It would be necessary, therefore, to find some other messenger, and,

after considering what was best to be done, he resolved to beg Colonel

Blythe to come and see him, intending to make him his confidant.

"Well, Rupert," said the Colonel--they were alone together--"this is a

bad business. Macinlay tells me you won't be fit for duty for months.

He is going to send you at once before a medical board."

"It is very aggravating, Colonel, as I particularly wished to be here

for the next few weeks.

"To be in at the death, I suppose? We are bound to take the place at

the next attack."

"I hope you may. But it is not that. Our friend McKay is in imminent

danger."

"What is the nature of the danger?"

"He is pursued by the relentless hate of an infamous woman: one who

has never yet spared any who dared to thwart or oppose her."

"What on earth do you mean, Hyde?" The colonel thought the old

sergeant was wandering in his mind. "There are no women out here

except Mother Charcoal, and a few French _vivandières_. How can any of

them threaten McKay?"

"It is as I say, colonel. By-and-by I will tell you everything. But

let me implore you to find out McKay at once and bring him to me. I

cannot, you see, go to him."

"Is this very urgent?"

"A matter of life and death, I assure you."

"I will order a horse at once. It is all very mysterious and

extraordinary; but then you have been a mystery, Rupert Hyde, a riddle

and a puzzle, ever since I have known you."

"It will all be unravelled some day, colonel, never fear; but lose no

time, let me beg;" and, thus adjured, the colonel presently mounted

his horse and galloped over to headquarters.

He arrived there the day after McKay's excursion into the Russian

lines. The young staff-officer was still absent, and fears were

already entertained as to his safety, although it was not positively

known as yet that he had come to harm.

Let us leave Colonel Blythe and other friends exchanging anxious

conjectures as to McKay's fate and return to Mariquita, whose

misgivings had steadily increased from the day she had last seen Hyde.

He had promised she should see him again, and, perhaps, Stanislas,

without delay. Yet this was more than a week since. What had become of

the old soldier? Had he fulfilled his mission of warning, or had he

been involved in the dire intrigues that threatened her lover?

Her lover, too; her Stanislas--to save whom she had come so far,

braving so many dangers, and at the peril of her maidenly

self-respect--had anything happened to him?

The terrible uncertainty was crushing her. She must know something,

even the worst, or her apprehensions, ever present and hourly

increasing, would kill her.

To whom could she turn in this time of cruel suspense? Hyde had

deserted her, seemingly; in spite of her heartfelt anxiety she could

not bring herself to approach McKay.

One other man there was; that villain, Benito Villegas--the source, in

truth, of all her trouble--might give her news. Bad news, possibly,

but still news, if only she could lay hands on him. Where and how was

he hiding? Every effort to find him had been fruitless hitherto.

At Valetta Joe's they knew no such name, so they told her when she

inquired cautiously for Benito from some of the loafers hanging about

the shop.

Yet that was the place to which he was to proceed on arrival. The

letter she had picked up in Bombardier Lane said so. He must be

hiding, or in disguise; and now, when her anxiety for her beloved

Stanislas was at its highest pitch, she was more than ever resolved to

find out somehow what Benito was doing.

One afternoon, when business was rather slack at Mother Charcoal's,

she seized a chance of visiting the hut-town.

"Any work?" she asked, in Spanish, of Valetta Joe himself, whom she

met at the door of his shanty.

"What can you do? Where do you come from? Spain?" replied the baker in

the same tongue.

"Yes, from Malaga. I can do anything--try me."

"Can you sell bread through the camp? I am a man short, and could take

you on, perhaps, until he is better. Come down below, and I will give

you a basketful to hawk about."

"I shall have to tell them at the canteen--Mother Charcoal's--that I

am going to leave."

"That won't do. You must come at once if you come at all. Which will

you do?"

While she still hesitated, a voice from the subterranean regions at

the end of the shop fell upon her ear. Her heart gave a great jump at

the sound--it was Benito's. "Joe! Joe!" he was crying, in feeble

accents.

"It's take it or leave it. There are plenty of your sort about. Well,

what do you say?"

"I accept," said Mariquita, eagerly. "When shall I begin work?"

"Now, this minute. Come down and help me to get a batch of bread out

of the oven."

They passed down into the cellar by a short ladder, and Mariquita

found herself in a dimly-lighted cavernous den, hot and stifling, at

one end of which glowed the grate below the oven.

"Joe! Joe!" repeated Benito's voice, and Mariquita, with difficulty,

made out his figure lying on a heap of rags in a corner of the cellar.

"Well?" answered Joe, roughly, as soon as he had pointed out the

bread-trays and desired her to get them in order. "What's wrong with

you now? You are always groaning and calling out."

"Water!" asked Benito, piteously. "This place is like a furnace. I am

suffering torments from raging thirst and this cruel wound. Accursed

Englishman! may I live to repay him!"

"You will have to hurry and get well, or the Russians will save you

the trouble," remarked Joe.

"That is my only consolation. It was I who gave him to them."

Although bending busily over her task, Mariquita felt her heart beat

faster and faster. These words, which she now overheard through such a

strange chance, clearly referred to her lover.

"Will they hang him, do you think?" asked Benito.

"As sure as the sun breeds flies. We have done our business too well

to give him a chance of escape."

"Would that I might hold the rope, that I might see his agony, his

last convulsions! That I might myself revenge the tortures he has made

me bear!"

And Benito sank back upon his miserable bed, groaning with pain.

"Don't whine like that, you miserable cur!" said Joe, brutally. "It's

bad enough to have you here at all, without your disturbing the whole

place. Why did you come here?"

"Where else could I go? I never expected to get so far. I was faint

from loss of blood, and in frightful pain. I thought I should die as I

crawled along."

"Better you had than bring me into trouble, as you will if the

provost-marshal finds you here."

"It is cowardly of you to ill-treat and upbraid me. Take care! I am

helpless now, but by-and-by, when I am well and strong, you shall

suffer for your cruelty."

"What! you threaten me? But there, it is idle to waste words on such a

wretched rogue; I have other work to do. Now, young imp!" cried Joe,

turning to Mariquita, "stir yourself, and let us get out this batch of

bread."

The conversation which she had overheard, conveying as it did the

confirmation of her worst fears, had agitated Mariquita exceedingly,

but she knew that she must control her emotion, and arouse no

suspicions in the minds of these villains. Benito, wounded, and in

desperate case, was in no position to recognise her, and Joe was, of

course, completely in the dark as to whom he had admitted within his

shop.

The work in the cellar was not completed and the bread carried

upstairs for an hour or more, during which time Mariquita was able to

think over and decide what she would do. She had matured her plan when

they got upstairs.

"Pay me!" she said, saucily, to Valetta Joe. "I shan't stop here."

"Pay you, vile imp? Why, I only took you on trial!"

"Pay me!" she repeated. "You shan't cheat me."

"I owe you nothing. Be off out of this or you shall feel the weight of

my hand."

"Pay me, you swindling old rogue!" shouted Mariquita, in a shrill

voice. "I won't go till I get my rights."

"You won't!" cried Joe, as he seized her roughly by the collar and

dragged her towards the door.

"Villain! Thief! Murder! Help, help! He is killing me!" cried

Mariquita, now at the top of her voice, and this frenzied appeal had

the exact effect she hoped. A crowd of camp-followers quickly

gathered around the door of the shanty, and with it came a couple of

stalwart assistants of the provost-marshal.

"What's all this?" asked one of them, in a peremptory tone. "Leave

that lad alone, you old rascal!"

"What's he doing to you?" asked the other.

"He won't pay me my wages," said Mariquita, in a whining, piteous

voice. "He owes me three shillings."

"I don't, you lying little ragamuffin! I only took you on trial."

"He does; and he was beating me, ill-using me," went on Mariquita.

"We can't have no disturbance here," said one of the provost-marshal's

men. "You must come before the provost, both of you; he'll settle your

case in a brace of shakes. Bill, you bring the old man; I'll take

charge of the youngster."

And the two guardians of order marched their prisoners through the

hut-town to a wooden building at the end, where Major Shervinton dealt

out a simple, rough-and-ready justice to the turbulent characters he

ruled.

This was precisely what Mariquita had hoped for. What she sought at

all hazards was to gain speech of the provost-marshal.

They had to wait for him half-an-hour, and when he appeared there were

other cases to be dealt with first.

When it came to Valetta Joe's turn, he stoutly denied the charge of

defrauding and ill-using the lad.

"I don't know about the wages, sir," said one of the assistants, "but

we caught him in the act of cuffing the boy."

"What does he owe you, my lad?" asked Major Shervinton.

"Nothing," replied Mariquita, trembling and in very imperfect English.

"I only wanted to get him here to denounce him as a friend of the

Russians and a spy."

"There's not a word of truth in what he says!" cried Joe, looking at

her with open-mouthed astonishment.

"We have long had our eye upon you, my friend, you know that; and I

shall inquire into this more closely."

"At this moment there is a man--his name is Benito Villegas--in the

bakehouse below the shop," said Mariquita. "He is wounded; you will

find him there. Go and seize him; make him tell you what he has done

with the English officer, Mr. McKay."

"Mr. McKay!" said the provost-marshal, deeply interested at once. "He

is absent--missing! Have you heard anything of him or his fate?"

"Make Benito tell you. He has betrayed him into the Russians' hands."

"This is very important intelligence. What you say shall be verified

at once. See to the prisoners, one of you, and let some one come with

me to Joe's shop."

Major Shervinton made short work of Benito.

"Look here, my fine fellow, you had better make a clean breast of it

all. What have you done with Mr. McKay?"

Benito shook his head, groaned, and pointed to his wounded arm.

"I see you have been hit; but that won't prevent your talking. Tell me

exactly what happened--it's your only chance; if you don't, we will

wait till your arm is healed, and then hang you here in the middle of

the hut-town. Come, speak out."

"You will spare my life if I tell you?"

"Perhaps: if it is the truth. We shall have means of finding out. But

look sharp!"

In feeble, faltering accents Benito told his story, laying stress on

the villainy of others and making light of the part he had himself

played.

While the provost-marshal was examining the trembling wretch his

assistants had been making a thorough search of the shop. They came

presently to their chief, laden with a number of papers: letters,

passes signed by Gortschakoff, and other documents of a compromising

character, plainly proving that this place had long been the centre of

a cunningly-devised secret correspondence with the enemy.

"There's enough to hang you both, and perhaps others too, at home. As

for you," he turned to Benito, "I will have you removed to the

Balaclava hospital. You will be better looked after there, and we

shall have you under our hands when required. Your accomplice, the

commander-in-chief will deal with, I trust, very summarily; we have

overwhelming proofs of his guilt."

Major Shervinton returned to his office, where the prisoners anxiously

awaited his verdict.

"Take Joe away, and put a double sentry over him. I shall ride over to

headquarters to report the whole case."

"Oh, good, kind, beneficent sir," began Joe, wringing his hands,

"spare me! There no word of truth in all this. I done nothing, I

swear. I unjustly accused. I--"

"March him out," said Shervinton. "Such vermin as you must be

ruthlessly destroyed.

"And the lad, sir?" asked an assistant.

"To be sure; I had forgotten. Well, boy, you have behaved uncommonly

well. What shall we do for you?"

"Nothing," she faltered out, "only save him--save Mr. McKay."

"Mr. McKay! Do you know him? What--when--?" asked Major Shervinton,

greatly surprised at the agonised accents in which Mariquita spoke,

yet more, seeing that her eyes were filled with tears. "Who are you?

Where do you come from?" he went on, examining the little creature

attentively.

He noticed now for the first time the delicate skin, the clear-cut,

regular features, the lustrous, eyes; he remarked the fragile form,

the shy, shrinking manner of the lad, who stood diffidently,

deprecatingly, before him, and he said to himself, "What an

exceedingly handsome boy! Boy!" he repeated, and now suddenly a doubt

crossed his mind as to the proper sex of the young person who evinced

such a tender interest in Stanislas McKay.

"Some secret romance, probably," he went on, smiling at the thought,

but quickly changing his mood as he remembered how tragic its end was

likely to be.

"I will do all I can to save him, rest assured," he went on aloud,

"and if we recover him from the clutches of the enemy he shall

certainly know how much he owes to you."

The vivid blush that overspread her cheeks at these words betrayed her

completely.

"But, my poor child," went on the provost-marshal, in a kindly,

sympathetic voice, "what are we to do with you? It was madness,

surely, for you to venture here. Have you any friends? Let me see you

safe back to them. Where do you live?"

Mariquita in a low voice explained that she was employed at Mother

Charcoal's.

"Does she know about you?"

"Yes," acknowledged Mariquita, in a still lower, almost inaudible

voice.

"She is a good old soul, and may be trusted to take care of you.

Still, her canteen is no place for such as you. You shall stay with

her, but only till we can send you on to one of the troopships with

female nurses on board."

Having thus decided, Shervinton himself escorted Mariquita to Mother

Charcoal's, and then rode on to headquarters.

He arrived there half-an-hour after Colonel Blythe, and the news he

brought threw fresh light upon the disappearance of poor McKay.

"There is a woman at the bottom of it, of course," said Sir Richard

Airey. "These papers prove it," putting his finger upon the bundle

Shervinton had seized at the Maltese baker's.

"Two women, unless I'm much mistaken," replied the provost-marshal,

and he went on to tell of Mariquita's devotion.

"Devotion, indeed," said the general, "but to no purpose, I fear. We

have little hope of saving McKay. Lord Raglan is in despair. Prince

Gortschakoff refuses distinctly to surrender the poor fellow, or spare

his life."

"One woman's devotion outmatched by another's reckless greed. But,

should McKay be sacrificed, she--his murderess--must not escape," said

Blythe, hotly.

"Ah! but how shall we lay hands on her? Who knows her?" asked Sir

Richard.

"One of my officers--Hyde. We shall get her through him," and Blythe

repeated what the old quartermaster had said that morning.

"Yes, he evidently knows. He would be the best man to pursue her--to

bring her to judgment for her villanies. There is enough in these

papers to convict her. But he could hardly leave the Crimea just now."

"He happens at this moment to be going down to Scutari, on sick leave:

he could easily go on."

"Is he strong enough?"

"He is gaining strength daily; it is only a wounded arm."

"That will be best. I will arrange with Lord Raglan to give him leave,

provided he will accept the mission."

Without further delay Blythe went back to his camp and told Hyde all

that had occurred.

"Go! Of course I will go. This very day, if the doctor will let me. I

will unmask her; I will spoil her game. If I cannot save Stanislas, at

least she shall not benefit by her crime."

"You are sure you can find her?"

"Trust me! People in her position are easily found. The first Court

Guide will give you her address. She holds her head high, and must pay

the penalty of greatness."

The prospect of starting soon for England on such an errand seemed to

restore Hyde to energy and strength.

"Not fit to travel!" he said to the doctor, who still expressed some

doubts on that head. "Why, I am fit for anything."

"Nonsense, man! You won't be able to use your arm for weeks."

"I shan't want it. My head's sound and clear; that's the chief thing.

The moment I get my leave and my orders, I'm off."

They gave Hyde a passage home in the _Himalaya_, a man-of-war

transport, and at that time one of the swiftest steamers afloat. At

the most, the journey would not occupy more than twelve days or a

fortnight. He might not be able or in time to do much for Stanislas in

his present peril, but he at least hoped that retribution might follow

fast on the betrayal of his friend.

CHAPTER VII.

INSIDE THE FORTRESS.

It is time to return to Stanislas McKay, whose life, forfeited under

the ruthless laws of a semi-barbarous power, still hung by a thread.

He had been taken into Sebastopol by his escort at a rapid pace. It

was a ride of half-a-dozen miles, no more, and the greater part of it,

when once they regained the Tchernaya, followed the low ground that

margins both sides of the river.

McKay could see plainly the English cavalry vedettes in the plain;

but, fast bound as he was, it was impossible for him to make any

signal to his friends. It was as well that he could not try, for he

would certainly have paid the penalty with his life.

They watched him very closely, these wild, unkempt, half-savage

horsemen; watched him as though he were a captive animal--a beast of

prey which might at any time break loose and rend them.

But the rough uncivilised Cossacks of the Don were not bad fellows

after all.

Although they at first looked askance at him when he spoke to them,

these simple boors were presently won over by the distress and

sufferings of their prisoner.

McKay was in great pain; his bonds cut into his flesh, he was

exhausted by the night's work, dejected at the ruin of his enterprise,

uneasy as to his fate.

No food had crossed his lips for many hours, his throat was parched

and dry under the fierce heat of the sun.

He begged piteously for water, speaking in Russian, and using the most

familiar style of address. The men who rode on each side of him soon

thawed as he called them "his little fathers," and implored them to

give him a drink.

"Presently, at the first halt," they said.

And so he had to battle with his thirst while they still hurried on.

Suddenly the officer in command called a halt--they had now reached

the picket-house at Tractir Bridge--and rode out to the flank of the

party. He seemed perturbed, anxious in his mind, and raised his hand

to shroud his eyes as he peered eagerly across the plain.

"Here!" he shouted, rising in his stirrups and turning round. "Bring

up the prisoner."

McKay was led to his side.

"What is the meaning of that?" asked the officer haughtily, speaking

in French, as he pointed to a cloud of dust in the distant plain.

"How can I tell you?" replied McKay, shortly: but in his own mind he

was certain that this was the contemplated extension of the French and

Sardinian lines towards the Tchernaya. For a moment his heart beat

high with the hope that this movement might help him to escape.

"You know, you rogue! Tell me, or it will be the worse for you."

"I don't know," replied McKay stoutly; "and if I did I should not tell

you."

"Dirty spy! You would have sold us for a price, do the same now by the

others. You owe them no allegiance; besides, you are in our power.

Tell me, and I will let you go."

"Your bribe is wasted on me. I am a British officer--"

"Pshaw! Officer?" and the fellow raised his whip to strike McKay, but

happily held his hand.

"Here! take him back," he said angrily, and McKay was again placed in

the midst of the party.

He renewed his entreaties for a drink, and a Cossack, taking pity on

him, offered him a canteen.

It was full of _vodkhi_, an ardent spirit beloved by the Russian

peasant, half-a-dozen drops of which McKay managed to gulp down, but

they nearly burned his throat.

"Water! water!" he asked again.

And the Cossack, evidently surprised at his want of taste, substituted

the simpler fluid; but the charitable act drew down upon him the

displeasure of his chief.

"How dare you! without my permission?" cried the officer, as he dashed

the water from McKay's lips, and punished the offending Cossack by a

few sharp strokes with his whip.

"Come, fall in!" the officer next said. "It won't do to linger here."

And the party resumed their ride, still in the valley, but as far as

possible from the stream.

Every yard McKay's hopes sank lower and lower; every yard took him

further from his friends, who were advancing, he felt certain, towards

the river. Large bodies of troops, columns of infantry on the march,

covered by cavalry and accompanied by guns, were now perfectly visible

in the distant plain.

"Look to your front!" cried the Russian officer peremptorily to

Stanislas, as he stole a furtive, lingering glance back. "Faster! Spur

your horses, or we may be picked up or shot."

All hope was gone now. This was the end of the Tchernaya valley. Up

there opposite were the Inkerman heights, the sloping hills that a few

months before McKay had helped to hold. This paved, much-worn

causeway was the "Sappers' Road," leading round the top of the harbour

into the town.

No one stopped the Cossacks.

They passed a picket in a half-ruined guard-house, the roof of which,

its door, walls, and windows, were torn and shattered in the fierce

and frequent bombardments. Even at that moment a round shot crashed

over their heads, took the ground further off, and bounded away. The

sentry asked no questions. Some one looked out and waved his hand in

greeting to the Cossack officer, who replied, pointing ahead, as the

party rode rapidly on.

Time pressed; it promised to be a warm morning. The besiegers' fire,

intended no doubt to distract attention from the movements in the

Tchernaya, was constantly increasing.

"What dog's errand is this they sent me on?" growled the Cossack

officer, as a shell burst close to him and killed one of the escort.

"Faster! faster!"

And still, harassed by shot and shell, they pushed on.

All this time the road led by the water's edge; but presently they

left it, and, crossing the head of a creek, mounted a steep hill,

which brought them to the Karabel suburb, as it was called, a detached

part of the main town, now utterly wrecked and ruined by the

besiegers' fire.

The Cossack officer made his way to a large barrack occupying a

central elevated position, and dismounted at the principal doorway.

"Is it thou, Stoschberg?" cried a friend who came out to meet him.

"Here, in Sebastopol?"

"To my sorrow. Where is the general? I have news for him. The enemy

are moving in force upon the Tchernaya."

"Ha! is it so? And that has brought you here?"

"That, and the escort of yonder villain--a rascally spy, whom we

caught last night in our lines."

"Bring him along too; the general may wish to question him."

McKay was unbound, ordered to dismount, and then, still under escort,

was marched into the building. It was roofless, but an inner chamber

had been constructed--a cellar, so to speak--under the ground-floor,

with a roof of its own of rammed earth many feet thick, supported by

heavy beams. This was one of the famous casemates invented by

Todleben, impervious to shot and shell, and affording a safe shelter

to the troops.

McKay was halted at the door or aperture, across which hung a common

yellow rug. The officers passed in, and their voices, with others,

were heard in animated discussion, which lasted some minutes; then the

one called Stoschberg came out and fetched McKay.

He found himself in an underground apartment plainly but comfortably

furnished. In the centre, under a hanging lamp, was a large table

covered with maps and plans, and at the table sat a tall, handsome

man, still in the prime of life. He was dressed in the usual long

plain great-coat of coarse drab cloth, but he had shoulder-straps of

broad gold lace, and his flat muffin cap lying in front of him was

similarly ornamented. This personage, an officer of rank evidently,

looked up sharply, and addressed McKay in French.

"What is the meaning of this movement in the Tchernaya?" he asked.

"You understand French of course? People of your trade speak all

tongues."

"I speak French," replied McKay, "but English is my native tongue. I

am a British officer--"

"I have told you of his pretensions, Excellency," interposed the

Cossack officer.

"Yes, yes! this is mere waste of time. What is the meaning of this

movement in the Tchernaya, I repeat? Tell me, and I may save your

life."

"You have no right to ask me that question, and I decline to answer

it, whatever the risk."

"An obstinate fellow, truly!" said the general, half to himself. "What

do you call yourself?"

Then followed a conversation very similar to that which had taken

place at Tchorgoun.

"I, too, knew your father," said the general, shaking his head. "It is

a bad case; I fear you must expect the worst."

"I shall meet it as a soldier should," replied McKay, stoutly. "But I

shall always protest, even with my dying breath, that I have been

foully and shamefully used. I appeal to you, a Russian officer of

high rank, of whose name I am ignorant--"

"My name is Todleben, of the Imperial Engineers."

McKay started, and, notwithstanding the imminent peril of his

position, looked with interest upon the man who was known, even in the

British lines, as the heart and soul of the defence.

"I appeal to you, sir," he pleaded, "as a general officer, a man of

high honour and known integrity, to protect me from outrage."

"I can do nothing," replied Todleben, gravely, shrugging his

shoulders. "The Prince himself will decide. Take him away. I cannot

waste time with him if he is not disposed to speak. Let him be kept a

close prisoner until the Prince is ready to see him."

The general then bent his head over his plans, and took no further

notice of McKay.

Our hero was again marched into the yard, made to remount, re-bound,

and led off towards the principal part of the town. They now skirted

the ridge of the Karabel suburb, and began to descend. Half way down

they came upon a series of excavations in the side of the hill. These

were old caves that had been enlarged and strengthened with timbers

and earth. Each had its own doorway, a massive piece of palisading.

They were used as barracks, casemated, and practically safe during the

siege. Into one of these McKay was taken; it was empty; the men who

occupied it were on duty just then at the Creek Battery below. In one

corner lay a heap of straw and old blankets, filthy, and infested with

the liveliest vermin.

One of the escort pointed to this uninviting bed, and told the

prisoner he might rest himself there. McKay, weary and disconsolate,

gladly threw himself upon this loathsome couch. They might shoot him

next morning, but for the time at least he could forget all his cares

in sleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

FROM THE DEAD.

We have seen how the news of Stanislas McKay's capture by the Russians

was communicated to his uncle, Mr. Faulks.

Next day the brief telegram announcing it was published in the morning

papers, with many strong comments. Although some blamed the young

officer for his rashness, and others held Lord Raglan directly

responsible for his loss, all agreed in execrating the vindictive

cruelty of the uncompromising foe.

General sympathy was expressed for Mr. McKay; the most august person

in the land sent a message of condolence to his mother through Lord

Essendine, who added a few kindly words on his own account.

"What curse lies heavy on our line? It seems fatal to come within

reach of heirship to the family-honours. Ere long there will be no

Wilders left, and the title of Essendine will become extinct," wrote

the old peer to Mrs. McKay. "Your boy, a fine, fearless young fellow,

whom I neglected too long and who deserved a nobler fate, is the

latest victim. Pray Heaven he may yet escape! I will strive hard to

help him in his present dire peril."

Lord Essendine was as good as his word. He had great influence,

political and diplomatic: great friends in high place at every court

in Europe. Among others, the Russian ambassador at Vienna was under

personal obligations to him of long standing, and did not hesitate

when called upon to acknowledge the debt.

Telegrams came and went from London to Vienna, from Vienna to St.

Petersburg, backwards and forwards day after day, yet nothing was

effected by Lord Essendine's anxious, energetic advocacy. The Czar

himself was appealed to, but the Autocrat of All the Russias would not

deign to intervene. He was inexorable. The law military must take its

course. Stanislas McKay was a traitor and the son of a traitor; he had

been actually taken red-handed in a new and still deeper treachery,

and he must suffer for his crime.

At the end of the first fortnight McKay's relations and friends in

England had almost abandoned hope. This was what Mr. Faulks told Mrs.

Wilders, who called every day two or three times, always in the

deepest distress.

"Poor boy! poor boy!" she said, wringing her hands. "To be cut off

like this! It is too terrible! And nothing--you are sure nothing can

be done to save him?"

"Lord Essendine is making the most strenuous efforts; so are we. Even

Sir Humphrey Fothergill has been most kind; and the War Minister has

repeatedly telegraphed to Lord Raglan to leave no stone unturned."

"And all without effect? It is most sad!" She would have feigned the

same excessive grief with the Essendine lawyers, to whom she also paid

several visits, but the senior partner's cold eye and cynical smile

checked her heroics.

"You will not be the loser by poor McKay's removal," he said, with

brutal frankness, one day when she had rather overdone her part.

"As if I thought of that!" she replied, with supreme indignation.

"It is impossible for you not to think of it, my dear madam. It would

not be human nature. Why shouldn't you? Mr. McKay was no relation."

"He was my dear dead husband's devoted friend. Nursed him after his

wound--"

"I remember to have heard that, and indeed everything that is good, of

Mr. McKay. I feel sure he would have made an excellent Earl of

Essendine; more's the pity."

"I trust my son, if he inherits, will worthily maintain the credit of

the house."

"So do I, my dear madam," said old Mr. Burt, with a bow that made the

speech a less doubtful compliment.

"When will it be settled? Why do they hesitate? Why delay?" she said

to herself passionately, as she went homewards to Thistle Grove. Her

friend Mr. Hobson was there, waiting for her; and she repeated the

question with a fierce anxiety that proved how closely it concerned

her.

"How impatient you grow! Like every woman. Everything must be done at

once."

"I am not safe yet. I begin to doubt."

"Can't you trust me? I have assured you it will end as you wish. When

have I disappointed you, Lady Lydstone?"

She started at the sound of this name, once familiar, but surrounded

now by memories at once painful and terrible.

"It is the rule in your English peerage that when a son becomes a

great peer, and the mother is only a commoner, to give her one of the

titles. Your Queen does it by prerogative."

"I might have been Lady Lydstone by right, if I had waited," she said

slowly.

"And you repent it? Bah! it is too late. Be satisfied. You will be

rich, a great lady, respected--"

She made a gesture of dissent.

"Yes; respected. Great ladies always are. You can marry again--whom

you please; me, for instance--"

Again the gesture: dissent mixed with unmistakable disgust.

"You are not too flattering, Cyprienne. Do not presume on my

good-nature, and remember--"

"What, pray?"

"What you owe me. I am entitled to claim my reward. You must repay me

some day."

"By marrying you?"

Her voice, as usual, began to tremble when she found herself in

antagonism with this man.

"If that be the price I ask. Why not? We ought to be happy together.

We have so much in common, so many secrets--"

"Enough of this!" she said shortly, but not bravely.

"And to be Lady Lydstone's husband would give me a certain status--a

sufficient income. I could help you to educate the boy, whom,

by-the-way, I have never seen. Yes; the notion pleases me. I will be

your second--I beg your pardon, your third husband, probably your

last."

"I must beg of you, Hippolyte, to be careful; I hear some one coming."

It was the Swiss butler, who entered rather timidly to say a gentleman

had called on important business.

"What business? Surely you have not admitted him? If so, you shall

leave my service. You know it is contrary to my express orders."

"He said you would see him, madam; that he came on the part of a

friend, a very ancient friend, whose name I had but to tell you--"

"What name? Go on, François."

"The name--it is difficult. Ru--" he spoke very slowly, struggling

with the strangeness of the sounds. "Ru--pert--Gas--"

"Who can this be?" Mrs. Wilders had turned very white and now beckoned

Hobson to step out into the garden. "Is it a message from beyond the

grave?"

"Coward!" cried her companion contemptuously. "The Seine seldom

surrenders its prey. Rupert Gascoigne is dead--drowned, as you know,

fourteen years ago."

"But this visitor knew him--he knows of my connection with him. Else

why come in his name? Oh, Hippolyte, I tremble! Help me. Support me in

my interview with this strange man."

"No; it would not be safe. If he knew Rupert Gascoigne, he may, too,

have known Ledantec. I will not meet him."

"Who is the coward now?"

"I do not choose to run unnecessary risks. But I will help you--to

this extent. See the man, if you must see him, in the double

drawing-room. I will be within call."

"And earshot? I understand."

"Well, what can I overhear--about you, at least--that I do not know

already? In any case I could help you."

It was so arranged. Mrs. Wilders bade her servant introduce the

stranger, and presently joined him in the adjoining room.

"Mr. Hyde," she began, composedly and very stiffly, "may I inquire the

meaning of this intrusion? You are a perfect stranger--"

"Look well at me, Cyprienne Vergette. Have years so changed me--?"

"Rupert? Impossible!" she half-shrieked. "Rupert is dead. He died--was

drowned--when--"

"You deserted him, and left him, you and your vile partner, falsely

accused of a foul crime."

"I cannot--will not believe it. You are an impostor; you have assumed

a dead man's name."

"My identity is easily proved, Cyprienne Vergette, and the relation in

which I stand to you."

"What brings you here to vex me, after all these years? I always hated

you. I left you--Why cannot you leave me in peace?"

"God knows I had no wish to see or speak to you again. The world was

wide enough for us both. We should have remained for ever apart, but

for your latest and foulest crime."

"What false, lying charge is this you would trump up against me?"

"The murder of my dearest friend and comrade. Murder twice attempted.

The first failed; the second, I fear, will prove fatal. If so, look to

yourself, madam."

"What can you do?" she said, impudently, having regained much of her

old effrontery.

"Prevent you from reaping the fruits of your iniquity. You know you

were never General Wilders's wife; you were always mine. Worse luck!"

"You cannot prove it. You are dead. You dare not reappear."

"Wait and see," he replied, very coolly.

"You have no proofs, I say, of the marriage."

"They are safe at the Mairie, in Paris. French archives are carefully

kept. I have only to ask for a certificate; it's easy enough."

"For any one who could go there. But how will you dare to show

yourself in Paris? You are proscribed; a price is set on your head.

Your life would be forfeited."

"I will risk all that, and more, to ruin your wicked game."

"Do so at your peril."

"You threaten me, vile wretch? Be careful. The measure of your

iniquity is nearly full. Punishment must soon overtake you; your

misdeeds are well known; your complicity with--"

Why should he tell her? Why warn her of the net that was closing round

her, and thus help her to escape from the toils?

But she had caught at his words.

"Complicity?" she repeated, anxiously. "With whom?"

"No matter. Only look to yourself. It is war, war to the knife,

unquenchable war between us, remember that."

And with these words he left the house.

Although she had shown a bold front, Mrs. Wilders, as we shall still

call her, was greatly agitated by this stormy scene, and it was with a

blanched cheek and faltering step that she sought her confederate in

the next room.

Mr. Hobson was gone.

"Coward! he has easily taken alarm. To desert me at the moment that I

most need advice and help!"

But she did her friend injustice, as a letter that came from him in

the course of a few hours fully proved.

"I heard enough," wrote Mr. Hobson, "to satisfy me that the devil is

unchained and means mischief. I never thought to see R. G. again. We

must watch him now closely, and know all his movements. If he goes to

Paris, as I heard him threaten, he will give himself into our hands. I

shall follow, in spite of the risks I run. One word of warning to the

Prefecture will put the police on his track. Arrest, removal to Mazas,

Cayenne, or by the guillotine--what matter which?--will be his

inevitable fate. The French law is implacable. His _dossier_ (criminal

biography) is in the hands of the authorities, and will be easily

produced. There must be numbers of people still living in Paris who

could identify him at once, in spite of his beard and bronzed face. I

can, if need be, although I would rather not make myself too prominent

just now. Be tranquil; he will not be able to injure us. It is his own

doom that he is preparing."

CHAPTER IX.

IN PARIS.

Years had passed since Hyde--he was Rupert Gascoigne then--had last

been in Paris. The memory of that last sojourn and the horrors of it

still clung to him--his arrest, unjust trial, escape. His bold leap

into the swift Seine, his rescue by a passing river steamer, on which,

thanks to a plausible tale, in which he explained away the slight

flesh-wound he had received from the gendarme's pistol, he found

employment as a stoker, and so got to Rouen, thence to Havre and the

sea.

Willingly he would never have returned to the place where he had so

nearly fallen a victim. But he was impelled by a stern sense of duty;

he came now as an avenging spirit to unmask and punish those who had

plotted against him and his friend--unscrupulous miscreants who were a

curse to the world.

He took up his quarters in a large new hotel upon the Boulevards.

Paris had changed greatly in these years. The Second Empire, with its

swarm of hastily-enriched adventurers, had already done much to

beautify and improve the city. Life was more than ever gay in this the

chief home of pleasure-seekers. Luxury of the showiest kind everywhere

in the ascendant; smart equipages and gaily-dressed crowds, the

shop-fronts glittering with artistic treasures, everyone outwardly

happy, and leading a careless, joyous existence.

Englishmen, officers especially, were just now welcome guests in

Paris. Mr. Hyde, of the Royal Picts, as he entered himself upon the

hotel register, with his soldierly air, his Crimean beard, and his arm

in a sling, attracted general attention. He was treated with

extraordinary politeness everywhere by the most polite people in the

world. When he asked a question a dozen answers were ready for him--a

dozen officious friends were prepared to escort him anywhere.

But Rupert Hyde wanted no one to teach him his way about Paris. Within

an hour of his arrival, after he had hastily changed the garments he

had worn on the night journey, had sallied forth, and, entering the

long Rue Lafayette, made straight to the headquarters of the 21st

_arrondissement_. Urgent business of a public nature had brought him

to Paris, but this was a private matter which he desired to dispose of

before he attended to anything else.

The place he sought was easily found. It was a plain gateway of

yellowish-white stone, over which hung a brand-new tricolour from a

flag-staff fixed at an angle, and on either side a striped sentry-box

containing a _Garde de Paris_.

The gateway led into a courtyard, in which were half-a-dozen

loungers, clustered chiefly around the entrance to a handsome flight

of stone steps within the building.

Just within this second entrance was a functionary, half beadle, half

hall-porter, wearing a low-crowned cocked hat and a suit of bright

blue cloth plentifully adorned with buttons, to whom Hyde addressed

himself.

"The office of M. the Mayor, if you please."

"Upstairs; take the first turn to the right, and then--"

"But surely I know that voice!" said some one behind Hyde, who had

turned round quickly.

"What, you!" went on the speaker; "my excellent English comrade--here

in Paris! Oh, joyful surprise!"

"Is it you? M. Anatole Belhomme, of the Voltigeurs? You have left the

Crimea? Is Sebastopol taken? the Russians all massacred, then?"

"It is I who was massacred--almost. I received a ball, here in my

leg, and was invalided last month. But you also have suffered,

comrade." And Anatole pointed to Hyde's arm in a sling.

"Nothing much. Only the kick of a horse; it does not prevent me moving

about, as you see."

"But what brings you to Paris, my good friend?"

"I am seeking some family documents--to substantiate an inheritance.

They are here in the archives of the Mairie."

"How? You were seeking the office of M. the Mayor? You?" And M.

Anatole proceeded to scrutinise Hyde slowly and minutely from head to

foot. "You, a veteran with your arm in a sling, and that brown

beard--brown mixed with grey. It is strange--most strange."

"Well, comrade," replied Hyde, laughing a little uneasily, "you ought

to know me again."

"Lose no time, friend, in getting what you want from the Mairie. Come:

I will go with you. Come: you may be prevented if you delay."

These words aroused Hyde's suspicions. Had Cyprienne warned the French

police to be on the look-out for him?

"But, Anatole, explain. Why do you lay such stress on this?" he asked.

"Do as I tell you--first, the papers. I will explain by-and-by."

There was no mistaking Anatole, and Hyde accordingly hastened

upstairs. Anatole indicated the door of an antechamber, which Hyde

entered alone. It was a large, bare room, with a long counter--inside

were a couple of desks, and at them sat several clerks--small people

wielding a very brief authority--who looked contemptuously at him over

their ledgers, and allowed him to stand there waiting without the

slightest acknowledgment of his existence for nearly a quarter of an

hour.

"I have come for a certificated extract from the registers of a civil

marriage contracted here on the 27th April, 184--" he said, at length,

in a loud, indignant voice.

The inquiry had the effect of an electrical shock. Two clerks at once

jumped from their stools; one went into an inner room, the other came

to the counter where Hyde stood.

"Your name?" he asked, abruptly. "Your papers, domicile, place of

birth, age. The names of the parties to the contract of marriage."

Hyde replied without hesitation, producing his passport, a new one

made out in the name of Hyde, describing his appearance, and setting

forth his condition as an officer in Her Britannic Majesty's Regiment

of Royal Picts.

While he was thus engaged, an elderly, portly personage, wearing a

tricolour sash which was just visible under his waistcoat, came out

from the inner room, and, taking up the passport, looked at it, and

then at Hyde.

"Is that your name? Yes? It is different," he went on, audibly, but to

himself, "although the description tallies. You are an English

officer, domiciled at the Hôtel Impérial, Boulevard de la Madeleine. I

do not quite understand."

"Surely it is only a simple matter!" pleaded Hyde. "Monsieur, I seek a

marriage certificate."

"For what purpose?"

"As a claim for an inheritance."

"Nothing more, eh!" said the Mayor, suspiciously. "Have you any one,

any friend, who will answer for you, here?"

"No one nearer than the British Embassy, except--to be sure--" he

suddenly thought of Anatole, who still waited outside, and who came in

at the summons of his friend.

"Oh, you are with Monsieur?" The official's face brightened the moment

he saw Anatole. "It is all right, then. Give the gentleman the

certificate. This friend"--he laid the slightest stress on the

word--"will be answerable for him, of course."

"Now, Anatole, tell me what all this means," said Hyde, as he left the

Mairie with the document he deemed of so much importance in his

pocket.

"Not here," said the Frenchman, looking over his shoulder, nervously.

"Let us go somewhere out of sight."

"The nearest wine-shop--I have not breakfasted yet, have you? A bottle

of red seal would suit you, I dare say," said Hyde, remembering

Anatole's little weakness.

"It is not to be refused. I am with you, comrade. At the sign of the

'Pinched Nose' we shall find the best of everything," replied Anatole,

heartily, and the pair passed into the street.

It was barely a dozen yards to the wine-shop, and they walked there

arm-in-arm in boisterous good-fellowship, elbowing their way through

the crowd in a manner that was not exactly popular.

"Take care, imbecile!" cried one hulking fellow whom Anatole had

shouldered off the path.

"Make room, then," replied our friend, rudely.

"Would you dare--" began the other, in a menacing voice, adding some

words in a lower tone.

"Excuse. I was in the wrong," said Anatole, suddenly humbled.

"You are right to avoid a quarrel," remarked Hyde, when they were

seated at table. He had been quietly amused at his companion's easy

surrender.

"I could have eaten him raw. But why should I? He is, perhaps, a

father of a family--the support of a widowed mother: if I had

destroyed him they might have come to want. No; let him go."

"All the same, he does not seem inclined to go. There he is, still

lurking about the front of the shop."

"Truly? Where?" asked Anatole, in evident perturbation. "Bah! we will

tire him of that. By the time we have finished a second bottle--"

"Or a third, if you will!" cried Hyde, cheerfully.

They had their breakfast--the most savoury dishes; ham and sour crout,

tripe after the mode of Caen, rich ripe Roquefort cheese, and had

disposed of three bottles of a rather rough but potent red wine,

before Anatole would speak on any but the most common-place topics. The

Crimea, the dreadful winter, the punishment administered to their

common enemy, occupied him exclusively.

But with the fourth bottle he became more communicative.

"You owe a long candle to your saint for your luck to-day in meeting

me," he said, with a slight hiccup.

"Ah! how so?"

"Had not I been there to give you protection you would now be under

lock and key in the depôt of the Prefecture."

Hyde, in spite of himself, shuddered as he thought of his last

detention in that unsavoury prison.

"What, then, have you done, my English friend?" went on Anatole, with

drunken solemnity. "Why should the police seek your arrest?"

"But do they? I cannot believe it."

"It is as I tell you. I myself am in the 'cuisine' (the Prefecture).

Since my return from the war my illustrious services have been

rewarded by an appointment of great trust."

"In other words, you are now a police-agent, and you were set to watch

for some one like me."

"Why not you?" asked Anatole, trying, but in vain, to fix him with his

watery eyes. "In any case," he went on, "I wish to serve a comrade--at

risk to myself, perhaps."

"You shall not suffer for it, never fear, in the long run. Count

always upon me."

"They may say that I have betrayed my trust; that I put friendship

before duty. That has always been my error; I have too soft a heart."

Anatole now began to cry with emotion at his own chivalrous

self-sacrifice, which changed quickly into bravado as he cried,

striking the table noisily--

"Who cares? I would save you from the Prefect himself."

At this moment the big man who had been watching at the window

returned, accompanied by two others. He walked straight towards the

door of the wine-shop.

"_Sacré bleu! le patron_ (chief). You are lost! Quick! take me by the

throat."

Hyde jumped to his feet and promptly obeyed the curious command.

"Now struggle; throw me to the ground, bolt through the back door,"

whispered Anatole, hastily.

All which Hyde executed promptly and punctiliously. Anatole suffered

him to do as he pleased, and Hyde escaped through the back entrance

just as the other policemen rushed in at the front.

"After him! Run! Fifty francs to whoever stops him!"

But Hyde had the heels of them. He ran out and through a little

courtyard at the back communicating with the street. There he found a

_fiacre_, into which he jumped, shouting to the cabman--

"Drive on straight ahead! A napoleon for yourself."

In this way he distanced his pursuers, and half-an-hour later regained

his hotel by a long detour.

Rather agitated and exhausted by the events of the morning, Hyde went

upstairs to his own room to rest and review his situation.

"It is quite evident," he said to himself, "that Cyprienne has tried

to turn the tables on me. I was too open with her. It was incautious

of me to show my hand so soon. Of course the police have been set upon

me--the accused and still unjudged perpetrator of the crime in

Tinplate Street--by her. But has she acted alone in this?

"I doubt it. I doubt whether she would have come to Paris with that

express purpose, or whether the police would have listened to her if

she had.

"But who assisted her? Some one from whom she has no secrets. Were it

not that such a woman is likely to have set up the closest relations

with other miscreants in these past years, I should say that her agent

and accomplice was Ledantec. Ledantec is still alive; I know that, for

I saw him myself on the field of the Alma, rifling the dead.

"Ledantec! We have an old score to settle, he and I. What if he

should be mixed up in this business that brings me to Paris? It is

quite likely. That would explain his presence in the Crimea, which

hitherto has seemed so strange. I never could believe that so daring

and unscrupulous a villain had degenerated into a camp-follower,

hungry for plunder gained in the basest way. It could not have been

merely to prey upon the dead that he followed in the wake of our army.

Far more likely that he was a secret agent of the enemy. If so then,

so still, most probably. What luck if these damaging clues that I hold

should lead me also to him!

"But it is evident that I shall do very little if I continue to go

about as Rupert Hyde. The police are on the alert: my movements would

soon be interfered with, and, although I have no fear now of being

unable to prove my innocence, arrest and detention of any kind might

altogether spoil my game.

"I must assume some disguise, and to protect myself and my case I will

do so with the full knowledge of the Embassy. It will do if I go there

within an hour. By this evening at latest the police will certainly be

here after Rupert Hyde."

It must be mentioned here that the police of Paris are supposed to be

acquainted with the names of all visitors residing in the city. The

rule may be occasionally relaxed, as now, but under the despotism of

Napoleon III. it was enforced with a rigorous exactitude.

Hyde had been barely half-a-dozen hours in Paris, but already his name

was inscribed upon the hotel-register awaiting the inspection of the

police, who would undoubtedly call that same day to note all new

arrivals.

Before starting for the Embassy, Hyde sat down and wrote a couple of

rather lengthy letters, both for England, which he addressed, and

himself posted at the corner of the Rue Royale.

Thence he went on, down the Faubourg St. Honoré, not many hundred

yards, and soon passed under the gateway ornamented with the arms of

Great Britain, and stood upon what, by international agreement, was

deemed a strip of British soil.

He saw an _attaché_, to whom he quickly explained himself.

"You wish to pursue the investigation yourself, I gather? Is it worth

while running such a risk? Why not hand over the whole business to the

Prefecture? I believe they have already put a watch upon the persons

suspected."

"I have no confidence in their doing it as surely as I would myself."

Hyde, it will be understood, had his own reasons for not wishing to

present himself at the Prefecture.

"You propose to assume a disguise? As you please; but how can we help

you?"

"By giving me papers in exchange for my passport, which you can hold,

and by sending after me if I do not reappear within two or three

days."

"You anticipate trouble, then; danger, perhaps."

"Not necessarily, but it is as well to take precautions."

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes; I should like to bring my disguise and put it on here. In the

porter's lodge, a back office--anywhere."

The _attaché_ promised to get the ambassador's permission, which was

accorded in due course, and that same afternoon Hyde entered the

Embassy a well-dressed English gentleman, and came out an evil-looking

ruffian, wearing the blue blouse and high silk cap of the working

classes. One sleeve of the blouse hung loose across his chest, as

though he had lost his arm, but his injured limb was safe underneath

the garment. His beard was trimmed close, and on either side of his

forehead were two great curls, plastered flat on the temple, after the

fashion so popular with French roughs.

In this attire he plunged into the lowest depths of the city.

Amongst the papers seized at the Maltese baker's in Kadikoi were

several that gave an address in Paris. This place was referred to

constantly as the headquarters of the organisation which supplied the

Russian enemy with intelligence, and at which a certain mysterious

person--the leading spirit evidently of the whole nefarious

company--was to be found.

"I'll find out all about him and his confederates before I'm many

hours older," said Hyde, confidently, as he presented himself at the

porter's lodge of a tall, six-storied house, of mean and forbidding

aspect, close to the Faubourg St. Martin. It was let out in small

lodgings to tenants as decayed and disreputable as their domicile.

"M. Sabatier?" asked Hyde, boldly, of the porter.

"On the fifth floor, the third door to the right," was the reply.

Hyde mounted the stairs and knocked at the door indicated.

"Well?" asked an old woman who opened it.

"The patron--is he here? I must speak to him."

"Who are you? What brings you?" The old woman still held the door

ajar, and denied him admission.

"I have news from the Crimea--important news--from the Maltese."

"Joe?" asked the old woman, still suspicious.

Hyde nodded, and said sharply--

"Be quick! The patron must know at once. You will have to answer for

this delay."

"He is absent--come again to-morrow," replied the old woman, sulkily.

"It will be worse for him--for all of us--if he does not see me at

once."

"I tell you he is absent. You must come again;" and with that the

woman shut the door in his face.

What was Hyde to do now? Watch outside? That would hardly be safe. The

police, he knew, were on the look-out already, and they would be

suspicious of any one engaged in the same game.

There was nothing for it but to take the old woman's reply for truth

and wait till the following day. Hyde knew his Paris well enough to

find a third-class hotel or lodging-house suitable for such a man as

he now seemed, and here, after wandering through the streets for

hours, dining at a low restaurant and visiting the gallery of a

theatre, he sought and easily obtained a bed.

Next day he returned to the Faubourg St. Martin and was met with the

same answer. The patron was still absent.

Hyde was beginning to despair; but he resolved to wait one more day,

intending, if still unsuccessful, to surrender the business to other

hands.

But on the third day he was admitted.

"The patron will see you," said the old woman, as she led him into a

small but well-lighted room communicating with another, into which she

passed, locking the door behind her.

They kept him waiting ten minutes or more, during which he had an

uncomfortable feeling he was being watched, although he could not tell

exactly how or from where.

There was really a small eye-hole in the wall opposite, of the kind

called in French a "Judas," and such as is used in prisons to observe

the inmates of the cells. Through this, Hyde had been subjected to a

long and patient examination.

It was apparently satisfactory; for presently the inner door was

unlocked, and the old woman returned, followed by a man whom we have

seen before.

It was Mr. Hobson in person; Ledantec really, as Hyde immediately saw,

in spite of the smug, smooth exterior, the British-cut whiskers, and

the unmistakable British garb.

"Here is the patron," said the old woman; "tell him what you have to

say."

Hyde, addressing himself to Mr. Hobson, began his story in the most

perfect French he could command. He spoke the language well, and had

no reason to fear that his accent would betray him.

"The patron speaks no French," put in the old woman. "You ought to

know that. Tell me, and I will interpret."

Mr. Hobson played his part closely, that was clear. A Frenchman by

birth, he could hardly be ignorant of or have forgotten his own

tongue.

Hyde, following these instructions, told his story in the briefest

words. How Valetta Joe had been seized, his shop ransacked, and many

compromising papers brought to light.

"Ask him how he knows this," said Mr. Hobson quietly.

"My brother has written to me from the Crimea. He was in the camp when

the baker was seized."

"What is his brother's name?"

"Eugène Chabot, of the 39th Algerian battalion."

This was a name given in the papers seized.

"Was it he who gave this address? How did the fellow come here? Ask

him that."

"Yes," Hyde said; he had learned the patron's address from his

brother, who had urged him to come and tell what had happened without

a moment's delay.

Mr. Hobson, _alias_ Ledantec, had listened attentively to this

friendly message as it was interpreted to him bit by bit, but without

betraying the slightest concern. Suddenly he changed his demeanour.

_"Ecoutez-moi!"_ he cried in excellent French, looking up and darting

a fierce look at the man in front of him. "Listen! You have played a

bold game and lost it. You did not hold a sufficiently strong hand."

Hyde stood sullenly silent and unconcerned, but he felt he was

discovered.

"In your charming and for the most part veracious story there is only

one slight mistake, my good friend."

"I do not understand."

"I will tell you. Eugène Chabot, your brother?--yes; your brother.

Well, he could not have written to you as you tell me--"

"But I assure you--"

"For the simple reason, that, just one week before the seizure of

Valetta Joe, Chabot was killed--in a sortie from the enemy's lines."

"Impossible! I--"

"Have been lying throughout and must take the consequences. You have

thrust your head into the lion's jaw. Hold!"

Seeing that Hyde had thrust his one hand beneath his blouse, seeking,

no doubt, for some concealed weapon, Hobson suddenly struck a bell on

the table before him.

Four men rushed in.

"Seize him before he can use his arm! Seize him, and unmask him!"

The ruffians, laying violent hands on Hyde, tore off his blouse and

dragged the wig with its elaborate curls from his head. In the

struggle he gave a sharp cry of pain. They had touched too roughly the

still helpless arm which hung in its sling beneath the blouse.

"Ah! I knew I could not be mistaken. It is you, then, Rupert

Gascoigne! I thought I recognised you from the first, although it is

years and years since we met."

"Not quite, villain! Cowardly traitor, murderer, despoiler of the

dead!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"That I saw you at your craven work just after the Alma; you ought to

have been shot then. The world would have been well rid of a

miscreant."

"Pretty language, truly, Mr. Gascoigne! I must strive to deserve it."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I am not sure. Only do not hope for mercy. You know too much. I might

make away with you at once--"

"But why spill blood?" he went on, musing aloud. "The guillotine will

do your business in due course if I hand you over to the law. That

will be best, safest; the most complete riddance, perhaps."

There was a pause.

"You see you are altogether in my power," said Ledantec, "either way.

But I am not unreasonable. I am prepared to spare you--for the

present," he said, with an evil smile--"only for the present, and

according as you may behave."

"On what conditions will you spare me--for the present?" asked Hyde,

elated at the unexpected chance thus given him.

"Tell me how you came to know of this address. Who sent you here?"

"Valetta Joe, the Maltese baker at Kadikoi."

"Describe him to me," asked Ledantec, to try Hyde.

Hyde had seen Joe more than once in his rides through the hut-town,

and his answer was perfectly satisfactory.

"Did he send any message?"

"Just what I have told you. I was to let you know of his arrest and of

the danger you would run."

Ledantec was deceived by the straightforward and unhesitating way in

which Hyde told his story.

"It may be so. At any rate, the warning must not be despised. Whether

or not you are to be trusted remains to be seen. But I will keep you

safe for a day or two longer and see what turns up. In any case you

cannot do much mischief to Cyprienne while shut fast here."

"Cyprienne?" said Hyde, quite innocently.

"I am quite aware of one reason that brought you to Paris, but, as I

have said, you cannot well execute your threats so long as we hold you

tight."

Hyde shook his head as though these remarks were completely

unintelligible. But he laughed within himself at the thought that he

had already outwitted both Cyprienne and her accomplice, and that,

wherever he was, a prisoner or at large, events would work out her

discomfiture without him.

He had no fears for himself. They had promised him at the British

Embassy that he should be sought out if he did not reappear within

three days. Besides, the French police had their eyes on the house.

The tables would presently be turned upon his captors in a way that

they little expected.

When, therefore, he was led by Ledantec's orders into a little back

room dimly lighted by a window looking on to a blank wall, he went

like a lamb. But physically he was not particularly comfortable; there

were pleasanter ways of spending the day than tied hand and foot to

the legs of a bedstead, and Ledantec's farewell speech was calculated

to disturb his equanimity.

"Don't make a sound or a move, mind. If you do--" and he produced a

glittering knife, with a look that could not be misunderstood.

CHAPTER X.

SUSPENSE.

McKay must have slept for many hours. Daylight was fading, and the den

he occupied was nearly dark, when he was aroused by the voices of his

Russian fellow-lodgers coming off duty for the night.

They were rough, simple fellows most of them: boorish peasants torn

from their village homes, and forced to fight in their Czar's quarrel,

which he was pleased to call a holy war. Coarse, uncultivated, but not

unkindly, and they gathered around McKay, staring curiously at him,

and plying him with questions.

His command of their language soon established amicable relations, and

presently, when supper was ready, a nauseous mess of _kasha_, or thick

oatmeal porridge, boiled with salt pork, they hospitably invited him

to partake. He was a prisoner, but an honoured guest, and they freely

pressed their flasks of _vodkhi_ upon him when with great difficulty

he had swallowed a few spoonfulls of the black porridge.

They talked, too, incessantly, notwithstanding their fatigue, always

on the same subject, this interminable siege.

"It's weary work," said one. "I long for home."

"They will never take the place; Father Todleben will see to that. Why

do they not go, and leave us in peace?"

"It is killing work: in the batteries day and night; always in danger

under this hellish fire. This is the best place. You are better off,

comrade, than we" (this was to McKay); "for you are safe under cover

here, and in the open a man may be killed at any time."

"He has dangers of his own to face," said the under-officer in charge

of the barrack, grimly. "Do not envy him till after to-morrow."

McKay heard these words without emotion. He was too wretched, too much

dulled by misfortune and the misery of his present condition, to feel

fresh pain.

Yet he slept again, and was in a dazed, half-stupid state when they

fetched him out next morning and marched him down to the water's edge,

where he was put into a man-of-war's boat and rowed across to the

north side of the harbour.

Prince Gortschakoff, the Russian commander-in-chief, had sent for him,

and about noon he was taken before the great man, who had his

headquarters in the Star Fort, well out of reach of the besiegers'

fire.

The Prince, a portly, imposing figure, of haughty demeanour, and

speaking imperiously, accosted McKay very curtly.

"I know all about you. Whether you are spy or traitor matters little:

your life is forfeited. But I will spare it on one condition. Tell me

unreservedly what is going on in the enemy's lines."

"I should indeed deserve your unjust epithets if I replied," was all

McKay's answer.

"What reinforcements have reached the allies lately?" went on the

Prince, utterly ignoring McKay's refusal, and looking at him fiercely.

"Speak out at once."

Our hero bore the gaze unflinchingly, and said nothing.

"We know that the French Imperial Guard have arrived, and that many

new regiments have joined the English. Is an immediate attack

contemplated?"

McKay was still silent.

"Ill-conditioned, obstinate fool!" cried the Prince, angrily. "It is

your only chance. Speak, or prepare to die!"

"You have no right to press me thus. I refuse distinctly to betray my

own side."

"Your own side! You are a Russian--it is your duty to tell us. But I

will not bandy words with you. Let him be taken back to a place of

safety and await my orders."

Once more McKay gave himself up for lost. When he regained the

wretched casemate that was his prison he hardly hoped to leave it,

except when summoned for execution.

But that day passed without incident, a second also, and a third.

Still our hero found himself alive.

Had they forgotten him? Or were they too busily engaged to attend to

so small a matter as sending him out of the world.

The latter seemed most probable. Another bombardment, the most

incessant and terrible of any that preceded it, as McKay thought.

Although hidden away, so to speak, in the bowels of the earth, he

plainly heard the continuous cannonade, the roar of the round-shot,

the murderous music of the shells as they sang through the air, and

presently exploded with tremendous noise.

He was to have a still livelier experience of the terrible mischief

caused by the ceaseless fire of his friends.

Late in the afternoon of the fourth day he was called forth, always in

imminent peril of his life, and taken round the head of a harbour

which was filled with men-of-war, past the Creek Battery, and up into

the main town. They halted him at the door of a handsome building,

greatly dilapidated by round-shot and shell. This was the naval

library, the highest spot in Sebastopol, a centre and focus of danger,

but just now occupied by the chiefs of the Russian garrison.

McKay waited, wondering what would happen to him, and in a few

minutes narrowly escaped death more than once. First a shell burst in

the street close to him, and two bystanders were struck down by the

fragments; then another shell struck a house opposite, and covered the

neighbouring space with splinters large and small; next a round-shot

tore down the thoroughfare, carrying everything before it.

It was no safer inside than out. Yet McKay was glad when they marched

him in before the generals, who were seated at the open window of the

topmost look-out, scanning the besiegers' operations with their

telescopes.

"What is the meaning of this fire? Have you any idea?" It was Todleben

who asked the question. "Does it prelude a general attack?"

"I cannot tell you," replied McKay.

"Was there no talk in the enemy's lines of an expected assault?" asked

another.

"I do not know."

"You must know. You are on the headquarter-staff of the British army."

"Who told you so? You have always denied my claim to be treated as an

English officer."

"Because you are a traitor to your own country. But it is as I say. We

know as a fact that you belong to Lord Raglan's staff; how we know it

you need not ask."

The fact was, of course, made patent by the English

commander-in-chief, in his repeated attempts to secure McKay's

release and exchange. But the prisoner had been told nothing of these

efforts, or of the peremptory refusal that had met Lord Raglan's

demands.

"I told you it would be no use," interrupted a third. "He is as

obstinate as a mule."

"Stay! what is that?" cried Todleben, suddenly. "Over there, in the

direction of the Green Mamelon."

Three rockets were seen to shoot up into the evening sky.

"It is some signal," said another. "Yes; heavy columns are beginning

to climb the slopes away there to our left."

"And the British troops are collecting in front of the Quarries."

At this moment the besiegers' fire, which had slackened perceptibly,

was re-opened with redoubled strength.

"Let everyone return to his station without delay," said Todleben,

briefly. "A serious crisis is at hand. The attack points to the

Malakoff, which, as you all know, is the key of our position."

"Hush!" said one of the other generals, pointing to McKay.

"What matter?" replied Todleben. "He can hardly hope to pass on the

intelligence."

But the words were not lost upon our hero, although he had but little

time then to consider their deep meaning.

"What shall we do with the prisoner?" asked his escort.

"Take him back to his place of confinement."

McKay's heart was lighter that evening than it had been at any time

since his capture. He remembered now that this was the 7th of June,

the day settled for the night attack upon the Mamelon and Quarries,

and he hoped that if these succeeded, as they must, they would

probably be followed by a further assault upon the principal inner

defences of the town.

He spent the evening and the greater part of the night in the deepest

agitation, hoping hourly, momentarily, for deliverance.

None came, no news even; but that the struggle was being fought out

strenuously he knew from the absence of the men that occupied his

casemate, all of whom were doubtless engaged. But towards daylight one

or two dropped in who had been wounded and forced to retire from the

batteries. From them he learnt something of what had occurred.

The French had stormed the works on the left of the Russian front, and

had carried them once, twice, three times. The Russians had returned

again and again to recover their lost redoubts, but had been obliged

to surrender them in the end.

In the same way the English had attacked the ambuscades--what we call

the Quarries--and between night and dawn the Russians had made four

separate attempts to recover what had been lost at the first

onslaught.

"And now it is over?"

"No one can say. We have suffered fearfully; we are almost broken

down. If the enemy presses we shall have to give up the town."

"Pray God they may come on!" cried McKay, counting the moments till

relief came.

But bitter disappointment was again his portion. The day grew on, and,

instead of renewed firing, perfect quiet supervened. There was a

truce, he was told, on both sides, to bury the dead.

Now followed several dreary days, when hope had sunk again to its

lowest ebb, and all his worst apprehensions revived. It was like a

living death; he was a close prisoner, and never a word reached him

that any of his friends were concerning themselves with his miserable

fate.

Again there came a glimpse of hope. Surely there was good cause: in

the renewal of the bombardment, which, after an interval of a few

days, revived with yet fiercer intention and unwavering persistence.

Surely this meant another--possibly the final--and supreme attack?

The firing continued without intermission for four days. It was

increased and intensified by an attack of the allied fleet upon the

seaward batteries. This new bombardment made itself evident from the

direction of the sounds, and the merciless execution of the fiery

rockets that fell raging into the town.

At length, in the dead of night, McKay was aroused from fitful sleep

by the beating of drums and trumpets sounding the assembly.

It was a general alarm. Troops were heard hurrying to their stations

from all directions, and in the midst of it all was heard--for a

moment there had been a lull in the cannonade--a sharp, long-sustained

sound of musketry fire.

Evidently an attack, but on what points it was made, and how it fared,

McKay at first could have no idea. But, as he listened anxiously to

the sounds of conflict, it was clear that the tide of battle was

raging nearer to him now than on any previous occasion.

He waited anxiously, his heart beating faster and faster, as each

minute the firing grew nearer and nearer. He was in ignorance of the

exact nature of the attack until, as on the last occasion, the Russian

soldiers came back by twos and threes and re-entered the casemate.

"What is going on in the front?" McKay asked.

"The enemy are advancing up the ravine. We have been driven out of the

cemetery, and I doubt whether we shall hold our ground."

"They are coming on in thousands!" cried a new arrival. "This place is

not safe. Let us fall back to the Karabel barrack."

"You had better come too," said one soldier thoughtfully to McKay, as

he gathered up the long skirts of his grey great-coat to allow of more

expeditious retreat.

"All right," said McKay, "I will follow."

And taking advantage of the confusion, during which the sentries on

the casemate had withdrawn, he left his prison-chamber and got out

into the main road.

The fusilade was now close at hand; bullets whistled continually

around and pinged with a dull thud as they flattened against the rocky

ground.

The assailants were making good progress. McKay, as he crouched below

a wall on the side of the road, could hear the glad shouts of his

comrades as, with short determined rushes, they charged forward from

point to point.

His situation was one of imminent peril truly, for he was between two

fires. But what did he care? Only a few minutes more, if he could but

lie close, and he would be once more surrounded by his own men.

While he waited the dawn broke, and he could watch for himself the

progress the assailants made. They were now climbing along the slopes

of the ravine on both sides of the harbour, occupying house after

house, and maintaining a hot fire on the retreating foe. It was

exciting, maddening; in his eagerness McKay was tempted to emerge from

his shelter and wave encouragement to his comrades.

Unhappily for him, the gesture was misunderstood. The crack of

half-a-dozen rifles responded promptly, and a couple of them took

fatal effect. Poor Stanislas fell, badly wounded, with one bullet in

his arm and another in his leg.

CHAPTER XI.

AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN.

McKay lay where he fell, and it was perhaps well for him that he was

prostrate. The attacking parties soon desisted from firing, and

charged forward at racing-pace, driving all who stood before them at

the point of the bayonet. They swept over and past McKay, trampling

him under foot in their hot haste to demolish the foe.

But the wave of the advance left McKay behind it, and well within the

shelter of his own people.

Although badly wounded, he was not disabled, and he took advantage of

the first pause in the fight to appeal for help to some men of the

38th who occupied the wall behind which he fell.

"You speak English gallows well for a Rooskie," said one of the men,

brusquely, but not without sympathy. "What do you want? Water? Are you

badly hit?"

"A bullet in my leg and a flesh-wound in my arm."

"Hold hard! Sawbones will be up soon. Meanwhile, let's try and staunch

the blood. We'll tear up your shirt for a bandage."

And with rough but real kindness he tore open McKay's old _greggo_ so

as to get at his underlinen. This action betrayed the red cloth

waistcoat he still wore.

"Why, that's an English staff waistcoat. Quick! How did you come by

it, you murdering rogue?"

"I am a staff officer."

"You! What do you call yourself?"

"Mr. McKay, of the Royal Picts: deputy-assistant-quartermaster-general

at headquarters."

"Save us alive! This bangs Bannagher. Wait, honey--wait till I call an

officer."

Presently, when the wounds had been rudely but effectively bound up, a

captain of the 38th came up, and to him McKay made himself known.

"This is no time or place to ask how you came here. Taken prisoner, I

suppose?"

"Who are you? What force?"

"Eyre's Brigade: of the Third Division. Told off to attack the Creek

Battery. We have carried the cemetery, but what else we've done I have

not the least idea."

"Haven't you? Well, I'll tell you. You've taken Sebastopol."

"Not quite, I'm afraid."

"You're well inside the fortress anyway. I can tell you that for

certain. Just above is the place in which I was kept a prisoner."

"Is that a fact? By Jove! what tremendous luck!"

"But can you hold your ground?"

"Eyre will. He'll hold on by his eyelids till reinforcements come up,

never fear. And the French have promised us support."

"Is yours the only attack?"

"Dear no! The French have gone in at the Malakoff, and our people at

the Redan."

"How has it gone--have you any idea?" asked McKay, anxiously.

"No one knows, except the general, perhaps. Here he comes; and he

don't look over pleased."

General Eyre, a tall, fierce-looking soldier, strode up with a long

step, talking excitedly to a staff-officer, whom McKay recognised as

one of Lord Raglan's aides-de-camps.

"Hold our ground!" the general was saying. "Of course we will, to the

last. But if the French could only come up in force we might still

retrieve the day. You see we are well inside, though I cannot say

exactly where."

At this moment the officer who had been speaking to McKay touched his

hat and said to the general--

"There is some one here who can tell you, I think, sir."

"Who is that? A prisoner?"

"One of our own people. McKay, of the headquarter staff. A man whom

the Russians took, and whom we have just recovered."

"McKay!" cried the aide-de-camp, joyfully. "Where is he?"

Our hero was speedily surrounded by a group of sympathetic friends, to

whom he gave a short account of himself. Then he briefly explained to

the general the position in which they were.

"It is as I thought," said the general. "We have pierced the Russian

works above the man-of-war harbour, and, if reinforced promptly, can

take the whole of the line in reverse. Will you let Lord Raglan know?

and the attack might then be renewed on this side."

"I fear there is no hope of that," said the aide-de-camp, gloomily.

"Have we failed, then?" asked McKay.

His friend shook his head.

"Completely. I cannot tell why exactly, but I know that part of the

French started prematurely. There was some mistake about the

signal-rocket. This gave the alarm to the whole garrison."

"Yes; I heard them turning out in the middle of the night."

"And the consequence was they were ready for us at all points. Our

attacking parties at the Redan were met with a tremendous fire, and

literally mowed down. Our losses have been frightful. All the

generals--Sir John Campbell, Lacy, yea, and Shadford--are killed, and

ever so many more. It's quite heartbreaking."

"And will nothing more be tried to-day?"

"I fear not, although Lord Raglan is quite ready; but the French are

very dispirited. Goodness knows how it will end! The only slice of

luck is Eyre's getting in here; but I doubt if he can remain."

"Why not?"

"The enemy's fire is too galling, and it appears to be on the

increase."

"I fancy they are bringing the ships' broadsides to bear."

"Yes, and we are bound to suffer severely. But you, McKay; I see you

are wounded. We must try and get you to the rear."

"Never mind me," said McKay, pluckily; "I will take my chance and wait

my turn."

The chance did not come for many hours. Eyre's brigade continued to be

terribly harassed; they were not strong enough to advance, yet they

stoutly refused to retire. The enemy's fire continued to deal havoc

amongst them; many officers and men were struck down; General Eyre

himself was wounded severely in the head.

All this time they waited anxiously for support, but none appeared. At

length, as night fell, Colonel Adams, who had succeeded Eyre in the

command, reluctantly decided to fall back.

The retreat was carried out slowly and in perfect order, without

molestation from the enemy. Now at last the wounded were removed on

stretchers as carefully and tenderly as was possible.

McKay's hurts had been seen to early in the day. He was placed as far

as possible out of fire, and his strength maintained by such

stimulants as were available.

While the excitement lasted his pluck and endurance held out. But

there was a gradual falling-off of fire as the night advanced, and the

pains of his wounds increased. He suffered terribly from the motion as

he was borne back to camp, and when at last they reached the shelter

of a hospital-tent in the Third Division camp he was in a very bad

way: fits of wild delirium alternated with death-like insensibility.

But he was once more amongst his friends. Next morning Lord Raglan,

notwithstanding his heavy cares and preoccupation, sent over to

inquire after him.

Many of the headquarter-staff came too, and Colonel Blythe was

constantly at his bedside.

On the second day the bullet was removed from the leg, and from that

moment the symptoms became more favourable. Fever abated, and the

wounds looked as though they would heal "at the first intention."

"He will do well enough now," said the doctor in charge of the case;

"but he will want careful nursing--better, I fear, than he can get in

camp."

"Why not send him on board a hospital ship? Could he bear the journey

to Balaclava?"

"Undoubtedly. I was going to suggest it."

"There is the _Burlington Castle_, his own uncle's ship: she is

now fitted up as a hospital, with nurses and every appliance. He will

soon get well on board her."

There were other and still more potent aids to convalescence on board

the _Burlington Castle_. A band of devoted female nurses tended the

sick; and amongst them, demurely clad in a black dress, her now sad

white face half hidden under an immense coif, was one who answered to

the name of Miss Hidalgo.

It was Mariquita, placed there by the kindness of the military

authorities, anxious to make all the return possible by helping in the

good work. The relationship of the captain to Stanislas was remembered

by Colonel Blythe, and the _Burlington Castle_ seemed the fittest

place to receive the poor girl.

Good Captain Faulks had been taken into the secret.

"Poor child!" he had said. "I will watch over her for dear Stanny's

sake. I was fond of that lad, and she shall be like a daughter to me."

At first she seemed quite dazed and stupefied by her grief. She gave

up her lover as utterly lost, and would not listen to the consolation

and encouragement offered.

"He'll turn up, my dear," said Captain Faulks; "you'll see. He was

not saved from drowning to die by a Russian rope. Wait; he'll weather

the storm."

Mariquita would shake her head hopelessly and go about her appointed

task with an unflagging but despairing diligence that was touching to

see.

Uncle Barto, as he always wished her to call him, was the first to

tell her the good news.

"He's found, my dear. What did I tell you? They couldn't keep him; I

knew that."

"The Holy Virgin be praised!" cried Mariquita. "But is he

well--uninjured? When shall we see him?"

"Soon, my dear, soon. He will be brought--I mean he will come on board

in a few days now."

A simple pressure of the hand, a half-whispered exclamation of joy in

her own fluent Spanish, was the only greeting that Mariquita gave her

wounded lover when they lifted him on to the deck of the

hospital-ship. But the vivid blush that mantled in her cheek, and the

glad light that came into her splendid eyes, showed how much she had

suffered, and how great was her emotion at this moment of trial.

As for Stanislas, he was nearly speechless with surprise.

"You here, Mariquita! What strange adventure is this? Tell me at

once--"

"No, no," interposed the doctor; "it is a long story. You are tired

now, and will have plenty of time to hear from Miss Hidalgo all about

herself."

It was the telling of this story as she sat by the side of his couch,

hand locked in hand, and he learnt by degrees the full measure of her

self-sacrificing devotion, that did McKay so much good. It braced and

strengthened him, giving him a new and stronger desire to live and

enjoy the unspeakable blessing of this true woman's love.

They would have been altogether happy, these long days of

convalescence, but for his enforced absence from his duties, and the

distressing news that came from the front.

Lord Raglan had never recovered from the disappointment of the 18th of

June. The failure of the attack, and the loss of many personal

friends, preyed upon his spirits, and he suddenly became seriously

ill. He never rallied, sank rapidly, and died in a couple of days, to

the great grief of the whole army.

No one felt it more than McKay, to whom the sad news was broken by his

old chief.

"It is very painful to think," said Sir Richard Airey, "that he passed

away at the moment of failure; that he was not spared to see the

fortress fall--for it must fall."

"Of course it must, sir," said McKay. "This last attack ought to have

succeeded. The Russians were in sore straits."

"It was the French who spoiled everything by their premature advance.

I knew we could do nothing until they had taken the Malakoff. That is

the key of the position."

"You are right, sir. I myself heard Todleben say those very words."

"Did you? That is important intelligence. It must not be forgotten

when the time comes to organise a fresh attack."

"I shall be well then, I hope, sir, and able to go in with the first

column. I think I could show the way."

"At any rate you can say more than most of us, for you have been

actually inside the place."

"And shall be again, if you will only wait another month!" cried

McKay.

But the doctors laughed at him when he talked like this.

"You will not be able to put your foot to the ground for three months

or more, and then you must make up your mind to crutches for another

six."

"I shall not see the next attack, then?"

"No; but you will see England before many weeks are gone. We are going

to send you home at once."

"But I had much rather not go--" began McKay.

"It's no use talking; everything is settled."

And so it came to pass. The good ship _Burlington Castle_, Bartholomew

Faulks, master, having filled up its complement of invalids and

wounded men, including Captain Stanislas McKay, steamed westward about

the middle of July.

CHAPTER XII.

IN LINCOLN'S INN.

Ledantec, _alias_ Hobson, had at once reported progress to Mrs.

Wilders. The day after his arrival in Paris she had heard from him. He

wrote--

"Have no fears. The police are on his track. They have his exact

description, and are watching at the Mairie. Directly he shows himself

he will be arrested as Rupert Gascoigne, tried, condemned. They do

these things well in France. You will never hear of him again."

There was much to quiet and console her in these words. After the

dreadful surprise of Rupert's reappearance she had been a prey to the

keenest anxiety. The whole edifice, built up with such patient,

unscrupulous effort, had threatened to crumble away. Bitter

disappointment seemed inevitable just when her highest hopes were

nearest fulfilment.

But now, thanks to her unscrupulous confederate, the staunch friend

who had stood by her so often before, the last and worst difficulty

was removed, and everything would be well.

Another day passed without further intelligence from Paris, but

Ledantec's silence aroused no fresh apprehensions. Doubtless there was

nothing special to tell; matters were progressing favourably, of

course; until her husband was actually arrested, she could expect to

hear nothing more.

On the evening of the third day, however--that, in fact, following

Gascoigne's visit to the Mairie--she had a short letter from Lincoln's

Inn. Lord Essendine's lawyers wrote her, begging she would call on

them early next day, as they had an important communication to make to

her. His lordship himself would be present, and their noble client had

suggested, if that would suit her, an appointment for twelve noon.

"At last! They mean to do the right thing at last," she said,

exultingly. "The proud old man is humbled; he fears the extinction of

his ancient line, and must make overtures now to me. My boy is the

heir; they cannot resist his rights; his claim is undeniable. He shall

be amply provided for; I shall insist on the most liberal terms."

Fully satisfied of the cause of her summons to Lincoln's Inn, Mrs.

Wilders presented herself punctually at twelve. Although she still

schooled her face to sorrowful commiseration with the old peer whom

fate had so sorely stricken, the elation she felt was manifest in her

proud, arrogant carriage, and the triumphant glitter of her bold brown

eyes.

Lord Essendine was with the senior partner, Mr. Burt, when she was

shown in; and although he arose stiffly, but courteously, from his

seat, did not take her outstretched hand, while his greeting was cold

and formal in the extreme.

There was a long pause, and, as neither of the gentlemen spoke, Mrs.

Wilders began.

"You sent for me, my lord--"

His lordship waved his hand toward Mr. Burt, as though she must

address herself to the old lawyer.