Officials were examining tickets, doors were being closed,

preparations were being made to start, when that long-legged young

person ran off on her errand. She gave Mr. Tung the envelope as he was

stepping into the carriage. He had not time even to realize that he

had got it before she was off again. I saw him glance with a startled

face at the envelope, open it, hurriedly scan what was within, then

make a dart into the compartment by which he was standing, emerge with

a bag in his hand, and hurry from the station. Conscience had been too

much for him again. The big, burly man, seeing him going, went

hurrying after him, as the train was in the very act of starting. As

it moved along the platform the face of the third man appeared at the

window of his compartment, gazing in apparent astonishment after the

other two. He might go to London by the five-five if he chose. I did

not think it mattered if he went alone. I scanned the newspapers very

carefully the next day; as there was no record of anything unusual

having happened during the journey or afterwards I concluded that my

feeling that nothing was to be feared from that solitary gentleman had

been well founded, and that the lady in the grey dress had reached her

destination in comfort and safety.

What became of Mr. Tung when he left the station I do not know; I can

only say that he did not return to the hotel. That Buxton episode was

in August. About a month afterwards, towards the close of September, I

was going north. I started from Euston station. I had secured my seat,

and, as there were still several minutes before the train went off, I

strolled up and down the platform. Outside the open door of one of the

compartments, just as he had done at Buxton station, Mr. Tung was

standing!

The sight of him inspired me with a feeling of actual rage. That such

a dreadful creature as I was convinced he was should go through life

like some beast of prey, seeking for helpless victims whom it would be

safe to destroy--that he should be standing there, so well dressed, so

well fed, so seemingly prosperous, with all the appearance about him

of one with whom the world went very well--the sight of him made me

positively furious. It might be impossible, for various reasons, to

bring his crimes home to him, but I could still be a thorn in his

side, and might punish him in a fashion of my own. I had been the

occasion to him of one moment in which conscience had mastered him and

terror held him by the throat. I might render him a similar service a

second time.

I was seized with a sudden desire to give him a shock which would at

least destroy his pleasure for the rest of that day. Recalling what I

had done at Buxton, I went to the bookstall and purchased for the sum

of one penny an envelope and a sheet of paper. I took these to the

waiting-room, and on the sheet of paper I wrote three lines--without

even a moment’s consideration:

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

“Your time has come.

“Prepare for the end.”

I put the sheet of paper containing these words into the envelope,

and, waylaying a small boy, who appeared to have been delivering a

parcel to some one in the station, I instructed him to hand my

gentleman the envelope and then make off. He did his part very well.

Tung was standing sideways, looking down the platform, so that he did

not see my messenger approaching from behind; the envelope was slipped

into his hand almost before he knew it, and the boy was off. He found

himself with an envelope in his hand without, I believe, clearly

realizing whence it had come--my messenger was lost in the crowd

before he had turned; it might have tumbled from the skies for all he

could say with certainty.

For him the recurrence of the episode of the mysterious envelope was

in itself a shock. I could see that from where I stood. He stared at

it, as he had done before, as if it had been a bomb which at any

moment might explode. When he saw his own name written on the face of

the envelope, and the fashion of the writing, he looked frantically

around, as if eagerly seeking for some explanation of this strange

thing. I should say, for all his appearance of sleek prosperity, that

his nerves were in a state of jumps. His lips twitched; he seemed to

be shaking; he looked as if it would need very little to make him run.

With fingers which I am sure were trembling he opened the envelope; he

took out the sheet of paper--and he read.

When he had read he seemed to be striving to keep himself from playing

the cur; he looked across the platform with such an expression on his

face and in his eyes! A constable was advancing towards him, with

another man by his side. The probability is that, scared half out of

his senses, conscience having come into its own, he misinterpreted the

intention of the advancing couple. Those three lines, warning him that

he was about to be arrested, that his time had come, to prepare for

the end, synchronized so perfectly with the appearance of the

constable and his companion, who turned out to be a “plain clothes

man” engaged in the company’s business, that in his suddenly unnerved

state he jumped to the conclusion that the warning and its fulfilment

had come together--that those two officers of the law were coming to

arrest him there and then.

Having arrived at that conclusion, he seems to have passed quickly to

another--that he would not be taken alive. He put his hand into his

jacket pocket, took out a revolver, which had no doubt been kept there

for quite another purpose, put the muzzle to his brow, and while the

two men--thinking of him not at all--were still a few yards off, he

blew his brains out. He was dead before they reached him--killed by

conscience.

They found his luggage in the compartment in which he had been about

to travel. The contents of his various belongings supplied sufficient

explanation of his tragic end. He lived in a small flat off the

Marylebone Road--alone; the address was contained in his bag. When the

police went there they found a miscellaneous collection of articles

which had certainly, in the original instance, never belonged to him.

There were feminine belongings of all sorts and kinds. Some of them

were traced to their former owners, and in each case the owner was

found to have died in circumstances which had never been adequately

explained. This man seemed to have been carrying on for years, with

perfect impunity, a hideous traffic in robbery and murder--and the

victim was always a woman. His true name was never ascertained. It was

clear, from certain papers which were found in his flat, that he had

spent several years of his youth in the East. He seemed to have been a

solitary creature--a savage beast alone in its lair. Nothing was found

out about his parents or his friends; nor about two acquaintances of

whom I might have supplied some particulars. Personally, I never saw

nor heard anything of either of them again.

I went on from Euston Station by that train to the north. Just as we

were about to start a girl came bundling into my compartment whom I

knew very well.

“That was a close shave,” she said, as she took her seat. “I thought I

should have missed it; my taxi-cab burst a tyre. What’s this I heard

them saying about some one having committed suicide on the platform?

Is it true?”

“I believe there was something of the kind; in fact, I know there was.

It has quite upset me.”

“Poor dear! You do look out of sorts. A thing like that would upset

anyone.” She glanced at me with sympathetic eyes. “I was talking about

you only yesterday. I was saying that a person with your power of what

practically amounts to reading people’s thoughts ought to be able to

do a great deal of good in the world. Do you think you ever do any

good?”

The question was asked half laughingly. We were in a corridor

carriage. Two women at the other end of it suddenly got up and went,

apparently, in search of another. I had been in no state to notice

anything when I had got in; now I realized that one of the women who

had risen was the one who had worn the grey dress at Buxton. She had

evidently recognized me on the instant. I saw her whisper to her

companion in the corridor, before they moved off:

“I couldn’t possibly remain in the same compartment with that

half-bred gipsy-looking creature. I’ve had experience of her before.”

I was the half-bred gipsy-looking creature. The experience she had had

of me was when I saved her life at Buxton. That I did save her life I

am pretty sure. I said to my friend, when they had gone:

“I hope that sometimes I do do a little good; but even when I do, for

the most part it’s done by stealth, and not known to fame; and

sometimes, even, it’s not recognized as good at all.”

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

When I thought of what had happened on the platform which we were

leaving so rapidly behind, I agreed with her with all my heart and

soul.

IV.

MATCHED

This gift of mine of entering into people’s confidence, even against

their will, has occasionally placed me in the most uncomfortable

situations. Take, for instance, what I will call the Affair of the

Pleasure Cruise, or Matched.

The story began at Charing Cross Station. I had just entered the

station and was looking about for the platform from which my train was

going to start, when I saw one man hurrying up to another. I do not

know what it was which caused him to catch my eye, unless it was that

he was in such desperate haste, and was so covered with freckles, and

had such a very red moustache; but I distinctly saw him say to the

other--what he meant I had not the dimmest notion; some of the

language he used was strange:

“She’s done a bunk all right, and is away with the best of the swag.

Here’s her brief.” He handed to the other man what looked to me like a

continental railway-ticket. “I don’t fancy the bloke is going; you’ll

have to go on and get the lot out the other end. It’s worth having,

you know; we’ll be able to plant it easily. You understand? Move

yourself; the train’s just starting.”

The man addressed did move himself, tearing through a gate over which

was a board inscribed “Folkestone Harbour and Continent.” His doing so

made me think of Mr. Brookes. I had been to his wedding that morning,

and had, indeed, only just come away from the reception which

followed. I had gathered that he and his bride were to travel by that

boat-train.

Thinking thus about the bride and bridegroom, who, since the train had

started, I took it for granted were already on their way, what was my

surprise to see coming through the wicket on to the platform which the

boat-train had just quitted--Mr. Everard Brookes! He had discarded the

orthodox “frocker” in which he had been married, and in which I had

seen him last, for a grey tweed suit--but it was he. And he seemed to

be in a state of great disturbance, as if he were looking for some one

he could not find. A railway official was on either side of him, each

of whom seemed doing his best to calm his obvious agitation. What

struck me as the strangest part of it was that he was alone. An idea

occurred to me as I walked towards him.

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

your wife go off alone?”

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

all.”

“She might have been in the train, you know, sir,” struck in one of

the officials. “It’s not easy to make out every one who’s travelling

in a long train like that.”

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

foreign to his character.

“I tell you I saw her go through the gate as clearly as I see you now,

but though I watched for her to come back she never returned, although

I never once took my eyes off the gate; that I am prepared to swear.”

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

me with surprise.

“We were standing, my wife and I, outside the compartment in which I

had reserved our seats, when, about ten minutes before the train was

due to start, she said to me: ‘Everard, I’ve forgotten something. I

must go and see about it at once. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She got

into the compartment, took her travelling-bag off the seat, and was

about to hurry down the platform. I asked her what she had thought of

so suddenly; if it was something she wanted I offered to go and get it

for her. She laughed at me. ‘You stay where you are and let no one get

into our carriage. I’ll be back in less than a minute.’ She was off

before I could stop her. I thought it rather odd that she had thought

of something so very pressing at the last minute, and had actually

taken her bag with her, which contained all her belongings. I saw her

go down the platform and through the gate; then, when I had waited two

minutes, I strolled down the platform to see if I could discover her.

I could see nothing. I was afraid to go through the gate lest we

should miss each other, so I stood close to the gate, and I’ll swear

that no one the least like her came through it.”

Mr. Brookes took off his bowler hat and passed his handkerchief across

his brow. I had never seen him so disturbed.

“It occurred to me, after I had been waiting some little time, and the

train was due to start, that, at her suggestion, I had put the tickets

in her bag and practically all my money. I did not know what to do. I

had never been in such a position in my life; I had not dreamt that I

could be in such a position. They were calling out, ‘Take your seats,’

and were shutting the doors. What had become of Clare? I could not

imagine. I could not go without her. Our luggage was in the train, I

could not ask the officials to delay the train on our account, and

while I was in a state bordering on distraction the issue was taken

out of my hands--the train started; and now”--turning to one of the

officials--“this man wants me to believe that she was in the train

after all. I am perfectly certain that she was nothing of the kind.

What has become of her I don’t know, but I’ll swear she wasn’t in that

train.”

The amazing part of it was that he never did know what had become of

her--the bride had left the bridegroom on the eve of their wedding

journey and vanished into space. Unfortunately, there were one or two

suspicious circumstances about that vanishing. She had taken her

brand-new dressing-case with her, a present from him, which contained

all their portable property which was worth having--besides two

hundred pounds in English money which was to have been spent upon the

honeymoon. Mr. Brookes never saw any of that again. The heavy luggage

which had gone on by the train was claimed at the Gare du Nord by an

individual who produced the checks for it, as well as the keys, which

permitted of the Customs examination--and that vanished. The wedding

reception had been held at a South Kensington hotel, at which the

presents had been exhibited. Before Mr. Brookes got back to it some

one called for the presents, armed with a letter from Mrs. Brookes--it

seemed that she had made arrangements with the hotel people before she

left to hand over the presents to some one who was to call for

them--and they were never seen again.

The thing was very well done; Mr. Brookes found that he had been

robbed in almost every direction in which he could have been robbed.

To an onlooker it had its comical side, but it was a tragedy to him.

He told me afterwards that, in one way or another, he reckoned he had

been done out of more than a thousand pounds--to say nothing of his

wife.

He had gone on one of those cruises, which are so in vogue nowadays,

to the Norwegian fiords. On the boat was a most charming lady, a Miss

Clare Percival. He was a well-to-do bachelor, about forty years of

age--the lady struck him as being the wife he had been looking for for

years. Affairs of that sort on yachts I believe grow rapidly. Ere long

she owned that she liked him, when he asked her; before they reached

England--I think it was a twenty-eight-day cruise--the liking had

turned to love, or so she said. Three weeks after they were back in

London they were married--that episode at Charing Cross Station was

the result. The whole affair was decidedly funny--except for the

mourning bridegroom.

About eighteen months afterwards I went for a yachting cruise--mine

was to the Morocco coast and all sorts of pleasant-sounding places.

Our party--we were called a “party”--consisted of about fifty persons.

We had not been two days at sea when I had become impressed by two

facts. One was that we had on board the proprietor of “Ebenezer’s

Grey-Blue Pills” and samples of his large and ebullient family, and

the other was that among the passengers was a lady whose appearance

had the most singular effect on me. The moment I saw her I had a

feeling that I had seen her somewhere before, but for the life of me I

could not think where and when.

She was a delightful person; full of resource, skilled in all sorts of

what are known as “parlour tricks”; she could sing and recite, tell

funny tales, perform conjuring tricks, and play on the piano and the

banjo and the fiddle, and, what was then the latest craze in musical

instruments, the balalaika. She was good at bridge--some of the people

said she was the best lady-player they had seen, and her knowledge of

the sort of games which are calculated to amuse a general company was

simply abnormal. She seemed to have lots of money, and some pretty

dresses and some nice jewels. Before we were out of the Bay of Biscay

she was the most prominent and popular person on board. By that time

she had given people to understand, in a casual kind of way, that she

had been an actress, and that she had been a singer, and that she had

been an entertainer, and that she had written things and painted

things--but I was commencing to wonder if she had ever been Mrs.

Everard Brookes.

I frankly admit that the idea first came into my head because of the

similarity of the cases; Mrs. Brookes had once been a single lady on a

yachting cruise, and here was Marianne Tracy--she took pains to

explain exactly how “Marianne” ought to be spelt--occupying precisely

the same position. Of course, that was merely a coincidence; lots of

single ladies go on yachting cruises, and they are all of them

charming and respectable; and beyond that coincidence there was

nothing, absolutely nothing. She bore no physical resemblance, from

what I remembered, to Mrs. Brookes. I had only seen that lady once,

and that was at her wedding, and I had a more or less vague

recollection that she had fair hair, which matched her complexion, and

that she was tall and slender, and, to my mind, uncomfortably prim;

just the colourless sort of person one would expect Mr. Brookes to

marry. Miss Tracy was black as night--black hair, black eyes, black

eyebrows, and even the faintest shadow of what might be a black

moustache. She was no taller than I was, but she was much plumper, and

she was full of vivacity and high spirits; and as for prim--I do not

wish to do the lady an injustice, but even by abuse of language one

could not call her prim. She was hail fellow with every one on

board--the officers, the passengers, the stewards, the crew, and, I

dare say, the stokers down below; she had a knack of making friends

with every one with whom she came in contact. Seeing, as I do, a great

deal more than many people suppose, I was not a little tickled by some

of the conversations in which I saw her take a very active part. She

was a flirt. Before we were out of the Bay I believe that most of the

male creatures on board, of all sorts and kinds, were under the

impression that she was in love with them.

It was that faculty which I possess of seeing so much more than many

folks guess which caused my vague suspicion to take, by degrees, a

very concrete form. It was the evening on which we were leaving

Gibraltar, where we had spent the day. Most gorgeous weather--the sky

was ablaze with stars. I was prowling about the ship when, in a corner

on the lower deck, I came upon an individual the sight of whom gave me

quite a start. He was in a steward’s uniform, but I had certainly

never seen him on board before. Whatever his duties might be, they had

never brought him into the passengers’ saloons; I should have

recognized him on the instant if they had. His was a face which, once

seen by an observant pair of eyes like mine, was not likely to be

forgotten, even after a lapse of eighteen months--and that period of

time had passed since I had seen him.

The last, and first, time I had beheld that gentleman was at Charing

Cross Railway Station on the afternoon on which Mrs. Everard Brookes

had disappointed her husband by vanishing on the eve of their

honeymoon. He was the individual who had hurried up to a masculine

acquaintance and told him, right in front of me, that some one

feminine had “done a bunk all right,” and was “away with the best of

the swag”; and had handed him what he called “her brief,” and which

had seemed to me to be a continental railway-ticket. There was no

mistaking those freckles and that flaming moustache--or, indeed, the

man as a whole.

My surprise at seeing him there was so great that for some seconds I

did not realize whom he was talking to; then I saw that it was Miss

Marianne Tracy; and, as I watched what they were saying, I began to

understand. He said to her:

“The best of the old girl’s things he takes care of; those diamonds

and pearls which we got the office about, which the old girl flashes

around, are in a bag which he keeps in his locker. Some of the girls’

things are in it too; I dropped into the cabin as if by accident the

other morning, and I saw him put them into his bag.”

The man winked at her when he said “by accident”; I have no doubt that

Miss Tracy grasped his meaning. I had had no intention of playing the

spy--I had made no attempt to conceal myself; so that when Miss Tracy

looked round, as she did just at that moment, she saw me at once. With

perfect presence of mind she came straight up to me.

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

I do not know what possessed me; I do sometimes yield to impulse, and

I did then. This person did seem to me to be such an impudent piece of

goods that, without counting the cost, I felt bound to have a shot at

her--and I did then and there. I looked her very straight in the face,

and with what I am sure was the most perfect civility I asked her a

question.

“Aren’t you Mrs. Everard Brookes?”

She did not change countenance--the baggage! She must have had a front

of brass. She just looked at me inquiringly, and she smiled, and she

said:

“So! We have met before, Miss Lee!”

She put her lips together, and she gave a tiny little whistle; it was

scarcely audible, but I fancy it was heard by some one, because,

without a moment’s warning, some one, stealing on me from behind, put

something over my head which blocked out all the light and made it

difficult for me to breathe, and I was dragged down backwards on to

the deck. I would have screamed when I got there, only a hand was

pressed against my mouth, on the outside of the stuff which covered my

face, and I could not utter a sound. The same hand held me down tight,

another took me by the throat and almost choked me, while a second

pair of hands took hold of my wrists and tied them together, and then

did the same to my ankles. I could not struggle, because the pressure

on my mouth and throat seemed to be driving the sense all out of me.

Then two hands were slipped under the cloth, my jaw was forced open,

something was thrust into it--and there was I as helpless as a trussed

fowl, and incapable of uttering a sound.

I am free to admit that it was very well done, evidently by persons

who had done that sort of thing before. I had not the use of my eyes,

but, if I could trust my ears, not a word was spoken nor an instant

wasted. Presently two pairs of hands lifted me by the head and heels;

I was carried a few feet, and deposited under what I have no doubt was

cover, and there I remained for I have not the faintest notion how

long. And in the cabin, as I was perfectly aware, they were waiting

for me to make a four at bridge. I could picture Miss Tracy explaining

how I had been overcome by a sudden headache, and how I had asked her,

with their permission, to take my place; and as I continued to lie in

that ignominious position I have no doubt that the creature who had

been chiefly instrumental in putting me there was playing my hands.

Time passed; the hours went by--they seemed to me years--and as I was

wondering if I had become an old woman and my hair had turned grey, I

was lifted again by two pairs of hands, though I had not heard a sound

of anyone approaching. I was carried this time some distance; a rope

was tied round my waist, and immediately afterwards I became

pleasantly conscious that I was being lowered over the side of the

ship. I took it for granted that my two friends, desirous of avoiding

the noise of a splash, had adopted this method of dropping me into the

sea. I feared my end had come, and was momentarily expecting to come

in contact with the water, when I went plump against something solid

instead, and on what I had bumped against I stayed. The tension of the

rope ceased. I was being lowered no longer; apparently I was on, or

in, something. I suppose I was there some minutes before I discovered

that the ligature which bound my wrists together was not so taut as it

had been, and it did not take me very long after the discovery was

made to wriggle both my hands loose. Then I put them up and pulled

that covering off my head and face. I found it was a canvas-bag which

had contained something undesirable, because my eyes, and nostrils,

and mouth were full of grits, and something gritty was worrying my

hair and skin. I took the gag out of my mouth; they had actually used

a piece of cotton waste. Then I sat up, and I learned that I was in a

small boat, which was all alone on what--literally to me--was a

trackless ocean. My sensations on making this discovery were of the

most exhilarating kind. I would have cried if I had thought it would

do any good. As a matter of fact, I was consumed with rage; my one

craving was to get that freckled man and that false woman by their

throats, one hand at the throat of each, and knock, knock, knock their

heads together; there would not have been much left of them if I had

had a chance of knocking them together then. I would have just smashed

them up like egg-shells.

I nursed my pleasant dreams of being revenged on them for quite a

while. Then I untied my ankles, got on the one seat in the boat, and

looked around. There was nothing to see, except water; and there was

too much of that. I must have been lying for hours with that

disgusting bag over my head, because it was clear, from the appearance

of the heavens, that the dawn was on the point of breaking. It did

break; I floated on, and on, and on. All of a sudden I saw something

straight in front of me which caused me to get on to my feet and stare

with all my might.

It was land--I believed it was land; I was sure it was land. It was

ever so far away; but if I only had--then I realized that there was a

pair of oars on board that boat. Whether that pretty couple had put

them there on purpose, with the intention of giving me a chance to

save my life, I have never known--but there they were. Presently I put

them in the rowlocks, and I was pulling for dear life. I can row, but

never before or since have I rowed as I rowed then. I sincerely hope I

shall never have such a long pull again. I reached land, or I should

not be telling the story. When I did I just lay down and felt as if I

were as good as dead. If there had been so much as a ripple on the

sea, I doubt if I should ever have gained the shore at all--my

strength was utterly spent; but not only was the sea as calm as a

mill-pond, but I have been told since that there is a strong current

in that part of the world which sets towards the land. No doubt that

helped to carry me in as much as my straining at the oars.

I want to get over this part of the story as fast as possible. I don’t

like to think of it even now. After a while I became conscious that

people were standing by and looking down at me. I never knew quite who

they were, but I suppose they were Moors, because I had got ashore in

Morocco. They could not speak English, and I could not speak what they

spoke, so neither side understood a word of what the other side said;

but I followed them, because a man took me by the wrist and made me go

to a disreputable-looking sort of village, which I dare say an artist

would have called picturesque; but I like my villages to be clean and

wholesome, and that certainly was not. There I met an old man who had

some English, of rather a curious kind; he must have acquired it in

some strange company, because every third or fourth word was an oath;

still, it was better than nothing. I knew, of course, that the yacht

was making for Tangier, and I asked him how far that was. As far as I

could gather from what he said, it was about six months’ journey; but

I did not believe it was anything of the kind, because I knew that the

yacht expected to get there early that day, and in that cockle-shell

of a boat I could not possibly have gone very far out of its course.

As a matter of fact it was four days before I reached Tangier. The

sight I must have presented when I got there! I walked nearly all the

way. I had never had a wash, or been able to brush or comb my

hair--considering when I was lowered into that small boat I was in

full evening-dress. I had on a costume of sky-blue satin covered with

chiffon, the corsage cut low, no sleeves, a pair of blue silk

stockings to match, and the flimsiest of shoes. When you have got

those details clearly in your mind, and remember that I had spent a

night at sea, rowing in a small boat, and that afterwards I walked for

four days on the roads of Morocco, without once coming within sight of

soap or water, brush or comb, I don’t think I need say any more of

what I looked like when I reached Tangier.

I created a sensation when I did get there; for that matter, I created

a sensation all along the road. I was the centre of a highly amused

mob of the inhabitants of the place, when, of all people in the world,

who should I encounter but the proprietor of Ebenezer’s Grey-Blue

Pills, his wife, his son, his two daughters, together with other

passengers from the yacht which I had so unintentionally quitted. And

they fell on me all at once, not with sympathy, but with accusations

of robbery and theft.

We all adjourned to the house of the British Consul, and half the

population of the town seemed to be waiting in the street without.

There I was informed that jewels, and other valuables, belonging to

John T. Stebbings, had been taken out of his cabin on the night I had

gone, and every one took it for granted that they had gone with me. So

there I was, charged with leaving that yacht of set purpose and

intention, with no end of valuables belonging to other people.

Looking back, I find that I have omitted something; it comes back to

my mind at this moment just as it did then. It is not very much--just

a trifle; but one of those trifles which turn the scale.

As, on that eventful night, Miss Marianne Tracy looked round and

beheld me, she was in the very act of saying something to her freckled

friend. I only saw her lips form part of the sentence; how it began I

do not know, and it never ended. The words I saw her lips form were

only these:

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

In the excitement of the thrilling moment which immediately ensued I

think I scarcely realized that those words had reached my

brain--anyhow, I should not have known to what they referred. But in

that room in the Consul’s house, confronted by my accusers, they came

back to me. I even had some inkling of what they might mean.

I told my tale. They listened with an amazement which grew; then, when

I had come nearly to an end, and I felt that I had made some sort of

impression, I asked the Consul a question:

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

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

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

I told him not only that it was, but that I hoped it would be my last.

I explained the circumstances in which I had seen the words uttered.

How he stared, and how they all stared, as if I were some wonderful

creature! It is a continual source of amusement to me how many people

think I am doing something wonderful when I am merely putting into

practice the principles by the teaching of which I make my living.

“I understand,” I added, “that Miss Tracy left the yacht the night

before last, to spend a day or two ashore. I think it possible that

you will find she prefers to remain ashore when the yacht goes.” I put

another question to the Consul: “Do you happen to know, sir, if in the

Street of the Fountain there is a house called the Villa Hortense?”

“By repute I know it very well. It is a house which, at various times,

has had some curious occupants--persons of whom somewhat queer tales

have been told. I believe that at the present moment it is without a

tenant.”

“I venture, in spite of your belief, sir, to express my belief that if

Mr. John T. Stebbings would like to learn something about the jewels

belonging to Mrs. Stebbings and the Misses Stebbings, he cannot do

better than make inquiries at the Villa Hortense, in the Street of the

Fountain.”

They all trooped off to that poetically named street; I tried to get

it into their heads that that was not the most desirable way of making

what ought to have been a discreet approach. Each was willing that

some one else should stay behind, but was bent on going him or

herself. So they all of them went together. Some one, I do not know

who, had lent me an aboriginal sort of wrap which I believe was called

a burnous; that covered the worst of me, but there was still enough of

me visible to make me one of the most striking figures in that

singular procession.

The Street of the Fountain proved to be very narrow, so the procession

had to tail off, whether it wished to or not. From the outside the

Villa Hortense seemed to be quite a good-sized house. While people

were wondering how we were going to get in I turned the handle and

opened the door. The door led directly into a room. As I entered I saw

a feminine figure passing through a door which was on the other side.

Although she looked quite different, I knew that she was Miss Marianne

Tracy. As I made a dash at her she shut the door with a bang, I heard

a key turned in the lock and bolts shot home. As the door was a solid

construction, apparently six inches thick, my desire to get through it

had to be postponed. Others had come in after me, and they were eyeing

with surprise the contents of the room--which certainly were rather

amazing. There were articles of clothing which had undoubtedly

belonged to Miss Tracy, and what is known as a “transformation,” which

had probably belonged to her too, to say nothing of some odds and ends

of an extremely intimate kind. The great discovery was made by Mrs.

Stebbings and her two daughters; they dashed forward with a chorused

cry: “Father’s bag!”

There, on a sort of stool, was the bag which Mr. Stebbings had kept in

his locker, and which had contained the most valuable possessions of

the feminine part of the family. There were some of them left

still--what the family seemed to regard as unconsidered trifles; the

articles really worth having were there no more. They had probably

gone with the lady who had locked and bolted--on the other side--that

extremely solid door. While we were assimilating this interesting fact

a person garbed as a sailor appeared in the doorway and informed us,

at the top of his voice, that if we wanted to continue our yachting

cruise we had better get on board at once, as the boat was on the

point of starting.

There was a nice to-do. Every one seemed to be strongly of the opinion

that the captain was an exceptionally unreasonable person; but, as no

one wished to be left behind, a common inclination was shown to rush

to the shore. As nobody was more eager to get on board than I was, for

divers reasons, I kept well to the front. We reached the quay just as

the ship’s boat was about to put off, and I was the first one in. They

all came tumbling after me. We discussed the captain’s conduct on the

way to the ship, and we kept on discussing it to the end of the

voyage. He was tried by a sort of court-martial, no two members of

which agreed.

Mr., Mrs., the Misses, and Master Stebbings were of opinion that the

captain ought to have kept the ship at Tangier while search was made

for that disreputable woman, and at least endeavoured to recover their

valuable property. As the ship had stayed there already much longer

than she ought to have done, the captain made it quite clear that his

first duty was to the owners, and that if the Stebbings family had

wished to remain they might have done so and come on by another ship.

But as their remaining property was on board and they had only a few

pounds on their persons, it was not strange that they had not seen

their way to act on the captain’s suggestion. Mrs. Stebbings asked him

pointedly if he thought she could live for a fortnight in the clothes

she stood up in, and the young ladies hinted that he was not the kind

of person they had taken him for. So the captain retired, and I should

not be surprised if he bullied the crew. I believe efforts were made

by wireless to ascertain the woman’s whereabouts and to regain the

Stebbingses’ gems, and that directions were given to leave no stone

unturned which should bring these things about. But, so far as I know,

nothing ever came of what was done.

The yachting cruise went on, under a sort of blight. Everything seemed

different without Miss Tracy and the Stebbingses’ gems. The numerous

inquisitions which were held on me, and the myriad questions which I

had to answer, caused me seriously to consider whether it would not be

desirable to remain at one of the ports at which we touched and

continue my journey later. But the truth was that I had had enough of

yachting, and the one thing for which I craved was to have done with

that pleasure trip and get back home. I did get back home--we all got

back home--and I think that most of us parted from each other in the

hope that we might never meet again.

This story is episodical, with an interval between each episode. There

was another interval of about eighteen months, during which I managed

to keep myself alive, though, for the most part, I was badly

over-worked; and one afternoon I went to call upon a friend who was

staying at the Hotel Metropole in town. I stayed in the lounge while

she went to write some letters. Right on the other side was a party of

Americans. They seemed to be so much amused by what they were talking

about that I could not help watching them, and I saw one of them tell

this story. He struck me as a man who had been in this world about

sixty years, and who had lived them every one.

“Have I told you about Alexander King?”

He asked the question, and with one accord his listeners said that he

had not; so he told them then.

“Last fall Alexander went on a pleasure cruise to the coast of

Florida. On board there was a lady--I don’t mean that there weren’t

other ladies on the ship, but she was the only one for Alexander.

Alexander had had three wives already, and he told me himself that he

thought enough was as good as a feast; but the sight of her made him

think he’d try again. All the way there and back he made hay of that

young female’s heart to such an extent that, when he got back to New

York, nothing would suit him but that he should rush off to the first

handy place, and make her the fourth Mrs. King. But she was not taking

any; she was a modest creature, and wanted time to prepare her mind.

So he gave her time, as little as she would let him give her, and he

spent most of it in buying such articles as New York had to sell; so

that when they had the wedding he had quite a nice collection to pour

into the lap of his bride. They were going to Tennessee for the

honeymoon, and they went down to the depot, and they boarded the

train. And just before the train was going to start she remembered

that she had forgotten something somewhere, and she caught up a bag

which contained all he had worth having, as well as some trifles of

her own, and she started off to get it. And she left Alexander alone

in the train--and he’s been alone ever since. Yes, boys, he has. That

train started with Alexander alone in it, without even his bag. She

had recommended him, like a good and thoughtful wife, careful of her

husband’s interest, to put all his cash into that bag, and everything

he had worth taking; and he had acted on her advice, and now the bag

was gone, and she with it. That’s the last he’s ever seen of either.

Yes, boys, that’s a fact. What honeymoon he had he spent all alone,

which didn’t amount to much; and, from what I have heard, it would

seem that he has been spending most of the money he had left on

telegraphing descriptions of the bag and the lady to every part of the

world. He has met with no success so far, and I take it that his money

will give out before he does. So he’s a widower once more.”

His hearers laughed, and I had to laugh--he had such a comical way of

telling a story--but I laughed with rather a wry face. I had no doubt

that Mrs. Everard Brookes, and Miss Marianne Tracy, and Mrs. Alexander

King were one and the same person. The audacity of the creature was

almost incredible! I believe I should have gone across to them and

told them so, only just then my friend came up and insisted upon

bearing me off without giving me a chance to explain.

A few days afterwards I was in Bond Street, when a beautifully attired

lady came out of a shop, and stopped to stare at me. I could not

believe my eyes--it was Marianne Tracy, though transformed into quite

another being. Her coolness was almost supernatural.

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

you.”

That was all she said, in the sweetest tone of voice. Then she got

into a gorgeous motor-car, which I had been conscious had been

standing at the kerb, and as she pulled the door to she leaned over

and said:

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

Before I could answer the car was off. What was I to do? I could not

run after it; it was lost in the traffic before I had got my wits

about me. I could not give a description of the car--I had scarcely

noticed it; I was not sure either of the shape or colour. That woman

had slipped through my fingers, merely because her presence of mind

was greater than mine. If I had only kept my head enough to take her

by the throat in the middle of Bond Street!

A week afterwards I had a call from Mr. Everard Brookes. He began to

talk about his wife--he still called her his wife. The man struck me

as being more than half a lunatic. He told me that he had more than

once thought of going into mourning. The very notion! I thought of

what her feelings would have been if she had seen him in widower’s

weeds. He said that he felt that in the first flush of his agitation

he had misjudged her; he was sure that she had cared for him; he had

had proofs of it. I wonder what they were. He was nearly convinced

that she had been the victim of one of those tragedies of which one

reads in the newspapers; she might have been run over by a motor-bus;

he had a morbid feeling that he himself would one day be run over by a

vehicle of that description. Something had happened to her, he

believed; one day it would be made known what it was.

I hoped that it never would, for his sake. He was one of those men

who--because nothing ever has happened to them--like to think that

something has happened to them at last--something wonderful,

altogether out of the common way; that they have been the victim of

some supreme tragedy. I doubt if he would have made much of a husband,

anyhow. He was actually happy under the delusion that some strange,

mysterious fate had in some altogether incomprehensible way robbed him

of what might have been his life’s bright star. His existence might

have been so blissful had Destiny only stayed its hand. It is my

belief that he endeavoured to make this clear to everybody he met

after five minutes’ acquaintance; so that, if he lost his wife before

she was really his, at least he had an object in life.

The next morning I met William B. Stebbings, the son of Ebenezer’s

Grey-Blue Pills, and, as soon as he had made up his mind who I was,

the very first words he said to me were:

“I say, Miss Lee, I’m going to be married--yes, I am; and I hope to

see you there; you must have a card. It’s on Tuesday week.” Then,

though we were out in the open street, he closed his left eye and

winked. “Have you ever heard anything of Miss Tracy? She was a dandy

of a girl, she was; and, between ourselves, I believe that she didn’t

object to me. If it hadn’t been for that little upset, matters between

us might have gone farther than---- Well, strictly between ourselves,

I don’t mind telling you that she told me herself that she would like

to be my wife; she meant it too. She was fond of me, that girl was.

Pity she made such a mistake.”

I did not know to which mistake he alluded, and I did not ask him. I

did not want to know. He was an extremely plain, clumsily built,

stupid young man; and I was half inclined to wish that she had married

him. Where women are concerned, men are the most amazing things. What

all those men, of different ages, different tastes, different

altogether, saw in her was beyond my comprehension. The proof that she

had a fatal fascination for the male animal came to me in still

stranger shape only a few days later.

I was standing in one of the Tube stations, when a decently dressed

young man came up to me and took his cap off.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Miss Lee? I don’t suppose you know who I

am, but I remember you because of Miss Balfour.”

“Miss who?” I asked. I was quite certain I had never seen him before;

he was almost a gentleman and quite nice-looking, about twenty-three

or four.

“Miss Balfour spoke to you in Bond Street, now rather more than a

fortnight since. You were passing when she came out of a shop and

spoke to you, and then she got into the motor-car. I was the

chauffeur. She told me afterwards who you were.”

“So she calls herself Miss Balfour now, does she?” A light was

beginning to dawn on me. “I shall be very much obliged if you can tell

me where Miss Balfour is to be found at the present moment.”

He pulled rather a long face.

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

“No one is less likely to be able to tell you about the movements of

the woman who, according to you, now calls herself Miss Balfour than I

am. Are you no longer in her employ?”

He shifted his cap a little to one side and scratched his head. I

thought what a rueful-looking object he was all at once.

“Well, it’s rather a long story. It’s like this.” He paused, as if to

try back to the beginning. “I wasn’t exactly in her employ; the fact

is, an uncle of mine left me a legacy, and I laid it out in buying a

motor-car, meaning to hire it out to people who wanted one. It’s a

first-rate car, and I wanted to get at people of better class. Miss

Balfour hired it--first by the day, then by the week, and then by the

month. We used to go off together for tours in the country, and”--he

began to look sheepish--“she made herself very pleasant to me. Of

course, she paid my expenses, and nothing would suit her but that we

should take our meals together--late dinner and all that;

and--well”--he looked more sheepish--“she began to make out that she

had taken a liking to me, and, of course, I liked her; so then I gave

her the motor-car.”

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

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

“Oh, you were going to be married!”

“Of course; I knew she’d got lots of money, and that it would be a

first-rate thing for me, and so I thought, there being only one thing

I could give her worth having, that was the least I could give her, so

I gave her the motor-car, thinking,” he quickly added, “that, as what

was hers would be mine, it would make no difference, and that it would

be as much mine as ever; only the mischief was I gave it her before

witnesses; and that very same night, if she didn’t get up in the

middle of the night, and go down to the garage, and take the car out,

and drive off with it, and I’ve seen nothing of either of them since.”

This was such an astounding story that if it had not been for the

sincere air of depression which marked the man I should have thought

that he was having a joke at my expense; but he was serious enough, as

he had good reason to be.

“It was no use my going after her, even if I had known where she was,

because, of course, she hadn’t stolen the motor-car, seeing that I had

given it to her in the presence of witnesses--and that’s how it was.”

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

“It looks as if I had. I did hear by a sort of side-wind that she’s

taken it to France, but, seeing that it’s hers, I don’t see what I can

do to her if she has. She’s had me fairly. It was one of the best

motor-cars that money could buy; I didn’t grudge anything in the way

of fittings.”

He sighed. My train came up, and I left the youth lamenting. He was

only another example of what absolute idiots all sorts and conditions

of men, old and young, can make themselves over a woman.

It was not very long afterwards that a letter reached me which bore

the Paris post-mark. As a specimen of--I will call it courage--I give

it verbatim. There was no date and there was no address.

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

It was at this point that I realized that the letter was from that

woman. Might she call me Judith! I read on--with my teeth set pretty

close together.

“When I saw you the other day in Regent Street--I don’t know if you

saw me; I was in a motor-car and you were walking--quite a wave of

emotion passed over me. It was so sweet to see again one of whom one

has such sunny memories. And you were looking so well; a little older,

perhaps, but a few years more or less would make no difference to your

appearance. I should have liked to stop my motor-car and begged you to

have a cup of tea. I cannot help sending you just a line to say so, if

only to recall to your recollection one who I hope you look upon as an

old friend.

“A great change is about to take place in my life. I am shortly to be

married--to a Russian merchant of immense wealth. One has to be

married some time. I wonder if you will ever be? There are men who

will marry anything--who knows?

“I had no idea until the other day that you were the famous Judith

Lee. It was a surprise. I had heard so much about you--about how wise

and clever and wonderful you were. You are not the least like what I

expected. And yet how beautiful it must be to be able to read people’s

thoughts, even the secrets of their hearts, as I am told you can. Who

would have thought it? I shall look forward to meeting you again some

day, in order that you may teach me some of the strange magic--I am

bound to call it magic--of which you are such a mistress. You will

find me an apt pupil; don’t you think you will?

“You must be able to do a great deal of good in the world with such a

gift as yours. I love doing good--don’t you? It must be so nice to

detect an improper person directly you see one. Your friendship for me

was almost a certificate of character. If only it had not been so

brief--but the night was fine, and the boat was handy, and we did not

tie you very tight.--Your affectionate friend, Marianne Tracy.

“Pray remember me to the gentleman whose name you once mentioned to

me--Mr. Everard Brookes. Is he married?”

The audacity of the woman in writing to me at all! And such a letter,

with such innuendoes! I could hardly contain myself till I got to the

end. For quite two days after I had received that effusion I could

hardly bring myself to speak civilly to a single person I came across.

And even now sometimes I tingle all over when I think of it--and that

was ages ago, and I have never heard of nor seen the woman since.

V.

THE MIRACLE

People sometimes say that they envy me because, with my power of

reading thoughts--that, they say, is what it comes to--I must have so

many opportunities of doing people good. It must be so sweet, they

add, with what I occasionally feel to be an irritating smirk, to be

able, with very little trouble to oneself, to benefit one’s

fellow-creatures. That sort of remark is very easy to make, but it is

not easy to benefit one’s fellow-creatures. And as for doing people

good, it is surprising how many people would rather not be done good

to. Take that case of what happened at Dieppe.

I was spending my summer holidays at Dieppe. I had been there about a

fortnight. One evening I was sitting, all alone by myself, on the

terrace outside the Casino. I had been dancing; my partner had gone to

fulfil another engagement, and, as I was not engaged for that dance,

I had asked him to leave me where I was. I was taking my ease in a

long chair close to the sea-wall. In front of me, in the glow of the

electric light, people were seated at little tables having

refreshments. At one of these was a gentleman whose name I knew,

talking to one who was to me a complete stranger.

The first gentleman’s name was Armitage--Cecil Armitage. He was an

amazingly handsome young man, perhaps in the late twenties. He was

staying in my hotel, and was the cause of no little amusement to some

of the other visitors. He, a young man of seven or eight-and-twenty,

evidently of birth and breeding, was paying the most marked attention

to a woman who was one of the greatest jokes in Dieppe--Miss

Drawbridge.

Miss Drawbridge, commonly known as “Gertrude” to people who had never

spoken to her in their lives, was a sort of standing dish at Dieppe.

She was supposed to have been there longer than the oldest inhabitant;

she had certainly been a frequenter for quite a number of years. What

I had seen of her I rather liked. She was staying at my hotel, and

there was a time when she had asked me to share her table; and,

although that time had passed and she never asked me to share it now,

we were still on quite good terms. She was certainly a curious

person--people who haunt the same foreign watering-place year after

year generally are; and what an extremely presentable young man like

Cecil Armitage could see in her was a mystery--unless it was her

money.

Imagine the sensation which stirred the air when it became known that

this perfect Adonis was engaged to “Gertrude.” Had not Miss Drawbridge

announced the fact herself, I fancy few people would have believed it.

And the things which were said of Miss Drawbridge, especially by some

of the women! The men just sneered.

There was I on the terrace, in my long chair (I could say things about

men, but I think I had better get on with my story), and there was Mr.

Armitage, drinking what looked to me very like absinthe--fancy

drinking absinthe at that time of night, or, so far as that goes, at

any time!--and talking to a perfect stranger. Of course, the man was

quite entitled to be a stranger; but I have seldom seen a man whose

looks I liked less. The contrast between him and Mr. Armitage was

amazing. He was a sallow, hatchet-faced man, with an upturned

moustache--which I hate!--and something the matter with one of his

eyes which made him seem to be looking in two directions at once. Nor

did I like his manner towards Mr. Armitage; he seemed to me to be

positively bullying him. That was one reason why I watched what they

said, and some very surprising observations--I cannot say I heard--I

saw. And, as always is the case on such occasions, I could not have

gained a more intimate acquaintance with them had they bawled them in

my ear.

The first thing I saw was the stranger’s thin lips contorting

themselves as, in what I imagined to be an angry undertone, they

formed these words, which I have no doubt, judging from the expression

of his face, he snapped out at Mr. Armitage as if he were an angry

terrier:

“Don’t you make any mistake about it, my boy. I’ve not come over to

Dieppe to be fooled with. I’m either going to have you or the money in

four-and-twenty hours. If I have to have you, it will be penal

servitude, and then the smile will come off that pretty face of

yours.”

Mr. Armitage was not smiling at that particular moment, as anyone

could see; on the contrary, he looked very much disturbed. The way in

which he leaned across the table helped me to realize the earnestness

which I felt sure was in his voice as he replied to the other’s

threat, in words which, as I saw each fresh one shaped on his lips,

surprised me more and more.

“Don’t be absurd, Clarke. I can’t perform the impossible. I can’t get

it in four-and-twenty hours; but you shall have your money, with a

thumping interest, if you will only give me reasonable time.”

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

“It won’t take very much to make me break this glass against your

face, Clarke. You may have the whip-hand of me, but I’ll break your

neck before you get a chance of laying the lash across my back.”

I held my breath, expecting every moment to see something dreadful

happen. The way Mr. Clarke snarled back at him!

“That’s the tone you take, is it? You talk to me like that again, and

I’ll have you jailed to-night. Do you think you can both rob and

murder me? I say you’re a forger--forger--forger! Now you touch me

with a glass, or anything else, if you dare. This will be the last

time you ever show yourself in a decent place if you do.”

There was a pause. Mr. Armitage leaned so far forward that I quite

expected that he would take the other by the throat and strike him

with his glass. I was just on the point of jumping up and doing

something which would divert his attention, when he seemed all at once

to change his purpose, and, leaning right back, positively laughed.

“What nonsense it is, Clarke, our talking like this. You’ll do no more

good by calling me names than I should do by knocking you down. I tell

you again, you shall have your money, with thumping interest, if

you’ll wait.”

“I know a good deal about you, my lad--about all there is to

learn--but I don’t know where you’re going to get anything like that

amount of money from, unless you’ve found some one else to rob.”

I thought Mr. Armitage would resent this remark as he had done the

others, and I believe that for a moment it was his intention to do so,

but again he changed his purpose, and I saw these remarkable words

come from his lips instead:

“I have--I’ve found a woman.”

It was not strange that Mr. Clarke looked at him as if he wondered if

he was in earnest; then he asked, with a smile which made him an even

more unpleasant-looking person than before:

“What woman have you found this time?”

“If you are suggesting, as you appear to be, that I ever have robbed a

woman up to now, I can only inform you, Clarke, with all possible

courtesy, that you are a liar. I have not always treated women

well--few men have; but no woman has ever suffered in pocket because

of me up to the present time of speaking.”

“That’s between you and your conscience. Who is the woman you purpose,

according to your own statement, to rob, at the eleventh hour?”

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

“Oh, so there is a woman you’re going to make your wife--at last. What

about----” I do not know what he was going to say; Mr. Armitage

stopped him so suddenly, and positively shook his fist in his face.

“Stop that, Clarke; don’t you mention any names. You keep your tongue

between your teeth. I’m going to marry the woman I’m going to marry

because I’m a thief, and because I’m such a cur that I shrink from

paying the penalty. She’s a wretched old fool who comes all to pieces;

Heaven knows what’s left of her when the various aids to beauty are

put away for the night; but she’s got money, and she’s willing to give

me money, enough to be rid of you and save myself from the treadmill.

That’s why I’m going to enter the bonds of holy matrimony, and that’s

a perfectly frank confession; franker, I dare say, than most men make

in similar circumstances.”

“This sounds as if it were going to be a marriage of real affection; a

genuine love-match.” The sneer which was on Mr. Clarke’s face as he

said this; the indescribable look which was on Mr. Armitage’s as he

replied:

“If you only knew how I hate the woman; how every pulse throbs with

loathing when she comes near me.” He gave what seemed to me to be a

great sigh. “As I live, it’s a comfort to say that to some one. It

makes me ill to be in the same room with her--got to that stage

already. Heaven knows how far it will go by the time we’re married. I

shouldn’t wonder if I were to murder her on our wedding night.”

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

lady young?”

“Young! I shouldn’t care to ask her age for fear of the depth of the

lie she’d tell me; she’s at least old enough to be my mother--my

grandmother, for all the woman that’s left in her.”

“What a very charming couple you will make--full of vivacity! Has the

lady physical charm?”

“She never had, I tell you she takes all to pieces nowadays. She is

one of those women the ladies’ papers always suggest to the masculine

mind; she gets her hair from one of the persons advertised on the back

pages; her complexion from some wretched harridan whose advertisement

is to be found a page or two in front; her figure from a person the

editor specially recommends--at so much a time; and her teeth from the

Lord knows who. Oh, she’s a regular specimen of love’s young dream.”

“Is she really? She must be a walking nightmare. What is the fortunate

lady’s name? I take it she has tons of money.”

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

you, Clarke.”

“I hope there will be a little left for you when I am paid, I do

really, my dear boy.”

“Well, there may be or there mayn’t; but I’m marrying her to get the

money to pay you, and that’s the whole, plain truth.”

Mr. Armitage was about to rise from his chair when the other leaned

right over the table and stopped him.

“One moment, Armitage, one moment. When are you going to touch that

money, eh?”

“I can’t tell you the exact day now, can I? I only proposed to her

yesterday. It was your telegram that brought me to the sticking-point.”

“I’m afraid I shall have to push you a little beyond the

sticking-point. I’m in a hole myself. I’m pressed for money. I’ve got

to find at least five hundred pounds in four-and-twenty hours.”

“Is that true?”

“Perfectly true. I shall be in a very inconvenient position if I don’t

find it; and it’s got to come from you. You’ll be in a more

inconvenient position than I shall if it doesn’t; so that’s plain.

I’ve come all the way to Dieppe to make it clear to you that it is

plain. Can you get five hundred pounds out of your fair lady between

this and to-morrow night? If you can I’ll wait a few days for the

rest, but five hundred I’ve got to have before I go to bed to-morrow

night; or--you know the alternative if I don’t. That engagement will

be off; I don’t suppose even she will want to marry you after you’ve

done a term of penal servitude. There’s something else--I should like

a hundred to-night.”

“I haven’t ten pounds left in the world. I’m practically broke; I’ve

been losing steadily ever since I’ve been at this place.”

“Then it looks as if you’ll have to get a hundred for me and a bit

over for yourself. I’ve got to have my hundred, and the other four

to-morrow.”

Mr. Armitage, looking steadily at the other, seemed to see something

in his face which made it clear that he meant what he said. A grim

look came on his own face as I saw him say: “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’d better. Where is the lady?”

“Punting, in the club; playing baccarat.”

“Then you’d better cut off to the club as fast as ever you can, and

take her by the scruff of the neck and squeeze that hundred out of her

while she’s got it to squeeze. After you’re married you’re not going

to let her play baccarat with your money, are you? She’ll make a

pauper of you if you don’t take care.”

“You mind your own business, and leave me to manage my matrimonial

affairs after my own fashion.” Mr. Armitage got up from his chair.

“Where shall I find you, at the hotel or here?”

“You’ll find me all over the place, my lad, don’t you make any

mistake. I’m not going to lose sight of you till I’ve got my money, or

got you in jail. You can go, but just you understand I shall be close

behind you--and I’m not the only one who’ll be close behind you

either. If you keep looking over your shoulder you’ll see two or

three--friends of mine.”

Mr. Armitage took himself off, with an air of indifference which was

very well done; he could not have had a very careless feeling in his

heart. Almost immediately Mr. Clarke followed with the evident

intention of dogging his steps. And I was left alone, nearly overcome

by feelings which were altogether indescribable.

What on earth was I to do? It was no business of mine, this affair of

the old maid and the young bachelor. She must have known what a risk

she was running when she agreed to his preposterous proposal. If, by

what I will call an accident, I had become acquainted with facts which

made the gentleman’s position in the matter abundantly clear--still,

it was no concern of mine.

But it was no use my talking to myself like that. I could not allow a

person of my own sex to enter into what I knew would be such a hideous

marriage without making some attempt to lay before her the facts upon

which my knowledge was based. In other words, here was one of those

opportunities for doing good of which people were so fond of talking;

and, if the thing was in my power, good should be done.

I got up from my seat and went in search of Miss Drawbridge; finding

her, as I had expected, in that part of the building which is found in

every French casino, and which--I presume ironically--is called

“Cercle privé,” as if it ever is, in any sense of the word, a “club,”

or has anything “private” about it. She was seated at one of the

baccarat tables, and I could see at a glance that she was winning; she

had quite a quantity of bank-notes in front of her, and kept adding to

the store. Presently the bank was closed and the players rose. Miss

Drawbridge rose too, with her spoils in a white satin handbag. As she

moved towards the door Mr. Armitage came into the room, with Mr.

Clarke not very far behind him. When he accosted her, I thought, as I

suppose every one else did in the room, what an extraordinary couple

they were--to think that they were ever going to be married. I saw him

ask her, with an attempt at a smile:

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

Her back was towards me, so that I could not see her answer, but I

guessed what it was from his rejoinder.

“That’s great news.” I fancy he hesitated. Would he have the assurance

to ask for that hundred pounds for Mr. Clarke without a moment’s

warning? He approached the subject by what I suppose he meant to be a

delicate way. “I’m awfully glad you’ve had a bit of luck, because the

fact is it’s all the other way with me; I can’t do anything right,

and, between ourselves----” I saw him hesitate again; I imagine that

the decent man which was in him made it difficult for him to ask a

woman for money when it came to the pinch.

What she said I could not see, but I conceive of her as saying, struck

by his hesitation: “Well, and what is it, between ourselves?”

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

“You know, it’s like this: I’m awfully pushed for coin. If you could

manage to lend me, say, a hundred out of those winnings of yours----”

She cut him short. I could not tell with what words, but her hand

dived into her white satin bag just as they passed through the

swing-door out of sight.

Two or three minutes afterwards, when I returned to the Casino, I saw

in the crowd round the “little horses” Mr. Clarke sidle up to Mr.

Armitage. Both their faces were in plain sight. I could see Mr. Clarke

ask:

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

Mr. Armitage turned away, as if the other’s gibe had roused him to

sudden anger; but I saw him hand his companion something as he moved

away, and I knew what it was. A few minutes later I saw Mr. Armitage

again, going towards the club. He was addressed by a fat,

florid-looking man, with an exaggerated moustache. A moustache

sometimes screens a man’s mouth almost completely; but his was so

formed that, despite the absurd dimensions of that hirsute adornment,

I could see his lips distinctly. He said to the man he had stopped,

with what I fancied was an evil gleam in his bold, blood-shot eyes:

“I’m sure Mr. Armitage has a five-pound note which he can spare for an

old friend who’s a little on his uppers.”

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

satisfaction.

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

thought you were----”

Mr. Morgan raised his finger to his lips, to prevent the other

bringing his sentence to a close.

“Quite so--we won’t say where. How about a five-pound note, Mr.

Armitage, for a very old friend?”

Mr. Armitage looked at him angrily for a few seconds, then grabbed

something out of the pocket of his dinner-jacket which might have been

a hundred-franc note. He thrust it into the other’s hand and, without

waiting for a word of thanks, went quickly on. Mr. Morgan looked at

what he had been given, then he looked after the donor--the expression

on his face was not that of a grateful man.

I found Miss Drawbridge sitting at the very table on the terrace which

had been lately occupied by Mr. Armitage and his friend. As I took the

chair in front of her she said to me:

“That’s right, come and talk to me--and have something.” She herself

was having some curious concoction in a big glass; for me she ordered

a lemon-squash. “I’ve had a good night, my dear. It seems as if I

can’t lose at baccarat lately--as if my luck had turned; I’m sure it’s

about time it should. You look a little moped. What’s been troubling

you?”

I considered for a second or so; then I decided, by degrees, to make

the plunge. I approached the subject by what I meant to be a

roundabout fashion of my own.

“I’ve just learnt something rather disagreeable.”

“Have you? That’s easy; the difficulty is to learn anything else. Is

it private, or for publication?”

“I’ve just learnt that a man who I thought was rather a decent sort is

a thief and a rogue, and two or three other things which are rather

worse.”

“When you’ve had my experience of life, my dear--which Heaven forbid

you ever will--you’ll know that that sort of thing is quite common

with a man--you must take a man at his own valuation, my dear. We

should never get one at all if we took them at ours.”

“This man is not only going to marry a woman for her money, but

because he doesn’t know where he will get money from if he can’t from

her, and if he doesn’t get her money at the earliest possible moment

he’ll be sent to jail. He’s a thoroughly all-round bad lot, the man

is, though he doesn’t look it.”

Miss Drawbridge had her fish-like eyes--they always looked as if they

had been boiled--fixed on me with a watery stare.

“What’s the gentleman’s name?” I knew from her manner that, as the

children have it in their game, she was “getting warm.” “Does it begin

with the first letter of the alphabet?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“What have you found out about Mr. Armitage? Stay--before you speak I

ought to tell you that what you say will in all probability be

repeated to him; and while I’m about it I ought, perhaps, to tell you

something else--and that is not a very easy something to say.”

She sipped at her glass; then she took a cigarette out of a gold case

and began to smoke. I thought what an extremely unprepossessing person

she seemed. I wondered by what process of evolution a sweet, simple,

fresh, clean young girl had become transformed into such a being.

Rather to my surprise, and a good deal to my confusion, she showed an

unexpected capacity to read my thoughts.

“You don’t think I’m very much to look at, do you? I’m not; I never

was. Time has not improved me, either outside or in. When I was young

I was very poor. For seven years I was governess at sometimes twenty,

sometimes thirty pounds a year, and lived upon my earnings--if you

know what that means. I couldn’t expect to get married on that, could

I? And no one wanted me anyhow, though I wanted to marry very badly. I

never remember the time when the one thing of which I dreamed was not

to become some decent man’s wife. It sounds funny, doesn’t it? Isn’t

it a shocking confession to make? I wonder how many women would make

it if they told the truth?”

She flicked the ash from her cigarette. I was beginning to wish that I

had left her alone, that I had not embraced an opportunity of doing

her good.

“When I was about thirty-eight I came into a lot of money from an

uncle, whom I don’t remember to have ever seen. It turned my head; I

thought that money could do anything. I decided that now I would

marry, and that I would marry just the sort of man I had always hoped

I would do. You see, I had practically no knowledge of the world at

all--how can a woman have who has lived a life like mine? It took

seven or eight years to make it clear to me that, in thinking because

I had got money I could marry the sort of man I wanted to, I was a

fool.”

She smiled, and the whole of her face seemed to be dislocated to

enable her to do so, and she beckoned the waiter to fill her glass.

“Men wanted to marry me--oh yes; but they were the kind of men whom I

would not, as the saying is, have touched with the end of a

barge-pole. I sent them about their business. Whenever I saw a

masculine creature to whose appearance I particularly objected, I knew

that, sooner or later, he would ask me to be his wife--which was nice.

No one else ever did, so I made a fool of myself by way of seeking

consolation. I know they call me ‘Gertrude’ here, and some equally

silly name at other places which I favour regularly with my society.

As a matter of fact, my name is Elizabeth. Since my mother died, when

I was a girl, no one has ever called me by my Christian name--think of

that!”

The waiter brought her a fresh edition of that curious concoction; she

put the glass to her lips.

“Don’t suppose that my desire to marry grew less as my years grew

more; that’s a silly notion which some young girls seem to have. If I

have to advertise for a husband, I’m going to have one before I die;

so you can imagine what it means to me that Cecil Armitage has asked

me to be his wife. I don’t know that I’m particularly fond of him; I’m

quite aware that he isn’t at all fond of me. But he’s so young--you

don’t know what a young man means to a woman like me--and so handsome,

so beautiful, so healthy, so strong, so well shaped! In my most

sanguine moments I never dreamed that I should have such a perfect

specimen of a man for my very own. Of course, I shall have to pay for

him--you needn’t tell me that; my experience is that one always has to

pay for anything that’s worth having--and generally through the nose.

I expect to have to pay through the nose for him. I’ve got more money

than some people think, or, I believe, even than he suspects. I

believe he thinks that I’ve got two or three thousand a year; I’m a

rich woman, my dear. My money has gone on increasing and increasing,

and now I don’t spend a tenth of my income. I don’t mean to let him

know how much money I really have; he’d want too much if I did. I

don’t suppose for a moment that he isn’t what I’ve seen described as

‘shop soiled’; he wouldn’t want to get money out of me at the price of

making me his wife if he wasn’t in a nasty hole. And, bless you, I

don’t mind that; I’ve grown out of all my illusions. You can tell me

all you know against him if you like, though I don’t know how you

found out; it will give me a pull over him when it comes to talking

matters over a little later on. Nothing you can tell me to his

discredit will surprise or hurt me in the least. I’m prepared to pay a

good lump sum to get him clear of all his messes, then I’m going to

have one of the finest weddings ever seen in town; I’ve had a special

sum set apart for it for years. Won’t he make a picture of a

bridegroom? I never dreamed that I should marry a man like him.”

Her cigarette being nearly consumed, she lit another, while I looked

at her with, I have no doubt, amazement in my eyes and something like

terror in my heart. I had never supposed that there were such women as

she existing in the world, who looked at what, to me, were sacred

things from such a point of view. It seemed to me that I was listening

to some one in a nightmare when she went on.

“There will be crowds of people at my wedding; you can always get

crowds of people if you don’t care what it costs to get them. And the

papers will be full of it; the ladies’ papers send their own lady

reporters to weddings, and give pages and pages, and lots of

illustrations, if you make it worth their while. It’s all a question

of making it worth their while. I tell you that with such a bridegroom

I’m going to have the wedding of the season; and I do believe you

thought you were going to choke me off him by telling me that he is

what you call a thief. You funny little thing! How many really honest

men do you suppose there are, if the truth were known?”

I had nightmares because of Miss Drawbridge that night--real

nightmares. I had a broken and disturbed night absolutely on her

account, and I got out of bed with the feeling strong upon me that, if

I could possibly help it, that, to my mind, impossible marriage should

not take place--I would do that unfortunate woman good in spite of

herself.

When I got down almost the first person I saw was Mr. Cecil

Armitage, looking so glum, so unhappy, so desperate, and, I could

not but think, so ashamed of himself, that my resolution was

strengthened--particularly when, as I was having my coffee and roll,

the man Morgan, with the huge moustache, came and planted himself at my

table, and actually began to talk to me.

“I rather fancy, Miss Lee, that you are interested--shall I say?--in

our mutual friend Armitage?”

He seemed to have got my name off pat, though where he had got it from

I could not think; how he dared to address me I could not think

either. I had never seen the man except the night before in the Casino

for about thirty seconds--and then at a distance. I did not answer

him, I just looked at him; he went on:

“I may mention I am Captain Morgan, of the Fusiliers.” I think it was

the Fusiliers, I know it was some regiment--as if I cared. “I’m an old

friend of Mr. Armitage, and if you like I can place you in possession

of certain facts concerning that gentleman----”

I did not wait for him to finish. I got up and walked off, leaving my

coffee and roll unfinished. I dare say if I had stopped to finish them

he would have offered to sell me secrets about Mr. Armitage for five

pounds apiece. I had an instinctive feeling that he was that kind of

man.

It is quite the thing at Dieppe to go down to the quay to see the boat

come in from Newhaven. After _déjeuner_, as there was a pretty stormy

sea, I thought I would go and see what the passengers looked like. As

I was going I fell in with Mrs. Curtis, one of the dearest old ladies

I have ever met. She was an American, and, so far as I could make out,

had been doing Europe very much on her own, although she had a husband

who everybody said was a millionaire. It seemed that he was coming to

Dieppe by that very boat.

“I haven’t seen him,” she told me, “for more than six months. He’s so

occupied with business that he hasn’t time to spare for such a trifle

as a wife, except between whiles. I understand that he’s been making

another million dollars. I wish he wouldn’t; every fresh million he

makes only seems to fill him with the desire to make more; and as

we’ve neither kith nor kin, and are just a lonely old couple, what

we’re going to do with all the money I can’t think.”

It was a funny thing to say, but then people do say funny things, and

there are such funny people, and so much of the world does seem queer.

A few people have too much money and so many have nothing like

enough--it’s all a jumble.

When the boat drew up at the quay she began to wave her handkerchief

with all her might to an elderly gentleman who stood on the deck, and

he began to wave his to her; so I drew off in order that they might

meet without being worried by a stranger. As I was strolling off the

quay after most of the people had gone, a girl who had a small brown

bag in her hand looked at me as if she wondered if I were very

dreadful, and then as if thinking that perhaps I was not, summoned up

courage to speak to me.

“Can you tell me,” she asked, “the name of a cheap and respectable

hotel where--where I can go alone?”

I told her of one which I thought answered that description--I offered

to show her where it was. She was quite the prettiest girl I had seen

for ages, with a face, I thought, which had character and strength, as

well as being good to look at. I fell in love with her at sight. She

did not accept my offer to show her to the hotel, but she thanked me

for giving her the name; and then, after favouring me with a further

inspection, she made a remark which took me aback.

“I believe that in these foreign places, if they have been there any

time, English people begin to know each other by name as well as by

sight. Will you pardon my asking how long you’ve been here?” I told

her. Then came a staggering question: “Can you tell me if there is now

staying in Dieppe a gentleman named Cecil Armitage?”

[Illustration: “SO YOU’VE BEEN MAKING MORE MONEY,” SHE SAID]

I informed her that to the best of my knowledge and belief there

certainly was. I do not know what there was in my tone which she

resented, but there seemed to be something; because, barely thanking

me, she gave me a cold little nod and walked on.

That evening, after dinner, I was sitting in the Casino gardens when I

saw a fragment of conversation between Mrs. Curtis and her newly

returned husband which both amazed and tickled me. I may say at once

that, unless I blindfold myself, whether I want to or not I cannot

help seeing what people are saying whenever I look out of my eyes. I

was rather in the shadow, and they were in the full glare of the

electric light, so that I could not help seeing them. The old lady was

speaking when I saw them first.

“So you’ve been making more money?” she said; and as she said it she

looked at her husband rather severely.

“I’ve been making a pile, Elinor; a regular pile. I wish money wasn’t

so easy to make, or that I hadn’t the knack of making it.”

As he said it he looked to me as if he groaned. In spite of the severe

expression on the old lady’s face I dare say there was a twinkle in

her eye.

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

“I’m hanged if I know--I’ll be bothered if I do. It’s of no use to me;

and I suppose it’s of no use to you, is it?”

“None whatever. I’ve all the money I’m ever likely to need and rather

more; it’s piling up at the bank as it is, so that I’m ashamed to look

my bank-book in the face, there’s such a lot of it. I wonder you can’t

find some better occupation for your time than making money when

you’ve got more than you want already.”

The old gentleman, bending towards her, took her hand in his. I could

see how his face softened as he touched her, and how hers softened

too.

“I tell you what I should like to do with some of that last money I’ve

been making--I’d like to do some one a good turn. Do you think it

would be easy? I don’t mean just give it away to the first Tom, Dick,

or Harry who thinks he wants it--there are plenty of them. You don’t

happen to know of a man, woman, or child to whom a certain amount of

money would mean the difference between heaven and hell? There must be

such people in the world somewhere. Wouldn’t you like to set some

fellow, who wasn’t quite a bad one, on his legs, or give some woman,

who was very much in need of it, happiness--if money could do it?”

She did not answer, but I fancy she pressed the hand which was holding

hers, and I stole off. I did not dare to stay longer for fear I really

should be intruding.

I walked as far away from them as I could get, to the other end of the

terrace, where I was a witness of quite a different scene. There was

Mr. Armitage, standing close up against the sea-wall, looking out

across the night-black sea; and somehow his attitude told me that it

could not be blacker than his mood. I paused a little distance from

him and sat on the wall itself. I wondered how long he would stay. I

did not wish to intrude--I had nearly been intruding at the other

end--but I did not wish to go; I had a right to be somewhere. After a

while he turned, and I thought he was going; then out of the darkness

there came--I knew no more than he did from where--the figure of a

woman. When she saw him she stopped, and he stopped also. There was a

lamp close to the sea-wall which let me see their faces, and how, at

the sight of each other, they changed. Then I saw each pair of lips

form at the same moment a Christian name--“Cecil!” “Margery!” and in

an instant they were in each other’s arms. I had to stop and look at

them, because this was the girl I had met on the quay, to whom I had

lost my heart. They were silent for quite a perceptible period, as if

each was content to know that the other was there. Then, as he held

her at arm’s length, I saw him ask her:

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

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

“I came for you.”

“For me? Good God!” The hands which had held her fell to his sides; he

seemed to stagger as if he had been dealt a blow. “Margery, you

shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to come; I couldn’t help coming; I couldn’t stay away. I

thought you might want me.”

“Want you? As if there’s ever likely to be a time when I don’t want

you! I was half beside myself for want of you then.” She moved

forward; he put up his hands as if to stop her. “You mustn’t, you

mustn’t.” He drew himself a little more erect. “Margery, I’m going to

be married.”

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

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

married?”

“It’s either that or jail.”

“You are sure--perfectly sure?”

“Absolutely. Clarke is here; he wants his money; he’ll take a warrant

out if he doesn’t get it soon. I can only get it from--her.”

There was such an accent on the pronoun--I knew it from the look which

was on his face. I could see she winced.

“I know; I’ve heard all about her. I don’t know what to advise you to

do. You know you will be committing a great sin--if you marry her.” I

noticed that both parties seemed to avoid mentioning her name. “I know

you, Cecil, your weakness and your strength. I do not think you will

ever cease to love me.”

“I am as sure of that as that you and I are standing here; it’s the

only thing of which I am sure. You are part and parcel of my life, of

my very being.”

“That being so, do you think you ought to marry--her, even to save

yourself?”

“It’s not only to save myself--it’s to save you. If I don’t marry her

I shall be sent to jail--there’s no alternative. Then, when I come

out, as likely as not I shall marry you.”

“Well--what then?” The smile which lighted up her face was one which,

my instinct told me, only comes to the woman who holds the world well

lost for love. Her question made him flame into anger.

“What then? Everything then! Margery, you shan’t marry a

jail-bird--you shall not. If I’m to be branded as a felon I’ll never

carry on the brand to you, and to our children--never, never. As God

is my witness, you shall not be a felon’s wife. So the thing resolves

itself into this: If I don’t marry this woman I shall become a

jail-bird--Clarke will make me one; then--you’ll be such a temptation

to me, Margery. I’ve been tempted once and I’ve fallen, but what was

that temptation compared to you? I’ll not dare to risk it. So it’s

good-bye, Margery. I’ve no right to kiss you; the mere thought of your

lips against mine drives me mad. I’m going--I’m going to marry that

woman--and I’m going to her now.”

And apparently he went--he positively ran. And the girl never turned

even to follow him with her eyes, but remained stock still where he

had left her; then did as he had done--looked out across the

night-black sea.

I sat still and watched her till I could bear it no longer; then I

went to her and said:

“Will you come with me, please, while I speak to some friends?” She

glanced at me as she might have done at a ghost; I do not think she

quite realized that I was a creature of flesh and blood. So I reached

out and took her by the hand and said to her again: “I--I think I can

help you if you’ll come with me while I speak to some friends.”

She did not utter a sound, or try to. I think her heart was broken.

She just let me take her by the hand and lead her where I would; she

moved as if she were a docile child. I saw, in the distance, that Mr.

and Mrs. Curtis were still where I had left them; so I placed her on a

chair within sight, and I said, as if I had been speaking to a child:

“Sit there, please, and don’t move; in a few minutes I hope I’ll be

able to come to you again with some good news.”

She sat down with meek and heart-rending obedience--she was such a

picture of misery I could have cried; but I bore up till I got to Mr.

and Mrs. Curtis, even though I believe there was something moist in

the corners of my eyes. I got to the heart of my subject without any

sort of preamble.

“You know, Mrs. Curtis, I told you that I was a teacher of the deaf

and dumb, and that I could tell what people are saying by watching

their lips?”

“Of course you did, my dear. This is my husband, who has just come to

me from New York City. Fred, this is Miss Judith Lee, of whom I was

speaking to you. She’s a very wonderful young woman, and I hope she’s

going to be my very dear friend.”

I did not wait for Mr. Curtis to speak; I just went on. I could see he

was beginning to look at me with a sort of wonder.

“I just saw you and Mr. Curtis talking, and I saw him say to you that

with some of the money he had just been making he would like to set

some fellow, who wasn’t quite a bad one, on his legs, and give some

woman, who was very much in need of it, happiness. Well, I know just

such a pair, and if he meant it I can give him a chance of doing,

right now, exactly what he said he wanted to do.”

They looked at me, and they looked at each other, which I did not

wonder at--I was so hot and eager, so very much in earnest. With that

girl sitting there, right in my line of vision, I felt that I had got

to take these people’s hearts by storm; and I was not going to stick

at a trifle in doing it. Mr. Curtis asked, with something in his voice

which made me wonder if he was quizzing me, but I did not care if he

was:

“Who are your deserving couple, Miss Lee?”

Then I told them all about it, in just as few words as I could, and as

close to the point as I could get them. It did me good to see how

quick he was at getting at my meaning. I had heard a deal about

American quickness; I saw an example of it then. I believe that before

I had finished he understood it all--just got at what I wanted him to

get. The quizzical note was still in his voice when he made what, from

an Englishman, would have seemed a simply amazing speech, but which

seemed to come quite naturally from him.

“If fifty thousand dollars--that is, ten thousand pounds

sterling--would do for this lady and gentleman what you want to do,

you can have the cash to-night, on one condition, Miss Lee--that you

don’t say from whom it comes. You’re to regard that as your secret and

mine.”

In about three minutes I went tearing off after Mr. Armitage. I found

him sitting at a table in a corner of the restaurant, a

suspicious-looking glass in front of him and a most dismal expression

on his face. Just as I reached him I saw Mr. Clarke coming in at the

other end, but I paid no attention to him.

“Mr. Armitage, I want you to come with me at once on business which is

to you almost a matter of life and death.”

He looked at me as if amazed, which was not odd. I fancy I seemed

pretty excited, and my acquaintance with him was of the slightest. But

I gave him no chance to talk. Almost before he knew it, I was sailing

down the room with him at my side. We encountered Mr. Clarke, who

tried to stop us.

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