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diff --git a/old/60525-0.txt b/old/60525-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b32384e..0000000 --- a/old/60525-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8258 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dinner Club, by H. C. (Sapper) McNeile - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Dinner Club - -Author: H. C. (Sapper) McNeile - -Release Date: October 19, 2019 [EBook #60525] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DINNER CLUB *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - - - - - - - [Cover Illustration] - - - - - ──────────────────────────────────── - BOOKS BY “SAPPER” - (H. C. McNeile) - ──────────────────────────────────── - THE DINNER CLUB - THE BLACK GANG - BULL-DOG DRUMMOND - THE MAN IN RATCATCHER - MUFTI - THE HUMAN TOUCH - NO MAN’S LAND - MEN, WOMEN, AND GUNS - SERGEANT MICHAEL CASSIDY - THE LIEUTENANT AND OTHERS - ──────────────────────────────────── - HODDER & STOUGHTON, LTD. - PUBLISHERS LONDON - ──────────────────────────────────── - - - - - THE - D I N N E R C L U B - - - STORIES BY - “SAPPER” - (H. C. McNEILE) - - - H O D D E R A N D S T O U G H T O N L T D . - -TORONTO LONDON NEW YORK - - - - - _Made and Printed in Great Britain._ - _Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._ - - - - - - Contents - - - FOREWORD - CHAPTER - I. THE ACTOR’S STORY, BEING THE PATCH ON - THE QUILT - - II. THE BARRISTER’S STORY, BEING THE - DECISION OF SIR EDWARD SHOREHAM - - III. THE DOCTOR’S STORY, BEING SENTENCE OF - DEATH - - IV. THE ORDINARY MAN’S STORY, BEING THE - PIPES OF DEATH - - V. THE SOLDIER’S STORY, BEING A BIT OF - ORANGE PEEL - - VI. THE WRITER’S STORY, BEING THE HOUSE AT - APPLEDORE - - VII. THE OLD DINING-ROOM - - VIII. WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK - - IX. JEMMY LETHBRIDGE’S TEMPTATION - - X. LADY CYNTHIA AND THE HERMIT - - XI. A GLASS OF WHISKY - - XII. THE MAN WHO COULD NOT GET DRUNK - - - - - - Foreword - - -ON a certain day in the year of grace 1920, there came into being a -special and very select club. There was no entrance fee and no -subscription, in which respect it differed from all other clubs. Its -membership was limited to six: the _Actor_, the _Barrister_, the -_Doctor_, the _Ordinary Man_, the _Soldier_, and the _Writer_. And since -each in his own particular trade had achieved what the world calls fame, -except the Ordinary Man, who was only ordinary, it was decided that for -purposes of convenience they should be entered in the list of members -alphabetically according to their trade, and further that they should -carry out the only rule of the club in the order of that entry. And the -only rule of the club was, that on certain nights, to be mutually agreed -on, the member whose turn it was should give to the remaining members an -exceedingly good dinner, after which he should tell them a story -connected with his own trade, that should be of sufficient interest to -keep them awake. - -And the only penalty of the club was that if the story was not of -sufficient interest to keep the audience awake, the offending member -should pay a sum of ten pounds to a deserving charity. - -No rule was deemed necessary as to the quality of the dinner: the -members had elected themselves with discretion. - - - - - - -_I_ _The Actor’s Story, being The Patch on the Quilt_ - - - -“THE trouble in my game,” he began, “is that the greatest plays can -never be staged. There would be no money in them. The public demand a -plot—a climax: after that the puppets cease strutting, the curtain -rings down. But in life—in real life—there’s no plot. It’s just a -series of anti-climaxes strung together like a patchwork quilt, until -there comes the greatest anti-climax of all and the quilt is finished.” - -He passed his hand through his fast-greying hair, and stared for a -moment or two at the fire. The Soldier was filling his pipe; the Writer, -his legs stretched in front of him, had his hands thrust deep in his -trouser pockets. - -“It’s one of the patches in one of the quilts that my story is about,” -continued the actor thoughtfully. “Just an episode in the life of a -woman—or shall I say, just the life of a woman in an episode? - -“You remember that play of mine—‘John Pendlesham’s Wife’?” He turned to -the Barrister, who nodded. - -“Very well,” he answered. “Molly Travers was your leading lady.” - -“I was out of England,” said the Soldier. “Never saw it.” - -“It’s immaterial.” The Actor lit a cigarette. “The play itself has -nothing to do with my story, except indirectly. But as you didn’t see -it, I will just explain this much. I, of course, was John -Pendlesham—Molly was my wife, and the third act constituted what, in my -opinion, was the finest piece of emotional acting which that consummate -actress has ever done in her career.” - -The Writer nodded. “I agree. She was superb.” - -“Night after night the fall of the curtain found her nearly fainting; -night after night there was that breathless moment of utter silence -followed by a perfect crash of applause. I am mentioning these old facts -because her marvellous performance does concern my story directly—even -though the play does not. - -“We had been running about a month, I suppose, when my story begins. I -had just come off after the third act, and was going to my -dressing-room. For some reason, instead of going by the direct door -which led into it from the stage, I went outside into the passage. There -were some hands moving furniture or something. . . . - -“I think you’ve all of you been behind at my theatre. First you come to -the swing doors out of the street, inside which the watch dog sits -demanding callers’ business. Then there is another door, and beyond that -there are three steps down to my room. And it was just as I was opening -my door on that night that I happened to look round. - -“Standing at the top of the three stairs was a woman who was staring at -me. I only saw her for a moment: then the watch dog intervened, and I -went into my room. But I _had_ seen her for a moment: I had seen her for -long enough to get the look in her eyes. - -“We get all sorts and conditions of people behind, as you’d -expect—stage-struck girls, actors out of a shop, autograph hunters, -beggars. And the watch dog knew my invariable rule: only personal -friends and people who had made an appointment by letter were allowed -inside the second door. But a rule cannot legislate for every case. - -“Gad! you fellows, it’s many years now since that night, but I can still -feel, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the message in that girl’s -eyes. There had been hope and fear and pitiful entreaty: the look of one -who had staked everything on a last desperate throw: the look of a -mother who is fighting for her child. It was amazing: I couldn’t -understand it. As I stood just inside my door I couldn’t have told you -whether she was old or young, plain or pretty. And yet in that one -fleeting second this vivid, jumbled message had reached me.” The Actor -pressed out his cigarette, and there was silence while he lit another -one. - -“For a moment I hesitated,” he continued after a while; “then I rang the -bell for the watch dog. - -“‘Who is that lady I saw outside there?’ I asked, as he came in. - -“‘Won’t give no name, sir,’ he answered. ‘Wants to see you, but I told -her the rules.’ - -“Once again I hesitated; probably I’d exaggerated—put a totally false -construction on her expression, probably she was looking for a job like -the rest of them. And then I knew that I’d got to see that woman, and -that I should have no peace of mind until I’d heard what she had to say. -The watch dog was regarding me curiously; plainly he could see no reason -whatever for my hesitation. He was a matter-of-fact fellow, was the -guardian of the door. - -“‘Show her in, I’ll see her now.’ I had my back to him, but I could feel -his virtuous indignation. After all, rules are rules. - -“‘Now, sir?’ he echoed. - -“‘Now; at once.’ - -“He went out, and I heard him go up the steps. - -“‘Mr. Trayne will see you. Come this way.’ - -“And then the door opened again, and I turned to face the woman. She was -young—quite young, dressed in a kind of cheap suburban frock. Her shoes -had been good ones—once, now—well, however skilfully a patch is put on -it is still a patch. Her gloves showed traces of much needle and cotton; -the little bag she carried was rubbed and frayed. And over the cheap -suburban frock she had on a coat which was worn and threadbare. - -“‘It was good of you to see me, Mr. Trayne.’ - -“She was nervous and her voice shook a little, but she faced me quite -steadily. - -“‘It’s a very unusual thing for me to do,’ I said. ‘But I saw you at the -top of the stairs, and . . .’ - -“‘I know it’s unusual,’ she interrupted. ‘The man outside there told me -your rule. But believe me’—she was talking with more assurance now—‘my -reason for coming to see you is very unusual also.’ - -“I pulled up a chair for her. ‘What is your reason?’ I asked. - -“She took a deep breath and began fumbling with her handkerchief. - -“‘I know you will think me mad,’ she began, ‘but I don’t want to tell -you my reason now. I want to wait until after the play is over, and I -know you go on at once in the fourth act.’ - -“‘You’ve seen the play, then?’ I remarked. - -“‘I’ve seen the play,’ was her somewhat astonishing answer, ‘every night -since the first.’ - -“‘Every night!’ I stared at her in surprise. ‘But . . .’ - -“I must have glanced at her clothes or something and she saw what was in -my mind. - -“‘I suppose you think that I hardly look as if I could afford such -luxuries,’ she smiled faintly. ‘I’ve only seen it from the gallery and -pit, you know. And even that has meant that I’ve had to go without -lunch. But—you see—it was necessary for me to see it: I had to. It was -part of my plan—a necessary part.’ - -“‘I don’t want to seem dense,’ I said gently, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t -quite follow. How can seeing my play thirty odd times be a necessary -part of your plan?’ - -“‘That’s what I don’t want to tell you now,’ she repeated, and once more -her hands began twisting nervously. ‘I want to wait till afterwards, -when perhaps you’ll—of your kindness—do as I ask you. Oh! Mr. -Trayne—for God’s sake, don’t fail me!’ She leant forward beseechingly -in her chair. - -“‘My dear child,’ I answered quietly—I don’t think she can have been -much more than twenty, ‘you haven’t told me yet what you want me to do.’ - -“‘I want you to come to a house in Kensington with me,’ she said -steadily.” - -Once again the Actor paused, and stared at the fire. Then he gave a -short laugh. - -“When she said that, I looked at her pretty sharply. Without appearing -conceited or anything of that sort, one has occasionally in the course -of one’s career, received certain flattering attentions from charming -women—attentions which—er—one is tempted to conceal from one’s wife.” - -“Precisely,” murmured the Ordinary Man. “Precisely.” - -“And for a moment, I must confess that the thought passed through my -mind that this was one of those occasions. And it wasn’t until the -colour rose to her face and stained it scarlet, that I realised that not -only had I made a mistake, but that I had been foolish enough to let her -see that I had. - -“‘My God!’ she whispered, ‘you don’t think—you couldn’t think—that I -meant . . .’ - -“She rose and almost cowered away from me. ‘Why, I’m married.’ - -“I refrained from remarking that the fact was hardly such a conclusive -proof of the absurdity of my unspoken thought as she seemed to imagine. -I merely bowed, and said a little formally: ‘Please don’t jump to -conclusions. May I ask why you wish me to come to a house in Kensington -with you?’ - -“The colour ebbed away from her cheeks, and she sat down again. - -“‘That’s the very thing I don’t want to tell you, until you come,’ she -answered very low. ‘I know it sounds absurd—it must do, it seems as if -I were being unnecessarily mysterious. But I can’t tell you, Mr. Trayne, -I can’t tell you . . . Not yet. . . .’ - -“And then the call boy knocked, and I had to go on for the last act. In -a way I suppose it was absurd of me—but life is made up of impulses. I -confess that the whole thing intrigued me. When a woman comes and tells -you that she has seen your play every night since it started; that she’s -had to go without her lunch to do so; that it was a necessary part of -some wonderful plan, and that she wants you to go to a house in -Kensington, the least curious man would be attracted. And from my -earliest infancy I’ve always been engrossed in other people’s business. - -“‘All right,’ I said briefly. ‘I’ll come with you.’ - -“And then I had to put out my hand to steady her, I thought she was -going to faint. Reaction, I thought at the time; later, it struck me -that the reason was much more prosaic—lack of food. - -“I stopped for a moment till she seemed herself again; then I told her -to wait outside. - -“‘I shall be about half an hour,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll take a taxi, -and go down to Kensington. Tell them to give you a chair. . . .’ - -“And my last impression as I went on to the stage was of a white-faced -girl clutching the table, staring at me with great brown eyes that held -in them a dawning triumph. - -“I think,” went on the Actor thoughtfully, “that that is where the -tragedy of it all really lay. Afterwards she told me that the part of -her plan which had seemed most difficult to her was getting my consent -to go with her to Kensington. Once that was done, she knew all would be -well, she was absolutely and supremely confident. And when I went on to -the stage for the fourth act, she felt that success had crowned her -efforts, that what was to come after was nothing compared to that which -she had already done. The inaccessible stronghold had been stormed, the -ogre had proved to be a lamb. - -“Well, we went to Kensington. I sent my own car home, and we took a -taxi. During the drive she was very silent, and I didn’t try to make her -talk. Evidently no inkling of the mysterious plan was to be revealed -until we arrived at the address she had given the driver. It was some -obscure street that I had never heard of and the name of which I have -completely forgotten. I know it was somewhere not far from Barker’s. - -“The door was opened by a repulsive-looking woman who peered at me -suspiciously. And then the girl took her on one side and whispered -something in her ear. Apparently it had the desired effect, as the -Gorgon retired grumbling to an odoriferous basement, leaving us alone in -the hall. - -“When she had shut the door the girl turned to me. - -“‘Will you come upstairs, Mr. Trayne. I want you to meet my husband.’ - -“I bowed. ‘Certainly,’ I said, and she led the way. - -“‘So the husband was in the plan,’ I reflected as I followed her. Was he -a genius with a play that he proposed to read to me? I had suffered from -the plays of genius before. Or was he some actor down on his luck? If -so, why all the mystery? And then, when I’d made up my mind that it was -a mere begging case, we arrived at the room. Just before she turned the -handle of the door she again looked at me. - -“‘My husband is ill, Mr. Trayne. You’ll excuse his being in bed.’ - -“Then we went in. Good Lord! you fellows,” the Actor leant forward in -his chair. “I’ve been pretty hard up in the old days, but as I stood -inside that door I realised for the first time what poverty—real -poverty—meant. Mark you, the girl was a lady; the weak, -cadaverous-looking fellow propped up in bed with a tattered shawl round -his shoulders was a gentleman. And beyond the bed, and one chair, and a -rackety old chest-of-drawers there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the -room. There was a curtain in the corner with what looked like a -washstand behind it, and a shelf by the bed with two cups and some -plates on it. And nothing else except an appalling oleograph of Queen -Victoria on the wall. - -“‘This is Mr. Trayne, dear.’ She was bending over her husband, and after -a moment he looked up at me. - -“‘It was good of you to come, sir,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ And then he -turned to his wife and I heard him say: ‘Have you told him yet, Kitty?’ - -“She shook her head. ‘Not yet, darling, I will now.’ She left his side -and came over to me. - -“‘Mr. Trayne, I know you thought me very peculiar at the theatre. But I -was afraid that if I told you what I really wanted you’d have refused to -come. You get hundreds and hundreds of people coming to see you who -think they can act. Asking you to help them get a job and that sort of -thing. Well, I was afraid that if I told you that that was what I -wanted, you’d have told me to go away. Perhaps you’d have given me a -straw of comfort—taken my address—said you’d let me know if anything -turned up. But nothing would have turned up. . . . And, you see, I was -rather desperate.’ - -“The big brown eyes were fixed on me pleadingly, and somehow I didn’t -feel quite as annoyed as I should have done at what was nothing more nor -less than a blatant trick to appeal to my sympathy. - -“‘Perhaps nothing would have turned up,’ I said gently, ‘but you must -remember that to-day the stage is a hopelessly overstocked profession. -There are hundreds of trained actors and actresses unable to obtain a -job.’ - -“‘I know that,’ she cried eagerly, ‘and that’s why I—why I thought out -this plan. I thought that if I could _really_ convince you that I could -act above the average . . .’ - -“‘And she can, Mr. Trayne,’ broke in her husband. ‘She’s good, I know -it.’ - -“‘We must leave Mr. Trayne to be the judge of that, Harry,’ she smiled. -‘You see,’ she went on to me, ‘what I felt was that there is an opening -for real talent. There is, isn’t there?’ - -“‘Yes,’ I agreed slowly. ‘There is an opening for _real_ talent. But -even that is a small one. . . . Have you ever acted before?’ - -“‘A little. In amateur theatricals!’ - -“I turned away. Amateur theatricals! More heart-burning and -disappointment has been caused by those abominable entertainments than -their misguided originators will ever realise. - -“‘But don’t think I’m relying on that.’ The girl was speaking again, and -I almost laughed. ‘I want you to judge me to-night.’ - -“I swung round and looked at her. So this was the mysterious plan: I was -to witness an impromptu performance, which was to convince me that the -second Sarah Bernhardt had been discovered. - -“‘I couldn’t have shown you, you see, in your dressing-room. I shouldn’t -have had time. That’s why I asked you to come here.’ - -“‘You have the courage of your convictions anyway,’ I said quietly. ‘I -am perfectly ready to be convinced.’ - -“‘Then will you sit there.’ She took off her hat and coat as I sat down -on the only available chair, and from underneath his pillow the man -produced a paper-covered book. - -“‘You’ll forgive me if I read my lines, Mr. Trayne,’ he said. ‘I find I -can’t learn them—I can’t concentrate.’ He passed a thin, emaciated hand -over his forehead. ‘And it’s her you want to see.’ - -“He turned over the pages weakly; then he began to read. And I—I sat up -as if I’d been stung. At last everything was clear: the continual visits -to the theatre—everything. The part of all others which they had -selected to prove her ability, was the love-scene between Molly Travers -and myself in the third act of ‘John Pendlesham’s Wife. . . .’” - -For a while there was silence, while the Actor thoughtfully lit another -cigarette. - -“This unknown child,” he went on after a moment, “who had acted a little -in amateur theatricals, had deliberately challenged London’s greatest -emotional actress in her most marvellous success before, Heaven help us, -_me_—of all people. I suppose if I was writing a story I should say -that she triumphed; that as I sat in that bare and hideous room I -realised that before me was genius—a second and greater Molly; that -from that moment her foot was set on the ladder of fame, and there was -no looking back.” - -The Actor laughed a little sadly. “Unfortunately, I’m not writing a -story, I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I sat through the next -twenty minutes. It was the most ghastly caricature of Molly that I have -ever thought of; the more ghastly because it was so intensely -unintentional. Every little gesture was faithfully copied; every little -trick and mannerism had been carefully learnt by heart. And this, as I -say, to me who acted with that divine genius every night. God! it was -awful. That marvellous line of Molly’s, when, standing in the centre of -the stage facing me across the table, she said: ‘Then you don’t want me -back?’ that line which was made marvellous merely through the consummate -restraint with which she said it, sounded from this poor child like a -parlour-maid giving notice. - -“And then, at last it was over, and I realised I had to say something. -They were both staring at me, hope shining clear in the girl’s eyes and -pride in the man’s. - -“‘She’s great, isn’t she, Mr. Trayne?’ he said. ‘I’ve not had the -privilege of seeing you and Miss Travers in the part—but I feel that -now—why,’ he gave a little shaky laugh, ‘that it’s hardly necessary.’ - -“You see,” said the Actor slowly, “that was the devil of it all. They -were both so utterly certain, especially the man. The difficulty had -been to get me there; after that it had been easy. I glanced at the poor -fellow in the bed, and his thoughts were plain to read. No more grinding -poverty, no more unfurnished bed-sitting rooms, and—fame for the woman -he loved! And then he spoke again. - -“‘I’m such a hopeless crock, Mr. Trayne, and she’—he took one of her -hands in both his own—‘she’s had to do all the work. Beastly, grinding -work in an office, when she was capable of this.’ - -“The girl bent over him, and I looked away. It seemed to me that the -ground on which I stood was holy.” - -The Actor gave a short laugh which deceived no one. “I suppose I was an -ass,” he went on, “but I’d do it again to-day. ‘It was wonderful,’ I -said, ‘quite wonderful.’ And because I’m an actor they believed me. Not -that he, at any rate, required much convincing—he only wanted his -knowledge confirmed. Of course, when I spoke I didn’t realise what I was -letting myself in for. I should have done, I suppose, but—I wasn’t left -long in doubt. If she was wonderful—and had not I, Herbert Trayne, said -so—what about a job? At once . . . With my backing it was easy. . . . -Which was all quite true except for the one vital fact of my having -lied. But, hang it, you fellows!” he exploded, “could you have told ’em -it was the most appalling exhibition of utter futility you’d ever -witnessed?” - -“No, I couldn’t,” said the Soldier. “What happened? - -“I can see them now,” continued the Actor. “He was holding her hand, and -looking up into her face—as a dog looks at the being it adores. And she -was smiling a little, and crying a little—tears of pure joy. The strain -was over, the lunches had not been missed in vain. And I stood there -like a dumb idiot racking my brains for something to say. They thought I -was wondering what job to offer her; they were right, I was.” The Actor -laughed shortly. - -“But I’d gone into the morass, and there was nothing for it but to -blunder in deeper. The one vital essential was that in no circumstances -must the poor child ever be allowed to act. The other was money—and at -once. So I offered her then and there a job as Molly Travers’ understudy -at five pounds a week.” - -“Great Scott!” The Doctor sat up with a jerk. “Understudy Molly?” - -“I explained, of course,” went on the Actor, “that there was an -understudy already, and that to save unpleasantness it would be better -if she didn’t come to the theatre, unless I sent for her. That, of -course, it was more than likely that Miss Travers wouldn’t be ill during -the run of the play, and that in those circumstances I didn’t want to -offend the present understudy. And when another play came along, we must -see what we could do. That, thank Heaven, I knew was some way off yet! -It gave me breathing space. - -“I gave her a week’s salary in advance, and I got away—somehow. I think -they were both a little dazed with the wonder of it, and they wanted to -be alone. I heard his voice—weak and quavering—as I shut the door. - -“‘Oh! my very dear girl,’ he was whispering—and she was on her knees -beside the bed. And I blundered my way downstairs, cursing myself for a -sentimental fool. There’s whisky on the table, you fellows. Help -yourselves.” - -But no one moved, and the Actor lit another cigarette. - -“I saw her occasionally during the next two or three months,” he -continued, “though I never went to their rooms again. They had moved—I -knew that—because I used to post the cheque every week. But the few -times I did see her, I gathered that her husband was not getting any -better. And one day I insisted on Lawrence, the specialist, going to see -him. I couldn’t have one of my company being worried, I told her, over -things of that sort. I can see her face now as I said ‘one of my -company.’ I don’t know what Lawrence said to her, but he rang me up at -the theatre that night, and he did not mince his words to me. - -“‘I give him a month,’ he said. ‘It’s galloping consumption.’ - -“It was just about a month later that the thing happened which I had -been dreading. Molly went down with ’flu. Her understudy—the real -one—was Violet Dorman, who was unknown then. And, of course it was her -chance.” - -“One moment,” interrupted the Barrister. “Did anyone at the theatre know -about this girl?” - -“Good God! no,” cried the Actor. “Not a soul. In this censorious world -actions such as mine in that case are apt to be misconstrued, which -alone was sufficient to make me keep it dark. No one knew. - -“The first night—all was well. Molly went down in the afternoon, and it -didn’t come out in any of the evening papers. Violet acted -magnificently. She wasn’t Molly, of course—she isn’t now. But it was -her chance, and she took it—and took it well. Next morning the papers, -naturally, had it in. ‘Temporary indisposition of Miss Molly Travers. -Part filled at a moment’s notice with great credit by Miss Violet -Dorman.’ She had a press agent and he boomed her for all he was worth. -And I read the papers and cursed. Not that I grudged her her success in -the slightest, but I was thinking of the afternoon. It was matinée day -and the girl must read it in the papers. - -“There was only one thing for it—to go round and see her. Whatever -happened I had to prevent her coming to the theatre. How I was going to -do it without giving the show away I hadn’t an idea, but somehow or -other it had got to be done. My blundering foolishness—even though it -had been for the best—had caused the trouble; it was up to me to try -and right it. So I went round and found her with a doctor in the -sitting-room. He was just going as I came in, and his face was grave. - -“‘Harry’s dying,’ she said to me quite simply, and I glanced at the -doctor, who nodded. - -“Poor child! I crossed over to her side, and though it seems an awful -thing to say, my only feeling was one of relief. After what Lawrence had -said I knew it was hopeless, and since the poor devil had to go he -couldn’t have chosen a more opportune moment from my point of view. It -solved the difficulty. If he was dying she couldn’t come to the theatre, -and by the time the funeral was over Molly would be back. I didn’t -realise that one doesn’t get out of things quite as easily as that. - -“‘I’ve only just realised how bad he was,’ she went on in a flat, dead -voice. - -“‘Does he know?’ I asked. - -“‘No. He thinks he’s going to get better. Why didn’t you send for me -last night, Mr. Trayne?’ - -“It was so unexpected, that I hesitated and stammered. - -“‘I couldn’t get at you in time,’ I said finally. ‘Miss Travers only -became ill late in the afternoon.’ - -“With a strange look on her face she opened a paper—some cursed rag I -hadn’t seen. - -“‘It says here,’ she went on slowly, ‘that she was confined to her bed -all yesterday. Oh! it doesn’t matter much, does it?’ She put the paper -down wearily, and gave the most heartrending little sobbing laugh I’ve -ever heard. - -“‘What do you mean?’ I stammered out. - -“‘I suppose you did it for the best, Mr. Trayne. I suppose I ought to be -grateful. But you lied that night—didn’t you?’ - -“I was fingering a book on the table and for the life of me I couldn’t -think of anything to say. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she went on. ‘He still -thinks I’m a God-sent genius. And he mustn’t know.’ - -“‘Why should he?’ I said. And then I put my hand on her arm. ‘Tell me, -how did you find out?’ - -“‘You admit it then?’ - -“‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘I admit that I lied. I was so desperately sorry -for you.’ - -“‘I mentioned it to someone—a man who knew the stage—about a week ago. -He looked at me in blank amazement, and then he laughed. I suppose he -couldn’t help it: it was so ridiculous. I was furious—furious. But -afterwards I began to think, and I asked other people one or two -questions—and then that came,’ she pointed to the paper, ‘and I knew. -And now—oh! thank God—he’s dying. He mustn’t know, Mr. Trayne, he -mustn’t.’ - -“And at that moment he came into the room—tottered in is a better word. - -“‘Boy,’ she cried in an agony, ‘what are you doing?’ - -“‘I thought I heard Mr. Trayne’s voice,’ he whispered, collapsing in the -chair. ‘I’m much better to-day, much. Bit weak still——’ - -“And then he saw the paper, and he leant forward eagerly. - -“‘Ill,’ he cried. ‘Molly Travers ill. Why, my dear—but it’s your -chance.’ He read on a bit, and she looked at me desperately. ‘But why -weren’t you there last night? Who is this woman, Violet Dorman?’ - -“‘You see, Tracy,’ I said, picking up the paper and putting it out of -his reach, ‘it was so sudden, Miss Travers’ illness, that I couldn’t get -at your wife in time.’ - -“‘Quite,’ he whispered. ‘Of course. But there’s a matinée this -afternoon, isn’t there? Oh! I wonder if I’m well enough to go. I’m so -much better to-day.’ And then he looked at his wife. ‘My dear! my -dear—at last!’ - -“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pathetic pride and love shining in a -man’s face before or since. - -“‘I’m afraid you won’t be quite well enough to go,’ I muttered. - -“‘Perhaps it would be wiser not to,’ he whispered. ‘But to think I shall -miss her first appearance. Have you come to fetch her now, Mr. Trayne?’ - -“‘Yes, darling,’ the girl replied, and her voice sounded as steady as a -rock. ‘Mr. Trayne has come to fetch me. But it’s early yet and I want -you to go back to bed now. . . .’ - -“Without a glance at me she helped him from the room and left me -standing there. I heard their voices—hers clear and strong, his barely -audible. And not for the first time in my life I marvelled at the wonder -of a woman who loves. I was to marvel more in a moment or two. - -“She came back and shut the door. Then she stood facing me. - -“‘There’s only one way, Mr. Trayne, though I think it’s going to break -my heart. I must go to the theatre.’ - -“‘But—your husband . . .’ I stammered. - -“‘Oh! I’m not really going. I shall be here—at hand—the whole time. -Because if the end did come—why then—I _must_ be with him. But he’s -got to think I’ve gone; I’ve got to hide from him until after the -matinée is over. And then I must tell him’—she faltered a little—‘of -my success. I’ll keep the papers from him—if it’s necessary. . . .’ She -turned away and I heard her falter: ‘Three hours away from him—when -he’s dying. Oh, my God!’” - -The Actor paused, and the Soldier stirred restlessly in his chair. “I -left shortly after,” he went on at length, “I saw she wanted me to. - -“All through the play that afternoon it haunted me—the pathos of -it—aye, the horror of it. I pictured that girl hiding somewhere, while -in the room above the sands were running out. Longing with all the power -of her being to go to him—to snatch every fleeting minute with him—and -yet condemned by my stupidity to forfeit her right. And then at last the -show was over, and I went to her room again. - -“She was by his side, kneeling on the floor, as I came in. As he saw me -he struggled up on his elbow, and one could see it was the end. - -“‘Dear fellow,’ I said, ‘she was wonderful—just wonderful!’ - -“And the girl looked up at me through her blinding tears. - -“‘Just wonderful,’ I said again. Five minutes later he died. . . .” - -The Actor fell silent. - -“Did you ever see her again?” asked the Soldier thoughtfully. - -“Never: she disappeared. Just a patch on the quilt as I said. But there -was one thread missing. Three years later I received a registered -envelope. There was no letter inside, no word of any sort. Just these.” -He fumbled in his pocket. “There are twenty of them.” - -He held out his hand, and the Soldier leaning forward saw that it -contained a little bundle of five-pound notes. - - - - - - -_II_ _The Barrister’s Story, being The Decision of Sir Edward - Shoreham_ - - - -“THIS morning,” he began, leaning back in his chair and crossing his -legs, “I mislaid my cigarette-case. I knew it was somewhere in the -study, but find it I could not. Finally, having searched all over my -writing table, I rang the bell, and somewhat irritably demanded its -immediate production. The butler stepped forward and lifted it up from -the centre of the blotting pad, where it had been the whole time, -literally under my nose. What peculiar temporary kink in the brain had -prevented my noticing the very thing I was looking for, when it was -lying in the most conspicuous place in which it could possibly have -been, I don’t know. I leave that to the Doctor. But the point of my -parable is this—it decided in my mind the story with which I should -bore you fellows to-night.” - -He paused to light a cigar, then he glanced round at the faces of the -other five. - -“And if, as I get on with it, you think you recognise the real -characters under the fictional names I shall give them, I can’t prevent -you. But don’t ask me to confirm your thoughts.” - -“Exactly,” murmured the Actor. “Fire ahead.” - -“It was about four years before the war,” commenced the Barrister, “that -I was stopping for a few nights at a certain house in Park Lane. It was -in the middle of the season—June, to be accurate—and I was waiting to -get in here. My wife was in the country, and, as I was more or less at a -loose end, I accepted the offer of staying at this house. My -hostess—shall we call her Granger, Ruth Granger—had been an old school -pal of my wife’s; in later years she had become a real, intimate friend -of us both. - -“At the time of which I speak she was a lovely girl of twenty-six, with -the suffering of six years of hell in her eyes. At the age of twenty she -had married Sir Henry Granger, and that fatal mistake had been the cause -of the hell. Henry Granger was one of the most loathsome brutes it has -ever been my misfortune to run across. He had not one single instinct of -a gentleman in him, though he did happen to be the tenth baronet. How -her parents had ever allowed the marriage beat me completely. Perhaps it -was money, for Granger was rich; but whatever it was she married him, -and her hell began. - -“Granger was simply an animal, a coarse and vicious animal. He drank -heavily without getting drunk, which is always a dangerous sign, and he -possessed the morals—or did not possess the morals, whichever you -prefer—of a monkey. He was unfaithful to her on their honeymoon—my -wife told me that; and from then on he made not the slightest attempt to -conceal his mode of life.” - -The Barrister carefully removed the ash from his cigar. “I won’t labour -the point,” he went on with a faint smile. “We have all of us met the -type, but I’d like to emphasise the fact that I, at any rate, have never -met any member of that type who came within a mile of him. Most of ’em -have some semblance of decency about ’em—make some attempt to conceal -their affairs. Granger didn’t; he seemed to prefer that they should be -known. Sometimes since then I have wondered whether he was actuated by a -sort of blind rage—by a mad desire to pierce through the calm, icy -contempt of his wife; to make her writhe and suffer, because he realised -she was so immeasurably his superior.” He paused thoughtfully. “He made -her suffer right enough.” - -“Did she never try for a divorce?” asked the Soldier. - -“No, never. We discussed it once—she, and my wife and I; and I had to -explain to her our peculiar laws on the subject. His adultery by itself -was, of course, not sufficient, and for some reason she flatly refused -to consider a mere separation. She wouldn’t face the scandal and -publicity for only that. I said to her then: ‘Why not apply for a -restitution of conjugal rights. Get your husband to leave the house, and -if he doesn’t return in fourteen days——’ - -“She stopped me with a bitter laugh. - -“‘It seems rather fatuous,’ she said slowly, ‘getting a lawyer to ask my -husband to do what he is only too ready to do—return to me.’ - -“‘But surely,’ I began, not quite taking her meaning. - -“‘You see, Bill,’ she answered in a flat, dead voice, ‘my husband is -very fond of me—as a stopgap. After most of his episodes he honours me -with his attentions for two or three days.’ - -“That was the devil of it—he didn’t intend to let her divorce him. She -formed an excellent hostess for his house, and for the rest there were -always _les autres_. And he wanted her, too, because he couldn’t get -her, and that made him mad.” - -The Barrister leant forward, and the firelight flickered on his thin, -ascetic face. - -“Such was the state of affairs when I went to stay. The particular lady -at the time who was being honoured by Henry Granger was a shining light -in musical comedy—Nelly Jones, shall we call her? It is very far from -her real name. If possible, he had been more open over this affair than -usual; everyone who knew the Grangers in London knew about -it—_everyone_. He had twice dined with her at the same restaurant at -which his wife was entertaining, once deliberately selecting the next -table.” - -“What an unmitigated swine!” cried the Ordinary Man. - -“He was,” agreed the Barrister briefly. “But even that was not -sufficient to satisfy the gentleman. He proceeded to do a thing which -put him for ever outside the pale. He brought this girl to a reception -of his wife’s at his own house. - -“It was the night that I arrived. She had fixed up one of those ghastly -entertainments which are now, thank Heaven, practically extinct. -Somebody sings and nobody listens, and you meet everybody you -particularly want to avoid. Mercifully I ran into an old pal, also of -your calling, Actor-man—Violet Seymour. No reason why I should disguise -her name at any rate. She was not acting at the moment, and we sat in a -sort of alcove-place at the top of the stairs, on the same landing as -the reception-room. - -“‘There’s going to be a break here soon, Bill,’ she said to me after a -while. ‘Ruth is going to snap.’ - -“‘Poor girl!’ I answered. ‘But what the devil can one do, Violet?’ - -“‘Nothing,’ she said fiercely, ‘except alter your abominably unjust -laws. Why can’t she get a divorce, Bill? It’s vile—utterly vile.’ - -“And then—well, let’s call him Sir Edward Shoreham, joined us. He was -on the Bench—a judge, which makes the disguise of a false name pretty -thin, especially in view of what is to come. I remember he had recently -taken a murder case—one that had aroused a good deal of popular -attention—and the prisoner had been found guilty. We were talking about -it at the time Sir Edward arrived, with Violet, as usual, tilting lances -against every form of authority. - -“I can see her now as she turned to Sir Edward with a sort of dreadful -fascination on her face. - -“‘And so you sentenced him to death?’ - -“He nodded gravely. ‘Certainly,’ he answered. ‘He was guilty.’ - -“And then she turned half-away, speaking almost under her breath. - -“‘And doesn’t it ever appall you? Make you wake in the middle of the -night, with your mouth dry and your throat parched. All this—life, -love—and in a cell, a man waiting—a man you’ve sent there. Ticking off -the days on his nerveless fingers—staring out at the sun. My God! it -would drive me mad.’ - -“Ned Shoreham smiled a little grimly. - -“‘You seem to forget one unimportant factor,’ he answered; ‘the wretched -woman that man killed.’ - -“‘No, I don’t,’ she cried. ‘But the punishment is so immeasurably worse -than the crime. I don’t think death would matter if it came suddenly; -but to sit waiting with a sort of sickening helplessness——’ - -“It was then Ruth Granger joined us. Some woman was singing in the -reception-room and, for the moment, she was free from her duties as -hostess. - -“‘You seem very serious,’ she said with her grave, sweet smile, holding -out her hand to Sir Edward. - -“‘Miss Seymour is a revolutionary,’ he answered lightly, and I happened -at that moment to glance at Ruth. And for the moment she had let the -mask slip as she looked at Ned Shoreham’s face. Then it was replaced, -but their secret was out, as far as I was concerned, though on matters -of affection I am the least observant of mortals. If they weren’t in -love with one another, they were as near to it as made no odds. And it -gave me a bit of a shock. - -“Shoreham was young—young, at any rate, for the Bench—and he was -unmarried. And somehow I couldn’t fit Shoreham into the situation of -loving another man’s wife. There had never been a breath of scandal that -I had heard; if there had been, it would have finished him for good. A -judge must be like Cæsar’s wife. And Shoreham, even then, had -established a reputation for the most scrupulous observance of the law. -His enemies called him cruel and harsh; those who knew him better -realised that his apparent harshness was merely a cloak he had wrapped -tightly round himself as a guard against a naturally tender heart. I -don’t know any man that I can think of who had such an undeviating idea -of duty as Shoreham, and without being in the least a prig, such an -exalted idea of the responsibilities of his position. And to realise -suddenly that he was in love with Ruth Granger, as I say, came as a -shock. - -“‘What was the argument about?’ she said, sitting down beside me. - -“‘Morality _versus_ the Law,’ chipped in Violet. - -“‘The individual _versus_ the community,’ amended Sir Edward. -‘Justice—real justice—against sickly sentimentality, with all due -deference to you, Miss Seymour. There are hard cases, one knows, but -hard cases make bad laws. There’s been far too much lately of men taking -matters into their own hands—this so-called Unwritten Law. And it has -got to stop.’ - -“‘You would never admit the justification,’ said Ruth slowly. - -“‘Never—in any circumstances,’ he answered. ‘You have the law—then -appeal to the law. Otherwise there occurs chaos.’ - -“‘And what of the cases where the law gives no redress?’ demanded -Violet, and even as she spoke Granger came up the stairs with this girl -on his arm. - -“Ruth Granger rose, deathly white, and gazed speechlessly at her -husband’s coarse, sneering face. I don’t think for a moment she fully -grasped the immensity of the insult; she was stunned. The footmen were -staring open-mouthed; guests passing into the supper-room stopped and -smirked. And then it was over; the tension snapped. - -“‘Have you had any supper, Sir Edward?’ said Ruth calmly, and with her -hand on his arm she swept past her husband, completely ignoring both him -and the girl, who flushed angrily. - -“‘I suppose,’ said Violet Seymour to me, as Granger and the girl went -into the reception-room, ‘that had Ruth shot that filthy blackguard dead -on the stairs, Sir Edward would have piously folded his hands and, in -due course, sentenced her to death.’ - -“And at the moment I certainly sympathised with her point of view.” - -The Barrister got up and splashed some soda-water into a glass. Then he -continued: - -“I won’t weary you with an account of the rest of the reception. You can -imagine for yourselves the covert sneers and whisperings. I want to go -on two or three hours to the time when the guests had gone, and a -white-faced, tight-lipped woman was staring at the dying embers of a -fire in her sitting-room, while I stood by the mantelpiece wondering -what the devil to do to help. Granger was in his study, where he had -retired on the departure of Miss Jones, and I, personally, had seen two -bottles of champagne taken to him there by one of the footmen. - -“‘It’s the end, Bill,’ she said, looking at me suddenly, ‘absolutely the -end. I can’t go on—not after to-night. How dared he bring that woman -here? How dared he?’ - -“Violet had been right—the break had come. Ruth Granger was desperate, -and there was an expression on her face that it wasn’t good to see. It -put the wind up me all right. - -“‘Go to bed, Ruth,’ I said quietly. ‘There’s no good having a row with -Granger to-night; you can say what you want to say to-morrow.’ - -“And at that moment the door opened and her husband came in. As I said, -he was a man who never got drunk, but that night he was unsteady on his -legs. He stood by the door, swaying a little and staring at her with a -sneer on his face. He was a swine sober; in drink he was—well, words -fail. But, by God! you fellows, she got through him and into him until I -thought he was going to strike her. I believe that was what she was -playing for at the time, because I was there as a witness. But he -didn’t, and when she finished flaying him he merely laughed in her face. - -“‘And what about your own damned lover, my virtuous darling?’ he -sneered. ‘What about the upright judge whom you adore—dear, kind Edward -Shoreham?’ - -“It was unexpected; she didn’t know he had guessed—and her face gave -her away for a moment. Then she straightened up proudly. - -“‘Sir Edward Shoreham and I are on terms which an animal of your gross -mind couldn’t possibly understand,’ she answered coldly, and he laughed. -‘If you insinuate that he is my lover in the accepted sense of the word, -you lie and you know it.’ - -“Without another word she walked contemptuously by him, and the door -closed behind her. And after a moment or two I followed her, leaving him -staring moodily at the empty grate. I couldn’t have spoken to him -without being rude and, after all, I was under his roof.” - -The Barrister leant back in his chair and crossed his legs. - -“Now that was the situation,” he continued, “when I went to bed. My room -was almost opposite Lady Granger’s, and at the end of the passage, which -was a cul-de-sac, was the door leading into Granger’s study. I hadn’t -started to undress when I heard him come past my room and go along the -passage to his study. And I was still thinking over the situation about -ten minutes later when Lady Granger’s door opened. I knew it was hers -because I heard her speak to her maid, telling her to go to bed. The -girl said ‘Good night,’ and something—I don’t quite know what—made me -look through the keyhole of my door. I was feeling uneasy and alarmed; I -suppose the scene downstairs had unsettled me. And sure enough, as soon -as the maid’s footsteps had died away, I saw through my spy-hole Ruth -Granger go down the passage towards her husband’s study. For a moment I -hesitated; an outsider’s position is always awkward between husband and -wife. But one thing was very certain, those two were in no condition to -have another—and this time a private—interview. I opened my door -noiselessly and peered out. It struck me that if I heard things getting -too heated I should have to intervene. She was just opening the door of -his study as I looked along the passage, and then in a flash the whole -thing seemed to happen. The door shut behind her; there was a pause of -one—perhaps two seconds—and a revolver shot rang out, followed by the -sound of a heavy fall. For a moment I was stunned; then I raced along -the passage as hard as I could, and flung open the door of the study. - -“On the floor lay Henry Granger, doubled up and sprawling, while in the -middle of the room stood his wife staring at him speechlessly. At her -feet on the carpet was a revolver, an automatic Colt. I stood there by -the door staring foolishly, and after a while she spoke. - -“‘There’s been an accident,’ she whispered. ‘Is he dead?’ - -“I went up to the body and turned it over. Through the shirt front was a -small hole; underneath the left shoulder blade was another. Henry -Granger had been shot through the heart from point-blank range; death -must have been absolutely instantaneous. - -“‘My God, Ruth!’ I muttered. ‘How did it happen?’ - -“‘Happen?’ she answered vaguely. ‘There was a man . . . the window.’ - -“And then she fainted. The butler, with a couple of footmen, by this -time had appeared at the door, and I pulled myself together. - -“‘Her ladyship’s maid at once,’ I said. ‘Sir Henry has been shot. Ring -up a doctor, and ask him to come round immediately.’ - -“The butler rushed off, but I kept the two footmen. - -“‘Wait a moment,’ I cried, picking up the revolver. ‘A man did it. Pull -back the two curtains by the window, and I’ll cover him.’ - -“They did as I told them, pulled back the two heavy black curtains that -were in front of the window. It was set back in a sort of alcove, and I -had the revolver ready pointed to cover the murderer. I covered empty -air; there was no one there. Then I walked over to the window and looked -out. It was wide open, and there was a sheer drop of forty feet to the -deserted area below. I looked upwards—I looked sideways: plain -brickwork without footing for a cat.” - -“‘Go down to the room below,’ I cried; ‘he may have got in there.’ - -“They rushed away to come back and tell me that not only were the -windows bolted, but that they were shuttered as well. And I thought they -looked at me curiously.” - -He paused to relight his cigar; then he continued thoughtfully: - -“I don’t quite know when I first began to feel suspicious about this -mysterious man. The thing had been so sudden that for a while my brain -refused to work; then gradually my legal training reasserted itself, and -I started to piece things together. Ruth had come-to again, and I put -one or two questions to her. She was still very dazed, but she answered -them quite coherently: - -“A man in evening clothes—at least, she thought he had on evening -clothes—had been in the room as she came in. She heard a shot; the -light went out and the window was thrown up. And then she had turned on -the light just before I came in to see her husband lying dead on the -floor. She knew no more. I suppose I must have looked a bit thoughtful, -for she suddenly got up from her chair and came up to me. - -“‘You believe me, Bill, don’t you?’ she said, staring at me. - -“‘Of course, of course,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘Go and lie down now, -Ruth, because we shall have to send for the police.’ - -“Without another word she left the room with her maid, and, after -telling the footmen to wait downstairs till they were wanted, I sat down -to think. Now, this isn’t a detective story; such as it is, it concerns -a more interesting study than the mere detection of crime. It concerns -the struggle in the soul of an upright man between love and duty. And -the man was Sir Edward Shoreham. - -“Unknown to me she sent for him—asked him to come at once—and he came. -He was shown by the butler into the study, where I was still sitting at -the desk, and he stopped motionless by the door staring at the body, -which had not been moved. I was waiting for the doctor, and I got up -surprised. - -“‘The butler told me he had been shot,’ he said a little jerkily. ‘How -did it happen?’ - -“‘I wasn’t expecting you, Sir Edward,’ I answered slowly. ‘But I’m glad -that you’ve come. I’d like another opinion.’ - -“‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Is there any mystery?’ - -“‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened as far as I know the facts,’ I -said. ‘Lady Granger and her husband had a very bad quarrel to-night. -Then she came to bed, and so did I. Shortly afterwards her husband came -along into this room. Now, my bedroom is in the passage you have just -come along, and about ten minutes after Sir Henry came in here, his wife -followed him. I opened my door, because I was afraid they might start -quarrelling again, and he had been drinking. I saw her come in; there -was a pause, and then a revolver shot rang out.’ - -“‘Was this door shut?’ he snapped. - -“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘it was. I rushed along the passage and came in. I -found her standing, with the revolver at her feet, staring at her -husband, who was lying where he is now. She said: ‘There’s been an -accident.’ And then she muttered something about a man and the window -before she fainted. I went to the window, and there was no one there. I -looked out; will you do the same?’ - -“I waited while he walked over and looked out, and after what seemed an -interminable time he came back again. - -“‘How long was it after the shot before you looked out?’ His voice was -very low as he asked the question. - -“‘Not a quarter of a minute,’ I answered, and we both stood staring at -one another in silence. - -“‘Good God!’ he said at length, ‘what are you driving at?’ - -“‘I’m not driving at anything, Sir Edward,’ I answered. ‘At least, I’m -trying not to drive at it. But the man is dead, and the police must be -sent for. What are we going to say?’ - -“‘The truth, of course,’ he answered instantly. - -“‘Quite,’ I said slowly. ‘But what is the truth?’ - -“He turned very white, and leant against one of the old suits of armour, -of which the dead man had a wonderful collection all over the house. - -“‘Did Lady Granger see this man go out of the window?’ he asked at -length. - -“‘No, she only heard him open it. You see, she says he switched off the -light. It was on when I rushed in.’ - -“‘A rope,’ he suggested. - -“‘Impossible in the time,’ I said; ‘utterly impossible. Such a -suggestion would be laughed out of court.’ - -“He came over and sat down heavily in a chair, and his face was haggard. - -“‘Sir Edward,’ I went on desperately, ‘the doctor will be here shortly; -the police must be sent for. We’ve got to decide something. This man -didn’t go out by the door or I’d have seen him; only a fly could have -gone out by the window. We’ve got to face the facts.’ - -“‘You don’t believe there was a man here at all,’ he said slowly. - -“‘Heaven help me! I don’t,’ I answered. ‘It’s all so easy to -reconstruct. The poor girl was driven absolutely desperate by what -happened to-night, and by the last thing he said to her after their -quarrel.’ I looked at him for a moment before going on. ‘He accused her -of being in love with you.’ I said it deliberately, and he caught his -breath sharply. - -“‘Can’t you see it all?’ I continued. ‘She came in here, and she shot -him; and when she’d done it her nerves gave, and she said the first -thing to me that came into her head.’ - -“‘If you’re right,’ he said heavily, ‘it means that Ruth will be tried -for murder!’ He got up with his hands to his temples. ‘My God! -Stratton,’ he cried, ‘this is awful. Premeditated murder, too—not done -blindly in the middle of a quarrel, but a quarter of an hour after it -was over.’ - -“‘That’s how it would strike a jury,’ I answered gravely. - -“‘Supposing she had done it suddenly, blindly’—he was talking half to -himself—‘snatched the revolver off the table as he tried to make love -to her, let’s say.’ And then he stopped and stared at me. - -“‘Supposing that had happened, it would be better for her to say so at -once,’ I said. - -“‘But it didn’t happen,’ he answered; ‘it couldn’t have.’ - -“‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It didn’t happen; it couldn’t have. But supposing it -had, Sir Edward, what then?’ - -“‘Stop, Stratton,’ he cried. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop!’ - -“‘There’s no good stopping,’ I said. ‘We haven’t any time for argument. -Your legal knowledge has suggested the same solution as occurred to me. -If _now_, at once, when we send for the police, she says it was an -accident—gives a complete story, chapter and verse——’ - -“‘Invents it, you mean,’ he interrupted. - -“‘Call it what you like,’ I said, ‘but, unless she does that and -substantiates the story, she will be tried for the premeditated and -wilful murder of her husband. She’ll have to be tried anyway, but if she -makes a voluntary confession—makes a story out of it that will appeal -to sentiment—they will acquit her. It’s the only chance.’ - -“‘But it’s monstrous, man,’ he muttered—only now his eyes were fixed on -me questioningly. - -“‘Look here, Sir Edward,’ I said, ‘let’s discuss this matter calmly. -Humanly speaking, we know what happened. Ruth came along that passage, -opened this door, and shot her husband dead through the heart—that is -the case as I should put it to the jury, the plain issue shorn of all -its trappings. What is going to be the verdict?’ - -“Shoreham plucked at his collar as if he were fighting for breath. - -“‘If, on the other hand, the shot was not immediate—and I am the only -witness as to that; if I had heard his voice raised in anger; if he had -sprung at her, tried to kiss her, and she blindly, without thought, had -snatched up the first thing that came to her hand, the revolver, not -even knowing it was loaded—what then? The servants can be squared. She -was talking wildly when she mentioned this man—didn’t know what she was -saying. And then, when she got back to her room she realised that the -truth was best, and rang you up, a Judge. What better possible proof -could any jury have of her desire to conceal nothing? And you with your -reputation on the Bench——’ - -“‘Ah, don’t, don’t!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘You’re driving me mad! -You’re—you’re——!’ - -“‘Why, Ned, what’s the matter?’ - -“We both swung round. Ruth had come in, unnoticed by us, and was staring -at Shoreham with wonder in her eyes. Then, with a shudder, she stepped -past her husband’s body and came into the room. - -“‘They’ve just told me you were here,’ she said, and then she gave a -little cry. ‘Ned, why are you looking like that? Ned! you don’t -think—you don’t think I did it?’ - -“She cowered back, looking first at him and then at me. - -“‘You _can’t_ think I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I tell you there was a -man here—the man who shot him. Oh! they’ll believe me, won’t they?’ - -“‘Ruth,’ I said, ‘I want you to realise that we’re both of us your -friends.’ Which is the sort of fatuous remark one does make when the -tension is a bit acute. She never even glanced at me as I spoke; with a -sort of sick horror in her eyes, she was staring at Shoreham, and I -blundered on: ‘When you talked about this man you were -unnerved—distraught; you didn’t know what you were saying. We both -realise that. But now we’ve got to think of the best way of—of helping -you. You see, the police must be sent for—we ought to have sent for -them sooner—and——’ - -“She walked past me and went over to Shoreham. - -“‘Do you believe I did it, Ned?’ she said quietly. ‘If I swear to you -that I didn’t—would that convince you?’ - -“‘But, Ruth,’ he cried desperately, ‘it isn’t me you’ve got to -convince—it’s the police. A man couldn’t have got out of that window in -the time. It’s a physical impossibility. If you told it to the police, -they’d laugh. Tell us the truth, my dear. I beseech you. Tell us the -truth, and we’ll see what can be done.’ - -“She stood very still, with her hands clenched by her sides. And then -quite deliberately she spoke to Shoreham. - -“‘If you don’t believe there was a man here,’ she said, ‘you _must_ -think I shot my husband. There was no one else who could have done it. -Well—supposing I did. You acknowledge no justification for such an -act?’ - -“I started to speak, but she silenced me with an imperative wave of her -hand. - -“‘Please, Bill——Well, Ned—I’m waiting. If I did shoot him—what -then?’” - -The Barrister paused to relight his cigar, and the others waited in -silence. - -“She was staring at Shoreham,” he went on after a while, “with a faint, -half-mocking, wholly tender smile on her lips, and if either he or I had -been less dense that smile should have made us think. But at the moment -I was absorbed in the problem of how to save her; while she was absorbed -in a very different one concerning the mentality of the man she cared -for. And Shoreham—well, he was absorbed in the old, old fight between -love and duty, and the fierceness of the struggle was showing on his -face. - -“There in front of him stood the woman he loved, the woman who had just -shot her husband, and the woman who was now free for him to marry. He -knew as well as I did that in adopting the line I had suggested lay the -best chance of getting her acquitted. He knew as well as I did that the -vast majority of juries would acquit if the story were put to them as we -had outlined it. He could visualise as well as I the scene in court. -Counsel for the defence—I’d already fixed on Grayson in my mind as her -counsel—outlining the whole scene: her late husband’s abominable -conduct culminating in this final outrage at her reception. And then as -he came to the moment of the tragedy, I could picture him turning to the -jury with passionate sincerity in his face—appealing to them as -men—happily married, perhaps, but men, at any rate, to whom home life -was sacred. - -“I could hear his voice—low and earnest—as he sketched for them that -last scene. This poor, slighted, tormented woman—girl, gentlemen, for -she is little more than a girl—went in desperation to the man—well, he -is dead now, and we will leave it at that—to the man who had made her -life a veritable hell. She pleaded with him, gentlemen, to allow her to -divorce him—pleaded for some remnant of decent feelings in him. And -what was his answer—what was the answer of this devil who was her -husband? Did he meet her half-way? Did he profess the slightest sorrow -for his despicable conduct? - -“No, gentlemen—not one word. His sole response was to spring at her in -his drunken frenzy and endeavour to fix his vile attentions on her. And -she, mad with terror and fright, snatched up the revolver which was -lying on the desk. It might have been a ruler—anything; she was not -responsible at the moment for what she did. Do you blame her, gentlemen? -You have daughters of your own. She no more knew what she had in her -hand than a baby would. To keep him away—that was her sole idea. And -then—suddenly—it happened. The revolver went off—the man fell dead. - -“What did this girl do, gentlemen, after that? Realising that he was -dead, did she make any attempt to conceal what she had done—to conceal -her share in the matter? No—exactly the reverse. Instantly she rang up -Sir Edward Shoreham, whose views on such matters are well known to you -all. And then and there she told him everything—concealing nothing, -excusing nothing. Sir Edward Shoreham of all people, who, with due -deference to such a distinguished public man, has at times been regarded -as—well—er—not lenient in his judgments. And you have heard what Sir -Edward said in the box. . . .” - -Once again the Barrister paused and smiled faintly. - -“I’d got as far as that, you see, before Shoreham answered her. And he -had got as far as that, too, I think. He saw it all, built on a -foundation of lies—built on the foundation of his dishonour. No one -would ever know except us three—but that doesn’t make a thing easier -for the Edward Shorehams of the world. - -“And then he spoke—in a low, tense voice: - -“‘If you shot him, dear,’ he said, ‘nothing matters save getting you -off.’ - -“Some people,” pursued the Barrister, “might call it a victory—some -people would call it a defeat. Depends on one’s outlook; depends on how -much one really believes in the ‘Could not love you half so much, loved -I not honour more’ idea. But certainly the murderer himself was very -pleased.” - -“The murderer?” cried the Ordinary Man sitting up suddenly. - -“The murderer,” returned the Barrister. “That’s why I mentioned about my -cigarette-case this morning. He had been standing behind the suit of -armour in the corner the whole time. He came out suddenly, and we all -stared at him speechlessly, and then he started coughing—a dreadful -tearing cough—which stained his handkerchief scarlet. - -“‘I must apologise,’ he said when he could speak, ‘but there was another -thing besides shooting Granger that I wanted to do before I died. That -was why I didn’t want to be caught to-night. However, a man must cough -when he’s got my complaint. But I’m glad I restrained myself long enough -to hear your decision, Sir Edward. I congratulate you on it.’ - -“‘You scoundrel!’ began Shoreham, starting forward, ‘why didn’t you -declare yourself sooner?’ - -“‘Because there’s another thing I wanted to do,’ he repeated wearily. -‘In Paris, in the Rue St. Claire, there lives a woman. She was beautiful -once—to me she is beautiful now. She was _my_ woman until——’ And his -eyes sought the dead body of Henry Granger. - -“Ruth took a deep breath. ‘Yes—until?’ she whispered. - -“‘Until he came,’ said the man gravely. ‘And God will decide between him -and me. But I would have liked to look on her once more, and hold her -hand, and tell her, yet again, that I understood—absolutely.’ - -“It was then Ruth Granger crossed to him. - -“‘What is her name and the number of the house?’ she said. - -“‘Sybil Deering is her name,’ he answered slowly, ‘and the number is -fourteen.’ - -“‘Will you leave it to me?’ she asked. - -“For a moment he stared at her in silence, then he bowed. - -“‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Lady Granger, and I hope you -will have all the happiness you deserve.’ He glanced at Shoreham and -smiled. ‘When a man loves everything else goes to the wall, doesn’t it? -Remember that in the future, Sir Edward, when they’re standing before -you, wondering, trying to read their fate. Someone loves them, just as -you love her.’” - -The Barrister rose and drained his glass. - -“And that is the conclusion of your suffering,” he remarked. - -“Was the man hanged?” asked the Soldier. - -“No, he died a week later of galloping consumption.” - -“And what of the other two?” demanded the Actor. - -“They married, and are living happily together to-day, doing fruit -farming as a hobby.” - -“Fruit farming!” echoed the Doctor. “Why fruit farming?” - -“Something to do,” said the Barrister. “You see, Sir Edward has never -tried another case. Some men are made that way.” - - - - - - -_III_ _The Doctor’s Story, being Sentence of Death_ - - - -“SOONER or later,” began the Doctor, settling himself comfortably in his -chair, “it comes to most of us. Sooner or later a man or a woman comes -to consult us on what they imagine to be some trifling malady, and when -we make our examination we find that it isn’t trifling. And occasionally -we find that not only is the matter not trifling, but that—well, you -all have seen Collier’s picture, ‘The Sentence of Death.’ - -“It’s a thing, incidentally, which requires careful thought—just how -much you will tell. Different people take things different ways, and -where it might be your duty to tell one man the half-truth, to another -it might be just as much your duty to lie. But broadly speaking, I, -personally, have always maintained that, unless the circumstances are -quite exceptional, it is a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth, -however unpleasant it may be. What would a man say if his lawyer or his -stockbroker lied to him? - -“Which brings me to the opening of my story. It was in the May before -the War that a man came into my consulting-room—a man whom I will call -Jack Digby. I motioned him to a chair on the other side of my desk, so -placed that the light from the window fell on his face. I put him down -as a man of about three-and-thirty who was used to an outdoor life. His -face was bronzed, his hands were sunburnt, and the whole way he carried -himself—the set of his shoulders, the swing of his arms as he walked -across the room—indicated the athlete in good condition. In fact, he -was an unusual type to find in a Harley Street consulting-room, and I -told him so by way of opening the conversation. - -“He grinned, a very pleasant, cheery grin, and put his hat on the floor. - -“‘Just a matter of form, Doctor,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and -crossing his legs. ‘I’m thinking of entering for the matrimonial stakes, -and before saddling-up I thought I’d just get you to certify me sound in -wind and limb.’ - -“Now he spoke very easily and naturally, but something—I don’t quite -know what—made me look at him a little more closely. The study of human -nature is a vital necessity if the study of human ailments is to be -successful—and one gets plenty of opportunity for it if one is a -consulting physician. And I suddenly wondered if it was ‘just a matter -of form’ in his mind. The ordinary young, healthy man doesn’t usually -take the trouble to be overhauled by a doctor merely because he is going -to be married. - -“However, at that stage of the proceedings my thoughts were my own, and -I answered him in the same vein. And while he was taking off his coat -and shirt we talked casually on various topics. Then I started my -examination. And within half a minute I knew that something was very, -very wrong. - -“‘I would like you to take off your vest, please, Mr. Digby,’ I said, -and for a moment he stared at me in silence. I was watching him quietly, -and it was then I knew that my first surmise was correct. In his eyes -there was a look of dreadful fear. - -“He stripped his vest off, and I continued my examination. And after I’d -finished I walked over to my desk. - -“‘You can put on your clothes again,’ I said gravely, to swing round as -I felt his hand like a vice on my shoulder. - -“‘What is it?’ he muttered. ‘Tell me.’ - -“‘It was not altogether a matter of form with you, was it, Mr. Digby?’ I -answered. ‘Put on your clothes; I want to ask you a few questions.’ - -“‘Hang it, man!’ he cried. ‘I can’t wait. What have you found?’ - -“‘I would like to have another opinion before telling you.’ I was -fencing for time, but he was insistent. - -“‘You can have another opinion—you can have fifty other opinions,’ he -cried, still gripping me by the shoulder—‘but I want to know what you -think _now_. Can I marry?’ - -“‘You cannot,’ I said gravely, and his hand fell to his side. Then he -slowly walked across the room and stood with his back to me, staring out -of the window. Once his shoulders shook a little, but except for that he -stood quite motionless. And after a while he picked up his clothes and -started to dress. - -“I said nothing until he had finished; with a man of his type talking is -a mistake. It was not until he again sat down in the chair opposite me -that I broke the silence. - -“‘You asked me a specific question, Mr. Digby,’ I said quietly, ‘and I -answered as a man of your type would like to be answered. But I now want -to modify my reply slightly. And I will put it this way. If I had a -daughter, I would not allow a man whose heart was in the condition that -yours is to marry her. It would not be fair to her; it would certainly -not be fair to any possible children.’ - -“He nodded gravely, though he didn’t speak. - -“‘You feared something of this sort when you came to me?’ I asked. - -“‘My mother died of it,’ he answered quietly. ‘And once or twice lately, -after exercise, I’ve had an agonising twinge of pain.’ And then, under -his breath, he added: ‘Thank God, she doesn’t know!’ - -“‘But I would like another opinion,’ I continued. ‘There are men, as you -know, who are entirely heart specialists, and I will give you the -address of one.’ - -“‘Confirmation of the death sentence,’ he laughed grimly. ‘No -saddling-up for me—eh, Doctor?’ - -“‘Not as you are at present, Mr. Digby.’ I was writing the address of -the biggest heart man on a piece of paper, though I felt it was useless. -It didn’t require an expert to diagnose this trouble. - -“‘Is there any chance of getting better?’ he cried eagerly, and I -stopped writing and looked at him. There was hope—a dawning hope in his -eyes—and for a moment I hesitated. - -“My own opinion was that there was no chance: that he might, with care -and luck, live for two or three years—perhaps more—but that he might -equally well drop dead at any moment. It was enough—that momentary -hesitation; the eager look in his eyes faded, and he sat back wearily in -his chair. - -“‘Don’t bother,’ he said slowly; ‘I see how it is.’ - -“‘No, you don’t, Mr. Digby,’ I answered. ‘You see how I think it is. -Which is an altogether different matter. There is always a chance.’ - -“‘That’s juggling with words,’ he said, with a twisted little smile. -‘The great point is that I’m not in a position to ask this girl to marry -me.’ - -“He glanced at the slip of paper I handed to him, then he rose. - -“‘I would like you to go and see him,’ I said quietly. ‘You see I feel -the gravity of what I’ve had to tell you this morning very much, and in -fairness to myself as well as to you, my dear fellow, I’d like you to go -to Sir John.’ - -“For a few seconds he stood there facing me, then he grinned as he had -done at the beginning of the interview. - -“‘All right, Doctor,’ he cried. ‘I’ll go, and Sir John shall drive the -nail right in.’ - -“‘I’m sorry,’ I said—‘infernally sorry. You’ve taken it, if I may say -so, like a very brave man.’ - -“He turned away abruptly. ‘What the deuce is the good of whining?’ he -cried. ‘If it’s the same as in my mother’s case, the end will be very -abrupt.’ - -“The next moment he was gone—a man under sentence of death. And the -pitiful tragedy of it hit one like a blow. He was so essentially the -type of man who should have married some charming girl and have -children. He was just a first-class specimen of the sporting Englishman, -but——” The Doctor paused and looked at the Soldier. “The type that -makes a first-class squadron-leader,” and the Soldier nodded. - -“It was in the afternoon,” continued the Doctor after a while, “that Sir -John Longworth rang me up. Digby had been to him, and the result was as -I expected. Two years, or possibly two days, and as for marriage, out of -the question entirely. He had merely confirmed my own diagnosis of the -case, and there for a time the matter rested. In the stress of work Jack -Digby passed from my mind, until Fate decreed that we should meet again -in what were to prove most dramatic circumstances. - -“It was two months later—about the beginning of July—that I decided to -take a short holiday. I couldn’t really spare the time, but I knew that -I ought to take one. So I ran down for a long week-end to stop with some -people I knew fairly well in Dorsetshire. They had just taken a big -house a few miles from Weymouth, and I will call them the Maitlands. -There were Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, and a son, Tom, up at the ’Varsity, -and a daughter, Sybil. When I arrived I found they had a bit of a -house-party, perhaps a dozen in all, and after tea the girl, whom I’d -met once or twice before, took me round the place. - -“She was a charming girl, very, very pretty, of about twenty-two or -three, and we chattered on aimlessly as we strolled through the gardens. - -“‘You’re quite a big party,’ I laughed, ‘and I thought I was coming for -a quiet week-end.’ - -“‘We’ve got two or three more arriving to-night,’ she said. ‘At least I -think so. One of them is a most elusive person.’ She was staring -straight in front of her as she spoke, and for the moment she seemed to -have forgotten my existence. - -“‘Male or female—the elusive one?’ I asked lightly. - -“‘A man,’ she answered abruptly, and changed the conversation. - -“But being an old and wary bird, I read into her harmless remark a -somewhat deeper significance than was perhaps justified, and it struck -me very forcibly that if I were the man I would not be elusive in the -circumstances. She surely was most amazingly pretty.” - -“With great deductive ability,” murmured the Actor, as the Doctor paused -to refill his pipe, “we place the elusive man as Jack Digby.” - -“You go to blazes!” laughed the teller of the story. “I haven’t got to -that yet. Of course you’re quite right—he was; though when I found it -out a little later it came as a complete surprise to me. I’d almost -forgotten his existence. - -“It was her father who first mentioned his name. I was having a sherry -and bitters with him in his study before going up to dress for dinner, -and the conversation turned on the girl. I think I said how -extraordinarily pretty I thought she was, and remarked that I supposed -somebody would soon be walking off with her. - -“Joe Maitland’s face clouded a little. - -“‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘both her mother and I have been -expecting it for some time. A most charming man, and Sybil is in love -with him, I’m sure. We all thought that he was in love with her,’ and -then he exploded—‘damn it, it isn’t a question of thinking, I _know_ -he’s in love with her! And for some extraordinary reason he won’t tell -her so. He’s kept away from her for the last two months, after having -lived in her pocket. And he’s not the type that monkeys round and makes -a girl fond of him for no reason. He’s coming here to-night, and——’ - -“My host, still frowning slightly, lit a cigarette. So evidently this -was the elusive man, I thought, putting down my glass. It was no -business of mine, and then suddenly I stood very still as I heard him -speak again. - -“‘Jack Digby is as white as they’re made,’ he was saying, but I didn’t -hear any more. Luckily my back was towards him, so he couldn’t see my -face. Jack Digby! Poor devil! With Sybil Maitland, the girl, in his -mind, the blow I’d given him must have been even crueller than I’d -thought. And what a strange coincidence that I should be going to meet -him again in such circumstances. Maitland was still rambling on, but I -was paying no attention to him. I could, of course, say nothing unless -Digby gave me permission; but it struck me that if I told him how the -land lay—if I told him that not only was his silence being completely -misconstrued, but that it was making the girl unhappy, he might allow me -to tell her father the truth. After all, the truth was far better; there -was nothing to be ashamed of in having a rotten heart. - -“And it was just as I had made up my mind to see Digby that night that -the door opened and Tom, the boy, came in. I hadn’t seen him since he -was quite a child, and the first thing that struck me about him was that -he was almost as good-looking as his sister. He’d got the same eyes, the -same colouring, but—there was the devil of a but. Whereas his sister -gave one the impression of being utterly frank and fearless, the boy -struck me immediately as being the very reverse. That he was the apple -of his mother’s eye, I knew—but that signifies nothing. Thank God! -mothers are made that way. And as I stood watching him talking to his -father I recalled certain vague rumours that I’d heard recently and had -paid scant attention to at the time. Rumours of wild extravagance up at -Oxford—debts well into the four figures. . . . They came back to my -mind, those idle bits of gossip, and they assumed a definite -significance as I studied the boy’s face. It was weak—utterly weak; he -gave one the impression of having no mental or moral stamina whatever. -He poured himself out a glass of sherry, and his hand wasn’t quite -steady, which is a bad sign in a boy of under twenty-one. And he was a -little frightened of his father, which is bad in a boy of any age when -the father is a man like Joe Maitland. And that wasn’t all, either. -There was something more—something much bigger on his mind: I was sure -of it. There was fear in his heart; you could see it lurking round his -eyes—round his mouth. I glanced at Joe, but he seemed quite oblivious -of it, and then I left them and went up to dress for dinner. I remember -wondering as I turned into my room whether the boy had got into another -scrape—then I dismissed him from my mind. Jack Digby was a more -interesting and more pressing problem. - -“I met him in the hall as I came down, and he gave a sudden start of -astonishment. - -“‘Why, Doctor,’ he said quietly as we shook hands, ‘this is a surprise. -I’d no idea you were to be here.’ - -“‘Nor I that you were coming,’ I answered, ‘until Mr. Maitland happened -to mention it a little while ago.’ - -“‘You haven’t said anything to him, have you?’ he cried anxiously. - -“‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘you ought to know that doctors don’t.’ He -muttered an apology, and I went on: ‘You know, Digby, I can’t help -thinking you’re making a mistake in not telling the truth.’ - -“He shook his head vigorously. ‘I’m sure I’m not,’ he answered. ‘The -mistake I’ve made has been in coming here at all. I haven’t seen her -since the day—when you told me. And I oughtn’t to have come now. It’s -the last—I swear that. I couldn’t help it; I had to see her once again. -I’m going to Africa in August—big game shooting.’ - -“I stared at him gravely, and after a while he went on: - -“‘No one knows better than you,’ he said gravely, ‘my chance of -returning. And when I don’t come back—she’ll forget me.’ I saw his -hands clench at his side. ‘But if I tell her now—why, she’ll want me to -stop in England—to go to specialists—to eke out life to the full two -or three years. It’ll be hell—hell! Hell for both of us. Every day -she’ll be wondering if she is going to hear I’m dead; it’ll ruin her -life. Whereas Africa, if she doesn’t know about my heart, will be -sudden. You see, Doctor, she is the only one to be considered—the only -one.’ - -“I drew a deep breath; truly Joe Maitland had been right. This man was -white clean through. And then he gave a little choking gasp, and, -turning round, I saw the girl coming towards us across the hall. - -“‘I didn’t know you’d come, old man,’ I heard her say, and then I moved -away and left them. It was one of those occasions when you say it’s the -smoke that has got into your eyes—and you lie.” - -For a while the Doctor was silent; then he gave a short laugh. - -“They sat next to one another at dinner, opposite me, and I’m afraid my -partner must have thought I was a little wanting in intellect. They were -such a perfectly ideal couple; and I noticed old Joe Maitland watching -them every now and then. But gradually, as the meal progressed, a -puzzled look began to creep into the girl’s eyes, and once she bit her -lip suddenly and turned abruptly to the man on her other side. It was -then that Digby looked across the table at me, and in that moment I -realised that he was right. For him to remain in England would be -impossible for both of them; the end, quick and sudden in an African -jungle—if he ever got as far—was the only way out. - -“‘My God! Doctor,’ he said as he came round and sat down next to me -after the ladies had gone, ‘I knew I was a fool to come, but I didn’t -think it was going to be as bad as this.’ - -“‘When are you going to start?’ I asked. - -“‘As soon as I can get things fixed up at home, here, and make some sort -of arrangements for carriers and people the other end. One must act, I -suppose, even though it’s the last appearance.’ He gave a mirthless -laugh. ‘I’ve always wanted to go South from Khartoum—I wonder how far -I’ll get.’ Then he began to drum on the table with his fingers. ‘And -what I wonder still more,’ he went on slowly, ‘is how in Heaven’s name -I’ll get through this evening. You see, though I didn’t actually propose -in so many words before I came to see you, I’d—I’d let things drift to -such a position that a proposal was hardly necessary. That’s the devil -of it. . . . She knows I worship the ground she walks on—and I know she -cares too.’ - -“‘How long are you going to stop here?’ I asked. - -“‘I accepted for the week-end,’ he said abruptly. ‘I shall go first -thing to-morrow. I can’t stand it.’ - -“At that we left it, and I didn’t speak to him again until the thing -occurred which even now—though seven years have slipped by—is as -clearly imprinted on my brain as if it had happened last night. - -“I couldn’t sleep very well that night, and at about two I switched on -my light, with the idea of reading. I was just reaching out for a book -when I heard the sound of voices from a room almost opposite. I listened -for a moment, then I got up and went to the door. For the voices were -excited and angry; something unusual was evidently happening. For a -moment or two I hesitated; then I slipped on a dressing-gown and looked -out. Across the passage the door of a room was open, and through it the -light was streaming out. And then I heard Joe Maitland speak, and his -words literally rooted me to the ground with amazement. - -“‘So, Mr. Digby, you’re just a common damned thief. The gentleman -crook—what? The amateur cracksman. That’s what they call them on the -stage, I believe. Sounds better. But I prefer the more homely name of -thief.’ - -“It was then that I appeared in the door, and Maitland swung round. - -“‘Oh, it’s you, is it, Tranton?’ He had a revolver in his hand, and he -lowered it when he saw who it was. ‘A pretty tableau, isn’t it? It -appears that a second edition of—what was the gentleman’s -name—Raffles, wasn’t it?—has been honouring me with his presence. -Unfortunately, Tom and I both happened to hear him.’ - -“But I was paying no attention to what he was saying; my eyes were fixed -on Digby and—Tom. Digby, with a quiet smile on his face and his hands -in his pockets, was standing beside an open safe. He was still in -evening clothes, and once he glanced my way. Then he looked back again -at his host, and I looked at Tom. He was in his dressing-gown, and he -was shivering as if he had the ague. He was standing close to his -father, and a little behind him—and Joe Maitland was too engrossed with -Digby to notice the condition he was in. - -“‘Can you advance any reason, Mr. Digby,’ he demanded, ‘why I shouldn’t -call up the local police?’ - -“‘None whatever, Mr. Maitland,’ he answered gravely. ‘Your son caught me -fair and square.’ - -“And it seemed to me that Tom made an effort to speak, though no words -came from his lips. - -“‘You damned scoundrel!’ cried Maitland. ‘You come to my house—you make -love to my daughter—and then you abuse my hospitality by trying to -steal my wife’s jewellery!’ - -“It was at that moment that the girl came in. I saw Digby catch his -breath and lean against the wall for support; then he straightened up -and faced his host again. Just once had he glanced at her, with her -glorious hair falling over her shoulders and a startled look of wonder -in her great eyes. Then resolutely he looked away. - -“‘What’s happened, Daddy?’ she whispered. ‘I heard your voice and——’ - -“‘This has happened, my dear,’ said Maitland grimly. ‘We have been -privileged to discover Mr. Digby’s method of earning a livelihood.’ He -pointed to the open safe. ‘He apparently ingratiates himself with people -for the express purpose of stealing their valuables. In other words, a -common thief.’ - -“‘I don’t believe it!’ she flashed out, imperiously. ‘Jack—a thief! How -can you say such a thing?’ - -“‘Then may I ask what he was doing when your brother discovered him by -the open safe? Besides, he admits it himself.’ - -“‘Jack!’ The cry seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. ‘Say -it’s a lie!’ - -“For one second he hesitated; then he spoke quite steadily, though he -didn’t look at her. - -“‘I am afraid, Miss Maitland—that I can’t say it’s untrue.’ - -“And then there fell one of those silences that can be felt. She was -staring at Jack Digby, was the girl—staring at him with a great -amazement dawning on her face. - -“‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘look at me!’ - -“He raised his eyes and looked at her, and a little pulse was beating -just above his jaw. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, she -gave a little laugh that was half a sob and turned away. - -“‘I see,’ she said below her breath. ‘I see.’ - -“But what it was she saw, I didn’t at the moment realise. It was to be -made clear a little later.” - -The Doctor paused and threw a log on the fire. - -“Yes, I found out later what she thought,” he went on after a while, -“and for the first and probably the last time in my life I was guilty of -a breach of professional confidence. It was about half an hour later -that I went round to Jack Digby’s room. Maitland, after thinking it -over—and it is possible that I had something to do with his -decision—had dismissed the idea of sending for the police. Digby was to -clear out by the first train next morning, and was never to make an -attempt to communicate with the girl again. And Jack Digby had bowed in -silence and gone to his own room. He wouldn’t look at me as he passed; I -think he knew that he hadn’t deceived me. - -“He was sitting by the open window when I went in, still in his evening -clothes, and he looked round with a start as I entered. His face was -drawn and grey. - -“‘My dear chap,’ I said, before he could speak, ‘is it worth while?’ - -“‘I don’t understand what you mean, Doctor,’ he said slowly. - -“‘Oh, yes, you do!’ I answered. ‘You deceived Mr. Maitland all -right—you didn’t deceive me. It was Tom who opened the safe—not you.’ - -“For a moment I thought he was going to deny it; then he gave a little -mirthless laugh. - -“‘Perfectly correct,’ he said. ‘As you say, it was Tom who opened the -safe. I caught him absolutely in the act. And then Mr. Maitland came.’ - -“‘But—good God!’ I cried, ‘what an unutterable young waster he must be -to let you shoulder the blame!’ - -“Digby faced me steadily. ‘I made him. You see, I saw it was the chance -I had been looking for.’ - -“‘You mean you told him about your heart?’ - -“‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘But I told him I was entangled with another -woman, and that the best way of saving his sister’s feelings was to let -her think——’ - -“And then the boy broke down utterly. With his hands on my shoulders he -stood there facing me, and he made me swear I wouldn’t tell the girl. - -“‘She must never know, Doctor. I’ve done it for her. She must never -know.’ - -“And even as he spoke, the words died away on his lips, and he stood -motionless, staring past me at the door. Without looking round I knew -what had happened—I could smell the faint scent she used. - -“‘What have you done for me, Jack, and why must I never know?’ - -“She came steadily up to him, and his hands fell to his side. - -“‘Why, you’ve been crying, dear,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’ - -“True to his purpose, he started some fantastic story about sorrow at -having been found out, but she cut him short. - -“‘Don’t lie, Jack—not now,’ she whispered. ‘I know it wasn’t you who -opened the safe. I know it was Tom. But what I want to know is why you -said you did it.’ - -“It was then I made up my mind. - -“‘I’m going to tell her, Digby, whether you like it or not,’ and she -looked at me quickly. He didn’t say anything; things had got beyond him. -And very briefly I told her the truth about his heart. - -“She listened to me in absolute silence, and when I’d finished she just -turned round to him and held out both her arms. - -“‘Thank God! I know, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was -because you’d got fond of another woman. I thought—oh! Heaven knows -what I thought! But now—oh! you stupid, wonderful boy!’ - -“I went to the window and looked out! It must have been five minutes -later that I found the girl at my side. - -“‘Is it absolutely hopeless?’ she asked. - -“‘Humanly speaking,’ I answered, ‘yes.’ - -“‘How long?’ and she put her hand on my arm. - -“‘Two days; two months; at the utmost, two years,’ I said gravely. - -“‘And why shouldn’t I look after him for those two years?’ she demanded -fiercely. - -“‘I’m thinking of a possible child,’ I said quietly, and she began to -tremble a little. - -“‘That’s ridiculous,’ she cried—‘quite ridiculous.’” - -The Doctor was carefully cleaning out the bowl of his pipe. “In the -morning Jack Digby had gone, leaving behind him a note for her. She -showed it to me later. - -“‘The Doctor is right, my darling,’ it ran. ‘It’s just Fate, and there’s -not much use kicking. I’m glad though that you know the truth—it helps. -Good-bye, dear heart. God bless you.’” - -The Doctor paused. - -“Is that all?” said the Ordinary Man. - -“Very nearly,” answered the Doctor. “I had been right when I said two -months, only the cause of death was not what I expected. How he got -across the water so soon I don’t know. But he did—in a cavalry -regiment. And he stopped one—somewhere up Ypres way.” - -“And the girl?” asked the Soldier. - -“Has not got over it yet,” said the Doctor. - -“And did she ever hear from him again?” demanded the Barrister. - -“Once, from France. Written just before—the end. She didn’t show me -_that_ one. Pass the whisky, Actor-man. Talking makes one’s throat -infernally dry.” - - - - - - -_IV_ _The Ordinary Man’s Story, being The Pipes of Death_ - - - -“ANY of you know Burma?” asked the Ordinary Man, putting out his hand -for the tobacco-jar. - -“I’ve been there,” grunted the Soldier. “Shooting. Years ago. West of -the Irawadi from Rangoon.” - -“It’s years since I was there, too,” said the Ordinary Man. “More than a -score. And if I wasn’t so beastly fat and lazy I’d like to go back for a -visit. Only a visit, mind you. I’ve got to the time of life when I find -that London is quite good enough for my needs. But the story which I -propose to inflict on you fellows to-night concerns Burma, and delving -into the past to get the details right has brought the fascination of -the place back to me. - -“I was about thirty-five at the time—and my benevolent Aunt Jane had -not then expired and endowed me with all her worldly goods. I was -working for a City firm who had considerable interests out -there—chiefly teak, with a strong side-line in rubies. - -“At that time, as you may know, the ruby mines in the Mandalay area were -second to none, and it was principally to give my employers a report on -the many clashing interests in those mines that I went back to England -after a few months in the country. And it was in their office that I met -a youngster, who had just joined the firm, and who, it turned out, was -going out to Burma on the same boat as myself. Jack Manderby was his -name, and I suppose he must have been ten or eleven years younger than -I. He was coming to my district, and somewhat naturally I was a bit -curious to see what sort of a fellow he was. - -“I took to him from the very first moment, and after we’d lunched -together a couple of times my first impression was strengthened. He was -a real good fellow—extraordinarily good-looking and straight as a die, -without being in the least degree a prig. - -“We ran into a good south-westerly gale the instant we were clear of the -Isle of Wight, which necessitated a period of seclusion on my part. In -fact, my next appearance in public was at Gibraltar. - -“And the first person I saw as I came on deck was Jack Manderby. He was -leaning over the side bargaining with some infernal robber below, and at -his side was a girl. In the intervals of haggling he turned to her, and -they both laughed; and as I stood for a few minutes watching them, it -struck me that Master Jack had made good use of the four days since we -left England. Then I strolled over and joined them. - -“‘Hullo, old man!’ he cried, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Is the rumour -correct that you’ve been engaged in research work below, and had given -orders not to be disturbed?’ - -“‘Your vulgar jests leave me unmoved,’ I answered with dignity. ‘At any -rate, I appear to have arrived in time to save you being robbed. That -man is a thief and the son of a thief, and all his children are -thieves.’ - -“Jack laughed; then he swung round to the girl. - -“‘By the way, you haven’t met Mr. Walton, have you? This is Miss -Felsted, old boy, who is going out to Rangoon.’ - -“We shook hands, and no more was said at the time. But one thing was -definitely certain. Whatever the girl was going to Rangoon for, the gain -was Rangoon’s. She was an absolute fizzer—looked you straight in the -face with the bluest of eyes that seemed to have a permanent smile -lurking in them. And then, suddenly, I noticed her left hand. On the -third finger was a diamond ring. It couldn’t be Jack she was engaged to, -and I wondered idly who the lucky man was. Because he was -lucky—infernally lucky. - -“I think,” continued the Ordinary Man, pulling thoughtfully at his pipe, -“that I first began to scent complications at Malta. We landed there for -a few hours, and the idea was that Miss Felsted, Jack, and I should -explore Valetta. Now, I don’t quite know how, but we got separated. I -spent a pleasant two hours with a naval pal in the Union Club, while -Jack and the girl apparently went up by the narrow-gauge railway to -Citta Vecchia, in the centre of the island. And since no one in the full -possession of their senses would go on that line for fun, I wondered. I -wondered still more when they came back to the ship. Jack was far too -open and above-board to be very skilful at hiding his feelings. And -something had happened that day. - -“Of course, it was no concern of mine. Jack’s affairs were entirely his -own; so were the girl’s. But a ship is a dangerous place sometimes—it -affords unequalled and unending opportunities for what in those days -were known as flirtations, and to-day, I believe, are known as ‘pashes.’ -And to get monkeying round with another fellow’s fiancée—well, it leads -to complications generally. However, as I said, it was no concern of -mine, until it suddenly became so the evening before we reached Port -Said. - -“I was talking to Jack on deck just before turning in. We were strolling -up and down—the sea like a mill-pond, and almost dazzling with its -phosphorescence. - -“‘Is Miss Felsted going out to get married?’ I asked him casually. - -“‘Yes,’ he answered abruptly. ‘She’s engaged to a man called Morrison.’ - -“‘Morrison,’ I repeated, stopping and staring at him. ‘Not Rupert -Morrison, by any chance?’ - -“‘Yes. Rupert is his name. Do you know him?’ - -“I’d pulled myself together by this time, and we resumed our stroll. - -“‘I know Rupert Morrison quite well,’ I answered. ‘As distance goes in -that country, Jack, he’s a near neighbour of ours’; and I heard him -catch his breath a little quickly. - -“‘What sort of a fellow is he?’ asked Jack quietly, and then he went on, -which saved me the trouble of a reply: ‘She hasn’t seen him for four -years. They got engaged before he left England, and now she’s going out -to marry him.’ - -“‘I see,’ I murmured non-committally, and shortly afterwards I made my -excuse and left him. - -“I didn’t turn in at once when I got to my cabin, I wanted to try and -get things sorted out in my mind. The first point, which was as obvious -as the electric light over the bunk, was that if Jack Manderby was not -in love with Molly Felsted he was as near to it as made no odds. The -second and far more important point was one on which I was in the -dark—was the girl in love with him? If so, it simplified matters -considerably; but if not, if she was only playing the fool, there was -going to be trouble when we got to Burma. And the trouble would take the -form of Rupert Morrison. For the more I thought of it the more amazed -did I become that such a girl could ever have become engaged to such a -man. - -“Of course, four years is a long time, especially when they are passed -in comparative solitude. I had no idea what sort of fellow Morrison had -been when first he arrived in the country, but I had a very shrewd idea -what manner of man he was now. Perhaps it had been the -loneliness—loneliness takes some men worse than others—but, whatever -the cause, Morrison, after four years in Burma, was no fit mate for such -a girl as Molly Felsted. A brooding, sullen man, given to fierce fits of -almost animal rage, a heavy drinker of the type who is never drunk, -and——” - -The Ordinary Man paused and shrugged his shoulders. - -“Well, it’s unfair to mention the last point. After all, most of us did -that without thinking; but the actual arrival of an English girl—a -wife—who was to step, blindly ignorant, into her predecessor’s shoes, -so to speak, made one pause to think. Anyway, that was neither here nor -there. What frightened me was the prospect of the girl marrying the -Morrison of her imagination and discovering, too late, the Morrison of -reality. When that happened, with Jack Manderby not five miles away, the -fat was going to be in the fire with a vengeance. - -“It was after Colombo that matters came to a head. We left the P. & O. -there, and got into another boat going direct to Rangoon. The weather -was glorious—hot as blazes by day, and just right at night. And it was -after dinner one evening a couple of days before we were due in, that -quite inadvertently I butted into the pair of them in a secluded spot on -deck. His arms were round her, and they both sounded a bit incoherent. -Of course, there was no use pretending I hadn’t seen—they both looked -up at me. I could only mutter my apology and withdraw. But I determined, -even at the risk of being told to go to hell, to have a word with young -Jack that night. - -“‘Look here, old man,’ I said to him a bit later, ‘you’ve got a perfect -right to request me to mind my own business, but I’m going to risk that. -I saw you two to-night, kissing to beat the band—confound it all, there -wasn’t a dog’s earthly of not seeing you—and what I want to know is -where Morrison comes in, or if he’s gone out?’ - -“He looked at me a bit shamefacedly, then he lit a cigarette. - -“‘Hugh,’ he said, with a twisted sort of smile, ‘I just worship the -ground that girl walks on.’ - -“‘Maybe you do, Jack,’ I answered. ‘But the point is, what are her -feelings on the matter?’ - -“He didn’t answer, and after a while I went on. - -“‘This show is not my palaver,’ I said ordering two whisky pegs from the -bartender. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, except that you and I are going -to share the same bungalow, which is within easy calling distance of -Morrison’s. Now, Morrison is a funny-tempered fellow, but, apart from -that altogether, the situation seems strained to me. If she breaks off -her engagement with him and marries you, well and good. But if she isn’t -going to do that, if she still intends to marry Morrison—well, then, -old man, although I hold no brief for him, you’re not playing the game. -I’m no sky pilot, but do one thing or the other. Things are apt to -happen, you know, Jack, when one’s at the back of beyond and a fellow -gets playing around with another fellow’s wife—things which might make -an English court of justice sit up and scratch its head.’ - -“He heard me out in silence, then he nodded his head. - -“‘I know it must seem to you that I wasn’t playing the game,’ he said -quietly. ‘But, believe me, it’s not for want of asking on my part that -Molly won’t marry me. And I believe that she’s as fond of me—almost—as -I am of her.’ - -“‘Then why the——?’ I began, but he stopped me with a weary little -gesture of his hand. - -“‘She feels that she’s bound to him in honour,’ he went on. ‘I’ve told -her that there can’t be much question of honour if she doesn’t love him -any more, but she seems to think that, as he has waited four years for -her, she can’t break her bargain. And she’s very fond of him; if it -hadn’t been for fate chucking us together she would never have thought -of not marrying him. To-night we both forgot ourselves, I suppose; it -won’t occur again.’ - -“He sat back staring out of the port-hole. The smoke-room was empty, and -I fairly let myself go. - -“‘You very silly idiot,’ I exploded, ‘do you imagine I’ve been -delivering a homily on the sins of kissing another man’s fiancée. What I -want to get into your fat head is this. You’re going to a place where -the only white woman you’ll see from year’s end to year’s end is that -girl, if she marries Morrison. You can prattle about honour, and -forgetting yourselves, and not letting it occur again, and it’s worth -the value of that used match. Sooner or later it will occur again, and -it won’t stop at kissing next time. And then Morrison will probably kill -you, or you’ll kill him, and there’ll be the devil to pay. For Heaven’s -sake, man, look the thing square in the face. Either marry the girl, or -cut her right out of your life. And you can only do that by cabling the -firm—or I’ll cable them for you from Rangoon—asking to be posted to -another district. I shall be sorry, but I’d far rather lose you than sit -on the edge of a young volcano.’ - -“I left him to chew over what I’d said and went to bed, feeling -infernally sorry for both of them. But the one fact over which there was -no doubt whatever in my mind was that if Morrison married Molly Felsted, -then Jack Manderby would have to be removed as far as geographically -possible from temptation. - -“My remarks apparently had some effect, because the next day Jack -buttonholed me on deck. - -“‘I’ve told Molly what you said last night, old man, and we’ve been -talking it over. Morrison is meeting her apparently at Rangoon, and she -has agreed to tell him what has happened. And when he knows how the land -lies it’s bound to be all right. Of course, I’m sorry for him, poor -devil, but——’ and he went babbling on in a way common to those in -love. - -“I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention; I was thinking of Morrison and -wondering whether Jack’s optimism was justified. Apart from his -moroseness and drinking, there were other stories about the man—stories -which are not good to hear about a white man. I’d never paid any heed to -them before, but now they came back to me—those rumours of strange -things, which only the ignorant sceptic pretends to scorn; strange -things done in secret with native priests and holy men; strange things -it is not well for the white man to dabble in. And someone had it that -Rupert Morrison did more than dabble.” - -The Ordinary Man paused and sipped his whisky. - -“He met the boat at Rangoon,” he continued after a while, “and came on -board. Evidently the girl wasted no time in telling him what had -occurred, because it was barely ten minutes before I saw him coming -towards Jack and myself. There was a smouldering look in his eyes, but -outwardly he seemed quite calm. He gave me a curt nod, then he addressed -himself exclusively to Jack. - -“‘Miss Felsted has just made a somewhat unexpected announcement to me,’ -he remarked. - -“Jack bowed gravely. ‘I am more than sorry, Mr. Morrison,’ he said, ‘if -it should appear to you that I have acted in any way caddishly.’ He -paused a little constrainedly and I moved away. The presence of a third -person at such an interview helps nobody. But once or twice I glanced at -them during the next quarter of an hour, and it seemed to me that, -though he was trying to mask it, the look of smouldering fury in -Morrison’s eyes was growing more pronounced. From their attitude it -struck me that Jack was protesting against some course of action on -which the other was insisting, and I turned out to be right. - -“‘Morrison has made the following proposal,’ he said irritably to me -when their conversation had finished. ‘That Molly should be left here in -Rangoon with the English chaplain and his wife—apparently he’d fixed -that already—and that we—he and I—should both go up country for a -month or six weeks. Neither of us to see her during that time, and at -the end of it she to be free to choose. As he pointed out, I suppose -quite rightly, he had been engaged to her for more than four years, and -it was rather rough on him to upset everything for what might prove only -a passing fancy, induced by being thrown together on board ship. Of -course, I pointed out to him that this was no question of a passing -fancy—but he insisted.’ - -“‘And you agreed?’ I asked. - -“‘What else could I do?’ he cried. ‘Heaven knows I didn’t want to—it’s -such awful rot and waste of time. But I suppose it is rather rough luck -on the poor devil, and if it makes it any easier for him to have the -agony prolonged a few weeks, it’s up to me to give him that -satisfaction.’ - -“He went off to talk to the girl, leaving me smoking a cigarette -thoughtfully; for, try as I would, I could not rid my mind of the -suspicion that there was something behind this suggestion of -Morrison’s—something sinister. Fortunately, Jack would be under my -eye—in my bungalow; but even so, I felt uneasy. Morrison had been too -quiet for safety, bearing in mind what manner of man he was. - -“We landed shortly after and I went round to the club. I didn’t see -Morrison—he seemed to have disappeared shortly after his interview with -Jack; but he had given the girl full directions as to how to get to the -chaplain’s house. Jack took her there, and I’d arranged with him that he -should come round after and join me. - -“The first man I ran into was McAndrew—a leather-faced Scotsman from up -my part of the country—who was down in Rangoon on business. - -“‘Seen the bridegroom?’ he grunted as soon as he saw me. - -“‘Travelled out with the bride,’ I said briefly, not over-anxious to -discuss the matter. - -“‘And what sort of a lassie is she?’ he asked curiously. - -“‘Perfectly charming,’ I answered, ringing the bell for a waiter. - -“‘Is that so?’ he said slowly, and our eyes met. ‘Man,’ he added still -more slowly, ‘it should not be, it should not be. Poor lassie! Poor -lassie!’ - -“And then Jack Manderby came in, and I introduced him to two or three -other fellows. I’d arranged to go up country that evening—train to -Mandalay, and ride from there the following morning—and Jack, of -course, was coming with me. He had said good-bye to the girl; he wasn’t -going to see her again before he went up country, and we spent the -latter part of the afternoon pottering round Rangoon. And it was as we -were strolling down one of the native bazaars that he suddenly caught my -arm. - -“‘Look—there’s Morrison!’ he muttered. ‘I distinctly saw his face -peering out of that shop.’ - -“I looked in the direction he was pointing. It was an ordinary native -shop where one could buy ornaments and musical instruments and trash -like that—but of Morrison I could see no sign. - -“‘I don’t see him,’ I said; ‘and anyway there is no reason why he -shouldn’t be in the shop if he wants to.’ - -“‘But he suddenly vanished,’ persisted Jack, ‘as if he didn’t want to be -seen.’ He walked on with me slowly. ‘I don’t like that man, Hugh; I hate -the swine. And it’s not because of Molly, either.’ - -“He shut up at that, and I did not pursue the topic. It struck me that -we should have quite enough of Morrison in the next few weeks.” - -The Ordinary Man paused and lit a cigarette; then he smiled a little -grimly. - -“I don’t know what I expected,” he continued thoughtfully: “I certainly -never said a word to Jack as to my vague suspicions. But all the time -during the first fortnight, while he was settling down into the job, I -had the feeling that there was danger in the air. And then, when nothing -happened, my misgivings began to go. - -“After all, I said to myself, what could happen, anyway? And perhaps I -had misjudged Rupert Morrison. On the two or three occasions that we met -him he seemed perfectly normal; and though, somewhat naturally, he was -not over effusive to Jack, that was hardly to be wondered at. - -“And then one morning Jack came to breakfast looking as if he hadn’t -slept very well. I glanced at him curiously, but made no allusion to his -appearance. - -“‘Did you hear that music all through the night?’ he said irritably, -half-way through the meal. ‘Some infernal native playing a pipe or -something just outside my window.’ - -“‘Why didn’t you shout at him to stop?’ I asked. - -“‘I did. And I got up and looked.’ He took a gulp of tea; then he looked -at me as if he were puzzled. - -“‘There was no one there that I could see. Only something black that -moved over the compound, about the size of a kitten.’ - -“‘He was probably just inside the jungle beyond the clearing,’ I said. -‘Heave half a brick at him if you hear it again.’ - -“We said no more, and I dismissed the matter from my mind. I was on the -opposite side of the bungalow, and it would take more than a native -playing on a pipe to keep me awake. But the following night the same -thing happened—and the next, and the next. - -“‘What sort of a noise is it?’ I asked him. ‘Surely to Heaven you’re -sufficiently young and healthy not to be awakened by a bally fellow -whistling?’ - -“‘It isn’t that that wakes me, Hugh,’ he answered slowly. ‘I wake before -it starts. Each night about the same time I suddenly find myself wide -awake—listening. Sometimes it’s ten minutes before it starts—sometimes -almost at once; but it always comes. A faint, sweet whistle—three or -four notes, going on and on—until I think I’ll go mad. It seems to be -calling me.’ - -“‘But why the devil don’t you go and see what it is?’ I cried peevishly. - -“‘Because’—and he stared at me with a shamefaced expression in his -eyes—‘because I daren’t.’ - -“‘Rot!’ I said angrily. ‘Look here, young fellow, nerves are bad things -anywhere—here they’re especially bad. You pull yourself together.’ - -“He flushed all over his face, and shut up like an oyster, which made me -rather sorry I’d spoke so sharply. But one does hear funny noises in the -jungle, and it doesn’t do to become fanciful. - -“And then one evening McAndrew came over to dinner. It was during the -meal that I mentioned Jack’s nocturnal serenader, expecting that Mac -would treat it as lightly as I did. - -“‘Seven times you’ve heard him, Jack, haven’t you,’ I said, ‘and always -the same tune?’ - -“‘Always the same tune,’ he answered quietly. - -“‘Can you whistle it now?’ asked McAndrew, laying down his knife and -fork and staring at Jack. - -“‘Easily,’ said Jack. ‘It goes like this’—and he whistled about six -notes. ‘On and on it goes—never varying——Why, McAndrew, what the -devil is the matter?’ - -“I glanced at McAndrew in amazement; then out of the corner of my eye I -saw the native servant, who was shivering like a jelly. - -“‘Man—are you sure?’ said Mac, and his face was white. - -“‘Of course I’m sure,’ answered Jack quietly. ‘Why?’ - -“‘That tune you whistled—is not good for a white man to hear.’ The -Scotsman seemed strangely uneasy. ‘And ye’ve heard it seven nights? Do -you know it, Walton?’ - -“‘I do not,’ I said grimly. ‘What’s the mystery?’ - -“But McAndrew was shaking his head dourly, and for a while he did not -answer. - -“‘Mind ye,’ he said at length, ‘I’m not saying there’s anything in it at -all, but I would not care to hear that whistled outside my window. I -heard it once—years ago—when I was ’way up in the Arakan Mountains. -Soft and sweet it was—rising and falling in the night air, and going on -ceaselessly. ’Way up above me was a monastery, one into which no white -man has ever been. And the noise was coming from there. I had to go; my -servants wouldn’t stop. And when I asked them why, they told me that the -priests were calling for a sacrifice. If they stopped, they told me, it -might be one of us. That no one could tell how Death would come, or to -whom, but come it must—when the Pipes of Death were heard. And the tune -you whistled, Manderby, was the tune the Pipes of Death were playing.’ - -“‘But that’s all bunkum, Mac,’ I said angrily. ‘We’re not in the Arakans -here.’ - -“‘Maybe,’ he answered doggedly. ‘But I’m a Highlander, and—I would not -care to hear that tune.’ - -“I could see Jack was impressed; as a matter of fact I was myself—more -than I cared to admit. Sounds rot here, I know, but out there, with the -dim-lit forest around one, it was different. - -“McAndrew was stopping with us that night. Jack, with the stubbornness -of the young, had flatly refused to change his room, and turned in -early, while Mac and I sat up talking. And it was not till we went to -bed ourselves that I again alluded to the whistle. - -“‘You don’t really think it meant anything, Mac, do you?’ I asked him, -and he shrugged his shoulders. - -“‘Maybe it is just a native who has heard it,’ he said guardedly, and -further than that he refused to commit himself. - -“I suppose it was about two o’clock when I was awakened by a hand being -thrust through my mosquito curtains. - -“‘Walton, come at once!’ It was McAndrew’s voice, and it was shaking. -‘There’s devil’s work going on, I tell you—devil’s work.’ - -“I was up in a flash, and together we crept along the passage towards -Jack’s room. Almost instinctively I’d picked up a gun, and I held it -ready as we paused by the door. - -“‘Do you hear it?’ whispered Mac a little fearfully, and I nodded. Sweet -and clear the notes rose and fell, on and on and on in the same cadence. -Sometimes the whistler seemed to be far away, at others almost in the -room. - -“‘It’s the tune,’ muttered McAndrew, as we tiptoed towards the bed. ‘The -Pipes of Death. Are ye awake, boy?’ - -“And then he gave a little cry and gripped my arm. - -“‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘what’s that on the pillow beside his -head?’ - -“For a while in the dim light I couldn’t make out. There was something -big and black and motionless on the white pillow, and I crept nearer to -see what it was. And then suddenly seemed to stand still. I saw two -beady, unwinking eyes staring at Jack’s face close by; I saw Jack’s eyes -wide open and sick with terror, staring at the thing which shared his -bed. And still the music went on outside. - -“‘What is it?’ I muttered through dry lips. - -“‘Give me your gun, man,’ whispered McAndrew hoarsely. ‘If the pipes -stop, the boy’s doomed.’ - -“Slowly he raised the gun an inch at a time, pushing the muzzle forward -with infinite care towards the malignant, glowing eyes, until at last -the gun was almost touching its head. And at that moment the music died -away and stopped altogether. I had the momentary glimpse of two black -feelers shooting out towards Jack’s face—then came the crack of the -gun. And with a little sob Jack rolled out of bed and lay on the floor -half-fainting, while the black mass on the pillow writhed and writhed -and then grew still. - -“We struck a light, and stared at what was left of the thing in silence. -And it was Jack who spoke first. - -“‘I woke,’ he said unsteadily, ‘to feel something crawling over me on -the bed. Outside that infernal whistling was going on, and at last I -made out what was—what was——My God!’ he cried thickly, ‘what was it, -Mac—what was it?’ - -“‘Steady, boy!’ said McAndrew. ‘It’s dead now, anyway. But it was touch -and go. I’ve seen ’em bigger than that up in the Arakans. It’s a -bloodsucking, poisonous spider. They’re sacred to some of the sects.’ - -“Suddenly out of the jungle came one dreadful, piercing cry. - -“‘What was that?’ Jack muttered, and McAndrew shook his head. - -“‘Well find out to-morrow,’ he said. ‘There are strange things abroad -to-night.’ - -“We saw the darkness out—the three of us—round a bottle of whisky. - -“‘They’ve been trying to get you for a week, Manderby,’ said the -Scotsman. ‘To-night they very near succeeded.’ - -“‘But why?’ cried Jack. ‘I’ve never done ’em any harm.’ - -“McAndrew shrugged his shoulders. - -“‘Don’t ask me that,’ he answered. ‘Their ways are not our ways.’ - -“‘Has that brute been in my room every night?’ the boy asked. - -“‘Every night,’ answered McAndrew gravely. ‘Probably two of them. They -hunt them in pairs. They starve ’em, and then, when the music stops, -they feed.’ He thoughtfully poured out some more whisky. - -“And then at last came the dawn, and we went out to investigate. It was -Jack who found him. The face was puffed and horrible, and as we -approached, something black, about the size of a big kitten, moved away -from the body and shambled sluggishly into the undergrowth. - -“‘You’re safe, boy,’ said McAndrew slowly. ‘It was not the priests at -all. Just murder—plain murder.’ - -“And with that he took his handkerchief and covered the dreadful, -staring eyes of Rupert Morrison.” - - - - - - -_V_ _The Soldier’s Story, being A Bit of Orange Peel_ - - - -“YOU can set your minds at rest about one thing, you fellows,” began the -Soldier, with a grin. “My yarn isn’t about the war. There have been -quite enough lies told already about that performance without my adding -to the number. No; my story concerns peace soldiering, and, strangely -enough, I had an ocular demonstration when dining at the Ritz two nights -ago that everything had finished up quite satisfactorily, in the -approved story-book manner. At least, when I say quite -satisfactorily—there was a price, and it was paid by one of the -principal actors. But that is the unchangeable rule: one can but shrug -one’s shoulders and pay accordingly. - -“The regiment—I was a squadron-leader at the time—was quartered at -Murchester. Not a bad station at all: good shooting, very fair hunting, -especially if you didn’t scorn the carted stag, polo, and most excellent -cricket. Also some delightful houses in the neighbourhood; and as we’d -just come home from our foreign tour we found the place greatly to our -liking. London was an hour and a bit by train; in fact, there are many -worse stations in England than the spot I have labelled Murchester. - -“The only fly in the ointment when we first arrived was a fairly natural -one, and a thing which only time could cure. The men were a bit restive. -We’d been abroad, don’t forget, for more than ten years—India, Egypt, -South Africa—and the feel of the old country under their feet unsettled -’em temporarily. Nothing very bad, but an epidemic of absence without -leave and desertion broke out, and the officers had to settle down to -pull things together. Continual courts-martial for desertion don’t do a -regiment any good with the powers that be, and we had to stop it. - -“Of course, one of the first things to look to, when any trouble of that -sort is occurring, is the general type and standard of your N.C.O.’s. In -my squadron they were good, though just a little on the young side. I -remember one day I discussed the matter pretty thoroughly with the -squadron sergeant-major—an absolute top-notcher. - -“‘They’re all right, sir,’ he said. ‘In another two or three years there -will be none better in the British Army. Especially Trevor.’ - -“‘Ah! Sergeant-Major,’ I said, looking him straight in the face, ‘you -think Trevor is a good man, do you?’ - -“‘The best we’ve got, sir,’ he answered quietly, and he stared straight -back at me. - -“‘You weren’t so sure when he first came,’ I reminded him. - -“‘Well, I reckon there was a bit of jealousy, sir,’ he replied, ‘his -coming in from the link regiment over a good many of the chaps’ heads. -But he’s been with us now three months—and we know him better.’ - -“‘I wish I could say the same,’ I answered. ‘He defeats me, does -Sergeant Trevor.’ - -“The Sergeant-Major smiled quietly. ‘Does he, sir? I shouldn’t have -thought he would have. That there bloke Kipling has written about the -likes of Trevor.’ - -“‘Kipling has written a good deal about the Army,’ I said, with an -answering smile. ‘Mulvaney and Co. are classics.’ - -“‘It’s not Mulvaney I’m meaning, sir,’ he answered. ‘But didn’t he write -a little bit of poetry about “Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree”?’ - -“‘Why, yes, he did.’ I lit a cigarette thoughtfully. ‘I’d guessed that -much, Manfield. Is Trevor his real name?’ - -“‘I don’t know, sir,’ and at that moment the subject of our discussion -walked past and saluted. - -“‘Sergeant Trevor,’ I called after him, on the spur of the moment, and -he came up at the double. I hadn’t anything really to say to him, but -ever since he’d joined us he’d puzzled me, and though, as the -sergeant-major said, the other non-commissioned officers might know him -better, I certainly didn’t. - -“‘You’re a bit of a cricketer, aren’t you?’ I said, as he came up. - -“A faint smile flickered across his face at my question. ‘I used to play -quite a lot, sir,’ he answered. - -“‘Good; we want to get games going really strong.’ I talked with them -both—squadron ‘shop’—a bit longer, and all the time I was trying to -probe behind the impassive mask of Trevor’s face. Incidentally, I think -he knew it; once or twice I caught a faint gleam of amusement in his -eyes—a gleam that seemed to me a little weary. And when I left them and -went across the parade ground towards the mess, his face haunted me. I -hadn’t probed—not the eighth of an inch; he was still as much a mystery -as ever. But he’d got a pair of deep blue eyes, and though I wasn’t a -girl to be attracted by a man’s eyes, I couldn’t get his out of my mind. -They baffled me; the man himself baffled me—and I’ve always disliked -being baffled. - -“It was a few nights after, in mess, that the next piece in the puzzle -came along. We had in the regiment—he was killed in the war, poor -devil!—a fellow of the name of Blenton, a fairly senior captain. He -wasn’t in my squadron, and his chief claim to notoriety was as a -cricketer. Had he been able to play regularly he would have been easily -up to first-class form—as it was he periodically turned out for the -county; but he used to go in first wicket down for the Army. So you can -gather his sort of form. - -“It was over the port that the conversation cropped up, and it -interested me because it was about Trevor. As far as cricket was -concerned I hardly knew which end of a bat one held. - -“‘Dog-face has got a winner,’ I heard Blenton say across the table. I -may say that I answered to that tactful sobriquet, for reasons into -which we need not enter. ‘One Sergeant Trevor in your squadron, old -boy,’ he turned to me. ‘I was watching him at the nets to-night.’ - -“‘Is he any good?’ I said. - -“‘My dear fellow,’ answered Blenton, deliberately, ‘he is out and away -the best bat we’ve had in the regiment for years. He’s up to Army form!’ - -“‘Who’s that?’ demanded the commanding officer, sitting up and taking -notice at once. - -“‘Sergeant Trevor in B squadron, Colonel,’ said Blenton. ‘I was watching -him this evening at nets. Of course, the bowling was tripe, but he’s in -a completely different class to the average soldier cricketer.’ - -“‘Did you talk to him?’ I asked, curiously. - -“‘I did. And he struck me as being singularly uncommunicative. Asked him -where he learnt his cricket, and he hummed and hawed, and finally said -he’d played a lot in his village before joining the Army. I couldn’t -quite make him out, Dog-face. And why the devil didn’t he play for us -out in Jo’burg?’ - -“‘Because he only joined a couple of months before we sailed,’ I -answered. ‘Came with that last draft we got.’ - -“‘Well, I wish we had a few more trained in his village,’ said Blenton. -‘We could do with them.’ - -“After mess, I tackled Philip Blenton in the ante-room. - -“‘What’s your candid opinion of Trevor, Philip?’ I demanded. - -“He stopped on his way to play bridge, and bit the end off his cigar. - -“‘As a cricketer,’ he said, ‘or as a man?’ - -“‘Both,’ I answered. - -“‘Well, my candid opinion is that he learned his game at a first-class -public school,’ he replied. ‘And I am further of the opinion, from the -few words I spoke to him, that one would have expected to find him here -and not in the Sergeants’ Mess. What’s his story? Do you know?’ - -“‘I don’t,’ I shook my head. ‘Haven’t an idea. But you’ve confirmed my -own impressions.’ - -“And there I had to leave it for some months. Periodically I talked to -Trevor, deliberately tried to trap him into some admission which would -give me a clue to his past, but he was as wary as a fox and as close as -an oyster. I don’t know why I took the trouble—after all, it was his -business entirely, but the fellow intrigued me. He was such an -extraordinarily fine N.C.O., and there was never a sign of his hitting -the bottle, which is the end of a good many gentlemen-rankers. Moreover, -he didn’t strike me as a fellow who had come a cropper, which is the -usual cause of his kind. - -“And then one day, when I least expected it, the problem began to solve -itself. Philip Blenton rang me up in the morning after breakfast, from a -house in the neighbourhood, where he was staying for a couple of two-day -matches. Could I possibly spare Sergeant Trevor for the first of them? -Against the I Z., who had brought down a snorting team, and Carter—the -Oxford blue—had failed the local eleven at the last moment. If I -couldn’t they’d have to rake in one of the gardeners, but they weren’t -too strong as it was. - -“So I sent for Trevor, and asked him if he’d care to play. I saw his -eyes gleam for a moment; then he shook his head. - -“‘I think not, thank you, sir,’ he said, quietly. - -“‘It’s not quite like you to let Captain Blenton down, Trevor,’ I -remarked. ‘He’s relying on you.’ - -“I knew it was the right note to take with him, and I was very keen on -his playing. I was going out myself that afternoon to watch, and I -wanted to see him in different surroundings. We argued for a bit—I knew -he was as keen as mustard in one way to play—and after a while he said -he would. Then he went out of the office, and as it happened I followed -him. There was an old cracked mirror in the passage outside, and as I -opened the door he had just shut behind him, I had a glimpse of Sergeant -Trevor examining his face in the glass. He’d got his hand so placed that -it blotted out his moustache, and he seemed very intent on his -reflection. Then he saw me, and for a moment or two we stared at one -another in silence. Squadron-leader and troop-sergeant had gone; we were -just two men, and the passage was empty. And I acted on a sudden -impulse, and clapped him on the back. - -“‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ I cried. ‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t -be recognised?’ - -“‘Nothing shady, Major,’ he answered, quietly. ‘But if one starts on a -certain course, it’s best to go through with it!’ - -“At that moment the pay-sergeant appeared, and Trevor pulled himself -together, saluted smartly, and was gone. - -“I suppose these things are planned out beforehand,” went on the -Soldier, thoughtfully. “To call it all blind chance seems a well-nigh -impossible solution to me. And yet the cynic would assuredly laugh at -connecting a child eating an orange in a back street in Oxford, and the -death while fishing in Ireland of one of the greatest-hearted men that -ever lived. But unless that child had eaten that orange, and left the -peel on the pavement for Carter, the Oxford blue, to slip on and sprain -his ankle, the events I am going to relate would, in all probability, -never have taken place. However, since delving too deeply into cause and -effect inevitably produces insanity, I’d better get on with it. - -“I turned up about three o’clock at Crosby Hall, along with four or five -other fellows from the regiment. Usual sort of stunt—marquee and -lemonade, with whisky in the background for the hopeless cases. The I Z. -merchants were in the field, and Trevor was batting. There was an Eton -boy in with him, and the score was two hundred odd for five wickets. -Philip Blenton lounged up as soon as he saw me, grinning all over his -face. - -“‘Thank Heaven you let him come, old man! He’s pulled eighty of the best -out of his bag already, and doesn’t look like getting out.’ - -“‘He wouldn’t come at first, Philip,’ I said, and he stared at me in -surprise. ‘I think he was afraid of being recognised.’ - -“A burst of applause greeted a magnificent drive past cover-point, and -for a while we watched the game in silence, until another long round of -cheering announced that Sergeant Trevor had got his century. As I’ve -said before, I’m no cricketer, but there was no need to be an expert to -realise that he was something out of the way. He was treating the -by-no-means-indifferent I Z. bowling with the utmost contempt, and old -Lord Apson, our host, was beside himself with joy. He was a cricket -maniac; his week was an annual fixture; and for the first time for many -years he saw his team really putting it across the I Z. And it was just -as I was basking in a little reflected glory that I saw a very dear old -friend of mine arrive in the enclosure, accompanied by a perfectly -charming girl. - -“‘Why, Yeverley, old man!’ I cried, ‘how are you?’ - -“‘Dog-face, as I live!’ he shouted, seizing me by both hands. -‘Man-alive, I’m glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my wife; Doris, -this is Major Chilham—otherwise Dog-face.’ - -“I shook hands with the girl, who was standing smiling beside him, and -for a while we stopped there talking. He was fifteen years or so older -than I, and had left the service as a Captain, but we both came from the -same part of the country, and in days gone by I’d known him very well -indeed. His marriage had taken place four years previously while I was -abroad, and now, meeting his wife for the first time, I recalled bit by -bit the gossip I’d heard in letters I got from home. How to everyone’s -amazement he’d married a girl young enough to be his daughter; how -everybody had prophesied disaster, and affirmed that she was not half -good enough for one of the elect like Giles Yeverley; how she’d been -engaged to someone else and thrown him over. And yet as I looked at them -both it struck me that the Jeremiahs had as usual been completely wrong: -certainly nothing could exceed the dog-like devotion in Giles’s eyes -whenever he looked at his wife. - -“We strolled over to find some easy chairs, and he fussed round her as -if she was an invalid. She took it quite naturally and calmly with a -faint and charming smile, and when he finally bustled away to talk to -Apson, leaving me alone with her, she was still smiling. - -“‘You know Giles well?’ she said. - -“‘Awfully well,’ I answered. ‘And having now returned from my sojourn in -the wilds, I hope I shall get to know his wife equally well.’ - -“‘That’s very nice of you, Dog-face’—she turned and looked at me—and, -by Jove, she was pretty. ‘If you’re anything like Giles—you must be a -perfect dear.’ - -“Now I like that sort of a remark when it’s made in the right way. It -establishes a very pleasant footing at once, with no danger of -miconstruction—like getting on good terms with a new horse the moment -you put your feet in the irons, instead of messing around for half the -hunt. Anyway, for the next ten minutes or so I didn’t pay very much -attention to the cricket. I gathered that there was one small son—Giles -junior—who was the apple of his father’s eye; and that at the moment a -heavy love affair was in progress between the young gentleman aged three -and the General’s daughter, who was as much as four, and showed no shame -over the matter whatever. Also that Giles and she were stopping with the -General and his wife for a week or ten days. - -“And it was at that stage of the proceedings that a prolonged burst of -applause made us look at the cricket. Sergeant Trevor was apparently -out—how I hadn’t an idea—and was half-way between the wickets and the -tent next to the one in which we were sitting, and which Apson always -had erected for the local villagers and their friends. I saw them put up -one hundred and twenty-five on the board as Trevor’s score, and did my -share in the clapping line. - -“‘A fine player—that fellow,’ I said, following him with my eyes. -‘Don’t know much about the game myself, but the experts tell me——’ And -at that moment I saw her face, and stopped abruptly. She had gone very -white, and her knuckles were gleaming like the ivory on the handle of -her parasol. - -“‘Major Chilham,’ she said—and her voice was the tensest thing I’ve -ever heard—‘who is that man who has just come out?’ - -“‘Trevor is his name,’ I answered, quietly. ‘He’s one of the -troop-sergeants in my squadron.’ I was looking at her curiously, as the -colour slowly came back to her face. ‘Why? Did you think you knew him?’ - -“‘He reminded me of someone I knew years ago,’ she said, sitting back in -her chair. ‘But of course I must have been mistaken.’ - -“And then rather abruptly she changed the conversation, though every now -and then she glanced towards the next tent, as if trying to see Trevor. -And sitting beside her I realised that there was something pretty -serious in the wind. She was on edge, though she was trying not to show -it—and Trevor was the cause, or the man who called himself Trevor. All -my curiosity came back, though I made no allusion to him; I was content -to await further developments. - -“They weren’t long in coming. The house team, with the respectable total -of three hundred and fifty odd, were all out by tea-time, and both -elevens forgathered in the tent behind. All, that is, except Trevor, who -remained in the other until Apson himself went and pulled him out. I -watched the old man, with his cheery smile, take Trevor by the elbow and -literally drag him out of his chair; I watched Trevor in his blue -undress jacket, smart as be damned, coming towards us with our host. And -then very deliberately I looked at Giles Yeverley’s wife. She was -staring over my head at the two men; then she lowered her parasol. - -“‘So you weren’t mistaken after all, Mrs. Giles,’ I said, quietly. - -“‘No, Dog-face, I wasn’t,’ she answered. ‘Would you get hold of Giles -for me, and tell him I’d like to get back. Say I’m not feeling very -well.’ - -“I got up at once and went in search of her husband. I found him talking -to the Zingari captain and Sergeant Trevor. He seemed quite excited, -appealing as he spoke to the I Z. skipper, while Trevor stood by -listening with a faint smile. - -“‘What he says is quite right, Sergeant Trevor,’ remarked the Zingari -man as I came up. ‘If you cared to consider it—you are absolutely up to -the best county form. Of course, I don’t know about your residential -qualifications, but that can generally be fixed.’ - -“‘Dog-face,’ cried Yeverley, as soon as he saw me, ‘he’s in your -squadron, isn’t he? Well, it’s so long since I left the Army that I’ve -forgotten all about discipline—but I tell you here—right now in front -of him—that Sergeant Trevor ought to chuck soldiering and take up -professional cricket. Bimbo here agrees with me.’ - -“‘Giles, you’ll burst your waistcoat if you get so excited,’ I remarked, -casually. ‘And, incidentally, Mrs. Yeverley wants to go home.’ - -“As I said the name I looked at Trevor, and my last doubt vanished. He -gave a sudden start, which Giles, who had immediately torn off to his -wife, didn’t see, and proceeded to back into the farthest corner of the -tea-tent. But once again old Apson frustrated him. Not for him the -endless pauses and waits of first-class cricket; five minutes to roll -the pitch and he was leading his team into the field. Trevor had to go -from his sanctuary, and there was only one exit from the enclosure in -front of the tent. - -“They met—Mrs. Giles and Trevor—actually at that exit. By the irony of -things, I think it was Giles who caused the meeting. He hurried forward -as he saw Trevor going out, and caught him by the arm; dear old -chap!—he was cricket mad if ever a man was. And so blissfully -unconscious of the other, bigger thing going on right under his nose. - -“‘Don’t you forget what I said, Trevor,’ he said, earnestly. ‘Any county -would be glad to have you. I’m going to talk to Major Chilham about it -seriously.’ - -“And I doubt if Trevor heard a word. Over Giles’s shoulder he was -staring at Giles’s wife—and she was staring back at him, while her -breast rose and fell in little gasps, and it seemed to me that her lips -were trembling. Then it was over; Trevor went out to field—Giles -bustled back to his wife. And I, being a hopeless case, went in search -of alcohol.” - -The Soldier paused to light another cigar. - -“He carried out his threat, did Giles with regard to me. Two or three -days later I lunched with the General, and it seemed to me that we never -got off the subject of Trevor. It wasn’t only his opinion; had not Bimbo -Lawrence, the I Z. captain, and one of the shrewdest judges of cricket -in England, agreed with him? And so on without cessation about Trevor, -the cricketer, while on the opposite side of the table, next to me, sat -his wife, who could not get beyond Trevor, the man. Once or twice she -glanced at me appealingly, as if to say: ‘For God’s sake, stop -him!’—but it was a task beyond my powers. I made one or two abortive -attempts, and then I gave it up. The situation was beyond me; one could -only let him ramble on and pray for the end of lunch. - -“And then he left the cricket and came to personalities. - -“‘Know anything about him, Dog-face?’ he asked. ‘Up at old Apson’s place -he struck me as being a gentleman. Anyway, he’s a darned nice fellow. -Wonder why he enlisted?’ - -“‘Oh, Giles, for goodness’ sake, let’s try another topic?’ said his -wife, suddenly. ‘We’ve had Sergeant Trevor since lunch began.’ - -“Poor old Giles looked at her in startled surprise, and she gave him a -quick smile which robbed her words of their irritability. But I could -see she was on the rack, and though I didn’t know the real facts, it -wasn’t hard to make a shrewd guess as to the cause. - -“It was just before we rose from the table, I remember, that she said to -me under the cover of the general conversation: ‘My God! Dog-face—it’s -not fair.’ - -“‘Will you tell me?’ I answered. ‘I might help.’ - -“‘Perhaps I will some day,’ she said, quietly. ‘But you can’t help; no -one can do that. It was my fault all through, and the only thing that -matters now is that Giles should never know.’ - -“I don’t quite know why she suddenly confided in me, even to that -extent. I suppose with her woman’s intuition she realised that I’d -guessed something, and it helps to get a thing off one’s chest at times. -Evidently it had been an unexpected meeting, and I cursed myself for -having made him play. And yet how could one have foretold? It was just a -continuation of the jig-saw started by that damned bit of orange peel. -As she said, all that mattered was that Giles—dear old chap!—should -never know.” - -The Soldier smiled a little sadly. “So do the humans propose; but the -God that moves the pieces frequently has different ideas. He did—that -very afternoon. It was just as I was going that two white-faced nurses -clutching two scared children appeared on the scene and babbled -incoherently. And then the General’s groom hove in sight—badly cut -across the face and shaky at the knees—and from him we got the story. - -“They’d started off in the General’s dogcart to go to some children’s -party, and something had frightened the horse, which had promptly -bolted. I knew the brute—a great raking black, though the groom, who -was a first-class whip, generally had no difficulty in managing him. But -on this occasion apparently he’d got clean away along the road into the -town. He might have got the horse under control after a time, when, to -his horror, he saw that the gates were closed at the railway crossing in -front. And it was at that moment that a man—one of the sergeants from -the barracks—had dashed out suddenly from the pavement and got to the -horse’s head. He was trampled on badly, but he hung on—and the horse -had ceased to bolt when they crashed into the gates. The shafts were -smashed, but nothing more. And the horse wasn’t hurt. And they’d carried -away the sergeant on an improvised stretcher. No; he hadn’t spoken. He -was unconscious. - -“‘Which sergeant was it?’ I asked, quietly—though I knew the answer -before the groom gave it. - -“‘Sergeant Trevor, sir,’ he said. ‘B squadron.’ - -“‘Is he—is he badly hurt?’ said the girl, and her face was ashen. - -“‘I dunno, mum,’ answered the groom. ‘They took ’im off to the -’orspital, and I was busy with the ’orse.’ - -“‘I’ll ring up, if I may, General,’ I said, and he nodded. - -“I spoke to Purvis, the R.A.M.C. fellow, and his voice was very grave. -They’d brought Trevor in still unconscious, and, though he wouldn’t -swear to it at the moment, he was afraid his back was broken. But he -couldn’t tell absolutely for certain until he came to. I hung up the -receiver and found Mrs. Giles standing behind me. She said nothing—but -just waited for me to speak. - -“‘Purvis doesn’t know for certain,’ I said, taking both her hands in -mine. ‘But there’s a possibility, my dear, that his back is broken.’ - -“She was a thoroughbred, that girl. She didn’t make a fuss or cry out; -she just looked me straight in the face and nodded her head once or -twice. - -“‘I must go to him, of course,’ she said, gravely. ‘Will you arrange it -for me, please?’ - -“‘He’s unconscious still,’ I told her. - -“‘Then I must be beside him when he comes to,’ she answered. ‘Even if -there was nothing else—he’s saved my baby’s life.’ - -“‘I’ll take you in my car,’ I said, when I saw that she was absolutely -determined. ‘Leave it all to me.’ - -“‘I must see him alone, Dog-face.’ She paused by the door, with her -handkerchief rolled into a tight little ball in her hand. ‘I want to -know that he’s forgiven me.’ - -“‘You shall see him alone if it’s humanly possible,’ I answered gravely, -and at that she was gone. - -“I don’t quite know how I did it, but somehow or other I got her away -from the General’s house without Giles knowing. Giles junior was quite -unhurt, and disposed to regard the entire thing as an entertainment got -up especially for his benefit. And when she’d made sure of that, and -kissed him passionately to his intense disgust, she slipped away with me -in the car. - -“‘You mustn’t be disappointed,’ I warned her as we drove along, ‘if you -can’t see him alone. He may have been put into a ward with other men.’ - -“‘Then they must put some screens round him,’ she whispered. ‘I must -kiss him before—before——.’ She didn’t complete the sentence; but it -wasn’t necessary. - -“We didn’t speak again until I turned in at the gates of the hospital. -And then I asked her a question which had been on the tip of my tongue a -dozen times. - -“‘Who is he—really?’ - -“‘Jimmy Dallas is his name,’ she answered, quietly. ‘We were engaged. -And then his father lost all his money. He thought that was why—why I -was beastly to him—but oh! Dog-face, it wasn’t at all. I thought he was -fond of another girl—and it was all a mistake. I found it out too late. -And then Jimmy had disappeared—and I’d married Giles. Up at that -cricket match was the first time I’d seen him since my wedding.’ - -“We drew up at the door, and I got out. It’s the little tragedies, the -little misunderstandings, that are so pitiful, and in all conscience -this was a case in point. A boy and a girl—each too proud to explain, -or ask for an explanation; and now the big tragedy. God! it seemed so -futile. - -“I left her sitting in the car, and went in search of Purvis. I found -him with Trevor—I still thought of him under that name—and he was -conscious again. The doctor looked up as I tiptoed in, and shook his -head at me warningly. So I waited, and after a while Purvis left the bed -and drew me out into the passage. - -“‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘He’s so infernally bruised and messed about. -His left arm is broken in two places, and three ribs—and I’m afraid his -back as well. He seems so numb. But I can’t be certain.’ - -“‘Mrs. Yeverley is here,’ I said. ‘The mother of one of the kids he -saved. She wants to see him.’ - -“‘Out of the question,’ snapped Purvis. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’ - -“‘But you mustn’t forbid it, Doctor.’ We both swung round, to see the -girl herself standing behind us. ‘I’ve got to see him. There are other -reasons besides his having saved my baby’s life.’ - -“‘They must wait, Mrs. Yeverley,’ answered the Doctor. ‘In a case of -this sort the only person I would allow to see him would be his wife.’ - -“‘If I hadn’t been a fool,’ she said deliberately, ‘I should have been -his wife,’ and Purvis’s jaw dropped. - -“Without another word she swept past him into the ward, and Purvis stood -there gasping. - -“‘Well, I’m damned!’ he muttered, and I couldn’t help smiling. It was -rather a startling statement to come from a woman stopping with the -G.O.C. about a sergeant in a cavalry regiment. - -“And then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, came the final turn in the -wheel. I was strolling up and down outside with Purvis, who was a sahib -as well as a Doctor and had asked no questions. - -“‘If his back is broken it can’t hurt him,’ he had remarked, ‘and if it -isn’t it will do him good.’ - -“At that we had left it, when suddenly, to my horror, I saw Giles -himself going into the hospital. - -“‘Good Lord, Doc!’ I cried, sprinting after him, ‘that’s her husband. -And he doesn’t know she’s here.’ - -“But a lot can happen in a few seconds, and I was just a few seconds too -late. As I got to the door I saw Giles in front of me—standing at the -entrance to the ward as if he had been turned to stone. A big screen hid -the bed from sight—but a screen is not sound proof. He looked at me as -I came up, and involuntarily I stopped as I saw his face. And then quite -clearly from the room beyond came his wife’s voice. - -“‘My darling, darling boy!—it’s you and only you for ever and ever!’ - -“I don’t quite know how much Giles had guessed before. I think he knew -about her previous engagement, but I’m quite sure he had never -associated Trevor with it. A year or two later she told me that when she -married him she had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had -loved another man—and loved him still. And Giles had taken her on those -terms. But at the time I didn’t know that: I only knew that a very dear -friend’s world had crashed about his head with stunning suddenness. It -was Giles who pulled himself together first—Giles, with a face grey and -lined, who said in a loud voice to me: ‘Well, Dog-face, where is the -invalid?’ - -“And then he waited a moment or two before he went round the screen. - -“‘Ah! my dear,’ he said, quite steadily, as he saw his wife, ‘you here?’ - -“He played his part for ten minutes, stiff-lipped and without a falter; -then he went, and his wife went with him to continue the play in which -they were billed for life. Trevor’s back was not broken—in a couple of -months he was back at duty. And so it might have continued for the -duration, but for Giles being drowned fishing in Ireland.” - -The Soldier stared thoughtfully at the fire. - -“He was a first-class fisherman and a wonderful swimmer, was Giles -Yeverley, and sometimes—I wonder. They say he got caught in a -bore—that perhaps he got cramp. But, as I say, sometimes—I wonder. - -“I saw them—Jimmy Dallas, sometime Sergeant Trevor, and his wife—at -the Ritz two nights ago. They seemed wonderfully in love, though they’d -been married ten years, and I stopped by their table. - -“‘Sit down, Dog-face,’ she ordered, ‘and have a liqueur.’ - -“So I sat down and had a liqueur. And it was just as I was going that -she looked at me with her wonderful smile, and said, very softly: ‘Thank -God! dear old Giles never knew; and now, if he does, he’ll understand.’” - -The Soldier got up and stretched himself. - -“A big result for a bit of yellow peel.” - - - - - - -_VI_ _The Writer’s Story, being The House at Appledore_ - - - -“I’M not certain, strictly speaking, that my story can be said to -concern my trade,” began the Writer, after he had seen his guests were -comfortable. “But it happened—this little adventure of mine—as the -direct result of pursuing my trade, so I will interpret the rule -accordingly. - -“My starting-point is the Largest Pumpkin Ever Produced in Kent. It was -the sort of pumpkin which gets a photograph all to itself in the -illustrated papers—the type of atrocity which is utterly useless to any -human being. And yet that large and unpleasant vegetable proved the -starting-point of the most exciting episode in my somewhat prosaic life. -In fact, but for very distinct luck, that pumpkin would have been -responsible for my equally prosaic funeral.’ The Writer smiled -reminiscently. - -“It was years ago, in the days before a misguided public began to read -my books and supply me with the necessary wherewithal to keep the wolf -from the door. But I was young and full of hope, and Fleet Street seemed -a very wonderful place. From which you can infer that I was a -journalist, and candour compels me to admit—a jolly bad one. Not that I -realised it at the time. I regarded my Editor’s complete lack of -appreciation of my merits as being his misfortune, not my fault. -However, I pottered around, doing odd jobs and having the felicity of -seeing my carefully penned masterpieces completely obscured by blue -pencil and reduced to two lines. - -“Then one morning I was sent for to the inner sanctuary. Now, although I -had the very lowest opinion of the Editor’s abilities, I knew sufficient -of the office routine to realise that such a summons was unlikely to -herald a rise of screw with parchment certificate of appreciation for -services rendered. It was far more likely to herald the order of the -boot—and the prospect was not very rosy. Even in those days Fleet -Street was full of unemployed journalists who knew more than their -editors. - -“The news editor was in the office when I walked in, and he was a kindly -man, was old Andrews. He looked at me from under his great bushy -eyebrows for a few moments without speaking; then he pointed to a chair. - -“‘Graham,’ he remarked in a deep bass voice, ‘are you aware that this -paper has never yet possessed a man on its staff that writes such -unutterable slush as you do?’ - -“I remained discreetly silent; to dissent seemed tactless, to agree, -unnecessary. - -“‘What do you propose to do about it?’ he continued after a while. - -“I told him that I hadn’t realised I was as bad as all that, but that I -would do my best to improve my style and give satisfaction in the -future. - -“‘It’s not so much your style,’ he conceded. ‘Years ago I knew a man -whose style was worse. Only a little—but it was worse. But it’s your -nose for news, my boy—that’s the worst thing that ever came into Fleet -Street. Now, what were you doing yesterday?’ - -“‘I was reporting that wedding at the Brompton Oratory, sir,’ I told -him. - -“‘Just so,’ he answered. ‘And are you aware that in a back street not -three hundred yards from the church a man died through eating a surfeit -of winkles, as the result of a bet? Actually while you were there did -that man die by the winkle-barrow—and you knew nothing about it. I’m -not denying that your report on the wedding isn’t fair—but the public -is entitled to know about the dangers of winkle-eating to excess. Not -that the rights of the public matter in the least, but it’s the -principle I want to impress on you—the necessity of keeping your eyes -open for other things beside the actual job you’re on. That’s what makes -the good journalist.’ - -“I assured him that I would do so in future, and he grunted -non-committally. Then he began rummaging in a drawer, while I waited in -trepidation. - -“‘We’ll give you a bit longer, Graham,’ he announced at length, and I -breathed freely again. ‘But if there is no improvement you’ll have to -go. And in the meantime I’ve got a job for you this afternoon. Some -public-spirited benefactor has inaugurated an agricultural fête in Kent, -somewhere near Ashford. From what I can gather, he seems partially -wanting in intelligence, but it takes people all ways. He is giving -prizes for the heaviest potato and the largest egg—though I am unable -to see what the hen’s activity has to do with her owner. And I want you -to go down and write it up. Half a column. Get your details right. I -believe there is a treatise on soils and manures in the office -somewhere. And put in a paragraph about the paramount importance of the -Englishman getting back to the land. Not that it will have any effect, -but it might help to clear Fleet Street.’ - -“He was already engrossed in something else, and dismissed me with a -wave of his hand. And it was just as I got to the door that he called -after me to send Cresswill to him—Cresswill, the star of all the -special men. His reception, I reflected a little bitterly as I went in -search of him, would be somewhat different from mine. For he had got to -the top of the tree, and was on a really big job at the time. He did all -the criminal work—murder trials and so forth, and how we youngsters -envied him! Perhaps, in time, one might reach those dazzling heights, I -reflected, as I sat in my third-class carriage on the way to Ashford. -Not for him mammoth tubers and double-yolkers—but the things that -really counted. - -“I got out at Ashford, where I had to change. My destination was -Appledore, and the connection on was crowded with people obviously -bound, like myself, for the agricultural fête. It was a part of Kent to -which I had never been, and when I got out at Appledore station I found -I was in the flat Romney Marsh country which stretches inland from -Dungeness. Houses are few and far between, except in the actual villages -themselves—the whole stretch of land, of course, must once have been -below sea-level—and the actual fête was being held in a large field on -the outskirts of Appledore. It was about a mile from the station, and I -proceeded to walk. - -“The day was warm, the road was dusty—and I, I am bound to admit, was -bored. I felt I was destined for better things than reporting on bucolic -flower shows, much though I loved flowers. But I like them in their -proper place, growing—not arranged for show in a stuffy tent and -surrounded by perspiring humanity. And so when I came to the gates of a -biggish house and saw behind them a garden which was a perfect riot of -colour, involuntarily I paused and looked over. - -“The house itself stood back about a hundred yards from the road—a -charming old place covered with creepers, and the garden was lovely. A -little neglected, perhaps—I could see a respectable number of weeds in -a bed of irises close to the drive—but then it was quite a large -garden. Probably belonged to some family that could not afford a big -staff, I reflected, and that moment I saw a man staring at me from -between some shrubs a few yards away. - -“There was no reason why he shouldn’t stare at me—he was inside the -gate and presumably had more right to the garden than I had—but there -was something about him that made me return the stare, in silence, for a -few moments. Whether it was his silent approach over the grass and -unexpected appearance, or whether it was that instinctively he struck me -as an incongruous type of individual to find in such a sleepy locality, -I can’t say. Or, perhaps, it was a sudden lightning impression of -hostile suspicion on his part, as if he resented anyone daring to look -over his gate. - -“Then he came towards me, and I felt I had to say something. But even as -I spoke the thought flashed across my mind that he would have appeared -far more at home in a London bar than in a rambling Appledore garden. - -“‘I was admiring your flowers,’ I said as he came up. ‘Your irises are -wonderful.’ - -“He looked vaguely at some lupins, then his intent gaze came back to me. - -“‘The garden is well known locally,’ he remarked. ‘Are you a member of -these parts?’ - -“‘No,’ I answered, ‘I come from London,’ and it seemed to me his gaze -grew more intent. - -“‘I am only a bird of passage, too,’ he said easily. ‘Are you just down -for the day?’ - -“I informed him that I had come down to write up the local fête; being -young and foolish, I rather think I implied that only the earnest -request of the organiser for me in particular had persuaded the editor -to dispense with my invaluable services even for a few hours. And all -the time his eyes, black and inscrutable, never left my face. - -“‘The show is being held in a field about a quarter of a mile farther -on,’ he said when I had finished. ‘Good morning.’ - -“He turned abruptly on his heels and walked slowly away towards the -house, leaving me a little annoyed, and with a feeling that not only had -I been snubbed, but, worse still, had been seen through. I felt that I -had failed to convince him that editors tore their hair and bit their -nails when they failed to secure my services; I felt, indeed, just that -particular type of ass that one does feel when one has boasted -vaingloriously, and been listened to with faintly amused boredom. I know -that as I resumed my walk towards the agricultural fête I endeavoured to -restore my self-respect by remembering that he was merely a glorified -yokel, who probably knew no better.” - -The Writer leant back in his chair with a faint smile. - -“That awful show still lives in my memory,” he continued after a while. -“There were swing boats, and one of those ghastly shows where horses go -round and round with a seasick motion and ‘The Blue Bells of Scotland’ -emerges without cessation from the bowels of the machine. There were -coco-nut shies and people peering through horse-collars to have their -photographs taken, and over everything an all-pervading aroma of -humanity unsuitably clad in its Sunday best on a warm day. However, the -job had to be done, so I bravely plunged into the marquees devoted to -the competing vegetables. I listened to the experts talking around me -with the idea of getting the correct local colour, but as most of their -remarks were incomprehensible, I soon gave that up as a bad job and -began looking about me. - -“There were potatoes and carrots and a lot of things which I may have -eaten, but completely failed to recognise in a raw state. And then -suddenly, through a gap in the asparagus, I saw a vast yellowy-green -object. It seemed about four times the size of an ordinary Rugby -football, and a steady stream of people circled slowly round it and an -ancient man, who periodically groomed it with a vast coloured -handkerchief. So I steered a zigzag course between a watery-eyed duck on -my right and a hand-holding couple on my left, and joined the stream. At -close quarters it seemed even vaster than when viewed from the other -side of the tent, and after I’d made the grand tour twice, I thought I’d -engage the ancient man in conversation. Unfortunately, he was stone -deaf, and his speech was a little indistinct owing to a regrettable -absence of teeth, so we managed between us to rivet the fascinated -attention of every human being in the tent. In return for the -information that it was the largest pumpkin ever produced in Kent, I -volunteered that I had come from London specially to write about it. He -seemed a bit hazy about London, but when I told him it was larger than -Appledore he appeared fairly satisfied that his pumpkin would obtain -justice. - -“He also launched into a voluble discourse, which was robbed of much of -its usefulness by his habit of holding his false teeth in position with -his thumb as he spoke. Luckily a local interpreter was at hand, and from -him I gathered that the old man was eighty-five, and had never been -farther afield than Ashford, forty-eight years ago. Also that he was -still gardener at Cedarlime, a house which I must have passed on my way -from the station. Standing well back it was: fine flower gardens—‘but -not what they was. Not since the new gentleman come—a year ago. Didn’t -take the same interest—not him. A scholard, they said ’e was; crates -and crates of books had come to the house—things that ’eavy that they -took three and four men to lift them.’ - -“He rambled on did that interpreter, while the ancient man polished the -pumpkin in the time-honoured manner, and wheezed spasmodically. But I -wasn’t paying much attention, because it had suddenly come back to me -that Cedarlime was the name of the house where I had spoken to the -inscrutable stranger. Subconsciously I had noticed it as I crossed the -road; now it was brought back to my memory. - -“‘Is the owner of Cedarlime a youngish, man?’ I asked my informant. -‘Dark hair; rather sallow face?’ - -“He shook his head. The owner of Cedarlime was a middle-aged man with -grey hair, but he often had friends stopping with him who came from -London, so he’d heard tell—friends who didn’t stop long—just for the -week-end, maybe, or four or five days. Probably the man I meant was one -of these friends. - -“My informant passed on to inspect a red and hairy gooseberry, and I -wandered slowly out of the stuffy tent. Probably a friend—in fact, -undoubtedly a friend. But try as I would to concentrate on that -confounded flower show, my thoughts kept harking back to Cedarlime. For -some reason or other, that quiet house and the man who had come so -silently out of the bushes had raised my curiosity. And at that moment I -narrowly escaped death from a swing boat, which brought me back to the -business in hand. - -“I suppose it was about three hours later that I started to stroll back -to the station. I was aiming at a five o’clock train, and intended to -write my stuff on the way up to Town. But just as I was getting to the -gates of the house that interested me, who should I see in front of me -but the venerable pumpkin polisher. He turned as I got abreast of him -and recognised me with a throaty chuckle. And he promptly started to -talk. I gathered that he had many other priceless treasures in his -garden—wonderful sweet-peas, more pumpkins of colossal dimensions. And -after a while I further gathered that he was suggesting I should go in -and examine them for myself. - -“For a moment I hesitated. I looked at my watch—there was plenty of -time. Then I looked over the gates and made up my mind. I would -introduce this ancient being into my account of the fête; write up, in -his own setting, this extraordinary old man who had never left Appledore -for forty-eight years. And, in addition, I would have a closer look at -the house—possibly even see the scholarly owner. - -“I glanced curiously round as I followed him up the drive. We went about -half-way to the house, then turned off along a path into the kitchen -garden. And finally he came to rest in front of the pumpkins—he was -obviously a pumpkin maniac. I should think he conducted a monologue for -five minutes on the habits of pumpkins while I looked about me. -Occasionally I said ‘Yes’; occasionally I nodded my head portentously; -for the rest of the time I paid no attention. - -“I could see half the front and one side of the house—but there seemed -no trace of any occupants. And I was just going to ask the old man who -lived there, when I saw a man in his shirt-sleeves standing at one of -the windows. He was not the man who had spoken to me at the gate; he was -not a grey-headed man either, so presumably not the owner. He appeared -to be engrossed in something he was holding in his hands, and after a -while he held it up to the light in the same way one holds up a -photographic plate. It was then that he saw me. - -“Now, I have never been an imaginative person, but there was something -positively uncanny in the way that man disappeared. Literally in a flash -he had gone and the window was empty. And my imagination began to stir. -Why had that man vanished so instantaneously at the sight of a stranger -in the kitchen garden? - -“And then another thing began to strike me. Something which had been -happening a moment or two before had abruptly stopped—a noise, faint -and droning, but so steady that I hadn’t noticed it until it ceased. It -had been the sort of noise which, if you heard it to-day, you would say -was caused by an aeroplane a great way off—and quite suddenly it had -stopped. A second or two after the man had seen me and vanished from the -window, that faint droning noise had ceased. I was sure of it, and my -imagination began to stir still more. - -“However, by this time my venerable guide had exhausted pumpkins, and, -muttering strange words, he began to lead me towards another part of the -garden. It was sweet-peas this time, and I must say they were really -magnificent. In fact, I had forgotten the disappearing gentleman at the -window in my genuine admiration of the flowers, when I suddenly saw the -old man straighten himself up, take a firm grip of his false teeth with -his one hand and touch his cap with the other. He was looking over my -shoulder, and I swung round. - -“Three men were standing behind me on the path. One was the man I had -spoken to that morning; one was the man I had seen at the window; the -other was grey-haired, and, I assumed, the owner of the house. It was to -him I addressed myself. - -“‘I must apologise for trespassing,’ I began, ‘but I am reporting the -agricultural fête down here, and your gardener asked me in to see your -sweet-peas. They are really magnificent specimens.’ - -“The elderly man stared at me in silence. - -“‘I don’t quite see what the sweet-peas in my garden have to do with the -fête,’ he remarked coldly. ‘And it is not generally customary, when the -owner is at home, to wander round his garden at the invitation of his -gardener.’ - -“‘Then I can only apologise and withdraw at once,’ I answered stiffly. -‘I trust that I have not irreparably damaged your paths.’ - -“He frowned angrily and seemed on the point of saying something, when -the man I had spoken to at the gate took his arm and whispered something -in his ear. I don’t know what it was he said, but it had the effect of -restoring the grey-haired man to a better temper at once. - -“‘I must apologise,’ he said affably, ‘for my brusqueness. I am a -recluse, Mr.—ah—Mr.——’ - -“‘Graham is my name,’ I answered, partially mollified. - -“He bowed. ‘A recluse, Mr. Graham—and my garden is a hobby of mine. -That and my books. I fear I may have seemed a little irritable when I -first spoke, but I have a special system of my own for growing -sweet-peas, and I guard it jealously. I confess that for a moment I was -unjust and suspicious enough to think you might be trying to pump -information from my gardener.’ - -“I looked at old Methuselah, still clutching his false teeth, and smiled -involuntarily. The elderly man guessed my thoughts and smiled, too. - -“‘I am apt to forget that it takes several months to interpret old -Jake,’ he continued. ‘Those false teeth of his fascinate one, don’t -they? I shall never forget the dreadful occasion he dropped them in the -hot bed. We had the most agonising search, and finally persistence -triumphed. They were rescued unscathed and restored to their rightful -place.’ - -“And so he went on talking easily, until half-unconsciously I found -myself strolling with him towards the house. Every now and then he -stopped to point out some specimen of which he was proud, and, without -my realising it, twenty minutes or so slipped by. It was the sound of a -whistle at the station that recalled me to the passage of time, and I -hurriedly looked at my watch. - -“‘Good Heavens!’ I cried, ‘I’ve missed my train. When is the next?’ - -“‘The next, Mr. Graham. I’m afraid there isn’t a next till to-morrow -morning. This is a branch line, you know.’ - -“Jove! how I swore inwardly. After what old Andrews had said to me only -that morning, to go and fail again would finally cook my goose. You must -remember that it was before the days of motor-cars, and, with the fête -in progress, the chance of getting a cart to drive me some twelve miles -to Ashford was remote—anyway for the fare I could afford to pay. - -“I suppose my agitation showed on my face, for the grey-haired man -became quite upset. - -“‘How stupid of me not to have thought of the time,’ he cried. ‘We must -think of the best thing to do. I know,’ he said suddenly—‘you must -telegraph your report. Stop the night here and telegraph.’ - -“I pointed out to him rather miserably that newspapers did not like the -expense of wiring news unless it was important, and that by no stretch -of imagination could the Appledore Flower Show be regarded as coming -under that category. - -“‘I will pay the cost,’ he insisted, and waved aside my refusal. ‘Mr. -Graham,’ he said, ‘it was my fault. I am a wealthy man; I would not -dream of letting you suffer for my verbosity. You will wire your -article, and I shall pay.’” - -The Writer smiled reminiscently. - -“What could have been more charming,” he continued—“what more -considerate and courteous? My stupid, half-formed suspicions, which had -been growing fainter and fainter as I strolled round the garden with my -host, had by this time vanished completely, and when he found me pens, -ink, and paper, as they say in the French exercise book, I stammered out -my thanks. He cut me short with a smile, and told me to get on with my -article. He would send it to the telegraph office, and tell his servants -to get a room ready for me. And with another smile he left me alone, and -I saw him pottering about the garden outside as I wrote. - -“I don’t know whether it has ever happened to any of you fellows”—the -Writer lit a cigarette—“to harbour suspicions which are gradually -lulled, only to have them suddenly return with redoubled force. There -was I, peacefully writing my account of the Appledore fête, while -outside my host, an enthusiastic gardener, as he had told me, pursued -his hobby. Could anything have been more commonplace and matter of fact? -He was engaged on the roses at the moment, spraying them with some -solution, presumably for green fly, and unconsciously I watched him. No, -I reflected, it couldn’t be for green fly, because he was only spraying -the roots, and even I, though not an expert, knew that green fly occur -round the buds. And at that moment I caught a momentary glimpse of the -two other men. They were roaring with laughter, and it seemed to me that -my host was the cause of the merriment. He looked up and saw them, and -the hilarity ceased abruptly. The next moment they had disappeared, and -my host was continuing the spraying. He went on industriously for a few -minutes, then he crossed the lawn towards the open window of the room -where I was writing. - -“‘Nearly finished?’ he asked. - -“‘Very nearly,’ I answered. ‘Green fly bad this year?’ - -“‘Green fly?’ he said a little vaguely. ‘Oh! so-so.’ - -“‘I thought you must be tackling them on the roses,’ I pursued. - -“‘Er, quite—quite,’ he remarked. ‘Nasty things, aren’t they?’ - -“‘Is it a special system of yours to go for the roots?’ I asked. - -“He gave me one searching look, then he laughed mysteriously. - -“‘Ah, ha! my young friend,’ he answered. ‘Don’t you try and get my -stable secrets out of me.’ - -“And I felt he was lying. Without thinking something made me draw a bow -at a venture, and the arrow went home with a vengeance. - -“‘Wonderful delphiniums you’ve got,’ I remarked, leaning out of the -window and pointing to a bed underneath. - -“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of those.’ - -“And the flowers at which I was pointing were irises. So this -enthusiastic gardener did not know the difference between a delphinium -and an iris. Back in an overwhelming wave came all my suspicions; I knew -there was a mystery somewhere. This man wasn’t a gardener; and, if not, -why this pretence? I remember now that every time he had drawn my -attention to a specimen he had taken the attached label in his hand. -Quite unobtrusive it had been, unnoticeable at the time, now it suddenly -became significant. Why was he playing this part—pretending for my -benefit? Futilely spraying the roots of roses, making me miss my train. -I was convinced now that that had been part of the plan—but why? Why -the telegraphing? Why the invitation to stop the night? - -“The old brain was working pretty quickly by this time. No one, whatever -his business, would object to a _bona fide_ journalist writing an -account of a fête, and if the business were crooked, the people engaged -on it would be the first to speed that journalist on his way. People of -that type dislike journalists only one degree less than the police. Then -why—why? The answer simply stuck out—they suspected me of not being a -journalist, or, even if they did not go as far as that, they were taking -no chances on the matter. - -“In fact, I was by this time definitely convinced in my own mind that I -had quite unwittingly stumbled into a bunch of criminals, and it struck -me that the sooner I stumbled out again the better for my health. So I -put my article in my pocket and went to the door. I would wire it off, -and I would not return. - -“The first hitch occurred at the door, which had thoughtfully been -locked. Not being a hero of fiction, I confess it gave me a nasty -shock—that unyielding door. And as I stood there taking a pull at -myself I heard the grey-haired man’s voice outside the window: - -“‘Finished yet, Mr. Graham?’ - -“I walked across the room, and in as steady a voice as I could muster I -mentioned the fact that the door was locked. - -“‘So that you shouldn’t be disturbed, Mr. Graham’—and I thought of the -Wolf in ‘Red Riding Hood,’ with his satisfactory answers to all awkward -questions. - -“‘If someone would open it, I’ll get along to the telegraph office,’ I -remarked. - -“‘I wouldn’t dream of your going to so much trouble,’ he said suavely. -‘I’ve a lazy boy I employ in the garden; he’ll take it.’ - -“For a moment I hesitated, and a glint came into his eyes, which warned -me to be careful. - -“It was then that I had my brainstorm. If I hadn’t had it I shouldn’t be -here now; if the powers that be in the newspaper world were not the -quickest people on the uptake you can meet in a day’s march, I shouldn’t -be here now either. But like a flash of light there came to my mind the -story I had once been told of how a war correspondent in the South -African War, at a time when they were tightening the censorship, got -back full news of a battle by alluding to the rise and fall of certain -stock. And the editor in England read between the lines—substituted -troops for stocks, Canadians for C.P.R., and so on—and published the -only account of the battle. - -“Could I do the same? I hesitated. - -“‘Oh! there’s one thing I’ve forgotten,’ I remarked. ‘I’ll just add it -if the boy can wait.’ - -“So I sat down at the table, and to my report I added the following -sentences: - -“‘There was also some excellent mustard and cress. Will come at once, -but fear to-morrow morning may be too late for me to be of further use -over Ronaldshay affair.’ - -“And then I handed it to the grey-haired man through the window.” - -The Writer leant back in his chair, and the Soldier stared at him, -puzzled. - -“It’s a bit too cryptic for me,” he confessed. - -“Thank God! it wasn’t too cryptic for the office,” said the Writer. -“There was no Ronaldshay affair, so I knew that would draw their -attention. And perhaps you’ve forgotten the name of our star reporter, -who dealt in criminal matters. It was Cresswill. And if you write the -word cress with a capital C and leave out the full stop after it, you’ll -see the message I got through to the office.” - -“It’s uncommon lucky for you his name wasn’t Snooks,” remarked the Actor -with a grin. “What happened?” - -“Well, we had dinner, and I can only suppose that my attempts to appear -at ease had failed to convince my companions. - -“The last thing I remember that night was drinking a cup of coffee—the -old trick—and suddenly realising it was drugged. I staggered to my -feet, while they remained sitting round the table watching me. Then, -with a final glimpse of the grey-haired man’s face, I passed into -oblivion. - -“When I came to I was in a strange room, feeling infernally sick. And I -shall never forget my wild relief when the man by the window turned -round and I saw it was Cresswill himself. He came over to the bed and -smiled down at me. - -“‘Well done, youngster,’ he said, and a glow of pride temporarily -replaced my desire for a basin. ‘Well done, indeed. We’ve got the whole -gang, and we’ve been looking for ’em for months. They were bank-note -forgers on a big scale, but we were only just in time to save you.’ - -“‘How was that?’ I asked weakly. - -“‘I think they had decided that your sphere of usefulness was over,’ he -remarked with a grin. ‘So after having removed suspicion by telegraphing -your report, they gave you a very good dinner, when, as has been known -to happen with young men before, you got very drunk.’ - -“‘I was drugged,’ I said indignantly. - -“‘The point is immaterial,’ he answered quietly. ‘Drunk or drugged, it’s -much the same after you’ve been run over by a train. And we found two of -them carrying you along a lane towards the line at half-past eleven. The -down goods to Hastings passes at twenty to twelve.’ - -“And at that moment Providence was kind. I ceased to _feel_ sick. I -was.” - - - - - - -_VII_ _The Old Dining-Room_ - - - - I - -I DON’T pretend to account for it; I am merely giving the plain -unvarnished tale of what took place to my certain knowledge at Jack -Drage’s house in Kent during the week-end which finished so -disastrously. Doubtless there is an explanation: maybe there are -several. The believers in spiritualism and things psychic will probably -say that the tragedy was due to the action of a powerful influence which -had remained intact throughout the centuries; the materialists will -probably say it was due to indigestion. I hold no brief for either side: -as the mere narrator, the facts are good enough for me. And, anyway, the -extremists of both schools of thought are quite irreconcilable. - -There were six of us there, counting Jack Drage and his wife. Bill -Sibton in the Indian Civil, Armytage in the Gunners, and I—Staunton by -name, and a scribbler of sorts—were the men: little Joan -Neilson—Armytage’s fiancée—supported Phyllis Drage. Ostensibly we were -there to shoot a few pheasants, but it was more than a mere shooting -party. It was a reunion after long years of us four men who had been -known at school as the Inseparables. Bill had been in India for twelve -years, save for the inevitable gap in Mesopotamia; Dick Armytage had -soldiered all over the place ever since he’d left the Shop. And though -I’d seen Jack off and on since our school-days, I’d lost touch with him -since he’d married. Wives play the deuce with bachelor friends though -they indignantly deny it—God bless ’em. At least, mine always does. - -It was the first time any of us had been inside Jack’s house, and -undoubtedly he had the most delightful little property. The house itself -was old, but comfortably modernised by an expert, so that the charm of -it still remained. In fact, the only room which had been left absolutely -intact was the dining-room. And to have touched that would have been -sheer vandalism. The sole thing that had been done to it was to install -central heating, and that had been carried out so skilfully that no -trace of the work could be seen. - -It was a room by itself, standing apart from the rest of the house, with -a lofty vaulted roof in which one could just see the smoky old oak beams -by the light of the candles on the dinner-table. A huge open fireplace -jutted out from one of the longer walls; while on the opposite side a -door led into the garden. And then, at one end, approached by the -original staircase at least six centuries old, was the musicians’ -gallery. - -A wonderful room—a room in which it seemed almost sacrilege to eat and -smoke and discuss present-day affairs—a room in which one felt that -history had been made. Nothing softened the severe plainness of the -walls save a few mediæval pikes and battleaxes. In fact, two old muskets -of the Waterloo era were the most modern implements of the collection. -Of pictures there was only one—a very fine painting of a man dressed in -the fashion of the Tudor period—which hung facing the musicians’ -gallery. - -It was that that caught my eye as we sat down to dinner, and I turned to -Jack. - -“An early Drage?” I asked. - -“As a matter of fact—no relation at all,” he answered. “But a strong -relation to this room. That’s why I hang him there.” - -“Any story attached thereto?” - -“There is; though I can’t really do it justice. The parson here is the -only man who knows the whole yarn.—By the way, old dear,” he spoke to -his wife across the table, “the reverend bird takes tea with us -to-morrow. But he is the only man who has the thing at his finger tips. -The previous owner was a bit vague himself, but having a sense of the -fitness of things, he gave me a chance of buying the picture. Apparently -it’s a painting of one Sir James Wrothley who lived round about the time -of Henry VIII. He was either a rabid Protestant or a rabid Roman -Catholic—I told you I was a bit vague over details—and he used this -identical room as a secret meeting-place for himself and his pals to -hatch plots against his enemies.” - -“Jack _is_ so illuminating, isn’t he?” laughed his wife. - -“Well, I bet you can’t tell it any better yourself,” he retorted with a -grin. “I admit my history is weak. But anyway, about that time, if the -jolly old Protestants weren’t burning the R.C.’s, the R.C.’s were -burning the Protestants. A period calling for great tact, I’ve always -thought. Well, at any rate, this Sir James Wrothley—when his party was -being officially burned—came here and hatched dark schemes to reverse -the procedure. And then, apparently, one day somebody blew the gaff, and -the whole bunch of conspirators in here were absolutely caught in the -act by the other crowd, who put ’em all to death on the spot. Which is -all I can tell you about it.” - -“I must ask the padre to-morrow,” I said to his wife. “I’d rather like -to hear the whole story. I felt when I first came into this room there -was history connected with it.” - -She looked at me rather strangely for a moment; then she gave a little -forced laugh. - -“Do you know, Tom,” she said slowly, “at times I almost hate this room. -All my friends gnash their teeth with envy over it—but sometimes, when -Jack’s been away, and I’ve dined in here by myself—it’s terrified me. I -feel as if—I wasn’t alone: as if—there were people all round -me—watching me. Of course, it’s absurd, I know. But I can’t help it. -And yet I’m not a nervy sort of person.” - -“I don’t think it’s at all absurd,” I assured her. “I believe I should -feel the same myself. A room of this size, which, of necessity, is dimly -lighted in the corners, and which is full of historical associations, -must cause an impression on the least imaginative person.” - -“We used it once for a dance,” she laughed; “with a ragtime band in the -gallery.” - -“And a great show it was, too,” broke in her husband. “The trouble was -that one of the musicians got gay with a bottle of whisky, and very -nearly fell clean through that balustrade effect on to the floor below. -I haven’t had that touched—and the wood is rotten.” - -“I pray you be seated, gentlemen.” A sudden silence fell on the table, -and everybody stared at Bill Sibton. - -“Is it a game, Bill?” asked Jack Drage. “I rather thought we were. And -what about the ladies?” - -With a puzzled frown Bill Sibton looked at him. “Did I speak out loud, -then?” he asked slowly. - -“And so early in the evening too!” Joan Neilson laughed merrily. - -“I must have been day-dreaming, I suppose. But that yarn of yours has -rather got me, Jack; though in the course of a long and evil career I’ve -never heard one told worse. I was thinking of that meeting—all of them -sitting here. And then suddenly that door bursting open.” He was staring -fixedly at the door, and again a silence fell on us all. - -“The thunder of the butts of their muskets on the woodwork.” He swung -round and faced the door leading to the garden. “And on that one, too. -Can’t you hear them? No escape—none. Caught like rats in a trap.” His -voice died away to a whisper, and Joan Neilson gave a little nervous -laugh. - -“You’re the most realistic person, Mr. Sibton. I think I prefer hearing -about the dance.” - -I glanced at my hostess—and it seemed to me that there was fear in her -eyes as she looked at Bill. Sometimes now I wonder if she had some vague -premonition of impending disaster: something too intangible to take hold -of—something the more terrifying on that very account. - -It was after dinner that Jack Drage switched on the solitary electric -light of which the room boasted. It was so placed as to show up the -painting of Sir James Wrothley, and in silence we all gathered round to -look at it. A pair of piercing eyes set in a stern aquiline face stared -down at us from under the brim of a hat adorned with sweeping plumes; -his hand rested on the jewelled hilt of his sword. It was a fine picture -in a splendid state of preservation, well worthy of its place of honour -on the walls of such a room, and we joined in a general chorus of -admiration. Only Bill Sibton was silent, and he seemed -fascinated—unable to tear his eyes away from the painting. - -“As a matter of fact, Bill,” said Dick Armytage, studying the portrait -critically, “he might well be an ancestor of yours. Wash out your -moustache, and give you a fancy-dress hat, and you’d look very much like -the old bean.” - -He was quite right: there was a distinct resemblance, and it rather -surprised me that I had not noticed it myself. There were the same -deep-set piercing eyes, the same strong, slightly hatchet face, the same -broad forehead. Even the colouring was similar: a mere coincidence that, -probably—but one which increased the likeness. In fact, the longer I -looked the more pronounced did the resemblance become, till it was -almost uncanny. - -“Well, he can’t be, anyway,” said Bill abruptly. “I’ve never heard of -any Wrothley in the family.” He looked away from the picture almost with -an effort and lit a cigarette. “It’s a most extraordinary thing, Jack,” -he went on after a moment, “but ever since we came into this room I’ve -had a feeling that I’ve been here before.” - -“Good Lord, man, that’s common enough in all conscience. One often gets -that idea.” - -“I know one does,” answered Bill. “I’ve had it before myself; but never -one-tenth as strongly as I feel it here. Besides, that feeling generally -dies—after a few minutes: it’s growing stronger and stronger with me -every moment I stop in here.” - -“Then let’s go into the drawing-room,” said our hostess. “I’ve had the -card-table put in there.” - -We followed her and Joan Neilson into the main part of the house; and -since neither of the ladies played, for the next two hours we four men -bridged. And then, seeing that it was a special occasion, we sat yarning -over half-forgotten incidents till the room grew thick with smoke and -the two women fled to bed before they died of asphyxiation. - -Bill, I remember, waxed eloquent on the subject of politicians, with a -six weeks’ experience of India, butting in on things they knew less than -nothing about; Dick Armytage grew melancholy on the subject of the block -in promotion. And then the reminiscences grew more personal, and the -whisky sank lower and lower in the tantalus as one yarn succeeded -another. - -At last Jack Drage rose with a yawn and knocked the ashes out of his -pipe. - -“Two o’clock, boys. What about bed?” - -“Lord! is it really?” Dick Armytage stretched himself. “However, no -shooting to-morrow, or, rather, to-day. We might spend the Sabbath -dressing Bill up as his nibs in the next room.” - -A shadow crossed Bill’s face. - -“I’d forgotten that room,” he said, frowning. “Damn you, Dick!” - -“My dear old boy,” laughed Armytage, “you surely don’t mind resembling -the worthy Sir James! He’s a deuced sight better-looking fellow than you -are.” - -Bill shook his head irritably. - -“It isn’t that at all,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking of the picture.” He -seemed to be on the point of saying something else—then he changed his -mind. “Well—bed for master.” - -We all trooped upstairs, and Jack came round to each of us to see that -we were all right. - -“Breakfast provisionally nine,” he remarked. “Night-night, old boy.” - -The door closed behind him, and his steps died away down the passage as -he went to his own room. - - · · · · · - -By all known rules I should have been asleep almost as my head touched -the pillow. A day’s rough shooting, followed by bed at two in the -morning should produce that result if anything can, but in my case that -night it didn’t. Whether I had smoked too much, or what it was, I know -not, but at half-past three I gave up the attempt and switched on my -light. Then I went over, and pulling up an armchair, I sat down by the -open window. There was no moon, and the night was warm for the time of -year. Outlined against the sky the big dining-room stretched out from -the house, and, as I lit a cigarette, Jack Drage’s vague story returned -to my mind. The conspirators, meeting by stealth to hatch some sinister -plot; the sudden alarm as they found themselves surrounded; the -desperate fight against overwhelming odds—and then, the end. There -should be a story in it, I reflected; I’d get the parson to tell me the -whole thing accurately next day. The local colour seemed more -appropriate when one looked at the room from the outside, with an -occasional cloud scudding by over the big trees beyond. Savoured more of -conspiracy and death than when dining inside, with reminiscences of a -jazz band in the musicians’ gallery. - -And at that moment a dim light suddenly filtered out through the -windows. It was so dim that at first I thought I had imagined it; so dim -that I switched off my own light in order to make sure. There was no -doubt about it: faint but unmistakable the reflection showed up on the -ground outside. A light had been lit in the old dining-room: therefore -someone must be in there. At four o’clock in the morning! - -For a moment or two I hesitated: should I go along and rouse Jack? -Someone might have got in through the garden door, and I failed to see -why I should fight another man’s burglar in his own house. And then it -struck me it would only alarm his wife—I’d get Bill, whose room was -opposite mine. - -I put on some slippers and crossed the landing to rouse him. And then I -stopped abruptly. His door was open; his room was empty. Surely it -couldn’t be he who had turned on the light below? - -As noiselessly as possible I went downstairs, and turned along the -passage to the dining-room. Sure enough the door into the main part of -the house was ajar, and the light was shining through the opening. I -tiptoed up to it and looked through the crack by the hinges. - -At first I could see nothing save the solitary electric light over the -portrait of Sir James. And then in the gloom beyond I saw a tall figure -standing motionless by the old oak dining-table. It was Bill—even in -the dim light I recognised that clean-cut profile; Bill clad in his -pyjamas only, with one hand stretched out in front of him, pointing. And -then, suddenly, he spoke. - -“You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!” - -Nothing more—just that one remark; his hand still pointing inexorably -across the table. Then after a moment he turned so that the light fell -full on his face, and I realised what was the matter. Bill Sibton was -walking in his sleep. - -Slowly he came towards the door behind which I stood, and passed through -it—so close that he almost touched me as I shrank back against the -wall. Then he went up the stairs, and as soon as I heard him reach the -landing above, I quickly turned out the light in the dining-room and -followed him. His bedroom door was closed: there was no sound from -inside. - -There was nothing more for me to do: my burglar had developed into a -harmless somnambulist. Moreover, it suddenly struck me that I had become -most infernally sleepy myself. So I did not curse Bill mentally as much -as I might have done. I turned in, and my nine o’clock next morning was -very provisional. - -So was Bill Sibton’s: we arrived together for breakfast at a quarter to -ten. He looked haggard and ill, like a man who has not slept, and his -first remark was to curse Dick Armytage. - -“I had the most infernal dreams last night,” he grumbled. “Entirely -through Dick reminding me of this room. I dreamed the whole show that -took place in here in that old bird’s time.” - -He pointed to the portrait of Sir James. - -“Did you!” I remarked, pouring out some coffee. “Must have been quite -interesting.” - -“I know I wasn’t at all popular with the crowd,” he said. “I don’t set -any store by dreams myself—but last night it was really extraordinarily -vivid.” He stirred his tea thoughtfully. - -“I can quite imagine that, Bill. Do you ever walk in your sleep?” - -“Walk in my sleep? No.” He stared at me surprised. “Why?” - -“You did last night. I found you down here at four o’clock in your -pyjamas. You were standing just where I’m sitting now, pointing with -your hand across the table. And as I stood outside the door you suddenly -said, ‘You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!’” - -“Part of my dream,” he muttered. “Sir Henry Brayton was the name of the -man—and he was the leader. They were all furious with me about -something. We quarrelled—and after that there seemed to be a closed -door. It was opening slowly, and instinctively I knew there was -something dreadful behind it. You know the terror of a dream; the -primordial terror of the mind that cannot reason against something -hideous—unknown——” I glanced at him: his forehead was wet with sweat. -“And then the dream passed. The door didn’t open.” - -“Undoubtedly, my lad,” I remarked lightly, “you had one whisky too many -last night.” - -“Don’t be an ass, Tom,” he said irritably. “I tell you—though you -needn’t repeat it—I’m in a putrid funk of this room. Absurd, I know: -ridiculous. But I can’t help it. And if there was a train on this branch -line on Sunday, I’d leave to-day.” - -“But, good Lord, Bill,” I began—and then I went on with my breakfast. -There was a look on his face which it is not good to see on the face of -a man. It was terror: an abject, dreadful terror. - - II - -He and Jack Drage were out for a long walk when the parson came to tea -that afternoon—a walk of which Bill had been the instigator. He had -dragged Jack forth, vigorously protesting, after lunch, and we had -cheered them on their way. Bill had to get out of the house—I could see -that. Then Dick and the girl had disappeared, in the way that people in -their condition _do_ disappear, just before Mr. Williams arrived. And so -only Phyllis Drage was there, presiding at the tea-table, when I -broached the subject of the history of the dining-room. - -“He spoils paper, Mr. Williams,” laughed my hostess, “and he scents -copy. Jack tried to tell the story last night, and got it hopelessly -wrong.” - -The clergyman smiled gravely. - -“You’ll have to alter the setting, Mr. Staunton,” he remarked, “because -the story is quite well known round here. In my library at the vicarage -I have an old manuscript copy of the legend. And indeed, I have no -reason to believe that it is a legend: certainly the main points have -been historically authenticated. Sir James Wrothley, whose portrait -hangs in the dining-room, lived in this house. He was a staunch -Protestant—bigoted to a degree; and he fell very foul of Cardinal -Wolsey, who you may remember was plotting for the Papacy at the time. So -bitter did the animosity become, and so high did religious intoleration -run in those days, that Sir James started counter-plotting against the -Cardinal; which was a dangerous thing to do. Moreover, he and his -friends used the dining-room here as their meeting-place.” - -The reverend gentleman sipped his tea; if there was one thing he loved -it was the telling of this story, which reflected so magnificently on -the staunch no-Popery record of his parish. - -“So much is historical certainty; the rest is not so indisputably -authentic. The times of the meetings were, of course, kept secret—until -the fatal night occurred. Then, apparently, someone turned traitor. And, -why I cannot tell you, Sir James himself was accused by the -others—especially Sir Henry Brayton. Did you say anything, Mr. -Staunton?” - -“Nothing,” I remarked quietly. “The name surprised me for a moment. -Please go on.” - -“Sir Henry Brayton was Sir James’s next-door neighbour, almost equally -intolerant of anything savouring of Rome. And even while, so the story -goes, Wolsey’s men were hammering on the doors, he and Sir Henry had -this dreadful quarrel. Why Sir James should have been suspected, whether -the suspicions were justified or not I cannot say. Certainly, in view of -what we know of Sir James’s character, it seems hard to believe that he -could have been guilty of such infamous treachery. But that the case -must have appeared exceedingly black against him is certain from the -last and most tragic part of the story.” - -Once again Mr. Williams paused to sip his tea; he had now reached that -point of the narrative where royalty itself would have failed to hurry -him. - -“In those days, Mrs. Drage, there was a door leading into the musicians’ -gallery from one of the rooms of the house. It provided no avenue of -escape if the house was surrounded—but its existence was unknown to the -men before whose blows the other doors were already beginning to -splinter. And suddenly through this door appeared Lady Wrothley. She had -only recently married Sir James: in fact, her first baby was then on its -way. Sir James saw her, and at once ceased his quarrel with Sir Henry. -With dignity he mounted the stairs and approached his girl-wife—and in -her horror-struck eyes he saw that she, too, suspected him of being the -traitor. He raised her hand to his lips; and then as the doors burst -open simultaneously and Wolsey’s men rushed in—he dived headforemost on -to the floor below, breaking his neck and dying instantly. - -“The story goes on to say,” continued Mr. Williams, with a diffident -cough, “that even while the butchery began in the room below—for most -of the Protestants were unarmed—the poor girl collapsed in the gallery, -and shortly afterwards the child was born. A girl baby, who survived, -though the mother died. One likes to think that if she had indeed -misjudged her husband, it was a merciful act on the part of the Almighty -to let her join him so soon. Thank you, I will have another cup of tea. -One lump, please.” - -“A most fascinating story, Mr. Williams,” said Phyllis. “Thank you so -much for having told us. Can you make anything out of it, Tom?” - -I laughed. - -“The criminal reserves his defence. But it’s most interesting, Padre, -most interesting, as Mrs. Drage says. If I may, I’d like to come and see -that manuscript.” - -“I shall be only too delighted,” he murmured with old-fashioned -courtesy. “Whenever you like.” - -And then the conversation turned on things parochial until he rose to -go. The others had still not returned, and for a while we two sat on -talking as the spirit moved us in the darkening room. At last the -servants appeared to draw the curtains, and it was then that we heard -Jack and Bill in the hall. - -I don’t know what made me make the remark; it seemed to come without my -volition. - -“If I were you, Phyllis,” I said, “I don’t think I’d tell the story of -the dining-room to Bill.” - -She looked at me curiously. - -“Why not?” - -“I don’t know—but I wouldn’t.” In the brightly lit room his fears of -the morning seemed ridiculous; yet, as I say, I don’t know what made me -make the remark. - -“All right; I won’t,” she said gravely. “Do you think——” - -But further conversation was cut short by the entrance of Bill and her -husband. - -“Twelve miles if an inch,” growled Drage, throwing himself into a chair. -“You awful fellow.” - -Sibton laughed. - -“Do you good, you lazy devil. He’s getting too fat, Phyllis, isn’t he?” - -I glanced at him as he, too, sat down: in his eyes there remained no -trace of the terror of the morning. - - III - -And now I come to that part of my story which I find most difficult to -write. From the story-teller’s point of view pure and simple, it is the -easiest; from the human point of view I have never tackled anything -harder. Because, though the events I am describing took place months -ago—and the first shock is long since past—I still cannot rid myself -of a feeling that I was largely to blame. By the cold light of reason I -can exonerate myself; but one does not habitually have one’s being in -that exalted atmosphere. Jack blames himself; but in view of what -happened the night before—in view of the look in Bill’s eyes that -Sunday morning—I feel that I ought to have realised that there were -influences at work which lay beyond my ken—influences which at present -lie not within the light of reason. And then at other times I wonder if -it was not just a strange coincidence and an—accident. God knows: -frankly, I don’t. - -We spent that evening just as we had spent the preceding one, save that -in view of shooting on Monday morning we went to bed at midnight. This -time I fell asleep at once—only to be roused by someone shaking my arm. -I sat up blinking: it was Jack Drage. - -“Wake up, Tom,” he whispered. “There’s a light in the dining-room, and -we’re going down to investigate. Dick is getting Bill.” - -In an instant I was out of bed. - -“It’s probably Bill himself,” I said. “I found him down there last night -walking in his sleep.” - -“The devil you did!” muttered Jack, and at that moment Dick Armytage -came in. - -“Bill’s room is empty,” he announced; and I nodded. - -“It’s Bill right enough,” I said. “He went back quite quietly last -night. And, for Heaven’s sake, you fellows, don’t wake him. It’s very -dangerous.” - -Just as before the dining-room door was open, and the light filtered -through into the passage as we tiptoed along it. Just as before we saw -Bill standing by the table—his hand outstretched. - -Then came the same words as I had heard last night. - -“You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!” - -“What the devil——” muttered Jack; but I held up my finger to ensure -silence. - -“He’ll come to bed now,” I whispered. “Keep quite still.” - -But this time Bill Sibton did not come to bed; instead, he turned and -stared into the shadows of the musicians’ gallery. Then, very slowly, he -walked away from us and commenced to mount the stairs. And still the -danger did not strike us. - -Dimly we saw the tall figure reach the top and walk along the gallery, -as if he saw someone at the end—and at that moment the peril came to -the three of us. - -To Dick and Jack the rottenness of the balustrade; to me—_the end of -the vicar’s story_. What they thought I know not; but to my dying day I -shall never forget my own agony of mind. In that corner of the -musicians’ gallery—though we could see her not—stood Lady Wrothley; to -the man walking slowly towards her the door was opening slowly—the door -which had remained shut the night before—the door behind which lay the -terror. - -And then it all happened very quickly. In a frenzy we raced across the -room, to get at him—but we weren’t in time. There was a rending of -wood—a dreadful crash—a sprawling figure on the floor below. To me it -seemed as if he had hurled himself against the balustrade, had literally -dived downwards. The others did not notice it—so they told me later. -But I did. - -And then we were kneeling beside him on the floor. - -“Dear God!” I heard Drage say in a hoarse whisper. “He’s dead; he’s -broken his neck.” - - · · · · · - -Such is my story. Jack Drage blames himself for the rottenness of the -woodwork, but I feel it was my fault. Yes—it was my fault. I ought to -have known, ought to have done something. Even if we’d only locked the -dining-room door. - -And the last link in the chain I haven’t mentioned yet. The vicar -supplied that—though to him it was merely a strange coincidence. - -The baby-girl—born in the gallery—a strange, imaginative child, so run -the archives, subject to fits of awful depression and, at other times, -hallucinations—married. She married in 1551, on the 30th day of -October, Henry, only son of Frank Sibton and Mary his wife. - -God knows: I don’t. It may have been an accident. - - - - - - -_VIII_ _When Greek meets Greek_ - - - - I - -“BUT, Bill, I don’t understand. How much did you borrow from this man?” - -Sybil Daventry looked at her brother, sitting huddled up in his chair, -with a little frown. - -“I borrowed a thousand,” he answered, sulkily. “And like a fool I didn’t -read the thing he made me sign—at least, not carefully. Hang it, I’ve -only had the money six months, and now he’s saying that I owe him over -two. I saw something about twenty-five per cent., and now I find it was -twenty-five per cent. a month. And the swine is pressing for payment -unless——” He broke off and stared into the fire shamefacedly. - -“Unless what?” demanded his sister. - -“Well, you see, it’s this way.” The boy stammered a little, and refused -to look at her. “I was jolly well up the spout when this blighter told -me what I owed him, and I suppose I must have showed it pretty clearly. -Anyway, I was propping up the bar at the Cri., getting a cocktail, when -a fellow standing next me started gassing. Not a bad sort of cove at -all; knows you very well by sight.” - -“Knows me?” said the girl, bewildered. “Who was he?” - -“I’m coming to that later,” went on her brother. “Well, we had a couple -more and then he suggested tearing a chop together. And I don’t know—he -seemed so decent and all that—that I told him I was in the soup. Told -him the whole yarn and asked his advice sort of business. Well, as I -say, he was bally sporting about it all, and finally asked me who the -bird was who had tied up the boodle. I told him, and here’s the lucky -part of the whole show—this fellow Perrison knew him. Perrison was the -man I was lunching with.” - -He paused and lit a cigarette, while the girl stared at him gravely. - -“Well,” she said at length, “go on.” - -“It was after lunch that he got busy. He said to me: ‘Look here, -Daventry, you’ve made a bally fool of yourself, but you’re not the -first. I’ll write a note to Messrs. Smith and Co.’—those are the -warriors who gave me the money—‘and try and persuade them to give you -more time, or even possibly reduce the rate of interest.’ Of course, I -was all on this, and I arranged to lunch with him again next day, after -Smith and Co. had had time to function. And sure enough they did. Wrote -a letter in which they were all over me; any friend of Mr. Perrison’s -was entitled to special treatment, and so on and so forth. Naturally I -was as bucked as a dog with two tails, and asked Perrison if I couldn’t -do something more material than just thank him. And—er—he—I mean it -was then he told me he knew you by sight.” - -He glanced at his sister, and then quickly looked away again. - -“He suggested—er—that perhaps I could arrange to introduce him to you; -that it would be an honour he would greatly appreciate, and all that -sort of rot.” - -The girl was sitting very still. “Yes,” she said, quietly, “and -you—agreed.” - -“Well, of course I did. Hang it, he’s quite a decent fellow. Bit Cityish -to look at, and I shouldn’t think he knows which end of a horse goes -first. But he’s got me out of the devil of a hole, Sybil, and the least -you can do is to be moderately decent to the bird. I mean it’s not -asking much, is it? I left the governor looking at him in the hall as if -he was just going to tread on his face, and that long slab—your pal—is -gazing at him through his eyeglasses as if he was mad.” - -“He’s not my pal, Bill.” Sybil Daventry’s colour heightened a little. - -“Well, you asked him here, anyway,” grunted the boy. Then with a sudden -change of tone he turned to her appealingly. “Syb, old girl—for the -Lord’s sake play the game. You know what the governor is, and if he -hears about this show—especially as it’s—as it’s not the first -time—there’ll be the deuce to pay. You know he said last time that if -it happened again he’d turn me out of the house. And the old man is as -stubborn as a mule. I only want you to be a bit decent to Perrison.” - -She looked at him with a grave smile. “If Mr. Perrison is satisfied with -my being decent to him, as you put it, I’m perfectly prepared to play -the game. But——” She frowned and rose abruptly. “Come on, and I’ll -have a look at him.” - -In silence they went downstairs. Tea had just been brought in, and the -house-party was slowly drifting into the hall. But Sybil barely noticed -them; her eyes were fixed on the man talking to her father. Or rather, -at the moment, her father was talking to the man, and his remark was -painfully audible. - -“There is a very good train back to London at seven-thirty, -Mr.—ah—Mr.——” - -Her brother stepped forward. “But I say, Dad,” he said, nervously, “I -asked Perrison to stop the night. I’ve just asked Sybil, and she says -she can fix him up somewhere.” - -“How do you do, Mr. Perrison?” With a charming smile she held out her -hand. “Of course you must stop the night.” - -Then she moved away to the tea-table, feeling agreeably relieved; it was -better than she had expected. The man was well-dressed; perhaps, to her -critical eye, a little too well-dressed—but still quite presentable. - -“You averted a catastrophe, Miss Daventry.” A lazy voice beside her -interrupted her thoughts, and with a smile she turned to the speaker. - -“Dad is most pestilentially rude at times, isn’t he? And Bill told me he -left _you_ staring at the poor man as if he was an insect.” - -Archie Longworth laughed. - -“He’d just contradicted your father flatly as you came downstairs. And -on a matter concerning horses. However—the breeze has passed. But, tell -me,” he stared at her gravely, “why the sudden invasion?” - -Her eyebrows went up a little. “May I ask why not?” she said, coldly. -“Surely my brother can invite a friend to the house if he wishes.” - -“I stand corrected,” answered Longworth, quietly. “Has he known him -long?” - -“I haven’t an idea,” said the girl. “And after all, Mr. Longworth, I -hadn’t known you very long when I asked you.” - -And then, because she realised that there was a possibility of -construing rather more into her words than she had intended, she turned -abruptly to speak to another guest. So she failed to see the sudden -inscrutable look that came into Archie Longworth’s keen blue eyes—the -quick clenching of his powerful fists. But when a few minutes later she -again turned to him, he was just his usual lazy self. - -“Do you think your logic is very good?” he demanded. “You might have -made a mistake as well.” - -“You mean that you think my brother has?” she said, quickly. - -“It is visible on the surface to the expert eye,” he returned, gravely. -“But, in addition, I happen to have inside information.” - -“Do you know Mr. Perrison, then?” - -He nodded. “Yes, I have—er—met him before.” - -“But he doesn’t know you,” cried the girl. - -“No—at least—er—we’ll leave it at that. And I would be obliged, Miss -Daventry, in case you happen to be speaking to him, if you would refrain -from mentioning the fact that I know him.” He stared at her gravely. - -“You’re very mysterious, Mr. Longworth,” said the girl, with an attempt -at lightness. - -“And if I may I will prolong my visit until our friend departs,” -continued Longworth. - -“Why, of course,” she said, bending over the tea-tray. “You weren’t -thinking of going—going yet, were you?” - -“I was thinking after lunch that I should have to go to-morrow,” he -said, putting down his tea-cup. - -“But why so soon?” she asked, and her voice was low. “Aren’t you -enjoying yourself?” - -“In the course of a life that has taken me into every corner of the -globe,” he answered, slowly, “I have never dreamed that I could be so -utterly and perfectly happy as I have been here. It has opened my mind -to a vista of the Things that Might Be—if the Things that Had Been were -different. But as you grow older, Sybil, you will learn one bitter -truth: no human being can ever be exactly what he seems. Masks? just -masks! And underneath—God and that being alone know.” - -He rose abruptly, and she watched him bending over Lady Granton with his -habitual lazy grace. The indolent smile was round his lips—the -irrepressible twinkle was in his eyes. But for the first time he had -called her Sybil; for the first time—she _knew_. The vague forebodings -conjured up by his words were swamped by that one outstanding fact; she -_knew_. And nothing else mattered. - - II - -It was not until Perrison joined her in the conservatory after dinner -that she found herself called on to play the part set her by her -brother. - -She had gone there—though nothing would have induced her to admit the -fact—in the hope that someone else would follow: the man with the lazy -blue eyes and the eyeglass. And then instead of him had come Perrison, -with a shade too much deference in his manner, and a shade too little -control of the smirk on his face. With a sudden sick feeling she -realised at that moment exactly where she stood. Under a debt of -obligation to this man—under the necessity of a _tête-à-tête_ with him, -one, moreover, when, if she was to help Bill, she must endeavour to be -extra nice. - -For a while the conversation was commonplace, while she feverishly -longed for someone to come in and relieve the tension. But Bridge was in -progress, and there was Snooker in the billiard-room, and at length she -resigned herself to the inevitable. Presumably she would have to thank -him for his kindness to Bill; after all he undoubtedly had been very -good to her brother. - -“Bill has told me, Mr. Perrison, how kind you’ve been in the way you’ve -helped him in this—this unfortunate affair.” She plunged valiantly, and -gave a sigh of relief as she cleared the first fence. - -Perrison waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t mention it, Miss Daventry, -don’t mention it. But—er—of course, something will have to be done, -and—well, there’s no good mincing matters—done very soon.” - -The girl’s face grew a little white, but her voice was quite steady. - -“But he told me that you had arranged things with these people. Please -smoke, if you want to.” - -Perrison bowed his thanks and carefully selected a cigarette. The moment -for which he had been playing had now arrived, in circumstances even -more favourable than he had dared to hope. - -“Up to a point that is quite true,” he remarked, quietly. “Messrs. Smith -and Co. have many ramifications of business—money-lending being only -one of the irons they have in the fire. And because I have had many -dealings with the firm professionally—over the sale of precious stones, -I may say, which is my own particular line of work—they were disposed -to take a lenient view about the question of the loan. Not press for -payment, and perhaps—though I can’t promise this—even be content with -a little less interest. But—er—Miss Daventry, it’s the other thing -where the trouble is going to occur.” - -The girl stared at him with dilated eyes. “What other thing, Mr. -Perrison?” - -“Hasn’t your brother told you?” said Perrison, surprised. “Oh, well, -perhaps I—er—shouldn’t have mentioned it.” - -“Go on, please.” Her voice was low. “What is this other thing?” - -For a moment he hesitated—a well-simulated hesitation. Then he shrugged -his shoulders slightly. - -“Well—if you insist. As a matter of fact, your brother didn’t tell me -about it, and I only found it out in the course of my conversation with -one of the Smith partners. Apparently some weeks ago he bought some -distinctly valuable jewellery—a pearl-necklace, to be exact—from a -certain firm. At least, when I say he bought it—he did not pay for it. -He gave your father’s name as a reference, and the firm considered it -satisfactory. It was worth about eight hundred pounds, this necklace, -and your very stupid brother, instead of giving it to the lady whom, -presumably, he had got it for, became worse than stupid. He became -criminal.” - -“What do you mean?” The girl was looking at him terrified. - -“He pawned this necklace which he hadn’t paid for, Miss Daventry, which -is, I regret to say, a criminal offence. And the trouble of the -situation is that the firm he bought the pearls from has just found it -out. He pawned it at a place which is one of the ramifications of Smith -and Co., who gave him, I believe, a very good price for it—over five -hundred pounds. The firm, in the course of business, two or three days -ago—and this is the incredibly unfortunate part of it—happened to show -this self-same necklace, while they were selling other things, to the -man it had originally come from. Of course, being pawned, it wasn’t for -sale—but the man recognised it at once. And then the fat was in the -fire.” - -“Do you mean to say,” whispered the girl, “that—that they might send -him to prison?” - -“Unless something is done very quickly, Miss Daventry, the matter will -certainly come into the law courts. Messrs. Gross and Sons”—a faint -noise from the darkness at the end of the conservatory made him swing -round suddenly, but everything was silent again—“Messrs. Gross and Sons -are very difficult people in many ways. They are the people it came from -originally, I may tell you. And firms, somewhat naturally, differ, like -human beings. Some are disposed to be lenient—others are not. I’m sorry -to say Gross and Sons are one of those who are not.” - -“But couldn’t you see them, or something, and explain?” - -“My dear Miss Daventry,” said Perrison, gently, “I must ask you to be -reasonable. What can I explain? Your brother wanted money, and he -adopted a criminal method of getting it. That I am afraid—ugly as it -sounds—is all there is to it.” - -“Then, Mr. Perrison—can nothing be done?” She bent forward eagerly, her -hands clasped, her lips slightly parted; and once again came that faint -noise from the end of the conservatory. - -But Mr. Perrison was too engrossed to heed it this time; the nearness, -the appeal of this girl, who from the time he had first seen her six -months previously at a theatre had dominated his life, was making his -senses swim. And with it the veneer began to drop; the hairy heel began -to show, though he made a tremendous endeavour to keep himself in check. - -“There is one thing,” he said, hoarsely. “And I hope you will understand -that I should not have been so precipitate—except for the urgency of -your brother’s case. If I go to Messrs. Gross and say to them that a -prosecution by them would affect me personally, I think I could persuade -them to take no further steps.” - -Wonder was beginning to dawn in the girl’s eyes. “Affect you -personally?” she repeated. - -“If, for instance, I could tell them that for family reasons—urgent, -strong family reasons—they would be doing me a great service by letting -matters drop, I think they would do it.” - -She rose suddenly—wonder replaced by horror. She had just realised his -full meaning. - -“What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Perrison?” she said, -haughtily. - -And then the heel appeared in all its hairiness. “If I may tell them,” -he leered, “that I am going to marry into the family I’ll guarantee they -will do nothing more.” - -“Marry you?” The biting scorn in her tone changed the leer to a snarl. - -“Yes—marry me, or see your brother jugged. Money won’t save him—so -there’s no good going to your father. Money will square up the Smith -show—it won’t square the other.” And then his tone changed. “Why not, -little girl? I’m mad about you; have been ever since I saw you at a -theatre six months ago. I’m pretty well off even for these days, -and——” He came towards her, his arms outstretched, while she backed -away from him, white as a sheet. Her hands were clenched, and it was -just as she had retreated as far as she could, and the man was almost on -her, that she saw red. One hand went up; hit him—hit the brute—was her -only coherent thought. And the man, realising it, paused—an ugly look -in his eyes. - -Then occurred the interruption. A strangled snort, as of a sleeper -awakening, came from behind some palms, followed by the creaking of a -chair. With a stifled curse Perrison fell back and the girl’s hand -dropped to her side as the branches parted and Archie Longworth, rubbing -his eyes, stepped into the light. - -“Lord save us, Miss Daventry, I’ve been asleep,” he said, stifling a -yawn. “I knew I oughtn’t to have had a third glass of port. Deuced bad -for the liver, but very pleasant for all that, isn’t it, Mr.—Mr. -Perrison?” - -He smiled engagingly at the scowling Perrison, and adjusted his -eyeglass. - -“You sleep very silently, Mr. Longworth,” snarled that worthy. - -“Yes—used to win prizes for it at an infant school. Most valuable asset -in class. If one snores it disconcerts the lecturer.” - -Perrison swung round on his heel. “I would like an answer to my -suggestion by to-morrow, Miss Daventry,” he said, softly. “Perhaps I -might have the pleasure of a walk where people don’t sleep off the -effects of dinner.” - -With a slight bow he left the conservatory, and the girl sat down -weakly. - -“Pleasant type of bird, isn’t he?” drawled Longworth, watching -Perrison’s retreating back. - -“He’s a brute—an utter brute,” whispered the girl, shakily. - -“I thought the interview would leave you with that impression,” agreed -the man. - -She sat up quickly. “Did you hear what was said?” - -“Every word. That’s why I was there.” He smiled at her calmly. - -“Then why didn’t you come out sooner?” she cried, indignantly. - -“I wanted to hear what he had to say, and at the same time I didn’t want -you to biff him on the jaw—which from your attitude I gathered you were -on the point of doing.” - -“Why not? I’d have given anything to have smacked his face.” - -“I know. I’d have given anything to have seen you do it. But—not yet. -In fact, to-morrow you’ve got to go for a walk with him.” - -“I flatly refuse!” cried Sybil Daventry. - -“More than that,” continued Longworth, calmly, “you’ve got to keep him -on the hook. Play with him; let him think he’s got a chance.” - -“But why?” she demanded. “I loathe him.” - -“Because it is absolutely essential that he should remain here until the -day after to-morrow at the earliest.” - -“I don’t understand.” She looked at him with a puzzled frown. - -“You will in good time.” It seemed to her his voice was just a little -weary. “Just now it is better that you shouldn’t. Do you trust me enough -to do that, Sybil?” - -“I trust you absolutely,” and she saw him wince. - -“Then keep him here till I come back.” - -“Are you going away, Archie?” Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. - -“To-morrow, first thing. I shall come back as soon as possible.” - -For a moment or two they stood in silence, then, with a gesture -strangely foreign to one so typically British, he raised her hand to his -lips. And the next instant she was alone. - -A little later she saw him talking earnestly to her brother in a corner; -then someone suggested billiard-fives. An admirable game, but not one in -which it is wise to place one’s hand on the edge of the table with the -fingers over the cushion. Especially if the owner of the hand is not -paying attention to the game. It was Perrison’s hand, and the agony of -being hit on the fingers by a full-sized billiard ball travelling fast -must be experienced to be believed. Of course it was an accident: -Longworth was most apologetic. But in the middle of the hideous scene -that followed she caught his lazy blue eye and beat a hasty retreat to -the hall. Unrestrained mirth in such circumstances is not regarded as -the essence of tact. - - III - -It was about ten o’clock on the morning of the next day but one that a -sharp-looking, flashily-dressed individual presented himself at the door -of Messrs. Gross and Sons. He was of the type that may be seen by the -score any day of the week propping up the West-end bars and discoursing -on racing form in a hoarse whisper. - -“Mornin’,” he remarked. “Mr. Johnson here yet?” - -“What do you want to see him about?” demanded the assistant. - -“To tell him that your hair wants cutting,” snapped the other. “Hop -along, young fellah; as an ornament you’re a misfit. Tell Mr. Johnson -that I’ve a message from Mr. Perrison.” - -The youth faded away, to return in a minute or two with a request that -the visitor would follow him. - -“Message from Perrison? What’s up?” Mr. Johnson rose from his chair as -the door closed behind the assistant. - -The flashy individual laughed and pulled out his cigarette-case. - -“He’s pulled it off,” he chuckled. “At the present moment our one and -only Joe is clasping the beauteous girl to his bosom.” - -“Strike me pink—he hasn’t, has he?” Mr. Johnson slapped his leg -resoundingly and shook with merriment. - -“That’s why I’ve come round,” continued the other. “From Smith, I am. -Joe wants to give her a little present on account.” He grinned again, -and felt in his pocket. “Here it is—and he wants a receipt signed by -you—acknowledging the return of the necklace which was sent out—on -approval.” He winked heavily. “He’s infernally deep, is Joe.” He watched -the other man as he picked up the pearls, and for a moment his blue eyes -seemed a little strained. “He wants to give that receipt to the girl—so -as to clinch the bargain.” - -“Why the dickens didn’t he ’phone me direct?” demanded Johnson, and once -again the other grinned broadly. - -“Strewth!” he said, “I laughed fit to burst this morning. The ’phone at -his girl’s place is in the hall, as far as I could make out, and Joe was -whispering down it like an old woman with lumbago. ‘Take ’em round to -Johnson,’ he said. ‘Approval—approval—you fool.’ And then he turned -away and I heard him say—‘Good morning, Lady Jemima.’ Then back he -turns and starts whispering again. ‘Do you get me, Bob?’ ‘Yes,’ I says, -‘I get you. You want me to take round the pearls to Johnson and get a -receipt from him. And what about the other thing—you know, the money -the young boob borrowed?’ ‘Put it in an envelope and send it to me here, -with the receipt,’ he says. ‘I’m going out walking this morning.’ Then -he rings off, and that’s that. Lord! think of Joe walking.” - -The grin developed into a cackling laugh, in which Mr. Johnson joined. - -“He’s deep—you’re right,” he said, admiringly. “Uncommonly deep. I -never thought he’d pull it off. Though personally, mark you, I think -he’s a fool. They’ll fight like cat and dog.” He rang a bell on his desk -then opening a drawer he dropped the necklace inside. - -“Bring me a formal receipt form,” he said to the assistant. “Have you -got the other paper?” he asked, as he affixed the firm’s signature to -the receipt, and the flashy individual produced it from his pocket. - -“Here it is,” he announced. “Put ’em both in an envelope together and -address it to Joe. I’m going along; I’ll post it.” - -“Will you have a small tiddley before you go?” Mr. Johnson opened a -formidable-looking safe, disclosing all the necessary-looking -ingredients for the manufacture of small tiddleys. - -“I don’t mind if I do,” conceded the other. “Here’s the best—and to the -future Mrs. Joe.” - -A moment or two later he passed through the outer office and was -swallowed up in the crowd. And it was not till after lunch that day that -Mr. Johnson got the shock of his life—when he opened one of the early -evening papers. - - “DARING ROBBERY IN WELL-KNOWN CITY FIRM. - - “_A most daring outrage was carried out last night at the office - of Messrs. Smith and Co., the well-known financial and insurance - brokers. At a late hour this morning, some time after work was - commenced, the night watchman was discovered bound and securely - gagged in a room at the top of the premises. Further - investigation revealed that the safe had been opened—evidently - by a master hand—and the contents rifled. The extent of the - loss is at present unknown, but the police are believed to - possess several clues._” - -And at the same time that Mr. Johnson was staring with a glassy stare at -this astounding piece of news, a tall, spare man with lazy blue eyes, -stretched out comfortably in the corner of a first-class carriage, was -also perusing it. - -“Several clues,” he murmured. “I wonder! But it was a very creditable -job, though I say it myself.” - -Which seemed a strange soliloquy for a well-dressed man in a first-class -carriage. And what might have seemed almost stranger, had there been any -way of knowing such a recondite fact, was that in one of the mail bags -reposing in the back of the train, a mysterious transformation had taken -place. For a letter which had originally contained two documents and had -been addressed to J. Perrison, Esq., now contained three and was -consigned to Miss Sybil Daventry. Which merely goes to show how careful -one should be over posting letters. - - IV - -“Good evening, Mr. Perrison. All well, and taking nourishment, so to -speak?” - -Archie Longworth lounged into the hall, almost colliding with the other -man. - -“You look pensive,” he continued, staring at him blandly. “_Agitato, -fortissimo._ Has aught occurred to disturb your masterly composure?” - -But Mr. Perrison was in no mood for fooling: a message he had just -received over the telephone had very considerably disturbed his -composure. - -“Let me have a look at that paper,” he snapped, making a grab at it. - -“Tush! Tush!” murmured Archie. “Manners, laddie, manners! You’ve -forgotten that little word.” - -And then at the far end of the hall he saw the girl, and caught his -breath. For the last two days he had almost forgotten her in the stress -of other things; now the bitterness of what had to come rose suddenly in -his throat and choked him. - -“There is the paper. Run away and play in a corner.” - -Then he went forward to meet her with his usual lazy smile. - -“What’s happened?” she cried, a little breathlessly. - -“Heaps of things,” he said, gently. “Heaps of things. The principal one -being that a very worthless sinner loves a very beautiful girl—as he -never believed it could be given to man to love.” His voice broke and -faltered: then he went on steadily. “And the next one—which is really -even more important—is that the very beautiful girl will receive a -letter in a long envelope by to-night’s mail. The address will be typed, -the postmark Strand. I do not want the beautiful girl to open it except -in my presence. You understand?” - -“I understand,” she whispered, and her eyes were shining. - -“Have you seen this?” Perrison’s voice—shaking with rage—made -Longworth swing round. - -“Seen what, dear lad?” he murmured, taking the paper. “Robbery in -City—is that what you mean? Dear, dear—what dastardly outrages do go -unpunished these days! Messrs. Smith and Co. Really! Watchman bound and -gagged. Safe rifled. Work of a master hand. Still, though I quite -understand your horror as a law-abiding citizen at such a thing, why -this thusness? I mean—altruism is wonderful, laddie; but it seems to me -that it’s jolly old Smith and Co. who are up the pole.” - -He burbled on genially, serenely unconscious of the furious face of the -other man. - -“I’m trying to think where I’ve met you before, Mr. Longworth,” snarled -Perrison. - -“Never, surely,” murmured the other. “Those classic features, I feel -sure, would have been indelibly printed on my mind. Perhaps in some -mission, Mr. Perrison—some evangelical revival meeting. Who knows? And -there, if I mistake not, is the mail.” - -He glanced at the girl, and she was staring at him wonderingly. Just for -one moment did he show her what she wanted to know—just for one moment -did she give him back the answer which was to him the sweetest and at -the same time the most bitter in the world. Then he crossed the hall and -picked up the letters. - -“A business one for you, Miss Daventry,” he murmured, mildly. “Better -open it at once, and get our business expert’s advice. Mr. Perrison is a -wonderful fellah for advice.” - -With trembling fingers she opened the envelope, and, as he saw the -contents, Perrison, with a snarl of ungovernable fury, made as if to -snatch them out of her hand. The next moment he felt as if his arm was -broken, and the blue eyes boring into his brain were no longer lazy. - -“You forgot yourself, Mr. Perrison,” said Archie Longworth, gently. -“Don’t do that again.” - -“But I don’t understand,” cried the girl, bewildered. “What are these -papers?” - -“May I see?” Longworth held out his hand, and she gave them to him at -once. - -“They’re stolen.” Perrison’s face was livid. “Give them to me, curse -you.” - -“Control yourself, you horrible blighter,” said Longworth, icily. -“This,” he continued, calmly, “would appear to be a receipt from Messrs. -Gross and Sons for the return of a pearl-necklace—sent out to Mr. -Daventry on approval.” - -“But you said he’d bought it and pawned it.” She turned furiously on -Perrison. - -“So he did,” snarled that gentleman. “That’s a forgery.” - -“Is it?” said Longworth. “That strikes me as being Johnson’s signature. -Firm’s official paper. And—er—he has the necklace, I—er—assume.” - -“Yes—he has the necklace. Stolen last night by—by——” His eyes were -fixed venomously on Longworth. - -“Go on,” murmured the other. “You’re being most entertaining.” - -But a sudden change had come over Perrison’s face—a dawning -recognition. “By God!” he muttered, “you’re—you’re——” - -“Yes. I’m—who? It’ll come in time, laddie—if you give it a chance. And -in the meantime we might examine these other papers. Now, this appears -to my inexperienced eye to be a transaction entered into on the one part -by Messrs. Smith and Co. and on the other by William Daventry. And it -concerns filthy lucre. Dear, dear. Twenty-five per cent. per month. -Three hundred per cent. Positive usury, Mr. Perrison. Don’t you agree -with me? A rapacious bloodsucker is Mr. Smith.” - -But the other man was not listening: full recollection had come to him, -and with a cold look of triumph he put his hands into his pockets and -laughed. - -“Very pretty,” he remarked. “Very pretty indeed. And how, in your -vernacular, do you propose to get away with the swag, Mr. Flash Pete? I -rather think the police—whom I propose to call up on the ’phone in one -minute—will be delighted to see such an old and elusive friend.” - -He glanced at the girl, and laughed again at the look on her face. - -“What’s he mean, Archie?” she cried, wildly. “What’s he mean?” - -“I mean,” Perrison sneered, “that Mr. Archie Longworth is what is -generally described as a swell crook with a reputation in certain -unsavoury circles extending over two or three continents. And the -police, whom I propose to ring up, will welcome him as a long-lost -child.” - -He walked towards the telephone, and with a little gasp of fear the girl -turned to Archie. - -“Say it’s not true, dear—say it’s not true.” - -For a moment he looked at her with a whimsical smile; then he sat down -on the high fender round the open fire. - -“I think, Mr. Perrison,” he murmured, gently, “that if I were you I -would not be too precipitate over ringing up the police. The engaging -warrior who sent this letter to Miss Daventry put in yet one more -enclosure.” - -Perrison turned round: then he stood very still. - -“A most peculiar document,” continued the man by the fire, in the same -gentle voice, “which proves very conclusively that amongst their other -activities Messrs. Smith and Co. are not only the receivers of stolen -goods, but are mixed up with illicit diamond buying.” - -In dead silence the two men stared at one another; then Longworth spoke -again. - -“I shall keep these three documents, Mr. Perrison, as a safeguard for -your future good behaviour. Mr. Daventry can pay a certain fair sum or -not as he likes—that is his business: and I shall make a point of -explaining exactly to him who and what you are—and Smith—and Gross. -But should you be disposed to make any trouble over the necklace—or -should the idea get abroad that Flash Pete was responsible for the -burglary last night—it will be most unfortunate for you—most. This -document would interest Scotland Yard immensely.” - -Perrison’s face had grown more and more livid as he listened, and when -the quiet voice ceased, unmindful of the girl standing by, he began to -curse foully and hideously. The next moment he cowered back, as two iron -hands gripped his shoulders and shook him till his teeth rattled. - -“Stop, you filthy swine,” snarled Longworth, “or I’ll break every bone -in your body. Quite a number of men are blackguards, Perrison—but -you’re a particularly creeping and repugnant specimen. Now—get out—and -do it quickly. The nine-thirty will do you nicely. And don’t forget what -I’ve just said: because, as there’s a God above, I mean it.” - -“I’ll be even with you for this some day, Flash Pete,” said the other -venomously over his shoulder. “And then——” - -“And then,” said Longworth, contemptuously, “we will resume this -discussion. Just now—get out.” - - V - -“Yes: it is quite true.” She had known it was—and yet, womanlike, she -had clung to the hope that there was some mistake—some explanation. And -now, alone with the man she had grown to love, the faint hope died. With -his lazy smile, he stared down at her—a smile so full of sorrow and -pain that she could not bear to see it. - -“I’m Flash Pete—with an unsavoury reputation, as our friend so kindly -told you, in three continents. It was I who broke open the safe at -Smith’s last night, I who got the receipt from Gross. You see, I spotted -the whole trick from the beginning; as I said, I had inside information. -And Perrison is Smith and Co.; moreover he’s very largely Gross as -well—and half a dozen other rotten things in addition. The whole thing -was worked with one end in view right from the beginning: the girl your -brother originally bought the pearls for was in it; it was she who -suggested the pawning. Bill told me that the night before last.” He -sighed and paced two or three times up and down the dim-lit -conservatory. And after a while he stopped in front of her again, and -his blue eyes were very tender. - -“Just a common sneak-thief—just a common worthless sinner. And he’s -very, very glad that he has been privileged to help the most beautiful -girl in all the world. Don’t cry, my dear, don’t cry: there’s nothing -about that sinner’s that’s worth a single tear of yours. You must forget -his wild presumption in falling in love with that beautiful girl: his -only excuse is that he couldn’t help it. And maybe, in the days to come, -the girl will think kindly every now and then of a man known to some as -Archie Longworth—known to others as Flash Pete—known to himself -as—well, we won’t bother about that.” - -He bent quickly and raised her hand to his lips; then he was gone almost -before she had realised it. And if he heard her little gasping -cry—“Archie, my man, come back—I love you so!” he gave no sign. - -For in his own peculiar code a very worthless sinner must remain a very -worthless sinner to the end—and he must run the course alone. - - - - - - -_IX_ _Jimmy Lethbridge’s Temptation_ - - - - I - -“WHAT a queer little place, Jimmy!” The girl glanced round the tiny -restaurant with frank interest, and the man looked up from the menu he -was studying with a grin. - -“Don’t let François hear you say that, or you’ll be asked to leave.” The -head-waiter was already bearing down on them, his face wreathed in an -expansive smile of welcome. “To him it is the only restaurant in -London.” - -“Ah, m’sieur! it is long days since you were here.” The little Frenchman -rubbed his hands together delightedly. “And mam’selle—it is your first -visit to Les Coquelins, n’est-ce-pas?” - -“But not the last, I hope, François,” said the girl with a gentle smile. - -“Ah, mais non!” Outraged horror at such an impossible idea shone all -over the head-waiter’s face. “My guests, mam’selle, they come here once -to see what it is like—and they return because they know what it is -like.” - -Jimmy Lethbridge laughed. - -“There you are, Molly,” he cried. “Now you know what’s expected of you. -Nothing less than once a week—eh, François?” - -“Mais oui, m’sieur. There are some who come every night.” He produced -his pencil and stood waiting. “A few oysters,” he murmured. “They are -good ce soir: real Whitstables. And a bird, M’sieur Lethbridge—with an -omelette aux fines herbes——” - -“Sounds excellent, François,” laughed the man. “Anyway, I know that once -you have decided—argument is futile.” - -“It is my work,” answered the waiter, shrugging his shoulders. “And a -bottle of Corton—with the chill just off. Toute de suite.” - -François bustled away, and the girl looked across the table with a -faintly amused smile in her big grey eyes. - -“He fits the place, Jimmy. You must bring me here again.” - -“Just as often as you like, Molly,” answered the man quietly, and after -a moment the girl turned away. “You know,” he went on steadily, “how -much sooner I’d bring you to a spot like this, than go to the Ritz or -one of those big places. Only I was afraid it might bore you. I love it: -it’s so much more intimate.” - -“Why should you think it would bore me?” she asked, drawing off her -gloves and resting her hands on the table in front of her. They were -beautiful hands, ringless save for one plain signet ring on the little -finger of her left hand. And, almost against his will, the man found -himself staring at it as he answered: - -“Because I can’t trust myself, dear; I can’t trust myself to amuse you,” -he answered slowly. “I can’t trust myself not to make love to you—and -it’s so much easier here than in the middle of a crowd whom one knows.” - -The girl sighed a little sadly. - -“Oh, Jimmy, I wish I could! You’ve been such an absolute dear. Give me a -little longer, old man, and then—perhaps——” - -“My dear,” said the man hoarsely, “I don’t want to hurry you. I’m -willing to wait years for you—years. At least”—he smiled -whimsically—“I’m not a little bit willing to wait years—really. But if -it’s that or nothing—then, believe me, I’m more than willing.” - -“I’ve argued it out with myself, Jimmy.” And now she was staring at the -signet ring on her finger. “And when I’ve finished the argument, I know -that I’m not a bit further on. You can’t argue over things like that. -I’ve told myself times out of number that it isn’t fair to you——” - -He started to speak, but she stopped him with a smile. - -“No, dear man, it is not fair to you—whatever you like to say. It isn’t -fair to you even though you may agree to go on waiting. No one has a -right to ask another person to wait indefinitely, though I’m thinking -that is exactly what I’ve been doing. Which is rather like a woman,” and -once again she smiled half sadly. - -“But I’m willing to wait, dear,” he repeated gently. “And then I’m -willing to take just as much as you care to give. I won’t worry you, -Molly; I won’t ask you for anything you don’t feel like granting me. You -see, I know now that Peter must always come first. I had hoped that -you’d forget him; I still hope, dear, that in time you will——” - -She shook her head, and the man bit his lip. - -“Well, even if you don’t, Molly,” he went on steadily, “is it fair to -yourself to go on when you know it’s hopeless? There can be no doubt now -that he’s dead; you know it yourself—you’ve taken off your engagement -ring—and is it fair to—you? Don’t worry about me for the moment—but -what is the use? Isn’t it better to face facts?” - -The girl gave a little laugh that was half a sob. - -“Of course it is, Jimmy. Much better. I always tell myself that in my -arguments.” Then she looked at him steadily across the table. “You’d be -content, Jimmy—would you?—with friendship at first.” - -“Yes,” he answered quietly. “I would be content with friendship.” - -“And you wouldn’t bother me—ah, no! forgive me, I know you wouldn’t. -Because, Jimmy, I don’t want there to be any mistake. People think I’ve -got over it because I go about; in some ways I have. But I seem to have -lost something—some part of me. I don’t think I shall ever be able to -_love_ a man again. I like you, Jimmy—like you most frightfully—but I -don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to love you in the way I loved -Peter.” - -“I know that,” muttered the man. “And I’ll risk it.” - -“You dear!” said the girl—and her eyes were shining. “That’s where the -unfairness comes in. You’re worth the very best—and I can’t promise to -give it to you.” - -“You are the very best, whatever you give me,” answered the man quietly. -“I’d sooner have anything from you than everything from another woman. -Oh, my dear!” he burst out, “I didn’t mean to worry you to-night—though -I knew this damned restaurant would be dangerous—but can’t you say yes? -I swear you’ll never regret it, dear—and I—I’ll be quite content to -know that you care just a bit.” - -For a while the girl was silent; then with a faint smile she looked at -him across the table. - -“All right, Jimmy,” she said. - -“You mean you will, Molly?” he cried, a little breathlessly. - -And the girl nodded. - -“Yes, old man,” she answered steadily. “I mean I will.” - - · · · · · - -It was two hours later when Molly Daventry went slowly upstairs to her -room and shut the door. Jimmy Lethbridge had just gone; she had just -kissed him. And the echo of his last whispered words—“My dear! my very -dear girl!”—was still sounding in her ears. - -For a while she stood by the fireplace smiling a little sadly. Then she -crossed the room and switched on a special light. It was so placed that -it shone directly on the photograph of an officer in the full dress of -the 9th Hussars. And at length she knelt down in front of the table on -which the photograph stood, so that the light fell on her own face -also—glinting through the red-gold of her hair, glistening in the -mistiness of her eyes. For maybe five minutes she knelt there, till it -seemed to her as if a smile twitched round the lips of the officer—a -human smile, an understanding smile. - -“Oh, Peter!” she whispered, “he was your pal. Forgive me, my -love—forgive me. He’s been such a dear.” - -And once again the photograph seemed to smile at her tenderly. - -“It’s only you, Peter, till Journey’s End—but I must give him the next -best, mustn’t I? It’s only fair, isn’t it?—and you hated unfairness. -But, dear God! it’s hard.” - -Slowly she stretched out her left hand, so that the signet ring touched -the big silver frame. - -“Your ring, Peter,” she whispered, “your dear ring.” - -And with a sudden little choking gasp she raised it to her lips. - - II - -It was in a side-street close to High Street, Kensington, that it -happened—the unbelievable thing. Fate decided to give Jimmy two months -of happiness; cynically allowed him to come within a fortnight of his -wedding, and then—— - -For a few seconds he couldn’t believe his eyes; he stood staring like a -man bereft of his senses. There on the opposite side of the road, -playing a barrel-organ, was Peter himself—Peter, who had been reported -“Missing, believed killed,” three years before. Peter, whom a sergeant -had categorically said he had seen killed with his own eyes. And there -he was playing a barrel-organ in the streets of London. - -Like a man partially dazed Jimmy Lethbridge went over towards him. As he -approached the player smiled genially, and touched his cap with his free -hand. Then after a while the smile faded, and he stared at Jimmy -suspiciously. - -“My God, Peter!” Lethbridge heard himself say, “what are you doing this -for?” - -And as he spoke he saw a girl approaching—a girl who placed herself -aggressively beside Peter. - -“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded the player. “And who the hell are you -calling Peter?” - -“But,” stammered Jimmy, “don’t you know me, old man?” - -“No!” returned the other truculently. “And I don’t want to, neither.” - -“A ruddy torf, ’e is, Bill,” chimed in the girl. - -“Good God!” muttered Lethbridge, even then failing to understand the -situation. “You playing a barrel-organ!” - -“Look here, ’op it, guv’nor.” Peter spoke with dangerous calmness. “I -don’t want no blinking scenes ’ere. The police ain’t too friendly as it -is, and this is my best pitch.” - -“But why didn’t you let your pals know you were back, old man?” said -Jimmy feebly. “Your governor, and all of us?” - -“See ’ere, mister,” the girl stepped forward, “’e ain’t got no -pals—only me. Ain’t that so, Billy?” she turned to the man, who nodded. - -“I looks after him, I do, d’yer see?” went on the girl. “And I don’t -want no one coming butting their ugly heads in. It worries ’im, it -does.” - -“But do you mean to say——” began Jimmy dazedly, and then he broke off. -At last he understood, something if not all. In some miraculous way -Peter had not been killed; Peter was there in front of him—but a new -Peter; a Peter whose memory of the past had completely gone, whose mind -was as blank as a clean-washed slate. - -“How long have you been doing this?” he asked quietly. - -“Never you mind,” said the girl sharply. “He ain’t nothing to you. I -looks after ’im, I do.” - -Not for a second did Jimmy hesitate, though deep down inside him there -came a voice that whispered—“Don’t be a fool! Pretend it’s a mistake. -Clear off! Molly will never know.” And if for a moment his hands -clenched with the strength of the sudden hideous temptation, his voice -was calm and quiet as he spoke. - -“That’s where you’re wrong.” He looked at her gently. “He is something -to me—my greatest friend, whom I thought was dead.” - -And now Peter was staring at him fixedly, forgetting even to turn the -handle of the machine. - -“I don’t remember yer, guv’nor,” he said, and Jimmy flinched at the -appalling accent. “I’ve kind o’ lost my memory, yer see, and Lizzie ’ere -looks after me.” - -“I know she does,” continued Jimmy quietly. “Thank you, Lizzie, thank -you a thousand times. But I want you both to come to this house -to-night.” He scribbled the address of his rooms on a slip of paper. “We -must think what is best to be done. You see, Lizzie, it’s not quite fair -to him, is it? I want to get a good doctor to see him.” - -“I’m quite ’appy as I am, sir,” said Peter. “I don’t want no doctors -messing about with me.” - -“Yer’d better go, Bill.” The girl turned to him. “The gentleman seems -kind. But”—she swung round on Jimmy fiercely—“you ain’t going to take -’im away from me, guv’nor? ’E’s mine, yer see—mine——” - -“I want you to come with him to-night, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge gravely. -“I’m not going to try and take him away from you. I promise that. But -will you promise to come? It’s for his sake I ask you to bring him.” - -For a while she looked at him half fearfully; then she glanced at Peter, -who had apparently lost interest in the matter. And at last she muttered -under her breath: “Orl right—I’ll bring him. But ’e’s mine—mine. An’ -don’t yer go forgetting it.” - -And Jimmy, walking slowly into the main street, carried with him the -remembrance of a small determined face with the look on it of a mother -fighting for her young. That and Peter; poor dazed memory-lost -Peter—his greatest pal. - -At first, as he turned towards Piccadilly, he grasped nothing save the -one stupendous fact that Peter was not dead. Then, as he walked on, -gradually the realisation of what it meant to him personally came to his -mind. And with that realisation there returned with redoubled force the -insidious tempting voice that had first whispered: “Molly will never -know.” She would never know—could never know—unless he told her. And -Peter was happy; he’d said so. And the girl was happy—Lizzie. And -perhaps—in fact most likely—Peter would never recover his memory. So -what was the use? Why say anything about it? Why not say it was a -mistake when they came that evening? And Jimmy put his hand to his -forehead and found it was wet with sweat. - -After all, if Peter didn’t recover, it would only mean fearful -unhappiness for everyone. He wouldn’t know Molly, and it would break her -heart, and the girl’s, and—but, of course, _he_ didn’t count. It was -the others he was thinking of—not himself. - -He turned into the Park opposite the Albert Hall, and passers-by eyed -him strangely, though he was supremely unaware of the fact. But when all -the demons of hell are fighting inside a man, his face is apt to look -grey and haggard. And as he walked slowly towards Hyde Park Corner, -Jimmy Lethbridge went through his Gethsemane. They thronged him; -pressing in on him from all sides, and he cursed the devils out loud. -But still they came back, again and again, and the worst and most -devilish of them all was the insidious temptation that by keeping silent -he would be doing the greatest good for the greatest number. Everyone -was happy now—why run the risk of altering things? - -And then, because it is not good that man should be tempted till he -breaks, the Fate that had led him to Peter, led him gently out of the -Grim Garden into Peace once more. He gave a short hard laugh which was -almost a sob, and turning into Knightsbridge he hailed a taxi. It was as -it drew up at the door of Molly’s house that he laughed again—a laugh -that had lost its hardness. And the driver thought his fare’s “Thank -you” was addressed to him. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the first time -Jimmy had prayed for ten years. - -“Why, Jimmy, old man—you’re early, I’m not dressed yet.” Molly met him -in the hall, and he smiled at her gravely. - -“Do you mind, dear,” he said, “if I cry off to-night? I’ve got a very -important engagement—even more important than taking you out to dinner, -if possible.” - -The smile grew whimsical, and he put both his hands on her shoulders. - -“It concerns my wedding present for you,” he added. - -“From the bridegroom to the bride?” she laughed. - -“Something like that,” he said, turning away abruptly. - -“Of course, dear,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a bit of -a head. Though what present you can be getting at this time of day, I -can’t think.” - -“You mustn’t try to,” said Jimmy. “It’s a surprise, Molly—a surprise. -Pray God you like it, and that it will be a success!” - -He spoke low under his breath, and the girl looked at him curiously. - -“What’s the matter, dear?” she cried. “Has something happened?” - -Jimmy Lethbridge pulled himself together; he didn’t want her to suspect -anything yet. - -“Good heavens, no!” he laughed. “What should have? But I want to borrow -something from you, Molly dear, and I don’t want you to ask any -questions. I want you to lend me that photograph of Peter that you’ve -got—the one in full dress.” - -And now she was staring at him wonderingly. - -“Jimmy,” she said breathlessly, “does it concern the present?” - -“Yes; it concerns the present.” - -“You’re going to have a picture of him painted for me?” - -“Something like that,” he answered quietly. - -“Oh, you dear!” she whispered, “you dear! I’ve been thinking about it -for months. I’ll get it for you.” - -She went upstairs, and the man stood still in the hall staring after -her. And he was still standing motionless as she came down again, the -precious frame clasped in her hands. - -“You’ll take care of it, Jimmy?” she said, and he nodded. - -Then for a moment she laid her hand on his arm. - -“I don’t think, old man,” she said quietly, “that you’ll have to wait -very long with friendship only.” - -The next moment she was alone with the slam of the front-door echoing in -her ears. It was like Fate to reserve its most deadly arrow for the end. - - III - -“You say he has completely lost his memory?” - -Mainwaring, one of the most brilliant of London’s younger surgeons, -leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his host. - -“Well, he didn’t know me, and I was his greatest friend,” said -Lethbridge. - -The two men were in Jimmy’s rooms, waiting for the arrival of Peter and -the girl. - -“He looked at me without a trace of recognition,” continued Lethbridge. -“And he’s developed a typical lower-class Cockney accent.” - -“Interesting, very,” murmured the surgeon, getting up and examining the -photograph on the table. “This is new, isn’t it, old boy; I’ve never -seen it before?” - -“I borrowed it this afternoon,” said Jimmy briefly. - -“From his people, I suppose? Do they know?” - -“No one knows at present, Mainwaring—except you and me. That photograph -I got this afternoon from Miss Daventry.” - -Something in his tone made the surgeon swing round. - -“You mean your fiancée?” he said slowly. - -“Yes—my fiancée. You see, she was—she was engaged to Peter. And she -thinks he’s dead. That is the only reason she got engaged to me.” - -For a moment there was silence, while Mainwaring stared at the other. A -look of wonder had come into the doctor’s eyes—wonder mixed with a -dawning admiration. - -“But, my God! old man,” he muttered at length, “if the operation is -successful——” - -“Can you think of a better wedding present to give a girl than the man -she loves?” said Jimmy slowly, and the doctor turned away. There are -times when it is not good to look on another man’s face. - -“And if it isn’t successful?” he said quietly. - -“God knows, Bill. I haven’t got as far as that—yet.” - -And it was at that moment that there came a ring at the front-door bell. -There was a brief altercation; then Jimmy’s man appeared. - -“Two—er—persons say you told them——” he began, when Lethbridge cut -him short. - -“Show them in at once,” he said briefly, and his man went out again. - -“You’ve got to remember, Bill,” said Jimmy as they waited, “that Peter -Staunton is literally, at the moment, a low-class Cockney.” - -Mainwaring nodded, and drew back a little as Peter and the girl came -into the room. He wanted to leave the talking to Jimmy, while he -watched. - -“Good evening, Lizzie,” Lethbridge smiled at the girl reassuringly. “I’m -glad you came.” - -“Who’s that cove?” demanded the girl suspiciously, staring at -Mainwaring. - -“A doctor,” said Jimmy. “I want him to have a look at Peter later on.” - -“His name ain’t Peter,” muttered the girl sullenly. “It’s Bill.” - -“Well, at Bill, then. Don’t be frightened, Lizzie; come farther into the -room. I want you to see a photograph I’ve got here.” - -Like a dog who wonders whether it is safe to go to a stranger, she -advanced slowly, one step at a time; while Peter, twirling his cap -awkwardly in his hands, kept beside her. Once or twice he glanced -uneasily round the room, but otherwise his eyes were fixed on Lizzie as -a child looks at its mother when it’s scared. - -“My God, Jimmy!” whispered the doctor, “there’s going to be as big a -sufferer as you if we’re successful.” - -And he was looking as he spoke at the girl, who, with a sudden -instinctive feeling of protection, had put out her hand and taken -Peter’s. - -Like a pair of frightened children they crept on until they came to the -photograph; then they stopped in front of it. And the two men came a -little closer. It was the girl who spoke first, in a low voice of -wondering awe: - -“Gawd! it’s you, Bill—that there bloke in the frame. You were a -blinking orficer.” - -With a look of pathetic pride on her face, she stared first at the -photograph and then at the man beside her. “An orficer! Bill—an -orficer! What was ’is regiment, mister?” The girl swung round on Jimmy. -“Was ’e in the Guards?” - -“No, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge. “Not the Guards. He was in the cavalry. -The 9th Hussars,” and the man, who was holding the frame foolishly in -his hands, suddenly looked up. “The Devil’s Own, Peter,” went on -Lethbridge quietly. “C Squadron of the Devil’s Own.” - -But the look had faded; Peter’s face was blank again. - -“I don’t remember, guv’nor,” he muttered. “And it’s making me ’ead -ache—this.” - -With a little cry the girl caught his arm, and faced Lethbridge -fiercely. - -“Wot’s the good of all this?” she cried. “All this muckin’ abaht? Why -the ’ell can’t you leave ’im alone, guv’nor? ’E’s going to ’ave one of -’is ’eads now—’e nearly goes mad, ’e does, when ’e gets ’em.” - -“I think, Lizzie, that perhaps I can cure those heads of his.” - -It was Mainwaring speaking, and the girl, still holding Peter’s arm -protectingly, looked from Lethbridge to the doctor. - -“And I want to examine him, in another room where the light is a little -better. Just quite alone, where he won’t be distracted.” - -But instantly the girl was up in arms. - -“You’re taking ’im away from me—that’s wot yer doing. And I won’t ’ave -it. Yer don’t want to go, Bill, do yer? Yer don’t want to leave yer -Liz?” - -And Jimmy Lethbridge bit his lip; Mainwaring had been right. - -“I’m not going to take him away, Lizzie,” said the doctor gently. “I -promise you that. You shall see him the very instant I’ve made my -examination. But if you’re there, you see, you’ll distract his -attention.” - -She took a step forward, staring at the doctor as if she would read his -very soul. And in the infinite pathos of the scene, Jimmy Lethbridge for -the moment forgot his own suffering. Lizzie—the little slum -girl—fighting for her man against something she couldn’t understand; -wondering if she should trust these two strangers. Caught in a net that -frightened her; fearful that they were going to harm Bill. And at the -bottom of everything the wild, inarticulate terror that she was going to -lose him. - -“You swear it?” she muttered. “I can see ’im after yer’ve looked at -’im.” - -“I swear it,” said Mainwaring gravely. - -She gave a little sob. “Orl right, I believe yer on the level. You go -with ’im, Bill. Perhaps ’e’ll do yer ’ead good.” - -“’E’s queer sometimes at night,” said Lizzie, as the door closed behind -Mainwaring. “Seems all dazed like.” - -“Is he?” said Jimmy. “How did you find him, Lizzie?” - -“’E was wandering round—didn’t know nuthing about ’imself,” she -answered. “And I took ’im in—and looked after ’im, I did. Saved and -pinched a bit, ’ere and there—and then we’ve the barrel-organ. And -we’ve been so ’appy, mister—so ’appy. Course ’e’s a bit queer, and ’e -don’t remember nuthing—but ’e’s orl right if ’e don’t get ’is -’eadaches. And when ’e does, I gets rid of them. I jest puts ’is ’ead on -me lap and strokes ’is forehead—and they goes after a while. Sometimes -’e goes to sleep when I’m doing it—and I stops there till ’e wakes -again with the ’ead gone. Yer see, I understands ’im. ’E’s ’appy with -me.” - -She was staring at the photograph—a pathetic little figure in her -tawdry finery—and for a moment Jimmy couldn’t speak. It had to be done; -he had to do it—but it felt rather like killing a wounded bird with a -sledge-hammer—except that it wouldn’t be so quick. - -“He’s a great brain surgeon, Lizzie—the gentleman with Bill,” he said -at length, and the girl turned round and watched him gravely. “And he -thinks that an operation might cure him and give him back his memory.” - -“So that ’e’d know ’e was an orficer?” whispered the girl. - -“So that he’d know he was an officer,” said Jimmy. “So that he’d -remember all his past life. You see, Lizzie, your Bill is really Sir -Peter Staunton—whom we all thought had been killed in the war.” - -“Sir Peter Staunton!” she repeated dazedly. “Gawd!” - -“He was engaged, Lizzie,” he went on quietly, and he heard her breath -come quick—“engaged to that lady.” He pointed to a picture of Sybil on -the mantelpiece. - -“No one wouldn’t look at me with ’er about,” said the girl thoughtfully. - -“She loved him very dearly, Lizzie—even as he loved her. I don’t think -I’ve ever known two people who loved one another quite so much. And——” -for a moment Jimmy faltered, then he went on steadily: “I ought to know -in this case, because I’m engaged to her now.” - -And because the Cockney brain is quick, she saw—and understood. - -“So if yer doctor friend succeeds,” she said, “she’ll give yer the -chuck?” - -“Yes, Lizzie,” answered Jimmy gravely, “she’ll give me the chuck.” - -“And yer love ’er? Orl right, old sport. I can see it in yer face. -Strikes me”—and she gave a little laugh that was sadder than any -tears—“strikes me you ’anded out the dirty end of the stick to both of -us when you come round that street to-day.” - -“Strikes me I did, Lizzie,” he agreed. “But, you see, I’ve told you this -because I want you to understand that we’re both of us in it—we’ve both -of us got to play the game.” - -“Play the game!” she muttered. “Wot d’yer want me to do?” - -“The doctor doesn’t want him excited, Lizzie,” explained Lethbridge. -“But he wants him to stop here to-night, so that he can operate -to-morrow. Will you tell him that you want him to stop here?—and stay -here with him if you like.” - -“And to-morrer she’ll tike ’im.” The girl was staring at Sybil’s -photograph. “’E won’t look at me—when ’e knows. Gawd! why did yer find -’im—why did yer find ’im? We was ’appy, I tells yer—’appy!” - -She was crying now—crying as a child cries, weakly and pitifully, and -Lethbridge stood watching her in silence. - -“Poor kid!” he said at length. “Poor little kid!” - -“I don’t want yer pity,” she flared up. “I want my man.” And then, as -she saw Jimmy looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece, in an -instant she was beside him. “Sorry, old sport,” she whispered -impulsively. “Reckon you’ve backed a ruddy loser yourself. I’ll do it. -Shake ’ands. I guess I knew all along that Bill wasn’t really my style. -And I’ve ’ad my year.” - -“You’re lucky, Lizzie,” said Jimmy gravely, still holding her hand. -“Very, very lucky.” - -“I’ve ’ad my year,” she went on, and for a moment her thoughts seemed -far away. “A ’ole year—and——” she pulled herself together and started -patting her hair. - -“And what, Lizzie?” said Jimmy quietly. - -“Never you mind, mister,” she answered. “That’s my blooming business.” - -And then the door opened and Mainwaring came in. - -“Does Lizzie agree?” he asked eagerly. - -“Yes, Bill—she agrees,” said Jimmy. “What do you think of him?” - -“As far as I can see there is every hope that an operation will be -completely successful. There is evidently pressure on the right side of -the skull which can be removed. I’ll operate early to-morrow morning. -Keep him quiet to-night—and make him sleep, Lizzie, if you can.” - -“What d’yer think, mister?” she said scornfully. “Ain’t I done it fer a -year?” - -Without another word she left the room, and the two men stood staring at -one another. - -“Will she play the game, Jimmy!” Mainwaring was lighting a cigarette. - -“Yes—she’ll play the game,” answered Lethbridge slowly. “She’ll play -the game—poor little kid!” - -“What terms are they on—those two?” The doctor looked at him curiously. - -“I think,” said Lethbridge even more slowly, “that that is a question we -had better not inquire into too closely.” - - IV - -It was successful—brilliantly successful—the operation. Lizzie made it -so; at any rate she helped considerably. It was she who held his hand as -he went under the anæsthetic; it was she who cheered him up in the -morning, when he awoke dazed and frightened in a strange room. And then -she slipped away and disappeared from the house. It was only later that -Lethbridge found a scrawled pencil note, strangely smudged, on his desk: - -“Let me no wot appens.—LIZZIE.” - -He didn’t know her address, so he couldn’t write and tell her that her -Bill had come to consciousness again, completely recovered except for -one thing. There was another blank in his mind now—the last three -years. One of his first questions had been to ask how the fight had -gone, and whether we’d broken through properly. - -And then for a day or two Lizzie was forgotten; he had to make his own -renunciation. - -Molly came, a little surprised at his unusual invitation, and he left -the door open so that she could see Peter in bed from one part of his -sitting-room. - -“Where have you buried yourself, Jimmy?” she cried. “I’ve been——” And -then her face grew deathly white as she looked into the bedroom. Her -lips moved, though no sound came from them; her hands were clenching and -unclenching. - -“But I’m mad,” he heard her whisper at length, “quite mad. I’m seeing -things, Jimmy—seeing things. Why—dear God! it’s Peter!” - -She took a step or two forward, and Peter saw her. - -“Molly,” he cried weakly, “Molly, my darling——” - -And Jimmy Lethbridge saw her walk forward slowly and uncertainly to the -man who had come back. With a shaking little cry of pure joy she fell on -her knees beside the bed, and Peter put a trembling hand on her hair. -Then Jimmy shut the door, and stared blankly in front of him. - -It was Lizzie who roused him—Lizzie coming shyly into the room from the -hall. - -“I seed her come in,” she whispered. “She looked orl right. ’Ow is ’e?” - -“He’s got his memory back, Lizzie,” he said gently. “But he’s forgotten -the last three years.” - -“Forgotten me, as ’e?” Her lips quivered. - -“Yes, Lizzie. Forgotten everything—barrel-organ and all. He thinks he’s -on sick leave from the war.” - -“And she’s wiv ’im now, is she?” - -“Yes—she’s with him, Lizzie.” - -She took a deep breath—then she walked to the glass and arranged her -hat—a dreadful hat with feathers in it. - -“Well, I reckons I’d better be going. I don’t want to see ’im. It would -break me ’eart. And I said good-bye to ’im that last night before the -operation. So long, mister. I’ve ’ad me year—she can’t tike that away -from me.” - -And then she was gone. He watched her from the window walking along the -pavement, with the feathers nodding at every step. Once she stopped and -looked back—and the feathers seemed to wilt and die. Then she went on -again—and this time she didn’t stop. She’d “’ad ’er year,” had Lizzie; -maybe the remembrance of it helped her gallant little soul when she -returned the barrel-organ—the useless barrel-organ. - -“So this was your present, Jimmy.” Molly was speaking just behind him, -and her eyes were very bright. - -“Yes, Molly,” he smiled. “Do you like it?” - -“I don’t understand what’s happened,” she said slowly. “I don’t -understand anything except the one big fact that Peter has come back.” - -“Isn’t that enough?” he asked gently. “Isn’t that enough, my dear? -Peter’s come back—funny old Peter. The rest will keep.” - -And then he took her left hand and drew off the engagement ring he had -given her. - -“Not on that finger now—Molly; though I’d like you to keep it now if -you will.” - -For a while she stared at him wonderingly. - -“Jimmy, but you’re big!” she whispered at length. “I’m so sorry!” She -turned away as Peter’s voice, weak and tremulous, came from the other -room. - -“Come in with me, old man,” she said. “Come in and talk to him.” - -But Jimmy shook his head. - -“He doesn’t want me, dear; I’m just—just going out for a bit——” - -Abruptly he left the room—they didn’t want him: any more than they -wanted Lizzie. - -Only she had had her year. - - - - - - -_X_ _Lady Cynthia and the Hermit_ - - - - I - -“MY dear Cynthia, you haven’t seen our Hermit yet. He’s quite the show -exhibit of the place.” - -Lady Cynthia Stockdale yawned and lit a cigarette. Hermits belonged -undoubtedly to the class of things in which she was _not_ interested; -the word conjured up a mental picture of a dirty individual of great -piety, clothed in a sack. And Lady Cynthia loathed dirt and detested -piety. - -“A hermit, Ada!” she remarked, lazily. “I thought the brand was extinct. -Does he feed ravens and things?” - -It is to be regretted that theological knowledge was not her strong -point, but Ada Laverton, her hostess, did not smile. From beneath some -marvellously long eyelashes she was watching the lovely girl lying back -in the deck-chair opposite, who was vainly trying to blow smoke rings. A -sudden wild idea had come into her brain—so wild as to be almost -laughable. But from time immemorial wild ideas anent their girl friends -have entered the brains of young married women, especially the lucky -ones who have hooked the right man. And Ada Laverton had undoubtedly -done that. She alternately bullied, cajoled, and made love to her -husband John, in a way that eminently suited that cheerful and easygoing -gentleman. He adored her quite openly and ridiculously, and she returned -the compliment just as ridiculously, even if not quite so openly. - -Moreover, Cynthia Stockdale was her best friend. Before her marriage -they had been inseparable, and perhaps there was no one living who -understood Cynthia as she did. To the world at large Cynthia was merely -a much photographed and capricious beauty. Worthy mothers of daughters, -who saw her reproduced weekly in the society papers, sighed inwardly -with envy, and commented on the decadence of the aristocracy: the -daughters tore out the pictures in a vain endeavour to copy her frocks. -But it wasn’t the frocks that made Cynthia Stockdale: it was she who -made the frocks. Put her in things selected haphazard from a jumble -sale—put her in remnants discarded by the people who got it up, and she -would still have seemed the best-dressed woman in the room. It was a -gift she had—not acquired, but natural. - -Lady Cynthia was twenty-five, and looked four years younger. Since the -war she had been engaged twice—once to a man in the Blues, and once to -a young and ambitious member of Parliament. Neither had lasted long, and -on the second occasion people had said unkind things. They had called -her heartless and capricious, and she had scorned to contradict them. It -mattered nothing to her what people said: if they didn’t like her they -could go away and have nothing to do with her. And since in her case it -wasn’t a pose, but the literal truth, people did not go away. Only to -Ada Laverton did she give her real confidence: only to Ada Laverton did -she show the real soul that lay below the surface. - -“I’m trying,” she had said, lying in that same chair a year previously, -“I’m trying to find the real thing. I needn’t marry if I don’t want to; -I haven’t got to marry for a home and a roof. And it’s got to be the -right man. Of course I may make a mistake—a mistake which I shan’t find -out till it’s too late. But surely when one has found it out before it’s -too late, it’s better to acknowledge it at once. It’s no good making a -second worse one by going through with it. I thought Arthur was all -right”—Arthur was the member of Parliament—“I’m awfully fond of Arthur -still. But I’m not the right wife for him. We jarred on one another in a -hundred little ways. And he hasn’t got a sense of humour. I shall never -forget the shock I got when I first realised that. He seemed to think -that a sense of humour consisted of laughing at humorous things, of -seeing a jest as well as anyone else. He didn’t seem to understand me -when I told him that the real sense of humour is often closer to tears -than laughter. Besides”—she had added inconsequently—“he had a -dreadful trick of whistling down my neck when we danced. No woman can be -expected to marry a permanent draught. And as for poor old Bill—well -Bill’s an angel. I still adore Bill. He is, I think, the most supremely -handsome being I’ve ever seen in my life—especially when he’s got his -full dress on. But, my dear, I blame myself over Bill. I ought to have -known it before I got engaged to him; as a matter of fact I did know it. -Bill is, without exception, the biggest fool in London. I thought his -face might atone for his lack of brains; I thought that perhaps if I -took him in hand he might do something in the House of Lords—his old -father can’t live much longer—but I gave it up. He is simply incapable -of any coherent thought at all. He can’t spell; he can’t add, and once -when I asked him if he liked Rachmaninoff, he thought it was the man who -had built the Pyramids.” - -This and much more came back to Ada Laverton as she turned over in her -mind the sudden wild idea that had come to her. Above all things she -wanted to see Cynthia married; she was so utterly happy herself that she -longed for her friend to share it too. She knew, as no one else did, -what a wonderful wife and pal Cynthia would make to the right man. But -it must be the right man; it must be the real thing. And like a blinding -flash had come the thought of the Hermit—the Hermit who had come into -the neighbourhood six months previously, and taken the little farm -standing in the hollow overlooking the sea. For, as she frequently told -John, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was tied to a silly old -idiot of a husband, she’d have married the Hermit herself. - -“No, he doesn’t feed ravens,” she remarked at length. “Only puppies. He -breeds Cairns and Aberdeens. We’ll stroll up and see him after tea.” - -“A hermit breeding dogs!” Cynthia sat up lazily. “My dear, you intrigue -me.” - -“Oh! he’s not a bad young man,” said Ada Laverton, indifferently. “Quite -passable looking, D.S.O. and M.C. and that sort of thing. Been all over -the world, and is really quite interesting when you can get him to -talk.” - -“What sort of age?” asked her friend. - -“Thirty to thirty-five. You shall see him. But you’re not to go and turn -his head; he’s very peaceful and happy as he is.” - -Lady Cynthia smiled. - -“I don’t think hermits are much in my line. A man’s job is to be up and -doing; not to bury himself alive and breed dogs.” - -“You tell him so,” said her hostess. “It will do him good.” - - II - -An excited rush of puppies—fat, bouncing, lolloping puppies; a stern -order: “Heel, you young blighters, heel!” in a pleasant, cheerful voice; -a laughing greeting from Ada Laverton, and Lady Cynthia Stockdale found -herself shaking hands with the Hermit. She shook hands as a man shakes -hands, with a firm, steady grasp, and she looked the person she was -greeting straight in the eyes. To her that first handshake meant, more -often than not, the final estimate of a stranger’s character; it always -meant the first. And her first estimate of Desmond Brooke was good. She -saw a man of clear skin and clear eye. He wore no hat, and his brown -hair, curling a little at the temples, was slightly flecked with grey. -His face was bronzed and a faint smile hovered in the corners of the -eyes that met hers fair and square. His shirt was open at the neck; the -sleeves were rolled up, showing a pair of muscular brown arms. He was -clean-shaven, and his teeth were very white and regular. So much, in -detail, she noticed during that first half-second; then she turned her -attention to the puppies. - -“What toppers!” she remarked. “What absolute toppers!” - -She picked a fat, struggling mixture of legs and ecstatically slobbering -tongue out of the mêlée at her feet, and the Hermit watched her gravely. -It struck him that in the course of a fairly crowded life he had never -seen a more lovely picture than the one made by this tall slender girl -with the wriggling puppy in her arms. And another thing struck him also, -though he said nothing. Possibly it was accidental, but the puppy she -had picked up, and which was now making frantic endeavours to lick her -face, was out and away the best of the litter. Almost angrily he told -himself that it _was_ an accident, and yet he could not quite banish the -thought that it was an accident which would happen every time. -Thoroughbred picks thoroughbred; instinctively the girl would pick the -best. His mouth set a little, giving him a look of sternness, and at -that moment their eyes met over the puppy’s head. - -“Is he for sale?” asked the girl. - -Undoubtedly he was for sale; Desmond Brooke, though he was in no need of -money, did not believe in running anything save on business lines. But -now something that he did not stop to analyse made him hesitate. He felt -a sudden inconsequent distaste against selling the puppy to her. - -“You’ve picked the best, I see,” he said quietly. - -“Of course,” she answered, with the faintest trace of hauteur. -Insensibly she felt that this man was hostile to her. - -“I am afraid that that one is not for sale,” he continued. “You can have -any of the others if you like.” - -Abruptly she restored the puppy to its mother. - -“Having chosen the best, Mr. Brooke,” she said, looking him straight in -the face, “I don’t care about taking anything second-rate.” - -For a second or two they stared at one another. Ada Laverton had -wandered away and was talking shop to the gardener; the Hermit and Lady -Cynthia were alone. - -“You surprise me,” said the Hermit, calmly. - -“That is gratuitously rude,” answered the girl quietly. “It is also -extremely impertinent. And lastly it shows that you are a very bad judge -of character.” - -The man bowed. - -“I sincerely hope that your ‘lastly’ is true. Am I to understand, then, -that you do not care to buy one of the other puppies?” - -And suddenly the girl laughed half-angrily. - -“What do you mean by daring to say such a thing to me? Why, you haven’t -known me for more than two minutes.” - -“That is not strictly true, Lady Cynthia. Anyone who is capable of -reading and takes in the illustrated papers can claim your acquaintance -weekly.” - -“I see,” she answered. “You disapprove of my poor features being -reproduced.” - -“Personally not at all,” he replied. “I know enough of the world, and am -sufficiently broadminded, I trust, to realise how completely unimportant -the matter is. Lady Cynthia Stockdale at Ascot, at Goodwood, in her -motor-car, out of her motor-car, by the fire, by the gas stove, in her -boudoir, out of her boudoir, in the garden, not in the garden—and -always in a different frock every time. It doesn’t matter to me, but -there are some people who haven’t got enough money to pay for the -doctor’s bill when their wives are dying. And it’s such a comfort to -them to see you by the fire. To know that half the money you paid for -your frock would save the life of the woman they love.” - -“You’re talking like a ranting tub-thumper,” she cried, furiously. “How -dare you say such things to me? And, anyway, does breeding dogs in the -wilderness help them with their doctors’ bills?” - -“_Touché_,” said the man, with a faint smile. “Perhaps I haven’t -expressed myself very clearly. You can’t pay the bills, Lady Cynthia—I -can’t. There are too many thousands to pay. But it’s the bitter contrast -that hits them, and it’s all so petty.” For a while he paused, seeming -to seek for his words. “Come with me, Lady Cynthia, and I’ll show you -something.” - -Almost violently he swung round on his heel and strode off towards the -house. For a moment she hesitated, then she followed him slowly. Anger -and indignation were seething in her mind; the monstrous impertinence of -this complete stranger was almost bewildering. She found him standing in -his smoking-room unlocking a drawer in a big writing-desk. - -“Well,” she said uncompromisingly from the doorway. - -“I have something to show you,” he remarked quietly. “But before I show -it to you, I want to tell you a very short story. Three years ago I was -in the back of beyond in Brazil. I’d got a bad dose of fever, and the -gassing I got in France wasn’t helping matters. It was touch and go -whether I pulled through or not. And one day one of the fellows got a -two-month-old _Tatler_. In that _Tatler_ was a picture—a picture of the -loveliest girl I have ever seen. I tore it out, and I propped it up at -the foot of my bed. I think I worshipped it; I certainly fell in love -with it. There is the picture.” - -He handed it to her, and she looked at it in silence. It was of herself, -and after a moment or two she raised her eyes to his. - -“Go on,” she said gently. - -“A few months ago I came back to England. I found a seething cauldron of -discontent; men out of work—strikes—talk of revolution. And this was -the country for which a million of our best had died. I also found—week -after week—my picture girl displayed in every paper, as if no such -thing as trouble existed. She, in her motor-car, cared for none of these -things.” - -“That is unjust,” said the girl, and her voice was low. - -“I knew it was unjust,” answered the man, “but I couldn’t help it. And -if I couldn’t help it—I who loved her—what of these others? It seemed -symbolical to me.” - -“Nero fiddling,” said the girl, with a faint smile. “You’re rather a -strange person, Mr. Brooke. Am I to understand that you’re in love with -me?” - -“You are not. I’m in love with the you of that picture.” - -“I see. You have set up an image. And supposing that image is a true -one.” - -“Need we discuss that?” said the man, with faint sarcasm. - -The girl shrugged her shoulders. - -“The supposition is at least as possible as that you are doing any vast -amount of good for the seething cauldron of discontent, I think you -called it, by breeding Aberdeens in the country. I’m afraid you’re a -crank, Mr. Brooke, and not a very consistent one at that. And a crank is -to my mind synonymous with a bore.” - -The man replaced the picture in his desk. - -“Then perhaps we had better join Mrs. Laverton,” he remarked. “I -apologise for having wearied you.” - -In silence they went out into the garden, to find Ada Laverton wandering -aimlessly round looking for them. - -“Where have you two been?” she demanded, as she saw them approaching. - -“Mr. Brooke has been showing me a relic of his past,” said Lady Cynthia. -“Most interesting and touching. Are you ready to go, Ada?” - -Mrs. Laverton gave a quick glance at their two faces, and wondered what -had happened. Not much, surely, in so short a time—and yet with Cynthia -you never could tell. The Hermit’s face, usually so inscrutable, showed -traces of suppressed feeling; Cynthia’s was rather too expressionless. - -“Are you coming to the ball to-morrow night, Hermit?” she asked. - -“I didn’t know there was one on, Mrs. Laverton,” he answered. - -“The cricket ball, my good man,” she exclaimed. “It’s been advertised -for the last month.” - -“But surely Mr. Brooke doesn’t countenance anything so frivolous as -dancing?” remarked Lady Cynthia. “After the lecture he has just given me -on my personal deportment the idea is out of the question.” - -“Nevertheless I propose to come, Lady Cynthia,” said Brooke quietly. -“You must forgive me if I have allowed my feelings to run away with me -to-day. And perhaps to-morrow you will allow me to find out if the new -image is correct—or a pose also.” - -“What do you mean?” asked the girl, puzzled. - -“‘Lady Cynthia Stockdale—possibly the best dancer in London,’” he -quoted mockingly; “I forget which of the many papers I saw it in.” - -“Do you propose to pass judgment on my dancing?” she asked. - -“If you will be good enough to give me a dance.” - -For a moment words failed her. The cool, the sublime impertinence of -this man literally choked her. Then she nodded briefly. - -“I’ll give you a dance if you’re there in time. And then you can test -for yourself, if you’re capable of testing.” - -He bowed without a word, and stood watching them as they walked down the -lane. - -“I think, Ada, that he’s the most detestable man I’ve ever met,” -remarked Lady Cynthia furiously, as they turned into the main road. - -And Ada Laverton said nothing, but wondered the more. - - III - -She saw him as soon as she got into the ballroom. It was the last day -but one of the local cricket week, and the room was crowded. A large -number of the men she knew—men she had danced with in London who had -come down to play—and within half a minute she was surrounded. It was a -chance of getting a dance with her which was not to be missed; in London -she generally danced with one or at the most two men for the whole -evening—men who were absolutely perfect performers. For dancing was a -part of Lady Cynthia’s life—and a big part. - -The humour of the situation had struck her that day. For this -dog-breeding crank to presume to judge her powers of dancing seemed too -sublimely funny for annoyance. But he deserved to be taught a very -considerable lesson. And she proposed to teach him. After that she -proposed to dismiss him completely from her mind. - -She gave him a cool nod as he came up, and frowned slightly as she -noticed the faint glint of laughter in his eyes. Really Mr. Desmond -Brooke was a little above himself. So much the worse for him. - -“I don’t know whether you’ll find one or not,” she remarked carelessly, -handing him her programme. - -He glanced at it without a word, and quietly erased someone’s name. - -“I’ve made special arrangements with the band for Number 9, Lady -Cynthia,” he remarked coolly. “A lot of people will be in at supper -then, so we ought to have the floor more to ourselves.” - -The next instant he had bowed and disappeared, leaving her staring -speechlessly at her programme. - -“A breezy customer,” murmured a man beside her. “Who is he?” - -“A gentleman who is going to have the biggest lesson of his life,” she -answered ominously, and the man laughed. He knew Lady Cynthia—and he -knew Lady Cynthia’s temper when it was roused. But for once he was wrong -in his diagnosis; the outward and visible were there all right—the -inward and mental state of affairs in keeping with them was not. For the -first time in her life Lady Cynthia felt at a loss. Her partners found -her _distraite_ and silent; as a matter of fact she was barely conscious -of their existence. And the more she lashed at herself mentally, the -more confused did she get. - -It was preposterous, impossible. Why should she cut Tubby Dawlish to -dance with a crank who kept dogs? A crank, moreover, who openly avowed -that his object was to see if she could dance. Every now and then she -saw him lounging by the door watching her. She knew he was watching her, -though she gave no sign of being aware of his existence. And all the -while Number 9 grew inexorably nearer. - -Dance indeed! She would show him how she could dance. And as a result -she fell into the deadly fault of trying. No perfect dancer ever _tries_ -to dance; they just dance. And Lady Cynthia knew that better than most -people. Which made her fury rise still more against the man standing -just outside the door smoking a cigarette. A thousand times—no; she -would not cut Tubby. - -And then she realised that people were moving in to supper; that the 8 -was being taken down from the band platform—that 9 was being put up. -And she realised that Desmond Brooke the Hermit was crossing the room -towards her; was standing by her side while Tubby—like an outraged -terrier—was glaring at him across her. - -“This is mine, old thing,” spluttered Tubby. “Number 9.” - -“I think not,” said the Hermit quietly. “I fixed Number 9 especially -with Lady Cynthia yesterday.” - -She hesitated—and was lost. - -“I’m sorry, Tubby,” she said a little weakly. “I forgot.” - -Not a trace of triumph showed on the Hermit’s face, as he gravely -watched the indignant back of his rival retreating towards the door: not -a trace of expression showed on his face as he turned to the girl. - -“You’ve been trying to-night, Lady Cynthia,” he said gravely. “Please -don’t—this time. It’s a wonderful tune this—half waltz, half tango. It -was lucky finding Lopez conducting: he has played for me before. And I -want you just to forget everything except the smell of the passion -flowers coming in through the open windows, and the thrumming of the -guitars played by the natives under the palm-trees.” His eyes were -looking into hers, and suddenly she drew a deep breath. Things had got -beyond her. - -It was marked as a fox-trot on the programme, and several of the more -enthusiastic performers were waiting to get off on the stroke of time. -But as the first haunting notes of the dance wailed out—they paused and -hesitated. This was no fox-trot; this was—but what matter what it was? -For after the first bar no one moved in the room: they stood motionless -watching one couple—Lady Cynthia Stockdale and an unknown man. - -“Why, it’s the fellow who breeds dogs,” muttered someone to his partner, -but there was no reply. She was too engrossed in watching. - -And as for Lady Cynthia, from the moment she felt Desmond Brooke’s arm -round her, the world had become merely movement—such movement as she -had never thought of before. To say that he was a perfect dancer would -be idle: he was dancing itself. And the band, playing as men possessed, -played for them and them only. Everything was forgotten: nothing in the -world mattered save that they should go on and on and on—dancing. She -was utterly unconscious of the crowd of onlookers: she didn’t know that -people had left the supper-room and were thronging in at the door: she -knew nothing save that she had never danced before. Dimly she realised -at last that the music had stopped: dimly she heard a great roar of -applause—but only dimly. It seemed to come from far away—the shouts of -“Encore” seemed hazy and dream-like. They had left the ballroom, though -she was hardly conscious of where he was taking her, and when he turned -to her and said, “Get a wrap or something: I want to talk to you out in -God’s fresh air,” she obeyed him without a word. He was waiting for her -when she returned, standing motionless where she had left him. And still -in silence he led the way to his car which had been left apart from all -the others, almost as if he had expected to want it before the end. For -a moment she hesitated, for Lady Cynthia, though utterly unconventional, -was no fool. - -“Will you come with me?” he said gravely. - -“Where to?” she asked. - -“Up to the cliffs beyond my house. It will take ten minutes—and I want -to talk to you with the sound of the sea below us.” - -“You had the car in readiness?” she said quietly. - -“For both of us—or for me alone,” he answered. “If you won’t come, then -I go home. Will you come with me?” he repeated. - -“Yes; I will come.” - -He helped her into the car and wrapped a rug round her; then he climbed -in beside her. And as they swung out of the little square, the strains -of the next dance followed them from the open windows of the Town Hall. - -He drove as he danced—perfectly; and in the dim light the girl watched -his clear-cut profile as he stared ahead into the glare of the -headlights. Away to the right his farm flashed by, the last house before -they reached the top of the cliffs. And gradually, above the thrumming -of the engine, she heard the lazy boom of the big Atlantic swell on the -rocks ahead. At last he stopped where the road ran parallel to the top -of the cliff, and switched off the lights. - -“Well,” she said, a little mockingly, “is the new image correct or a -pose?” - -“You dance divinely,” he answered gravely. “More divinely than any woman -I have ever danced with, and I have danced with those who are reputed to -be the show dancers of the world. But I didn’t ask you to come here to -talk about dancing; I asked you to come here in order that I might first -apologise, and then say Good-bye.” - -The girl gave a little start, but said nothing. - -“I talked a good deal of rot to you yesterday,” he went on, after a -moment. “You were justified in calling me a ranting tub-thumper. But I -was angry with myself, and when one is angry with oneself one does -foolish things. I know as well as you do just how little society -photographs mean: that was only a peg to hang my inexcusable tirade on. -You see, when one has fallen in love with an ideal—as I fell in love -with that picture of you, all in white in the garden at your father’s -place—and you treasure that ideal for three years, it jolts one to find -that the ideal is different to what you thought. I fell in love with a -girl in white, and sometimes in the wilds I’ve seen visions and dreamed -dreams. And then I found her a lovely being in Paquin’s most expensive -frocks; a social celebrity: a household name. And then I met her, and -knew my girl in white had gone. What matter that it was the inexorable -rule of Nature that she must go: what matter that she had changed into -an incredibly lovely woman? She had gone: my dream girl had vanished. In -her place stood Lady Cynthia Stockdale—the well-known society beauty. -Reality had come—and I was angry with you for having killed my -dream—angry with myself for having to wake up. - -“Such is my apology,” he continued gravely. “Perhaps you will -understand: I think you will understand. And just because I was angry -with you, I made you dance with me to-night. I said to myself: ‘I will -show Lady Cynthia Stockdale that the man who loved the girl in white can -meet her successor on her own ground.’ That’s the idea I started with, -but things went wrong half-way through the dance. The anger died; in its -place there came something else. Even my love for the girl in white -seemed to become a bit hazy; I found that the successor had supplanted -her more completely than I realised. And since the successor has the -world at her feet—why, the breeder of dogs will efface himself, for his -own peace of mind. So, good-bye, Lady Cynthia—and the very best of -luck. If it won’t bore you I may say that I’m not really a breeder of -dogs by profession. This is just an interlude; a bit of rest spent with -the most wonderful pals in the world. I’m getting back to harness soon: -voluntary harness, I’m glad to say, as the shekels don’t matter. But -anything one can do towards greasing the wheels, and helping those -priceless fellows who gave everything without a murmur during the war, -and who are up against it now—is worth doing.” - -And still she said nothing, while he backed the car on to the grass -beside the road, and turned it the way they had come. A jumble of -strange thoughts were in her mind; a jumble out of which there stuck one -dominant thing—the brown tanned face of the man beside her. And when he -stopped the car by his own farm and left her without a word of apology, -she sat quite motionless staring at the white streak of road in front. -At last she heard his footsteps coming back along the drive, and -suddenly a warm wriggling bundle was placed in her lap—a bundle which -slobbered joyfully and then fell on the floor with an indignant yelp. - -“The puppy,” he said quietly. “Please take him.” And very softly under -his breath he added: “The best to the best.” - -But she heard him, and even as she stooped to lift the puppy on to her -knees, her heart began to beat madly. She knew: at last, she knew. - -“I’ll take you back to the dance,” he was saying, “and afterwards I’ll -deposit that young rascal at Mrs. Laverton’s house.” - -And then for the first time she spoke. - -“Please go to Ada’s house first. Afterwards we’ll see about the dance.” - -He bowed and swung the car left-handed through the lodge gates. - -“Will you wait for me?” she said, as he pulled up at the front door. - -“As long as you like,” he answered courteously. - -“Because I may be some time,” she continued a little unevenly. “And -don’t wait for me here: wait for me where the drive runs through that -little copse, half-way down to the lodge.” - -The next instant she had disappeared into the house, with the puppy in -her arms. Why by the little copse? wondered the man as he slowly drove -the car down the drive. The butler had seen them already, so what did it -matter? He pulled up the car in the shadow of a big oak tree, and lit a -cigarette. Then, with his arms resting on the steering wheel, he sat -staring in front of him. He had done a mad thing, and she’d taken it -wonderfully well. He always had done mad things all his life; he was -made that way. But this was the maddest he had ever done. With a grim -smile he pictured her infuriated partners, waiting in serried rows by -the door, cursing him by all their gods. And then the smile faded, and -he sighed, while his knuckles gleamed white on the wheel. If only she -wasn’t so gloriously pretty; if only she wasn’t so utterly alive and -wonderful. Well—it was the penalty of playing with fire; and it had -been worth it. Yes; it had been worth it—even if the wound never quite -healed. - -“_A fool there was, and he made his prayer. . . ._” - -He pitched his cigarette away, and suddenly he stiffened and sat -motionless, while something seemed to rise in his throat and choke him, -and the blood hammered hotly at his temples. A girl in white was -standing not five feet from him on the fringe of the little wood: a girl -holding a puppy in her arms. And then he heard her speaking. - -“It’s not the same frock—but it’s the nearest I can do.” - -She came up to the car, and once again over the head of the puppy their -eyes met. - -“I’ve been looking,” she said steadily, “for the real thing. I don’t -_think_ I’ve found it—I _know_ I have.” - -“My dear!” he stammered hoarsely. “Oh! my dear dream girl.” - -“Take me back to the cliff, Desmond,” she whispered. “Take me back to -our cliff.” - -And an outraged puppy, bouncing off the running-board on to a stray -fir-cone, viewed the proceedings of the next five minutes with silent -displeasure. - - - - - - -_XI_ _A Glass of Whisky_ - - - -“IT’S as easy as shelling peas to be a detective in fiction,” grunted -the Barrister. “He’s merely the author of the yarn disguised as a -character, and he knows the solution before he starts.” - -“But the reader doesn’t, if the story is told well,” objected the -Doctor. “And that’s all that matters.” - -“Oh! I grant you that,” said the Barrister, lighting a cigar. “I’m not -inveighing against the detective story—I love ’em. All I’m saying is -that in life a detective’s job is a very different matter to—well, take -the illustrious example—to that of Sherlock Holmes. He’s got to make -the crime fit to the clues, not the clues fit into the crime. It’s not -so terribly difficult to reconstruct the murder of the Prime Minister -from a piece of charred paper discovered in the railway refreshment-room -at Bath—in fiction; it’s altogether a different matter in reality.” - -The Soldier thoughtfully filled his pipe. - -“And yet there have been many cases when the reconstruction has been -made on some clue almost equally ‘flimsy,’” he murmured. - -“A few,” conceded the Barrister. “But nine out of ten are built up with -laborious care. The structure does not rest on any one fact—but on a -whole lot of apparently unimportant and trivial ones. Of course it’s -more spectacular to bring a man to the gallows because half a brick was -found lying on the front door-step, but in practice it doesn’t happen.” - -“It does—sometimes,” remarked a quiet, sandy-haired man who was helping -himself to a whisky-and-soda. “It does sometimes, you man of law. Your -remarks coupled with my present occupation remind me of just such a -case.” - -“Your present occupation appears to be drinking whisky,” said the -Doctor, curiously. - -“Precisely,” returned the other. “Almost as prosaic a thing as our legal -luminary’s half-brick.” He settled himself comfortably in a chair, and -the others leaned forward expectantly. “And yet on that very ordinary -pastime hinged an extremely interesting case: one in which I was lucky -enough to play a principal part.” - -“The night is yet young, old man,” said the Barrister. “It’s up to you -to prove your words, and duly confound me.” - -The sandy-haired man took a sip of his drink: then he put the glass on -the table beside him and began. - -“Well, if it won’t bore you, I’m agreeable. I’ll tell you the whole -thing exactly as it took place, only altering the names of the people -involved. It happened before the war—in that hot summer of 1911, to be -exact. I’d been working pretty hard in London, and about the end of July -I got an invitation to go down and stop with some people in Devonshire. -I will call them the Marleys, and they lived just outside a small -village on the north coast. The family consisted of old Marley, who was -a man rising sixty, and his two daughters, Joan and Hilda. There was -also Jack Fairfax, through whom, as a matter of fact, I had first got to -know them. - -“Jack was about my own age—thirty odd, and we’d been up at Cambridge -together. He was no relation to old Marley, but he was an orphan, and -Marley was his guardian, or had been when Jack was a youngster. And from -the very first Jack and the old man had not got on. - -“Marley was not everybody’s meat, by a long way—rather a -queer-tempered, secretive blighter; and Jack Fairfax had the devil of a -temper at times. When he was a boy he had no alternative except to do as -his guardian told him, but even in those early days, as I gathered -subsequently, there had been frequent storms. And when he came down from -Cambridge there were two or three most unholy rows which culminated in -Jack leaving the house for good. - -“It was apparently this severance from the two girls, whom he had more -or less regarded as sisters, which caused the next bust-up. And this -one, according to Jack, was in the nature of a volcanic eruption. The -two girls had come up to London to go through the season with some aunt, -and Jack had seen a good deal of them with the net result that he and -Joan had fallen in love with each other. Then the fat was in the fire. -Jack straightway had gone down to Devonshire to ask old Marley’s -consent: old Marley had replied in terms which, judging from Jack’s -account of the interview, had contained a positive profusion of -un-Parliamentary epithets. Jack had lost his temper properly—and, well, -you know, the usual thing. At any rate, the long and the short of it was -that old Marley had recalled both his daughters from London, and had -sworn that if he ever saw Jack near the house again he’d pepper him with -a shot-gun. To which Jack had replied that only his grey hairs and his -gout saved Mr. Marley from the biggest hiding he’d ever had in his -life—even if not the biggest he deserved. With which genial exchange of -playful badinage I gathered the interview ended. And that was how -matters stood when I went down in July, 1911. - -“For some peculiar reason the old man liked me, even though I was a -friend of Jack’s. And in many ways I quite liked him, though there was -always something about him which defeated me. Of course, he had a foul -temper—but it wasn’t altogether that. He seemed to me at times to be in -fear of something or somebody; and yet, though I say that now, I don’t -know that I went as far as thinking so at the time. It was an almost -indefinable impression—vague and yet very real. - -“The two girls were perfectly charming, though they were both a little -afraid of their father. How long it would have taken Joan to overcome -this timidity, and go to Jack without her father’s consent, I don’t -know. And incidentally, as our legislators say, the question did not -arise. Fate held the ace of trumps, and proceeded to deal it during my -visit.” - -The sandy-haired man leant back in his chair and crossed his legs -deliberately. - -“I think it was about the fourth day after I arrived (he went on, after -a while) that the tragedy happened. We were sitting in the drawing-room -after dinner—a couple of men whose names I forget, and a girl friend of -Hilda’s. Hilda herself was there, and Joan, who seemed very preoccupied, -had come in about a quarter of an hour previously. I had noticed that -Hilda had looked at her sister inquiringly as she entered, and that Joan -had shrugged her shoulders. But nothing had been said, and naturally I -asked no questions with the others there, though from the air of -suppressed excitement on Joan’s face I knew there was something in the -wind. - -“Old Marley himself was not with us: he was in his study at the other -end of the house. The fact was not at all unusual: he frequently retired -to his own den after dinner, sometimes joining the rest of the party for -a few minutes before going to bed, more often not appearing again till -the following morning. And so we all sat there talking idly, with the -windows wide open and the light shining out on to the lawn. It must have -been somewhere about ten to a quarter past when suddenly Hilda gave a -little scream. - -“‘What do you want?’ she cried. ‘Who are you?’ - -“I swung round in my chair, to find a man standing on the lawn outside, -in the centre of the light. He was facing us, and as we stared at him he -came nearer till he was almost in the room. And the first thing that -struck me was that he looked a little agitated. - -“‘You will excuse me appearing like this,’ he said, ‘but——’ He broke -off and looked at me. ‘Might I have a word with you alone, sir?’ - -“I glanced at the others: obviously he was a stranger. No trace of -recognition appeared on anyone’s face, and I began to feel a little -suspicious. - -“‘What is it?’ I cried. ‘What can you possibly want to speak to me about -that you can’t say now?’ - -“He shrugged his shoulders slightly. ‘As you will,’ he answered. ‘My -idea was to avoid frightening the ladies. In the room at the other end -of the house a man has been murdered.’ - -“For a moment everyone was too thunderstruck to reply; then Hilda gave a -choking cry. - -“‘What sort of a man?’ she said, breathlessly. - -“‘An elderly man of, I should think, about sixty,’ returned the other, -gravely, and Hilda buried her face in her hands. - -“‘I will come with, you at once, sir,’ I said, hurriedly, and the two -other men rose. Instinctively, I think, we all knew it must be old -Marley: there was no one else it could be. But the sudden shock of it -had dazed us all. I glanced at Joan. She was staring at the man like a -girl bereft of her senses, and I put my hand reassuringly on her -shoulder. And then she looked up at me, and the expression in her eyes -pulled me together. It was like a cold douche, and it acted -instantaneously. Because it wasn’t horror or dazed stupefaction that I -read on her face: it was terror—agonised terror. And suddenly I -remembered her air of suppressed excitement earlier in the evening.” - -Once again the sandy-haired man paused while the others waited in -silence for him to continue. - -“It was old Marley right enough (he went on quietly). We walked round -the front of the house until we came to the window of his study, and -there instinctively we paused. The window was open, and he was sitting -at his desk quite motionless. His head had fallen forward, and on his -face was a look of dreadful fear. - -“For a while none of us moved. Then, with an effort, I threw my leg over -the window-sill and entered. - -“‘He’s quite dead,’ I said, and I felt my voice was shaking. ‘We’d -better send for the police.’ - -“The others nodded, and in silence I picked up the telephone. - -“‘Mr. Marley’s been killed,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Will you send -someone up at once?’ - -“And then for the first time I noticed the poker lying beside the chair, -and saw the back of the old man’s head. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and -one of the other men staying in the house—a youngster—turned very -white, and went to the window. - -“‘Pretty obvious how it was done,’ said the stranger, quietly. ‘Well, -gentlemen, nothing ought to be touched in this room until the police -arrive. I suggest that we should draw the curtains and go somewhere else -to wait for them.’ - -“I don’t think any of us were sorry to fall in with his suggestion. I -also don’t think I’ve ever drunk such a large whisky-and-soda as I did a -few minutes later. Discovering the body had been bad enough: breaking -the news to the two girls was going to be worse. - -“It was Joan who met me in the hall—and we stared at one another in -silence. Then I nodded my head stupidly. - -“‘It’s father,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, my God!’ - -“I put out my hand to steady her, and she was looking at me with a fixed -stare. - -“‘Don’t you understand?’ she muttered, hoarsely, and swallowing all the -time. ‘Don’t you understand? Jack has been here to-night.’ - -“‘Jack!’ I looked at her foolishly. ‘Jack!’ - -“And then her full meaning struck me. - -“‘How did that man find out?’ she whispered. ‘And who is he?’ - -“‘I don’t know. I’ll go and ask him.’ I was still trying to adjust this -new development—and her next words seemed to come from a great -distance. - -“‘Do something. For God’s sake—do something.’ - -“Then she turned and left me, and I watched her go up the stairs, -walking stiffly and clinging to the banisters. - -“So Jack had been there! And old Marley was dead! Murdered! Hit on the -head with a poker. And Jack had been there. It’s only in romantic -fiction that the reader is expected to assume the impossibility of the -hero committing a crime, owing to the extreme beauty of his nature. And -this wasn’t romantic fiction. It was hard, brutal reality. The two facts -stood there, side by side, in all their dazzling simplicity. Jack’s -nature was not supremely beautiful. He was an ordinary man, with the -devil of a temper when it was roused. - -“Mechanically I started to walk back to the room where I had left the -other three men. They were sitting in silence when I entered, and after -a while the stranger got up. - -“‘A dreadful thing to happen,’ he said, gravely. - -“‘May I ask, sir,’ I began, ‘how you came to discover it?’ - -“‘Very simply,’ he answered. ‘I was strolling along the road, going back -to the village inn where I have been stopping for two or three nights, -when I saw the window of the room through the trees. The light was -shining out, and I could see someone sitting at the desk. More out of -idle curiosity than anything else, I paused for a moment or two, and -then something began to arouse my suspicions. The man at the desk seemed -so motionless. I thought perhaps he had fainted, or was ill, and after a -little hesitation I went in at the gate and looked through the window. -To my horror I saw he was dead—and I at once came round to the other -room from which the light was shining, and where I found you.’ - -“‘There is a point which may have some bearing on the crime,’ he -continued, after a pause. ‘On my way up from the inn a man passed me. He -was coming from this direction, and seemed to me to be in a very excited -condition. It was his obvious agitation that made me notice him at the -time, though in the dim light I couldn’t see his face very clearly. But -he was swinging his stick in the air, and muttering to himself. At the -moment I didn’t think much about it. But now——’ He shrugged his -shoulders slightly. ‘Of course, I may be completely wrong, but I think -it is a thing worth mentioning to the police.’ - -“‘Would you know the man again?’ I asked, trying to speak quite -normally. - -“‘Well, he was tall—six feet at least—and broad. And he was -clean-shaven.’ He spoke thoughtfully, weighing his words. ‘I might know -him again—but I wouldn’t swear to it. One has to be doubly careful if a -man’s life is at stake.’ - -“I turned away abruptly. Jack was tall and broad and clean-shaven. -Strive as I would, the deadly suspicion was beginning to grip me that -Jack, in a fit of ungovernable passion, had killed the old man. And at -such moments, whatever may be the legal aspect of the matter, one’s main -idea is how best to help a pal. If Jack had indeed done it, what was the -best thing to do? - -“I rang the bell, and told the scared-looking maid to bring the whisky -and some glasses. Then, with a muttered apology, I left the room. I felt -I wanted to talk to Joan about it. I found her dry-eyed and quite -composed, though she was evidently holding herself under control with a -great effort. And briefly I told her what the stranger had said. - -“She heard me out in silence: then she spoke with a quiet assurance that -surprised me. - -“‘If Jack did it,’ she said, ‘he doesn’t know he’s done it. He doesn’t -know he’s killed—father.’ She faltered a bit over the last word, and I -didn’t interrupt. ‘What I mean is this,’ she went on after a moment. ‘I -know Jack—better than anyone else. I know those rages of his—when he -sees red. But they’re over in a minute. He’s capable of anything for a -second or two, but if he’d done it, Hugh, if he’d hit father—and killed -him—his remorse would have been dreadful. He wouldn’t have run away: -I’m certain of that. That’s why I say that if Jack did it he doesn’t -know—he killed him.’ - -“I said nothing: there was no good telling her that it wasn’t one blow, -nor yet two or three, that had been used. There was no good telling her -that it was no accidental thing done unwittingly in the heat of the -moment—that it was an absolute impossibility for the man who had done -it to be in ignorance of the fact. And yet, though I realised all that, -her simple conviction put new hope into me. Illogical, I admit, but I -went downstairs feeling more confident. - -“I found that the local police had arrived—a sergeant and an ordinary -constable—and had already begun their investigations. The principal -evidence, of course, came from the stranger, and he repeated to them -what he had already told me. His name apparently was Lenham—Victor -Lenham—and the police knew he had been stopping at the local inn. - -“‘You saw the body through the window, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘and -then went round to the drawing-room?’ - -“‘That is so, sergeant.’ - -“‘You didn’t go into the room?’ - -“‘Not until later—with these gentlemen. You see,’ he added, ‘I’ve seen -death too often not to recognise it. And as, in a way, you will -understand, it was no concern of mine, I thought it advisable to have -some member of the house itself with me before entering the room.’ - -“‘Quite, sir, quite.’ The sergeant nodded portentously. ‘Is there -anything else you can tell us?’ - -“‘Well,’ said Lenham, ‘there is a point, which I have already mentioned -to this gentleman.’ He glanced at me, and then, turning back to the -sergeant, he told him about the man he had passed on the road. And it -was when he came to the description that suddenly the constable gave a -whistle of excitement. The sergeant frowned on him angrily, but the -worthy P.C., whose only experience of crime up-to-date had been -assisting inebriated villagers home, had quite lost his head. - -“‘Mr. Fairfax, sergeant,’ he exploded. ‘’E was down here to-night. -Caught the last train, ’e did. Jenkins at the station told me—sure -thing.’ - -“‘Good heavens, sergeant!’ I said angrily, ‘what the devil is the man -talking about? He surely doesn’t suppose that Mr. Fairfax had anything -to do with it?’ - -“But the mischief was done. The sergeant formally told off his -indiscreet subordinate, but it was obvious that it was merely an -official rebuke. In a village like that everybody knows everybody else’s -private affairs, and the strained relations between the dead man and -Jack Fairfax were common property. I could see at a glance that the -sergeant regarded the matter as solved already. - -“‘Would you recognise this man again, sir?’ he demanded, and Lenham gave -him the same guarded reply as he had already given to me. He might—but -he wouldn’t swear to it. It was impossible to be too careful in such a -case, he repeated, and it was practically dark when he had passed the -man. - -“It was all duly noted down, and then we adjourned to the room of the -tragedy. The constable—a ruddy-faced young man—turned pale when he saw -the body; then he pulled himself together and assisted the sergeant in -his formal examination. I didn’t blame him—we were all feeling the -strain, somewhat naturally. Lenham seemed the least concerned, but it -wasn’t a personal matter with him as it was with us, especially with me. -All the time I was fidgeting round the room, subconsciously watching the -stolid sergeant making notes, but with only one thought dominating my -brain—how best to help Jack. Not that I had definitely made up my mind -that he’d done it, but even at that stage of the proceedings I realised -that appearances were against him. And Joan’s words were ringing in my -head—‘For God’s sake—do something.’ - -“After a while I crossed the room to a small table on which a tantalus -of whisky and two glasses were standing. I looked at the tray with -unseeing eyes—an Indian silver one, which old Marley had been very -proud of. And then mechanically I picked up the glasses. I don’t know -why I did so; the action was, as I say, mechanical. They had been -used—both of them: they had been used for whisky—one could tell that -by the smell. And when I put the glasses down again on the tray, the -sergeant was approaching with his note-book.” - -The sandy-haired man paused, with a reminiscent smile. - -“Ever noticed how extraordinarily dense you can be at times, even with a -plain fact staring you straight in the face? There was one staring at me -for ten minutes that night before my grey matter began to stir.” - -“Just hold on a minute,” interrupted the Barrister. “Is this plain fact -staring us in the face now?” - -“No, it isn’t,” conceded the narrator. “At the moment you are in the -position of the other people in that room. Mind you, I’ve left out -nothing in order to mystify you; the story, as I have given it to you, -is a plain unvarnished account of what took place. But I’m out to -disprove your half-brick theory, lawyer-man, and to do so with such -little story-telling ability as I happen to possess. - -“Now, I won’t weary you with what happened during the next week, beyond -saying that an inquest and a burglary took place. And the latter, at any -rate, was very successful. The former moved along obvious lines, and -resulted in Jack Fairfax being arrested for the wilful murder of his -guardian, Roger Marley. The evidence was purely circumstantial, but it -was about as damning as it could be. Jack admitted to having had an -interview with Marley that night; he admitted that they had had an -appalling quarrel. What was even worse was that he admitted to having -struck the old man in a furious fit of rage, but beyond that he denied -everything. He absolutely swore that the blow he struck Marley could not -have killed him; further, that he had never handled the poker. And then, -a finger-print expert proved that he had. That was the worst shock of -the lot, and his explanation given afterwards that, now he came to think -of it, he had picked up the poker to ram the tobacco down in his pipe -convinced no one. He indignantly denied that his action in going up to -London by the last train was in any sense running away; he had intended -all along to go up by that train. And his reason for leaving the house -after the interview without attempting to see his _fiancée_ was that he -was in such a rage with her father that he couldn’t trust himself to -speak to her for fear of what he might say. - -“So much for Jack Fairfax’s case—pretty black, as you will agree. In -fact, I don’t think I should be exaggerating if I said that there were -only two people in England convinced of his innocence. And he was one of -them. Even Joan’s faith was shaken, a little. - -“It was on the tenth day after the inquest that I rang up the inspector -who had come over from Exeter to look into the case, with a request that -he would come up to the house. I told him that I had certain information -which might interest him and suggested that he might care to hear it. I -also rang up Lenham at the inn, and asked him if he would mind coming -along at the same time. I told him I’d discovered the burglar. By the -way, I didn’t tell you that it was his room that had been burgled. - -“In about half an hour they arrived, and the local sergeant as well. - -“‘What’s this about my burglar?’ laughed Lenham. ‘A funny -fellow—because as far as I can see he didn’t take anything.’ - -“‘All in good time,’ I answered, smiling. ‘I’ve found out a lot of -strange things in town.’ - -“Lenham looked at me quickly. ‘Oh! have you been to London?’ he -inquired. - -“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘for two days. Most entertaining.’ - -“And then the inspector chipped in, impatiently: - -“‘Well, sir, what is it you want to say to me?’ He looked at his watch -suggestively. - -“‘First of all, inspector,’ I said, quietly, ‘I want to ask you a -question. Have you ever heard the legal maxim, _Falsus in uno, falsus in -omne_?’ - -“I could see that he hadn’t the faintest idea what I was driving at. I -could also see that Lenham’s eyes had suddenly become strained. - -“‘It means,’ I went on, ‘that if a witness—let us say—is proved to -have told one lie, there is strong presumptive evidence that he has told -several. At any rate, the value of his statement is greatly diminished. -Do you agree?’ - -“‘Certainly,’ he answered. ‘But I don’t see——’ - -“‘You will shortly, inspector,’ I remarked. ‘Now who would you consider -the principal witness against Mr. Fairfax?’ - -“‘Mr. Fairfax himself,’ said the inspector, promptly. - -“‘And leaving him out?’ I asked. - -“‘Well—I suppose—this gentleman here.’ He nodded towards Lenham, who -was sitting quite motionless, watching me. - -“‘Precisely,’ I murmured. ‘Then why was it necessary for Mr. Lenham to -state that his name was Lenham, and further to swear that he had never -seen Mr. Marley before—when both those statements were lies?’ - -“‘What the devil do you mean?’ snarled Lenham, rising from his chair. -‘What do you mean by saying my name is not Lenham?’ - -“‘You wanted to know about the burglar who took nothing, didn’t you?’ I -said, grimly. ‘Well—I was the burglar, and I took something very -valuable—an address.’ - -“‘What on earth——’ began the inspector, and then he glanced at Lenham. -‘I think you’d better sit still, Mr. Lenham,’ he said, quietly, ‘until -we have heard what this gentleman has to say.’ - -“Lenham sat back in his chair with a venomous look at me. Then he -laughed harshly. - -“‘By all means, inspector,’ he remarked. ‘Only it is a little -disconcerting to be cross-examined suddenly by a man who admits he is a -thief.’ - -“As a matter of fact the man didn’t know how much I knew—or how little; -and between ourselves it was deuced little. But, watching him closely, I -knew I was right, and my only hope was to bluff him into some admission. - -“‘Shall we endeavour to reconstruct the events of the night when Mr. -Marley was murdered, Mr. Lenardi?’ I began, quietly. ‘That is your name, -is it not?—and you are a Corsican.’ - -“‘Well,’ he said, ‘what if I am? I had a very good reason for changing -my name.’ - -“‘Doubtless,’ I agreed. ‘Let us hope your reason will prove satisfactory -to the inspector. May I suggest, however, unless you can supply a better -one, that your reason was to avoid the notoriety which would inevitably -arise if a foreigner came to stay in a small village like this? And you -were particularly anxious to avoid any possibility of Mr. Marley knowing -that a Corsican was in the neighbourhood.’ - -“He laughed sarcastically. ‘I think that I have already stated that I -have never even seen Mr. Marley,’ he sneered. - -“‘Oh!’ I remarked. ‘Then might I ask you, inspector, to have a look at -this photograph? It is old and faded, but the faces are still clear.’ - -“I handed the photograph to the inspector, and with a sudden curse the -Corsican whipped out a knife and sprang at me. He realised even then -that the game was up, and his one thought was to revenge himself on me. -But I’d been expecting some such move, and I’d got a revolver handy. -Incidentally, revolver shooting is one of the few things I can do, and I -plugged him through the forearm before he could do any damage. - -“He stood there glaring at me sullenly, and then the inspector took a -hand. - -“‘Stand by that window, sergeant. Now, Mr. whatever-your-name-is, no -monkey tricks. Do you still deny that you knew Mr. Marley?” - -“‘I refuse to answer,’ snarled the man. - -“‘Because this photograph is of you and Marley and a woman. Taken abroad -somewhere.’ - -“‘Naples, to be exact, inspector,’ I said. ‘I found it in his rooms in -Berners Street, the address of which I got as the result of my burglary -here.’ - -“The Corsican stood there like a beast at bay, and the inspector’s face -was stern. - -“‘What explanation have you got to give?’ he rapped out. ‘Why did you -lie in evidence?’ - -“‘I refuse to answer,’ repeated the man. - -“‘Since he is so uncommunicative,’ I remarked, ‘perhaps you will allow -me to reconstruct the crime. Much of it, of necessity, is guess-work. -For instance, Lenardi, what was your motive in murdering Mr. Marley?’ I -rapped the question out at him, and though he’d have killed me willingly -if he could have got at me he didn’t deny it. - -“‘Well,’ I continued, ‘it doesn’t matter. Let us assume it was the girl -in that photograph. You tracked Marley to earth here—in this -village—that is all that concerns us. And having tracked him, you bided -your time. Vengeance is the sweeter for delay. Each evening you walked -up here, watching him through the window—gloating over what was to -come. And then one night you found another man with him—Jack -Fairfax—and they were quarrelling. At once you saw that this was your -opportunity. However skilfully you hid your traces under ordinary -circumstances, there was always a grave risk; but here, ready to hand, -was a marvellous stroke of luck. Perhaps you crept nearer the window in -the darkness, secure in the fact that the room was in a remote part of -the house. You saw Jack Fairfax leave, blind with rage, and then, -skulking out of the night, you entered the room yourself.’ - -“‘It’s a lie!’ shouted the Corsican, but his lips were white. - -“‘And then old Marley saw you, and the rage on his face was replaced by -a dreadful terror. He knew what you had come for. I don’t think you -wasted much time, Lenardi. You picked up the poker with a gloved -hand—oh! you were taking no chances—and you battered his head in. And -then, Lenardi—and then you drank a whisky-and-soda. You drank a -whisky-and-soda, and then you decided on a very bold move: you came and -alarmed the rest of the house. It was clever of you, but——’” - -The sandy-haired man smiled thoughtfully. - -“We sprang forward together—the inspector and I; but we were too late. -The Corsican had swallowed poison before we could stop him. He was dead -in half a minute and he never spoke again. So I can only assume that my -imagination was not far off the rails.” - -“Yes, but hang it, man,” said the Barrister, peevishly, “the whole thing -was a pure fluke on your part.” - -“I’ve never laid any claim to being a detective,” murmured the -sandy-haired man, mildly, rising and helping himself to some more -whisky. “All that I said was that there are times when you can build an -entire case from your half-brick or its equivalent. And when you find -two glasses both smelling strongly of whisky in a room, you assume that -two people have drunk whisky. Which was where the Corsican tripped up. -You see, he distinctly swore he hadn’t entered the room till he came in -with us.” - -The Barrister raised protesting hands to the ceiling. - -“The man is indubitably mad,” he remarked to no one in particular. “Was -not Fairfax in the room most of the evening?” - -The sandy-haired man looked even more mild. - -“I think that perhaps I ought to have mentioned one fact sooner, but I -was afraid it would spoil the story. The cat has an aversion to water; -the fish have an aversion to dry land. But both these aversions pale -into total insignificance when compared to Jack Fairfax’s aversion to -whisky.” - -He gazed thoughtfully at his glass. - -“A strange flaw in an otherwise fine character. Thank heavens the -symptom is not common!” - - - - - - -_XII_ _The Man Who Could Not Get Drunk_ - - - -“YES; she’s a beautiful woman. There’s no doubt about that. What did you -say her name was?” - -“I haven’t mentioned her name,” I returned. “But there’s no secret about -it. She is Lady Sylvia Clavering.” - -“Ah! Sylvia. Of course, I remember now.” - -He drained his glass of brandy and sat back in his chair, while his eyes -followed one of the most beautiful women in London as she threaded her -way through the tables towards the entrance of the restaurant. An -obsequious head-waiter bent almost double as she passed; her exit, as -usual, befitted one of the most be-photographed women of Society. And it -was not until the doors had swung to behind her and her escort that the -man I had been dining with spoke again. - -“I guess that little bow she gave as she passed here was yours, not -mine,” he said, with the suspicion of a smile. - -“Presumably,” I answered a little curtly. “Unless you happen to know -her. I have that privilege.” - -His smile grew a trifle more pronounced though his eyes were set and -steady. “Know her?” He beckoned to the waiter for more brandy. “No, I -can’t say I know her. In fact, my sole claim to acquaintanceship is that -I carried her for three miles in the dark one night, slung over my -shoulder like a sack of potatoes. But I don’t know her.” - -“You did what?” I cried, staring at him in amazement. - -“Sounds a bit over the odds, I admit.” He was carefully cutting the end -off his cigar. “Nevertheless it stands.” - -Now when any man states that he has carried a woman for three miles, -whether it be in the dark or not, and has followed up such an -introduction so indifferently that the woman fails even to recognise him -afterwards, there would seem to be the promise of a story. But when the -woman is one of the Lady Sylvia Claverings of this world, and the man is -of the type of my dinner companion, the promise resolves itself into a -certainty. - -Merton was one of those indefinable characters who defy placing. You -felt that if you landed in Yokohama, and he was with you, you would -instinctively rely on him for information as to the best thing to do and -the best way to do it. There seemed to be no part of the globe, from the -South Sea Islands going westward to Alaska, with which he was not as -well acquainted as the ordinary man is with his native village. At the -time I did not know him well. The dinner was only our third meeting, and -during the meal we confined ourselves to the business which had been the -original cause of our running across one another at all. But even in -that short time I had realised that Billy Merton was a white man. And -not only was he straight, but he was essentially a useful person to have -at one’s side in a tight corner. - -“Are you disposed to elaborate your somewhat amazing statement?” I -asked, after a pause. - -For a moment or two he hesitated, and his eyes became thoughtful. - -“I don’t suppose there’s any reason why I shouldn’t,” he answered -slowly. “It’s ancient history now—ten years or so.” - -“That was just about the time she was married,” I remarked. - -He nodded. “She was on her honeymoon when it happened. Well, if you want -to hear the yarn, come round to my club.” - -“Why, certainly,” I said, beckoning for the bill. “Let’s get on at once; -I’m curious.” - -“Do you know Africa at all?” he asked me, as we pulled our chairs up to -the fire. We had the room almost to ourselves; a gentle snoring from the -other fireplace betokened the only other occupant. - -“Egypt,” I answered. “Parts of South Africa. The usual thing: nothing -out of the ordinary.” - -He nodded. “It was up the West Coast that it happened,” he began, after -his pipe was going to his satisfaction. “And though I’ve been in many -God-forsaken spots in my life, I’ve never yet struck anything to compare -with that place. Nwambi it was called—just a few shacks stretching in -from the sea along a straggling, dusty street—one so-called shop and a -bar. It called itself an hotel, but Lord help the person who tried to -put up there. It was a bar pure and simple, though no one could call the -liquor that. Lukewarm gin, some vile substitute for whisky, the usual -short drinks, and some local poisons formed the stock; I ought to -know—I was the bartender. - -“For about three miles inland there stretched a belt of stinking -swamp—one vast malaria hot-bed—and over this belt the straggling -street meandered towards the low foot-hills beyond. At times it almost -lost itself: but if you didn’t give up hope, or expire from the stench, -and cast about you’d generally find it again leading you on to where you -felt you might get a breath of God’s fresh air in the hills. As a matter -of fact you didn’t; the utmost one can say is that it wasn’t quite so -appalling as in the swamp itself. Mosquitoes! Heavens! they had to be -seen to be believed. I’ve watched ’em there literally like a grey -cloud.” - -Merton smiled reminiscently. - -“That—and the eternal boom of the sea on the bar half a mile out, made -up Nwambi. How any white man ever got through alive if he had to stop -there any length of time is beyond me; to be accurate, very few did. It -was a grave, that place, and only the down-and-outers went there. At the -time I was one myself. - -“The sole reason for its existence at all was that the water alongside -the quay was deep enough for good-sized boats to come in, and most of -the native produce from the district inland found its way down to Nwambi -for shipment. Once over the belt of swamp and a few miles into the hills -the climate was much better, and half a dozen traders in a biggish way -had bungalows there. They were Dagos most of them—it wasn’t a British -part of the West Coast—and I frankly admit that my love for the Dago -has never been very great. But there was one Scotchman, McAndrew, -amongst them—and he was the first fellow who came into the bar after -I’d taken over the job. He was down for the night about some question of -freight. - -“‘You’re new,’ he remarked, leaning against the counter. ‘What’s -happened to the other fellow? Is he dead?’ - -“‘Probably,’ I returned. ‘What do you want?’ - -“‘Gin—double tot. What’s your name?’ - -“I told him, and he pondered the matter while he finished his drink. - -“‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I warned your predecessor, and I’ll warn -you. Don’t fall foul of my manager down here. Name of Mainwaring—I do -_not_ think. Don’t give him advice about keeping off the drink, or he’ll -kill you. He’s killing himself, but that’s his business. I’m tough—you -look tough, but he’s got us beat to a frazzle. And take cover if he ever -gets mixed up with any of the Dagos—the place isn’t healthy.’ - -“It was just at that moment that the door swung open and a tall, lean -fellow lounged in. He’d got an eyeglass screwed into one eye, and a pair -of perfectly-fitting polo boots with some immaculate white breeches -encased his legs. His shirt was silk, his sun-helmet spotless; in fact, -he looked like the typical English dude of fiction. - -“‘My manager, Mainwaring,’ said McAndrew, by way of introduction. - -“Mainwaring stared at me for a moment or two—then he shrugged his -shoulders. - -“‘You look sane; however, if you come here you can’t be. Double gin—and -one for yourself.’ - -“He spoke with a faint, almost affected drawl, and as I poured out the -drinks I watched him covertly. When he first came in I had thought him a -young man; now I wasn’t so sure. It was his eyes that made one wonder as -to his age—they were so utterly tired. If he was indeed drinking -himself to death, there were no traces of it as yet on his face, and his -hand as he lifted his glass was perfectly steady. But those eyes of -his—I can see them now. The cynical bitterness, the concentrated -weariness of all Hell was in them. And it’s not good for any man to look -like that; certainly not a man of thirty-five, as I afterwards -discovered his age to be.” - -Merton paused and sipped his whisky-and-soda, while from the other side -of the room came indications that the sleeper still slept. - -“I never found out what his real name was,” he continued, thoughtfully. -“Incidentally, it doesn’t much matter. We knew him as Mainwaring, and -the J. which preceded it in his signature was assumed to stand for James -or Jimmy. Anyway, he answered to it, which was the main point. As far as -I know, he never received a letter and he never read a paper, and I -guess I got to know him better than anyone else in that hole. Every -morning, punctual to the second at eleven o’clock, he’d stroll into the -bar and have three double-gins. Sometimes he’d talk in his faint, rather -pleasant drawl; more often he’d sit silently at one of the rickety -tables, staring out to sea, with his long legs stretched out in front of -him. But whichever he did—whatever morning it was—you could always see -your face in his boots. - -“I remember once, after I’d been there about a month, I started to pull -his leg about those boots of his. - -“‘Take the devil of a long time cleaning them in the morning, don’t you, -Jimmy?’ I said, as he lounged up to the bar for his third gin. - -“‘Yes,’ he answered, leaning over the counter so that his face was close -to mine. ‘Got anything further to say about my appearance?’ - -“‘Jimmy,’ I replied, ‘your appearance doesn’t signify one continental -damn to me. But as the only two regular British _habitués_ of this -first-class American bar, don’t let’s quarrel.’ - -“He grinned—a sort of slow, lazy grin. - -“‘Think not?’ he said. ‘Might amuse one. However, perhaps you’re right.’ - -“And so it went on—one sweltering day after another, until one could -have gone mad with the hideous boredom of it. I used to stand behind the -bar there sometimes and curse weakly and foolishly like a child, but I -never heard Mainwaring do it. What happened during those steamy nights -in the privacy of his own room, when he—like the rest of us—was -fighting for sleep, is another matter. During the day he never varied. -Cold, cynical, immaculate, he seemed a being apart—above our little -worries and utterly contemptuous of them. Maybe he was right—maybe the -thing that had downed him was too big for foolish cursing. Knowing what -I do now, a good many things are clear which one didn’t realise at the -time. - -“Only once, I think, did I ever get in the slightest degree intimate -with him. It was latish one evening, and the bar was empty save for us -two. I’d been railing against the fate that had landed me penniless in -such an accursed spot, and after a while he chipped in, in his lazy -drawl: - -“‘Would a thousand be any good to you?’ - -“I looked at him speechless. ‘A thousand pounds?’ I stammered. - -“‘Yes; I think I can raise that for you.’ He was staring in front of him -as he spoke. ‘And yet I don’t know. I’ve got more or less used to you -and you’ll have to stop a bit longer. Then we’ll see about it.’ - -“‘But, good heavens! man,’ I almost shouted, ‘do you mean to say that -you stop here when you can lay your hand on a thousand pounds?’ - -“‘It appears so, doesn’t it?’ He rose and stalked over to the bar. ‘It -doesn’t much matter where you stop, Merton, when you can’t be in the one -place where you’d sell your hopes of Heaven to be. And it’s best, -perhaps, to choose a place where the end will come quickly.’ - -“With that he turned on his heel, and I watched him with a sort of dazed -amazement as he sauntered down the dusty road, white in the tropical -moon, towards his own shack. A thousand pounds! The thought of it rang -in my head all through the night. A thousand pounds! A fortune! And -because, out in death-spots like that, men are apt to think strange -thoughts—thoughts that look ugly by the light of day—I found myself -wondering how long he could last at the rate he was going. -Two—sometimes three—bottles of gin a day: it couldn’t be long. And -then—who knew? It would be quick, the break-up; all the quicker because -there was not a trace of it now. And perhaps when it came he’d remember -about that thousand. Or I could remind him.” - -Merton laughed grimly. - -“Yes, we’re pretty average swine, even the best of us, when we’re up -against it, and I lay no claims to be a plaster saint. But Fate had -decreed that Jimmy Mainwaring was to find the end which he craved for -quicker than he had anticipated. Moreover—and that’s what I’ve always -been glad about—it had decreed that he was to find it before drink had -rotted that iron constitution of his; while his boots still shone and -his silk shirts remained spotless. It had decreed that he was to find it -in the way of all others that he would have chosen, had such a wild -improbability ever suggested itself. Which is going ahead a bit fast -with the yarn—but no matter. - -“It was after I’d been there about three months that the incident -happened which was destined to be the indirect cause of his death. I -told you, didn’t I, that there were several Dago traders who lived up in -the foot-hills, and on the night in question three of them had come down -to Nwambi on business of some sort—amongst them one Pedro Salvas, who -was as unpleasant a specimen of humanity as I have ever met. A crafty, -orange-skinned brute, who indulged, according to common knowledge, in -every known form of vice, and a good many unknown ones too. The three of -them were sitting at a table near the door when Mainwaring lounged -in—and McAndrew’s words came back to me. The Dagos had been drinking; -Jimmy looked in his most uncompromising mood. He paused at the door, and -stared at each of them in turn through his eyeglass; then he turned his -back on them and came over to me. - -“I glanced over his shoulder at the three men, and realised there was -trouble coming. They’d been whispering and muttering together the whole -evening, though at the time I had paid no attention. But now Pedro -Salvas, with an ugly flush on his ugly face, had risen and was coming -towards the bar. - -“‘If one so utterly unworthy as I,’ he snarled, ‘may venture to speak to -the so very exclusive Englishman, I would suggest that he does not throw -pictures of his lady-loves about the streets.’ - -“He was holding something in his hand, and Jimmy swung round like a -panther. His hand went to his breast pocket; then I saw what the Dago -was holding out. It was the miniature of a girl. And after that I didn’t -see much more; I didn’t even have time to take cover. It seemed to me -that the lightning movement of Jimmy’s left hand as he grabbed the -miniature, and the terrific upper-cut with his right, were simultaneous. -Anyway, the next second he was putting the picture back in his breast -pocket, and the Dago, snarling like a mad dog, was picking himself out -of a medley of broken bottles. That was phase one. Phase two was equally -rapid, and left me blinking. There was the crack of a revolver, and at -the same moment a knife stuck out quivering in the wall behind my head. -Then there was a silence, and I collected my scattered wits. - -“The revolver, still smoking, was in Jimmy’s hand: Salvas, his right arm -dripping with blood, was standing by the door, while his two pals were -crouching behind the table, looking for all the world like wild beasts -waiting to spring. - -“‘Next time,’ said Jimmy, ‘I shoot to kill.’ - -“And he meant it. He was a bit white round the nostrils, which is a -darned dangerous sign in a man, especially if he’s got a gun and you’re -looking down the business end of it. And no one knew it better than -those three Dagos. They went on snarling, but not one of them moved an -eyelid. - -“‘Put your knives on that table, you scum,’ ordered Jimmy. - -“The other two obeyed, and he laughed contemptuously. - -“‘Now clear out. You pollute the air.’ - -“For a moment or two they hesitated: then Salvas, with a prodigious -effort, regained his self-control. - -“‘You are brave, Señor Mainwaring, when you have a revolver and we are -unarmed,’ he said, with a sneer. - -“In two strides Jimmy was at the table where the knives were lying. He -picked one up, threw me his gun, and pointed to the other knife. - -“‘I’ll fight you now, Salvas,’ he answered, quietly. ‘Knife to knife, -and to a finish.’ - -“But the Dago wasn’t taking any, and ’pon my soul I hardly blamed him. -For if ever a man was mad, Jimmy Mainwaring was mad that night: mad with -the madness that knows no fear and is absolutely blind to consequences. - -“‘I do not brawl in bars with drunken Englishmen,’ remarked Salvas, -turning on his heel. - -“A magnificent utterance, but ill-advised with Jimmy as he was. He gave -a short laugh and took a running kick, and Don Pedro Salvas disappeared -abruptly into the night. And the other two followed with celerity. - -“‘You’ll be getting into trouble, old man,’ I said, as he came back to -the bar, ‘if you start that sort of game with the Dagos.’ - -“‘The bigger the trouble the more I’ll like it,’ he answered, shortly. -‘Give me another drink. Don’t you understand yet, Merton, that I’m -beyond caring?’ - -“And thinking it over since, I’ve come to the conclusion that he spoke -the literal truth. It’s a phrase often used, and very rarely meant; in -his case it was the plain, unvarnished truth. Rightly or wrongly he had -got into such a condition that he cared not one fig whether he lived or -died; if anything he preferred the latter. And falling foul of the Dago -colony was a better way than most of obtaining his preference. - -“Of course, the episode that night had shown me one thing: it was a -woman who was at the bottom of it all. I didn’t ask any questions; he -wasn’t a man who took kindly to cross-examination. But I realised pretty -forcibly that if the mere handling of her picture by a Dago had produced -such a result, the matter must be serious. Who she was I hadn’t any -idea, or what was the trouble between them—and, as I say, I didn’t ask. - -“And then one day a few weeks later I got the answer to the first -question. Someone left a month-old _Tatler_ in the bar, and I was -glancing through it when Mainwaring came in. I reached up for the gin -bottle to give him his usual drink, and when I turned round to hand it -to him he was staring at one of the pictures with the look of a dead man -on his face. I can see him now with his knuckles gleaming white through -the sunburn of his hands, and his great powerful chest showing under his -shirt. He stood like that maybe for five minutes—motionless; then, -without a word, he swung round and left the bar. And I picked up the -paper.” - -Merton paused and drained his glass. - -“Lady Sylvia’s wedding?” I asked, unnecessarily, and he nodded. - -“So the first part of the riddle was solved,” he continued, quietly. -“And when two days passed by without a sign of Mainwaring, I began to be -afraid that he had solved his own riddle in his own way. But he hadn’t; -he came into the bar at ten o’clock at night, and leaned up against the -counter in his usual way. - -“‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ I said, lightly. - -“‘I’ve been trying to get drunk,’ he answered slowly, letting one of his -hands fall on my arm with a grip like steel. ‘And, dear God! I can’t.’ - -“It doesn’t sound much—told like this in the smoking-room of a London -club. But though I’ve seen and heard many things in my life that have -impressed me—horrible, dreadful things that I shall never forget—the -moment of all others that is most indelibly stamped on my brain is that -moment when, leaning across the bar, I looked into the depths of the -soul of the man who called himself Jimmy Mainwaring—the man who could -not get drunk.” - -Once again he paused, and this time I did not interrupt him. He was back -in that steaming night, with the smell of stale spirits in his nostrils -and the sight of strange things in his eyes. And I felt that I, too, -could visualise that tall, immaculate Englishman leaning against the -counter—the man who was beyond caring. - -“But I must get on with it,” continued Merton, after a while. “The club -will be filling up soon and I’ve only got the finish to tell you now. -And by one of those extraordinary coincidences which happen far more -frequently in life than people will allow, the finish proved a worthy -one. - -“It was about two days later. I was in the bar polishing the glasses -when the door swung open and two men came in. They were obviously -English, and both of them were dressed as if they were going to a -garden-party. - -“‘Thank heavens! Tommy, here’s a bar, at any rate,’ said one of them. ‘I -say, barman, what have you got?’ - -“Well, I had a bit of a liver, and I disliked being called barman. - -“‘Several bottles of poison,’ I answered, ‘and the hell of a temper.’ - -“The second one laughed, and after a moment or two the other joined in. - -“‘I don’t wonder at the latter commodity,’ he said. ‘This is a ghastly -hole.’ - -“‘I wouldn’t deny it,’ I answered. ‘What, if I may ask, has brought you -here?’ - -“‘Oh, we’ve had a small breakdown, and the skipper came in here to -repair it. We’ve just come ashore to have a look round.’ - -“I glanced through the window, and noticed for the first time that a -steam yacht was lying off the shore. She was a real beauty—looked about -a thousand tons—and I gave a sigh of envy. - -“‘You’re not in want of a barman, by any chance, are you?’ I said. ‘If -so, I’ll swim out and chance the sharks.’ - -“‘’Fraid we’ve got everything in that line,’ he answered. ‘But select -the least deadly of your poisons, and join us.’ - -“And it was as I was pulling down the gin and vermouth that Jimmy -Mainwaring came into the bar. He got about half-way across the floor, -and then he stopped dead in his tracks. And I guess during the next two -seconds you could have heard a pin drop. - -“‘So this is where you’ve hidden yourself,’ said the smaller of the two -men—the one who had done most of the talking. ‘I don’t think we’ll -trouble you for those drinks, barman.’ - -“Without another word he walked out of the place—and after a moment or -two the other man started to follow him. He hesitated as he got abreast -of Jimmy, and then for the first time Mainwaring spoke: - -“‘Is she here?’ - -“‘Yes,’ answered the other. ‘On board the yacht. There’s a whole party -of us.’ - -“And with that he stepped into the street and joined his pal. With a -perfectly inscrutable look on his face Jimmy watched them as they walked -through the glaring sun and got into the small motor-boat that was -waiting alongside the quay. Then he came up to the bar. - -“‘An artistic touch, doubtless, on the part of Fate,’ he remarked, -quietly. ‘But a little unnecessary.’ - -“And I guess I metaphorically took off my hat to him at that moment. -What he’d done, why he was there, I neither knew nor cared; all that -mattered to me was the way he took that last rotten twist of the -surgeon’s knife. Not by the quiver of an eyelid would you have known -that anything unusual had happened: he drank his three double-gins at -exactly the same rate as every other morning. And then he too swung out -of the bar, and went back to his office in McAndrew’s warehouse, leaving -me to lie down on my bed and sweat under the mosquito curtains, while I -wondered at the inscrutable working out of things. Was it blind, the -Fate that moved the pieces; or was there some definite pattern beyond -our ken? At the moment it seemed pretty blind and senseless; later -on—well, you’ll be able to form your own opinion. - -“You know how quickly darkness falls in those latitudes. And it was just -before sunset that I saw a boat shoot away from the side of the yacht -and come full speed for the shore. I remember I wondered casually who -was the mug who would leave a comfortable yacht for Nwambi, especially -after the report of it that must have been given by our two morning -visitors. And then it struck me that, whoever it might be, he was -evidently in the deuce of a hurry. Almost before the boat came alongside -a man sprang out and scrambled up the steps. Then at a rapid double he -came sprinting towards me as I stood at the door of the bar. It was the -smaller of the two men who had been ashore that morning, and something -was evidently very much amiss. - -“‘Where is she?’ he shouted, as soon as he came within earshot. ‘Where’s -my wife, you damned scoundrel?’ - -“Seeing that he was quite beside himself with worry and alarm, I let the -remark go by. - -“‘Steady!’ I said, as he came gasping up to me. ‘I haven’t got your -wife; I haven’t even seen her.’ - -“‘It’s that card-sharper!’ he cried. ‘By God! I’ll shoot him like a dog, -if he’s tried any monkey-tricks!’ - -“‘Dry up, and pull yourself together,’ I said angrily. ‘If you’re -alluding to Jimmy Mainwaring——’ - -“And at that moment Jimmy himself stepped out of his office and strolled -across the road. - -“‘You swine, you cursed card-cheat—where’s Sylvia?’ - -“‘What the devil are you talking about?’ said Jimmy, and his voice was -tense. - -“‘She came ashore this afternoon, saying she would return in an hour,’ -said the other man. ‘I didn’t know it at the time, Mr.—er—Mainwaring, -I believe you call yourself. The boat came back for her, and she was not -there. That was four hours ago. Where is she?’ - -“He was covering Jimmy with his revolver as he spoke. - -“‘Four hours ago, Clavering! Good heavens! man—put down your gun. This -isn’t a time for amateur theatricals.’ He brushed past him as if he was -non-existent and came up to me. ‘Did you see Lady Clavering?’ - -“‘Not a trace,’ I answered, and the same fear was in both of us. - -“‘Did she say what she was coming on shore for?’ He swung round on the -husband. - -“‘To have a look round,’ answered Clavering, and his voice had altered. -No longer was he the outraged husband; he was a frightened man relying -instinctively on a bigger personality than himself. - -“‘If she’s not about here, she must have gone inland,’ said Jimmy, -staring at me. ‘And it’ll be dark in five minutes.’ - -“‘My God!’ cried Clavering, ‘what are we to do? She can’t be left alone -for the night. Lost—in this cursed country! She may have hurt -herself—sprained her ankle.’ - -“For a moment neither of us answered him. Even more than he did we -realise the hideous danger of a white woman alone in the bush inland. -There were worse dangers than snakes and wild animals to be feared. And -it was as we were standing there staring at one another, and afraid to -voice our thoughts, that one of McAndrew’s native boys came down the -street. He was running and out of breath; and the instant he saw Jimmy -he rushed up to him and started gabbling in the local patois. He spoke -too fast for me to follow him, and Clavering, of course, couldn’t -understand a word. But we both guessed instinctively what he was talking -about and we both watched Jimmy’s face. And as we watched it I heard -Clavering catch his breath sharply. - -“At last the boy finished, and Jimmy turned and looked at me. On his -face was a look of such cold malignant fury that the question which was -trembling on my lips died away, and I stared at him speechlessly. - -“‘The Dagos have got her,’ he said, very softly. ‘Don Pedro Salvas is, I -fear, a foolish man.’ - -“Clavering gave a sort of hoarse cry, and Jimmy’s face softened. - -“‘Poor devil,’ he said. ‘Your job is going to be harder than mine. Go -back to your yacht—get all your men on shore that you can spare—and if -I’m not back in four hours, wait for dawn and then strike inland over -the swamp. Find Pedro Salvas’s house—and hang him on the highest tree -you can find.’ - -“Without another word he swung on his heel and went up the street at a -long, steady lope. Twice Clavering called after him, but he never turned -his head or altered his stride—and then he started to follow himself. -It was I who stopped him, and he cursed me like a child—almost weeping. - -“‘Do what he told you,’ I said. ‘You’d never find your way; you’d be -worse than useless. I’ll go with him: you get back and bring your men -ashore.’ - -“And with that I followed Jimmy. At times I could see him, a faint white -figure in the darkness, as he dodged through that fever-laden swamp; at -times I found myself marvelling at the condition of the man, bearing in -mind his method of living. Steadily, tirelessly, he forged ahead, and -when he came to the foot-hills I hadn’t gained a yard on him. - -“And then I began wondering what was going to happen when he reached -Salvas’s bungalow, and by what strange mischance the girl had met the -owner. That it was revenge I was certain; he had recognised her from the -picture, and I remember thinking how bitter must have been his hatred of -Mainwaring to have induced him to run such an appalling risk. For the -risk was appalling, even in that country of strange happenings. - -“I don’t think that Jimmy troubled his head over any such speculations. -In his mind there was room for only one thought—an all-sufficient -thought—to get his hands on Pedro Salvas. I don’t think he even knew -that I was behind him, until after it was over and the curtain was -falling on the play. And then he had no time for me.” - -Merton gave a short laugh that had in it a touch of sadness. - -“A good curtain it was, too,” he continued, quietly. “I remember I made -a frantic endeavour to overtake him as he raced up to the house, and -then, because I just couldn’t help myself, I stopped and -watched—fascinated. The window of the big living-room was open, and the -light blazed out. I suppose they had never anticipated pursuit that -night. Leaning up against the wall was the girl, with a look of frozen -horror on her face, while seated at the table were Pedro Salvas and -three of his pals. And they were drinking. - -“It all happened very quickly. For one second I saw Jimmy Mainwaring -framed in the window—then he began shooting. I don’t think I’ve -mentioned that he could shoot the pip out of the ace of diamonds nine -times out of ten at twenty yards, and his madness did not interfere with -his aim. And that night he was stark, staring mad. I heard three -shots—so close together that only an artist could have fired them out -of the same revolver and taken aim; I saw the three friends of Pedro -Salvas collapse limply in their chairs. And then there was a pause; I -think Jimmy wanted to get at _him_ with his hands. - -“But it was not to be. Just for a moment the owner of the bungalow had -been so stupefied at the sudden appearance of the man he hated that he -had simply sat still, staring; but only for a moment. The movement of -his arm was so quick that I hardly saw it; I only noticed what seemed to -be a streak of light which shot across the room. And then I heard -Jimmy’s revolver again—the tenth, the hundredth of a second too late. -He’d drilled Pedro Salvas through the heart all right—I watched the -swine crumple and fall with the snarl still on his face—but this time -the knife wasn’t sticking in the wall. - -“She got to him first,” went on Merton, thoughtfully. “His knees were -sagging just as I got to the window, and she was trying to hold him up -in her arms. And then between us we laid him down, and I saw that the -end was very near. There was nothing I could do; the knife was clean -into his chest. The finish of the journey had come to the man who could -not get drunk. And so I left them together, while I mounted guard by the -window with a gun in each hand. It wasn’t a house to take risks in. - -“He lived, I think, for five minutes, and of those five minutes I would -rather not speak. There are things which a man may tell, and things -which he may not. Sufficient be it to say that he may have cheated at -cards or he may not—she loved him. If, indeed, he had committed the -unforgivable sin amongst gentlemen all the world over, he atoned for it. -And she loved him. Let us leave it at that. - -“And when it was over, and the strange, bitter spirit of the man who -called himself Jimmy Mainwaring had gone out on the unknown road, I -touched her on the shoulder. She rose blindly and stumbled out into the -darkness at my side. I don’t think I spoke a word to her, beyond telling -her to take my arm. And after a while she grew heavier and heavier on -it, until at last she slipped down—a little unconscious heap of sobbing -girlhood.” - -Merton paused and lit a cigarette with a smile. - -“So that is how it was ordained that I should carry the Lady Sylvia -Clavering, slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, for three -miles. I remember staggering into the village to find myself surrounded -by men from the yacht. I handed her over to her distracted husband, and -then I rather think I fainted myself. I know I found myself in my own -bar, with people pouring whisky down my throat. And after a while they -cleared off, leaving Clavering alone with me. He began to stammer out -his thanks, and I cut him short. - -“‘No thanks are due to me,’ I said. ‘They’re due to another man whom you -called a card-cheat—but who was a bigger man than either you or I are -ever likely to be.’ - -“‘Was?’ he said, staring at me. - -“‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘He’s dead.’ - -“He stood there silently for a moment or two; then with a queer look on -his face he took off his hat. - -“‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘He was a bigger man than me.’” - -Merton got up and pressed the bell. - -“I’ve never seen him from that day to this,” he said, thoughtfully. “I -never saw his wife again until to-night. And I’ve never filled in the -gaps in the story. Moreover, I don’t know that I want to.” - -A waiter came over to his chair. - -“You’ll join me? Two whiskies-and-sodas, please, waiter—large ones.” - - _Made and Printed in Great Britain._ - _Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._ - - - - - TRANSCRIBER NOTES - -Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple -spellings occur, majority use has been employed. - -Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors -occur. - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Dinner Club, by H. C. 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