"On behalf of the organ fund," read Hank and regarded the pink tickets
that accompanied the vicar's letter with suspicion.
"It's a curious fact," said the Duke, "that of all people and things in
this wide world, there is no class so consistently insolvent as the
organ class. There isn't a single organ in England that can pay its
way. It's broke to the world from its infancy; its youth is a
hand-to-mouth struggle, and it reaches its maturity up to the eyes in
debt. It has benefit sermons and Sunday-school matinees, garden
parties, bazaars and soirees, but nothing seems to put the poor old dear
on his legs; he just goes wheezing on, and ends his miserable existence
in the hands of the official receiver. What is this by the way?"
"A soiree," said Hank moodily, "and will we help."
The Duke sprang up.
"Rather!" he said jubilantly "will we help? Why, this is the very
opportunity I've been waiting for! I'll sing a sentimental song, and
you can say a little piece about a poor child dying in the snow."
"Snow nothing," said Hank, "you can sing if you want, and I'll go
outside so that folk's shan't see I'm ashamed of you."
He took a turn or two up and down the apartment, then came to an abrupt
stop before the Duke.
"Say," he said quickly, "Bill Slewer's out."
The Duke raised his eyebrows.
"The amiable William?" he asked with mild astonishment, "not Bad Man
Bill?"
Hank nodded gravely.
"I got a letter from Judge Morris. Bill had a pull in the state and the
remainder of his sentence has been remitted by the new governor."
"Well?" asked the Duke with a yawn. Hank was searching his pocket for a
letter. He opened one and read--
"... hope you are having a good time ... m--m your Nevada properties are
booming ... (oh, here we are). By the way Big Bill Slewer's loose, the
man the Duke ran out of Tycer country and jailed for shooting Ed. Carter
the foreman.
"Bill says he is going gunning for Jukey--"
"Ugh!" shuddered the Duke.
"--and reckons to leave for Europe soon. Japhet in search of his pa will
be a quaker picnic compared with Bill on the sleuth. Tell Jukey----"
The Duke groaned.
"Tell Jukey to watch out for his loving little friend Bill. Bill is
going to have a big send off and a bad citizens' committee has presented
the hero with a silver plate Colt's revolver and has passed a special
resolution deprecating the artificial social barriers of an effete and
degenerate aristocracy."
The Duke smiled.
"If Bill turns up in Brockley I'll run the military gentleman loose on
him," he announced calmly; "in the meantime let us address ourselves to
the soiree."
It was announced from the pulpit on the next Sunday that amongst the
kind friends who has promised to help was "our neighbour the Duc de
Montvillier" and the next morning Miss Alicia Terrill sought out the
vicar and asked to be relieved of a certain promise she had made.
"But, my dear Miss Terrill, it's quite impossible," protested the amazed
cleric; "you were so very keen on the soiree, and your name has been
sent to the printer with the rest of the good people who are singing.
Here's the proof." He fussed at his desk and produced a sheet of paper.
"Here we are," he said, and she read:--
"No. 5 (song), 'Tell me, where is fancy bred'--Miss A. Terrill.
"No. 6 (song), 'In my quiet garden'--The Duc de Montvillier."
"And here again in Part II," said the vicar. She took the papers with
an unsteady hand.
"No. 11 (song), 'I heard a voice'--Miss A. Terrill.
"No. 12 (song), 'Alice, where art thou'--The Duc de Montvillier."
She looked at the vicar helplessly.
"Why--why does the Duke follow me?" she asked weakly.
"It was his special wish," explained the other. "He said his voice
would serve to emphasize the sweetness of your singing and coming, as it
would, immediately after your song--these are his own words--_his_
feeble efforts would bring the audience to a----"
"Oh yes," she interrupted impatiently, "I can well imagine all that he
said, and I'm _thoroughly_ decided that the programme _must_ be
rearranged."
In the end she had her way.
For some reason she omitted to convey to her mother the gist of the
conversation. If the truth must be told, she had already regretted
having spoken of the matter at all to her family, for her mother's
letter to the Tanneurs had brought to her a greater infliction than her
impetuous suitor. Whatever opinion might be held of the genius of Hal
Tanneur at Hydeholm, in the expressive language of the 9th's mess, he
was "no flier." The girl had learnt of his coming with dismay, and the
gleam of hope that perhaps after all, he _might_ be able to effectively
snub the young man of the step ladder, was quickly extinguished as the
result of the brief skirmish she had witnessed. And Hal was attentive
in his heavy way, and had tricks of elephantine gallantry that caused
her more annoyance than alarm.
On the evening of the day she had seen the vicar, Mr. Hal Tanneur
decided upon making a diplomatic offer, so set about with reservations
and contingencies, that it was somewhat in the nature of a familiar
stock exchange transaction. In other words he set himself the task of
securing an option on her hand, with the understanding that in the event
of his father's refusal to endorse the contract, the option was to be
secretly renewed for an indefinite period. He did not put the matter in
so few words as I, because he was not such a clever juggler of words as
I am, but after he had been talking, with innumerable "d'ye see what I
mean Alic's" and "of course you understand's," she got a dim idea of
what he was driving at. She let him go on. "Of course the governor's
got pots of money, and I don't want to get in his bad books. Just now
he's a bit worried over some Nevada property he's trying to do a chap
out of--in quite a business-like way of course. The other chap--the
chap who has the property now has got a big flaw in his title and he
doesn't know it. See? Well, unless he renews his claim and gets some
kind of an order from the court, or something of that sort, the governor
and the governor's friends can throw him out, d'ye see what I mean?"
"I really don't see what this is to do with me," said Alicia frankly
bored, "you said you wanted to tell me something of the greatest
importance, and I really ought to be seeing about mother's supper."
"Wait a bit," he pleaded, "this is where the whole thing comes in: if
the governor pulls this deal off, he'll be as pleased as Punch, and I
can say out plump and plain how I feel about you."
It was on the tip of her tongue to inform him that "plump and plain" was
ludicrously descriptive of himself, but she forbore. Instead she plunged
him into a state of embarrassed incoherence by demanding coolly--
"Do I understand, Hal, that you have been proposing to me?"
She cut short his explanations with a smile.
"Please don't wound my vanity by telling me this is only a tentative
offer--anyway I'll put your mind at rest. Under no circumstances could
I marry you: there are thousands of reasons for that decision, but the
main one is, that I do not love you, and I cannot imagine anything short
of a miracle that would make me love you."
She left him speechless.
The greater part of the next day he sulked in the garden, but towards
the evening he grew cheerful. After all, a woman's No was not
necessarily final.
He got most of his ideas from the comic papers.
Only for an instant had he entertained the suspicion that there might be
Another Man, but this he dismissed as ridiculous. Alicia's refusal was
very natural. She had been piqued by the fact that he had not been able
to make her a definite offer. He resolved to bide his time, and come to
his father on the crest of that prosperous wave which was to hand the
Denver Silver Streak Mine into the lap of his astute progenitor. Then
he would speak out boldly, trusting to the generosity of his father.
Constructing these pleasant dreams, he found himself discussing the
coming concert with Alicia, and the girl pleasantly relieved that her
refusal had had so little effect upon his spirits, was a little sorry
she had been so severe.
They were talking over the songs Alicia was to sing, when there was the
sound of a carriage stopping outside the door, followed by an important
rat-tat.
"Whoever can it be?" wondered Alicia.
She had not to wait in suspense for very long. In a few seconds the
servant announced--
"Sir Harry Tanneur and Mr. Slewer."
*Part II*
*THE DUKE DEPARTS*
*I*
Years ago I discovered that truth was indeed stranger than fiction--that
curious and amazing things happened daily that caused one to say, "If I
had read this in a book I should have said that it was impossible."
Following upon this discovery, I have observed that all the best
chroniclers, exercise unusual caution in dealing with unexpected
situations, carefully and laboriously laying solid foundations on which
to build their literary coincidences. Fortunately Sir Harry saves me
the trouble, for his first words explained his presence.
"Ah, Alicia," he pecked at her, "let me introduce our good friend
Slewer--just arrived from the United States of America with a letter of
introduction from the gentleman in charge of my affairs in Denver."
Alicia regarded the new arrival with polite interest.
Mr. Bill Slewer, in a ready-made suit of clothing that fitted him badly,
in a soft grey shirt and a ready-made tie, shuffled uneasily under the
scrutiny.
He was a tall man, with shoulders a trifle bowed and long arms that hung
awkwardly. But it was his face that fascinated the girl. Scarred and
seamed and furrowed till it seemed askew, what held her, were his eyes.
They were pale blue and large, and in the setting of his mahogany skin
he looked for all the world like one sightless. Two white discs that
shifted here and there when she spoke, but which never once looked
toward her.
"Mr. Slewer," Sir Harry went on, with an air of quiet triumph, "can
serve you, Alicia."
"Me?" The girl's eyes opened in astonishment.
Sir Harry nodded and chuckled.
"I don't think you are likely to be annoyed with your neighbour after
to-day," he said, "eh, Mr. Slewer?"
Mr. Slewer, seated on the edge of a settee, twisting his hat awkwardly
by the brim and staring at a gilt clock on the mantelpiece, shifted
something he had in his mouth from one cheek to the other, and said
huskily and laconically--
"Naw."
"This gentleman"--Sir Harry waved his hand like a showman indicating his
prize exhibit--"has been most disgracefully treated by--er--the Duke."
Alicia regarded Mr. Slewer with renewed interest and an unaccountable
feeling of irritation.
"The Duke in fact," the magnate went on impressively, "fled from America
to avoid the--er--just retribution that awaited him. Fled in a most
cowardly fashion, eh, Mr. Slewer?"
"Yep," said the other, fingering his long yellow moustache.
"Mr. Slewer came to Denver knowing this--er--duke has property or,"
corrected Sir Harry carefully, "thinks he has property there, and found
him gone. As I have large interests in the mining industry in that
city, it was only natural that Mr. Slewer should be directed to me as
being likely to know the whereabouts of--this chartered libertine."
There was a grain of truth in this story, for the astute lawyer, who was
Sir Harry's agent in Denver city, had most excellent reason for wishing
to know the Duke's present address. The coming of Big Bill Slewer, ripe
for murder and with the hatred he had accumulated during his five years'
imprisonment, played splendidly into his hands.
The girl had risen at Sir Harry's last words, and stood with a perplexed
frown facing her uncle.
"Chartered libertine?" She was used to Sir Harry's hackneyed figures of
speech and usually attached no importance to them.
"What has he done to this man?"
Sir Harry glanced at Mr. Slewer and that worthy gentleman shifted
awkwardly. He did not immediately reply, then--
"This Jukey," he said, "went an' run away wid me wife."
She took a step backward.
"Ran away with your wife?" she repeated.
"Sure," said Mr. Slewer.
"You see?" said Sir Harry enjoying the sensation.
The girl nodded slowly.
"I see," she replied simply.
"I'm going to fix up Mr. Slewer for the night," said Sir Harry, "and
to-morrow I will confront him with his victim."
Young Mr. Tanneur, an interested and silent listener, had an
inspiration, "I say, governor," he blurted, "I've got a ripping idea!"
His father smiled.
"Trust you, Hal," he said admiringly.
"There's a soiree or concert to-morrow night," said the ingenious Hal,
"this fellow is going to sing, why not wait till then? I can get you a
couple of seats in the first row--it would be awful fun to see his face
when he spots Mr. Slewer."
"Oh no!" protested the girl.
"Why not?" demanded Sir Harry? "I think it is an excellent idea."
"But----"
"Please don't interfere, Alicia," said the knight testily, "we are doing
all this for your sake: there will be no fuss. As soon as the man sees
this poor fellow he will skip and there will be no bother or
disturbance--isn't that so, Mr. Slewer?"
"Yep," said the untruthful Bill, who had followed the conversation with
interest. Such a finale was in harmony with his tastes. He wanted an
audience for the act he contemplated. His ideas about the English law
were of the haziest, but he did not doubt his ability to escape the
consequence of his vengeance.
One question the girl put to him before his departure.
She found a surprising difficulty in putting it into words.
"Where--where is the wom--your wife now, Mr. Slewer?" she asked in a low
voice.
This well-nigh proved the undoing of Mr. Slewer, whose inventive faculty
was not the strongest part of his intellectual equipment. He was
standing on the doorstep when she put the question, and she saw him
wriggle a little in his embarrassment.
"She," he hesitated, "oh, I guess he's got her with him all right, all
right." Then he remembered that this could not be so without her
knowledge, and he hastened to add, "or else he's put her down and out."
"Killed her?" comprehended the girl with a gasp.
"Yep," said Mr. Slewer nodding his head. "Jukey's a mighty bad man--yes,
sir."
Sir Harry was at the gate directing the cabman and young Mr. Tanneur was
with him. Bill looked round and then edged closer to the girl.
"Say," he whispered, "dat Jukey feller--do youse wanter do him dirt?"
"I--I don't understand," she faltered.
He nodded his head sagely did this product of Cherry Hill, who had gone
West in '93.
"To-morrer," he said, "I'm goin' to put it outer him--proper!"
He left her as a novelist would say, a prey to conflicting emotions.