at such a pace that the fieldsman made a very
half-hearted attempt to stop it. It passed the horses' feet by only a
few yards. The coachman turned round and touched his hat.

"Shall I move farther back, madam?" he asked.

"Stay where you are," Wilhelmina answered shortly. Her eyes were fixed
upon the tall, lithe figure once more facing the bowler. The next ball
was the last of the over. Macheson played it carefully for a single, and
stood prepared for the bowling at the other end. He began by a graceful
cut for two, and followed it up by a square leg hit clean out of the
ground. For the next half an hour, the Thorpe villagers thoroughly
enjoyed themselves. Never since the days of one Foulds, a former
blacksmith, had they seen such an exhibition of hurricane hitting. The
fast bowler, knocked clean off his length, became wild and erratic. Once
he only missed Macheson's head by an inch, but his next ball was driven
fair and square out of the ground for six. The applause became frantic.

Wilhelmina was leaning back amongst the cushions of her carriage,
watching the game through half closed eyes, and with some apparent
return of her usual graceful languor. Nevertheless, she remained there,
and her eyes seldom wandered for a moment from the scene of play.
Beneath her apparent indifference, she was watching this young man with
an interest for which she would have found it hard to account, and which
instinct alone prompted her to conceal. It was a very ordinary scene,
after all, of which he was the dominant figure. She had seen so much of
life on a larger scale--of men playing heroic parts in the limelight of
a stage as mighty as this was insignificant. Yet, without stopping to
reason about it, she was conscious of a curious sense of pleasure in
watching the doings of this forceful young giant. With an easy
good-humoured smile, replaced every now and then with a grim look of
determination as he jumped out from the crease to hit, he continued his
victorious career, until a more frantic burst of applause than usual
announced that the match was won. Then Wilhelmina turned towards Stephen
Hurd, who was standing by the side of the carriage.

"You executed my commission," she asked, "respecting that young man?"

"The first thing this morning," he answered. "I went up to see Mrs.
Foulton, and I also spoke to him."

"Did he make any difficulty?"

"None at all!" the young man answered.

"What did he say?"

Stephen hesitated, but Wilhelmina waited for his reply. She had the air
of one remotely interested, yet she waited obviously to hear what this
young man had said.

"I think he said something about your making war upon a large scale,"
Stephen explained diffidently.

She sat still for a moment. She was looking towards the deserted cricket
pitch.

"Where is he staying now?" she asked.

"I do not know," he answered. "I have warned all the likely people not
to receive him, and I have told him, too, that he will only get your
tenants into trouble if he tries to get lodgings here."

"I should like," she said, "to speak to him. Perhaps you would be so
good as to ask him to step this way for a moment."

Stephen departed, wondering. Deyes was watching his hostess with an air
of covert amusement.

"Do you continue the warfare," he asked, "or has the young man's prowess
softened your heart?"

Wilhelmina raised her parasol and looked steadily at her questioner.

"Warfare is scarcely the word, is it?" she remarked carelessly. "I have
no personal objection to the young man."

They watched him crossing the field towards them. Notwithstanding his
recent exertions, he walked lightly, and without any sign of fatigue.
Deyes looked curiously at the crest upon the cap which he was carrying
in his hand.

"Magdalen," he muttered. "Your missioner grows more interesting."

Wilhelmina leaned forwards. Her face was inscrutable, and her greeting
devoid of cordiality.

"So you have decided to teach my people cricket instead of morals, Mr.
Macheson," she remarked.

"The two," he answered pleasantly, "are not incompatible."

Wilhelmina frowned.

"I hope," she said, "that you have abandoned your idea of holding
meetings in the village."

"Certainly not," he answered. "I will begin next week."

"You understand," she said calmly, "that I consider you--as a
missioner--an intruder--here! Those of my people who attend your
services will incur my displeasure!"

"Madam," he answered, "I do not believe that you will visit it upon
them."

"But I will," she interrupted ruthlessly. "You are young and know little
of the world. You have not yet learnt the truth of one of the oldest of
proverbs--that it is well to let well alone!"

"It is a sop for the idle, that proverb," he answered. "It is the motto
for the great army of those who drift."

"I have been making inquiries," she said. "I find that my villagers are
contented and prosperous. There are no signs of vice in the place."

"There is such a thing," he answered, "as being too prosperous,
over-contented. The person in such a state takes life for granted.
Religion is a thing he hears about, but fails to realize. He has no need
of it. He becomes like the prize cattle in your park! He has a mind, but
has forgotten how to use it."

She looked at him steadily, perhaps a trifle insolently.

"How old are you, Mr. Macheson?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight," he answered, with a slight flush.

"Twenty-eight! You are young to make yourself the judge of such things
as these. You will do a great deal of mischief, I am afraid, before you
are old enough to realize it."

"To awaken those who sleep in the daytime--is that mischief?" he asked.

"It is," she answered deliberately. "When you are older you will realize
it. Sleep is the best."

He bent towards her. The light in his eyes had blazed out.

"You know in your heart," he said, "that it is not true. You have
brains, and you are as much of an artist as your fettered life permits
you to be. You know very well that knowledge is best."

"Do you believe," she answered, "that I--I take myself not personally
but as a type--am as happy as they are?"

She moved her parasol to where the village lay beyond the trees. He
hesitated.

"Madam," he answered gravely, "I know too little of your life to answer
your question."

She shrugged her shoulders. For a moment her parasol hid her face.

"We are quite _à la mode_, are we not, my dear Peggy?" she remarked,
with a curious little laugh. "Philosophy upon the village green.
Gilbert, tell them to drive on."

She turned deliberately to Macheson.

"Come and convert us instead," she said. "We need it more."

"I do not doubt it, madam," he answered. "Good afternoon!"

The carriage drove off. Macheson, obeying an impulse which he did not
recognize, watched it till it was out of sight. At the bend, Wilhelmina
deliberately turned in her seat and saw him standing there. She waved
her parasol in ironical farewell, and Macheson walked back to the tent
with burning cheeks.




CHAPTER VII

AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC


A great dinner party had come to an end, and the Lord-Lieutenant of the
county bowed low over the cold hand of his departing guest, in whose
honour it had been given. A distant relationship gave Lord Westerdean
privileges upon which he would willingly have improved.

"You are leaving us early, Wilhelmina," he murmured reproachfully. "How
can I expect to keep my other guests if you desert us?"

Wilhelmina withdrew the hand and nodded her other farewells. The heat of
the summer evening had brought every one out from the drawing-room. The
hall doors stood open. Those of the guests who were not playing bridge
or billiards were outside upon the terrace--some had wandered into the
gardens.

"My dear Leslie," she said, as she stood upon the broad steps, "you are
losing your habit of gallantry. A year ago you would not have ventured
to suggest that in my absence the coming or going of your other guests
could matter a straw."

"You know very well that it doesn't," he answered, dropping his voice.
"You know very well----"

"To-night," she interrupted calmly, "I will not be made love to! I am
not in the humour for it."

He looked down at her curiously. He was a man of exceptional height,
thin, grey, still handsome, an ex-diplomat, whose career, had he chosen
to follow it, would have been a brilliant one. Wealth and immense
estates had thrust their burdens upon him, however, and he was content
to be the most popular man in his county.

"There is nothing the matter?" he asked anxiously.

She shook her head.

"You are well?" he persisted, dropping his voice.

"Absolutely," she answered. "It is not that. It is a mood. I used to
welcome moods as an escape from the ruts. I suppose I am getting too old
for them now."

He shook his head.

"I wonder," he said, "if the world really knows how young you are."

"Don't," she interrupted, with a shudder, "I have outlived my years."

A motor omnibus and a small victoria came round from the stables. The
party from Thorpe began slowly to assemble upon the steps.

"I am going in the victoria--alone," she said, resting her fingers upon
his arm. "Don't you envy me?"

"I envy the vacant place," he answered sadly. "Isn't this desire for
solitude somewhat of a new departure, though?"

"Perhaps," she admitted. "I am rather looking forward to my drive.
To-night, as we came here, the whole country seemed like a great garden
of perfumes and beautiful places. That is why I had them telephone for a
carriage. There are times when I hate motoring!"

He broke off a cluster of pink roses and placed them in her hands.

"If your thoughts must needs fill the empty seat," he whispered, as he
bent over her for his final adieux, "remember my claims, I beg. Perhaps
my thoughts might even meet yours!"

She laughed under her breath, but the light in his eyes was unanswered.

"Perhaps!" she answered. "It is a night for thoughts and dreams, this.
Even I may drift into sentiment. Good night! Such a charming evening."

The carriage rolled smoothly down the avenue from the great house, over
which she might so easily have reigned, and turned into the road. A few
minutes later the motor-car flashed by. Afterwards there was solitude,
for it was already past midnight. Gilbert Deyes looked thoughtfully out
at the carriage from his place in the car. He had begged--very hard for
him--for that empty seat.

"Of what is it a sign," he asked, "when a woman seeks solitude?"

Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders.

"Wilhelmina is tired of us all, I suppose," she remarked. "She gets like
that sometimes."

"Then of what is it a sign," he persisted, "when a woman tires of
people--like us?"

Lady Peggy yawned.

"In a woman of more primitive instincts," she said, "it would mean an
affair. But Wilhelmina has outgrown all that. She is the only woman of
our acquaintance of whom one would dare to say it, but I honestly
believe that to Wilhelmina men are like puppets. Was she born, I wonder,
with ice in her veins?"

"One wonders," Deyes remarked softly. "A woman like that is always
something of a mystery. By the bye, wasn't there a whisper of something
the year she lived in Florence?"

"People have talked of her, of course," Lady Peggy answered. "In
Florence, a woman without a lover is like a child without toys. To be
virtuous there is the one offence which Society does not pardon."

"I believe," Deyes said, "that a lover would bore Wilhelmina terribly."

"Why the dickens doesn't she marry Leslie?" Austin asked, opening his
eyes for a moment.

"Too obvious," Deyes murmured. "Some day I can't help fancying that she
will give us all a shock."

A mile or more behind, the lady with ice in her veins, leaned back
amongst the cushions of her carriage, drinking in, with a keenness of
appreciation which surprised even herself, the beauties of the still,
hot night. The moon was as yet barely risen. In the half light, the
country and the hills beyond, with their tumbled masses of rock, seemed
unreal--of strange and mysterious outline. More than anything, she was
conscious of a sense of softness. The angles were gone from all the
crude places, it was peace itself which had settled upon the land.
Peace, and a wonderful silence! The birds had long ago ceased to sing,
no breath of wind was abroad to stir the leaves of the trees. All the
cheerful chorus of country sounds which make music throughout the long
summer day had ceased. Once, when a watch-dog barked in the valley far
below, she started. The sound seemed unreal--as though, indeed, it came
from a different world!

The woman in the carriage looked out with steady tireless eyes upon this
visionary land. The breath of the honeysuckle and the pleasant odour of
warm hay seemed to give life to the sensuous joy of the wonderful night.
She herself was a strange being to be abroad in these quiet lanes. Her
only wrap was a long robe of filmy lace, which she had thrown back, so
that her shoulders and neck, with its collar of lustrous pearls, were
bare to the faint breeze, which only their own progress made. Her
gleaming dress of white satin, undecorated, unadorned, fell in delicate
lines about her limbs. No wonder that the only person whom they passed,
a belated farmer, rubbed his eyes and stared at her as at a ghost!

It seemed to her that something of the confusion of this delightful,
half-seen world, had stolen, too, into her thoughts. All day long she
had been conscious of it. There was something alien there, something
wholly unrecognizable. She felt a new light falling upon her life. From
where? She could not tell. Only she knew that its pitiless routine, its
littleness, its frantic struggle for the front place in the great
pleasure-house, seemed suddenly to stand revealed in pitiful colours.
Surely it belonged to some other woman! It could not be she who did
those things and called them life. She, who scarcely knew what nerves
were, was suddenly afraid. Some change was coming upon her; she felt
herself caught in a silent, swift-flowing current. She was being carried
away, and she had not strength to resist. And all the time there was an
undernote of music. That was what made it so strange. The light that was
falling was like summer rain upon the bare, dry places. She was
conscious of a new vitality, a new life, and she feared it. Fancy being
endowed with a new sense, in the midst of an ordinary work-a-day
existence! She felt like that. It was unbelievable, and yet its tumult
was stirring in her heart, was rushing through her veins. Often before,
her tired eyes had rested unmoved upon a country as beautiful as this,
even the mystery of this half light was no new thing. To-night she saw
farther--she felt the throbbing, half-mad delight of the wanderer in the
enchanted land, the pilgrim who hears suddenly the Angelus bell from the
shrine he has journeyed so far to visit. What it meant she could not,
she dared not ask herself. She was content to sit there, her eyes wide
open now, the tired lines smoothed from her forehead, her face like the
face of an eager and beautiful child. No one of her world would have
recognized her, as she travelled that night through the perfumed lanes.

It was when they were within a mile or two of home that an awakening
came. They had turned into a lonely lane leading to one of the back
entrances to Thorpe, and were climbing a somewhat steep hill. Suddenly
the horses plunged and almost stopped. She leaned forward.

"What is it, Johnson?" she asked.

The man touched his hat.

"The 'osses shied, madam, at the light in the trees there. Enough to
frighten 'em, too."

Her eyes followed his pointing finger. A few yards back from the
roadside, a small, steady light was burning amongst the trees.

"What is it?" she asked quickly.

"I can't say, madam," the man answered. "It looks like a lantern or a
candle, or something of that sort."

"There is no cottage there?" she asked.

The man shook his head.

"There's none nearer than the first lodge, madam," he answered. "There's
a bit of a shelter there--Higgs, the keeper, built it for a watchman."

"Can I take care of the horses for a moment, while you go and see what
it is?" she asked.

"They take a bit of holding, madam," the man answered doubtfully. "We
got your message so late at the stables, or I should have had a second
man."

Wilhelmina stepped softly out into the road.

"I will go myself," she said. "I daresay it is nothing. If I call,
though, you must leave the horses and come to me."

She opened the gate, and raising her skirts with both hands, stepped
into the plantation. Her small, white-shod feet fell noiselessly upon
the thick undergrowth; she reached the entrance of the shelter without
making any sound. Cautiously she peeped in. Her eyes grew round with
surprise, her bosom began rapidly to rise and fall. It was Macheson who
lay there, fast asleep! He had fallen asleep evidently whilst reading.
A book was lying by his side, and a covered lantern was burning by his
left shoulder. He was dressed in trousers and shirt; the latter was open
at the throat, showing its outline firm and white, and his regular
breathing. She drew a step nearer, and leaned over him. Curiously
enough, in sleep the boyishness of his face was less apparent. The
straight, firm mouth, rigidly closed, was the mouth of a man; his limbs,
in repose, seemed heavy, even massive, especially the bare arm upon
which his head was resting. His shirt was old, but spotlessly clean; his
socks were neatly darned in many places. He occupied nearly the whole of
the shelter, in fact one foot was protruding through the opening. In the
corner a looking-glass was hanging from a stick, and a few simple toilet
articles were spread upon the ground.

She bent more closely over him, holding her breath, although he showed
no signs of waking. Her senses were in confusion, and there was a mist
before her eyes. An unaccountable impulse was urging her on, driving
her, as it seemed, into incredible folly. Lower and lower she bent, till
her hot breath fell almost upon his cheek. Suddenly he stirred. She
started back. After all he did not open his eyes, but the moment was
gone. She moved backwards towards the opening. She was seized now with
sudden fright. She desired to escape. She was breathless with fear, the
fear of what she might not have escaped. Yet in the midst of it, with
hot trembling fingers she loosened the roses from her dress and dropped
them by his side. Then she fled into the semi-darkness.

The habits of a lifetime die hard. They are proof, as a rule, against
these fits of temporary madness.

Wilhelmina stepped languidly into her carriage, and commanded her
coachman's attention.

"Johnson," she said, "I found a poor man sleeping there. There is no
necessity for him to be disturbed. It is my wish that you do not mention
the occurrence to any one--to any one at all. You understand?"

The man touched his hat. He would have been dull-witted, indeed, if he
had not appreciated the note of finality in his mistress' tone. His
horses sprang forward, and a few minutes later turned into the dark
avenue which led to the house.




CHAPTER VIII

ROSES


Macheson woke with the daylight, stiff, a little tired, and haunted with
the consciousness of disturbing dreams. He sprang to his feet and
stretched himself. Then he saw the roses.

For a moment or two he stared at them incredulously. Then his thoughts
flashed backwards--where or how had he become possessed of them? A few
seconds were sufficient. Some one had been there in the night--most
likely a woman.

His cheeks burned at the thought. He stooped and took them hesitatingly,
reverently, into his hand. To him they represented part of the mystery
of life, the mystery of which he knew so little. Soft and fragrant, the
touch of the drooping blossoms was like fire to his fingers. Had he been
like those predecessors of his in the days of the Puritans, he would
have cast them away, trampled them underfoot; he would have seen in them
only the snare of the Evil One. But to Macheson this would have seemed
almost like sacrilege. They were beautiful and he loved beautiful
things.

He made his way farther into the plantation, to where the trees,
suddenly opening, disclosed a small, disused slate quarry, the water in
which was kept fresh by many streams. Stripping off his clothes, he
plunged into the deep cool depths, swimming round for several minutes on
his back, his face upturned to the dim blue sky. Then he dressed--in the
ugly black suit, for it was Sunday, and made a frugal breakfast, boiling
the water for his coffee over a small spirit-lamp. And all the time he
kept looking at the roses, now fresh with the water which he had
carefully sprinkled over them. Their coming seemed to him to whisper of
beautiful things, they turned his thoughts so easily into that world of
poetry and sentiment in which he was a habitual wanderer. Yet, every now
and then, their direct significance startled, almost alarmed. Some one
had actually been in the place while he slept, and had retreated without
disturbing him. Roses do not drop from the sky, and of gardens there
were none close at hand. Was it one of the village girls, who had seen
him that afternoon? His cheeks reddened at the thought. Perhaps he had
better leave his shelter. Another time if she came she might not steal
away so quietly. Scandal would injure his work. He must run no risks.
Deep down in his heart he thrust that other, that impossibly sweet
thought. He would not suffer his mind to dwell upon it.

After breakfast he walked for an hour or so across the hills, watching
the early mists roll away in the valleys, and the sunlight settle down
upon the land. It was a morning of silence, this--that peculiar,
mysterious silence which only the first day of the week seems to bring.
The fields were empty of toilers, the harvest was stayed. From its
far-away nest amongst the hills, he could just hear, carried on the
bosom of a favouring breeze, the single note of a monastery bell, whose
harshness not even distance, or its pleasant journey across the open
country, could modify. Macheson listened to it for a moment, and sat
down upon a rock on the topmost pinnacle of the hills he was climbing.

Below him, the country stretched like a piece of brilliant patchwork.
Thorpe, with its many chimneys and stately avenues, and the village
hidden by a grove of elms, was like a cool oasis in the midst of the
landscape. Behind, the hills ran rockier and wilder, culminating in a
bleak stretch of country, in the middle of which was the monastery.
Macheson looked downwards at Thorpe, with the faint clang of that single
bell in his ears. The frown on his forehead deepened as the rush of
thoughts took insistent hold of him.

For a young man blessed with vigorous health, free from all material
anxieties, and with the world before him, Macheson found life an
uncommonly serious matter. Only a few years ago, he had left the
University with a brilliant degree, a splendid athletic record, and a
host of friends. What to do with his life! That was the problem which
pressingly confronted him. He recognized in himself certain gifts
inevitably to be considered in this choice. He was possessed of a deep
religious sense, an immense sympathy for his fellows, and a passion for
the beautiful in life, from which the physical side was by no means
absent.

How to find a career which would satisfy such varying qualities! A life
of pleasure, unless it were shared by his fellows, did not appeal to him
at all; personal ambition he was destitute of; his religion, he was very
well aware, was not the sort which would enable him to enter with any
prospect of happiness any of the established churches. For a time he had
travelled, and had come back with only one definite idea in his mind.
Chance had brought him, on his return, into contact with two young men
of somewhat similar tastes. A conversation between them one night had
given a certain definiteness to his aims. He recalled it to himself as
he sat looking down at the thin blue line of smoke rising from the
chimneys of Thorpe.

"To use one's life for others," he had repeated thoughtfully--it was the
enthusiast of the party who had spoken--"but how?"

"Teach them to avoid like filth the ugly things of life--help them in
their search for the things beautiful."

"What are the things beautiful?" he had asked. "Don't they mean
something different to every man?"

Holderness had lifted his beautiful head--the boy with whom he had
played at school--the friend of his younger life.

"The Christian morality," he had answered.

Macheson had been surprised.

"But you----" he said, "you don't believe anything."

"It is not necessary," Holderness had answered. "It is a matter of the
intelligence. As an artist, if I might dare to call myself one, I say
that the Christian life, if honestly lived, is the most beautiful thing
of all the ages."

Macheson walked down to the village with the memory of those words still
in his brain. The bell was ringing for service from the queer,
ivy-covered church, the villagers were coming down the lane in little
groups. Macheson found himself one of a small knot of people, who stood
reverently on one side, with doffed hats, just by the wooden porch. He
looked up, suddenly realizing the cause.

A small vehicle, something between a bath-chair and a miniature
carriage, drawn by a fat, sleek pony, was turning into the lane from one
of the splendid avenues which led to the house. A boy led the pony, a
footman marched behind. Wilhelmina, in a plain white muslin dress and a
black hat, was slowly preparing to descend. She smiled languidly, but
pleasantly enough, at the line of curtseying women and men with doffed
hats. The note of feudalism which their almost reverential attitudes
suggested appealed irresistibly to Macheson's sense of humour. He, too,
formed one of them; he, too, doffed his hat. His greeting, however, was
different. Her eyes swept by him unseeing, his pleasant "Good morning"
was unheeded. She even touched her skirt with her fingers, as though
afraid lest it might brush against him in passing. With tired, graceful
footsteps, she passed into the cool church, leaving him to admire
against his will the slim perfection of her figure, the wonderful
carriage of her small but perfect head.

He followed with the others presently, and found a single seat close to
the door. The service began almost at once, a very beautiful service in
its way, for the organ, a present from the lady of the manor, was
perfectly played, and the preacher's voice was clear and as sweet as a
boy's. Macheson, however, was nervous and ill at ease. From the open
door he heard the soft whispering of the west wind--for the first time
in his life he found the simple but dignified ritual unconvincing. He
was haunted by the sense of some impending disaster. When the prayers
came, he fell on his knees and remained there! Even then he could not
collect himself! He was praying to an unknown God for protection against
some nameless evil! He knew quite well that the words he muttered were
vain words. Through the stained glass windows, the sunlight fell in a
subdued golden stream upon the glowing hair, the gracefully bent head of
the woman who sat alone in the deep square pew. She, too, seemed to be
praying. Macheson got up and softly, but abruptly, stole from the
church.

Up into the hills, as far away, as high up as possible! A day of sabbath
calm, this! Macheson, with the fire in his veins and a sharp pain in his
side, climbed as a man possessed. He, too, was fleeing from the unknown.
He was many miles away when down in the valley at Thorpe some one spoke
of him.

"By the bye," Gilbert Deyes remarked, looking across the luncheon table
at his hostess, "when does this athletic young missioner of yours begin
his work of regeneration?"

Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows.

"To-morrow evening, I believe," she answered. "He is going to speak at
the cross-roads. I fancy that his audience will consist chiefly of the
children, and Mrs. Adnith's chickens."

"Can't understand," Austin remarked, "why a chap who can play cricket
like that--he did lay on to 'em, too--can be such a crank!"

"He is very young," Wilhelmina remarked composedly, "and I fancy that he
must be a little mad. I hope that Thorpe will teach him a lesson. He
needs it."

"You do not anticipate then," Deyes remarked, "that his labours here
will be crowned with success?"

"He won't get a soul to hear him," Stephen Hurd replied confidently.
"The villagers all know what Miss Thorpe-Hatton thinks of his coming
here. It will be quite sufficient."

Wilhelmina lit a cigarette and rose to her feet.

"Let us hope so," she remarked drily. "Please remember, all of you, that
this is the Palace of Ease! Do exactly what you like, all of you, till
five o'clock. I shall be ready for bridge then."

Lady Peggy rose briskly.

"No doubt about what I shall do," she remarked. "I'm going to bed."

Deyes smiled.

"I," he said, "shall spend the afternoon in the rose garden. I
need--development."

Wilhelmina looked at him questioningly.

"Please don't be inexplicable," she begged. "It is too hot."

"Roses and sentiment," he declared, "are supposed to go together. I want
to grow into accord with my surroundings."

Wilhelmina was silent for a moment.

"If you have found sentiment here," she said carelessly, "you must have
dug deep."

"On the contrary," he answered, "I have scarcely scratched the surface!"

Stephen Hurd looked uneasily from Deyes to his hostess. Never altogether
comfortable, although eager to accept the most casually offered
invitation to Thorpe, he had always the idea that the most commonplace
remark contained an innuendo purposely concealed from him.

"Mr. Deyes," he remarked, "looks mysterious."

Deyes glanced at him through his eyeglass.

"It is a subtle neighbourhood," he said. "By the bye, Mr. Hurd, have you
ever seen the rose gardens at Carrow?"

"Never," Hurd replied enviously. "I have heard that they are very
beautiful."

Wilhelmina passed out.

"The gardens are beautiful," she said, looking back, "but the roses are
like all other roses, they fade quickly. Till five o'clock, all of you!"




CHAPTER IX

SUMMER LIGHTNING


Stephen Hurd walked into the room which he and his father shared as a
sanctum, half office, half study. Mr. Hurd, senior, was attired in his
conventional Sabbath garb, the same black coat of hard, dull material,
and dark grey trousers, in which he had attended church for more years
than many of the villagers could remember. Stephen, on the other hand,
was attired in evening clothes of the latest cut. His white waistcoat
had come from a London tailor, and his white tie had cost him
considerable pains. His father looked him over with expressionless face.

"You are going to the House again, Stephen?" he asked calmly.

"I am asked to dine there, father," he answered. "Sorry to leave you
alone."

"I have no objection to being alone," Mr. Hurd answered. "I think that
you know that. You lunched there, didn't you?"

Stephen nodded.

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton asked me as we came out of church," he answered.

"You play cards?"

The directness of the question allowed of no evasion. Stephen flushed as
he answered.

"They play bridge. I may be asked to join. It--is a sort of whist, you
know."

"So I understand," the older man remarked. "I have no remark to make
concerning that. Manners change, I suppose, with the generations. You
are young and I am old. I have never sought to impose my prejudices upon
you. You have seen more of the world than I ever did. Perhaps you have
found wisdom there."

Stephen was not at his ease.

"I don't know about that, sir," he answered. "Of course, Sunday isn't
kept so strictly as it used to be. I like a quiet day myself, but it's
pretty dull here usually, and I didn't think it would be wise to refuse
an invitation from Miss Thorpe-Hatton."

"Perhaps not," Mr. Hurd answered. "On the other hand, I might remind you
that during the forty years during which I have been agent to this
estate I have never accepted--beyond a glass of wine--the hospitality
offered to me by Miss Thorpe-Hatton's father and grandfather, and by the
young lady herself. It is not according to my idea of the fitness of
things. I am a servant of the owner of these estates. I prefer to
discharge my duties honestly and capably--as a servant."

Stephen frowned at his reflection in the glass. He did not feel in the
least like a servant.

"That's rather an old-fashioned view, dad," he declared.

"It may be," his father answered. "In any case, I do not seek to impose
it upon you. You are free to come and go according to your judgment.
But you are young, and I cannot see you expose yourself to trouble
without some warning. Miss Thorpe-Hatton is not a lady whom it is wise
for you to see too much of."

The directness of this speech took the young man aback.

"I--she seems very pleasant and gracious," he faltered.

"Not even to you," his father continued gravely, "can I betray
the knowledge of such things as have come under my notice as the
servant of these estates and this young lady. Her father was a fine,
self-respecting gentleman, as all the Thorpe-Hattons have been; her
mother came from a noble, but degenerate, French family. I, who live
here a life without change, who mark time for the years and watch the
striplings become old men, see many things, and see them truthfully. The
evil seed of her mother's family is in this young woman's blood. She
lives without a chaperon, without companionship, as she pleases--and to
please herself only."

Stephen frowned irritably. His father's cold, measured words were like
drops of ice.

"But, father," he protested, "she is a leader of Society, she goes to
Court and you see her name at the very best places. If there was
anything wrong about her, she wouldn't be received like that."

"I know nothing about Society or its requirements," his father answered.
"She has brains and wealth, and she is a woman. Therefore, I suppose the
world is on her side. I have said all that I wish to say. You can
perhaps conjecture the reason of my speaking at all."

"She wouldn't take the trouble to make a fool of me," Stephen answered
bitterly. "I just happen to make up a number, that's all."

"I am glad that you understand the young lady so well," his father
answered. "Before you go, will you be good enough to pass me the Bible
and my spectacles, and let Mary know that Mr. Stuart will be in to
supper with me."

Stephen obeyed in silence. He remembered the time, not so long ago, when
he would have been required to seat himself on the opposite side of the
fireplace, with a smaller Bible in his hand, and read word for word with
his father. His mind went back to those days as he walked slowly up the
great grass-grown avenue to the house, picking his steps carefully, lest
he should mar the brilliancy of his well-polished patent-leather boots.
He compared that old time curiously with the evening which was now
before him; the round table drawn into the midst of the splendid
dining-room, an oasis of exquisitely shaded light and colour; Lady
Peggy with her daring toilette and beautiful white shoulders; Deyes
with his world-worn face and flippant tongue; the mistress of Thorpe
herself, more subdued, perhaps, in dress and speech, and yet with the
ever-present mystery of eyes and lips wherein was always the fascination
of the unknown. More than ever that night Stephen Hurd felt himself to
be her helpless slave. All his former amours seemed suddenly empty and
vulgar things. She came late into the drawing-room, her greeting was as
carelessly kind as usual, there was no perceptible difference in her
manner of speech. Yet his observation of her was so intense that he
found readily the signs of some subtle, indefinable change, a change
which began with her toilette, and ended--ah! as yet there was no
ending. Her gown of soft white silk was daring as a French modiste could
make it, but its simplicity was almost nun-like. She wore a string of
pearls, no earrings, no rings, and her hair was arranged low down,
almost like a schoolgirl's. She had more colour than usual, a temporary
restlessness seemed to have taken the place of her customary easy
languor. What did it mean? he asked himself breathlessly. Was it Deyes?
Impossible, for Deyes himself was a watcher, a thin smile parting
sometimes the close set lips of his white, mask-like face. After all,
how hopelessly at sea he was! He knew nothing of her life, of which
these few days at Thorpe were merely an interlude. She might have lovers
by the score of whom he knew nothing. He was vain, but he was not wholly
a fool.

She talked more than usual at dinner-time, but afterwards she spoke of a
headache, and sat on the window-seat of the library, a cigarette between
her lips, her eyes half closed. When the bridge table was laid out, she
turned her head languidly.

"I will come in in the next rubber," she said. "You four can start."

They obeyed her, of course, but Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders
slightly. She had no fancy for Stephen's bridge, and they cut together.
Wilhelmina waited until the soft fall of the cards had ceased, and the
hands were being examined. Then, with a graceful movement, she slipped
out of the window and away into the shadows. No signs of her headache
were left. She passed swiftly along a narrow path, bordered by gigantic
shrubs, until she reached a small iron gate. Here for the first time she
paused.

For several moments she listened. There was no sound from the great
house, whose outline she could barely see but whose long row of lights
stretched out behind her. She turned her head and looked along the
grass-grown lane beyond the gate. There was no one in sight--no sound.
She lifted the latch and passed through.

For a summer night it was unusually dark. All day the heat had been
almost tropical, and now the sky was clouded over, and a south wind, dry
and unrefreshing, was moving against the tall elms. Every few seconds
the heavens were ablaze with summer lightning; once the breathless
silence was broken by a low rumble of distant thunder.

She reached the end of the lane. Before her, another gate led out on to
a grass-covered hill, strewn with fragments of rocks. She paused for a
moment and looked backwards. She was suddenly conscious that her heart
was beating fast; the piquant sense of adventure with which she had
started had given place to a rarer and more exciting turmoil of the
senses. Her breath was coming short, as though she had been running.

The silence seemed more complete than ever. She lifted her foot and felt
the white satin slipper. It was perfectly dry, there was no dew, and as
yet no rain had fallen. She lifted the latch of the gate and passed
through.

The footpath skirted the side of a plantation, and she followed it
closely, keeping under the shelter of the hedge. Every now and then a
rabbit started up almost from under her feet, and rushed into the hedge.
The spinney itself seemed alive with birds and animals, startled by her
light footsteps in the shelter which they had sought, disturbed too by
their instinct of the coming storm. Her footsteps grew swifter. She was
committed now to her enterprise, vague though it had seemed to her. She
passed through a second gate into a ragged wood, and along a winding
path into a country road. She turned slowly up the hill. Her breath was
coming faster than ever now. What folly!--transcendental!--exquisite!
Her footsteps grew slower. She kept to the side of the hedge, raising
her skirts a little, for the grass was long. A few yards farther was the
gate. The soft swish of her silken draperies as she stole along, became
a clearly recognizable sound against the background of intense silence.
Macheson had been leaning against a tree just inside. He opened the
gate. She stepped almost into his arms. Her white face was suddenly
illuminated by the soft blaze of summer lightning which poured from the
sky. He had no time to move, to realize. He felt her hands upon his
cheek, his face drawn downwards, her lips, soft and burning, pressed
against his for one long, exquisite second. And then--the darkness once
more and his arms were empty.




CHAPTER X

THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR


With upraised skirts, and feet that flashed like silver across the turf
and amongst the bracken, Wilhelmina flew homewards. Once more her heart
was like the heart of a girl. Her breath came in little sobs mingled
with laughter, the ground beneath her feet was buoyant as the clouds.
She had no fear of being pursued--least of anything in the world did she
desire it. The passion of a woman is controlled always by her sentiment.
It seemed to her that that breathless episode was in itself an epic, she
would not for worlds have added to it, have altered it in any shape or
form. A moment's lingering might so easily have spoilt everything. Had
he attempted to play either the prude or the Lothario, the delicate
flavour would have passed away from the adventure, which had set her
heart beating once more, and sent the blood singing so sweetly through
her veins. So she sped through the darkness, leaving fragments of lace
upon the thorns, like some beautiful bird, escaped from long captivity,
rushing through a strange world.

Before she reached the grounds the storm came. There was a crash of
thunder, which seemed to tear apart the heavens above, and then the big
raindrops began to fall upon her bare shoulders and her clothes as light
and airy as butterfly's wings. She abandoned herself to the ruin of a
Paquin gown without a thought of regret; she even laughed softly with
pleasure as she lifted her burning face to the cool sweet deluge, and
lessened her pace in the avenue, walking with her hands behind her and
her head still upraised. It was a wonderful night, this. She had found
something of her lost girlhood.

She reached the house at last, and stole through the hall like a truant
schoolgirl. Her shoes were nothing but pulp; her dress clung to her
limbs like a grey, sea-soaked bathing-costume; everywhere on the oak
floor and splendid rugs she left a trail of wet. On tiptoe she stole up
the stairs, looking guiltily around, yet with demure laughter in her
glowing eyes. She met only one amazed servant, whom she dispatched at
once for her own maid. In the bath-room she began to strip off her
clothes, even before Hortense, who loved her, could effect a breathless
entrance.

"Eh! Madame, Madame!" the girl exclaimed, with uplifted hands.

Wilhelmina stopped her, laughing.

"It's all right, Hortense," she exclaimed gaily. "I was out in the
grounds, and got caught in the storm. Turn on the hot water and cut
these laces--so!"

To Hortense the affair was a tragedy. Her mistress' indifference could
not lessen it.

"Madame," she declared, "the gown is ruined--a divine creation. Madame
has never looked so well in anything else."

"Then I am glad I wore it to-night," was the astonishing reply. "Quick,
quick, quick, Hortense! Get me into the bath, and bring me some wine and
biscuits. I am hungry. I don't think I could have eaten any dinner."

Hortense worked with nimble fingers, but her eyes at every opportunity
were studying her mistress' face. Was it the English rain which could
soften and beautify like this? Madame was brilliant--and so young! Such
a colour! Such a fire in the eyes! Madame laughed as she thrust her from
the room.

"The wine, Hortense, and the biscuits--no sandwiches! I die of hunger.
And send word to the library that I have been caught in the storm, and
must change my clothes, but shall be down presently. So!"

       *       *       *       *       *

She found them, an hour later, just finishing a rubber. Their languid
post-mortem upon a curiously played hand was broken off upon her
entrance. They made remarks about the storm and her ill-luck--had she
been far from shelter? was she not terrified by the lightning? Lady
Peggy remembered her gown. Deyes alone was silent. She felt him watching
her all the time, taking cold note of her brilliant colour, the softer
light in her eyes. She felt that he saw her as she was--a woman suddenly
set free, even though for a few short hours. She had broken away from
them all, and she gloried in it.

She played bridge later--brilliantly as usual, and with success. Then
she leaned back in her chair and faced them all.

"Dear guests," she murmured, "you remember the condition, the only
condition upon which we bestowed our company upon one another in this
benighted place. You remember it was agreed that when you were bored,
you left without excuse or any foolish apologies. The same to apply to
your hostess."

"My dear Wilhelmina," Lady Peggy exclaimed, "I know what you're going to
say, and I won't go! I'm not due anywhere till the thirteenth. I won't
be stranded."

Wilhelmina laughed.

"You foolish woman!" she exclaimed. "Who wants you to go? You shall be
chatelaine--play hostess and fill the place if you like. Only you
mustn't have Leslie over more than twice a week."

"You are going to desert us?" Deyes asked coolly.

"It was in the bond, wasn't it?" she answered. "Peggy will look after
you all, I am sure."

"You mean that you are going away, to leave Thorpe?" Stephen Hurd asked
abruptly.

She turned her head to look at him. He was sitting a little outside the
circle--an attitude typical, perhaps, of his position there. The change
in her tone was slight indeed, but it was sufficient.

"I am thinking of it," she answered. "You, Gilbert, and Captain Austin
can find some men to shoot, no doubt. Ask any one you like. Peggy will
see about some women for you. I draw the line at that red-haired
Egremont woman. Anybody else!"

"This is a blow," Deyes remarked, "but it was in the bond. Nothing will
move me from here till the seventeenth--unless your _chef_ should leave.
Do we meet in Marienbad?"

"I am not sure," Wilhelmina answered, playing idly with the cards. "I
feel that my system requires something more soothing."

"I hate them all--those German baths," Lady Peggy declared. "Ridiculous
places every one of them."

"After all, you see," Wilhelmina declared, "illness of any sort is a
species of uncleanliness. I think I should like to go somewhere where
people are healthy, or at least not so disgustingly frank about their
livers."

"Why not stay here?" Stephen ventured to suggest. "I doubt whether any
one in Thorpe knows what a liver is."

"'Inutile!'" Lady Peggy exclaimed. "Wilhelmina has the 'wander fever.' I
can see it in her face. Is it the thunder, I wonder?"

Deyes walked to the window and threw it open. The storm was over, but
the rain was still falling, a soft steady downpour. The cooler air which
swept into the room was almost faint with the delicious perfume of
flowers and shrubs bathed in the refreshing downpour.

"I think," he said, "that there is some magic abroad to-night. Did you
meet Lucifer walking in the rose garden?" he asked, turning slightly
towards his hostess. "The storm may have brought him--even here!"

"Neither Lucifer nor any other of his princely fellows," she answered.
"The only demon is here,"--she touched her bosom lightly--"the demon of
unrest. It is not I alone who am born with the wanderer's curse! There
are many of us, you know."

He shook his head.

"You have not the writing in your face," he said. "I do not believe that
you are one of the accursed at all. To-night----"

She was standing by his side now, looking out into the velvety darkness.
Her eyes challenged his.

"Well! To-night?"

"To-night you have the look of one who has found what she has sought for
for a long time. This sounds bald, but it is as near to truth as I can
get."

She was silent for a moment. She stood by his side listening to the soft
constant patter of the rain, the far-away rumblings of the dying storm.

"One has moods," she murmured.

"Heaven forbid that a woman should be without them!" he answered.

"Do you ever feel as though something were going to happen?" she asked
suddenly.

"Often," he answered; "but nothing ever does!"

Lady Peggy came yawning over to them.

"My dear," she said, "I feel it in my very bones. I firmly believe that
something is going to happen to every one of us. I have a most
mysterious pricking about my left elbow!"

"To every one of us?" Stephen Hurd asked, idly enough.

"To every one of us!" she answered. "To you, even, who live in Thorpe.
Remember my words when you get home to-night, or when you wake in the
morning. As for you, Wilhelmina, I am not at all sure that you have not
already met with your adventure."

Deyes lit a cigarette.

"Let us remember this," he declared. "In a week's time we will compare
notes."

Stephen Hurd stood up to take his leave.

"You are really going--soon?" he asked, as he bent over her carelessly
offered hand.

"As soon as I can decide where to go to," she answered.

"Can I give my father any message? Would you care to see him to-morrow
morning?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"It is not necessary," she answered.

He made his adieux reluctantly. Somehow he felt that the night had not
been a success. She was going away. Very likely he would not see her
again. The great house and all its glories would be closed to him. To do
him justice, he thought of that less than the casual manner of her
farewell. His vanity was deeply wounded. She had begun by being so
gracious--no wonder that he had lost his head a little. He thought over
the events of the last few days. Something had occurred to alter her.
Could he have offended in any way?

He walked dejectedly home, heedless of the sodden path and wet grass. A
light was still burning in the study. He hesitated for a moment, and
then, turning the handle, entered.

"You're late, father," he remarked, going towards the cupboard to select
a pipe.

There was no answer. The still figure in the chair never moved.
Something in the silence struck Stephen as ominous. He turned abruptly
round, and for the first time noticed the condition of the room. A chair
was overturned, a vase of flowers spilt upon the table, the low window,
from which one stepped almost into the village street, was wide open.
The desk in front of the motionless figure was littered all over with
papers in wild confusion. Stephen, with a low cry of horror, crossed the
room and laid his hand upon his father's shoulder. He tried to speak to
him, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew very well that there
could be no reply. His father was sitting dead in his chair.




CHAPTER XI

THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS


Out amongst the broken fragments of the storm, on the hill-top and down
the rain-drenched lane, Macheson sought in vain by physical exertion to
still the fever which burned in his veins. Nothing he could do was able
to disturb that wonderful memory, to lessen for an instant the
significance of those few amazing seconds. The world of women, all the
lighter and quieter joys of life, he had, with the fierce asceticism of
the young reformer, thrust so resolutely behind him. But he had never
imagined anything like this! Its unexpectedness had swept him off his
feet. The memory of it was most delicious torture!

Sleep?--he dared not think of it. Who could sleep with such a fire in
his blood as this? He heard the storm die away, thunder and wind and
rain melted into the deep stillness of midnight. A dim moon shone behind
a veil of mist. The dripping of rain from the trees alone remained. Then
he heard a footstep coming down the lane. His first wild thought was
that she had returned. His eyes burned their way through the darkness.
Soon he saw that it was a man who came unsteadily, but swiftly, down
the roadway.

Macheson leaned over the gate. He would have preferred not to disclose
himself, but as the man passed, he was stricken with a sudden
consciousness that for him the events of the night were not yet over.
This was no villager; he had not even the appearance of an Englishman.
He was short and inclined to be thick-set, his coat collar was turned
up, and a tweed cap was drawn down to his eyes. He walked with uneven
footsteps and muttered to himself words that sounded like words of
prayer, only they were in some foreign language. Macheson accosted him.

"Hullo!" he said. "Have you lost your way?"

The man cried out and then stood still, trembling on the roadside. He
turned a white, scared face to where Macheson was leaning against the
gate.

"Who is that?" he cried. "What do you want with me?"

Macheson stepped into the lane.

"Nothing at all," he answered reassuringly. "I simply thought that you
might have lost your way. These are lonely parts."

The newcomer drew a step nearer. He displayed a small ragged beard, a
terror-stricken face, and narrow, very bright eyes. His black clothes
were soaked and splashed with mud.

"I want a railway station," he said rapidly. "Where is the nearest?"

Macheson pointed into the valley.

"Just where you see that light burning," he answered, "but there will
be no trains till the morning."

"Then I must walk," the man declared feverishly. "How far is it to
Nottingham?"

"Twenty-five miles," Macheson answered.

"Too far! And Leicester?"

"Twelve, perhaps! But you are walking in the wrong direction."

The man turned swiftly round.

"Point towards Leicester," he said. "I shall find my way."

Macheson pointed across the trees.

"You can't miss it," he declared. "Climb the hill till you get to a road
with telegraph wires. Turn to the left, and you will walk into
Leicester."

For some reason the stranger seemed to be occupied in looking earnestly
into Macheson's face.

"What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly.

"I am close to where I am staying," Macheson answered. "Just in the wood
there."

The man took a quick step forwards and then reeled. His hand flew to his
side. He was attacked by sudden faintness and would have fallen, but for
Macheson's outstretched arm.

"God!" he muttered, "it is finished."

He was obviously on the verge of a collapse. Macheson dragged him into
the shelter and poured brandy between his teeth. He revived a little and
tried to rise.

"I must go on," he cried. "I dare not stay here."

The terror in his face was unmistakable. Macheson looked at him gravely.

"You had better stay where you are till morning," he said. "You are not
in a fit state to travel."

The man had raised himself upon one arm. He looked wildly about him.

"Where am I?" he demanded. "What is this place?"

"It is a gamekeeper's shelter," Macheson answered, "which I am making
use of for a few days. You are welcome to stay here until the morning."

"I must go on," the man moaned. "I am afraid."

Almost as he uttered the words he fell back, and went off immediately
into an uneasy doze. Macheson threw his remaining rug over the prostrate
figure, and, lighting his pipe, strolled out into the spinney. The man's
coming filled him with a vague sense of trouble. He seemed so utterly
out of keeping with the place, he represented an alien and undesirable
note--a note almost of tragedy. All the time in his broken sleep he was
muttering to himself. Once or twice he cried out in terror, once
especially--Macheson turned round to find him sitting up on the rug, his
brown eyes full of wild fear, and the perspiration running down his
face. A stream of broken words flowed from his lips. Macheson thrust him
back on the rug.

"Go to sleep," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of."

After that the man slept more soundly. Macheson himself dozed for an
hour until he was awakened by the calling of the birds. Directly he
opened his eyes he knew that something had happened to him. It was not
only the music of the birds--there was a strange new music stirring in
his heart. The pearly light in the eastern sky had never seemed so
beautiful; never, surely, had the sunlight streamed down upon so perfect
a corner of the earth. And then, with a quick rush of blood to his
cheeks, he remembered what it was that had so changed the world. He
lived again through that bewildering moment, again he felt the delicious
warmth of her presence, the touch of her hair as it had brushed his
cheek, the soft passionate pressure of her lips against his. It was
like an episode from a fairy story, there was something so delicate,
so altogether fanciful in that flying visit. Something, too, so
unbelievable when he thought of her as the mistress of Thorpe, the
languid, insolent woman of the world who had treated him so coldly.

Then a movement behind reminded him of his strange visitor. He turned
round. The man was already on his feet. He looked better for his sleep,
but the wild look was still in his eyes.

"I must go," he said. "I ought to have started before. Thank you for
your shelter."

Macheson reached out for his spirit lamp.

"Wait a few minutes," he said, "and I will have some coffee ready."

The man hesitated. He looked sorely in need of something of the sort. As
he came to the opening of the shelter, the trembling seized him again.
He looked furtively out as though he feared the daylight. The sunshine
and the bright open day seemed to terrify him.

"I ought to have gone on last night," he muttered. "I must----"

He broke off his sentence. Macheson, too, had turned his head to listen.

"What is that?" he asked sharply.

"The baying of dogs," Macheson answered.

"Dogs! What dogs?" he demanded.

"Colonel Harvey's bloodhounds!"

The man's face was ashen now to the lips. He clutched Macheson's arm
frantically.

"They are after me!" he exclaimed. "Where can I hide? Tell me quick!"

Macheson looked at him gravely.

"What have you been doing?" he asked. "They do not bring bloodhounds out
for nothing."

"I have hurt a man down in the village," was the terrified answer. "I
didn't mean to--no! I swear that I did not mean to. I went to his house
and I asked him for money. I had a right to it! And I asked him to tell
me where--but oh! you would not understand. Listen! I swear to you that
I did not mean to hurt him. Why should I? He was old, and I think he
fainted. God! do you hear that?"

He clung to Macheson in a frenzy. The deep baying of the dogs was coming
nearer and nearer.

"Listen," Macheson said, "the dogs will not be allowed to hurt you, but
if you are loose I promise that I will protect you from them. You had
better wait here with me."

The man fell upon his knees.

"Sir," he begged, "I am innocent of everything except a blow struck in
anger. Help me to escape, I implore you. There are others who will
suffer--if anything happens to me."

"The law is just," Macheson answered. "You will suffer nothing except
justice."

"I want mercy, not justice," the man sobbed. "For the love of God, help
me!"

Macheson hesitated. Again the early morning stillness was broken by that
hoarse, terrifying sound. His sporting instincts were aroused. He had
small sympathy with the use of such means against human beings.

"I will give you a chance," he said. "Remember it is nothing more.
Follow me!"

He led the way to the slate pit.

"Can you swim?" he asked.

"Yes!" the man answered.

"This is where I take my morning bath," Macheson said. "You will see
that though you can scramble down and dive in, it is too precipitous to
get out. Therefore, I have fixed up a rope on the other side--it goes
through those bushes, and is attached to the trunk of a tree beneath the
bracken. If you swim across, you can pull yourself out of the water and
hide just above the water in the bushes. There is just a chance that you
may escape observation."

Already he was on his way down, but Macheson stopped him.

"I shall leave a suit of dry clothes in the shelter," he said. "If they
should give up the chase you are welcome to them. Now you had better
dive. They are in the spinney."

The man went in, after the fashion of a practised diver. Macheson turned
round and retraced his steps towards his temporary dwelling-house.




CHAPTER XII

RETREAT


Out in the lane a motley little group of men were standing. Stephen Hurd
was in the act of springing off his brown cob. The dogs were already in
the shelter.

"What the devil are you doing here?" Hurd asked, as Macheson strode
through the undergrowth.

Macheson pointed to the shelter.

"I could find no other lodging," he answered, "thanks to circumstances
of which you are aware."

Stephen Hurd kicked the gate open. He was pale and there were deep lines
under his eyes. He was still in his evening clothes, except for a rough
tweed coat, but his white tie was hanging loose, and his patent-leather
shoes were splashed with mud.

"We are chasing a man," he said. "Have you seen him?"

"I have," Macheson answered. "What has he done?"

There was a momentary silence. Hurd spoke with a sob.

"Murdered--my father!"

Macheson was shocked.

"You mean--that Mr. Hurd is dead?" he asked, in an awe-stricken tone.

"Dead!" the young man answered with a sob. "Killed in his chair!"

The dogs came out of the shelter. They turned towards the interior of
the spinney. The little crowd came streaming through the gate.

"I gave shelter to a man who admitted that he was in trouble," he said
gravely. "He heard the dogs and he was terrified. He has jumped into the
slate quarry."

The dogs were on the trail now. They followed them to the edge of the
quarry. Here the bushes were trodden down, a man's cap was hanging on
one close to the bottom. They all peered over into the still water,
unnaturally black. Amies, the head keeper, raised his head.

"It's twenty-five feet deep--some say forty, and a sheer drop," he
declared impressively. "We'll have to drag it for the body."

"Best take the dogs round the other side, and make sure he ain't got out
again," one of the crowd suggested.

Amies pointed scornfully to the precipitous side. Such a feat was
clearly impossible. Nevertheless the dogs were taken round. For a few
minutes they were uneasy, but eventually they returned to the spot from
which their intended victim had dived. Every one was peering down into
the dark water as though fascinated.

"I thought as they come up once or twice before they were drownded,"
somebody remarked.

"Not unless they want to," another answered. "This chap wasn't too
anxious. He knew his goose was cooked."

The dogs were muzzled and led away. One by one the labourers and
servants dispersed. Two of them started off to telegraph for a drag.
Stephen Hurd was one of the last to depart.

"I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am for you," Macheson
declared earnestly. "Such a tragedy in a village like Thorpe seems
almost incredible. I suppose it was a case of attempted robbery?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Hurd answered. "There was plenty of money left
untouched, and I can't find that there is any short. The man arrived
after the maids had gone to bed, but they heard him knock at the door,
and heard my father let him in."

"They didn't hear any struggle then?" Macheson asked.

Hurd shook his head.

"There was only one blow upon his head," he answered. "Graikson says
that death was probably through shock."

Macheson felt curiously relieved.

"The man did not go there as a murderer then," he remarked. "Perhaps not
even as a thief. There may have been a quarrel."

"He killed him, anyhow," Hurd said brokenly. "What time was it when you
first saw him?"

"About midnight, I should think," Macheson answered. "He came down the
lane like a drunken man."

"What was he like?" Hurd asked.

"Small, and I should say a foreigner," Macheson answered. "He spoke
English perfectly, but there was an accent, and when he was asleep he
talked to himself in a language which, to the best of my belief, I have
never heard before in my life."

"A foreigner?" Hurd muttered. "You are sure of that?"

"Quite," Macheson answered. "There could be no mistake about it."

Stephen Hurd mounted his cob and turned its head towards home. He asked
no more questions; he seemed, if possible, graver than ever. Before he
started, however, he pointed with his whip towards the shelter.

"You've no right there, you know," he said. "We can't allow it. You must
clear out at once."

"Very well," Macheson answered. "I'm trespassing, of course, but one
must sleep somewhere."

"There is no necessity for you to remain in Thorpe at all," Hurd said.
"I think, in the circumstances, the best thing you can do is to go."

"In the circumstances!" The irony of the phrase struck home. What did
this young man know of the circumstances? There were reasons now,
indeed, why he should fly from Thorpe as from a place stricken with the
pestilence. But no other soul in this world could know of those reasons
save himself--and she.

"I should not, of course, think of holding my services at present,"
Macheson said gravely. "If you think it would be better, I will go
away."

Stephen Hurd nodded as he cantered off.

"I am glad to hear you say so," he declared shortly. "Go and preach in
the towns where this scum is reared. There's plenty of work for
missioners there."

Macheson stood still until the young man on his pony had disappeared.
Then he turned round and walked slowly back towards the slate quarry.
The black waters remained smooth and unrippled; there was no sound of
human movement anywhere. In the adjoining field a harvesting-machine was
at work; in the spinney itself the rabbits, disturbed last night by the
storm, were scurrying about more frolicsome than usual; a solitary
thrush was whistling in the background. The sunlight lay in crooked
beams about the undergrowth, a gentle west breeze was just stirring the
foliage overhead. There was nothing in the air to suggest in any way the
strange note of tragedy which the coming of this hunted man had
nevertheless brought.

Macheson was turning away when a slight disturbance in the undergrowth
on the other side of the quarry attracted his notice. He stood still and
watched the spot. The bracken was shaking slightly--then the sound of a
dry twig, suddenly snapped! For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned on
his heel and walked abruptly away. With almost feverish haste, he flung
his few belongings into his portmanteau, leaving in the shelter his
flask, a suit of clothes, and several trifles. Five minutes later he was
on his way down the hill, with his bag upon his shoulder and his face
set southwards.




CHAPTER XIII

A CREATURE OF IMPULSE


Up the broad avenue to the great house of Thorpe, Stephen Hurd slowly
made his way, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes fixed upon the
ground. But his appearance was not altogether the appearance of a man
overcome with grief. The events of the last few days had told upon him,
and his deep mourning had a sombre look. Yet there were thoughts working
even then in his brain which battled hard with his natural depression.
Strange things had happened--stranger things than he was able all at
once to digest. He could not see the end, but there were possibilities
upon which he scarcely dared to brood.

He was shown into the library and left alone for nearly twenty minutes.
Then Wilhelmina came, languid, and moving as though with tired feet. Yet
her manner was gentler and kinder than usual. She leaned back in one of
the vast easy-chairs, and murmured a few graceful words of sympathy.

"We were all so sorry for you, Mr. Hurd," she said. "It was a most
shocking affair."

"I thank you very much--madam," he replied, after a moment's pause. It
was better, perhaps, for the present, to assume that their relations
were to continue those of employer and employed.

"I do not know," she continued, "whether you care to speak about this
shocking affair. Perhaps you would prefer that we did not allude to it
for the present."

He shook his head.

"I am not sure," he answered, "that it is not rather a relief to have it
spoken of. One can't get it out of one's mind, of course."

"There is no news of the man--no fresh capture?"

"None," he answered. "They are dragging the slate quarry again to-day. I
believe there are some very deep holes where the body may have drifted."

"Do you believe that that is the case?" she asked; "or do you think that
he got clean away?"

"I cannot tell," he answered. "It seems impossible that he should have
escaped altogether without help."

"And that he could not have had, could he?" she asked.

He looked across at her thoughtfully, watching her face, curious to see
whether his words might have any effect.

"Only from one person," he said.

"Yes?"

"From Macheson, the fellow who came here to convert us all," he said
deliberately.

Beyond a slight elevation of the eyebrows, his scrutiny was in vain, for
she made no sign.

"He scarcely seems a likely person, does he, to aid a criminal?" she
asked in measured tones.

Stephen Hurd shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps not," he admitted, "but at any rate he sheltered him."

"As he doubtless would have done any passer-by on such a night," she
remarked. "By the bye, what has become of that young man?"

"He has left the neighbourhood," Hurd answered shortly.

"Left altogether?" she inquired.

"I imagine so," Hurd answered. "I had the shelter destroyed, and I gave
him to understand pretty clearly what your wishes were. There really
wasn't much else for him to do."

Her eyelids drooped over her half closed eyes. For a moment she was
silent.

"If you hear of him again," she said quietly, "be so good as to let me
know."

Her indifference seemed too complete to be assumed. Yet somehow or other
Hurd felt that she was displeased with him.

"I will do so," he said, "if I hear anything about him. It scarcely
seems likely."

Wilhelmina sat quite still. Her head, resting slightly upon the long
delicate fingers of her right hand, was turned away from the young man
who was daring to watch her. She was apparently gazing across the park,
down the magnificent avenue of elms which led to the village. So he was
gone--without a word! How else? On the whole she could not but approve!
And yet!--and yet!

She turned once more to Hurd.

"I read the account of the inquest on your father's death," she said,
speaking very slowly, with her usual drawl, yet with a softer note in
her voice, as though out of respect for the dead man. "Does it not seem
very strange that the money was left untouched?"

"Yes!" he answered. "Yet, after all, I don't know. You see, the governor
must have closed with the fellow and shown fight before he got that
knock on the head. If the thief was really only an ordinary tramp, he'd
be scared to death at what he'd done, and probably bolt for his life
without stopping to take anything with him."

"Isn't it rather surprising to have tramps--in Thorpe?" she asked.

"I have scarcely ever seen one," he answered.

Wilhelmina turned her head slightly, so that she was now directly facing
him. She looked him steadily in the eyes.

"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Hurd," she asked, "that this young man may
not have been a tramp at all, and that his visit to your father may have
been on other business than that of robbery?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"My father's connexions with the outside world," he said slowly, "were
so slight."

"Yet it has occurred to you?"

"Yes!" he admitted.

"And have you come to any conclusion?"

"None," he declared.

"You carried out my instructions with regard to the papers and documents
belonging to the estate?"

"Certainly, madam," he answered. "Within five minutes of receiving your
message, they were all locked up in the safe and the key handed to your
messenger."

"You did not go through them yourself?" she asked.

"I did not," he answered, lying with admirable steadiness. "I scarcely
felt that I was entitled to do so."

"So that you could not tell if any were missing?" she continued.

"I could not," he admitted.

"Your father never spoke, then, of any connexions with people--outside
Thorpe--likely to prove of a dangerous character?"

The young man smiled. "My father," he said, "had not been farther than
Loughborough for twenty years."

There was a short silence. Wilhelmina, deliberately, and without any
attempt at concealment, was meditatively watching the young man,
studying his features with a half-contemptuous and yet searching
interest. Perhaps the slightly curving lips, the hard intentness of her
gaze, suggested that he was disbelieved. He lost colour and fidgeted
about. It was a scrutiny not easy to bear, and he felt that it was going
against him. Already she had written him down a liar.

She spoke to him at last. If the silence had not ended soon, he would
have made some blundering attempt to retrieve his position. She spoke
just in time to avert such ignominy.

"Mr. Hurd," she said, "the question of your father's successor is one
that has doubtless occurred to you as it has to me. I trust that you
will, at any rate, remain here. As to whether I can offer you your
father's position in its entirety, I am not for the present assured."

He glanced up at her furtively. He was certain now that he had played
his cards ill. She had read through him easily. He cursed himself for a
lout.

"You see," she continued, "the post is one of great responsibility,
because it entails the management of the whole estates. It is necessary
for me to feel absolute confidence in the person who undertakes it. I
have not known you very long, Mr. Hurd."

He bowed. He could not trust himself to words.

"I have instructed them to send some one down from my solicitor's office
for a week or so," she continued, "to assist you. In the meantime, I
must think the matter over."

"I am very much obliged to you, madam," he said. "You will find me, I
think, quite as trustworthy and devoted to your interests as my father."

She smiled slightly. She recognized exactly his quandary, and it amused
her. The slightest suggestion of menace in his manner would be to give
the lie to himself.

"I am coming down this afternoon," she said, "to go through the safes.
Please be there in case I want you. You will not forget, in case you
should hear anything of Mr. Macheson, that I desire to be informed."

He took his leave humiliated and angry. He had started the game with a
wrong move--retrievable, perhaps, but annoying. Wilhelmina passed into
the library, where Lady Peggy, in a wonderful morning robe, was leaning
back in an easy-chair dictating letters to Captain Austin.

"You dear woman!" she exclaimed, "don't interrupt us, will you? I have
found an ideal secretary, writes everything I tell him, and spells quite
decently considering his profession. My conscience is getting lighter
every moment."

"And my heart heavier," Austin grumbled. "A most flirtatious
correspondence yours."

She laughed softly.

"My next shall be to my dressmaker," she declared. "Such a charming
woman, and so trustful. Behave yourself nicely, and you shall go with me
to call on her next week, and see her mannikins. By the bye, Wilhelmina,
am I hostess or are you?"

"You, by all means," Wilhelmina answered. "I shall go to-morrow or the
next day. Is any one coming to lunch?"

"His Grace, I fancy--no one else."

Wilhelmina yawned.

"Where is Gilbert?" she asked.

"Asleep on the lawn last time I saw him."

"No one shooting, then?"

"We're going to beat up the home turnips after lunch," Captain Austin
answered. "It's rather an off day with us. Gilbert is nursing his
leg--fancies he has rheumatism coming."

She strolled out into the garden, but she avoided the spot where Gilbert
Deyes lounged in an easy-chair, reading the paper and smoking
cigarettes, with his leg carefully arranged on a garden chair in front
of him. She took the winding path which skirted the kitchen gardens and
led to the green lane, along which the carts passed to the home farm.
She felt that what she was doing was in the nature of an experiment,
she was yielding again to that most astonishing impulse which once
before had taken her so completely by surprise. She passed out of the
gate and along the lane. She began to climb the hill. About the success
of her experiment she no longer had any doubt. Her heart was beating
with pleasant insistence, a feeling of suppressed excitement sent the
blood gliding through her veins with delicious softness. All the time
she mocked at herself--that this should be Wilhelmina Thorpe-Hatton, to
whom the most distinguished men, not only in one capital, but in Europe,
had paid court, whom the most ardent wooer had failed to move, who had
found, indeed, in all the professions of love-making something
insufferably tedious. She was at once amused and annoyed at herself, but
an instinctive habit of truthfulness forbade even self-deception. Her
cheeks were aflame, and her heart was beating like a girl's as she
reached the spinney. She recognized the fact that she was experiencing a
new and delightful pleasure, an emotion as unexpected and ridiculous as
it was inexplicable. But she hugged it to herself. It pleased her
immensely to feel that the impossible had happened. What all this army
of men, experienced in the wiles of love-making, had failed to do, a
crazy boy had accomplished without an effort. Absolutely bizarre, of
course, but not so wonderful after all! She was so secure against any
ordinary assault. She felt herself like the heroine of one of Gautier's
novels. If he had been there himself, she would have taken him into her
arms with all the passionate simplicity of a child.

But he was not there. On the contrary, the place was looking forlorn and
deserted. The shelter had been razed to the ground--she felt that she
hated Stephen Hurd as she contemplated its ruin--the hedge was broken
down by the inrush of people a few days ago. In the absence of any
sunshine, the country around seemed bleak and colourless. She leaned
over the gate and half closed her eyes. Memory came more easily like
that!




CHAPTER XIV

SEARCHING THE PAPERS


The late Stephen Hurd had been a methodical man. Every one of those many
packets of foolscap and parchment bore in the left-hand corner near the
top a few carefully written words summarizing their contents. It was
clear from the first that Wilhelmina had undertaken not an examination
but a search. Mortgages, leases, agreements, she left unopened and
untouched. One by one she passed them back to the young man who handed
them out to her, for replacement. In the end she had retained one small
packet of letters only, on the outside of which were simply the initials
P. N. These she held for a moment thoughtfully in her hand.

"Do you happen to remember, Mr. Hurd," she said, "whether this small
packet which I have here was amongst the papers which you found had been
disturbed after the attack upon your father?"

"I am sorry," the young man answered, "but it is quite impossible for me
to say. I do not remember it particularly."

Wilhelmina turned it over thoughtfully. It was an insignificant packet
to hold the tragedy of a woman's life.

"You see," she continued, "that it has the appearance of having been
tampered with. There are marks of sealing wax upon the tape and upon the
paper here. Then, too," she continued, turning it over, "it has been
tied up hastily, unlike any of the other packets. The tape, too, is much
too long. It looks almost as though some letters or papers had been
withdrawn."

"I am afraid I cannot help you at all," he admitted regretfully. "My
father never allowed any one but himself to open that safe. Mine was the
out-of-door share of the work--and the rent-book, of course. I kept
that."

She slowly undid the tape. The contents of the packet consisted of
several letters, which she smoothed out with her fingers before
beginning to read. Stephen Hurd stood with his back towards her,
rearranging the bundles of documents in the safe.

"You have no idea then," she asked softly, "of the contents of this
packet?"

He turned deliberately round. He was not in the least comfortable. It
was almost as though she could see through his tweed shooting-jacket
into that inner pocket.

"May I see which packet you refer to?" he asked.

She showed it to him without placing it in his hand. He shook his head.

"No!" he said, "I have not noticed them before."

She sighed--or was it a yawn? At any rate, her eyes left his face, for
which he was immediately grateful. She began to read the papers, and,
having finished his task, he walked towards the window and stood there
looking out. He stood there minute after minute, hearing only the sound
of rustling paper behind. When at last it ceased he turned around.

She had risen to her feet and was slowly drawing on her gloves. The
letters had disappeared, presumably into her pocket, but she made no
reference to them. When she spoke, her voice was smooth and deliberate
as usual. Somehow or other he was at once conscious, however, that she
had received a shock.

"I presume, Mr. Hurd," she said quietly, "that amongst your father's
private papers you did not discover anything--unexpected?"

"I am afraid I scarcely follow you, madam," he answered.

"I am asking you," she repeated deliberately, "whether amongst your
father's private papers, which I presume you have looked through, you
found anything of a surprising nature?"

He shook his head.

"I found scarcely any," he answered, "only his will and a memorandum of
a few investments. May I ask----"

She turned towards the door.

"No!" she said, "do not ask me any questions. To tell you the truth, I
am not yet fully persuaded that the necessity exists."

"I do not understand," he protested.

[Illustration: "FORGIVE ME," HE SAID, WITH HIS HAND UPON THE GATE. Page
117]

She shrugged her shoulders. She did not trouble to explain her words.
He followed her along the cool, white-flagged hall, hung with old prints
and trophies of sport, into the few yards of garden outside, brilliant
with cottage flowers. Beyond the little iron gate her carriage was
waiting--a low victoria, drawn by a pair of great horses, whose sleek
coats and dark crimson rosettes suggested rather a turn in the Park
than these country lanes. The young man was becoming desperate. She was
leaving him altogether mystified. Somewhere or other he had missed his
cue: he had meant to have conducted the interview so differently. And
never had she looked so provokingly well! He recognized, with hopeless
admiration, the perfection of her toilette--the trim white flannel
dress, shaped by the hand of an artist to reveal in its simple lines
the peculiar grace of her slim figure; the patent shoes with their
suggestion of open-work silk stockings; the black picture hat and veil,
a delicate recognition of her visit to a house of mourning, yet light
and gossamer-like, with no suggestion of gloom. Never had she seemed so
desirable to him, so fascinating and yet so unattainable. He made a last
and clumsy effort to re-establish himself.

"Forgive me," he said, with his hand upon the gate, "but I must ask you
what you mean by that last question. My father had no secrets that I
know of. How could he, when for the last forty years his life was
practically spent in this village street?"

She nodded her head slowly.

"Sometimes," she murmured, "events come to those even who sit and wait,
those whose lives are absolutely secluded. No one is safe from fate, you
know."

"But my father!" he answered. "He had no tastes, no interests outside
the boundary of your estates."

She motioned to him to open the gate.

"Perhaps not," she assented, "yet I suppose that there is not one of us
who knows as much of his neighbour's life as he imagines he does. Good
afternoon, Mr. Hurd! My visit has given me something to think about. I
may send for you to come to the house before I go away."

She drove away, leaning back amongst the cushions with half closed eyes,
as though tired. The country scenery with its pastoral landscape, its
Watteau-like perfections, was wholly unseen. Her memory had travelled
back, she was away amongst the days when the roar of life had been in
her ears, when for a short while, indeed, the waves had seemed likely to
break over her head. An unpleasant echo, this! No more than an echo--and
yet! The thought of old Stephen Hurd lying in his grave suddenly chilled
her. She shivered as she left the carriage, and instead of entering the
house, crossed the lawn to where Gilbert Deyes was lounging. He
struggled to his feet at her approach, but she waved him back again.

"Sybarite," she murmured, glancing around at his arrangements for
complete comfort. "You have sent Austin out alone."

"Dear lady, I confess it," he answered. "What would you have? It is too
fine an afternoon to kill anything."

She sank into a chair by his side. A slight smile parted her lips as she
glanced around. On a table by his side, a table drawn back into the
shade of the cedar tree, were several vellum-bound volumes, a tall
glass, and a crystal jug half full of some delicate amber beverage,
mixed with fruit and ice, a box of cigarettes, an ivory paper-cutter,
and a fan.

"Your capacity for making yourself comfortable," she remarked, "amounts
almost to genius."

"Let it go at that," he answered. "I like the sound of the word."

"I want you to go to Paris for me," she said abruptly.

He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and looked at her
thoughtfully. Not a line of his face betrayed the least sign of
surprise.

"To-morrow?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"I can get up in time for the two-twenty," he remarked thoughtfully. "I
wonder whether it will be too late for the Armenonville!"

She laughed quietly.

"You are a 'poseur,'" she declared.

"Naturally," he admitted. "We all are, even when the audience consists
of ourselves alone. I fancy I'm rather better than most, though."

She nodded.

"You won't mind admitting--to me--that you are surprised?"

"Astonished," he said. "To descend to the commonplace, what on earth do
you want me to go to Paris for?"

"I will tell you," she answered. "Forget for a moment the Paris that you
know, and remember the Paris of the tourist."

"Painful," he answered; "but it is done."

"The _Hôtel de Luxe_!"

"I know it well."

"There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who
hang about the hall and the boulevard outside--guides they call
themselves."

"'Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,'" he quoted.
"Yes; I know them."

"There is, or was, one," she continued, "who goes by the name of Thomas
Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He
used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an
accent."

"I should know the beast anywhere," he declared.

"Find out if he is there still. Let him take you out. Don't lose sight
of him--and write to me."

"To-morrow night," he said, "I will renew my youth. I will search for
him on the boulevards, and see the sights which make a gay dog of the
travelling Briton."

She nodded.

"You're a good sort, Gilbert," she said simply. "Thanks!"




CHAPTER XV

ON THE SPREE


High up on the seventh floor of one of London's newest and loftiest
buildings, a young man sat writing in a somewhat barely furnished
office. He wrote deliberately, and with the air of one who thoroughly
enjoyed his occupation. The place had a bookish aspect--the table was
strewn with magazines and books of reference; piles of literature of a
varied order stood, in the absence of bookshelves, against the wall. The
young man himself, however, was the most interesting object in the room.
He was big and dark and rugged. There was strength in his square-set
shoulders, in the compression of his lips, even in the way his finger
guided the pen across the paper. He was thoroughly absorbed in his task.
Nevertheless he raised his head at a somewhat unusual sound. The lift
had swung up to his floor, he heard the metal gate thrown open. There
was a knock at the door, and Macheson walked in.

"Victor, by glory!"

Down went the pen, and Richard Holderness stood up at his desk with
outstretched hands. Macheson grasped them heartily and seated himself
on the edge of the table.

"It's good to see you, Dick," he declared, "like coming back to the
primitive forces of nature, unchanged, unchanging. The sight of you's
enough to stop a revolution."

"You're feeling like that, are you?" his friend answered, his eyes fixed
upon Macheson's face. "Yes, I see you are. Go ahead! Or will you smoke
first?"

Macheson produced his pipe, and his host a great tin of honeydew.
Macheson helped himself slowly. He seemed to be trying to gain time.

"Blessed compact, ours," the giant remarked, leaning back in his chair.
"No probing for confidences, no silly questions. Out with it!"

"I've started wrong," Macheson said. "I'll have to go back on my tracks
a bit anyway."

Holderness grunted affably.

"Nothing like mistakes," he remarked. "Best discipline in the world."

"I started on a theory," Macheson continued thoughtfully. "It didn't pan
out. The people I have been trying to get at are better left alone."

"Exactly why?" Holderness asked.

"I'll tell you," Macheson answered. "You know I've seen a bit of what we
call village life. Their standard isn't high enough, of course. Things
come too easily, their noses are too close to the ground. They are
moderately sober, moderately industrious, but the sameness of life is at
work all the time. It makes machines of the factory hands, animals of
the country folk. I knew that before I started. I thought I could lift
their heads a little. It's too big a task for me, Dick."

"Of course," Holderness assented. "You can't graft on to dead wood."

"They live decent lives--most of them," Macheson continued thoughtfully.
"They can't understand that any change is needed, no more can their
landlords, or their clergy. A mechanical performance of the Christian
code seems all that any one expects from them. Dick, it's all they're
capable of. You can't alter laws. You can't create intelligence. You
can't teach these people spirituality."

"As well try to teach 'em to fly," Holderness answered. "I could have
told you so before, if it had been of any use. What about these
Welshmen, though?"

"It's hysteria," Macheson declared. "If you can get through the hide,
you can make the emotions run riot, stir them into a frenzy. It's a
debauch. I've been there to see. The true spiritual life is partly
intellectual."

"What are you going to do now?" Holderness asked.

"I don't know," Macheson answered. "I haven't finished yet. Dick, curse
all women!"

The giant looked thoughtful.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

Macheson swung himself from the table. He walked up and down the room.

"It isn't serious," he declared. "It isn't even definite. But it's like
a perfume, or a wonderful chord of music, or the call of the sea to an
inland-bred viking! It's under my heel, Dick, but I can't crush it. I
came away from Leicestershire because I was afraid."

"Does she--exist?" Holderness asked.

"Not for me," Macheson declared hurriedly. "Don't think that. I
shouldn't have mentioned it, but for our compact."

Holderness nodded.

"Bad luck," he said. "This craving for something we haven't got--can't
have--I wish I could find the germ. The world should go free of it for a
generation. We'd build empires, we'd reconstruct society. It's a deadly
germ, though, Victor, and it's the princes of the world who suffer most.
There's only one antidote--work!"

"Give me some," Macheson begged.

The giant looked at him thoughtfully.

"Right," he answered, "but not to-day. Clothes up in town?"

Macheson nodded.

"We'll go on the bust," Holderness declared. "I've been dying for a
spree! We'll have it. Where are you staying?"

"My old rooms," Macheson answered. "I looked in on my way from the
station and found them empty."

"Capital! We're close together. Come on! We'll do the West End like two
gay young bucks. Five o'clock, isn't it? We'll walk up Regent Street and
have an 'apéritif' at Biflore's. Wait till I brush my hat."

Macheson made no difficulties, but he was puzzled. Holderness he knew
well enough had no leanings towards the things which he proposed with so
much enthusiasm. Was it a pilgrimage they were to start upon--or what?
After all, why need he worry? He was content to go his friend's way.

So they walked up Regent Street, bright with the late afternoon
sunshine, threading their way through the throngs of sauntering men and
women gazing into the shops--and at one another! At Biflore's Macheson
would have felt out of his element but for Holderness' self-possession.
He had the air of going through what might have been an everyday
performance, ordered vermouth mixed, lit a cigarette, leaned back at his
ease upon the cushioned seat, and told with zest and point a humorous
story. There were women there, a dozen or more, some alone, some in
little groups, women smartly enough dressed, good-looking, too, and
prosperous, with gold purses and Paris hats, yet--lacking something.
Macheson did not ask himself what it was. He felt it; he knew, too, that
Holderness meant him to feel it. The shadow of tragedy was there--the
world's tragedy....

They went back to their rooms to dress and met at a popular
restaurant--one of the smartest. Here Macheson began to recover his
spirits. The music was soft yet inspiring, the women--there were none
alone here--were well dressed, and pleasant to look at, the sound of
their laughter and the gay murmur of conversation was like a delightful
undernote. The dinner and wine were good. Holderness seemed to know very
well how to choose both. Macheson began to feel the depression of a few
hours ago slipping away from him. Once or twice he laughed softly to
himself. Holderness looked at him questioningly.

"You should have been with me for the last fortnight, Dick," he
remarked, smiling. "The lady of the manor at Thorpe didn't approve of
me, and I had to sleep for two nights in a gamekeeper's shelter."

"Didn't approve of you to such an extent?" Holderness remarked. "Was she
one of those old country frumps--all starch and prejudice?"

Then for a moment the heel was lifted, and a rush of memory kept him
dumb. He felt the tearing of the blood in his veins, the burning of his
cheeks, the wild, delicious sense of an exaltation, indefinable,
mysterious. He was tongue-tied, suddenly apprehensive of himself and his
surroundings. He felt somehow nearer to her--it was her atmosphere,
this. Was he weaker than his friend--had he, indeed, more to fear? He
raised his glass mechanically to his lips, and the soft fire of the
amber wine soothed whilst it disquieted him. Again he wondered at his
friend's whim in choosing this manner of spending their evening.

"No!" he said at last, and he was surprised to find his voice composed
and natural, "the mistress of Thorpe is not in the least that sort.
Thorpe is almost a model village, and of course there is the church, and
a very decent fellow for vicar. I am not at all sure that she was not
right. I must have seemed a fearful interloper."

Holderness stretched his long limbs under the table and laughed softly.

"Well," he declared, "it was a hare-brained scheme. Theoretically, I
believe you were right. There's nothing more dangerous than content.
Sort of armour you can't get through.... Come, we mustn't miss the
ballet."

They threaded their way down the room. Suddenly Macheson stopped short.
He was passing a table set back in a recess, and occupied by two
persons. The girl, who wore a hat and veil, and whose simple country
clothes were conspicuous, was staring at him with something like fear in
her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted, she was leaning
forward as though to call her companion's attention to Macheson's
approach. Macheson glanced towards him with a sudden impulse of
indignant apprehension. It was Stephen Hurd, in irreproachable evening
clothes save only for his black tie, and his companion was Letty.

Macheson stopped before the table. He scarcely knew what to say or how
to say it, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Hurd's curt
nod.

"So you are up in town, Letty," he said gravely. "Is your mother with
you?"

The girl giggled hysterically.

"Oh, no!" she declared. "Mother can't bear travelling. A lot of us came
up this morning at six o'clock on a day excursion, six shillings each."

"And what time does the train go back?" Macheson asked quickly.

"At twelve o'clock," the girl answered, "or as soon afterwards as they
can get it off. It was terribly full coming up."

Macheson was to some extent relieved. At any rate there was nothing
further that he could do. He bent over the girl kindly.

"I hope you have had a nice day," he said, "and won't be too tired when
you get home. These excursions are rather hard work. Remember me to your
mother."

He exchanged a civil word with the girl's companion, who was taciturn
almost to insolence. Then he passed on and joined Holderness, who was
waiting near the door.

"An oddly assorted couple, your friends," he remarked, as they struggled
into their coats.

Macheson nodded.

"The girl was my landlady's daughter at Thorpe, and the young man's the
son of the agent there," he said.

"Engaged?" Holderness asked.

"I'm--afraid not," Macheson answered. "She's up on an excursion--for the
day--goes back at twelve."

"I suppose he's a decent fellow--the agent's son?" Holderness remarked.
"She seems such a child."

"I suppose he is," Macheson repeated. "I don't care for him very much,
Dick; I suppose I'm an evil-minded person, but I hate leaving them."

Holderness looked back into the restaurant.

"You can't interfere," he said. "It's probably a harmless frolic enough.
Come on!"




CHAPTER XVI

THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON


"No stalls left," Holderness declared, turning away from the box office
at the Alhambra. "We'll go in the promenade. We can find a chair there
if we want to sit down."

Macheson followed him up the stairs and into the heavily carpeted
promenade. His memory of the evening, a memory which clung to him for
long afterwards, seemed like a phantasmagoria of thrilling music, a
stage packed with marvellously dressed women, whose movements were
blended with the music into one voluptuous chorus--a blaze of colour not
wholly without its artistic significance, and about him an air heavy
with tobacco smoke and perfumes, a throng of moving people, more
women--many more women. A girl spoke to Holderness,--a girl heavily
rouged but not ill-looking, dressed in a blue muslin gown and large
black hat. Holderness bent towards her deferentially. His voice seemed
to take to itself its utmost note of courtesy, he answered her inquiry
pleasantly, and accepted a glance at her programme. The girl looked
puzzled, but they talked together for several moments of casual things.
Then Holderness lifted his hat.

"My friend and I are tired," he said. "We are going to look for a seat."

She bowed and they strolled on down the promenade, finding some chairs
at the further end. The dresses of the women brushed their feet and the
perfume from the clothes was stronger even than the odour from the
clouds of tobacco smoke which hung about the place. Macheson, in whom
were generations of puritanical impulses, found himself shrinking back
in his corner. Holderness turned towards him frowning.

"No superiority, Victor," he said. "These are your fellow-creatures.
Don't look at them as though you'd come down from the clouds."

"It isn't that," Macheson answered, "it's a matter of taste."

"Taste! Rot!" Holderness answered. "The factory girl's hat offends my
taste, but I don't shrink away from her."

A girl, in passing, stumbled against his foot. Holderness stood up as he
apologized.

"I am really very sorry," he said. "No one with feet like mine ought to
sit down in a public place. I hope you haven't torn your dress?"

"It really doesn't matter," the girl answered. "I ought to have looked
where I was going."

"In which case," Holderness remarked, with a laugh, "you could not have
failed to see my feet."

There were two empty chairs at their table. The girl glanced towards
them and hesitated.

"Do you mind if we sit down here for a minute," she asked, "my friend
and I? We are rather tired."

He drew the chairs towards them.

"By all means," he answered courteously. "Your friend does look tired."

The party arranged itself. Holderness called to a waiter and gave an
order.

"My friend and I," he remarked, indicating Macheson, who was fiercely
uncomfortable and struggling hard not to show it, "are disappointed that
we could not get stalls. We wanted to see La Guerrero and this wonderful
conjurer."

"The place is full every night," the girl answered listlessly. "La
Guerrero comes on at ten o'clock, you can see her from the front of the
promenade easily. You don't often come here, do you?"

"Not very often," Holderness answered. "And you?"

"Every night," the girl answered in a dull tone.

"That must be monotonous," he said kindly.

"It is," she admitted.

They talked for a few minutes longer, or rather it was Holderness who
mostly talked, and the others who listened. It struck Macheson as
curious that his friend should find it so easy to strike the note of
their conversation and keep it there, as though without any definite
effort he could assume control over even the thoughts of these girls, to
whom he talked with such easy courtesy. He told a funny story and they
all laughed naturally and heartily. Macheson had an idea that the girls
had forgotten for the moment exactly where they were. Something in their
faces, something which had almost terrified him at their first coming,
had relaxed, if it had not passed wholly away. At the sound of a few
bars of music one of them leaned almost eagerly forward.

"There," she said, "if you want to see La Guerrero you must hurry. She
is coming on now."

The two young men rose to their feet. One of the girls looked wistfully
at Holderness, but nothing was said beyond the ordinary farewells.

"Thank you so much for telling us," Holderness said. "Come along,
Victor. It is La Guerrero."

Macheson breathed more freely when once they were in the throng. They
watched the Spanish dancer with her exquisite movements, sinuous, full
of grace. Holderness especially applauded loudly. Afterwards they found
seats in the front and remained there for the rest of the performance.

Out in the street they hesitated. Holderness passed his arm through his
companion's.

"Supper!" he declared. "This way! Did you know what a man about town I
was, Victor? Ah! but one must learn, and life isn't all roses and honey.
One must learn!"

They threaded their way through the streets, crowded with hansoms,
electric broughams, and streams of foot passengers. Holderness led the
way to a sombre-looking building, and into a room barely lit save for
the rose-shaded lamps upon the tables. Macheson gasped as he entered.
Nearly every table was occupied by women in evening dress, women
alone--waiting. Holderness glanced around quite unconcernedly as he gave
up his coat and hat to a waiter.

"Feeling shy, Victor?" he asked, smiling. "Never mind. We'll find a
table to ourselves all right."

They sat in a corner. The girls chattered and talked across them--often
at them. A Frenchwoman, superbly gowned in white lace, and with a long
rope of pearls around her neck, paused as she passed their table. She
carried a Pomeranian under her arm and held it out towards them.

"See! My little dog!" she exclaimed. "He bite you. Messieurs are
lonely?"

"Alas! Of necessity," Holderness answered in French. "Madame is too
kind."

She passed on, laughing. Macheson looked across the table almost
fiercely.

"What are you doing it for, Dick?" he exclaimed. "What does it mean?"

His friend looked across at him steadfastly.

"Victor," he said, "I want you to understand. You are an enthusiast, a
reformer, a prophet of lost causes. I want you to know the truth if you
can see it. There are many sides to life."

"What am I to learn of this?" Macheson asked, almost passionately.

"If I told you," Holderness answered, "the lesson would only be half
learnt. Sit tight and don't be a fool. Drink your wine. Mademoiselle in
violet there wants to flirt with you."

"Shall I ask her to join us?" Macheson demanded with wasted satire.

"You might do worse," Holderness answered calmly. "She could probably
teach you something."

It was a dull evening, and many of the tables remained unoccupied--save
for the one waiting figure. The women, tired of looking towards the
door, were smoking cigarettes, twirling their bracelets, yawning, and
looking around the room. Many a mute invitation reached the two young
men, but Holderness seemed to have lost his sociability. His face had
grown harder and he seemed glad when their meal was over and they were
free to depart. In the hall below they had to wait for their overcoats.
Macheson strolled idly towards the entrance of another supper room on
the ground floor, and looked in. An exclamation broke from his lips. He
turned towards Holderness.

"You see the time," he exclaimed, "and they are here! Those two!"

Holderness nodded gravely.

"The girl has been crying," he said, "and there is an A B C on the
table. It's up to you, Victor. We may both have to take a hand in the
game. No! I wouldn't go in. Wait till they come out!"

They stood in the throng, jostled, cajoled, besought. At last the two
rose and came towards the door. Letty had dried her eyes, but she looked
still pale and terrified. Hurd, on the contrary, was flushed as though
with wine. Macheson took her by the arm as she passed.

"Letty," he said gravely, "have you missed your train?"

She gave a stifled cry and shrank back, when she saw who it was.
However, she recovered herself quickly.

"Mr. Macheson!" she exclaimed. "How you startled me! I didn't expect--to
see you again."

"About this train, Letty?" he repeated.

"Mr. Hurd's watch stopped," she declared, her eyes filling once more
with tears. "He thought it was eleven o'clock,--and it was ten minutes
past twelve. I don't know what mother will say, I am sure."

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

She looked round nervously.

"Mr. Hurd is going to take me to some friends of his," she answered.
"You see it was his fault, so he has promised to see mother and
explain."

Hurd pushed angrily forward.

"Look here," he said to Macheson, "have you been following us about?"

"I have not," Macheson answered calmly. "I am very glad to have come
across you, though."

"Sorry I can't return the compliment," Hurd remarked. "Come, Letty."

A girl who was passing tapped him on the arm. She was dressed in blue
silk, with a large picture hat, and she was smoking a cigarette.

"Hullo, Stephen!" she exclaimed. "Edith wants to see you. Are you coming
round to-night?"

Hurd muttered something under his breath and moved away. Letty looked at
him with horror.

"Stephen!" she exclaimed. "You can't--you don't mean to say that you
know--any of these?"

She was trembling in every limb. He tried to pass his arm through hers.

"Don't be a fool, Letty," he said. "It's time we went, or my friends
will have gone to bed."

She looked at him with wide-open eyes. Her lips were quivering. It was
as though she saw some new thing in his face.

"Your friends," she murmured, "are they--that sort? Oh! I am afraid."

She clung to Macheson. People were beginning to notice them. He led her
out into the street. Hurd followed, angrily protesting. Holderness was
close behind.

"I say, you know," Hurd began, with his arm on Macheson's shoulder.
Macheson shook it off.

"Mr. Hurd," he said, "at the risk of seeming impertinent, I must ask you
precisely where you intend taking this girl to-night?"

"What the devil business is it of yours?" Hurd answered angrily.

"Tell me, all the same," Macheson persisted.

Hurd passed his arm through Letty's.

"Come, Letty," he said, "we will take this hansom."

The girl was only half willing. Macheson declined to let them go.

"No!" he said, "I will have my question answered."

Hurd turned as though to strike him, but Holderness intervened, head and
shoulders taller than the other.

"I think," he said, "that we will have my friend's question answered."

Hurd was almost shaking with rage, but he answered.

"To some friends in Cambridge Terrace," he said sullenly. "Number
eighteen."

"You will not object," Macheson said, "if I accompany you there?"

"I'll see you damned first," Hurd answered savagely. "Get in, Letty."

The girl hesitated. She turned to Macheson.

"I should like to go to the station and wait," she declared.

"I think," Macheson said, "that you had better trust yourself to me and
my friend."

"I am sure of it," Holderness added calmly.

She put her hand in Macheson's. She was as pale as death and avoided
looking at Hurd. He took a quick step towards her.

"Very well, young lady," he said. "If you go now, you understand that I
shall never see you again."

She began to cry again.

"I wish," she murmured, "that I had never seen you at all--never!"

He turned on his heel. A row was impossible. It occurred to him that a
man of the world would face such a position calmly.

"Very good," he said, "we will leave it at that."

He paused to light a cigarette, and strolled back down the street
towards the restaurant which they had just left. Letty was crying now in
good earnest. The two young men looked at one another in something like
dismay. Then Holderness began to laugh quietly.

"You're a nice sort of Don Quixote to spend an evening with," he
remarked softly.




CHAPTER XVII

THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY


The girl was still crying, softly but persistently. She caught hold of
Macheson's arm.

"If you please, I think I had better go back to Stephen," she said. "Do
you think I could find him?"

"I think you had much better not, Letty," he answered. "He ought not to
have let you miss your train. My friend here and I are going to look
after you."

"It's very kind of you," the girl said listlessly, "but it doesn't
matter much what becomes of me now. Mother will never forgive me--and
the others will all know--that I missed the train."

"We must think of some way of putting that all right," Macheson
declared. "I only wish that I had some relations in London. Can you
suggest anything, Dick?"

"I can take the young lady to some decent rooms," Holderness answered.
"The landlady's an old friend of mine. She'll be as right as rain
there."

The girl shook her head.

"I'd as soon walk about the streets," she said pathetically. "Mother'll
never listen to me--or the others. Some of them saw me with Stephen, and
they said things. I think I'll go to the station and wait till the five
o'clock train."

They were walking slowly up towards Piccadilly. A fine rain had begun to
fall, and already the pavements were shining. Neither of them had an
umbrella, and Letty's hat, with its cheap flowers and ribbon, showed
signs of collapse. Suddenly Macheson had an idea.

"Look here," he said, "supposing you spent the night at Miss
Thorpe-Hatton's house in Berkeley Square--no one could say anything
then, could they?"

The girl looked up with a sudden gleam of hope.

"No! I don't suppose they could," she admitted; "but I don't know where
it is, and I don't suppose they'd take me in anyway."

"I know where it is," Macheson declared, "and we'll see about their
taking you in. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton may be there herself. Stop
that fourwheeler, Dick."

They climbed into a passing cab, and Macheson directed the driver. The
girl was beginning to lose confidence again.

"The house is sure to be shut up," she said.

"There will be a caretaker." Macheson declared hopefully. "We'll manage
it, never fear. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton is there herself."

Letty was trembling with excitement and fear.

"I'm scared to death of her," she admitted. "She's so beautiful, and she
looks at you always as though you were something a long way off."

Macheson was suddenly silent. A rush of memories surged into his brain.
He had sworn to keep away! This was a different matter, an errand of
mercy. Nevertheless he would see her, if only for a moment. His heart
leaped like a boy's. He looked eagerly out of the window. Already they
were entering Berkeley Square. The cab stopped.

Macheson looked upwards. There were lights in many of the windows, and a
small electric brougham, with a tall footman by the side of the driver,
was waiting opposite the door.

"The house is open," he declared. "Don't be afraid, Letty."

The girl descended and clung to his arm as they crossed the pavement.

"I shall wait here for you," Holderness said. "Good luck to you, and
good night, young lady!"

Macheson rang the bell. The door was opened at once by a footman, who
eyed them in cold surprise.

"We wish to see Miss Thorpe-Hatton for two minutes," Macheson said,
producing his card. "It is really an important matter, or we would not
disturb her at such an hour. She is at home, is she not?"

The footman looked exceedingly dubious. He looked from the card to
Macheson, and from Macheson to the girl, and he didn't seem to like
either of them.

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton has just returned from the opera," he said, "and she
is going on to the Countess of Annesley's ball directly. Can't you come
again in the morning?"

"Quite impossible," Macheson declared briskly. "I am sure that Miss
Thorpe-Hatton will see me for a moment if you take that card up."

The footman studied Macheson again, and was forced to admit that he was
a gentleman. He led the way into a small morning-room.

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton shall have your card, sir," he said. "Kindly take a
seat."

He left the room. Macheson drew up a chair for Letty, but she refused
it, trembling.

"Oh! I daren't sit down, Mr. Macheson," she declared. "And please--don't
say that I was with Mr. Hurd. I know he wouldn't like it."

"Probably not," Macheson answered, "but what am I to say?"

"Anything--anything but that," she begged.

Macheson nodded his promise. Then the door opened, and his heart seemed
to stand still. She entered the room in all the glory of a wonderful
toilette; she wore her famous ropes of pearls, the spotless white of her
gown was the last word from the subtlest Parisian workshop of the day.
But it was not these things that counted. Had he been dreaming, he
wondered a moment later, or had that strange smile indeed curved her
lips, that marvellous light indeed flowed from her eyes? It was the lady
of his dreams who had entered--it was a very different woman who, with a
slight frown upon her smooth forehead, was looking at the girl who stood
trembling by Macheson's side.

"It is Mr. Macheson, is it not?" she said calmly, "the young man who
wanted to convert my villagers. And you--who are you?" she asked,
turning to the girl.

"Letty Foulton, if you please, ma'am," the girl answered.

"Foulton! Letty Foulton!" Wilhelmina repeated.

"Yes, ma'am! My brother has Onetree farm," the girl continued.

Wilhelmina inclined her head.

"Ah, yes!" she remarked, "I remember now. And what do you two want of me
at this hour of the night?" she asked frigidly.

"If you will allow me, I will explain," Macheson interrupted eagerly.
"Letty came up from Thorpe this morning on an excursion train which
returned at midnight."

Wilhelmina glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to one.

"Well?"

"She missed it," Macheson continued. "It was very careless and very
wrong, of course, but the fact remains that she missed it. I found her
in great distress. She had lost her friends, and there is no train back
to Thorpe till the morning. Her brother and mother are very strict, and
all her friends who came from Thorpe will, of course, know that--she
remained in London. The position, as you will doubtless realize, is a
serious one for her."

Wilhelmina made no sign. Nothing in her face answered in any way the
silent appeal in his.

"I happened to know," he continued, "that you were in London, so I
ventured to bring her at once to you. You are the mistress of Thorpe,
and in our recent conversation I remember you admitted a certain amount
of responsibility as regards your people there. If she passes the night
under your roof, no one can have a word to say. It will save her at once
from her parent's anger and the undesirable comments of her neighbours."

Wilhelmina glanced once more towards the clock.

"It seems to me," she remarked, "that a considerable portion of the
night has already passed."

Both Macheson and the girl were silent. Wilhelmina for the first time
addressed the latter.

"Where have you been spending the evening?" she asked.

"We had dinner and went to a place of entertainment," she faltered.
"Then we had supper, and I found out how late it was."

"Who is we?"

The girl's face was scarlet. She did not answer. Wilhelmina waited for a
moment and then shrugged her shoulders.

"You are to be congratulated," she said, with cold irony, "upon your
fortunate meeting with Mr. Macheson."

She had touched the bell, and a footman entered.

"Reynolds," she said, "show this young person into the housekeeper's
room, and ask Mrs. Brown to take charge of her for the night."

The girl moved forward impulsively, but something in Wilhelmina's
expression checked her little speech of gratitude. She followed the man
from the room without a word. Wilhelmina also turned towards the door.

"You will excuse me," she said coldly to Macheson. "I am already later
than I intended to be."

"I can only apologize for disturbing you at such an hour," he answered,
taking up his hat. "I could think of nothing else."

She looked at him coldly.

"The girl's parents," she said, "are respectable people, and I am
sheltering her for their sake. But I am bound to say that I consider her
story most unsatisfactory."

They were standing in the hall--she had paused on her way out to
conclude her sentence. Her maid, holding out a wonderful rose-lined
opera cloak, was standing a few yards away; a man-servant was waiting at
the door with the handle in his hand. She raised her eyes to his, and
Macheson felt the challenge which flashed out from them. She imagined,
then, that he had been the girl's companion; the cold disdain of her
manner was in itself an accusation.

His cheeks burned with a sort of shame. She had dared to think this of
him--and that afterwards he should have brought the girl to her to beg
for shelter! There were a dozen things which he ought to have said,
which came flashing from his brain to find themselves somehow imprisoned
behind his tightly locked lips. He said nothing. She passed slowly,
almost unwillingly, down the hall. The maid wrapped her coat around
her--still he stood like a statue. He watched her pass through the
opened door and enter the electric brougham. He watched it even glide
away. Then he, too, went and joined Holderness, who was waiting outside.

"Hail, succourer of damsels in distress!" Holderness called out,
producing his cigar-case. "Jolly glad you got rid of her! It would have
meant the waiting-room at St. Pancras and an all-night sitting. Smoke,
my son, and we will walk home--unless you mind this bit of rain. Was her
ladyship gracious?"

"She was not," Macheson answered grimly, "but she is keeping the girl.
I'd like to walk," he added, lighting a cigar.

"A very elegant lady," Holderness remarked, "but I thought she looked a
bit up in the air. Did you notice her pearls, Victor?"

Macheson nodded.

"Wonderful, weren't they?"

"Yes. She wears them round her neck, and these--these wear always their
shame," he added, pushing gently away a woman who clutched at his arm.
"Funny thing, isn't it? What are they worth? Ten thousand pounds, very
likely. A lot of money for gewgaws--to hang upon a woman's body. Shall
we ever have a revolution in London, do you think, Victor?"

"Who knows?" Macheson answered wearily. "Not a political one, perhaps,
but the other might come. The sewers underneath are pretty full."

They passed along in silence for a few minutes. Neither the drizzling
rain nor the lateness of the hour could keep away that weary procession
of sad, staring-eyed women, who seemed to come from every shadow, and
vanish Heaven knows where. Macheson gripped his companion by the arm.

"Holderness," he cried, "for God's sake let's get out of it. I shall
choke presently. We'll take a side street."

But Holderness held his arm in a grip of iron.

"No," he said, "these are the things which you must feel. I want you to
feel them. I mean you to."

"It's heart-breaking, Dick."

Holderness smiled faintly.

"I know how you feel," he declared. "I've gone through it myself. You
are a Christian, aren't you--almost an orthodox Christian?"

"I am not sure!"

"Don't waste your pity, then," Holderness declared. "God will look after
these. It's the women with the pearl necklaces and the scorn in their
eyes who're looking for hell. Your friend in the electric brougham, for
instance. Can't you see her close her eyes and draw away her skirts if
she should brush up against one of these?"

"It's hard to blame her," Macheson declared.

Holderness looked down at him pityingly.

"Man," he said, "you're a long way down in the valley. You'll have to
climb. Vice and virtue are little else save relative terms. They number
their adherents by accident rather than choice."

"You mean that it is all a matter of temptation?"

Holderness laughed. They had passed into the land of silent streets.
Their own rooms were close at hand.

"Wait a little time," he said. "Some day you'll understand."




CHAPTER XVIII

LETTY'S DILEMMA


"You are quite sure," the girl said anxiously, "that Miss Thorpe-Hatton
wants to see me? You see there's a train at ten o'clock I could catch."

The housekeeper looked up from the menu she was writing, and tapped the
table impatiently with her pencil.

"My dear child," she said, "is it likely I should keep you here without
orders? We have sent a telegram to your mother, and you are to wait
until the mistress is ready to see you."

"What time does she generally get down?" Letty asked.

"Any time," Mrs. Brown answered, resuming her task. "She was back early
last night, only stayed an hour at the ball, so she may send for you at
any moment. Don't fidget about so, there's a good girl. I'm nervous this
morning. We've twenty-four people dining, and I haven't an idea in my
head. I'm afraid I shall have to send for François."

"Is François the man-cook who comes down to Thorpe?" Letty asked.

Mrs. Brown nodded.

"The _chef_ you should call him," she answered. "A very clever man, no
doubt, in his way, but takes a lot of keeping in order."

"Do you have to look after all the servants?" Letty asked. "Doesn't Miss
Thorpe-Hatton ever order anything?"

Mrs. Brown looked pityingly at her guest.

"My dear child," she said, "I doubt if she could tell you to three or
four how many servants there are in the house, and as to ordering
anything, I don't suppose such a thought's ever entered into her head.
Here's James coming. Perhaps it's a message for you."

A footman entered and greeted Letty kindly.

"Good morning, young lady!" he said. "You are to go into the
morning-room at once."

Letty rose with alacrity.

"Is--is she there?" she asked nervously.

"She is," the man answered, "and if I were you, miss, I wouldn't do much
more than just answer her questions and skedaddle. I haven't had any
conversation with her myself, but mademoiselle says she's more than a
bit off it this morning. Slept badly or something."

"Don't frighten the child, James," Mrs. Brown said reprovingly. "She's
not likely to say much to you, my dear. You hurry along, and come back
and have a glass of wine and a biscuit before you go. Show her the way,
James."

"If you please, miss," the man answered, becoming once more an
automaton.

Letty was ushered into a small room, full, it seemed to her as she
entered, of sunshine and flowers. Wilhelmina, in a plain white-serge
gown, with a string of beads around her neck of some strange-coloured
shade of blue, was sitting in a high-backed easy-chair. A small wood
fire was burning in the grate, filling the room with a pleasant aromatic
odour, and the window leading into the square was thrown wide open.

On a table by her side were a pile of letters, an ivory letter-opener,
several newspapers, and a silver box of cigarettes. For the moment,
however, none of these things claimed her attention. The lady of the
house was leaning back in her chair, and her eyes were half closed. If
she had not been sitting with her back to the light, Letty might have
noticed the dark rings under her eyes. It was true that she had not
slept well.

Letty advanced doubtfully into the room. Wilhelmina turned her head.

"Oh, it is you," she remarked. "Come up to the table where I can see
you."

"Mrs. Brown told me that you wished to see me before I went," the girl
said hesitatingly.

Wilhelmina was silent for a moment. She was looking at the girl. Yes!
she was pretty in a rustic, uncultured way. Her figure was unformed, her
hands and feet what might have been expected, and it was obvious that
she lacked taste. Were men really attracted by this sort of thing?

"Yes!" Wilhelmina said, "I wish to speak to you. I am not altogether
satisfied about last night."

Letty said nothing. She went red and then white. Wilhelmina's
examination of her was merciless.

"I wish to know," Wilhelmina said, "who your companion was--with whom
you had dinner and supper. I look upon that person as being responsible
for your lost train."

Letty prayed that she might sink into the ground. Her worst imaginings
had not been so bad as this. She remained silent, tongue-tied.

"I'm waiting," Wilhelmina said mercilessly. "I suppose it is obvious
enough, but I wish to hear from your own lips."

"I--he--I don't think that he would like me to tell you, ma'am," she
faltered.

Wilhelmina smiled--unpleasantly.

"Probably not," she answered. "That, however, is beside the question. I
wish to know."

The girl was desperate. It was indeed a quandary with her. To offend the
mistress of Thorpe was something like sacrilege, but she knew very well
what Stephen would have had her do.

"If you please, ma'am," she said at last, "I can't."

Wilhelmina said nothing for a moment, only her eyebrows were slowly
lifted.

"If you do not," she said, calmly, "I must write to your mother and tell
her what I think of your behaviour last night. I do not care to have
people near me who are disobedient, or--foolish."

The girl burst into tears. Wilhelmina watched her with cold patience.

"I presume," she said, "that it was Mr. Macheson. You do not need to
mention his name. You need only say 'Yes!'"

The girl said nothing.

"Mr. Macheson lodged with your mother, I believe?" Wilhelmina continued.

"Yes!" the girl whispered.

"And you waited upon him?"

"Yes!"

The girl lifted her head.

"Mr. Macheson always behaved like a gentleman to me," she said.

Wilhelmina regarded her contemptuously.

"Your ideas of what constitutes gentlemanly behaviour are probably
primitive," she said. "I do not think that I need trouble you for any
direct answer. Still, it would be better for you to give it."

The girl was again silent. There was a knock at the door. The footman
ushered in Stephen Hurd.

He entered confident and smiling. He was wearing a new grey tweed suit,
and he was pleased with himself and the summons which had brought him to
London. But the sight of the girl took his breath away. She, too, was
utterly taken by surprise, and forgot herself.

"Stephen!" she exclaimed, taking a quick step towards him.

"You! You here!" he answered.

It was quite enough! But what puzzled Letty was that Wilhelmina did not
seem in the least angry. There was a strange look on her face as she
looked from one to the other. Something had sprung into her eyes which
seemed to transform her. Her voice, too, had lost all its hardness.

"How do you do, Mr. Hurd?" she said. "I hope you have come to explain
how you dared let this child lose her train last night."

"I--really I--it was quite a mistake," he faltered, darting an angry
glance at Letty.

"You had supper with her," Wilhelmina said, "and you knew what time the
train went."

"She met some other friends," Stephen answered. "She left me."

Wilhelmina smiled. She had found out all that she wanted to know.

"Well," she said, "I won't inquire too closely into it this time, only I
hope that nothing of the sort will occur again. You had better have
lunch with Mrs. Brown in the housekeeper's room, Letty, and I'll send
you over to St. Pancras for the four o'clock train. I'll give you a
letter to your mother this time, but mind, no more foolishness of this
sort."

The girl tried to stammer out her thanks, but she was almost incoherent.
Wilhelmina dismissed her with a smile. Her manner was distinctly colder
when she turned to Hurd.

"Mr. Hurd," she said, "I hope you will understand me when I say that I
do not care to have my agent, or any one connected with the estate, play
the Don Juan amongst my tenants' daughters."

He flushed up to the eyes.

"It was idiotic of me," he admitted frankly. "I simply meant to give the
child a good time."

"She is quite pretty in her way," Wilhelmina said, "and her parents, I
believe, are most respectable people. You were perhaps thinking of
settling down?"

He looked at her in amazement.

"What, with Letty Foulton!" he exclaimed.

"Why not?" she asked.

He drew a breath through his teeth. He could scarcely trust himself to
speak for anger.

"You--are not serious?" he permitted himself to ask.

"Why not?" she demanded.

Hurd struggled to express himself with dignity.

"I should not consider such a marriage a suitable one, even if I were
thinking of marrying at all," he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

"No? Well, I suppose you know best," she said carelessly. "Is there
anything fresh down at Thorpe?"

She was angry about that fool of a girl, he told himself. A good sign.
But what an actress! His conceit barely kept him up.

"There really isn't anything I couldn't arrange with Mr. Fields," he
admitted. "I thought, perhaps, as I was up, you might have some special
instructions. That is why I sent to ask if you would see me."

He looked at her almost eagerly. After all, she was the same woman who
had been kind to him at Thorpe. And yet, was she? A sudden thought
startled him. She was changed. Had she guessed that he knew her secret?

"No!" she said deliberately. "I do not think that there is anything. If
you could find out Mr. Macheson's address I should be much obliged."

Hurd was puzzled. This was the second time. What could she have to say
to Macheson?

"He was here last night, but I forgot to ask him," she continued
equably.

"Macheson, here!" he exclaimed.

"It was he who brought the girl, Letty," she said.

He was silent for a moment.

"He's a queer lot," he said. "Came to Thorpe, of all places, as a sort
of missioner, and he was about town last night most immaculately got up;
nothing of the parson about him, I can assure you."

"No!" she answered quietly. "Well, if you can discover his address,
remember I should be glad to hear it."

He took up his hat reluctantly. He had hoped at least that he might have
been asked to luncheon. It was obvious, however, that he was expected to
depart, and he did so. On the whole, although he had escaped from an
exceedingly awkward situation, he could scarcely consider his visit a
success. On his way out he passed Deyes, stepping out of a cab piled up
with luggage. He nodded to Hurd in a friendly manner.

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton in?" he asked.

"Just left her," Hurd answered.

Deyes passed on, and was received by the butler as a favoured guest. He
was shown at once into the morning-room.




CHAPTER XIX

A REPORT FROM PARIS


"For the first time in my life," Deyes declared, accepting the cigarette
and the easy-chair, "I have appreciated Paris. I have gone there as a
tourist. I have drunk strange drinks at the Café de la Paix. I have sat
upon the boulevards and ogled the obvious lady."

"And my little guide?" she asked.

"Has disappeared!" he answered.

"Since when?"

"A month ago! It is reported that he came to England."

Wilhelmina sat still for several moments. To a casual observer she might
have seemed unmoved. Deyes, however, was watching her closely, and he
understood.

"I am sorry," he said, "to have so little to tell you. But that is the
beginning and the end of it. The man had gone away."

"That is precisely what I desired to ascertain," she said. "It seemed to
me possible that the man had come to England. I wished to know for
certain whether it was true or not."

"I think," Deyes said, withdrawing his cigarette and looking at it
thoughtfully, "that it is true."

"You have any further reason for thinking so," she asked, "beyond your
casual inquiries?"

"Well, yes!" he admitted. "I went a little farther than those casual
inquiries. It seemed such a meagre report to bring you."

"Go on!"

"The ordinary person," he continued smoothly, "would never believe the
extreme difficulty with which one collects any particulars as to the
home life of a guide. More than once I felt inclined to give up the task
in despair. It seemed to me that a guide could have no home, that he
must sleep in odd moments on a bench at the _Hôtel de Luxe_. I tried to
fancy a guide in the bosom of his family, carving a Sunday joint, and
surrounded by Mrs. Guide and the little Guides. I couldn't do it. It
seemed to me somehow grotesque. Just as I was giving it up in despair,
the commissionaire at a night café in Montmartre told me exactly what I
wanted to know. He showed me the house where Johnny, as they called him,
had a room."

"You went there?" she asked.

"I did," he answered.

"It was locked up?"

"On the contrary," he declared, "Mrs. or Miss Guide was at home, and
very pleased to see me."

"There was a woman there?"

"Assuredly. Whether she is there now or not I cannot say, for it is
three days ago, and to me she seemed nearer than that to death!"

"And about this woman! What was she like? Was she his wife or his
daughter?"

"He called her his daughter. I am not sure about the relationship. She
had been good-looking, I should say, but she was very ill."

"What did she tell you--about the man Johnson?"

"That he had gone to England to try to get some money. They were almost
destitute! He was a good guide, she said, but people came so often to
Paris, and they liked some one fresh. Then she coughed--how she
coughed!"

"Did she tell you to what part of England the man Johnson had gone?"

"I asked her, but she was not sure. I do not believe that she knew. She
said that there was some one in England who was very rich, and from whom
he hoped to be able to get money."

"Anything else?"

"No! I spoke of myself as an old client of Johnny's, and I left money.
Afterwards, at the café where I lunched, I found a commissionaire who
told me more about our friend."

"Ah! What was the name of the café?"

"The Café de Paris!"

She took up a screen and held it before her face. There seemed to be
little need of it, however, for her cheeks were as pale as the white
roses by her side.

"This man Johnny, as they call him," Deyes continued, "seems to have had
his ups and downs. One big stroke of luck he had, however, which seems
to have kept him going for several years. The commissionaire was able to
tell me something about it. Shall I go on?" he asked, dropping his voice
a little.

"I should like to know what the commissionaire told you," she answered.

"Somehow or other this fellow, Johnny or Johnson as some of them called
him, was recommended to a young lady, a very young lady, who was in
Paris with an invalid chaperon."

"Stop!" she cried.

He looked at her fixedly.

"You were that young lady," he said softly. "Of course, I know that!"

"I was," she admitted. "Don't speak to me for a few moments. It was
years ago--but----"

She bent the screen which she held in her hand until the handle snapped.

"You seem," she said, "to have rather exceeded your instructions. I
simply wanted to know whether the man was in Paris or not."

He bowed.

"The man is in England," he said. "Don't you think it might be helpful
if you gave me more of your confidence, and told me why you wanted to
hear about him?"

She shook her head.

"I would sooner tell you than any one, Gilbert," she said, "but I do not
want to talk about it."

"It must be as you will, of course," he answered, "but I hope you will
always remember that you could do me no greater kindness--at any
time--than to make use of my services. I do not know everything of what
happened in Paris--about that time. I do not wish to know. I am content
to serve you--blindly."

"I will not forget that," she said softly. "If ever the necessity comes
I will remind you. There! Let that be the end of it."

She changed the subject, giving him to understand that she did not wish
to discuss it further.

"You are for Marienbad, as usual?" she asked.

"Next week," he answered. "One goes from habit, I suppose. No waters
upon the earth or under it will ever cure me!"

"Liver?" she asked.

"Heart!" he declared.

"You shouldn't smoke so many cigarettes."

"Harmless," he assured her. "I don't inhale."

"I think," she said, "that I shall come over next month."

"Do!" he begged. "I'll answer for the bridge. May I come and lunch
to-morrow?"

She turned to a red morocco book by her side.

"A bishop and Lady Sarah," she said. "Several more parsons, and I think
the duchess."

"I'll face 'em," he declared.

"I think I shall send for Peggy," Wilhelmina said. "She is always so
sweet to the Church."

Deyes grinned.

"I shall go round and look her up," he declared. "Perhaps she'll come
and have lunch with me somewhere."

She held out her hand.

"You're a good sort to have gone over for me," she said. "The things you
tumbled up against you'd better forget."

"Until you remind me of them," he said. "Very well, I'll do that. Sorry
I didn't run Johnny to earth."

He went off, and Wilhelmina after a few minutes went to her desk and
wrote a letter to Stephen Hurd.

    "As usual," she wrote, "when you were here this morning I forgot
    to mention several matters upon which I meant to speak to you.
    The first is with regard to the man whose brutal assault upon
    your father caused his death. I understand that the police have
    never traced him, have never even found the slightest clue to
    his whereabouts. The more I think of this, the more strange it
    seems to me, and I am inclined to believe that he never, after
    all, escaped from the wood in which he first took shelter. I
    know that the slate quarry was dragged at the time, but I have
    been told that this was hastily done, and that there are several
    very deep holes into which the man's body may have drifted. I
    wish you, therefore, to send over to Nottingham to get some
    experienced men to bring back the drags and make an exhaustive
    search. Please have this done without delay.

    "Further, I wish to communicate with the young man Macheson, who
    was in Thorpe at the time. They may know his address at the
    post-office, but if you are unable to procure it in any other
    way, you must advertise in your own name. Please carry out my
    instructions in these two matters immediately."

Wilhelmina laid down her pen and looked thoughtfully through the window
into the square. A policeman was coming slowly along the pavement. She
watched him approach and pass the house, his eyes still fixed in front
of him, his whole appearance stolid and matter-of-fact to the last
degree. She watched him disappear with fascinated eyes. After all, he
represented great things; behind him was a whole national code; the
machinery of which he was so small a part drove the wheels of life or
death. She turned away from the window with a shrug of the shoulders.
Humming a tune, she threw herself back in her chair, and began the
leisurely perusal of her letters.




CHAPTER XX

LIKE A TRAPPED ANIMAL


Macheson in those days felt himself rapidly growing older. An
immeasurable gap seemed to lie between him and the eager young apostle
who had plunged so light-heartedly into the stress of life. All that
wonderful enthusiasm, that undaunted courage with which he had faced
coldness and ridicule in the earlier days of his self-chosen vocation
seemed to have left him. Some way, somehow, he seemed to have suffered
shipwreck! There was poison in his system! Fight against it as he
might--and he did fight--there were moments when memory turned the life
which he had taken up so solemnly into the maddest, most fantastic fairy
story. At such times his blood ran riot, the sweetness of a strange,
unknown world seemed to be calling to him across the forbidden borders.
Inaction wearied him horribly--and, after all, it was inaction which
Holderness had recommended as the best means of re-establishing himself
in a saner and more normal attitude towards life!

"Look round a bit, old chap," he advised, "and think. Don't do anything
in a hurry. You're young, shockingly young for any effective work. You
can't teach before you understand. Life isn't such a sink of iniquity
as you young prigs at Oxford professed to find it. See the best of it
and the worst. You'll be able to put your finger on the weak spots quick
enough."

But the process of looking around wearied Macheson excessively--or was
it something else which had crept into his blood to his immense
unsettlement? There were several philanthropic schemes started by
himself and his college friends in full swing now, in or about London.
To each of them he paid some attention, studying its workings, listening
to the enthusiastic outpourings of his quondam friends and doing his
best to catch at least some spark of their interest. But it was all very
unsatisfactory. Deep down in his heart he felt the insistent craving for
some fiercer excitement, some mode of life which should make larger and
deeper demands upon his emotional temperament. A heroic war would have
appealed to him instantly--for that, he realized with a sigh, he was
born many centuries too late. For weeks he wandered about London in a
highly unsatisfied condition. Then one afternoon, in the waning of a
misty October day, he came face to face with Wilhelmina in Bond Street.

She was stepping into her motor brougham when she saw him. He had no
opportunity for escape, even if he had desired it. Her tired lips were
suddenly curved into a most bewildering smile. She withdrew her hand
from her muff and offered it to him--for the first time.

"So you are still in London, Mr. Macheson," she said. "I am very glad to
see you."

The words were unlike her, the tone was such as he had never heard her
use. Do what he could, he could not help the answering light which
sprang into his own eyes.

"I am still in London," he said. "I thought you were to go to
Marienbad?"

"I left it until it was too late," she answered. "Walk a little way with
me," she added abruptly. "I should like to talk to you."

"If I may," he answered simply.

She dismissed the brougham, and they moved on.

"I am sorry," she began, "that I was rude to you when you brought that
girl to me. You did exactly what was nice and kind, and I was hateful.
Please forgive me."

"Of course," he answered simply. "I felt sure that when you thought it
over you would understand."

"You are not going back--to Thorpe?" she asked.

"Not at present, at any rate," he answered.

She looked up at him with a faint smile.

"You can have the barn," she said.

His eyes answered her smile, but his tone was grave.

"I have given that up--for a little time, at any rate," he said. "I mean
that particular sort of work."

"My villagers must content themselves with Mr. Vardon, then," she
remarked.

He nodded.

"Perhaps," he said, "ours was a mistaken enterprise. I am not sure. But
at any rate, so far as Thorpe is concerned, I have abandoned it for the
present."

She was walking close to his side, so close that the hand which raised
her skirt as they crossed the street touched his, and her soft breath as
she leaned over and spoke fell upon his cheek.

"Why?"

He felt the insidious meaning of her whispered monosyllable, he felt her
eyes striving to make him look at her. His cheeks were flushed, but he
looked steadily ahead.

"There were several reasons," he said.

"Do tell me," she begged; "I am curious."

"For one," he said steadily, "I did an unjust thing at Thorpe. I
sheltered a criminal and helped him to escape."

"So it was you who did that," she remarked. "You mean, of course, the
man who killed Mr. Hurd?"

"Yes!" he answered. "I showed him where to hide. He either got clean
away, or he is lying at the bottom of the slate quarry. In either case,
I am responsible for him."

"Well," she said, "he is not at the bottom of the slate quarry. I can at
least assure you of that. I have had the place dragged, and every foot
of it gone over by experienced men from Nottingham."

"Really," he said, surprised. "Well, I am glad of it."

She sighed.

"I want you, if you can," she said, "to describe the man to me. It is
not altogether curiosity. I have a reason for wishing to know what he
was like."

"He was in such a state of panic," Macheson said doubtfully, "that I am
afraid I have only an imperfect impression of him. He was not very tall,
he had a round face, cheeks that were generally, I should think, rather
high-coloured, brown eyes and dark hair, almost black. He wore a thick
gold ring on the finger of one hand, and although he spoke good English,
I got the idea somehow that he was either a foreigner or had lived
abroad. He was in a terrible state of fear, and from what I could
gather, I should say that he struck old Mr. Hurd in a scuffle, and not
with any deliberate intention of hurting him."

She nodded.

"I have heard all that I want to," she declared.

They walked on in silence for several minutes. Then she turned to him
with a shrug of the shoulders.

"The subject," she declared, "is dismissed. I did not ask you to walk
with me to discuss such unpleasant things. I should like to know about
yourself."

He sighed.

"About myself," he answered, "there is nothing to tell. There isn't in
the whole of London a more unsatisfactory person."

She laughed softly.

"Such delightful humility," she murmured, "especially amongst the young,
is too touching. Nevertheless, go on. It amuses me to hear."

The note of imperiousness in her tone was pleasantly reminiscent. It was
the first reminder he had received of the great lady of Thorpe.

"Well," he said, "what do you want to know?"

"Everything," she answered. "I am possessed by a most unholy curiosity.
Your relatives for instance, and where you were born."

He shook his head.

"I have no relatives," he answered. "I was born in Australia. I am an
orphan, twenty-eight years old, and feel forty-eight, no profession, no
settled purpose in life. I am Japhet in search of a career."

She glanced at his shabby clothes. He had been to a mission-house in the
East End.

"You are poor?" she asked softly.

"I have enough, more than enough," he answered, "to live on."

Her eyes lingered upon his clothes, but he offered no explanation.
Enough to live on, she reflected, might mean anything!

"You say that you have no profession," she remarked. "I suppose you
would call it a vocation. But why did you want to come and preach to my
villagers at Thorpe? Why didn't you go into the Church if you cared for
that sort of thing?"

"There was a certain amount of dogma in the way," he answered. "I should
make but a poor Churchman. They would probably call me a free-thinker.
Besides, I wanted my independence."

She nodded.

"I am beginning to understand a little better," she said. "Now you must
tell me this. Why did you entertain the idea of mission work in a place
like Thorpe, when the whole of that awful East End was there waiting for
you?"

"All the world of reformers," he answered, "rushes to the East End. We
fancied there was as important work to be done in less obvious places."

"And you started your work," she asked, "directly you left college?"

"Before, I think," he answered. "You see, I wasn't alone. There were
several of us who felt the same way--Holderness, for instance, the man
who came to your house with me the other night. He works altogether upon
the political side. He's a Socialist--of a sort. Two of the others went
into the Church, one became a medical missionary. I joined in with a few
who thought that we might do more effective work without tying ourselves
down to anything, or subscribing to any religious denomination."

She looked at him curiously. He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular.
He wore even his shabby clothes with an air of distinction.

"I suppose," she said calmly, "that I must belong to a very different
world. But what I cannot understand is why you should choose a career
which you intend to pursue apparently for the benefit of other people.
All the young men whom I have known who have taken life seriously enough
to embrace a career at all, have at least studied their individual
tastes."

"Well," he answered, smiling, "it isn't that I fancy myself any better
than my fellows. I was at Magdalen, you know, under Heysey. I think that
it was his influence which shaped our ideas."

"Yes! I have heard of him," she said thoughtfully. "He was a good man.
At least every one says so. I'm afraid I don't know much about good men
myself. Most of those whom I have met have been the other sort."

The faint bitterness of her tone troubled him. There was deliberation,
too, in her words. Instinctively he knew that this was no idle speech.

"You have asked me," he reminded her, "a good many questions. I wonder
if I might be permitted to ask you one?"

"Why not? I can reserve the privilege of not answering it," she
remarked.

"People call you a fortunate woman," he said. "You are very rich, you
have a splendid home, the choice of your own friends, a certain
reputation--forgive me if I quote from a society paper--as a brilliant
and popular woman of the world. Yours is rather a unique position, isn't
it? I wonder," he added, "whether you are satisfied with what you get
out of life!"

"I get all that there is to be got," she answered, a slight hardness
creeping into her tone. "It mayn't be much, but it amuses
me--sometimes."

He shook his head.

"There is more to be got out of life," he said, "than a little
amusement."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"How about yourself? You haven't exactly the appearance of a perfectly
contented being."

"I'm hideously dissatisfied," he admitted promptly. "Something seems to
have gone wrong with me--I seem to have become a looker-on at life. I
want to take a hand, and I can't. There doesn't seem to be any place for
me. Of course, it's only a phase," he continued. "I shall settle down
into something presently. But it's rather beastly while it lasts."

She looked at him, her eyes soft with laughter. Somehow his confession
seemed to have delighted her.

"I'm glad you are human enough to have phases," she declared. "I was
beginning to be afraid that you might turn out to be just an ordinary
superior person. Perhaps you are also human enough to drink tea and eat
muffins. Try, won't you?"

They were in front of her door, which flew immediately open. She either
took his consent for granted, or chose not to risk his refusal, for she
went on ahead, and his faint protests were unheard. His hat and stick
passed into the care of an elderly person in plain black clothes; with
scarcely an effort at resistance, he found himself following her down
the hall. She stopped before a small wrought-iron gate, which a footman
at once threw open.

"It makes one feel as though one were in a hotel, doesn't it?" she
remarked, "but I hate stairs. Besides, I am going to take you a long,
long way up.... I am not at home this afternoon, Groves."

"Very good, madam," the man answered.

They stepped out into a smaller hall. A dark-featured young woman came
hurrying forward to meet them.

"I shall not need you, Annette," Wilhelmina said. "Go down and see that
they send up tea for two, and telephone to Lady Margaret--say I'm sorry
that I cannot call for her this afternoon."

"Parfaitement, madame," the girl murmured, and hurried away. Wilhelmina
opened the door of a sitting-room--the most wonderful apartment Macheson
had ever seen. A sudden nervousness seized him. He felt his knees
shaking, his heart began to thump, his brain to swim. All at once he
realized where he was! It was not the lady of Thorpe, this! It was the
woman who had come to him with the storm, the woman who had set burning
the flame which had driven him into a new world. He looked around half
wildly! He felt suddenly like a trapped animal. It was no place for him,
this bower of roses and cushions, and all the voluptuous appurtenances
of a chamber subtly and irresistibly feminine! He was bereft of words,
awkward, embarrassed. He longed passionately to escape.

Wilhelmina closed the door and raised her veil. She laid her two hands
upon his shoulders, and looked up at him with a faint but very tender
smile. Her forehead was slightly wrinkled, her fingers seemed to cling
to him, so that her very touch was like a caress! His heart began to
beat madly. The perfume of her clothes, her hair, the violets at her
bosom, were like a new and delicious form of intoxication. The touch of
her fingers became more insistent. She was drawing his face down to
hers.

"I wonder," she murmured, "whether you remember!"




BOOK II

CHAPTER I

RATHER A GHASTLY PART


Mademoiselle Rosine raised her glass. Her big black eyes flashed
unutterable things across the pink roses.

"I think," she said, "that we drink the good health of our host, Meester
Macheson, Meester Victor, is it not?"

"Bravo!" declared a pallid-looking youth, her neighbour at the round
supper table. "By Jove, if we were at the _Côte d'Or_ instead of the
_Warwick_, we'd give him musical honours."

"I drink," Macheson declared, "to all of us who know how to live! Jules,
another magnum, and look sharp."

"Certainly, sir," the man answered.

There flashed a quick look of intelligence between the waiter and a
maître d'hôtel who was lingering near. The latter hesitated for a
moment, and then nodded. It was a noisy party and none too reputable,
but a magnum of champagne was an order. They were likely to make more
noise still if they didn't get it. So the wine was brought, and more
toasts were drunk. Mademoiselle Rosine's eyes flashed softer things
than ever across the table, but she had the disadvantage of distance.
Ella Merriam, the latest American importation, held the place of honour
next Macheson, and she was now endeavouring to possess herself of his
hand under the table.

"I say, Macheson, how is it none of us ever ran up against you before?"
young Davenant demanded, leaning back in his chair. "Never set eyes on
you myself, from the day you left Magdalen till I ran up against you at
the Alhambra the other evening. Awfully studious chap Macheson was at
college," he added to the American girl. "Thought us chaps no end of
rotters because we used to go the pace a bit. That's so, isn't it,
Macheson?"

Macheson nodded.

"It is only the young who are really wise," he declared coolly. "As we
grow older we make fools of ourselves inevitably, either fools or
beasts, according to our proclivities. Then we begin to enjoy
ourselves."

The girl by his side laughed.

"I guess you don't mean that," she said. "It sounds smart, but it's real
horrid. How old are you, Mr. Macheson?"

"Older than I look and younger than I feel," he answered, gazing into
his empty glass.

"Have you found what you call your proclivities?" she asked.

"I am searching for them," Macheson answered. "The trouble is one
doesn't know whether to dig or to climb."

"Why should one search at all?" the other man asked, drawing out a gold
cigarette case from his trousers pocket, and carefully selecting a
cigarette. "Life comes easiest to those who go blindfold. I've got a
brother, private secretary to a Member of Parliament. He's got views
about things, and he makes an awful fag of life. What's the good of it!
He'll be an old man before he's made up his mind which way he wants to
go. This sort of thing's good enough for me!"

The magnum had arrived, and Macheson lifted a foaming glass.

"Davenant," he declared, "you are a philosopher. We will drink to life
as it comes! To life--as it comes!"

They none of them noticed the little break in his voice. A party of
newcomers claimed their attention. Macheson, too, had seen them. He had
seen her. Like a ghost at the feast, he sat quite motionless, his glass
half raised in the air, the colour gone from his cheeks, his eyes set in
a hard fast stare. Wilhelmina, in a plain black velvet gown, with a rope
of pearls about her neck, her dark hair simply arranged about her
pallid, distinguished face, was passing down the room, followed closely
by the Earl of Westerdean, Deyes, and Lady Peggy. Her first impulse had
been to stop; a light sprang into her eyes, and a delicate spot of
colour burned in her cheeks. Then her eyes fell upon his companions; she
realized his surroundings. The colour went: the momentary hesitation was
gone. She passed on without recognition; Lady Peggy, after a curious
glance, did the same. She whispered and laughed in Deyes' ear as they
seated themselves at an adjacent table. He looked round behind her back
and nodded, but Macheson did not appear to see him.

A momentary constraint fell upon the little party. The American young
lady leaned over to ask Davenant who the newcomers were.

"The elder man," he said, "is the Earl of Westerdean, and the
pretty fair woman Lady Margaret Penshore. The other woman is a Miss
Thorpe-Hatton. Macheson probably knows more about them than I do!"

Macheson ignored the remark. He whispered something in his neighbour's
ear, which made her laugh heartily. The temporary check to their
merriment passed away. Macheson was soon laughing and talking as much as
any of them.

"Supper," he declared, "would be the most delightful meal of the day in
any other country except England. In a quarter of an hour the lights
will be out."

"But it is barbarous," Mademoiselle Rosine declared. "Ah! Monsieur
Macheson, you should come to Paris! There it is that one may enjoy
oneself."

"I will come," Macheson answered, "whenever you will take me."

She clapped her hands.

"Agreed," she cried. "I have finished rehearsing. I have a week's
'vacance.' We will go to Paris to-morrow, all four of us!"

"I'm on," Davenant declared promptly. "I was going anyway in a week or
two."

Mademoiselle Rosine clapped her hands again.

"Bravo!" she cried. "And you, Mademoiselle?"

The girl hesitated. She glanced at Macheson.

"We will both come," Macheson declared. "Miss Merriam will do me the
honour to go as my guest."

"We'll stay at the Vivandiére," Davenant said. "I've a pal there who
knows the ropes right up to date. What about the two-twenty to-morrow?
We shall get there in time to change and have supper at Noyeau's."

"And afterwards--_au Rat Mort_----" Mademoiselle Rosine cried. "We will
drink a glass of champagne with _cher_ Monsieur François."

Davenant raised his glass.

"One more toast, then, before the bally lights go out!" he exclaimed.
"To Paris--and our trip!"

Some one touched Macheson on the arm. He turned sharply round. Deyes was
standing there. Tall and immaculately attired, there was something a
little ghostly in the pallor of his worn, beardless face, with its many
wrinkles and tired eyes.

"Forgive me for interrupting you, my dear fellow," he said. "We are
having our coffee outside, just on the left there. Miss Thorpe-Hatton
wants you to stop for a moment on your way out."

Macheson hesitated perceptibly. A dull flush of colour stained his
cheek, fading away almost immediately. He set his teeth hard.

"I shall be very happy," he said, "to stop for a second."

Deyes bowed and turned away. The room now was almost in darkness, and
the people were streaming out into the foyer. Macheson paid the bill and
followed in the wake of the others. Seeing him approach alone,
Wilhelmina welcomed him with a smile, and drew her skirts on one side to
make room for him to sit down. He glanced doubtfully around. She raised
her eyebrows.

"Your friends," she said, "are in no hurry. They can spare you for a
moment."

There was nothing in her tone to indicate any surprise at finding him
there, or in such company. She made a few casual remarks in her somewhat
languid fashion, and recalled him to the recollection of Lady Peggy, who
was to all appearance flirting desperately with Lord Westerdean. Deyes
had strolled across to a neighbouring group, and was talking to a
well-known actor. Wilhelmina leaned towards him.

"Has it ever occurred to you," she asked quietly, "that you left me a
little abruptly the other afternoon?"

His eyes blazed into hers. He found it hard to emulate the quiet
restraint of her tone and manner. It was a trick which he had never
cultivated, never inherited, this playing with the passions in kid
gloves, this muzzling and harnessing of the emotions.

"You know why," he said.

She inclined her head ever so slightly to where his late companions were
seated.

"And this?" she asked. "Am I responsible for this, too?"

He laughed shortly.

"It would never have occurred to me to suggest such a thing," he
declared. "I am amusing myself a little. Why not?"

"Are you?" she asked calmly.

Her eyes drew his. He almost fancied that the quiver at the corners of
her lips was of mirth.

"Somehow," she continued, "I am not sure of that. I watched you now and
then in there. It seemed to me that you were playing a part--rather a
ghastly part! There's nothing so wearisome, you know, as pretending to
enjoy yourself."

"I had a headache to-night," he said, frowning.

She bent towards him.

"Is it better now?" she whispered, smiling.

He threw out his hands with a quick fierce gesture. It was well that the
great room was wrapped in the mysterious obscurity of semi-darkness, and
that every one was occupied with the business of farewells. He sprang to
his feet.

"I am going," he said thickly. "My friends are expecting me."

She shook her head.

"Those are not your friends," she said. "You know very well that they
never could be. You can go and wish them good night. You are going to
see me home."

"No!" he declared.

"If you please," she begged softly.

He crossed the room unsteadily, and made his excuses with the best grace
he could. Mademoiselle Rosine made a wry face. Miss Ella laid her
fingers upon his arm and looked anxiously up at him.

"Say you won't disappoint us to-morrow," she said. "It's all fixed up
about Paris, isn't it? Two-twenty from Charing Cross."

"Yes!" he answered. "I will let you know if anything turns up."

They all stood around him. Davenant laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"Look here, old chap," he said, "no backing out. We've promised the
girls, and we mustn't disappoint them."

"Monsieur Macheson would not be so cruel," Mademoiselle Rosine pleaded.
"He has promised, and Englishmen never break their workd. Is it not so?
A party of four, yes! that is very well. But alone with Herbert here I
could not go. If you do not come, all is spoilt! Is it not so, my
friends?"

"Rather!" Davenant declared.

The other girl's fingers tightened upon his arm.

"Don't go away now," she whispered. "Come round to my flat and we'll all
talk it over. I will sing you my new song. I'm crazy about it."

Macheson detached himself as well as he could.

"I must leave you now," he declared. "I can assure you that I mean to
come to-morrow."

He hurried after Wilhelmina, who was saying good night to her friends. A
few minutes later they were being whirled westwards in her brougham.




CHAPTER II

PLAYING WITH FIRE


"And now," she said, throwing herself into an easy-chair and taking up a
fan, "we can talk."

He refused the chair which she had motioned him to wheel up to the fire.
He stood glowering down upon her, pale, stern, yet not wholly master of
himself. Against the sombre black of her dress, her neck and bosom shone
like alabaster. She played with her pearls, and looked up at him with
that faint maddening curl of the lips which he so loved and so hated.

"So you won't sit down. I wonder why a man always feels that he can
bully a woman so much better standing up."

"There is no question of bullying you," he answered shortly. "You are
responsible for my coming here. What is it that you want with me?"

"Suppose," she murmured, looking up at him, "that I were to say--another
kiss!"

"Suppose, on the other hand," he answered roughly, "you were to tell me
the truth."

She sighed gently.

"You jump so rapidly at conclusions," she declared. "Are you sure that
it would not be the truth!"

"If it were," he began fiercely.

"If it were," she interrupted, "well?"

"I would rather kiss Mademoiselle Rosine or whatever her name is," he
said. "I would sooner go out into the street and kiss the first woman I
met."

She shook her head.

"What an impossible person you are!" she murmured. "Of course, I don't
believe you."

He shrugged his shoulders, and glanced at the clock.

"Are you going to keep me here long?" he asked roughly. "I am going to
Paris to-morrow, and I have to pack my clothes."

"To Paris? With Mademoiselle Rosine?"

"Yes!"

She laughed softly.

"Oh! I think not," she declared. "That sort of thing wouldn't amuse you
a bit."

"We shall see!" he muttered.

"I am sure that you will not go," she repeated.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because--I beg you not to!"

"You!" he exclaimed. "You! Do you think that I am another of those
creatures of straw and putty, to dance to your whims, to be whistled to
your heel, to be fed with stray kisses, and an occasional kind word? I
think not! If I am to go to the Devil, I will go my own way."

"You inconsistent creature!" she said. "Why not mine?"

"I'll take my soul with me, such as it is," he answered. "I'll not make
away with it while my feet are on the earth."

"Do you know that you are really a very extraordinary person?" she said.

"What I am you are responsible for," he answered. "I was all right when
you first knew me. I may have been ignorant, perhaps, but at any rate I
was sincere. I had a conscience and an ideal. Oh! I suppose you found me
very amusing--a missioner who thought it worth while to give a part of
his life to help his fellows climb a few steps higher up. What devil was
it that sent you stealing down the lane that night from your house, I
wonder?"

She nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry you can speak of it like that," she said. "To me it was the
most delightful piece of sentiment! Almost like a poem!"

"A poem! It was the Devil's own poetry you breathed into me! What a poor
mad fool I became! You saw how easily I gave my work up, how I sulked up
to London, fighting with it all the time, with this madness--this----"

"Dear me," she said, "what an Adam you are! My dear Victor, isn't
it--you are very, very young. There is no need for you to manufacture a
huge tragedy out of a woman's kiss."

"What else is it but a tragedy," he demanded, "the kiss that is a
lie--or worse? You brought me here, you let me hold you in my arms, you
filled my brain with mad thoughts, you drove everything good and worth
having out of life, you filled it with what? Yourself! And then--you pat
me on the cheek and tell me to come, and be kissed some other day, when
you feel in the humour, a wet afternoon, perhaps, or when you are
feeling bored, and want to hunt up a few new emotions! It may be the way
with you and your kind. I call it hellish!"

"Well," she said, "tell me exactly what it is that you want?"

"To be laughed at--as you did before?" he answered fiercely. "Never
mind. It was the truth. You have lain in my arms, you came willingly,
your lips have been mine! You belong to me!"

"To be quite explicit," she murmured, "you think I ought to marry you."

"Yes!" he declared firmly. "A kiss is a promise! You seem to want to
live as a 'poseuse,' to make playthings of your emotions and mine. I
wanted to build up my life firmly, to make it a stable and a useful
thing. You came and wrecked it, and you won't even help me to rebuild."

"Let us understand one another thoroughly," she said. "Your complaint
is, then, that I will not marry you?"

The word, the surprising, amazing word, left her lips again so calmly
that Macheson was staggered a little, confused by its marvellous
significance. He was thrown off his balance, and she smiled as a
wrestler who has tripped his adversary. Henceforth she expected to find
him easier to deal with.

"You know--that it is not that--altogether," he faltered.

"What is it that you want then?" she asked calmly. "There are not many
men in the world who have kissed--even my hand. There are fewer
still--whom I have kissed. I thought that I had been rather kind to
you."

"Kind!" he threw out his arms with a despairing gesture. "You call it
kindness, the drop of magic you pour into a man's veins, the touch of
your body, the breath of your lips vouchsafed for a second, the elixir
of a new life. What is it to you? A caprice! A little dabbling in the
emotions, a device to make a few minutes of the long days pass more
smoothly. Perhaps it's the way in your world, this! You cheat yourself
of a whole-hearted happiness by making physiological experiments,
frittering away the great chance out of sheer curiosity--or something
worse. And we who don't understand the game--we are the victims!"

"Really," she said pleasantly, "you are very eloquent."

"And you," he said, "are----"

Her hand flashed out almost to his lips, long shapely fingers, ablaze
with the dull fire of emeralds.

"Stop," she commanded, "you are not quite yourself this evening. I am
afraid that you will say something which you will regret. Now listen.
You have made a most eloquent attack upon me, but you must admit that it
is a perfect tangle of generalities. Won't you condescend to look me in
the face, leave off vague complaints, and tell me precisely why you have
placed me in the dock and yourself upon the bench? In plain words, mind.
No evasions. I want the truth."

"You shall have it," he answered grimly. "Listen, then. I began at
Thorpe. You were at once rude and kind to me. I was a simple ass, of
course, and you were a mistress in all the arts which go to a man's
undoing. It wasn't an equal fight. I struggled a little, but I thanked
God that I had an excuse to give up my work. I came to London, but the
poison was working. Every morning before you were up, and every night
after dark, I walked round your square--and the days I saw you were the
days that counted."

"Dear me, how interesting!" she interrupted softly. "And to think that I
never knew!"

"I never meant you to know," he declared. "A fool I was from the first,
but never fool enough to misunderstand. When I brought Letty Foulton to
you, I brought her against my will. It was for the child's sake. And you
were angry, and then I saw you again--and you were kind!"

She smiled at him.

"I'm glad you admit that," she said gently. "I thought that I was very
kind indeed. And you repaid me--how?"

"Kind!" he cried fiercely. "Yes! you were kind! You were mine for the
moment, you lay in my arms, you gave me your lips! It was an impression!
It amused you to see any human being so much in earnest. Then the mood
passed. Your dole of charity had been given! I must sit apart and you
must smooth your hair. What did it all amount to? An episode, a trifling
debauch in sentiment--and for me--God knows!"

"To return once more," she said patiently, "to your complaint. Is it
that I will not marry you?"

"I did not ask that--at first," he answered. "It is a good deal, I
know."

"Then do you want to come and kiss me every day?" she asked, "because I
don't think that that would suit me either."

"I can believe it," he said.

"I am inclined to think," she said, "that you are a very grasping and
unreasonable person. I have permitted you privileges which more men than
my modesty permits me to tell you of have begged for in vain. You have
accepted them--I promised nothing beyond, nor have you asked for it. Yet
because I was obliged to talk reasonably to you, you flung yourself out
of my house, and I am left to rescue you at the expense of my pride,
perhaps also of my reputation, from associations which you ought to be
ashamed of."

"To talk reasonably to me," he repeated slowly. "Do you remember what
you said?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Naturally! And what I said was true enough."

"I was to be content with scraps. To go away and forget you, until
chance or a whim of yours should bring us together again."

"Did you want so much more?" she asked, with a swift maddening glance at
him.

He fell on his knees before her couch.

"Oh! I love you!" he said. "Forgive me if I am unreasonable or foolish.
I can't help it. You came so unexpectedly, so wonderfully! And you see I
lost my head as well as my heart. I have so little to offer you--and I
want so much."

Her hands rested for a moment caressingly upon his shoulders. A whole
world of wonderful things was shining out of her eyes. It was only her
lips that were cruel.

"My dear boy," she said, "you want what I may not give. I am very, very
sorry. I think there must have been some sorcery in the air that night,
the spell of the roses must have crept into my blood. I am sorry for
what I did. I am very sorry that I did not leave you alone."

He rose heavily to his feet. His face was grey with suffering.

"I ought to have known," he said. "I think that I did know."

"All the same," she continued, laying her hand upon his arm, "I think
that you are a rank extremist."

He shook his head.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Shall I teach you?" she whispered.

He flung her hand away.

"No!" he said savagely.

She sighed.

"I am afraid you had better go away," she said.

As he closed the door he fancied that he heard a sob. But it might have
been only fancy.




CHAPTER III

MONSIEUR S'AMUSE


"To-night," young Davenant declared, with something which was
suspiciously like a yawn, "I really think that we must chuck it just a
little earlier. Shall we say that we leave here at two, and get back to
the hotel?"

Mademoiselle Rosine pouted, but said nothing. The young lady from
America tried to take Macheson's hand.

"Yes!" she murmured. "Do let's! I'm dead tired."

She whispered something in Macheson's ear which he affected not to hear.
He leaned back in his cushioned seat and laughed.

"What, go home without seeing François!" he exclaimed. "He's keeping the
corner table for us, and we're all going to dance the Maxixe with the
little Russian girl."

"We could telephone," Davenant suggested. "Do you know that we haven't
been to bed before six one morning since we arrived in Paris?"

"Well, isn't that what we came for?" Macheson exclaimed. "We can go to
bed at half-past twelve in London. Maître d'hôtel, the wine! My friends
are getting sleepy. What's become of the music? Tell our friend
there--ah! Monsieur Henri!"

He beckoned to the leader of the orchestra, who came up bowing, with his
violin under his arm.

"Monsieur Henri, my friends are '_triste_,'" he explained. "They say
there is no music here, no life. They speak of going home to bed. Look
at mademoiselle here! She yawns! We did not come to Paris to yawn.
Something of the liveliest. You understand? Perhaps mademoiselle there
will dance."

"Parfaitement, monsieur."

The man bowed himself away, with a twenty-franc piece in the palm of his
hand. The orchestra began a gay two-step. Macheson, starting up, passed
his arm round the waist of a little fair-haired Parisienne just
arriving. She threw her gold satchel on to a table, and they danced
round the room. Davenant watched them with unwilling admiration.

"Well, Macheson's a fair knockout," he declared. "I'm hanged if he can
keep still for five minutes. And when I knew him at Oxford, he was one
of the most studious chaps in the college. Gad! he's dancing with
another girl now--look, he's drinking champagne out of her glass.
Shouldn't stand it, Ella."

Ella was watching him. Her eyes were very bright, and there was more
colour than usual in her cheeks.

"It's nothing to me what Mr. Macheson does," she said, with a catch in
her voice. "I don't understand him a bit. I think he's mad."

Mademoiselle Rosine leaned across and whispered in her ear. Ella shook
her head.

"You see--it is any girl with him," she said. "He dances with them, pays
their bills--see, he pays for Annette there, and away he goes--laughing.
You see it is so with them, too. He has finished with them now. He comes
back to us. Guess I'm not sure I want him."

Nevertheless she moved her skirts and made room for him by her side.
Macheson came up out of breath, and poured himself out a glass of wine.

"What a time they are serving supper!" he exclaimed.

Davenant groaned.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, "remember our dinner at Lesueur's. You
can't be hungry!"

"But I am," Macheson declared. "What are we here for but to eat and
drink and enjoy ourselves? Jove! this is good champagne! Mademoiselle
Rosine!"

He raised his glass and bowed. Mademoiselle Rosine laughed at him out of
her big black eyes. He was rather a fascinating figure, this tall,
good-looking young Englishman, who spoke French so perfectly and danced
so well.

"I would make you come and sit by me, Monsieur Macheson," she declared,
"but Ella would be jealous."

"What about me?" Davenant exclaimed.

"Oh! là, là!" she answered, pinching his arm.

"I'm sure I don't mind," Ella declared. "I guess we're all free to talk
to whom we please."

Macheson drew up a chair and sat opposite to them.

"I choose to look at you both," he said, banging the table with his
knife. "Garçon, we did not come here to eat your flowers or your
immaculate tablecloth. We ordered supper half an hour ago. Good! It
arrives."

No one but Macheson seemed to have much appetite. He ate and he drank,
and he talked almost alone. He ordered another bottle of wine, and the
tongues of the others became a little looser. The music was going now
all the time, and many couples were dancing. The fair-haired girl,
dancing with an older woman, touched him on the shoulder as she passed,
and laughed into his face.

"There is no one," she murmured, "who dances like monsieur."

He sprang up from his seat and whirled her round the room. She leaned
against his arm and whispered in his ear. Ella watched her with
darkening face.

"It is little Flossie from the _Folies Marigny_," Mademoiselle Rosine
remarked. "You must have a care, Ella. She has followed Monsieur
Macheson everywhere with her eyes."

He returned to his place and continued his supper.

"Hang it all, you people are dull to-night," he exclaimed. "Drink some
more wine, Davenant, and look after mademoiselle. Miss Ella!"

He filled her glass and she leaned over the table.

"Every one else seems to make love to you," she whispered. "I guess I'll
have to begin. If you call me Miss Ella again I shall box your ears."

"Ella then, what you will," he exclaimed. "Remember, all of you, that we
are here to have a good time, not to mope. Davenant, if you don't
sparkle up, I shall come and sit between the girls myself."

"Come along," they both cried. Mademoiselle Rosine held out her arms,
but Macheson kept his seat.

"Let's go up to the _Rat Mort_ if we're going," Ella exclaimed. "It's
dull here, and I'm tired of seeing that yellow-headed girl make eyes at
you."

Macheson laughed and drained his glass.

"_Au Rat Mort!_" he cried. "Good!"

They paid the bill and all trooped out. The fair-haired girl caught at
Macheson's hand as he passed.

"_Au Rat Mort?_" she whispered.

She threw a meaning glance at Ella.

"Monsieur is well guarded," she said softly.

"Malheureusement!" he answered, smiling.

Davenant drew him on one side as the girls went for their cloaks.

"I say, old chap," he began, "aren't you trying Ella a bit high? She's
not a bad-tempered girl, you know, but I'm afraid there'll be a row
soon."

Macheson paused to light a cigarette.

"A row?" he answered. "I don't see why."

"You're a bit catholic in your attentions, you know," Davenant remarked.

"Why not?" Macheson answered. "Ella is nothing to me. No more are the
rest of them. I amuse myself--that's all."

Davenant looked as he felt, puzzled.

"Well," he said. "I'm not sure that Ella sees it in that light."

"Why shouldn't she?" Macheson demanded.

"Well, hang it all, you brought her over, didn't you?" Davenant reminded
him.

"She came over as my guest," Macheson answered. "That is to say, I pay
for her whenever she chooses to come out with us, and I pay or shall pay
her hotel bill. Beyond that, I imagine that we are both of us free to
amuse ourselves as we please."

"I don't believe Ella looks at it in that light," Davenant said
hesitatingly. "You mean to say that there is nothing--er----"

"Of course not," Macheson interrupted.

"Hasn't she----"

"Oh! shut up," Macheson exclaimed. "Here they come."

Ella passed her arm through his. Mademoiselle Rosine had told her while
she stood on tiptoe and dabbed at her cheeks with a powder-puff, that
she was too cold. The Messieurs Anglais were often so difficult. They
needed encouragement, so very much encouragement. Then there were more
confidences, and Madame Rosine was very much astonished. What sort of a
man was this Monsieur Macheson, yet so gallant, so gay! She promised
herself that she would watch him.

"We will drive up together, you and I," Ella whispered in his ear, but
Macheson only laughed.

"I've hired a motor car for the night," he said. "In you get! I'm going
to sit in front with the chauffeur and sing."

"You will do nothing of the sort," Ella declared, almost sharply. "You
will come inside with us."

"Anywhere, anyhow," he answered. "To the little hell at the top of the
hill, Jean, and drive fast," he directed. "Jove! it's two o'clock! Hurry
up, Davenant. We shall have no time there at all."

There was barely room for four. Mademoiselle Rosine perched herself
daintily on Davenant's knee. Ella tried to draw Macheson into her arms,
but he sank on to the floor, and sat with his hands round his knees
singing a French music-hall song of the moment. They shouted to him to
leave off, but he only sang the louder. Then, in a block, he sprang from
the car, seized the whole stock of a pavement flower-seller, and, paying
her magnificently, emptied them through the window of the car into the
girls' laps, and turning round as suddenly--disappeared.

"He's mad--quite mad," Ella declared, with a sigh. "I don't believe we
shall see him again to-night."

Nevertheless, he was on the pavement outside the _Rat Mort_ awaiting
them, chaffing the commissionaire. He threw open the door and welcomed
them.

"They are turning people away here," he declared. "Heaps of fun going
on! All the artistes from the Circus are here, and a party of Spaniards.
François has kept our table. Come along."

Ella hung on to him as they climbed the narrow, shabby staircase.

"Say," she pleaded in his ear, "don't you want to be a little nicer to
me to-night?"

"Command me," he answered. "I am in a most amenable temper."

"Sit with me instead of wandering round so. You don't want to talk to
every pretty girl, do you?"

He laughed.

"Why not? Aren't we all on the same quest? It is the 'camaraderie' of
pleasure!"

They reached the bend of the stairs. From above they could hear the
music, the rattle of plates, the hum of voices. She leaned towards him.

"Kiss me, please," she whispered.

He stooped down and raised her hand to his lips. She drew it slowly away
and looked at him curiously.

"Your lips are cold," she said.

He laughed.

"The night is young," he answered. "See, there is François."

They passed on. Ella was a little more content. It was the most
promising thing he had said to her.




CHAPTER IV

AT THE "DEAD RAT"


Monsieur François piloted the little party himself to the corner table
which he had reserved for them. He had taken a fancy to this tall young
Englishman, whose French, save for a trifle of accent, was as perfect as
his own, who spent money with both hands, who was gay as the gayest, and
yet who had the air of being little more than a looker-on at the
merriment which he did so much to promote.

"We are full to-night, monsieur," he said. "There will be a great crowd.
Yet you see your table waits. Mademoiselle Bolero herself begged for it,
but I said always--'No! no! no! It is for monsieur and his friends.'"

"You are a prince," Macheson exclaimed as they filed into their places.
"To-night we are going to prove to ourselves that we are indeed in
Paris! Sommelier, the same wine--in magnums to-night! My friend is
sleepy. We must wake him up. Ah, mademoiselle!" he waved his hand to the
little short-skirted danseuse. "You must take a glass of wine with us,
and afterwards--the Maxixe! Waiter, a glass, a chair for mademoiselle!"

Mademoiselle came pirouetting up to them. Monsieur was very kind. She
would take a glass of champagne, and afterwards--yes! the Maxixe, if
they desired it!

They sat with their backs to the wall, facing the little space along
which the visitors to the café came and went, and where, under
difficulties, one danced. The leader of the orchestra came bowing and
smiling towards them, playing an American waltz, and Macheson, with a
laugh, sprang up and guided mademoiselle through the throng of people
and hurrying waiters.

"Monsieur comes often to Paris?" she asked, as they whirled around.

"For the first time in my life," Macheson answered. "We are here on a
quest! We want to understand what pleasure means!"

Mademoiselle sighed ever so slightly under the powder with which her
pretty face was disfigured.

"One is gay here always," she said somewhat doubtfully, "but it is the
people who come seldom who enjoy themselves the most."

Macheson laughed as he led her back to their table.

"You are right," he declared. "Pleasure is a subtle thing. It does not
do to analyse."

Macheson filled her glass.

"Sit down," he said, "and tell us about the people. It is early yet, I
suppose?"

She nodded.

"Yes," she answered. "There are many who come every night who have not
yet arrived."

Ella leaned forward to ask a question, and mademoiselle nodded. Yes!
that was Bolero at the small table opposite. She sat with three men, one
of whom was busy sketching on the back of the menu card. Bolero, with
her wonderful string of pearls, smileless, stolid, with the boredom in
her face of the woman who sees no more worlds to conquer. Monsieur with
the ruffled hair and black eyes? Yes! a Russian certainly. Mademoiselle,
with a smile which belied her words, was not sure of his name, but
François spoke always of His Highness! The gentleman with the
smooth-shaven face, who read a newspaper and supped alone? Mademoiselle
looked around. She hesitated. After all, monsieur and his friends were
only casual visitors. It was not for them to repeat it, but the
gentleman was a detective--one of the most famous. He had watched for
some one for many nights. In the end it would happen. Ah! Some one was
asking for a cake-walk? Mademoiselle finished her wine hastily and
sprang up. She will return? But certainly, if monsieur pleases!

The band struck up something American. Mademoiselle danced up and down
the little space between the tables. Ella laid her hand upon Macheson's
shoulder.

"Why do you want to talk to every one?" she whispered. "I think you
forget sometimes that you are not alone."

Macheson laughed impatiently.

"My dear young lady," he said, "you too forget that we are on a quest.
We are here to understand what pleasure means--how to win it. We must
talk to every one, do everything everybody else does. It's no good
looking on all the time."

"But you never talk to me at all," she objected.

"Rubbish!" he answered lightly. "You don't listen. Come, I am getting
hungry. Davenant, we must order supper."

Davenant, whose hair Mademoiselle Rosine had been ruffling, whose tie
was no longer immaculate, and who was beginning to realize that he had
drunk a good deal of wine, leaned forward and regarded Macheson with
admiration.

"Old man," he declared, "you're great! Order what you like. We will eat
it--somehow, won't we, Rosine?"

She laughed assent.

"For me," she begged, "some caviare, and afterwards an omelette."

"Consommé and dry biscuits--and some fruit!" Ella suggested.

Macheson gave the order and filled their glasses. It was half-past two,
and people were beginning to stream in. Unattached ladies strolled down
the room--looking for a friend--or to make one. Their more fortunate
sisters of the "haute demi-monde" were beginning to arrive with their
escorts, from the restaurants and cafés. Greetings were shouted up and
down the room. Suddenly Ella's face clouded over again. It was the girl
in blue, with whom Macheson had danced at Lesueur's, who had just
entered with a party of friends, women in lace coats and wonderful opera
cloaks, the men all silk-hatted--the shiniest silk hats in Europe--white
gloves, supercilious and immaculate. A burst of applause greeted her,
as, with her blue skirts daringly lifted, she danced down the room to
the table which was hastily being prepared for them. Her piquant face
was wreathed with smiles, she shouted greetings everywhere, and when she
saw Macheson, she threw him kisses with both hands, which he stood up
and gallantly returned. She was the centre of attraction until
Mademoiselle Anna from the Circus arrived, and to reach her place leaped
lightly over an intervening table, with a wonderful display of red silk
stocking and filmy lingerie. The place became gayer and noisier every
moment. Greetings were shouted from table to table. The spirit of
Bohemianism seemed to flash about the place like quicksilver. People who
were complete strangers drank one another's health across the room. The
hard-worked waiters were rushing frantically about. The popping of corks
was almost incessant, a blue haze of tobacco smoke hung about the room.
Macheson, leaning back in his place, watched with eyes that missed
little. He saw the keen-faced little man whose identity mademoiselle had
disclosed, calmly fold up his paper, light a cigarette, and stroll
across the room to a table nearly opposite. A man was sitting there with
a couple of women--a big man with a flushed face and tumbled hair. The
waiter was opening a magnum of champagne--everything seemed to promise a
cheerful time for the trio. Then a word was whispered in his ear. The
newcomer bowed apologetically to the ladies and accepted a glass of
wine. But a moment later the two men left the place together--and
neither returned.

"What are you staring at?" Ella demanded curiously.

Macheson looked away from the door and smiled quietly.

"I was wondering," he answered, "what it was like--outside?"

"Would you like to go?" she whispered eagerly in his ear. "I'm ready.
The others could come on afterwards."

"What, without supper?" he exclaimed. "My dear girl, I'm starving.
Besides--I didn't mean that altogether."

"It's rather hard to know what you do mean," she remarked with a sigh.
"Say, I don't understand you a little bit!"

"How should you," he answered, "when I'm in the same fix myself?"

"I wish you were like other boys," she remarked. "You're so difficult!"

He looked at her--without the mask--for a moment, and she drew back,
wondering. For his eyes were very weary, and they spoke to her of things
which she did not understand.

"Don't try," he said. "It wouldn't be any good."

Mademoiselle sank into her chair opposite to them, breathless and hot.
She accepted a glass of wine and begged for a cigarette. She whispered
in Macheson's ear that the big man was a forger, an affair of the year
before last. He was safe away from Paris, but the price of his liberty
was more than he could pay. The man there to the left with the lady in
pink, no! not the Vicomte, the one beyond, he was tried for murder a
month ago. There was a witness missing--the case fell through,
but--mademoiselle shook her shoulders significantly. The lady with fair
hair and dark eyes, Macheson asked, was she English? But certainly,
mademoiselle assured him. She was the divorced wife of an English
nobleman. "To-night she is alone," mademoiselle added, "but it is not
often! Ah, monsieur!"

Mademoiselle shook her finger across the table. Macheson's too curious
glance had provoked a smile of invitation from the lady!

"I really think you might remember that I am here," Ella remarked. "It
is very interesting to hear you talk French, but I get tired of it!"

Mademoiselle took the hint and flitted away. Supper arrived and created
a diversion. Nevertheless, Macheson alone of the little party seemed to
have absorbed successfully the spirit of the place. He was almost
recklessly gay. He drank toasts right and left. He was the centre from
which the hilarity of the room seemed to radiate. Davenant was half
muddled with wine, and sleepy. He sat with his arm about Rosine, who
looked more often towards Macheson. Ella, who had refused to eat
anything, was looking flushed and angry. She had tried to link her arm
in her companion's, but he had gently disengaged it. She kept whispering
in his ear, and sat with her eyes glued upon Mademoiselle Flossie, whose
glances and smiles were all for Macheson. And soon after the end came.
The band began a waltz--"L'Amoureuse"--it was apparently mademoiselle
herself who had commanded it. With the first bars, she sprang to her
feet and came floating down the room, her arms stretched out towards
Macheson. She leaned over the table, her body swaying towards him, her
gesture of invitation piquant, bewitching. Macheson, springing at once
to his feet, rested his hand for a moment upon the table which hemmed
him in, and vaulted lightly into the room. A chorus of laughter and
bravoes greeted his feat.

"But he is un homme galant, this Englishman," a Frenchwoman cried out,
delighted. Every one was watching the couple. But Ella rose to her feet
and called a waiter to move the table.

"I am going," she said angrily. "I have had enough of this. You people
can come when you like."

They tried to stop her, but it was useless. She swept down the room,
taking not the slightest notice of Macheson and his companion, a spot of
angry colour burning in her cheeks. Davenant and Mademoiselle Rosine
stood up, preparing to follow her. The former shouted to Macheson, who
brought his partner up to their table and poured her out a glass of
champagne.

"Ella's gone!" Davenant exclaimed. "You'll catch it!"

Macheson smiled.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Are you off too?"

"As soon as the Johnny brings the bill," Davenant answered.

"I'll settle up," Macheson declared. "Take the automobile. I'll follow
you in a few minutes."

Mademoiselle Flossie, called back to her own table, hurried off with a
parting squeeze of Macheson's hand. He sat down alone for a moment. At
the other end of the room, a darkey with a doll's hat upon his head was
singing a coon song!




CHAPTER V

THE AWAKENING


Alone for the first moment of the evening, it seemed to Macheson that a
sudden wave of confounding thoughts surged into his brain, at war from
the first with all that was sensuous and brilliant in this new and
swiftly developed phase of his personality. He closed his eyes for a
moment, and when again he opened them it seemed indeed as though a
miracle had taken place. The whole atmosphere of the room was changed.
He looked around, incredulous, amazed. The men especially were
different. Such good fellows as they had seemed a few moments ago--from
his altered point of view Macheson regarded them now in scornful
curiosity. Their ties were awry, their hair was ruffled, their faces
were paled or flushed. The laughter of women rang still through the
place, but the music had gone from their mirth. It seemed to him that he
saw suddenly through the smiles that wreathed their lips, saw underneath
the barren mockery of it all. This hideous travesty of life in its
gentler moods had but one end--the cold, relentless path to oblivion.
Louder and louder the laughter rang, until Macheson felt that he must
close his ears. The Devil was using his whip indeed.

Mademoiselle la Danseuse, seeing him alone, paused at his table on her
way through the room.

"Monsieur is _triste_," she remarked, "because his friends have
departed."

Macheson shook his head.

"I am off, too, in a few minutes," he answered.

A waiter with immovable face slipped a note into his hand, under cover
of presenting the bill. Macheson read it and glanced across the room.
Mademoiselle Flossie was watching him with uplifted eyebrows and
expectant smile. Macheson shook his head, slightly but unmistakably. The
young lady in blue shrugged her shoulders and pouted.

Mademoiselle la Danseuse was watching him curiously.

"I wonder," she said softly, "why monsieur comes here."

"In search of pleasure," Macheson answered grimly.

She looked at him fixedly, and Macheson, momentarily interested,
returned her gaze. Then he saw that underneath the false smile, for a
moment laid aside, there was something human in her face.

"Monsieur makes a brave show, but he does not succeed," she remarked.

"And you?" he asked. "Why do you come here?"

"It pays--very well," she answered quietly, and left him.

Macheson settled his bill and called for the vestiaire. In the further
corner of the room two women were quarrelling. The languid senses of
those who still lingered in the place were stirred. The place was
electrified instantly with a new excitement. A fight, perhaps--every one
crowded around. Unnoticed, Macheson walked out.

Down the narrow stairs he groped his way, with the music of the
orchestra, the fierce hysterical cries of the women, the mock cheering
of those who crowded round, in his ears. He passed out into the
blue-grey dawn. The stars were faint in the sky, and away eastwards
little fleecy red clouds were strewn over the house-tops. He stood on
the pavement and drew in a long breath. The morning breeze was like a
draught of cold water; it was as though he had come back to life again
after an interlude spent in some other world. Overhead he could still
hear the music of the "Valse Amoureuse," the swell of voices. He
shivered, with the cold perhaps--or the memory of the nightmare!

The commissionaire, hat in hand, summoned a coupé, and Macheson took his
place in the small open carriage. Down the cobbled street they went, the
crazy vehicle swaying upon its worn rubber tyres, past other night
resorts with their blaze of lights and string of waiting cabs; past
women in light boots, in strange costumes, artificial in colour and
shape, painted, bold-eyed, uncanny pilgrims in the City of Pleasure;
past the great churches, silent and stern in the cold morning light;
past weary-eyed scavengers into the heart of the city, where a thin
stream of early morning toilers went on their relentless way. Once more
he entered the obscurity of his dimly lit hotel, where sleepy-eyed
servants were sweeping, and retired to his room, into which he let
himself at last with a sigh of relief. He threw up the blinds and
opened the windows. To be alone within those four walls was a blessed
thing.

He threw off his coat and glanced at his watch. It was half-past five.
His eyes were hot, but he had no desire for sleep. He walked restlessly
up and down for a few minutes, and then threw himself into an
easy-chair. Suddenly he looked up.

Some one was knocking softly at his door. He walked slowly towards it
and paused. All his senses were still pulsating with a curious sense of
excitement; when he stood still he could almost hear his heart beat.
From outside came the soft rustling of a woman's gown--he knew very well
who it was that waited there. He stood still and waited. Again there
came the knocking, to him almost like a symbolical thing in its
stealthy, muffled insistence. He felt himself battling with a sudden
wave of emotions, struggling with a passionate, unexpected desire to
answer the summons. He took a quick step forwards. Then sanity came, and
the moment seemed far away--a part of the nightmare left behind. He
waited until he heard the quiet, reluctant footsteps pass away down the
corridor. Then he muttered something to himself, which sounded like a
prayer. He sank into a chair and passed his hand across his forehead.
The recollection of that moment was horrible to him. He stared at the
door with fascinated eyes. What if he had opened it!

He still had no desire for sleep, but he began slowly to undress. His
clothes, his tie, everything he had been wearing, seemed to him to reek
of accumulated perfumes of the night, and he flung them from him with
feverish disgust. There was a small bath-room opening from his sleeping
chamber, and with a desire for complete cleanliness which was not wholly
physical, he filled the bath and plunged in. The touch of the cold water
was inspiring and he stepped out again into a new world. Much of the
horror of so short a time ago had gone, but with his new self had come
an ever-increasing distaste for any resumption, in any shape or form, of
his associations of the last few days. He must get away. He rummaged
through his things and found a timetable. In less than an hour he was
dressed, his clothes were packed, and the bill was paid. He wrote a
short note to Davenant and a shorter one to Ella. Ignoring the events of
the last night, he spoke of a summons home. He enclosed the receipted
hotel bill, and something with which he begged her to purchase a
souvenir of her visit. Then he drank some coffee, and with a somewhat
stealthy air made his way to the lift, and thence to the courtyard of
the hotel. Already a small victoria was laden with his luggage; the
concierge, the baggage-master, the porters, were all tipped with a
prodigality almost reckless. Shaven, and with a sting of the cold water
still upon his skin, in homely flannel shirt and grey tweed travelling
clothes, he felt like a man restored to sanity and health as his cab
lumbered over the long cobbled street, on its way to the Gare du Nord.
It was only a matter of a few hours, and yet how sweet and fresh the
streets seemed in the early morning sunshine. The shops were all open,
and the busy housewives were hard at work with their bargaining, the
toilers of the city thronged the pavements, everywhere there was
evidence of a real and rational life. The city of those few hours ago
was surely a city of nightmares. The impassable river flowed between.
Macheson leaned back in his carriage and his eyes were fixed upon the
blue sunlit sky. His lips moved; a song of gratitude was in his heart.
He felt like the prisoner before whom the iron gates have been rolled
back, disclosing the smiling world!




CHAPTER VI

THE ECHO OF A CRIME


"Macheson, by Jove! Where on earth have you sprung from?"

Holderness threw down his pen and held out both his hands. Macheson drew
a long sigh of relief.

"From the pigsties, Dick. Whew! It's good to see you again--to be here!"

Holderness surveyed his friend critically.

"What have you been up to?" he asked. "Look washed out, as though you'd
had a fever or something. I've been expecting to see you every day."

"I've been on a pleasure trip to Paris," Macheson answered. "Don't talk
about it, for God's sake."

Holderness roared with laughter.

"You poor idiot!" he exclaimed. "Been on the razzle-dazzle, I believe. I
wish I'd known. I'd have come."

"It's all very well to laugh," Macheson answered. "I feel like a man
who's been living in a sewer."

"Are you cured?" Holderness asked abruptly.

Macheson hesitated. As yet he had not dared to ask himself that
question. Holderness watched the struggle in his face.

"I'm sorry I asked you that," he said quietly. "Look here! I know what
you've come to me for, and I can give it you. You can start at once if
you like."

"Work?" Macheson asked eagerly. "You mean that?"

"Of course! Tons of it! Henwood's at his wits' end in Stepney. He's
started lecturing, and the thing's taken on, but he can't go on night
after night. We don't want anything second-rate either. Then I want help
with the paper."

"I'll help you with the paper as soon as you like," Macheson declared.
"I'd like to go to Stepney, too, but could we hit it, Henwood and I?"

"Of course," Holderness answered. "What are you thinking of, man? You
haven't become a straw-splitter, have you?"

"Not I," Macheson answered "but you have crystallized your ideas into a
cult, haven't you? I might find myself on the other side of the traces."

"Rot!" Holderness answered vigorously. "Look here! This is what we call
ugliness and dirt. We say that these things make for misery. We say that
it is every man's duty, and every woman's, too, to keep themselves clean
and clean-living, for the sake of the community. We take the Christian
code. It is the most complete, the most philosophic, the most beautiful.
We preach it not from the Christian standpoint, but from the point of
view of the man of common sense. Doctrinal religions are all very well
in their way, but the great bald fact remains that the truth has not
been vouchsafed to us through any of them. Therefore we say live the
life and wait. From a scientific point of view we believe, of course,
in a future state. It may be that the truth awaits us there. You can
work to that, can't you?"

"Of course," Macheson answered, "but don't you rather overlook the
support which doctrine gives to the weak and superstitious?"

"Bah! There are the strong to be considered," Holderness declared.
"Think how many men of average intelligence chuck the whole thing
because they can't stomach doctrine. Besides, these people all think, if
you want to confirm 'em or baptize 'em or anything of that sort, that
you've your own axe to grind. Jolly suspicious lot the East-Enders, I
can tell you."

"I'll go and see Henwood," Macheson declared.

Holderness glanced at his watch.

"We'll have something to eat and go together," he declared. "Look here,
I'm really pushed or I wouldn't bother you. Can you do me a country walk
in November for the paper? I have two a month. You can take the last
number and see the sort of thing."

"I'll try," Macheson promised. "You can give me a couple of days, I
suppose?"

"A week--only I want it off my mind. You can get out somewhere and rub
up your impressions. We'll dine for half a crown in Soho, and you shall
tell me about Paris."

Macheson groaned.

"Shut up about Paris," he begged. "The thought of it's like a nightmare
to me--a nightmare full of puppet gnomes, with human masks and the faces
of devils underneath."

"The masks came off?" Holderness asked.

Macheson shivered.

"They did," he answered.

"Do you good," Holderness declared coolly, locking his desk. "I've been
through it. So long as the masks came off it's all right. What was it
sent you there, Victor?"

"A piece of madness," Macheson answered in a low tone, "supreme, utter
madness."

"Cured?"

"Oh! I hope so," Macheson answered. "If not--well, I can fight."

Holderness stood still for a moment. There was a queer look in his eyes.

"There was a woman once, Victor," he said, "who nearly made mincemeat of
my life. She could have done it if she liked--and she wasn't the sort
who spares. She died--thank God! You see I know something about it."

They walked out arm in arm, and not a word passed between them till they
reached the street. Then Holderness called a hansom.

"I feel like steak," he declared. "Entre-côte with potatoes, maître
d'hôtel. Somehow I feel particularly like steak. We will chuck Soho and
dine at the Café Royal."

They talked mostly of Henwood and his work. Holderness spoke of it as
successful, but the man himself was weakly. The strain of holding his
difficult audience night after night had begun to tell on him.
Macheson's help would be invaluable. There was a complete school of
night classes running in connexion with the work, and also a library.
"You can guess where the money came from for those," he added, smiling.
"On the women's side there was only the cookery, and the care of the
children. All very imperfect, but with the making of great things about
it."

They went into the Café proper for their coffee, sitting at a
marble-topped table, and Holderness called for dominoes. But they had
scarcely begun their game before Macheson started from his seat, and
without a word of explanation strode towards the door. He was just in
time to stop the egress of the man whom he had seen slip from his seat
and try to leave the place.

"Look here," he said, touching him on the shoulder. "I want to talk to
you."

The man made no further attempt at escape. He was very shabby and thin,
but Macheson had recognized him at once. It was the man who had come
stealing down the lane from Thorpe on that memorable night--the man for
whose escape from justice he was responsible.

"My friend won't interfere with us," Macheson said, leading him back to
their seats. "Sit down here."

The man sat down quietly. Holderness took up a paper.

"Go ahead," he said. "I shan't listen."

"If I am to talk," the man said, "I must have some absinthe. My throat
is dry. I have things to say to you, too."

Macheson called a waiter and ordered it.

"Look here," the man said, "I know all that you want to say to me. I can
save you time. It was I who called upon old Mr. Hurd. It was out of
kindness that I went. He has a daughter whom I cannot find. She is in
danger, and I went to warn him. He struck me first. He lost his temper.
He would not tell me where to find her, he would not give me even the
money I had spent on my journey. I, too, lost my temper. I returned the
blow. He fell down--and I was frightened. So I ran away."

Macheson nodded.

"Well," he said, "you seem to have struck an old man because he would
not let you blackmail him, and I, like a fool, helped you to escape."

"Blackmail!" The man looked around him as though afraid of the word. His
cheeks were sunken, but his brown eyes were still bright. "It wasn't
that," he said. "I brought information that was really valuable. There
is a young lady somewhere who is in danger of her life. I came to warn
him; I believed what I had always been told, that she was his daughter.
I found out that it was a lie. It was a conspiracy against me. He never
had a daughter. But I am going to find out who she is!"

"What if I give you up to the police?" Macheson asked.

"For the sake of the woman whom the old man Hurd was shielding you had
better not. You had very much better not," was the hoarse reply. "If you
do, it may cost a woman her life."

"Why are you staying on in England?" Macheson asked.

"To find that woman, and I will find her," he added, with glittering
eyes. "Listen! I have seen her riding in a carriage, beautifully
dressed, with coachman and footman upon the box, an aristocrat. I always
said that she was that. It was a plot against us--to call her that old
man's daughter."

"All this has nothing to do with me," Macheson said quietly. "The only
thing I have to consider is whether I ought or ought not to hand you
over to the police."

The man eyed him craftily. He had little fear.

"If you did, sir," he said, "it would be an injustice. I only touched
the old man in self-defence."

Macheson looked at him gravely.

"I hope that that is the truth," he said. "You can go."

The man stood up. He did not immediately depart.

"What is it?" Macheson asked.

"I was wondering, sir," he said, in a confidential whisper, "whether you
could not give me an idea as to who the lady was who called herself
Stephen Hurd's daughter in Paris six years ago."

Macheson shook his head.

"I have no idea," he answered curtly.

The man shuffled away. Macheson lit a cigarette and watched him for a
moment steadfastly through the large gilt-framed mirror.

"Queer sort of Johnny, your friend," Holderness remarked.

"He's a bad lot, I'm afraid," Macheson answered. "Somehow or other I
can't help wishing that I hadn't seen him."

Holderness laughed.

"Man alive," he said, "it's a good thing you've come back to me, or
you'd be a bundle of nerves in no time. We'll get along now, if you're
ready. You might find something to say to 'em to-night. I know Henwood's
pretty well pumped dry."

They left the place, and took an omnibus citywards.




CHAPTER VII

A COUNTRY WALK


It was exactly such a day as he would have chosen for his purpose when
Macheson stepped out of the train at the wayside station and set his
face towards Thorpe. A strong blustering wind, blowing down from the
hills, had dried the road of all save a slight coating of mud, a wind
fresh from the forest, so fresh and strong that he walked with his cap
in his hand and his head thrown back, glad to breathe it in his lungs
and feel the sting of it on his cheeks. It seemed to him that he had
been away for months, as he climbed the long hill towards the village.
The fields now were brown instead of green, a pungent smell of freshly
turned earth and burning wood was in his nostrils. The hedges and trees
were bare; he caught a glimpse of the great house itself from an
unexpected point. Everywhere he was receiving familiar impressions. He
came to the avenue up which he had passed on his first visit to the
house, continually he met carts bearing her name, and villagers, most of
whom he noticed with some surprise, looked at him doubtfully. Presently
he arrived at the village itself, and stopped before the long, low,
white house where Stephen Hurd lived. He paused for a moment,
hesitating whether to fulfil this part of his mission now, or to wait
until later in the day. Eventually, with the idea of getting the thing
over, he opened the gate and rang the front-door bell.

He was shown into the study, and in a few minutes Stephen Hurd came in,
smoking a pipe, his hands in his pockets. When he saw who his visitor
was he stopped short. He did not offer his hand or ask Macheson to sit
down. He looked at him with a heavy frown upon his face.

"You wished to see me?" he said.

"I did," Macheson answered. "Perhaps my call is inopportune. I have come
from London practically for no other reason than to ask you a single
question."

Hurd laughed shortly.

"You had better ask it then," he said. "I thought that you might have
other business in the neighbourhood. Preaching off, eh?"

"My question is simply this," Macheson said calmly. "Have you, or had
you, ever a sister?"

A dull red flush streamed into the young man's face. He removed his pipe
from his mouth and stared at Macheson. His silence for several moments
seemed to arise from the fact that surprise had robbed him of the powers
of speech.

"Who put you up to asking that?" he demanded sharply.

Macheson raised his eyebrows slightly.

"My question is a simple one," he said. "If you do not choose to answer
it, it is easy for me to procure the information from elsewhere. The
first villager I met would tell me. I preferred to come to you."

"I have no sister," Hurd said slowly. "I never had. Now you must tell me
why you have come here to ask me this."

"I am told," Macheson said, "that years ago a girl in Paris represented
herself as being your father's daughter. She is being inquired for in a
somewhat mysterious way."

"And what business is it of yours?" Hurd demanded curtly.

"None--apparently," Macheson answered. "I am obliged to you for your
information. I will not detain you any longer."

But Stephen Hurd barred the way. Looking into his face, Macheson saw
already the signs of a change there. His eyes were a little wild, and
though it was early in the morning he smelt of spirits.

"No! you don't," he declared truculently. "You're not going till you
tell me what you mean by that question."

"I am afraid," Macheson answered, "that I have nothing more to tell
you."

"You will tell me who this mysterious person is," Hurd declared.

Macheson shook his head.

"No!" he said. "I think that you had better let me pass."

"Not yet," Hurd answered. "Look here! You've been in communication with
the man who came here and murdered my father. You know where he is."

"Scarcely that, was it?" Macheson answered. "There was a struggle, but
your father's death was partly owing to other causes. However, I did not
come here to discuss that with you. I came to ask you a question, which
you have answered. If you will permit me to pass I shall be obliged."

Hurd hesitated for a moment.

"Look here," he said, with an assumption of good nature, "there's no
reason why you and I should quarrel. I want to know who put you up to
asking me that question. It isn't that I want to do him any harm. I'll
guarantee his safety, if you like, so far as I am concerned. Only I'm
anxious to meet him."

Macheson shook his head.

"I do not know where he is myself," he answered. "In any case, I could
not give you any information."

Stephen Hurd stood squarely in front of the door.

"You'll have to," he said doggedly. "That's all there is about it."

Macheson took a step forward.

"Look here," he said, "I shouldn't try that on if I were you. I am
stronger than you are, and I have studied boxing. I don't care about
fighting, but I am going to leave this room--at once."

"The devil you are," Hurd cried, striking at him. "Take that, you
canting hypocrite."

Macheson evaded the blow with ease. Exactly how it happened he never
knew, but Hurd found himself a few seconds later on his back--and alone
in the room. He sprang up and rushed after Macheson, who was already in
the front garden. His attack was so violent that Macheson had no
alternative. He knocked him into the middle of his rose bushes, and
opened the gate, to find himself face to face with the last person in
the world whom he expected to see in Thorpe. It was Wilhelmina herself
who was a spectator of the scene!

"Mr. Macheson," she said gravely, "what is the meaning of this?"

Macheson was taken too completely by surprise to frame an immediate
answer. Stephen Hurd rose slowly to his feet, dabbing his mouth with his
handkerchief.

"A little disagreement between us," he said, with an evil attempt at a
smile. "We will settle it another time."

"You will settle it now," the lady of the Manor said, with authority in
her tone. "Shake hands, if you please. At once! I cannot have this sort
of thing going on in the village."

Macheson held out his hand without hesitation.

"The quarrel was not of my seeking," he said. "I bear you no ill-will,
Hurd. Will you shake hands?"

"No!" Stephen Hurd answered fiercely.

Macheson's hand fell to his side.

"I am sorry," he said.

"You will reconsider that, Mr. Hurd," Wilhelmina said quietly.

"No!" he answered. "I am sorry, Miss Thorpe-Hatton, to seem ungracious,
but there are reasons why I cannot accept his hand. He knows them well
enough. We cannot possibly be friends. Don't let us be hypocrites."

Wilhelmina turned away coldly.

"Very well," she said. "Mr. Macheson, will you walk with me a little
way? I have something to say to you."

"With pleasure," he answered. "I'm sorry, Hurd," he added, turning
round.

There was no answer. Together they walked up the village street. Already
the shock of seeing her had passed away, and he was fighting hard
against the gladness which possessed him. He had paid dearly enough
already for his folly. He was determined that there should be no return
of it.

"Which way were you going?" she asked.

"To the hills," he answered. "I can leave you at the church entrance.
But before you go----"

"I am not going," she answered. "I should love a walk. I will come with
you to the hills."

He looked at her doubtfully. She appeared to him so different a person
in her country clothes--a dark brown tailor-made suit, with short skirt,
a brown tam-o'-shanter and veil. She was not much more than a child
after all. Her mouth was a little sad, and she was very pale and seemed
tired.

"If you care to walk so far," he said gravely--"and with me!"

"What am I expected to say to that?" she asked demurely.

"I think that you know what I mean," he answered, avoiding her eyes.
"Your villagers will certainly think it strange to see their mistress
walking with the poor missioner who wasn't allowed to hold his
services."

"I am afraid," she answered, "that my people have learnt to expect the
unexpected from me. Now tell me," she continued, "what has brought you
back to the scene of your persecutions? I am hoping you are going to
tell me that it is to apologize for the shockingly rude way you left me
last time we met."

"I did not know that you were here," he answered. "I came for two
reasons--first, to collect materials for a short article in a friend's
magazine, and secondly, to ask a question of Stephen Hurd."

"Apparently," she remarked, "your question annoyed him."

"He seemed annoyed before I asked it," Macheson remarked; "I seem to
have offended him somehow or other."

"I should imagine," she said drily, "that that is not altogether
incomprehensible to you."

So she knew or guessed who it was that had been Letty Foulton's
companion in London. Macheson was silent. They walked on for some
distance, climbing all the time, till Wilhelmina paused, breathless, and
leaned against a gate.

"I hope," said she, "that you are collecting your impressions. If so, I
am sure they must be in the air, for you have not looked to the right or
to the left."

He smiled and stood by her side, looking downwards. The village lay
almost at their feet, and away beyond spread the mist-wreathed country,
still and silent in the November afternoon. The wind had fallen, the
birds were songless, nothing remained of the busy chorus of summer
sounds. They stood on the edge of a plantation--the peculiar fragrance
of freshly turned earth from the ploughed fields opposite, and of the
carpet of wet leaves beneath their feet, had taken the place of all
those sweeter perfumes which a short while ago had seemed to belong
naturally to the place.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I have been thinking more about
something which I have to say to you."

"Is it something serious?" she asked.

"Rather," he admitted.

Her eyebrows were faintly contracted. She looked up at him pathetically.

"It will keep for a little time," she said. "Let us finish our walk
first. I am down here alone, and have been dull. This exercise is what I
wanted. It is doing me good. I will not have my afternoon spoilt. See, I
have the key of the gate here, we will go through the plantation and up
to the back of the beacon."

She led the way, giving him no time to protest, and he followed her,
vaguely uneasy. Through the plantation their feet fell noiselessly upon
a carpet of wet leaves; outside on the springy turf the rabbits
scampered away in hundreds to their holes. Then they began to climb.
Beneath them the country expanded and rolled away like a piece of
patchwork, dimly seen through a veil of mist. Wilhelmina turned towards
him with a laugh. There was more colour now in her cheeks. She was
breathless before they reached the summit and laid her hand upon his arm
for support.

"Confess," she said, "you like me better here than in London, don't
you?"

"You are more natural," he answered. "You are more like what I would
have you be."

She sat down on a piece of grey rock. They were at the summit now. Below
was the great house with its magnificent avenues and park, the tiny
village, and the quaint church. Beyond, a spreading landscape of
undulating meadows and well-tilled land. The same thought came to both
of them.

"Behold," she murmured, "my possessions."

He nodded.

"You should be very proud of your home," he said quietly. "It is very
beautiful."

She turned towards him. Her face was as cold and destitute of emotion as
the stone on which she sat.

"Do you wonder," she asked, "why I have never married?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"A matter of temperament, perhaps," he said. "You are inclined to be
independent, aren't you?"

"There have been things in my life--a very secret chamber," she said
slowly. "I think that some day I shall tell you about it, for I may need
help."

"I shall be glad," he said simply. "You know that!"

She rose and shook out her skirts.

"Come," she said, "it is too cold to sit down. I am going to take you to
Onetree Farm. Mrs. Foulton must give us some tea. I have a reason, too,"
she added more slowly, "for taking you there."




CHAPTER VIII

THE MISSING LETTY


Macheson knew directly they entered the farm that Wilhelmina had brought
him here for some purpose. For Mrs. Foulton straightened herself at the
sight of him, and forgot even her usual respectful courtesy to the lady
of the Manor.

"I have brought Mr. Macheson to see you, Mrs. Foulton," Wilhelmina said.
"We want you to give us some tea--and there is a question which I think
you ought to ask him."

The woman was trembling. She seemed for the moment to have no words.

"If you like," Wilhelmina continued calmly, "I will ask it for you. Did
you know, Mr. Macheson, that Letty Foulton has left home and has gone
away without a word to her mother?"

"I did not know it," Macheson answered gravely. "I am very sorry."

"You--didn't know it? You don't know where she is?" the woman demanded
fiercely.

"Certainly not," Macheson answered. "How should I?"

The woman looked bewildered. She turned towards Wilhelmina as though for
an explanation.

"Mr. Macheson has himself to blame," Wilhelmina said, "if his action in
bringing your daughter to me that night has been misunderstood. At any
rate, he cannot refuse to tell you now what he refused to tell me. You
understand, Mr. Macheson," she added, turning towards him, "Mrs. Foulton
insists upon knowing with whom you found her daughter having supper that
night in London."

Macheson hesitated only for a moment.

"Your daughter was with Mr. Stephen Hurd, Mrs. Foulton," he said.

The woman threw her apron over her head and hastened away. They heard
her sobbing in the kitchen. Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.

"What a bore!" she remarked. "We shan't get any tea. People of this sort
have no self-control."

Macheson looked at her sternly.

"Have the people here," he asked, "been connecting me with this child's
disappearance?"

"I suppose so," she answered carelessly. "Rather a new line for you,
isn't it--the gay Lothario! It's your own fault. You shouldn't be so
mysterious."

"You didn't believe it?" he said shortly.

"Why not? You've been--seeing life lately, haven't you?"

"You didn't believe it?" he repeated, keeping his eyes fixed upon her.

She came over to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Her pale
face was upturned to his. It seemed open to him to transform her
attitude into a caress.

"Of course not, dear," she answered. "If--any one else did, they will
soon know the truth."

"All the same," he muttered, "it's horrible. We must do something!"

She moved away from him wearily. His thoughts were full of the tragedy
of Letty Foulton's disappearance. He seemed scarcely to know that she
had been almost in his arms. He turned to her suddenly.

"I shall go back," he said, "to speak once more with Stephen Hurd."

She looked into his face and saw things there which terrified her. He
had moved already towards the door, but she stood in his way.

"No!" she cried. "It is not your affair. Let me deal with him!"

He shook his head.

"It is no matter," he said, "for a woman to interfere in."

"He will not listen to you," she continued eagerly. "He will tell you
that it is not your concern."

"It is the concern of every honest man," he interrupted. "You must
please let me go!"

She was holding his arm, and she refused to withdraw her fingers. Then
Mrs. Foulton intervened.

She had smoothed her hair and was carrying a tea-tray. They both looked
at her as though fascinated.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting, madam," she said quietly. "I had to
send Ruth up for the cream. The boy's at Loughborough market, and I'm a
bit shorthanded."

"I--oh! I'm sorry you bothered about the tea, Mrs. Foulton," Wilhelmina
said, with an effort. "But how good it looks! Come, Mr. Macheson! I
don't know whether you've had any lunch, but I haven't. I'm perfectly
ravenous."

"I've some sandwiches in my pocket," Macheson answered, moving slowly to
the table, "but to tell you the truth, I'd forgotten them."

She drew off her gloves and seated herself before the teapot. All the
time her eyes were fixed upon Macheson. She was feverishly anxious to
have him also seat himself, and he could scarcely look away from the
woman who, with a face like a mask, was calmly arranging the things from
the tray upon the table. When she left the room he drew a little breath.

"Do they feel--really, these people," he asked, "or are they Stoics?"

"We feel through our nerves," she answered, "and they haven't many. Is
that too much cream?--and pass the strawberry jam, please."

He ate and drank mechanically. The charm of this simple meal alone with
her was gone--it seemed to him that there was tragedy in the arrangement
of the table. She talked to him lightly, and he answered--what he
scarcely knew. Suddenly he interposed a question.

"When did this girl Letty leave home?" he asked.

"I am not sure," she answered. "We will ask Mrs. Foulton."

Mrs. Foulton came silently in.

"We want to know, Mrs. Foulton, when Letty went away," Wilhelmina asked.

"A week ago to-morrow, madam," Mrs. Foulton answered. "Is there anything
else you will be wanting?"

"Nothing, thank you," Wilhelmina answered, and then, seeing that the
woman lingered, she continued:

"Are you wanting to get rid of us?"

The woman hesitated.

"It isn't that, madam," she said, "but I'm wanting to step out as soon
as possible."

The same idea occurred at once to both Wilhelmina and Macheson.

"You are going down to the village, Mrs. Foulton?" Wilhelmina asked
gravely.

"I'm going down to have a bit of talk with Mr. Stephen Hurd, madam," she
answered grimly. "I'd be glad to clear away as soon as convenient."

Wilhelmina turned round in her chair, and laid her hand upon the woman's
arm.

"Mrs. Foulton," she said, "Mr. Macheson and I are going to see him at
once. Leave it to us, please."

Mrs. Foulton shook her head doubtfully.

"Letty's my daughter, madam, thank you kindly," she said. "I must go
myself."

Wilhelmina shook her head.

"No!" she said firmly. "You can go and see him afterwards, if you like.
Mr. Macheson and I are going to see what we can do first. Believe me,
Mrs. Foulton, it will be better for Letty."

The woman was shaken and Wilhelmina pushed home her advantage.

"We are going straight to the village now, Mrs. Foulton," she said. "You
will only have to be patient for a very short time. Come, Mr. Macheson.
If you are ready we will start."

They walked briskly along the country lane, through the early twilight.
They said little to one another.

Macheson was profoundly moved by the tragedy of Letty's disappearance.
With his marvellous gift of sympathy, he had understood very well the
suffering of the woman whom they had just left. He shivered when he
thought of the child. With every step they took, his face resolved
itself into grimmer lines. Wilhelmina was forced at last to protest.

"After all," she said, touching his arm, "this young man will scarcely
run away. Please remember that I am not an athletic person--and I have
not much breath left."

He slackened his pace at once.

"I am sorry," he said. "I was forgetting."

"Yes," she answered simply, "you were forgetting. I--noticed it!"

To Macheson, her irritation seemed childish--unworthy. He knew so little
of women--or their moods.

"What are you going to say to Stephen Hurd?" he asked abruptly.

"I shall make him marry Letty Foulton," she answered.

"Can you do it?" he demanded.

"He must marry her or go," she declared. "I will make that quite clear."

Macheson drew a little breath. He suddenly realized that for all his
impetuosity, the woman who walked so calmly by his side held the cards.
He slackened his pace. The lane had narrowed now, and on either side of
them was a tall holly hedge. Her hand stole through his arm.

"Well," she said softly, "you have not told me yet whether your
pilgrimage to Paris was a success."

He turned upon her almost fiercely.

"Yes!" he answered. "It was! A complete success! I haven't an atom of
sentiment left! Thank goodness!"

She laughed softly.

"I don't believe it," she whispered in his ear. "You went abroad to be
cured of an incurable disease. Do you imagine that the Mademoiselle
Rosines of the world count for anything? You foolish, foolish person. Do
you imagine that if I had not known you--I should have let you go?"

"I am not one of your tenants," he answered grimly.

"You might be," she laughed.

"You are very kind," he declared. "But I need not tell you that nothing
in this world would induce me to become one."

She walked on, humming to herself. He was hard to tame, she told
herself, but the end was so sure. Yet all her experience of his sex had
shown her nothing like this. It was the first time she had played such a
part. Was it only the novelty which she found attractive? She stole an
upward glance at him through the twilight. Taller and more powerful than
ever he seemed in the gathering darkness--so far as looks were concerned
he was certainly desirable enough. And yet the world--her world, was
full of handsome men. It must be something else which he possessed,
some other less obvious gift, perhaps that flavour of puritanism about
his speech and deportment, of which she was always conscious. He
resisted where other men not only succumbed but rushed to meet their
fate. It must be that, or----

She herself became suddenly serious. She looked straight ahead down the
darkening lane. Fate could surely not play her a trick so scurvy as
this. It could not be that she cared. Her hands were suddenly clenched;
a little cry broke from her lips. Her heart was beating like a girl's;
the delicious thrill of youth seemed to be thawing her long frozen
blood. Not again! she prayed, not again! It was a catastrophe this;
grotesque, impossible! She thrust out her hands, as though to guard
herself from some impending danger. Macheson turned to look at her in
surprise, and her eyes were glowing like stars.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked.

She laughed unnaturally.

"A memory," she answered, "a superstition if you like. Some one was
walking over the grave of my forgotten days."

She pointed to the front of the low white house, now only a few yards
away. A dogcart stood there waiting, with some luggage at the back.
Stephen Hurd himself, dressed for travelling, was standing in the
doorway.




CHAPTER IX

FOILED


"We seem to be just in time, Mr. Hurd," Wilhelmina said. "Do you mind
coming back for a moment into your study? Mr. Macheson and I have
something to say to you."

He glanced at his watch. He was wholly unable to conceal his annoyance
at their appearance.

"I am afraid," he said, with strained civility, "that I can only spare a
couple of minutes."

"You are going to town?" she asked, as he reluctantly followed her.

"Yes!" he answered. "Mr. White wished to see me early to-morrow morning
about the new leases, and I have to go before the committee about this
Loughborough water scheme."

"These are my affairs," she said, "so if you should miss your train, the
responsibility will be mine."

"I can spare five minutes," he answered, "but I cannot miss that train.
I have some private engagements. And, madam," he continued, struggling
with his anger, "I beg that you will not forget that even if I am in
your employ, this is my house, and I will not have that man in it!"

He pointed to Macheson, who was standing upon the threshold. Wilhelmina
stood between the two.

"Mr. Hurd," she said, "please control yourself. There is no reason why
we should any of us quarrel. Mr. Macheson and I are here to speak to you
of a matter in which he has become concerned. I asked him to come here
with me. We have come to see you about Letty!"

"What about her?" he demanded, with some attempt at bravado.

"We find that there is an impression in the village that Mr. Macheson is
responsible for her disappearance."

Hurd seized his opportunity without a second's hesitation.

"How do you know that it isn't the truth?" he demanded. "He wouldn't be
the first of these psalm-singing missioners who have turned out to be
hypocrites!"

Macheson never flinched. Wilhelmina only shrugged her shoulders.

"Mr. Hurd," she said, "we will not waste time. Mr. Macheson and I are
both perfectly aware that you are responsible for Letty's
disappearance."

"It's--it's false!" he declared, swallowing with an effort a more
obnoxious word. "Why, I haven't left the village since the day she went
away."

"But you are going--to-night," Wilhelmina remarked.

He flushed.

"I'm going away on business," he answered. "I don't see why it should be
taken for granted that I'm going to see her."

"Nevertheless," Wilhelmina said quietly, "between us three there isn't
the slightest doubt about it. I tell you frankly that the details of
your private life in an ordinary way do not interest me in the least.
But, on the other hand, I will not have you playing the Don Juan amongst
the daughters of my tenants. You have been very foolish and you will
have to pay for it. I do not wish to make you lose your train to-night,
but you must understand that if you ever return to Thorpe, you must
bring back Letty Foulton as your wife."

He stared at her incredulously.

"As my--wife!" he exclaimed.

"Precisely," Wilhelmina answered. "I will give her a wedding present of
a thousand pounds, and I will see that your own position here is made a
permanent one."

He had the appearance of a man beside himself with anger. Was this to be
the end of his schemes and hopes! He, to marry the pretty uneducated
daughter of a working farmer--a girl, too, who was his already for the
asking. He struggled with a torrent of ugly words.

"I--I must refuse!" he said, denying himself more vigorous terms with an
effort.

She looked at him steadily.

"Better think it over, Mr. Hurd," she said. "I am in earnest."

He hesitated for a moment, and then, with a glance at the clock, moved
towards the door.

"Very well," he said, "I will think it over. I will let you know
immediately I return from London."

She shook her head.

"You can take as long as you like to reflect," she answered, "but it
must be here in this room. Mr. Macheson and I will wait."

He turned towards her.

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said, "will you allow me to speak to you alone
for two minutes?"

She shook her head.

"It is not necessary," she answered. "Mr. Macheson does not count. You
can say whatever you will before him."

A smile that was half a sneer curved his lips. He was like a rat in a
corner, and he knew that he must fight. He must use the weapon which he
had feared with a coward's fear.

"The matter on which I wish to speak to you," he said, looking straight
at her, "is not directly connected with the affair which we have been
discussing. If you will give me two minutes, I think I can make you
understand."

She met his challenge without flinching. She was a shade paler, perhaps;
the little glow which the walk through the enchanted twilight had
brought into her cheeks had faded away. But her gaze was as cool and
contemptuous as before. She showed no sign of any fear--of any desire to
conciliate.

"I think," she said, "that I can understand without. You can consider
that we are alone. Whatever you may have to say to me, I should prefer
that Mr. Macheson also heard."

Macheson looked from one to the other uneasily.

"Shall I wait in the passage?" he asked. "I should be within call."

"Certainly not," she answered. "This person," she continued, indicating
Stephen with a scornful gesture, "is, I believe, about to make a
bungling attempt to blackmail me! I should much prefer that you were
present."

Stephen Hurd drew a sharp breath. Her words stung like whips.

"I don't know--about blackmail," he said, still holding himself in. "I
want nothing from you. I only ask to be left alone. Stop this nonsense
about Letty Foulton and let me catch my train. That's all I want."

Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.

"You are a very wearisome person," she declared. "Did you ever know me
to change my mind? Every word I have said to you I absolutely mean. No
more, no less!"

One of the veins at his temple was protruding. He was passionately
angry.

"You think it wise," he cried threateningly, "to make an enemy of me!"

She laughed derisively, a laugh as soft as velvet, but to him maddening.

"My dear young man," she said carelessly, "I think I should prefer you
in that capacity. I should probably see less of you."

He took a quick stride forward. He thrust his face almost into hers. She
drew back with a gesture of disgust.

"You," he cried, striking the table with his clenched fist, "to pretend
to care what becomes of any fool of a girl who chooses to take a lover!
Is it because you're in love with this would-be saint here?"

He struck the table again. He was absolutely beside himself with rage.
He seemed even to find a physical difficulty in speech. Wilhelmina
raised her eyebrows.

"Go on," she said coolly. "I am curious to hear the rest."

Macheson suddenly intervened. He stepped between the two.

"This has gone far enough," he said sternly. "Hurd, you are losing your
head. You are saying things you will be sorry for afterwards. And I
cannot allow you to speak like this to a woman--in my presence!"

"Let him go on," Wilhelmina said calmly. "I am beginning to find him
interesting."

Hurd laughed fiercely.

"What!" he cried. "You want to hear of your 'Apache' lover, the man you
took from the gutters of Paris into----"

Macheson struck him full across the mouth, but Wilhelmina caught at his
arm. She had overestimated her courage or her strength--he was only just
in time to save her from falling.

"Brute!" she muttered, and the colour fled from her cheeks like breath
from a looking-glass.

Macheson laid her on the couch and rang the bell. Suddenly he realized
that they were alone. From outside came the sound of wheels. He sprang
up listening. Wilhelmina, too, opened her eyes. She waved him away
feebly. He smiled back his comprehension.

"The servants are coming," he said. "I can hear them. I promise you that
if he catches the train, I will!"

[Illustration: "GO ON," SHE SAID COOLLY, "I AM CURIOUS TO HEAR THE
REST." Page 240]

He vaulted through the window which he had already opened. The sound of
wheels had died away, but he set his face at once towards the station,
running with long easy strides, and gradually increasing his pace.
Stephen Hurd, with his handkerchief to his mouth, and with all his
nerves tingling with a sense of fierce excitement, looked behind him
continually, but saw nothing. Long before he reached the station he had
abandoned all fear of pursuit. Yet during the last half-mile Macheson
was never more than a few yards from him, and on St. Pancras platform he
was almost the first person he encountered.

"Macheson! By God!"

He almost dropped the coat he was carrying. He looked at Macheson as one
might look at a visitor from Mars. It was not possible that this could
be the man from whom he had fled. Macheson smiled at him grimly.

"How did--how did you get here?" the young man faltered.

"By the same train as you," Macheson answered. "How else? Where are you
going to meet Letty?"

Hurd answered with a curse.

"Why the devil can't you mind your own business?" he demanded.

"This is my business," Macheson answered.

Then he turned abruptly round towards the hesitating figure of the girl
who had suddenly paused in her swift approach.

"It is my business to take you home, Letty," he said. "I have come to
fetch you!"

Letty looked appealingly towards Stephen Hurd. What she saw in his
face, however, only terrified her.

"Look here," he said thickly, "I've had almost enough of this. You can
go to the devil--you and Miss Thorpe-Hatton, too! I won't allow any one
to meddle in my private concerns. Come along, Letty."

He would have led her away, but Macheson was not to be shaken off. He
kept his place by the girl's side.

"Letty," he said, "are you married to him?"

"Not yet," she answered hesitatingly. "But we are going to be."

"Where are you going to now?"

She glanced towards Stephen.

"I am going to take her away with me," he declared sullenly, "as soon as
I can get my luggage on this cab."

"Letty," Macheson said, "a few hours ago Miss Thorpe-Hatton offered
Stephen Hurd a dowry for you of a thousand pounds, if he would promise
to bring you back as his wife. He refused. He has not the slightest
intention of making you his wife. I am sorry to have to speak so
plainly, but you see we haven't much time for beating about the bush,
have we? I want you to come with me to Berkeley Square. Mrs. Brown will
look after you."

She turned towards the young man piteously.

"Stephen," she said, "tell Mr. Macheson that he is mistaken. We are
going to be married, aren't we?"

"Yes," he answered. "At least I always meant to marry you. What I shall
do if every one starts bullying me I'm sure I don't know. Cut the whole
lot of you, I think, and be off to the Colonies."

"You don't mean that, Stephen," she begged.

He pointed to the cab laden now with his luggage.

"Will you get in or won't you, Letty?" he asked.

She shrank back.

"Stephen," she said, "I thought that you were going to bring mother up
with you."

He laughed hardly.

"Your mother wasn't ready," he said. "We can send for her later."

"Don't you think, Stephen," she pleaded, "that it would be nice for me
to stay with Mrs. Brown until--until we are married?"

"If you go to Mrs. Brown," he said gruffly, "you can stay with her.
That's all! I won't be fooled about any longer. Once and for all, are
you coming?"

She took a hesitating step forward, but Macheson led her firmly towards
another hansom.

"No!" he answered, "she is not. You know where she will be when you have
the marriage license."

Stephen sprang into his cab with an oath. Even then Letty would have
followed him, but Macheson held her arm.

"You stay here, Letty," he said firmly.

She covered her face with her hands, but she obeyed.




CHAPTER X

MYSTERIES IN MAYFAIR


That night, and for many nights afterwards, Macheson devoted himself to
his work in the East End. The fascination of the thing grew upon him; he
threw himself into his task with an energy which carried him often out
of his own life and made forgetfulness an easy task. Night after night
they came, these tired, white-faced women, with a sprinkling of sullen,
dejected-looking men; night after night he pleaded and reasoned with
them, striving with almost passionate earnestness to show them how to
make the best of the poor thing they called life. Gradually his efforts
began to tell upon himself. He grew thinner, there were shadows under
his eyes, a curious intangible depression seemed to settle upon him.
Holderness one night sought him out and insisted upon dinner together.

"Look here, Victor," he said, "I have a bone to pick with you. You'd
better listen! Don't sit there staring round the place as though you saw
ghosts everywhere."

Macheson smiled mirthlessly.

"But that is just what I do see," he answered. "The conscience of every
man who knows must be haunted with them! The ghosts of starving men and
unsexed women! What keeps their hands from our throats, Dick?"

"Common sense, you idiot," Holderness answered cheerfully. "There's a
refuse heap for every one of nature's functions. You may try to rake it
out and cleanse it, but there isn't much to be done. Hang that mission
work, Victor! It's broken more hearts than anything else on earth! A man
can but do what he may."

"The refuse heap is man's work!" Macheson muttered.

"But not wholly his responsibility," Holderness declared. "We're part of
the machine, but remember the wheels are driven by fate, or God, or
whatever the hidden motive force of the universe may be. Don't lose
yourself, Macheson! Sentiment's a good thing under control. It's a
sickly master."

"You call it sentiment, if one feels the horror of this garbage heap!
Come to-night and look into their faces."

"I've done it," Holderness declared. "I've been through it all. Hang it
all, do you forget that I'm the editor of a Socialist magazine? No! feel
it you must, but don't let it upset your mental balance. Don't lose your
values!"

Macheson left his friend in a saner frame of mind. His words came back
to him that night as he watched the little stream of people file out
from the bare white-washed building, with its rows of cheap cane chairs.
It was so true! To give way to despair was simply to indulge in a
sentimental debauch. Yet in a sense he had never felt so completely the
pitiful ineffectiveness of his task. How could he preach the Christian
morality, expound the Christian doctrines, to a people whose very
sufferings, whose constant agony, was a hideous and glaring proof that
by the greater part of the world those doctrines were ignored!

A man was shown into his room afterwards, as he was putting on his
overcoat. Almost with relief Macheson saw that he at least had no
pitiful tale to tell. He was a small dapper man, well dressed, and spoke
with a slight American accent.

"Mr. Macheson," he said, "I'm taking the liberty of introducing myself.
Peter Drayton my name is, never mind my profession. It wouldn't interest
you."

Macheson nodded.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, with some curiosity.

"Say, I've been very much interested in these talks of yours to the
people," Mr. Drayton remarked. "But it's occurred to me that you're on
the wrong end of the stick. That's why I'm here. You're saying the right
things, and you've got the knack of saying them so that people have just
got to listen, but you're saying them to the wrong crowd."

"I don't understand," Macheson was forced to confess.

"Well, I reckon it's simple enough," Drayton answered. "These people
here don't need to have their own misery thrust down their throats, even
while you're trying to show them how to bear it. It's the parties who
are responsible for it all that you want to go for. See what I mean?"

"I think so," Macheson admitted, "but----"

"Look here," Drayton interrupted, "you're a man of common sense, and you
know that life's more or less a stand-up fight. Those that are licked
live here in Whitechapel--if you can call it living--and those who win
get to Belgravia! It's a pitiless sort of affair this fight, but there
it is. Now which of the two do you think need preaching to, these
people, or the people who are responsible for them? You've started a
mission in Whitechapel--it would have been more logical, if there's a
word of truth in your religion, to have started it in Mayfair."

Macheson laughed.

"They wouldn't listen to me," he declared.

"I'd see to that," Drayton answered quickly. "It's my business. I want
you to give a course of--well, we'd call them lectures, in the West End.
You can say what you like. You can pitch into 'em as hot as Hell! I'll
guarantee you a crowded audience every time."

"I have no interest in those people," Macheson said. "Why should I go
and lecture to them? My sympathies are all down here."

"Exactly," Drayton answered. "I want you to stir up the people who can
really help, people who can give millions, pull down these miles of
fever-tainted rat holes, endow farms here and abroad. Lash them till
their conscience squeaks! See? What's the good of preaching to these
people? That won't do any good! You want to preach to the really
ignorant, the really depraved, the West-Enders!"

"Do I understand," Macheson asked, "that you have a definite scheme in
which you are inviting me to take part?"

Drayton lit a cigarette and led the way out.

"Look here," he said, "I'll walk with you as far as you're going, and
tell you all about it...."

It was a sort of pilgrimage which Macheson undertook during these
restless nights, a walk seemingly purposeless, the sole luxury which he
permitted himself. Always about the same hour he found himself on the
garden side of Berkeley Square, always he stood and looked, for a period
of time of which he took no count, at the tall, dimly lit house, across
whose portals he had once passed into fairyland. Then came a night when
everything was changed. Lights flashed from the windows, freshly painted
window-boxes had been filled with flowers, scarce enough now; everything
seemed to denote a sudden spirit of activity. Macheson stood and watched
with a curious sense of excitement stirring in his blood. He knew very
well what was happening. She was coming, perhaps had already arrived in
town. He realized as he stood there, a silent motionless figure, how far
gone in his folly he really was, how closely woven were the bonds that
held him. For time seemed to him of no account beside the chance of
seeing her, if only for a moment, as she passed in or out. He never knew
how long he waited there--it was long enough, however, for his patience
to be rewarded. Smoothly, with flashing lights, a little electric
brougham turned into the Square and pulled up immediately opposite to
him. The tall footman sprang to the ground, the door flew open, he saw
a slim, familiar figure, veiled and dressed in a dark travelling
costume, pass leisurely up the steps and into the arc of light which
streamed through the open door. The brougham glided away, the door was
closed, she was gone. Still Macheson leaned forward, watching the spot
where she had been, his heart thumping against his sides, his senses
thrilled with the excitement of her coming. Suddenly his attention was
diverted in a curious manner. He became conscious that he was not the
only watcher under the chestnut trees. A man had stolen out from amongst
the deeper shadows close up to the railings, and was standing by his
side. Macheson recognized him with a start.

"What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly.

His fellow-watcher, too, showed signs of excitement. His cheeks were
flushed. He pointed across the road with shaking finger, and looked up
into Macheson's face with a triumphant chuckle.

"Run to earth at last!" he exclaimed. "You saw her! You saw her, too!"

"I saw a lady enter that house," Macheson answered. "What of it?"

The man whom he had once befriended drew a breath between his clenched
teeth.

"There she goes!" he muttered. "The woman who dared to call herself the
daughter of a poor land-agent! The woman who is deceiving her world
to-day as she deceived us--once! Bah! It is finished!"

He started to cross the road. Macheson kept by his side.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

The man pointed to the brilliantly lit house.

"There!" he answered fiercely. "I am going to see her. To-night! At
once! She shall not escape me this time!"

"What do you want with her?" Macheson asked.

"Money--or exposure, such an exposure," the man answered. "But she will
pay. She owes a good deal; but she will pay."

"And supposing," Macheson said, "that I were to tell you that this lady
is a friend of mine, and that I will not have you intrude upon her--what
then?"

Something venomous gleamed in the man's eyes. A short unpleasant laugh
escaped him.

"Not all the devils in hell," he declared, "would keep me from going to
her. For five years she's fooled us! Not a day longer, not an hour!"

Macheson's hand rested lightly upon the man's shoulder.

"Can you reach her from prison?" he asked calmly.

The man turned and snarled at him. He knew well enough that escape or
resistance alike was hopeless. He was like a pigmy in the hands of the
man who held him.

"This isn't your affair," he pleaded earnestly. "Let me go, or I shall
do you a mischief some day. Remember it was you who helped me to escape.
You can't give me away now."

"I helped you to escape," Macheson said, "but I did not know what you
had done. There is another matter. You have to go away from here quietly
and swear never to molest----"

The man ducked with a sudden backward movement, and tried to escape, but
Macheson was on his guard.

"You are a fool," the man hissed out, his small bead-like eyes
glittering as though touched with fire, his thick red lips parted,
showing his ugly teeth. "It is money alone I want from her. I have but
to breathe her name and this address in a certain quarter of Paris, and
there are others who would take her life. Let me go!"

Then Macheson was conscious of a familiar figure crossing the street in
their direction. He had seen him come furtively out of the house they
had been watching, and had recognized him at once. It was Stephen Hurd.
Keeping his grasp upon his captive's shoulder, Macheson intercepted him.

"Hurd," he said, "I want to speak to you."

Hurd started, and his face darkened with anger when he saw who it was
that had accosted him. Macheson continued hurriedly.

"Look here," he said. "I owe you this at any rate. I have just caught
our friend here watching this house. Have you ever seen him before?"

Hurd looked down into the face of the man who, with an evil shrug of the
shoulders, had resigned himself--for the present--to the inevitable.

"Never," he answered. "Can't say I'm particularly anxious to see him
again. Convert of yours?" he asked, with a sneer.

"He is the man who visited your father on the night of his death,"
Macheson said.

Stephen Hurd was like a man electrified. He seized hold of the other's
arm in excitement.

"Is this true?" he demanded.

The man blinked his eyes.

"You have to prove it," he said. "I admit nothing."

"You can leave him to me," Stephen Hurd said, turning to Macheson.

Macheson nodded and prepared to walk on.

"There is a police-station behind to the left," he remarked.

Hurd took no notice. He had thrust his arm tightly through the other
man's.

"I have been looking for you," he said eagerly. "We must have a talk
together. We will take this hansom," he added, hailing one.

The man drew back.

"Are you going to take me to the police-station?" he demanded.

"Police-station, no!" Hurd answered roughly. "What good would that do
me? Get in! Café Monico!"




CHAPTER XI

THE WAY OF SALVATION


Holderness leaned back in his worn leather chair and shouted with
laughter. He treated with absolute indifference the white anger in
Macheson's face.

"Victor," he cried, "don't look at me as though you wanted to punch my
head. Down on your knees, man, and pray for a sense of humour. It's the
very salt of life."

"That's all very well," Macheson answered, "but I can't exactly see----"

"That's because you're deficient," Holderness shouted, wiping the tears
from his eyes. "I haven't laughed so much for ages. Here you come from
the East to the West, with all the world's tragedy tearing at your
heart, flowing from your lips, a flagellator, a hater of the people to
whom you speak, seeking only to strike and to wound, and they accept you
as a new sensation! They bare their back to your whip! They have made
you the fashion! Oh! this funny, funny world of ours!"

Macheson smiled grimly.

"I'll grant you the elements of humour in the situation," he said, "but
you can scarcely expect me to appreciate it, can you? I never came here
to play the mountebank, to provide a new sensation for these tired dolls
of Society. Dick, do you think St. Paul could have opened their eyes?"

Holderness shook his head.

"I don't know," he declared. "They're a difficult class--you see, they
have pluck, and a sort of fantastic philosophy which goes with breeding.
They're not easily scared."

Macheson thought of his friend's words later in the afternoon, when he
stood on the slightly raised platform of the fashionable room where his
lectures were given. Not a chair was empty. Macheson, as he entered,
gazed long and steadily into those rows of tired, distinguished-looking
faces, and felt in the atmosphere the delicate wave of perfume shaken
from their clothes--the indescribable effect of femininity. There were
men there, too, mostly as escorts, correctly dressed, bored, vacuous,
from intent rather than lack of intelligence. Macheson himself,
carelessly dressed from design, his fine figure ill-clad, with untidy
boots and shock hair, felt his anger slowly rising as he marked the stir
which his coming had caused. He to be the showman of such a crowd! It
was maddening! That day he spoke to them without even the ghost of a
smile parting his lips. He sought to create no sympathy. He cracked his
whip with the cool deliberation of a Russian executioner.

... "I was asked the other day," he remarked, "by an enterprising
journalist, what made me decide to come here and deliver these lectures
to you. I did not tell him. It is because I wanted to speak to the most
ignorant class in Christendom. You are that class. If you have
intelligence, you make it the servant of your whims. If you have
imagination, you use it to enlarge the sphere of your vices. You are
worse than the ostrich who buries his head in the sand--you prefer to go
underground altogether....

"As you sit here--with every tick of your jewelled watches, out in the
world of which in your sublime selfishness you know nothing, a child
dies, a woman is given to sin, a man's heart is broken. What do you
care? What do you know of that infernal, that everlasting tragedy of sin
and suffering that seethes around you? Why should you care? Your life is
attuned to the most pagan philosophy which all the ages of sin have
evolved. You have sunk so low that you are content to sit and listen to
the story of your ignominy...."

What fascination was it that kept them in their places? Holderness, who
was sitting in the last row, fully expected to see them leave their
seats and stream out; Macheson himself would not have been surprised.
His voice had no particular charm, his words were simple words of abuse,
he attempted no rhetorical flourishes, nor any of the tricks of oratory.
He stood there like a disgusted schoolmaster lecturing a rebellious and
backward school. Holderness, when he saw that no one left, chuckled to
himself. Macheson, aware that his powers of invective were spent,
suddenly changed his tone.

Consciously or unconsciously, he told them, every one was seeking to
fashion his life according to some hidden philosophy, some unrealized
ideal. With religion, as it was commonly understood, he had, in that
place at any rate, nothing to do. Even the selfish drifting down the
stream of idle pleasures, which constituted life for most of them, was
the passive acceptance in their consciousness of the old "fainéant"
philosophy of "laissez faire." Had they any idea of the magnificent
stimulus which work could give to the emptiest life! For health's
sake alone, they were willing sometimes to step out of the rut of
their easy-going existence, to discipline their bodies at foreign
watering-places, to take up courses of physical exercises, as prescribed
by the fashionable crank of the moment. What they would do for their
bodies, why should they not try for their souls! The one was surely as
near decay as the other--the care of it, if only they would realize it,
was ten thousand times more important! He had called them, perhaps, many
hard names. There was one he could not call them. He could not call them
cowards. On the contrary, he thought them the bravest people he had ever
known, to live the lives they did, and await the end with the equanimity
they showed. The equivalent of Hell, whatever it might be, had evidently
no terrors for them....

He concluded his address abruptly, as his custom was, a few minutes
later, and turned at once to leave the platform. But this afternoon an
unexpected incident occurred. A man from the middle of the audience rose
up and called to him by name.

Macheson, surprised, paused and turned round. It was Deyes who stood
there, immaculately dressed in morning clothes, his long face pale as
ever, his manner absolutely and entirely composed. He was swinging his
eyeglass by its narrow black ribbon, and leaning a little forward.

"Sir," he said, once more addressing Macheson, "as one of the audience
whose shortcomings have so--er--profoundly impressed you, may I take the
liberty of asking you a question? I ask it of you publicly because I
imagine that there are many others here besides myself to whom your
answer may prove interesting."

Macheson came slowly to the front of the platform.

"Ask your question, sir, by all means," he said.

Deyes bowed.

"You remind me, if I may be permitted to say so," he continued, "of the
prophet who went about with sackcloth and ashes on his head, crying
'Woe! woe! woe!' but who was either unable or unwilling to suggest any
means by which that doleful cry might be replaced by one of more
cheerful import. In plain words, sir, according to your lights--what
must we do to be saved?"

There was a murmur of interest amongst the audience. There were many
upon whom Macheson's stinging words and direct denunciation had left
their mark. They sat up eagerly and waited for his answer. He came to
the edge of the platform and looked thoughtfully into their faces.

"In this city," he said, "it should not be necessary for any one to ask
that question. My answer may seem trite and hackneyed. Yet if you will
accept it, you may come to the truth. Take a hansom cab, and drive as
far, say, as Whitechapel. Walk--in any direction--for half a mile. Look
into the faces of the men, the women and the children. Then go home and
think. You will say at first nothing can be done for these people. They
have dropped down too low, they have lost their humanity, they only
justify the natural law of the survival of the fittest. Think again! A
hemisphere may divide the East and the West of this great city; but
these are human beings as you are a human being, they are your brothers
and your sisters. Consider for a moment this natural law of yours. It is
based upon the principle of the see-saw. Those who are down, are down
because the others are up. Those men are beasts, those women are
unsexed, those children are growing up with dirt upon their bodies and
sin in their hearts, because you others are what you are. Because!
Consider that. Consider it well, and take up your responsibility. They
die that you may flourish! Do you think that the see-saw will be always
one way? A revolution in this world, or justice in the next! Which would
you rather face?"

Deyes bowed slightly.

"You have given me an answer, sir, for which I thank you," he answered.
"But you must allow me to remind you of the great stream of gold which
flows all the while from the West to the East. Hospitals, mission
houses, orphanages, colonial farms--are we to have no credit for these?"

"Very little," Macheson answered, "for you give of your superfluity.
Charity has little to do with the cheque-book. Besides, you must
remember this. I am not here to-day to plead the cause of the East. I am
here to talk to you of your own lives. I represent, if you are pleased
to have it so, the Sandow of your spiritual body. I ask you to submit
your souls to my treatment, as the professor of physical culture would
ask for your bodies. This is not a matter of religion at all. It is a
matter, if you choose to call it so, of philosophy. Your souls need
exercise. You need a course of thinking and working for the good of some
one else--not for your own benefit. Give up one sin in your life, and
replace it with a whole-hearted effort to rescue one unfortunate person
from sin and despair, and you will gain what I understand to be the
desire of all of you--a new pleasure. Briefly, for your own sakes, from
your own point of view, it is a personal charity which I am advocating,
as distinguished from the charity of the cheque-book."

"One more question, Mr. Macheson," Deyes continued quietly. "Where do we
find the lost souls--I mean upon what principle of selection do we
work?"

"There are many excellent institutions through which you can come into
touch with them," Macheson answered. "You can hear of these through the
clergyman of your own parish, or the Bishop of London."

Deyes thanked him and sat down. The lecture was over, and the people
slowly dispersed. Macheson passed into the room at the back of the
platform. Drayton, who was waiting for him there, pushed over a box of
cigarettes. He knew that Macheson loved to smoke directly he had
finished talking.

"Macheson," he said solemnly, "you're a marvel. Why, in my country, I
guess they'd come and scratch your eyes out before they'd stand plain
speaking like that."

Macheson was looking away into vacancy.

"I wonder," he said softly, "if it does any good--any real good?"

Drayton, who was looking through a cash-book with gleaming eyes, opened
his lips to speak, but thought better of it. He pointed instead towards
the table.

The usual pile of notes was there--all the latest novelties in fancy
stationery were represented there, crested, coroneted, scented. Macheson
began to tear them open and as rapidly destroy them with a little
gesture of disgust. They were mostly of the same type. The girls were
all so anxious to do a little good, so tired of the wearisome round of
Society, wouldn't Mr. Macheson be very kind and give them some personal
advice? Couldn't he meet them somewhere, or might they come and see him?
They did hope that he wouldn't think them bold! It would be such a help
to talk to him. The married ladies were bolder still. They felt the same
craving for advice, but their proposals were more definite. Mr. Macheson
must come and see them! They would be quite alone (underlined), there
should be no one else there to worry him. Then followed times and
addresses. One lady, whose coronet and motto were familiar to him, would
take no denial. He was to come that afternoon. Her carriage was waiting
at the side door and would bring him directly to her. Macheson looked up
quickly. Through the window he could see a small brougham, with cockaded
footman and coachman, waiting outside. He swept all the notes into the
flames.

"For Heaven's sake, go and send that carriage away, Drayton," he begged.

Drayton laughed and disappeared. On the table there remained one more
note--a square envelope, less conspicuous perhaps than the others, but
more distinguished-looking. Macheson broke the seal. On half a sheet of
paper were scrawled these few lines only.

     "For Heaven's sake, come to me at once.--Wilhelmina."

He started and caught up his hat. In a few minutes he was on his way to
Berkeley Square.




CHAPTER XII

JEAN LE ROI


Over a marble-topped table in a retired corner of the café Stephen Hurd
listened to the story of the man whom Macheson had delivered over to
him, and the longer he listened the more interesting he found it. When
at last all was told, the table itself was strewn with cigarette stumps,
and their glasses had three times been replenished. The faces of both
men were flushed.

"You see," the little man said, glancing for a moment at his
yellow-stained fingers, and then beginning to puff furiously at a fresh
cigarette, "the time is of the shortest. Jean le Roi--well, his time is
up! He may be here to-morrow, the next day, who can tell? And when he
comes he will kill her! That is certain!"

Hurd shuddered and drank some of his whisky.

"Look here," he said, "we mustn't have that. Revenge, of course, he will
want--but there are other ways."

The little man blinked his eyes.

"You do not know Jean le Roi," he said. "To him it is a pastime to kill!
For myself I do not know the passions as he would know them. Where
there was money I would not kill. It would be as you have said--there
are other ways. But Jean le Roi is different."

"Jean le Roi, as you call him, must be tamed, then," Hurd said. "You
speak of money. I have been her agent, so I can tell you. What do you
think might be the income of this lady?"

Johnson was deeply interested. He leaned across the table. His little
black eyes were alight with cupidity.

"Who can tell?" he murmured. "It might be two, perhaps three, four
thousand English pounds a year. Eh?"

Stephen Hurd laughed scornfully.

"Four thousand a year!" he repeated. "Bah! She fooled you all to some
purpose! Her income is--listen--is forty thousand pounds a year! You
hear that, my friend? Forty thousand pounds a year!"

The little man's face was a study in varying expressions. He leaned back
in his chair, and then crouched forward over the table. His beady eyes
were almost protruding, a spot of deeper colour, an ugly purple patch,
burned upon his cheeks. The words seemed frozen upon his lips. Twice he
opened his mouth to speak and said nothing.

Stephen Hurd took off his hat and placed it upon the table before him.
His listener's emotion was catching.

"Forty thousand pounds," he said softly, "livres you call it! It is a
great fortune. She has deceived you, too! You must make her pay for it."

Johnson was recovering himself slowly. His voice when he spoke shook,
but it was with the dawn of a vicious anger!

"Yes!" he muttered, speaking as though to himself, "she has deceived us!
She must pay! God, how she must pay!"

His fingers twitched upon the table. He was blinking rapidly.

"There is the money," he said softly, "and there is Jean le Roi!"

It was a night of shocks for him. Again his eyes were dilated. He shrank
back in his chair and clutched at Hurd's sleeve.

"It is himself!" he whispered hoarsely. "It is Jean le Roi! God in
Heaven, he will kill us!"

Johnson collapsed for a moment. In his face were all the evidences of an
abject fear, and Stephen Hurd was in very nearly as evil a plight. The
man who was threading his way through the tables towards them was
alarming enough in his appearance and expression to have cowed braver
men.

"Jean le Roi--he fears nothing--he cares for nothing, not even for me,
his father," Johnson muttered with chattering teeth. "If he feels like
it he will kill us as we sit here."

Hurd, who was facing the man, watched him with fascinated eyes. He was
over six feet high, and magnificently formed. Notwithstanding his ready
made clothes, fresh from a French tailor, his brown hat ludicrously too
small and the blue stubble of a recently cropped beard, he was almost as
impressively handsome as he was repulsive to look at. He walked with the
grace of a savage animal in his native woods; there was something indeed
not altogether human in the gleam of his white teeth and stealthy,
faultless movements. He came straight to where they sat, and his hand
fell like a vice upon the shoulder of the shrinking elder man. It was
further characteristic of this strange being that when he spoke there
was no anger in his tone. His voice indeed was scarcely raised above a
whisper.

"What are you doing here, old man?" he asked. "Why did you not meet me?
Eh?"

"I will tell you, tell you everything, Jean," Johnson answered. "Sit
down here and drink with us. Everything shall be made quite clear to
you. I came for your sake--to get money, Jean. Sit down, my boy."

Jean le Roi sat down.

"I sit with you," he said, "and I will drink with you, because I have no
money to pay for myself. But we are not friends yet, old man! I will
hear first what you have done. And who is this?"

His eyes flashed as he looked upon Hurd. Johnson interposed quickly.

"A friend, a good friend," he exclaimed. "He will be of service to us,
great service. Only a few minutes ago he told me something astounding,
something for you also to hear, dear Jean. It is wonderful news."

Jean le Roi interrupted.

"What I want to hear from you," he said, in a soft, vicious whisper, "is
why, when they let me out of that cursed place, you were not there with
money and clothes for me, as I ordered. But for the poor faithful
Annette, whom I did not desire to see, I might have starved on the day
of my release. Stop!----" he held up his hand as Johnson was on the
point of pouring out a copious explanation, "order me brandy first. Tell
them to bring me the bottle. Do not speak till I have drunk."

They called a waiter and gave the order. They waited in an uneasy
silence until it arrived. Jean le Roi drank at first sparingly, but his
eyes rested lovingly upon the bottle.

"Now speak," he commanded.

Johnson told his story with appropriate gestures.

"After it was all over," he began rapidly, "and one saw that a rescue
was impossible, I followed madame! It was a moment of fury, I thought.
She will repent, she will pay for lawyers for his defence. So I hung
about her hotel, only to find that she had left, stolen away. As you
know, she did not appear at the trial! It was a bargain with the police
that they should not call her if she betrayed you! She escaped me, Jean,
and as you know, I had no money. All, every penny had been spent on your
clothes and your horse and carriage, to make you a gentleman."

Jean le Roi extended his hands. "Money well spent indeed! Let the old
man continue!"

"She escaped me, Jean, and it was many months before I found a clue on
an old label--just the words 'Thorpe, England.' So I wrote there, and
the letter did not come back as the others. I waited a little time and I
wrote again, this time to receive an answer! It was a stern, angry
letter from a man who called himself her father, and signed himself
Stephen Hurd. He was what is called here an estate agent, and he had
not very much money. He would not send one pound. He said that the
marriage was illegal, and if one came to England he threatened the law!
I wrote again--humbly, piteously. I spoke of your hardships. I told how
all the time you raved of your dear wife, how you repented your
madness--how it was for love of her only that you had committed such a
crime! There came no answer. I forwarded the letters which you had
written to her--I begged, oh! how I begged for just a little money for
the small luxuries, the good wine, the tobacco, the newspapers. They
sent nothing!"

Jean le Roi drew in his breath with a gasp.

"Oh!" he muttered. "So they sent nothing!"

"Not one sou, Jean--not one sou! And all the while the time of your
release was drawing near. What could I do! Well, I raised the money. How
I will not tell you, my boy, but I went on a fruit boat from Havre to
Southampton, and from there down to Thorpe. I saw the old man Stephen
Hurd. It was on a Sunday night that I arrived, and I found him alone.
He was as hard, Jean, as his letters. When I pressed him he ordered
me out of the house. I would not go. I said that I would see my
daughter-in-law. I would remain until I saw her, I said, even if I slept
under a hedge. Again he ordered me out of the house. I was firm; I
refused. Then he struck me, there was a quarrel, and he fell. I thought
at first that he was unconscious, but when I examined him--he was dead."

Johnson finished his speech in a stealthy whisper, leaning half way
across the table. Jean le Roi poured himself out more brandy, but he was
unmoved.

"The old trick, I suppose," he remarked carelessly, making a swift
movement with his hand.

"No! no!" Johnson declared earnestly. "I used no weapon! It was an
accident, a pure accident. Remember that this is his son. He would not
be here if it was not quite certain that it was accident--and accident
alone."

Jean le Roi lifted his head and gazed curiously at Stephen Hurd.

"So you," he murmured, "are my brother-in-law?"

Johnson leaned once more across the table.

"It is where you, where we all have been deceived," he said
impressively. "Listen. She was never the daughter of Stephen Hurd at
all. It was a schoolgirl's freak to take that name, when she was eluding
her chaperon and amusing herself in Paris. Stephen Hurd was her
servant."

"And she?" Jean le Roi asked softly.

Johnson spread out his yellow-stained fingers. His voice trembled, his
eyes shone. It was like speaking of something holy.

"She is a great lady," he said. "She goes to Court, she has houses, and
horses and carriages, troops of servants, a yacht, motor-cars. She is
rich--fabulously rich, Jean. She has--listen--forty thousand pounds,
livres mind, a year."

"More than that," Hurd muttered.

"More than that," Johnson repeated.

Jean le Roi was no longer unmoved. He drew a long breath and his teeth
seemed to come together with a click.

"There is no mistake?" he asked softly. "An income of forty thousand
pounds?"

"There is no mistake," Stephen Hurd assured him. "I will answer for
that."

Jean le Roi's face was white and vicious. Yet for a time he said nothing
and his two companions watched him anxiously. There was something
uncanny about his silence.

"It is a great deal of money," he said at last. "Often in prison I was
hungry, I had no cigarettes. I was forced to drink water. A great deal
of money! And she is my wife! Half of what she has belongs to me! That
is the law, eh?"

"I don't know about that," Stephen Hurd said, "but she has certainly
treated you very badly."

Jean le Roi struck the table with his fist, not violently, and yet
somehow with a force which made itself felt.

"It is over--that!" he said. "I am a man who knows when he has been
ill-treated; who knows, too, what it is that a wife owes to her husband.
Tell me where it is that she lives, old man. Write it down."

Johnson drew from his pocket a stump of pencil and the back of an
envelope. He wrote slowly and with care. Jean le Roi extended the palm
of his hand to Stephen Hurd.

"He will warn madame, perhaps," he suggested. "Why does he sit here with
us, this young man? Is it that he, too, wants money?"

"No! no! my son," Johnson intervened hastily. "Madame treated him
badly. He would not be sorry to see her humiliated."

Jean le Roi smiled.

"It shall be done," he promised. "But from one of you I must have money.
I cannot present myself before my wife so altered. No one would believe
my story."

"How much do you want?" Hurd asked uneasily.

"Twenty pounds English," Jean le Roi answered. "I cannot resume my
appearance as a gentleman on less."

Hurd took out some notes.

"I will lend you that," he said slowly.

Jean le Roi's long fingers took firm hold of the notes. He buttoned them
up in his pocket, slapped the place where they were, and poured out more
brandy.

"Now," he said, "I am prepared. Madame shall discover what it means to
deceive her fond husband!"

Hurd moved in his seat uneasily. There was something ominous in the
villainous curve of the man's lips--in the utter absence of any direct
threats. What was it that was passing in his mind?

"You are not thinking of any violence?" he asked. "Remember she is a
proud woman, and you cannot punish her more than by simply appearing and
declaring yourself."

Jean le Roi smiled.

"We shall see," he declared.




CHAPTER XIII

THE KING OF THE APACHES


Wilhelmina was resting--and looked in need of it. All the delicate
colours and fluttering ribbons of her Doucet dressing-jacket could not
hide the pallor of her cheeks, or the hollows under her eyes. Macheson,
who came in sternly enough, felt himself moved to a troublous pity.
Nothing seemed left of the great lady--or the "poseuse"!

"You are kind," she murmured, "to come so soon. Sit down, please!"

"Is there any trouble?" he asked. "You look worried."

She laughed unnaturally.

"No wonder," she answered. "For five years I have been living more or
less on the brink of a volcano. From what I have heard, I fancy that an
eruption is about due."

"Tell me about it," he asked.

She passed him a telegram. It was from Paris, and it was signed Gilbert
Deyes.

"Jean le Roi was free yesterday. Left immediately for England."

Macheson looked up. He did not understand.

"And who," he asked, "is Jean le Roi?"

She looked him in the eyes.

"My husband," she told him quietly. "At least that is what I suppose the
law would say that he was."

Macheson had been prepared for something surprising, but not for this.
He looked at her incredulously. He found himself aimlessly repeating her
words.

"Your husband?"

"I was married five years ago in Paris," she said in a dull, emotionless
tone. "No one over here knows about it, or has seen him, because he has
been in prison all the time. It was I who sent him there."

"I can't believe this," he said, in a low tone. "It is too amazing."

Then a light broke in upon him and he began to understand.

"He is in England now," she said, "and I am afraid."

"Jean le Roi?" he muttered.

"King of the Apaches," she answered bitterly. "'The greatest rogue in
Paris,' they said, when they sentenced him."

"Sentenced him!" he repeated, bewildered.

"He has been in prison since the day we were married," she continued.
"It was I who sent him there."

He bowed his head. He felt that it was not right to look at her. An
infinite wave of tenderness swept through his whole being. He was
ashamed of his past thoughts of her, of his hasty judgments. All the
time she had been carrying this in her bosom. Her very pride seemed to
him now magnificent. He felt suddenly like a querulous child.

"What can I do to help you?" he asked softly.

She came a little nearer to him.

"I am afraid," she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. "Ever
since I heard the story of his life, as it was told in court, I have
been afraid. When he was taken, he swore to be revenged. For the last
twenty-four hours I have felt somehow that he was near! Read this!"

She passed him a letter. The notepaper was thick and expensive, and
headed by a small coronet.

     "My dearest wife," it began. "At last this miserable separation
     comes to an end! I am here in London, on my way to you! Prepare
     to throw yourself into my arms. How much too long has our
     happiness been deferred!

     "I should have been with you before, dear Wilhelmina, but for
     more sordid considerations. I need money. I need money very
     badly. Send me, please, a thousand pounds to-morrow between
     three and four--or shall I come and fetch it, and you?

     "As you will.

                    "Your devoted husband,
                         "Jean."

He gave her back the letter gravely.

"What was your answer?" he asked.

"I sent nothing," she declared. "I did not reply. But I am
afraid--horribly afraid! He is a terrible man. If we were alone, he
would kill me as you or I would a fly. If only they could have proved
the things at the trial which were known to be true, he would never have
seen the daylight again. But even the witnesses were terrified. They
dared not give evidence against him."

"Will you tell me," Macheson asked, "how it all came about? Not unless
you like," he added, after a moment's hesitation. "Not if it is painful
to you."

She sat down upon the couch, curling herself up at the further end of
it, and building up the pillows at the further end to support her head.
Against the soft green silk, her face was like the face of a tired
child. Something seemed to have gone out of her. She was no longer
playing a part--not even to him--not even to herself. There was nothing
left of the woman of the world. It was the child who told him her story.

"You must listen," she said, "and you may laugh at me if you like, but
you must not be angry. My story is the story of a fool! Sit down,
please--at the end of the couch if you don't mind! I like to have you
between me and the door."

He obeyed her in silence, and she continued. She spoke like a child
repeating her lesson. She held a crumpled-up lace handkerchief in her
hand, and her eyes, large and intent, never left his.

"This is the story of a girl," she said, "an orphan who went abroad
with a chaperon to travel in Europe and perfect her French. In Paris the
chaperon fell ill, the girl hired a guide recommended by the hotel, to
show her the sights.

"They saw all that the tourist sees, and the chaperon was still ill. The
girl thought that she would like to see something of the Parisians
themselves; she was tired of Cook's English people and Americans. So she
gave the guide money to buy himself clothes, and bade him take her to
the restaurants and places where the world of Paris assembled. It was
known at the hotel, perhaps through the servants, that the girl was
rich. The guide heard it and told some one else. Between them they
concocted a plot. The girl was to be the victim. She was only eighteen.

"One day they were lunching at the Café de Paris--the guide and the
girl--when a young man entered. He was exceedingly handsome, and very
wonderfully turned out after the fashion of the French dandy. The guide,
as the young man passed, rose up and bowed respectfully. The young man
nodded carelessly. Then he saw the girl, and he looked at her as no man
had ever looked before. And the girl ought to have been angry, but
wasn't.

"She asked the guide who the young man was. He told her that it was the
Duke of Languerois, head of one of the oldest families in France. His
father and grandfather, and for a time he himself, had been in their
service! The girl looked across at the young man with interest, and the
young man returned her gaze. That was what he was there for.

"As they left the restaurant her guide fell behind for a moment, and
when she looked round she saw him talking to the young man. Of course
she wanted to know what they had been saying, and with much apparent
reluctance the guide told her. The young man had been inquiring about
mademoiselle, where they spent their time, how he could meet them. Of
course he had told nothing. But the young man was very persistent and
very much in earnest! She encouraged the guide to talk about him, and
she believed what she was told. He was rich, noble, adored in French
society, and he was in love with mademoiselle. She was very soon given
to understand this.

"For several days the young man was always in evidence. He was perfectly
respectful, he never attempted to address her. It was all most cunningly
planned. Then one evening, when she was driving with her guide through a
narrow street, a man sprang suddenly upon the step of her carriage and
snatched at her jewels. Another on the other side had passed his arm
round the guide's neck and almost throttled him, and a third was
struggling with the coachman. It was one of those lightning-like attacks
by Apaches, which were common enough then--at least it seemed like one.
The girl screamed, and, of course, the young man, who had been following
in another voiture, appeared. One of the thieves he threw on to the
pavement, the others fled. And the young man was a hero! It was well
arranged!"

Her voice broke for a moment, and Macheson moved uneasily upon the sofa.
If he could he would have stopped her. He could guess as much of the
miserable story as it was necessary for him to know! But she ignored
his threatened interruption. She was determined, having kept her secret
for so long, that he should know now the whole truth.

"After that, things moved rapidly. The girl was as near her own mistress
as a child of her age could be. She was lonely and the young man proved
a delightful companion. He had many attractive gifts, and he knew how to
make use of them. All the time he made love to her. For a time she
resisted, but she had very little chance. She was just at the age when
all girls are more or less fools. In the end she consented to a secret
marriage. Afterwards he was to take her to his family. But that time
never came.

"They were married at eleven o'clock one morning, and went afterwards to
a café for déjeûner. The young man that day was ill at ease and nervous.
He kept looking about him as though he was afraid of being followed. He
spoke vaguely of danger from the anger of his noble relations. They were
scarcely seated at luncheon before a man came quietly into the place and
whispered a few words in his ear. Whatever those few words were, the
young man went suddenly pale and called for his hat and stick. He wrote
an address on a piece of paper and gave it to the girl. He begged her to
follow him in an hour--he would introduce her then to his friends. And
he left her alone. The girl was troubled and uneasy. He had gone off
without even paying for the luncheon. He had the air of a desperate man.
She began to realize what she had done.

"She was preparing to depart when an Englishman, who had been
lunching at the other end of the room, came over, and, with a word
of apology, sat down by her side. He saw that she was young, and a
fellow-countryman, and he told her very gravely that he was sure she
could not be aware of the character of the man with whom she had been
lunching. Her eyes grew wide open with horror. The man, he said, was the
illegitimate son of a French nobleman, and his mother had been married
to a guide--her guide! He had perhaps the worst character of any man in
Paris. He had been tried for murder, imprisoned for forgery, and he was
now suspected of being the leader of a band of desperate criminals who
were dreaded all over Paris. This and other things he told her of the
man whom she had just married. The girl listened as though turned to
stone, with the piece of paper which he had given her crumpled up in her
hands. Then the police came. They asked her questions. She pretended at
first to know nothing. At last she addressed the commissionary. If she
gave him the address where this young man could be found, he and all his
friends, might she depart without mention being made of her, or her name
appearing in any way? The commissionary agreed, and she gave him the
piece of paper. The Englishman--it was Gilbert Deyes--took her back to
her hotel, and the police captured Jean le Roi and the whole band of his
associates. The girl returned to England that night. Jean le Roi was
sentenced to six years' penal servitude. His time was up last week."

"What a diabolical plot!" Macheson exclaimed. "But the marriage! It
could have been annulled, surely?"

"Perhaps," she answered, "but I did not dare to face the publicity. I
felt that I should never be able to look any one in the face again. I
had given my name to the guide Johnson as Clara Hurd. I hoped that they
might never find me."

"They cannot do you any harm," Macheson declared. "Let me go with you to
the lawyers. They will see that you are not molested."

She shook her head.

"It is not so easy," she said. "The marriage was quite legal. To have it
annulled I should have to enter a suit. The whole story would come out.
I could never live in England afterwards."

"But you don't mean," he protested, "to remain bound to this blackguard
all your life!"

"How can I free myself," she asked, "except by making myself the
laughing-stock of the country?"

"Why did you send for me?" he asked bluntly.

"To ask for your advice--and to protect me," she added, with a shiver.
"It is not only money that Jean le Roi wants! It is vengeance because I
betrayed him."

"As for that, I won't leave you except when you send me away," he
declared. "And my advice! If you want that, the right thing to me seems
simple enough. Go at once to your lawyers. They will tell you the proper
course. At the worst, the man could be bought off for the present."

She raised her head.

"I will not give him one penny," she declared. "I have always sworn
that."

"But I'm afraid if you won't try to divorce him that he can claim some,"
Macheson said.

"Then he must come and take it by force," she declared.

There was silence between them. Then she rose to her feet and came and
stood before him.

"I ought to have told you all this long ago," she said simply. "To-day I
felt that I must tell you without another hour's delay. Now that you
know, I am not so terrified. But you must promise to come and see me
every day while that brute remains in London."

"Yes! I promise that," he answered, also rising to his feet.

They heard her maid moving about in the bedroom.

"Hortense is reminding me that I must dress for dinner," she remarked
with a faint smile. "One must dine, you know, even in the midst of
tragedies."

Macheson prepared to take his departure.

"I shall come to-morrow," he said, "if you do not send for me before."




CHAPTER XIV

BEHIND THE PALM TREES


Lady Peggy was fussing round the drawing-room, talking to all her guests
at once.

"I haven't the least idea who takes anybody in," she declared. "James
said he'd see to that, so you might just as well put your hand in a
lucky-bag. And I'm not at all sure that you'll get any dinner. I've got
a new _chef_--drives up in a high dogcart with such a sweet little
groom. He may be all right. Jules, the maître d'hôtel at Claridge's, got
him for me, and, Wilhelmina, sooner than come out like a ghost, I'd
really take lessons in the use of the rouge-pot. My new maid's a perfect
treasure at it. No one can ever tell whether my colour's natural or not.
I don't mind telling you people it generally isn't. But anyhow, it isn't
daubed on like Lady Sydney's--makes her look for all the world like one
of 'ces dames,' doesn't it? I'm sure I'd be afraid to be seen speaking
to her if I were a man. Gilbert," she broke off, addressing Deyes, who
was just being ushered in, "how dare you come to dinner without being
asked? I'm sure I have not asked you. Don't say I did, now. You refused
me eight times running, and I crossed you off my list."

Deyes held out a card as he bowed over his hostess's fingers.

"My dear lady," he said, "here is the proof that I am not an intruder. I
am down to take in our hostess of Thorpe!"

"You have bribed James," she declared. "I hope it cost you a great deal
of money. I will not believe that I asked you. However, since you are
here, go and tell Wilhelmina some of your stories. I hate pale cheeks,
and Wilhelmina blushes easily. No use looking at the clock, Duke. Dinner
will be at least half an hour late, I'm sure. These foreign _chefs_ have
no idea of punctuality. What's that? Dinner served! Two minutes before
time. Well, we're all here, aren't we? I knew it would be either too
early or too late. Duke, you will have to take me in. By the time we get
there the soup will probably be cold. You'd better pray that we're
starting with caviare and oysters! Such a slow crowd, aren't they--and
such chatterboxes! I wish they'd move on a little faster and talk a
little less. No! Only thirty. Nice sociable number, I call it, for a
round table. I asked Victor Macheson, the man who's so rude to us all
every Thursday afternoon for a guinea a time--I don't know why we pay it
to be abused,--but he wouldn't come. I met him before he developed, and
I don't think he liked me."

"You got my telegram?" Deyes asked, as he unfolded his napkin.

Wilhelmina nodded.

"Yes!" she answered. "It was very good of you to warn me. I have had--a
letter already. The campaign has begun."

Deyes nodded.

"Chosen your weapons yet?" he asked.

"I haven't much choice, have I?" she answered, a little bitterly. "I
fight, of course."

Deyes was carefully scanning the menu through his horn-rimmed eyeglass.

"Becassine à la Broche," he murmured. "I must remember that."

Then he turned in his chair and looked at Wilhelmina.

"You are worrying," he declared abruptly.

She shrugged her shoulders, alabaster white, rising from the unrelieved
black of her velvet gown.

"My maid's fault," she added. "I ought to have worn white. Of course I'm
worrying. I don't care about carrying the signs of it about with me
though. I think I shall have to adopt Peggy's advice, and go to the
rouge-pot."

"Perhaps," he said deliberately, "it will not be necessary."

She looked up at him quickly. His words sounded encouraging.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that a way may be found to induce a certain gentleman to return
to his native country and stay there," Deyes said smoothly. "After
dinner we are going to have some talk. Please oblige me now by
abandoning the discussion and eating something. Ah! that champagne will
do you good."

Her neighbour on the other side addressed her, and Wilhelmina was
conscious of a sudden lightening of the load upon her heart. Like every
one else, she had confidence in this tall, self-contained man whose life
was somewhat of a mystery even to his friends, and who had about him
that suggestion of power which reticence nearly always brings. He was
going to help her. She pushed all those miserable thoughts away from
her. She became herself again.

"Let no one imagine," Lady Peggy said, carefully knocking the end of a
cigarette upon the table, "that I am going to try to catch the eyes of
all you women, and go sailing away with my nose in the air to look at
engravings in the drawing-room. You can just get up and go when you
like, any or all of you. There are bridge tables laid out for you in the
library, music and a hopping girl--I don't call it dancing--in the
drawing-room, a pool in the billiard-room, or flirtation in the
winter-garden. Coffee and liqueurs will follow you wherever you go. Take
your choice, good people. For myself, the Duke is telling me stories of
Cairo. J'y suis, j'y reste. I'm only thankful no one else can hear
them!"

The party at the great round table dispersed slowly by two and threes.
Wilhelmina and Deyes strolled into the winter-garden. Deyes lit a
cigarette and stood with his hands behind him. Wilhelmina was leaning
against the back of a chair. She was too excited to sit down.

"Please!" she begged.

Deyes threw his cigarette away. His face seemed to harden and soften at
the same time. His mouth was suddenly firm, but his eyes glowed. All the
boredom was gone from his manner and expression.

"Wilhelmina," he said, "I have wanted to marry you ever since I saw you
in the Café de Paris with that atrocious blackguard who has caused you
so much suffering. You may remember that I have hinted as much to you
before!"

She was startled--visibly disturbed.

"You know very well," she said, "that you are speaking of impossible
things!"

"Things that were impossible, Wilhelmina," he said. "Suppose I take Jean
le Roi off your hands? Suppose I promise to send him back to his own
country like a rat to his hole? Suppose I promise that your marriage
shall be annulled without a line in the newspapers, without a single
vestige of publicity?"

"You cannot do it," she murmured eagerly.

"You want your freedom, then?" he asked.

"Yes! I want my freedom," she answered. "I have a right to it, haven't
I?"

"And I," he said slowly, "want you!"

There was a short pause. Through the palms came the faint wailing of a
violin, the crash of pianoforte chords, the clear soft notes of a
singer. Wilhelmina felt her eyes fill with tears. She was overwrought,
and there were new things, things that were strange to her, in the worn,
lined face of the man who was bending towards her.

"Wilhelmina," he said softly, "life, our life, does its best to strangle
the emotions. One feels that one does best with a pulse which has
forgotten how to quicken, and a heart which beats to the will of its
owner. But the most hardened of us come to grief sometimes. I am afraid
that I have come--very much to grief!"

"I am sorry," she said quietly.

He drew away and his face became like marble.

"You mean--that it isn't any use?" he asked hoarsely.

She looked at him, and he did not press for words.

"Is it--the missioner?" he asked.

Her head sank a little lower, but still she did not answer. Gilbert
Deyes drew himself upright. He remembered the cigarette which had burnt
itself out between his fingers, and he carefully re-lit it.

"I am now," he said, blowing a cloud of blue smoke into the heart of a
yellow rose, "confronted by a somewhat hackneyed, but always interesting
problem. Do I care for you enough--or too little--or too much--to
continue your friend, when my aid will probably ensure the loss of you
for ever! It is not a problem to be hurried over, this!"

"There is no need for haste," she answered. "I know you, Gilbert, better
than you know yourself. I am very sure that you will help me--if you
can."

He laughed bitterly.

"You are a good deal surer of me than I am of myself," he answered. "Why
should I give you up to a boy who hasn't learnt yet the first lesson of
life?"

"What is it?" she asked. "I am not clear that I have graduated."

"You can see it blazoned over the portals as you pass through the
gates," he answered, "'Abandon all enthusiasm, ye who enter here.' The
pathways of life are heaped with the corpses of those who will not
understand. Do you think that this boy will fare better than the rest,
with his preaching and lectures and East End work? It's sheer
impertinence! Man, the individual, is only a pawn in the game of life.
Why should he imagine that he can alter the things that are?"

"Even the striving to alter them," she said, "may tend towards
betterment."

"A platitude," he declared--"and hopeless!"

She raised her eyes to his.

"Anyhow," she said softly, "I care for him."

He bowed low.

"Incomprehensible," he murmured. "Take your freedom and marry this young
man if you must. But I warn you that you will be miserable. Apples and
green figs don't grow on the same tree."

He drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Jean le Roi," he said, "was married to Annette Hurier, in the town of
Châlons, two years before he posed before you as the Duke of Languerois.
You will find Annette's address in there. It took me a year to trace
this out--a wasted year! Bah! you women are all disappointments. We will
go and play bridge."

Lady Peggy stared at Wilhelmina when they entered the library a few
minutes later.

"What on earth have you been doing to her, Gilbert?" she demanded.
"She's a changed woman!"

"Making love to her!" Deyes answered.

Lady Peggy laughed.

"If I believed you," she declared, "I'd give up this rubber and go and
lose myself amongst the palms with you. Come and cut in--you too,
Wilhelmina."

But Wilhelmina excused herself. She drove homewards with a soft smile
upon her lips, and the dead weight lifted from her heart.




CHAPTER XV

THE ONLY WAY


It was a round table, too, at which Macheson dined that night, but with
a different company. For they were all men who sat there, men with
earnest faces and thoughtful eyes. The graces of evening dress and
society talk they knew nothing of. They were the friends of Macheson's
college days, the men who had sworn amongst themselves that, however
they might live, they would devote the greater part of their life to
their fellow-creatures.

They were smoking pipes, and a great bowl of tobacco was on the table.
Few of them took wine, but Macheson and Holderness were drinking whisky.
Holderness, their senior, was usually the one who started their informal
talk.

"My work's been easy enough all the time," he remarked, leaning forward.
"There were no end of labour-papers, but all being run either for the
trades' unions, or some special industrial branch. I started a labour
magazine--Macheson found the money, of course--and I'm paying my way
now. I don't know whether the thing does any good. At any rate it's an
effort! I've been hearing about your colony, Franklin. I shall want an
article on it presently."

A tall, thin young man removed his pipe from his mouth.

"You shall have it as soon as I can find time," he answered. "We're
going strong, but really there's very little credit due to me. It was
Macheson's money and Macheson's idea. We've got an entire village now
near Llandirog, and the whole population come from the prisons. Macheson
and I used to attend the police-courts ourselves, hear all the cases,
and form our own conclusions as to the prisoners. If we thought there
was any hope for them, we made a note, met them when they came out, and
offered them a job, on probation--in our village. We have to leave it to
the chaplains now--I can't spare time to be always in London. We've two
woollen mills, a saw-mill, and a bakery, besides all the shops, and
nearly a thousand acres of well-farmed land. At first the people round
were terribly shy of us, but that's all over now. Why, we have less
trouble with the police in our village than any for miles around. We're
paying our way, too."

"You've done thundering well, Franklin," Macheson declared. "I remember
what a rough time you had at first. Uphill work, wasn't it?"

"That's what makes it such a relief to have pulled through," Franklin
declared, re-lighting his pipe. "I shouldn't like to say how much I had
to draw from Macheson before we turned the corner. Glad to say we've
paid a bit back now, though. Tell us about your idea, Holroyd. They tell
me it's working well in some of the large cities."

"It's simple enough," Holroyd answered, smiling. "It was just the
application of common sense to the laws of charity. Nearly every one's
charitable by instinct--only sometimes it's so difficult for a busy man
to know exactly when and how to give. I started in one of the big
cities, looking up prosperous middle-class families. I'd try to induce
them, instead of just writing cheques for institutions and making things
for bazaars, to take a personal interest in a family of about the same
size as their own who were in a bad way. When they promised, all I had
to do was to find the poor family and bring them together, and it was
astonishing how much the one could do for the other without undue
effort. There were the clothes, of course, and old housekeeping things,
odd bits of furniture, food from the kitchen, a job for one of the boys
in the garden, a day's work for one of the girls in the house. I tell
you I have lists of hundreds of poor families, who feel now that they
have some one to fall back upon, and the richer half of the combination
take a tremendous interest in their foster-family, as some of them call
it. Sometimes there is trouble, but the world is governed by majorities,
and in the majority of cases the thing has turned out excellently."

"There's the essence of charity in the idea--the personal note,"
Macheson remarked. "How's the Canadian farm going, Finlayson?"

"We're paying our way," Finlayson answered, "and you should see our
boys. They come out thin and white--all skin and bones. You wouldn't
recognize one of them in six months! They're good workers, too. We've
nine hundred altogether in the North-West, and we want more. I'm hoping
to take a hundred back with me."

"It's a grand country," Macheson said. "I'm glad it's part of the
Empire, Finlayson, or I should grudge you those boys. We can't spare too
many. Hinton, your work speaks for itself."

Hinton, the only one in clerical dress, smiled a little wearily.

"Sometimes," he said, "I wish it would speak a little louder. East End
work is all the same. One feels ashamed of preaching religion to a
starving people."

Macheson nodded his sympathy.

"I know what you mean," he said. "It drove me from the East to the West.
We should preach at the one and feed the other!... Of course, I
personally have always been handicapped. I haven't been able to
subscribe to any of the established churches. But I do believe in the
laws of retribution, whether you call them human or Divine. One's moral
delinquencies pay one out just as bodily excesses do. Always one's debts
are to be paid, and it's a terrible burden the drones must carry. After
all, I've come to the conclusion that there's heaps of sound moral
teaching to be drummed into our fellow-creatures without the necessity
of being orthodox!"

"You speak lightly of your own work, Macheson," Franklin said, "but
there is one thing we must none of us forget. Our schools, our farms,
our colonies, all our attempts, indeed, owe their very being to your
open purse----"

Macheson held out his hand.

"Franklin," he said, "I want to tell you something which I think none of
you know. I want to tell you where most of my money came from, and
you'll understand then why I've been so anxious to get rid of it--or a
part of it--in this way. Did you ever hear of Ferguson Davis, the
money-lender? Yes, I can see by your faces you did. Well, he was my
mother's brother, and he died without a will when I was a child, and the
whole lot came to me!"

"A million and a quarter," some one murmured.

"More," Macheson answered. "I was at Oxford when I understood exactly
the whole business, and it seemed like nothing but a curse to me. Then I
talked to the dear old professor, and he showed me the way. I can
honestly say that not one penny of that money has ever been spent,
directly or indirectly, upon myself. I believe that if the old man could
come to life and read my bank-book he'd have a worse fit than the one
which carried him off. I appointed myself the trustee of his fortune,
and it's spread pretty well all over the world. I've never refused to
stand at the back of any reasonable scheme for the betterment of our
fellow-creatures. There have been a few failures perhaps, but many
successes. The Davis buildings are mine--in trust, of course. They've
done well. I've a larger scheme on hand now on the same lines. And in
spite of it all the money grows! I can't get rid of it. The old man
chose his investments well, and many of our purely philanthropic schemes
are beginning to pay their way. It isn't that I care a fig about the
money, but you must try to make these things self-supporting, or you
injure the character of those who benefit by them. Now I've told you all
the truth, but don't let it go out of this room. You can consider
yourselves fellow-trustees with me, if you like. Show me an honest way
to use money for the real benefit of the world's unfortunates, and it's
yours as much as mine."

"It's magnificent," Franklin murmured.

"It's justice," Macheson answered. "The money was wrung from the poor,
and it goes back to them. Perhaps it's a saner distribution, for it's
the improvident and shiftless of the world who go to the money-lender."

There was a knock at the door. The hall-porter of the club in which they
were holding their informal meeting entered and addressed Macheson.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but there is a young man here who
wants to see you at once. He would not give his name, but he says that
his business is urgent."

"Where is he?" Macheson asked.

"In the smaller strangers' room, sir."

Macheson excused himself, and, crossing the hall, entered the barely
furnished apartment, on the left of the entrance. A young man was
walking up and down with fierce, restless movements. He was pale,
untidily dressed, and in his eyes there was a curious look of terror, as
though all the time he saw beyond the walls of the room things which
kept him breathless with fear. Macheson, pausing for a moment on the
threshold, failed on the instant to recognize him. Then he closed the
door and advanced into the room.

"Hurd!" he exclaimed. "What do you want? What is the matter?"

"Matter enough," Hurd declared wildly. "I have been a fool and a
blackguard. Those two got round me--the old man and his cursed step-son!
I must have been mad!"

"What have you done?" Macheson asked sharply.

"She treated me badly," Hurd continued, "made a fool of me before you,
and turned me away from Thorpe. I wanted to cry quits with her, and
those two got hold of me. Jean le Roi is her husband. She refused to see
him--to hear from him. Letty Foulton is there, and I have been allowed
to visit her. I knew the back way in, and I took Jean le Roi there--an
hour ago--and he is waiting in her room until she comes home!"

"Good God!" Macheson murmured. "You unspeakable blackguard!"

He glanced at the clock. It was past midnight.

"What time was she expected home?" he demanded.

"Soon after eleven! She was only dining out. He--he swore that he only
wanted to talk to her, to threaten her with exposure. She deserved that!
But he is a madman. When I left him I was afraid. He carries a knife
always, and he kept on saying that she was his wife. I left him there
waiting--and when I wanted him to promise that there should be no
violence, he laughed at me. He is hidden in her room. I thought that it
was only money he wanted--but--but----"

Macheson flung him on one side. He caught up his hat and rushed out of
the club.




CHAPTER XVI

MAN TO MAN


Hortense smiled softly to herself as she laid down the ivory-backed
brushes. What did it mean, she wondered, when her mistress went out with
tired eyes and pallid cheeks, and came home with the colour of a rose
and eyes like stars, humming an old French love-song, and her feet
moving all the time to some unheard music? It was years since she had
seen her like this! Hortense knew the signs and was well pleased. At
last, then, the household was to be properly established. A woman as
beautiful as her mistress without a lover was to Hortense an
incomprehensible thing.

"You can go now, Hortense," her mistress ordered. "I will have my coffee
half an hour earlier to-morrow morning."

"Very good, madame," the girl answered. "There is nothing else to-night,
then?"

"Nothing, thank you," Wilhelmina answered. "You had better go to bed
now. I have been keeping you up rather late the last few evenings. We
must both turn over a new leaf."

Hortense departed, smiling to herself. It was always like this--when it
came. One thought of others and one wanted to be alone. She, too,
hummed a few bars of that love-song as she climbed the stairs to her
room.

Wilhelmina rose from her chair and stood for a moment looking at herself
in the long, oval looking-glass. Hortense had chosen for her a French
dressing-jacket, with the palest of light blue ribbons drawn through the
lace. Wilhelmina looked at herself and smiled. Was it the light, the
colouring, or was she really still so good to look at? Her hair, falling
over her shoulders, was long and silky, the lines seemed to have been
smoothed out of her face--she was like herself when she had been a girl!
She followed the slender lines of her figure, down past the lace of her
petticoat to her feet, still encased in her evening slippers with
diamond buckles, and she laughed softly to herself. What was she yet but
a girl? Fate had cheated her of some of the years, but she was barely
twenty-five. How wonderful to be young still and feel one's blood flow
to music like this! Her thoughts ran riot. Her mouth trembled and a
deeper colour stained her cheeks. Then she heard a voice behind her, a
living voice in her room. And as swiftly as those other mysterious
thoughts had stolen into her heart, came the chill of a deadly,
indescribable fear.

"Charming! Ravishing! It is almost worth the six years of waiting, dear
wife!"

She began to tremble. She could not have called out or framed any
intelligible sentence to save her life. It was like a nightmare. The
horror was there, without the power of movement or speech.

He moved his position and came within the range of her terrified
vision. Hurd's twenty pounds and a little more added to it had done
wonders. He wore correct evening clothes, correctly worn. Except for his
good looks--the good looks of a devil--he would have attracted notice
nowhere. He leaned against the couch, and though his lips curled into a
sneer, there was a flame in his eyes, a horrible admiration.

She tried to pray.

"You are overcome," he murmured softly. "Ah! Why not? Six years since
our happiness was snatched from us, chérie! Ah! but it was cruel! You
have thought of me, I trust! You have pitied me! Ah! how often I have
lain awake at night in my cell, fondly imagining some such reunion--as
this."

She forced herself to speak through lips suddenly pale. What strange
words they sounded, frozen things, scarcely audible! Yet the effort hurt
her.

"I will give you--the money," she said. "More, if you will!"

"Ah!" he said reflectively, "the money! I had forgotten that. It was not
kind of you to run away and hide, little woman! It was not kind of you
to send me nothing when I was in prison! Oh! I suffered, I can tell you!
There is a good deal to be made up for! Pet, if you had not reminded me,
just now these things seem so little. Dear little wife, you are
enchanting. Almost you turn my head."

He came slowly towards her. She threw up her hands.

"Wait!" she begged, "oh, wait! Listen! I am in your power. I admit it. I
will make terms. I will sign anything. What is it that you want? You
shall be rich, but you must go away. You must leave me now!"

He looked at her steadily and it seemed to her that his eyes were on
fire with evil things.

"Little wife," he said, with a shade of mockery in his lowered tone. "I
cannot do that. Consider how you were snatched from my arms! Consider
the cruelty of it. As for the money--bah! I have come to claim my own.
Don't you understand, you bewitching little fool? It is you I want! The
money can wait! I cannot!"

He came nearer still and she shrank, like a terrified dumb thing,
against her magnificent dressing-table, with its load of priceless
trinkets. She tried to call out, but her voice seemed gone, and he only
laughed as he laid his hand over her mouth and drew her gently towards
him. With a sudden unnatural strength she wrested herself from his arms.

"Oh! listen to me, listen to me for one moment first," she begged
frantically. "It's true that I married you, but it was all a plot--and I
was a child! You shall have your share of my money! Leave me alone and I
swear it! You shall be rich! You can go back to Paris and be an
adventurer no longer. You shall spend your own money. You can live your
own life!"

Even then her brain moved quickly. She dared not speak of Annette, for
fear of making him desperate. It was his cupidity to which she appealed.

"I am no wife of yours," she moaned. "You shall have more money than you
ever had before in your life. But don't make me kill myself! For I
shall, if you touch me!"

He was so close to her now that his hot breath scorched her cheek.

"Is it that another has taken my place?" he asked.

"Yes!--no! that is, there is some one whom I love," she cried. "Listen!
You know what you can do with money in Paris. Anything! Everything!"

He was so close to her now that the words died away upon her lips.

"Little wife," he whispered, "don't you understand--that I am a man, and
that it is you I want?"

Again she tried to scream, but his hand covered her mouth. His arm was
suddenly around her. Then he started back with an oath and looked
towards the door of her bedroom.

"Who is in that room?" he asked quickly.

"My maid," she lied.

He took a quick step across the room. The door was flung open and
Macheson entered. Wilhelmina fainted, but forced herself back into
consciousness with a sheer effort of will. Sobbing and laughing at the
same time, she tried to drag herself towards the bell, but Jean le Roi
stood in the way. Jean le Roi was calm but wicked.

"What are you doing in my wife's bedroom?" he asked.

"I am here to see you out of the house," Macheson answered, with one
breathless glance around the room. "Will you come quietly?"

"Out of my own house?" Jean le Roi said softly. "Out of my wife's room?
Who are you?"

[Illustration: THE BONE SNAPPED, AND THE KNIFE FELL FROM THE NERVELESS
FINGERS. Page 301]

"Never mind," Macheson answered. "Her friend! Let that be enough. And
let me tell you this. If I had come too late I would have wrung your
neck."

Jean le Roi sprang at him like a cat, his legs off the ground, one arm
around the other's neck, and something gleaming in his right hand.
Nothing but Macheson's superb strength saved him. He risked being
throttled, and caught Jean le Roi's right arm in such a grip that he
swung him half round the room. The bone snapped, and the knife fell from
the nerveless fingers. But Macheson let go a second too soon. Jean le
Roi had all the courage and the insensibility to pain of a brute animal.
He stretched out his foot, and with a trick of his old days, tripped
Macheson so that he fell heavily. Jean le Roi bent over him on his
knees, breathing heavily, and with murder in his eyes. Macheson scarcely
breathed! He lay perfectly still. Jean le Roi staggered to his feet and
turned towards Wilhelmina.

"You see, madame," he said, seizing her by the wrist, "how I shall deal
with your lovers if there are any more of them. No use tugging at that
bell. I saw to that before you came! I'm used to fighting for what I
want, and I think I've won you!"

He caught her into his arms, but suddenly released her with a low animal
cry. He knew that this was the end, for he was pinioned from behind, a
child in the mighty grip which held him powerless. "You are a little too
hasty, my friend," Macheson remarked. "I was afraid I might not be so
quick as you on my feet, so I rested for a moment. But no man has ever
escaped from this grip till I chose to let him go. Now," he added,
turning to Wilhelmina, "the way is clear. Will you go outside and rouse
the servants? Don't come back."

"You are--quite safe?" she faltered.

"Absolutely," he answered. "I could hold him with one hand."

Jean le Roi lifted his head. His brain was working swiftly.

"Listen!" he exclaimed. "It is finished! I am beaten! I, Jean le Roi,
admit defeat. Why call in servants? The affair is better finished
between ourselves."

Wilhelmina paused. In that first great rush of relief, she had not
stopped to think that with Jean le Roi a prisoner, and herself as
prosecutrix, the whole miserable story must be published. He continued.

"Give me money," he said, "only a half of what you offered me just now,
and you shall have your freedom."

Wilhelmina smiled. Something of the joy of a few hours ago came faintly
back to her.

"I have already that," she answered. "I learnt the truth to-night."

Jean le Roi shrugged his shoulders. The game was up then! What an
evening of disasters!

"Let me go," he said. "I ask no more."

Wilhelmina and Macheson exchanged glances. She vanished into her room
for a moment, and reappeared in a long wrapper.

"Come with me softly," she said, "and I will let you out."

So they three went on tiptoe down the broad stairs. Macheson and
Wilhelmina exchanged no words. Yet they both felt that the future was
different for them.

"You can give Mr. Macheson your address," Wilhelmina said, as they stood
at the front door. "I will send you something to help you make a fresh
start."

But Jean le Roi laughed.

"I play only for the great stakes," he murmured, with a swagger, "and
when I lose--I lose."

So he vanished into the darkness, and Macheson and Wilhelmina remained
with clasped hands.

"To-morrow," he whispered, stooping and kissing her fingers.

"To-morrow," she repeated. "Thank God you came to-night!"

She was too weary, too happy to ask for explanations, and he offered
none. All the time, as he crossed the Square and turned towards his
house, those words rang in his ears--To-morrow!




CHAPTER XVII

LORD AND LADY BOUNTIFUL


Deyes caught a vision of blue in the window, and crossed the lawn. Lady
Peggy leaned over the low sill. Between them was only a fragrant border
of hyacinths.

"You know that our host and hostess have deserted us?" she asked.

He nodded.

"They have gone over to this wonderful Convalescent Home that Macheson
is building in the hills," he remarked. "I am not sure that I consider
it good manners to leave us to entertain one another."

"I am not sure," she said, "that it is proper. Wilhelmina should have
considered that we are her only guests."

She sat down in the window-sill and leaned back against the corner. She
had slept well, and she was not afraid of the sunshine--blue, too, was
her most becoming colour. He looked at her admiringly.

"You are really looking very well this morning," he said.

"Thank you," she answered. "I was expecting that."

"I wonder," he said, "how you others discover the secret of eternal
youth. You and Macheson and Wilhelmina all look younger than you did
last year. I seem to be getting older all by myself."

She looked at him critically. There were certainly more lines about his
face and the suspicion of crow's-feet about his tired eyes.

"Age," she said, "is simply a matter of volition. You wear yourself out
fretting for the impossible!"

"One has one's desires," he murmured.

"But you should learn," she said, "to let your desires be governed by
your reason. It is a foolish thing to want what you may not have."

"You think that it is like that with me?" he asked.

"All the world knows," she answered, "that you are in love with
Wilhelmina!"

"One must be in love with someone," he remarked.

"Naturally! But why choose a woman who is head and ears in love with
some one else?"

"It cannot last," he answered, "she has married him."

Lady Peggy reached out for a cushion and placed it behind her head.

"That certainly would seem hopeful in the case of an ordinary
woman--myself, for instance," she said. "But Wilhelmina is not an
ordinary woman. She always would do things differently from other
people. I don't want to make you more unhappy than you are, but I
honestly believe that Wilhelmina is going to set a new fashion. She is
going to try and re-establish the life domestic amongst the upper
classes."

"She always was such a reformer," he sighed.

Lady Peggy nodded sympathetically.

"Of course, one can't tell how it may turn out," she continued, "but at
present they seem to have turned life into a sort of Garden of Eden, and
do you know I can't help fancying that there isn't the slightest chance
for the serpent. Wilhelmina is so fearfully obstinate."

"The thing will cloy!" he declared.

"I fancy not," she answered. "You see, they don't live on sugar-plums.
Victor Macheson is by way of being a masterful person, and Wilhelmina is
only just beginning to realize the fascination of being ruled. Frankly,
Gilbert, I don't think there's the slightest chance for you!"

He sighed.

"I am afraid you are right," he said regretfully. "I began to realize it
last night, when we went into the library unexpectedly, and Wilhelmina
blushed. No self-respecting woman ought to blush when she is discovered
being kissed by her own husband."

"Wilhelmina," Lady Peggy said, stretching out her hand for one of Deyes'
cigarettes, "may live to astonish us yet, but of one thing I am
convinced. She will never even realize the other sex except through her
own husband. I am afraid she will grow narrow--I should hate to write as
her epitaph that she was an affectionate wife and devoted mother--but I
am perfectly certain that that is what it will come to."

"In that case," Deyes remarked gloomily, "I may as well go away."

"No! I shouldn't do that," Lady Peggy said. "I should try to alter my
point of view."

"Direct me, please," he begged.

"I should try," she continued, "to put a bridle upon my desires and take
up the reins. You could lead them in a more suitable direction."

"For instance?"

"There is myself," she declared.

He laughed quietly.

"You!" he repeated. "Why, you are the most incorrigible flirt in
Christendom. You would no more tie yourself up with one man than enter a
nunnery."

She sighed.

"I have always been misunderstood," she declared, looking at him
pathetically out of her delightful eyes. "What you call my flirtations
have been simply my attempts, more or less clumsy, to gain a husband. I
have been most unlucky. No one ever proposes to me!"

He laughed derisively.

"Your victims have been too loquacious," he replied. "How about Gayton,
who went to Africa because you offered to be his friend, and Horris--he
came to my rooms to tell me all about it the day you refused him, and
Sammy Palliser--you treated him shockingly!"

"I had forgotten them," she admitted. "They were nice men, too, all of
them, but they all made the same mistake. I remember now they did
propose to me. That, of course, was fatal."

"I scarcely see----" he began.

She patted him gently on the arm.

"My dear Gilbert," she said, "haven't I always said that I never intend
to marry any one who proposes to me? When I have quite made up my mind,
I am going to do the proposing myself!"

"Whether it is Leap Year or not?" he asked.

"Decidedly!" she answered. "Men can always shuffle out of a Leap Year
declaration. My man won't be able to escape. I can promise you that."

"Does he--exist then?" Deyes asked.

She laughed softly.

"He's existed for a good many years more than I have," she answered. "I
wasn't thinking of marrying a baby."

"Ah! Does he know?"

"Well, I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "He ought to, but he's such
a stupid person."

It was then that Gilbert Deyes received the shock of his life. He
discovered quite suddenly that her eyes were full of tears. For the
first time for many years he nearly lost his head.

"Perhaps," he suggested, dropping his voice and astonished to find that
it was not quite so steady as usual, "he has been waiting!"

"I am afraid not," she answered, looking down for a moment at the buckle
in her waistband.

He looked round.

"If only he were here now," he said. "Could one conceive a more
favourable opportunity? An April morning, sunshine, flowers, everything
in the air to make him forget that he is an old fogey and doesn't
deserve----"

She lifted her eyes to his, now deliciously wet. Her brows were
delicately uplifted.

"I couldn't do it," she murmured, "unless he were in the same room."

Deyes stepped over the hyacinths and vaulted through the window.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wilhelmina selected a freshly cut tree-stump, carefully brushed away the
sawdust, and sat down. Macheson chose another and lighted a cigarette.
Eventually they decided that they were too far away, and selected a
tree-trunk where there was room for both. Wilhelmina unrolled a plan,
and glancing now and then at the forest of scaffold poles to their left,
proceeded to try to realize the incomplete building. Macheson watched
her with a smile.

"Victor," she exclaimed, "you are not to laugh at me! Remember this is
my first attempt at doing anything--worth doing, and, of course, I'm
keen about it. Are you sure we shall have enough bedrooms?"

"Enough for a start, at any rate," he answered. "We can always add to
it."

She looked once more at that forest of poles, at the slowly rising
walls, through whose empty windows one could see pictures of the valley
below.

"One can build----" she murmured, "one can build always. But think,
Victor, what a lot of time I wasted before I knew you. I might have done
so much."

He smiled reassuringly.

"There is plenty of time," he declared. "Better to start late and build
on a sure foundation, you know. A good many of my houses had to come
down as fast as they went up. Do you remember, for instance, how I
wanted to convert all your villagers by storm?"

She smiled.

"Still--I'm glad you came to try," she said softly. "That horrid foreman
is watching us, Victor. I am going to look the other way."

"He has gone now," Macheson said, slipping his arm around her waist.
"Dear, do you know I don't think that one person can build very well
alone. It's a cold sort of building when it's finished--the life built
by a lonely man. I like the look of our palace better, Wilhelmina."

"I should like to know where my part comes in?" she asked.

"Every room," he answered, "will need adorning, and the lamps--one
person alone can never keep them alight, and we don't want them to go
out, Wilhelmina. Do you remember the old German, who said that beautiful
thoughts were the finest pictures to hang upon your walls? Think of next
spring, when we shall hear the children from that miserable town running
about in the woods, picking primroses--do you see how yellow they are
against the green moss?"

Wilhelmina rose.

"I must really go and pick some," she said. "What about your pheasants,
Victor?"

He laughed.

"I'll find plenty of sport, never fear," he answered, "without keeping
the kiddies shut out. Why, the country belongs to them! It's their
birthright, not ours."

They walked through the plantation side by side. The ground was still
soft with the winter's rains, but everywhere the sunlight came sweeping
in, up the glade and across the many stretching arms of tender
blossoming green. The ground was starred with primroses, and in every
sheltered nook were violets. A soft west wind blew in their faces as
they emerged into the country lane. Below them was the valley, hung with
a faint blue mist; all around them the song of birds, the growing sounds
of the stirring season. Stephen Hurd came cantering by, and stopped for
a moment to speak about some matter connected with the estates.

"My love to Letty," Wilhelmina said graciously, as he rode off. Then she
turned to Macheson.

"Stephen Hurd is a little corner in your house," she remarked.

"In our house," he protested. "I should never have considered him if he
had not worked out his own salvation. If he had reached me ten minutes
later----"

She gripped his arm.

"Don't," she begged.

He laughed.

"Don't ever brood over grisly impossibilities," he said. "The man never
breathed who could have kept you from me. Across the hills home, or are
your shoes too thin?"

He swung open the gate, and they passed through, only to descend the
other side, along the broad green walk strewn with grey rocks and
bordered with gorse bushes, aglow with yellow blossom. They skirted the
fir plantation, received the respectful greetings of Mrs. Green at the
gamekeeper's cottage, and, crossing the lower range of hills, approached
the house by the back avenue. And Wilhelmina laughed softly as they
passed along the green lane, for her thoughts travelled back to one wild
night when, with upraised skirts and flying, trembling footsteps, she
had sped along into a new world. She clung to her husband's arm.

"I came this way, dear, when I set out that night--to kiss you."

He stooped down and kissed her full on the lips.

"A nice state you flung me into," he remarked.

"It was rather an exciting evening," she said demurely.

They walked straight into the morning-room, which was indiscreet, and
Wilhelmina screamed.

"Peggy," she cried, "Peggy, you bad girl!"

The two women went off together, of course, to talk about it, and Deyes
and Macheson, like Englishmen all the world over, muttered something
barely comprehensible, and then looked at one another awkwardly.

"Care for a game of billiards?" Macheson suggested.

"Right oh!" Deyes answered, in immense relief.

                         THE END




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.