And after the next audience he sat down and thought. But, as often

happens with meaner men, he took nothing by it, except a pain in the

head and a temper much the worse. So that he ordered three more assaults

on the ramparts of the City of Or, which ended as the first three had;

and then sent another summons to Countess Runa, to which she returned

the same answer. And for the life of him the King could see in it no

meaning save that never in all his life should he pass the ramparts.

“Only an army of birds could do what she says!” he declared peevishly.

Indeed he was so chagrined and shamed that he would then and there have

raised the siege and returned to the capital, had it not been for the

unfortunate circumstance that, on leaving it, he had publicly and

solemnly vowed never to return, nor to show himself to his lieges there,

unless and until he should be master of the City of Or. So there he was,

unable to enter either city, and saddled with a great army to feed,

winter coming on, and the entire situation, as his Chancellor observed,

full of perplexity. On the top of all this, too, there were constant

sounds and signs of merriment and plenty within the city, and the

Countess’s men, when they had eaten, took to flinging the bones of their

meat to the besiegers outside--an action most insulting, however one

might be pleased to interpret it.

Meanwhile Countess Runa sat among her ladies and knights, on her high

chair under the emblazoned window, with the sun striking athwart her

fair hair. Often she smiled; once or twice she sighed. Perhaps she was

wondering what King Stanislas would do next--and when he would

understand her message.

II

There was with King Stanislas’ army a certain friar named Nicholas, a

man who was pious, brave, and cheerful, although, in the judgment of

some, more given to good-fellowship and conviviality than became his

sacred profession. He was a shrewd fellow too, and had a good wit; and

for all these qualities Stanislas held him in good will and allowed him

some degree of familiarity. Friar Nicholas had heard the Countess Runa’s

message, which, indeed, had leaked through the army and been much

discussed and canvassed round the camp fires. The friar had listened to

all the talk, agreeing with every man in turn, nodding his head wisely,

but holding his tongue closely. No man heard him utter any opinion

whatsoever as to what Countess Runa meant--supposing her to mean

anything save defiance pure and simple.

One night, when the King sat in his tent very moody and sore out of

heart with his undertaking, the flap of the tent was lifted, and Friar

Nicholas stood there.

“I did not summon you,” said the King.

“David did not summon Nathan,” said Nicholas. “But he came to him.”

“What ewe-lamb is it that I have taken?” Stanislas asked, smiling, for

he was glad to be rid of his thoughts and have company. “Let Nathan

drink with David,” he added, pushing a flagon of wine towards Nicholas,

who, on this invitation, let the flap of the tent fall behind him and

came in. “Is the ewe-lamb this one city which of all the realm holds out

against me? Is Or the ewe-lamb of Countess Runa?”

“The City of Or is the ewe-lamb,” said Nicholas, after he had drunk.

“But in the first place, O Prophet, I have not taken it--a curse on it!

And, in the second, it is mine by right, as by right it was my father’s

before me. Why, then, am I to be denounced by my holy Prophet?”

“I do not come to denounce you for having taken it, but to show you how

to take it,” answered Nicholas. And he stood there, in the centre of the

tent, wrapping his frock close round him. “O King,” said he, “I will put

a question to you.”

The King leant back in his chair. “I will listen and answer,” he said.

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas.

“An army has no citadel,” answered the King. “A city has a citadel, a

fortress of stone or of brick, set in the middle of it and on high. But

an army lies in tents or on the bare ground, moving hither and thither.

An army has no citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas again.

“An army has no citadel,” replied the King. “A city that is made of

brick and of stone has a citadel. But an army is not of brick and stone,

but is made and composed only of men, of their flesh and bones, their

sinews and muscles, their brains and hearts. An army has no citadel, O

Prophet! Are you answered?”

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas for the third

time.

Then, seeing that he had a meaning, the King took thought; for many

minutes he sat in meditation, while Nicholas stood in the centre of the

tent, never moving, with his eyes set on the King’s face.

At last the King answered.

“An army has a citadel,” he said. “The citadel of an army is the stout

heart of him who leads it. His heart is its citadel, O Prophet! Are you

answered?”

“You have spoken it. I am answered, O King!” said Nicholas, and he

turned and went out from the King’s tent.

But the King sprang to his feet with an eager cry. “It is not otherwise

with a city!” he cried. “And before I can pass the ramparts of Or, I

must carry the citadel!”

III

Countess Runa sat in her high chair under the emblazoned window of the

great hall, with her ladies and knights about her, and one of her

officers craved leave to bring a prisoner into her presence. Leave

given, the officer presented his charge--a tall and comely young man,

standing between two guards, yet bearing himself proudly and with a free

man’s carriage of his head. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, his

shoulders broad; he was long in the leg and lean in the flank. Runa

suffered her eyes to glance at him in approval.

“Where did you find him?” she asked of the officer.

“He came late last night to the southern gate,” the officer answered,

“and begged asylum from the anger of King Stanislas.”

“He’s a deserter, then?” she asked, frowning a little.

“He has told us nothing. He would tell his story, he said, to your

Highness only.”

“Let him speak,” she said, taking a peacock fan from one of her ladies

and half hiding her face behind it.

“Speak, prisoner,” said the officer.

“If I am a prisoner, it is by my own will,” said the stranger; “but I

was in such straits that my will had no alternative save to cause me to

throw myself on the mercy of your Highness. Yet I am no traitor, and

wish naught but good to my lord King Stanislas.”

“Then you had best wish that he shall return to his own city and leave

mine alone,” said Runa.

The knights smiled and the ladies tittered. The stranger took no heed of

these things, nor, as it seemed, of her Highness’s remark.

“I was high in the King’s confidence,” he said. “He deemed me a wise

man, and held that I knew all that was to be known, and that by my aid

alone he could discover all that was hidden, and unravel any riddle,

however difficult. Through three victorious campaigns I was by his side,

and then he brought me to the walls of Or, not doubting that by my

valour and counsel he should be enabled to make himself master of the

city. I do not boast. I repeat only what the King has many a time said

of me, both publicly and when we two were alone.”

“Then one man at least has a good esteem of you,” said Runa. “Indeed, as

I think, two.”

Again the ladies tittered and the knights smiled. But the stranger was

unmoved.

“Then,” he went on in a smooth equable voice whose rich tones struck

pleasantly on their ears and made the ladies sorry for their mocking,

“came the day, fatal to me, when your Highness was pleased to send his

Majesty a message. For when the King asked me the meaning of your

riddle--asked how a man could carry the citadel before he passed the

ramparts--I told him to take no heed of it, for it was an idle vaunt.

And he believed me and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And

in vain brave men died. Again came your message, and when the King asked

me the meaning of it, I said it was insolent defiance. And he believed

me, and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And in vain brave

men died. Then came the message a third time, and the King demanded of

me the meaning of it. But I did not know the meaning, and, lest more men

should die, I confessed to him that I could not read the riddle.”

“You learnt wisdom late and at a cost,” said Runa, setting her eyes on

him over the top of the peacock fan.

“When I confessed that, he called me a blockhead and, with many hard

words, told me plainly that all my credit stood on my reading him that

riddle, and reading it, the third time, right; and that if I could not

read it, I could never see home again nor my own people, but that my

life must end here outside the walls of the city, and end in disgrace

and defeat. So the King said to me in his wrath, and in fear of him and

of the death he threatened I stole by night from his camp and delivered

myself to the officer of your Highness’s watch at the southern gate of

the city.”

“What do you want of me?” asked Runa.

“Either the answer to the riddle, that I may carry it back to the King

forthwith and have his favour again----”

“And failing that?” said Runa, smiling.

“Leave to abide here for a while, in the hope that by my own wit I may

discover the meaning.”

The knights laughed and murmured scornfully, but the ladies, on whom the

stranger’s appearance had made no small impression, sighed sadly, as

though it were lamentable to hear a personable brave man ask such

foolish things. But Runa sank her head in thought. When she raised her

eyes she met those of the stranger fixed full on her. They gleamed blue

and keen. A faint flush rose on Runa’s cheek--or was it a red light from

the painted window over her head?

“Seven days and seven nights you may abide here,” she said, “but on

condition that at the end of that time my officers deliver you to your

King again. If by then you have read the riddle, it will be good for the

King and for you. But if you have not read it, let it be evil for you

as for him--evil unto death. How say you?”

“I accept the condition, and I will abide,” said the stranger.

Runa signed that he should be led forth. “And leave me alone, all of

you,” she said.

IV

Seven days and seven nights, then, the stranger abode in the city. Every

day he held speech with Runa, both in the great hall, with the ladies

and the knights, and privately. Much he told her concerning the kingdom

and the King, and she showed him all the wealth and power of her city.

But when she bade him speak of himself, he would answer, “I am nothing

without the King,” and would say no more of himself, so that she was

full of wonder about him, and pondered more and more as to who he was

and whence he came. And meanwhile the King’s army lay idle in its tents

and made no assault on the ramparts.

At last, on the third day, she said to him: “Tell me why the King your

master leaves all his great kingdom and makes war on my poor city?”

“The King,” he answered, “makes war that peace may come, and union, and

power. In three years he has brought peace to all the kingdom. This city

alone is left, a foe set among friends, disobedient among the obedient,

a weakness amidst that which is strong. Without the kingdom the city is

nothing, and without the city the kingdom is feeble.”

Runa knit her brows and heard him in silence. But after a while she

said:

“Had the King sent an embassy to me with these words, it may be that I

should have listened. But he sent me only a summons to surrender.”

The next day she sent for him again and said: “If I give up my city and

submit myself to the King, what am I then--I who was Runa of Or?”

“You will be high in the King’s counsel and in his love,” he answered.

“I do not covet the King’s love,” said Runa, knitting her brows again.

“You do not know what it is, madam,” he said softly.

On the fifth day she sent for him again, and privately, and said to him:

“If I give up my city and submit myself to the King, and there is peace

in the kingdom such as there has not been since the day my father Count

Theobald ruled in Or, what will the King do?”

“He will enrich the kingdom, and make it fair and secure it against all

foes.”

“And what will you do?” she asked.

“I shall be by the King’s side,” he answered, “if by chance I can give

him good counsel.”

“And he will reward you with high honour?”

“All honour is at once mine if I read the riddle,” he replied.

“You have not read it?”

“I seek to read it in your eyes,” he answered boldly, and Runa turned

her glance away from him, lest he should read the riddle there.

On the seventh day, in the evening, she sent for him again in secret,

unknown to any of her knights or ladies. The great hall in which she sat

alone was dimly lighted; only her face, her fair hair, and her rich robe

of white gleamed from the gloom. He came and stood before her.

“To-morrow at sunrise,” she said, “I must deliver you to the King your

master according to our agreement. What gift do you carry in your hand

to turn his wrath into favour?”

“If I do not bear in my hand the keys of the citadel, I bear nothing,”

he answered.

There fell a long silence between them, and the great hall was

marvellously still. The stranger drew very near to Countess Runa and

stood by the arm of her high chair.

“Madam, farewell,” he said.

She looked up at him and murmured softly: “Farewell.”

“Yet we shall meet again.”

“When?” she asked, with lips just parted and eyes that strained to see

his face.

“In a day’s time, outside the ramparts.”

“Outside the ramparts?”

“Yes.” He knelt before her and kissed her hand. “The citadel of the city

is the heart of its mistress,” he said.

She rose suddenly to her feet and would have spoken, but he raised his

hand to impose silence on her. With one long look he turned away and

left her alone, standing under the emblazoned window, through which one

ray of moonlight caught her fair hair and illumined it.

She stood with clasped hands, her eyes still set on the door by which he

had gone out.

“My heart knows its lord,” she whispered. “I have been speaking with my

King.”

V

On the morrow, in the afternoon, King Stanislas, being returned from a

journey on which affairs of State had called him, and having assumed

again the command of his army, led it forth in battle array, and took up

his position in the plain before the southern gate, not far from the

ramparts of the city.

“We are going to assault the ramparts again,” said an old soldier to

Friar Nicholas, who was there to see what passed and to exercise his

sacred functions in case need arose.

“Nay, I think the King is going to carry the citadel,” answered the

Friar, with a laugh. And all of them laughed, thinking that he jested at

the King’s expense.

As the clock struck four the King rode forth, magnificently appointed,

and bestriding a black war-horse of great strength and spirit. When he

was two hundred yards from the walls, he halted all his army and rode

forward alone, save for the herald by his side. Coming close under the

ramparts, which were thronged with Countess Runa’s knights and

men-at-arms, to say nothing of those who were ready to pour down stones

and molten pitch and heavy bars of iron on the assaulters, he bade the

herald cry that King Stanislas would speak with her Highness the

Countess Runa.

Much stir arose on the ramparts at this message, but the King sat calm

and motionless on his great black horse. So passed half-an-hour or so.

Then the city gate rolled open, and Runa rode forth, in a robe of

scarlet, seated on a white palfrey, and with all her knights and ladies

round about her.

“This is no assault on the ramparts,” said the old soldier to Friar

Nicholas, grumbling because there was danger that he should be balked of

a fight.

“I think you will soon pass them, though,” said Nicholas.

When the King saw Countess Runa he touched his horse with the spur and

rode up to her where she awaited his coming. When she saw him, her eyes

brightened to a new brilliance. Yet she showed no wonder.

“My heart knew,” she said, when her ladies and her knights marvelled.

King Stanislas saluted her.

“Whither, my King?” she asked.

He leant down, put his arm about her waist, and lifted her from her

palfrey. A great shout went up from the army in the plain and from the

defenders on the walls. The King set her in front of him on his great

horse.

“I carry the citadel,” he said. “And now I will pass the ramparts”; and

they two rode together into the city amidst mighty rejoicings.

VI

To which story there are a number of morals quite out of proportion to

its size.

This for Kings and Rulers: That they should state their objects

openly--provided that they wish to have them known.

This for Children: That what their fathers did for fifty years, it may

be wise for them to cease from doing immediately--especially if they

wish to make good marriages.

This for Men: That though it be impossible that a woman should mean what

she says, yet she means something by what she says--at any rate, if she

says it three times.

This for Women: That though the ramparts protect the citadel, the

citadel may often betray the ramparts.

And this for Everybody: That he who devotes a good intelligence to

enlightening others is like unto a man who cooks his neighbour’s dinner

without being invited to table. For when once the citadel was carried,

the ramparts passed, and the lovers happy, neither King nor Countess nor

anybody else gave another thought to poor Friar Nicholas!

THE LADY AND THE FLAGON

The Duke of Belleville--which name, by the way, you must pronounce by no

means according to its spelling, if you would be in the fashion; for as

Belvoir is Beevor, and Beauchamp is Beecham, even so on polite lips

Belleville is Bevvle--the Duke of Belleville shut the hall door behind

him, and put his latchkey into the pocket of his trousers. It was but

ten in the evening, yet the house was as still as though it had been two

in the morning. All was dark, save for a dim jet of gas in the little

sitting-room; the blinds were all down; from without the villa seemed

uninhabited, and the rare passer-by--for rare was he in the quiet lane

adjoining but not facing Hampstead Heath--set it down as being to let.

It was a whim of the Duke’s to keep it empty; when the world bored him,

he fled there for solitude; not even the presence of a servant was

allowed, lest his meditations should be disturbed. It was long since he

had come; but to-night weariness had afflicted him, and, by a sudden

change of plan, he had made for his hiding-place in lieu of attending a

Public Meeting, at which he had been advertised to take the chair. The

desertion sat lightly on his conscience, and he heaved a sigh of relief,

as, having turned up the gas, he flung himself into an arm-chair and lit

a cigar. The Duke of Belleville was thirty years of age; he was

unmarried; he had held the title since he was fifteen; he seemed to

himself rather old. He was at this moment yawning. Now when a man yawns

at ten o’clock in the evening something is wrong with his digestion or

his spirits. The Duke had a perfect digestion.

“I should define wealth,” murmured the Duke, between his yawns, “as an

unlimited command of the sources of _ennui_, rank as a satirical

emphasising of human equality, culture as a curtailment of pleasures,

knowledge as the death of interest.” Yawning again, he rose, drew up the

blind, and flung open the window. The summer night was fine and warm.

Although there were a couple of dozen other houses scattered here and

there about the lane, not a soul was to be seen. The Duke stood for a

long while looking out. His cigar burnt low and he flung it away.

Presently he heard a church clock strike eleven. At the same moment he

perceived a tall and burly figure approaching from the end of the lane.

Its approach was slow and interrupted, for it paused at every house. A

moment’s further inspection revealed in it a policeman on his beat.

“He’s trying the windows and doors,” remarked the Duke to himself. Then

his eyes brightened. “There are possibilities in a door always,” he

murmured, and his thoughts flew off to the great doors of history and

fiction--the doors that were locked when by all laws human and divine

they should have been open, and the even more interesting doors that

proved to be open and yielded to pressure when any man would have staked

his life on their being bolted, barred, and impregnable. “A door has the

interest of death,” said he. “For how can you know what is on the other

side till you have passed through it? Now suppose that fellow found a

door open, and passed through it, and, turning the rays of his lantern

on the darkness within, saw revealed to him--Heavens!” cried the Duke,

interrupting himself in great excitement, “is all this to be wasted on a

policeman?” And without a moment’s hesitation, he leant out of the

window and shouted, “Constable, constable!”--which is, as all the world

knows, the politest mode of addressing a policeman.

The policeman, perceiving the Duke and the urgency of the Duke’s

summons, left his examination of the doors in the lane and ran hastily

up to the window of the villa.

“Did you call, sir?” he asked.

“Don’t you know me?” inquired the Duke, turning a little, so that the

light within the room should fall on his features.

“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” cried the policeman. “Your Grace gave me a

sovereign last Christmas. The Duke of Belle-ville, isn’t it, your

Grace?”

“You will know,” said the Duke patiently, “how to pronounce my name when

I tell you that it rhymes with ‘Devil.’ Thus: ‘Devvle, Bevvle.’”

“Yes, your Grace. You called me?”

“I did. Do you often find doors open when they ought to be shut?”

“Almost every night, your Grace.”

“What do you do?”

“Knock, your Grace.”

“Good heavens,” murmured the Duke, “how this man throws away his

opportunities!” Then he leant forward, and laying his hand on the

policeman’s shoulder drew him nearer, and began to speak to him in a low

tone.

“I couldn’t, your Grace,” urged the policeman. “If I was found out I

should get the sack.”

“You should come to no harm by that.”

“And if your Grace was found out----”

“You can leave that to me,” interrupted the Duke.

Presently the policeman, acting on the Duke’s invitation, climbed into

the window of the villa, and the conversation was continued across the

table. The Duke urged, produced money, gave his word to be responsible

for the policeman’s future; the policeman’s resistance grew less strong.

“I am about your height and build,” said the Duke. “It is but for a few

hours, and you can spend them very comfortably in the kitchen. Before

six o’clock I will be back.”

“If the Inspector comes round, your Grace?”

“You must take a little risk for twenty pounds,” the Duke reminded him.

The struggle could end but one way. A quarter of an hour later the

policeman, attired in the Duke’s overcoat, sat by the kitchen hearth,

while the Duke, equipped in the policeman’s garments, prepared to leave

the house and take his place on the beat.

“I shall put out all lights and shut the door,” said he. “The window of

this kitchen looks out to the back, and you will not be seen. You will

particularly oblige me by remaining here and taking no notice of

anything that may occur till I return and call you.”

“But, your Grace, if there’s murder done----”

“We can hardly expect that,” interrupted the Duke, a little wistfully.

Yet, although, remembering how the humdrum permeates life, he would not

pitch his anticipations too high, the Duke started on the expedition

with great zest and lively hopes. The position he had assumed, the mere

office that he discharged vicariously, seemed to his fancy a conductor

that must catch and absorb the lightning of adventurous incident. His

big-buttoned coat, his helmet, the lantern he carried, his deftly hidden

truncheon, combined to make him the centre of anything that might move,

and to involve him in coils of crime or of romance. He refused to be

disappointed although he tried a dozen doors and found all securely

fastened. For never till the last, till fortune was desperate and escape

a vanished dream, was wont to come that marvellous Door that gaped

open-mouthed. Ah! The Duke started violently, the blood rushing to his

face and his heart beating quick. Here, at the end of the lane most

remote from his own villa, at a small two-storeyed house bright with

green paint and flowering creepers, here, in the most unlikely, most

inevitable place, was the open door. Barred? It was not even shut, but

hung loose, swaying gently to and fro, with a subdued bang at each

encounter with the doorpost. Without a moment’s hesitation the Duke

pushed it open. He stood in a dark passage. He turned the glare of his

bull’s-eye on the gloom, which melted as the column of light pierced it,

and he saw--

“There is nothing at all,” said the Duke of Belleville with a sigh.

Nor, indeed, was there, save an umbrella-rack, a hatstand, and an

engraving of the Queen’s Coronation--things which had no importance for

the Duke.

“They are only what one might expect,” said he.

Yet he persevered and began to mount the stairs with a silent cautious

tread. He had not felt it necessary to put on the policeman’s boots, and

his thin-soled well-made boots neither creaked nor crunched as he

climbed, resting one hand on the balustrade and holding his lantern in

the other. Yet suddenly something touched his hand, and a bell rang out,

loud, clear and tinkling. A moment later came a scream; the Duke paused

in some bewilderment. Then he mounted a few more steps till he was on

the landing. A door to his right was cautiously opened; an old

gentleman’s head appeared.

“Thank heaven, it’s the police!” cried the old gentleman. Then he pulled

his head in and said, “Only the police, my dear.” Then he put his head

out again and asked, “What in the world is the matter? I thought you

were burglars when I heard the alarm.”

“Your hall door was standing open,” said the Duke accusingly.

“Tut, tut, tut! How very careless of me, to be sure! And I thought I

locked it! Actually open! Dear me! I’m much obliged to you.”

A look of disappointment had by now spread over the Duke’s face.

“Didn’t you leave it open on purpose?” he asked. “Come now! You can

trust me.”

“On purpose? Do you take me for a fool?” cried the old gentleman.

“A man who leaves his door open on purpose may or may not be a fool,”

said the Duke. “But there is no doubt about a man who leaves it open

without a purpose,” and, so saying, the Duke turned, walked downstairs,

and, going out, slammed the door behind him. He was deeply disgusted.

When, however, he had recovered a little from his chagrin, he began to

pace up and down the lane. It was now past midnight, and all was very

quiet. The Duke began to fear that Fortune, never weary of tormenting

him, meant to deny all its interest to his experiment. But suddenly,

when he was exactly opposite his own house, he observed a young man

standing in front of it. The stranger was tall and well made; he wore a

black cloth Inverness, which, hanging open at the throat, showed a white

tie and a snowy shirt front. The young man seemed to be gazing

thoughtfully at the Duke’s villa. The Duke walked quietly up to him, as

though he meant to pass by. The young man, however, perceiving him,

turned to him and said:

“It’s very annoying, but I have lost my latchkey, and I don’t know how

to get into my house.”

“Indeed, sir?” said the Duke sympathetically. “Which is your house?”

“This,” answered the young man, pointing to the Duke’s villa.

The Duke could not entirely repress a slight movement of surprise and

pleasure.

“This your house? Then you are----?” he began.

“Yes, yes, the Duke of Belleville,” interrupted the young man. “But

there’s nobody in the house. I’m not expected----”

“I suppose not,” murmured the Duke.

“There are no servants, and I don’t know how to get in. It’s very

awkward, because I’m expecting a--a friend to call.”

“With my assistance,” said the Duke deferentially, “your Grace might

effect an entry by the window.”

“True!” cried the young man. “Bring your lantern and give me a light.

Look here, I don’t want this talked about.”

“It is a matter quite between ourselves, your Grace,” the Duke assured

him, as he led the way to the window.

“By-the-by, you might help me in another matter if you like. I’ll make

it worth your while.”

“I shall be very glad,” said the Duke.

“Could you be spared from your beat for an hour?”

“It might be possible.”

“Good. Come in with me, and we’ll talk it over.”

The Duke had by this time opened the window of his villa; he gave the

young man a leg-up, and afterwards climbed in himself.

“Shut the window again,” commanded the stranger. “Oh, and you might as

well just close the shutters.”

“Certainly, your Grace,” said the Duke, and he did as he was bid.

The young man began to move round the room, examining the articles that

furnished the side-tables and decorated the walls. The Duke of

Belleville had been for a year or two an eager collector of antique

plate, and had acquired some fine specimens in both gold and silver.

Some of these were now in the villa, and the young man scrutinised them

with close attention.

“Dear me,” said he in a vexed tone, as he returned to the hearth, “I

thought the Queen Bess flagon was here. Surely I sent it here from

Belleville Castle!”

The Duke smiled; the Queen Bess flagon had never been at Belleville

Castle, and it was now in a small locked cabinet which stood on the

mantelpiece. He made no remark; a suspicion had begun to take shape in

his mind concerning this strange visitor. Two thousand seven hundred and

forty guineas was the price that he had paid for the Queen Bess flagon;

all the other specimens in the little room, taken together, might be

worth perhaps a quarter as much.

“Your Grace spoke of some other matter in which I might assist you?” he

suggested, for the young man seemed to have fallen into a reverie.

“Why, yes. As I tell you, I expect a friend; and it looks very absurd to

have no servant. You’re sure to find a suit of dress clothes in my

bedroom. Pray put them on and represent my valet. You can resume your

uniform afterwards.”

The Duke bowed and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him

he made the best of his way to the kitchen. A few words were enough to

impart his suspicions to the policeman. A daring and ingenious scheme

was evidently on foot, its object being the theft of the Queen Bess

flagon. Even now, unless they acted quickly, the young man might lay

hands on the cabinet in which the treasure lay and be off with it. In a

trice the Duke had discarded the police uniform, its rightful owner had

resumed it, and the Duke was again in the convenient black suit which

befits any man, be he duke or valet. Then the kitchen window was

cautiously opened, and the policeman crawled silently round to the front

of the house; here he lay in waiting for a summons or for the appearance

of a visitor. The Duke returned immediately to the sitting-room.

On entering, he perceived the young man standing in front of the locked

cabinet, and regarding it with a melancholy air. The Duke’s appearance

roused him, and he glanced with visible surprise at the distinguished

and aristocratic figure which the supposed policeman presented. But he

made no comment and his first words were about the flagon.

“Now I come to remember,” said he, “I put the Queen Bess flagon in this

cabinet. It must be so, although, as I have left my key at my rooms in

St James’s Street, I can’t satisfy myself on the point.”

The Duke, now perfectly convinced of the character of his visitor,

waited only to see him lay his hands on the cabinet. Such an action

would be the signal for his instant arrest. But before the young man had

time either to speak again or to put out his hand towards the cabinet,

there came the sound of wheels quickly approaching the villa. A moment

later a neat brougham rolled up to the door. The young man darted to the

window, tore open the shutters, and looked out. The Duke, suspecting the

arrival of confederates, turned towards the cabinet and took his stand

in front of it.

“Go and open the door,” ordered the young man, turning round. “Don’t

keep the lady waiting outside at this time of night.”

Curiosity conquered prudence; the Duke set more value on a night’s

amusement than on the Queen Bess flagon. He went obediently and opened

the door of the villa. On the step stood a young and very handsome girl.

Great agitation was evident in her manner.

“Is--is the Duke here?” she asked.

“Yes, madam. If I lead you to the sitting-room, you will find him

there,” answered the Duke gravely; and with a bow he preceded her along

the passage.

When they reached the room, the lady, passing by him, darted forward and

flung herself affectionately into the young man’s arms. He greeted her

with equal warmth, while the Duke stood in the doorway in some natural

embarrassment.

“I escaped so successfully!” cried the lady. “My aunt went to bed at

eleven; so did I. At twelve I got up and dressed. Not a soul heard me

come downstairs, and the brougham was waiting at the door just as you

said.”

“My darling!” murmured the young man fondly. “Now, indeed, is our

happiness certain. By to-morrow morning we shall be safe from all

pursuit.” Then he turned to the Duke. “I need not tell you,” said he,

“that you must observe silence on this matter. Oblige me now by going to

my room and packing a bag; you’ll know what I shall want for two or

three days; I can give you a quarter of an hour.”

The Duke stood in momentary hesitation. He was bewildered at the sudden

change in the position caused by the appearance of this girl. Was he

assisting, then, not at a refined and ingenious burglary, but at another

kind of trick? The disguise assumed by the young man might have for its

object the deception of a trustful girl, and not an abduction of the

Queen Bess flagon.

“Well, why don’t you obey?” asked the young man sharply; and, stepping

up to the Duke, he thrust a ten-pound note into his hand, whispering,

“Play your part, and earn your money, you fool.”

The Duke lingered no longer. Leaving the room, he walked straight,

rapidly, and with a firm tread, upstairs. When he reached the top he

paused to listen. All was still! Stay! A moment later he heard a slight

noise--the noise of some metal instrument turning, proceeding from the

room which he had just left. The Duke sat down on the landing and took

off his boots. Then with silent feet he crept cautiously downstairs

again. He paused to listen for an instant outside the sitting-room door.

Voices were audible, but he could not hear the words. The occupants of

the room were moving about. He heard a low amused laugh. Then he pursued

his way to the hall door. He had not completely closed it after

admitting the lady, and he now slipped out without a sound. The brougham

stood in front of the door. The Duke dodged behind it, and the driver,

who was leaning forward on his seat, did not see him. The next moment he

was crouching down by the side of his friend the policeman, waiting for

the next development in the plot of this comedy, or crime, or whatever

it might turn out to be. He put out his hand and touched his ally. To

his amusement the man, sitting there on the ground, had fallen fast

asleep.

“Another proof,” mused the Duke in whimsical despair, “that it is

impossible to make any mode of life permanently interesting. How this

fellow would despise the state of excitement which I, for the moment, am

so fortunate as to enjoy! Well, I won’t wake him unless need arises.”

For some little while nothing happened. The policeman slept on, and the

driver of the brougham seemed sunk in meditation, unless, indeed, he

also were drowsy. The shutters of the sitting-room were again closely

shut, and no sound came from behind them. The Duke crouched motionless

but keenly observant.

Then the hall door creaked. The policeman snored quietly, but the Duke

leant eagerly forward, and the driver of the brougham suddenly sat up

quite straight, and grasped his reins more firmly. The door was

cautiously opened: the lady and the young man appeared on the threshold.

The young man glanced up and down the lane; then he walked quickly

towards the brougham, and opened the door. The lady followed him. As she

went she passed within four or five feet of where the Duke lay hidden.

And, as she went by, the Duke saw--what he half-expected, yet what he

could but half-believe--the gleam of the gold of the Queen Bess flagon,

which she held in her gloved hands.

As has been hinted, the Duke attached no superstitious value to this

article. The mad fever of the collector had left him long ago; but

amidst the death of other emotions and more recondite prejudices there

survives in the heart of man the primitive dislike of being “done.” It

survived in the mind of the Duke of Belleville, and sprang to strong and

sudden activity when he observed his Queen Bess flagon in the hands of

the pretty unknown lady.

With a sudden and vigorous spring he was upon her; with a roughness

which the Duke trusted that the occasion to some extent excused, he

seized her arm with one hand, and with the other violently twisted the

Queen Bess flagon out of her grasp. A loud cry rang from her lips. The

driver threw down the reins and leapt from his seat. The young man

turned with an oath and made for the Duke. The Duke of Belleville,

ignoring the mere prejudice which forbids timely retreat, took to his

heels, hugging the Queen Bess flagon to his breast, and heading, in his

silk socks, as hard and as straight as he could for Hampstead Heath.

After him pell-mell came the young man, the driver, and the lady,

amazed, doubtless, at the turn of events, but resolved on the recapture

of the flagon. And just as their figures vanished round the corner, the

policeman rubbed his eyes and looked round, exclaiming, “What’s the

row?”

In after days the Duke of Belleville was accustomed to count his

feelings as he fled barefooted (for what protection could silk socks

afford?) across Hampstead Heath, with three incensed pursuers on his

track, among the keenest sensations of his life. The exhilaration of the

night air and the chances of the situation in which he found himself

combined to produce in him a remarkable elation of spirits. He laughed

as he ran, till shortening breath warned him against such extravagant

wasting of his resources; then he settled down to a steady run, heading

across the Heath, up and down, over dip and hillock. Yet he did not

distance the pack. He heard them close behind him; a glance round showed

him that the lady was well up with her friends, in spite of the

impediment of her skirts. The Duke began to pant; his feet had grown

sore and painful; he looked round for a refuge. To his delight he

perceived, about a hundred yards to his right, a small and picturesque

red-brick house. It was now between one and two o’clock, but he did not

hesitate. Resolving to appeal to the hospitality of this house, hoping,

it may be, again to find a door left open, he turned sharp to the right,

and with a last spurt made for his haven.

Fate seemed indeed kind to him; the door was not only unbarred, it stood

ajar. The Duke’s pursuers were even now upon him; they were no more than

five or six yards behind when he reached the little red-tiled porch and

put out his hand to push the door back.

But at the same instant the door was pulled open, and a burly man

appeared on the threshold. He wore a frock coat embellished with black

braid and a peaked cap. The Duke at once recognised in him an inspector

of police. Evidently he was, when surprised by the Duke’s arrival, about

to sally out on his round. The Duke stopped and, between his pants, made

shift to address the welcome ally; but before he could get a word out

the young man was upon him.

“Inspector,” said the young man in the most composed manner, “I give

this fellow in charge for stealing my property.”

“I saw him take the tankard,” observed the driver, pointing towards the

Queen Bess flagon.

The lady said nothing but stood by the young man, as though ready with

her testimony in case it were needed.

The Inspector turned curious eyes on the Duke of Belleville; then he

addressed the young man respectfully.

“May I ask, sir, who you are?”

“I am the Duke of Belleville,” answered the young man.

“The Duke of Belle-ville!” cried the Inspector, his manner showing an

increased deference. “I beg your Grace’s----”

“The name,” said the Duke, “is pronounced Bevvle--to rhyme with devil.”

The Inspector looked at him scornfully.

“Your turn will come, my man,” said he, and, turning again to the young

man, he continued: “Do you charge him with stealing this cup?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“I imagine you do,” said the young man, with a laugh. “He’s one of your

own policeman.”

The Inspector stepped back and turned up the gas in his passage. Then he

scrutinised the Duke’s features.

“One of my men?” he cried. “Your Grace is mistaken. I have never seen

the man.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the young man, and, in his eagerness to convince the

Inspector, he stepped forward, until his face fell within the range of

the passage light. As this happened, the Inspector gave a loud cry.

“Hallo, Joe Simpson!” And he sprang at the young man. The latter did not

wait for him: without a word he turned; the Inspector rushed forward,

the young man made for the Heath, and the driver, after standing for a

moment apparently bewildered, faced about, and made off in the opposite

direction to that chosen by his companion. The three were thirty yards

away before the Duke of Belleville could realise what had happened. Then

he perceived that he stood in the passage of the Inspector’s house,

alone save for the presence of the young lady, who faced him with an

astonished expression on her pretty countenance.

“It is altogether a very remarkable night,” observed the Duke.

“It is impossible that you should be more puzzled than I am,” said the

young lady.

“Excuse me,” said the Duke, “but you run very well.”

“I belonged to my college football club,” said the young lady modestly.

“Precisely!” cried the Duke. “I suppose this door leads to our good

friend’s parlour. Shall we sit down while you tell me all about it? I

must ask you to excuse the condition of my feet.”

Thus speaking, the Duke led the way into the Inspector’s parlour.

Placing the Queen Bess flagon on the table, he invited the lady to be

seated, and took a chair himself. Perceiving that she was somewhat

agitated, he provided her with an interval in which to regain her

composure by narrating to her the adventures of the evening. She heard

him with genuine astonishment.

“Do you say that you are the Duke of Belleville?” she cried.

“Don’t I look like it?” asked the Duke, smiling, but at the same time

concealing his feet under the Inspector’s dining-table.

“But he--he said he was the Duke.”

“He said so to me also,” observed the Duke of Belleville.

The lady looked at him long and keenly; there was, however, a simple

honesty about the Duke’s manner that attracted her sympathy and engaged

her confidence.

“Perhaps I’d better tell you all about it,” said she, with a sigh.

“Not unless you desire to do so, I beg,” said the Duke, with a wave of

his hand.

“I am nineteen,” began the lady. The Duke heaved an envious sigh. “I

live with my aunt,” she continued. “We live a very retired life. Since I

left college--which I did prematurely owing to a difference of opinion

with the Principal--I have seen hardly anyone. In the course of a visit

to the seaside I met the gentleman who--who----”

“From whom we have just parted?” suggested the Duke.

“Thank you, yes. Not to weary you with details----”

“Principles weary me, but not details,” interposed the Duke.

“In fact,” continued the young lady, “he professed to be in love with

me. Now my aunt, although not insensible to the great position which he

offered me (for of course he represented himself as the Duke of

Belleville) entertains the opinion that no girl should marry till she is

twenty-one. Moreover she considered that the acquaintance was rather

short.”

“May I ask when you first met the gentleman?”

“Last Monday week. So she forbade the marriage. I am myself of an

impatient disposition.”

“So am I,” observed the Duke of Belleville, and in the interest of the

discussion he became so forgetful as to withdraw his feet from the

shelter of the table and cross one leg comfortably over the other. “So

am I,” he repeated, nodding his head.

“I therefore determined to live my own life in my own way----”

“I think you said you had been to college?”

“Yes, but I had a difference of----”

“Quite so. Pray proceed,” said the Duke courteously.

“And to run away with my _fiancé_. In pursuance of this plan, I arranged

to meet him to-night at his villa at Hampstead. He sent a brougham to

fetch me, I made my escape successfully, and the rest you know.”

“Pardon me, but up to this point the part played by the flagon which you

see on the table before you is somewhat obscure.”

“Oh, when you’d gone to pack his things, he took out a curious little

instrument--he said he had forgotten his key--and opened the cabinet on

the mantelpiece. Then he took out that pretty mug and gave it to me as

my wedding present. He told me that it was very valuable, and he would

carry it for me himself, but I declared that I must carry it for myself

or I wouldn’t go. So he let me. And then you----”

“The whole thing is perfectly plain,” declared the Duke with emphasis.

“You, madam, have been the victim of a most dastardly and cold-blooded

plot. This fellow is a swindler. I daresay he wanted to get hold of you,

and thus extort money from your aunt, but his main object was no other

than to carry off the famous cup which you see before you--the Queen

Bess flagon.” And the Duke, rising to his feet, began to walk up and

down in great indignation. “He meant to kill two birds with one stone!”

said he, in mingled anger and admiration.

“It is pretty,” said the young lady, taking up the flagon. “Oh, what is

this figure?”

The Duke, perceiving that the lady desired an explanation, came and

leant over her chair. She turned her face up to his in innocent

eagerness; the Duke could not avoid observing that she had very fine

eyes. Without making any comment on the subject, however, he leant a

little lower and began to explain the significance of the figure on the

Queen Bess flagon.

The Duke has been known to say that, in a world so much the sport of

chance as ours, there was no reason why he should not have fallen in

love with the young lady and offered to make her in very truth what she

had dreamed of becoming--the Duchess of Belleville.

Her eyes were very fine, her manner frank and engaging. Moreover, the

Duke hated to see people disappointed. Thus the thing might just as well

have happened as not. And on so narrow a point did the issue stand that

to this day certain persons declare that it--or part of it--did happen;

for why, and on what account, they ask, should an experienced

connoisseur (and such undoubtedly was the Duke of Belleville) present a

young lady previously unknown to him (or, for the matter of that, any

young lady at all, whether known or not known to him) with such a rare,

costly, and precious thing as the Queen Bess flagon? For the fact

is--let the meaning and significance of the fact be what they will--that

when the young lady, gazing fondly the while on the flagon, exclaimed,

“I never really cared about him much, but I should have liked the

beautiful flagon!” the Duke answered (he was still leaning over her

chair, in order the better to explain and trace the figure on the

flagon):

“Of him you are well rid. But permit me to request your acceptance of

the flagon. The real Duke of Belleville, madam, must not be outdone by

his counterfeit.”

“Really?” cried the young lady.

“Of course,” murmured the Duke, delighted with the pleasure which he saw

in her eyes.

The young lady turned a most grateful and almost affectionate glance on

the Duke. Although ignorant of the true value of the Queen Bess flagon,

she was aware that the Duke had made her a very handsome present.

“Thank you,” said she, putting her hands into the Duke’s.

At this moment a loud and somewhat strident voice proceeded from the

door of the room.

“Well, I never! And how did you come here?”

The Duke, looking round, perceived a stout woman, clad in a black

petticoat and a woollen shawl; her arms were akimbo.

“We came in, madam,” said he, rising and bowing, “by the hall door,

which we chanced to find open.”

The stout woman appeared to be at a loss for words. At length, however,

she gasped out:

“Be off with you. Don’t let the Inspector catch you here!”

The Duke looked doubtfully at the young lady.

“The woman probably misunderstands,” he murmured. The young lady blushed

slightly. The Inspector’s wife advanced with a threatening demeanour.

“Who are you?” she asked abruptly.

“I, madam,” began the Duke, “am the----”

“I don’t see that it matters who we are,” interposed the young lady.

“Possibly not,” admitted the Duke, with a smile.

The young lady rose, went to a little mirror that hung on the wall, and

adjusted the curls which appeared from under the brim of her hat.

“Dear me,” said she, turning round with a sigh, “it must be nearly three

o’clock, and my aunt always likes me to be in before daybreak.”

The stout woman gasped again.

“Because of the neighbours, you know,” said the young lady with a

smile.

“Just so,” assented the Duke, and possibly he would have added more, had

not the woman uttered an inarticulate cry and pointed to his feet.

“Really, madam,” remarked the Duke, with some warmth, “it would have

been in better taste not to refer to the matter.” And with a severe

frown he offered his arm to the young lady. They then proceeded towards

the doorway. The Inspector’s wife barred the passage. The Duke assumed a

most dignified air. The woman reluctantly gave away. Walking through the

passage, the young lady and the Duke found themselves again in the open

air. There were signs of approaching dawn.

“I really think I had better get home,” whispered the young lady.

At this moment--and the Duke was not in the least surprised--they

perceived four persons approaching them. The Inspector walked with his

arm through the arm of the young man who had claimed to be the Duke of

Belleville; following, arm-in-arm with the driver of the brougham, came

the policeman whose uniform the Duke had borrowed. All the party except

the Inspector looked uneasy. The Inspector appeared somewhat puzzled.

However, he greeted the Duke with a cry of welcome.

“Now we can find out the truth of it all!” he exclaimed.

“To find out truth,” remarked the Duke, “is never easy and not always

desirable.”

“I understand that you are the Duke of Belleville?” asked the Inspector.

“Certainly,” said the Duke.

“Bosh!” said the young man. “Oh, you know me, Inspector Collins, and I

know you, and I’m not going to try and play it on you any more. But this

chap’s no more the Duke than I am, and I should have thought you might

have known one of your own policemen!”

The Inspector turned upon him fiercely.

“None of your gab, Joe Simpson,” said he. Then turning to the Duke, he

continued, “Do you charge the young woman with him, your Grace?” And he

pointed significantly to the Queen Bess flagon, which the young lady

carried in an affectionate grasp.

“This lady,” said the Duke, “has done me the honour of accepting a small

token of my esteem. As for these men, I know nothing about them.” And he

directed a significant glance at the young man. The young man answered

his look. The policeman seemed to grow more easy in his mind. “Then you

don’t charge any of them?” cried the Inspector, bewildered.

“Why, no,” answered the Duke. “And I suppose they none of them charge

me?”

Nobody spoke. The Inspector took out a large red handkerchief and mopped

his brow.

“Well, it beats me,” he said. “I know pretty well what these two men

are; but if your Grace don’t charge ’em, what can I do?”

“Nothing, I should suppose,” said the Duke blandly. And, with a slight

bow, he proceeded on his way, the young lady accompanying him. Looking

back once, he perceived the young man and the driver of the brougham

going off in another direction with quick furtive steps, while the

Inspector and the policeman stood talking together outside the door of

the house.

“The circumstances, as a whole, no doubt appear peculiar to the

Inspector,” observed the Duke, with a smile.

“Do you think that we can find a hansom cab?” asked the young lady a

little anxiously. “You see, my aunt----”

“Precisely,” said the Duke, and he quickened his pace.

They soon reached the boundary of the Heath, and, having walked a little

way along the road, were so fortunate as to find a cab. The young lady

held out her left hand to the Duke: in her right she still grasped

firmly the Queen Bess flagon.

“Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you for the beautiful present.”

The Duke took her hand and allowed his glance to rest for a moment on

her face. She appeared to see a question in his eyes.

“Yes, and for rescuing me from that man,” she added with a little

shudder.

The Duke’s glance still rested on her face.

“Yes, and for lots of fun,” she whispered with a blush.

The Duke looked away, sighed, released her hand, helped her into the

cab, and retired to a distance of some yards. The young lady spoke a few

words to the cabman, took her seat, waved a small hand, held up the

Queen Bess flagon, kissed it, and drove away.

“If,” observed the Duke with a sigh, “I were not a well-bred man, I

should have asked her name,” and he made his way back to his house in a

somewhat pensive mood.

On reaching home, however, he perceived the brougham standing before his

door. A new direction was thus given to his meditations. He opened the

gate of his stable-yard, and, taking the horse’s head, led it in. Having

unharnessed it, he put it in the stable and fed and watered it; the

brougham he drew into the coach-house. Then he went indoors, partook of

some brandy mixed with water, and went to bed.

At eleven o’clock the next morning Frank, the Duke’s man, came up to

Hampstead to attend to his Grace’s wants. The Duke was still in bed,

but, on breakfast being ready, he rose and came downstairs in his

dressing-gown and a pair of large and very easy slippers.

“I hope your Grace slept well?” said Frank.

“I never passed a better night, thank you, Frank,” said the Duke as he

chipped the top off his egg.

“Half-an-hour ago, your Grace,” Frank continued, “a man called.”

“To see me?”

“It was about--about a brougham, your Grace.”

“Ah! What did you say to him?”

“I said I had no orders about a brougham from your Grace.”

“Quite right, Frank, quite right,” said the Duke with a smile. “What did

he say to that?”

“He appeared to be put out, but said that he would call again, your

Grace.”

“Very good,” said the Duke, rising and lighting a cigarette.

Frank lingered uneasily near the door.

“Is anything the matter, Frank?” asked the Duke kindly.

“Well, your Grace, in--in point of fact, there is--there is a strange

brougham and a strange horse in the stables, your Grace.”

“In what respect,” asked the Duke, “are the brougham and the horse

strange, Frank?”

“I--I should say, your Grace, a brougham and a horse that I have not

seen before in your Grace’s stables.”

“That is a very different thing, Frank,” observed the Duke with a

patient smile. “I suppose that I am at liberty to acquire a brougham and

a horse if it occurs to me to do so?”

“Of course, your Grace,” stammered Frank.

“I will drive into town in that brougham to-day, Frank,” said the Duke.

Frank bowed and withdrew. The Duke strolled to the window and stood

looking out as he smoked his cigarette.

“I don’t think the man will call again,” said he. Then he drew from his

pocket the ten-pound note that the young man had given him, and regarded

it thoughtfully. “A brougham, a horse, ten pounds, and a very diverting

experience,” he mused. “Yes, I am in better spirits this morning!”

As for the Queen Bess flagon, he appeared to have forgotten all about

it.

THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT

I

The Duke of Belleville (nothing annoyed his Grace more than to hear his

name mispronounced--it should sound “Bevvle”) was tired of it all. That

succinctly expresses his condition; and the condition is really not to

be wondered at after fifteen years of an existence such as his, although

it is true that he had occasionally met with some agreeable and even

some unexpected adventures. He wanted a new sensation, a new experience,

a new environment, although it was possible that he would not want any

of them for very long. He consulted his man Frank on the matter one

evening at dinner.

“When I felt like that as a lad, your Grace,” Frank remarked, “my father

used to put me to digging.”

“Excellent, Frank! Buy me a labourer’s allotment to-morrow morning.”

“Very good, your Grace,” said Frank.

He was an invaluable servant, although at times, the Duke would

complain, lacking in imagination.

“Have you got it, Frank?” said the Duke the next morning at lunch.

“Yes, your Grace. And I thought it well also to obtain a cottage.”

“Very thoughtful! Clothes?”

“I thought that perhaps your Grace would prefer to give your

personal----”

“Quite right, Frank. I’ll go to Clarkson’s to-morrow.”

“I beg your Grace’s pardon--am I to accompany your Grace?”

“I do not propose to dig all night, nor even after sunset. Men on

allotments eat, I am given to suppose!”

“I beg your Grace’s pardon.”

“Never mind, Frank. In the evening we shall be as usual. Give the

necessary orders. Neither you nor the _chef_ will, of course, be

visible.”

“Very good, your Grace.” Frank placed the coffee and old brandy on the

table, and withdrew.

The next morning the Duke repaired to Wardour Street and mentioned

something about private theatricals. The suave and accomplished

proprietor was fertile in suggestion.

“I mustn’t look too new or clean,” the Duke stipulated. The hint was

sufficient; he was equipped with an entirely realistic costume.

“Duplicate it, please,” said the Duke as he re-entered his brougham. “It

was careless of me to forget that it might rain.”

The Duke and Frank left King’s Cross the same evening (the _chef_ had

preceded them with the luggage; he made no stipulation about kitchen or

scullery maids--everybody was always anxious to oblige his Grace) under

cover of night. A journey of some forty miles brought them to their

destination. On the outskirts of the little town lay the allotments.

They were twelve in number, each comprising half-an-acre of land. Three

cottages stood facing the allotments with their backs to the highroad.

One of these now appertained to the Duke. The _chef_ had done wonders;

all was clean and comfortable--though the furniture was, of course, very

plain. The dinner was excellent. A new spade, a new hoe, a new rake, and

a new wheelbarrow stood just within the door.

“Get up early and rub them over with dirt, Frank,” said the Duke as he

retired, well pleased, to rest.

The next morning also he breakfasted with excellent appetite.

“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” said Frank, “but your Grace will not forget

to be out of work?”

“I came here to be in work, Frank.”

“The men work on their allotments only in their spare time, your Grace.”

“I see, I see. Thank you, Frank. I will certainly be out of work, if

occasion arises to define precisely my economic position. I trust,

however, that this is not an inquisitive neighbourhood.”

It was not, as a rule. But just now there were special circumstances,

unknown to Frank--and to the Duke.

He began to dig at 9.30 A.M. His allotment had been a good deal

neglected, and the ground happened to be hard. Presently he found

himself afflicted with acute sensations in the back. He begun to wonder

what men on allotments did when they felt tired. A thought struck him--a

reminiscence of his wide and curious reading. Observing a small girl

seated on the railing which bordered the allotments he approached her.

“Child,” said he kindly, “be good enough to go to the nearest

public-house and fetch me a pint of four-’alf.”

“W’ere’s your money?” said the child.

The Duke had been too realistic; there was no money in his pocket. He

returned to his labours (he had promised himself to be independent of

Frank for at least three hours) with a sigh. The little girl laughed

scornfully, and then performed a somersault. The Duke was not quite

pleased.

By twelve o’clock his back was very bad and his hands blistered. His

corduroy trousers were cutting him at the back of the knees. Also it had

begun to rain. “I have the sensation vividly enough for the moment. I

will return to the cottage and have lunch,” he said to himself, throwing

down his spade. He had turned up a considerable amount of earth, and had

found some vegetables amongst it. He was not very clear what they were.

He picked up his coat, put it on, and began instinctively to feel for a

cigarette. No case was to be found.

“Oh, d--n that Frank!” said the Duke mechanically.

“Need you swear?” asked a voice suddenly.

“Who wouldn’t?” mumbled the Duke, who was just wiping his brow (which

was like that of the blacksmith in the poem) with a large and fearfully

rough pocket-handkerchief.

“What?”

The voice was very sharp. It recalled to the Duke the necessities of his

situation. Emerging from behind the handkerchief, he found himself in

the presence of a tall stout lady of imperious demeanour. She wore a

skirt, consequentially ample, of shiny black, and a black velvet mantle

embellished with beads, apparently jet.

The Duke’s instinct rarely failed him--that was what would have made him

such a great man of affairs. “The parson’s wife!” he thought to himself,

without a moment’s hesitation. Then he cast about for his wisest course

of action.

“Why aren’t you at work?” the lady demanded sternly.

The Duke had worked extraordinarily hard for three hours. He was

indignant. But he was wary. He was considering what accent to adopt. It

struck him that he would try the Somersetshire; he had heard that at the

theatres; the rural (but honest) father of the erring (but sweet)

heroine usually employed it. Of course, if the parson’s wife happened to

come from Somerset---- Well, some risks must be taken.

“I do be of a-workin’,” said the Duke. “Lasteways, I do be of a just

’avin’ done it.” He clung to his “be” with no small confidence.

“Where do you come from?”

“Zummer-sett,” said he.

“You talk in a funny way. When did you come here?”

The Duke felt sure that he ought not to say “Last night”; accordingly he

replied “Yuster-e’en.”

The lady looked suspicious. “You’re seeking employment?”

Suddenly--and opportunely--the Duke remembered Frank’s warning: he was

to be out of work.

“Yus, I be,” he said, wondering if his face were dirty enough.

“Church or Chapel?” she asked sharply.

“Charch,” answered the Duke. And by a happy thought he added, “Ma’am.”

“What’s your name?” With the question she produced a little note-book

and a pencil.

“Bevv----” he began thoughtlessly. He stopped. A barren invention, and a

mind acute to the danger of hesitation, combined to land him in

“Devvle.”

“Devil? That’s a very odd name.”

“My feyther’s name afore me,” affirmed the Duke, who felt that he was

playing his part rather well, though he regretted that a different

initial consonant had not occurred to him.

The lady surveyed him with a long and distrustful glance.

“Have you had any beer _this_ morning?” she asked.

The Duke never took beer--not even in the evening. “None,” he replied

with a touch of indignation.

“I wish I was sure of that!” she remarked. The Duke, himself regretfully

sure (for the digging had changed his feelings towards beer), wondered

at her suspicious disposition. “Well, we shall see. You’re in my

daughter’s district. She will come and see you.”

“Vurry good, ma’am,” said the Duke.

“Are you married?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You live alone, then?”

Swiftly the Duke reflected. “I got a brother, ma’am, but ’e do be kind

o’--kind o’ weak.”

“A pair of you, _I_ think!” she remarked rather disconcertingly, as she

turned and marched off. The Duke returned to his cottage and decided,

over a pint of hock and a bottle of seltzer, that he had come out of the

interview with much credit.

He did not hurry back to work after lunch. Why, he reflected, should he?

None of the other men were working on their allotments. This fact seemed

rather strange to him, since he overlooked the circumstance that harvest

was in full swing and all his supposed compeers busy from dawn till late

evening in the fields; but, knowing that he was strange to his

surroundings, he waited patiently for an explanation. He lit his pipe--a

clay pipe, coloured by and borrowed from one of his stableboys, and sat

on the fence in an agreeable meditation. The rain had ceased, and the

afternoon was mild.

“What more in reality,” he exclaimed, “does a man want than this? I was

quite right to insist on an entirely simple dinner.” He paused and

added: “After all I will do a little weeding.”

When he had done quite a little weeding, a thought struck him. He

repaired to the cottage and called Frank. Frank appeared; he also wore

corduroys and other suitable habiliments. “Very good, Frank, very good.

You’re really an intelligent man. If a young lady calls, you’re an

idiot.”

“I--I beg your Grace’s pardon?”

“If a young lady calls, you’re to appear to be an idiot.” The Duke, as

he spoke, smiled over the reflection that his order to Frank embodied

nothing very unusual.

“Very good, your Grace! What’s Monsieur Alphonse to be?”

“If he must exist at all he’d better be in bed--with something a trifle

infectious,” answered the Duke, after a moment’s reflection.

“Very good, your Grace. Burgundy or champagne at dinner? The chambertin

appears to have recovered from the journey.”

“Then let me have the chambertin,” said his Grace. “Dinner at seven. I

feel as if I should be hungry. I am now going to take a walk.”

On his walk through what proved to be exceedingly pretty country, the

Duke meditated, in admiration mingled with annoyance, on the excellent

organisation of English rural parishes. The immediate notice taken of

his arrival, the instantaneous zeal for his moral welfare, argued much

that was good--the Duke determined to say a few words about it in the

House of Lords--but, on the other hand, it certainly rendered more

difficult his experiment in the simple life--to say nothing of

necessitating his adventurous excursion into the Somerset dialect.

“She is probably actuated,” he concluded, “by a groundless fear that I

shall resort to the Nonconformist chapel.”

Seven o’clock found him seated before his brightly furnished

dining-table. The table was of deal, but it was covered with damask,

decked with silver, and ornamented by the chambertin. The Duke had a

fine appetite, and fell to cheerfully on Monsieur Alphonse’s creations;

these were studiously rural in their character--Watteau-like

confections. Monsieur Alphonse was dreaming of the Petit Trianon.

The cottage was not large; the sitting-room was in close proximity to

the door. A sharp rap of somebody’s knuckles on the door startled him,

just as he was finishing his first glass of chambertin. He was in

demi-toilette--a dress jacket and black tie. It should be added that,

although daylight prevailed outside, the blind of the window was

carefully drawn down.

The knock was repeated--rather impatiently. “Frank!” called the Duke in

a voice carefully modulated.

“I’m on my way, your Grace,” Frank answered, putting his head in at the

door. “I merely waited to put on a blanket over my dress-coat. Monsieur

Alphonse has got into bed. He looks very natural in his official apron,

your Grace.”

“Good,” said the Duke. “Don’t permit the person to enter.” He smiled

slightly as he regarded Frank, who had hastily assumed a red blanket,

striped with blue, and wore his hair brushed up straight from his head.

The next moment the Duke heard the door of the cottage open, and one of

the sweetest voices he had ever listened to in his life softly

pronouncing the question: “Oh, please, are you the man Devil?”

“I really ought to have recollected to tell Frank about that little

mistake of mine,” thought the Duke, smiling.

His smile, however, vanished as he heard Frank, in answer to the

question, shout with extraordinary vigour: “Yahoo, yahoo, yahoo!”

“This will never do,” said the Duke, rising and laying down his napkin.

“The fellow always over-acts. I said idiocy--not mania.”

It appeared to do very well, all the same, for the sweet voice remarked,

with no trace of surprise, “Oh, of course, you’re his poor brother;

mamma--I’m Miss Hordern, you know, Miss Angela Hordern--told me about

you. Please don’t let yourself become nervous or--or excited.”

Monsieur Alphonse’s voice suddenly broke forth, crying loudly: “I have

ze fevaar--ze fevaar--veri bad fevaar!”

“_Point de zele!_ Talleyrand was right,” said the Duke sadly.

“Who’s that?” cried Miss Angela. “Is some poor man ill in there? Oh,

it’s not Devil himself, is it?”

No answer came from Frank, unless a realistically idiotic chuckle,

faintly struggling, as it seemed to the Duke’s ears, with more natural

mirth, may be counted as such.

“I must see this girl,” said the Duke.

“I think I’d better call again to-morrow,” said Miss Angela. “I’m in a

hurry now--it’s Mothers’ Meeting night. I’ll come in to-morrow. Will you

give this to your brother? Mamma sent it. Can you understand me, poor

fellow?

“Yahoo, yahoo,” murmured Frank.

The door closed. The Duke dashed to the window, furtively drew the blind

a little aside, and looked out.

“Upon my word!” said the Duke. “Yes, upon my word!” he reflected,

twisting his moustache as he returned to the table.

Frank entered, holding a silver salver. “With Miss Angela Hordern’s

compliments, your Grace.”

“Thank you, Frank. You can serve the fish; and beg Alphonse in future to

wait for his cue.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

Frank withdrew, and the Duke examined the paper which he had taken from

the salver. It acquired a certain interest from having passed through

Miss Angela’s hands. The Duke fingered it delicately and eyed it

pensively. It was entitled “A Dram for a Drinker; or, Just a Drop to do

you Good.”

“A neat title,” the Duke mused, “but perhaps liable to defeat its own

object by evoking a reminiscence too pleasurable.”

Frank entered with the fish. “Frank, I am at home next time Miss Hordern

calls. You are not--nor Monsieur Alphonse.”

“Very good, your Grace,” Frank answered. “Your Grace will answer the

door yourself?”

The Duke had overlooked the point. He did not feel that he could answer

a door at all plausibly.

“Leave it on the jar,” he commanded, in a happy inspiration.

But when he was left alone his brow clouded a little. “Suppose the

mother comes!” he thought. His face cleared. “She shall see Alphonse and

Frank. And I will see Miss Angela.” He lit his cigar with a composed

cheerfulness. “It is impossible,” he said meditatively, “to deny the

interest of a sociological experiment. I am, however, inclined to hope

that it will rain very hard to-morrow.” He stroked his back warily as he

slid into a chair.

II

He rose early the next morning--and observed the weather anxiously. It

rained heavily. “Good,” said he, feeling his back. “One can’t dig in the

wet. I shall have time to arrange affairs.”

He had, in fact, tasks of no small difficulty to achieve.

The first was with Monsieur Alphonse. The Duke courteously requested the

_chef’s_ presence, Frank being the intermediary. Alphonse came.

“Monsieur,” said the Duke, “I have to make a communication to you.”

“_Hélas, Monsieur le Duc!_” said Monsieur Alphonse.

“I shall not dine to-night. No, I sha’n’t have any dinner at all

to-night.”

“But this is worse than anything I had expected!”

“I shall have tea--at seven.”

“_Mais_----” said Alphonse.

“Bread-and-butter, thickish; and tea--the tea of the grocer _du pays_.”

“_Miséricorde!! Monsieur le Duc_ will sup?”

“Possibly. As for tea, I understand that it would be appropriate if you

added a shrimp. Monsieur, we play a part!”

“A part, _Monsieur le Duc_?”

“There’s a lady in the case, Alphonse.”

“Everything explains itself!” cried Alphonse, looking as though he might

be about to throw himself on the Duke’s bosom. “And she loves ze

shrimp?”

“Adores it.”

“It is not to be had in this wilderness, I fear.”

“No, Alphonse. Go and get it--at Greenwich, or Wapping, or wherever it

lives. Leave at once. Be back at six-thirty. Good-bye, Alphonse.”

“A lady in the case! I will find ze shrimp!” said Alphonse, as he left

the parlour.

Frank remained to be dealt with. The Duke summoned him, and addressed

him with a serious air.

“You are attached to me, Frank?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“I wish to be alone to-day. Have the goodness to occupy Mrs Hordern’s

attention.”

“I don’t rightly know how to do it, your Grace.”

“What day of the week is it?”

“Sunday, your Grace.”

“A fortunate circumstance. One doesn’t dig on Sundays?”

“No, your Grace.”

“The rain may stop for all I care,” said the Duke. “Go and call on Mrs

Hordern, Frank, and get taken to church. Mitigate your mental

inferiority to a reasonable extent; and say that the man with the fever

has been removed.”

“How, your Grace?” asked Frank.

“Don’t trouble me with details. Do as I tell you.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

“And let Miss Hordern arrive here at seven a’clock.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“That will do, Frank. I shall not go out to-day. Leave the corduroys on

the bed.”

“Thank you, your Grace.”

“And, Frank, in case I change my mind, let there be a motor-car here and

a table at the Savoy this evening, rather late.”

“I’ll attend to it at once, your Grace.”

There was more work than usual at the local telegraph office before ten

that morning. But no one connected it with the cottage at the

allotments. The young woman in charge understood that a gentleman had

lost his motor-car.

The simple device of sticking on his door a short notice that a case of

infectious disease awaited removal to the workhouse infirmary secured

for the Duke a quiet day. He sat behind his blind and observed his

neighbours, who, in the intervals left them between the claims of

devotion and those of conviviality, inspected their allotments and his.

His appeared to the Duke to command a disproportionate amount of

attention. He feared that he must have dug up something

prematurely--Frank had omitted to acquaint him with the course of

husbandry initiated by his predecessor. The laughter of his neighbours

somewhat jarred his sensitive spirit. And they certainly stared a lot at

his shut door, his forbidding notice, and his blind so carefully drawn.

He was also vexed by a sudden thought that, it being Sunday, Miss Angela

might have to go to church and would not come to tea.

“However I made my wishes quite clear to Frank,” he murmured, hoping for

the best.

At one o’clock Frank returned by a circular route, and entered from the

road, through the back-yard, which obviated the necessity of crossing

the allotments. He served a cold luncheon.

“You’ve arranged matters?”

“Yes, your Grace. The young lady will call at seven, with some jelly for

your bad throat.”

“I was rather afraid she might wish to go to church, Frank.”

“Yes, your Grace; but, as you are too ill to go, the vicar thinks that

it will do just as well if she comes and reads the Lessons of the Day to

your Grace.”

“That it will do just as well?”

“That was the vicar’s expression, your Grace.”

“Ah, he spoke from a professional point of view, no doubt. The

arrangement is quite satisfactory. How did you get on with Mrs

Hordern--and at church?”

“I did very well, your Grace, since your Grace is kind enough to

inquire. With reference to last night, I explained that my attacks of

mental affliction were intermittent, though frequently recurrent. But

the doctor is to come and see me to-morrow--by Mrs Hordern’s orders,

your Grace.”

“‘Sufficient unto the day!’” said the Duke serenely. “You will remove

that notice from the door as soon as our neighbours have started for

evening church--or chapel.”

The afternoon wore itself slowly away, the Duke finding himself

afflicted with some degree of _ennui_. “Is there no situation in life,

however humble, however laborious,” he said, “that is free from this

plague? It is, indeed, a lesson to me that we should be content with our

several stations.” He went to his bedroom, snatched a short repose, and,

rising in better heart, assumed his corduroys.

At six-thirty a large motor-car broke down opposite the village inn. The

chauffeur announced that the necessary repairs would take some time. He

took some time himself, and some refreshment, before he set about them.

At six-fifty Frank, returning from a little stroll in the neighbourhood

of the inn, reported the arrival of Monsieur Ferdinand, his Grace’s

chief chauffeur, and removed the notice from the door of the cottage. He

laid tea and withdrew. Everything was ready except the shrimps. There

was, as yet, no sign of the shrimps, nor of Monsieur Alphonse.

“It can’t be that Alphonse will fail me!” thought the Duke uneasily. The

shrimps, although not absolutely essential, constituted an artistic

detail particularly congruous with his taste.

Precisely at seven o’clock he saw Miss Hordern approaching. With

enormous pleasure he noted the graceful outline of her figure as she

crossed the allotment; with less pleasure he observed that she was

accompanied by what is termed a “growing lad” of about fourteen. “These

precautions aren’t very complimentary,” thought the Duke.

Her knock sounded on the door. The Duke fell into a doze. She knocked

again.

“I do hope he’s not--not queer again to-day,” said Angela.

“The door’s open: let’s go in and look. I’m not afraid.”

He heard them enter the house; he rose and opened the sitting-room door.

“Oh, there you are! Good-evening. May we come in? Mamma would have come

and let me go to church, only she’s got such a bad headache that she’s

been obliged to go to bed.”

The Duke made no immediate reply. Angela came in, followed by the boy.

The boy put down on the table a round parcel which he was carrying.

“Jelly,” thought the Duke.

Angela laid down a volume.

“Lessons,” the Duke surmised.

“Oh, but you haven’t had your tea yet!” said Angela. “I’m afraid we are

interrupting you?”

“It’s laid for _two_,” remarked the boy.

“Himself and his poor brother, Tommy!”

“I do be proud----” began the Duke.

But suddenly the door from the kitchen opened and Monsieur Alphonse

appeared. He carried a large plate loaded with shrimps.

“Ze shrimp!” he cried triumphantly, waving a napkin which he held in his

other hand.

“Crikey, who’s this!” cried Tommy.

Well he might! Monsieur Alphonse wore a tight-fitting frock-coat, a

waterfall tie of huge dimensions, pearl-grey trousers, white spats, and

patent-leather boots, a red rose in one lapel of the coat, and in the

other the blue ribbon of the Order of St Honoratus of Pomerania,

bestowed on him by his Serene Highness the Reigning Duke, on the

occasion of the latter’s coronation banquet.

The Duke was vexed. “Monsieur Alphonse,” he said, “I did not ring.”

Naturally he forgot the absence of a bell.

“_Mais, Monsieur le_----”

The Duke arrested his words with a gesture, and turned to Angela.

“Further concealment, madam, is, I fear, useless. I am not what I seem.

May I rely on your honour?”

Angela fixed her charming blue eyes on the Duke.

“But who are you? And what does it mean?”

There is no telling what explanation the Duke intended to proffer; for

at this instant Tommy cried, with every appearance of agitation:

“Angela, Willie Anderson was right! It is them!”

“Them!” said Angela affrightedly, and sank into a chair.

“Who’s Willie Anderson, my boy?” asked the Duke kindly.

“He’s the Chief Constable--and you’ll soon find it out. If you did take

the silver plate, you needn’t have knocked old Lady Culverstone down

with the poker, you--you scoundrel, you!”

“I knock old Lady Culverstone down with the---- Oh, preposterous!”

exclaimed the Duke. He turned to Angela.

“_You_ don’t believe that of me?” he asked in a tender voice.

“It was supposed they wore the disguise of working-men,” she answered.

“Willie did tell me that.”

“Willie?”

“I’m--I’m engaged to Captain Anderson, the Chief Constable,” Angela

confessed, with a pretty blush.

“There you are!” said the Duke, fairly exasperated by this additional

vexation. “That’s what always happens to me!”

Before he could say any more, Frank rushed in from the kitchen.

“The cottage is surrounded with police and labourers!” he cried.

“They’ll be in at the door in a moment!”

To confirm his words there came a loud crash on the door (which Angela

had thoughtfully closed after her). The next instant it burst open; a

young man dashed into the room--a good-looking young man--followed by

three police constables and half-a-dozen of the Duke’s curious

neighbours. They had drawn their conclusions from his strange reserve

and his obvious ignorance of agriculture; they had communicated with the

police. Captain Anderson was a smart officer (D.S.O.). Three London

burglars were wanted for the robbery at old Lady Culverstone’s, and were

believed to be lurking in the neighbourhood, knowing that the railway

and the road to London would be watched.

The Duke never hesitated. As Captain Anderson dashed in at one door, he

dashed out at the other, followed by Frank and Monsieur Alphonse. He

could, of course, have declared himself, but such an action would have

severely wounded his _amour propre_; he prided himself on carrying out

his experiments unostentatiously, and hated getting his name into the

papers.

“Make for the inn!” he whispered to his companions, as they escaped from

the back door of the cottage, dashed across its tiny yard, and gained

the main road.

“After them, my lads!” rang out Captain Anderson’s military tones; and

the whole force was at their heels, Tommy gleefully shouting “Tally ho!”

Only two of the more intelligent neighbours stopped in the cottage and

inspected the Duke’s household goods. They were afraid to take the

silver (it was a special set, used during excursions, and bore no crest

or arms) but they took the chambertin with results surprising to

themselves; for it tasted mild.

All the rest went after the Duke, and with them Angela, who was as

active a girl as one could wish to see. Moreover, she was wily; she knew

the country. While the Duke and his companions, holding a lead of

barely twenty yards, rushed along the highroad towards the inn, while

Captain Anderson (who was not so intimately connected with the district)

led his pack directly after them--Tommy hanging persistently to their

heels--Angela took a short cut. The road curved. She struck across the

diameter of the curve, breasting the undergrowth, narrowly avoiding the

gorse, holding her Sunday skirt high in her hand, full of courage, eager

to help her betrothed, eager to help to put a feather in his cap, to

assist in his brilliant capture of the burglars.

Thus it chanced that when the Duke, Frank, and Monsieur Alphonse reached

the motor-car--in which Monsieur Ferdinand, hearing the rush of hurrying

feet and knowing that the Duke was occasionally pressed for time, had

already taken his seat--they were, indeed, clear of their pursuers but

they were faced by Angela.

“Jump in,” cried the Duke.

Frank and Monsieur Alphonse obeyed. The Duke was following himself with

all agility--for Captain Anderson was now no more than ten yards

off--when Angela threw herself upon him, gripping him firmly, and

crying: “I’ll hold him for you, Willie!”

The Duke admired her courage, but regretted her persistency. He could

not, without roughness, disengage himself from her grasp; but he could

lift her into the car with him. He did. She gave a scream. “Full steam

ahead!” cried the Duke. With a turn of Monsieur Ferdinand’s handles they

were off!

Just in time! Monsieur Alphonse, on the back seat, felt Anderson’s hand

clutch his coat collar just as they started. Fortunately Frank had taken

occasion to drop a waterproof rug over the number of the car at the

back.

“Stop, stop, stop, I say!” cried Angela.

“I regret it deeply, but for the moment I’m not in a position to oblige

you, madam,” said the Duke, as he wedged her in safely between himself

and Monsieur Ferdinand, on the roomy front seat. “The local police are

otherwise occupied--you need not exercise excessive caution, Ferdinand,”

he remarked to the chauffeur. Ferdinand obeyed his injunctions.

Nothing more passed for some minutes. They were, in fact, all very much

out of breath--except Ferdinand, and he had enough to do with his own

work. At last, however, Angela gasped: “Anyhow, the air is delicious!”

The Duke was gratified and encouraged. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying the

drive,” said he.

“Please don’t speak to me.”

“I fell into the error of supposing that you addressed me, madam.”

“What does it all mean?” she said--for it was impossible for her not now

to perceive that she was dealing with a gentleman.

The Duke replied with some warmth. “It means, madam, simply that I

claim, and intend, to exercise an Englishman’s right to occupy or, if

you will, to amuse himself in his own way within the limits of the law;

and that I will not be interfered with or harried by policemen and so

forth while I’m so engaged. Do I do any harm to anybody? It’s

preposterous.”

“I suppose you’re mad really,” she said thoughtfully.

“Then let’s be mad together for just a little while,” he suggested.

“Come now, you’re finding this enjoyable?”

“What will Willie be feeling--and thinking?” She gave a light laugh.

“Oh, I’m glad mamma’s gone to bed!” she added the next moment.

“She is beginning to enjoy herself,” the Duke decided.

“You will take me back?”

The Duke looked at his watch. “You shall be at the vicarage not later

than half-past ten.”

“Oh, but that’s very late!”

“Earlier, if you wish, but in no case later. After all, Mrs Hordern has

gone to bed--and Captain Anderson is probably very busy.”

Angela looked at him; her eyes twinkled a little--or maybe that was only

an impression of the Duke’s.

“I’ve always heard that it’s dangerous to thwart mad people,” she said.

The Duke has been heard to say that this young lady, whom he entertained

that night in a manner which may be termed purely fortuitous, was one of

the most agreeable companions whom it had ever been his fortune to meet.

The praise, coming from him, is high. There can be little doubt that

Miss Angela Hordern, in her turn, felt the attraction which the Duke’s

good-breeding and intellectual alertness seldom failed to arouse.

“I should love a motor!” sighed Miss Angela.

“You’re going to have one,” said the Duke. “But we must have something

to eat first.”

“You talk as if you were a prince in disguise!” she laughed.

The Duke laughed too, reflecting that, as a matter of strict formality,

he was entitled to the style she mentioned. In view of this fact he did

not feel called upon expressly to deny the suggestion. There can be

little doubt that his silence, to which perhaps she attributed too much

significance, enhanced the pleasure of her ride.

“I’m to know you then only by that very funny name?”

In an examination of her profile--for which the light still

sufficed--the Duke had grown abstracted. “What name?” he murmured

vaguely.

“The one you told mamma--Devil! That’s not really your name?”

“Not exactly!” laughed the Duke.

“I should think not,” laughed the lady. Herself somewhat addicted to

colloquial expressions, she failed to understand with what accuracy the

Duke had phrased his reply.

“I shall think of you as the Prince of Darkness,” said she with the

kindliest glance.

“I doubt whether much of this is not wasted on a Chief Constable,”

thought the Duke.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“I am not,” said the Duke, turning sharply round as he spoke. He fancied

that he had heard Monsieur Alphonse exclaim “_Mon Dieu!_” It must have

been a mistake. Both Monsieur Alphonse and Frank appeared to be asleep.

“I’m going to be.”

“You’ve conveyed that to me already.”

“He’s such a dear!”

“I think, Ferdinand, that we might venture on going a little faster,”

said the Duke. “Your licence is new: we will take the risk.”

Perhaps Miss Angela detected a certain lack of enthusiasm in the Duke’s

demeanour. At any rate she said no more about the Chief Constable. From

no point of view, if we consider the matter, would the topic be a

grateful one to her host.

They were on the outskirts of London, flashing by Hampstead Heath.

“Is this actually London?” she asked, somewhat alarmed. “You will

remember your promise?”

The Duke looked at his watch. “Eight-twenty! The Savoy would be rather a

rush for you.” He called across to Monsieur Ferdinand: “To the cottage!”

Five minutes later they stopped before the Duke’s small house in a lane

adjoining the Heath.

“Monsieur Alphonse, here’s your opportunity. A nice little dinner in a

quarter of an hour for mademoiselle and myself!”

“It shall be so, _Monsieur le_----”

“Quick, quick!” interrupted the Duke. “Excuse me one moment. Frank, show

Miss Hordern in, and see to her wants. I must have a word with

Ferdinand.”

Angela Hordern entered the little house full of a pleasurable

anticipation. All was ready for them; fresh flowers bloomed everywhere;

_The Observer_ and _The Referee_ lay on the table. She turned to Frank

in a sudden surprise:

“He meant to come here all the time?”

“No, madam. But this is always kept ready by his Gra----,--by my

master’s orders.”

“He must be very rich!”

“I am given to understand that the revenue has decreased slightly of

late,” was Frank’s answer, given with admirable carelessness.

“That’s all settled,” said the Duke, entering the room with a cheerful

air. “I’m right, Frank, in supposing that Sir Gerald Standish is still

in the Bahamas?”

“Yes, your----” He caught the Duke’s eye, and dexterously ended: “Quite

right, sir.”

“Then this car will do admirably,” said the Duke. “You have no idea,” he

continued to Angela, “how convenient it is to persuade two or three

friends to allow one to register a car or two in their names, especially

when they happen to be leaving the country. I don’t happen to be aware

whether the practice is legal.”

Frank brought in an omelette.

“Pray be seated,” continued the Duke. “This particular car will take you

home in forty-five minutes. Ferdinand has gone to bring it here--and a

most trustworthy man to drive you.”

“But--but what am I to do with them?”

“The man will remove the number of the car, and himself return by

train----”

“There isn’t any train at this time of night--or rather at the time it

will be by then.”

“Oh yes, there’ll be a train--Ferdinand won’t forget that.”

“You mean--a special?”

“Really,” said the Duke, with the slightest air of being questioned

enough, “they have so many different names for trains that I don’t

encumber my memory with them. There will, however, be a train. As for

the car---- What’s this, Frank?”

“Alphonse offers his sincere apologies. But the design, at least, is

novel. The way the truffles are arranged----”

“Miss Hordern will excuse our shortcomings. Where is the champagne?”

“On the ice, your----”

“Yes, yes. As for the car, Miss Hordern, I venture to hope that you will

accept it as a token of my regard--and a reminiscence of an evening

which has turned out not, I hope, altogether unpleasantly?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

“You accepted the Chief Constable.”

“But he--he’s very delightful,” Angela said, apparently eager to

convince him of the soundness of her judgment.

“So is the car,” said the Duke, tactfully avoiding the discussion.

Angela swallowed her last morsel of truffle, and drank her last drain of

champagne. The sound of a motor was heard in the lane outside.

The Duke looked at his watch and sighed. She came up to him and

stretched out her hand.

“And so are you--very delightful,” she said.

The Duke bent low and lightly kissed her hand.

“How am I to think of you?” she asked.

“We’ll each think of the other as of an evening’s holiday,” he said.

“Some streak of variety across life--a dream, if you will--a sample of

what we seek and see and lose. Or do I put my claim too high?”

“No,” she said softly. “But I must go back to my home.”

“And to your Chief Constable?”

She drew away from him, saying, a trifle defiantly: “I love him.”

“Yes; but you’ve enjoyed your evening?” asked the Duke.

“Oh, it’s been fun!” she cried, with a sudden gurgling laugh.

She darted her hand out to him again. This time he pressed it. She

turned and ran out of the house. At ten-twenty-eight she arrived at the

vicarage (the Duke had left a margin), and wrote to Captain Anderson to

call very early and fetch away a motor-car. She would keep Mrs Hordern

in bed till lunch-time; and the vicar never entered the unused stables.

As for the Duke, he changed his clothes and drove down to the Savoy.

As he was finishing his coffee in his dressing-room the next morning,

Frank said: “I beg your Grace’s pardon?”

“Well, Frank?” said the Duke encouragingly.

“Does your Grace return to-day to the allotment?”

“Surely, Frank, I have told you before now that I prefer not to have my

movements suggested to me?”

“Yes, your Grace; I know, your Grace. But--but what am I to do with the

allotment and the cottage?”

“Pay for them, to be sure, Frank,” said the Duke.

“I’ve done that, your Grace.”

“Then what remains to be done? You buy a thing, you pay for it, use it,

perhaps enjoy it” (he smiled contentedly)--“what more remains?”

“I--I don’t know, your Grace.”

“No more do I, Frank. You can take away the breakfast.”

THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Dramatic Rights are reserved and protected as required by law._

[2] _Dramatic Rights are reserved and protected as required by law._

* * * * *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

the season was the mouth of June=> the season was the month of June {pg

10}

endurance of the Marchesa=> endurance of the Marchesa {pg 13}

warning off tresspassers=> warning off trespassers {pg 34}

As the same instant=> At the same instant {pg 68}

hidden in the shubbery=> hidden in the shrubbery {pg 78}

Lynborongh sank again=> Lynborough sank again {pg 100}

ths Doctor and his wife=> the Doctor and his wife {pg 103}

brightened to a new brillance=> brightened to a new brilliance {pg 286}