Two thoughts were in his mind as he waited for the red wick of the

candle to grow black again: the one, the further tracking of the game he

had definitely roused during the night; the other, sheer childish

pleasure in a story of adventure come true. Alas for the stockbroker! he

cared no more for the shillings; there was a dark passage in the wall,

and the imperishable child within him trembled and smiled; Mr. Francis,

the man felt sure, had used this passage last night. Here was double

cause for excitement and joy. The candle burned more bravely, and two

ways were open. Like all right-handed folk, his impulse was to turn to

the left, and, obeying it, he travelled six yards or so of a level,

rough-floored passage. On his right ran the courses of bricks in the

main wall, a little dark and mildewy, on his left the panelling of the

hall. A turn at right angles, at the corner no doubt of the hall,

disclosed a flight of wooden steps leading downward. Here the

stockbroker awoke; he greedily counted them, and ten shillings were his.

But the stockbroker, it seemed, was a gentleman of second-rate vitality;

he awoke from his torpor but to count, and slumbered again, leaving the

child and the hunter to go their way.

At the bottom of these steps Geoffrey paused a moment to recollect his

bearings. He had entered the secret way on the short side of the hall;

the steps therefore were on the long side of it, and on the garden side

of the house. But inasmuch as the passage, when he entered it, was some

six feet above the ground level of the hall, these ten downward steps

would bring him back to ground level again. He was therefore walking in

the outer wall of the hall on a level with the floor. This clear, he

went slowly on.

Suddenly he was confronted by a blank brick wall, straight in front. But

on the right hand the regular courses of the brick were interrupted by a

panelled wooden oblong, some five feet high; beyond this, up to the wall

that ended the passage, the courses went on again. In the middle of it

was a round wooden handle; straight below it on the floor ran two

flanged metal lines. Laying hold of this handle, he pulled at it, and on

each side of the wooden panel opened a jagged edge of light, irregular

and full of angles. It drew inward some three feet till it reached the

end of the metal lines, running smoothly but with a sense of great

weight. Sunlight poured in, and Geoffrey stepped on to the lawn outside

and regarded his discovery. Indeed, it had been a cunning brain and hand

that had devised this. The house wall outside here ran in courses of

small brick, and the opening of this door drew these inward irregularly.

The top of the door, for instance, was four bricks in length, but the

second row of bricks detached numbered six; below that again was a

course of four withdrawn, then one of five, then one of six again. The

joining was fitted with extreme accuracy; here the interspace of mortar

between the bricks would move with the withdrawn piece of wall, here it

would remain on the wall in place; detection of the line of the door to

one who did not know where to look, even to one who did, would be nearly

impossible.

Regarding it more closely, another thing struck him: halfway down the

withdrawn portion was a broken edge of brick, and taking hold of this he

drew the door back into its place again. Seen thus, as part of the whole

wall, detection appeared impossible; there was no line to follow, and,

though he had closed it but a moment before, he could not trace the

junctures. The thing fitted as well as a jaw full of good teeth.

But he surveyed it only for a moment; then with an effort pushing it

back again, he re-entered, closed it behind him, and took up his candle

to explore the branch of the passage that led to the right of the

picture. Again he mounted the ten steps, again came opposite the hinged

panel, and passed on. Ten similar steps again led down to the ground

level of the hall, and at the bottom of these the passage ended in a

wooden panel, by the side of which was a latch exactly resembling that

by which the picture-panel was shut and opened. He turned it, and the

hinged woodwork opened, giving on the short space between the stairs

where he had watched last night and the door into the hall round which

Mr. Francis's face had first appeared to him when he awoke from his

doze. This, then, explained all; it was here, not from behind the

picture, that the old man had entered; from here, seeing a light in the

hall, he had peeped round the corner.

Geoffrey stepped out into the corridor, and examined the hinged panel

from outside; it was in deep shadow, but round it ran bossed circles

similar to those in that which held the portrait over the mantelpiece;

the second on the right in the same manner raised and lowered the latch.

He blew out the candle, leaving it on the bottom step of the secret way,

closed the door, and went to the smoking room. Harry was still at work,

ill at ease with figures.

"And seven," he observed truculently, as Geoffrey entered.

"Twenty," said the other, "and two secret doors--I beg your pardon,

three. Twenty-six bob, Harry. Stump up."

Harry raised a malevolent face for a moment, and finished his column.

"Any skeletons?" he asked, with pungency.

"No; no skeletons. Will you come and see it now?"

Harry sprang up.

"Look here, Geoff, are you playing the fool?" he said. "If so, are you

prepared to die?"

"Neither," said Geoffrey, "but don't let me interrupt you. Better get on

with your work; the passage won't run away."

"Nor will the work. I wish it would. Do you really mean it, Geoff? There

is a holy awe about your face."

"Come and see," said Geoffrey.

They went together to the panel by the staircase, and entered. Geoffrey

lit the candle he had left there, and preceding Harry, who made no

comment beyond unintelligible mutterings, stopped opposite the back of

old Francis's portrait.

"The second secret door," he said, opening it; "the door I discovered

first. I'll show you afterward how to get in from the outside. And

here," he said, pointing to the recess, "here I found this candle and

the matches. Convenient."

"That candle," said Harry; "why, it is nearly new; it is not dusty, and

the matches, too--used they to use matches----" and he stopped

suddenly. "Give me the candle a minute, Geoff," he said.

He looked at the crest and monogram on it, and returned it.

"Come on," he said, with something of an effort. "Let's see where the

passage leads."

"What's the matter?" asked the other.

"Nothing; get on."

They went down to the outer door, and looked at it again from the

outside. Though he had been through it twice that morning, yet, when it

was closed, Geoffrey could not see where it was, so perfect was the

joining of it.

"And the bit of broken brick is the handle to pull it to," said Harry,

with interest. But he was visibly preoccupied, and his delight was

clouded; there was no childish joy in him. Geoffrey guessed the reason

for it, and at lunch afterward Harry spoke.

"That was a candle of Uncle Francis's, Geoff," he said. "It was his

monogram," and he looked up as if expecting that his information was

surprising. But Geoffrey went on eating quite calmly.

"So I supposed," he said.

"Then you think he knows of the secret passage?"

"I feel sure he does."

Harry's face clouded a little more; it was dark already.

"Are you weighing your words?" he asked. "Do you mean exactly what you

say?"

"Exactly. Is not the new candle and the matches proof enough for you?"

"It ought to be. Yet I don't know. I suppose you mean that you have

further proof."

"I don't suppose anything would convince you if that candle doesn't,"

said Geoffrey, not yet wishing to tell Harry of Mr. Francis's nocturnal

visit.

Harry pondered this awhile.

"No, I don't suppose it would," he observed at length. "Anyhow, Geoff,

if he didn't tell us he knew of the passage, we won't tell him that we

do. You used to call me secretive, I remember. I dare say you were

right."

"It seems to run in the family," said the other.

"You mean that Uncle Francis is secretive, too. Well, I think he might

have told me of the passage. Halloo! there are the horses. Just wait; I

must go through it again. The candle spoiled all my pleasure this

morning, and it is heavenly, simply heavenly. Twenty-six bob, you say.

Dirt cheap, too."

CHAPTER XVIII

RAIN

Two mornings after this discovery of the passage, as they were sitting

at breakfast, a telegram was brought in for Harry.

"Brougham to meet the evening train," he said to the man, after reading

it, "and tell them to get Mr. Francis's rooms ready."

"He comes to-night?" asked Geoffrey.

"Yes; I did not expect him so soon. But he is only coming for a couple

of days, he says. He has taken the flat in Wimpole Street; I suppose he

means to go back there."

"What is he coming here for?"

"Can't say--to get some furniture and things, I suspect. Then the

passage is to be a secret, eh, Geoff?"

"Why, surely," said Geoffrey; "like a box hedge. I shouldn't take the

slightest pleasure in it if I thought other people knew----"

"But you said you were sure that Uncle Francis did know," interrupted

Harry.

"Let me finish my sentence, if you don't mind. I was about to say that I

shouldn't take the slightest pleasure in it if I thought that other

people knew that I knew."

Harry broke a piece of toast meditatively.

"I'm not sure about it," he said. "Personally I felt rather aggrieved

that Uncle Francis had not told me anything about it. Well, wouldn't he

as naturally feel aggrieved if I don't tell him?"

"It is superfluous to tell him," said Geoffrey, "because he knows

already. Secondly, it will spoil all my pleasure if he knows we know,

and I shall wish I hadn't found the thing at all. Fifthly and lastly,

you never paid me that twenty-six bob; and, thirdly, it is your house,

after all."

Harry was silent. Then suddenly:

"Geoffrey," he said, "tell me what further proof you have, apart from

the candle, that Uncle Francis does know about it. I'll draw you a

cheque after breakfast; haven't got any money."

"Is that a bribe?" asked Geoffrey.

"Yes."

"And you really wish to know?"

"Yes, I ask you," said Harry. "No, it is not a bribe. If soberly you

would rather not tell me, don't."

For a moment Geoffrey could not make up his mind whether he wished Harry

to know or not. If only the tale would have put him on his guard, he

would have had no hesitation about telling him all--his conversation

with Lady Oxted, the looped cotton, the midnight visit. But he felt that

the right time had not come, though it might come any day. On the other

hand, it was difficult to speak merely of Mr. Francis's visit without

betraying some hint of his suspicions, and this he did not want to do.

But the balance of advantage seemed to incline toward telling him; for

if he did not, in answer to so direct an invitation, Harry would not

unnaturally accuse him, though silently no doubt, of unfounded

suspicions against a man whom he himself honoured very highly. So he

determined to speak.

"Three nights ago," he said, "on the evening of the gun-room affair, you

went to bed early, and I sat in the hall and dozed. I awoke suddenly and

saw Mr. Francis's face looking round the corner by the staircase."

Harry pushed back his chair.

"What!" he said.

"Oh, I was not dozing then. We talked for some time, and he told me why

he had come with this secrecy. He also asked me not to tell you. But I

don't mind."

"And why had he come?" asked Harry.

"All day, he said, he had been haunted by a strong premonition of evil,

and he had come to make sure you were safe."

"That's odd," said Harry. "On the day of the gun-room affair--well?"

"For one reason and another," continued Geoffrey, "I felt sure he had

not come in by the front door. At any rate, I proved that he did not

leave by it, for I put some stamp paper over the joining, and in the

morning it was still untorn. And then, if you remember, I said I felt

yew-hedgy, and found the passage."

Harry got up, and began pacing up and down the dining room.

"But how ridiculous!" he said. "Why couldn't he have told me? Was he

ashamed of his premonition?"

"He told me he was."

Harry felt unreasonably annoyed.

"I won't have my house burglariously entered by anybody," he said,

"Uncle Francis or another. I shall tell him so."

"As you will," said Geoffrey, inwardly anxious that he should not.

"Then I shall not tell him so," said Harry, "and I sha'n't tell him that

I know about the secret passage. But next time he tries to use it, he

shall find no candle there. I've a good mind to block the place up,

Geoff."

"Oh, don't do that! 'Tisn't fair on me."

"I shall do exactly as I damn please!" said Harry. "We'll be finding it

full of kitchen maids next. No, I can't block it up before I've shown it

Evie. But I shall go there every day and take away his candle if he puts

fresh ones. Lord, I got quite heated about it!"

"That's right," said Geoffrey; "don't be sat upon by anybody."

"Anyhow you'd better not try," said Harry viciously.

He continued quarter-decking about the room for a few times in silence,

and his annoyance subsided.

"And the old fellow really came down because he had a presentiment

about me," he went on. "Geoff, that's an odd thing now. It looks as if

the Luck touched more than me; it gave Uncle Francis a hint of what it

was doing. You know the Luck's getting on; it is making more reasonable

attempts on me. Do you think I've been encouraging it too much? Perhaps

I have; we won't drink its health to-night."

"I would if I were you," said Geoffrey. "Perhaps in that way you have

put the old thing in a good temper. Well, keep it up; it can't avoid

having shots at you, but it always manages to miss."

"Ah, you are beginning to believe in it too."

"Not a bit. All the effect the Luck has is to make you talk arrant

nonsense about it. I believe in it, indeed! I was just humouring you."

"Your notions of the humorous are obscure," observed Harry.

Mr. Francis arrived late that night, full of little anecdotes about his

house-hunting, and loud in praises of his flat. He had only come, as he

had said, for a couple of days, to collect some books and sticks of

furniture, and by the end of the month at the outside he hoped to have

it completely habitable. His pleasure in it was that of a child with a

new toy, delightful to hear, and they sat up late, listening to his

fresh, cheerful talk, and hearkening between whiles to an extraordinary

heavy rain which had come on before sunset and was beating at the

windows.

This deluge was continuous all night, and next morning they woke to the

same streaming heavens; the sky was a lowering arch of deluge, the rain

relentless. Harry and Geoffrey, who regarded the sky and the open

heavens as the proper roof for man, and houses merely as a shelter for

unusual inclemency, had felt not the smallest inclination to stir

abroad, but Mr. Francis at lunch announced his intention of walking,

rain or no rain.

"It doesn't hurt me," he said; "a brisk walk, whatever the weather. So

neither of you will come?"

Harry looked out on to the soupy, splashing gravel.

"Geoff, shall we go for a swim?" he said.

"Thank you, no. I'm too old for mud pies."

Mr. Francis laughed heartily.

"So am not I," he said.--"Well, Harry?"

"It certainly is raining," said the lad.

"Not a doubt of it," assented Mr. Francis.

Geoffrey turned to Harry suddenly.

"Fear both fire and frost and rain," he said, in a low tone.

Harry went briskly toward the door.

"Thanks, Geoff, that settles it," he said. "An excellent reason for

going, and getting it over to-day if possible.--Yes, Uncle Francis, I'll

put on my boots and come. I'm not made of paper any more than you."

Geoffrey followed him into the hall, a sudden vague foreboding filling

him.

"Don't go, Harry!" he said.

"You are beginning to believe in it, you know," said Harry.

"Indeed I am not."

"Looks like it," and Mr. Francis joining them, he went off whistling.

Very much rain must have fallen during the night, for yesterday the lake

was not notably higher than its normal limits, whereas now, so few hours

afterward, it had swollen so as to over-top the stonework of the sluice,

and a steady rush of water fell over the ledge into the outlet below.

This, ordinarily a smooth-flowing chalk stream, was now a riotous race

of headlong water, sufficient to carry a man off his feet, and, as they

paused a minute or two to watch the grand rush of it, they could see

that, even in so short a space, the flow of water over the stonework was

increasing in volume, showing that the lake was rising every minute. The

gate walls of the sluice were not very thick, and seemed hardly built

for such a press of water; in one or two places Mr. Francis observed

that there appeared to be cracks right through them, for water spurted

out as from a hose. The sluice itself seemed to have got somewhat choked

with the _débris_ of branches and leaves with which the storm had

covered the surface of the lake, and a Saragossa Sea of drift stretched

out to a considerable radius from it.

Adjoining the main lock was a small wooden water gate, designed, no

doubt, for the relief in time of flood, but this was shut down, and

Harry, splashing through the water, tried to pull it up, in order to

give an additional outlet, but the wood was swollen with the wet, and he

could not stir it. Mr. Francis observed his actions with some attention;

his feet were firmly planted on the stone slab that covered the sluice,

and the water rose like a frill over his boots, as, with bent and

straining figure, he exerted his utmost force to raise the gate. Once,

as for firmer purchase he wedged his right foot against the side of the

water channel and bowed to a final effort, the block of stonework on

which he stood seemed to tremble. A cry of warning rose to Mr. Francis's

lips, but it remained unuttered; only his face wore an expression of

intense conflicting expectation. But Harry's efforts were fruitless, and

soon desisting, he splashed his way back. Elsewhere the lake was rapidly

encroaching on the outskirts of the lawn; pools of rain lay in the lower

undulations of it, and these, joining with its swollen waters, formed

long, liquid tongues and bays. Here a clump of bushes stood out like an

island in a lagoon, here an outlying flower bed was altogether

submerged, and the dark soil was floated by the water in a spreading

stain over the adjoining grass.

"This will never do," said Harry; "the place will be in a mess for

months if we don't get the water off somehow. It is that choked sluice

which is doing all the mischief. We had better go up to the farm, Uncle

Francis, and send some men to clear it. Lord, how it rains!"

"Yes, that will be the best plan," said he. "Stay, Harry, I will go,

and do you run back to the sluice, my dear fellow, and see if it is

raised quite to the top; we never looked at that. You might get a big

stick also, and begin clearing away the stuff that chokes it. And have

another pull at the wooden gate. If you can get that open, it is all

right. Go and break your back over it, my dear boy; it seemed to yield a

little that last pull you gave. What muscles, what muscles!" he said,

feeling his arm. "Try again at the wooden sluice, and be quick. There is

no time to lose; we shall have the water up to the house in less than an

hour if this goes on."

Mr. Francis went off at a rapid amble in the direction of the farm, and

Harry returned to wrestle with the wooden sluice. Even in the few

minutes that they had been away the water had risen beyond belief, and

when again he splashed across the stone slab of the sluice to the

smaller gate, the swift-flowing stream over the top of it was half

knee-deep, and pressed against him like a strong man. It was no longer

possible to see the spouting escape beneath, for the arch of turbid

water was continuous and unbroken from side to side.

He wrapped his handkerchief round the ring which raised the gate, and

again putting shoulder and straining back into it, bent to his task. One

foot he had braced against the stone coping of the side, the other he

pressed to the ironwork of the main sluice, and, pulling firmly and

strongly till he felt the muscles of his spine stand out like woven

cords, he knew that something stirred. At that he paused a moment, the

strong flood pouring steadily round him, and collecting himself, bent

down again and called on every sinew for one sudden effort. On the

instant he felt the stone slab on which he stood reel under his left

foot, and half guessing, for the moment was too brief for conscious

conclusion, that the sluice had given way bodily, sprang for all he was

worth from the overturning mass. But the effort was an effort made in

air; his right foot slipped from the edge of the coping, and the whole

sluice wall turned under him, throwing him, as luck would have it, clear

of the toppling mass, but full into the stream below. As he fell he

caught at the masonry of the sides of the channel, to prevent himself

being carried down.

For one half second his grasp was firm; at the next, with an incredible

roar of water, the released flood poured down from the lake, brushing

his hand from its grasp as lightly as a man whisks a settling fly from

sugar, and rolled him over and over among the screaming _débris_, now

tossing him into mid stream, now burying him in the yellow, turbulent

flood, now throwing him up on the top of a wave like chaff in a high

wind, as helpless as a suckling child in the grip of some wild beast.

Impotently and without purpose he snatched at hurrying wreckage, even at

the twisted ropes of water that hurled him along, conscious only of the

wild excitement of this foregone battle, without leisure to be afraid.

He seemed to himself to be motionless, while the banks and lawns shot

by him with an inconceivable swiftness, but bearing toward him, as he

suddenly remembered, with the same giddy speed, the bridge over which

the road to the lodge passed. How often had he stood there, watching the

trout poise and dart in the clear, flowing water!

A turn in the stream bed, and he saw it rushing up toward him like an

approaching train, the water already nearly on a level with its arch,

and soon to be how vastly higher with the wave of the flood that carried

him, he in the van of the torrent from the broken sluice. His first

instinct was a resolve to clutch at it, in order to stop himself; but in

a moment realizing that, if he wished to make death certain, this was

the way of it, he huddled himself together, burying his head in the

water. He just saw the first of the flood strike against the bridge in a

huge feather of broken turbulence, and then came a darkness full of loud

chucklings and suckings, as if the water laughed inwardly with evil

merriment. Once, in that blind moment, his shoulder was banged against

the gorged arch, once he felt his coat catch against some projecting

stone, and it was as if the weight of the whole world was pressed

against him, as for a half second he checked the stream, the next he was

torn free again, and out into daylight once more.

Not till then did the chance of his possible ultimate escape strike him

with a sense that he might possibly have a share in that matter;

hitherto the wild pace had given a certain bewilderment to his thoughts

not unpleasant in itself. All reasoning power, all remembrance of what

had gone before, all realization of what might follow after had been

choked; his consciousness, a mere pin point, did not do more than

receive the sensation of the passing moment. But after the bridge had

been passed it sprouted and grew, he became Harry Vail again, a man with

wits and limbs that were meant to be used, and therewith the will to use

them. But the power to use them was a thing arbitrarily directed by the

flood; breath was the prime necessity, and it was a matter requiring

both effort and an ebb of the encircling wave to fling his face free

from that surging and broken van of water and get air. Only with this

returning increase of consciousness was he aware that he was out of

breath with his prolonged ducking, for, broadly speaking, he had not

decently breathed once since he had tumbled with the tumbling sluice. So

with a downward and backward kick, the instinct of treading water, he

raised his head from the yellow race, and felt the air sweet and

essential. Three long breaths he took, throat-filling, lung-filling,

like a man half dead with drought, and, as he struggled to overlook the

water for the fourth time, it was for the purpose of using eyes as well

as lungs; and what he saw caused hope to leap high in his heart, though

he had not known he had been hopeless. For here the stream had already

widely overflowed its banks, now no longer held in by the masonry of

the first stretch below the sluice, and every gallon of water that came

down spread itself over a widely increased area; speed and the

concentrated volume were even now diminishing. The sense that he was

bound and helpless, a swathed child, passed from him, and, pushing

steadily with his arms and feet (so random a stroke could scarcely be

called swimming), he soon saw that he was appreciably leaving the main

rush of the stream. Before long he was brought up with a violent jerk;

his foot had struck the ground, and the water stood up over his head

like a yellow frill. But that was no more than a playful buffet, after

the grimness of his struggle; he staggered to his feet again, and, now

no longer swimming, after a few more splashing efforts, stood firm and

upright in waist-high water, leaning with all his weight against the

press of the flood. Then step by plunging step he got to land, and at

last stood utterly free on the good safe earth.

He stood and dripped for a moment, the water running from all points of

himself and his clothes, as if off the ribs of an umbrella; then

wringing out the baggier folds with his hands, he tried to start running

toward the house. But twenty paces told him he was dead beat, and

dropping to a soberer pace, he made his splashing way across the fields.

Suddenly he stopped.

"The Luck," he cried aloud to the weeping sky; "it was the rain that did

it! Blooming old, futile old Luck! It couldn't kill a bluebottle."

This was an inspiring thought, and he went the more lightly for it,

taking note, with a delightful sense of danger past, of the distance of

his water journey. And what was that spouting column of yellowness and

foam three hundred yards farther up, standing like a fountain in mid

stream? And with a sudden gasp of reasoned recognition he knew it to be

the bridge over which the road passed, under which so few minutes ago he

had himself been whirled. Cold and shivering as he was, he could not

resist a moment's pause when he came opposite it, and he turned away

again with a sense of respect for the Luck which his last words, shouted

to the streaming heavens, had lacked. Under that he had blindly

burrowed, helpless as a baby in an express, to stop his headlong course.

"Not such a bad attempt of the Luck, after all," he said to himself.

Five minutes later he had cast his water trail over the gravel and into

the hall. Geoffrey was deep in an armchair, reading.

"Geoffrey, old chap, the Luck's been having another go," he cried,

almost triumphantly. "But it can't pull it off, it simply can't. Get me

some hot whisky and water, will you, and come to my room. I'm going to

get between blankets a bit. Nothing like taking care of one's self, and

running no risks. I'll tell you all about it. Can't stop now."

Geoffrey's book flew on to the floor as he sprang out of his chair.

"O Harry, what has happened?" he cried; "what has he done now?"

"Old Francis?" asked Harry, pointing at the picture. "He's used the rain

this time. Penny squirt, you know. Hurry up, and come to my room. Whisky

rather strong, please."

Harry was out of his clinging clothes in a couple of minutes, and,

dropping them into an empty hip bath where they could lie innocuous to

carpets, got into blankets, and sipping his whisky, told Geoffrey all

his story from the moment of the dismemberment of the sluice to his

staggering landing half a mile downstream.

"And if ever you want to travel expeditiously by water," he said, in

conclusion, "I recommend you a six-foot flood in a narrow channel. But

avoid a water-choked bridge ahead of you. Man, it gives you a wambling

inside, and no mistake. All the same it makes you feel an A-1 hero

afterward, I can tell you that for cert. Why, I'm choking with pride,

just choking, though what the particular achievement is I can't tell

you. I had to go underneath it, and there were no two words to it. Well,

I went."

"But what had happened to Mr. Francis?" asked Geoffrey. "Couldn't he see

that the thing was tottery?"

"No, of course not, you dolt; he'd gone trotting off to the farm. Oh, I

didn't tell you that part, so you're not a dolt. We went out together,

as you saw, and I took a haul on that old stricken sluice, but I

couldn't make it budge. So we began walking away, to get men from the

farm, but the water was rising so fast that he went on there alone, and

I went back to have another pull at it--which I did, with this blessed

result; and, O Geoffrey, how dry and warm the rain felt when I had got

out of that flood race! Lord! I thought I was done; no, I didn't think

it, I only knew I was. But not till I got out did the blessed solution

strike me: it was the Luck having another shot. And again it has

failed--fire and frost and rain. We've had the whole trio again, and be

damned to them! But there's a hitch somewhere; old Francis can't pull it

off. Really, I am almost sorry for him!"

Harry's voice was resonant with conviction and triumph; it was as if he

had won a battle that was inevitable between him and a subtle foe. The

danger he had been through was swallowed up in the victory he had

gained. But this lightness of heart found no echo in Geoffrey.

"I don't like it, Harry," he said; "I don't like it one bit. I do not

believe in the Luck; it is childish, and you do not believe in the Luck.

We have played at make-believe like children, as we played with the

discovery of the passage in the yew hedge. And the passage in the yew

hedge is far the more real of the two. But it is time to stop all that.

Why should these things come to you in such damnable continuity? Why

within a few days should you nearly fall into an ice house, then go

within an ace of blowing your head off, and finally be carried down in

that mill-race of death? There is no use also in saying it is

coincidence. Things do not happen like that."

"No, you are right, not by mere coincidence," said Harry; "but they do

happen; they have happened to me."

The windows of the room looked out straight over the lawn on to the

lower end of the lake, where the sluice lay, and Geoffrey, as Harry

divested himself of the blankets he had swathed round him and rubbed

himself down with a rough towel, went and sat in the window-seat,

looking out.

"And it's no use saying that I don't believe in the Luck," he went on;

"I do believe in it, at least I think I do, which, as far as I am

concerned, comes to exactly the same thing. Oh, it is nonsense!" he

cried suddenly. "I don't think I really believe in it, but I like to

think I do. There is the truth as near as I can get it. And yet,

perhaps, that isn't the truth; perhaps I do believe in it. Oh, who knows

whether I believe in it or not? I'm sure I don't."

Geoffrey did not reply for a moment. He had felt morally certain after

the gun-room accident that, if danger of death again looked into Harry's

face, it would be Mr. Francis who brought it there; he had even said to

himself that it would be by rain that danger would come. By rain,

indeed, it had been, but where, taxing ingenuity to the utmost, did Mr.

Francis come in? Harry had been alone, Mr. Francis halfway to the farm.

What if Harry was right?--and the thought challenged his reasonable

self.

"How can you talk such utter nonsense?" he said angrily. "How can that

pewter pot break down a sluice, and put a cartridge in your gun, and

make you go to the ice house instead of the summerhouse?"

"'Tain't pewter!" said Harry's voice, muffled in the shirt he was

putting on.

At that moment Geoffrey's eye caught sight of the figure of Mr. Francis

trotting gaily through the rain down the side of the lake, from the

direction of the farm, and he disappeared behind the bushes that

screened the sluice from the house. Almost immediately he reappeared

again, this time coming toward the house with the same lightness of

step. He must have seen, thought Geoffrey, that the flood had carried

away the sluice. Harry, he must have known, was probably there when it

was carried away. What reconstruction of facts would fit these factors?

At present none, but perhaps Mr. Francis could supply them. He rose.

"Mr. Francis is just coming in," he said, "but I do not see the farm

men."

Harry came across to the window.

"They are probably following," he said. "Go down to him, Geoff, and tell

him I'm all right."

"You will be down soon?"

"Yes, in a couple of minutes. You might order tea, too."

CHAPTER XIX

GEOFFREY LEAVES VAIL

Geoffrey went slowly downstairs, reciting to himself exactly all he

knew. One point was salient: Mr. Francis had certainly seen the broken

sluice. And he entered the hall.

Mr. Francis had taken off his waterproof, and was sitting comfortably in

a chair. He looked up with his cheery smile when Geoffrey came in.

"Ah! my dear boy," he said, "you were quite right not to come out. The

weather was odious; I have never seen such rain. But one feels better,

after all, for a breath of air."

"I preferred the house," said Geoffrey. "Was the water in the lake very

high?"

"Yes, it was a good deal swollen. In fact, it has carried away a

considerable portion of the sluice. It must be seen to."

"A dangerous moment," observed Geoffrey, picking up a magazine and

turning over the pages.

"Yes, I wish I had seen it go. A fine sight it must have been, six feet

of water in that narrow channel. But we were on the way to the farm, I

suppose, when it happened. I must talk--I must talk to Harry about it

this evening. It will want mending at once."

At this moment Geoffrey heard Harry's foot on the stairs just outside

the hall. Though he knew nothing of psychology, he believed this to be a

psychological moment.

"Is he out still?" he asked, seeing out of the corner of his eye that he

was even now entering the hall.

"I suppose so," said Mr. Francis. "He left me on the way up to the

farm."

Harry had now entered the hall, and his step was noiseless on the thick

carpet. Mr. Francis, with his chair facing the fire, could not see him,

but another half-dozen paces would bring him close.

"You are wrong," said Geoffrey slowly, "for he seems to have come in.

This is he, is it not? Or his ghost?"

Mr. Francis, contrary to the doctor's orders, made an exceedingly brisk

movement, springing to his feet and facing about. He saw Harry; he cast

one brief look at Geoffrey, to which fear and a devilish enmity

contributed largely, and turned to his nephew again in perfect control

of himself and without further hesitation. Geoffrey had scarce time to

tell himself that there was an awkward choice he had to make.

"Ah! my dear boy," he cried, "so you are all right. I felt sure you

would be. But for a moment, for one moment, I was anxious, when I came

back from the farm with the men and we found the sluice broken."

Geoffrey stared in sheer astonishment at the man's glibness.

"With the men?" he asked. "Surely not."

"Dear fellow," said Mr. Francis, with the most natural manner, "how

pedantically exact you are! I must be exact, too, it seems. I was a

little ahead of them, for I ran back from the farm, being just a little

uneasy about the weight of water that I knew must be pressing on the

sluice. I thought, indeed, that when Harry made his first attempt to

pull it up, it was a little unsafe for any one to stand there."

Suddenly all his doubts and certainties surged up in Geoffrey's mind.

"Did you warn him?" he asked.

Geoffrey saw Harry's eyebrows knit themselves together in a frown of

perplexity which he could not decipher. But Mr. Francis turned to him

with the eagerness of a boy anxious to confess.

"I did not," he said, "and all the time that I was going to the farm the

thing weighed on me. I ought to have--I ought to have given way to my

old-maid feeling of insecurity. But I was afraid--yes, dear lad, I was

afraid Harry would laugh at me. Ah, how I repented my silence when I

came back and found the sluice gone--gone!" he repeated.

"Yes, it went," said Harry. "I went too."

Mr. Francis looked at him a moment with eyes of horror diminishing to a

pin point; then he gave a little low cry and sank down in his chair

again.

"What do you say? what do you say?" he murmured. "You were there; you

were----"

"Oh, the sluice broke as I was standing on it, having another pull at

the wooden gate, as you suggested, and down I went," said Harry. "The

flood took me right under the bridge, rather a difficult matter, and a

quarter of a mile farther down. Then I got out."

Mr. Francis lifted up his hands in a weary, uncertain manner.

"Under the bridge--under the bridge!" he said hoarsely.

"It would not take him over," remarked Geoffrey.

Mr. Francis seemed not to hear this comment.

"What can I say?" he cried. "What can I say or do? And to think that it

was my fault! I ought to have warned you; I ought to have been on the

safe side. I did not with my reasonable mind think that there was any

danger, but I was uneasy. Harry, do not blame me too much: I remember

advising you one day last winter when you came in wet from shooting, to

go and change, and indeed, my dear boy, you did not receive my advice

very patiently. I thought of that; I thought I would not weary you with

my meddling misgivings."

"I don't blame you in the least, Uncle Francis," said Harry. "You didn't

think the sluice looked sufficiently unsafe to make it better that you

should warn me. I also did not realize that it was in a dangerous

condition. There is no harm done."

"I can not forgive myself," said Mr. Francis.

Harry laughed.

"Ah! there I can not help you," he said. "For my own part I can only

assure you that there is nothing to forgive. There, that's all right,"

he added rather gruffly, desiring to have no scene.

Geoffrey had listened to this with a look of pleased attention, as a man

may regard a little scene in a play, which he knows well. Mr. Francis

had been through his part with great dexterity: here another

actor--himself--should appear.

"And now for your story, Mr. Francis," he said very cheerfully, "as

Harry will not give us curdling details. Let me see: you went to the

farm, and ran back again, and I saw you go to the sluice. You found it

gone. Dear, dear, how terrible for you! So you came quietly back to the

house and sat yourself down in front of the fire, where I found you ten

minutes ago."

Mr. Francis looked up with a scared eye.

"I hoped and trusted no accident had happened to him," he said. "I came

to the house to make sure that he was safe. Ah! I can not talk of it, I

can not talk of it," he cried suddenly.

"But ten minutes ago you told me that you supposed that Harry was still

out," persisted Geoffrey. "What a strange thing is the human mind!

Here, for instance, I do not follow your thoughts at all. You were

uneasy for Harry's safety, for fear of the sluice giving way, and as

soon as you saw for certain that it had given way, you felt no further

anxiety. You sat here in front of the fire, though, as you told me, you

supposed Harry was out still."

Mr. Francis rose from his chair in great agitation.

"What do you mean? What are you saying?" he cried in a high, tremulous

voice. "Do you know what your words mean?"

"My words mean exactly what they appear to mean," said Geoffrey quietly,

feeling that the signal had been given and the time was come. "Hear me:

how curious a thing, I said, is the human mind! The sluice you thought

looked a little unsafe, and you were uneasy for Harry's safety as you

went to the farm, for he was making at your suggestion an attempt to

raise the wooden gate. You come back, and find symptoms of the

confirmation of your fears: the sluice is broken. Harry is not there.

Then you walk quietly back to the house, and tell me you suppose that

Harry is out still. I repeat that I do not follow your train of thought.

It is curious.--Harry, does not this seem to you also to be curious?"

Harry looked from one to the other a moment, puzzled and bewildered.

Geoffrey spoke so quietly and collectedly that it was impossible not to

listen calmly to what he said, impossible also not to understand what he

meant. On the other hand, he was saying things that were absolutely

incredible. From Geoffrey he looked to Mr. Francis, who was standing

between them. The old man's mouth quivered, his agitation was

momentarily increasing. Then suddenly he recollected the doctor's

warning that all agitation was bad for him, and he was his uncle, his

friend, and an old man.

"Stop, Geoffrey!" he cried; "don't speak.--Uncle Francis, don't listen

to him: he doesn't mean what you think he means. There is some ghastly

misunderstanding.--Geoff, you damned idiot!"

Mr. Francis's face grew paler and more mottled, his breathing was

growing short and laboured, and Harry was in an agony of terror that

another of those awful seizures would come upon him. But in a moment he

spoke, slowly, and with little pauses for breath.

"Harry," he said, "either your friend--apologizes unreservedly for--what

he has said--or one of us--leaves the house--now, this evening. It will

be for you--to decide--which of us leaves it."

At these words another terror seized Harry--the terror of the precipice

at the edge of which all three of them stood. Whatever happened now, it

seemed to him, a catastrophe must be: one friend or the other (and as he

thought of the two, his mind veered backward and forward like a shifting

weathercock) must go. But the primary necessity was, by any means in his

power, to stop further words just now, for he feared each moment that

Mr. Francis would be seized as he stood.

"Uncle Francis, come away," he said, taking his arm, "you are agitated;

so is Geoffrey; so am I. It is no use talking about a thing in heat.

Wait, just wait.--Geoffrey, if you say another word I'll knock your

silly head off!"

But Mr. Francis regarded his nephew no more than he regarded the fly

that buzzed in the pane.

"What do you mean?" he said, coming closer to Geoffrey and shaking off

Harry's hand; "what do you mean by what you have just said? Apologize

for it instantly; do you hear? Indeed, it seems to me that I am very

good-natured to be willing to accept an apology."

Harry put in a word he knew to be hopeless.

"Go on, Geoff," he said, impatiently, anxious for the moment only about

his uncle. "Uncle Francis has understood what you said in some different

way from what you meant. I don't know what it's all about, but let's

have no more nonsense."

Geoffrey turned on that eager face but an absent and staring eye, hardly

hearing his words, for they called up nothing whatever in his mind which

answered to them--only collecting himself to speak fully and without

excitement. He hardly gave a thought to how Harry might take it, so

large and immediate was the need of speaking, so tremendous the part in

this horrible nightmare inevitably his.

"I do not apologize," he said, "not only because I do not wish to, but

because I am simply unable. I indorse every word I have said. I have

also more to say. Will you hear it, Harry? I should prefer to tell you

alone, but I suppose that is impossible."

"Quite impossible, I assure you, you young viper!" said Mr. Francis, in

a voice so cool and self-contained that Harry looked at him in utter

surprise. The bursting agitation of a few minutes ago had passed; his

voice, horrid and cold, was the faithful index of his face. And at his

words Harry suddenly saw the futility of trying to interfere. The thing

was gone beyond his reach; it was as impossible now to stop what was

coming as it would have been to stop that hustling flood from the lake

by a word to it. He waited, frozen almost to numbness with dread and

nauseous misgiving for what should follow, till Geoffrey, in response to

Mr. Francis's assurance, spoke.

"Your uncle," he said, "has for months past been plotting and scheming

against you, your happiness, your life. He tried in the first place, by

every means in his power, to prevent your marriage with Miss Aylwin. On

the Sunday last June when she was down here they walked in the wood

together, and saw----"

"I know all about that," said Harry.

"I doubt it. Do you know, for instance, that Mr. Francis tried to

persuade Miss Aylwin to overlook the fact that she had seen you walking

with a dairymaid? Do you know that he never suggested to her that the

supposed 'you' might be Jim, that he told her that all 'your previous

little foolishness'--the exact phrase--had been quite innocent? I think

you did not know that."

The whole scene still seemed utterly unreal to Harry; he could not

believe that it was going on. He turned to his uncle.

"Well?" he said.

"Ah, I am on my trial then!" said Mr. Francis, very evilly. "Harry, my

dear boy, it is only because this fellow has been your friend that I

stop and listen to these monstrous insinuations. I am asked, I believe,

what I have to say to this. Well, what has been said is literally true.

I mistook the groom for you. So did Miss Aylwin. We both made a mistake.

As for 'previous little foolishnesses,' that of course is a pure

invention on the part of some imaginative person."

"Miss Aylwin told Lady Oxted; Lady Oxted told me," said Geoffrey, as

quietly as if he was giving a reference to some small point of business.

Mr. Francis just shrugged his shoulders.

"I remember last winter," he said, "that we used to play a very

diverting game called Russian scandal."

"The next move you know, Harry," continued Geoffrey, still taking the

smallest notice of Mr. Francis. "He wrote to tell you that Miss Aylwin

was already engaged."

Harry wore an inscrutable face.

"Go on," he said.

"That also did not come off," said Geoffrey, "and you were engaged. Ten

days ago we came down here. On the first morning you asked Mr. Francis

which of the two houses on the knoll was the ice house and which the

summerhouse----"

"Ah, you have broken your word to me!" cried Harry. "You promised to

keep that secret from my uncle."

A violent trembling had seized Mr. Francis.

"What! What!" he murmured, half rising from his chair.

"I have broken my word to you," said Geoffrey, still seemingly

unconscious of the presence of a third person. "I am sorry, but I can

not help it. You followed the directions he gave you, and nearly met

your death. We came back together, and found him playing the flute in

the garden, dancing to it as he played. Then you went into the house. I

remained outside and watched him. He went up the knoll to the two

houses, and tried the door of the ice house. He found it locked, opened

the summerhouse and looked in. Try to reconstruct what was in his mind.

He made no allusion to his mistake. Had he already forgotten that he had

given you a direction that nearly sent you to your death? Or was the

mistake yours? He told you to go to the left hand of the two houses, so

you said to me. Is that the case?"

Harry did not at once reply; he looked eagerly, imploringly at his

friend, but he could find no words to express a feeling he could not

comprehend; he did not know, ever so vaguely, what he thought. In

despair and utter perplexity he faced quickly round to his uncle. Mr.

Francis was sitting with half-closed eyes; his hands, like the hands of

a blind man, groped and picked at the buttons in the arm of his chair,

stricken, helpless. Suddenly, as if with a drowning effort, he threw his

head back and saw Harry.

"No, no," he said, "not the left hand, not the left hand! I never said

that. Oh, the Luck, the cursed, cursed Luck! I could not--indeed, I

could not have said the left hand. 'Do not go to the left hand by

mistake'; I can hear myself saying the words now. Oh, weary, weary day!

But you went there, you went to the ice house instead of the

summerhouse; you went from the brightness of God's sunshine into the

dark--to that edge--to the edge of the well. O my God! my God! Eli!

Eli!" and the cry was wrung from him like water from a twisted cloth.

The old man buried his face in his hands, collapsing like a broken doll.

He regarded neither Harry nor his accuser; the anguish of his spirit

covered him like a choking wave, and into it he went down without a

struggle, but only that moaning sob, a sight and a sound to stagger the

unbelief of an infidel. And Harry--no infidel, but a lad of kindly heart

and generous impulse, quick to believe good, a laggard to impute

harm--could not but be moved.

Geoffrey neither looked at the bowed figure nor wavered, and his face

was flint. But though that moaning cry, that passionate incoherence did

not move him, yet the sight of Harry's face, with its bewilderment of

perplexity and compassionate trouble, filled him with a sudden fear. To

himself, that bent and venerable head was a mockery of grief, a fraud

finished and exquisite, and he was more afraid of Harry's divided mind,

on which Mr. Francis played as on an instrument of music, than he had

been of the evil and hunted face that had come down from the gun room,

as he stood behind the curtain, in those dead hours ten days ago.

Mr. Francis sat huddled in his chair, his face invisible, his fingers

clasped in his white head, and long, dry sobs lifted and relaxed his

figure, like the pulsation of a wave. And though Geoffrey, so few

minutes ago, had turned himself to steel, he could not go on speaking

with that silent stricken figure in front of him. The low, heart-broken

murmuring, the silent sobs, filched resolution from him. Once and twice

he began to speak, but no sentence would come. As many times he told

himself that he must go on, that he knew that this feigned anguish was a

thing to awake horror or laughter, but never pity. Yet it affected him

as a scene in the play affects the stalls. It was all unreal, he knew it

was unreal, yet he could not immediately speak. Suddenly, and long

before--it seemed while he was still cursing his infirmity of

purpose--Harry came to his side.

"Go away, Geoff; go away," he whispered. "Leave me with him. Whatever

you have to say, you can not and must not say it now. Look there and

judge! It may kill him. Go away, there's a good fellow!"

He got up at once: that was enough. Harry was still willing to hear him,

now or at another time, it did not matter. All he wanted was that Harry

should hear him to the end, and then his part was done. Exposure--there

was no pleasure in the act of it; he only wanted that it should be

there. Truly the man was vile, and an enemy, but he did not covet the

post of executioner as such. By him, it is true, justice was done, the

murderer was put out of a world with the welfare of which his presence

was incompatible, and a man to do it there must be, but who did not

shudder at the shadow of the hangman? That dry, inarticulate sobbing,

which he had no need to tell himself was but a counterfeit grief, yet

wore the respectable semblance of woe. What, again, if remorse had at

length touched Mr. Francis? What if the imminence of his exposure had at

last revealed to him his immeasurable enormity? If such a possibility

was within the range of the most distant horizon, how contemptible would

be his own part in trampling in a truth that was realized! All that was

generous within him, and there was nothing that was not, revolted from

so despicable a rôle.

But against that possibility how large and near loomed the probability

that these grovelling pangs were but of the same texture as the rest!

No, he was not taken in; he registered privately the unalterable

conviction that Mr. Francis was Mr. Francis still, for no opprobrious

word conveyed to him half the horror of all which that canonized name

implied. Yet Harry was by him, asking him, not bidding him to go. That

was sufficient; and even as he told himself it was sufficient, back

swung the balance again. What duty could be more obvious, more staring

than to finish now, at once, with that ineffable old man? Yet he sat

there sobbing. And without another word Geoffrey turned and went,

leaving uncle and nephew together.

It was not long before Harry joined him in the smoking room.

"Uncle Francis has gone to his room," he said. "He is quieter now; I

could leave him safely. But I have telegraphed for the doctor; I daren't

take the responsibility of not sending for him. He kept asking me one

question, Geoff; he kept repeating and repeating it: Which of you two is

to go. He says he will not stop here another night if you remain here.

God knows whether I have decided right!"

"It is I who go, you mean?" said Geoffrey.

"Yes, it is you."

Harry sat down wearily, as if tired out; that, too, was his prevailing

feeling; body and mind were dead beat. Geoffrey rose.

"Since that is so," he said, "I ask you, before I go, to hear the rest

of my story--indeed, I must tell it you. Then I shall have done all I

can. Oh, it will not take long," he added, with a sudden inexpressible

bitterness. "In half an hour I shall be gone!"

Harry sprung up as if he had been stung.

"I do not deserve that from you, Geoff," he said. "Do you think I want

to get rid of you? Do you think it is fine fun for me to tell you to go?

I am not conscious of any great pleasure in it."

"No, I am sorry," said Geoffrey. "I had no business to say that or to

think that. But--O Harry, before I go, for the dear Lord's sake, hear

me! I have not been speaking idly. Do you think, in turn, that it is

fine fun for me to get up and bring these awful accusations against Mr.

Francis?"

"Of course I don't. But the whole thing I have to put on one side for

the present. Uncle Francis will not stop in the house while you are

here, Geoff, and I can not let him go, whatever the truth may be, while

he is like this. I dreaded every moment that a seizure might come on him

again. Besides, he is an old man; he is my uncle. For the present, then,

I am like this: I neither believe what you have told me nor do I

disbelieve it; I put it aside; though, before long, when my uncle is

recovered, I shall have to do the one or the other. Either I shall

believe, be convinced you are right, and then God knows what I shall do,

or I shall think your accusations wild and incredible, and, I warn you,

too infinitely base for words. And then, too," he added, suddenly, "God

knows what I shall do! But at present, as I tell you, there is no

question of that. My certain and immediate duty is to look after Uncle

Francis."

"I ask you then, before I go," said Geoffrey, "to hear the remainder of

what I have to say."

"Certainly; but whatever you tell me, I shall not attempt to judge of it

now. You had just spoken about the confusion which came in somewhere

between the ice house and the summerhouse."

So Geoffrey told him of the loop of cotton he had found round the post

of the gun rack; of Mr. Francis's visit to the gun room, and finally of

his own finding him in the afternoon, after the breaking of the sluice,

sitting before the fire in the hall "supposing" that Harry had not yet

come in. And Harry heard in silence and without comment.

"That is all?" he asked, when Geoffrey had finished. "You are sure there

is nothing more? You are sure, also, you have been exact throughout?"

"That is all," said Geoffrey, "and I have been exact."

"Then, dear old boy," said Harry, "let us for the present put it from

our minds. Your carriage will be round in ten minutes; I told them to

pack for you. And tell me that you agree with me when I have to ask you

to go. I feel--I know--that I can not do otherwise."

"Yes, you are right, and God guard you!" said Geoffrey.

Then suddenly the whole flood of fears and suspicions and certainties

surged in his mind together and overflowed it. He was leaving Harry

alone with that hellish man. Who knew what he might not attempt next?

Every fibre in his being cried aloud to him that danger of subtle and

deadly sort hung suspended over Harry, imminent to fall so long as that

white-haired old man was under the same roof. But what could he do? He

could not force Harry to see the clearness of that which was so clear to

him; he could not even make him exercise his judgment upon it. And his

anxiety for him broke bounds.

"Yes, you are right," he said. "But I can not persuade myself that I am

right to go. O Harry! I ask you once again, Do you tell me to go?"

Harry got up and leaned his head on the chimney-piece.

"Don't make it harder for me, Geoff," he said.

Here was a ray of hope.

"I will make it as hard as I can," said Geoffrey. "I appeal to anything

that will move you. We are old friends, Harry. Wiser and better friends

you will find, but none more faithful. You are doing a cruel thing."

Harry turned round suddenly.

"Stop," he said. "I tell you to go. O Geoff! who is doing the cruel

thing? You know--O my God! won't this nightmare cease?"

Geoffrey saw his lips quivering; his own also were not steady. He came

close to him, and laid his hands on his shoulders.

"What have we done, Harry," he said, "that this should happen to us? You

have answered me. But promise me one thing. I insist on that."

"I will promise you anything you think right to ask me, Geoff," said he,

"and you know it, provided only it does not make me cancel what I have

said, and what I have decided to do."

"It does not. It is simply this: Three times within the last ten days

you have been in imminent danger. God knows what it all means, but it is

certain that many dangers surround you on all sides. I ask you to

promise to be careful. I don't ask you to consider all I have told you

now; you must do that when you feel that you can. You promise me this?"

"Willingly."

"And let it be soon that you consider what I have said. Judge the thing

as you would judge for another, and God send you the right judgment!

That is all I want."

"Amen to that," said Harry.

CHAPTER XX

DR. ARMYTAGE ARRIVES

Dr. Armytage, for whom Harry had telegraphed, arrived about nine that

night. He had left London immediately on receipt of the summons without

dining, and having seen his patient, came downstairs to join Harry in a

belated meal. In appearance he was a dark man and spare, his chin and

upper lip blue-black from a strong crop of hair close shaven; heavy

eyebrows nearly met over his aquiline nose; his mouth had a certain

secrecy and tightness about it. But his manner was that of a man

reserved but competent; his thin, delicate hands were neat and firm in

their movements; and Harry, torn and distracted by a world of

bewilderment, found it an unutterable relief to have put one out of all

his perplexities, the care of his uncle, into such adequate hands. For

the moment, at least, the boon of the doctor's arrival quite overscored

that sinister impression he had formed of him when, in the summer, he

had passed him driving to the station.

With regard to his patient he was grave, but not alarming. Grave,

however, one felt he would always be, and Harry remembered Mr. Francis's

criticism of him, that he knew too much, and had always in his mind the

most remote consequences of any lesion, however insignificant.

"I can give you no certain account of him to-night, Lord Vail," he said.

"I found Mr. Francis in a lethargic state, the natural reaction from, so

I understand, an agitating scene that took place this afternoon. I did

not even speak to him, for I thought it better not to rouse him, as he

seemed in a fair way to get a good night's rest. But I spoke to his man,

who told me that he thought something agitating and painful had taken

place. May I ask you if this is the case?"

"Yes," said Harry, "a friend of mine, Mr. Francis, and I, had a terrible

scene this afternoon."

"Can you tell me about it; the merest outline only? You see, if Mr.

Francis experiences any return of this agitation, which is, to put it

frankly, so dangerous, it might be very likely useful that I should know

about it, and be able to soothe him with something more specific than

wide generalities."

Harry paused; they were alone over dessert.

"It is all very horrible," he said at length, "and I can hardly speak of

it. But I can tell you this: Within the last ten days I have had three

very narrow escapes from a violent and sudden death."

Dr. Armytage put down with neat haste the glass he was raising to his

lips, and gave Harry one quick glance from below his bushy eyebrows.

Startling though the words were, you would hardly have expected such

sudden alertness and interest from so self-contained a man.

"Yes?" he said.

"Well, for one at least of these my uncle blames himself," said Harry.

"That certainly was one of the causes of his agitation, though perhaps

not the greatest immediate cause. Oh, it is awful to speak of it!" he

cried. "Tell me what you advise. Had I better tell you everything?"

"I repeat, it may possibly be of use to me," said the doctor. "All you

say, of course, will be under the seal of my profession."

The servants had entered the room with coffee, and Harry did not

immediately reply. Templeton, as usual, carried the case of the Luck,

and even as he took the jewel into his hand, Harry hurriedly filled a

wineglass.

"The Luck," he said in no very cordial tone. Then turning to the doctor.

"Please excuse me," he said. "It is a custom I have got into. Yes, that

is the Luck; my uncle may have spoken to you about it. You would like to

look at it?"

The doctor waved it away.

"Another time, another time," he said, and waited till the servants had

left the room. Then:

"Yes," he continued, "I have heard Mr. Francis speak of it. An

extraordinary delusion in so clear-headed a man, is it not? He thinks--I

hope I am not intruding into family secrets, Lord Vail--he soberly

thinks that the Luck brings blessings and curses on your house. I may

say the idea almost possesses him."

"Surely you are mistaken," said Harry. "He is always laughing, sometimes

even he is distressed at my believing--ah! not believing, but thinking I

believe in it. But very curious things have happened," he added.

"There is doubtless some mistake," said the doctor. "But to return: All

you tell me will be under the seal of my profession."

"You mean that I speak to one who is necessarily as silent as the

grave," said Harry. "You will pardon my insistence on this."

"I give you my word on it," said the doctor.

"Well, it is a strange, dark story," said Harry, "and if I speak a

little incoherently, you will know by the end what perplexities I am in.

Now there are two kiosks--sort of places near the house; one is a

summerhouse, one an ice house. I got the keys one morning, and asked my

uncle which was which. He told me quite distinctly that the left-hand

one was the summerhouse. He made a mistake, and I went whistling into

the ice house--they were both shuttered and quite dark inside--and came

within an ace of falling into the big tank. I am quite sure I went to

the one he told me was the summerhouse."

"Number one," said the doctor.

"Next morning he went up to London," continued Harry, "and I and

Geoffrey Langham, this friend of mine who left to-day, were going out

for a day's shooting. My gun was standing in the rack, and as I took it

up it went off, narrowly missing me. The last person who had used that

gun and who had left the cartridge in it was my uncle."

"Number two," said the doctor.

"To-day he and I went out together and looked at the flooded lake. I

tried to raise an extra sluice that we have, and finding that I could

not make it move, we went up toward the farm to get men to help. But,

again at his suggestion, he went on to the farm, and I went back to have

another try at it. As I was standing on the main sluice, pulling, the

whole thing gave way, and I went down with the flood-water, as near to

being drowned as any one can wish to be. My uncle had thought the sluice

not very safe, but he had not thought it worth mentioning."

The doctor was silent awhile.

"You bear a charmed life, Lord Vail," he said at length. "But I think

you have more to tell me."

Harry gave him one dumb, appealing glance, and met eyes which were grave

but not unkind, firm and deeply interested. He had the impression that

they had long been watching him.

"Yes, I have more--I have more," he said, with agitation, "and it is

horribly painful! Dr. Armytage, I have two great friends--or so I

think--my uncle, and this Geoffrey Langham, a fellow of my own age or

thereabouts. This afternoon, to my uncle's face, though I am bound to

say he would have preferred to tell me privately, Geoffrey made

horrible insinuations--accusations. He said that Uncle Francis had long

been my enemy; that he had tried to prevent my engagement; that he had

failed there, and that in this affair, for instance, my uncle had

intentionally--had intentionally----" and a strangling knot tied itself

in his throat, choking utterance.

The doctor pushed the water-bottle gently a little closer to Harry, and

he poured himself out some and drank it, unconscious that any suggestion

had been made to him.

"Then there was an awful scene," he went on. "My uncle was nearly off

his head, I believe, with remorse and horror for those words which had

so nearly sent me to my death, and this was aggravated, I must suppose,

by black, ungovernable rage against Geoffrey. I felt that I had never

seen an angry man before. He refused to stay another night in the house

with him; he asked me continually which of them it was who should go. He

could not, of that I was convinced, in that state, and I sent Geoff off.

Besides, I can not--simply I can not--believe in Geoff's accusations. It

is flatly impossible that Uncle Francis should be guilty of the least

intention which Geoff attributed to him. Do I not know him? There must

be some other explanation. And if you want to know what my other

explanation is, it has stood in front of you at dinner. It was the Luck:

fire and frost and rain--the ice house, the gun, the sluice. Oh, it has

happened once before like that."

"Yes, Mr. Francis told me," said the doctor, still looking very intently

at him.

Harry flicked the ash off his cigarette.

"Here am I, then," he said. "Of my two best friends, one lies upstairs;

the other, God knows if I shall ever see the other again! I have to tell

him whether I believe what he said. And I can not believe it. It is

monstrous; he is monstrous to have thought it. Yet I see why he thought

it; to any one not believing in the Luck, there was no other

explanation. There are other things too. I need not trouble you with

them. He came to the conclusion, for instance, that my uncle wished to

stop my engagement--prevent it rather, for I was not engaged then. They

were specious--good Lord! they were specious enough. But I have been

considering them all, and I simply can not believe them. It is not that

I wilfully shut my eyes; I hold them open with pincers and chisels, so

to speak, but I am unable--that is clear--to believe anything of this.

How could it be possible? God does not allow such things, I tell you."

"That is your verdict, then. You believe nothing against your uncle,"

said the other with an intonation absolutely colourless.

"I can not."

"May I tell your uncle this, Lord Vail?" asked the doctor presently. "If

his agitation returns, I can think of nothing which would so much tend

to soothe it as the assurance that these accusations are to you

absolutely void and empty. These vile accusations," he added in a

moment.

"Yes, they are vile," said Harry, half to himself.

"May I then use my discretion to tell him so, if I think it desirable?"

asked the doctor, pressing his point. "It would be better, I think, for

me to tell him than you. That would be agitating work for both of you,"

he said, watching the lad closely.

"Oh, you may tell him whatever you damn please!" cried Harry, with the

sudden petulance of nerves utterly overwrought.

Instantly the doctor's face changed. The symptom for which he had been

waiting had come.

"Now, then, Lord Vail," he said, with a peremptoriness which startled

Harry, "I do not want two patients instead of one. You were on the verge

of hysterics, let me tell you. We will have none of that, please."

This treatment was shrewd and prompt. Judging rapidly and correctly, he

saw that any word of sympathy or kindness would be likely to throw Harry

altogether off the balance, and he was justified when, in answer to this

rough speech, he saw an angry flush spring to his face.

"I am not accustomed to be spoken to like that," he said hotly.

"No, it was a liberty on my part," said the doctor. "Please excuse it.

But I think you will acknowledge that I was right. You are your own man

again now."

Harry considered this a moment, then smiled.

"Yes, you were perfectly right," he said candidly. "But I have had

rather a trying time to-day."

"Indeed you have, and I may say now that I am very sorry for you. I

recommend you therefore to go to bed, and not to write to your friend

to-night, nor to think what you will say to him when you do."

"And to go to sleep very quietly and soundly till morning," said Harry.

"Excellent advice, Dr. Armytage."

"Oh, you will do all these things if you follow my directions," said the

doctor.

"I should like to hear them, then."

"To drink the dose I will send you up to your room," he said quietly.

At that moment, as if by a flash-light suddenly turned on, Harry saw

himself again meeting at the lodge gates this man for whom, at first

sight, he had conceived so violent and instinctive an antipathy, and

simultaneously the curious adventure in the search for Dr. Godfrey shone

in his mind. What if, after all, Geoffrey was right, and he himself was

alone in this house with a man such as his friend had pictured Mr.

Francis to be, and his mysterious confederate physician, whose ways were

so dark? The suspicions which had seemed to him so utterly beyond the

horizon of credibility leaped suddenly nearer. And when he spoke,

though he tried to make no alteration in his tone, even to himself his

voice sounded unusual.

"I don't think I shall require any doses," he said. "I dare say I shall

sleep all right. Thanks all the same."

"Ah, you don't trust me," said the doctor in the same quiet tone.

This exceeding frankness both pleased and offended Harry.

"Is it not a pity to say a thing like that?" he asked, "when you really

have no warrant for it? To show you how wrong you are, I will take your

dose with pleasure."

The doctor's grave face relaxed.

"That is right, Lord Vail," he said. "But do you think that your now

consenting to take it proves that I was wrong? Might not a man consider

that it showed I was right?"

Harry smiled also.

"A man of sufficient ingenuity can make plausible the most extravagant

conclusions," he said, rather enjoying this tiny fencing match.

"True; we will not draw any at all, since there is no need," he said.

"And now, with your leave, I will go up and see Mr. Francis again. I

hope and trust I shall find him asleep."

"I shall be in the hall," said Harry; "please give me your report as

soon as you have seen him."

Dr. Armytage went upstairs, and Harry lit a cigarette and waited his

return. Dinner and the presence of this capable man had to a large

extent quieted his jangled nerves, and he was conscious, more than

anything, of a great weariness. The acuteness of his perplexities had

for the moment worn off a little, and though their aching weight was no

less, they pressed on him, so it seemed, without the fret of sharp

edges. He resolutely set himself not to think of them, but rather of

that exquisite point of happiness which was day by day coming nearer to

him. Evie would be in England in less than a fortnight now; five weeks

brought him to that day to which his whole life hitherto seemed to have

been leading up. But suddenly the claws and teeth again recaptured him:

Geoffrey was to have been his best man, and now-- And with that his

feverish mill-race of bewildering possibilities began again, and it was

a relief when the doctor reappeared.

"Mr. Francis is sleeping, I am glad to tell you," he said. "Thanks. I

will smoke one cigarette before I go upstairs; and when I go, you go

too, if you please, Lord Vail. I have put your dose in your bedroom."

"Thanks. I am dead tired; one cigarette will see me."

The doctor settled himself in a chair.

"Yes, that tiredness is exactly what my dose will give a chance to," he

said. "You are tired and excited--a horrible combination; and your

excitement would certainly keep you awake. That I hope to remove by this

sedative draught, and let your tiredness act naturally. But I must

really congratulate you on your nerves. In the last ten days you have

had enough escapes to last a lifetime, and, upon my word, you don't look

used up. A very fine nervous constitution. Mr. Francis also used to have

the same power of going through things that would have caused most men

to break down utterly."

"Yes, he has been through awful trouble," said Harry, "and really he

does not seem more than a man of sixty."

"Trouble of the most horrible kind," said the doctor. "May I ask you,

Lord Vail, if Miss Aylwin is any relation to----"

"Yes," interrupted Harry; "her mother was Mrs. Harmsworth."

"I see you know the story. I was associated somewhat closely with it; I

was, in fact, the doctor who gave evidence at the coroner's inquest."

Again Harry forgot his own perplexities.

"Ah, tell me about that," he said.

"There is little to tell. The conclusion I arrived at was that the death

of Mr. Harmsworth might easily have been accidental or self-inflicted;

that it was, in fact, the gun he carried which killed him. That, of

course, was the crucial point. The nature of the wound appeared to me

compatible with that interpretation."

"I knew that you were an old friend of my uncle's," said Harry. "But I

did not know that your association with him was so intimate as that."

The doctor was silent a moment, and threw his smoked-out cigarette away.

"I tell you this," he said at last, "as a sort of testimonial,

recommendation, what you will: I came here as a stranger to you; you

have received me with very cordial hospitality, and I present," he

added, "my credentials."

Harry rose, and held out his hand.

"They are extremely satisfactory," he said. "And now for my dose and

bed. You sleep in my uncle's sitting room, I think you said. I hope they

have made you comfortable."

"I have everything," said the doctor. "By the way, speaking of your

friend Mr. Langham, I may tell Mr. Francis that he has left, if I think

it wise?"

"Certainly, if you wish."

"That he has gone to London?" suggested the doctor casually.

"As a matter of fact he has gone to his father's house for a few days,

down near Sevenoaks. Lord Langham, you know."

"Ah, yes," said Dr. Armytage. "Good-night, my dear Lord Vail. I am

convinced you will sleep well."

* * * * *

Half an hour afterward the house was dark and quiet. Harry had drained

his dose, and was sleeping deeply and dreamlessly; Mr. Francis was not

more wakeful. The night was warm and mellow after the heavy rain, and

Dr. Armytage sat long at his window looking out with fixed, undeviating

eyes into the blackness. At intervals, some real or fancied stir from

the sick room would make him rise mechanically, and, crossing the

floor, look in on his patient; once Mr. Francis in his sleep called out,

"Harry, Harry! take care!" in a strangling, agonized voice. But even

then he did not wake, and the doctor returned again to his seat in the

window and still gazed out into the night. The rain had ceased soon

after sunset, and now the sky was nearly clear, and star in-wrought; in

the east the moon would soon be rising. But he regarded not nor saw

either stars or the climbing crescent.

At length a striking clock aroused him, and he got up.

"No, no, and a thousand times no!" he said to himself.

CHAPTER XXI

GEOFFREY MEETS THE DOCTOR

Dr. Armytage, despite Lady Oxted's round and uncompromising definition

of him as a dexterous surgeon of sinister repute, proved himself during

the next day or two to be far more intimately acquainted with the vital

structure of the animal called man than is at all necessary for one who

only concerns himself with dissection of artery and muscle, and the

severing of bones. Under his wise and beneficent care Mr. Francis

rapidly rose again to his accustomed surface, and, no less testimony to

his skill, Harry once more looked the world squarely and courageously in

the face. These inner and spiritual lesions require for their healing

not only a skilful diagnosis, but a mind of delicate and certain touch,

and of his two patients the doctor was inclined to think that Harry made

the more flattering recovery. During these days he kept uncle and nephew

studiously apart; he would allow no visits to the sick room, and

communication was limited to messages passed to and fro by the doctor

himself. Mr. Francis, on the one hand, was bidden to keep his bed for

three days, and quiet was insisted on; quiet, on the other hand, was

sternly forbidden to Harry. For him the prescription was to go out as

much as possible, and busy himself with any employment--all were

good--which he found congenial, and when indoors to apply himself

slavishly to all the businesses which Mr. Francis had hitherto managed

for him.

"Oh, you have plenty to do," said the doctor to this harassed young

gentleman; "go and do some of it."

But among these things which had to be done was an affair of difficulty,

the letter which must be written to Geoffrey. This, when he put his hand

to it, Harry found to be a black, bitter business, and sheet after sheet

was begun and abandoned. Had he realized it, he was attempting the

impossible, for he had set himself to write a letter which should at

once be thoroughly friendly, and yet spit on the allegations which his

friend had made. The writer alone did not see that such a letter could

not be written even by Solomon, Shakespeare, and the original serpent in

conjunction. Thus, for a couple of hours one evening Harry wrote and

tore, reducing wooden penholders to match wood, and quires of fair white

paper to grist for the housemaid in her fire-lighting, yet still the

envelope was no nearer to its postage stamp; and the dressing bell

indeed showed him only a brimming waste-paper basket. He could not write

this letter; here was the flat truth.

At this juncture the doctor entered the smoking room, which Harry had

chosen to be the arena of these futile endeavours, and a glance at his

clouded face seemed enough for him.

"It is difficult, I admit," he said. "Ah, you must not be offended with

me, Lord Vail. I have guessed right. I know: we doctors have to be

thought-readers. You have been making"--and his eye fell on the

paper-basket--"many unsuccessful attempts to write to your friend.

Perhaps I ought to have saved you that trouble."

Harry turned a dark face on him.

"I'm sure there is no secret about it," he said. "As like as not I

should have told you. I can't write this letter, I just can't write it.

Yet I must. But when I begin to tell Geoff the truth, that he has done a

dastardly thing, and that I can never see him again, and that I love him

just as much as ever--well--the whole thing becomes unreal at once."

"Yes, those are hard words to a friend," said the doctor.

"I know, and I'm not hard. I love that chap, I tell you. You don't know

him; so much the worse for you, for you don't know the best old fool God

ever made. I'm just hungry to see him, and I've got to tell him that he

is a base cad. Oh, confound the whole round world! By the way, you said

you should have spared me this trouble. What do you mean?"

Dr. Armytage took a chair close to the table where Harry was failing to

write.

"Three days ago, Lord Vail, when I first arrived," he said, "I offered

you a sleeping-draught, which you refused. I suggested that you refused

it because you distrusted me. Tell me now, was I right in suggesting

that?"

Harry looked straight, as his wont was, at the dark, secret face he had

once thought so sinister. To him now it appeared only sad.

"What has that got to do with it?" he asked.

"Was that suggestion right?" repeated the doctor.

"Yes, quite," said the other frankly.

"Just so. Eventually you did trust me, or, at any rate, behaved as if

you did, and you found your confidence not misplaced. You awoke, in

fact, after a good night's rest. And now, if you grant that, you owe me

the benefit of a doubt."

"Well?"

"I ask you to trust me again," said the doctor, "for the fact is I have

already written to your friend myself, telling him not to expect a

letter from you yet. I knew, I was completely certain, that you would

find it impossible to write to him, and it seemed to me that if I wrote

at once, as I did, it would save him some anxious hours. That is my

confession."

Again Harry tried to feel what he told himself was a just resentment,

but the sentiment that he raised in his mind was but a phantom. He

ought, so he considered, to feel that his liberty was being tampered

with, but this curiously self-possessed man appeared to have the gift of

impeccable meddling. Then he laughed outright.

"I simply do not know what to say to you," he said. "You take it upon

yourself to interfere with affairs of mine that do not in the least

concern you, and yet I don't really resent it."

"In that you are quite wise," remarked the doctor.

Harry threw down his pen.

"And not content with that, you patronize me, and pat me on the back,"

he said. "I am not at all sure that I intend to stand it. Pray, if I may

so far interfere in your concerns, what did you say to Geoffrey?" he

asked, with a show of spirit.

"I told him not to expect a letter from you yet," said the doctor. "I

told him not to be impatient and wish for knots to be cut as long as

there was the faintest hope of their being unravelled."

"Ah, there is not the faintest," broke in Harry.

"You too, then, acquiesce in the cutting. I hope your friend is more

reasonable; less he can not be. You have no right to say, while the

thing is yet so recent, that a reconciliation of your friend with Mr.

Francis is impossible. And if that were possible it would comprehend, I

take it, a reconciliation with you."

"Oh, you don't know Geoff, I tell you," said Harry. "He will never

apologize. He is not given to rush at conclusions; but when he has

concluded, he is more obstinate than all the beasts that perish. You

waste your trouble if you expect him to recant."

The doctor rose.

"I repeat, it is too early to expect anything," he said. "A difficult

situation takes time. If it does not take time, it is not difficult. Be

sure of that. One thing alone I was certain of: that any letter from

you, believing as you do so utterly in your uncle's absolute

innocence--if I could put your feelings more strongly I would--could

not tend to mend matters. It would only accentuate your

estrangement--temporary, I hope--with your friend. And now have I your

pardon for doing what I have done?"

"Not yet," said Harry. "What else did you say?"

"I said that you were as safe here as in the Bank of England. I asked

him to be reasonable. Supposing his wild surmise was true, and that you

had a very bitter enemy of your own blood in this house, how could he be

so foolhardy as to make another attempt on you just now, when three had

so conspicuously miscarried, and such suspicious circumstances were in

Mr. Langham's knowledge? For the circumstances," he said, looking

gravely at Harry, "were suspicious."

"I know they were," said Harry. "Poor old Geoff! Well, I couldn't have

written that letter if I had tried till midnight."

He got up also, as the dinner gong sounded.

"That's dinner, and we are not yet dressed," he said. "But you were

quite right to do it for me, Dr. Armytage," and frankness became him

infinitely better than reserve. "And you might have added that I have a

very good friend here, who looks after both my uncle and myself."

Dr. Armytage smiled rather grimly.

"I came to the conclusion that such a statement would not have increased

his confidence," he said, "either in me or in your safety. There is no

sense in gushing, particularly if one gushes about one's self."

That night, when the doctor made his last visit to Mr. Francis, he

brought him as usual some small, affectionate message from Harry, and

Mr. Francis yawned, for he was sleepy, and made no immediate reply. But

in a moment or two he roused himself.

"My love, my very best love," he said, "and any convincing tenderness

you please. By the way, how do you and he get on together? Is it very

trying? I am afraid so. But it is of the utmost importance that you

should gain Harry's confidence, that you should make him trust you."

"So you told me, and, without boasting, I think I may say that I have

been fairly successful. I made a good beginning, you know, the first

night I was here."

"Ah, yes, that sleeping-draught," said Mr. Francis appreciatively. "A

little bromide of potassium you told me; quite simple and harmless. A

charming drug, and an ingenious idea. Yes, Harry's consenting to take a

sleeping-draught from your hands certainly showed that if he was

disposed not to trust you, he was fighting that inclination. And you

have improved your advantage, dear Godfrey?"

"Yes, we are on excellent terms. And, to tell you the truth, I do not

find it trying at all. Your nephew is both amiable and intelligent."

"Poor Harry!" said Mr. Francis softly. "Yes, his very simplicity has a

certain charm, has it not? It is also a very convenient quality. Well, I

am to go to sleep I suppose: I sleep so well now! And you intend to take

me to London at the end of the week?"

"That was the proposal," said the doctor.

"And you, being an autocrat--for, indeed, doctors are the only autocrats

we have left--insist on it. I assure you it will be the best plan. That

young cub who left the other day has wits of a kind; he is rather sharp.

It will quiet his outrageous suspicions, I think, if I leave Vail soon.

I hope Harry will not be very dull alone," he added.

"He may not choose to stop here," said the doctor.

"It does not matter," said Mr. Francis. "He is certain to come back here

before his marriage, to see that the house is quite ready to receive

them after their honeymoon--'honeymoon! honeymoon!'" he repeated. "I

count on that. By the way, do you call him Harry yet?"

"No."

"Dear Godfrey, how short and glum you are! I do not suppose I have had a

monosyllabic reply for ten years: they are so unnecessarily curt. But

try to call him by his Christian name: it produces an admirable effect,

and so cheaply. Practise saying, 'Harry, Harry,' when you are alone. You

will find it makes it easier. Ah, well, I must go to sleep. Good-night,

my dear man."

It was therefore definitely settled and announced to Harry that Mr.

Francis and the doctor would leave for London at the end of the week. He

would be the better, so said the doctor, for a change, for the very dark

and autumnal weather which had settled down on Vail during the last day

or two was a depressing influence, and he strongly recommended a week in

London, where the little arrangements and excitements incident to

settling into the flat would keep him agreeably occupied.

Mr. Francis dined downstairs on the last night before he left, and

seemed his buoyant self again. During the afternoon incessant bubblings

from the flute had come from his room, and that sound had been to Harry

like the voice of some familiar friend returned. His uncle indeed had

playfully prefaced his own entry into the hall, after the gong had

sounded, with the tune of "See, the conquering Hero comes," a little

thin on this solo instrument, but he had marched in time to it with an

incomparable gaiety, with foot high-lifted and a pointed toe.

"And you, dear Harry," he asked, as they had seated themselves, after

Mr. Francis had said grace, "what are your plans? I was half inclined

to rebel when our dear autocrat gave me my marching orders, and I heard

that you, perhaps, would be left here alone, but my disaffection was

quelled by a look. Has Godfrey given you any of his quelling looks, I

wonder? But how long do you stop here?"

"Three or four days only, now," said Harry. "Then I go to the Oxteds'

for a week, and come back here again by the beginning of November for

ten days. After that, London till the 15th."

"Dear fellow, so near as that, so near as that, is it?" said Mr.

Francis. "Ah, Harry!"--and he held out his hand to him. Then, seeing

that the serious note was slightly embarrassing to the young man:

"Ah! good Templeton has given us the Luck again!" he cried, changing the

subject abruptly. "Upon my word, the thing seems to grow brighter and

more dazzling each time I see it.--This nephew of mine, I must tell you,

my dear Godfrey, is a very foolish fellow in some ways. He almost--I may

say almost, Harry--believes in that old legend. Really, a remarkable

survival of superstition among the educated classes. I shall write to

the Psychical Research about it. That amiable society collects

nightmares and superstitions, I am told. A quaint hobby."

"I have drunk obediently to the Luck, night after night, have I not,

Harry?" said the doctor.

"Of course. It is a rule of the house. By the way, let us set that point

at rest. Dr. Armytage told me that you believed in the Luck, Uncle

Francis. I simply couldn't credit it. You have always ridiculed me for

even pretending to."

Mr. Francis laughed.

"Harry, that medical man can not keep a secret," he said. "No, my dear

boy, I am only joking, but it is quite true that I have found myself

wondering, after your extraordinary series of accidents early in this

year, whether it were possible that there could be anything in it."

He paused a moment, and then went on quite naturally. "And these last

three horrible escapes of yours," he said. "How strange! The ice house,

frost; the gun, fire; the sluice, rain. There are more things in heaven

and earth-- Well, well!"

Here was proof, at any rate, that Mr. Francis knew how entirely Harry

trusted him, and though at the thought of that awful scene between

Geoffrey and his uncle the lad was startled for the moment at so direct

a mention of that which had caused it, it was something of a relief to

know that the subject did not cause Mr. Francis pain.

"Yes, taken all round, it would be sufficient to convince the most

hardened sceptic," he said. "Poor old Luck! What an abominably futile

business it has made of it all!"

Mr. Francis suddenly covered his face with his hand.

"Ah! it won't do to jest about," he said. "I spoke lightly, without

thinking, but I find I can not quite stand it, dear Harry. It is too

recent, too terrible!"

At this the talk veered to less intimate subjects, and before a couple

of minutes were passed Mr. Francis was again in that exuberance of

spirits which had made him play "See, the conquering Hero comes." He had

always some contribution apposite and gay to make to the conversation,

capable of fantastic development and garnished with pleasant conceits.

But for him the meal would have somewhat languished, for, whether it was

that Harry's old habit of reserve had returned to him, or that his

thoughts were again a prey to the perplexities which his uncle's words

might have recalled, he was unwontedly silent; while on the part of the

doctor it seemed that a somewhat absent assent or dissent, and that only

when directly appealed to, was all he had to give. But Mr. Francis was

the man for the moment; he rose to the social emergency, and he told a

hundred little anecdotes, diversified and amusing, and the growing

silence of the other two was but a foil to the amazing agility of his

tongue. But the most capacious measure is emptied at last, and about the

time of dessert, spent and dropping shots, without effect, were the only

remnant of that loquacious artillery. And it was in silence that the

first glasses of port were poured out, and to break a notable hush that

Harry rose.

"The Luck," he said. "I drink to the Luck."

The doctor and Mr. Francis rose to the toast, the latter with too eager

an alacrity. His napkin, which he had flung on the table, caught his

glass, and the wine was spilled.

On the same day that the doctor and Mr. Francis were travelling up from

Vail, Geoffrey was also going to London, in consequence of a strangely

unexpected summons. He had duly received the doctor's letter a week ago,

and this had been followed three days later by a shorter note, informing

him that he and Mr. Francis were leaving Vail for London on the Thursday

following, and asking if Geoffrey would give the writer an opportunity

of seeing him on a matter the importance of which could not be

estimated. Dr. Armytage would be at his house that evening between five

and seven, or, if these hours would not suit, he asked Geoffrey to name

any time which was convenient to him after their arrival in London, and

he would make a point of being in then, laying any other engagement he

might have aside. Then followed a notable sentence:

"It occurs to me," wrote the doctor, "that you, following the thread of

the suspicions of which Lord Vail has spoken to me, may see in this

request a deep-laid scheme for insuring your presence in London on a

given day and hour, and your certain absence from any other place. But I

beg you to ask yourself why, if such were the case, I should have

written to you at all. I may add that Mr. Francis Vail and I reach

Paddington at 12.37 (midday) on Thursday. Be at the station, if you

will, and assure yourself that we have left Vail."

So far the letter ran with the precision and orderliness of a despatch.

Then followed the signature, and after the signature a strange

postscript:

"I must see you--I must see you," read Geoffrey, and the writer's pen

had spluttered with the underlining of the words.

No very long consideration was necessary, but knowing from Lady Oxted

what he did of the doctor's antecedents, it was clearly possible that he

might be placing himself in a position of some personal danger. To

attempt to form any accurate idea of the scheme which might conceivably

lie latent behind this letter was an idle task; but what he saw, and

that without shadow of doubt, but with a certain exultation, was, that

it was he above all men whom Mr. Francis had most reason to fear, and as

long as he was at large with all the circumstantial evidence that he

held, it was clearly very unlikely that any further attempt could be

immediately contemplated against Harry, for the risk would be

prodigious. So far, then, it looked that this letter might be a bold and

cunning scheme to get him too into the power of this hellish man. On the

other hand, he could not neglect the possible chance: the letter might

conceivably be genuinely inspired. Looking at it coolly, as was his

habit of mind, he thought that the balance of probability dipped to the

sinister side: this Dr. Armytage was far more likely to be Mr. Francis's

confederate than a disinterested doctor, or a foe. Yet there was a

certain touch of truth about the spluttering pen of the postscript, and

Geoffrey's debate was but of short duration.

Then, with wonderment at his own slowness of wit, next moment the

obvious safeguard struck him, and he telegraphed to the doctor at 32

Wimpole Street, saying that he would meet him at five o'clock at the

junction of Orchard Street with Oxford Street. This was conveniently

near to his own lodgings, where they could retire to hold conference if

it appeared that there was reason for it, while it would be scarcely

possible for any one, even with the legions of hell to back him, to

spirit away an active young man from that populous thoroughfare without

attracting public attention.

Geoffrey arrived in London late in the forenoon, and spent a couple of

hours in writing out with the most minute particulars the account of all

those incidents on which his suspicions were founded, and which had led

to his scene with Mr. Francis. This he sealed up in an envelope, and

wrote directions on the outside that, in case nothing more was heard

from him till Monday, midday, it was to be opened. He put this into a

larger envelope, addressed it with a short note to his father, and

posted it. Finally, before he set out for his rendezvous at the corner

of Orchard Street, he slipped a loaded revolver into his breast pocket,

to guard against the very remote possibility of his being attacked in

his own rooms. Its presence there, though not unattended with qualms,

for he was something of a stranger to this branch of firearms, yet

filled him with a secret glee of adventure.

Punctually at five he arrived at the appointed corner, and a few

moments' observation of the shifting and changing crowd was enough to

enable him to single out a man spare and dark who also lingered there.

It was evident, too, that he had observed Geoffrey, no less than

Geoffrey had observed him, and, on the third or fourth occasion that

their eyes met, the man crossed the street to him.

"Mr. Geoffrey Langham?" he asked, and to Geoff's silent gesture of

assent, "I am Dr. Armytage."

They turned and walked a little way down Oxford Street before either

spoke again. Then said the doctor:

"Your plan was reasonable, that we should meet in some public place: it

was natural that you should not wish to trust yourself to my house. But

I would suggest that if we are to talk in public, we get into a hansom,

or I should prefer a four-wheeler."

"Why?" asked Geoffrey.

"Because we are dealing, or I hope shall soon be dealing, with a very

subtle man, who for aught I know may be watching either you or me."

Geoffrey wheeled round quickly.

"Come to my rooms in Orchard Street," he said--"No. 12. I will walk on

the other side of the road."

The distance was but a few dozen yards, and three minutes later the two

were in the sitting room, which overlooked the street. Geoffrey pointed

to a seat, and waited for the other to open the conversation.

"I repeat," said the doctor, "that your amendment of our plan was

reasonable, for you have little reason to trust me."

"It seems to me so," said Geoffrey. "I thought it wise to take that and

other precautions. But it was you who asked for this interview. Kindly

tell me what you have to say."

"It is told in two words," said Dr. Armytage. "Your friend Lord Vail

has, by almost a miracle of luck, escaped from three well-devised

schemes against his life. Thrice has Mr. Francis failed. We can not

expect such luck to continue."

Not a muscle of Geoffrey's face moved.

"You mean he will make another attempt," he said.

"He will certainly make another attempt."

Geoffrey's hands were playing with a box of cigarettes on the table,

opening and shutting the lid in a careful and purposeless manner.

"Here, smoke," he said, "and give me a minute to think."

The doctor took a cigarette, lit it, and waited. He had smoked it half

down before Geoffrey spoke again.

"You see my position," he said at length. "There is no harm that I can

see in my telling you that I know how intimate you are with Mr. Francis.

I am wondering whether possibly I may be aiding him and you by seeing

you; that is the truth. For your intimacy with Mr. Francis was very

close as long as three-and-twenty years ago--at the time, let us say, of

the violent death of Harold Harmsworth. That is so, I believe."

"Certainly," said the doctor. "I received, I may tell you, two thousand

pounds for the service I did Mr. Francis at the coroner's inquest."

Geoffrey looked up quickly.

"Ah! that sounds genuine," he said.

"About that you must decide for yourself," said the doctor.

Geoffrey snapped down the lid of the cigarette box, took out of his coat

pocket the revolver he had put there, and laid it on the table close to

the doctor's hand.

"I have decided, you see, to trust you," he said. "Perhaps my parting

with that revolver is an unconvincing proof, for it would certainly be

incautious of you to shoot me here and now, but I can think of nothing

better. There it is, anyhow."

Dr. Armytage took up the revolver and opened it.

"Six chambers, all loaded, I perceive," he said. "Let me return it you

as I received it. I have no use for it."

Geoffrey took it from his hand and put it back in the table drawer.

"And now let us talk," he said.

An extraordinary look of relief crossed the doctor's face; the whole

man seemed to brighten to the eye.

"I hardly dared hope you would trust me," he said, "and your affection

for your friend must have been strong. But let us waste no more time.

Yes, your suspicions were quite correct. Harry Vail has no bitterer

enemy than his uncle. He has made no less than three attempts to put him

out of the way."

"You speak as if you were sure of it," said Geoffrey.

"I am; but what evidence have we? It would not take a barrister ten

minutes to tear it to shreds, for it is entirely circumstantial, and

weak at that. There is the devilish cunning of the man. Again, if we are

to save Harry, we must save him in spite of himself, for he believes not

a word of it, and we deal with a man who is cunning and utterly

unscrupulous--far more cunning, probably, than you and I put together.

But we have one great advantage over him."

"What is that?" asked Geoffrey.

"The fact that he counts on me to be his accomplice. If we succeed, I am

to have ten thousand pounds."

At these words, distrust again flared high in Geoffrey's mind, refusing

to be darkened--a beacon.

"God give you your portion in hell," he cried, "if you are playing a

double game!"

The doctor showed no sign of resentment, but he did not immediately

reply.

"This will not do at all," he said at length. "Either you trust me, or

you do not. If you do not, I will go: we are but wasting words. I may

remind you, however, that if I am playing a double game, my conduct in

wishing to see you is utterly unaccountable; but if not, that it will be

barely possible for me alone to save your friend, for it is my strong

impression that Mr. Francis's man--Sanders, is it not?--will help his

master. Come, which is it to be?"

"Yes, I trust you," said Geoffrey in great agitation. "I ought never to

have said that. Please go on."

"I can give you no certain details yet," said the doctor, "but the

attempt will be made between Harry's return to Vail from Lady Oxted's,

where he goes in a few days, and his moving to London before the

marriage. So much I have gathered from Mr. Francis. It is, you will

understand, of the utmost importance to him that the marriage should

never be consummated. More exactly than that I can not tell you, but I

want you, in any case, to hold yourself in readiness to come to Vail, or

anywhere else, at a moment's notice, and at a word from me."

"Yes, I promise that," said Geoffrey.

"The particulars I can not give you," continued the doctor, "for I do

not yet know them; indeed, I doubt whether Mr. Francis has yet worked

them out himself. But to-day, as we were coming up in the train, he blew

on his flute a long time, and then said suddenly to me: 'I have a new

hobby; the properties of certain powerful drugs. We will have some great

talks about drugs when we are in London.' From this I gathered that he

means to poison Harry."

"The damned old man!" exclaimed Geoffrey.

"Precisely. Now, his motive you know or guess: he is heir. But from what

I have seen of him lately, he sets less store by that than on the fact

that Harry's death will give him the Luck."

"The Luck! He doesn't believe in the Luck!" cried Geoffrey. "I have

heard him laugh at Harry a hundred times for pretending to believe in

it."

"There you are wrong," said the doctor. "I should be rather tempted to

say that the Luck is the only thing in the world he does believe in. I

tell you this for an obvious reason: he is not sane on the point; we are

dealing with a monomaniac, and he is more to be feared than a sane man.

He will run greater risks to secure his end. But it is late: I must go.

During the next week I shall certainly learn the whole of Mr. Francis's

plans, for I shall refuse to help him in any way unless I know all.

Good-bye. You will please stop in London till you hear from me."

Geoffrey got up.

"Tell me," he said, "when did you determine to help Harry?"

"I do not think that if I told you, you would trust me the more," said

the doctor.

"I assure you I shall not trust you less."

Dr. Armytage took his umbrella from the corner.

"A fortnight ago only," he said, "on the day I first saw Harry. Think of

me as you will, so long as you do what I tell you. I really care very

little about anything else, even whether you trust or mistrust me,

provided only you behave as if you trusted me. Yes, till I saw him, and

spent the evening with him on the day you left; prescribed for his

agitated nerves, and gave him a sleeping-draught----"

"I'm glad I didn't know that before," said Geoffrey frankly.

"It might certainly have caused you some uneasiness. But not till then

did I decide to save him if I could, and not to do--the other thing. And

every day strengthened my decision, and the thought of the ten thousand

pounds grew less attractive. My reason is hard to give you,

convincingly, at any rate. It was due, perhaps, to a great charm and

attractiveness which Lord Vail possesses; it was due, perhaps, to an

idea in my own mind that I would not commit murder. That sounds a little

crude, does it not? But we are dealing with crudities. Good-bye again."

Geoffrey held out his hand.

"I trust you," he said, "quite completely. And so, it seems, does Harry.

I do not believe that we are both wrong."

Dr. Armytage turned quickly away without a word. A moment afterward the

street door banged behind him.

CHAPTER XXII

LADY OXTED HAS A BAD NIGHT

Harry was sitting cross-legged on the hearth rug after dinner, poking

the fire in an idiotic manner with the tongs. Gun cotton would have

smouldered out under so illiterate a stroke. He was also talking with

about equal vivacity and vacuity to Lady Oxted and Evie, but while his

conversation was not more than difficult to bear, his poking of the fire

was quite intolerable. Lady Oxted got swiftly and silently up from her

chair, and, in the manner of a stooping hawk, took the instrument from

him.

"We can attend better, dear Harry," she said, "to your most interesting

conversation if you do not distract our minds by making a bayonet of

improper fire irons. You can do that after we have gone to bed."

"They are improper," said Harry, "but my sense of delicacy forbade my

telling you so. How a respectable woman like you could tolerate their

presence in the house has been more than I was able to imagine. But now

the ice is broken-- Oh, I never told you about the ice house! 'More I

did."

Lord Oxted looked up from the evening paper which he was reading

distractedly but diligently, and made a bee line for the door. His exit,

though made without protest, was somewhat marked. He had no manners, as

his wife often told him.

"The ice house," said Harry, as if he were giving out a text to a

diminishing congregation, and a spicy emphasis was required to retain

the rest, "and the gun, and the sluice."

The shadow of Lord Oxted lingered a moment in the doorway at this

alluring selection, but immediately disappeared on the next words: "I'll

make your blood run cold!"

"Has the Luck been singing its nursery rhymes?" asked Lady Oxted,

uncertain what to do with that white elephant, the tongs.

"Singing!" cried Harry, digging the shovel into the fire. "Singing quo'

she! My good woman, I can and will a tale unfold which, if you have

tears, prepare to shed them now," said he, with a felicitous air.

Lady Oxted annexed the shovel also. Thus there were two white elephants.

"I am not the washerwoman, Harry," she remarked with reason.

"No, dear aunt," said he, growing suddenly grave. "And if I hadn't been

so absurdly happy to-night, I shouldn't have made a joke of it, for,

indeed, it was no joke. Anyhow, the doctor congratulated me on my

admirable nerves."

"Some people when they prepare to tell a story," said Lady Oxted, "begin

at the beginning. Others--this is without prejudice--begin at the end

and work laboriously and slowly backward. Let me at least ask you,

Harry, not to be slow. Tell us about the doctor, as we are to go

backward. Did his name begin with an A?"

"Quite right," said Harry, "and it went on with an R."

Lady Oxted dropped her white elephants on the carpet and sat down by

Evie.

"Armytage?" she asked, and the fooling was gone from her voice.

"Right again. You had much better tell the whole story for yourself,

hadn't you?"

"No; when other people begin to talk about the Luck, I take no part in

the conversation," said she, "except, at least, when Geoffrey is here,

and then I talk of bears and bulls."

The Harry who had played bayonet with the tongs had by this time

vanished; vanished also were the flying skirts of farce, and in absolute

silence on the part of his audience, and in gravity on his own, he told

them the three adventures, narrating only the salient facts, and

alluding neither directly nor otherwise to Geoffrey or his uncle. But

while his tale was yet young, Evie crossed from the sofa where she had

been sitting with Lady Oxted and joined Harry on the hearth rug. One

hand held her fan, the other was on her lap. Of the latter Harry easily

possessed himself, and the tale of the gun was told with it in his. But

as he spoke of the raking gash that riddled the cornice and ceiling of

the gun room, it was suddenly withdrawn and laid on his shoulder.

"O Harry, Harry!" she murmured.

He turned and stopped, spontaneously responsive.

"My darling," he said, "I ought never to have told you. Only I could not

help telling you some time, and why not now? Was it not better to tell

you like this, making no confidence of it?"

If ever a word ought to have carried the weight of a hint, the word was

here. But Lady Oxted showed not the slightest sign of following her

husband, or saying she must write two notes.

"Go on, Harry," she said. "We are waiting. So the gun went off?"

But Harry turned to the girl.

"It is with you," he said. "Will you have the third adventure or not?

Simply as you wish. Here am I, anyhow."

"Yes, tell us," she said.

At the end Lady Oxted rose crisply.

"I never heard of such impotent magic in all my life," she said.

"Really, Harry, if you must tell us supernatural experiences in the

evening, we have a right to expect to be pleasantly frightened. But I

have never been less frightened. You whistled your way into an ice

house; you took up a gun carelessly; you stood on a piece of unsafe

stonework.--If I were you, Evie, I should buy him a nice leading-rein."

These brutalities were effective, and banished the subject, and, without

pausing to comment or let others comment, Lady Oxted sent for her

husband, and they sat down to a table of bridge.