BY

"SAPPER"

AUTHOR OF "BULL-DOG DRUMMOND,"

"THE BLACK GANG," ETC.

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LIMITED LONDON

1921

Made and Printed in Great Britain.

Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

*Contents*

I. THE MAN IN RATCATCHER

II. "AN ARROW AT A VENTURE"

III. THE HOUSE BY THE HEADLAND

IV. THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT PLAY CARDS

V. A QUESTION OF PERSONALITY

VI. THE UNBROKEN LINE

VII. THE REAL TEST

VIII. "GOOD HUNTING, OLD CHAP"

IX. THE MAN WITH HIS HAND IN HIS POCKET

X. A PAYMENT ON ACCOUNT

XI. THE POSER

_*I -- The Man in Ratcatcher*_

*I*

"'E ain't much ter look at, Major, but 'e's a 'andy little 'orse."

A groom, chewing the inevitable straw, gave a final polish to the

saddle, and then stood at the animal's head, waiting for the tall, spare

man with the bronzed, weather-beaten face, who was slowly drawing on his

gloves in the yard, to mount. Idly the groom wondered if the would-be

sportsman knew which side of a horse it was customary to get into the

saddle from; in fact one Nimrod recently--a gentleman clothed in

spotless pink--had so far excelled himself as to come to rest facing his

horse's tail. But what could you expect these times, reflected the

groom, when most of the men who could ride in days gone by would ride no

more; and a crowd of galloping tinkers, with rank cigars and ranker

manners, had taken their places? When he thought of the men who came

now--and the women, too--to Boddington's Livery Stable, renowned for

fifty years and with a reputation second to none, and contrasted them

with their predecessors, he was wont to spit, mentally and literally.

And the quods--Strewth! It was a fair disgrace to turn out such 'orses

from Boddington's. Only the crowd wot rode 'em didn't know no better:

the 'orses was quite good enough--aye! too good--for the likes o' them.

"Let out that throat-lash a couple of holes."

The groom looked at the speaker dazedly for a moment; a bloke that knew

the name of a single bit of saddlery on a horse's back was a rare

customer these days.

"And take that ironmonger's shop out of the poor brute's mouth. I'll

ride him on a snaffle."

"'E pulls a bit when 'e's fresh, Major," said the groom, dubiously.

The tall, spare man laughed. "I think I'll risk it," he answered.

"Where did you pick him up--at a jumble sale?"

"'E ain't much ter look at, I knows, Major," said the groom, carrying

out his instructions. "But if yer 'andle 'im easy, and nurse 'im a bit,

e'll give yer some sport."

"I can quite believe it," remarked the other, swinging into the saddle.

"Ring the bell, will you? That will give him his cue to start."

With a grin on his face the groom watched the melancholy steed amble

sedately out of the yard and down the road.

Before he had gone fifty yards the horse's head had come up a little, he

was walking more collectedly--looking as if he had regained some of the

spring of former days. For there was a _man_ on his back--a man born

and bred to horses and their ways--and it would be hard to say which of

the two, the groom or the animal, realized it first. Which was why the

grin so quickly effaced itself. The groom's old pride in Boddington's

felt outraged at having to offer such a mount to such a man. He turned

as a two-seated racing car pulled up in the yard, and a young man

stepped out. He nodded to the groom as he removed his coat, and the

latter touched his cap.

"Grand day, Mr. Dawson," he remarked. "Scent should be good."

The newcomer grunted indifferently, and adjusted his already faultless

stock, while another groom led out a magnificent blood chestnut from a

loose-box.

"Who was the fellah in ratcatcher I yassed, ridin' that awful old quod

of yours?" he asked.

To such a sartorial exquisite a bowler hat and a short coat was almost a

crime.

"I dunno, sir," said the groom. "Ain't never seen 'im before to the

best of me knowledge. But you'll see 'im at the finish."

The other regarded his chestnut complacently.

"He won't live half a mile if we get goin'," he remarked. "You want a

horse if hounds find in Spinner's Copse; not a prehistoric bone-bag."

He glanced at the old groom's expressionless face, and gave a short

laugh in which there was more than a hint of self-satisfaction. "And

you can't get a horse without money these days, George, and dam' big

money at that." He carefully adjusted his pink coat as he sat in the

saddle. "Have the grey taken to Merton cross-roads: and you can take the

car there, too," he continued, turning to the chauffeur.

Then with a final hitch at his coat, he too went out of the yard. For a

while the old groom watched him dispassionately, until a bend in the

road hid him from sight. Then he turned to one of his underlings and

delivered himself of one of his usual cryptic utterances.

"'Ave yer ever seen a monkey, Joe, sittin' on the branch of a tree,

'uggin' a waxwork doll?"

"Can't say as 'ow I 'ave, Garge," returned the other, after profound

cogitation.

"Well, yer don't need to. That monkey'd be the same shape 'as 'im on a

'orse."

*II*

The meet of the South Leicesters at Spinner's Copse generally produced a

field even larger than the normal huge crowd which followed that

well-known pack. It was near the centre of their country, and if Fate

was kind, and the fox took the direction of Hangman's Bottom, the line

was unsurpassed in any country in the world.

It was a quarter to eleven when the tall, spare man, having walked the

three-quarters of a mile from Boddington's, dismounted by the side of

the road, and thoughtfully lit a cigarette. His eyes took in every

detail of the old familiar scene; and in spite of himself, his mind went

back to the last time he had been there. He smiled a little bitterly:

he had been a fool to come, and open old wounds. This game wasn't for

him any more: his hunting days were over. If things had been different:

if only---- He drew back as a blood chestnut, fretting and irritable

under a pair of heavy hands, came dancing by, spattering mud in all

directions. If only--well! he might have been riding that chestnut

instead of the heated clothes-peg on his back now. He looked with a

kind of weary cynicism at his own mount, mournfully nibbling grass: then

he laid a kindly hand on the animal's neck.

"'Tain't your fault, old son, is it?" he muttered. "But to think of

Spinner's Copse--and you. Oh! ye gods!"

"Hounds, gentlemen, please." The man looked up quickly with a sudden

gleam in his eyes as hounds came slowly past. A new second whip they'd

got; he remembered now, Wilson had been killed at Givenchy. But the

huntsman, Mathers, was the same--a little greyer perhaps--but still the

same shrewd, kindly sportsman. He caught his eye at that moment, and

looked away quickly. He felt certain no one would recognize him, but he

wanted to run no risks. There weren't likely to be many of the old crowd

out to-day, and he'd altered almost beyond recognition--but it was as

well to be on the safe side. And Mathers, he remembered of old, had an

eye like a hawk.

He pretended to fumble with his girths, turning his back on the

huntsman. It was perhaps as well that he did so for his own peace of

mind; for Joe Mathers, with his jaw slowly opening, was staring

fascinated at the stooping figure. He was dreaming, of course; it

couldn't be him--not possibly. The man whom this stranger was like was

dead--killed on the Somme. Entirely imagination. But still the

huntsman stared, until a sudden raising of hats all round announced the

arrival of the Master.

It was the moment that the tall, quiet man, standing a little aloof on

the outskirts of the crowd, had been dreading. He had told himself

frequently that he had forgotten the girl who stepped out of the car

with her father; he had told himself even more frequently that she had

long since forgotten him. But, now, as he saw once more the girl's

glowing face and her slender, upright figure, showed off to perfection

by her habit, he stifled a groan, and cursed himself more bitterly than

ever for having been such a fool as to come. If only----once again

those two bitter words mocked him. He had not forgotten; he never would

forget; and it was not the least part of the price he had to pay for the

criminal negligence of his late father.

He glanced covertly at the girl; she was talking vivaciously to the man

whom he had designated as a heated clothes-peg. He noticed the youth

bending towards her with an air of possession which infuriated him; then

he laughed and swung himself into the saddle. What had it got to do

with him?

Then on a sudden impulse he turned to a farmer next him.

"Who is that youngster talking to the Master's daughter?" he asked.

The farmer looked at him in mild surprise. "You'm a stranger to these

parts, mister, evidently," he said. "That be young Mr. Dawson; and

folks do say he be engaged to Miss Gollanfield."

Engaged! To that young blighter! With hands like pot-hooks, and a seat

like an elephant! And then, quite suddenly, he produced his

handkerchief, and proceeded most unnecessarily to blow his nose. For

Mathers was talking excitedly to Sir Hubert Gollanfield and Major

Dawlish, the hunt secretary; and the eyes of all three were fixed on

him.

"I thought it was before, sir, and then I saw him mount, and I know,"

said Mathers, positively.

"It can't be. He was killed in France," answered the Master. "Wasn't

he, David?"

"I've always heard so," said Dawlish. "I'll go and cap him now and have

a closer look."

"Anyway, Joe, not a word at present." The Master turned to Mathers.

"We'd better draw the spinney first."

Through the crowd, as it slowly moved off, the secretary threaded his

way towards the vaguely familiar figure ahead. It couldn't be; it was

out of the question. And yet, as he watched him, more and more did he

begin to believe that the huntsman was right. Little movements; an odd,

indefinable hitch of the shoulders; the set of the stranger's head. And

then, with almost a catch in his breath, he saw that the man he was

following had left the crowd, and was unostentatiously edging for a

certain gap, which to the uninitiated, appeared almost a cul-de-sac. Of

course, it might be just chance; on the other hand, that gap was the

closely guarded preserve--as far as such things may be guarded--of the

chosen few who really rode; the first-nighters--the men who took their

own line, and wanted that invaluable hundred yards' start to get them

clear of the mob.

Slightly quickening his pace, the secretary followed his quarry. He

overtook him just as he had joined the bare dozen, who, with hats rammed

down, sat waiting for the first whimper. They were regarding the

newcomer with a certain curiosity as the secretary came up; almost with

that faint hostility which is an Englishman's special prerogative on the

entrance of a second person to his otherwise empty railway carriage. Who

was this fellow in ratcatcher mounted on a hopeless screw? And what the

devil was he doing here, anyway?

"Mornin', David." A chorus of greeting hailed the advent of the popular

secretary, but, save for a brief nod and smile, he took no notice. His

eyes were fixed on the stranger, who was carefully adjusting one of his

leathers.

"Excuse me, sir." Major Dawlish walked his horse up to him, and then

sat staring and motionless. "My God, it can't be----" He spoke under

his breath, and the stranger apparently failed to hear.

"What is the cap?" he asked, courteously. "A fiver this season, I

believe."

"Danny!" The secretary was visibly agitated. "You're Danny Drayton!

And we thought you were dead!"

"I fear, sir, that there is some mistake," returned the other. "My name

is John Marston."

In silence the two men looked at one another and then Major Dawlish

bowed.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Marston," he said, gravely. "But you bear a

strange resemblance to a certain very dear friend of mine, whom we all

believed had been killed at Flers in 1916. He combined two outstanding

qualities," continued the secretary, deliberately, "did that friend of

mine: quixotic chivalry to the point of idiocy, and the most wonderful

horsemanship."

Once more the eyes of the two men met, and then John Marston looked

away, staring over the wonderful bit of country lying below them.

"I am sorry," he remarked, quietly, "that you should have lost your

friend."

"Ah, but have I, Mr. Marston; have I?" interrupted David Dawlish,

quickly.

"You tell me he died at Flers," returned the other. "And very few

mistakes were made in such matters, which have not been rectified

since."

"He disappeared a year or two before the war," said the secretary,

"suddenly--without leaving a trace. We heard he had gone to New

Zealand; but we could get no confirmation. Do you ever go to the Grand

National, Mr. Marston?" he continued, with apparent irrelevance.

The stranger stiffened in his saddle. "I have been," he answered,

abruptly. Merciful heavens! wouldn't some hound own to scent soon?

"Do you remember that year when a certain gentleman rider was booed on

the course?" went on the secretary, reminiscently. "It was the year

John Drayton and Son went smash for half a million: and it was the son

who was booed."

"I don't wonder," returned the stranger. "He was a fool to ride."

"Was he, Mr. Marston? Was he? Or was it just part of that quixotic

chivalry of which I have spoken? The horse was a rogue: there was no

one else who could do him justice: so, rather than disappoint his

friend, the owner, the son turned out."

"And very rightly got hissed for his pains," said John Marston, grimly.

"I remember the smash well--Drayton's smash. It ruined thousands of

poor people: and only a legal quibble saved a criminal prosecution."

"True," assented the secretary. "But it was old Drayton's fault. We

all knew it at the time. Danny Drayton--the son----"

"The man who died at Flers," interrupted John Marston, and the secretary

looked at him quietly.

"Perhaps: perhaps not. Mistakes _have_ occurred, But whether he died or

whether he didn't--the son was incapable of even a mean thought. He was

not to blame."

"I must beg to differ, sir," returned John Marston. "The firm was

Drayton _and Son_: the Son was responsible as much as the father. If

one member of a firm goes wrong, the other members must make good. It

is only fair to the public."

"I see," answered the secretary. "Then I wonder who the other member of

the firm can have been? The father died soon after the exposure: the

son died at Flers." He looked John Marston straight in the face.

"That would seem to account for the firm, returned the other,

indifferently.

"Except for one thing," said the secretary, "the significance of

which--strangely enough--has only just struck me. There's a certain old

farmer in this district, who invested one hundred pounds with

Drayton--all his savings. Along with the rest, it went smash. A month

or two ago he received one hundred and thirty-five pounds in notes, from

an unknown source. Seven years' interest at five per cent. is

thirty-five pounds." And suddenly the secretary, usually one of the

most unemotional of men, leaned forward in his saddle, and his voice was

a little husky. "Danny! You damned quixotic fool! Come back to us: we

can't afford to lose a man who can go like you."

The man in ratcatcher stared fixedly in front of him--his profile set

and rigid. For a moment the temptation was well-nigh overwhelming:

every account squared up--every loss made good. Then, ringing in his

ears, he heard once more the yells and cat-calls as he had cantered past

the stand at Aintree.

"As I said to you before, sir," he said, facing the secretary steadily:

"my name is John Marston. You are making a mistake."

What Major Dawlish's reply would have been will never be known. He

seemed on the point of an explosion of wrath, when clear and shrill

through the morning air came Joe Mathers' "Gone away." The pack came

tumbling out of covert, and everything else was forgotten.

"It's the right line," cried John Marston, excitedly. "Hangman's

Bottom, for a quid."

The field streamed off, everyone according to their own peculiar methods

bent on getting the best they could out of a breast-high scent. The

macadam brigade left early, and set grimly about their dangerous task.

The man whose horse always picked up a stone early if the run was likely

to be a hot one, and arrived cursing his luck, late but quite safe, duly

dismounted and fumbled with his outraged steed's perfectly sound hoof.

The main body of the field streamed along in a crowd--that big section

which is the backbone of every hunt, which contains every variety of

individual, and in which every idiosyncrasy of character may be observed

by the man who has eyes to see. And then in front of all, riding their

own line--but not, as the uninitiated might imagine, deliberately

selecting the most impossible parts of every jump, merely for the sport

of the thing--the select few.

They had gone two miles without the suspicion of a check, before the

secretary found himself near Sir Hubert. Both in their day had belonged

to that select few, but now they were content to take things a little

easier.

"It's Danny, Hubert," said the secretary, as they galloped side by side

over a pasture field towards a stiff-looking post and rails. "Calling

himself John Marston."

The Master grunted--glancing for a moment under his bushy eyebrows at

the man, two or three hundred yards in front, who, despite his mount,

still lived with the vanguard.

"Of course it is," he snorted. "There's no one else would be where he

is, on a horse like that, with hounds running at this rate."

They steadied their pace as they came to the timber, and neither spoke

again till they were halfway across the next field.

"What's his game, David? Confound you, sir," his voice rose to a

bellow, as he turned in his saddle and glared at an impetuous youth

behind, "will you kindly not ride in my pocket? Infernal young puppy!

What's his game, David?"

"Quixotic tommy-rot," snorted the other. "He knows I know he's Danny:

but he won't admit it."

"Has Molly seen him yet?" Sir Hubert glanced away to the left, where

his daughter, on a raking black, had apparently got her hands full.

"I don't know."

The secretary, frowning slightly, followed the direction of the other's

gaze. David Dawlish was no lover of young Dawson. He watched the girl,

for a moment, noting the proximity of the blood chestnut close to her:

then he turned back to his old friend. "That black is too much for

Molly, Hubert," he said, a trifle uneasily. "He'll get away with her

some day."

"You tell her so, and see what happens, old man," chuckled Sir Hubert.

"I tried once." Then he reverted to the old subject. "What are we

going to do about it, David, if it is Danny?"

"There's nothing we can do," answered the other. "Officially, he's

dead; the War Office have said so. If he chooses to remain John Marston

we can't stop him."

And so for the time the matter was left; the hunting-field, when the

going is hot enough for the veriest glutton, is no place for idle

speculation and talk. There is time enough for that afterwards; while

hounds are running it behoves a man to attend to the business in hand.

The pace by this time was beginning to tell. The main body of the hunt

now stretched over half a dozen fields; even the first-flight section

was getting thinned out. And it was as David Dawlish topped the slight

rise which hid the brook at the bottom of the valley beyond--the

notorious Cedar Brook--that he found himself next to Molly Gollanfield.

Streaming up the other side were hounds, with Joe Mathers safely over

the water and fifty yards behind them. Two or three others were level

with him, riding wide to his flank, but the secretary's eyes were fixed

on a man in ratcatcher who was just ramming an obviously tiring horse at

the brook. With a faint grin, he noted the place he had selected to

jump; the spot well known to everyone familiar with the country as being

the best and firmest take-off. He watched the horse rise--just fail to

clear--stumble and peck badly; he saw the rider literally lift it on to

its legs again, and sail on with barely a perceptible pause. And then

he glanced at Molly Gollanfield.

"Well ridden; well ridden!" The girl's impulsive praise at a consummate

piece of horsemanship made him smile a little grimly. What would she

say when she knew the identity of the horseman? And what would he say?

They flew the brook simultaneously, young Dawson a few yards behind, and

swept on up the other side of the valley.

"Who is that man in front, Uncle David?" called out the girl. "It's a

treat to watch him ride."

"His name, so he tells me, is John Marston," said the secretary,

quietly.

"Has he ever been out with us before?"

They breasted the hill as she spoke, to find that the point had ended,

as such a run should end--but rarely does--with a kill in the open. The

survivors of the front brigade had already dismounted as they came up,

and for a few moments no one could think or speak of anything but the

run. And it was a Captain Malvin, in one of the Lancer regiments, who

recalled the mysterious stranger to the girl's mind.

"Who is that fellow in ratcatcher, Major?" Malvin was standing by her

as he spoke, and the girl glanced round to find the subject of his

interest.

He had dismounted twenty or thirty yards away, and was making much of

his horse, which was completely cooked.

"Saw him in Boddington's," remarked young Dawson. "How the devil did he

manage to get here on that?"

"By a process known as riding," said Malvin, briefly. "If you mounted

that man on a mule, he'd still be at the top of a hunt--eh, Miss

Gollanfield?"

But Molly Gollanfield was staring fascinated at the stranger. "Who did

you say it was, Uncle David?" Her voice was low and tense, and Malvin

glanced at her in surprise.

"John Marston," returned the secretary, slowly, "is the name he gave

me."

And at that moment the man in ratcatcher looked at the girl.

"John Marston," she faltered. "Why--why--it's Danny! Danny, I thought

you were dead!"

She walked her horse towards him and held out her hand, while a

wonderful light dawned in her eyes.

"Danny!" she cried, "don't you remember me?"

And gradually the look of joy faded from her face, to be replaced by one

of blank amazement. For the man was looking at her as if she had been a

stranger.

Then, with a courteous bow, he removed his hat. "You are the second

person, madam, who has made the same mistake this morning. My name is

John Marston."

But the girl only stared at him in silence, and shook her head.

"I've been watching you ride, Danny," she said, at length, "and just

think of it--I didn't know you. What a blind little fool I was, wasn't

I?"

"I don't see how you could be expected to recognize me, madam," answered

the man. "I hope you'll have as good a second run as the one we've just

had. I'm afraid this poor old nag must go stablewards."

He looped the reins over his arm, and once more raised his hat as he

turned away.

"But, Danny," cried the girl, a little wildly, "you can't go like this."

"Steady, Molly." Young Dawson was standing beside her, looking a little

ruffled. "I don't know who the devil Danny is or was; but this fellow

says he's John Marston. You can't go throwin' your arms round a

stranger's neck in the huntin'-field. It's simply not done."

"When I require your assistance on what is or is not done, Mr. Dawson, I

will let you know," returned the girl, coldly. "Until then kindly keep

such information to yourself."

"Mr. Dawson!" The youth recoiled a pace. "Molly! what do you mean?"

But the girl was taking not the slightest notice of him; her eyes were

fixed on the stranger, who was talking for a moment to David Dawlish.

"You forgot to take my cap," he said to the secretary, with a smile.

"If you like I will send it along by post; or, if you prefer it, I have

it on me now."

And at that moment it occurred. It was all so quick that no one could

be quite sure what happened. Perhaps it was a horse barging into the

black's quarters; perhaps it was the sudden flash of young Dawson's

cigarette-case in the sun. Perhaps only Uncle David saw what really

caused the black suddenly to give one wild convulsive buck and bolt like

the wind with the girl sawing vainly at its mouth.

For a moment there was a stunned silence; then, with an agonized cry,

Sir Hubert started to clamber into his saddle.

"The quarry!" His frenzied shout sent a chill into the hearts of

everyone who heard, and half the hunt started to mount. Only too well

did they know the danger; the black was heading straight for the old

disused slate-pit.

But it was the immaculate Dawson who suffered the greatest shock. He

had just got his loot into the stirrup when he felt himself picked up

like a child and deposited in the mud. And mounted on _his_ chestnut

was the man in ratcatcher.

"Keep back--all of you." The tall, spare figure rose in the saddle and

dominated the scene. "It's a one-man job." Then he swung the chestnut

round, gave him one rib-binder, and followed the bolting black.

"Hi! you, sir!" spluttered Dawson, shaking a fist at the retreating

figure. "That's my horse."

But no one paid the smallest attention to the aggrieved youth;

motionless and intent, they were staring at the two galloping horses.

They saw the man swinging left-handed, and for a moment they failed to

realize his object.

"What's he doing? What's he doing?" David Dawlish was jumping up and

down in his excitement. "He'll never catch her like that."

"He will," roared the cavalryman. "Oh, lovely, lovely--look at that

recovery, sir--I ask you, look at it! Don't you see his game, man?" He

turned to the secretary. "He's coming up between her and the quarry,

and he'll ride her off. If he came up straight behind, nothing could

save 'em. It's too close."

Fascinated, the field watched the grim race--helpless, unable to do

anything but sit and look on. The man in ratcatcher had been right, and

they knew it, when he had called it a one-man job. A crowd of galloping

horses would have maddened the black to frenzy.

And as for the two principal performers, they were perhaps the coolest

of all. For a few agonizing seconds, when the girl first realized that

Nigger was bolting, she panicked; then, being a thoroughbred herself,

she pulled herself together and tried to stop him. But he was away with

her--away with her properly; and it was just as she realized it, with a

sickening feeling of helplessness, that a strong, ringing voice came

clearly from behind her left shoulder.

"Drop your near rein, Molly; put both hands on your off, and

pull--girl--pull! I'm coming."

She heard the thud of his horse behind her, and the black spurted again.

But the chestnut crept up till it was level with her girths--till the

two horses were neck and neck.

"Pull, darling, pull!" With a wild thrill she heard his voice low and

tense beside her; regardless of everything, she stole one look at his

steady eyes, which flashed a message of confidence back.

"Pull--pull, on that off rein."

She felt the chestnut hard against her legs, boring into her as the man,

exerting every ounce of his strength, started to ride her off.

The black was coming round little by little; no horse living could have

resisted the combined pull of the one rein and the pressure of the

consummate rider on the other side. More and more the man swung her

right-handed, never relaxing his steady pressure for an instant, and, at

last, with unspeakable relief, she realized that they were galloping

parallel with the edge of the quarry and not towards it. It had been

touch and go--another twenty yards; and then, at the same moment, they

both saw it. Straight in front of them, stretching back from the top of

the pit, there yawned a great gap. She had forgotten the landslip

during the last summer.

She saw the man lift his crop, and give the black a heavy blow on the

near side of his head; she heard his frenzied shout of "Pull--for God's

sake--pull!" and then she was galloping alone. Dimly she heard a

dreadful crash and clatter behind her; she had one fleeting glimpse of a

chestnut horse rolling over and over, and bumping sickeningly downwards,

while something else bumped downwards too; then she was past the gap

with a foot to spare. That one stunning blow with the crop had swung

the amazed black through half a right-angle to safety; it had made the

chestnut swerve through half a right-angle the other way to----

Ah, no! not that. Not dead--not dead. He couldn't be that--not Danny.

And she knew it was Danny; had known it all along. Blowing like a

steam-engine, the black had stopped exhausted, and she left him standing

where he was, as she ran back to the edge of the gap.

"Danny! Danny--my man!" she called in an agony. "Speak--just a word,

Danny. My God! it was all my fault!"

Feverishly she started to clamber down towards the still figure

sprawling motionless below. But no answer came to her; only the thud of

countless other horses, as the field came up to the scene of the

disaster.

Sir Hubert, almost beside himself with emotion, was babbling

incoherently; the secretary and Joe Mathers were little better.

"Only Danny could have done it," he cried over and over again. "Only

Danny could have saved her. And, by Gad! sir, he has--and given his

life to do it." He peered over the top, and called out anxiously to the

girl below: "Careful, my darling, careful; we can get to him round by

the road."

But the girl paid no heed to her father's cry: and when half a dozen

men, headed by David Dawlish, rode furiously in by the old entrance to

the quarry, they found her sitting on the ground with the unconscious

man's head pillowed on her lap.

She lifted her face, streaming with tears, and looked at the secretary.

"He's dead, Uncle David. Danny! my Danny! And it was all my fault."

For a few moments no one spoke; then one of the men stepped forward.

"May I examine him, Miss Gollanfield?" He knelt down beside the

motionless figure. "I'm not a doctor, but----" For what seemed an

eternity he bent over him; then he rose quickly. "A flask at once.

There is still life."

It was not until the limp body had been gently placed on an extemporized

stretcher, to wait for the ambulance, that the cavalryman turned to

David Dawlish.

"Danny!" he said, thoughtfully. "Not Danny Drayton?"

"Himself and no other," replied the secretary. "Masquerading as John

Marston."

The cavalryman whistled softly. "The last time I saw him was at

Aintree, before the war. I never could get to the bottom of that

matter."

"Couldn't you?" said David Dawlish. "And yet it's not very difficult.

'The sins of the fathers are visited'--you know the rest. He

disappeared; and every single sufferer in that crash is being paid

back."

"But why that dreadful quod to-day?" pursued the soldier.

"All he could get, most likely. Boddington's cattle are pretty

indifferent these days." Dawlish glanced at the stretcher, and the

corners of his mouth twitched. "The damned young fool could have had

the pick of my stable if he'd asked for it," he said, gruffly.

"Danny--on that herring-gutted brute--at Spinner's Copse! But he was

always as proud as Lucifer, was Danny: and I'm thinking no one will ever

know what he's suffered since the crash." And then, with apparently

unnecessary violence, the worthy secretary blew his nose. "This cursed

glare makes my eyes water," he announced, when the noise had subsided.

The cavalryman regarded the dull gloom of the old pit dispassionately.

"Quite so, Major," he murmured at length. "Er--quite so."

*III*

"Well, Sir Philip!" With her father and David Dawlish, Molly was

waiting in the hall to hear the verdict. The ambulance had brought the

unconscious man straight to the Master's house: and for the last quarter

of an hour Sir Philip Westwood, the great surgeon, who by a fortunate

turn of Fate was staying at an adjoining place, had been carrying out

his examination. Now he glanced at the girl, and smiled gravely.

"There is every hope, Miss Gollanfield," he said, cheerfully.

With a little sob the girl buried her face against Sir Hubert's

shoulder.

"As far as I can see," continued the doctor, "there is nothing broken:

only very severe bruises and a bad concussion. In a week he should be

walking again."

"Thank God!" whispered the girl, and Sir Philip patted her shoulder.

"A great man," he said, "and a great deed. I'll come over to-morrow and

see him again."

He walked towards the front door, followed by Sir Hubert, and the girl

turned her swimming eyes on David Dawlish.

"If he'd died, Uncle David," she said, brokenly, "I--I----"

"He's not going to, Molly," interrupted the secretary. Then, after a

pause, "Why did you put the spur into Nigger?" he asked, curiously.

"You saw, did you?" The girl stared at him miserably. "Because I was a

little fool: because I was mad with him--because I loved him, and he

called himself John Marston." She rose, and laughed a little wildly.

"And then when Nigger really did bolt I was glad--glad: and when I saw

him beside me, I could have sung for joy. I knew he'd come--and he did.

And now I could kill myself."

And staunch old David Dawlish--uncle by right of purchase with many

sweets in years gone by, if not by blood--was still thinking it over

when the door of her room banged upstairs.

"A whisky and soda, Hubert," he remarked, as the latter joined him, "is

clearly indicated."

"We'll have trouble with him, David," grunted the Master. "Damned

quixotic young fool. He's got no right to get killed officially: it

upsets all one's plans. Probably have to pass an Act of Parliament to

bring him to life again."

"Leave it to Molly, old man." The secretary measured out his tot.

"Leave it all to her."

"I never do anything else," sighed Sir Hubert. "What is worrying me is

young Dawson."

"There's nothing really in that, is there?" David Dawlish looked a

little anxiously at his old friend: as has been said before, he was no

lover of young Dawson.

"There's a blood chestnut stone-dead at the bottom of a pit," returned

the other. "However----"

"Quite," assented Dawlish. "Leave it to Molly: leave it all to her."

Which, taking everything into consideration, was quite the wisest

decision they could have come to; it saved such a lot of breath.

They both glanced up as a hospital nurse came down the stairs. "Miss

Gollanfield asked me to tell you, Sir Hubert," she remarked, "that the

patient is conscious. She is sitting with him for a few minutes."

"Oh, she is, is she?" Sir Hubert rose from his chair a little

doubtfully.

"Sit down, Hubert; sit down," grinned Dawlish. "Haven't we just decided

to leave it all to her?"

"Well, John Marston! Feeling better?"

The man turned his head slowly on the pillow, and stared at the girl.

"What an unholy----" he muttered. "How's the horse?"

The girl looked at him steadily. "Dead--back broken. We thought you'd

done the same."

"Poor brute! A grand horse." He passed one of his hands dazedly across

his forehead. "I had to take him--I couldn't have caught you on mine. I

must explain things to your fiance."

"My what?" asked the girl.

"Aren't you engaged to him?" said the man. "They told me----" The words

tailed off, and he closed his eyes.

For a moment the girl looked at him with a great yearning tenderness on

her face; then she bent over and laid a cool hand on his forehead.

"Go to sleep, Danny Drayton," she whispered. "Go to sleep."

But the name made him open his eyes again.

"I told you my name was John Marston," he insisted.

"Then I require an immediate explanation of why you called me darling,"

she answered.

He looked at her weakly; then with a little tired smile he gave in.

"Molly," he said, very low, "my little Molly. I've dreamed of you, dear;

I don't think you've ever been out of my thoughts all these long years.

Just for the moment--I am Danny; to-morrow I'll be John Marston again."

"Will you?" she whispered, and her face was very close to his. "Then

there will be a scandal. For I don't see how John Marston and Mrs. Danny

Drayton can possibly live together. My dear, dear man!"

Thus did the man in ratcatcher fall asleep, with the feel of her lips on

his, and the touch of her hand on his forehead. And thus did two men

find them a few moments later, only to tiptoe silently downstairs again,

after one glance from the door.

"Damn this smoke," said David Dawlish, gruffly. "It's got in my eyes

again."

"You're a liar, David," grunted Sir Hubert. "And a sentimental old fool

besides. So am I."

_*II -- "An Arrow at a Venture"*_

*I*

For the twentieth time the Man went through the whole wretched business

again, in his mind. To the casual diner at the Milan, he was just an

ordinary well-groomed Englishman, feeding by himself, and if he ate a

little wearily, and there was a gleam of something more than sadness in

the deep-set eyes, it was not sufficiently noticeable to attract

attention.

"Monsieur finds everything to his satisfaction?" The head-waiter paused

by the table, and the Man glanced up at him. A smile flickered round

his mouth as the irony of the question struck home, and, almost

unconsciously, his hand touched the letter in his coat pocket.

"Everything, thank you," he answered, gravely. "Everything, Francois,

except the whole infernal universe."

The head-waiter shook his head sympathetically.

"I regret, Monsieur Lethbridge, that our kitchen is not large enough to

keep that on the bill of fare."

"Otherwise you'd cook it to a turn and make even it palatable," said

Lethbridge, bitterly. "No, it's beyond you, Francois; and, at the

moment, it looks as if it was beyond me. Tell 'em to bring me a half

bottle of the same, will you?"

The head-waiter picked up the empty champagne bottle, and then paused

for a moment. Lethbridge was an old customer, and with Francois that was

the same as being an old friend. For years he had come to the Milan,

and, latterly, he had always brought the Girl with him, a wonderful,

clear-eyed, upstanding youngster, who seemed almost too young for the

narrow gold ring on her left hand. And Francois, who had once heard him

call her his Colt, had nodded his approval and been glad. It seemed an

ideal marriage, and he was nothing if not sentimental. But to-night all

was not well; the Colt had been a bit tricky perhaps; the snaffle had

not been quite light enough in the tender mouth. And so Francois

paused, and the eye of the two men met.

"The younger they are, M'sieur--the more thoroughbred--the gentler must

be the touch. Otherwise----" He shrugged his shoulders, and brushed an

imaginary crumb from the table.

"Yes, Francois," said Lethbridge, slowly, "otherwise----"

"They hurt their mouths, M'sieur; and that hurts those who love them.

And sometimes it's not the youngster's fault."

The next moment he was bowing some new arrivals to a table, while Hugh

Lethbridge stared thoughtfully across the crowded room to where the

orchestra was preparing to give their next selection.

"Sometimes it's not the youngster's fault." He took the letter out of

his pocket and read it through again, though every word of it was

branded in letters of fire on his brain.

"I hope this won't give you too much of a shock," it began, "but I can't

live with you any more."

"Too much of a shock!" Dear Heavens! It had been like a great, stunning

blow from which he was still dazedly trying to recover.

"Nothing seems to count with you except your business and making money."

Hugh's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "You grudge me every penny I

spend; and then refuse to let me have my own friends."

Oh, Colt, Colt, how brutally untrue a half truth can be!

"Everything has been going wrong lately, and so I think it's better to

have a clean cut. There's no good you asking me to come back.--DORIS."

Once more Hugh Lethbridge stared across the room. A waiter placed the

new bottle on the table, but he took no notice. His mind was busy with

the past, and his untasted food grew cold on the plate in front of him.

It was in the summer of 1917 that Hugh Lethbridge, being on sick leave

from France, met Doris Lashley for the first time. She was helping at

the hospital where Hugh came to rest finally; and having once set eyes

on her, he made no effort to hurry his departure unduly. The contrast

between talking to Doris and wallowing in the mud-holes of Passchendaele

was very pleasant; and in due course, assisted by one or two taxi-rides

and some quiet dinners _a deux_, he proposed and was accepted. In

October he married her; in November he returned to France, after a

fortnight's honeymoon spent in Devonshire.

He went back to his old battalion, and stagnated with them through the

winter. But the stagnation was made endurable by the wonder of the girl

who was his: by the remembrance of those unforgettable days and nights

when he had been alone with her in the little hotel down Dawlish way; by

the glory of her letters. For she was a very human girl, even though

she was just a Colt. Nineteen and a half is not a very great age, and

sometimes of a night Hugh would lie awake listening to the rattle of a

machine-gun down the line, and the half-forgotten religion of childhood

would surge through his mind. Thirty seems old to nineteen, and dim,

inarticulate prayers would rise to the great brooding Spirit above that

He would never let this slip of a girl down. Then sleep would

come--sleep, when a kindly Fate would sometimes let him dream of her;

dreams when she would come to him out of the mists, and they would stand

together again in the little sandy cove with the red cliffs towering

above them. She would put her hands on his shoulders, and shake him

gently to and fro until, just as he was going to kiss her, a raucous

voice would bellow in his ear, "Stand to." And the Heaven of

imagination would change to the Hell of grey trenches just before the

dawn.

In March, 1918, Hugh wangled a fortnight's leave. And at this point it

is necessary to touch for a moment on that unpleasant essential to

modern life--money. The girl had brought in as her contribution to the

establishment the sum of one hundred pounds a year left her by her

grandmother; Hugh had about three hundred a year private means in

addition to his Army pay. Before the war it had been in addition to what

he was making in the City; after the war it would be the same again.

And, as everyone knows, what a man may make in the City depends on a

variety of circumstances, many of which are quite outside his own

control. That point, however, concerns the future; and for the moment

it is March, 1918--leave. Moreover, as has been said, the girl was just

a Colt.

For a fortnight they lived--the Man with his eyes wide open, but not

caring--at the rate of five thousand a year. They blew two hundred of

the best, and loved every minute of it. Then came the German offensive,

and we are not concerned with the remainder of 1918. Sufficient to say

that in his wisdom--or was it his folly?--there was no addition to the

family when, in February, 1919, he was demobilized, and the story proper

begins.

Hugh's gratuity was just sufficient to supply the furniture for one room

in the house they took near Esher. If it had been expended on lines of

utility rather than those of show it would have gone farther; but the

stuff was chosen by Doris one afternoon while he was at the office, and

when she pointed it out to him with ill-concealed pride at the shop, he

stifled his misgivings and agreed that it was charming. It was; so was

the price. For the remainder of the furniture he dipped into his

capital, at a time when he wanted every available penny he could lay his

hands on for his business. He never spoke to Doris about money; there

were so many other things to discuss as the evenings lengthened and

spring changed to early summer. They were intensely personal things,

monotonous to a degree to any Philistine outsider who might have been

privileged to hear them. But since they seemed to afford infinite

satisfaction to the two principal performers, the feelings of a

Philistine need not be considered.

And then one evening a whole variety of little things happened together.

To start with, Hugh had spent the afternoon going more carefully than

usual into books and ledgers, and when he had finished he lit a

cigarette and stared a trifle blankly at the wall opposite. There was

no doubt about it, business was rotten. Stuff which he had been

promised, and for which heavy deposits had been paid, was not

forthcoming. It was no fault of the firms he was dealing with; he knew

that their letters of regret were real statements of fact.

War-weariness, labour unrest, a hundred other almost indefinable causes

were at work, and the stuff simply wasn't there to deliver. If he

liked, as they had failed in their contract, he could have his deposit

back, etc., etc. So ran half a dozen letters, and Hugh turned them over

on his desk a little bitterly. It was no good to him having his deposit

back; it was no good to him living on his capital. And there was no use

mincing matters: as things stood he was making practically no income out

of his work. It would adjust itself in time--that he knew. The

difficulty was the immediate present and the next few months. What a

pity it was he couldn't do as he would have done in the past--take rooms

and live really quietly till things adjusted themselves. And then, with

a start, he realized why he couldn't, and with a quick tightening of his

jaw lie rose and reached for his hat. She must never know--God bless

her. Hang it, things would come right soon.

He bought an evening paper on his way down, and glanced over it

mechanically.

"If," had written some brilliant contributor, "the nation at large, and

individuals in particular, will not realize, and that right soon, that

any business or country whose expenditure exceeds its income must

inevitably be ruined sooner or later----"

Hugh got no farther. He crushed the paper into a ball and flung it out

of the window, muttering viciously under his breath.

"Backed a stiff 'un?" said his neighbour, sympathetically. "I've had

five in succession."

He walked from the station a little quicker than usual. There was

nothing for it but drastic economy; and as for any idea of the little

car Doris was so keen on, it simply couldn't be done. Anyway, as the

agent had told him over the 'phone that morning, there was no chance of

delivery for at least six months. Had advised getting a secondhand one

if urgently needed--except that, of course, at the present moment they

were more expensive than new ones. But still one could get one at

once--in fact, he had one. Only three-fifty.

Hugh hung up his hat in the hall and stepped into the drawing-room. He

could see Doris outside working in the garden, but for a moment or two

he made no movement to join her. His eyes were fixed on the huge,

luxurious ottoman, covered with wonderful fat cushions. It was

undoubtedly the most comfortable thing he had ever sat on: it was made

to be sat on, and nightly it was sat on--by both of them. It was the

recipient of those intensely personal things so monotonous to the

Philistine; and it had cost, with cushions and trappings complete, one

hundred and twenty Bradburys.

He was still looking at it thoughtfully when the girl came in through

the open window.

"I want a great big kiss, ever so quick, please," she announced, going

up to him. "One more. Thank you!"

With his hands on her shoulders he held her away from him, and she

smiled up into his eyes.

"I very nearly came and looked you up in your grubby old office to-day,"

she said, putting his tie straight. "And then I knew that I'd get on a

bus going the wrong way, and I hadn't enough money for a taxi. I'd

spent it all on a treat for you."

Almost abruptly his arms dropped to his sides.

"I didn't know you were coming up, darling," he said, pulling out his

cigarette-case.

"Nor did I till just before I went," she answered. "Don't you want to

know what the treat is?"

Without waiting for him to speak, she went on, prodding one of his

waistcoat buttons gently with a little pink finger at each word.

"I bought two whopping fat peaches--one for you and one for me. They

were awful expensive--seven shillings and sixpence each. And after

dinner we'll eat them and make a drefful mess."

Now, I am fully aware that any and every male reader who may chance to

arrive at this point will think that under similar circumstances he

would argue thus: "The peaches were bought. After all, they were a

little thing--fifteen shillings is not a fortune. Therefore,

undoubtedly the thing to do was to take her in his arms, make much of

her, and remark, 'You extravagant little bean--you'll break the firm, if

you go on like this. But I love you very much, and after we've made a

drefful mess I'm going to talk to you drefful seriously,' or words to

that effect."

My friendly male, you're quite correct. You appreciate the value of

little things; you see how vastly more important they are than a

stagnating business or any stupid fears as to what may happen to the

being you love most in the world if----

Unfortunately, Hugh was not so wise in his time as you. That little

thing seemed to be so big--it's a way of little things. It seemed

bigger than the business and the motor-car and the ottoman all combined.

"My dear old thing," he said--not angrily, but just a little

wearily--"have you _no_ sense of the value of money?"

Then he turned and went to his own room, without looking back. And so

he didn't see the look on the girl's face: the look of a child that has

been spoken to sharply and doesn't understand--the look of a dog that

has been beaten by the master it adores. If he had seen it there was

still time--but he didn't. And when he came back five minutes later,

remorseful and furious with himself, the girl was not there. She was

upstairs, staring a little miserably out of the bedroom window.

And that had been the beginning of it. Sitting there in the restaurant,

Hugh traced everything back to that. Of course, there had been other

things too. He saw them now clearly: a whole host of little stupid

points which he had hardly thought of at the time. Business had not

improved until--the irony of it--that very day, when a big deal had gone

through successfully, and he had realized that the turning-point had

come. He had hurried home to tell her, and had found--the letter.

Mechanically he lit a cigarette, and once again his thoughts went back

over the last few months. That wretched evening when she gave him a

heavy bill from her dressmaker, with a polite intimation at the bottom

that something on account by return would oblige. He had had a

particularly bad day; but she was his Colt, and there was no good being

angry about it.

"They hurt their mouths, M'sieur." He ground out his cigarette

savagely. "Handle them gently." And he had told her, when she

mentioned her hundred a year, that she had already spent two in four

months. It was true, but--what the devil had that got to do with it?

And then John Fordingham. Hugh's jaw set as he thought of that row.

There he had been right--absolutely right. Fordingham was a man whose

reputation was notorious. He specialized in young married women, and he

was a very successful specialist. He was one of those men with lots of

money, great personal charm, and the morals of a monkey. That was

exactly what Hugh had said to her before flatly forbidding her to have

anything to do with him.

He recalled now the sudden uplift of her shoulders, the straight, level

look of her eyes.

"Forbid?" she had said.

"Forbid," he had answered. "The man is an outsider of the purest

water."

And he had been right--absolutely right. He took out his cigarette-case

again, and even as he did so he became rigid. Coming down the steps of

the restaurant was the man himself, with Doris.

For a few moments everything danced before his eyes. The blood was

rushing to his head: tables, lights, the moving waiters, swam before him

in a red haze. Then he shrank back behind the pillar in front and

waited for them to sit down. He saw her glance towards the table at

which they had usually sat--the table which he had refused to have that

night; then she followed Fordingham to one which had evidently been

reserved for him at the other end of the restaurant. She sat down with

her back towards Hugh, and by leaning forward he could just see her neck

and shoulders gleaming white through the bit of flame-coloured gauze she

was wearing over her frock.

His eyes rested on her companion, and for a while Hugh studied him

critically and impartially. Faultlessly turned out, he was bending

towards Doris with just the right amount of deferential admiration on

his face. Occasionally he smiled, showing two rows of very white teeth,

and as he talked he moved his hands in little gestures which were more

foreign than English. They were well-shaped hands, perfectly manicured,

a fact of which their owner was fully aware.

After a time Fordingham ceased to do the talking. The occasional smiles

showed no more; a serious look, with just a hint of slave-like devotion

in it, showed on his face as he listened to Doris. Once or twice he

shook his head thoughtfully; once or twice he allowed his eyes to meet

hers with an expression which required no interpretation.

"My poor child," it said; "my poor little hardly used girl. Don't you

know that I love you, tenderly, devotedly? But, of coarse, I couldn't

dream of saying so. I'm only just a friend."

It was so utterly obvious to the man behind the pillar, that for a while

he watched them with the same disinterested feeling that he would have

watched a play.

"She's telling him what a rotten life she's had," he reflected,

cynically. "Her husband doesn't understand her. Fordingham answers the

obvious cue with a soulful look. If only he had been the husband in

question, there would have been no misunderstanding. Perhaps not. Only

a broken heart, my Colt, that's all."

He looked up as Francois stopped in front of his table.

"She doesn't know I'm here, does she?" asked Hugh, quietly.

"No, M'sieur." The head-waiter glanced a little sadly at the two heads

so close together.

Hugh took a piece of paper from his pocket, and scribbled a few words on

it in pencil.

"I don't want her to know--at least, not yet. Would you ask the

orchestra to play that?" He handed the slip across the table. "It's

important." And then, "Wait, Francois; I want to find out where she

goes to after dinner. It's too late now for a theatre, and I expect

she's staying at an hotel. Can you do that for me?"

The head-waiter nodded in silence, and moved away. Very few men would

have asked him to do such a thing; he would have done it for still

fewer. But this was an exception, and tragedy is never far off when the

Fordinghams of this world dine with youngsters who have run away from

their husbands.

Hugh, with an eagerness which almost suffocated him, waited for the

first bars of the waltz he had asked the orchestra to play. The last

time he had heard it, he had been dining at the Milan with Doris. It

was their favourite waltz; on every programme they had made a point of

dancing it together. Would she remember? Would it break through the

wretched wall of misunderstanding, and carry her back to the days when

it was just they two, and there was nothing else that mattered in the

whole wide world?

The haunting melody stole gently through the room, and, with his heart

pounding madly, Hugh Lethbridge watched his wife. At the very first

note she sat up abruptly, and with a grim triumph Hugh saw the look of

sudden surprise on her companion's face. Then, very slowly, she turned

and stared at their usual table. Her lips were parted, and to the man

who watched so eagerly it seemed as if she were breathing a little

quickly. Almost he fancied he could see a look of dawning wonder in her

eyes, like a child awakening in a strange room.

Then she turned away, and sat motionless till the music sobbed into

silence. And as her companion joined in the brief perfunctory applause,

Hugh's glance for a moment rested on Francois. The head-waiter was

smiling gently to himself.

Five minutes later she rose, and Fordingham, with a quick frown, got up

with her. That acute judge of feminine nature was under no delusions as

to what had happened, and behind the smiling mask of his face he cursed

the orchestra individually and comprehensively. Quite obviously a girl

not to be rushed; he had been congratulating himself on the progress

made during dinner. In fact, he had been distinctly hopeful that the

fruit was ripe for the plucking that very night. And now that confounded

tune had wakened memories. And memories are the devil with women.

He adjusted her opera-cloak, and followed her to the door. Things would

have to be handled carefully in the car going back, very carefully. One

false word, and the girl would shy like a wild thing. He was thankful

that he had already told her quite casually that by an extraordinary

coincidence he was stopping at the same hotel as she was. At the time

it had seemed to make not the slightest impression on her; she had not

even required the usual glib lie that his flat was being done up.

He helped her into the car and spoke to the chauffeur. And a large man

in a gorgeous uniform, having given a message to a small page-boy,

watched the big Daimler glide swiftly down Piccadilly.

"Madame has gone to the Magnificent, M'sieur," were the words with which

Francois roused Hugh from his reverie, a few minutes later.

"She remembered, Francois; she remembered that tune."

"Oui, M'sieur--she remembered. You must not let her forget again.

Monsieur Fordingham is----" He hesitated, and left his sentence

unfinished.

"Mr. Fordingham is a blackguard," said Hugh, grimly. "And I'm a fool.

So between us she hasn't had much of a show."

"Monsieur is going to the Magnificent?" Francois pulled back his table.

"I am, Francois"--shortly.

"Be easy, Monsieur. Be gentle. Don't hurt her mouth again----" He

bowed as was befitting to an old customer. "Good-night, Monsieur. Will

you be dining to-morrow?"

"That depends, _mon ami_. Perhaps----"

"I think you will, M'sieur. At that table----" With a smile he pointed

to the usual one. "I will order your dinner myself--for two."

*II*

It had not occurred to Hugh before; for some reason or other it had not

even entered his mind. And then, with a sudden crushing force, the two

names leaped at him from the page of the register at the Magnificent,

and for the moment numbed him.

"Doris Lethbridge," and then, a dozen lines below, "John Fordingham."

What a fool, what a short-sighted fool, he was! Good God! did he not

know Fordingham's reputation? And yet, through some inexplicable freak

of mind, this development had not so much as crossed his brain. And

there had he been sitting at his club for over an hour, in order to

ensure seeing the Colt in her room and avoid any chance of having a

scene downstairs.

Dimly he realized the clerk was speaking.

"Number seven hundred and ten, sir; and since you have no luggage, we

must ask for a deposit of a pound."

"I see," said Hugh, speaking with a sort of deadly calmness, "that a

great friend of mine is stopping here--Mr. Fordingham. When--er--did he

take his room?"

"Mr. Fordingham?" The clerk glanced at the book. "Some time this

afternoon, sir. He is upstairs now; would you like me to ring up his

room?"

"No, thank you; I won't disturb him at this hour." He pushed a pound

note across the desk and turned slowly away. Half unconsciously he

walked over to the lift and stepped inside.

"Doris Lethbridge--John Fordingham." Oh! dear God!

"What number, sir?" The lift-man was watching him a trifle curiously.

"Six hundred and ninety-four," said Hugh, mechanically. "No--seven

hundred and ten, I mean."

"They are both on the same floor," said the man, concealing a smile. At

the Magnificent slight confusion as to numbers of rooms was not unknown.

"Doris Lethbridge--John Fordingham!"

The lift shot up, and still the names danced madly before his eyes.

Every pulse in his body was hammering; wave upon wave of emotion rose in

his throat, choking him; his mouth seemed parched and dry.

"Doris Lethbridge--John Fordingham!"

"To the right, sir, for both rooms."

The door shut behind him and the lift sank rapidly out of sight. For a

moment he stood in the long, deserted passage; then slowly, almost

falteringly, he walked along it.

Six hundred and ninety. A pair of brown boots were outside, and Hugh

stopped and looked at them critically.

"An unpleasant colour," he reflected; "most unpleasant."

A passing chambermaid glanced at him suspiciously, but Hugh stared right

through her. He was supremely unconscious of her existence; only those

two names mocked him wherever he looked, and the pair of unpleasant

brown boots. He wondered if their owner was equally unpleasant.

Slowing he walked on. Six hundred and ninety-three--six hundred and

ninety-four. He staggered a little, and leaned for a moment against the

wall. Then, very deliberately, he pulled himself together and listened.

There was no sound coming from the room at all. He listened for voices,

but all was silent; and then suddenly he heard the click of a cupboard

door closing.

So Doris was inside. Doris was inside--and---- Hugh took a deep

breath; then he knocked.

"Who's there?" The Colt's voice, a little startled, came from the room,

and Hugh's heart gave a great suffocating jump. His lips moved, but

only a hoarse whisper came. He heard steps coming towards the door; the

handle turned, and the next moment he was looking into the Colt's eyes.

For one second there shone in them the look of a great joy. Then she

frowned quickly.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, "I don't want to see you at

all."

He pushed past her into the room, and for a while the relief was so

wonderful that he could only stand there staring at her foolishly. Then

at last he found his voice.

"Oh, my Colt," he whispered, brokenly, "thank God I've found you!" She

closed the door and came slowly towards him. "Thank God I've found

you--in time!" He said the last two words under his breath, but she

heard them.

"What do you mean by 'in time'?" she said, and her voice showed no sign

of relenting. "If you think I'm going to come home with you, you're

quite wrong. Besides," she added, irrelevantly, "the last train's a

beastly one. It stops everywhere."

Hugh looked at her with a faint smile, and then sat down on the edge of

the bed.

"Colt," he said, slowly, "am I the biggest brute in the world? Am I a

cad, and a poisonous beast? Am I, Colt?"

She stared at him, a little perplexed; then she shrugged her shoulders.

"Certainly not," she answered. "You're merely an inconsiderate and

selfish man."

"Because," he went on, ignoring her remark, "if it's any gratification

to you to know it, I should have to be everything I said to deserve such

a punishment as you've given me."

"I don't see it at all," she remarked. "But--as a matter of fact--if

you want to know, I wasn't going to stay away for good, as I said in my

letter. I was going to come back in a week or so."

"What made you change your mind?" he asked, quietly.

"Something which happened to-night."

For a moment his collar felt strangely tight.

"Something which recalled you as you used to be--not as you are now. It

made me determine to give you another chance."

"Ah--h!" A great sigh of relief came from the man. "Was it--a piece of

music?"

She looked at him quickly.

"How did you know?"

"An arrow at a venture," he answered. "Was it Our Tune?"

"Yes--it was."

"And where did you hear it?"

"At the restaurant where I was dining." She lit a cigarette with

studied indifference. "The Milan. I dined there with Mr. Fordingham."

Hugh nodded thoughtfully.

"They give you good grub there, don't they? I see Fordingham is stopping

here."

"Is he?" said the girl. "I believe, now you mention it, he did say

something about it." She was looking away, and did not see the sudden

penetrating glance from the man on the bed. And he--in that one vital

moment--knew, and was utterly and completely happy. His Colt was as

innocent as a little child, and nothing else mattered on God's earth.

Then, through the great joy which was singing in his brain, he heard her

speaking again.

"I like Mr. Fordingham, Hugh. And you will have to understand that if I

consent to come back to you, it will only be on the condition that if I

want to I can go out and dine with him."

It was at that moment that once again there came a knock on the door.

The Colt looked up quickly, and Hugh rose.

"In case it's a message," he whispered, "I'll get over here."

He moved to a place where he could not be seen, and waited. On his face

there was a grim smile as he watched her cross the room. In his mind

there was absolute certainty as to who had knocked. If she wanted to,

after this, she should dine with Fordingham as much as she wished.

She opened the door, and stopped in amazement.

"Mr. Fordingham!" she gasped. "What on earth do you want?"

With a quick movement Fordingham stepped into the room and shut the

door.

"What do I want?" he answered, in the low, vibrant tone that was

generally very successful. "Why, you, my darling little girl."

Engrossed in his desire he failed to notice Hugh, who was leaning on a

chest of drawers watching the scene. He also failed to notice that the

look of blank amazement on the Colt's face had been succeeded by one of

outraged fury. "Give him up, little girl," he went on, "give him up and

come to me."

The next moment he staggered back, with a hand to his cheek.

"You little spitfire," he snarled, and then quite suddenly he stood very

still. For Hugh's voice, clear and faintly amused, was speaking.

"Good for you, Colt. Now the other cheek."

The sound of a second blow rang through the room, and Hugh laughed

gently.

"I--I----" stammered Fordingham. "There's been a mistake. I--I--must

apologize. The wrong room----"

He stood cringing by the door, staring fearfully at Hugh, who had left

his position by the chest of drawers, and was standing in front of him.

"You lie, you miserable hound," said Lethbridge, contemptuously.

"You've made a mistake right enough; but it was not a mistake in the

matter of the room. You deliberately planned this whole show, and

now----" he took him by the collar, "you can reap the reward."

He shook Fordingham, as a terrier shakes a rat; then he flung him into a

corner.

"Open the door, Colt," he said, quietly, "and we'll throw the mess into

the passage."

The mess did not wait to be thrown; it gathered unto itself legs, and

departed rapidly.

"Hang it!" said Hugh, as he closed the door. "I've nearly broken my toe

on him."

He limped to the bed, where he sat rubbing his foot. Just once he stole

a glance at the Colt, who was standing rigidly by the mantelpiece; then

he resumed the rubbing. And on his face there was a faint, tender

smile.

Then the massage ceased as a pair of soft arms came round his neck from

behind.

"Boy! oh, boy!" and her mouth was very close to his ear. "You don't

think--oh! tell me you don't think--that I----"

He put his hand over her mouth.

"It's no question of thinking, my Colt, I know----" For a while he

stared at the face so close to his own; then very gently he kissed her

on the lips. "I know--I was at the Milan myself to-night, Colt--behind

a pillar. I told 'em to play Our Tune."

He stood up and smiled at her.

"We'll manage the show better now. I've been worried; I've been a fool.

I won't be any more. And now it's time you went to bed." He turned

away abruptly. "I'll be getting off to my own room."

But she was at the door before him, arms outstretched, barring the way.

"Just wait a moment," she cried, a little breathlessly, "I want to

telephone before--before you go----"

"Telephone!" His surprise showed on his face. "At this hour."

But the Colt was already speaking.

"Halloa! Is that the office? Oh, it's Mrs. Lethbridge speaking. My

husband has suddenly arrived. He has a room here, so could you give us

a double room, in exchange for our two singles? You can? Thank you."

She replaced the receiver and turned to the Man.

"There are a whole lot of things I don't understand," she said,

demurely, "and it won't be any more expensive."

But the Man had her in his arms.

"My Colt!" he whispered, triumphantly. "My Colt!"

_*III -- The House by the Headland*_

"You'll no get there, zurr. There'll be a rare storm this night. Best

bide here, and be going to-morrow morning after 'tis over."

The warning of my late host, weather-wise through years of experience,

rang through my brain as I reached the top of the headland, and, too

late, I cursed myself for not having heeded his words. With a gasp I

flung my pack down on the ground, and loosened my collar. Seven miles

behind me lay the comfortable inn where I had lunched; eight miles in

front the one where I proposed to dine. And midway between them was I,

dripping with perspiration and panting for breath.

Not a puff of air was stirring; not a sound broke the death-like

stillness, save the sullen, lazy beat of the sea against the rocks

below. Across the horizon, as far as the eye could see, stretched a

mighty bank of black cloud, which was spreading slowly and relentlessly

over the whole heaven. Already its edge was almost overhead, and as I

felt the first big drop of rain on my forehead, I cursed myself freely

once again. If only I had listened to mine host: if only I was still in

his comfortable oak-beamed coffee-room, drinking his most excellent

ale---- I felt convinced he was the type of man who would treat such

trifles as regulation hours with the contempt they deserved. And, even

as I tasted in imagination the bite of the grandest of all drinks on my

parched tongue, and looked through the glass bottom of the tankard at

the sanded floor, the second great drop of rain splashed on my face.

For a moment or two I wavered. Should I go back that seven miles, and

confess myself a fool? or should I go on the further eight and hope that

the next cellar would be as good as the last? In either case I was

bound to get drenched to the skin, and at length I made up my mind. I

would not turn back for any storm, and the matter of the quality of the

ale must remain on the laps of the gods. And at that moment, like a

solid wall of water, the rain came.

I have travelled into most corners of the world, in the course of forty

years' wandering; I have been through the monsoon going south to

Singapore from Japan, I have been caught on the edge of a water-spout in

the South Sea Islands; but I have never known anything like the rain

which came down that June evening on the south-west coast of England.

In half a minute every garment I wore was soaked; the hills and the sea

were blotted out, and I stumbled forward blindly, unable to see more

than a yard in front of me. Then, almost as abruptly as it had started,

the rain ceased. I could feel the water squelching in my boots, and

trickling down my back, as I kept steadily descending into the valley

beyond the headland. There was nothing for it now but to go through

with it. I couldn't get any wetter than I was; so that, when I suddenly

rounded a little knoll and saw in front a low-lying, rambling house, the

idea of sheltering there did not at once occur to me. I glanced at it

casually in the semi-darkness, and was trudging past the gate, my mind

busy with other things, when a voice close behind me made me stop with a

sudden start. A man was speaking, and a second before I could have

sworn I was alone.

"A bad night, sir," he remarked, in a curiously deep voice, "and it will

be worse soon. The thunder and lightning is nearly over. Will you not

come in and shelter? I can supply you with a change of clothes if you

are wet."

"You are very good, sir," I answered slowly, peering at the tall, gaunt

figure beside me. "But I think I will be getting on, thank you all the

same."

"As you like," he answered indifferently, and even as he spoke a vivid

flash of lightning quivered and died in the thick blackness of the sky,

and almost instantaneously a deafening crash of thunder seemed to come

from just over our heads. "As you like." he repeated, "but I shall be

glad of your company if you cared to stay the night."

It was a kind offer, though in a way the least one would expect in

similar circumstances, and I hesitated. Undoubtedly there was little

pleasure to be anticipated in an eight-mile tramp under such conditions,

and yet there was something--something indefinable, incoherent--which

said to me insistently: "Go on; don't stop. Go on."

I shook myself in annoyance, and my wet clothes clung to me clammily.

Was I, at my time of life, nervous, because a man had spoken to me

unexpectedly?

"I think if I may," I said, "I will change my mind and avail myself of

your kind offer. It is no evening for walking for pleasure."

Without a word he led the way into the house, and I followed. Even in

the poor light I could see that the garden was badly kept, and that the

path leading to the front door was covered with weeds. Bushes, wet with

the rain, hung in front of our faces, dripping dismally on to the

ground; and green moss filled the cracks of the two steps leading up to

the door, giving the impression almost of a mosaic.

Inside the hall was in darkness, and I waited while he opened the door

into one of the rooms. I heard him fumbling for a match, and at that

moment another blinding flash, lit up the house as if it had been day.

I had a fleeting vision of the stairs--a short, broad flight--with a

window at the top; of two doors, one apparently leading to the servants'

quarters, the other opposite the one my host had already opened. But

most vivid of all in that quick photograph was the condition of the hall

itself. Three or four feet above my head a lamp hung from the ceiling,

and from it, in every direction, there seemed to be spiders' webs coated

with dust and filth. They stretched to every picture; they stretched to

the top of all the doors. One long festoon was almost brushing against

my face, and for a moment a wave of unreasoning panic filled me. Almost

did I turn and run, so powerful was it; then, with an effort, I pulled

myself together. For a grown man to become nervous of a spider's web is

rather too much of a good thing, and after all it was none of my

business. In all probability the man was a recluse, who was absorbed in

more important matters than the cleanliness of his house. Though how he

could stand the smell--dank and rotten--defeated me. It came to my

nostrils as I stood there, waiting for him to strike a match, and the

scent of my own wet Harris tweed failed to conceal it. It was the smell

of an unlived-in house, grown damp and mildewed with years of neglect,

and once again I shuddered. Confound the fellow! Would he never get the

lamp lit? I didn't mind his spiders' webs and the general filth of his

hall, provided I could get some dry clothes on.

"Come in." I looked up to see him standing in the door. "I regret that

there seems to be no oil in the lamp, but there are candles on the

mantelpiece, should you care to light them."

Somewhat surprised I stepped into the room, and then his next remark

made me halt in amazement.

"When my wife comes down, I must ask her about the oil. Strange of her

to have forgotten."

Wife! What manner of woman could this be who allowed her house to get

into such a condition of dirt and neglect? And were there no servants?

However, again, it was none of my business, and I felt in my pocket for

matches. Luckily they were in a water-tight box, and with a laugh I

struck one and lit the candles.

"It's so infernally dark," I remarked, "that the stranger within the

gates requires a little light, to get his bearings."

In some curiosity I glanced at my host's face in the flickering light.

As yet I had had no opportunity of observing him properly, but now as

unostentatiously as possible I commenced to study it. Cadaverous,

almost to the point of emaciation, he had a ragged, bristly moustache,

while his hair, plentifully flecked with grey, was brushed untidily back

from his forehead. But dominating everything were his eyes, which

glowed and smouldered from under his bushy eyebrows, till they seemed to

burn into me.

More and more I found myself regretting the fact that I had accepted his

offer. His whole manner was so strange that for the first time doubts

as to his sanity began to creep into my mind. And to be alone with a

madman in a deserted house, miles from any other habitation, with a

terrific thunderstorm raging, was not a prospect which appealed to me

greatly. Then I remembered his reference to his wife, and felt more

reassured....

"You and your wife must find it lonely here," I hazarded, when the

silence had lasted some time.

"Why should my wife feel the loneliness?" he answered, harshly. "She

has me--her husband.... What more does a woman require?"

"Oh! nothing, nothing," I replied, hastily, deeming discretion the

better part of veracity. "Wonderful air; beautiful view. I wonder if I

could have a dry coat as you so kindly suggested?"

I took off my own wet one as I spoke, and threw it over the back of a

chair. Then, receiving no answer to my request, I looked at my host.

His back was half towards me, and he was staring into the hall outside.

He stood quite motionless, and as apparently he had failed to hear me, I

was on the point of repeating my remark when he turned and spoke to me

again.

"A pleasant surprise for my wife, sir, don't you think? She was not

expecting me home until to-morrow morning."

"Very," I assented....

"Eight miles have I walked, in order to prevent her being alone. That

should answer your remark about her feeling the loneliness."

He peered at me fixedly, and I again assented.

"Most considerate of you," I murmured, "most considerate."

But the man only chuckled by way of answer, and, swinging round,

continued to stare into the gloomy, filthy hall.

Outside the storm was increasing in fury. Flash followed flash with such

rapidity that the whole sky westwards formed into a dancing sheet of

flame, while the roll of the thunder seemed like the continuous roar of

a bombardment with heavy guns. But I was aware of it only

subconsciously; my attention was concentrated on the gaunt man standing

so motionless in the centre of the room. So occupied was I with him

that I never heard his wife's approach until suddenly, looking up, I saw

that by the door there stood a woman--a woman who paid no attention to

me, but only stared fearfully at her husband, with a look of dreadful

terror in her eyes. She was young, far younger than the man--and pretty

in a homely, countrified way. And as she stared at the gaunt,

cadaverous husband she seemed to be trying to speak, while ceaselessly

she twisted a wisp of a pocket-handkerchief in her hands.

"I didn't expect you home so soon, Rupert," she stammered at length.

"Have you had a good day?"

"Excellent," he answered, and his eyes seemed to glow more fiendishly

than ever. "And now I have come home to my little wife, and her loving

welcome."

She laughed a forced, unnatural laugh, and came a few steps into the

room.

"There is no oil in the lamp, my dear," he continued, suavely. "Have

you been too busy to remember to fill it?"

"I will go and get some," she said, quickly turning towards the door.

But the man's hand shot out and caught her arm, and at his touch she

shrank away, cowering.

"I think not," he cried, harshly. "We will sit in the darkness, my

dear, and--wait."

"How mysterious you are, Rupert!" She forced herself to speak lightly.

"What are we going to wait for?"

But the man only laughed--a low, mocking chuckle--and pulled the girl

nearer to him.

"Aren't you going to kiss me, Mary? It's such a long time since you

kissed me--a whole twelve hours."

The girl's free hand clenched tight, but she made no other protest as

her husband took her in his arms and kissed her. Only it seemed to me

that her whole body was strained and rigid, as if to brace herself to

meet a caress she loathed.... In fact the whole situation was becoming

distinctly embarrassing. The man seemed to have completely forgotten my

existence, and the girl so far had not even looked at me. Undoubtedly a

peculiar couple, and a peculiar house. Those cobwebs: I couldn't get

them out of my mind.

"Hadn't I better go and fill the lamp now?" she asked after a time.

"Those candles give a very poor light, don't they?"

"Quite enough for my purpose, my dear wife," replied the man. "Come and

sit down and talk to me."

With his hand still holding her arm he drew her to a sofa, and side by

side they sat down. I noticed that all the time he was watching her

covertly out of the corner of his eye, while she stared straight in

front of her as if she was waiting for something to happen.... And at

that moment a door banged, upstairs.

"What's that?" The girl half rose, but the man pulled her back.

"The wind, my dear," he chuckled. "What else could it be? The house is

empty save for us."

"Hadn't I better go up and see that all the windows are shut?" she said,

nervously. "This storm makes me feel frightened."

"That's why I hurried back to you, my love. I couldn't bear to think of

you spending to-night alone." Again he chuckled horribly, and peered at

the girl beside him. "I said to myself, 'She doesn't expect me back

till to-morrow morning. I will surprise my darling wife, and go back

home to-night.' Wasn't it kind of me, Mary?"

"Of course it was, Rupert," she stammered. "Very kind of you. I think

I'll just go up and put on a jersey. I'm feeling a little cold."

She tried to rise, but her husband still held her; and then suddenly

there came on her face such a look of pitiable terror that involuntarily

I took a step forward. She was staring at the door, and her lips were

parted as if to cry out, when the man covered her mouth with his free

hand and dragged her brutally to her feet.

"Alone, my wife--all alone," he snarled. "My dutiful, loving wife all

alone. What a good thing I returned to keep her company!"

For a moment or two she struggled feebly; then he half carried, half

forced her close by me to a position behind the open door. I could have

touched them as they passed; but I seemed powerless to move.

Instinctively I knew what was going to happen; but I could do nothing

save stand and stare at the door, while the girl, half fainting,

crouched against the wall, and her husband stood over her motionless and

terrible. And thus we waited, while the candles guttered in their

sockets, listening to the footsteps which were coming down the

stairs....

Twice I strove to call out; twice the sound died away in my throat. I

felt as one does in some awful nightmare, when a man cries aloud no

sound comes, or runs his fastest and yet does not move. In it, I was

yet not of it; it was as if I was the spectator of some inexorable

tragedy with no power to intervene.

The steps came nearer. They were crossing the hall now--the cobwebby

hall--and the next moment I saw a young man standing in the open door.

"Mary, where are you, my darling?" He came into the room and glanced

around. And, as he stood there, one hand in his pocket, smiling

cheerily, the man behind the door put out his arm and gripped him by the

shoulder. In an instant the smile vanished, and the youngster spun

round, his face set and hard.

"Here is your darling, John Trelawnay," said the husband quietly. "What

do you want with her?"

"Ah!" The youngster's breath came a little faster, as he stared at the

older man. "You've come back unexpectedly, have you? It's the sort of

damned dirty trick you would play."

I smiled involuntarily: this was carrying the war into the enemy's camp

with a vengeance.

"What are you doing in this house alone with my wife, John Trelawnay?"

Into the quiet voice had crept a note of menace, and, as I glanced at

the speaker and noticed the close clenching and unclenching of his

powerful hands. I realized that there was going to be trouble. The

old, old story again, but, rightly or wrongly, with every sympathy of

mine on the side of the sinners.

"Your wife by a trick only, Rupert Carlingham," returned the other

hotly. "You know she's never loved you; you know she has always loved

me."

"Nevertheless--my wife. But I ask you again, what are you doing in this

house while I am away?"

"Did you expect us to stand outside in the storm?" muttered the other.

For a moment the elder man's eyes blazed, and I thought he was going to

strike the youngster. Then, with an effort, he controlled himself, and

his voice was ominously quiet as he spoke again.

"You lie, John Trelawnay." His brooding eyes never left the other's

face. "It was no storm that drove you here to-day; no thunder that made

you call my wife your darling. You came because you knew I was away;

because you thought--you and your mistress--that I should not return

till to-morrow."

For a while he was silent, while the girl still crouched against the

wall staring at him fearfully, and the youngster, realizing the

hopelessness of further denial, faced him with folded arms. In silence

I watched them from the shadow beyond the fireplace, wondering what I

ought to do. There is no place for any outsider in such a situation,

much less a complete stranger; and had I consulted my own inclinations I

would have left the house there and then and chanced the storm still

raging outside. I got as far as putting on my coat again, and making a

movement towards the door, when the girl looked at me with such an agony

of entreaty in her eyes that I paused. Perhaps it was better that I

should stop; perhaps if things got to a head, and the men started

fighting, I might be of some use.

And at that moment Rupert Carlingham threw back his head and laughed.

It echoed and re-echoed through the room, peal after peal of maniacal

laughter, while the girl covered her face with her hands and shrank

away, and the youngster, for all his pluck, retreated a few steps. The

man was mad, there was no doubt about it: and the laughter of a madman

is perhaps the most awful thing a human being may hear.

Quickly I stepped forward; it seemed to me that if I was to do anything

at all the time had now come.

"I think, Mr. Carlingham," I said, firmly, "that a little quiet

discussion would be of advantage to everyone."

He ceased laughing, and stared at me in silence. Then his eyes left my

face and fixed themselves again on the youngster. It was useless; he

was blind to everything except his own insensate rage. And, before I

could realize his intention, he sprang.

"You'd like me to divorce her, wouldn't you?" he snarled, as his hand

sought John Trelawnay's throat. "So that you could marry her.... But

I'm not going to--no. I know a better thing than divorce."

The words were choked on his lips by the youngster's fist, which crashed

again and again into his face; but the man seemed insensible to pain.

They swayed backwards and forwards, while the lightning, growing fainter

and fainter in the distance, quivered through the room from time to

time, and the two candles supplied the rest of the illumination. Never

for an instant did the madman relax his grip on the youngster's throat:

never for an instant did the boy cease his sledge-hammer blows on the

other's face. But he was tiring, it was obvious; no normal flesh and

blood could stand the frenzied strength against him. And, suddenly, it

struck me that murder was being done, in front of my eyes.

With a shout I started forward--somehow they must be separated. And

then I stopped motionless again: the girl had slipped past me with her

face set and hard. With a strength for which I would not have given her

credit she seized both her husband's legs about the knees, and lifted

his feet off the ground, so that his only support was the grip of his

left hand on the youngster's throat, and the girl's arms about his

knees. He threw her backwards and forwards as if she had been a child,

but still she clung on, and then, in an instant, it was all over. His

free right hand had been forgotten....

I saw the boy sway nearer in his weakness, and the sudden flash of a

knife. There was a little choking gurgle, and they all crashed down

together, with the youngster underneath. And when the madman rose the

boy lay still, with the shaft of the knife sticking out from his coat

above his heart.

It was then that Rupert Carlingham laughed again, while his wife, mad

with grief, knelt beside the dead boy, pillowing his head on her lap.

For what seemed an eternity I stood watching, unable to move or speak;

then the murderer bent down and swung his wife over his shoulder. And,

before I realized what he was going to do, he had left the room, and I

saw him passing the window outside.

The sight galvanised me into action; there was just a possibility I

might avert a double tragedy. With a loud shout I dashed out of the

front door, and down the ill-kept drive; but when I got to the open

ground he seemed to have covered an incredible distance, considering his

burden. I could see him shambling over the turf, up the side of the

valley which led to the headland where the rain had caught me; and, as

fast as I could, I followed him, shouting as I ran. But it was no

use--gain on him I could not. Steadily, with apparent ease, he carried

the girl up the hill, taking no more notice of my cries than he had of

my presence earlier in the evening. And, with the water squelching from

my boots, I ran after him--no longer wasting my breath on shouting, but

saving it all in my frenzied endeavour to catch him before it was too

late. For once again I knew what was going to happen, even as I had

known when I heard the footsteps coming down the stairs.

I was still fifty yards from him when he reached the top of the cliff;

and for a while he paused there silhouetted against the angry sky. He

seemed to be staring out to sea, and the light from the flaming red

sunset, under the black of the storm, shone on his great, gaunt figure,

bathing it in a wonderful splendour. The next moment he was gone.... I

heard him give one loud cry; then he sprang into space with the girl

still clasped in his arms.

And when I reached the spot and peered over, only the low booming of the

sullen Atlantic three hundred feet below came to my ears.... That, and

the mocking shrieks of a thousand gulls. Of the madman and his wife

there was no sign.

At last I got up and started to walk away mechanically. I felt that

somehow I was to blame for the tragedy, that I should have done

something, taken a hand in that grim fight. And yet I knew that if I

was called upon to witness it again, I should act in the same way. I

should feel as powerless to move as I had felt in that ill-omened house,

with the candles guttering on the mantelpiece, and the lightning

flashing through the dirty window. Even now I seemed to be moving in a

dream, and after a while I stopped and made a determined effort to pull

myself together.

"You will go back," I said out loud, "to that house. And you will make

sure that that boy is dead. You are a grown man, and not an hysterical

woman. You will go back."

And as if in answer a seagull screamed discordantly above my head. Not

for five thousand pounds would I have gone back to that house alone, and

when I argued with myself and said, "You are a fool, and a coward," the

gull shrieked mockingly again.

"What is there to be afraid of?" I cried. "A dead body; and you have

seen many hundreds."

It was as I asked the question out loud that I came to a road and sat

down beside it. It was little more than a track, but it seemed to speak

of other human beings, and I wanted human companionship at the

moment--wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. At

any other time I would have resented sharing with strangers the glorious

beauty of the moors as they stretched back to a rugged tor a mile or two

away, with their wonderful colouring of violet and black, and the scent

of the wet earth rising all around. But now...

With a shudder I rose, conscious for the first time that I was feeling

chilled. I must get somewhere--talk to someone; and, as if in answer to

my thoughts, a car came suddenly in sight, bumping over the track.

There was an elderly man inside, and two girls, and he pulled up at once

on seeing me.

"By Jove!" he cried, cheerily, "you're very wet. Can I give you a lift

anywhere?"

"It is very good of you," I said. "I want to get to the police as

quickly as possible."

"The police?" He stared at me surprised. "What's wrong?"

"There's been a most ghastly tragedy," I said. "A man has been murdered

and the murderer has jumped over that headland, with his wife in his

arms. The murderer's name was Rupert Carlingham."

I was prepared for my announcement startling them; I was not prepared

for the extraordinary effect it produced. With a shriek of terror the

two girls clung together, and the man's ruddy face went white.

"What name did you say?" he said at length, in a shaking voice.

"Rupert Carlingham," I answered, curtly. "And the boy he murdered was

called John Trelawnay. Incidentally I want to get a doctor to look at

the youngster. It's possible the knife might have just missed his

heart."

"Oh, daddy, drive on, drive on quick!" implored the girls, and I glanced

at them in slight surprise. After all a murder is a very terrible

thing, but it struck me they were becoming hysterical over it.

"It was just such an evening," said the man, slowly: "just such a storm

as we've had this afternoon, that it happened."

"That what happened?" I cried, a trifle irritably; but he made no

answer, and only stared at me curiously.

"Do you know these parts, sir?" he said at length.

"It's the first time I've ever been here," I answered. "I'm on a

walking tour."

"Ah! A walking tour. Well. I'm a doctor myself, and unless you get

your clothes changed pretty quickly, I predict that your walking tour

will come to an abrupt conclusion--even if it's only a temporary one.

Now, put on this coat, and we'll get off to a good inn."

But, anxious as I was to fall in with his suggestion myself, I felt that

that was more than I could do.

"It's very good of you, doctor," I said; "but, seeing that you are a

medical man, I really must ask you to come and look at this youngster

first. I'd never forgive myself if by any chance he wasn't dead. As a

matter of fact, I've seen death too often not to recognize it, and the

boy was stabbed clean through the heart right in front of my

eyes--but..."

I broke off, as one of the girls leaned forward and whispered to her

father. But he only shook his head, and stared at me curiously.

"Did you make no effort to stop the murder?" he asked at length.

It was the question I had been dreading, the question I knew must come

sooner or later. But, now that I was actually confronted with it, I had

no answer ready. I could only shake my head and stammer out confusedly:

"It seems incredible for a man of my age and experience to confess it,

doctor--but I didn't. I couldn't.... I was just going to try and

separate them, when the girl rushed in ... and..."

"What did she do?" It was one of the daughters who fired the question

at me so suddenly that I looked at her in amazement. "What did Mary do?"

"She got her husband by the knees," I said, "and hung on like a

bull-dog. But he'd got a grip on the boy's throat and

then--suddenly--it was all over. They came crashing down as he stabbed

young Trelawnay." Once again the girls clung together shuddering, and I

turned to the doctor. "I wish you'd come, doctor: it's only just a

step. I can show you the house."

"I know the house, sir, very well," he answered, gravely. Then he put

his arms on the steering-wheel and for a long time sat motionless

staring into the gathering dusk, while I fidgeted restlessly, and the

girls whispered together. What on earth was the man waiting for? I

wondered: after all, it wasn't a very big thing to ask of a doctor....

At last he got down from the car and stood beside me on the grass.

"You've never been here before, sir?" he asked again, looking at me

fixedly.

"Never," I answered, a shade brusquely. "And I'm not altogether bursting

with a desire to return."

"Strange," he muttered. "Very, very strange. I will come with you."

For a moment he spoke to his daughters as if to reassure them; then,

together we walked over the springy turf towards the house by the

headland. He seemed in no mood for conversation, and my own mind was

far too busy with the tragedy for idle talk.

But he asked me one question when we were about fifty yards from the

house.

"Rupert Carlingham carried his wife up to the headland, you say?"

"Slung over his shoulder," I answered, "and then..."

But the doctor had stopped short, and was staring at the house, while,

once again, every vestige of colour had left his face.

"My God!" he muttered, "there's a light in the room.... A light, man;

don't you see it?"

"I left the candles burning," I said, impatiently. "Really, doctor, I

suppose murder doesn't often come your way, but..."

I walked on quickly and he followed. Really the fuss was getting on my

nerves, already distinctly ragged. The front door was open as I had

left it, and I paused for a moment in the cobwebby hall. Then, pulling

myself together, I stepped into the room where the body lay, to halt and

stare open-mouthed at the floor....

The candles still flickered on the mantelpiece; the furniture was as I

had left it; but of the body of John Trelawnay there was not a trace. It

had vanished utterly and completely.

"I don't understand, doctor," I muttered foolishly. "I left the body

lying there."

The doctor stood at the door beside me, and suddenly I realized that his

eyes were fixed on me.

"I know," he said, and his voice was grave and solemn. "With the head

near that chair."

"Why, how do you know?" I cried, amazed. "Have you taken the body away?"

But he answered my question by another.

"Do you notice anything strange in this room, sir?" he asked. "On the

floor?"

"Only a lot of dust," I remarked.

"Precisely," he said. "And one would expect footprints in dust. I see

yours going to the mantelpiece; I see no others."