CHAPTER XIX

THE DEVIL’S LEAD

There was great dismay at the Pactolus Mine when it became known that

Vandeloup was going to leave. During his short stay he had made himself

extremely popular with the men, as he always had a bright smile and a

kind word for everyone, so they all felt like losing a personal friend.

The only two who were unfeigningly glad at Vandeloup’s departure were

Selina and McIntosh, for these two faithful hearts had seen with dismay

the influence the Frenchman was gradually gaining over Madame Midas.

As long as Villiers lived they felt safe, but now that he had so

mysteriously disappeared, and was to all appearances dead, they dreaded

lest their mistress, in a moment of infatuation, should marry her clerk.

They need not, however, have been afraid, for much as Mrs Villiers liked

the young Frenchman, such an idea had never entered her head, and she

was far too clever a woman ever to tempt matrimony a second time, seeing

how dearly it had cost her.

Madame Midas had made great efforts to find Kitty, but without success;

and, in spite of all inquiries and advertisements in the papers, nothing

could be discovered regarding the missing girl.

At last the time drew near for Vandeloup’s departure, when all the

sensation of Kitty’s escapade and Villiers’ disappearance was swallowed

up in a new event, which filled Ballarat with wonder. It began in

a whisper, and grew into such a roar of astonishment that not only

Ballarat, but all Victoria, knew that the far-famed Devil’s Lead

had been discovered in the Pactolus claim. Yes, after years of weary

waiting, after money had been swallowed up in apparently useless work,

after sceptics had sneered and friends laughed, Madame Midas obtained

her reward. The Devil’s Lead was discovered, and she was now a

millionaire.

For some time past McIntosh had not been satisfied with the character of

the ground in which he had been working, so abandoning the shaft he was

then in, he had opened up another gallery to the west, at right angles

from the place where the famous nugget had been found. The wash was poor

at first, but McIntosh persevered, having an instinct that he was on the

right track. A few weeks’ work proved that he was right, for the wash

soon became richer; and as they went farther on towards the west,

following the gutter, there was no doubt that the long-lost Devil’s Lead

had been struck. The regular return had formerly been five ounces to the

machine, but now the washing up invariably gave twenty ounces, and small

nuggets of water-worn gold were continually found in the three machines.

The main drive following the lead still continued dipping westward, and

McIntosh now commenced blocking and putting in side galleries, expecting

when this was done he would thoroughly prove the Devil’s Lead, for he

was quite satisfied he was on it. Even now the yield was three hundred

and sixty ounces a week, and after deducting working expenses, this gave

Madame Midas a weekly income of one thousand one hundred pounds, so she

now began to see what a wealthy woman she was likely to be. Everyone

unfeigningly rejoiced at her good fortune, and said that she deserved

it. Many thought that now she was so rich Villiers would come back

again, but he did not put in an appearance, and it was generally

concluded he had left the colony.

Vandeloup congratulated Madame Midas on her luck when he was going away,

and privately determined that he would not lose sight of her, as, being

a wealthy woman, and having a liking for him, she would be of great use.

He took his farewell gracefully, and went away, carrying the good wishes

of all the miners; but McIntosh and Selina, still holding to their

former opinion, were secretly pleased at his departure. Madame Midas

made him a present of a hundred pounds, and, though he refused it,

saying that he had money from France, she asked him as a personal favour

to take it; so M. Vandeloup, always gallant to ladies, could not refuse.

He went in to Ballarat, and put up at the Wattle Tree Hotel, intending

to start for the metropolis next morning; but on his way, in order to

prepare Kitty for his coming, sent a telegram for her, telling her the

train he would arrive by, in order that she might be at the station to

meet him.

After his dinner he suddenly recollected that he still had the volume

which Dr Gollipeck had lent him, so, calling a cab, he drove to the

residence of that eccentric individual to return it.

When the servant announced M. Vandeloup, she pushed him in and suddenly

closed the door after her, as though she was afraid of some of the

doctor’s ideas getting away.

‘Good evening, doctor,’ said Vandeloup, laying the book down on the

table at which Gollipeck was seated; ‘I’ve come to return you this and

say good-bye.’

‘Aha, going away?’ asked Gollipeck, leaning back in his chair, and

looked sharply at the young man through his spectacles, ‘right--see the

world--you’re clever--won’t go far wrong--no!’

‘It doesn’t matter much if I do,’ replied Vandeloup, shrugging his

shoulders, and taking a chair, ‘nobody will bother much about me.’

‘Eh!’ queried the doctor, sharply, sitting up.

‘Paris--friends--relations.’

‘My only relation is an aunt with a large family; she’s got quite enough

to do looking after them, without bothering about me,’ retorted M.

Vandeloup; ‘as to friends--I haven’t got one.’

‘Oh!’ from Gollipeck, with a cynical smile, ‘I see; let us

say--acquaintances.’

‘Won’t make any difference,’ replied Vandeloup, airily; ‘I turned my

acquaintances into friends long ago, and then borrowed money off

them; result: my social circle is nil. Friends,’ went on M. Vandeloup,

reflectively, ‘are excellent as friends, but damnable as bankers.’

Gollipeck chuckled, and rubbed his hands, for this cynicism pleased him.

Suddenly his eye caught the book which the young man had returned.

‘You read this?’ he said, laying his hand on it; ‘good, eh?’

‘Very good, indeed,’ returned M. Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘so kind of you to

have lent it to me--all those cases quoted were known to me.’

‘The case of Adele Blondet, for instance, eh?’ asked the old man

sharply.

‘Yes, I was present at the trial,’ replied Vandeloup, quietly; ‘the

prisoner Octave Braulard was convicted, condemned to death, reprieved,

and sent to New Caledonia.’

‘Where he now is,’ said Gollipeck, quickly, looking at him.

‘I presume so,’ replied Vandeloup, lazily. ‘After the trial I never

bothered my head about him.’

‘He poisoned his mistress, Adele Blondet,’ said the doctor.

‘Yes,’ answered Vandeloup, leaning forward and looking at Gollipeck,

‘he found she was in love with an Englishman, and poisoned her--you will

find it all in the book.’

‘It does not mention the Englishman,’ said the doctor, thoughtfully

tapping the table with his hand.

‘Nevertheless he was implicated in it, but went away from Paris the day

Braulard was arrested,’ answered Vandeloup. ‘The police tried to find

him, but could not; if they had, it might have made some difference to

the prisoner.’

‘And the name of this Englishman?’

‘Let me see,’ said Vandeloup, looking up reflectively; ‘I almost forget

it--Kestroke or Kestrike, some name like that. He must have been a very

clever man to have escaped the French police.’

‘Ah, hum!’ said the doctor, rubbing his nose, ‘very interesting indeed;

strange case!’

‘Very,’ assented M. Vandeloup, as he arose to go, ‘I must say good-bye

now, doctor; but I am coming up to Ballarat on a visit shortly.’

‘Ah, hum! of course,’ replied Gollipeck, also rising, ‘and we can have

another talk over this book.’

‘That or any book you like,’ said Vandeloup, with a glance of surprise;

‘but I don’t see why you are so much taken up with that volume; it is

not a work of genius.’

‘Well, no,’ answered Gollipeck, looking at him; ‘still, it contains some

excellent cases of modern poisoning.’

‘So I saw when I read it,’ returned Vandeloup, indifferently.

‘Good-bye,’ holding out his hand, ‘or rather I should say au revoir.’

‘Wine?’ queried the Doctor, hospitably.

Vandeloup shook his head, and walked out of the room with a gay smile,

humming a tune. He strolled slowly down Lydiard Street, turning over in

his mind what the doctor had said to him.

‘He is suspicious,’ muttered the young man to himself, thoughtfully,

‘although he has nothing to go on in connecting me with the case. Should

I use the poison here I must be careful, for that man will be my worst

enemy.’

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning round saw Barty Jarper

before him. That fashionable young man was in evening dress, and

represented such an extent of shirt front and white waistcoat,--not to

mention a tall collar, on the top of which his little head was perched

like a cocoanut on a stick,--that he was positively resplendent.

‘Where are you going to?’ asked the gorgeous Barty, smoothing his

incipient moustache.

‘Well, I really don’t know,’ answered Vandeloup, lighting a cigarette.

‘I am leaving for Melbourne to-morrow morning, but to-night I have

nothing to do. You, I see, are engaged,’ with a glance at the evening

dress.

‘Yes,’ returned Barty, in a bored voice; ‘musical party on,--they want

me to sing.’

Vandeloup had heard Barty’s vocal performance, and could not forbear

a smile as he thought of the young man’s three songs with the same

accompaniment to each. Suppressing, however, his inclination to laugh,

he asked Barty to have a drink, which invitation was promptly accepted,

and they walked in search of a hotel. On the way, they passed Slivers’

house, and here Vandeloup paused.

‘This was the first house I entered here,’ he said to Barty, ‘and I must

go in and say good-bye to my one-armed friend with the cockatoo.’

Mr Jarper, however, drew back.

‘I don’t like him,’ he said bluntly, ‘he’s an old devil.’

‘Oh, it’s always as well to accustom oneself to the society of devils,’

retorted Vandeloup, coolly, ‘we may have to live with them constantly

some day.’

Barty laughed at this, and putting his arm in that of Vandeloup’s, they

went in.

Slivers’ door stood ajar in its usual hospitable manner, but all within

was dark.

‘He must be out,’ said Barty, as they stood in the dark passage.

‘No,’ replied Vandeloup, feeling for a match, ‘someone is talking in the

office.’

‘It’s that parrot,’ said Barty, with a laugh, as they heard Billy

rapidly running over his vocabulary; ‘let’s go in.’

He pushed open the door, and was about to step into the room, when

catching sight of something on the floor, he recoiled with a cry, and

caught Vandeloup by the arm.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked the Frenchman, hastily.

‘He’s dead,’ returned Barty, with a sort of gasp; ‘see, he’s lying on

the floor dead!’

And so he was! The oldest inhabitant of Ballarat had joined the great

majority, and, as it was afterwards discovered, his death was caused by

the breaking of a blood-vessel. The cause of it was not clear, but the

fact was, that hearing of the discovery of the Devil’s Lead, and knowing

that it was lost to him for ever, Slivers had fallen into such a fit of

rage, that he burst a blood-vessel and died in his office with no one by

him.

The light of the street lamp shone through the dusty windows into the

dark room, and in the centre of the yellow splash lay the dead man,

with his one eye wide open, staring at the ceiling, while perched on his

wooden leg, which was sticking straight out, sat the parrot, swearing.

It was a most repulsive sight, and Barty, with a shudder of disgust,

tried to drag his companion away, but M. Vandeloup refused to go, and

searched his pockets for a match to see more clearly what the body was

like.

‘Pickles,’ cried Billy, from his perch on the dead man’s wooden leg;

‘oh, my precious mother,--devil take him.’

‘My faith,’ said M. Vandeloup, striking a match, ‘the devil has taken

him,’ and leaving Barty shivering and trembling at the door, he advanced

into the room and stood looking at the body. Billy at his approach

hopped off the leg and waddled up to the dead man’s shoulder, where

he sat cursing volubly, and every now and then going into shrieks of

demoniacal laughter. Barty closed his ears to the devilish mirth, and

saw M. Vandeloup standing over the corpse, with the faint light of the

match flickering in his hand.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, turning to Barty.

The other looked at him inquiringly.

‘It is the comedy of death,’ said the Frenchman, throwing down the match

and going to the door.

They both went out to seek assistance, and left the dark room with the

dead man lying in the pool of yellow light, and the parrot perched on

the body, muttering to itself. It was a strange mingling of the horrible

and grotesque, and the whole scene was hit off in the phrase applied to

it by Vandeloup. It was, indeed, ‘The Comedy of Death’!

PART II

CHAPTER I

TEMPUS FUGIT

A whole year had elapsed since the arrival of Vandeloup in Melbourne,

and during that time many things had happened. Unfortunately, in spite

of his knowledge of human nature, and the fact that he started with a

good sum of money, Gaston had not made his fortune. This was due to the

fact that he was indisposed to work when his banking account was at all

decent; so he had lived like a prince on his capital, and trusted to his

luck furnishing him with more when it was done.

Kitty had joined him in Melbourne as arranged, and Gaston had

established her in a place in Richmond. It was not a regular

boarding-house, but the lady who owned it, Mrs Pulchop by name, was in

the habit of letting apartments on reasonable terms; so Vandeloup had

taken up his abode there with Kitty, who passed as his wife.

But though he paid her all the deference and respect due to a wife, and

though she wore a marriage ring, yet, as a matter of fact, they were not

married. Kitty had implored her lover to have the ceremony performed as

soon as he joined her; but as the idea was not to M. Vandeloup’s taste,

he had put her off, laughingly at first, then afterwards, when he began

to weary of her, he said he could not marry her for at least a year. The

reason he assigned for this was the convenient one of family affairs;

but, in reality, he foresaw he would get tired of her in that time,

and did not want to tie himself so that he could not leave her when he

wished. At first, the girl had rebelled against this delay, for she was

strongly biased by her religious training, and looked with horror on the

state of wickedness in which she was living. But Gaston laughed at her

scruples, and as time went on, her finer feelings became blunted, and

she accepted the position to which she was reduced in an apathetic

manner.

Sometimes she had wild thoughts of running away, but she still loved him

too well to do so; and besides, there was no one to whom she could go,

as she well knew her father would refuse to receive her. The anomalous

position which she occupied, however, had an effect on her spirits, and

from being a bright and happy girl, she became irritable and fretful.

She refused to go out anywhere, and when she went into town, either

avoided the principal streets, or wore a heavy veil, so afraid was she

of being recognised by anyone from Ballarat and questioned as to how she

lived. All this was very disagreeable to M. Vandeloup, who had a horror

of being bored, and not finding Kitty’s society pleasant enough, he

gradually ceased to care for her, and was now only watching for an

opportunity to get rid of her without any trouble. He was a member of

the Bachelor’s Club, a society of young men which had a bad reputation

in Melbourne, and finding Kitty was so lachrymose, he took a room at the

Club, and began to stay away four or five days at a time. So Kitty

was left to herself, and grew sad and tearful, as she reflected on the

consequence of her fatal passion for this man. Mrs Pulchop was vastly

indignant at Vandeloup neglecting his wife, for, of course, she never

thought she was anything else to the young man, and did all in her

power to cheer the girl up, which, however, was not much, as Mrs Pulchop

herself was decidedly of a funereal disposition.

Meanwhile, Gaston was leading a very gay life in Melbourne. His good

looks and clever tongue had made him a lot of friends, and he was very

popular both in drawing-room and club. The men voted him a jolly sort

of fellow and a regular swagger man, while the ladies said that he

was heavenly; for, true to his former tactics, Vandeloup always made

particular friends of women, selecting, of course, those whom he thought

would be likely to be of use to him. Being such a favourite entailed

going out a great deal, and as no one can pose as a man of fashion

without money, M. Vandeloup soon found that his capital was rapidly

melting away. He then went in for gambling, and the members of The

Bachelors, being nearly all rich young men, Gaston’s dexterity at ecarte

and baccarat was very useful to him, and considerably augmented his

income.

Still, card-playing is a somewhat precarious source from which to derive

an income, so Vandeloup soon found himself pretty hard up, and was at

his wit’s end how to raise money. His gay life cost him a good deal,

and Kitty, of course, was a source of expense, although, poor girl, she

never went anywhere; but there was a secret drain on his purse of which

no one ever dreamed. This was none other than Pierre Lemaire, who,

having spent all the money he got at the Pactolus, came and worried

Vandeloup for more. That astute young man would willingly have refused

him, but, unfortunately, Pierre knew too much of his past life for him

to do so, therefore he had to submit to the dumb man’s extortions with

the best grace he could. So what with Kitty’s changed manner, Pierre

wanting money, and his own lack of coin, M. Vandeloup was in anything

but an enviable position, and began to think it was time his luck--if he

ever had any--should step in. He thought of running up to Ballarat and

seeing Madame Midas, whom he knew would lend him some money, but he had

a certain idea in his head with regard to that lady, so wished to retain

her good opinion, and determined not to apply to her until all other

plans for obtaining money failed. Meanwhile, he went everywhere, was

universally admired and petted, and no one who saw him in society with

his bright smile and nonchalant manner, would have imagined what crafty

schemes there were in that handsome head.

Madame Midas was still up at Ballarat and occupying the same cottage,

although she was now so wealthy she could have inhabited a palace, had

she been so minded. But prosperity had not spoiled Mrs Villiers. She

still managed her own affairs, and did a great deal of good with her

money,--expending large sums for charitable purposes, because she really

wished to do good, and not, like so many rich people, for the purpose of

advertising herself.

The Pactolus was now a perfect fortune, and Madame Midas being the sole

owner, her wealth was thought to be enormous, as every month a fresh

deluge of gold rolled into her coffers from the inexhaustible Devil’s

Lead. McIntosh, of course, still managed the mine, and took great pride

in his success, especially after so many people had scoffed at it.

Various other mines had started in the vicinity, and had been floated on

the Melbourne market, where they kept rising and falling in unison with

the monthly yield of the Pactolus. The Devil’s Lead was rather unequal,

as sometimes the ground would be rich, while another time it would turn

out comparatively poor. People said it was patchy, and some day would

run out altogether, but it did not show any signs of exhaustion,

and even if it had, Madame Midas was now so wealthy that it mattered

comparatively little. When the monthly yield was small, the mines round

about would fall in the share market to a few shillings, but if it was

large, they would rush up again to as many pounds, so that the brokers

managed to do pretty well out of the fluctuations of the stock.

One thing astonished Madame Midas very much, and that was the continuous

absence of her husband. She did not believe he was dead, and fully

expected to see him turn up some time; but as the months passed on, and

he did not appear, she became uneasy. The idea of his lurking round was

a constant nightmare to her, and at last she placed the matter in the

hands of the police, with instructions to try to ascertain what became

of him.

The police did everything in their power to discover Villiers’

whereabouts, but without success. Unfortunately, Slivers, who might have

helped them, being so well acquainted with the missing man’s habits, was

dead; and, after trying for about three months to find some traces

of Villiers, the police gave up the search in despair. Madame Midas,

therefore, came to the conclusion that he was either dead or had left

the colony, and though half doubtful, yet hoped that she had now seen

the last of him.

She had invested her money largely in land, and thus being above the

reach of poverty for the rest of her life, she determined to take up

her abode in Melbourne for a few months, prior to going to England on a

visit. With this resolution, she gave up her cottage to Archie, who was

to live in it, and still manage the mine, and made preparations to come

down to Melbourne with Selina Sprotts.

Vandeloup heard of this resolution, and secretly rejoiced at it, for he

thought that seeing she liked him so much, now that her husband was to

all appearances dead, she might marry him, and it was to this end he had

kept up his acquaintance with her. He never thought of the girl he had

betrayed, pining away in a dull lodging. No, M. Vandeloup, untroubled by

the voice of conscience, serenely waited the coming of Madame Midas, and

determined, if he could possibly arrange it, to marry her. He was the

spider, and Madame Midas the fly; but as the spider knew the fly he had

to inveigle into his web was a very crafty one, he determined to act

with great caution; so, having ascertained when Madame Midas would be in

Melbourne, he awaited her arrival before doing anything, and trusted in

some way to get rid of Kitty before she came. It was a difficult game,

for M. Vandeloup knew that should Kitty find out his intention she would

at once go to Mrs Villiers, and then Madame would discover his baseness

in ruining the girl. M. Vandeloup, however, surveyed the whole situation

calmly, and was not ill-pleased at the position of affairs. Life was

beginning to bore him in Melbourne, and he wanted to be amused. Here was

a comedy worthy of Moliere--a jealous woman, a rich lady, and a handsome

man.

‘My faith,’ said M. Vandeloup, smiling to himself as he thought of the

situation, ‘it’s a capital comedy, certainly; but I must take care it

doesn’t end as a tragedy.’

CHAPTER II

DISENCHANTMENT

It is said that ‘creaking doors hang the longest,’ and Mrs Pulchop, of

Carthage Cottage, Richmond, was an excellent illustration of the truth

of this saying. Thin, pale, with light bleached-looking hair,

and eyebrows and eyelashes to match, she looked so shadowy and

unsubstantial, than an impression was conveyed to the onlooker that

a breath might blow her away. She was often heard to declare, when

anything extra-ordinary happened, that one might ‘knock her down with

a feather’, which, as a matter of fact, was by no means a stretch of

fancy, provided the feather was a strong one and Mrs Pulchop was taken

unawares. She was continually alluding to her ‘constitootion’, as if

she had an interest in politics, but in reality she was referring to her

state of health, which was invariably bad. According to her own showing,

there was not a single disease under the sun with which she had not been

afflicted, and she could have written a whole book on the subject of

medicine, and put herself in, in every instance, as an illustrative

case.

Mr Pulchop had long since departed this life, being considerably

assisted in his exit from this wicked world by the quantity of

patent medicines his wife compelled him to take to cure him, which

unfortunately, however, had the opposite effect.

Mrs Pulchop said he had been a handsome man, but according to the

portrait she had of him he resembled a bull-dog more than anything else

in nature. The young Pulchops, of which there were two, both of the

female sex, took after their father in appearance and their mother in

temperament, and from the time they could talk and crawl knew as much

about drops, poultices, bandages, and draughts as many a hospital nurse

of mature age.

One day Vandeloup sent a telegram to Kitty saying he would be home to

dinner, and as he always required something extra in the way of cooking,

Kitty went to interview Mrs Pulchop on the subject. She found that

lady wrapped up in a heavy shawl, turning herself into a tea-kettle by

drinking hot water, the idea being, as she assured Kitty, to rouse up

her liver. Miss Topsy Pulchop was tying a bandage round her face, as she

felt a toothache coming on, while Miss Anna Pulchop was unfortunately

quite well, and her occupation being gone, was seated disconsolately at

the window trying to imagine she felt pains in her back.

‘Ah!’ groaned Mrs Pulchop, in a squeaky voice, sipping her hot

water; ‘you don’t know, my dear, what it is to be aworrited by your

liver--tortures and inquisitions ain’t in it, my love.’

Kitty said she was very sorry, and asked her if nothing would relieve

her sufferings, but Mrs Pulchop shook her head triumphantly.

‘My sweet young thing,’ said the patient, with great gusto, ‘I’ve tried

everything under the sun to make it right, but they ain’t no good;

it’s always expanding and a contracting of itself unbeknown to me, and

throwing the bile into the stomach, which ain’t its proper place.’

‘It does sound rather nasty,’ assented Kitty; ‘and Topsy seems to be

ill, too.’

‘Toothache,’ growled Topsy, who had a deep, bass voice, and being

modelled on the canine lines of her late lamented father, the growl

suited her admirably. ‘I had two out last week, and now this one’s

started.’

‘Try a roasted fig, Topsy dear,’ suggested her mother, who, now, having

finished her hot water, looked longingly at the kettle for more.

‘Toothache,’ growled Topsy, in reply, ‘not gumboil;’ the remedy

suggested by Mrs Pulchop being for the latter of these ills.

‘You are quite well, at any rate,’ said Kitty to Anna, cheerfully.

Anna, however, declined to be considered in good health. ‘I fancy my

back is going to ache,’ she said, darkly placing her hand in the small

of it. ‘I’ll have to put a linseed poultice on it tonight, to draw the

cold out.’

Then she groaned dismally, and her mother and sister, hearing the

familiar sound, also groaned, so there was quite a chorus, and Kitty

felt inclined to groan also, out of sympathy.

‘M. Vandeloup is coming to dinner tonight,’ she said, timidly, to Mrs

Pulchop.

‘And a wonder it is, my sweet angel,’ said that lady, indignantly,

rising and glancing at the pretty girl, now so pale and sad-looking,

‘it’s once in a blue moon as he comes ‘ome, a--leaving you to mope at

home like a broken-hearted kitten in a coal box. Ah, if he only had a

liver, that would teach him manners.’

Groans of assent from the Misses Pulchops, who both had livers and were

always fighting with them.

‘And what, my neglected cherub,’ asked Mrs Pulchop, going to a

looking-glass which always hung in the kitchen, for the three to examine

their tongues in, ‘what shall I give you for dinner?’

Kitty suggested a fowl, macaroni cheese, and fruit for dessert, which

bill of fare had such an effect on the family that they all groaned in

unison.

‘Macaroni cheese,’ growled Topsy, speaking from the very depth of the

cork soles she wore to keep her feet dry; ‘there’s nothing more bilious.

I couldn’t look at it.’

‘Ah,’ observed Mrs Pulchop, ‘you’re only a weak gal, and men is that

obstinate they’d swaller bricks like ostriges sooner nor give in as it

hurt ‘em. You shall ‘ave a nice dinner, Mrs Vanloops, tho’ I can’t deny

but what it ull be bilious.’

Thus warned, Kitty retired into her own room and made herself nice for

Gaston to look on when he came.

Poor thing, it was so rarely now that he came home to dinner, that a

visit from him was regarded by her in the light of a treat. She dressed

herself in a pretty white dress and tied a blue sash round her waist,

so that she might look the same to him as when he first saw her. But

her face was now worn and white, and as she looked at her pallor in the

glass she wished she had some rouge to bring a touch of colour to her

cheeks. She tried to smile in her own merry way at the wan reflection

she beheld, but the effort was a failure, and she burst into tears.

At six o’clock everything was ready for dinner, and having seen that all

was in good order, Kitty walked outside to watch for Gaston.

There was a faint, warm, light outside, and the sky was of a pale

opaline tint, while the breeze blowing across the garden brought the

perfume of the flowers to her, putting Kitty in mind of Mrs Villiers’

garden at Ballarat. Oh, those innocent days! would they never come

again? Alas! she knew that they would not--the subtle feeling of youth

had left her for ever; and this girl, leaning up against the house with

her golden head resting on her arm, knew that the change had come over

her which turns all from youth to age.

Suddenly she heard the rattle of wheels, and rousing herself from her

reverie, she saw a hansom cab at the gate, and M. Vandeloup standing on

the pavement paying the driver. She also heard her lover tell the cabman

to call for him at eight o’clock, and her heart sank within her as she

thought that he would be gone again in two hours. The cab drove off,

and she stood cold and silent on the verandah waiting for Gaston,

who sauntered slowly up the walk with one hand in the pocket of his

trousers. He was in evening dress, and the night being warm he did not

wear an overcoat, so looked tall and slim in his dark clothes as he came

up the path swinging his cane gaily to and fro.

‘Well, Bebe,’ he said, brightly, as he bent down and kissed her, ‘here I

am, you see; I hope you’ve got a nice dinner for me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ answered Kitty, trying to smile, and walking before him into

the house; ‘I told Mrs Pulchop, and she has made special preparations.’

‘How is that walking hospital?’ asked Vandeloup, carelessly taking off

his hat; ‘I suppose she is ill as usual.’

‘So she says,’ replied Kitty, with a laugh, as he put his arm in hers

and walked into the room; ‘she is always ill.’

‘Why, Bebe, how charming you look tonight,’ said Vandeloup, holding her

at arm’s length; ‘quite like your old self.’

And indeed she looked very pretty, for the excitement of seeing him had

brightened her eyes and flushed her cheeks, and standing in the warm

light of the lamp, with her golden hair floating round her head, she

looked like a lovely picture.

‘You are not going away very soon?’ she whispered to Gaston, coming

close to him, and putting her hand on his shoulder; ‘I see so little of

you now.’

‘My dear child, I can’t help it,’ he said, carelessly removing her hand

and walking over to the dinner table; ‘I have an engagement in town

tonight.’

‘Ah, you no longer care for me,’ said Kitty, with a stifled sob.

Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.

‘If you are going to make a scene,’ he said, coldly, ‘please postpone

it. I don’t want my appetite taken away; would you kindly see if the

dinner is ready?’

Kitty dried her eyes and rang the bell, upon which Mrs Pulchop glided

into the room, still wrapped in her heavy shawl.

‘It ain’t quite ready yet, sir,’ she said, in answer to Gaston’s

question; ‘Topsy ‘aving been bad with the toothache, which you can’t

expect people to cook dinners as is ill!’

‘Why don’t you send her to the hospital?’ said Vandeloup, with a yawn,

looking at his watch.

‘Never,’ retorted Mrs Pulchop, in a decisively shrill voice; ‘their

medicines ain’t pure, and they leaves you at the mercy of doctors to be

practised on like a pianer. Topsy may go to the cemetery like her poor

dear father, but never to an inquisition of a hospital;’ and with this

Mrs Pulchop faded out of the room, for her peculiar mode of egress could

hardly be called walking out.

At last dinner made its appearance, and Kitty recovering her spirits,

they had a very pleasant meal together, and then Gaston sat over his

coffee with a cigarette, talking to Kitty.

He never was without a cigarette in his mouth, and his fingers were

all stained a yellowish brown by the nicotine. Kitty lay back in a big

arm-chair listening to his idle talk and admiring him as he sat at the

dinner table.

‘Can’t you stay tonight?’ she said, looking imploringly at him.

Vandeloup shook his head gently.

‘I have an engagement, as I told you before,’ he said, lazily; ‘besides,

evenings at home are so dreary.’

‘I will be here,’ said Kitty, reproachfully.

‘That will, of course, make a difference,’ answered Gaston, with a faint

sneer; ‘but you know,’ shrugging his shoulders, ‘I do not cultivate the

domestic virtues.’

‘What will you do when we are married?’ said Kitty, with an uneasy

laugh.

‘Enough for the day is the evil thereof,’ replied M. Vandeloup, with a

gay smile.

‘What do you mean?’ asked the girl, with a sudden start.

Vandeloup arose from his seat, and lighting another cigarette he lounged

over to the fireplace, and leaned against the mantelpiece with his hands

in his pockets.

‘I mean that when we are married it will be time enough to talk about

such things,’ he answered, looking at her through his eyelashes.

‘Then we will talk about them very shortly,’ said Kitty, with an angry

laugh, as her hands clenched the arms of the chair tightly; ‘for the

year is nearly up, and you promised to marry me at the end of it.’

‘How many things do we intend to do that are never carried out?’ said

Gaston, gently. ‘Do you mean that you will break your promise?’ she

asked, with a scared face.

Vandeloup removed the cigarette from his mouth, and, leaning one elbow

on the mantelpiece, looked at her with a smile.

‘My dear,’ he said, quietly, ‘things are not going well with me at

present, and I want money badly.’

‘Well?’ asked Kitty in a whisper, her heart beating loudly.

‘You are not rich,’ said her lover, ‘so why should we two paupers get

married, only to plunge ourselves into misery?’

‘Then you refuse to marry me?’ she said, rising to her feet.

He bowed his head gently.

‘At present, yes,’ he answered, and replaced the cigarette between his

lips.

Kitty stood for a moment as if turned to stone, and then throwing up

her hands with a gesture of despair, fell back into the chair, and burst

into a flood of tears. Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders in a resigned

sort of manner, and glanced at his watch to see when it would be time

for him to go. Meanwhile he smoked quietly on, and Kitty, after sobbing

for some time, dried her eyes, and sat up in the chair again.

‘How long is this going to last?’ she asked, in a hard voice.

‘Till I get rich!’

‘That may be a long time?’

‘It may.’

‘Perhaps never?’

‘Perhaps!’

‘And then I will never be your wife?’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘You coward!’ burst forth Kitty, rising from her seat, and crossing over

to him; ‘you made me leave my home with your false promises, and now you

refuse to make me the only reparation that is in your power.’

‘Circumstances are against any virtuous intentions I may entertain,’

retorted Vandeloup, coolly.

Kitty looked at him for a moment, then ran over to a desk near the

window, and took from thence a small bottle of white glass with two

red bands round it. She let the lid of the desk fall with a bang, then

crossed to Vandeloup, holding the bottle up before him.

‘Do you know what this is?’ she asked, in a harsh voice.

‘The poison I made in Ballarat,’ he answered, coolly, blowing a wreath

of smoke; ‘how did you get hold of it?’

‘I found it in your private desk,’ she said, coldly.

‘That was wrong, my dear,’ he answered, gently, ‘you should never betray

confidences--I left the desk in your charge, and it should have been

sacred to you.’

‘Out of your own mouth are you condemned,’ said the girl, quickly; ‘you

have betrayed my confidence and ruined me, so if you do not fix a day

for our marriage, I swear I will drink this and die at your feet.’

‘How melodramatic you are, Bebe,’ said Vandeloup, coolly; ‘you put me in

mind of Croisette in “Le Sphinx”.’

‘You don’t believe I will do it.’

‘No! I do not.’

‘Then see.’ She took the stopper out of the bottle and held it to her

lips. Vandeloup did not stir, but, still smoking, stood looking at her

with a smile. His utter callousness was too much for her, and replacing

the stopper again, she slipped the bottle into her pocket and let her

hands fall idly by her side.

‘I thought you would not do it,’ replied Gaston, smoothly, looking at

his watch; ‘you must really excuse me, I hear the cab wheels outside.’

Kitty, however, placed herself in front of him as he moved towards the

door.

‘Listen to me,’ she said, in a harsh voice, with white face and flaming

eyes; ‘to-night I leave this house for ever.’

He bowed his head.

‘As it pleases you,’ he replied, simply.

‘My God!’ she cried, ‘have you no love for me now?’

‘No,’ he answered, coldly and brutally, ‘I am tired of you.’

She fell on her knees and clutched his hand.

‘Dear Gaston! dear Gaston!’ she cried, covering it with kisses, ‘think

how young I am, how my life is ruined, and by you. I gave up everything

for your sake--home, father, and friends--you will not cast me off

like this after all I have sacrificed for you? Oh, for God’s sake,

speak--speak!’

‘My dear,’ said Vandeloup, gravely, looking down at the kneeling figure

with the streaming eyes and clenched hands, ‘as long as you choose to

stay here I will be your friend--I cannot afford to marry you, but

while you are with me our lives will be as they have been; good-bye

at present,’ touching her forehead coldly with his lips, ‘I will call

to-morrow afternoon to see how you are, and I trust this will be the

last of such scenes.’

He drew his hand away from hers, and she sat on the floor dull and

silent, with her eyes fixed on the ground and an aching in her heart.

Vandeloup went into the hall, put on his hat, then lighting another

cigarette and taking his stick, walked gaily out of the house, humming

an air from ‘La Belle Helene’. The cab was waiting for him at the door,

and telling the man to drive to the Bachelors’ Club, he entered the

cab and rattled away down the street without a thought for the

broken-hearted woman he left behind.

Kitty sat on the floor with her folded hands lying carelessly on her lap

and her eyes staring idly at the carpet. This, then, was the end of all

her hopes and joys--she was cast aside carelessly by this man now that

he wearied of her. Love’s young dream had been sweet indeed; but, ah!

how bitter was the awakening. Her castles in the air had all melted into

clouds, and here in the very flower of her youth she felt that her life

was ruined, and she was as one wandering in a sterile waste, with a

black and starless sky overhead. She clasped her hands with a sensation

of pain, and a rose at her breast fell down withered and dead. She took

it up with listless fingers, and with the quiver of her hand the leaves

fell off and were scattered over her white dress in a pink shower. It

was an allegory of her life, she thought. Once it had been as fresh and

full of fragrance as this dead rose; then it had withered, and now she

saw all her hopes and beliefs falling off one by one like the faded

petals. Ah, there is no despair like that of youth; and Kitty, sitting

on the floor with hot dry eyes and a pain in her heart, felt that the

sun of her life had set for ever.

**

So still the night was. No moon as yet, but an innumerable blaze of

stars set like diamonds in the dark blue sky. A smoky yellowish haze

hung over the city, but down in the garden amid the flowers all was cool

and fragrant. The house was quite dark, and a tall mulberry tree on one

side of it was black against the clear sky. Suddenly the door opened,

and a figure came out and closed the door softly after it. Down the

path it came, and standing in the middle of the garden, raised a white

tear-stained face to the dark sky. A dog barked in the distance, and

then a fresh cold breeze came sweeping through the trees and stirring

the still perfumes of the flowers. The figure threw its hands out

towards the house with a gesture of despair, then gliding down the path

it went out of the gate and stole quietly down the lonely street.

CHAPTER III

M. VANDELOUP HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE

As he drove rapidly into town Gaston’s thoughts were anything but

pleasant. Not that he was thinking about Kitty, for he regarded the

scene he had with her as merely an outburst of hysterical passion, and

did not dream she would take any serious step. He forgot all about her

when he left the house, and, lying back in the cab smoking one of his

everlasting cigarettes, pondered about his position. The fact was he

was very hard up for money, and did not know where to turn for more. His

luck at cards was so great that even the Bachelors, used as they were

to losing large sums, began to murmur among themselves that M. Vandeloup

was too clever, and as that young gentleman by no means desired to lose

his popularity he stopped playing cards altogether, and so effectually

silenced everyone. So this mode of making money was gone, and until

Madame Midas arrived in town Vandeloup did not see how he was going

to keep on living in his former style. But as he never denied himself

anything while he had the money, he ordered the cabman to drive to

Paton’s, the florist in Swanston Street, and there purchased a dainty

bunch of flowers for his button hole. From thence he drove to his club,

and there found a number of young fellows, including Mr Barty Jarper,

all going to the Princess Theatre to see ‘The Mikado’. Barty rushed

forward when Vandeloup appeared and noisily insisted he should come

with them. The men had been dining, and were exhilarated with wine, so

Vandeloup, not caring to appear at the theatre with such a noisy

lot, excused himself. Barty and his friends, therefore, went off by

themselves, and left Vandeloup alone. He picked up the evening paper

and glanced over it with a yawn, when a name caught his eye which he had

frequently noticed before.

‘I say,’ he said to a tall, fair young fellow who had just entered, ‘who

is this Meddlechip the paper is full of?’

‘Don’t you know?’ said the other, in surprise; ‘he’s one of our richest

men, and very generous with his money.’

‘Oh, I see! buys popularity,’ replied Vandeloup, coolly; ‘how is it I’ve

never met him?’

‘He’s been to China or Chile--or--something commencing with a C,’

returned the young man, vaguely; ‘he only came back to Melbourne last

week; you are sure to meet him sooner or later.’

‘Thanks, I’m not very anxious,’ replied Vandeloup, with a yawn; ‘money

in my eyes does not compensate for being bored; where are you going

to-night?’

‘“Mikado”,’ answered the other, whose name was Bellthorp; ‘Jarper asked

me to go up there; he’s got a box.’

‘How does he manage to pay for all these things?’ asked Vandeloup,

rising; ‘he’s only in a bank, and does not get much money.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Bellthorp, putting his arm in that of

Vandeloup’s, ‘wherever he gets it, he always has it, so as long as he

pays his way it’s none of our business; come and have a drink.’

Vandeloup assented with a laugh, and they went to the bar.

‘I’ve got a cab at the door,’ he said to Bellthorp, after they had

finished their drinks, and were going downstairs; ‘come with me, and

I’ll go up to the Princess also; Jarper asked me and I refused, but men

as well as women are entitled to change their minds.’

They got into the cab and drove up Collins Street to the Princess

Theatre. After dismissing the cab, they went up stairs and found

the first act was just over, and the bar was filled with a crowd of

gentlemen, among whom Barty and his friends were conspicuous. On the one

side the doors opened on to the wide stone balcony, where a number of

ladies were seated, and on the other balcony a lot of men were smoking.

Leaving Bellthorp with Jarper, Vandeloup ordered a brandy and soda and

went out on the balcony to smoke.

The bell rang to indicate the curtain was going to rise on the second

act, and the bar and balconies gradually emptied themselves into the

theatre. M. Vandeloup, however, still sat smoking, and occasionally

drinking his brandy and soda, while he thought over his difficulties,

and wondered how he could get out of them. It was a wonderfully hot

night, and not even the dark blue of the moonless sky, studded with

stars, could give any sensation of coolness. Round the balcony were

several windows belonging to the dressing-rooms of the theatre, and the

lights within shone through the vivid red of the blinds with which they

were covered. The door leading into the bar was wide open, and within

everything seemed hot, even under the cool, white glare of the electric

lights, which shone in large oval-shaped globes hanging from the brass

supports in clusters like those grapes known as ladies’ fingers. In

front stretched the high balustrade of the balcony, and as Vandeloup

leaned back in his chair he could see the white blaze of the electric

lights rising above this, and then the luminous darkness of the summer’s

night. Beyond a cluster of trees, with a path, lit by gas lamps, going

through it, the lights of which shone like dull yellow stars. On the

right arose the great block of Parliament-buildings, with the confused

mass of the scaffolding, standing up black and dense against the sky. A

pleasant murmur arose from the crowded pavement below, and through the

incessant rattle of cabs and sharp, clear cries of the street boys,

Gaston could hear the shrill tones of a violin playing the dreamy melody

of the ‘One Summer’s Night in Munich’ valse, about which all Melbourne

was then raving.

He was so occupied with his own thoughts that he did not notice two

gentlemen who came in from the bar, and taking seats a little distant

from him, ordered drinks from the waiter who came to attend to them.

They were both in evening dress, and had apparently left the opera in

order to talk business, for they kept conversing eagerly, and their

voices striking on Vandeloup’s ear he glanced round at them and then

relapsed into his former inattentive position. Now, however, though

apparently absorbed in his own thoughts, he was listening to every word

they said, for he had caught the name of The Magpie Reef, a quartz mine,

which had lately been floated on the market, the shares of which had

run up to a pound, and then, as bad reports were circulated about

it, dropped suddenly to four shillings. Vandeloup recognised one

as Barraclough, a well-known stockbroker, but the other was a dark,

wiry-looking man of medium height, whom he had never seen before.

‘I tell you it’s a good thing,’ said Barraclough, vehemently laying his

hand on the table; ‘Tollerby is the manager, and knows everything about

it.’

‘Gad, he ought to,’ retorted the other with a laugh, ‘if he’s the

manager; but I don’t believe in it, dear boy, I never did; it started

with a big splash, and was going to be a second Long Tunnel according to

the prospectus; now the shares are only four shillings--pshaw!’

‘Yes, but you forget the shares ran up to a pound,’ replied Barraclough,

quickly; ‘and now they are so cheap we can snap them up all over the

market, and then--’

‘Well?’ asked the other, with interest.

‘They will run up, old fellow--see?’ and the Broker rubbed his hands

gleefully.

‘How are you going to get up a “Boom” on them?’ asked the wiry man,

sceptically; ‘the public won’t buy blindly, they must see something.’

‘And so they shall,’ said Barraclough, eagerly; ‘Tollerby is sending

down some of the stone.’

‘From the Magpie Reef?’ asked the other, suspiciously.

‘Of course,’ retorted the Broker, indignantly; ‘you did not think it

was salted, did you? There is gold in the reef, but it is patchy. See,’

pulling out a pocket-book, ‘I got this telegram from Tollerby at four

o’clock to-day;’ he took a telegram from the pocket-book and handed it

to his companion.

‘Struck it rich--evidently pocket--thirty ounces to machine,’ read

the other slowly; ‘gad! that looks well, why don’t you put it in the

papers?’

‘Because I don’t hold enough shares,’ replied the other, impatiently;

‘don’t you understand? To-morrow I go on ‘Change and buy up all the

shares at four shillings I can lay my hands on, then at the end of the

week the samples of stone--very rich--come down. I publish this telegram

from the manager, and the “Boom” starts.’

‘How high do you think the shares will go?’ asked the wiry man,

thoughtfully.

Barraclough shrugged his shoulders, and replaced the telegram in his

pocket-book.

‘Two or three pounds, perhaps more,’ he replied, rising. ‘At all events,

it’s a good thing, and if you go in with me, we’ll clear a good few

thousand out of it.’

‘Come and see me to-morrow morning,’ said the wiry man, also rising. ‘I

think I’ll stand in.’

Barraclough rubbed his hands gleefully, and then slipping his arm

in that of his companion they left the balcony and went back to the

theatre.

Vandeloup felt every nerve in his body tingling. Here was a chance to

make money. If he only had a few hundreds he could buy up all the Magpie

shares he could get and reap the benefit of the rise. Five hundred

pounds! If he could obtain that sum he could buy two thousand five

hundred shares, and if they went to three pounds, he could clear nearly

eight thousand. What an idea! It was ripe fruit tumbling off the tree

without the trouble of plucking it. But five hundred pounds! He had not

as many pence, and he did not know where to get it. If he could only

borrow it from someone--but then he could offer no security. A sense of

his own helplessness came on him as he saw this golden tide flowing

past his door, and yet was unable to take advantage of it. Five hundred

pounds! The sum kept buzzing in his head like a swarm of bees, and he

threw himself down again in his chair to try and think where he could

get it.

A noise disturbed him, and he saw that the opera was over, and a crowd

of gentlemen were thronging into the bar. Jarper was among them, and he

thought he would speak to him on the subject. Yes, Barty was a clever

little fellow, and seemed always able to get money. Perhaps he would

be able to assist him. He stepped out of the balcony into the light and

touched Barty on the shoulder as he stood amid his friends.

‘Hullo! it’s you!’ cried Barty, turning round. ‘Where have you been, old

chap?’

‘Out on the balcony,’ answered Vandeloup, curtly.

‘Come and have supper with us,’ said Barty, hospitably. ‘We are going to

have some at Leslie’s.’

‘Yes, do come,’ urged Bellthorp, putting his arm in that of Vandeloup’s;

‘we’ll have no end of fun.’

Vandeloup was just going to accept, as he thought on the way he could

speak privately to Barty about this scheme he had, when he saw a stout

gentleman at the end of the room taking a cup of coffee at the counter,

and talking to another gentleman who was very tall and thin. The figure

of the stout gentleman seemed familiar to Vandeloup, and at this moment

he turned slowly round and looked down the room. Gaston gave a start

when he saw his face, and then smiled in a gratified manner to himself.

‘Who is that gentleman with the coffee?’ he asked Barty.

‘Those stout and lean kine,’ said Barty, airily, ‘puts one in mind of

Pharaoh’s dream, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes!’ retorted Gaston, impatiently; ‘but who are they?’

‘The long one is Fell, the railway contractor,’ said Barty, glancing

with some surprise at Vandeloup, ‘and the other is old Meddlechip, the

millionaire.’

‘Meddlechip,’ echoed Vandeloup, as if to himself; ‘my faith!’

‘Yes,’ broke in Bellthorp, quickly; ‘the one we were speaking of at the

club--do you know him?’

‘I fancy I do,’ said Vandeloup, with a strange smile. ‘You must excuse

me to your supper to-night.’

‘No, we won’t,’ said Barty, firmly; ‘you must come.’

‘Then I’ll look in later,’ said Vandeloup, who had not the slightest

intention of going. ‘Will that do?’

‘I suppose it will have to,’ said Bellthorp, in an injured tone; ‘but

why can’t you come now?’

‘I’ve got to see about some business,’ said Vandeloup.

‘What, at this hour of the night?’ cried Jarper, in a voice of disgust.

Vandeloup nodded, and lit a cigarette.

‘Well, mind you come in later,’ said Barty, and then he and his friends

left the bar, after making Vandeloup promise faithfully he would come.

Gaston sauntered slowly up to the coffee bar, and asked for a cup in

his usual musical voice, but when the stout gentleman heard him speak he

turned pale and looked up. The thin one had gone off to talk to someone

else, so when Vandeloup got his coffee he turned slowly round and looked

straight at Meddlechip seated in the chair.

‘Good evening, M. Kestrike,’ he said, quietly.

Meddlechip, whose face was usually red and florid-looking, turned

ghastly pale, and sprang to his feet.

‘Octave Braulard!’ he gasped, placing his coffee cup on the counter.

‘At your service,’ said Vandeloup, looking rapidly round to see that no

one overheard the name, ‘but here I am Gaston Vandeloup.’

Meddlechip passed his handkerchief over his face and moistened his dry

lips with his tongue.

‘How did you get here?’ he asked, in a strangled voice.

‘It’s a long story,’ said M. Vandeloup, putting his coffee cup down and

wiping his lips with his handkerchief; ‘suppose we go and have supper

somewhere, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘I don’t want any supper,’ said Meddlechip, sullenly, his face having

regained its normal colour. ‘Possibly not, but I do,’ replied Vandeloup,

sweetly, taking his arm; ‘come, let us go.’

Meddlechip did not resist, but walked passively out of the bar with

Vandeloup, much to the astonishment of the thin gentleman, who called

out to him but without getting any answer.

Meddlechip went to the cloak room and put on his coat and hat. Then

he followed Vandeloup down the stairs and paused at the door while the

Frenchman hailed a hansom. When it drove up, however, he stopped short

at the edge of the pavement.

‘I won’t go,’ he said, determinedly.

Vandeloup looked at him with a peculiar gleam in his dark eyes, and

bowed.

‘Let me persuade you, Monsieur,’ he said, blandly, holding the door of

the cab open.

Meddlechip glanced at him, and then, with a sigh of resignation, entered

the cab, followed by Vandeloup.

‘Where to, sir?’ asked the cabman, through the trap.

‘To Leslie’s Supper Rooms,’ replied the Frenchman, and the cab drove

off.

CHAPTER IV

THE CASE OF ADELE BLONDET

Leslie’s Supper Rooms in Bourke Street East were very well known--that

is, among a certain class. Religious people and steady businessmen knew

nothing about such a place except by reputation, and looked upon it,

with horror, as a haunt of vice and dissipation.

Though Leslie’s, in common with other places had to close at a certain

hour, yet when the shutters were up, the door closed, and the lights

extinguished in the front of the house, there was plenty of life and

bustle going on at the back, where there were charmingly furnished

little rooms for supper parties. Barty Jarper had engaged one of these

apartments, and with about a dozen young men was having a good time of

it when Vandeloup and Meddlechip drove up. After dismissing the cab and

looking up and down the street to see that no policeman was in

sight, Vandeloup knocked at the door in a peculiar manner, and it was

immediately opened in a stealthy kind of way. Gaston gave his name,

whereupon they were allowed to enter, and the door was closed after

them in the same quiet manner, all of which was very distasteful to Mr

Meddlechip, who, being a public man and a prominent citizen, felt that

he was breaking the laws he had assisted to make. He looked round in

some disgust at the crowds of waiters, and at the glimpses he caught

every now and then of gentlemen in evening dress, and what annoyed him

more than anything else--ladies in bright array. Oh! a dissipated place

was Leslie’s, and even in the daytime had a rakish-looking appearance as

if it had been up all night and knew a thing or two. Mr Meddlechip would

have retreated from this den of iniquity if he could, but as he wanted

to have a thorough explanation with Vandeloup, he meekly followed the

Frenchman through a well-lighted passage, with statues on either side

holding lamps, to a little room beautifully furnished, wherein a supper

table was laid out. Here the waiter who conducted them took their hats

and Meddlechip’s coat and hung them up, then waited respectfully for

M. Vandeloup to give his orders. A portly looking waiter he was, with

a white waistcoat, a white shirt, which bulged out in a most obtrusive

manner, and a large white cravat, which was tied round an equally large

white collar. When he walked he rolled along like a white-crested wave,

and with his napkin under his arm, the heel of one foot in the hollow of

the other, and his large red face, surmounted by a few straggling tufts

of black hair, he was truly wonderful to behold.

This magnificent creature, who answered to the name of Gurchy, received

Vandeloup’s orders with a majestic bend of his head, then rolling up

to Mr Meddlechip, he presented the bill of fare to that gentleman, who,

however, refused it.

‘I don’t want any supper,’ he said, curtly.

Gurchy, though a waiter, was human, and looked astonished, while

Vandeloup remonstrated in a suave manner.

‘But, my dear sir,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘you must have

something to eat. I assure you,’ with a significant smile, ‘you will

need it.’

Meddlechip’s lips twitched a little as the Frenchman spoke, then, with

an uneasy laugh, he ordered something, and drew his chair up to the

table.

‘And, waiter,’ said Vandeloup, softly, as Gurchy was rolling out of the

door, ‘bring some wine, will you? Pommery, I think, is best,’ he added,

turning to Meddlechip.

‘What you like,’ returned that gentleman, impatiently, ‘I don’t care.’

‘That’s a great mistake,’ replied Gaston, coolly; ‘bad wine plays the

deuce with one’s digestion--two bottles of Pommery, waiter.’

Gurchy nodded, that is to say his head disappeared for a moment in the

foam of his collar, then re-appeared again as he slowly rolled out of

the door and vanished.

‘Now, then, sir,’ said Meddlechip, sharply, rising from his seat and

closing the door, ‘what did you bring me here for?’

M. Vandeloup raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘How energetic you are, my dear Kestrike,’ he said, smoothly, lying down

on the sofa, and contemplating his shoes with great satisfaction; ‘just

the same noisy, jolly fellow as of yore.’

‘Damn you!’ said the other, fiercely, at which Gaston laughed.

‘You had better leave that to God,’ he answered, mockingly; ‘he

understands more about it than you do.’

‘Oh, I know you of old,’ said Meddlechip, walking up and down excitedly;

‘I know you of old, with your sneers and your coolness, but it won’t do

here,’ stopping opposite the sofa, and glaring down at Vandeloup; ‘it

won’t do here!’

‘So you’ve said twice,’ replied M. Vandeloup, with a yawn. ‘How do you

want me to conduct myself? Do tell me; I am always open to improvement.’

‘You must leave Australia,’ said Meddlechip, sharply, and breathing

hard.

‘If I refuse?’ asked M. Vandeloup, lazily, smiling to himself.

‘I will denounce you as a convict escaped from New Caledonia!’ hissed

the other, putting his hands in his pockets, and bending forward.

‘Indeed,’ said Gaston, with a charming smile, ‘I don’t think you will go

so far as that, my friend.’

‘I swear,’ said Meddlechip, loudly, raising his hand, ‘I swear--’

‘Oh, fie!’ observed M. Vandeloup, in a shocked tone; ‘an old man like

you should not swear; it’s very wrong, I assure you; besides,’ with a

disparaging glance, ‘you are not suited to melodrama.’

Meddlechip evidently saw it was no good trying to fight against the

consummate coolness of this young man, so with a great effort resolved

to adapt himself to the exigencies of the case, and fight his adversary

with his own weapons.

‘Well,’ he said at length, resuming his seat at the table, and trying to

speak calmly, though his flushed face and quivering lips showed what

an effort it cost him; ‘let us have supper first, and we can talk

afterwards.’

‘Ah, that’s much better,’ remarked M. Vandeloup, sitting up to the

table, and unrolling his napkin. ‘I assure you, my dear fellow, if you

treat me well, I’m a very easy person to deal with.’

The eyes of the two men met for a moment across the table, and

Vandeloup’s had such a meaning look in them, that Meddlechip dropped his

own with a shiver.

The door opened, and the billowy waiter rolled up to the table, and

having left a deposit of plates and food thereon, subsided once more out

of the door, then rolled in again with the champagne. He drew the cork

of one of the bottles, filled the glasses on the table, and then after

giving a glance round to see that all was in order, suddenly found that

it was ebb-tide, and rolled slowly out of the door, which he closed

after him.

Meddlechip ate his supper in silence, but drank a good deal of champagne

to keep his courage up for the coming ordeal, which he knew he must go

through. Vandeloup, on the other hand, ate and drank very little, as he

talked gaily all the time about theatres, racing, boating, in fact of

everything except the thing the other man wanted to hear.

‘I never mix up business with pleasure, my dear fellow,’ said Gaston,

amiably, guessing his companion’s thoughts; ‘when we have finished

supper and are enjoying our cigars, I will tell you a little story.’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ retorted the other, harshly, having an

intuitive idea what the story would be about.

‘Possibly not,’ replied M. Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘nevertheless it is my

wish that you should hear it.’

Meddlechip looked as if he were inclined to resent this plain speaking,

but after a pause evidently thought better of it, and went on tranquilly

eating his supper.

When they had finished Gaston rang the bell, and when the billow rolled

in, ordered a fresh bottle of wine and some choice cigars of a brand

well known at Leslie’s. Gurchy’s head disappeared in foam again, and did

not emerge therefrom till he was out of the door.

Try one of these,’ said M. Vandeloup, affably, to Meddlechip, when

the billow had rolled in with the cigars and wine, ‘it’s an excellent

brand.’

‘I don’t care about smoking,’ answered Meddlechip.

‘To please me,’ urged M. Vandeloup, persuasively; whereupon Meddlechip

took one, and having lighted it puffed away evidently under protest,

while the billow opened the new bottle of wine, freshened up the

glasses, and then rolled majestically out of the door, like a tidal

wave.

‘Now then for the story,’ said M. Vandeloup, leaning back luxuriously on

the sofa, and blowing a cloud of smoke.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ retorted the other, quickly; ‘name your terms

and let us end the matter.’

‘Pardon me,’ said M. Vandeloup, with a smile, ‘but I refuse to accept

any terms till I have given you thoroughly to understand what I mean; so

you must hear this little tale of Adele Blondet.’

‘For God’s sake, no!’ cried the other, hoarsely, rising to his feet; ‘I

tell you I am haunted by it; by day and by night, sleeping or waking, I

see her face ever before me like an accusing angel.’

‘Curious,’ murmured M. Vandeloup, ‘especially as she was not by any

means an angel.’

‘I thought it was done with,’ said Meddlechip, twisting his fingers

together, while the large drops of perspiration stood on his forehead,

‘but here you come like a spectre from the past and revive all the old

horrors.’

‘If you call Adele a horror,’ retorted Vandeloup, coolly, ‘I am

certainly going to revive her, so you had best sit down and hear me to

the end, for you certainly will not turn me from my purpose.’

Meddlechip sank back into his chair with a groan, while his relentless

enemy curled himself up on the sofa in a more comfortable position and

began to talk.

‘We will begin the story,’ said M. Vandeloup, in a conversational tone,

with an airy wave of his delicate white hand, ‘in the good old-fashioned

style of our fairy tales. Once upon a time--let us say three years

ago--there lived in Paris a young man called Octave Braulard, who was

well born and comfortably off. He had a fancy to be a doctor, and was

studying for the medical profession when he became entangled with a

woman. Mademoiselle Adele Blondet was a charmingly ugly actress, who was

at that time the rage of Paris. She attracted all the men, not by

her looks, but by her tongue. Octave Braulard,’ went on M. Vandeloup,

complacently looking at himself, ‘was handsome, and she fell in love

with him. She became his mistress, and caused a nine days’ wonder in

Paris by remaining constant to him for six months. Then there came to

Paris an English gentleman from Australia--name, Kestrike; position,

independent; income, enormous. He had left Madame his wife in London,

and came to our wicked Paris to amuse himself. He saw Adele Blondet, and

was introduced to her by Braulard; result, Kestrike betrayed his friend

Braulard by stealing from him his mistress. Why was this? Was Kestrike

handsome? No. Was he fascinating? No. Was he rich? Yes. Therein lay

the secret; Adele loved the purse, not the man. Braulard,’ said Gaston,

rising from the sofa quickly and walking across the room, ‘felt his

honour wounded. He remonstrated with Adele, no use; he offered to fight

a duel with the perfidious Kestrike, no use; the thief was a coward.’

‘No,’ cried Meddlechip, rising, ‘no coward.’

‘I say, yes!’ said Vandeloup, crossing to him, and forcing him back

in his chair; ‘he betrayed his friend and refused to give him the

satisfaction of a gentleman. What did Braulard do? Rest quiet?

No. Revenge his honour? Yes! One night,’ pursued Gaston, in a low

concentrated voice, grasping Meddlechip’s wrist firmly, and looking at

him with fiery eyes, ‘Braulard prepared a poison, a narcotic which was

quick in its action, fatal in its results. He goes to the house of Adele

Blondet at half-past twelve o’clock--the hour now,’ he said, rapidly

swinging round and pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece, which

had just struck the half-hour; ‘he found them at supper,’ releasing

Meddlechip’s wrist and crossing to the sofa; ‘he sat opposite Kestrike,

as he does now,’ leaning forward and glaring at Meddlechip, who shrank

back in his chair. ‘Adele, at the head of the table, laughs and smiles;

she looks at her old lover and sees murder in his face; she is ill and

retires to her room. Kestrike follows her to see what is the matter.

Braulard is left alone; he produces a bottle and pours its contents into

a cup of coffee, waiting for Adele. Kestrike returns, saying Adele is

ill; she wants a drink. He takes her the poisoned cup of coffee; she

drinks it and falls’--with a long breath--‘asleep. Kestrike returns to

the room, asks Braulard to leave the house. Braulard refuses. Kestrike

is afraid, and would leave himself; he rises from the table; so does

Braulard;’--here Gaston rose and crossed to Meddlechip, who was also on

his feet--‘he goes to Kestrike, seizes his wrist, thus--drags him to

the bedroom, and there on the bed lies Adele Blondet--dead--killed by the

poison of one lover given her by the other--and the murderers look at

one another--thus.’

Meddlechip wrenched his hand from Vandeloup’s iron grip and fell back

ghastly white in his chair, with a strangled cry, while the Frenchman

stood over him with eyes gleaming with hatred.

‘Kestrike,’ pursued Vandeloup, rapidly, ‘is little known in Paris--his

name is an assumed one--he leaves France before the police can discover

how he has poisoned Adele Blondet, and crosses to England--meets Madame,

his wife, and returns to Australia, where he is called--Meddlechip.’

The man in the chair threw up his hands as if to keep the other off, and

uttered a stifled cry.

‘He then goes to China,’ went on Gaston, bending nearer to the shrinking

figure, ‘and returns after twelve months, where he meets Octave Braulard

in the theatre--yes, the two murderers meet in Melbourne! How came

Braulard here? Was it chance? No. Was it design? No. Was it Fate? Yes.’

He hissed the words in Meddlechip’s ear, and the wretched man shrank

away from him again.

‘Braulard,’ pursued Vandeloup, in a calmer tone, ‘also left the house of

Adele Blondet. She is found dead; one of her lovers cannot be found; the

other, Braulard, is accused of the crime; he defies the police to prove

it; she has been poisoned. Bah! there is no trace. Braulard will be

free. Stop! who is this man called Prevol, who appears? He is a fellow

student of Braulard’s, and knows the poison. Braulard is lost! Prevol

examines the body, proves that poison has been given--by whom? Braulard,

and none other. He is sentenced to death; but he is so handsome that

Paris urges pardon. No; it is not according to the law. Still, spare his

life? Yes. His life is spared. The galleys at Toulon? No. New Caledonia?

Yes. He is sent there. But is Braulard a coward? No. Does he rest as a

convict? No. He makes friends with another convict; they steal a boat,

and fly from the island; they drift, and drift, for days and days; the

sun rises, the sun sets--still they drift; their food is giving out, the

water in the barrel is low--God! are they to die of thirst and famine?

No. The sky is red--like blood--the sun is sinking; land is in the

distance--they are saved!’ falling on his knees; ‘they are saved, thank

God!’

Meddlechip, who had recovered himself, wiped his face with his

handkerchief, and sneered with his white lips at the theatrical way

Gaston was behaving in. Vandeloup saw this, and, springing to his feet,

crossed to the millionaire.

‘Braulard,’ he continued, quickly, ‘lands on the coast of Queensland;

he comes to Sydney--no work; to Melbourne--no work; he goes to

Ball’rat--work there at a gold-mine. Braulard takes the name of

Vandeloup and makes money; he comes to Melbourne, lives there a year,

he is in want of money, he is in despair; at the theatre he overhears a

plan which will give him money, but he needs capital--despair again, he

will never get it. Aha! Fate once more intervenes--he sees M. Kestrike,

now Meddlechip, he will ask him for the money, and the question is, will

he get it? So the story is at an end.’ He ended with his usual smile,

all his excitement having passed away, and lounging over to the

supper-table lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa.

Meddlechip sat silently looking at the disordered supper-table and

thinking deeply. The dishes were scattered about the white cloth, and

some vividly red cherries had fallen down from the fruit dish in the

centre, some salt was spilt near his elbow, the napkins, twisted

into thin wisps, were lying among the dirty dishes, and the champagne

glasses, half filled with the straw-coloured wine, were standing near

the empty bottles. Meddlechip thought for a few moments, and then looked

up suddenly in a cool, collected, business-like manner.

‘As I understand you,’ he said, in a steady voice, ‘the case stands

thus: you know a portion, or rather, I should say, an episode of my

life, I would gladly forget. I did not commit the murder.’

‘No, but you gave her the poison.’

‘Innocently I did, I confess.’

‘Bah! who will believe that?’ retorted M. Vandeloup, with a shrug; ‘but

never mind this at present; let me hear what you intend to do.’

‘You know a secret,’ said Meddlechip, nervously, ‘which is dangerous to

me; you want to sell it; well, I will be the buyer--name your price.’

‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Vandeloup, quietly.

‘Is that all?’ asked the other, with a start of surprise; ‘I was

prepared for five thousand.’

‘I am not exorbitant in my demands,’ answered Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘and

as I told you, I have a scheme on hand by which I may make a lot of

money-five hundred pounds is sufficient to do what I want. If the scheme

succeeds, I will be rich enough to do without any more money from you.’

‘Yes; but if it fails?’ said Meddlechip, doubtfully.

‘If it fails, I will be obliged to draw on you again,’ returned Gaston,

candidly; ‘you can’t say, however, that I am behaving badly to you.’

‘No,’ answered Meddlechip, looking at him. ‘I must say you are easier

to deal with than I anticipated. Well, if I give you my cheque for five

hundred--’

‘Say six hundred,’ observed Vandeloup, rising and going to a small table

in the corner of the room on which were pens and ink. ‘I want an extra

hundred.’

‘Six hundred then be it,’ answered Meddlechip, quietly, rising and going

to his overcoat, from whence he took his cheque book. ‘For this amount

you will be silent.’

M. Vandeloup bowed gracefully.

‘On my word of honour,’ he replied, gaily; ‘but, of course,’ with a

sudden glance at Meddlechip, ‘you will treat me as a friend--ask me to

your house, and introduce me to Madame, your wife.’

‘I don’t see the necessity,’ returned Meddlechip, angrily, going over to

the small table and sitting down.

‘Pardon me, I do’ answered the Frenchman, with a dangerous gleam in his

eyes.

‘Well, well, I agree,’ said Meddlechip, testily, taking up a pen and

opening his cheque book. ‘You, of course, can dictate your own terms.’

‘I understand that perfectly,’ replied Vandeloup, delicately, lighting

a cigarette, ‘and have done so. You can’t say they are hard, as I said

before.’

Meddlechip did not answer, but wrote out a cheque for six hundred

pounds, and then handed it to Vandeloup, who received it with a bow and

slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

‘With this,’ he said, touching his pocket, ‘I hope to make nearly ten

thousand in a fortnight.’

Meddlechip stared at him.

‘I hope you will,’ he answered, gruffly, ‘all the better for my purse if

you do.’

‘That, of course, goes without saying,’ replied Vandeloup, lazily. ‘Have

some more wine?’ touching the bell.

‘No more, thank you,’ said Meddlechip, putting on his overcoat. ‘It’s

time I was off.’

‘By the way,’ said M. Vandeloup, coolly, ‘I have not any change in my

pocket; you might settle for the supper.’

Meddlechip burst out laughing.

‘Confound your impudence,’ he said, quickly, ‘I thought you asked me to

supper.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Vandeloup, taking his hat and stick, ‘but I intended

you to pay for it.’

‘You were pretty certain of your game, then?’

‘I always am,’ answered Vandeloup, as the door opened, and Gurchy rolled

slowly into the room.

Meddlechip paid the bill without making further objections, and then

they both left Leslie’s with the same precautions as had attended their

entry. They walked slowly down Bourke Street, and parted at the corner,

Meddlechip going to Toorak, while Vandeloup got into a cab and told the

man to drive to Richmond, then lit a cigarette and gave himself up to

reflection as he drove along.

‘I’ve done a good stroke of business tonight,’ he said, smiling, as he

felt the cheque in his pocket, ‘and I’ll venture the whole lot on this

Magpie reef. If it succeeds I will be rich; if it does not--well, there

is always Meddlechip as my banker.’ Then his thoughts went back to

Kitty, for the reason of his going home so late was that he wanted to

find out in what frame of mind she was.

‘She’ll never leave me,’ he said, with a laugh, as the cab drew up in

front of Mrs Pulchop’s house; ‘if she does, so much the better for me.’

He dismissed his cab, and let himself in with the latch key; then

hanging up his hat in the hall he went straight to the bedroom and

lit the gas. He then crossed to the bed, expecting to find Kitty sound

asleep, but to his surprise the bed was untouched, and she was not

there.

‘Ah!’ he said, quietly, ‘so she has gone, after all. Poor little girl,

I wonder where she is. I must really look after her to-morrow; at

present,’ he said, pulling off his coat, with a yawn, ‘I think I’ll go

to bed.’

He went to bed, and laying his head on the pillow was soon fast asleep,

without even a thought for the girl he had ruined.

CHAPTER V

THE KEY OF THE STREET

When Kitty left Mrs Pulchop’s residence she had no very definite idea as

to what she was going to do with herself. Her sole thought was to get as

far away from her former life as possible--to disappear in the crowd

and never to be heard of again. Poor little soul, she never for a moment

dreamed that it was a case of out of the frying pan into the fire, and

that the world at large might prove more cruel to her than Vandeloup in

particular. She had been cut to the heart by his harsh cold words, but

notwithstanding he had spoken so bitterly she still loved him, and would

have stayed beside him, but her jealous pride forbade her to do so. She

who had been queen of his heart and the idol of his life could not bear

to receive cold looks and careless words, and to be looked upon as an

encumbrance and a trouble. So she thought if she left him altogether and

never saw him again he would, perhaps, be sorry for her and cherish her

memory tenderly for evermore. If she had only known Gaston’s true

nature she would not thus have buoyed herself up with false hopes of his

sorrow, but as she believed in him as implicitly as a woman in love with

a man always does, in a spirit of self-abnegation she cut herself off

from him, thinking it would be to his advantage if not to her own.

She went into town and wandered about listlessly, not knowing where to

go, till nearly twelve o’clock, and the streets were gradually emptying

themselves of their crowds. The coffee stalls were at all the corners,

with hungry-looking people of both sexes crowded round them, and here

and there in door steps could be seen some outcasts resting in huddled

heaps, while the policemen every now and then would come up and make

them move on.

Kitty was footsore and heart-weary, and felt inclined to cry, but

was nevertheless resolved not to go back to her home in Richmond. She

dragged herself along the lonely street, and round the corner came on

a coffee stall with no one at it except one small boy whose head just

reached up to the counter. Such a ragged boy as he was, with a broad

comical-looking face--a shaggy head of red hair and a hat without any

brim to it--his legs were bandy and his feet were encased in a pair

of men’s boots several sizes too large for him. He had a bundle of

newspapers under one arm and his other hand was in his pocket rattling

some coppers together while he bargained with the coffee-stall keeper

over a pie. The coffee stall had the name of Spilsby inscribed on it, so

it is fair to suppose that the man therein was Spilsby himself. He had

a long grey beard and a meek face, looking so like an old wether himself

it appeared almost the act of a cannibal on his part to eat a mutton

pie. A large placard at the back of the stall set forth the fact that

‘Spilsby’s Specials’ were sold there for the sum of one penny, and it

was over ‘Spilsby’s Specials’ the ragged boy was arguing.

‘I tell you I ain’t agoin’ to eat fat,’ he said, in a hoarse voice, as

if his throat was stuffed up with one of his own newspapers. ‘I want a

special, I don’t want a hordinary.’

‘This are a special, I tells you,’ retorted Spilsby, ungrammatically,

pushing a smoking pie towards the boy; ‘what a young wiper you are,

Grattles, a-comin’ and spoilin’ my livin’ by cussin’ my wictuals.’

‘Look ‘ere,’ retorted Grattles, standing on the tips of his large boots

to look more imposing, ‘my stumick’s a bit orf when it comes to fat,

and I wants the vally of my penny; give us a muttony one, with lots of

gravy.’

‘’Ere y’are, then,’ said Spilsby, quite out of temper with his

fastidious customer; ‘’ere’s a pie as is all made of ram as ‘adn’t got

more fat on it than you ‘ave.’

Grattles examined the article classed under this promising description

with a critical air, and then laid down his penny and took the pie.

‘It’s a special, ain’t it?’ he asked, suspiciously smelling it.

‘It’s the specialest I’ve got, any’ow,’ answered Spilsby, testily,

putting the penny in his pocket; ‘you’d eat a ‘ole sheep if you could

get it for a penny, you greedy young devil, you.’

Here Kitty, who was feeling faint and ill with so much walking, came

forward and asked for a cup of coffee.

‘Certainly, dear,’ said Spilsby, with a leer, pouring out the coffee;

‘I’m allays good to a pretty gal.’

‘It’s more nor your coffee is,’ growled Grattles, who had finished

his special and was now licking his fingers, ‘it’s all grounds and ‘ot

water.’

‘Go away, you wicious thing,’ retorted Spilsby, mildly, giving Kitty

her coffee and change out of the money she handed him, ‘or I’ll set the

perlice on yer.’

‘Oh, my eye!’ shrieked Grattles, executing a grimace after the fashion

of a favourite comedian; ‘he ain’t a tart, oh, no--‘es a pie, ‘e are,

a special, a muttony special; ‘e don’t kill no kittings and call ‘em

sheep, oh, no; ‘e don’t buy chicory and calls it coffee, blest if

‘e does; ‘e’s a corker, ‘e are, and ‘is name ain’t the same as ‘is

father’s.’

‘What d’ye mean,’ asked Spilsby, fiercely--that is, as fiercely as his

meek appearance would let him; ‘what do you know of my parents, you

bandy-legged little devil? who’s your--progenitor, I’d like to know?’

‘A dook, in course,’ said Grattles loftily; ‘but we don’t, in

consequence of ‘er Nibs bein’ mixed up with the old man’s mother, reweal

the family skeletons to low piemen,’ then, with a fresh grimace, he

darted along the street as quickly as his bandy legs could carry him.

Spilsby took no notice of this, but, seeing some people coming round the

corner, commenced to sing out his praises of the specials.

‘’Ere yer are--all ‘ot an’ steamin’,’ he cried, in a kind of loud

bleat, which added still more to his sheep-like appearance: ‘Spilsby’s

Specials--oh, lovely--ain’t they nice; my eye, fine muttin pies; who ses

Spilsby’s; ‘ave one, miss?’ to Kitty.

Thank you, no,’ replied Kitty, with a faint smile as she put down her

empty cup; ‘I’m going now.’

Spilsby was struck by the educated manner in which she spoke and by the

air of refinement about her.

‘Go home, my dear,’ he said, kindly, leaning forward; ‘this ain’t no

time for a young gal like you to be out.’

‘I’ve got no home,’ said Kitty, bitterly, ‘but if you could direct me--’

‘Here, you,’ cried a shrill female voice, as a woman dressed in a

flaunting blue gown rushed up to the stall, ‘give us a pie quick; I’m

starvin’; I’ve got no time to wait.’

‘No, nor manners either,’ said Spilsby, with a remonstrating bleat,

pushing a pie towards her; ‘who are you, a-shovin’ your betters,

Portwine Annie?’

‘My betters,’ scoffed the lady in blue, looking Kitty up and down with

a disdainful smile on her painted face; ‘where are they, I’d like to

know?’

‘’Ere, ‘old your tongue,’ bleated Spilsby, angrily, ‘or I’ll tell the

perlice at the corner.’

‘And much I care,’ retorted the shrill-voiced female, ‘seeing he’s a

particular friend of mine.’

‘For God’s sake tell me where I can find a place to stop in,’ whispered

Kitty to the coffee-stall keeper.

‘Come with me, dear,’ said Portwine Annie, eagerly, having overheard

what was said, but Kitty shrank back, and then gathering her cloak

around her ran down the street.

‘What do you do that for, you jade?’ said Spilsby, in a vexed tone;

‘don’t you see the girl’s a lady.’

‘Of course she is,’ retorted the other, finishing her pie; ‘we’re all

ladies; look at our dresses, ain’t they fine enough? Look at our houses,

aren’t they swell enough?’

‘Yes, and yer morals, ain’t they bad enough?’ said Spilsby, washing up

the dirty plate.

‘They’re quite as good as many ladies in society, at all events,’

replied Portwine Annie, with a toss of her head as she walked off.

‘Oh, it’s a wicked world,’ bleated Spilsby, in a soft voice, looking

after the retreating figure. ‘I’m sorry for that poor gal--I am

indeed--but this ain’t business,’ and once more raising his voice he

cried up his wares, ‘Oh, lovely; ain’t they muttony? Spilsby’s specials,

all ‘ot; one penny.’

Meanwhile Kitty was walking quickly down Elizabeth Street, and turning

round the corner ran right up against a woman.

‘Hullo!’ said the woman, catching her wrist, ‘where are you off to?’

‘Let me go,’ cried Kitty, in a panting voice.

The woman was tall and handsome, but her face had a kindly expression on

it, and she seemed touched with the terrified tone of the girl.

‘My poor child,’ she said, half contemptuously, releasing her, ‘I won’t

hurt you. Go if you like. What are you doing out at this time of the

night?’

‘Nothing,’ faltered Kitty, with quivering lips, lifting her face up to

the pale moon. The other saw it in the full light and marked how pure

and innocent it was.

‘Go home, dear,’ she said, in a soft tone, touching the girl kindly on

the shoulder, ‘it’s not fit for you to be out at this hour. You are not

one of us.’

‘My God! no,’ cried Kitty, shrinking away from her.

The other smiled bitterly.

‘Ah! you draw away from me now,’ she said, with a sneer; ‘but what are

you, so pure and virtuous, doing on the streets at this hour? Go home in

time, child, or you will become like me.’

‘I have no home,’ said Kitty, turning to go.

‘No home!’ echoed the other, in a softer tone; ‘poor child! I cannot

take you with me--God help me; but here is some money,’ forcing a

shilling into the girl’s hand, ‘go to Mrs Rawlins at Victoria Parade,

Fitzroy--anyone will tell you where it is--and she will take you in.’

‘What kind of a place is it?’ said Kitty.

‘A home for fallen women, dear,’ answered the other, kindly.

‘I’m not a fallen woman!’ cried the girl, wildly, ‘I have left my home,

but I will go back to it--anything better than this horrible life on the

streets.’

‘Yes, dear,’ said the woman, softly, ‘go home; go home, for God’s sake,

and if you have a father and mother to shield you from harm, thank

heaven for that. Let me kiss you once,’ she added, bending forward, ‘it

is so long since I felt a good woman’s kiss on my lips. Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye,’ sobbed Kitty, raising her face, and the other bent down and

kissed the child-like face, then with a stifled cry, fled away through

the moonlit night.

Kitty turned away slowly and walked up the street. She knew there was

a cab starting opposite the Town Hall which went to Richmond, and

determined to go home. After all, hard though her life might be in the

future, it would be better than this cruel harshness of the streets.

At the top of the block, just as she was about to cross Swanston Street,

a party of young men in evening dress came round the corner singing, and

evidently were much exhilarated with wine. These were none other than

Mr Jarper and his friends, who, having imbibed a good deal more than

was good for them, were now ripe for any mischief. Bellthorp and Jarper,

both quite intoxicated, were walking arm-in-arm, each trying to keep

the other up, so that their walking mostly consisted of wild lurches

forward, and required a good deal of balancing.

‘Hullo!’ cried Bellthorp solemnly--he was always solemn when

intoxicated--‘girl--pretty--eh!’

‘Go ‘way,’ said Barty, staggering back against the wall, ‘we’re

Christian young men.’

Kitty tried to get away from this inebriated crew, but they all closed

round her, and she wrung her hands in despair. ‘If you are gentlemen you

will let me go,’ she cried, trying to push past.

‘Give us kiss first,’ said a handsome young fellow, with his hat very

much on one side, putting his arm round her waist, ‘pay toll, dear.’

She felt his hot breath on her cheek and shrieked out wildly, trying

to push him away with all her force. The young man, however, paid no

attention to her cries, but was about to kiss her when he was taken by

the back of the neck and thrown into the gutter.

‘Gentlemen!’ said a rich rolling voice, which proceeded from a portly

man who had just appeared on the scene. ‘I am astonished,’ with the

emphasis on the first person singular, as if he were a man of great

note.

‘Old boy,’ translated Bellthorp to the others, ‘is ‘tonished.’

‘You have,’ said the stranger, with an airy wave of his hand, ‘the

appearance of gentlemen, but, alas! you are but whited sepulchres, fair

to look upon, but full of dead men’s bones within.’

‘Jarper,’ said Bellthorp, solemnly, taking Barty’s arm, ‘you’re a

tombstone with skeleton inside--come along--old boy is right--set of

cads ‘suiting an unprotected gal--good night, sir.’

The others picked up their companion out of the gutter, and the whole

lot rolled merrily down the street.

‘And this,’ said the gentleman, lifting up his face to the sky in

mute appeal to heaven, ‘this is the generation which is to carry

on Australia. Oh, Father Adam, what a dissipated family you have

got--ah!--good for a comedy, I think.’

‘Oh!’ cried Kitty, recognising a familiar remark, ‘it’s Mr Wopples.’

‘The same,’ said the airy Theodore, laying his hand on his heart, ‘and

you, my dear--why, bless me,’ looking closely at her, ‘it is the pretty

girl I met in Ballarat--dear, dear--surely you have not come to this.’

‘No, no,’ said Kitty, quickly, laying her hand on his arm, ‘I will tell

you all about it, Mr Wopples; but you must be a friend to me, for I

sadly need one.’

‘I will be your friend,’ said the actor, emphatically, taking her arm

and walking slowly down the street; ‘tell me how I find you thus.’

‘You won’t tell anyone if I do?’ said Kitty, imploringly.

‘On the honour of a gentleman,’ answered Wopples, with grave dignity.

Kitty told him how she had left Ballarat, but suppressed the name of her

lover, as she did not want any blame to fall on him. But all the rest

she told freely, and when Mr Wopples heard how on that night she had

left the man who had ruined her, he swore a mighty oath.

‘Oh, vile human nature,’ he said, in a sonorous tone, ‘to thus betray

a confiding infant! Where,’ he continued, looking inquiringly at the

serene sky, ‘where are the thunderbolts of Heaven that they fall not on

such?’

No thunderbolt making its appearance to answer the question, Mr Wopples

told Kitty he would take her home to the family, and as they were just

starting out on tour again, she could come with them.

‘But will Mrs Wopples receive me?’ asked Kitty, timidly.

‘My dear,’ said the actor, gravely, ‘my wife is a good woman, and a

mother herself, so she can feel for a poor child like you, who has been

betrayed through sheer innocence.’

‘You do not despise me?’ said Kitty, in a low voice.

‘My dear,’ answered Wopples, quietly, ‘am I so pure myself that I can

judge others? Who am I,’ with an oratorical wave of the hand, ‘that I

should cast the first stone?--ahem!--from Holy Writ. In future I will

be your father; Mrs Wopples, your mother, and you will have ten brothers

and sisters--all star artistes.’

‘How kind you are,’ sobbed Kitty, clinging trustfully to him as they

went along.

‘I only do unto others as I would be done by,’ said Mr Wopples,

solemnly. ‘That sentiment,’ continued the actor, taking off his hat,

‘was uttered by One who, tho’ we may believe or disbelieve in His

divinity as a God, will always remain the sublimest type of perfect

manhood the world has ever seen.’

Kitty did not answer, and they walked quickly along; and surely this one

good deed more than compensated for the rest of the actor’s failings.

CHAPTER VI

ON CHANGE

Young Australia has a wonderful love for the excitement of

gambling--take him away from the betting ring and he goes straight to

the share market to dabble in gold and silver shares. The Great Humbug

Gold Mining Company is floated on the Melbourne market--a perfect

fortune in itself, which influential men are floating in a kind of

semi-philanthropic manner to benefit mankind at large, and themselves in

particular. Report by competent geologists; rich specimens of the reef

exhibited to the confiding public; company of fifty thousand shares at

a pound each; two shillings on application; two shillings on allotment;

the balance in calls which influential men solemnly assure confiding

public will never be needed. Young Australia sees a chance of making

thousands in a week; buys one thousand shares at four shillings--only

two hundred pounds; shares will rise and Young Australia hopefully looks

forward to pocketing two or three thousand by his modest venture of two

hundred; company floated, shares rising slowly. Young Australia will not

sell at a profit, still dazzled by his chimerical thousands. Calls must

be made to put up machinery; shares have a downward tendency. Never

mind, there will only be one or two calls, so stick to shares as parents

of possible thousands. Machinery erected; now crushing; two or three

ounces to ton a certainty. Shares have an upward tendency; washing

up takes place--two pennyweights to ton. Despair! Shares run down to

nothing, and Young Australia sees his thousands disappear like snow in

the sun. The Great Humbug Reef proves itself worthy of its name, and the

company collapses amid the groans of confiding public and secret joy of

influential men, who have sold at the top price.

Vandeloup knew all about this sort of thing, for he had seen it occur

over and over again in Ballarat and Melbourne. So many came to the

web and never got out alive, yet fresh flies were always to be found.

Vandeloup was of a speculative nature himself, and had he been possessed

of any surplus cash would, no doubt, have risked it in the jugglery of

the share market, but as he had none to spare he stood back and amused

himself with looking at the ‘spider and the fly’ business which was

constantly going on. Sometimes, indeed, the fly got the better of spider

number one, but was unable to keep away from the web, and was sure to

fall into the web of spider number two.