Newman Chaytor first met Annette in Paris. She wrote to him to London,

saying that her uncle intended to make a stay there of a few weeks,

and telling him the name of the hotel they stopped at. Chaytor's

business in London was by that time transacted and he was nervous to

get away with his spoil. Bold as he had been, and little as he

believed he had to fear, there were moments when he was seized with

panic. What if Basil should not be dead? What if, recovering, and

being rescued from the tomb into which Chaytor had plunged him, some

suspicion should cross his mind of the treachery which had been

practised towards him? What if, after that, bent upon revenge, he

should find his way home, and there discover how he had been wronged

and robbed? Newman Chaytor was bathed in cold sweat, and his limbs

shook as he contemplated this contingency. In his calmer moments he

strove to laugh himself out of his fears, but he never entirely got

rid of them, and he deemed it safer to live most of his time out of

England. For reasons of safety, also, he converted Basil's fortune

into cash, and carried a large portion of it upon his person in Bank

of England notes. He had clothes made after his own design, and in his

waistcoats and trousers were inner pockets in which he concealed his

treasure. There were five bank notes of a thousand pounds each, twenty

of five hundred each, and the rest in hundreds and fifties. They

occupied but little space, and during the first month or two of his

coming into possession of the money, he was continually counting it in

the secresy of his room, with doors locked and windows shaded. The

passing of a cloud, the fluttering of a bird's wings across his

window, the sound of breathing or footstep outside his door, drove him

into agonies of apprehension as he was thus engaged. He would stop

suddenly and listen, and creep to door or window, and wait there till

the fancied cause for fear was gone; then he would resume his

operations and pack the money away in the lining of his clothes. The

dread of losing it, of his being robbed, of its being wrested from

him, was never absent. When he entered a new hotel he examined the

doors of his rooms, tried the locks and fastenings, and peered about

in every nook and corner, until he was satisfied that there was no

chink or loophole of danger. But as fast as his fears were allayed in

one direction they sprang up in another. The hydra-headed monster he

had created for himself left him no rest by day or night. He slept

with his clothes under his bolster, and waking up, would grope in the

dark with his hands to assure himself that they had not been taken

away. There were nights which were nothing less than one long terror

to him. The occupants of the apartments to the right and left of him

were talkative; he could not catch the sense of their words, but they

were, of course, talking of him. They were quiet; of course they were

so to put him off his guard. He would jump from his bed and stand,

listening, and whether he heard sounds or heard none, every existent

and non-existent sign became a menace and a terror. As time wore on it

could not be but that these fears became less strong and vivid, but

they were never entirely obliterated, and were occasionally revived in

all their original force. There was, however, one new habit which he

practised mechanically, and of which he never got rid. This was a

movement of the left hand towards those parts of his clothing in which

the money was concealed. He was quite unconscious of the frequency of

this peculiar motion, and took as little notice of it as any man takes

of the natural movements of his limbs.

When he received Annette's letter informing him that they were in

Paris he immediately resolved to go there. "I am wondering," wrote

Annette, "whether we shall see you here, or whether we shall have to

wait because your business is not finished. You must forget all that I

have said about Uncle Gilbert; we did not understand each other, but

we do now, and he is very very kind to me; and although he cannot be

as anxious to see you as I am, he is ready to give you a warm and

hearty welcome."

"She is an affectionate little puss," thought Chaytor, "and does not

seem to conceal anything from her dear Basil, but if she thinks I am

going to tie myself to her apron strings she is mistaken. I will feel

my way with her, and--yes, a good idea! will have a peep at her

somehow without her seeing me, before I introduce myself. Judging from

the photograph she sent me in Australia"--he was so accustomed to

think of himself as Basil that he often forgot he was Newman

Chaytor--"she is as pretty as a picture; but then portraits are

deceitful--like the originals. They are so touched up by the

photographers, that a very ordinary-looking woman is transformed into

an angel. If that is the case with Annette she will see very little of

me. Give me beauty, bright eyes, white teeth, a good figure, a pretty,

kissable mouth, and I am satisfied. So, my little Annette, it all

depends upon yourself. As for Uncle Gilbert, it is a good job that he

is changed; it will make things easier for me. I don't want to

quarrel, not I, and if I take a fancy to Annette, and he can help to

smooth the way for me, why, all the better."

From the day he set foot on the vessel which brought him to England,

Chaytor had been most painstaking and careful about his appearance. He

spent hours before the glass arranging his hair after the fashion of

Basil's hair, as our hero had worn it in England; and, being a bit of

an artist, he succeeded perfectly. The resemblance was marvellous, and

Chaytor congratulated himself and chuckled at his cleverness. "Upon my

soul," he said, "we must have been changed at our birth. I am Basil,

and he----" He paused. No shudder passed through him, he was visited

by no pang of remorse at the thought of Basil lying dead at the bottom

of the shaft. It must have been very quick and sudden! Death must have

ensued instantaneously. Had he not listened and lingered, without a

sound of suffering, without even a sigh reaching him? "No man could do

more than that," he thought. "There's no telling what I should have

done if he had groaned or cried for help. But as he was dead and done

for, what was the use of my loitering there?" Across the many

thousands of miles of sea and land, his mental vision travelled with

more than lightning swiftness, and he saw at the bottom of a dark

shaft the form of his victim huddled up and still. And as he gazed,

the form unfolded itself, and rising to its feet, glided towards him.

The vision had presented itself once before, and he acted now as he

had acted then. Almost frenzied he dashed the phantom aside, with as

much force as if Basil had stood bodily before him, and, finding that

this was of no avail, threw himself upon the ground, and grovelled

there with closed eyes until reason re-assumed its sway and whispered

that he was but the fool of fevered fancies. "I shall go mad if I

don't mind," he muttered. "I know what's the matter with me; I am

keeping myself too solitary. I want friends, companionship." It is a

fact that he would not make friends with any one; the fewer questions

that were asked of him the better. He was in constant dread of meeting

with some person of whom Basil had not spoken who would begin to speak

of old times. Out of England this was not so likely to occur. Man of

pleasure as he was he had never been a heavy drinker, but now he flew

to brandy to deaden his fears. Altogether, despite his success, he was

not greatly to be envied. The lot of the poorest and most unfortunate

of men is to be preferred to that of a man of evil heart, whose

Nemesis is ever by his side throwing its black shadow over every

conscious hour.

On the Continent Chaytor experienced some relief. He had always been

fond of Paris, and now he threw himself with zest into the pleasures

of that gay city. "This is life," he said enthusiastically; "it

is for this I have worked. Eureka! I have found the philosopher's

stone--freedom, light, enjoyment." He was in no hurry to go to

Annette; he would have his fling first--but, that, he said to himself,

he would always have, Annette or no Annette. His misfortune was that

he could not rule circumstance. Gilbert Bidaud set eyes on him as he

was driving with some gay companions, for here in Paris Chaytor was

not so bent upon avoiding society as in England. "Surely," mused the

elder fox, as he slipped into a carriage and gave the driver

instructions to follow Chaytor and his companions, "that is my old

friend Basil, for whom my foolish niece is looking and longing. He

presented himself to me in the Australian wilderness as a model of

perfection, a knight without a stain upon his shield, but in Paris he

appears to be very human. Very human indeed," he repeated with a

laugh, as he noted the wild gaiety of the man he was following. Be

sure that he did not lose sight of his quarry until he learnt as many

particulars concerning it as he could gain. So fox watched fox, and

the game went on, Annette waiting and dreaming of the Bayard without

flaw and without reproach who reigned in her heart of hearts.

"Have you heard from our friend Basil?" asked Gilbert Bidaud.

"Not for ten days," replied Annette. "He said he feared he would not

have time to write again till he came to Paris, he was so beset with

lawyers and business men."

"Yes, yes," said Gilbert; "he must have much to do. He will come to

us, I hope, the moment he reaches Paris."

"Oh, yes, uncle; he will not wait a day, an hour; he will come

straight here."

Gilbert Bidaud nodded cheerfully, and said no more, but his cunning

mind was busy revolving pros and cons.

Chaytor, after awhile, carried out his resolution of seeing Annette

before he presented himself to her. Ascertaining the rooms she and her

people occupied, he engaged apartments for a couple of days in an

hotel from the windows of which he could observe her movements. He

used opera glasses, and so arranged his post of observation that he

could not himself be seen. In the petty minutiæ of small schemes, he

was a master.

The first time he saw Annette he almost let his glasses fall from his

hand. Her radiant countenance, her sparkling eyes, the beauty of her

face, the grace of her movements, were a revelation to him. Never had

he seen a creature so lovely and perfect. So fascinated was he that he

dreaded it might not be Annette--but yes, there was her uncle, Gilbert

Bidaud, standing now by her side, and apparently talking pleasantly to

her. Chaytor, though he had seen the old man but once in the

Australian woods, when he was a concealed witness of the interview

between Gilbert, Basil and Annette, recognised him immediately.

Gilbert Bidaud was not changed in the least, and Chaytor decided

within himself that neither Basil or Annette knew how to manage the

old fellow. He, Newman Chaytor, would be able to do so; he would be

the master of the situation, and would pull the strings of his puppets

according to his moods and wishes. He did not dream that Gilbert

Bidaud was aware that he was in their vicinity, that he even knew the

number of the rooms he had engaged in the hotel, and the name he had

assumed for the purposes of his secret watch. From the moment that

Gilbert had set eyes upon him, every step he took, every movement he

made, was noted down by agents employed by the old man, who kept a

written record for possible use in the future. These two forces were

well matched, but the odds were in favour of the elder animal. "It is

clear," said Newman Chaytor, "that Basil was mistaken in his estimate

of Gilbert Bidaud, and that he poisoned Annette's mind against her

uncle. The old man is harmless enough, and he and I will be great

friends." Presently Gilbert kissed his niece and left the room,

laughing to himself at the comedy scene he had played. His thoughts

may also be put into words.

"He is in that room, watching Annette. He has arranged the curtains

and the furniture in the manner most convenient for his watch. What is

his object, and what do his movements prove? He wishes to convince

himself that Annette is a bird attractive enough to follow, to woo, to

win. If I knew what has passed between them in the letters they wrote

to each other, I should be more certain of my conclusions, but as it

is I shall not be far out. He wishes also to observe me secretly, and

to make up his mind about me before we come together. Well, he shall

have opportunity--he shall see what a kind pleasant uncle I am. We

were not the best of friends across the ocean--in good truth, we were

as bitter enemies as men could possibly be; and he remembers that we

exchanged hard and bitter words. Do I bear animosity? No; here, my

dear friend, is my hand: take it." He held it out, and the cunning of

his nature was exposed in the expression of his thin lips and his cold

blue eyes. "But what do his movements prove? That, setting himself up

as a gentleman, above doing a sly action, profuse in his scorn of

others and in glorification of himself, he is the personification of

low cunning and meanness. He deceived me when we clashed in the

forest; expressing scorn of him, and flinging mud upon his motives, I

yet believed him to be a gentleman, and was in my soul angry because

the belief was forced upon me. Bah! my friend Basil, my self-elected

gentleman of honour unblemished and untarnished, you are unmasked. You

play your game; I will play mine. We shall see who will win."

While these communings were going on Chaytor continued his watch. His

greedy eyes dwelt upon Annette's sweet face--heavens, he thought, how

beautiful she is!--his sinful soul gloated upon her grace of form and

feature. Would she know him when her eyes fell upon him? Would she see

at once that he was Basil, or was there anything in his appearance

that would inspire a doubt? That afternoon he examined himself

narrowly in the glass; he practised Basil's little tricks of motion,

one of the most conspicuous of which was the caressing of his

moustache between finger and thumb, and any doubts he may have had

disappeared. "I am more like Basil Whittingham than he ever was," he

said. "Even in a court of law the chances would be all on my side."

When he was in a confident mood nothing more improbable could be

conceived than that Basil would ever cross his path. It was not

improbable, it was impossible. Basil was dead, and there was an end of

the matter; he had all the field to himself.

He continued to observe Annette from his window, and the more he saw

of her the more constantly did his thoughts dwell upon her. During

these days he went through many rehearsals of the part he was playing,

recalling all that Basil had told him of his association with Annette,

the scenes they had walked through, the conversations they had

indulged in. He was letter perfect in what had passed between Basil

and Annette's father, and his retentive memory had preserved all the

incidents in the scene in the Australian woods, when Gilbert Bidaud

and his sister had surprised them near Old Corrie's hut. "Old Corrie,"

thought Chaytor, "had a down on me, and came near to spoiling my game,

but I've been more than a match for the lot of them. What has become

of the old busy-body? Dead, most likely. Everybody's as good as dead

who could touch or interfere with me. And Annette, the pretty Annette,

is ready to fall into my arms the moment I make my appearance." It

will be remembered that on the last meeting between Basil and Annette,

she gave him a locket containing her mother's portrait, and that, when

Gilbert Bidaud flung it away into the bush, Newman Chaytor picked it

up and kept it close. From that day to this he had never parted with

it, and now, being about to present himself to Annette, he put it

round his neck, conscious that it would be a good card to play under

any circumstances.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Annette was at lunch with her uncle and aunt in the public room of the

hotel when a gentleman entered, and took his seat at another table

close by. Annette, looking up from her plate, flushed rosy red, and in

uncontrollable excitement, started to her feet, then sank back into

her chair with her eyes fixed upon the newcomer. Gilbert Bidaud had

also noted the entrance of the gentleman, although his eyes seemed to

be directed to another part of the room; he took no outward notice,

but inwardly said, "Ah, ah, friend Basil, you have decided at last to

appear. Now for a few clever lies."

"Uncle!" whispered Annette.

"Yes, my niece," said Gilbert, "what do you wish?"

"Look there uncle; look there."

Gilbert looked in the desired direction and said, "I see a gentleman."

"Do you not know who it is, uncle? Do you not recognise him?"

"As I live," said Gilbert, "I believe him to be our Australian friend,

Basil. But no--I may be deceived."

"It is he, uncle; it is he. Oh, why will he not look this way?"

At that precise moment, Chaytor, who was speaking to a waiter, turned

towards Annette, and their eyes met. He rose and walked towards her,

with a certain air of irresolution, but with an expression of eager

delight in his face.

"Basil!" she cried, advancing to him.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Chaytor, hugging himself with satisfaction

at this unhesitating recognition. It was not only that there were no

obstacles to remove, no awkward explanations to make, but it was a

tribute to his powers of duplicity, almost the crowning stone in the

monument of deception he had erected with so much skill. "Annette!"

"Oh, Basil, Basil!" cried Annette, holding out her hands, which he

clasped in his. "How happy I am to see you--how happy, how happy!"

Gilbert Bidaud, who had watched in silence the progress of this

comedy, now stepped forward.

"You must allow me to interfere," he said. "We are not alone. There

are other ladies and gentlemen in the room, and their eyes are on you.

We will adjourn to our apartments."

He took Annette's hand and led the way, and in a few moments they were

able to converse without drawing upon themselves the attention of

strangers.

"You will excuse me," said Gilbert to Chaytor with grave courtesy,

pointing to a chair, "but I think this is better."

"Infinitely better, M. Bidaud," said Chaytor, "and I thank you for

recalling me to myself. May I hope that you will shake hands with me?"

"Willingly. Let bygones be bygones. We did not understand each other

at the other end of the world; we will manage better at this end. When

did you arrive in Paris?"

"This morning. I travelled by the night mail."

"Lie the first," thought Gilbert Bidaud as he smiled and nodded.

"A weary journey, and I wanted to get rid of the stains of travel

before I presented myself. I was afraid, Annette--or I should rather

now say Miss Bidaud--might not recognise me."

"I should have known you anywhere," said Annette softly.

"And you, M. Bidaud?" asked Chaytor, turning laughingly to the old

man.

"Anywhere, anywhere!" cried Gilbert, enthusiastically. "You have the

distinguished appearance, the grand air, which made me mistrust you on

my lamented brother's plantation. But we mistrusted each other, eh,

friend Basil?"

"Well, we did; but as you say, 'let bygones be bygones.'"

"They shall be. If we speak of them it shall be to teach us lessons. I

will leave you and my niece together for, say, half-an-hour, and then

we will drive out. The day is fine--this re-union is fine--everything

is fine. My dear niece, I salute you."

Annette's cup of happiness was full. She had experienced a momentary

pang when she heard herself called Miss Bidaud, but she knew that it

was right. She was no longer a child, and although she had always

commenced her letters with "My dear Basil," she would have hesitated,

now that they were together, had she sat down to write to him. They

had so much to talk about! All the old days were recalled, and if once

or twice Chaytor tripped, his natural cleverness and Annette's

assistance soon put him right. In such a matter as the last meeting in

the forest between Basil and Annette, of which he was a secret

witness, he was very exact, his faithful memory reproducing the

smallest detail.

"Do you remember this?" he asked, showing her the locket.

She gazed at her mother's portrait with tears in her eyes.

"I was afraid it was lost," she said, "when uncle threw it away."

"What a hunt I had for it," said Chaytor. "For hours and hours did I

look about, and almost despaired of finding it. I'll tell you what

came into my mind. If I don't find the locket I shall never see

Annette again; if I do, I shall. And when it was in my hands I looked

upon it as a good omen. I believe it has brought me straight to you.

It has never left me; day and night I have worn it round my neck."

"Old Corrie helped you to find it," said Annette. "Oh, yes, of course,

but it was I, not he, who first saw it. Lying among the leaves.

By-the-by, is that magpie still in the land of the living?"

"Yes, I have it in my room." Annette blushed as she spoke, thinking of

the endearing words of Basil she had taught the bird to speak. "It is

all the dearer to me now that its poor master has gone." Then Chaytor

began to speak of his trials and troubles in Australia, and of his

fear that he would never be able to return to England.

"I used to fret rarely over it," he said. "I would not tell you so in

my letters, because I did not want to make you sad. But all that is

over now; I am rich, and there is nothing but happiness before us."

"Nothing but happiness before us!" Annette's heart beat tumultuously

as she heard those words. New hopes, new joys, were gathering, of

which she scarcely knew the meaning. She did not seek for it; it was

sufficient that Basil was with her, unchanged, the same dear friend he

had ever been. They had so much to say to each other that Gilbert

Bidaud's entrance at the end of half an hour was an unwelcome

interruption.

"Come, come, young people," he said merrily, "the bright sun invites

us. You can talk as we ride."

His voice was benignant, his manner paternal, and during the ride he

did not intrude upon them. That night Annette went to bed a perfectly

happy woman. No doubts or fears beset her. She was conscious of a

certain undefinable change in Basil which she could not exactly

explain to herself. His voice appeared to be in some way altered; it

was scarcely so gentle as it used to be, and there was a difference

also in his manner of speech. But she did not dwell upon these

impressions; the change was more likely in her than in him; she had

grown, she had ripened, childhood's days were over. Then Basil had

passed through much suffering, and had been for years in association

with rough men. What wonder if his manners were less refined than she

remembered them to be? But his heart was unchanged; he was the same

Basil as of old--tender, devoted, and as deeply attached to her as she

had dared to hope. Emily, assisting her young mistress to undress,

found her less conversational than usual. She divined the cause, and

was sympathetically quiet, asking but few questions, and listening

with unaffected interest to what Annette had to say. Emily had not yet

seen Basil, but her views with respect to him were fixed; she was

quite ready to subscribe to Annette's belief that he was above the

standard of the ordinary mortal, and she had set her heart upon its

being a match between them; and when, while she was assisting her

mistress, she saw her, in the glass, smile happily to herself, as one

might do who was under the influence of a happy dream, she was

satisfied that some progress had already been made towards the desired

end.

As for Newman Chaytor, he left Annette that night in a very contented,

not to say ecstatic, frame of mind. There had not been a hitch; he had

passed through the examination with flying colours. He approved not

only of himself, he approved of Annette. She was beautiful from a

distance, but far more than beautiful did she prove to be when he came

into association with her; her winning voice, her tenderness, her

charm of manner, made as deep an impression upon him as a nature so

entirely selfish as his was capable of receiving. It was not possible

that he could entertain true and sincere love for any human being, but

Annette inspired within him those feelings which took the place of

such a love. "She has bewitched me," he said. "I can't drive her out

of my thoughts, and don't want to, the little darling! Basil, my

double, had a good eye for the future. He saw what she would grow

into, and intended to save her for himself; and so he has, for I am

he. My other self, I drink to you!" It was in the solitude of his

chamber that he communed thus with himself. Brandy and water were

before him; he mixed a stiff glass in which to drink the toast, and

raised it to his lips as he uttered the last words. Scarcely had the

glass touched his lips when it fell to the ground and was shattered to

pieces. There before him was the vision of the shaft with the dead

body of his other self lying at the bottom. It rose and moved towards

him. "Curse you!" he cried. "Can I never get rid of you?" A silent

voice answered him: "Never, while you live. I am the shadow of your

crime. I shall be with you--dogging you, haunting you--to the last

hour of your sinful life!"

CHAPTER XL.

Gilbert Bidaud was puzzled. As well as any man in the world did he

know the true metal when he saw it, and when he was in doubt and had

the opportunity of applying tests he did so, and thus resolved his

doubts. He had done so in the case of Newman Chaytor, with the result

that he proved the metal to be spurious; and still he was not

satisfied with the proof. There was something behind the scenes which

was hidden from him, and with all his cleverness he could not obtain

sight of it.

His acquaintance with Basil in Australia had been brief, but he had

learnt in that short time to hate him most cordially. This hatred was

intensified by the conviction that forced itself upon him that Basil

was a straightforward, honourable gentleman. Gilbert Bidaud never

allowed his prejudices to blind him and obscure his judgment. When he

found himself in a difficult position he was careful that his view of

the circumstances with which he had to contend was a clear one, and

whatever discomfort he might bring upon himself by this course it was

invariably of assistance to him in the end he desired to attain.

Recognising in Basil the gentleman and the man of honourable impulse

he knew exactly where to sting him and how to cope with him. Looking

forward to association with Basil in Europe he had schooled himself

beforehand as to the methods to pursue with respect to him. But these

methods were not necessary. The Basil between whom and himself there

was now regular intercourse, was a different Basil from the man he had

known across the seas, easier to manage and grapple with. So far, so

good, but it did not content Gilbert Bidaud. By no process of

reasoning could he reconcile the opposing characteristics of the man

he had to fear. Where Basil was straight Chaytor was crooked, where he

was manly and independent Chaytor was shy and cringing. The physical

likeness was sufficiently striking to deceive the world; the moral

likeness could deceive very few, and certainly not for long an

intellect like Gilbert Bidaud's. They had been intimate now many

months, and Chaytor was regarded as one of the the family. Beneath the

tests which Gilbert employed his character had gradually unfolded

itself. He drank, he gambled, he dissipated, and in all his vices

Gilbert led him on and fooled him to the top of his bent, the elder

man becoming every day more convinced that there was here a mystery

which it would be useful to himself to unfold. All he wanted was a

starting point, and it was long before it presented itself; but it

came at last.

The rift of light shone on a day when Gilbert Bidaud had taken it into

his head to direct the conversation to the first time he and Basil had

met. Chaytor and Gilbert were alone, and had just finished a match at

piquet, which left the more experienced gamester of the two a winner

of a couple of hundred pounds. Chaytor was in a vile temper; he was a

bad loser, and Gilbert had won a considerable sum of him within the

last few weeks. Had his brain been as evenly balanced as that of his

antagonist he would have recognised in him a superior player, and

would have declined to play longer with him for heavy stakes, but,

unluckily for himself, he believed he was the equal of any man in

games of skill, and the worst qualities of pride were aroused by his

defeats.

"Curse your luck!" he cried.

"It will turn, it will turn," said Gilbert, complacently; "it cannot

last with so good a player as yourself. If we had even cards I should

have a poor chance with you."

He poured out brandy for Chaytor and claret for himself. Liquor was

always handy when these two were together, and Gilbert never drank

spirits. Chaytor emptied his glass, and Gilbert sipped at his

and then directed the conversation to their first meeting on the

plantation.

"You must remember it well," said Gilbert.

"Of course I do," said Chaytor, ungraciously, helping himself to more

brandy. "One doesn't soon forget his dealings with Mr. Gilbert

Bidaud."

"Yes, yes, I make myself remembered," said Gilbert, laughing with an

affectation of good-humour. "For me, I have never forgotten that

alligator. I can see it now, lying without motion among the reeds."

"What are you driving at?" exclaimed Chaytor, to whom, as it happened,

Basil had never given any account of the details of this first meeting

with Gilbert Bidaud. "If you want to humbug me you will have to get up

earlier in the morning, my friend."

"Why, that is certain," said Gilbert, continuing to laugh, but with a

strange thoughtfulness in his observance of Chaytor. "I was only

recalling an incident that occurred on the morning I arrived on the

plantation. We had tramped through the bush, my sister and I, my poor

brother having urged us to hasten, and we arrived early in the

morning, tired and dusty. Before us stretched a river, and, leaving my

sister to rest beneath the wide-spread branches of a tree, I sought a

secluded spot where I could bathe. I undressed and was about to plunge

into the water, when I beheld lurking among the reeds a monstrous

alligator. A workman on the plantation chancing to pass that way, ran

down the bank and seized my arm, and pointing to the alligator, said,

with reference to a remark I made about being ready for my breakfast,

that instead of eating I might be eaten. It was kind of that workman

to make the attempt to save me. If it had been you, friend Basil, you

might not just then have been so anxious to deprive the monster of a

savoury meal."

"It is pretty certain," acquiesced Chaytor, with a sneer, "that I

should have left you to your fate."

"Now that is frank and honest," said Gilbert, "and what I like in you.

Not for you the trouble of meaning one thing and saying another. It

was not unlikely, however, that this kind workman, one of the

labourers on the plantation, might have mentioned this incident of the

alligator to you."

"Whether it was or wasn't, he didn't mention it. This is the first

time I have heard the interesting story."

"Ah, it _is_ interesting, is it not? It was from this same obliging

workman that I learnt many particulars of my brother's domestic

affairs, of which I was ignorant, having been so long separated from

him."

And then Gilbert Bidaud, with something more than a suspicion that he

had his fingers on the pulse of the mystery which was perplexing him,

recapitulated, as nearly as he could recall them, all the particulars

of the conversation between Basil and himself on this occasion of

their first meeting, with not one of which was Chaytor familiar.

Chaytor, continuing to drink, listened contemptuously to this "small

talk," as he termed it, and wanted to know why Gilbert Bidaud bored

him with such stuff; but the old man continued, and finally wound up

with an invented account of a meeting with Basil on the plantation, to

which Chaytor, ignorant of what was true and what was false, willingly

subscribed, and thus materially assisted in the deception that was

being practised upon him. At length Gilbert Bidaud rose with the

intention of taking his leave.

"And how goes matters," he asked, "with you and my niece? Does the

course of true love still run smooth?"

"Never you mind," retorted Chaytor, "whether it does or doesn't. It

isn't your affair."

"Perhaps not. You are not in a gracious humour, friend Basil. We will

speak of it another time. Do not forget that I am Annette's guardian."

"Oh, no, I'll not forget. When she and I settle things I shall want

some information from you."

"About----?" asked Gilbert, and paused.

"About her fortune. You see, up till now, my friend, you have had it

all your own way."

"True, true. We will speak of it. Oh, yes, we will speak of it,"

adding inly, "and of other things as well, my mysterious friend."

The remaining portion of that day Gilbert Bidaud devoted himself to

thought, the subject being the man who called himself Basil

Whittingham. This, with him, was a distinct process; he had cultivated

the art of marshalling facts and evidence, of weighing their relative

value and their direct and indirect bearing upon the problem he was

endeavouring to solve, and of imparting into it all the arguments

which would naturally suggest themselves to an intellect so subtle and

astute as his own. "Outside," thought Gilbert, "he is Basil, the man I

knew; inside he is not Basil, the man I knew. The outside of a man may

change, but it is against nature that his character should be twisted

inside out--that it should turn from white to black, from black to

white. In my estimate of Basil on my brother's plantation I was not

mistaken; and that being so, this man and that man are not the same

inwardly. How stands my niece in regard to him? She was all joy when

he first joined us; it was nothing but Basil, Basil, Basil, like the

magpie that the old woodcutter gave her. But her joy and gladness have

not stood the test of time; my niece has grown sad. I have seen her

watch Basil's face with grief in her own; I have seen her listen to

his conversation with sadness and surprise in her eyes. She says

nothing, she nurses her grief, and is the kind of woman that will

sacrifice herself to an idea, to a passion she regards as sacred. Yes,

this Basil is not the Basil she knew--and she knew him well and

intimately, far better than I. That one was capable of noble

deeds--though I hated him I will do him justice; this one is sordid,

mean, debased, depraved. Fruit ripens and rots; not so men's hearts.

Where there is sweetness it is never wholly lost; some trace of it

remains, and so with frankness, generosity, and nobility. Has this

Basil shown the least moral indication that he is the man we knew? Not

one. All the better for me, perhaps. He will want some information

from me respecting Annette's fortune, will he? I may want some

information from him. He will dictate to me, will he? Take care, my

friend, I may dictate to you."

The result of his cogitations was that he made a little experiment.

For some time past a celebrated case of personation, in which the

fortunes of an old family and estate were involved, had been the theme

of conversation and speculation all the world over; and, curiously

enough, the man who caused this excitement hailed from Australia. The

trial had just commenced, and the newspapers were full of it. Armed

with a bundle of papers, Gilbert Bidaud presented himself to Chaytor.

Throwing them on the table, he said:

"Never have I been so interested, never has there been such a case

before the public. How will it end? that is the question--how will it

end? You and I, who are students of human nature, who can read

character as we read books, even we must be puzzled and perplexed.

Why, what have you there? As I live, you have been purchasing the same

papers as myself."

It was true that there were English newspapers scattered about the

room of the same dates as those Gilbert Bidaud had brought in with

him, and that their appearance indicated that Chaytor had perused

them.

"An Englishman may buy an English newspapers I suppose," said Chaytor,

a little uneasily, "without its being considered in any way

remarkable. What particular case are you referring to?"

"An Englishman, my dear friend," replied Gilbert, with exceeding

urbanity, "may purchase every English newspaper there is for sale in

the city if he is so inclined. This is the particular case to which I

refer." He pointed to the columns upon columns of the reports of the

case, taking up one paper after another and laying them all down

carefully a-top of each other with the case in question uppermost,

till he had gathered together every newspaper in the room, and had

arranged them in one pile. While he was thus employed he did not fail

to note that Chaytor's face had grown white, and that he was also

watching Gilbert Bidaud in fear and secresy. Gilbert Bidaud laughed

softly, as he said:

"Study this case, my dear friend. Watch its progress--consider it

well. But perhaps it is not necessary for one so deep, so clever as

yourself. You have already made up your mind how it will end. Make me

as wise as yourself, friend of my soul."

He laid his hand upon Chaytor's arm, and gazed steadily into the

traitor's eyes, which wavered in the observance.

"How should I know," exclaimed Chaytor, shaking off Gilbert's hand,

"how it will end?"

"Nay, my dear friend," said Gilbert, and once more he laid his hand

upon Chaytor's arm, "do not shake me off so rudely. You and I are

friends, are we not? We can serve each other; I may be useful to

you--yes, yes, very, very useful."

He was one who placed a high value upon small tests, and he had laid

his hand upon Chaytor's arm the second time with a deliberate and

distinct purpose. If the man before him was really and truly Basil, he

could not possibly misunderstand the covert threat which the action

and the tone in which he spoke conveyed. Having nothing to fear, he

would show resentment, indignation, and would release himself

immediately from Gilbert's grasp. Newman Chaytor did nothing of the

kind; inwardly shaking with mortal dread, he allowed Gilbert's hand to

remain, and for a few moments neither of the men spoke. During this

brief silence Gilbert knew that the game was his, and that he had

nothing to fear from Chaytor's threat concerning the management of

Annette's fortune. He was too wise to push his advantage. With a light

laugh, he threw the pile of newspapers into a corner of the room, and

said:

"What matter to us how the case ends? If it is against him, he is a

fool; if it is for him, he deserves to win; in either case whether he

be or be not the man, we will not discuss it. Our own affairs are for

us sufficient. Is it not so?"

"Yes," replied Chaytor sullenly. He would not have answered had not

Gilbert looked up at him and compelled him to speak.

"I love the daring deed," continued Gilbert; "my soul responds to him

who conceives and carries it out, and if there is danger in the

execution it is to me all the grander. I have myself been daring in my

time, and had I not been successful rue would have been my portion.

You and I, my dear friend, have in our nature some resemblance; we

view life and human matters with the eye of a philosopher. Life is

short--ah! I envy you; your feet have scarcely passed the threshold; I

am far on the way. For you the summer, for me the winter. Well, well,

there are some years before me yet, and I will exercise our philosophy

by enjoying them. I look to myself; let other men do the same. Nature

says aloud, 'Enjoy the sunshine.' I obey nature. Enjoy, enjoy,

enjoy--that is the true teaching; and you, dear friend, are of my

opinion. Let this proclaim that we are comrades." He held out his

hand, which Chaytor felt restrained to take. "That is well; it is

safer so. And attend. I pry not into your secrets, and you will not

pry into mine. Of our cupboards with their skeletons we will each keep

our key. What I choose to reveal I reveal; as with you. Beyond that

boundary we do not step."

He had not uttered a compromising word, but Chaytor understood him

thoroughly. How much, or how little, he knew, Chaytor could not say,

but that he could be a most dangerous enemy was clear. He was not a

man from whom one could escape easily, and, even if he were, Chaytor

was not in the humour to make the attempt. The impression which

Annette's grace and beauty had made upon him was so strong that he

could not endure the idea of leaving her. The relations between them

had not been those of lovers: they had been of an affectionate nature,

but no words binding them to each other had passed between them.

Gilbert Bidaud was correct in his observation of her. Joyous and

bright at first, she had grown sad and quiet. A shadow had fallen upon

the ideal she had worshipped; and yet she did not dare to blame the

Basil who had reigned in her heart pure and undefiled. Was he still

so? She would not answer the question; when it presented itself she

refused to listen. With a sad shake of her head she strove to deaden

her senses against the still small voice which ever and again intruded

the torturing doubt, but she could not dismiss it entirely. Basil she

loved, Basil she would always love; was it not treason to love to

admit the whispered doubt that he was changed? She argued sometimes

that the change was in her, and wondered whether he observed in her

what she observed in him. She asked him once:

"Am I changed, Basil!"

"You are more beautiful and charming than ever, Annette."

They had had a little conversation, in which Gilbert Bidaud took part,

as to calling each other by their Christian names, and Gilbert had

settled the question.

"It is too cold," he said, "this Miss Bidaud, this Mr. Whittingham.

You proclaim yourself strangers. Let it be as it was, as it always

shall be, Basil and Annette. Always, always, Basil and Annette.

Children, be happy."

It was as though he had given them a fatherly benediction. From the

day of the last recorded interview between Gilbert Bidaud and Newman

Chaytor, the intimacy between them grew still closer. Gilbert managed

that, and also so contrived matters that, without any open declaration

being made, no one could doubt that Chaytor and Annette were unavowed

lovers. Gilbert had decided that it would be best and safest for him

that they should marry. He had Chaytor in his power, and could make a

bargain with him which would ensure him ease and comfort for his

remaining years. With another man it would not be so easy; he would

have to render an account of his stewardship, and in this there was

distinct danger. He was very curious to arrive at the real truth

respecting Chaytor, and despite his assurance that he would not pry

into Chaytor's secret, he was continually on the watch for something

that would help to reveal it to him. Chaytor, however, was on his

guard, and Gilbert learnt nothing further.

"Next week," he said to Chaytor, "we go to Villa Bidaud. The summer is

waning, and the climate there is warm and agreeable. You accompany

us?"

"Where Annette goes I go," said Chaytor.

"Yet," said Gilbert, with a certain wary thoughtfulness, "matters

should be more definitely arranged before you become absolutely one of

our family circle. I have spoken of this before. You are neither

brother nor cousin--what really would you be to her?"

"You know what I would really be."

"I know, but at present it is locked in a box. If you tarry too long

you will lose her. I perceive that that would be a blow; and well it

might be, for she is a prize a king would be proud to win. Shall we

decide it this evening?" Chaytor nodded. "Join us at nine o'clock, and

we will settle the matter. It may be advisable that I speak first to

Annette. She may need management. I will give you a word of warning.

If it goes according to your wish, be more careful in your behaviour.

Think a little less of yourself, a little more of her. Be tender,

considerate, thoughtful, for a time at least, until you are secure of

her. Then it is your affair and hers, and I shall have nought to do

with either of you."

"I will take care of that," thought Chaytor, and said aloud, "You

think I need your warning?"

"I know you need it. You have either small regard for women, or you

are clumsy in your management of them. Before I leave you now, I wish

you to sign this paper."

It was a document, carefully worded, which Gilbert Bidaud had drawn

out, by which Chaytor bound himself to make no demand upon Annette's

guardian for any money or property, which had fallen to Annette upon

her father's death. It was in fact, a renunciation of all claims in

the present or the future.

"Why should I sign this?" asked Chaytor rebelliously.

"Because it is my wish," replied Gilbert.

"If I refuse?"

"In the first place, you will lose Annette. In the second place,

something worse than that will happen to you."

"Through you?"

"Through me. I have a touch of the bloodhound in me. Take heed. Only

in alliance with me are you safe."

It was a bold hazard, but it succeeded. Without another word, Chaytor

signed the paper.

"Basil Whittingham," said Gilbert Bidaud, examining the signature, and

uttering the name with significant emphasis. "Good."

That evening the engagement between Annette and Chaytor was ratified

in the presence of Gilbert Bidaud and his sister. The old man had a

long conversation with his niece before Chaytor made his appearance.

He told her that Basil had formally proposed for her hand, and that

knowing her heart was already given to the young man, he had accorded

his consent to their union. He spoke in great praise of Basil's

character, and skilfully alluded to certain matters which he knew

Annette was grieving over.

"You have observed a change in Basil," he said, "so have I; but you,

my dear niece, are partly responsible for it. The truth is, Basil was

fearful of the manner in which you would receive his declaration. He

loves you with so deep and profound a love, and he sets so high a

value upon you, that he hardly dared to hope. The uncertainty of his

position has made him forget himself; he has committed excesses; he

has behaved as if he were not Basil, but another man. You, my dear

child, with your simple heart, are ignorant of the vagaries which

love's fever, and the fear of disappointment, play in a man's nature.

They transform him, and only when his heart is at ease, and he is

satisfied that his love is returned, does his better, his higher self

return. But for this fear Basil would perhaps have unfolded his heart

to you without any intervention, though he has behaved like an

honourable man in speaking first to me. You will be very, very happy,

my child. I bless you."

Only too ready was Annette to accept this explanation. Implicitly

believing in it, and not for one moment suspecting guile or duplicity,

she felt her faith and her best hopes restored. When Chaytor came to

her, he was for awhile humbled by her sweetness and modesty, and what

deficiencies there were in him Annette supplied them out of her faith

and trust.

"There is a little formality," said Gilbert Bidaud, intruding upon the

lovers. "It is a custom in our family to sign a preliminary marriage

contract. Affix your signatures here--you, Basil Whittingham, you,

Annette Bidaud. It is well. Before the year is out, we will have a

wedding."

Within a week they were in Switzerland, settled in the Villa Bidaud.

CHAPTER XLI.

Annette did not remain long in her delusion. Gradually, but surely her

bright hopes faded away, to be replaced by a terrible feeling of

hopeless resignation. The serpent cannot change its nature, and the

worst features in Newman Chaytor's character began to assert

themselves soon after the signing the document which Gilbert Bidaud

had described as the preliminary marriage contract. He was sure of

Annette; what need, therefore, for the wearing of an irksome mask? He

threw it aside, and exhibited himself in his true colours, to the

grief and despair of the girl he had successfully deceived. She heard

him, in conversation with her uncle, use language and utter sentiments

at which her soul revolted; she saw him frequently the worse for

liquor; and often now she purposely avoided him when he sought her

society. Brightness died out of the world, and she thought

shudderingly of the future. The flowers in her young heart were

withered. And yet she dwelt mournfully upon the image of the man she

had adored, and asked herself, Can it be possible--can it be possible?

The answer was there, in the same house with her, sitting by her side,

pressing her hand, while he uttered coarse jokes, or gazing darkly at

Gilbert Bidaud, who was ever ready to give smiles for frowns. For this

was the old man's method; he was urbane and light-hearted in the

family circle, and nothing that Chaytor said could disturb his

equanimity. He had the traitor in his toils, and he played his game

with the air of an indulgent master.

The Villa Bidaud was a great rambling house of two storeys, standing

in its own grounds. It was surrounded by a high stone wall, and stood

far back from the public road; when the strong iron gates were locked

it resembled a prison. Annette, chilled at heart, began to feel that

it was one and but for the companionship of her faithful maid Emily,

her life would have been dark and gloomy indeed. It was a relief to

her when her uncle announced that he and the man to whom she was

betrothed were going away on business for two or three weeks.

Their mission was special and important, and has been attempted by

hundreds of other gulls. Gilbert Bidaud had discovered a system by

which he could break the bank at Monte Carlo. The one diversion of the

two knaves at the Villa Bidaud was gambling. Never a day passed but

they were closeted together in a locked room rattling the dice or

shuffling the cards. It may be questioned whether the demon of play is

not more potent than the demon of drink, and it is certain that it had

so fastened itself upon Newman Chaytor that he could not escape from

it. His losses maddened him, but his infatuation led him on to deeper

and deeper losses, Gilbert Bidaud always declaring that the luck must

change and that the money Chaytor lost was only money lent.

Occasionally he professed indifference to the fatal pastime, and

lured Chaytor on to persuasion, replying, "Well, as you insist." One

day Chaytor, as usual, was savagely growling at his ill-luck, when

Gilbert said carelessly: "You can get it all back, ten, twenty, a

hundred-fold, if you like."

"How?" eagerly demanded Chaytor.

Then Gilbert unfolded his plan. He had made a wonderful discovery, an

absolutely infallible system by which fortunes could be won at the

roulette tables of Monte Carlo and elsewhere. Chaytor caught at the

bait, but with smaller cunning threw doubt upon it.

"You can demonstrate it," said Gilbert. "I have here a roulette table

to which I have not yet introduced you, and upon which I have proved

my figures. You shall take the bank, and I will carry out my system.

We will play for small stakes. What say you?"

Chaytor suggested that the stakes should be imaginary, but to this the

cleverer knave would not agree.

"You insist that the bank must win," he said. "Take the bank and try."

They played for three days, during which, as luck would have it,

Gilbert rose invariably a winner. At the end of the third day, he

said:

"See now. I have won from you an average of one hundred pounds a day.

All we have to do at Monte Carlo is to increase the stakes, and we can

win as much as we please. Say, to be moderate, three thousand pounds a

day. Fifty days, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Seventy five

thousand each."

Chaytor was eager to begin, but there was first a bargain to be

struck. In return for the fortune they were to win, and of which

Chaytor was to have an equal share, Gilbert Bidaud stipulated that his

partner should provide the funds for the venture. At first Chaytor

refused, but when Gilbert said, "Very well, there is an end of the

matter," he implored to be admitted upon the stipulated terms.

"We commence with a bank of five thousand pounds," said Gilbert.

Chaytor drew a long face at mention of this sum, but he was in the

toils and avarice compelled compliance. On the morning of their

departure he handed over the amount in Bank of England notes, it being

another of Gilbert's conditions that he should be the treasurer. Now,

on the previous day, after Chaytor had consented to provide the five

thousand pounds, Gilbert had resolved to ascertain where he was in the

habit of concealing his treasure. It was easy enough to carry out this

resolve. The Villa Bidaud was an old house, with the peculiarities of

which Gilbert had made himself familiar at the time he purchased it.

In one part of the room in which Chaytor slept, the wall was double,

an outer panel admitting of the entrance of any person who wished to

play the spy. All he had to do was to ascend three steps, when an

artfully concealed peep-hole enabled him to see all the movements of

the occupant of the inner room. From that point of observation

Gilbert watched Chaytor's proceedings; saw him carefully lock the

door and mask the keyhole, so that no one could see into the room

through it; saw him as carefully cover the windows and render himself

safe in that direction; saw him take his hoard of banknotes from the

artfully-contrived pockets in his clothes, count them over, place a

small pile aside, and return the balance to its hiding-place. Gilbert

saw something more. He beheld Chaytor suddenly pause and look before

him, while upon his features gathered a convulsed and horror-stricken

expression, as though he was gazing on some appalling phantom. It was

at such a moment that the character of Chaytor's face became entirely

changed, all likeness to Basil being completely obliterated. Chaytor's

arms were stretched out in the act of repelling a presence visible

only to himself; his limbs trembled, a cold sweat bathed his

countenance, and he exhibited all the symptoms of a man in the throes

of a mortal agony.

Slowly and thoughtfully Gilbert left his post and returned to his own

apartment. His suspicions were absolutely confirmed, so far as the

evidence he had obtained could confirm them. On the following morning

he and Chaytor took their departure.

"They part from us without regret," he observed as they rode away.

"Who are they?" asked Chaytor, in a morose tone. He knew to whom his

companion referred. Annette had exhibited no concern when he informed

her that business compelled a separation of a couple of weeks. She had

received this intimation in silence, and when he kissed her good bye

had not returned his kiss. He inwardly resolved that when he and

Annette were married she should pay for her growing coldness towards

him.

"I was thinking of my niece," replied Gilbert. "She displayed but

small grief at the departure of her lover. And such a lover!"

Chaytor looked sharply at him, for there was a touch of sarcasm in his

voice, but Gilbert's countenance was expressionless.

"Women are queer cattle," he said roughly.

"True, true," assented Gilbert, "and cattle must be taught to know who

are their masters. Bah! We will not talk of them. Let us rather talk

of the fortune we are pursuing and shall overtake."

So they fell to discussing this most agreeable theme, and indulging in

visions of vast gains. Chaytor did not know what his companion

knew--that the "system" discovered by Gilbert would have been really a

certain thing but for one combination or series of figures which might

not be drawn for many days together.

It was upon the chance of this series not presenting itself that

Gilbert relied; if they escaped it, their purses would be filled; if

it occurred, it was not his money that would be lost.

No time was wasted at Monte Carlo: within an hour of their arrival

they commenced to play, and before they retired to rest they counted

their winnings.

"Are you satisfied?" asked Gilbert gaily.

"No," replied Chaytor, feverishly fingering the gold and notes. "We

must win more, more!"

"We will. The world is at our feet. Let us divide."

This was a part of Gilbert's plan; the winnings of each day were to be

divided; thus he made sure of gain to himself, whatever might happen

to his partner. For some days their operations prospered, and then

came the inevitable bad experience. They sustained a loss, another,

another; a large sum had to be staked to recover their losses, and

that also was swept in by the croupiers, upon whose stony faces ruin

and despair produced no impression. Chaytor stormed and reviled, and

Gilbert listened with calmness to his reproaches. In desperation the

younger man took the game in hand himself, and plunged wildly at the

tables, Gilbert looking on in silence. The result was that, after a

fortnight had passed, Chaytor had lost ten thousand pounds of his

ill-gotten wealth.

Nearly half the fortune of which he had obtained fraudulent possession

was gone. With a gloomy countenance he counted what remained; his

heart was filled with bitterness towards his companion, whose design

it was to lead Chaytor on step by step until his ruin was complete.

For a little while Chaytor contemplated flight, but so unwearying was

the watch kept on him by Gilbert, that, had he nerved himself

determinedly to his design, he could not have put it in execution.

Besides, the thought of Annette held him back. No, he would not fly,

he would return to the Villa Bidaud, he would marry Annette, he would

compel Gilbert to make restitution of his niece's fortune, and then he

would bid farewell for ever to his evil genius and take Annette to

America, where he would commence a new life.

"I have had enough of this," he said to Gilbert. "If I followed your

counsels any longer I should land in the gutter."

"Not so, not so," responded the unruffled Gilbert; "if you were guided

by me you would land in a palace. See, now, I kept a record of the

numbers while you were so recklessly staking your money on this chance

and that, throwing away, like a madman, the certainty I offered you.

You know my system; sit down with these numbers before you, follow

them, back them according to my notation, and discover how you would

have got back all your losses, and been in the end a large gainer. I

leave you for an hour to the lesson I set you."

Chaytor applied himself to the task, with a savage desire to prove by

mathematical demonstration that his associate had robbed him, and

finding that Gilbert was right and that by following the system he

would have recovered his money, cursed his luck, and Gilbert, and all

the world. His paroxysm of anger abated, a sense of comfort stole upon

him. When he had freed himself from the shackles which Gilbert had

thrown around him, when Annette was his and he and she were alone, he

would come back to Monte Carlo and carry out on his sole account the

system he had so foolishly abandoned. Then all the money that was won

would be his own: there would be no Gilbert Bidaud to cheat him of

half. "Have you verified my figures?" asked the old man, returning.

"Have you established your folly?"

"No," replied Chaytor, thrusting the paper upon which he made his

calculations into his pocket, "you have deceived and tricked me."

"Ah, ah," ejaculated Gilbert, in a light and pleasant tone, "I have

deceived and tricked you--and you have seen through me! Clever Basil,

clever Basil! I am as a child in your hands. Come, let us get back to

our dear Annette. Let us fly on the wings of love."

They had not announced their intended return, and their arrival at the

villa Bidaud was therefore unexpected. The gates were unlocked for

them by a servant, and they entered the grounds. Gilbert took the keys

from the man, and relocked the gates.

"You are precious careful," said Chaytor. "Are you frightened of

thieves?"

"I am old," said Gilbert, with a smile; "I am losing my nerve. We

stopped at the post-house, did we not, to inquire for letters?"

"We did."

"You heard me speak to the woman?"

"You were talking, I know, but I did not hear what passed between

you."

"Your thoughts were on our sweet Annette. Why is she not here to

receive us? Why does she not fly into our arms? Ah, I forgot. We did

not write that we were coming. Yes, I spoke to the woman at the

post-house; I asked her for the news."

"News in this den!" exclaimed Chaytor, scornfully. "One might as well

be out of the world."

"Out of the world--yes, out of the world. Speak not of it; I have

passed the sixties."

"I tell you what," said Chaytor, with a gloomy look around, "I don't

intend to keep here much longer. It is as much like a tomb as any

place I have ever seen."

"There again, there again! Out of the world, and tombs. You mock the

old man. What was I saying when you interrupted me? Ah, about the

woman at the post-house. I asked her for news, and she told me that

three strangers had been seen this afternoon in the village."

"Rare news that. She might have saved her breath."

"Everything is news in these small villages. Now, why is it that my

mind dwells upon these strangers? Such visits are common enough.

Doubtless they are but passing through, and we shall hear no more of

them."

"Then why keep talking about them?"

"Gently, gently. I had a bad dream last night, I saw you pursued by

foes, and I hastened after you in my dreams to assist you."

"More than you would do if you were awake."

"You misjudge me. But to continue. How many foes were pursuing you?

Three. How many strangers appeared in the village this afternoon?

Three. See you any warning, any hidden danger in this?"

"It is a coincidence, nothing more," replied Chaytor, with an uneasy

shifting of his body. "Look here--I am not going to stand this, you

know."

"You are not going to stand what?"

"This infernal badgering--this attempt to make me uncomfortable.

Haven't I enough to worry me as it is? What do I care about your

dreams and your three strangers?"

"I want to make you comfortable--and happy; yes, very, very happy. And

you will be if you do not quarrel with me."

"And if I _do_ quarrel with you?"

Gilbert Bidaud toyed musingly with a charm on Chaytor's watch chain.

"Be advised. Keep friends with me, the best of friends. Old as I am,

it is not safe to quarrel with me."

"Oh, tush!" cried Chaytor, vainly endeavouring to conceal his

discomposure. "Have you done with your post-woman and her three

strangers?"

"Not quite. I made further inquiries about them and learnt all there

was to learn. They came to the village, they inquired for the Villa

Bidaud, they walked all round the walls, they lingered at the gate,

they looked up at the house, which, as you know, is not to be seen

from any part of the road, they talked together, they lingered still

longer, and then--they went away."

"The King of France went up the hill," quoted Chaytor. "Shall I tell

you what I make of all this?"

"Do."

"The dream you had was of _your_ enemies, not mine. These three

strangers are interested in you, and not, by any remote possibility,

in me. They inquired for the Villa Bidaud--_your_ villa, _your_ name.

The fact is, my friend, something you have forgotten in the past has

been raked up against you, and these three strangers have come to

remind you of it." He laughed in great enjoyment at this turning of

the tables.

"It is an ingenious theory," said Gilbert, composedly. "Something I

have forgotten in the past! But I have been so very, very careful. Is

it possible that anything can have escaped me? Perhaps, perhaps? We

cannot be for ever on our guard. Thank you for reminding me. You asked

me if I was frightened of thieves. Friend of my soul, I am frightened

of everything, of everybody. That is why I gave instructions that

these gates were never to be opened to strangers unless by my orders.

None can gain admittance here against my wish. It is a necessary

precaution. Ah, here is my sister." He saluted her on both cheeks, and

then inquired for Annette.

"She keeps her room," was the answer.

"Sick?"

"In temper only."

"She knows of our return?"

"Yes, I informed her myself."

"And her reply?"

"She will come down later."

Gilbert turned to Chaytor and said, "Our little one has a will and a

temper of her own, but you will tame her; yes, you will tame her."

Chaytor said nothing; he did not like the signs, and the temptation

came again upon him to fly. But still the image of Annette acted as a

counterpoise--her very avoidance of him made the prize more precious.

"Why did you not come to welcome us?" he asked, when at length she

made her appearance.

"I was not well," she answered, with her eyes on the ground.

"Are you better now?"

"No."

"This is a nice lover's greeting," he said.

She shivered. He gazed frowningly at her, but she did not raise her

head. "I will break her spirit," he thought.

Aloud he said, "You do not seem happy, Annette."

"I am most unhappy."

"Am I the cause?" he asked, and waited for the reply which did not

come. "It is clear then; do you wish to break the contract?"

"Can I?" she said, with sudden eagerness.

"No," he answered, roughly. "You are bound by the paper we signed."

This was her own belief. With a sigh she turned away, and strove to

fix her mind upon a book. But the words swam before her eyes; she

turned over page after page mechanically, without the least

understanding of their sense. All at once her attention was arrested

by mention of a name--Old Corrie. For some reason of his own, Gilbert

Bidaud had directed the conversation he was holding with Chaytor to

the old Australian days, and he had just inquired whether Chaytor

could give him any information of Old Corrie. The old fellow's visit

to Emily's mother in Bournemouth had been made about the time that

Annette's feelings were undergoing a change towards the man to whom

she had engaged herself, as she believed, irrevocably. This would not

have been a sufficient cause for her not speaking of the visit to

Chaytor, but he had latterly expressed himself sick of Australia and

all allusions to it.

"Don't speak of it again to me," he had said, pettishly, "or of

anybody I knew there."

She obeyed him, and thus it was that he was ignorant of particulars,

the knowledge of which would have saved him from tripping on the

present occasion.

"Corrie," said Chaytor, "the woodman? Oh, that old fool!" Annette

started. The brutal tone in which Chaytor spoke shocked her. "He's

dead; and a good riddance too." Annette covered her eyes with her

hands. Old Corrie was dead; he must have died lately--since his visit

to Bournemouth. How strange that the man who had just spoken had said

nothing to her of the good old man's death! She held her breath, and

listened in amazement to what followed.

"Dead, eh?" said Gilbert, callously. "Long since?"

"A good many years ago."

"In Australia, then?"

"Of course, in Australia." Gilbert would have dropped the subject, as

being of small interest; but, observing that Annette was listening to

the conversation with somewhat unusual attention, was impelled to say

something more upon it.

"Did he leave any money behind him?"

"Not a shilling. Drank it all away. He died in a fit of delirium

tremens."

Annette rose from her chair in horror.

"You saw him dead?" pursued Gilbert, maliciously.

"I was with him at the time. You are mighty particular with your

questions."

He was not aware that Annette had slowly approached him, and was only

made conscious of it by the touch of her hand on his arm.

"Well?" he said.

She looked steadily at him; every vestige of colour had fled from her

face, her eyes dilated, her lips were apart; thus they gazed at each

other in silence, and Gilbert, leaning back in his chair, watched them

closely. There was an accusing quality in Annette's steady gaze which

fascinated Chaytor, and the colour died out of his face as it had died

out of hers. His eyes began to shift, his limbs to twitch.

"How is this going to end?" thought Gilbert Bidaud, his interest in

the scene growing. "My niece has the upper hand here. Faith, she has

the Bidaud blood in her."

His suddenly-aroused pride in her was a personal tribute to himself.

For fully five minutes there was dead silence in the room; then

Annette removed her hand from Chaytor's arm, and quitted the

apartment.

The spell broken, Chaytor jumped up in fury, and looked after her

retreating form. Turning to Gilbert, he cried:

"The girl has lost her senses. Is there insanity in your family, M.

Gilbert Bidaud?"

"We were ever remarkable," replied Gilbert, in a more serious tone

than that in which he generally spoke, "for well-balanced brains. It

is that which has kept us always on the safe side, which has enabled

us to swim while others sink. Instead of losing her senses, Annette,

perhaps, has come to them. I give you my honest word, there crept into

my mind, while you were playing that silent scene with her, a profound

admiration for the young lady, my niece. She has qualities of the

Bidaud type; I pay her tribute." He bowed towards the door, half

mockingly, half admiringly.

"I don't want your honest word," cried Chaytor in wrath and fear, for

it dawned upon him that the ally upon whom he reckoned might declare

himself against him. "I want your plain meaning."

"You shall have it," said Gilbert; "but as walls have ears, and there

may be danger--to you and not to me--in what you force me to say, I

propose that we adjourn to the lodge by the gates, where we may

exchange confidences in safety."

He led the way to the grounds, and Chaytor followed him, as a whipped

dog follows its master.

CHAPTER XLII.

The lodge to which Gilbert Bidaud referred stood close to the gates

through which entrance was obtained to the house and grounds. It

contained four rooms, two above and two below, and was furnished for

residence. There were times when Gilbert himself occupied it, and it

was always kept ready for him, the two rooms below affording him all

the accommodation he required. Between these two rooms ran a narrow

passage, at the back end of which was a door, but seldom used, leading

out to the grounds. A staircase at the side of this passage led to the

rooms above.

Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor had arrived at the villa late in the

day, and it was now night. Dark clouds had gathered, obscuring moon

and stars.

"There will be a storm before sunrise," said Gilbert, as they reached

the front door of the lodge, which he unlocked and threw open. "Enter,

my dear friend."

Chaytor uttered no word, and followed Gilbert into the passage. The

old man carefully locked the door, and the two men stood in darkness a

moment, listening. Then the master of Villa Bidaud turned the handle

of the door of the sitting-room, and stepping towards the window,

closed the shutters through which no chink of light could be seen from

without. Having thus secured themselves from observation, he struck a

match and lit a lamp, which threw a bright light around. In a basket

by the sideboard were some bottles of red wine, and glasses and

corkscrew were handy. Gilbert uncorked a bottle and put glasses on the

table.

"Will you drink?" he asked.

"Have you nothing stronger than this stuff?" asked Chaytor, in reply.

"There is a bottle of brandy somewhere," said Gilbert, opening a door

in the sideboard. "Ah, here it is. I am glad that am able to

accommodate you. I am always glad to accommodate my friends."

Chaytor half filled a tumbler with the spirit, and drank it neat. His

companion took the bottle, and replaced it in the cupboard.

"You are a generous host," observed Chaytor.

"It is not that," said Gilbert, genially. "It is that you need your

wits to understand my plain meaning. Will you sit or stand?"

"I will do as I please."

"Do so. Your pleasure is a law to me. Pardon me a moment's

consideration. I am debating by what name to address you."

"My name is Basil Whittingham, as you well know."

"How should I well know it? It is not my custom to accept men as they

present themselves. I judge for myself. Man is a study. I study him,

and each one who crosses my path and enters, for a time short or long,

into my life, affords me scope for observation and contemplation. As

you have done."

"As I have done," said Chaytor, moodily.

"As you have done," repeated Gilbert.

"I suppose I may make one observation."

"One! A dozen--a hundred. What you say shall be attentively received.

Be sure of that."

"I recall," said Chaytor, "a conversation we had. You said you would

not pry into my secrets, and expressed a desire that I should not pry

into yours."

"I remember. I said also something about our cupboards with their

skeletons, and that each should keep his key."

"Yes--and you concluded with these words: 'What I choose to reveal, I

reveal; as with you. Beyond that boundary we do not step.' I am

correct in the quotation, I think?"

"It is freely admitted. You have a retentive memory, and my

observations must have made an impression upon you."

"I have not," said Chaytor, "attempted to pry into your secrets. Why

do you attempt to pry into mine?"

"My dear friend," said Gilbert, in his blandest tone, "you forget. It

is by your invitation we are now conversing, and it is for your safety

I proposed we should converse here in secresy. You said to me, 'I want

your plain meaning.' If you have changed your mind, we will finish

now, this moment, and will return to our dear Annette."

"No," said Chaytor, "we will not finish now. I will hear what you have

to say."

"You are gracious. But pray believe me; I have not attempted to pry

into your secrets. You have yourself revealed yourself to me by a

thousand signs. I am a man gifted with a fair intelligence. I do not

say to my mind, Observe, it observes intuitively, without command or

direction. What is the result? I learn, not what you are, but what you

are not."

"Indeed! And what am I not?"

"Plainly?"

"Quite plainly."

"My dear friend," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a smile and a confident

nod, "you are not Basil Whittingham."

"That is your game, is it?" cried Chaytor, but his heart was chilled

by the cold assurance of Gilbert's voice and manner.

"Not my game--yours. I did not intrude upon you; you intruded upon me.

By your own design you came, and if there is a pit before you, it is

you, not I, who have dug it. But you can yet save yourself."

"How?" said Chaytor involuntarily, and was instantly made aware of his

imprudence by the amused smile which his exclamation called up to

Gilbert's lips. "Curse it! I mean, what have I revealed, as you so

cleverly express it?"

"I will tell you. You come to Paris, and play the spy upon us. You

take rooms opposite our hotel, and so arrange a foreground of

observation, that you can see what passes in our apartments without

dreaming that you have laid yourself open to observation."

"Oh, you found that out, did you?" exclaimed Chaytor.

"I found that out; and I found out also that you had been in Paris a

long, long time, although you declared to my niece, when you first

presented yourself to us, that you had but just arrived by the night

train. I take no merit for the discovery. You revealed it to me while

you were driving with your gay companions. I asked myself, 'Why this

lie? Why this secret espionage?' and since then it is that I found the

answer. Naturally we spoke of Australia; naturally I recalled the

incidents of my first meeting with Basil Whittingham on my brother's

plantation. They were incidents it was not possible to forget by

either of us, and yet, dear friend, you were entirely ignorant of

them; indeed, you scoffed at me for inventing what never occurred. In

this way did you again reveal to me, not what you are, but what you

are not. Finding your memory so treacherous, I set a trap, frankly I

confess it, a simple, innocent trap, which you, being Basil

Whittingham, would have stepped over without injury to yourself. In

that case it would have been I, not you, who would have had to eat

humble pie--is not that your English saying? I invented scenes and

incidents in our meeting and brief acquaintanceship in Australia to

which you put your seal. On my word, it was as good as a comedy, these

imaginary conversations and incidents of my conjuring up, and you

saying, 'Yes, yes, I remember, I remember.' Fie, fie, dear friend, it

was clumsy of you. Again, those English newspapers, with their

celebrated case which you were so greedy to peruse. Your explanation

did not blind me. I knew why you bought and read them so eagerly.

There were here to my hand the pieces of a puzzle not difficult to put

together. Let me tell you--you deceived not one of us completely. My

sister says, 'That man is not Basil Whittingham.' My niece says no

word--her grief is too great--she suffers, through you, a martyrdom;

but she doubts you none the less. Some strong confirmation--I know not

what--of her doubts you presented her with this very night when you

spoke so freely of Old Corrie's death."

"Curse you!" cried Chaytor. "You drew me on."

"Could I guess what was coming when his name was introduced? Could I

divine what you were about to say? Take this from me, my friend; my

niece knows something of Old Corrie which neither you nor I know, and

when she placed her hand on your arm, and looked into those eyes of

yours which shifted and wavered beneath her gaze, you felt as I felt,

that she accused you of lying. Even her maid, Emily, who never set

eyes on Basil Whittingham, believes not in you. And the fault is all

your own. It is you, and you alone, who have supplied the evidence

against yourself. I see in your face an intention of blustering and

denying. Abandon it, dear friend. So far as we are concerned, the game

is up."

"So you mean to say that you withdraw from the marriage contract

between me and Annette?"

"It is not I who withdraw; it is she, who will choose death rather.

She may consider herself bound--I cannot say; but she and you will

never stand side by side at the altar."

"The best thing I can do is to make myself scarce."

"That is, to disappear?"

"You can express it in those words if you choose. Mind, I do not leave

your hospitable abode because I am afraid. What is there to be afraid

of? I can afford to laugh at what you have said, which is false from

beginning to end, but I am sick of your ways. You have done pretty

well out of me; you are a cunning old bird, and you have feathered

your nest with my feathers. I calculate that you have at least five

thousand pounds of my money in your pocket."

"Of your money?" queried Gilbert, with a quiet smile.

"Of my money."

"No, no; whatever else we do let us be truthful. Of Basil

Whittingham's money."

"Oh, you can stick to that fiction as long as you like. Have you

anything else to say to me?"

"Yes. You are not free to go yet."

"What! Will you stop me?"

"No; I will follow you, and will accuse you publicly. We will have the

case in the papers, and you shall have an opportunity of clearing

yourself of the accusation I bring against you. Basil Whittingham

maybe alive; Old Corrie may be alive; people who know really who you

are may be alive, and they shall all be found to be brought forward to

acquit or condemn you. If you want noise, fuss, publicity, you shall

have them. There is, however, an alternative."

"Let me hear it."

"Not being Basil Whittingham, you have committed forgery by affixing

his name to two documents in my possession. Not being Basil

Whittingham, you have obtained by fraud the fortune which was his. So

apprehensive of detection are you, that you would not deposit this

money in a bank, as a right-minded gentleman would have done, but you

carry it about with you, in secret pockets, on your person." Chaytor

started. "I could put my finger on the precise spots in which Basil

Whittingham's fortune is concealed. It is again you, dear friend, who

have revealed this to me. You have a habit of raising your hand--you

are doing it unconsciously at this moment--to your side, to your

breast, to assure yourself that the money is safe. Shall we make

terms?"

"Name them."

"I do not desire to know the amount of your wealth; I think only of

myself, and of what the secret in my possession is worth. Shall we say

five thousand pounds?"

"You may say five thousand pounds," blustered Chaytor, and then suddenly

paused, overwhelmed by the sense of power in his companion's smiling

face. "Hang it," he said presently, "give me some brandy."

Gilbert Bidaud produced the bottle, and, as Newman Chaytor gulped the

liquor down, repeated, "Shall we say five thousand pounds?"

"I will give you one," said Chaytor faintly. "Five. Decide quickly.

Observe, I take out my watch; it wants two minutes to the hour. If at

the end of these two minutes you do not agree, I shall double the

terms. By this time you know me, and know that you cannot with safety

trifle with me."

Chaytor stepped forward and looked at the second-hand, his mind dazed

with whirling thought. Should he refuse? Should he show fight? Did he

dare to risk the exposure which Gilbert threatened?

"It wants thirty seconds yet," said Gilbert, calmly?

"they are precious moments, these that are flying so fast?

Twenty--fifteen--ten--five----"

"I consent to be robbed," said Chaytor, hurriedly. He did not dare to

fight.

"Good," said Gilbert, putting the watch back in his pocket. "The

bargain must be completed to-night, after which without loss of time,

I should advise you to disappear. I will make excuses to my niece; she

will not be anxious to see your face again. Nor shall I. At midnight,

here, we will meet again, for the last time, and after you have

purchased safety we will bid each other an eternal farewell. I will

have a horse ready for you, on which you can ride to--where you

please. Let us now return to the bosom of my beloved family; a longer

absence may arouse suspicion."

CHAPTER XLIII.

During the visit of Gilbert and Chaytor to Monte Carlo some important

action had been taken by Annette's staunch maid, Emily. Loyal to the

backbone to her young mistress, she had fully sympathised with her in

her unhappiness, and had gone farther than Annette, in her reflections

upon the future. She saw that a marriage with a man to whom Annette

had pledged herself would result in lifelong misery, and she set her

mind to work to consider how the dreadful consequence could be

averted. She saw but one way to accomplish this; she and her mistress

must fly from the Villa Bidaud. She did not moot this project to

Annette, for whenever she commenced to speak upon the subject of the

approaching union Annette stopped her, and would not listen to what

she had to say. "But at the last moment," thought the faithful maid,

"when she sees that there is no other escape for her, she will agree

to fly with me from this horrible place. We will go to mother in

Bournemouth; she will be safer there than in these wicked foreign

countries." Having reached thus far in her deliberations she did not

pursue them farther; she was not an argumentative person, and she was

comfortably satisfied with the general reflection that, after that,

things would be sure to come all right. Such a belief is common with

numbers of worthy people when they are considering knotty questions,

and if it evidences no deep powers of mental analysis, is at all

events a proof of the possession of an inherent dependence upon the

goodness of Providence--which, in its way, is a kind of religion not

to be despised.

With a certain conclusion in her mind, Annette busied herself as to

the means of carrying it out when the proper time arrived. By Gilbert

Bidaud's orders the gates were kept locked, and the duty of opening

them devolved upon a man who did all the outdoor work in the house and

grounds. Emily's advances towards this man met with no response; other

means, therefore, must be tried. She had always been successful in

making friends outside Gilbert Bidaud's establishment, through whom

she obtained her letters from home, and the friend she had made in the

village in which the Villa Bidaud was situated was the woman who kept

the post-house. It was a matter easily arranged. Annette was a liberal

mistress, and Emily was a saving girl; a judicious system of small

bribes effected all that Emily desired in this respect. Twice or

thrice every week she visited the post-mistress to enquire for

letters, and these visits were made in the night, the darkest hours

being chosen. The gates being locked she could not get out that way,

and she sought another mode of egress. She found it in the lodge in

which Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor held their conference. There

was a secure lock on the front door, of which Gilbert, or his sister,

kept the key, but the lock on the back door was frail, and Emily

discovered how to manage it, so that she could get in and out of the

lodge without any person being the wiser. Once inside the lodge Emily

would creep up the stairs to the first floor, the window of the back

room of which almost touched the stone wall which ran round the

grounds. This wall was some seven feet in height, but there were

dilapidations in it which served for foot-holes, and by means of these

luckily-formed steps the courageous girl was enabled to pass to and

fro and make the desired visits to the post-mistress. Of course there

was the danger of discovery, but Emily was a girl in a thousand, and

the extraordinary care she took in these enterprises was a fair

guarantee of safety. The lonely situation of the house assisted her;

there were nights when, for hours together, not a human being

traversed the narrow road into which the front gate opened.

On the night of the secret interview between Gilbert and Chaytor,

Emily had planned a visit to the post-mistress. She made her way into

the lodge unobserved, crept up the stairs in the dark, and was about

to open the back window, when her attention was arrested by a sound

below, which, as she afterwards described, sent her heart into her

mouth. It was the sound of the unlocking of the front door. Emily's

heart went rub-a-dub with the fear that she was discovered, but as the

slow minutes passed without anything occurring, her fear lessened, and

she became sufficiently composed to give attention to the

circumstances. Softly opening the door which led to the staircase, she

heard voices in a room below which she recognised as those of Gilbert

Bidaud and the man who called himself Basil Whittingham. What had they

come there to say? Why could they not have spoken in the house? They

must be hatching some plot against her young mistress. At all hazards,

she would try to hear what they were saying to each other. Quietly,

very quietly, she descended the stairs, setting her feet down with the

greatest care, and pausing between each step. A cat could not have

trod more noiselessly than she. At length she reached the door beyond

which the conversation was taking place, and crouching down she

applied her eye to the keyhole. There were the two men, one with a

smile on his face, the other, dark and sinister; and Emily observed

that they were not standing side by side, but that a broad table was

between them. This precaution had been taken by Gilbert, who was quite

prepared for any sudden attempt at violence on Chaytor's part.

Emily was too late to hear all that was said, but she heard enough.

Had she not exercised control over her feelings she would have

screamed with mingled joy and horror; as it was, the tears ran down

her face as fast as she wiped them away, for she wanted to see as much

as she could. The brave girl thanked God that a fortunate conjuncture

had made her a witness of the interview between the two villains. Now,

certainly, her dear mistress was saved, and she the instrument to

avert the misery with which she was threatened; for it was not alone

the projected marriage which was breaking Annette's heart, but the

loss of faith in the purity and nobility of Basil's nature. Emily

waited very nearly to the end; she saw Gilbert take out his watch and

count the moments, she heard the bargain agreed to and the second

interview at midnight planned, and then, just in time, she crept up

the stairs as softly as she had crept down, and waited in the room

above until the two men left the lodge.

What now should she do? Return to the house, and acquaint Annette with

what she had heard, or go to the post-mistress to see if there was a

letter for her? If she went straight to Annette she might not have

another opportunity of getting out that night; besides, she expected a

letter from her mother, and was anxious for it. She decided to go

first to the post-mistress; Annette knew that she would be away for

some little while, and had said, "I shall wait up for you, Emily."

She threw open the window, and climbed on to the wall, and down into

the road. It was very dark, and as Gilbert Bidaud had prognosticated,

a storm was gathering, but Emily knew her way well to the post-office,

and was not afraid of darkness. So she sped along under the waving

branches and over black shadows till she arrived at her destination.

Once on her way she was startled; she thought she saw something more

substantial than shadow moving by the road side, but after pausing to

look and listen her alarm subsided; all was quiet and still.

There was no light in the post-house, which was little better than a

cottage, but Emily did not expect to see one. She tapped at the

shutters, and a woman's voice from within asked if that was "Miss

Emily." The girl answering in the affirmative, a woman appeared at the

door and bade her enter.

"Have you a letter for me?" said Emily.

"Yes," the woman replied, "she had a letter for her," and produced it.

"Why," cried Emily, "this is not from England?" No, said the woman, it

was not from England, and explained that a gentleman had visited her

in the evening, and had made enquiries concerning the Villa Bidaud and

its inmates. Hearing that Miss Annette Bidaud was there, he had then

inquired for the young lady's maid, mentioning her by name, Miss Emily

Crawford. The gentleman asked if the post-mistress was likely to see

the girl, and whether she could convey a letter to her secretly that

night or early in the morning. The post-mistress said she could not

promise to do so that night, but she would endeavour to convey the

letter in the morning, and added that it was not unlikely Miss Emily

would come before them to inquire for letters. "If she does," said the

gentleman, "give her this, and ask her to read it here, before she

goes back to the villa. It is a letter of the utmost importance, and

it must fall into no other hands than Miss Emily's." The post-mistress

concluded by saying that the gentleman had paid her well for the

service, and that she was sure there was something very particular in

the letter.

Emily, although burning with impatience, listened quietly to the tale,

holding the letter tight in her hand all the time, and when the woman

had done speaking asked only one question.

"Was the gentleman an Englishman?"

"Yes," replied the woman; "he was an Englishman."

Then Emily opened the letter, and read:

"My Dear Miss Emily Crawford,--The writer of this is Old Corrie, Miss

Annette's sincere and faithful friend. He has seen your mother in

Bournemouth, and has come here post haste to defeat a plot to ruin

your dear young mistress's happiness. He has a gentleman with him

little lady will be glad to see. If you get this letter to-night,

don't be frightened if Old Corrie speaks to you as you go back to the

Villa Bidaud. Not an hour should be lost to unmask the villain and

secure little lady's happiness. You are a brave, good girl. If you

don't get this letter till the morning, come at once to the back of

the school-house, where you will see little lady's true friend,

"Old Corrie."

The letter had been composed partly by Basil and partly by Old Corrie,

who had written it himself. Emily's eyes sparkled as she read. She

bade the post-mistress good-night, thanked her for the letter, said it

contained good news, and went away with a heart as light as a bird's.

So light, indeed, that she carolled softly to herself as she stepped

very, very slowly along the dark, narrow road, and the words she

carolled were:

"I am Emily Crawford, and I have got your letter. Where are you, dear

Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie?" The song could not have

been put into lines that would scan, but blither, happier words with

true poetry in them, were never sung by human voice.

"Where are you, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie?"

sang the girl, and paused and listened, and went on again, singing.

"Here I am," said a kindly voice, "and God bless you for a true

heart!"

"Stop a moment, please," said the girl; who now that the reality was

close by her side, could not help feeling startled. "Are you sure you

are Old Corrie, my dear mistress's friend from Australia? The

gentleman with a bear, you know?"

"You do well to doubt," said Old Corrie, "with what is going on around

you in this outlandish country. I am the man I say. Stand still while

I strike a light, so that you can see me. We have a bull's-eye lantern

with us. Is little lady well?"

"Her heart is breaking," said Emily. "But I have good news for her

before she sleeps to-night."

"And so have we, my dear, if you can get us to her."

"Let me hold the lantern, Mr. Corrie, said Emily.

"No, my dear, you might drop it; there is a surprise in store for you

and for everyone in the villa yonder with its stone walls. There, the

lamp's alight, and you can see my face, dark as the night is. Do you

think you can trust me?"

"Yes, I do, and it was only out of curiosity I wanted to look at you."

And then Emily cried, "Oh!"

"What is it, my dear?" asked Old Corrie.

"There is another," said Emily, gasping.

"There are two others; we have come prepared."

He whispered something in her ear which caused her to cry "Oh!" more

than once, and to clap her hands in wonderment.

"May I see him?" she asked in a whisper.

The answer was given by Basil himself, who came forward and took her

by the hand, while the light, directed by Old Corrie, shone upon his

face.

"It is wonderful, wonderful!" she exclaimed, and added under her

breath, "But I think I should have known."

In the expression of which opinion she paid a higher tribute to her

judgment than she could have rightly claimed for it; but this, at such

a time and in such circumstances, was a small matter.

Mr. Philpott, who had been standing silently in the rear, now joined

the party.

"Don't be frightened, my dear," said Old Corrie; "there are no more of

us. What we've got to do now is to decide what is to be done, how is

it to be done, and when is it to be done."

"First," interposed Mr. Philpott, to whom, by tacit consent, the

command had been given, "Miss Emily will perhaps give us an

explanation of certain words she spoke a minute ago. Are we quite

private here, Miss Emily?"

"It's hardly likely," replied Emily, "that a living soul will pass

along this road till daybreak."

"So much the better. You said just now that Miss Bidaud's heart was

breaking, but that you had good news for her before she went to sleep

to-night. Did you mean by that that our arrival here was the good

news?"

"No, I meant something very different, something that you ought to

know before you decide what to do."

"I thought as much. Well, let us hear it, my girl."

Thereupon Emily related all that she had overheard between Gilbert

Bidaud and Newman Chaytor. It was difficult for Basil to curb his

excitement, and whenever an indignant exclamation passed his lips,

Emily paused in sympathy, but he was too sensible of the value of time

to frequently interrupt her, and as she spoke quickly, her tale did

not occupy many minutes.

"This story," said Mr. Philpott, with a beaming face, "decides what is

to be done, and how and when. The road is prepared for us by the

villains themselves. It is a bold move I am about to suggest, but to

adopt half-and-half measures with these scoundrels would be

ridiculous."

Basil and Old Corrie said they were prepared for any move, however

bold and daring, and were only too eager to undertake it.

"We mustn't be to eager," said Mr. Philpott; "cool and steady is our

watchword. Now, Miss Emily, can you get us into the grounds of the

villa to-night?"

"If I can get in," said the girl, "you can get in."

"And one of us into the lodge where the scoundrels are to meet at

midnight?"

"Yes," said Emily, unhesitatingly.

"You are a girl after my own heart," said Mr. Philpott, admiringly.

"There is a risk, you know, and you will have a share in it. It

wouldn't be right for me to deceive you."

"I don't mind the risk," said the courageous girl. "I want to help to

save my dear young lady from these wretches and monsters."

"God bless you, Emily," said Basil, pressing her hand, and Emily felt

that she needed no other reward.

Mr. Philpott then described his plan. Guided by Emily, they were all

to get into the grounds, when their forces were to be thus disposed

of: Basil and Old Corrie were to hide in the grounds as close as

possible to the back door of the lodge; they were not to move or

speak; Emily was to return to the house, and impart to Annette all

that she knew, and in this way prepare her for what was to follow;

both Annette and her maid were to be ready to come from the house to

the lodge upon a given signal; Mr. Philpott was to conceal himself in

one of the upper rooms of the lodge, and no movement whatever was to

be made until he blew loudly upon a policeman's whistle. The moment

this signal was given, Basil and Old Corrie were to enter the lodge

through the back door, which Emily would leave unlocked, but properly

closed, so as to excite no suspicion in the minds of Gilbert Bidaud

and Newman Chaytor--and proceed at once to the lower room, in which

these men were located; and Annette and Emily were to leave the house

and come immediately to the lodge.

"All this," said Mr. Philpott aside to Basil, "is not exactly lawful,

and if Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Chaytor had right on their side we should

get into trouble. But we have the whip hand of them and are safe. I

anticipate very little difficulty, only neither of our men must be

allowed to escape until we have settled with them."

The party proceeded to the villa, Emily walking a little ahead with

Basil, to whom she imparted how matters stood with her young mistress.

"Her heart was truly breaking," said the girl, "and she could never

have lived through it, never! But she will soon be her dear, bright

self again. All, sir, she is the sweetest lady that ever drew

breath--and O, how these wretches have made her suffer! But there is

happiness coming to her. I could sing for joy, indeed I could, sir!"

CHAPTER XLIV.

All was still in house and grounds and lodge. The dark clouds were

growing black, but the storm had not yet burst. A clock in the hall

struck twelve, and, as if the chimes had called them forth, Gilbert

and Chaytor issued from the house, and walked to their rendezvous.

Each man was occupied with his own special thoughts, and each kept a

wary eye upon the other's shadowed form.

"I left the door of the lodge open," said Gilbert. "Enter."

"After you," said Chaytor.

"Pardon me," said Gilbert, "after you."

Chaytor laughed and stepped into the passage. Gilbert followed,

pausing to light a small lamp he carried in his hand. Upon entering

the room he lit the larger lamp on the table, on one side of which he

placed himself, Chaytor being on the other.

"You seem to be afraid of me," said Chaytor.

"I do not trust you," responded Gilbert.

"There is small temptation for trustfulness between such men as we,"

said Chaytor. Gilbert nodded quietly. "Well, you have your game, and

have won a pretty large stake. Can't you be satisfied with what you

have got?"

"You know my terms; the time for discussing them has gone by."

"But there was something forgotten. You made me sign two documents,

and you have spoken of forgery."

"You are correct. The production of these documents with the name of

Basil Whittingham attached to them in your handwriting would be

sufficient to convict you."

"For that reason I do not choose to leave them in your possession. If

I pay you the five thousand pounds you are robbing me of you will have

to give them up."

"They are here," said Gilbert, producing them, "and will be useless to

me when you are gone. You can have them and welcome when the money is

paid. You go to-night."

"I go to-night, and hope never to set eyes upon you or yours again."

"My dear friend," said Gilbert, with a courteous bow, "the hope is

reciprocal. Let us not prolong this interview. Open your bank and

purchase freedom."

Chaytor unbuttoned his waistcoat, and from an inner pocket extracted

two bundles of bank notes. Gilbert held out his hand.

"No, no, old fox," said Chaytor. "There are three times five thousand

pounds here." He looked at Gilbert savagely.

"If," said the old man, laughing lightly, "by a wish you could burn me

to ashes where I stand, you would breathe that wish willingly."

"Most willingly."

"But why? I am dealing tenderly, mercifully by you. In right and

justice this money belongs not to you. It belongs to Basil

Whittingham. If he were here he could take possession of it, and

neither you nor I would care to gainsay him. It being, therefore, as

much mine as yours, I let you off lightly by demanding so small a sum.

Come, let us finish the comedy; it is time the curtain fell. Count out

the price of liberty, the price of my silence, and let us take an

affectionate farewell of each other."

"Are you sure we are alone?"

"Do you think I would reveal our conspiracy to a third person? In my

pleasant house every human being is asleep; they dream not of the

grief which will fill their hearts to-morrow when they learn that you

have departed."

"Give me the papers I have signed. Here is your share of the robbery.

You had better count it to make sure."

As Gilbert bent over the table to count the notes, Chaytor, with a

swift movement, drew a heavy life-preserver from his breast, and aimed

a murderous blow at the old man's head. But Gilbert was too quick for

him; he had but one eye on the money he was fingering, the other was

furtively watching his companion. He darted back, and so escaped the

blow; the weapon descended upon the table, and this shock and the

violent movements of the men overturned the lamps, the light of which

was instantly extinguished. Each man had but one hand disengaged,

Chaytor holding the life-preserver and Gilbert a pistol, which he had

brought with him as a protection against treachery. The moment the

room was in darkness the two disengaged hands groped over the table

for the money, and were fiercely clasped. And now a surprising

incident occurred. Upon these two hands a third hand was laid, and

before they could free themselves were handcuffed together.

Simultaneously with this startling and secure manacling of their hands

the pistol was knocked from Gilbert's grasp and the life-preserver

from Chaytor's; and then a shrill whistle pierced the air and drove

the blood from the cheeks of the conspirators. Hurried sounds of steps

resounded through the passage.

"This way!" cried Mr. Philpott. "The door is open. Strike a light."

But a light came from another quarter. A vivid flash of lightning

illuminated the apartment, and in that flash Newman Chaytor beheld the

form of Basil Whittingham, whose death he believed he had compassed on

the gold field across the seas. His face grew livid, a heavy groan

escaped his lips, and his head fell forward on the table.

"See if you can relight one of the lamps," said Mr. Philpott.

Both the lamps were soon lighted, the glass of only one having been

broken. Then Gilbert Bidaud, who had uttered no word during this

succession of startling incidents, saw two men whose faces were

strange to him, and one whose face he recognised. Manacled as he was

to his insensible partner in crime, and unable to release himself, he

instantly regained his self-possession.

"If I mistake not," he said, in a tone of exceeding urbanity, "Mr.

Basil Whittingham, whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making on

my brother's plantation in Australia. I suspected from the first that

this log lying here was an impostor. It is but a sorry welcome I am

able to give you, in consequence of the unlawful proceedings of a

ruffian"--he glanced at Mr. Philpott--"who shall answer for the

assault in a court of law."

"Do not say one word to him, sir," interposed Mr. Philpott, seeing

that Basil was about to speak; "leave him to me; I know how to deal

with such cattle. I promise to tame him before I have done with him."

"It will be well for you to bear in mind," said Gilbert, still

addressing Basil, "that this is my house, and that you are trespassing

illegally upon my property. However, for the sake of old times, and

for the sake of my niece, I am agreeable to waive that, and come to an

amicable settlement with you."

"He speaks very good English for a foreigner," said Mr. Philpott,

"and, I'll wager, understands the law as well as we do. I am an

officer of the law"--(Mr. Philpott was satisfied that he was quite

safe in indulging in this fiction)--"and I tell him plainly that he as

laid himself open to a criminal action for conspiracy."

"Shall I not have the pleasure," said Gilbert to Basil, ignoring Mr.

Philpott, "of hearing what you have to say in response to the flag of

peace I hold out?"

"He is a shrewd customer, sir," said Mr. Philpott, "and if this flag

of peace means absolute and unconditional surrender I am ready to

consider it. It may interest him to learn that we are in possession of

all the particulars of the interview which took place between him and

the insensible party he is fastened to, and of the bargain they made

to share your money. That tickles him, I see, but it is only one out

of a handful of trumps we happen to hold. I will take care of these

notes"--he gathered them up--"and we will go into accounts later on."

"Unless my ears deceive me," said Gilbert, "I hear the voice of my

niece's maid in the passage. Doubtless my niece accompanies her. Do

you think it seemly that she shall be a witness of this scene?"

"Corrie," said Basil, "take one of the lamps, and keep Miss Bidaud

outside; I will come to her immediately. Allow me, Mr. Philpott; it

will shorten matters if I say a word." He addressed Gilbert Bidaud.

"You and your confederate have laid yourselves open to serious

consequences, and if I consent to an arrangement which will keep the

bad work that has been going on, and of which I was made the victim,

from exposure in the public courts, it is to spare the feelings of a

sweet and suffering young lady whose happiness you would have

wrecked."

"My niece," said Gilbert, nodding his head. "As you say, a sweet young

lady, and she has been made to suffer by this villain. We have all

been made to suffer; we have all been his victims. But for your

arrival he would have murdered me. He can no longer impose on me; I

arrange myself on your side, against him. To my regret I perceive that

he has partially recovered his senses, and, while simulating

insensibility, is listening to what we are saying; his cunning is of

the lowest order. It is my earnest wish to make such an arrangement as

you suggest; it will be to my advantage, that is why I agree. Instruct

your man to release me."

"Set him loose, Mr. Philpott," said Basil, "and see what you can do. I

put the matter unreservedly into your hands. Do not allow either of

them to leave the room. They will pass the night here. To-morrow, if

Miss Bidaud wishes it, she will quit this prison----"

"No, no," interrupted Gilbert, good-humouredly, "not a prison--not a

prison."

"--For England."

"She shall have my free consent," said Gilbert. "Take that in writing,

Mr. Philpott. And there must be restitution, in some part, of the

inheritance her father left her."

"In some part, that shall be done."

"If it is any punishment to the wretch," said Basil, who saw that

Newman Chaytor was conscious and attentive, "who conspired against the

man who trusted in him, and treacherously endeavoured to compass his

death, to learn that had he followed the straight road he would have

known long since that his unhappy father died wealthy, let him learn

it now. You have a copy, Mr. Philpott, of the last letter written to

him by his father. Give it to him, that he may read the bitter words

written on the death-bed of one whom he should have loved and

honoured. His good mother died with her head upon my breast, and if he

escapes the punishment he deserves and has richly earned, he will owe

his escape to the kind memories I have of her who rescued me from

death in the London streets."

"A noble man," murmured Gilbert Bidaud as Basil left the room, "A

gentleman. How is it possible that I allowed myself to be deceived for

an hour by so miserable a counterfeit!"

* * * * * *

When Basil joined his friends in the passage, Old Corrie touched

Emily's arm, and slight as was the action, she understood it, and

following him into the room in which Mr. Philpott and the two men they

had surprised were conferring, left Basil and Annette together. Old

Corrie had placed the lamp on a bracket, and by its dim light our hero

and heroine were enabled to see each other. Basil's eyes were fixed

earnestly upon Annette, but her agitation was too profound to meet his

loving gaze. His heart was filled with pity for the faithful girl who

had been for years the victim of Newman Chaytor's foul plot; her

drooping head, her modest attitude, her hands clasped supplicatingly

before her, made his pity and his love for her almost too painful to

bear.

"Annette," he said softly, "will you not look at me?"

She raised her eyes to his face, and he saw that they were filled with

tears.

"Can you forgive me, Basil?" she whispered.

"Forgive you, dear Annette!" he exclaimed, taking her hands in his,

"it is I who ought to ask forgiveness for believing that you could

forget me."

"Never for a single day," she murmured, "have I forgotten you. Through

all these years you have been to me the star of hope which made life

bright for me. Oh, Basil, Basil! it seems as if you have lifted me

from death to life. The world was so dark, so dark-----"

"It shall be dark no more dear," he said, his voice trembling with

excess of tenderness. "Until you bid me leave you I will be ever by

your side. I consecrate my life to you. What man can do to compensate

for the suffering you have endured, that will I do in truth, and

honour, and love."

He placed his arms about her, and she laid her head upon his breast.

There are joys too sacred for utterance, and such joy did Basil and

Annette feel as they stood clasped in each other's arms on that dark

and solemn night.

* * * * * *

What more need be told? Radiant and happy, with faith restored, they

commenced their new life hand-in-hand. Those who had conspired against

them, and whose evil designs had been frustrated, went out into the

world unpunished by man; they and their intended victims never met

again. The business matters it was necessary to arrange were settled

by Basil's lawyers, who saved from the wreck a sufficient competence.

All who had served him and Annette were amply rewarded. In Mr.

Philpott's family their names were names to conjure with; Emily

remained with them till she found a sweetheart and a home of her own;

and Old Corrie was prevailed upon to live in a cottage near them,

attached to which was a piece of land which afforded him profitable

employment. He talked sometimes of returning to Australia, or of

buying another performing bear, but he did not carry either project

into execution. Often and often would the three friends talk of the

old days on the plantation, and call up reminiscences of the happy and

primitive life they enjoyed there; and then Old Corrie would steal

away and leave the lovers together; for, though they were man and

wife, they were lovers still, and lovers will remain--purified and

sweetened by their trials--till they are called to their rest.

THE END.