For a moment the girl's lips quivered. "Poor old Hugh!"

Very gently the Soldier stroked the girl's hair. "We must give him time,

Beryl. He's--he's not quite himself yet. By the way," he added, struck

by a sudden thought, "if you haven't seen him, how do you know he's come

back?"

The girl's eyes filled with tears. "I went out to Tommy's grave

again--I wanted to see that the little fellow was comfortable,

and--and--I found this."

She held out the scrap of paper to the Soldier, and then broke down

uncontrollably. And the man, having glanced at it, coughed with

unnecessary violence and handed it to the Eminent Divine.

"It was just like him--just like Hugh," sobbed the girl. "And

Tommy--why, what more would Tommy want?" She picked up the paper and

stared at it through her tears. "'Good hunting, old chap.--H.D.' Good

hunting. He's got a soul--I know he has. He's having the most glorious

chase after bunnies now--somewhere--somewhere else. Isn't he?"

She turned appealingly to the Bishop, but that eminent Pillar of the

Church was engrossed in the study of a very ordinary print, and from the

assiduous manner he was polishing his glasses he seemed to be having

difficulties with his eyesight.

And it was thus a moment or two later that the Celebrated Actor found

them.

"Successful." He barked the word grandiloquently from the window.

"Utterly and completely successful. The curtain is shortly going up: it

would be well if the audience took their seats as silently as possible."

"What do you mean, Mr. Trayne?" The girl was staring at him in

amazement through her tears.

"A very human play, my dear young lady, is on the point of being acted.

As producer, general manager, and box office combined, I beg to state

that there will be only one performance. The financial receipts will be

_nil_: the moral receipts will be a soul regained. And who shall say

that it is not a more tangible asset?" For a while he stared

magnificently at nothing, with one hand thrust carelessly out--that

attitude which had long caused infatuated denizens of the pit to stand

for hours in dreadful draughts lest they should fail to secure the front

row. Then he returned with an effort to things mundane. "Follow me,"

he ordered, "and do not talk or make a noise."

"Where's the boy, Trayne?" demanded the General, almost angrily. In his

own vernacular, he was feeling rattled.

"You shall see in good time. Come."

It was a strange procession which might have been seen wending its way

through the darkness a little later. First came the Celebrated

Actor--supremely happy, as befits the great showman who has the goods to

offer. Then, a few steps behind him, was the Well-known Soldier,

periodically muttering under his breath, and with the girl's hand on his

arm. Behind them again trotted the Eminent Divine, unable to see very

well in the dark, and continually stubbing his toes on various

obstructions in the ground.

"Where is he taking us to?" whispered the girl to her uncle.

"Heaven knows, my dear!" he answered, irritably. "The man's an ass, as

I've said before."

"But what did he mean about the very human play?" she persisted. "And

the soul regained?"

Before the Soldier could answer, the guide turned, and holding up his

hand demanded silence.

"We approach the stage," he declaimed. "Silence is essential."

He led the way between some trees, and finally halted behind a clump of

low bushes.

"Personally," he whispered, "I am a man of peace, but it struck me from

my rudimentary knowledge of pugilism that the clearing in front was

ideally suited to that brutal form of amusement. And when I suggested

it to Hugh, he quite agreed."

"You suggested it to Hugh!" said the Soldier slowly, and gradually a

look of comprehension began to dawn in his eyes. "Why, Actor-man,

Actor-man, I retract every thought I've had about you to-night."

He peered cautiously through the bushes, and a slow smile spread over

his face.

"Tell me, Actor-man," he whispered, "how did you get the other?"

"I howled such insults as I could think of in my poor way through the

window."

Then he, too, cautiously peered over the top of the bush. "What think

you of my show, Soldier-man?"

"It is altogether beautiful and lovely to regard," replied the other.

"Can the Church see?"

And, behold, the Church was lying on its stomach to get a better view.

The moonlight shone down, clear and bright, on the little glade in

front. At the back of it, in the trees, stood young Parker's house, but

young Parker himself, with an ugly sneer on his face, was engaged in

removing his coat. Facing him stood Hugh Dawnay, and in the cold white

light his eyes shone hard and merciless.

"So you want me to thrash you as well as stop your damned dog poaching,"

laughed young Parker. "All right, you bally jail-bird, come on!"

He rushed in as he spoke and his fist shot out as he closed. The fight

had started, and from that moment no one of the fascinated audience

spoke or moved. Parker was the heavier of the two, but the boy was the

better boxer. In fact, in the strict sense of the word, the young farmer

was not a boxer at all--but he was fit and he was strong. And had it

not been for the two and a half years' hard manual labour which the

other had gone through, the issue in all probability would have been

different.

As it was they fought all out for five minutes, and then young Parker

grew wild. He became flurried--tried rushing--his fists whirling like

flails. And the more flurried he grew the more cool and collected

became the boy. And then came the end. A right-arm jolt below his

heart brought the farmer's head forward, a left uppercut under the jaw

laid him out. For a while the spectators watched him moaning on the

ground, while the Church wriggled ecstatically under its sheltering

bush.

"Had enough, you swine?" asked the boy, quietly.

The prostrate figure mumbled something.

"Get up and swear to me that you will never again lay a trap in that

part of your land. Get a move on!" he snarled.

"All right." The farmer shambled to his feet, watching him sullenly.

"I swear."

"Now go down on your knees and apologize for calling me a jail-bird.

Hurry up, you filthy scum! On your knees, I said."

And as young Parker went on his knees, according to order, the girl, her

eyes shining like stars, clapped her hands softly together.

"Quick!" said the Celebrated Actor, authoritatively. "Back to the house,

you people. The play is over and my estimate of the receipts is, I

think, correct."

Stealthily as it had come, the procession moved back to the house. At

intervals, the Eminent Divine was observed to jolt with his right,

following it up with a slashing left upper-cut into space, what time he

chuckled consumedly. And even a slight error as to distance, which

caused him far more pain than the tree which he unfortunately smote,

failed to damp his spirits. The Soldier walked with a spring in his

step, the Actor hummed gently under his breath, and it was only as they

reached the open window of the dining-room that they realized that the

girl had slipped away in the darkness and was not with them.

"Where is Beryl?" said the General, pausing on the path.

"Heaven help the man!" fumed the Actor, addressing space. "His past

career, we understand, is comparatively distinguished from a military

point of view. But"--and he turned accusingly to the Soldier--"you must

have driven every woman you ever met completely off her chump."

"Chump," chuckled the Bishop, feinting with his right and gently

upper-cutting the Celebrated Actor's celebrated chin. "What is chump,

you old sinner?"

But the Well-known Soldier only smiled--a trifle sadly. "She's all I've

got, old chap, and her happiness is mine."

"She is happy now," remarked the Actor, quietly. "The boy's all right."

For a while the three men were silent, each busy with his own thoughts.

And then over the General's face a grin began to spread.

"Tell me, you charmer of foolish women," he demanded, "how did you

manage it?"

"Your vulgar gibe leaves me unmoved," returned the Actor, calmly.

"To-night is merely a proof of how brains and imagination control every

situation. I hope you both appreciate my inference."

"Go on," chuckled the General. "The Church and the Army hide their

diminished heads."

"What better destroyer of apathy is there than scrapping with someone,

whom in less civilized and more primitive days one would have killed? I

followed him. I suggested it to him--I even went so far as to assist

him in his search for a suitable spot on which to do it. And then"--he

paused magnificently--"I drew the badger. I bolted the fox. I

extracted young Parker."

"How?" murmured the Church.

"I hit him first on the head with an over-ripe pear, which I threw

through the window. A wonderful shot--not once in a hundred times would

I do it again. And as he jumped up from the table where he was sitting,

I spoke to him from my heart."

"Yes," grinned the Soldier. "And what did you say?"

"I said, 'You dirty louse--you maimer of little dogs--come out and

fight, unless you're a coward as well as a swine.' Then," murmured the

Actor, "I ran as fast as I could, for fear he might mistake his opponent

and start on me."

For a space there was silence, while the Army and the Church shook

hopelessly, and the Stage impressively lit a cigar. And it was as he

deposited the match in an ash-tray on the table that he saw the piece of

paper lying in front of him. He read what was written on it, and then

he turned slowly and looked at the other two.

"So that's what he was doing under the yew tree," he said, softly.

"Dear lad! Why, yes, he's a dear lad."

"Of course he is," returned the Soldier, gruffly. "What the devil did

you think?"

It was under the yew tree that the boy and the girl met. She was

kneeling there, her frock gleaming white in the moonlight as Hugh came

through the trees, and for a time he watched her without speaking. Two

and a half years--more--since he had seen her, and now it seemed to him

that she was more lovely than ever. His eyes took in every detail of

her, as she bent forward and laid both her hands on the little grave,

and, suddenly, with a great wave of wonder, he realized that all the

bitterness had gone from his soul. The past was blotted out--sponged

from the slate; he was alive again, and the present--why, the present

held out beckoning hands of welcome.

"Beryl," he whispered very low, but not so low that she failed to hear

him.

"Why, Hugh, dear," she answered. "I was afraid you'd go away without

seeing me."

"I should, if--Tommy had been alive."

He knelt beside her, and together they rearranged two or three of the

stones.

"I put a bit of paper here," he said, after a moment.

"I found it," she answered. "That's how I knew you were here--first.

Oh! Hugh"--almost unconsciously she found herself in his arms--"poor

little chap! And I'd been telling him all last week he'd be seeing you

soon."

"You darling!" The boy's voice was husky. "He knows--Tommy knows."

And so for a while they clung together, while the scent of the summer

flowers drifting idly by mingled with the scent of her hair.

"If he'd been here, Beryl, I was going to take him," he said, at last.

"I was bitter--dear heavens! but I was bitter. I felt I didn't even

want to see you. We were going hunting together--just he and I--out in

the wilds."

"And now, boy," whispered the girl, "are you bitter any more?"

"No," he answered, wonderingly. "I'm not. Because, Beryl, because I've

thrashed that swine who killed him. Something seemed to snap in me as

he went down and out, and I was conscious of a sort of marvellous

happiness."

"I know," she said, laughing a little and crying a little, as a girl

will do. "I know, dear boy. I saw you do it."

"You saw me thrash him!" he said, amazed. "But how? I don't

understand."

"We all did!" she cried: "Uncle Jim and the Bishop and Mr. Trayne and

me. Mr. Trayne came back and told us to come."

"I see," said the boy, slowly. "I see. I think I'll go and thank Mr.

Trayne."

But there are other things in this world more important even than a debt

of gratitude to the most celebrated of Actors, and half an hour later

the boy and the girl were still pacing slowly up and down the lawn.

There were so many things to be discussed--so many glorious plans to be

made for the future--the future out of which the blackness had vanished

so completely. And it was with almost a feeling of reproach that the

girl suddenly turned to him.

"Why, boy!" she cried, "we've forgotten Tommy."

"Tommy!" he said. "Why, so we have." He stared at her for a while, and

there was a little quizzical smile on his lips. "It's funny, isn't it?"

he went on slowly, "that the greatest thing the little chap has ever

done for me he has done by his death." He took her in his arms and held

her very close. "If he'd lived, it might have all come right--in time;

but now----"

And Hugh Dawnay finished his sentence in the only way such sentences can

be finished.

"Come in, you two youngsters."

The General's voice came cheerfully from the dining-room, and arm-in-arm

they walked towards the open window.

Half-way there they paused, and instinctively their eyes turned towards

the old yew tree.

"Why, there he is, boy," breathed the girl. "Don't you see him, and the

black mark on his neck and his tail wagging?"

"It's the shadows, darling," answered the boy. "The moonlight through

the trees."

Maybe, maybe. Who knows?

Gently he led her on, and she passed into the room ahead of him. And

from the path outside there rose once again into the soft summer night

the farewell message of a friend to a friend:

"Good hunting, old chap."

_*IX -- The Man with his Hand in his Pocket*_

*I*

"I'll take one card."

With the expressionless face of the born gambler, the man glanced at his

draw, and laid the five cards face downwards on the table in front of

him. Not a muscle twitched as he leaned back in his chair, his right

hand thrust deep in his trouser-pocket. So had he played all through

the evening, losing with steady persistence and losing highly: losing,

in fact, as only a man can lose who is holding good cards at poker when

somebody else is holding a little better. And now he had drawn one card

to three of a kind, and it had come off. There were four eights in the

hand in front of him, and they had made their appearance just in time.

For Billy Merton knew only too well that the chips by his side

represented everything that was left out of a matter of twenty thousand

pounds. The play was high at the Ultima Thule Club in Bond Street.

A fat man opposite him had also taken one card, and Merton's keen eye

noticed the twitching of his fingers as he laid his cards down. A bad

gambler, but having a run of the most infernal luck, this fat fellow.

So much the better: he'd probably got a straight at least--possibly a

full house. Fours could be ruled out: the fat man was the type who

would always discard two if he held three of a kind.

They were playing without a limit, and at length Billy Merton leaned

across the table.

"My chips are finished, I'm afraid," he remarked, with a faint drawl.

"Will you take paper till the end of the hand?"

"Certainly," said the fat man, in a voice which shook a little.

"Good!" With his left hand Merton scrawled an IOU, quite regardless of

the spectators who had collected at the rumour of big play which flies

round with such mysterious rapidity. He might have been playing

halfpenny nap for all the interest he apparently took in the game.

The fat man saw him at five thousand pounds--which was just four

thousand more than Billy Merton possessed in the world. And the fat man

laid down a straight flush.

"You're lucky, sir," said Merton, with a genial smile, lighting a

cigarette with a perfectly steady hand. "I'll just cash a cheque and

get you the chips."

A faint murmur of admiration passed round the onlookers: this

clean-shaven, steady-eyed man with the whimsical smile was a gambler

after their own hearts. Then in a couple of minutes he was forgotten:

players at the Ultima Thule are, in the main, a selfish brand of

individual. Possibly had they suspected the utter hopelessness seething

behind the impassive face of the man who stood by the buffet eating a

caviare sandwich and drinking a glass of champagne, they might not have

forgotten him so quickly. But they did not suspect: Billy Merton saw to

that. It was only as he turned to help himself to another sandwich that

a look of despair came into his eyes. No one could see: the mask could

slip for a moment. Ahead lay ruin and disgrace. The cheque could not be

met next morning: there was no human possibility of raising the money in

the time. And to the descendant of a long race of gamblers there was

something peculiarly abhorrent in failing over a debt of honour.

"Bad luck--that last hand of yours, sir." A thick-set, middle-aged man

beside him was making a careful study of the various edibles. "Just came

up in time to see the show-down."

"I have known the cards run better," answered Merton, curtly.

"I can see that you're a born gambler," continued the man, "and being

one myself--though not in this particular line--one has, if one may say

so, a sort of fellow-feeling." He was munching a sandwich and staring

round the room as he spoke. "The nerve, sir--the nerve required to

stake everything on the turn of a card--on the rise or fall of a

market--by Heaven, it's the only thing in life!"

Almost against his will--for he was in no mood for talking--Billy Merton

smiled.

"Your game is the Stock Exchange, is it?"

"It is, sir--and there's no game like it in the world. Even when ruin

stares you in the face, you've still got till next settling day. You've

still got a chance."

"I wish the same thing applied here," said Merton, with a hard laugh.

"As bad as that, is it?" remarked the other, sympathetically. "Never

mind: the luck will change. I guess there have been times when I've

felt like stealing or forging or doing any other blamed thing under the

sun to put my hand on some ready money."

Merton smiled mirthlessly, and said nothing. The point of view coincided

rather too unpleasantly with his own.

"And mark you, sir," continued the stranger, dogmatically. "I've got a

greater respect for a man who wins through, by fair means if

possible--but, if not, by foul--than for the weakling who goes down and

out. The first, at any rate, is a _man_."

Again Merton smiled. "Leaving out the ethical side of your contention,

sir," he remarked, "there are one or two small practical difficulties

that occur to one's mind. It is sometimes as difficult to find the foul

means as it is to find the fair. Burglary and forging rank high amongst

the arts, I believe, which are not taught at most of the public

schools."

The other man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "Of course you

mustn't take me too literally. But"--he thumped an enormous fist into

the open palm of his other hand--"there's always a way, sir, if you've

got the nerve to take it. Nerve: that's the only thing that counts in

this world. Without it--why, you can go and grow tomatoes in the

country! Nerve, and the capability of seizing the right moment. With

those two assets you come to the top and you stay there." For a moment

or two he stared fixedly at the half-averted face of the younger man;

then he gave a jovial laugh. "Anyway--if you start to recoup your

fortunes with journalism--you needn't give those as the opinions of Paul

Harker. Not that they aren't pretty widely known, but in this world one

must pretend."

Merton glanced at the speaker. So this was the celebrated Paul Harker,

was it? What the devil was it he'd overheard at the club that afternoon

about him? Not knowing him, at the time it had made no impression; now

he recalled it hazily. Something to do with a woman. He frowned

slightly as he tried to remember; then he gave a short laugh. What on

earth did it matter? What did anything matter except that cursed cheque?

"Well, I'll say good-night, Mr. Harker." He put down his empty glass.

"It would take a mighty big journalistic scoop to put me

straight--bigger even than your ideas on life."

"Which way are you going?"

"Half-Moon Street. I've got rooms there."

"I'll stroll with you. The atmosphere of this place is fierce."

In silence the two men got their coats and strolled into Bond Street.

The theatres were just over, and a stream of cars were pouring westward

with their loads of well-dressed, wealthy occupants. Life--life in

London--for people with money! With a cynical smile Billy Merton lit a

cigarette. It was what he had promised himself after years in the

wilds.

He barely heard his companion's occasional remarks: it was just as they

turned into Half-Moon Street that it struck Billy that Paul Harker had

made some suggestion and was waiting for an answer.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Harker," he said, apologetically, "but I'm

afraid my mind was wandering. You were saying----"

"I was suggesting that if you've got nothing better to do you should

come to my house in Curzon Street. My wife has a spiritualistic seance

on. Starts at midnight. Come in and see the fun."

For a moment Billy hesitated. After all, why not? Anything was better

than a solitary contemplation of his own confounded foolishness.

"It's very good of you----" he began, but the other cut him short.

"Not at all. Only too pleased you can manage it."

"But won't your wife---- I mean, I'm a complete stranger." He paused

doubtfully by the door of his rooms.

"My wife won't mind," answered Paul Harker, taking him by the arm. "Do

you good, my dear fellow. Take your mind off."

It was really deuced good of this fellow Harker. Sympathy of a gambler

for a gambler sort of idea. He could only hope that Mrs. Harker would

see eye to eye with her husband.

"Here is the house, Mr. Merton. Come in." With a smile of welcome Paul

Harker stood aside to let the younger man pass.

"I didn't know you knew my name, Mr. Harker," said Billy Merton, as a

footman relieved him of his coat.

"I asked who you were at the Ultima Thule. Come on up and meet my wife."

Then, in a hoarse undertone just before they reached the room, he turned

to Merton. "I don't know whether you believe in this stuff; but, for

Heaven's sake, pretend to."

He gave a heavy wink, and Billy smiled. Undoubtedly Paul Harker was

quite a pleasant fellow.

*II*

There were six women in the room when they entered and one somewhat

anaemic-looking man.

"Hope I'm not late, my dear," said Paul Harker, breezily, to a pale,

delicate-looking woman who rose to meet them. "I've brought a friend

who is interested in these things. Mr. Merton--my wife."

Billy Merton bowed, and took a chair beside her.

"We hope for some very interesting results to-night, Mr. Merton," she

remarked. "Professor Granger feels confident of getting a tangible

materialization."

"Indeed!"

Mindful of his host's injunction, he nodded portentously. His ideas on

what a tangible materialization was were of the vaguest: if it was

anything like Professor Granger, he inwardly trusted the experiment

would fail.

For a few minutes they continued to talk generalities: then Mrs. Harker

rose and crossed to the Professor, leaving Merton to his own devices.

With some interest he glanced round the room. Heavy black curtains hung

over the windows and the door. The furniture was reduced to a minimum,

the whole of the centre of the floor being empty. Around the walls were

ranged easy chairs draped in some dark material: the carpet, thick and

luxurious, was dark also. In fact, the whole room was sombre--sombre and

silent.

Curiously he glanced at his companions. In one corner four of the women

were talking in low, restrained tones, evidently impressed with the

solemnity of the occasion, and involuntarily Merton smiled. They seemed

so very earnest--and so very dull. Then he looked at the other woman

who was standing by Paul Harker. She seemed of a different type--very

far from being dull. Tall and perfectly proportioned, she was dressed

in black, and as his eyes rested idly on the pair it struck him that his

host found her far from dull also. And at that moment they both turned

and looked at him.

It was the first time he had seen the woman's face, and he found himself

staring foolishly at her. She was one of the most beautiful things he

had ever seen--beautiful in a sensuous Eastern fashion--and Billy Merton

suddenly realized that he was gaping at her like a callow schoolboy.

Abruptly he looked away, annoyed with himself at his gaucherie, to find

that he was not the only person who was interested in the lady. For his

hostess, though ostensibly speaking to the Professor, was watching her

husband's companion with a look on her face which left no doubt as to

her feelings on the subject.

"So that's how the land lies, is it?" thought Merton; and the remark he

had overheard at the club came back to him. He knew there had been a

woman in it.

"Iris, I want you to meet Mr. Merton." His host's voice made him look

up quickly. "Let me introduce you to Miss Sala."

Merton rose and bowed: on the instant the remark had returned to his

memory.

"There will be a crash soon," a man had said, "with Harker and that Sala

girl."

And now he was talking to the Sala girl, and deciding that if she was

beautiful at a distance she was ten times more beautiful close to.

"No," he found himself saying, "I've not done much of this sort of thing

in England, though I've seen a good deal of what the African native

calls _ju-ju_."

"And it interests you?" Her voice was deep and very sweet.

"Very much," said Merton. "I'm most curious to see what is going to

happen to-night."

For a moment the smile seemed to ripple over the surface of her eyes:

then once more they were inscrutable.

"It's rather exciting if it comes off," she remarked, thoughtfully.

"Everything is pitch-dark, of course, and then you hear signs and

groans, and sometimes a hand comes out and touches you."

"But do you really believe----" began Merton, incredulously.

"I don't believe--I know," said the girl, calmly. "Why, at one seance I

attended a jade necklace I was wearing was wrenched off my neck. The

fastening was broken, and all the beads rolled about the floor. And

everyone had been bound in their chairs, Mr. Merton, before we started."

Billy nodded discreetly; it occurred to him that he had heard stories

like that before.

"You hear something moving round the room," she continued, "something

you know was not there at the beginning--and won't be there at the end.

And sometimes it bumps against you, and then it goes on floundering and

moving about the room. It sounds like a sack of potatoes being dragged

about at times, and then it changes and you hear soft footfalls."

Again Billy nodded: he was prepared to listen indefinitely to this sort

of stuff when the speaker was Iris Sala.

"It sounds more than rather exciting," he said, with a grin. "Let's

hope we get the jolly old flounderer to-night."

For the moment his own trouble was forgotten: he was only conscious of a

pleasurable sense of excitement. Not that he really believed in what

the girl had said, any more than the average normal person believes in a

haunted house. But even the most pronounced sceptic is conscious of a

little thrill when he turns out the light in the bedroom which is

popularly reputed to be the family ghost's special hunting-ground.

"I think it's very foolish of Mrs. Harker to wear those lovely pearls of

hers." The girl was speaking again, and Merton glanced at his hostess.

He had not remarked them specially before, but now he noticed that Mrs.

Harker had three long ropes of large beautifully matched pearls round

her neck. "My jade beads didn't matter very much--though I lost half a

dozen at least. But with those pearls--why, she might mislay a dozen if

the rope was broken, and be none the wiser."

A jovial chuckle made Merton look up. Paul Harker was standing behind

them, and he had evidently heard the girl's remark.

"I'm a Philistine, Iris. Forgive me. I don't somehow anticipate much

danger to Rose's pearls."

"You're wrong, Mr. Harker," she said, gravely. "You've never seen a

tangible materialization. I have--and I know."

"Anyway," he laughed, "there's no use attempting to ask her to take them

off, because she won't. And incidentally it looks to me as if the

worthy Professor was going to get busy. There's a wild look in his eye."

"Will you take your seats, please, ladies and gentlemen? The two

gentlemen on opposite sides of the room. I thank you." In a mournful

way he contemplated the circle from the centre of the floor. "I would

point out to all of you," he continued, "that our experiment to-night is

a difficult one, entailing the highest form of will-co-operation and

mental effort. If we are successful, I can tell no more than you what

form this materialization will take. But I must entreat of you to

concentrate with all your power on the one main salient fact of

producing a tangible thing: and I must beg you most earnestly not, under

any circumstances, to speak while the experiment is in progress. We

will now put out the lights."

And the last thing Billy Merton was conscious of before the lights went

out were Iris Sala's grey-green eyes fixed on him with an inscrutable

baffling look in them. Even in the darkness he seemed to see them:

languorous, mocking, a little cynical. And there was something

else--some other emotion which eluded him for the moment. It wasn't

sorrow, though it seemed akin to sorrow; it was--yes, it was pity. He

moved slightly in his chair, and nodded his head in the darkness.

Pity--that was the other message in those wonderful eyes: and the

thought brought him back to the reality of his own position.

Paul Harker must have told her, of course: told her that he'd been

losing heavily, and she was sorry for him. Even to a millionaire like

Harker five thousand pounds on a single hand of poker would seem fairly

heavy; and to him---- He gave a mirthless little laugh, which called

forth an instant rebuke from the Professor.

"Perfect silence, please."

Billy Merton lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. His brain was

racing with the feverish activity of a worried man. If it had been

anything else--anything but a gambling debt. Thank God! his father was

dead, and would never know the disgrace of it; but there were quite a

number of relations. They'd soon find out; things of that sort can't be

kept dark. What a fool, what a damnable fool he'd been!

And it was at that moment that there came a soft bump on the floor, and

he heard the woman in the next chair to him draw in her breath sharply.

For a while he stared rigidly into the darkness; then, with a slight

frown, he let his body relax. He was in no mood for entertainments of

this type: he wished now that he hadn't come. And yet it had been very

decent of Harker suggesting it--very decent. Was there a possibility,

he wondered--if he made a clean breast of the whole thing to his

host--was there a possibility of his lending four thousand? It seemed

the only hope, the bare chance of salvation. He'd ask him after this

cursed seance was over. The worst that could happen would be a refusal.

And supposing he didn't refuse? Supposing---- Billy drew in a deep

breath at the mere thought.

Thump! thump! Perfectly clear and audible the sounds came from the

centre of the room, bringing him back to the present, and he felt the

back of his scalp begin to tingle. Of course, it was a trick; and yet

he didn't somehow associate the Professor with a vulgar fraud. He had

struck him as a well-meaning, conscientious man, who was badly in need

of exercise and an outdoor life. Probably dyspeptic.

And if so--if it wasn't a trick--what was it that was now dragging

itself about?

"Like a sack of potatoes." Iris Sala's words came back to him as he sat

there motionless.

Suddenly he heard the Professor's voice, trembling a little with

excitement:

"Who are you! Speak!"

The noise ceased at once; only a long-drawn shuddering sigh came out of

the darkness. Then after a minute or two the uncanny dragging noise

commenced again: bump--slither--bump. He tried to locate it, but it

seemed everywhere. At one moment it was close by, at another it sounded

as if it was at the other side of the room.

It was devilish, it was horrible. He put a hand to his forehead; it was

wet with sweat. He felt an insane desire to get up from his chair and

rush from the room: the only trouble was that he had forgotten the exact

location of the door. Besides, he might bump into the Thing on the way.

A frightened cry rang out, and Billy Merton half-rose in his chair. It

was a woman's cry: probably the Thing had touched her. The bumping had

ceased, he noticed: another noise had taken its place--a slight gurgling

sound, accompanied by a quick beating on the floor, as if someone was

drumming with their feet on the carpet. And after a while that ceased

also. Silence, absolute and complete, reigned in the room for ten

minutes or a quarter of an hour. The Thing had gone.

At length the Professor spoke.

"Are you still there?" There was no sound in answer. "Manifest

yourself now if you are; otherwise the light will be turned up."

Still there was no sound, though the Professor waited a full minute

before speaking again.

"Will you, please, turn up the light, Mr. Harker?"

"Certainly." Paul Harker's cheerful voice came from the other side of

the room, as he rose to comply with the request. For a moment or two he

fumbled with the switch; then the room was once more flooded with light.

"A most satisfactory manifestation," began the Professor, only to stop

with a look of dawning horror on his face. Scattered around Mrs.

Harker's chair were scores of wonderful pearls. Sprawling over the arm

of the chair was the unfortunate woman herself.

For a moment there was a stunned silence in the room; then with a cry

Paul Harker sprang forward.

"She's fainted. I'll get brandy."

He dashed from the room, as two of the women, reassured by the words,

went over to Mrs. Harker.

"I knew it was risky wearing those pearls," whispered Iris Sala in

Billy's ear, but he hardly heard what she said. He was staring at the

limp form of Iris hostess through narrowed lids, and suddenly he turned

to the girl beside him.

"It's a doctor that's wanted, not brandy," he said, abruptly. "Where's

the telephone?"

"In the hall," answered the girl.

He ran downstairs, passing Paul Harker on the way. For what seemed an

eternity he stood by the instrument before he could get through. Then he

returned to the room above.

"A doctor's coming at once," he announced breathlessly, and then he

stopped dead--just inside the door.

Muddled together in a group at the end of the room were all the

women--all save Iris Sala. She was standing by Mrs. Harker's chair,

with Paul Harker on the other side.

"There is no need for a doctor, Mr. Merton," said Harker, in a terrible

voice. "My wife is dead. And my wife has been murdered!"

"Murdered!" gasped Billy, mechanically.

"Murdered," repeated Harker. "Come and see."

Dazedly Billy walked towards him, to stop and stare foolishly at the

woman in the chair. For they had propped her up and laid her head back,

and on her throat distinct and clear were the marks of a hand. The four

fingers on one side, the thumb on the other, showed up red and angry in

the bright light.

"She had a weak heart, Mr. Merton," continued Paul Harker, slowly. "Any

sudden shock, such as a hand grasping her throat"--his voice shook a

little--"would have been liable to kill her. And a hand _did_ grasp her

throat: the hand that tore off her pearls."

"My God!" muttered Billy. "It's ghastly--ghastly! Then that thing we

heard must have--must have----"

"Must have murdered my wife, Mr. Merton. The question is--what was it we

heard? I fear we shall find it difficult to persuade the police on the

matter of a tangible materialization. They deal in more mundane

causes."

And at that moment Billy Merton understood. The relentless voice of the

man, the strange look in the grey-green eyes of the girl--it seemed to

be triumph now--cleared away the fog from his brain, leaving it

ice-cold. He was a man who suddenly sees a flaring notice DANGER, and

realizes that there is peril ahead, though he knows not its exact form.

And with men of the Merton stamp it is best to be careful at such

moments.

"I see," he answered, slowly. "You mean that, regarded from the police

point of view, the supposition will be that one of the people who were

present during the seance tore the pearls from your wife's neck, and in

doing so murdered her."

"Regarded from every point of view," corrected Paul Harker, harshly.

"Then under those circumstances," said Merton, grimly, "the police must

be sent for at once."

With his hands in his pockets he was staring at Paul Harker, while from

the other end of the room came an occasional sob from some overwrought

woman.

The whole thing was like some horrible nightmare--bizarre, unreal--and

the sudden arrival of the doctor came as a relief to everyone.

Quickly he made his examination. Then he stood up.

"How did that happen?" he asked, gravely, staring at the marks on the

dead woman's throat.

"That man did it!" roared Harker, unable to contain himself longer and

pointing an accusing finger at Merton. "You vile scoundrel! you

blackguard! you--you----"

"Steady, Mr. Harker!" cried the doctor, sharply. "Am I to understand,

sir, that you did this?" He turned in amazement to Merton.

"You are not," said Billy, evenly. "It's a damnable lie."

"I don't understand," remarked the doctor. "Will somebody kindly

explain?"

It was Iris Sala who answered, and as she spoke the feeling that he was

dreaming grew stronger in Billy Merton.

"We were having a seance, Doctor," she began, in her deep rich voice,

"trying to get a tangible materialization. The room, of course, was in

pitch-darkness, and after it was over and the lights were turned up we

found that Mrs. Harker was--dead!"

Her voice faltered, and Harker lifted a grief-stricken face from beside

his wife's chair.

"But what happened during the seance?" asked the doctor.

"We heard something moving about. A thing that bumped and slithered

over the carpet."

"Pshaw!" snapped the doctor. "What I don't understand is why this

gentleman should be accused of it."

"Because," cried Harker, getting up, "he's in desperate want of money.

Look at this!" He fumbled in his pocket, and to Billy's amazement

produced the cheque for four thousand he had written at the Ultima

Thule. "I took this cheque to-night in exchange for one of my

own--because I liked the look of you. Yes--you wicked villain--I liked

the look of you; and I meant to do something for you. I brought him

here, never dreaming--never thinking----" His voice broke again. "He

saw my wife's pearls: was actually talking about them just before the

seance started--and then when the light went out he must have snatched

them off her neck. And in doing so you killed her. And to think I

actually heard you doing the vile deed!"

"You deny this?" asked the doctor.

"Absolutely," returned Billy, grimly.

"I feel that it is partly my fault," said the girl, in a broken voice.

"I never dreamed, of course, that this man was in want of money. And I

told him a foolish story about how some jade beads I once had were

snatched from my neck during a seance like this--by the thing that came.

Of course--it wasn't true. It was a joke. But I told it just to

frighten him. And I suppose he believed it, and thought he would do the

same." She buried her face in her hands.

"Well, are any of the pearls missing? If so, where are they?" The

doctor's question brought Paul Harker to his feet.

"I don't even know how many my dear wife had!" he cried.

"The point seems immaterial," said Billy, quietly. "Since I seem to be

the object of suspicion, I should be obliged if you would search me,

Doctor."

With a shrug of his shoulders the doctor complied. Methodically he ran

through every pocket; than he turned to Paul Harker.

"There are no pearls on this gentleman," he said, curtly.

"Ah, but he left the room. He left the room to telephone for you. He

might have put them in his overcoat."

"Then we'll send for the overcoat," remarked the doctor, ringing the

bell. "With your permission, that is, sir." He turned to Merton.

"By all means," said Billy. "Only I would like to state, should they be

found there, that I am not the only person who has left the room since

the tragedy. Mr. Harker has also been downstairs."

Paul Harker laughed wildly.

"Yes, I know. To get brandy. Before I knew----"

He paused as a footman opened the door.

"Bring this gentleman's overcoat," ordered the doctor, "up to this room.

And be careful to see that nothing falls out of the pockets."

With one horrified glance at the motionless figure in the chair, the

footman fled, returning almost immediately with the coat.

"This is your coat?" asked the doctor.

"It is," said Billy.

And then in a tense silence the doctor extracted twenty large pearls

from different pockets.

"You murderer!" Paul Harker's voice whispered words seemed to ring

through the room, and with a little strangled gasp a woman fainted. The

doctor's face, grim and accusing, was turned on Billy, as if demanding

some explanation which he knew full well could not be given. And of all

those present only Billy Merton himself seemed cool and calm, as, with

his hands still in his pockets, he faced the ring of his accusers.

"What have you to say?" said the doctor, sternly.

"One thing--and one thing only," answered Billy. "I have read in

fiction of diabolical plots: to-night I have met one in real life. But,

as so often happens in fiction, one mistake is made, which leads to the

undoing of the villain. And one mistake has been made to-night."

And now his eyes, merciless and stern, were fixed on Paul Harker, and he

noticed with a certain grim amusement that a muscle in the millionaire's

face was beginning to twitch.

"Mr. Harker is a man of nerve: he also believes in seizing the right

moment. And to-night struck him as being the right moment."

"What are you talking about?" snarled Harker.

"For reasons best known to yourself, Mr. Harker"--he glanced from him to

Iris Sala, from whose eyes the strange look of triumph had mysteriously

vanished, leaving only fear--deadly, gripping fear--"you wished to get

rid of your wife."

"It's a lie!" Paul Harker sprang forward, his fist raised to strike.

"You will doubtless have ample opportunity for proving it," continued

Billy, imperturbably. "By a happy combination of circumstances, a

suitable moment--the darkness of a seance--and a suitable

motive--robbery--presented themselves to your hand. Acting according to

your tradition, you took them. And as far as I can see, Mr. Harker, you

would have been successful had you also selected a suitable person.

Therein lay your one error."

"Am I to understand," said Harker, in a grating voice, "that you are

accusing me--of murdering my wife? Why--you miserable cur----" He

stopped, choking with anger.

"I make no such accusation," answered Billy. "All I state is that I

didn't." He turned gravely to the doctor. "What was the cause of Mrs.

Harker's death?"

"Heart failure--caused by partial strangulation with the hand."

"Which hand?"

The doctor looked at him quickly; then glanced once more at the dead

woman.

"The right hand."

"You swear to that?"

"Undoubtedly I swear to it," said the doctor.

For the first time Billy Merton withdrew his right hand from his pocket,

and held it out in front of him.

"The one mistake," he said, grimly.

_The first, second, and third fingers were missing!_

For a moment there was a deathly silence; then the doctor suddenly

sprang forward.

"Stop him!" he roared.

But Paul Harker had already joined the woman he had foully killed, and

in the air there hung the faint smell of burnt almonds. Prussia acid is

quick.

An hour later Billy Merton walked slowly along the deserted streets

towards his rooms. The police had come and gone; everything in the room

where the tragedy had taken place had duly passed before the searching

eye of officialdom. Everything, that is, save one exhibit, and that

reposed in Billy's pocket. And when a man has signed a cheque for four

thousand pounds on a total bank balance of as many pence, his pocket is

the best place for it.

_*X -- A Payment on Account*_

*I*

"Excuse me, but could you give me some idea as to where I am? I have a

shrewd notion that it's Devonshire, but----"

The speaker, holding a dilapidated cap in his hand, broke off as the

girl sat up and looked at him. He was a dishevelled-looking object,

covered with dust, and--romance may be great, but truth is greater--it

was only too obvious to the girl that he was very hot. Perspiration ran

in trickles down his face, ploughing dark furrows through the thick

stratum of road dust which otherwise obscured his features. His collar

was open, his sleeves rolled back from his wrists, and on his back was

strapped a small knapsack. An unlit pipe, which he had removed from his

mouth on speaking to her, in one hand, and a long walking-stick in the

other, completed the picture.

"You don't look as if you'd been flying," she remarked, dispassionately.

"It's Devonshire all right."

"That's a relief." She had a fleeting glimpse of a flash of white teeth

as he smiled. "I had an idea it might be Kent. Or even farther. Have

you ever been on a walking tour?"

"That's what you're doing, is it?"

"You know," remarked the man, "I think even Watson would regard you with

scorn. And our one and only Sherlock would burst into tears." He

leaned over the railings and commenced to fill his pipe. The little

garden in which the girl was sitting seemed delightfully cool and shady;

the girl herself, in her muslin frock, looking at him with an amused

twinkle in her eyes seemed almost too good to be true. After that

interminable road, with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky. With

a sigh of relief he passed the back of his hand across his forehead, and

the girl laughed.

"I wouldn't do it by bits if I were you. It makes you look rather like

a zebra."

"Don't mock at me," he implored, "or I shall burst into tears. It's the

very first time I've ever done anything of this sort, I promise you. I

will go farther. It's the very last as well."

"But if you don't like walking--why walk?"

"How like a woman!" He fumbled in his pocket for a box of matches and

lit his pipe. "How exactly like! Have you never felt an irresistible

temptation to do something wild and desperate? Something which is

painted in glowing colours by some scoundrel, who revenges himself on

humanity by foully inducing innocent people to follow his advice?"

"I once tried keeping bees," she murmured, thoughtfully.

"There you are!" exclaimed the man, triumphantly. "You see you are in no

position to point the finger of scorn at me. You were led away by

fictitious rubbish on the bee as a household pet. You expected honey:

you obtained stings. I was likewise led away, by a scoundrel who wrote

on the delights of walking. He especially roused my expectation by the

number of times he threw himself down on the soft, sweet-smelling turf

while the gentle wind played round his temples and the lazy beat of the

breakers came from the distant Atlantic. I tried that exercise the very

first day. Net result. I landed on a thistle and winded myself."

She gurgled gently. "At any rate, I'll bet he told you that you ought

to come with a map."

"Wrong again. He especially stipulated that you should have no set

route. Just walk and walk; and then, I suppose, when a kindly death

intervenes, your relatives can't find you, and your funeral expenses

fall on the parish in which you expire."

He straightened up as the door of the house opened and a charming,

grey-haired woman came slowly down the path. She glanced at him

quickly--a courteous but shrewd look; then she looked at the girl.

"Sheila, dear, who----?"

"A gentleman on a walking tour, mother, who has lost his way."

"You're not far from Umberleigh," said the elder woman. "Where are you

making for?"

"Nowhere in particular, as I've been explaining to your daughter,

madam," smiled the man. "Finally, however, I shall take the train and

arrive in London and slaughter the man who wrote the article which

appeared in the paper."

"Sounds like the house that Jack built," laughed the girl. "Anyway,

you'd better stop to lunch."

The man glanced at her mother, who seconded the invitation with a

gracious smile.

"My name is Hewson," he remarked. "Charles Hewson." He glanced at them

as he spoke, and gave a little sigh of relief: evidently the name meant

nothing to them. "And I don't always look like a zebra."

He followed them slowly up the shady path, and the girl laughed again.

"Doesn't matter what you look like," she cried, "as long as you know

something about postage-stamps."

"Do you collect?" he asked.

"No--but daddy does. He's partially insane on the subject."

"Sheila!" reproved her mother.

"Well, he is, darling, you know. You always say so yourself."

For a moment the elder woman's eyes met the man's over the girl's head.

And in that momentary glance the whole story of the house and its

inmates seemed to stand revealed. The perfect love and happiness that

breathed through the place; the certainty that it was the girl who was

really the head of the little kingdom, with a sweet mother and an

unpractical father as her adoring subjects; the glorious unworldliness

of his surroundings struck the man like a blow. The contrast was so

wonderful--the contrast to his own life. If only---- Unconsciously his

glance rested on the slim figure in the muslin frock. If only---- Why

not?

"I beg your pardon." He turned apologetically to the mother.

"I only said that our name was Crossley, Mr. Hewson. And I wondered if

you would care to have a bath."

Charles Hewson looked at her gravely. "Are you always so charming, Mrs.

Crossley, to the stranger within your gates? Especially when he's a

dirty-looking tramp like me." Then he smiled quickly; it was a trick of

his, that sudden, fleeting smile. "I can think of nothing I'd like more

than a bath, if I might so far trespass on your hospitality."

*II*

Lunch confirmed his diagnosis of the Crossley household. The girl's

father fitted in exactly with his mental picture; an utterly lovable,

white-haired man of about sixty, and as unsophisticated as a child.

Time, and the stress of things worldly, seemed to have passed over the

little house near Umberleigh, leaving it untouched and scathless. And

once again the contrast struck him, and he wondered, just a little

bitterly, whether after all it was worth it. The instant decisions, the

constant struggle, the ceaseless strain of his life--and then, this.

Country cousins, vegetating in obscurity. It struck Charles Hewson that

he wouldn't object to being a vegetable for a while. He was tired, and

he realized it for the first time. The last year had tried even him.

It was a sudden impulse that made him suggest it, just as luncheon was

over.

"Is there a decent inn here, Mrs. Crossley, where I could put up for a

bit? I've fallen in love with this place, and I want a rest."

"You look tired," she answered, kindly. "And this is a wonderful place

for a rest cure. But I'm afraid the inn is a long way off. If you care

to"--she paused for a moment--"we could put you up for a few days."

"I think you're the kindest people I've ever met," said Hewson, and for

a moment his eyes ceased to look tired. "And I warn you I'm not going

to give you the chance of reconsidering your offer."

"You'll find it very dull," warned the girl.

He laughed as he rose from the table. "I'm open to a small bet that

you'll have to drive me away. I shall become a fixture about the

house."

He followed them into the low, old-fashioned hall, and stood for a while

drinking in the homeliness of it all. That was what it was--homely; and

in London Charles Hewson lived in rooms and fed at his club or a

restaurant.

"I don't know if you're any judge of pewter, Mr. Hewson," said his host,

"but we've got some nice bits here and in my study."

"One step from that to postage-stamps," laughed the girl. "You've got

to come and do a job of work in the garden later, Mr. Hewson, don't

forget. I'll come and rescue you in half an hour or so."

He watched her go upstairs, then with a little sigh of pure joy he

followed the old man into his study.

"Are you interested in philately, by any chance?" inquired Mr. Crossley,

eagerly.

Hewson shook his head. "I'm afraid I know nothing about it," he

answered. "I was once commissioned by a young nephew to send him all

the stamps I could find which had pretty pictures on them. You know,

harbours, and mountains, and elephants. I found them in all sorts of

outlandish places when I was going round the world." He gave one of his

quick smiles. "But I'm afraid that is the extent of my knowledge."

"The schoolboy collection." The other waved a tolerant hand. "Now I'm

sure that that would have bored him."

With reverent hands he lifted a card and handed it to Hewson. "Look at

that, sir; look at that. The complete set of New Brunswick--the first

issue, unused."

Hewson gazed dispassionately at ten somewhat blotchy pieces of paper,

and refrained from heretical utterance. To his Philistine eye the set

he had bought in Samoa or elsewhere depicting jaguars and toucans were

infinitely more pleasing.

"Valuable, I suppose?" he hazarded.

The other waved a deprecating hand. "Several hundred--if I chose to

sell. Mercifully," he went on after a little pause, "it wasn't

necessary."

For a second Hewson's shrewd eyes were fixed on him; then he resumed his

study of the rarities. Money trouble, was there?

"Now this was unique--this set." His host was looking regretfully at

another card. "Mauritius. And then I had to dispose of the penny

orange-red. Worth the better part of a thousand pounds alone." He laid

down the card. "Oh! I do hope I shall be able to get it back. I sold

it to a dealer in the Strand, and I told him at the time that I should

want to buy it back again. That was a month ago, and I thought I should

have been able to by now."

Once again Hewson's keen eyes were fixed on the other.

"Expecting a legacy?" he remarked, casually.

"A legacy! Oh! no!" The old man smiled. "But I had a very wonderful

chance, given me by an acquaintance, of doubling my small capital." For

a moment Hewson stopped smoking: chances of doubling capital are not

handed round as a rule by acquaintances. "And I seem to have done it,"

continued Mr. Crossley, rubbing his hands together. "I seem to have

turned my five thousand pounds into ten. In a month. Isn't it

wonderful?"

"Very," commented the other. "Have you got the money?"

"No: that's what I can't understand. I suppose it must be something to

do with settling day--or whatever they call it." He beamed at his

listener. "I'm afraid I'm very ignorant on these matters, Mr. Hewson,

but it seems almost too good to be true. I wanted the extra money so

much--to give my little girl a better time. It's dull for her here,

though she never complains. And if only I could get it now, I could buy

back that penny Mauritius, and invest the other nine thousand." In his

excitement he walked up and down the room, while his listener stared

fixedly at a number of blotchy pieces of paper on a card. "Do you know

anything about stocks and shares, Mr. Hewson?"

"Quite a lot," said Hewson. "In my er--small way, I dabble in them."

"Ah! then perhaps you can tell me when I can expect the money." Mr.

Crossley sat down at his desk, and opened a drawer. "It was a month ago

that I paid five thousand pounds for shares in the Rio Lopez Mine."

"In the what?" Hewson almost shouted.

"The Rio Lopez Mine," repeated the other. "You've heard of it, of

course. The shares were standing, so my friend told me, at two pounds,

so I got two thousand five hundred shares. Now, yesterday I happened to

buy the _Times_, and I looked up the Stock Exchange quotations. You can

judge of my delight, Mr. Hewson, when I actually saw that the shares

were standing at four pounds three shillings."

"Rio Lopez four pounds!" said Hewson, dazedly. "May I see the paper?"

He took it and glanced at the Supplementary List.

"MINES--MISCELLANEOUS.

"Rio Lopez Deep--4/3."

The old man was still talking gaily on, but Hewson hardly heard what he

said. From outside the lazy hum of a summer afternoon came softly

through the open window, and after a while he laid down the paper and

commenced to refill his pipe. Such colossal innocence almost staggered

him. That there could be anybody in the world who did not know that the

figures meant four shillings and threepence, left him bereft of speech.

And then his feeling of amazement gave way to one of bitter anger

against the scoundrel who had unloaded a block of shares in a wild-cat

mine, at the top of an extremely shady boom, on such a man as Mr.

Crossley.

"Well, when do you think I may expect the money?" The question roused

him from his reverie.

"It's hard to say, Mr. Crossley," remarked Hewson, deliberately.

"Different firms have different arrangements, you know."

"Of course--of course. I'm such a baby in these things. But I do want

to get my penny Mauritius back before it's sold."

Hewson bent forward suddenly, ostensibly to examine his pipe. For the

first time for many years he found a difficulty in speaking; there had

been no room for sentiment in his career. Then he straightened up.

"I quite understand, Mr. Crossley," he said, slowly. "And perhaps the

best thing to do would be to put the matter in my hands. It has

occurred to me since lunch that I've really got no clothes at all here.

And so I thought I'd run up to Town and get a few and then return.

While I'm up there I could look into things for you."

"But I really couldn't worry you, Mr. Hewson," protested the other.

"No worry at all. It's my work. I shall charge you commission."

Hewson was lighting his pipe. "You have the certificate, I suppose."

"I've this paper," answered Mr. Crossley. "Is that what you mean?"

"That's it. Will you trust it to me? I can give you any reference you

like, if you care to come with me as far as Barnstaple. They know me at

the bank. I shall have to join the main line there."

"Well, perhaps----" The old man paused doubtfully. "You see, Mr.

Ferguson told me to keep this most carefully."

"Was Mr. Ferguson the man who sold you the shares?"

"Yes. Mr. Arthur Ferguson, of 20, Plumpton Street, in the City. He was

stopping down here for a few days, and he dined with us once or twice."

Hewson rose abruptly and went to the window. He had not the pleasure of

Mr. Arthur Ferguson's acquaintance, but he was already tasting die

pleasures of his first--and last--interview with that engaging

gentleman. Dined--had he?

"Will you come over with me to Barnstaple this afternoon?"

"Good heavens, daddy!" came a voice from outside. "What are you going

to Barnstaple for? You know this heat will upset you."

Hewson swung round as the girl came in from the garden. She was wearing

a floppy sun-bonnet, and it suddenly struck him that she was one of the

loveliest things he had ever seen. No wonder the old chap had tried to

get a bit more money with the idea of giving her a good time.

"I've got to go up to London, Miss Crossley----" was it his imagination,

or did her face fall a little?--"to get some more clothes. And there's

a little matter of business I'm going to attend to for your father. The

point is that he doesn't know me--none of you know me. And in the

hard-headed, suspicious world in which I live, before you entrust a

valuable document to another man you want to know something about him.

Now, the bank manager at Barnstaple does know me, and I suggested that

your father should come over and see him."

"It sounds very mysterious," laughed the girl. "But all I know is that

if daddy goes to Barnstaple in this heat, he'll have the most awful

head. Suppose--" she paused doubtfully--"suppose I came? Daddy could

give me the document, and then when I'd seen the bank manager I could

give it to you."

Hewson turned away to hide the too obvious delight he felt at the

suggestion, and glanced inquiringly at his host.

"Perhaps that would be the best solution, Mr. Crossley," he murmured.

"If it isn't troubling your daughter too much."

The old man chuckled. "If she only knew what it was for, she wouldn't

mind the trouble. It's a secret, don't forget, Mr. Hewson. Now,

girlie, take that envelope, and when the bank manager has told you that

our kind friend here isn't a burglar, or an escaped convict"--he

chuckled again--"give it to him to take to London. But you're not to

look inside."

She kissed him lightly, and turned to Hewson.

"We can just catch the local train," she said, a trifle abruptly.

"We'll go through the short cut."

She was silent during the walk to the station, and it was not until they

were in the train that she looked at him steadily and spoke.

"What is this mystery, Mr. Hewson?"

"I think your father said it was a secret, didn't he?" he answered,

lightly.

"Is it something to do with money?"

"It is."

She stared out of the window: then impulsively she laid a hand on his

arm.

"He's such a darling," she burst out, "but he's so innocent. He doesn't

know anything about money or the world."

"Do you?" asked Hewson, gently.

"That doesn't matter. A girl needn't. But I know he's just mad to get

more money--not for himself--but for me. He wants to give me a good

time--like other girls, he says." She paused a moment, and frowned.

"There was a man here--a few weeks ago--and daddy met him. He came to

dinner. I didn't trust him, Mr. Hewson; there was something--oh! I

don't know. I suppose I'm very ignorant myself. But I'm certain that

he persuaded daddy to do something with his money. He was always going

to the bank, and sending registered letters, after the man left. And

he's been worried ever since--until yesterday--when he recovered all his

old spirits."

The train was already running into Barnstaple--the quickest journey that

Charles Hewson had ever made in his life.

"I don't think," he said, gravely, "that I shall be letting out the

secret if I tell you that my visit to London concerns that man, and some

money he invested for your father. There's a little delay in the

business--and I'm going to see about it."

They walked out of the station towards the bank, the girl clasping the

precious envelope tightly.

"I want to see the manager," said Hewson to the cashier. "Hewson is my

name."

With astonishing alacrity the manager appeared from his office.

"Come in, Mr. Hewson--come in." He stepped aside as the girl, followed

by Hewson, entered his sanctum.

"I am doing some business for Mr. Crossley, of Umberleigh," said Hewson,

quietly. "This is his daughter, Miss Crossley. It concerns some

shares--the certificate of which I propose to take to London with me.

Would you be good enough to assure Miss Crossley that I am a fit and

proper person to be entrusted with such a matter? I happen to be a

stranger to them."

The manager's face had changed through various stages of bewilderment

while Hewson was speaking, but he was saved the necessity of an

immediate answer by the girl. Charles Hewson--_the_ Charles

Hewson--coming to him to be vouched for!

"This is the paper." The girl handed it over to him, and a little

dazedly he took the certificate from the envelope.

"A very admirable security," said Hewson, deliberately, "bought by Mr.

Crossley a month ago."

"Very admirable!" spluttered the manager, only to relapse into silence

under the penetrating stare of Hewson's eye.

"And if you will just vouch for me to Miss Crossley, I don't think we

need detain you further."

"With pleasure." Matters were completely beyond him: but, at any rate,

he could do that. "You can place things in Mr. Hewson's hands with

absolute confidence, Miss Crossley."

"Thank you," said the girl, and they all rose. He opened the door and

she passed into the bank. For one moment the two men were alone, and

Hewson seized the manager by the arm.

"Not a word," he whispered. "They don't know who I am. Father been

swindled by some swine in London."

Nodding portentously, the worthy manager followed them to the door.

Assuredly one of the most remarkable episodes that had come his way,

during thirty years' experience. Rio Lopez! Two thousand five hundred

of them! And he was still staring dazedly at a placard extolling

Exchequer Bonds, which adorned his office wall, when the London train

steamed slowly out of the station. Its departure had been to the casual

eye quite normal: but the casual eye is, as its name implies, casual.

The departure had been far from normal.

It was just as the guard was waving his flag that a man, leaning our of

the window of a first-class carriage, spoke to a girl standing on the

platform.

"You say you didn't trust the man, Miss Crossley. Do you--trust me?"

"Naturally," she answered demurely, "after what the bank manager said."

"It rests on the bank manager, does it?"

She blushed faintly. "No, Mr. Hewson, it doesn't. One doesn't need a

bank manager to confirm--a certainty."

And then the fool engine-driver had started his beastly machine. But to

call it a normal departure is obviously absurd.

*III*

"Good-morning. Mr. Ferguson, I believe?".

Hewson entered the office at 20, Plumpton Street, and bowed slightly to

the man at the desk. As he had expected, the type was a common one--one,

incidentally, with which he had had a good deal to do himself. Mr.

Arthur Ferguson could be placed at once in the category of men who

consider that in business everything is fair, and that if they can get

the better of another man the funeral is his. And as an outlook on life

there is nothing much to be said against it, provided the other man is

of the same kidney.

"Yes." Ferguson indicated a chair. "What can I do for you, Mr.----"

He paused, interrogatively.

"I have come to have a short talk with you on a little matter of

business." Hewson took the proffered chair, while Ferguson glanced at

him covertly. Who the deuce was the fellow? His face seemed vaguely

familiar.

"Delighted!" he murmured. "Have a cigar?"

"Thank you--no. I have just come from Umberleigh, in Devonshire, Mr.

Ferguson."

A barely perceptible change passed over the other's face.

"Indeed," he said, easily. "I was there myself a little while ago."

"So I understood," remarked Hewson. "A Mr. Crossley told me that you

had been good enough to sell him some shares while you were there--a

packet of Rio Lopez, to be exact."

"I did," answered Ferguson. "Though I hardly see what concern it is of

yours."

"All in good time," said Hewson, taking the certificate from his pocket.

"Two thousand five hundred, I see, when they were standing at two

pounds. And to-day they're a shade over four shillings--to-morrow,

quite possibly, sixpence."

"Everything is down," remarked Ferguson with a wave of his hand. "Sorry

for Mr. Crossley."

"So am I," said the other. "It seems hard luck on an innocent old man

like that to be left to carry the baby. He apparently placed such

reliance on your judgment, Mr. Ferguson. Moreover, I gather you dined

with him two or three times."

"Well, what if I did?" He leaned back in his chair impatiently. "Might

I suggest that time is money to some of us, and that I'm rather busy

this morning? I'd be obliged if you'd get to the point."

"Certainly," said Hewson, quietly. "I have a nice little bunch of two

thousand five hundred Rio Lopez which I shall be delighted to sell you,

on behalf of Mr. Crossley--at two pounds a share."

For a moment or two Mr. Ferguson seemed to have difficulty in breathing.

"Buy Rio Lopez at two!" he gasped. "Are you insane?"

"Not at all," murmured Hewson, lighting a cigarette. "That is my

offer."

"Good-morning," laughed the other. "You know the way out, don't you?

And another time, my dear sir, you'd better learn a little more about

the ways of finance before you waste your own and other people's time

coming up from the wilds of Devon." He pulled a paper towards him and

picked up his pen. It struck him as one of the richest things he'd ever

heard--a jest altogether after his own heart. And it was just as the

full beauty of it was sinking in, that his eye caught the card which his

visitor had pushed along the writing-desk.

"Mr. Charles Hewson." Blinking slightly he stared at it, then he put

down his pen. "Mr. Charles Hewson."

"You may know the name, Mr. Ferguson," remarked the other, quietly.

"And I can assure you that your solicitude for my knowledge of finance

touches me deeply."

"But, I don't understand, Mr. Hewson. I had no idea who you were, but

now that I do know it makes your suggestion even more amazing."

"In an ordinary way of business, certainly," agreed Hewson. "This is

not quite ordinary. Without mincing words, I consider that you played

Mr. Crossley an extremely dirty trick--considering that he'd opened his

house to you, and was quite obviously as ignorant of business as a

child. Why--the poor old chap saw the price in the paper the other day

and thought they were standing at four pounds three shillings." He was

staring at Ferguson with level eyes as he spoke. "I give you the chance

of returning him the money he gave to you. If you do--the matter is

ended. If you don't--I shall pay it myself. But--and this is the point,

Mr. Ferguson, which you had better consider--if I pay that money, I

shall recover it from you. Is it worth your while to have me for an

enemy? As surely as I'm sitting here, by the time I've finished with

you, you'll not have lost five thousand--you'll have lost fifty."

"It wouldn't be worth your while," blustered Ferguson, though the hand

which held his cigar shook a little.

"Worth is a comparative term," said Hewson, calmly. "Financially, I

agree: you're not big enough to worry over. But it will afford me great

pleasure and amusement, Mr. Ferguson--and from that point of view it

_will_ be worth while." He took out his watch. "I'll give you two

minutes to decide."

He got up and strolled round the room, glancing every now and then at

the man sitting at the desk. In advance, he knew the answer: any man in

Ferguson's place would think twice and then again before he deliberately

took up such a challenge. And quite accurately he read the thoughts that

were passing in the other's mind. Dare he gamble on the possibility of

Hewson--as time went by--forgetting his threat, and letting the thing

drop? That was the crux. It was an insignificant amount to a man like

Hewson, but--was it the money that was at the bottom of it? While a man

in Hewson's position might well forget five thousand pounds, there might

be some other factor which would not slip his mind. It suddenly

occurred to Mr. Arthur Ferguson that there was a singularly attractive

girl in the Crossley household. And if she was the driving factor ...

One thing was perfectly certain; he would willingly pay five thousand to

escape a relentless vendetta with Charles Hewson as his enemy. It was

no idle threat on the latter's part: if he chose to he could ruin him.

"Well?" With a snap Hewson closed his watch. "What is it to be?"

By way of answer Ferguson took out his cheque-book.

"Good. Make your cheque payable to Mr. Crossley, and make it for ten

thousand. I will give you a cheque for five. You can notify the

company as to the transfer."

He drew his own cheque-book from his pocket.

"And another time, Mr. Ferguson, leave the Crossleys of this world

alone. Good-morning."

Mr. Arthur Ferguson was still staring dully out of the window when

Charles Hewson entered a stamp shop in the Strand in search of a penny

Mauritius.

*IV*

"I can hardly believe it. In just over a month. And the stamp as well.

Mr. Hewson--I can never thank you sufficiently."

Back in the sunny study at Umberleigh, Mr. Crossley stared

dazedly--first at his precious stamp, then at the cheque.

"Ten thousand pounds! I must write him a letter and thank him."

"I'm sure Mr. Ferguson would like that," murmured Hewson. "But if I may

give you a word of advice, Mr. Crossley, I wouldn't try a gamble like

that again. Mines are precarious things--very precarious."

"You mean, I might have lost my money?" said the old man, nervously.

"Such things have been known to happen," said Hewson, gravely. "By the

way, is your daughter not at home?"

"She has gone over to Barnstaple with her mother. I'm expecting them

back at any moment. Won't they be delighted?" He chuckled gleefully,

and produced the precious card containing the Mauritius set. And with a

quiet smile on his face Charles Hewson watched him from the depths of an

arm-chair. What a child he was: what a charming, lovable child!

"There: the complete set again." In triumph he held up the card for

Hewson's inspection, and at that moment Mrs. Crossley and the girl came

through the window.

The good news poured out in a torrent, while Hewson stood almost

forgotten in the background.

Ten thousand pounds--two thousand five hundred shares--capital doubled

in a month--and the stamp. The old man brandished the cheque in his

excitement, and, at length, Mrs. Crossley turned to Hewson with a smile.

"We seem to have entertained an angel unawares," and her eyes were a

little misty. "Thank you, Mr. Hewson."

"No need to thank me, Mrs. Crossley," he laughed. "These things just

happen."

He glanced at the girl, who had so far said nothing. She was staring at

him steadily, and there was no answering smile on her face.

"Did you say two thousand five hundred shares, daddy?" Her voice was

quite expressionless, as she turned to her father.

"That's it, little girl," he cried. "Sold at over four pounds a share.

Now you'll be able to have some more frocks!"

He kissed her lovingly, and followed his wife from the room, still

chuckling and rubbing his hands together.

"Would you explain, please, Mr. Hewson?" said the girl, in a flat, dead

voice as the door closed.

"Explain, Miss Crossley! How do you mean? Your father acquired some

shares a little while ago--two thousand five hundred, as he told

you--which have just been sold at rather over four pounds a share.

Hence the stamp--and a cheque for ten thousand."

"I went into the bank at Barnstaple this afternoon," said the girl,

dully, "and I happened to speak to the cashier. He told me who you

were. You're a multi-millionaire, aren't you?"

Charles Hewson shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid I am," he laughed.

"Is that what you want me to explain?"

"Don't laugh, please," said the girl, quietly. "I said that you'd been

good enough to do some business for us--something to do with Rio Lopez

shares. He said, 'Good heavens! Miss Crossley, surely Mr. Hewson

hasn't put you into Rio Lopez?' I said, 'Why not--aren't they good

shares?' You see, I didn't know what the business was you were doing.

He said, 'Good! Why the blessed things aren't worth much more than the

paper they're written on. Standing about four shillings, I think.' And

now you tell me you've sold two thousand five hundred of them at over

four pounds." Slim and erect she stood there facing him. "I don't know

anything about business: but I'm not a fool. So will you please

explain?"

If there was anything really in the absent-treatment business, an

unsuspecting and well-meaning cashier would have fallen dead in the bank

at that moment.

"Will you come into the garden, Miss Crossley?" said Hewson, gravely.

"I could explain better out-of-doors."

In silence she followed him, and they found two chairs under a shady

tree.

"Ferguson," he began, quietly, "the man who was down here a month ago,

was a pretty smart gentleman. He did a business deal with your father

which, legally speaking, was quite in order. He possessed two thousand

five hundred Rio Lopez, which, at that time, were standing at two

pounds. He sold these shares to your father knowing perfectly well that

they were only standing at such a figure because of a distinctly shady

artificial boom which had been given them. He knew they were bound to

slump--that is, fall in price. So he--finding your father supremely

ignorant of finance--unloaded those shares on to him, and left him--as

the saying goes--to carry the baby. In other words, shares that your

father paid two pounds each for, he would only get four shillings for

to-day. This morning I interviewed Mr. Ferguson in his office. And I

persuaded him--how, is immaterial--to refund your father the money.

That's all there is to it."

"I see," said the girl. "It was very good of you. But if my father

only paid two pounds for each share--that makes five thousand. The

cheque he's got is for ten. How did he double his capital?"

Hewson bit his lip: how indeed?

"Oh! please be frank, Mr. Hewson. Have you given my father five

thousand pounds?"

His fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of his chair.

"Yes," he said at length. "I have. The dear old man thought the shares

were standing at four pounds: he read the four and threepence in the

paper as four pounds three shillings. And," he turned appealingly to

the girl, "if you could only dimly guess what pleasure it's given me,

Miss Crossley."

"Oh! stop, please." With a little cry that was half a sob she rose. "I

suppose you meant it for the best: thought you were being kind. I don't

suppose you realized your--your impertinence. Because we offer you

lunch, Mr. Hewson, it gives you no right to dare to give my father

money. And now it's going to be doubly hard for him--when I tell him.

He'll be so--so ashamed."

She turned away, hiding her face in her hands, and for a while there was

silence in the sunny garden. And in that moment the man knew that the

quest was over, the quest--conscious or unconscious, it matters

not--that has been man's through the ages. But no hint of it sounded in

his level voice as he spoke: the time for that was not yet.

"And so, Miss Crossley, you propose to tell your father?"

"What else can I possibly do?" She turned on him indignantly.

"Of course you must decide," he continued, quietly. "I quite see how

the matter looks to you: I wonder if you are being equally fair to me.

I come here: I meet your father. I find that he has been swindled by a

man in London--a moral swindle only possible because of your father's

charming innocence. I wonder if you can realize what the atmosphere of

this place means to me--an atmosphere which must depend, to a large

extent, on the happiness and joy of you three."

She was watching him now, and suddenly his swift smile flashed out.

"Don't you understand, Miss Crossley, that all money is relative? I'm

going to allude purposely to my disgusting wealth. You wouldn't think

much of paying five shillings for pleasure, would you? Well, five

thousand pounds means no more to me. And I've bought myself pleasure

with that money such as I don't think you can begin to conceive of."

Again he smiled: then before she could reply he went on. "So I want you

to remember, when you make your decision, what you are going to

sacrifice on the altar of pride. My feelings don't matter: but are you

going to deliberately prick the bubble of your father's happiness and

change him in a moment from a delighted child into a broken and worried

old man?"

The girl bit her lip and stared over the rambling garden with troubled

eyes. How could she let her father take the money: how could she? And

then she heard his voice again from close behind her.

"I'm going back to London," he said, deliberately, "and I would ask you

to keep this as our secret. I hadn't intended to go back yet: but now

that you have found out--perhaps it's better. I'll leave you free to

puzzle the thing out by yourself: only I want to make one condition."

"What's that?" whispered the girl.

"I want to come back for my promised visit later." Gently he swung her

round and his eyes--tender and quizzical--rested on the lovely face so

close to his. "And when I come back, I'm going to ask you a question,

which, if you can see your way to answering with a yes, will make me

your father's debtor for life. And then we could consider the five

thousand as a payment on account, which would completely and finally

settle the matter."

Almost against her will, a faint smile began to twitch round the girl's

lips.

"Of course I'm not much good at business, as I said, but I didn't know

that anybody ever paid on account until he had, at any rate, the promise

of the goods."

"In these days of competition," murmured Hewson, "one sometimes has to

pay for the right of the first refusal."