BOOK II.--THE LOST HUSBAND

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(Oxford University)

THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE BEETLE: A MYSTERY

MARVELS AND MYSTERIES

THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN

BOTH SIDES OF THE VEIL

THE JOSS: A REVERSION

THE ADVENTURES OF AUGUSTUS SHORT

THE GODDESS: A DEMON

AMUSEMENT ONLY

FRIVOLITIES

THE CHASE OF THE RUBY

THE

TWICKENHAM PEERAGE

BY

RICHARD MARSH

METHUEN & CO.

36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.

LONDON

1902

CONTENTS

BOOK I.--THE SLEEPING MAN

CHAP.

I. A SIDE SHOW.

II. LADY DESMOND GIVES A DINNER PARTY.

III. CROSS-QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS.

IV. MR. MONTAGU BABBACOMBE AWAKES.

V. AT THE YORK HOTEL.

VI. A MESSAGE FROM THE MARQUIS.

VII. MR. FOSTER INTERRUPTS.

VIII. DYING.

IX. DEAD.

X. AND BURIED.

BOOK II.--THE LOST HUSBAND

XI. AN ENCOUNTER IN PICCADILLY.

XII. MRS. MERRETT IS OVER-PERSUADED.

XIII. WHO'S THAT CALLING?

XIV. HELPING TO MAKE THE PUDDING.

XV. THE NEW PEER: AND HIS MOTHER.

XVI. MR. FITZHOWARD OPENS THE DOOR.

XVII. THE MARCHIONESS IN SPITE OF HERSELF.

XVIII. MR. HOWARTH AGAINST THE WORLD.

XIX. IN TELEPATHIC COMMUNICATION.

XX. THE OPENING OF THE COFFIN.

BOOK III.--THE GENTLEMAN WITH NINE LIVES

XXI. A PEER IN EMBRYO.

XXII. A MARQUIS IN FACT.

XXIII. SURPRISES.

XXIV. AN IDYLL.

XXV. A REVERSION FROM THE IDYLLIC.

XXVI. THE SCALES OF JUSTICE.

XXVII. A WHIPPING BOY.

XXVIII. THE GOING: AND THE COMING.

BOOK IV.--THE SINNER

XXIX. BACK TO THE WORLD.

XXX. THE ONE MAN--AND THE OTHER.

XXXI. AN INTERIOR.

XXXII. THE LAST JOURNEY TO TWICKENHAM HOUSE.

XXXIII. THE TWINKLE IN THE FATHER'S EYES.

XXXIV. THE PENITENT.

BOOK I.--THE SLEEPING MAN

THE STORY IS BEGUN BY THE HON.

DOUGLAS HOWARTH

CHAPTER I

A SIDE SHOW

'You and I can never marry.'

Edith's words had been in my thoughts ever since she had uttered them.

All night; all the morning; now that in the afternoon I had come out

to take the air. I was strolling from the club to George Douglas's

rooms in Ashley Gardens. More for the sake of the exercise than in the

desire of seeing him. As I was passing the Abbey I glanced at the

Aquarium on my right. My eye was caught by the words on a board which

ran right across the front of the building, 'At No Place In The World

Can So Many Sights Be Seen.' I hesitated. It was years since I had

been in the place. One might as well spend half an hour beneath its

roof as with George Douglas. I crossed the road and entered.

The first thing which struck me was the general grimness of

everything. A winter garden it was called. Anything less garden-like

one could hardly fancy. Coming from the clear sunshine of the autumn

afternoon, the effect was curious. There was a larger audience than I

had expected. The people were gathered, for the most part, round the

central stage, on which a performance was taking place. Three girls in

tights were displaying themselves on a trapeze. A moment's glance was

enough. It was the sort of thing one has seen a thousand times. I

passed on.

There were numerous side shows. There was a Harem; a Giant Lady; a

Miraculous Dwarf; a Working Gold Mine; a Palace of Mirrors; the old

familiar things. On the extreme left a huge placard was displayed:

THE MARVELLOUS SLEEPING MAN.

THIS IS THE TWENTY-EIGHTH DAY OF MONTAGU

BABBACOMBE'S THIRTY-DAYS' SLEEP, WITHOUT

EATING OR DRINKING.

COME AND SEE THE MOST WONDERFUL SIGHT IN THE WORLD.

I am not consciously attracted by such spectacles, even granting their

genuineness--which is to grant a good deal. But, at the moment, I had

nothing to do, and the idea of a man being able to forget, at will,

for thirty consecutive days, the worries and troubles of life appealed

to me with singular force. I went to see the sleeping man.

In the centre of a good-sized apartment stood a table. It was entirely

covered by a large glass case. Under the case was a mattress. On the

mattress lay a man. He had no pillows or bolster; no bedclothes with

which to cover himself; and the fact that he was clad, so far as one

could see, only in a suit of white linen pyjamas lent him, as one

first caught sight of him on coming in, an appearance of peculiar

uncanniness. One's first impression was that under the glass case was

an effigy, not a man.

If it was a trick, it was certainly well done. He lay on his back, his

legs stretched out, his arms gathered to his sides. In his attitude

there was a starkness, a rigidity, which suggested death. It seemed

incredible that a man could lie like that for twenty-eight days and be

alive. This was borne in upon me so soon as I saw the peculiar

position of his body. Then I saw his face.

It was Twickenham!

The shock was so overwhelming, that in a moment my whole physical

organisation seemed at a standstill. I lost my balance. The whole

place swam before me. I felt myself swaying to and fro. If I had not

leaned against the glass case, I believe I should have fallen. In my

whole life I had never before behaved so stupidly. A voice recalled me

to myself.

'Take care there, sir! Do you want to break the glass?--or to knock

the whole thing over?'

A person who seemed to have charge of the place addressed to me this,

under the circumstances, not unnatural inquiry. I steadied myself as

best I could. After a second or two I began to see things with

something approaching to clearness. By degrees I got the man inside

the case, as it were, in focus.

Was it Twickenham? I could not decide. It was fifteen years since I

had seen him. As regards certain details my memory had possibly become

a trifle blurred. Yet it was absurd to suppose that I could by any

possibility fail to recognise him if we met. If it was not he, then it

was his double. His very self, reproduced in another form.

Fifteen years make a difference in a man's appearance--especially

fifteen such years as it might be taken for granted that Twickenham

had lived. Allowing, in my mind's eye, for that difference, I became

more and more at a loss to determine whether this was or was not the

absentee. Never before had I been conscious of such a condition of

mental bewilderment. I lost my presence of mind; was unable to arrange

my thoughts; became incapable of deciding what to say or do. The

situation was the very last I had expected. Coming at such a moment it

found me wholly unprepared.

If this was Twickenham, this uncanny-looking mountebank in the guise

of death, then the entire edifice we had been laboriously constructing

for fifteen years crumbled at a touch. Edith's words, 'You and I can

never marry,' would be indeed proved true. And Reggie and Vi--what of

them? Where would Reggie be if his brother turned up at this hour of

the day? And I? Reggie was my debtor to the extent of nearly every

penny I had ever had. If he was not the Marquis, because Leonard still

was in the flesh, then he and Vi, and I, were ruined. And Edith could

never marry a pauper.

Down toppled our whole card edifice, never again to be rebuilt by us.

But the question was--was the man under the glass case, lying on the

mattress, in the white pyjamas, Leonard Sherrington, third Marquis of

Twickenham? The Twickenham peerage carried with it rather over than

under a hundred thousand pounds a year. It might, therefore, on the

face of it, seem absurd to suppose that its present holder could be

found posing as the Marvellous Sleeping Man in a side show at the

Westminster Aquarium. But that was only seeming. To those who had the

honour of the present peer's acquaintance, such a state of affairs

seemed about as likely as any other. Twickenham was born mad, and

continued as he was born. His father was, if anything, madder than he

was. They consistently, and persistently quarrelled. Some of the

capers Leonard cut were a trifle high. The old man resented any one's

cutting higher capers than he did. As Leonard spent money like water,

his sire let him have as little to spend as he could help. The result

was disastrous. Leonard got money in ways which suggested congenital

insanity. Then there came the crash. When Leonard was thirty-one, it

became known that Morris Acrodato held a bill for five and twenty

thousand pounds to which he had forged his father's name. Leonard

vanished. The old man declined to pay. Six months after he was dead.

His wife had predeceased him. He left two sons--Leonard, and a second

son, born seventeen years later, Reginald. Oddly enough, considering

the terms on which he had lived with him, a will was found in which he

left everything to his firstborn. Under these circumstances one

wondered why he had not handed over that five and twenty thousand

without a fuss. But both father and son were men who were, in all

things, superior to the ordinary rules of common sense. The thing

which every reasonable creature did, was the one thing they never did.

Nothing had been seen of Leonard since the day of his flight. Although

it was not generally known, something had, however, been heard. On

seven different occasions his lawyers, Foster, Charter, and Baynes,

had received intimations that he was alive. He had dropped these

hints, it would seem, in a spirit of pure 'cussedness.' They had come

at varying intervals, from different parts of the world. They all took

the form of holograph notes, in which the writer curtly observed that

he was alive and in good health, and trusted that the firm was giving

to his interests all the attention they required. They bore no

address, and it proved impossible to trace by whom they had been

posted; but that they were bona-fide emanations from Twickenham

himself seemed undoubted.

The last of these notes had come to hand more than seven years back.

Since then he had given no sign. As, previously, no two years had

elapsed without advice being received of his existence, the continued

silence seemed to suggest that, at last, he might be dead. That he was

so, I, for one, devoutly hoped. All that I required was proof of his

decease.

When the old man died, all that his second son, Reginald, had he

inherited from his mother. It was barely enough to keep him alive. He

was fourteen years of age. Soon after he was in the twenties he was as

good as penniless. By this time I had become mixed up with his

fortunes in rather a curious fashion. I had a sister, Violet, who was

a year younger than he was. He had a cousin, Edith Desmond, who was

four younger than myself. Violet and he, and Edith and I, belonged, as

it were, to two different generations. I had a tiny place on the

borders of Hants, which adjoined his aunt's. He lived with her when

his father died; she was Lady Desmond, the baronet's widow. Edith and

I always had a liking for one another. If my father had left me a

little better off, or if Violet had been older, we should have been

married years ago. But she was an only child; the most beautiful I

ever saw. Her mother hoped, by her help, to restore the faded glories

of the Desmonds. That meant that she was to marry money.

I was hardly in a position to marry at all, with Vi on my hands,

regarding me as a sort of father. When Reggie came to live at the Moat

House Vi and he became acquainted. In course of time I was informed

that they were engaged. Almost in the same breath he told me that he

was practically without a penny piece. I lent him something to go on

with. Later I lent him more. Then again. And again. I did not like the

business, but, partly for Edith's sake, partly for Vi's, partly for

his own, by degrees I was practically financing him. Until it came to

this--that I had invested in him, on the strength of Twickenham's

death, nearly everything I had. As time went on he became convinced

that his brother was dead. The brothers were practically strangers;

Reggie had scarcely seen his senior a dozen times. There were enormous

accumulations, amounting to over a million. If Reggie succeeded I

should do well. Edith and I could be married to-morrow. If, on the

other hand, Reggie did not succeed, and that soon, so far as I could

see, he and I were ruined together.

And here, at the crucial moment, if I could trust my eyes, ruin was.

It was not surprising that, momentarily, I became a trifle giddy.

Had the man stepped into a room in which I was, I should

unhesitatingly have recognised him as Leonard, Marquis of Twickenham.

There would have been no necessity for him to announce his name and

title. I should have known him then and there. But, as matters stood,

the case was altered. There was room for doubt. Or I tried to persuade

myself there was. To begin with, a man with practically unlimited

resources at his command, would hardly be likely to masquerade in such

a fashion. That was what I told myself. At the bottom of my heart I

was aware that it would be quite in keeping with what I myself knew of

Leonard's character. He had never lost an opportunity of making an

exhibition of himself, but always had an insane leaning in the

direction of the esoteric and the bizarre.

I was on safer ground when I came to the questions of the likeness.

There were points of difference between the two. This man looked a

little shorter and thinner; smaller altogether; too old for

Twickenham. Twickenham was only forty-six; his double looked sixty.

Then he had a scar on his right cheek, which Twickenham had never had.

Still these things, I had perforce to admit, were quite reconcilable

with the fact that the man was Twickenham. What alterations might not

have taken place in such a fifteen years!

The exhibition was not liberally patronised. There had been two or

three other spectators when I came in, but they had gone, and no

others had taken their place. The duration of my visit, and the

unmistakable interest which I took in the figure on the mattress,

probably, also, the peculiar quality of my interest, attracted the

attention of the individual in charge. This was the gentleman who had

requested me not to lean against the glass case. He was a short,

slight person, with red hair and moustache. He wore a frock coat and a

hat which had seen better days, and had a trick of stroking his

moustache with one of the dirtiest right hands I had ever seen; which,

however, matched the voluminous shirt-cuff which protruded from the

sleeve of his coat. I was conscious that for some seconds he had been

eyeing me askance. Now he came sidling up--his dirty hand on his

moustache.

'Wonderful man, sir.'

He alluded to the figure on the mattress.

'I suppose he really is asleep?'

'What do you think he is--dead?'

'He looks to me as if he were dead.'

'That's not surprising, considering that for eight-and-twenty days

he's tasted neither bite nor sup.'

'Is that really the case?'

'Certainly. He hasn't had so much as a drop of water. The case is

locked; the key is in possession of the manager of the Aquarium.

Doctors are constantly in and out to see there's no collusion. You'll

find their reports outside. It's will-power does it. He wills that he

shall go to sleep for thirty days, and he goes to sleep for thirty

days. To try to wake him up before the end of the thirty days, to give

him, say, a glass of water, would probably cause his death.'

'That's very curious.'

'It's more than curious; it's the greatest marvel of the age.'

'And when does he wake?'

'At ten o'clock on Saturday evening next--in the presence of the

manager and staff of the Aquarium, and a large representative body of

distinguished medical gentlemen. It will be the sensation of the hour.

Though we shall charge double prices for admission, the room won't

hold the people.'

I wondered. At present there seemed a good deal of space to spare.

'What is his name?'

'Montagu Babbacombe--a name known all over the world.'

The little man eyed me sharply.

'I meant, what is his real name?'

'His real name? What do you mean? That is his real name.'

'How long have you known him?'

'May I ask, sir, what prompts you to put that inquiry to me?'

'I merely thought that Mr. Babbacombe resembles a person with whom I

was once acquainted, and I wondered if he might be any relation of

his; that is all.'

'Ah, as to that, I know nothing. I am only here to testify to Mr.

Montagu Babbacombe's bona-fides as a sleeping man, and that I

unhesitatingly do.'

I held out a sovereign between my finger and thumb.

'Can you give me Mr. Babbacombe's private address?'

'If my becoming the possessor of that coin is contingent on my doing

what you require, then it can't be done. There's an etiquette in my

profession which on me is binding.'

'Your sentiments do you credit, Mr.----'

'FitzHoward; Augustus FitzHoward is my name, sir. But I tell you what

might be managed. If you're here on Saturday night when Mr. Babbacombe

wakes, I might arrange to introduce you to him. But you will have to

remember, sir, that Mr. Babbacombe is a public man, and that to him,

as to me, time is money.'

'If I do come I shall not fail to bear it well in mind.' The coin

changed hands. 'You will not forget me?'

'No, sir, I shall not. What name?'

'What name? You say yours is FitzHoward. Well, mine is Smith; John

Smith.'

There was a twinkle in Mr. FitzHoward's eye which suggested that he

was more of a humorist than might at first appear.

'Smith? An unusual name like that, sir, is not likely to escape my

recollection. You may rely on me.'

Some other people entered, two women and two men. They were followed

by still more. Mr. Augustus FitzHoward and I parted. I went out into

the main building. One thing seemed tolerably certain: 'Montagu

Babbacombe,' unless appearances were even more deceptive than usual,

could hardly have been conscious of my recognition, if recognition it

really was. On that point I had until Saturday night to think things

over. Practically two clear days.

CHAPTER II

LADY DESMOND GIVES A DINNER PARTY

That Thursday evening I dined with Lady Desmond. The old lady had been

in town since Monday; staying at some rooms which she favoured in

Clarges Street. She had issued her commands to me to attend on her at

dinner. Had it not been for the conversation which I had had with

Edith the night before, I should have still been wondering what it

meant. Edith, however, had made matters perfectly clear.

Reggie and I were both to be in attendance. We were both of us to

receive our dismissal. I was to be finally informed that I could not

marry Edith, he that he could not marry Vi. The dowager had made other

arrangements of her own. I looked forward to their announcement with

feelings which were a little mixed.

Vi came to me just as I was starting. I had made no secret of my

engagement. She had not commented on it till then. I thought I had

seldom seen her look better. She is a willowy slip of a girl, with

about her that air of the thoroughbred which, nowadays, is as great a

distinction as a woman can have. She was born to be a great lady; the

Howarth women always have been: yet, with it all, she is just a girl.

Her chief fault is a proneness to impetuous speech. But that is a

quality of youth. She let fly at me at once.

'Douglas, why hasn't Lady Desmond invited me?'

'My dear Vi, how can I tell you?'

'I know. And so do you.'

'I assure you that I do not know why Lady Desmond has not invited

you.'

'Then I'll tell you. She has not invited me because it is quite likely

that she never means to invite me again. She intends to wash her hands

of me entirely. I shouldn't be surprised if she cuts me dead. She

wants Reggie to marry Mary Magruder.' I said nothing. This was clearly

a case in which silence was golden. 'I have told him he may.'

'I should have expected you to do no less.'

'He says he won't.'

'As matters are likely to turn out, that is a pity.'

'Douglas!--What do you mean?'

'Reggie is in a bad way. I'm afraid that before long he'll be in a

worse.'

'How about you? Don't you stand or fall together?'

'Just so. That is it. It's because my hours are numbered that I say

it's a pity. If he were to marry Mary Magruder then you might marry

her masculine equivalent. You know as well as I do that he is to be

found.'

I was thinking of George Charteris. An extra shade of colour came into

her cheeks, just to show she knew it.

'Douglas, are you trying to be humorous?'

'Not at all. My dear Vi, I'll be plain with you. I've reason to

believe that before very long both Reggie and I may come a cropper. My

very earnest advice to both of you is that you agree to treat the past

as past, and try to retrieve your positions while there still is

time.'

She eyed me; reading on my face that I meant what I said.

'You can tell Reggie from me that I think it would be better that he

should marry Mary Magruder as soon as he possibly can. We all know

that she's willing enough. You may add, if you like, that I will never

marry him, if things are going to be as you say they are.'

'And you?'

'I shall never marry any one but him. Please, Douglas, don't worry me

to do so. You know that is so. But then I'm not one of those girls to

whom marriage is all in all.'

I knew that, if that was not a falsehood, it was at least an evasion

of the truth; for I was aware that, to her, happiness meant being

Reggie Sherrington's wife. She asked, as I was leaving the room.

'How about Edith?'

I was still, pretending that I had not heard. She had spoken softly,

so that the pretence seemed plausible; though I was conscious that it

was but seeming, for Vi reads me as if I were an open book. But I had

not the courage to reply. Indeed, it was a question to which I had not

yet found an answer. In that lay the sting. How about Edith? was what

I kept asking myself all the time. Nor had I found a solution to the

problem when I reached the door of Milady's lodgings.

Lady Desmond's taste is not in all things mine; particularly is that

the case with her taste in lodgings. The rooms in Clarges Street are

kept by an ancient man and woman who are, no doubt, worthy folk

enough, but who are also stupid, slow, and behind the times. I was

shown into what is called the drawing-room--a fusty apartment, the

very atmosphere of which was synonymous with depression. My hostess

rose to receive me; a little stiff, bony figure, dressed in old

clothes, which were ill-fitting and old-fashioned when she first had

them. It was an extraordinary thing, but I have never seen that woman

in what looked like a new dress yet. I believe that when she buys

things she stores them away, never putting them on till they are

old--and rumpled. In her left hand she had a stick; she extended two

fingers of her right to me by way of greeting.

Edith came towards me from the struggling fire in the dingy fireplace.

God knows she is past her first beauty; but she will always be young

to me. As I took her hand in mine I told myself, for the thousandth

time, what a coward I was not to have made her my wife long ago. This

is not a sentimental age, and I am not a sentimental man; but for her

I would go through the fires of hell. Yet there we were, I an old

bachelor, she a spinster yet. Marriage, nowadays, is surrounded with

so many complications.

'Hollo, Douglas! Going strong? Isn't this place enough to give you the

horrors?'

This was Reggie, who had preceded me. The final portion of his remark

was whispered.

The dinner was in keeping with the rooms; badly chosen, badly cooked,

badly served. No one ate anything; no one talked. One couldn't even

drink; the wine was frightful. We sat there like mutes at our own

funerals. For my part I was glad when the cloth was cleared; though I

knew that a bad quarter of an hour was coming. It could scarcely be

worse than what had gone before. The old lady fired the first shot.

'Edith, had you not better withdraw?'

'No, mother. I know what you are going to say, and, as I am as much

interested in it as any one else, I should prefer to stop.'

My hostess wasted no time in argument or preamble; she came straight

to the point.

'Mr. Howarth, I have asked you to come here in order to tell you that

any sentimental understanding which may have existed between Edith and

yourself is, henceforward, at an end.' I essayed to speak; she stopped

me. 'I know what you are going to say. I've heard it over and over

again. What I say is this. Edith is getting on. You certainly are no

longer young; you are going both bald and grey. Financially, you are

worse off than when I first knew you. Isn't that the case?'

'It is.'

'You have absolutely no prospects.'

Reggie struck in.

'O aunt, come! If he's hard up it's only because I owe him such a

heap. There's no doubt whatever that Twickenham's dead. We only have

to prove it to be both of us in clover.'

'Twickenham is not dead. During the last few nights I've seen him

several times.'

'You've seen Twickenham?'

'In dreams. I could not quite make out where he was, but he was in

some extraordinary situation, from which you will find that he will

presently emerge. It is no use your counting on his death. He's alive.

Twickenham is not the kind of man who dies easily.'

'I thought dreams went by contraries.'

'Not such dreams as I have had.' She turned to me with a question

which took me aback. 'Don't you know that he's alive?'

'My dear Lady Desmond!'

'You do know that he's alive; and I know you know. I don't want any

discussion; you will only fence and quibble. But I appeal to you as a

man of honour not to stand in the way of Edith's happiness.'

'That I undertake at once not to do.'

'Mother, hadn't you better tell Douglas that you wish me to marry

Colonel Foljambe, and that's your idea of my happiness?'

'Colonel Foljambe is a very worthy gentleman.'

'If he isn't now,' I said,' he never will be.'

'He's not much older than you are.'

That was monstrous. Foljambe had turned seventy. But I let her go on.

'Then there's Reggie and that sister of yours. Violet Howarth's a

sensible girl. She can do very well for herself if she likes, and she

knows that she never will do anything at all with Reggie. The

probabilities are that when Twickenham does return, it will be with a

wife and family at his heels.'

'Leaving that eventuality out of the question, I am instructed by

Violet to say that Reggie is at perfect liberty to do as he likes. So

far as she is concerned she is quite willing to consider the

engagement at an end.'

'That's Vi all over. She'd cut off her hand and throw it into the fire

if she thought it would do me good. But I don't happen to be taking

any; and I'll go straight from here and tell her so. It's all nonsense

about Twickenham's being alive; he's as dead as that is.'

He rapped his knuckle against the table. His aunt leant over the

board.

'Reggie, he's alive. Miss Sandford is right.'

'Miss Sandford?'

'Miss Sandford sees things which we don't see, and she knows things

which we don't know. But now I've seen things, and I know. And what's

more, Mr. Howarth knows too.'

'Douglas, what does my aunt mean by saying that you know Twickenham's

alive?'

'I have not the least conception.'

'Do you know?'

'I do not.'

'Have you any reason to suppose that he's alive?'

I hesitated. Whether it was or was not a lie which I told, I could not

say.

'None whatever.'

'You see, aunt: there's his answer for you.'

'For reasons of his own, Mr. Howarth has chosen to conceal the truth.

But he does know; and he knows I know.'

The old lady's persistence roused me.

'May I ask, Lady Desmond, on what grounds you base your assertion?'

'I am unable to tell you; on no grounds, if you like to put it that

way. But you do know; and you know I know you know.'

I rose from my chair.

'In that case discussion would be fruitless. Since Lady Desmond's

reasons are of such an extremely recondite nature it would be useless

for me to attempt to probe for them. Let us understand each other

before I go. Edith, is it to be with us as your mother desires?'

'Not with my goodwill. I certainly will never marry Colonel Foljambe.'

'Then you never shall be asked to. I will not give you up, nor shall

you give me up; but you shall be my wife before the year is out.'

'Douglas!'

'I don't know how it is to come about, but it shall come about; I do

know so much. All these years have been wasted, but they shall be made

up for you before long. You shall be as happy a wife as a man can make

you.'

'Douglas!'

She had her elbows on the table, and her face upon her hands.

'What nonsense is this?' demanded Lady Desmond. 'Haven't I said that I

brought you here to tell you that I would have no more of it?'

'My dear Lady Desmond, I think you will admit that Edith and I have

arrived at years of discretion?'

'You'll never do that if you live to be a hundred. You've ruined my

life, and you've ruined hers. You've made her prematurely old. Look at

her! Who would think, to see her now, that not long ago she was the

most beautiful girl in England, and that she had only to lift her

finger to have any man in England at her feet? She has no father or

brother to protect her, or she'd have been rid of you long ago. But

you've promised that you'll stand no longer in her way, and if you've

a shred of manhood in you, you'll keep your word.'

I went round to where she sat.

'Edith, what am I to do?'

Getting up, she put her hands upon my shoulders.

'Marry me in what I stand up in; and take me to live with you in

country lodgings.'

'You hear, Lady Desmond. Edith is going to be my wife.'

'Then she'll be no daughter of mine.'

'Excuse me,' cried Reggie, 'but it strikes me that I ought to have a

word in this. You seem to forget, aunt, that if Douglas is in a hole,

it's because of what he's done for me.'

'I forget nothing. If you choose to behave like a sensible person, you

will be able to repay Mr. Howarth any moneys he may have advanced you,

together with sufficient interest, within three months.'

'In other words, if I choose to behave like a blackguard, perjure

myself all round, make myself and every one connected with me unhappy,

I may be able to wheedle enough money out of the woman I've lied to to

enable me to treat the best friend a man had as if he were a sixty per

center. Then, when it does turn out that Twickenham's dead, where

shall I be? Saddled with a wife I hate; more in love than ever with

the girl I've treated badly; in the bad books of the man who has stuck

to me closer than any brother I ever heard of. Thank you; I'm obliged.

If Vi won't marry me, it won't be because I'm not willing. Do you

know, aunt, I believe that you're a bad lot.'

'How dare you speak to me like that, sir?'

'I use the term in a Parliamentary sense only. Of course I know that

as a matter of fact your goodness is established beyond all question.

But you don't seem to realise what Vi is to me. If it weren't that

I've been living on her brother I'd have made her marry me long ago;

for, hang me if I wouldn't marry her on nothing rather than not marry

her at all. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to bring it

off the same day Douglas brings off his little event; especially if he

can manage to make the date an early one.'

Reggie winked at me. I am afraid that his aunt perceived the movement

of his eyelid. She rose with an air of extreme dudgeon.

'I will not say what I think of you all. It would only be a waste of

good words. You have heard me give expression to my wishes. If you

choose to act in opposition to them, you must do so. You have all

arrived at what Mr. Howarth was pleased to call, I presume ironically,

the age of discretion. Some of you got there a good many years ago. It

only remains for me to wash my hands of any responsibility for what

you may do, and, if I think it necessary, to decline your further

acquaintance. Edith, are you coming with me?'

'Good-night,' I said to Edith as she turned to accompany her mother.

'I shall not see you again.'

'I shall hear from you?'

'You shall hear from me very soon. I will lose no time in making

arrangements for our joint occupation of those country lodgings.'

She smiled. I held the door open for her mother and herself to leave

the room. As she passed she whispered:

'I mean it.'

Reggie and I went away together. In the street he asked:

'Can I come in and see Violet?'

'Better not. At least not to-night. Just as well that you should sleep

on it.'

'What do you mean by that?'

I considered a moment before I answered.

'You see, Reggie, we're all four of us playing the part of Don

Quixote; Violet and you, Edith and I. I'm beginning to fear that we've

been playing the part for years. It's all very well for us to talk of

marrying the women of our hearts; but there are things to be

considered. There are the women.'

'Would you have me throw Vi over?'

'The word's ill chosen. It ill becomes me to play the part of mentor

after the way in which I've just behaved, but--suppose Twickenham were

to turn up?'

'It would be pretty bad.'

'If that were all! I doubt if he'd give you a penny: as for me, he'd

laugh me to scorn. You and I'd be beggars. Would it be chivalrous to

drag the women into the ditch with us?'

'But Twickenham's dead.'

We've no proof of it. We've been looking for proof for some time. A

pretty penny the search has cost us.'

'What makes you talk like this? You've seemed convinced enough about

his being dead. You've gone Nap on it.'

'Precisely. And I'm now inclined to wonder if I haven't gone Nap on a

pretty bad hand.'

'Surely you don't believe any of that stuff about my aunt's dreams?'

'Your aunt's dreams are neither here nor there. But between ourselves,

I tell you candidly that I think it's quite possible that Twickenham's

alive.'

'Good God! What have you heard?'

'I have heard nothing. By the purest accident I have chanced on what

may turn out to be a clue. If it does, you shall hear more next week.

At present I can tell you nothing.'

'Douglas, where is he?'

'You move too fast. I believe that it's still even betting that

Twickenham's as dead as a coffin nail. But you will see for yourself

why you and I should not pose as being too chivalrous, and especially

why you should sleep upon the matter before having another interview

with Vi. Good-night.'

I left him staring after me in Piccadilly. I was afraid of his asking

inconvenient questions, just as I had been afraid of not saying

anything at all. I might have lighted on a mare's nest, but in case I

had not, it only seemed fair that he should have some sort of warning,

so that the bolt might not descend on him altogether out of the blue.

Violet met me as soon as I entered the hall.

'Well, what has happened?'

I led the way back into the drawing-room, feeling indisposed to

discuss delicate matters within quite such obvious sound of the

servants' ears.

'I don't know that anything has happened.'

'Is Reggie going to marry Mary Magruder?'

'He says not.'

'Who is he going to marry?'

'He says he's going to marry you.'

'Douglas! In spite of Lady Desmond's prohibition? I suppose she did

prohibit it?'

'Oh, yes, she did that right enough. But he did not seem disposed to

lay much stress upon Lady Desmond's prohibition; as you probably

expected.' I was convinced that she would have been a surprised young

woman if he had paid attention to anything his aunt might have had to

say on such a matter. 'At the same time, if you will take my advice,

you won't attach weight to anything Reggie may have said, either one

way or the other. I, for instance, have promised to marry Edith--again

in the face of Lady Desmond's prohibition. But I think it possible

that, before very long, neither he nor I may be in a position to marry

any one.'

'Do you think that want of money will make any difference to Edith or

to me?'

'I do not. But I am sure that neither of you would feel disposed to be

a clog upon your husband.'

'A clog! I a clog on Reggie? Rather than I'd be that I'd die!'

I looked at her. As I did so there rose before me a vision of a man

lying on a bare mattress, clad in a suit of white pyjamas, inside a

glass case. It entirely prevented my seeing Violet. I had to close my

eyes to shut it out.

CHAPTER III

CROSS QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS

The next day I paid a second visit to the Royal Aquarium. I was

conscious that it might not be the wisest possible thing to do, but I

could not keep away.

There was a larger attendance of the public at Mr. Montagu

Babbacombe's side show. I attributed that to the fact that the period

during which he had undertaken to continue asleep was drawing to a

close. Mr. Augustus FitzHoward recognised me at once. He greeted me

with an affable smile, as an old acquaintance.

'Ah, Mr. Smith! Glad to see you. I thought you'd come.'

I wondered what he meant; if he meant anything at all. For the second

time the exhibition did not appear to me to be an agreeable one. Again

I experienced a sense of shock when my glance first fell on the

seemingly dead man, lying stark and rigid, covered only with those

hideous white pyjamas, prisoned under the huge glass case. He

resembled an exhibit in a medical museum; a gruesome one at that. I

found it difficult to believe that he really lived. I could not detect

the slightest sign of respiration. The face just looked as if it had

been touched by the hand of Death. I have seen dead men in my time. If

that was not death, then it was an awful imitation.

I caught myself hoping that he was dead. For it was Twickenham; there

was not the slightest doubt of it. And yet the moment after doubts

recurred. Twickenham had always been clean shaven; but I remembered

that he used to tell me how he had to wrestle with his beard. In

particular I had a faint recollection that if he left off shaving for

a week he would have a beard three inches long. This man's chin was

bristly; it did not add to the charm of his appearance. But presuming

that his chin had remained untouched, it did not suggest anything like

such a growth of hair as that of which Twickenham had spoken. Mr.

Augustus FitzHoward was standing behind me. I put to him a question.

'Has Mr. Babbacombe been shaved since he fell asleep?'

'Shaved! Good gracious no, sir! He has not been touched; except by the

medical gentlemen. Didn't I tell you yesterday that if he were

prematurely roused it might be the death of him? Shaved--the idea!'

A sudden impulse actuated me to smash the glass case, by accident--to

do something which might bring about the premature restoration of

which Mr. Augustus FitzHoward spoke; the awaking which might result in

death. For it was borne in on me again that it was Twickenham I saw. A

wave of memory swept over me. I saw him in the habit in which he used

to be; and was convinced that this was what he would have become after

an interval of fifteen years. It was impossible, out of the stories,

that two men could be so much alike. The madness which was in his

blood when he was young was in it now. This was exactly the sort of

insane freak in which he would have delighted. According to Mr.

Augustus FitzHoward I had only accidentally to smash the case in front

of me, and I should there and then be furnished with ample proof of

Twickenham's death.

While I hesitated, the adroit Mr. FitzHoward improved the occasion by

addressing to the assembled spectators, who now numbered perhaps

twenty or thirty, some eloquent remarks.

'Ladies and Gentlemen,--It is a wonderful sight you see before you;

life in the likeness of death. Death in life! Mr. Montagu Babbacombe

looks dead; if you were able to touch him you would say that he feels

dead. He is stiff as a corpse; there is no pulse, no action of the

heart; his temperature is that of a man who has long since died. I am

prepared to wager that if he were lying in your bed, or mine, instead

of being on exhibition here in this glass case, the most eminent

physicians called in for purposes of examination would unhesitatingly

testify that he was dead. Even the surgeon's blade would disclose

nothing suggesting life. And, for the last four weeks, to all intents

and purposes he has been dead. To-morrow he will come back to us as a

man out of the tomb. He will find that the world has moved; that great

events have happened of which he knows nothing. It will be a kind of

resurrection. To-morrow will be to him to-morrow; but since his

yesterday a month will have elapsed; a month of complete oblivion. If

he keeps a diary, during that month each page of it will of necessity

be blank.

'Ladies and gentlemen,--To-morrow, Saturday, evening, at ten o'clock

to the minute, in the presence of the manager and staff of this

building, and a large representative body of eminent medical

gentlemen, Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will return from out of the tomb. It

will be an awe-inspiring spectacle; truly the miracle of the age. You

will see, before your eyes, the dead gradually put on life, and return

to the form and habits of our common humanity. The price of admission

will, on this occasion, be half-a-crown. Tickets, of which only a few

remain, the number being necessarily limited, may be obtained at the

door on going out. If you are wise, you will avail yourselves of the

opportunity to purchase while there are still any to be had. May I

offer you a ticket, sir?'

Mr. Augustus FitzHoward produced a bundle of tickets from his pocket

there and then. I bought one, as did others--though not in such

numbers as the eloquence of his remarks perhaps merited. I may safely

say that had I been actuated by nothing but a desire to be the witness

of what Mr. FitzHoward called an 'awe-inspiring spectacle,' I should

have been no patron. It occurred to me, as it probably did to others,

that the proceedings might take a form which might quite possibly

prove the reverse of agreeable. As it was, I endeavoured to evade the

necessity of being present.

Waiting till the almost too eloquent orator had disposed of all the

tickets which his auditors could be induced to buy, I accosted him.

'Look here, Mr. FitzHoward, can't you arrange an interview for me with

Mr. Babbacombe?'

'I told you that if you're here to-morrow night I'll try to manage an

introduction. So I will. I can't do more than that.'

'But I don't want to be here to-morrow night; at least, not in here.

Can't I see him somewhere else?'

'Does he know you?'

'That is more than I can tell you.'

'Perhaps he won't want to see you if he knows who you are.'

There was a twinkle in the speaker's eye. I realised the truth of his

words. It was extremely probable, if it was Twickenham, and he had an

inkling of who I was, that he would decline the pleasure of an

interview. 'You see Mr. Babbacombe won't be altogether himself; after

such an experience as he has had it's not to be expected. For reasons

of health, if for no other, he won't be disposed to run the risk of

more physical strain than he can possibly help.'

I understood the innuendo--or thought I did. If I wished to see and

speak to him, I should have to be present when he returned, in his

agile associate's phrase, 'from out of the tomb.' Otherwise, before I

knew it, he might vanish for another period of fifteen years.

I found, at home, that something like a heated discussion was taking

place. Edith and Reggie were both with Violet. What Lady Desmond would

have thought of the proceedings is more than I can say. They all began

at me at once.

'Douglas, what did you mean by saying last night----'

Reggie had got so far when Violet cut him short.

'Reggie, let me speak. I'll get an answer out of him. Douglas, is the

Marquis of Twickenham really alive?'

As I might have expected, Reggie had scarcely been five minutes in

Violet's society before he blurted out all that I had said to him. She

certainly is an insinuating young woman, and shrewd to boot. It would

not take her long to perceive that there was something at the back of

the young gentleman's mind. Having surmised so much, almost before he

knew it, she would have ascertained what it was. Apparently Edith had

come in at the very moment when explanations were taking place. So

that now I had all three of them against me.

'Will you please tell me at once, Douglas, if the Marquis of

Twickenham is alive?'

This she said with something very like the stamp of her foot. She can

be imperious when she chooses; as, one of these days, her husband will

learn.

'I tell you what I will do; if you don't mind, I'll take a cup of

tea.'

'Douglas, how can you be so frivolous, when, for all we know, we may

be standing on the brink of a volcano?'

'If I were standing in the very heart of a volcano--if I could get it,

I should like a cup of tea.'

'I'll give you one.'

This was Edith. I took the cup she offered. Before I had a chance to

sip it, Violet began at me again.

'Now, Douglas, perhaps you'll tell us.'

'Tell you what?'

'If the Marquis of Twickenham is alive.'

I turned to Reggie.

'I suppose I'm indebted to you for this. Next time I have a

confidential remark to make, which I wish to have shouted in the

market-place, I shall know whom to address.'

'You never told me not to tell. And I haven't shouted it in the

market-place; whatever you mean by that. I only told Vi.'

'Only!'

Violet answered for him.

'It's no use your attacking Reggie; I made him tell. Situated as we

are, there ought to be no secrets between us; between any of us. Do

you mean to say that you consider that the knowledge that the Marquis

of Twickenham is alive is knowledge which you are entitled to keep to

yourself?'

'My dear Vi, there is no doubt that animation suits you; but I

shouldn't on that account be always in a condition of explosiveness.'

Her cheeks flamed. Nothing annoys her so much as being told that she's

excitable. Edith laid her hand upon my arm.

'Douglas, tell me; is it true?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you mean that you don't know, or that you won't say? Have you any

reason to believe that he's alive; any tangible reason?'

'As I told Reggie, and as I presume he has told you, I shall be in a

better position to answer that question next week.'

'But why not now? What is it you do know? Why keep us in suspense? Is

it fair? Think of what it means to all of us; of what it means to me.

It has come to this--that to me it is almost a question of life or

death.'

I understood the allusion; it cut me to the heart.

'I tell you that I know nothing.'

'Then why did you say that last night to Reggie?'

'Because I supposed him to be possessed of a few grains of common

sense.'

'But you must have had some grounds to go upon. You surely wouldn't

have said a thing like that without a cause--you, of all men. Miss

Sandford has never doubted that he's alive; now mother seems equally

convinced; now there's you, throwing out mysterious hints. Be fair to

us; make us sharers even of your suspicions.'

'Very good; I'll tell you all there is to tell, though it will only

unsettle you as it unsettled me.'

'We can't be more unsettled than we are already. Anything to get out

of the darkness into the light.'

'You'll still be in the darkness when you've heard all I have to say;

I promise you that. I know I'm fogged enough.'

I cast about in my mind how best to tell a part of the truth without

revealing all. It was very far from my desire to send them all

scampering off to the Aquarium, as they undoubtedly would do if they

learned everything. Edith guessed what I was after.

'Are you thinking how much you can keep back? Be fair.'

'I will be fair; what's more, I'll be open too.' Always begin like

that when you intend to be as much the other kind of thing as

possible. 'I'll put you in possession of all the information I have in

a single sentence. The other day I saw a man who was Twickenham's

living image.'

They had gathered round me. I had a dim consciousness that their faces

changed colour. With their eyes they seemed to be trying to search me

through and through. My statement was followed by a perceptible pause.

Then Edith began to question me.

'The other day? When?'

'Yesterday.'

'Yesterday? Then you knew last evening. Mother was right.'

'I did not know. I don't know now. It seems incredible that two men

could be so much alike, but, on the other hand, it seems equally

incredible that, under the circumstances, it could have been he.'

'Under the circumstances? What were the circumstances?'

'That I decline to say. I must ask you to take my word for it that the

circumstances under which I saw this man make it practically

impossible that it could have been he.'

'Did he see you?'

'He did not.'

'Did you try to speak to him?'

'I had no chance.'

'Did you find out where he lives, or anything at all about him?'

'I did this: I found a man who knows him, and who, I have reason to

believe, will bring me face to face with him at a very early date.'

'When?'

'I hope that the question of identity will be settled by Tuesday

morning.'

'Hope? Is that quite the appropriate word? Because I perceive that it

is Twickenham. You see, Douglas, I know you so well.'

'It is because I expected you to take that point of view that I was

reluctant to speak: because I'm more than doubtful if the man I saw

was Twickenham.'

'I'm not. If it had been any one but you it would have been a

different case. But, you know, Douglas, your royal gift of remembering

faces. You never confuse one person with another, even if it is a

person you only saw for five minutes twenty years ago. If you have

seen a man who was so like Twickenham that you would not like to say

it was not Twickenham, it was. Reggie won't be Marquis yet.'

She leant against the mantel, looking pale. There was something in her

attitude which seemed to me condemnatory. I felt ashamed. Reggie threw

himself into an arm-chair.

'If it was Twickenham I shall be in a pretty tight fix.'

'We all shall. I shall have to instal Edith in those country lodgings.

You will have to marry Mary Magruder. Violet will be Mrs. George

Charteris.'

'I shall be nothing of the kind. I wish you wouldn't settle my future

in quite such an off-handed fashion. It's not in the best of taste.'

'I certainly shall not marry Mary Magruder.'

'You might do worse.'

Vi turned on me.

'You mean that he might marry me. Douglas, you are at times so sweet.

You needn't be afraid; I'll be no clog on him.'

'I'll make you marry me. You promised that you would; I imagine you

are not prepared to deny it. I'll make you keep your word.'

'You'll make me! Indeed! My dear Reggie, it's news to me to learn that

I'm the kind of person who can be made to do anything.'

'Good children, pray don't argue. In anticipating the very worst, we

may be destined to suffer disappointment. In the first place, I am

extremely doubtful if it was Twickenham; though Edith isn't. But then

she didn't see him, and I did; so, of course, she knows. Even granting

it was Twickenham, during fifteen years he may have altered. He may

have become the most generous and delightful soul alive. In any case,

he will have plenty. He can hardly refuse assistance to his only

brother.'

'He won't dare to give me nothing. Especially when he knows the hole

I'm in.'

'Dare!' Edith smiled. 'Twickenham dare do anything. Particularly in

the way of making himself disagreeable.'

'O Lord! Don't talk like that. As Douglas says, during fifteen years

he may have altered.'

'Can the Ethiopian change his skin?'

That was what I had myself been wondering.

CHAPTER IV

MR. MONTAGU BABBACOMBE AWAKES

Something of the crowd which Mr. Augustus FitzHoward foretold did

assemble. It was half-past nine when I entered that part of the

building in which Mr. Montagu Babbacombe was on exhibition, and

already it was quite sufficiently filled. Mr. FitzHoward stood at the

receipt of custom, wearing an air of triumph, and what seemed the same

dirty pair of cuffs. He beamed at me as I tendered my ticket.

'All right?' I asked.

'All perfectly right, sir. In half an hour from now Mr. Montagu

Babbacombe will come back from the land of the dead to the land of the

living, after a thirty days' sojourn among the shadows. It may be that

he will be the bearer of important news from Shadowland. Walk in,

ladies and gentlemen, while there still is time.'

The major part of his remarks was addressed to folks in general. I

wanted him to say something on a subject which was of interest only to

myself.

'I suppose it can be arranged for me to speak to Mr. Babbacombe after

the close of his entertainment.'

'Entertainment, sir! I would have you know that this is not an

entertainment; a mere commonplace show. It's a modern miracle; the

miracle of the age--as those who witness it will with one voice

proclaim. Admission, half-a-crown!' This was said at the top of his

voice. A postscript was uttered in milder tones. 'I can't make any

promise. I expect it'll be pretty lively after ten, and perhaps Mr.

Babbacombe mayn't feel up to much. But if you'll keep yourself handy,

if I can manage an introduction I will. The rest you must manage

yourself.'

'Very good. You understand that I must see him alone.'

'Alone? I didn't understand that.'

'I must see him alone. If you arrange for me to do that it will be a

five-pound note in your pocket.

'Sure?'

'Certain.'

'Then you hang about as the people are going, and I'll pass you

accidental-like into his dressing-room. As you go in you give me the

fiver.'

'I will.'

'No kid?'

'None whatever. You do as you say and I will give you a five-pound

note as certainly as I gave you a sovereign on Thursday.'

'You place yourself where I can keep an eye on you, and I'll earn that

fiver.' He raised his voice to trumpet tones. 'Ladies and gentlemen.

The greatest feat of modern times is now drawing to a close. The

critical moment is at hand. In less than half an hour the boasted

miracles of the Indian fakirs will be more than paralleled. Out of the

silence Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will come; back from the misty plains.

After being dead for thirty days he will resume existence. Already the

dews of life are forming on his brow. The few remaining tickets

admitting to this wonderful spectacle only two-and-sixpence each.'

I did not know what Mr. FitzHoward meant by 'the dews of life,' but so

far as I could see, no change whatever had taken place in the

appearance of the sleeping man. He retained the same rigidity of

attitude, and bore, to the full, the same uncomfortable resemblance to

a corpse.

We were a curious crowd. I fancy that, before the proceedings closed,

there were several there who rather wished that they had stayed away.

I noticed about the people an odd air of repression; a tendency to

speak in whispers; or not to speak at all. A good many seemed doubtful

whether they were not standing in the actual presence of Death. I

confess to some feeling of the kind myself. The man in the white

pyjamas, lying on the mattress under the glass case, exercised a not

altogether agreeable fascination over all of us. We had to look at

him, whether we would or would not. Two young men by me were betting

in undertones as to whether he was or was not dead. It seemed to me a

fantastically droll idea that the subject of their wager was quite

possibly Leonard, Marquis of Twickenham.

I remembered how Leonard had once told me of some fellow or other he

had seen somewhere in Cashmere. I expect Mr. FitzHoward's allusion to

Indian fakirs had recalled the conversation to my mind. This fellow

had pretended to go to sleep, and had then been put in a hole in the

ground, and covered with earth--regularly buried, in fact. Some time

afterwards--I forget how long--he had been dug up again, and his

friends had tried to waken him up. They tried all sorts of things;

beat him with sticks, even cut him with knives. In vain. He would not

be roused. So they concluded he was dead. They placed the body in the

hut, or house, or whatever it was, in which Leonard was staying; in

the very apartment, in fact, in which he slept. In the middle of the

night Leonard woke up and saw the dead man coming to life. He stole

towards Leonard's bed with a knife in his hand. Leonard lay perfectly

still. In another second or two he would have himself been dead; and

this time really. But, just as the fellow was leaning over, in the

very act of striking, Leonard shot him with a revolver. The man fell

on to him a corpse. About his being a corpse there was, on this

occasion, no shadow of doubt whatever.

Twickenham's inference was that the whole thing, sleeping, burying,

and digging up again, had been a trick. I wondered if the show at

which we were assisting was a trick. One never knows. Though it was

difficult to see where the deceit came in. There was the man; there he

was two days ago. That he appeared then as he appeared now I, for one,

was prepared to testify. The only question was--was he released each

night, after the departure of the public, to enjoy a supper, say, of

pork and beans, and a hand of cards with Mr. FitzHoward? It seemed

hardly likely that the management would be a party to so egregious a

swindle on the British public. It would mean ruin if discovered. Since

large interests were at stake, the game would surely not be worth the

candle. And without active managerial participation the thing could

not be done.

Suppose, on the other hand, the man was dead, as he seemed--that he

had died to make an Aquarium side show? It occurred to me that, both

legally and morally, we spectators would be in rather an uncomfortable

position.

Possibly it was my recollection of Twickenham's story which served to

emphasise, to my thinking, the sleeper's resemblance to its narrator.

As I looked I became more and more convinced that it was he I saw.

Indeed, all doubt was at an end. I felt that he had only to open his

eyes, and speak, for me to realise that the thing had been certain

from the first. That being the case, only one of two things could save

us all from ruin.

The one was death. If he was what he looked, there, at hand, was the

proof for which we had been searching. Reggie was Marquis. The other

was----. To be frank, it is difficult to put into words in what the

other chance of salvation lay. I deemed it just within the range of

possibility that in that interview which I was to have with him, and

in those other interviews which I would take care should follow, I

might succeed in putting the screw on him to such an extent

that--well, that, comparatively speaking, all would be right. At the

same time I clearly realised that my chance of doing this was

something of a minus quantity; and that, for us, it would be best that

he should be what he seemed, even though the whole body of spectators

might have to suffer.

At a quarter to ten the place was uncomfortably full. There must have

been a good harvest of half-crowns for some one. At ten minutes to,

several persons appeared who entered a roped-in space immediately

surrounding the glass case. I concluded that they were 'the manager

and staff of the building and a large representative body of eminent

medical gentlemen.' At five minutes to, Mr. FitzHoward joined them,

having probably concluded that it would be difficult, if not

dangerous, to attempt to pack any more people into the place, even if

more could be induced to enter.

He lost no time, now that he had arrived, but instantly commenced to

treat us to examples of his eloquence.

'Ladies and Gentlemen,--In less than another five minutes Mr. Montagu

Babbacombe will crown his miraculous feat. It only remains for me,

during the short time left at my disposal, to prove to you its

bona-fideness; that there has been no deception here. Allow me to

introduce you to the manager of the building.'

He singled out for our inspection a smiling, yet dignified, gentleman

in evening dress; who was, apparently, a very different sort of

individual to himself. By way of acknowledging the introduction this

gentleman removed his hat.

'Mr. Manager, you hold in your possession the key of this glass case?'

'I do.'

'It was locked in your presence thirty days ago?'

'It was.'

'Since then the key has remained in your possession?'

'It has.'

'To the best of your knowledge and belief no other key to the case is

in existence?'

'That is so.'

'The case has not been opened by your orders, or to your knowledge?'

'It has not.'

'You have examined it every day to see that it has not been tampered

with?'

'Several times a day.'

'It has been watched day and night by some person or persons appointed

by you, in whose trustworthiness you have faith?'

'It has.'

'Therefore, in your opinion, since Mr. Montagu Babbacombe, thirty days

ago, fell asleep, and was locked in this case in your presence, no one

has had access to him of any sort or kind?'

'That is my opinion.'

'I have now to ask you to hand me the key of the case.'

It was handed over. Mr. FitzHoward held it up for us to see.

'There are four locks to the case, one at each side. This key opens

them all. The locks are of very peculiar construction; as, also, is

the key. I will now proceed to unlock the case.'

He did unlock it. Four men came forward, lifted the case--it seemed as

much as they could do--and, with considerable difficulty, because of

the crowd, bore it from the room.

Mr. Montagu Babbacombe remained uncovered.

It was then ten. The fact was announced by a clock in the building;

and Mr. FitzHoward stood with his watch in his hand.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will now awake.'

The doctors, if they were doctors, pressed forward. We all craned our

necks.

It seemed inconceivable that after a slumber of thirty days--and one

so very much like death--the man could wake to an appointed minute.

But he did. Scarcely had Mr. FitzHoward ceased to speak than, with the

most natural air in the world, raising his hand, he passed it over his

face, as one is sometimes apt to do when awaking. He opened his eyes.

He sat up.

To be greeted by a storm of cheers. Which, however, presently died

away, as it was realised that there was that in his appearance which

was hardly in harmony with such a demonstration. He gazed about him

with, on his pallid features, a look of dazed inquiry; as if he

wondered where he was. Mr. FitzHoward spoke to him.

'I'm glad to see you, Mr. Babbacombe. I hope you're comfortable, sir.

Here is Mr. Manager.'

The manager extended his hand.

'Feeling rested after your sound sleep?'

Mr. Babbacombe apparently did not notice the held-out hand. He

answered in a curious monotone, still about him that air of vacancy.

The sound of his voice set me all of a twitter.

'Rested?--Oh, yes, I'm rested.--Rested!'

Mr. FitzHoward motioned to the spectators.

'All these ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Babbacombe, are here to see you

put the crown and summit on the most marvellous feat of modern times.

They're here to see you wake, sir.'

'Wake?--To see me wake?'

A voice cried out from the crowd:--

'Have you been troubled by any bad dreams, sir?'

There was a tendency to titter; which was subdued when it was seen how

the inquiry was taken.

'Dreams!--My dear life!--Dreams!'

There was something in the awakened sleeper's tone which was not

altogether agreeable. It was too suggestive of things on which one did

not care to dwell. He addressed FitzHoward.

'Give me something to eat. I want something to eat.'

He sounded as if he did; and looked it too. Putting his hand up to his

head with the gesture of a tired child, he sank back upon the

mattress.

'I want to rest,' he said.

We were still. He looked as if he had fallen asleep again, for good.

Mr. FitzHoward dismissed the audience.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I have much pleasure in thanking you, on Mr.

Montagu Babbacombe's behalf, for your attendance here, and I now wish

you goodnight.'

The people began to file out. Men leaned over the mattress, and there

was a whispered consultation. They spoke to him. He continued

still--too still. A flask was produced and placed to his lips. He

seemed to pay no attention to it whatever. The crowd showed a

disposition to linger. The mattress was lifted from its place with him

still on it, and borne through the departing spectators out of the

room. When it had gone the audience dispersed more rapidly. I stayed

on. Presently, when the place had grown comparatively empty, Mr.

FitzHoward reappeared. He was buttonholed by half a dozen people at

once. It seemed that they were making inquiries as to the awakened

sleeper's condition. He answered them collectively, for our common

benefit, in a loud voice.

'Mr. Montagu Babbacombe feels a little exhausted--as was only to be

expected, having had nothing to eat or drink for thirty days, but he

wishes me to say to any kind inquirer that he's all right, and that he

confidently expects to feel very shortly as fit as ever he did. Now,

gentlemen, I'm sorry to have to hurry you, but I must really ask you

all to go.'

They went--he driving them in front of him, like a flock of sheep. I

still stayed.

'How is he?' I asked.

As he looked at me there was something in his eyes which I did not

understand.

'He'll be as right as rain in a minute or two.'

'Can I see him?'

He jingled some money in his trousers pocket.

'I hardly know what to say. It seems kind of going back on him. It's

not professional; and I'm professional or nothing. Is it trouble?'

'Do you mean, will an interview with me be the cause to him of

trouble? Not at all. If anything, I'm the bearer of good tidings.'

'Sure?'

'Certain.'

He eyed me; with a long-continued and penetrating glance.

'You shall see him inside of five minutes. The money's right?'

'It is.'

I showed him a five-pound note.

'We'll have first to get rid of those doctors. I understand him, and

he understands himself, better than all the doctors put together.

Doctors only mess a man about, they're thinking more of themselves

than of you; I never knew a doctor yet who was worth the money you had

to pay him. You wait; I'll shift them.'

He was gone more than five minutes; possibly finding the 'eminent

medical gentlemen,' of whom, in private life, he apparently had so

poor an opinion, more difficult to 'shift' than he had expected. When

he returned he beckoned with his finger.

'Now then!' I advanced to the door at which he stood. 'Money, please.'

The five-pound note changed hands. 'In you go. I've got to go to the

manager's office on business. You'll have him to yourself till I come

back.'

I found Mr.-Montagu Babbacombe alone, attired in a pair of tweed

trousers and a coloured shirt. He was seated by a table, and embraced

with his hand a glass containing what looked like whisky and water. In

spite of which facts he looked almost as much like a corpse as ever.

Without looking up as I entered, he asked:--

'Who's that?'

'Don't you know me?'

'Know you?' He glanced at me, with lack-lustre eyes, in which was not

the faintest gleam of recognition. 'Do you owe me money? If you've

come to pay me I'll know you.'

The voice was not right; he spoke with a faint American accent, which

I had not previously noticed. But, in spite of its corpse-like pallor,

the face was Twickenham's.

'Look at me well. Think.'

'I've quit thinking.'

'Twickenham!' He continued to stare. 'You are Twickenham?'

'I am. If there's money in it, you bet I am. Is it a place, or a

thing? Sounds like a sort of password.'

'Leonard!'

'Am I him, too? I've been lots of people in my time, Lord knows.

What's one more?'

'Why should you think it necessary to play this farce with me?'

'I'm asking. Excuse me, but are you----?' He touched his forehead with

his forefinger. 'I am.'

I am generally tolerably clear-headed. Never before had I been

conscious of such mental confusion. It was a peculiar sensation. As he

made that gesture with his forefinger it was all at once borne in on

me that, after all, I had made a common or garden fool of myself, and

that this was actually not the man. As I observed him, closely a dozen

minute points of difference forced themselves upon my notice. I so

clearly realised my own asininity that, for the instant, I was

speechless. Then I stammered out--

'You must excuse, sir, what probably appears to you my very singular

behaviour, but, the fact is, you have the most amazing resemblance to

a person with whom I was once very intimate.'

'Poor devil!'

'He was a poor devil.'

'You lay on it. If he was like me.'

A shadow of doubt returned.

'May I ask you to be serious, sir, and tell me, on your word of

honour, if you have ever seen me before?'

'I have. As a child. Many a time we've played together in my mother's

backyard. Let me see, your name's---- Smith?--Ah.--Mine's Brown. I

mean Babbacombe. It's all the same. See small bills.'

I hesitated. On a sudden an idea came to me, as it were, on a flash of

lightning. The language seems exaggerated, yet I doubt if any other

would adequately portray the fact. It did come to me in a single

illuminating second. Not in embryo, but wholly formed. I saw the whole

thing in its entirety. There, on the instant, was the complete scheme

ready to my hand.

The suddenness of the thing unhinged me. I was not that night in the

finest fettle. I scarcely saw how, then and there, to broach to him

the subject. Attacked brusquely, it might be ruined. He was, probably,

in worse condition even than myself; he might be affected even more

disagreeably than I had been. Procrastination would probably be best,

though in procrastination there was risk. Still--I saw no other way.

I moistened my lips. They had all at once gone dry.

'Mr. Babbacombe, where can I see you, to-morrow, on a matter of

importance?'

'What's the matter?'

'It is one which will probably result in my being able to place a

considerable sum of money at your disposal.'

'You're seeing me now.'

'This is a matter on which I can hardly enter, here, and now. I should

prefer, with your permission, to see you again to-morrow.

'To-morrow's Sunday.'

'That makes no difference to me.'

'Oh! you don't honour the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.' He emptied

his glass. 'Give me some more.' A bottle of whisky was standing at his

elbow. I poured some out. When I was proceeding to dilute it with

water, he stopped me. 'None of that. Neat.' He swallowed what I had

given him. 'Thank God for alcohol. There's nothing like it, when

you've got where I am.--What's that you were saying about wanting to

see me to-morrow?'

'Where can I see you--and when?'

'Where? In the grave; if I keep on feeling like I'm feeling now. I've

slept too much.--Give me some more.'

He tilted his glass.

'You've had enough.'

'D----n you, man, what the devil do you mean by telling me I've had

enough? I never have enough. If I had all that's in the world I

wouldn't have enough. It's my stuff, not yours. Give me some more.' I

poured him out a little. 'Don't stint, you're not paying.' Again he

swallowed at a gulp what I had given him. It seemed, instead of

stupefying, to clear his head. 'That's more like it. Now I'm feeling

better. After half a bottle I'm pretty well, and after a bottle I'm

nearly right. Listen to me. I'll see you tomorrow, Sunday morning, at

the York Hotel, in Stamford Street. After twelve o'clock. Say

half-past. Make a note of it.'

'I will.'

'And mind you're there.'

'I will be there. Mind you also are there.'

'If I'm alive I'll be there. You ask for Mr. Montagu

Babbacombe--that's me. Let me see, your name's----'

'Smith.'

'Smith. Oh, yes, Smith. You look a Smith. I knew a Smith once who was

just like you; one of the nicest fellows that ever breathed. Only an

awful thief! And such a liar! Perhaps you knew him too. Might have

been a brother. Did you ever have a brother who was hung? He was.

What's the other name?'

'My name's John Smith, sir, to you.'

'Very well, Mr. John Smith to me, I shall expect to see you to-morrow,

Sunday morning, at the York Hotel in Stamford Street, at half-past

twelve. And you be there! If you're not there, I hope that you'll be

hung; like your brother. You understand?

'Perfectly.'

There was a noise at the back. Turning, I perceived that it was caused

by the entrance of Mr. Augustus FitzHoward. I understood that it was

time for me to take my leave. I thought it possible that the newcomer

might find it difficult to induce Mr. Babbacombe to leave the chair on

which he was seated, before finishing the bottle of whisky--which was

still half full. I had no wish to witness any discussion of the kind.

CHAPTER V

AT THE YORK HOTEL

I cannot recall spending a more cheerful night than that one. I hasten

to add, as a professional humorist might do, that that remark is meant

to be satirical. All night--I cannot say 'I lay in agony'--but I

wrestled with various problems. Mr. Montagu Babbacombe was with me all

the time. Had he been there in the actual flesh his presence could not

have been more obvious.

Now that he was physically absent, the original impression recurred

with its former force. I told myself, over and over again, that the

man was really and truly Twickenham. His denial of the fact I

accounted nothing. He always had been fond, with or without apparent

cause, of denying his own identity. That game was old. When detected

in an invidious position, as he was apt to be, he would swear, using

all manner of oaths and with a face of brass, that he was somebody

altogether different. He had been known to do it repeatedly. The thing

was notorious.

If he was Twickenham, nothing was more probable than that he should

assert the contrary. It was part of his crack-brainedness. I ought to

have taken that for granted from the first. His voice and manner were

the two chief points on which he differed from my recollections of

Leonard. They could be simulated. The man had always been an actor.

Still, I could scarcely force the man to claim his peerage. Little

would be gained by my proclaiming, 'Behold, the Marquis of

Twickenham!' if he himself declared that he was nothing of the kind.

The onus of proof would rest on me. The cost of it! And what profit

would accrue even from success?

However, I was not altogether at the end of my resources. I was too

near drowning not to clutch at every straw which offered. I believed I

saw something very like a plank. If the man was not available in one

way he might be in another. Even if he was Twickenham, I fancied that

I had hit upon just the sort of devil's trick which would appeal to

his madman's sense of humour. If he would only keep his appointment in

the morning. There was the rub. That night I blamed myself a hundred

times for allowing him to pass out of my sight. It was long odds

against my seeing him again.

Yet if there had been a taker, and I had laid the odds, I should have

lost. The man was on the spot to time.

It was before the appointed time when I alighted from a hansom outside

the York Hotel. The place seemed more of a tavern than an hotel, but

there was an hotel entrance. Into this I walked. Behind the swing

doors stood a person apparently in authority.

'Can I see Mr. Montagu Babbacombe?'

I expected him to say that no such person was known in that

establishment. Instead of that he answered my question with another.

'What name?'

'John Smith?'

He addressed a waiter.

'Show this gentleman in to Mr. Babbacombe.'

I was shown in to Mr. Babbacombe. The 'Sleeping Man' was taking his

ease in what I took to be a private sitting-room. That is, he reclined

on a couch. On a small table at his side was a bottle of whisky and a

tumbler. On a larger table, where it was well out of his reach, was a

bottle of water--full. He was smoking what I knew by its perfume to be

a good cigar. He was dressed in a suit of dark grey, which not only

seemed to be a good fit, but to be well cut. He wore a high collar,

and a white Jarvey tie, in which was thrust a diamond pin. He looked

as if he had something to do with horses. He also looked as if he was

Twickenham. If he was not--then, as the phrase goes, I was prepared to

eat my hat.

He paid not the slightest heed to my entrance, but, without even a

movement of his head, continued in the enjoyment of his cigar. I was

angered by his air of perfect calmness. The impudence of the thing!

'May I ask what you mean by your extraordinary

behaviour--extraordinary even for you? Do you take me for an utter

fool?'

'Name of Smith?'

'Name be hanged! Do you suppose that I don't know you?--that I

couldn't bring a hundred persons into this room who'd know you on the

instant?'

'Bring two.'

'What do you propose to gain?'

'That's it.'

'Why do you conceal your identity?'

'I'm wondering.'

'If I bring the landlord into this room and tell him who you are, will

you venture to deny it?'

'Depends on who I am.'

'I believe you're a criminal lunatic.'

'The same to you. And many of 'em.'

He sipped at his glass. He filled me with such rage--which was, after

all, unreasonable rage--that I was unwilling to trust myself to speak.

My impulse was to seize him by the scuff of his neck and drag him home

with me, and show him to them all; when the question of his identity

would be settled on the spot. However, I remembered in time that that

was not the purpose which had brought me there. My intention was a

very different one; and I proposed to carry it out. That is, if his

humour fitted mine.

'Have you ever heard of the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'The Marquis of Twickenham?' Leaning back, he stroked his chin with a

gesture which so vividly recalled a favourite trick of Leonard's that

I could have struck him for thinking that I could be fooled so easily.

'Might.'

'Are you aware that in appearance you resemble him?'

'Good-looking chap.'

'He was a poor devil last night.'

'Extremes meet.'

'I am actuated in what I am going to say by your own eccentric

behaviour. I need not tell you that I should not say anything of the

kind were you to act like a reasonable being. But since, beyond the

shadow of a doubt, you are partly mad, I am going to take it for

granted that you are wholly mad. I make this preliminary observation

because I want us to understand each other.'

'You take some understanding.'

'So do you. Are we private here?'

'You might look under the couch. I don't know that there's a

cupboard.'

'I won't ask if I can trust you, because I know I can't.'

'Let's begin as we mean to go on.'

'Therefore, I will tell you at once that you can make what use you

like of what I am about to say to you. Things have reached a point

which finds me indifferent. Besides, talking's a game at which two can

play.'

'That's so.'

'I said to you last night that I wished to see you this morning on a

matter of importance.'

'Doesn't it strike you, Mr.--Smith, that you take some time in getting

there?'

'I take my own time.'

'You do. And mine. Perhaps you're engaging a room in this hotel.'

'You've done some curious things, Mr.--Babbacombe.'

'That's my name. The same as yours is Smith.'

'Perhaps you're willing to do another.'

'For money.'

'Are you willing to die?'

'My hair?'

'I'll put the question in another way.'

'I would. It might sound better.'

'From what I have seen of you during the last few days I believe that

you are capable of feigning death.'

'I'm capable of feigning a good many things?'

'I believe it. Among them you are capable of feigning this particular

thing.'

'Explain.'

'You can so simulate death that no one can tell you from a dead man.'

'I can.'

'Not even a doctor?'

'Nary one.'

'I presume, therefore, that you can simulate the act of dying.'

'It's no presumption.'

'You can, that is, in the presence of other persons, and even of a

medical man, pretend to die with such fidelity to nature that a doctor

in attendance would not hesitate to grant a certificate of death.'

'You bet.'

'Will you do it?'

'Kid to die?'

'Exactly.'

'What for?'

'A thousand pounds.'

'A thousand pounds!'

He repeated my words in such a tone that again doubts passed through

my mind. If he was Twickenham it was impossible that such an amount

could have the attraction for him which his tone suggested. It was a

drop in the ocean compared to the sums which were waiting ready to his

hand. Somehow, although not a muscle of his countenance moved, I felt

convinced that the figures did appeal to him; and that strongly. If

such was the case, then the thing was beyond my comprehension.

'A thousand pounds is not a trifle.'

My trite observation went unanswered. He continued to puff at his

cigar, as if reflecting. I, on my part, stood and watched. Presently

he spoke, examining, as he did so, the ash of his cigar with every

appearance of interest.

'I'm to ask no question?'

'Of what kind?'

'As, for instance, what's the lay?'

'I don't altogether follow.'

'I dare say you get near enough. Who'll I be when I'm dying--and

dead?'

'Don't you know?'

'I'm asking.'

I hesitated.

'The Marquis of Twickenham.'

I kept my eyes upon his face; as, indeed, I had done since I came into

the room. He did not change countenance in the least.

'It's a bold game you're playing.'

'Your part of it'll require courage.'

'But the risk'll be yours. Suppose, in the middle of the show I quit

dying, and make a little remark to the effect that my name's

Babbacombe; that I'm no Marquis, and that I was put up to this by a

man named Smith. You'd look funny.'

'We should both of us be in rather an amusing situation.'

'You've--face.'

'You also.'

'Will I be supposed to make any remark when I'm dying--any last

farewells, or any of that kind of thing?'

'You might express contrition for a wasted life.'

'Yours?--or mine? A bit of yours has been wasted; especially

lately--eh? A lot of time seems to waste when you're waiting for dead

men's shoes.'

'It's for you to see that I don't have to wait much longer.'

He was silent again. Again he regarded his cigar. A curious smile

parted his thin, colourless lips. 'I'm to be the Marquis of

Twickenham?'

'You are.'

'Because I'm so like him?'

'Exactly.'

'As the Marquis of Twickenham I'm to die?'

'That's the idea.'

'And be buried?'

'Doesn't that follow?'

'I'm to be buried?'

'Can you see any way out of it?'

'Several.'

'For instance?'

'Sitting up while they're settling me in the coffin, and remarking

that I think I'd like a larger size. That would be one way.'

'Which would render the whole thing null and void.'

'Then are you suggesting that I should be buried--regular, downright

buried?--nailed up, put in a hole, and all?'

'You would not be put in a hole, but in the family vault.'

'And how long would I stay there?'

I smiled. He perceived my amusement.

'Mr. Smith, you're the kind of man I admire.'

'I hope to continue to merit your admiration.'

'That dying's off.'

'Why? What I said about the family vault was but a jest.'

'A sepulchral one.'

'It might be necessary, perhaps, to put you in a coffin, but, before

the arrival of the undertaker's men, I would come; you would get out,

and between us we'd fasten down the lid upon the empty box.'

'A kind of sort of game of cut it fine. And what do you suppose I'd be

thinking of, while I was waiting inside that handsome piece of funeral

furniture for you to come?'

'Of the thousand pounds which would so soon be yours.'

He seemed to reflect once more; the smile returning to the attenuated,

cruel, shifty lips which had always been one of Twickenham's most

unpleasant features.

'That dying will come off. As you observed, a thousand pounds is not a

trifle. I've given a show for less. I suppose the money's safe?'

'It is. When will you--die?'

'That's it. I'm engaged almost right along. It'll have to be soon.

What do you say to to-morrow?'

'To-morrow?'

The imminence of the thing startled me. I had not expected to be taken

up so readily. Nor had I been prepared for the appointment of so early

a date. And yet, why not? It was just one of those things of which one

might truly say that ''twere well done if 'twere done quickly.'

He put my thoughts into words.

'What's wrong with to-morrow? Haven't you about done wasting time

enough? Why not then as soon as next week?'

'Let me understand. Would you propose to die to-morrow?'

'I'd propose to begin. This show's got to be worked artistic. I can't

drop down dead as if I'd had a fit. Maybe some keen-nosed relative

might start sniffing. Might want a coroner's inquest or something of

that. Holy Paul! Where'd I be if they started a post mortem? I'd have

to quit being dead so that I could start explaining. This job'll have

to be done in a workmanlike manner; my professional reputation is at

stake. To-morrow I begin by sending you a message.'

'A message?--of what nature?'

'Why, I go to an hotel, just well enough not to be refused admission,

and ill enough to take to my bed directly I'm inside. If they turn

shirty, and remark that that hotel is not a hospital, I'll tell them

that I'm the Marquis of Twickenham. I shan't choose too swell a place,

so that they may be proud of having the Marquis of Twickenham on the

premises, if it's only to die there. There'll be a pretty bill for the

estate to pay: because a funeral at an hotel comes dear. Then I send

you a message: a note, say--"Dear Smith"----'

'Don't call me Smith.'

'No? Then what'll I call you? Brown?'

'I suppose this introducing myself is part of the farce. If you do

write such a note, call me Douglas.'

'That's all?'

'My name is Douglas Howarth. You are sure you have never heard that

name before?'

'Might have. I'll say, "Dear Douglas Howarth, I have returned to die.

Come and smooth my pillow at the end. So that I may die grasping

friendship's hand. Your long lost Twickenham."'

'A note of that kind would hardly be in keeping with the supposed

writer's well-known character.'

'No? Then what price this? "Dear Doug, I'm dying. If you have a moment

to spare you might look in. Twick."'

'That's better. Oddly enough he used to call me "Doug," and sign

himself "Twick."'

'That's so? Why shouldn't he have done? You hurry to my suffering

side, bringing with you five hundred pounds in notes, which you slip

into my clammy palm.'

'I should prefer to give you the thousand pounds afterwards.'

'I shouldn't. Half first, then the rest. If you don't bring five

hundred when you come--I'll recover.'

This was spoken with an accent which suggested varied possibilities.

Before I left the York Hotel the whole business was cut and dried.

From one point of view my success was altogether beyond my

anticipations. Yet I was not feeling quite at my ease. There was a

diabolical fertility of invention about the man which recalled

Twickenham each moment more and more. The whole spirit with which the

idea was taken up reminded me of him. He planned everything; filled in

all the details, arranged, so far as I could see, for every

eventuality. I was conscious, all the while, that the scheme was

entirely after the man's heart. Its daring; the brazen impudence which

would be required to successfully carry it out; entire absence of

anything approaching nervousness; complete callousness;--these were

the requisites which Mr. Montagu Babbacombe possessed in a degree

which would have seemed unique had they not reminded me forcibly of

somebody else. The whimsical character of the feat he was about to

attempt just fitted in with his humour, as I had foreseen.

'You know, Mr. Smith--I beg your pardon--Mr. Howarth--I shall play

this game for all I'm worth: right to the limit. All I'm wondering is

if it shall be a lingering death-bed, punctuated with bursts of agony,

or a foreshadowing of the perfect peace that'll soon be coming. How

long will I take in dying?'

'I should suggest not too long.'

'You would suggest that. Am I to do much talking?'

'As little as you possibly can.'

'Then it's not to be a story-book death-bed, with me shedding

forgiveness on all those I've parted from?'

'I think not.'

'That's hard on me. I suppose I may draw a few tears from those who,

in silence, stand sorrowing round?'

'Not too many.'

'Perhaps you're right. I'm a whale on tears. If I once started on the

handle I might pump the well right dry. There's one remark I'd like to

make, Mr. Howarth, before we part.'

'That is?'

'It's this. That I'm calculating on agitating your bosom, sir. When

you see me lying there, stricken down in the prime of my life and

manly beauty, you'll think of the days, so near and yet so far,

when we used to play together in my mother's old backyard.

Naturally your feelings will be moved, and you'll do a howl; no silent

weep, but a regular screech; to the extent of damping at least two

pocket-handkerchiefs. If you don't, I'll be hurt: and when I'm hurt

I've an unfortunate habit of saying so. How'll you like it if, just as

I'm running down for ever, and yours is the only dry eye in the room,

I look up with the observation, "Mr. Howarth, how about that grief of

yours?"'

It was remarks of this kind which filled me with a vague sense of

disquiet as to the kind of proceedings which Mr. Babbacombe might be

meditating. However I comforted myself with the reflection--if comfort

it could be called--that whatever happened, or in what spirit soever

he might choose to comport himself, things could hardly be worse than

they were.

CHAPTER VI

A MESSAGE FROM THE MARQUIS

The 'message' came on the Monday as I was at lunch. Violet and I were

alone together. I had spent the morning in doing two things--getting

the five hundred pounds which would keep Mr. Montagu Babbacombe from a

premature recovery, and putting my papers in order. I hardly know

which I found the more difficult.

I had to lie to get the money. I had reached such a stage in my

resources that to have told the truth would have been a fatal bar. I

could hardly say that I shortly expected to receive news of the

Marquis of Twickenham's death. That would have been to occasion

inquiries of, under the circumstances, a highly inconvenient nature.

Besides, after all, Mr. Babbacombe might play me false. That was

always more than possible. So I manufactured another tale instead. By

dint of it, I succeeded, with great difficulty, and on the most

outrageous terms, in extracting another five hundred out of Abrams. I

wanted him to make it six; for this was likely to be an occasion on

which a little spare cash might come in useful: but the brute

declined.

There was not much time, when I returned from Abrams, to look into my

papers. Yet it was essential that, at the earliest possible moment, I

should have some notion of how I stood. To be frank, for some time

past I had shirked inquiry; having only too good reason to feel

convinced that if a statement of my financial position was made out it

would be clearly shown that I had been insolvent for longer than I

cared to think. In such a case it had seemed to me that at any rate

partial ignorance was bliss. That this was cowardice, and, possibly,

something worse, I was aware. In desperate positions one does curious

things. I was just able to arrive at a glimmering of the fact that

unless, in Mr. Micawber's phrase, something 'turned up' soon, worse

than pecuniary ruin was in store for me, when lunch was served. At

lunch the news that something was likely to 'turn up' came.

Violet was not in the best of spirits. I learned that Lady Desmond, on

her part, had not been allowing the grass to grow under her feet. She

had been paying the child a visit. Vi did not admit it at once, but

when I taxed her with her obvious discomposure--having reasons of my

own for wishing to know what was at the back of it--she let it out. It

seemed that the old lady had said some very frank things--in the way

old ladies can. Vi had suffered; was suffering still. She had arrived

at a decision, with which she had sped the parting guest.

'I am quite resolved that--unless something happens which will not

happen--all shall be over between Reggie and myself. I will not have

such things said to me. I am going to write a formal note to say that

I will not see him again: and you must take me away somewhere so that

he cannot see me.'

'Take you away?'

I perceived that Lady Desmond had been very plain.

'Abroad; to some place as far off as you possibly can. She says that

the Marquis of Twickenham is alive; and as you say so too----'

'Violet!'

'I say that the best thing you can do is to emigrate, at once. I'll

keep house for you until you are in a position to offer Edith a home.'

'You march.'

'If you had heard Lady Desmond you would be of opinion that it is

necessary I should. It seems to me that both Reggie and you are

wasting your lives--not in pursuit of a chimera, but waiting till a

chimera comes to you.'

'Is that Lady Desmond?'

'Lady Desmond said nothing half so civil; either of you or me. She

is--she's a nice old lady.'

Vi pressed her lips together. There was a red spot on either cheek.

Unless I err she had been crying. The reflection that that ancient

female had been castigating the child with her vitriolic tongue made

me tingle. While I was considering if it was advisable to say

anything, and, if so, what, Bartlett entered with a note.

'The messenger doesn't know if there's an answer, sir.'

I knew from whom it came before I touched the envelope; though I had

not expected that it would arrive so soon. It reached me when I was

just in the mood for such an adventure.

It was addressed 'The Hon. Douglas Howarth.--If not at home please

forward at once.' On the flap was stamped in red letters, 'Cortin's

Hotel. Norfolk Street, Strand.' I opened it with fingers which were

perhaps a little tremulous. The crisis in my life had come; the tide

which might land me--where? The note was written in a hand which I did

not recognise as Twickenham's, possibly because it straggled up and

down in an erratic fashion, which was not out of keeping with the

character of an invalid; but then, unfortunately for himself, Leonard

had always been an adept with the pen. The wording was altogether

dissimilar to anything which Mr. Babbacombe had suggested yesterday.

'Dear Doug.--

'The Devil's got me by the throat, and if you want to enjoy my

struggles before he's dragged me down, you'll have to look in soon.

I'll be dead before this time to-morrow. D---- all the lot of you!

This is a filthy pen. Twick.' I felt my heart stop beating.

Because, although it was not the kind of intimation I had expected to

receive, it was the man himself who spoke to me from off the sheet of

paper. The last time I saw Twickenham, more than fifteen years ago,

when it was known that he had done the thing for which the law

could--and would--make him pay heavy toll, as he was about to fly from

its pursuit, he had said to me, on my hazarding an inquiry as to when

we might meet once more.

'You'll never see me again before the Devil has me by the throat, and

you come to enjoy my struggles before he drags me down. D---- all the

lot of you!'

That was the very last thing he did--to curse his friends. Then he

slammed out of the room, while his words were still ringing in my

ears. I made a note of them before he had been gone ten minutes. I had

offered to give him a helping hand, though he had deserved from me

nothing of the kind; and I felt that it was only due to myself that I

should set on record the fashion in which he had received my advances.

I had that memorandum in my possession still. I had only referred to

it on returning home after my first encounter with Mr. Babbacombe. And

now here were almost the identical words staring up at me from the

written sheet. It settled, once and for all, the question as to the

identity of the person from whom that note had come, though it opened

a still wider question as to what was the game which the man was

playing, into whose toils I was being allured by labyrinthine yet

seemingly inevitable ways.

Vi perceived by my demeanour that something unusual had happened.

'What is it?' she asked.

'Bartlett, you can go. Tell the messenger to wait.'

The man went. I could not have attempted an explanation while he was

in the room. When he was gone my tongue still faltered. I re-read the

words which, while they convinced me utterly, set me doubting all the

more. Vi, watching me, repeated her inquiry.

'What is wrong, Douglas? Why do you look so strange?'

I handed her the note. Rapid consideration seemed to show that was the

shortest and the safest way. She read it with an obvious want of

comprehension.

'What an extraordinary communication. What does it mean? From whom has

it come?'

'It's from Twickenham.'

'Douglas!'

She dropped her hands, note and all, on to her knee.

'To me it's like a voice from the grave. The words with which he bade

me farewell are almost the identical ones with which he bids me come

to him again.'

'Then it was he you saw?'

'Apparently.'

'And what does this mean?'

'It seems that he is ill.'

'Ill?' She referred to the note. 'He says that the Devil's got him by

the throat. I shouldn't wonder. I believe, for my part, that there

always is a time when that person comes to claim his own. You can't go

on being wicked with impunity for ever. And that--he'll be dead

to-morrow. Douglas, he says that he'll be dead before this time

to-morrow.'

'So he says.'

'But--if he should be?'

I knew the thought which was in her mind; though I kept my eyes from

off her face. I was conscious of an unusual contraction of the muscles

about the region of the heart. What was this evil with which I was

trafficking? She turned herself inside out, with a sublime

unconsciousness of the troubled waters which I felt that I was

entering.

'I'll be able to marry Reggie; and you may marry Edith. So that I

needn't write to him. Why, Douglas, this bad man's death will usher in

a peal of wedding bells. It ought to ease his final moments to know

that he'll do so much good by dying.'

It galled me to hear her talk in such a strain. True, she had learnt

it from me; but, just then, that made it none the better.

'Don't you think you're a trifle premature in marrying, and giving in

marriage? He's not dead yet.'

'No, but he will be. I feel that he will be soon. You'll find that for

once he's told the truth.'

'However that may be, I wish you wouldn't speak like that. It sounds a

little inhuman. As if you anxiously anticipated his entering the fires

of hell to enable you to enjoy the bliss of heaven.'

She looked up at me with a naïve surprise.

'Douglas, what ever do you mean by that? Haven't you always counted on

his death? And isn't he a wicked man?'

'Decency suggests that we should feign some sorrow even if we feel it

not.'

'It suggests to me nothing of the kind. The moment the Marquis of

Twickenham's death is announced I shall rejoice--for Reggie's sake,

and yours.'

'I see. And not at all for your own?'

'Also a little for my own. And Edith. For all our sakes, indeed.' I

had taken up my position before the fireplace: she planted herself in

front of me. 'Douglas, what has come to you upon a sudden? Here's the

news for which you have been waiting arrived at last, and you look as

black as black can be, and speak so crossly that I hardly know you for

yourself.'

'You arrive too rapidly at your conclusions. I have grown so weary of

expecting what never comes that my sense of anticipation's dulled. The

man's not died these fifteen years; why should he die now?'

'Because he says he's going to: and I tell you that, this time, what

he says he means.'

Turning aside, I looked down at the flaming coals. Her words and

manner jarred on me alike.

'I don't like to think, and I don't like to know you think that, for

us, the only hope of life is--death.'

'Douglas, what is the mood that's on you? Don't you want the man to

die?'

Asked thus bluntly, I found myself hard put to it for an answer. After

all, it was doubtful if I was not sorry that I had set out on this

adventure. Never before had I felt myself so out of harmony with what

was in my sister's heart. Obviously the riddle of my mood was beyond

her finding out. She gave a little twirl of her skirts, as if

dismissing from her mind all efforts to understand me.

'My dear Douglas, you are so mysterious, and so unexpectedly--shall I

say, didactic! You do intend to be didactic, don't you, dear?--that

you must excuse my calling your attention to the fact that the person

who brought this note still waits.'

I rang the bell. Bartlett appeared.

'Tell the person who brought this letter that the answer is: "I am

coming at once."'

When the servant had vanished, Violet eyed me with a quizzical smile.

'So you are going. I hope that the Marquis of Twickenham has

exaggerated the gravity of his condition, and that on your arrival you

will find him in the enjoyment of perfect health. Is that the kind of

observation you think I ought to make?'

'It's quite possible,' I retorted, 'that I shan't find the Marquis of

Twickenham at all.'

With that I left her. As I journeyed Strandwards I discussed within

myself the possibility. Such was the conflict of my emotions that when

the cab was about to turn off the Embankment into Norfolk Street I

bade the driver go a little farther on before taking me to my

destination. I knew that from the moment in which I set foot in the

building, which Mr. Babbacombe had chosen for the exhibition of his

uncanny gifts, I was committed to a course of action which, I was

beginning to realise more clearly every moment, might lead I knew not

whither. I might have been the first to pull the strings, but the

figure once set in motion, if I was not careful, might have me at its

mercy for ever and a day.

'I'll put a stop to the gruesome farce at its very opening. I'll tell

the fellow that I'll have nothing to do with his hideous deception. If

I become the accomplice of such a fiend as he is, my latter state will

be worse than my first.'

With the determination strong upon me to be quit of the man and his

misdeeds, I alighted at the door of Cortin's Hotel.

'Is the Marquis of Twickenham here?'

I put the question to a female who advanced towards me as I crossed

the threshold. Apparently the establishment had not attained to the

dignity of a hall porter.

'The Honourable Douglas Howarth?' I admitted that I was known by that

name. 'His lordship expected to see you before, sir?'

The woman's tone conveyed a reproach which I resented. Evidently to

her the Marquis of Twickenham was a person in authority before whom

all men should bow. Besides, I could hardly have come more quickly

than I had done. As I was being conducted to his apartment I told

myself that I would address his lordship in a fashion for which he

probably was unprepared.

The surprise, however, was on my side. I had expected to find the man

alone. No one had breathed so much as a hint that any one was with

him. When I entered the room, however, I found a person bending over

the bed, whom it did not require much discernment to infer was a

doctor. A voice, which I did not recognise as Mr. Montagu

Babbacombe's, issued from beneath the sheets.

'Who's that?--Who's that come in?'

The waiter announced my name and style, as if introducing me to an

assembled company.

'The Honourable Douglas Howarth.'

'Doug--! Is that you, Doug? D----n you! I thought you'd come!'

I advanced towards the bed. The doctor bowed. He was a young man,

probably not much over thirty, with a frank, open face, which

suggested rather a pleasant disposition than commanding talents. In

the bed was Babbacombe--or Twickenham--whichever he chose to call

himself. But what a change had taken place in his appearance since

yesterday! So complete was the alteration that I was half inclined to

suspect that a trick was being played on me, rather than on the rest

of the world.

If this was not a sick man then surely I had never seen one. On his

face there was the--I was about to write--unmistakable look of the

being from whom the sands of life are slipping fast. This was a

complete wreck; the husk of a man; a creature for whom, so far as this

life was concerned, all things were at an end. The cheeks were hollow;

the eyes dim; the jaw had an uncomfortable trick of gaping open, as if

the mechanism which controlled it was a little out of order. One arm

was out of bed. The hand was attenuated, so as to seem nothing but

skin and bone. It had that clammy look, which one would suppose

incapable of imitation, which suggests physical decay. If this man was

not in the last stage of a mortal illness, then he was a master of

arts which are not accounted holy. Entirely without intention I stood

before him, oppressed by a feeling of half reverence, half awe, of

which, I take it, most of us are conscious when we find ourselves in

the presence of the coming king.

He spoke in a croaking, hoarse voice, which I certainly did not

recognise as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe's.

'Doug, he's got me by the throat, and I'm fighting him; but he'll win,

he'll win. The doctor'll tell you he'll win.'

I was at a loss what to say or do. The reality of the sham, if it was

a sham, affected me in a way for which I was unprepared. The doctor,

perceiving something of my dilemma, whispered in my ear:

'He's in a bad way. Are you a friend of his?'

The sick man's ears were keener than the speaker had supposed. He

answered for me.

'A friend? Oh, yes, he's a friend of mine, Doug's a friend. Doctor,

take yourself away. I want to speak to my friend.'

Whether he was influenced by the bluntness of the dismissal, I could

not say; but the doctor prepared to go.

'I will send you some medicine which will ease those pains of which

you speak.'

'Curse your medicine!'

'You mustn't talk too much. Rest and composure are what you

principally need.'

'Confound your composure!' With a violent effort the man in the bed

raised himself to a sitting posture. 'What do I want to be composed

for when there's so little time to talk? There'll be all eternity to

be silent in.'

As he gripped the coverlet with his cadaverous hands, blinking at us

with his sightless eyes, he did not offer an agreeable spectacle. He

trembled so from the exertion of the effort he had made that it was

not surprising to see him, collapsing like a pack of cards, fall in a

heap half in, half out of bed. With quick professional hands the

doctor straightened him out. He eyed him when he had finished. The

figure in the bed lay perfectly still.

'He's exhausted himself; but he'll be all right when he recovers. Can

I speak to you outside before I go?' I went with him outside the

bedroom door. 'Are you a relative of his?'

'I am not.'

'If he has any relatives they should be sent for at once, if they wish

to see him alive. It is quite possible that he will not live over

to-day.'

'What is the matter with him?'

'It's a case of general collapse; all the vital organs are weak. He

seems to have lived a hard and irregular life on top of an originally

poor constitution. I hope you don't mind my speaking frankly.'

'Not at all. I believe you are right. I have not seen him myself for

fifteen years. We all thought he was dead.'

'He will be soon. He's consumed by fever; his lungs are affected;

there's practically no pulse, and scarcely any motion of the heart.

The whole machine's run down. As you see for yourself, he's nothing

but skin and bone. But it's from the heart we have most to fear. If

you allow him to excite himself there may be an instant stoppage.'

'Do you think we'd better have further advice?'

'That's as you please. I myself should welcome it. And it might be

more satisfactory to every one concerned. But I don't think you'll

find that anything can be done. Here's my card.' He handed me one;

from which it appeared that he was Mr. Robert White, M.R.C.S.,

L.R.C.P., of 93 Craven Street, W.C. 'I'll look in again as soon as I

can; and then, perhaps, a consultation may be arranged. But if any of

his relatives wish to see him, if I were you I should lose no time in

letting them know the state that he is in.'

He went. As I examined his card I said to myself.

'There seems no doubt that it will not be difficult to obtain a

certificate of the Marquis of Twickenham's death from him. I wonder if

Mr. Robert White is a friend of Mr. Montagu Babbacombe.'

Opening the door, I re-entered the room.

CHAPTER VII

MR. FOSTER INTERRUPTS

All was still. The figure in the bed continued motionless. I walked up

to the bed. Whether conscious or not of my presence, he gave no sign

of movement.

'Mr. Babbacombe,' I spoke a little louder. 'Mr. Babbacombe.' No

answer. 'Don't you think this acting is a little overdone? Your friend

Dr. White has gone. I'm all alone.'

Still not an indication to show that the man yet lived. Against my

better judgment I began to feel uneasy. He lay so very motionless.

'Mr. Babbacombe!--Twickenham!--What are you afraid of? Don't you hear

me, man?'

I touched him with my hand. He made no movement in response. For a

second I was in danger of making an ass of myself. Could the man have

carried the farce too far, and was he really dead? I all but rushed

from the room, or to the bell, or somewhere, to give the alarm. Then I

felt him shiver beneath my touch. I do not think that I was ever more

conscious of relief than when I felt his quivering flesh. For the

moment I actually imagined that I had murdered him.

The movement was but a quiver, dying away as soon as it came. I

expected him, at the very least, to turn and open his eyes. But he did

nothing of the kind. My impatience returned.

'Twickenham!' I thought it safer to address him by that name. Walls

have ears; especially, I fancy, in hotels. 'Twickenham! Confound it,

man, are you playing the fool with me again?'

No response. Concluding that this was a game which the gentleman

before me intended to play in his own fashion, I awaited the issue of

events. If he thought it necessary to keep up his character of dying

man, and practise the lights and shadows of the rôle with me as

audience, it was out of my power to prevent him. Yet as I watched how,

bit by bit, he seemed to return to life; how long the process lasted;

and how small the amount of vitality which he returned to seemed to

be; I found myself in the curious position of being unable to decide

where the sham began and the reality ended. Turning on to his back,

apparently with difficulty, he gazed up with what was an astonishingly

good imitation of an unseeing gaze.

'Well? As the street boys have it, I hope you'll know me when you see

me again. You do it uncommonly well. The only comment I have to make,

if you'll excuse my making it, is that you do it too well.'

What seemed a glimmer of consciousness stole over his skeleton

countenance. It lighted up.

'Doug!' he said.

Mr. Babbacombe had not struck me as being corpulent, but it mystified

me to think what he had done with the balance of his flesh within the

twenty-four hours since I had seen him last. He looked as if he had

lost stones; suggesting the possession of a secret for which certain

jockeys of my acquaintance would give him all they possess. The voice

was excellent: cracked and broken, like that of a man whose physical

force is nearly spent.

'Would you mind calling me Mr. Howarth when we are alone?'

'Call you--what? See you----. Might as well ask you--call me--Marquis

of Twickenham.'

'I am quite willing, when we are in private, to call you Mr.

Babbacombe.'

'Call me--what? Mr.--Doug, you're drunk.'

'As usual, you credit me with a condition of mental imbecility for

which no degree of drunkenness of which I ever heard could adequately

account.'

'What--you talking about? Doug, I'm pretty bad.'

'You seem to be. I've brought the five hundred pounds which you

stipulated I should bring if you were not to recover.'

'Five hundred pounds? Doug, I haven't seen that amount of money--Lord

knows when.'

'No? Then you shall see it now. Here it is--fifty tens. I thought you

would prefer to have the notes all small.'

I placed them between the wasted fingers, which still remained outside

the coverlet. They just closed on them, but that was all. His eyes

closed too.

'Too late.'

'Too late? What do you mean?'

'What's the use--money to me now.'

'You can have it buried with you.'

'Yes--I can. Doug, why do you speak like that?'

'Mr. Babbacombe, might I ask you not to be so thorough?'

An expression of surprise lighted up his features.

'He's wandering.'

'I did not gather, from our conversation yesterday, that it was part

of your scheme to pretend to be dying even when we were alone.'

The expression of surprise had grown in intensity.

'Doug!'

'My good man, please don't look at me like that. And do not call me

"Doug." Even if you were the person, and in the condition, you pretend

to be, I should resent hearing the word come from your lips each

second.'

'He's mad!'

It was said with a little gasp, in the most natural way in the

world. Reclosing his eyes, if I could believe the evidence of my

senses--which, in his case, I doubted if I was entitled to--he dozed.

I began to understand that Mr. Montagu Babbacombe was even more of an

artist than I had given him credit for. As I stood watching, with

curious interest, the perfection with which he simulated a sick man's

slumber, I asked myself if, after all, he might not be right, and I

wrong. If he chose to continue the performance even when the necessity

for acting was removed, why should he not? It might tend to simplify

the situation. At least, it would do no harm. If he declined to allow

even me to see the mask slipped a little from his face, I had

certainly no reason to complain. Later on I could say, with perfect

truth, that, so far as I was able to see, he never rallied from the

moment I saw him first. Situated as I was likely to be, it would be a

comfort to be able to say something that was true.

The misfortune was, that I was not, myself, by any means such an

artist as Mr. Babbacombe. I might be able, when in the public eye, to

deceive with an air of passable candour, but in private I fell short.

I had heard of men who lied with such consistency that, in the end,

they deceived themselves. I had not got so far as that. Mr.

Babbacombe, it seemed, could play a part so well that he actually was,

for the time, the character he feigned to be. With me it was

otherwise. I had not yet grown to love deception for deception's

sake, as the man in front of me--whether he was Babbacombe or

Twickenham--seemed to do. It filled me with an illogical sense of rage

to perceive how, in this matter, he took it for granted that his point

of view would--or should--necessarily be mine. He liked to keep on

stealing all the time; I preferred, in private, to pretend that I was

an honest man.

However, it certainly was true that the strain of the impersonation

lay on him. If he did not choose to allow himself a moment's

relaxation, I had no cause to grumble. I had agreed with him that he

should carry out a certain piece of deception. I could hardly complain

if he carried out his part of the bargain so well that he was actually

in danger of deceiving me.

Only I did wish that he would own up, for a moment, what a rogue he

was. Such was my state of nervous tension that, to me, such an

admission would have come as a positive relief. I was willing to admit

that I was a humbug--between ourselves. Why should he not be willing

to do the same? It would have come as a sort of salve to my sense of

self-esteem.

Instead, he persisted in that doze--which I was convinced was

make-believe. As one might watch a conjuror perform his tricks in the

privacy of one's own apartment, with a feeling of resentment that he

should allow no hint to escape him as to how they're done, so I

observed the man in the bed pretend--even to me!--to do the things

which I had the best of reasons for knowing he was not really doing. I

should like to have constrained him to confession, to have taken him

by the shoulders and treated him to a good shaking, so that both the

sleep and sickness might have been shaken clean out of him, and he

would have had to admit his mummery.

I believe that if I had remained alone with him much longer I should

have done it. My fingers itched to handle him. Just, however, as I was

about to take him in my grip, the door opened and some one else came

in. It was perhaps just as well, if the game was to be played out,

that I was not detected in the act of committing an apparently brutal

and unprovoked assault upon the seeming sufferer. Some sort of

explanation would have had to be made: I should have had to compel the

patient to admit his fraud to save my character. Otherwise my action

might have been construed as an attempt to murder at the very least.

The new comer was Reggie. His appearance on the scene I had not

expected so soon: nor desired. It had been my intention to coach the

patient in certain details of his family history--supposing such

coaching to be necessary. It would hardly do for him to be visited by

relatives of whom he had never heard. This he had prevented my doing

by his determination to act the rôle of dying man up to the hilt.

Reggie explained what had brought him. He held out the note which had

brought me; which I now remembered I had left with Violet.

'Vi has sent me this? what does it mean?'

I moved towards him, glancing towards the sick man, who still feigned

slumber. I had hoped to give him a warning look; but the persistence

with which he kept his eyes closed rendered my effort futile.

'It means what it says.' I spoke in a tolerably loud tone of voice,

hoping that the sleeper would have sense enough to pick up such cues

as I might give him. 'Your brother, my dear Reggie, is here--ill in

bed.'

'Good gracious!' Reggie's face expressed a variety of emotions. He

glanced from me to the bed; from the bed to me. He dropped his voice.

'Is he--is he really bad?'

'About as bad as he can be. The doctor is of opinion that he may

expire at any moment.'

The tone in which I said this--for Mr. Babbacombe's

instruction--seemed to strike Reggie as peculiar.

'Is he--asleep?'

'He seems to have just dropped off.' Reggie moved closer to the bed. I

went with him. He regarded the sleeper with looks of curiosity.

'He looks frightfully queer.'

'He can hardly look queerer, and live.'

'I suppose it is Twickenham?'

'Don't you recognise him?'

He shook his head.

'I was only a kid when he went. I've told you lots of times that I

don't seem to have the least recollection of what he was like. I

didn't think he was so old.'

'He's crowded threescore years and ten into the life he's lived, and

more. Besides, sickness has aged him.'

'Is he conscious?'

'Now? He's asleep.'

'I mean when he's awake.

'He was conscious when I saw him first; that is, after a fashion of

his own.'

'Is he--' He stopped. I saw that a thought was passing through his

mind to which he hesitated to give utterance. Presently it came. 'Is

he conscious enough to make a will?'

The question took me aback. It suggested an eventuality for which I

had made no sort of preparation. If Mr. Montagu Babbacombe took it

into his head to let himself go in a 'last will and testament,' I

should be in a fix. I arrived at an instant determination.

'I should say not. Any will he might make in his present condition

would not be worth the paper it was written on. Of that I am sure.'

I meant Mr. Babbacombe to take the hint. I hoped he would, though I

had rather Reggie had not put the question. The young gentleman

startled me with another remark which was equally unexpected and

undesired.

'I sent in word to old Foster as I came along.'

'You did what?'

My tone expressed not only unmitigated surprise, but also something so

closely approaching to dismay, that in turn I startled him.

'What's wrong? Didn't you want me to tell him? He'll have to know.'

'That's true.' A moment's consideration showed me that it was. 'At the

same time, I would rather you had consulted me before communicating

with him. What did you say?'

'That Twickenham was dying at Cortin's Hotel, and that I was hurrying

to him.'

'Then if you told him that, it won't be long before he's here too.'

'I don't suppose it will.'

I did not relish the prospect at all. Things were moving more rapidly

than I had intended. I perceived, too late, that there were

complications ahead which I ought to have foreseen, but which, owing

to my having my vision fixed on one thing, and one thing only, had

escaped my notice. It was of the first importance that I should say a

few words in private to Mr. Montagu Babbacombe before Mr. Foster

appeared, or the bubble might be pricked in a second.

Mr. Stephen Foster was the senior partner of Foster, Charter, and

Baynes; who had been lawyers, agents, and doers-of-all-work for the

Sherringtons even before they had been peers. He was an old man now,

but keen as the youngest. I had more than a suspicion that he did not

like me. He had certainly treated the various applications I had made

to him on Reggie's behalf with a curtness I did not relish. It was he

who had shut the family purse against the lad. Left by the terms of

the late Marquis's will, in default of the appearance of the

heir-at-law, in practically absolute control of the entire estate, he

had administered it with a zeal and judgment which did him the

greatest credit. Its value had, in all respects, immensely increased

while in his charge. If only he had shown even some slight

consideration for Reggie's position there would have been nothing in

his conduct of which to complain. But he had persistently refused to

let him have so much as a five-pound note out of the family revenues,

although he well knew the straits he was in, and how he was living at

my expense. For this neither Reggie nor I bore him any love. It would

not be our fault if one day he was not made to smart for his pedantic

adherence to what he held to be the letter of the law.

'My position,' as he stated it, 'is this. The Marquis of Twickenham is

alive, until you prove him dead. I am responsible to him for every

farthing of his income; just as your banker is responsible to you for

every penny which stands to the credit of your account. And just as

your banker is powerless, without your express authorisation, to use

your money, say, to save your mother from starvation, so I am

powerless to apply his lordship's money to the assistance of his

impecunious brother. Besides, you know what kind of man he is. You

know, as well as I know, that, unless his disposition has wholly

changed--which, from my knowledge of the family character, I deem in

the highest degree improbable--he would not present a single sixpence

to Lord Reginald. Whether I do or do not admire what I know would be

his wishes, I am bound to observe them, or throw up my charge. I

prefer to observe his wishes. Show me that My Lord Marquis is dead,

and my charge is at an end. Or produce his instructions, authorising

me to make his brother an allowance, or to hand him over a certain

sum, and those instructions shall be duly carried out. In their

absence, I can do nothing. To me, so far as the Twickenham estate is

concerned, Lord Reginald Sherrington does not exist.'

And this was the man who, in all probability, was hastening to Mr.

Montagu Babbacombe's bedside! If he caught him unprepared he would

turn the dying man inside out before the sufferer even guessed at the

process to which he was being subjected. At all hazards I must get

Reggie out of the room, and prepare, as best I could in the few

moments at my disposal, the too conscientious Mr. Babbacombe for the

legal onslaught. I hit on a device.

'My dear Reggie, although I don't wish to suggest for a moment that

the doctor who is already in attendance is not perfectly competent, I

do think we ought to have another man--don't you?'

'Certainly; if you consider it necessary, we'll have a dozen.'

'I don't think we need go so far as that, but we might have one. What

do you say to Hancock? He saw Twickenham into the world; so it seems

only fitting that he should usher him out.' My opinion of Sir Gregory

Hancock's medical attainments is perhaps not so high as his popularity

might seem to warrant; but that is by the way. Reggie signified his

approval of my suggestion. 'Then, my dear chap, would you mind running

round to fetch him, while I stay here, to watch? If you ask him

personally he'll come without a moment's delay.'

Reggie, swallowing the bait, hied in search of Sir Gregory Hancock. I

turned my attention to the bed. The rogue still slumbered. The time

for ceremony, however, had passed. He would have to cease pretending.

'Babbacombe!' He paid not the slightest heed. 'Confound you! Will you

put a stop to this tomfoolery? A man is coming who'll see through you

in less than no time if you don't let me put you up to a thing or two.

Babbacombe!'

No, he would not reply. My patience was becoming exhausted. I did not

propose that my whole ingenious scheme should be wrecked because he

chose to play the game in his own fashion instead of mine.

'Babbacombe! If you won't wake up, upon my honour I'll make you. I

tell you I want to speak to you about something which is of vital

importance to both of us; something which you must hear and

understand. Will you attend?'

Apparently he would not. If he was really so opinionated I was

prepared, forced by the exigencies of my position, to try another

method. I did. I took him by the shoulder and I shook him. At first

gently, then, as no result ensued, with greater violence. Then I

treated him to a really vigorous shaking, only stopping because, in my

heat, I began to fear that I might be going farther than I intended.

He evinced not the slightest symptom of any intention to comply with

my request and listen to what I had to say. Instead, when I looked at

him again, a very curious something seemed to have happened to his

face. His jaw had dropped open; and, if I may so express it, all his

features seemed to have twisted out of the straight. His appearance,

now that I realised its peculiarity, gave me quite a shock.

'What on earth is the matter with you, man?'

'You seem, Mr. Howarth, to have rather drastic methods of attaining to

the information which you seek.'

The voice was Mr. Foster's. He had entered--when? When I had been

shaking Mr. Babbacombe? What a fool I had been not to turn the key. I

might have expected him to sneak in without warning me of his

approach. How much had he heard--and seen? I should have to find out,

soon.

CHAPTER VIII

DYING

While these thoughts flashed through my brain I remained perfectly

still, with my face averted. It was desirable that I should have my

countenance under perfect control, before I let him see it. I spoke to

him from where I stood.

'Ah, Foster, is that you?'

'If you look this way, you'll see.'

Thus directly challenged, I looked. He was a big, burly man, in

appearance not at all like the typical lawyer. His clothes always had

a sort of agricultural cut. Anybody seeing him in the street for the

first time would have taken him for a shrewd, hard-headed, and--in

spite of agricultural depression--prosperous farmer; the tiller,

probably, of his own acres. His hair, still abundant, and which he

parted neatly on one side, was white as snow; in his keen flashing

eyes, in spite of his seventy odd years, there was yet what always

seemed to me to be the light of battle. I met his glance without, I

think, a sign of flinching, though I would rather have seen him buried

than, at that moment, there.

'To know you, Foster, it is not necessary to see you when one hears

your voice.'

Without replying, coming to my side, he looked down with me, at the

figure on the bed. After a while he spoke.

'What were you doing to him, Mr. Howarth?'

'I was trying to wake him out of sleep.'

'He looks to me as if nothing could awake him now.'

'Foster! You don't mean--that he is dead?'

Nothing could have pleased me less than such a consummation. If Mr.

Babbacombe had elected to die in such an extremely irregular fashion

he certainly did not deserve the balance of that thousand pounds. I

had stipulated that the end should take place in the presence of

others; and, by inference, after they had been afforded an opportunity

of satisfying themselves as to his being the actual Simon Pure.

Otherwise, in the future all sorts of questions might arise,--not to

mention the fact that, after what Foster had apparently seen, I might

find myself in a position of distinct discomfort. The lawyer voiced my

thought, as if he had perceived it in my mind.

'It would be rather unfortunate for you if he should be dead.'

'Unfortunate for all of us.'

'Particularly for you. You were subjecting him to rather vigorous

treatment. Better men have been killed by less.'

I turned and faced him, not feeling disposed to be brow-beaten by him.

'Foster, what do you mean?'

'Weren't you shaking him?'

'Shaking him! Foster! I was simply placing him in a more comfortable

position.'

'Ah! And this is the position you have placed him in.'

'Your words and tone, Mr. Foster, require explanation.'

'Which they shall receive at the proper time and place. In the

meantime, don't you think you'd better send for a doctor? Or shall I?'

Luckily Mr. Babbacombe proved himself to be possessed of more sense

than I had begun to fear. He returned to life. Whether actuated or not

by the newcomer's remarks and manner I cannot say; but he did. Just as

we seemed to be on the verge of a really unseemly wrangle, without

altering his position in the least, he opened his eyes, looked up at

us, and spoke.

'Hollo, Foster? Is that you?'

It was excellently done; wonderfully clever. In the sudden rush of my

relief I decided that his honorarium should be increased. It showed

that he had kept his ears wide open, or he would hardly have known

that his visitor's name was Foster. I only hoped that he had gained,

from what had passed, some idea of who he was, and what was the

position he occupied, without its being necessary for me to drop too

plain a hint. However, the agile Mr. Babbacombe proved himself equal

to the occasion. The man-of-affairs stood looking down at him before

he answered.

'I am glad, my Lord Marquis, that you know me.'

'Know you? Why shouldn't I know you? Hang you, Foster!'

Instinct had supplied Mr. Babbacombe with at least one of Twickenham's

habits of speech, his trick of rounding off nearly every sentence he

uttered with what one might call, by courtesy, an apostrophe.

'I am sorry, my lord, to see you looking so unwell.'

'I am going to die.'

'I trust, and believe, that it is not so bad with you as that. Where

has your lordship been during all these years?'

'Playing with the fires.'

'Playing with the fires?' The lawyer repeated the words as if in doubt

as to their meaning. But a glance at the speaker's face made it clear

to him that the answer was perhaps not so far out as it might have

been. 'Is your lordship married?'

'What the devil's that to do with you? One can't marry all of 'em.'

'But you can marry one of them. Have you done that?' There came no

answer from the bed. 'I would point out to your lordship that you are

in a somewhat serious condition. Should anything happen to your

lordship----'

'I'm going to die.'

'We trust not: but should such a misfortune be in store for us, it is

of still more importance that your affairs should be in order. I would

remind you that what you have been doing during the last fifteen years

is known only to yourself. Are you married?'

'Curse the women!'

Why, I wondered, could not the idiot answer No?

'If your lordship pleases. But that is not an answer to my question.

You must be well aware that the fact of your having a wife, with

issue, would materially alter your brother's position.'

'Let him have it all.'

'You wish Lord Reginald to inherit your whole estate, real and

personal? Does that mean you're not married?'

'Foster, did you--ever know--me answer questions--when I didn't want

to. I'm not--dead yet.'

This was so like Twickenham that it set me thinking. Indeed, as the

conversation between the pair proceeded I became more and more puzzled

to find an answer to the question--Who is the man in the bed? Foster

stuck to his guns.

'Has your lordship made a will?'

'I hate wills.'

'Possibly; yet they are necessary instruments. If you have not already

made a will, you must make one now. Your lordship will tell me how you

wish matters to stand. I will draw up a brief, yet sufficient form,

which you can complete at once.'

'Kick him, Doug.'

This was again so like Twickenham that I had no option but to smile.

Foster surveyed me with grave disapprobation. He drew me a little

apart.

'This is no laughing matter, Mr. Howarth. I believe you represent Lord

Reginald's interests. I can only tell you that they will be very

seriously imperilled if we are not able to show that he has been

formally appointed his brother's heir. You have witnessed the

Marquis's refusal to answer my question as to whether he is or is not

married. What meaning does that refusal convey to your mind?'

'None whatever. It's just Twickenham--that's all; and you know it.'

'But suppose he has a wife and children.'

'He hasn't.'

'Then why doesn't he say so?'

'Because he never would impart information to any one, on any subject

whatever. Have you forgotten that that was one of his many forms of

crankiness?'

'Still it is not outside the bounds of possibility that he has a wife

and, say, a son. If they appeared upon the scene, with no will in

existence, they would have everything. Lord Reginald would have

nothing at all.'

'That would be hard on Reggie.'

'If you have his real interests at heart--which I have no reason to

doubt'--he grinned--'you will assist me in persuading the Marquis to

express his wishes in proper form--that is, make a will--without

further delay. At present he is perfectly capable of doing so; but an

hour may make all the difference, and if he dies intestate Lord

Reginald will have plenty of trouble in front of him.'

Complications were crowding on me in a fashion which was unexpected. I

had never counted on Mr. Babbacombe's having to make a will. There was

sound sense in what Foster said; on the other hand, considerable risk

might attend my urging Mr. Babbacombe to commit forgery. Always

supposing, that is, he was not Twickenham. If he was, why, then----

I decided, having glanced at the situation, so far as I was able, all

round, outwardly, at least, to join hands with Foster in endeavouring

to persuade the invalid to comply with his request. To have refused,

without any apparently valid reason, would have been to rouse his

always active suspicions. And also, it did occur to me that if a will

was made and Mr. Babbacombe, after death, did prove himself too keen

in the direction of blackmail--I never for a moment lost sight of the

fact that, thousand pounds or no thousand pounds, out of this little

performance Mr. Babbacombe proposed, in all probability, to provide

himself with a sufficient income for the rest of his life--that will

might be used to keep him within the paths of reason. It was bad

enough to enter into a conspiracy of the kind to which he was

committed; it was, if anything, a trifle worse to forge a will; and

such a will--as, later on, it might be necessary to inform him.

He proved, however, as I might have expected, too old a bird to be

caught with salt. When Foster and I brought our combined forces to

bear on the attack we found that he was asleep again. He had fallen

into another of those profound dozes, out of which it was so difficult

to wake him. Foster spoke to him; then I. He paid no heed to either;

as before, he was deaf, dumb, and blind.

'Well,' I inquired, when it was plain that no verbal assault would

reach him, 'what's to be done now? Would you like to shake him?'

Foster compressed his lips; he was plainly annoyed.

'It's easy for you to laugh now; I doubt if it will prove a laughing

matter to Lord Reginald.--Do you think he really is asleep?'

'That is exactly the question I was putting to myself when you came

in. I also had a few remarks to make which I had a shrewd suspicion he

did not choose to hear.'

'What did you wish to say?'

'My dear Foster, I take at least as much interest in the Marquis of

Twickenham as you can do. I'm just as anxious to find out things. I

thought then, as I think now, that he intends I shall find out

nothing; or you either. He's been a hard nut to crack his whole life

long; he means to continue uncrackable to the end.'

'He seems very ill.'

'He does not seem well.'

'As he lies there like that he looks as if he were a corpse.'

'I don't think he is, as yet.'

'What does the doctor say?'

'Death probably within four-and-twenty hours.' Foster laid his hand

upon my arm.

'Mr. Howarth, we must have that will.'

'It never was much use saying "must" where Twickenham was concerned; I

doubt if it'll be much use now. I can employ means to endeavour to

make him if you like, though you seemed to resent it when you caught

me using them just now. Reggie has gone for Hancock. He'll be able to

tell you to what extent pressure may be applied to obtain the end you

have in view.--Here is Reggie; and Hancock too.'

They entered as I spoke. Reggie hastened towards me.

'Any change, Douglas?--Ah, Foster, so you've come.--This is my

brother, Sir Gregory, in the bed.'

Hancock surveyed him through his gold-rimmed spectacles. We waited in

silence for his verdict.

'Asleep?--Changed; but I should have known him anywhere. He's been a

wonderful man.--How long has he been asleep?'

The question was put to me.

'Perhaps five minutes.'

'I doubt if he is asleep.'

This was Foster. Hancock snapped him up.

'You doubt? My dear sir, there's no room for doubt on that point. He

always suffered from a weak heart; even, I remember, as a lad. Heart

trouble is, I fear, at the base of the trouble now. It is part of the

complaint--that the sufferer is continually falling asleep, without

notice. From that sleep it is hard to rouse him. In that sleep he

often passes away--as, probably, will be the case here. It would be

wrong for me to say that I think there is a chance of ultimate

recovery when I don't. In a medical sense his lordship is dying now.'

That was Hancock. He gained his reputation by a carefully cultivated

habit of jumping at conclusions. The average doctor hums and haws, and

tells you nothing. Hancock neither hums nor haws, but tells you

everything; or pretends to. He must have been right--or have managed

to pass for right--pretty frequently, or he would hardly occupy the

position which he does. He is well on the shady side of eighty--hale,

hearty, and, what is surprising, still in fashion.

Foster was the first to speak.

'When, Sir Gregory, may the end be expected? Lord Reginald must pardon

my asking so frank a question, but, as I will explain to him later, it

is of the first importance that I should know exactly what we may

expect.'

Reggie said nothing. Sir Gregory considered a moment.

'What is the opinion of the gentleman who is already in attendance?'

I replied. 'Dr. White thinks he will not live four-and-twenty hours.'

Hancock felt the patient's pulse. Opening his shirt he applied the

stethoscope; tried his temperature. The sleeper never moved, or showed

consciousness of what was going on. The condition of his body, as it

was revealed when Hancock opened his shirt, amazed me. It was nothing

but skin and bone. And such a colour. Was it possible that this was

the man who yesterday had been smoking his cigar on the couch at the

York Hotel? My perplexity grew apace. Hancock pronounced his opinion.

'What Dr. White says is correct. I should doubt myself if he will live

through the day.'

'Can nothing be done?' asked Reggie.

'Humanly speaking, nothing. He is not dead, but he is so nearly so

that he may be said to be already looking through the gates.'

Hancock liked to talk like that. It was supposed that remarks of that

kind had made him popular with women. Foster fidgeted.

'Sir Gregory, it is essential that the Marquis should make a will. He

was in possession of all his faculties before you entered. Can nothing

be done to rouse him?'

Hancock shrugged his shoulders.

'What?'

'Anything. A will we ought to have at any cost. Its absence may be the

cause of endless confusion.'

'I can only say, sir, that if the Marquis of Twickenham has not made a

will already he never will. Any attempt to rouse him, such as you

appear to suggest, might result in his instant death. If we succeeded

he would be incapable of doing what you require.'

Foster turned to Reggie.

'I can only say that, from your point of view, your brother might as

well have continued an absentee as, under the present circumstances,

die intestate.'

I struck in. 'That's absurd. Lord Reginald will succeed.'

'Will he? Don't be too sure. There will always be a probability of

other claimants. Opposition may come from a dozen quarters. How can we

tell what connections such a man as he has been may not have formed

during fifteen years?'

As he propounded this delightful proposition an extraordinary thing

took place. Once more the sleeper awoke. He just opened his eyes and

looked at us.

'Where's Foster?'

That gentleman swung round with comical rapidity. 'My lord, I am

here.'

'About--what you were asking me. I've--never been married. Curse a

wife, I've always said.'

'Is that so, my lord?' Then, in an aside to us,' You are all

witnesses.'

'My brother's to have everything. Why the devil--hasn't he come--to

see me?'

'I have.'

Reggie moved forward. Foster whispered to him as he drew back.

'Keep him engaged in conversation if you can. I'll draw up a short

form embodying what he's said. I'll get him to sign it if it's to be

done.'

The lawyer retired to a table on which there were pens and ink. The

man in the bed looked up at Reggie with unblinking eyes.

'You're not my--brother.'

'I am.'

'You don't--look--like my brother. He--was only a boy. Come--closer.

Lean--down. I can't--see you--that way off.'

Reggie leaned over the bed. The sick man put up his hand, from which I

observed that the bank-notes had disappeared--though I had seen

nothing of the sleight-of-hand which had spirited them away--and with

his fingers softly stroked the young man's face. Reggie remained

perfectly quiescent while he did it.

'You're--like--your mother. Thank God--you're not--your father's son.'

When he said this I was conscious of a catching in my breath. The

thing was true. Though how he knew it--save on one presumption--was

beyond me altogether. Reggie bore a striking resemblance to his

mother, and none whatever to his father. The man in the bed droned on.

'Your--mother--was a good woman. Your--father--was a beast. Like me.

Are you--a beast?'

'I hope not.'

'Most men are. Poor devils!' There was a pause before he spoke again.

He still touched Reggie softly with his finger-tips, as if doing so

brought him a curious sort of comfort. 'You're like your mother,

Reggie?'

'Yes.'

'I wish--I wish----. You know what I wish.'

His hand dropped limply back upon the bed. He lay still, though his

eyes continued open. Hancock turned to Foster.

'If you want him to do anything you had better try him now.'

After a moment's more spluttering with the pen, Foster came hurrying

forward, with a sheet of paper, pen, ink, and blotting-pad.

'My lord, I have ventured to embody your wishes, as you have just

expressed them, on this sheet of paper. I will read you what I have

written: "I give and bequeath so much of my estate, real and personal,

as I have the power of devising, to my brother, Reginald Sherrington,

absolutely." It is informal, but will serve. Will your lordship be

pleased to attach his signature?'

'What's that?'

'You understand what I have said?'

'Reggie to have all?'

'Precisely. You will secure the due and proper execution of your

wishes by signing this paper.'

'I--hate wills.'

'I implore your lordship not to do your brother the crowning injustice

of dying without doing something to protect his interests. He is

already suffering much on your account. Sir Gregory, will you assist

his lordship to sit up?'

Again Hancock shrugged his shoulders.

'It's a risk,' he whispered.

'We must take it.'

Hancock raised the sick man, using as much gentleness as was possible,

and the lawyer placed before him the sheet of paper on the

blotting-pad. He also insinuated a pen between the wasted fingers.

'What's this?'

'Your lordship understands what you are about to do? You are about to

sign your will.'

'Everything to Reggie?'

'Exactly. You are leaving everything to Lord Reginald; as is set forth

on this sheet of paper. Your lordship will please attach your

signature here.'

The sick man dug the point of his pen into the paper at the place to

which Foster had guided his hand. Then he stopped. He looked up, with

on his face a very singular expression; as of wistfulness. We watched;

wondering what it was he desired to say. There was evidently

something. When it came it was not at all what any of us had supposed.

'I want--to see--a good woman. Isn't there--a good woman--in the

world?'

I do not know what we had expected him to say. I, of course, cannot

answer for all. But I am tolerably certain that neither of us had

imagined him to be struggling to give expression to such a wish as

that. We exchanged glances. Did it mean that his wits were wandering?

What immediately ensued seemed to suggest that his wits were, if

anything, keener than ours.

CHAPTER IX

DEAD

I am inclined to think that I had not given Mr. Montagu Babbacombe

credit for all the cleverness he possessed. I began, indeed, to

suspect that to his cleverness--if it was only cleverness--there were

no limits. While we stared and wondered, a waiter entered the room

with a card on a salver, which he brought to me. It was Edith's card.

On it she had pencilled a line:

'I am here with Violet. Can't I see him? I should like to.'

'Let her come! Let her come!'

The instruction--it amounted to that--came from the man in the bed. It

seemed that he had not only known that the women were in the house

before I had had any intimation of their presence, and that the

knowledge had prompted him to make his remark, but it also appeared

that he knew what was written on that card. Was the fellow possessed

of the occult powers of which we read in fairy-books? While the others

eyed me askance, inquiring his meaning, I eyed him.

As a matter of fact I welcomed neither Edith nor Violet. I had far

rather they both of them had kept away. The business on hand was one

with which I desired that they should have no sort of connection. It

was bad enough that I should be entering, with my eyes wide open, into

such a sea of falsehood. That they should soil even the hem of their

skirts by standing, unwittingly, upon the edge was a notion I did not

fancy. They were stainless: above reproach. It was my business to keep

them so. It did not matter so much for me.

Yet I did not see how I could prevent them coming if they chose to

come, even into that atmosphere of foul fraud and lying; especially if

my friend, the dying man, desired their presence. The motive which had

brought Edith I could understand. After all, Twickenham had been the

playmate of her childish days. And he had wooed and won her dearest

friend, who still waited, in full confidence, his coming. But why

Violet? The man had not even a pseudo-sentimental attraction for her.

I turned to the waiter.

'Tell the ladies I will be with them directly.'

The dying man was not to be balked. He evinced a degree of vigour

which was altogether beyond anything he had previously shown.

'Let them come! Let them come!' he repeated.

He stretched out his hand, from which the pen dropped out unused, in

such a condition of tremulous agitation that Hancock promptly laid him

back upon the pillow.

'Gently! Gently! Don't excite yourself, my lord; be calm! What does he

mean?' he asked me. I perforce explained.

'Miss Desmond is below, and wishes to know if she may come up.'

'Let her come!' gasped the invalid.

'Better humour him,' murmured Hancock.

'I will go down and speak to her.'

But when I prepared to go the patient shook his head at me in a frenzy

of excitement; struggling all the while for breath in a fashion which

it was not agreeable to witness. Hancock strove to soothe him.

'Gently, my lord, gently.'

'He's--he's not--to--go. Let them--let them--come.'

'It appears, Mr. Howarth, that his lordship would like Miss Desmond to

come without your going to fetch her. Can you not send a message

through the waiter?' He added, _sotto voce_, 'Better do as he wishes;

she'll get no harm.'

I had my doubts; but I directed the waiter as Hancock desired. As soon

as he was gone Foster returned to the charge.

'Now, if your lordship will be pleased to attach your signature.'

The sick man would have none of him. He merely continued to mumble:

'Let them--come! Let them--come!'

It was clear that the completion of that will would have to be

postponed. Foster's chagrin was obvious. To his legal mind form and

precedent were everything. What does it matter if we die, so long as

our affairs are left in order? To have been so near the attainment of

his wishes--for it had looked as if the wily sinner was about to

sign--only to be disappointed after all, was a severe trial to his

sense of professional propriety. For my part, on that point at least,

I was at ease. I was persuaded that Reggie would not find so many

thorns in his path as his man of business predicted.

While the sick man mumbled, I regarding him askance, with half an eye

on Foster's discomfiture, in came Edith, with Violet at her heels. I

had not meant that Violet should come, too, and made a half-step

forward to request her to withdraw. But both Reggie and Hancock were

in front of me. Reggie made a dash towards Vi, the physician

appropriating Edith. Indeed he assumed command of both; his remarks

being addressed to the pair. He spoke in a sort of stage aside; his

words being perfectly audible to me.

'My dear Miss Desmond! My dear Lady Violet! Our long-lost friend is in

a sad way; very, very sad. At any moment the end may come. But he

expresses such a desire to see you, and shows so much impatience at

the idea of your being kept from him that I thought we might venture.

Only be careful not to agitate him.'

'Our long-lost friend' showed impatience then and there.

'What's he--what's he--gabbling about? ---- the man! Let them come!'

Hancock shrugged his shoulders; he dropped his voice.

'You hear?--Such language! But you mustn't mind.' He brought them

forward. 'Here, my dear lord, are two ladies who have come to see

you--Miss Desmond and Lady Violet Howarth.'

'Edith?' He hit upon her surname; he alone knew how. 'You're an old

woman--aren't you?'

That was a civil thing to say,--particularly from a man in his

position. I could have shaken him again. Edith only smiled.

'I'm not so young as I was. But you're not an old man, and I'm younger

than you.'

'Old?--I am old. Rotten. Done. I feel a thousand. The years lie

heavy--on me. I was--never--young.'

The thing was curiously true of Twickenham. He never had been young.

Mentally, physically, and morally, he had been born old. As a boy he

had all an old man's vices. As Edith perceived what a wreck the

creature seemed I saw that tears were in her eyes.

'I am sorry to meet you, after all these years, like this. Poor

Leonard!'

She stretched out her hand to touch his brow. I could have snatched it

back. He lay perfectly still, staring up at her with fixed, unseeing

eyes.

'Why--sorry?'

'I had hoped it would all have seemed so different.'

'It's all right. I've had enough. Glad it's over.'

'Are you in pain?'

'Pains of hell.'

He said this, in his tremulous, croaking tones, with a depth of

sincerity which impressed even me. The fellow was a past master of his

art, or in possession of unholy powers. Edith's hand visibly trembled.

'Poor Leonard!'

'Soon--over. Who's the girl?'

'This is Violet Howarth--Douglas's sister. Vi, you remember

Twickenham? This is Reggie's brother.'

Vi said nothing; possibly because she had nothing to say. She surveyed

the object in front of her with looks which were a blend of pity,

curiosity, and, unless I err, disgust. She had, perhaps, more than her

share of the severity of youth, and I knew what she had thought of the

man she supposed herself to be looking at. He spoke to her, with the

same request which he had made to Reggie.

'Come--closer; lean--down.'

I believe that Vi rebelled; but when Edith touched her on the shoulder

she did as he asked. Whereupon he went through the same performance

with which he had favoured Reggie; putting up his hand, and examining

her features with his finger-tips.

'You're a pretty girl--but ---- hard.'

It was not surprising that the blood flamed through her skin,

although, saving the perhaps unnecessary vigour of the adjective, the

thing was true enough. When she likes she can be as hard as nails.

'Why don't you--marry--Reggie?'

'I'm going to, when you're dead.'

I fancy, in her impetuous fashion, that the words were out of her

mouth before she was able to stop them. They were out, anyhow;

creating a small sensation. It is a common feeling that a deathbed,

even of such a character as Twickenham had been, is a place where one

ought only to say sentimental and, also, agreeable things; especially

young women. One wants to keep the clear, dry light of truth outside.

Vi turned white; then red again. Reggie endeavoured to insinuate her

hand in his; by way, perhaps, of expressing his sympathy. But she

would have none of it. She took her hand away. The sick man's comment

showed that his wits moved pretty quickly.

'A nice--wife--you'll make him. He'll be married--and done for--when

he's got you.'

Unmistakably a retort quivered on the young lady's tongue. Edith,

slipping her arm about her, restrained its utterance.

'It's all right, Vi,' she whispered. Instead, therefore, of that

retort, Vi addressed him an inquiry, in even, measured tones.

'Have you quite finished with me?'

'What a girl! Doug--she does you--proud.'

A peculiar sound proceeded from his throat, which was perhaps intended

for a chuckle. His hand dropped. Vi stood up. We were silent. A

feeling of awkwardness was in the air; a consciousness that Vi had

struck an inharmonious note. Hancock relieved the situation--or tried

to.

'I think now, my lord, if you were to take a little sleep.'

'Hang--sleep. Shan't I--have enough--sleep soon?'

Foster proffered his suggestion.

'Will your lordship be pleased to attach your signature?'

'Foster!'

'My lord?'

'Give me the will.'

Foster advanced the sheet of paper, on the blotting-pad, and a pen,

newly dipped in ink. To the pen the sick man paid no heed.

'The will?'

'Here is the will.'

'Give it--to me.'

The lawyer held out the sheet of paper. The sick man took it, and tore

it in half. It was rather a niggling process: he made one or two

abortive attempts. But the result was unmistakable. Two crumpled

fragments represented the document which Foster had deemed of such

importance. Its destroyer made a single remark.

'I--hate--wills.'

The lawyer's face was a study. There was a common feeling that

Violet's behaviour had something to do with what had happened. I think

that for little he would have told her so, in language of vigour.

Perhaps her own conscience assailed her. She whispered to Reggie:

'What's he torn?'

'His will.'

'His will? What was in it?'

'Everything to me.'

'Everything? Reggie, you don't mean that you'll have nothing then?'

'Not so bad as that.--Hush.'

The admonition was only administered in the nick of time. Then came a

voice from the bed.

'That girl's ---- tongue! She's a--jade, Reggie!'

'Yes.'

'You'll be a fool--if you marry her. Don't you do it.'

Reggie spoke hotly in reply. 'You don't know what you're talking

about.'

'You--you--young devil--speak to me like that? Foster.'

'My lord?' Hancock interposed.

'I beg, my lord, that you will not excite yourself.'

'Excite myself! What in thunder do you mean? I'll do--what I

please--with myself.' He was illumined by a sudden burst of really

vigorous passion; actually raising himself in bed to give it tongue.

He spoke with an amount of fluency which after the recent struggle he

had made to utter disconnected words was surprising. 'I'm not dead

yet, so don't let any one order me about as if I were--curse you, you

bald-headed old fool!' This was to Hancock; the top of whose scalp is

smooth. 'I'm not going to have my brother mixed up with a bold-faced

judy; he's not going to make a girl of whom I disapprove the

Marchioness of Twickenham. I tell you, Foster, that if Reggie marries

that jade--if he marries--if he----'

He stopped as if at a loss for a word. Then a shudder passed all over

him; his whole frame became perceptibly rigid; he dropped back, still.

Hancock turned to us.

'I think if one of you gentlemen were to take the ladies out. I'm

afraid this may be serious.'

As we were going, the door opened to admit Dr. Robert White. I

welcomed him.

'Dr. White, you are just in time. I don't know if you are known to Sir

Gregory Hancock. Your patient has just had a relapse.'

The two doctors bent together in consultation over the bed. Edith

touched me on the arm.

'Let us wait,' she whispered.

Presently Hancock spoke to Reggie.

'My lord marquis, it becomes my painful duty to inform you that your

brother is dead.'

It was a diplomatic way of announcing the news. Vi, as usual, told the

truth with too much candour: 'He was a wicked man; he died as he had

lived.'

Hancock shook his head.

'Of the dead, my dear young lady, let no man speak ill.'

I led her from the room, Edith following with Reggie. So soon as I got

her outside I started to scold her there and then.

'I need not tell you, Violet, that you have behaved very badly.'

'You should not have let him touch me. I could not bear his fingers

against my skin.' She shuddered at the recollection. 'Those dreadful

hands! To think of all they've done!'

'You might at least have remembered that the man was on the threshold

of the grave. One day you may yourself stand in need of a lenient

judgment.'

'I wish I'd never seen him.'

'I wish it also. The mischief you have done is irrevocable. If it

hadn't been for you a will would be in existence by the terms of which

Reggie would be in indisputable possession of everything.'

'But, surely, the destruction of that piece of paper will make no

difference.'

'Won't it? You wait till you hear what Foster has to say.'

'Reggie, is it true that I've done you so much harm?'

'My dear Vi, you've done me no harm at all. Douglas exaggerates. If I

had been in your place I should have said and done exactly what you

said and did. But, come--hadn't you better go? There's no use your

staying now. We'll follow you as soon as we can.'

As we were going down the stairs I heard her whisper in his ear--'My

lord marquis!'

What he said I did not catch; but it was something which made her

smile.

So they went, and we were left to minister to the dead man.

CHAPTER X

AND BURIED

On one point it was absolutely essential that I should know at once

exactly where I stood. I settled it as we were returning up the

stairs.

'Reggie, there is one thing I wish to say. I will do everything for

Twickenham that remains to be done.'

'You mean as regards the funeral and that kind of thing?'

'I do. If you will leave everything to me I will make all necessary

arrangements.'

'Thank you. That's one more service. I wonder for how many things I am

really in your debt, besides bread and cheese, and--even kisses.'

'Don't talk nonsense.'

'It's not nonsense. And it'll have to be talked about some day. My

turn's coming.'

'We've been in stormy waters; if now we're going to sail over summer

seas together, I'll be content.'

'I'll see we do.'

I had not the slightest doubt of it. And I also would see. The time of

the harvest was at hand. I was quite ready to take my share of the

golden grain.

The doctor was chatting to Foster. Striding up to the bed I looked

down on the recumbent figure.

'I suppose, gentlemen, that there's no doubt whatever that he's dead?'

Hancock was unable to conceal his amusement.

'Are you suggesting, Mr. Howarth, that we don't know our business, or

that I don't know mine? That is the late Marquis; the present Marquis

is here.' He motioned with one hand towards the bed, with the other

towards Reggie. To Reggie he addressed himself. 'I beg, my lord, to

offer you my congratulations. I will not disguise from you that I am

aware that this is an occasion on which you are entitled to receive

them. We all know that your late brother was not all that he ought to

be, and that he has been to you the occasion of great, long-continued,

and undeserved anxiety. That burden has now been happily removed. I am

sure that in the future your noble house will be worthily

represented.'

'Thank you. I hope you're right.'

After all, Hancock was a prosy old fool.

'Is there anything else I can do for you, or arrange before I go? Dr.

White has kindly promised to see that the late Marquis receives all

proper attention.'

'Much obliged; but Mr. Howarth will see to everything.'

'I will see to the funeral.' This was Foster.

'Well, Mr. Howarth has undertaken----'

'Quite right, Reggie, I will see to everything--including the funeral,

Mr. Foster. We don't propose to trouble you more than we can help.'

Mr. Foster made a few remarks to Reggie which were also meant for me.

'I trust, my lord, that my attitude towards you in the past will not

be misconstrued. As I did what I held to be my duty towards your

brother, so I will observe equal fidelity towards you. If it should be

happily shown--which I do not doubt it will be--that you are now the

Marquis and in possession of the family estates, I will study your

interests with the same honesty of purpose with which I studied his.'

'Very good of you, Foster. You shall hear from me in due course.'

Reggie turned on his heel; and the great, and hitherto supreme, Mr.

Foster, was snubbed. It was injudicious, perhaps, but we both of us

owed him a good deal more than a snubbing.

At last Reggie and I were alone. The first thing he said, directly

their backs were turned, showed what was in his mind.

'It would be awkward if what that brute Foster keeps hinting at was

true, and Twickenham was married.'

'No fear of that. He wasn't. Twickenham wasn't a marrying man.'

'Let's hope it. A wife and family of his would be a crowning mercy.'

'There's not the slightest fear of anything of the kind. I'm sure of

it. It's Foster's cue to make you fidgety. Don't you let him have the

satisfaction of thinking that he even retains the power of making

himself disagreeable.'

Reggie was observing the silent figure.

'He does look a bad lot, even now.'

'He was.'

'Vi was quite right; he died as he had lived. I believed that if he

had had a few minutes longer he would have robbed me of all he could.'

'I shouldn't be surprised; the ruling passion strong in death.'

Presently he departed. I was alone with the man in the bed.

It was a curious sensation. It had all been so much easier than I had

ever ventured to hope. So quickly over too. The idea which had been

only mooted yesterday was already carried out. And in such triumphant

fashion. And we had waited fifteen years! But then during that period

I had never lighted on a Mr. Montagu Babbacombe. The man was a

consummate actor; altogether beyond anything I had ever seen or heard

of. On the stage his fame would fill the world; and then ring down the

ages. The arch-impostor had duped them all; with the most ridiculous

ease. No wonder; on one or two points he had deceived even me--whose

idea the whole thing was. The death certificate would be

forthcoming--poor old Hancock's conduct had been fatuous. This was a

great physician! If all documents of the kind are granted with equal

readiness, how many people are buried alive? The reflection was not an

agreeable one. The recognition in each case had been unhesitating.

Even that Didymus, Foster, was persuaded at last. There only remained

one or two trifling details which required attention, and the stakes

were ours.

I was a little at a loss how exactly to proceed. The key had been

turned to prevent untoward interruption, but still the fact remained

that voices might be audible without. If we were heard--or even if I

was heard, I might be asked whom I was talking to,--which,

conceivably, might be awkward. Obviously, it was a case for the

extremest caution.

I leant over the bed, and I whispered,

'Babbacombe!'

He did not answer. I had not expected he would. By now I had gained

some insight into his methods.

'I only want to tell you that I understand a woman's coming to wash

you; "lay you out," I believe, they call it. I suppose you don't

object?'

Not a sign; not a sound.

'That's all right; I don't suppose she'll worry you overmuch. By the

way, where have you put that money? I don't want to know; only women

of that kind are as sharp as needles; and not over scrupulous either.

If you like to confide it to my keeping it will be quite safe in my

charge, and you can have it whenever you want it, with the other five

hundred, as you know very well.'

Nothing to show he heard.

I turned down the bedclothes, thinking that he might have slipped the

notes between the sheets. Not he! Nothing in the shape of a bank-note

was to be seen. My curiosity being piqued--the depths of this man

really were too deep!--I looked for them in every place I could think

of, subjecting the whole bed to a minute examination; he evincing not

the slightest apparent interest in my proceedings. Not the vestige of

a note. Could he have swallowed them? If he had not, I could not

conceive what had become of them. They were not upon his body. They

could hardly, at his bidding, have vanished into air. Although I was

quite prepared to admit that, 'for ways that are dark,' compared to

him the Heathen Chinee was an innocent suckling.

'Well, as I can't find it I imagine that the woman won't; so I suppose

I make take it that the money's safe. There's only one other topic on

which I wish to touch--the funeral. The undertaker's man will come and

measure you to-day. The shell, and, I presume, the coffin also, will

arrive to-morrow morning. You'll be placed inside, and, in the

afternoon, the coffin will be closed. It will be taken down in the

evening by a special train to Cressland--where you may, or may not, be

aware is the family vault--the interment taking place on Wednesday. As

we are none of us particularly proud of you, the interment will be as

private as possible. As, I take it, you don't want to be inside the

coffin when it's placed in its last resting-place, I'll look in before

the undertaker's fellows; you must give up being dead, and, between

us, we'll screw down the lid. I'll find an excuse which will satisfy

them. I have an idea in this fertile brain of mine.--You clearly

understand and agree. Say so if you don't!'

He said nothing, nor signified in any way whatever that he had

attained to even a glimmer of comprehension. But I knew him. Taking

his immobility to signify acquiescence, I left him asleep upon the

bed.

But though I left him he was with me all the time. I could not get him

out of my head. I interviewed the landlord, with whom I made

arrangements on a very liberal scale to compensate him for the

inconvenience the affair was causing him; and all the while that we

were talking I saw, with my mental eye, the silent figure on the bed!

Thence I went to Tattenham, the funeral furnisher. The figure was with

me there. I wondered what my feelings would be if I knew that I was

being measured for my coffin. With what amount of ceremony would the

measurer treat me? To be touched for such a purpose by such hands! I

feared that under his kind offices I should not lie so still as I

trusted Mr. Montagu Babbacombe would do.

At home I found, as I expected, Edith and Reggie confabulating with

Violet. As I also expected, Vi began at me at once--though her tone

and bearing were alike surprising. She was unwontedly meek.

'Doug'--it was very rarely that she called me 'Doug,' I had rather she

had not done so then. I had too recently heard the abbreviation

proceeding from other lips--'Doug, I'm sorry I behaved so badly. I

know I was a wretch. Edith has made me see that, and it's no use

Reggie pretending that I wasn't.'

My manner was brusque. It was a subject about which I wished to hear

nothing more.

'That's all right. I wouldn't be too penitent if I were you. There was

no harm done.'

'But it prevented him making his will?'

'If it did it did; and what's done can't be undone. Not that I think

it matters.'

'Don't you really think it matters? Supposing any of those things

happen at which it seems that Mr. Foster hinted; what then?'

'What then? Wait till then. Till then say nothing.'

I do not think she altogether grasped my meaning. Indeed I doubt if I

myself clearly understood what it was I wished to say. I told them

what arrangements I was making with regard to the funeral, and so on,

Reggie showing himself quite of my opinion that everything should be

done as quietly as possible. Had the third marquis died, after a

well-ordered life, in the odour of sanctity, his corpse might have

been interred with all possible honour; as things were, it was

advisable that he should be laid in his last resting-place with as

little form and ceremony as was compatible with decency.

When I left the room, anxious to be by myself, to think, Edith

followed me. For the first time in my life I found her presence

irksome. She followed me to the small apartment which I dignified by

the name of library, evidently assured of the welcome which hitherto

had never failed her.

'At last!' she began, as soon as we were alone together. I busied

myself with some papers which were on my writing-table.

'Yes; at last.'

'We have waited for it a good many years; you and I.'

'That is so.'

This was platitudinous. I felt that if she had nothing more original

to say I should have to ask her to excuse me if I gave my attention to

matters which pressed. Her words, her voice, her very neighbourhood,

seemed to have a singular effect upon my nervous system. It was as if

I were ashamed. In some curious way, it was as if I were afraid of

her. I wanted to take her in my arms; to hold her to me; to find

strength in her sweet tenderness; for it was strength I needed. But I

was conscious of an awkward inability to do as I had done a hundred

times before--ay, a thousand. A shadowy something seemed to have

interposed itself between us, as her own quick sight perceived.

'What is the matter with you, Douglas?'

The question took me aback. I looked up at her with a start,

experiencing an unwonted difficulty in meeting her inquiring glances.

'The matter? Why?'

'You seem changed.'

'Changed? It's your fancy.'

'It's a very vivid fancy then. I noticed it first the night you dined

with us.' On the afternoon of that day I had first seen the sleeping

man. Are there any detectives like the eyes of the woman who loves?

'It has grown more perceptible since. Until now it sits upon you in a

guise so that you seem transformed.'

'Many things have happened during the last day or two.'

'Yes. Have you told us of them all?'

'Of them all? What do you mean?'

'Douglas, don't you know what I mean?' She came close to me, laying

her hand upon my arm. I actually quivered beneath her touch; a fact of

which I had an uncomfortable conviction she was conscious. 'I've

another fancy--which is also a very vivid one, that there is something

behind all this of which you've said nothing. Douglas, can't you tell

me?'

'What your fancy is? I'm afraid you ask something which is beyond my

capacity; since it probably takes the shape of poetry rather than

prose.'

'Douglas--is Twickenham married?'

'Married? My dear Edith, is that the shape your fancy takes? I know no

more whether he was married than you do. Although I have a private

conviction--to which I intend to adhere till the contrary is

proved--that he wasn't.'

My manner plainly showed her that her shot had failed to hit the mark.

She let fly another arrow; this time with a better aim.

'Douglas, where did you see him first?'

'Some day I may tell you. I don't propose to now.'

'Was he ill?'

'Not that I'm aware of.'

'It wasn't in a hospital?'

'A hospital! Edith, what is it you are driving at?'

'Nor in any place of the kind?'

'Are you suggesting that I dragged him from a sick bed to die for our

benefit? Because, if so, let me assure you that when I first saw him I

had no notion that anything ailed him, or that he was any nearer death

than I am.'

'Well, Douglas, I won't worry you now, because I know that you are

already worried about something, the burden of which I hope that one

day you'll share with me.'

So she went, leaving me in a condition of mental unrest to which I had

never supposed I could have fallen a prey. I could not shake off that

ridiculous feeling that I had for company the silent figure on the

bed; the dead man who was not dead. The interview with Edith invested

him with a new significance. Already she suspected that there was more

in the matter than met the eye. Was I so poor an actor? Had I so

wholly failed to profit by the great example which had been set me? If

it was Edith now, when would it be Violet and Reggie? If either of

them gained the faintest inkling of the actual state of affairs, what

would become of my house of cards, and of me? How infinitely worse

would my latter state be than my first! I had never, so far as I knew,

done a dishonourable thing till then. Now, on a sudden, here I was,

tilting against the laws both of God and man. If I had a fall, there

would be an end of me.

The next day I was busied about a multitude of things. The story had

already got about, thanks, I imagine, to the people at the hotel; as a

consequence I was inundated with inquiries, to some of which I was

compelled to give personal attention. For instance, Morris

Acrodato--grown old, but still relentless--came, assuring me that he

had that unfortunate bill of Twickenham's in his pocket, and wanting

to know--if he did not take out a warrant to arrest the corpse, if his

claim would be favourably considered by the succeeding peer. Over and

over again both Reggie and I had begged Foster to pay him what he

asked, and so silence him so far as he could be silenced; but with

equal persistency he had retorted by requesting us to furnish him with

Twickenham's instructions to do as we desired. So after fifteen years

Acrodato was still waiting for his money or his man. A portentous sum

the amount which he demanded had become. Although I laughed at his

notion of arresting a dead man--we are not in Sheridan's days, when a

corpse was seizable--I had no hesitation in giving him my personal

assurance that all should be done for him which equity called for. He

rather pulled a face at my allusion to equity, that being hardly the

point of view from which he wished his case to be regarded.

Try as I would, I could not get through the things which had to be

done at anything like the rate which I desired, the result being that

the afternoon was already well advanced before I was able to make my

promised visit to Cortin's Hotel.

I realised, with a sense of shock, that a hearse stood before the

door. What had happened? I looked at my watch. It was after six. The

train which was to bear the coffin to Cressland was due to start in

something like an hour. What an idiot I had been! Better have left

everything else undone rather than run the risk of being too late.

Suppose the undertaker's men were already in the room, and Mr.

Babbacombe--mistaking the cause of my non-arrival, and setting it down

as intentional--had realised that their purpose was to prison him in

that narrow box, and shut him off for ever from the light of day, what

might not be taking place! I leaped from the cab and rushed up the

steps. The landlord met me in the hall.

'The undertaker's men have arrived, sir. They are closing the coffin

now.'

'Closing the coffin!'

I waited to hear no more. Never before had I mounted a flight of

stairs as I did those then. I was up them in a hop, skip, and jump;

not pausing to consider what I was to say or do when I reached the

chamber of the supposititious dead, but only anxious to get there.

When I got there it was already too late. I saw it at a glance. Never

shall I forget with what sensations!

Four men were in the room, all dressed in black. One had his hat on;

the hats of the other three were together on a single chair. An oak

coffin stood on a black velvet pall, which doubtless covered trestles.

Two men, one at either end, were screwing on the lid. A third was

prowling about the room. The fourth--the one with his hat on--was

standing, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the proceedings.

They all glanced towards me as I entered, unmistakably taken by

surprise. The fourth man, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, made

haste to remove his hat. The prowler came hurrying towards the others.

'You're--you're not closing the coffin?'

'Yes, sir. By Mr. Tattenham's instructions.'

'But it's not time.'

'Excuse me, sir, but it is. The coffin has to be placed in the van

before it's attached to the train; and that means some time before

it's due to start. Did you wish, sir, to see him?'

I felt dazed; filled with a whirl of confused thoughts. The voice of

the undertaker's man sounded to me like a voice in a dream.

'See him. Is he'--I was about to add 'in there?' Because it seemed

incredible that even so consummate an artist as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe

could consent to remain quiescent while being consigned to a living

tomb. But the question in such a form might have seemed too

suggestive; so I substituted, 'Is he all right?'

It seemed that the man somewhat mistook my drift.

'Perfectly, sir. Make a fine photograph, sir. Looks calm and peaceful;

as well as he possibly could look. We can easily remove the lid; would

you like to see him, sir?'

'See him? No. I--I don't want to see him.'

'In that case, since the lid is closed, we'll be starting, sir, if you

don't mind.'

I do not know what I said. Something, I suppose; because shouldering

the coffin there and then, they started. They carried it from the room

and bore it from my sight. I remained behind, picturing the man inside

fighting for freedom. I wondered when the struggle would begin. What

was that? I thought I heard a voice calling to me from the stairs

without; a voice I seemed to know. I went to the door and listened.

Not a sound. Across the hall below passed the four men in black,

bearing the living man shut up in the box upon their shoulders.

Was he already tapping at the inner shell? Would they hear him if he

were? The shell was presumably a substantial one; the wood of the

outer coffin thick. He would be shrouded in his winding-clothes; his

movements would be cumbered. He would quite possibly be unable to rap

with sufficient force to make them hear him. He might call; or try to.

In that stifling atmosphere would he be able to use his voice?

At any rate it seemed plain that nothing took place inside that

polished tomb to attract their attention. The bearers passed through

the swing doors, out into the street. I waited. No doubt the coffin

was being placed inside the hearse. Was Mr. Babbacombe aware of it?

Presently one of the undertaker's men returned to fetch the four hats

which had been left behind in the room. He went down the stairs with

two in either hand. Another interval. Presumably the hearse had

started.

What was that noise--like the scratching of fingernails against wood?

Whose voice called me? Did it come from the bed? I spun round like a

teetotum.

It was merely a delusion. It must have been. The bed was unoccupied.

Its emptiness affected me more than anything which had gone before. It

exercised on me so singular a fascination that I continued to stare at

it as if unable to take my eyes away.

What was that noise--like the scratching of a man's nails against

wood? The hearse must have long since got out of the street. If it had

a fast pair of horses it was probably already half-way to the station.

It could not come from the bed.

When--I do not know how long afterwards--I went down the stairs,

feeling as if a century had elapsed since I went up them, the landlord

stopped me to express a hope that everything had been done to my

satisfaction.

BOOK II.--THE LOST HUSBAND

THE STORY IS CONTINUED BY MRS. JAMES MERRETT