CHAPTER XIII

As the clocks were striking ten on the following morning, the morning of

Iris Wayne's wedding day, Anstice came slowly down the garden to where

his car waited by the gate.

It was a glorious September morning, the whole world bathed in a flood

of golden sunshine, and the soft, warm air was heavy with the scent of

sweet-peas, of stocks, of the hundred and one fragrant flowers which

deck the late summer days. Away over the fields hung an enchanting blue

haze which promised yet greater heat when it too should have dissolved

before the mellow rays of the sun; and if there be any truth in the old

saw that happy is the portion of the bride on whom the sun shall shine,

then truly the lot of Iris Wayne should be a happy one.

But in Anstice's face there was no reflected sunshine on this auspicious

morning. Rather did he look incredibly haggard and worn, and his

colourless lips and purple-shadowed eyes were in strangest contrast to

the smiling face of Nature.

It was only by a very strong effort of will that Anstice had driven

himself forth to embark upon his day's work. The horrible night through

which he had passed had left traces on both body and soul; and the

thought of that which was to happen to-day, the thought of the ceremony

in the little flower-decked church by which the girl he adored would be

given as wife to another man was nothing short of torture to this man

who loved her.

He would have given half he possessed to be able to blot out this day

from his calendar--to pass the whole of it in a state of oblivion, of

forgetfulness, to cheat life of its fiercest suffering for a few hours

at least; but Iris herself blocked the way to that last indulgence. She

had bidden him remember--for her sake--that the way he had taken was not

in truth the way out; and although every nerve in his body cried out for

relief, nothing in the world could have persuaded him to mar Iris'

wedding-day by an act whose commission would have grieved her had she

known of it.

And since to sit at home, brooding over the dimly-remembered events of

the preceding night, would be fatal, there was nothing for it but to go

out and strive to forget his own mental agony in an attempt to alleviate

the physical suffering of those who trusted him to relieve their bodily

woes at least.

He was about to enter his car when he heard the hoot of a motor-horn

behind him; and turning round, one foot on the step, saw his friendly

rival, Dr. Willows, driving up to intercept him.

"Hallo, Anstice, glad you're not out. I wanted to see you."

Anstice moved forward to meet him, but Dr. Willows, an agile little man

of middle age, hopped out of his car, and taking Anstice's arm moved

with him out of ear-shot of the waiting chauffeur.

"Well?" Anstice's voice was not inviting.

"It's about that affair at Cherry Orchard." Involuntarily Anstice's arm

stiffened, and the other man dropped it as he went on speaking. "I was

called in last night, and hearing you were ill--by the way, are you

better now?" He broke off abruptly and peered into Anstice's face with

disconcerting keenness.

"Quite, thanks. It was only a temporary indisposition," returned Anstice

coldly; and Dr. Willows relaxed his gaze.

"Glad to hear it--though you look pretty seedy this morning. You know

you really work too hard, Anstice. I assure you your predecessor didn't

take half the trouble with his patients that you do----"

"You'll excuse me reminding you that I have not begun my round yet."

Anstice interrupted him impatiently. "You were saying you were called in

to Cherry Orchard----"

"Yes. The little girl was badly burnt--owing to some carelessness on the

part of the servants--and since you were not available----"

"Who told you I was not available?" His tone was grim.

"Why, Miss Wayne, of course. You know she and Mr. Cheniston came on to

see me after finding you weren't able to go owing to being seedy

yourself"--even Anstice's sore spirit could not doubt the little man's

absolute ignorance of the nature of his supposed illness--"and they

asked me to go in your place. So as it was an urgent case of course I

did not hesitate to go."

"Of course not." Anstice strove to speak naturally. "Well, you went?"

"Yes, and treated the child. As you know, she is only a kiddie, and the

shock has been as bad as the actual burns, though they are severe

enough."

"Have you been there to-day?"

"No--that's what I came to see you about. I stayed pretty late last

night, and left the child asleep; but now, of course, you will take over

the case. Mrs. Carstairs understood I was only filling your place, you

know."

"Do you think"--Anstice hesitated oddly, and Dr. Willows told himself

the man looked shockingly ill--"do you think Mrs. Carstairs would prefer

you to continue the case?"

"Good Lord, no!" Dr. Willows stared. "Why, what bee have you got in your

bonnet now? I told you Mrs. Carstairs knew I was only representing you

because you were ill, and couldn't come, and I told her I would run over

first thing this morning and see if you were able to take on the case

yourself."

"What did Mrs. Carstairs say to that?"

"She agreed, of course. And if I were you"--Dr. Willows felt vaguely

uncomfortable as he stood there in the morning sunshine--"I'd go round

pretty soon." He looked at his watch ostentatiously. "By Jove, it's

after ten--I must get on. Then you'll go round to Cherry Orchard this

morning?"

"Yes." Anstice accepted the inevitable. "I'll go round almost

immediately. Thanks very much for coming, Willows. I ... I'm grateful to

you."

"Oh, that's all right!" Dr. Willows, relieved by the change in Anstice's

manner, waved his hand airily and returned to his car; and as soon as he

was out of sight Anstice entered his own motor and turned in the

direction of Cherry Orchard.

After all, he said to himself as the car glided swiftly over the hard

white road, there was no reason why Mrs. Carstairs should find anything

suspicious in his inability to visit Cherry Orchard on the previous

evening. Doctors were only human after all--prone to the same ills to

which other men are subject; and although the exigencies of one of the

most exacting professions in the world would seem to inspire a

corresponding endurance in its members, there are moments in which even

the physician must pause in his ministrations to the world, in order, as

it were, to tune up his own bodily frame to meet the demands upon it.

Of course it was possible that Cheniston had divulged to his sister the

true reason of Anstice's non-arrival; but Anstice did not think it

likely; for although there was, and always must be, a strong antagonism

between the two men, Cheniston was an honourable man; and the secret

upon which he had stumbled was one which a man of honour would

instinctively keep to himself.

That his secret was safe with Iris, Anstice knew beyond any question;

and as his car swept up the drive to the jasmine-covered door of Cherry

Orchard he told himself that it was only his conscience which made him

feel as though his absence on the previous evening must have looked odd,

unusual, even--he could not help the word--suspicious.

The door was opened to him by Hagyard, and there was no doubting the

sincerity of his welcome.

"Good morning, sir. I was looking out for you.... Miss Cherry's

awakened, they say, and is in a sad state."

His unusual loquacity was a proof of his mental disturbance, and Anstice

spoke sharply.

"Where is she? Shall I go upstairs?"

"If you please, sir. Here is Tochatti come for you, sir." And he stood

aside to allow the woman to approach.

"Will you come this way, signor?" Her foreign accent was more marked

than usual; and looking at her worn and sallow countenance Anstice

guessed she had not slept.

He followed her without asking any questions, and in another moment was

in Cherry's bedroom, the little white and pink room whose wall papers

and chintzes were stamped with the life-like bunches of cherries on

which he had once remarked admiringly, to the little owner's

gratification.

In the small white bed lay Cherry, her head swathed in bandages, one

little arm bandaged likewise; and beside her knelt Chloe Carstairs, her

face like marble, her silky black hair dishevelled on her brow, as

though she, too, had passed a sleepless night. Cherry's brown eyes were

widely opened with an expression of half-wondering pain in their usually

limpid depths, and from time to time she uttered little moans which

sounded doubly piteous coming from so self-controlled a child as she.

"Dr. Anstice--at last!" Chloe rose swiftly from her knees and came to

meet him with both hands outstretched. "I thought you were never

coming--that Dr. Willows had forgotten to tell you----"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carstairs." He knew at once, with a relief which would

not be repressed, that Cheniston had kept his miserable secret. "I only

saw Dr. Willows half an hour ago, and came at once. How is Cherry this

morning--did she have any sleep?"

"Yes, thank God." Listening to her low voice, Anstice wondered why he

had ever thought her lacking in affection for her child. "Dr. Willows

was most kind--he stayed half the night with us and Cherry slept for

some hours after he left. But now she is awake, as you see, and I'm

afraid she is suffering horribly."

"Let me see what I can do for her, will you?"

He approached the bed and sat down quietly by it, while Cherry ceased

for a second to moan, and her brown eyes besought him, more eloquently

than speech, to give her relief from this quite unusual state of

affairs. At first he was not certain that the child recognized him; but

presently her uninjured hand came gropingly towards him; and as he took

the tiny fingers in his own Anstice felt a sudden revival of the

energies which had seemed so dead, so burnt-out within him on this

beautiful September morning.

"Well, Cherry, this is bad luck, isn't it?" He spoke very gently,

studying her little face the while. "But don't lose heart--this pain

won't last long, it will soon run away. Is it _very_ bad?"

"It's _rather_ bad, thank you, my dear." Even in the midst of her

tribulation Cherry strove heroically for her own gracious tone, and the

familiar term of endearment sounded strangely pathetic to-day. "But

you'll send it quite 'way, won't you?"

"Yes. I send away all pains," returned Anstice, lying nobly. "But first

of all you must let me see just what sort of pain this one is, and then

I shall know how to get rid of it. You don't mind me touching you, do

you?"

"N-not much, my dear." Cherry's lips quivered, and Chloe Carstairs

turned away as though unable to bear the sight of her little daughter's

suffering any longer.

Quickly and tenderly Anstice made his examination without disturbing

more of the dressings than was absolutely necessary; and by dint of

questioning Mrs. Carstairs found that the child's brow had been badly

scorched where her brown curls had caught fire, and that one little arm

had suffered a grievous burn. These were the only outward signs of the

accident, but the child had undergone a severe shock; and Anstice felt a

sudden misgiving as he looked at the pinched little face, and noted the

renewal of the pitiful moans which even Cherry's fortitude could not

altogether repress.

The woman Tochatti had hovered in the background while he bent over the

bed; and now, at a sign from him, she came forward silently.

"Just look after the child a moment or two, will you?" he said. "Mrs.

Carstairs, may I have a word with you? Oh, don't be alarmed--I only want

to hear a little more about the affair."

Tochatti shot a quick look at him from her beady black eyes; and Anstice

was momentarily puzzled by her curious expression. She looked almost as

though she resented his presence--and yet she should have welcomed him,

seeing that he was there to do his best for the child she adored. But as

she moved to the side of the bed, and took Cherry's unhurt hand in her

own brown fingers with a touch of almost maternal tenderness, he told

himself impatiently that he was fanciful; and turned to Mrs. Carstairs

with a resolute movement.

"Will you come into my room, Dr. Anstice?" Chloe's spacious bedroom led

out of her little daughter's pink and white nest; and as Anstice

followed her she pulled the door to with a nervous action curiously

unlike herself.

"Dr. Anstice, will she die?" Her lips were ashy, and in her white face

only the sapphire eyes seemed alive. "If she dies, I will never forgive

Tochatti--never!"

"Tochatti?" Anstice was surprised. "Was she to blame for this?"

"Not altogether." Chloe could be just, it seemed, even in the midst of

her sorrow. "I will tell you what happened. As perhaps you know, Cherry

was to have been one of Iris Wayne's bridesmaids, and at her own request

Tochatti had made her dress, a flimsy little thing all muslin and lace.

She had spent days over it--she embroiders wonderfully, and when it was

done it was perfectly exquisite. She finished it last evening, and

Cherry insisted on a dress rehearsal. She was to pay me a surprise visit

in the drawing-room just before dinner, and it seems that when she was

quite ready Tochatti slipped downstairs to find Hagyard and admit him to

a private view, leaving Cherry alone in the room--against all

rules--with two candles burning on the dressing-table."

She paused.

"I think I understand," said Anstice quietly. "Cherry took up a candle

to get a better view of her pretty frock, and----"

"Not exactly," Chloe interrupted him. "She leaned forward, it seems, in

order to look at herself more closely in the glass--you know children

are fond of seeing themselves in pretty clothes--and, as you might

imagine, she leaned too close to the candle and her sleeve caught fire."

"She cried out?"

"Yes--luckily we all heard her." Through all her marble pallor Chloe

flushed at the remembrance of that poignant moment. "We rushed in and

found her shrieking, and Tochatti beat out the flames with her hands."

"With her hands? Is she burnt, too, then?"

"Yes--I believe so." Chloe's tone expressed no pity. "She tied up her

hand--the left one--herself, and says it is nothing much."

"I see." Privately Anstice determined to investigate the woman's hurt

before he left the house. "Well--and what then?"

"When we got the flames under we found that Cherry had fainted, and we

telephoned at once for you." She stopped short, taken aback by the

strange expression on his face.

"Yes--and I wish to God I'd heard your call!" Anstice bit his lip

savagely; and Chloe, uncomprehending but compassionate, hastened on with

her story.

"You couldn't help being ill! Iris told me how your maids were all in

the Park watching the fireworks--and then when my brother and Iris came

down you were too ill to come. Are you better now?"

"So they went for Willows and brought him back with them?" He

disregarded her question--possibly did not hear it.

"Yes, and as I have told you he was most kind. But of course Cherry did

not know him, and she kept on crying for you----"

Chloe, who had intended the last words kindly, thinking to please him by

this proof of the child's affection for him, was aghast at the result of

her speech.

"Mrs. Carstairs, for God's sake don't tell me that!" Anstice's voice

almost frightened her, so bitter, so full of remorse was it. "It only

wanted _that_ to make the horror complete--the knowledge that I failed a

little child in her need!"

"The horror?" She stared at him. "I don't understand."

"No, and there's no reason why you should." With a great effort he

resumed his ordinary tone. "Mrs. Carstairs, forgive me. I ... as you

know--I was--ill--last night, and I'm not quite myself this morning.

But"--he turned the subject resolutely--"what I want to say is this.

Cherry will need very careful nursing for some days, and I think it will

be well for me to send you a nurse."

Chloe received the suggestion rather dubiously.

"Do you think it is really necessary?" she said at length. "I'm as

strong as a horse, and as for Tochatti, I'm afraid she wouldn't like to

feel herself superseded. She is devoted to Cherry, you know, and she is

a very jealous woman."

"Yes," he said, "but even although you and Tochatti are ready to give

yourselves up to the child, in a case of this sort skill is wanted as

well as affection." He smiled to soften the harshness of his words, and

Chloe inconsequently thought that he looked very weary this morning.

"Of course, and if we don't prove competent you are at liberty to send

us a nurse. But"--she spoke rather wistfully--"mayn't we try, Tochatti

and I? I would a thousand times sooner nurse Cherry myself than let a

stranger be with her."

Touched by something in her voice, remembering also the peculiar

position in which this woman stood--a wife without a husband, with no

one in the world, apparently, to care for her save her child--Anstice

yielded the point for the moment.

"Very well, then. We will try this arrangement first, and if Cherry goes

on well there will be no need to call in other help. Now I should like

to see Tochatti, and give you both instructions."

Without a word Chloe led him back to the smaller bedroom where Cherry

lay uneasily dozing; and Anstice beckoned to Tochatti to approach the

window.

She came forward rather sullenly; and Anstice, irritated by her manner,

spoke in rather a peremptory tone.

"Let me see your hands, please. I understand you were burnt last night."

Unwillingly the woman held out her left hand, which was wrapped round

with a roughly constructed bandage; and as Anstice took it and began to

unwind the folds he heard her draw in her breath with an odd little

hiss.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, surprised, and the woman answered stolidly.

"No, thank you, sir. You did not hurt me at all."

Her manner struck him as peculiar; it almost seemed as though she

resented his efforts on her behalf; and as he unwrapped the last of the

bandage Anstice told himself she was by no means an attractive patient.

But when he saw her hand he forgave her all her peculiarities; for she

must have suffered untold pain during the hours which had elapsed since

the accident.

"I say--why didn't you show your hand to the doctor last night?" He

spoke impetuously, really shocked to see the extent of her burns. "You

have given yourself a lot of unnecessary pain, and it will take much

longer to heal. You must let me dress the place at once."

Assisted by Chloe, who fetched and carried for him deftly, he dressed

and bound up the burnt hand; and though the woman never flinched, there

was a look in her eyes which showed him she was enduring great pain.

"There." He finished his work and looked at her closely. "That will feel

easier soon. But you know you should lie down and try to sleep for an

hour or two--and that hand will be quite useless for some days. Really,

Mrs. Carstairs"--he turned to Chloe--"I think you will have to let me

send for a nurse, after all. You can't do everything, and Tochatti is

more or less disabled----"

He was surprised by the effect of his words. Tochatti turned to her

mistress eagerly, and began pouring out a stream of Italian which was

quite incomprehensible to Anstice, who was no better at modern languages

than the average public school and University product. And Chloe replied

in the same tongue, though without the wealth of gesture employed by the

other woman; while Anstice waited, silently, until the colloquy was

concluded.

Finally Chloe turned, apologetically, to him and explained the subject

of the woman's entreaties.

"Tochatti is so terribly upset at the idea of a strange woman coming to

nurse Cherry that I have promised to try to persuade you to reverse your

verdict," she said. "Do you mind? Of course if we can't manage you must

do as you think fit--but----"

"We will try, by all means." In spite of himself, he was touched by the

woman's fierce devotion to her charge. "And now I'll tell you exactly

what I want you to do until I come again this afternoon."

He proceeded to give them full instructions how to look after the child,

and when he had assured himself that they understood exactly what was to

be done, he took his leave, promising to call again in the course of a

few hours.

As he drove away he mused for a moment on the Italian woman's peculiar

manner towards him.

"Seems as if she hated me to speak to her ... she's never been like that

before--indeed, when Cherry broke her arm she used to welcome me quite

demonstratively." He smiled, then grew grave again. "Of course the woman

was in pain to-day--she was a queer colour, too--looked downright ill. I

expect the affair has been a shock to her as well as to the child."

And with that conclusion he dismissed Tochatti from his mind for the

time being, his thoughts reverting to the one subject which filled his

mental horizon to-day.

* * * * *

All through the bright September afternoon he sat alone in his

rarely-used drawing-room. The consulting-room was haunted ground to him

since the episode of the previous evening, and he could not bear to go

out into the village lest he might perhaps behold some signs of the

great event which was agitating peaceful Littlefield to-day.

But his imagination, unmercifully awakened from the stupor which had

temporarily lulled it to repose, showed him many visions on that golden

September afternoon.

He saw the old grey church decked with flowers, saw the sunlight

filtering through the famous Burne-Jones window in a splash of gorgeous

blue and crimson, staining the white petals of the big lilies in the

chancel ... he heard the peals of the organ as the choristers broke out

into the hymn which heralded the bride ... saw the bride herself, a

little pale, a little serious, in her white robes, in her eyes the grave

and tender look whose possibility he had long ago divined....

Oh, he was a fool to let his imagination torment him so ... and he

sprang to his feet, determined to put an end to these maddening visions

which only unfitted him for the stern and hopeless battle which was all

that he could look forward to henceforth....

As he moved impatiently towards the door a sudden peal of bells rang out

gaily, exultantly on the soft and balmy air; and his face turned grey as

he realized that this was the signal which betokened that Iris was now

the wife of Bruce Cheniston, his to have and to hold, irrevocably his

until death should intervene to end their dual existence....

* * * * *

With a muttered oath he strode out of the house, and making his way

round to the garage ordered his car to be brought forth immediately.

When it came he flung himself into the steering seat and drove away at

such a pace that Andrews, his outdoor man and general factotum, looked

after him anxiously.

"Looks like getting his licence endorsed," he observed to the pretty

housemaid, Alice, who was watching her master's departure from a

convenient window. "Never saw him drive so reckless--he's generally what

you might call a very considerate driver."

"Considerate? What of?" asked Alice ungrammatically. "The dogs and

chickens in the road, d'you mean?"

"Dogs and chickens! Good Lord, no!" Andrews was a born mechanician, and

it was a constant source of regret to him that Anstice generally drove

the car himself. "They're nothing but a nuisance anyway. No, I meant he

considered the car--but he don't look much like it to-day."

"Oh, the car!" Alice was openly scornful. "Well, from the pace he went

off just now, I should think he'll smash up your precious old car before

he goes far. And no loss either," said Alice, who was engaged to a

soldier in a cavalry regiment, and therefore disdained all purely

mechanical means of locomotion.

* * * * *

But once out on the road Anstice moderated his pace somewhat, since to

run over an unwary pedestrian would only add to the general hopelessness

of the situation; and he reached Cherry Orchard without any such mishap

as his servants had prophesied for him.

Here he found things less satisfactory than he had hoped. Cherry was no

better; indeed, to his experienced eye, the child was worse, and

although Mrs. Carstairs showed no signs of fatigue, and was apparently

prepared to nurse her little daughter indefinitely, it was evident that

the woman Tochatti was worn out with pain, anxiety, and, possibly,

remorse.

Although she pulled herself together sufficiently to answer Anstice's

questions intelligibly, it was plain to see that she was in reality half

dazed by the shock she had experienced and by want of sleep, and Anstice

realized that if Cherry were to be properly nursed some other help must

be obtained at once.

"See here, Mrs. Carstairs." His face was grave as he examined the

child's condition. "I'm not going to beat about the bush--I'm going to

send you a nurse to help you with Cherry."

"A nurse? But--can't Tochatti and I----?"

"You're all right," he said shortly. "You look good for any amount of

nursing, though I can't imagine how you do it, seeing you had no sleep

last night. But Tochatti is no use at present." He judged it best to

speak frankly. "It is evident she is in pain with that hand of hers, and

she will be fit for nothing to-night, at any rate."

Chloe did not contest the point further.

"Very well, Dr. Anstice. You know best; and if you think it necessary,

will you find us someone at once?"

"Yes. I think I know just the person for you." He turned to Tochatti,

who was standing by, her face full of smouldering resentment. "I'm sure

you want me to do the best thing for Miss Cherry, don't you?"

She did not answer; and he repeated his question rather sharply.

This time she answered him.

"_Si, signor._" She spoke sulkily, and a flash of something like actual

hatred shot from her black eyes as he watched her; but he had no time to

spare for her vagaries, and turned back to Chloe Carstairs forthwith.

"Then I will try to find Nurse Trevor and bring her along. She will sit

up to-night, and then you can both get some rest." He spoke kindly,

including Tochatti in his smile; but the woman merely glowered, and he

felt a spasm of sudden annoyance at her ungracious behaviour.

* * * * *

Luckily Nurse Trevor was at hand and disengaged; and Anstice had the

satisfaction of finding her safely installed and apparently completely

at home in her new surroundings when he paid his last visit to Cherry

Orchard late that night.

She was a pretty girl of twenty-seven, who had had a good deal of

experience in nursing children, and although poor little Cherry was by

this time too ill to pay much attention to any of the people around her,

it really seemed as though Margaret Trevor's soft voice, with its

cooing, dove-like notes, had a soothing influence on the suffering

child.

Anstice stayed some time in Cherry's room, doing all his skill could

suggest for the alleviation of his little patient's pain, and when at

length he took his departure Chloe herself came downstairs with him.

"What a lovely night!" She had opened the big hall door quietly while he

sought his hat. "The moon must be nearly at the full, I think."

Together they stood on the steps looking out over the dew-drenched

garden. The white stars of the jasmine which clustered thickly round the

house sent out a delicious fragrance, and there were a dozen other

scents on the soft and balmy air, as though the sleeping stocks and

carnations and mignonette breathed sweetly in their sleep.

A big white owl flow, hooting, across the path, and Chloe shivered.

"I hate owls--I always think them unlucky, harbingers of evil," she

said, and her face, as she spoke, was quite pale.

In an ordinary way Anstice would have deemed it his duty to scoff at

such superstition; but to-night, his nerves unstrung, by the happenings

of the last few days, his bodily vigour at a low ebb, his mind a chaos

of miserable, hopeless memories and fears, Chloe's words woke a quite

unexpected response in his soul.

"Don't say that, Mrs. Carstairs!" He spoke sharply. "Don't let us talk

of bad luck--to-night of all nights!"

In the moonlight her narrow blue eyes studied his face with sudden

keenness, and she felt an unusual desire to bring comfort to the soul

which she felt with instinctive certainty stood in need of some help.

As a rule Chloe Carstairs, like Anstice himself, was too much

preoccupied with the thought of her own private grudge against fate to

have any sympathy to spare for others who might have known that Deity's

frown; but to-night, owing possibly to some softening of her mental

fibres induced by the sight of her child's suffering, she felt oddly

pitiful towards this man, and her inward emotion found vent in words

which surprised her as much as they startled the man to whom they were

addressed.

"Why to-night, Dr. Anstice? Has this day been to you what it has been to

me--a day of the bitterest suffering I have ever known?"

The tone of her deep voice, so oddly gentle, the compassionate

expression in her usually cold blue eyes, were too much for Anstice,

whose endurance was nearly at the breaking point; and he turned to her

with a look in his face which dismayed her, so tragic was it.

"Mrs. Carstairs, this day I have been in--_hell_!" The word sounded

cruelly out of place in the quiet moonlit night. "Once before I fancied

I had reached the point at which a man may turn his back on life and its

horrors without thinking himself a pitiful coward. I suffered then--my

God, how I suffered!--but the torture I have endured to-day makes me

feel as though I have never known what suffering is until now."

Her answer came quickly.

"But you know now that no man can turn his back on life and yet escape

the allegation of cowardice!" It was an assertion rather than a

question. "Dr. Anstice, I don't ask to know what your suffering has

been--I don't want you to tell me--but one thing I do know, that you,

and men like you, are not the ones who give up the battle when the fight

is fiercest."

He delayed his answer so long that Chloe had time to feel curiously

frightened by his silence. And when his reply came it was hardly

reassuring.

"I thought you were too wise a woman to indulge in generalities, Mrs.

Carstairs." His tired voice robbed the words of offence. "And don't you

know that it is never safe to prophesy what a man will do in a battle?

The bravest may turn coward beneath a hail of fire--the man who is

afraid may perform some deed which will entitle him--and rightly--to the

coveted Victoria Cross."

"Yes." She spoke steadily, her eyes on his face. "But that's the

battlefield of the world, Dr. Anstice, the material, earthly

battlefield. It's the battlefield of the soul I was thinking of just

now; and if I may use a quotation which has been battered out of nearly

all its original fine shape by careless usage, to me the truly brave man

is he who remains to the end the--'captain of his soul!'"

Her voice sank on the last words; but Anstice had caught her meaning,

and he turned to her with a new light in his tired eyes.

"Mrs. Carstairs, thank you for what you've just said. Captain of his

soul--yes, I've heard it often enough, but never stopped to ponder its

meaning. And as the captain mustn't lose his ship if mortal man can

prevent the loss, so a man must bring the ship of his soul safely into

port. Is that what you meant just now?"

She smiled faintly in the moonlight, and for once there was no mockery

in her smile.

"We have wandered from our original metaphor of a battlefield," she said

gently, "but I like your simile of a ship better. Yes, I suppose that is

what I was trying to convey--in a confused fashion, I'm afraid. We each

have our voyage to complete, our ship to bring into harbour; and even

though sometimes it seems about to founder"--he knew she alluded to the

catastrophe of her own life--"we must not let it sink if we can keep it

afloat."

For a moment there was silence between them; and again they heard the

melancholy hoot of the owl, flying homewards now.

Then Anstice said slowly:

"You are right, of course. But"--at last his pent-up bitterness burst

its bounds and overflowed in quick, vehement speech--"it's easy enough

for a man to handle his ship carefully when he has some precious thing

on board--or even when he knows some welcoming voice will greet him as

he enters--at last--into his haven. But the man whose ship is empty, who

has no right to expect even one greeting word--is there no excuse for

him if he navigate the seas carelessly?"

"No." In the moonlight she faced him, and her eyes looked oddly

luminous. "For a derelict's the greatest danger a boat can encounter on

the high seas ... all our boats cross and recross the paths of others,

you know, and no man has the right to place another's ship in peril by

his own--carelessness."

"By God, you're right," he said vehemently; and she did not resent his

hasty speech. "Mrs. Carstairs, you've done more for me to-night than you

know--and if I can repay you I will, though it cost me all I have in the

world."

"You can repay me very easily," she said, holding out her hand, all the

motherhood in her coming to the surface. "Save Cherry--she is all _I_

have--now--in the world; and her little barque, at least, was meant to

dance over summer seas."

"God helping me, I will save her," he said, taking her hand in a quick,

earnest clasp; and then he entered his waiting car and drove away

without another word, a new courage in his heart.

* * * * *

And as Chloe gently closed the heavy door on the peaceful, fragrant

world without and returned to the little room where Cherry lay in an

uneasy slumber, she knew that a faint suspicion which had crossed her

mind earlier in the summer had been verified to-night.

"He too loved Iris," she said to herself, with a rather sad little

smile. "And I thought--once--that she was ready to love him in return.

But, I suppose she preferred Bruce. Only"--Chloe had no illusions on the

subject of her brother--"I believe Dr. Anstice would have made her a

happier woman than Bruce will ever be able to do. And if he"--she did

not refer to Cheniston now--"has lost his chance of happiness to-day, no

wonder he feels that he has been in hell. For there is no hell so

terrible as the one in which a soul who loves wanders alone, without its

beloved," said the woman whose husband had left her because of a cruel

doubt. "From the bottom of my heart I pity that man to-night!"

And then, re-entering Cherry's little room, pathetic now in its very

brightness of colouring, Chloe forgot all else in the world save the

child who slept, in the narrow bed, watched by Margaret Trevor's soft,

brooding eyes.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

On a cold and frosty morning in November Anstice was sitting over his

solitary breakfast when the telephone-bell rang; and he left his coffee

to grow cold while he answered the summons.

It was Sir Richard who was speaking; and even over the wire Anstice

thought he detected an unusual note in the older man's voice.

"That you, Anstice? Are you busy, or can you spare me a few minutes this

morning?"

"I'll come to Greengates, of course, if you want me, Sir Richard," said

Anstice immediately. "But I hope you are not ill--nor Lady Laura?"

"No, my sister's all right--so am I." There was a pause. "But I--well,

I'm rather worried, and I want to see you."

"Very well, sir. I'll be round at eleven. Will that suit you?"

"Yes, eleven will do well. _Au revoir_ till then," and Sir Richard rang

off with a promptitude which forbade further discussion for the moment.

As he went back to his cooling coffee Anstice wondered vaguely what Sir

Richard could have to say; but since speculation was mere idle waste of

time he dismissed the matter from his mind and finished his breakfast in

haste.

It was nearly noon when he drove his car up to the great hall door of

Greengates; but the words of apology for his tardy arrival died on his

lips when he caught sight of Sir Richard's face.

"I say, I'm afraid you're ill, after all!" Anstice was genuinely

concerned; and Sir Richard's strained features relaxed into a smile.

"No, I'm perfectly well. Only, as I told you, I have been upset this

morning; and--well, I'll explain and you will see there _is_ something

to worry about."

Without more ado he walked over to his substantial roll-top desk, and

unlocking a drawer took from thence an envelope which he handled

gingerly as though it were unpleasing to him.

From the envelope he drew a sheet of thin paper; and Anstice, watching

him closely, felt still more mystified by his distasteful expression.

For a moment Sir Richard hesitated, still holding the sheet by the tips

of his fingers. Then, as though he had taken a sudden resolve, he turned

to Anstice abruptly.

"Look here, Anstice, this abominable thing reached me this morning. Now

of course I don't need you to tell me that the proper place for it is

the fire, and if it had not been for one circumstance connected with it,

it would have been in the flames by now. But as things are"--he broke

off suddenly and held the thin sheet out to the other man--"well, read

it, and then tell me what you think is the best course to pursue."

With a premonition of evil for which he could not account, Anstice took

the paper from Sir Richard and, turning to the window so that the pale

autumn sunlight might fall upon the letter, he read the few lines

scrawled in the middle of the sheet.

"Dr. Anstice is a murderer he killed a woman in India by shooting

her because she was in the way when he wanted to escape."

That was all. There was no heading, no signature, not even the cynical

assurance of well-wishing which is the hall-mark, so to speak, of the

typical anonymous letter; and as Anstice read the ill-written words his

first sensation was of wonder as to who his secret enemy might be.

When he had finished he turned the sheet over in his hands to see if

perchance the writer might have more to say; but the other side of the

paper was blank; and he looked at Sir Richard with an expression of

utter bewilderment.

"Well?" Sir Richard interrogated him with interest. "Pretty sort of

document, eh? I suppose the writing conveys nothing to your mind?"

"Nothing at all." Holding the paper to the light, Anstice examined the

ill-formed characters more closely. "It does not resemble any

handwriting I know. But I suppose"--he smiled rather grimly--"the test

of a successful anonymous correspondent is to disguise his writing

efficiently."

"Yes." Sir Richard stretched out his hand for the paper and Anstice

yielded it to him without regret. "Well, it is pretty evident that

someone has--to put it vulgarly--got his knife into you. The question

is, who can it be?"

"Well, it's a question I'm not clever enough to answer," returned

Anstice, with assumed lightness. "All men have enemies, I suppose, and I

won't swear I've never made any in my life. But I can't at the moment

recall one who would stoop to fight with such dirty weapons as these."

"Dirty--that's just the word for it," said Sir Richard disgustedly. "But

you know, Anstice, this sort of thing can't be allowed to go on. For

your own sake, and for the sake of others"--he paused, then repeated

himself deliberately--"for the sake of others it must be stopped--at

once."

"I quite agree with you that it must be stopped," said Anstice slowly,

"though I hardly see how the matter affects anyone except myself. Of

course"--he looked Sir Richard squarely in the face as he spoke--"it is

no use denying there is a certain amount of truth in this accusation

against me. I wonder if you have the patience to listen to a story--the

story of a great mistake made, unfortunately, by me some years ago."

For a moment Sir Richard seemed about to speak; yet no word crossed his

lips. Then he said, with a very kindly inflection in his voice:

"Don't trouble to tell me the story, Anstice. I think I know it

already."

"You do?" Anstice stared at him. "But who told it to you? Was

it--Cheniston?"

"No, no." Sir Richard spoke hurriedly. "Cheniston never mentioned the

affair to me. As a matter of fact I heard it, at the time, from his

uncle, a contemporary of mine; but I confess I did not, at first,

associate you with the man who was brave enough--and unfortunate

enough--to carry out that poor girl's wish----"

"On my honour, sir, I could not have done anything else." Anstice's

voice was full of pain, and Sir Richard put his hand kindly on the

younger man's shoulder.

"Of course you couldn't--no one but a fool could imagine that for a

moment! But as I say, at first I did not connect your name with that of

the hero of the story. It was only on seeing you and Cheniston together

on one or two occasions that I guessed you might, after all, be the

man."

"Yes--to my everlasting remorse I am the man," said Anstice rather

bitterly. "But since you know the facts of the case, and yet are good

enough to welcome me to your house, I gather this wretched letter

carried no weight with you, Sir Richard. And if that is so, why not tear

it up, and make an end of the thing?"

"Wait a moment, Anstice. As you say, I know the facts of the case and

even if I were ignorant of them this contemptible _canard_"--he flicked

the paper angrily--"wouldn't rouse my curiosity to the extent of setting

me searching for some crime in your past." He smiled, but the smile cost

him an effort. "But you see the mischief may not rest here. It is quite

possible other people may have been--victimized--by this morning's

post."

"By Jove, I hadn't thought of that." Anstice stood biting his lip and

staring thoughtfully ahead of him; and the old man watched the thin,

fine-drawn face with a regard which was full of anxiety. "Naturally a

story of this sort is not calculated to enhance one's popularity; and

one's patients might quite well look askance at a doctor who was reputed

to be a murderer!"

He paused; then threw back his head impetuously.

"After all, if they are weak-minded enough to believe an anonymous

statement, they aren't worth bothering with. As it is, I've been

thinking for some time that I've had enough of general practice. I never

intended to go in for it, you know; and if I had a quiet year or two for

research----"

He broke off suddenly, for Sir Richard had raised his hand almost

entreatingly.

"Anstice, don't speak of giving up your practice here--not at this

juncture, anyway. You see this vile story may spread; and to quit

Littlefield now would look almost like"--he hesitated--"like cowardice."

For a second Anstice stared at him, a flash of anger on his brow. Then,

as though dismayed by the effect of his words, Sir Richard spoke again.

"Besides, there is another aspect of the matter which has evidently not

yet struck you. It is very natural for you to look on this letter as a

loathsome, but quite unimportant, act of spite, on the part of some

secret enemy; and I understand your desire to assume that it does not

matter in the least. But"--his eyes sought the younger man's face

anxiously--"there is another person in this neighbourhood who might be

affected by a fresh flood of anonymous communications. You know to whom

I refer?"

Suddenly Anstice saw, with a most unwelcome clarity of vision, what Sir

Richard intended to convey; and his eyes grew hard as he replied:

"You mean----"

"I mean that once again that unfortunate girl at Cherry Orchard might be

suspected of having recourse to this most degrading, most underhand form

of crime. And for her sake the matter must not be allowed to rest here."

"Sir Richard"--Anstice came a step nearer his host, and Sir Richard

heard, with satisfaction, the ring of steel in his voice--"you are

right. I did not see, at first, how peculiarly fatal this coincidence

might be. I mean that should these letters, as you suggest, be

circulated through the district, the old scandal would be revived. And

though no sane person could ever believe Mrs. Carstairs guilty of such a

vile action, I suppose there _are_ a good many lunatics about who would

put these atrocious things down to her."

"Well, you know what people are," said Sir Richard deprecatingly, "and

naturally a woman who has once been convicted, by whatever unfair means,

of the same offence, is liable to be looked on with suspicion. And I

shouldn't like"--for a second Sir Richard, who loved Chloe Carstairs as

though she had been his daughter, faltered, and cleared his throat

rather huskily--"I shouldn't like that poor, pretty creature over yonder

to suffer any further indignity."

"Of course not!" Anstice's eyes flashed, and he pulled himself together

resolutely. "And if I can help it, she shan't suffer! Just look here,

Sir Richard, the first thing to do is to find out if anyone else has

been, as you say, victimized."

"Yes." Sir Richard spoke rather dubiously. "And it will be rather hard

to find out that, I fear. You see, naturally a decent man wouldn't

spread the fact abroad; and we can hardly go about making open

inquiries."

"I suppose not." For a second Anstice was nonplussed, then his face

cleared. "But after all, if anyone--one of my patients, for instance,

has received one of these charming letters, don't you think I shall find

it out? You see, although the average 'decent man,' as you call him,

holds firmly to the theory that the place for an anonymous communication

is the fire, I'm afraid nine out of ten people can't help wondering,

even while they burn it, how much truth there was in the accusation!"

"Just so--but even then----"

"Well, something of that rather uncomfortable wonder, not to say

suspicion, is pretty sure to show itself in the manner of the man who's

read the letter. Seriously, Sir Richard, if anyone beside yourself has

received a testimonial to my character" He spoke ironically now--"I'll

guarantee to discover the fact in the course of ten minutes'

conversation with him!"

"You may be right, Anstice." Sir Richard did not speak with much

conviction. "But for all our sakes I wish we could make certain of the

facts either way. You see, should this lie be circulated through the

district by means of letters or postcards it is inevitable that the old

scandal should be raked up. And in that case Mrs. Carstairs _will_

suffer."

A thought struck Anstice suddenly and he gave it utterance forthwith.

"Sir Richard, I suppose you don't remember whether the handwriting in

any of those other letters resembled this in any way? It is not likely,

so long afterwards, but still----"

Sir Richard uttered an impatient exclamation.

"By Gad, what an old fool I am! I've got one of the original letters

locked away in that desk now--one of the half-dozen or so which reached

me when the scandal was at its height. I don't know why I kept it--God

knows I hated the sight of it--but somehow I could never bring myself to

destroy the thing, hoping against hope that it might some day afford a

clue to the identity of the writer."

He busied himself with a bunch of keys for a moment, and finally

selected one, with which he unlocked a small drawer at the back of his

desk. At first his eagerness prevented him finding what he sought, but

presently he brought to light another and rather worn sheet of paper,

which he handed to Anstice triumphantly.

"Yes, read it, read it!" He had marked Anstice's hesitation. "The

affair's been public property too long for any secrecy now. And that,

after all, was a fairly innocuous screed."

Thus encouraged, Anstice ran his eye over the sheet of paper, and there

read a veiled, but none the less malignant, attack on the character of

Mrs. Ogden, the wife of the man who had held the living of Littlefield

at the time the letter was written. In his anxiety to compare the

handwriting of the two epistles Anstice barely stopped to take in the

meaning of what he read; and when, in answer to his request, Sir Richard

handed him the second letter he carried them both eagerly to the window

and examined them carefully in the stronger light.

"Well?" Sir Richard's tone was full of sympathetic interest.

"One moment--I've got a pocket magnifying glass somewhere." He put the

letters down and plunged his hand into various pockets in eager search.

"Ah--here it is--and we'll jolly soon see if the game hand has been at

work in both."

Watching him as he pored over the two papers Sir Richard told himself

that with this man for her champion Chloe Carstairs need not fear

further condemnation at the hands of a censorious or jealous world. He

knew instinctively that what made Anstice so suddenly keen on

discovering the authorship of the letters was not a selfish desire to

rid himself of the annoyance such letters might bring upon him, but

rather a determination to prove Chloe Carstairs innocent in the first

instance by bringing home the guilt for both letters--or series of

letters--to the right quarter.

Sir Richard made no mistake in his estimation of Anstice's chivalrous

desire to right the wrong which had been done to Mrs. Carstairs. He knew

quite well that to Anstice the righting of the wrong appeared in the

light of a duty to the woman whom he called his friend; and that no

warmer emotion animated him in regard to Chloe Carstairs than that same

chivalry.

For Iris' father had not been blind to the significance of the events of

the summer. Although Anstice had never betrayed his secret by word or

look the other man had all along had a suspicion that Cheniston was not

alone in his love for his pretty daughter; and although naturally he was

ignorant of the compact entered into by the two younger men he had

sometimes wondered, with just the least possible tinge of regret, why

Anstice had apparently been content to leave the field to his rival.

Although he admitted to himself that he had absolutely no grounds for

believing that Anstice had been in love with Iris he could never rid

himself of the notion; and in any case he felt quite certain that

Anstice had no warmer feeling for Mrs. Carstairs than a very genuine and

chivalrous friendliness.

Watching the younger man as he stood with bent head examining the papers

Sir Richard was struck by the change in Anstice's face during the last

few months. Always thin, it was now positively haggard, and the black

hair which clustered round his brow was touched, here and there, with

grey. Yet the effect was not one of age. He could hardly be said to look

older than his years; but there was a look of something more painful

than a premature ageing would have been--a look of suffering, of bitter

experience impatiently borne, of a mental conflict which had drawn lines

round the fine lips, and given an air of hopeless weariness to the

deep-set eyes.

And Sir Richard, watching, wondered again--this time uneasily--whether

the marriage of his beloved little daughter to Bruce Cheniston had

proved yet another trouble for this man's already burdened spirit to

bear.

Sir Richard had, of course, no idea of the remorse with which Anstice

remembered that terrible scene on the eve of Iris' wedding day, when

Cheniston and the girl he was to marry on the morrow had come to him for

help; and had found him in no fit state to render aid to any human

being.

That fact alone, the fact that, as he had said bitterly to Chloe

Carstairs, he had failed a child in her need, would have been sufficient

to fill Anstice with a very real and deep regret for his own most

lamentable failure; but added to that was the other and still more

deplorable fact that it had been Iris Wayne who had seen his condition;

and although she had uttered no word of reproach he told himself

hopelessly that now he must have fallen very low in her estimation. And

the idea that Iris must scorn him in her heart, however charitably she

might strive to think of him, was a terrible one to the man who had

fought so heroically for her sake to overcome his weakness, and had

failed only when it had seemed to him that his failure--now--could mean

nothing to the girl he loved.

* * * * *

As Sir Richard watched him, rather uneasily, Anstice turned to him

suddenly.

"I say, Sir Richard, I'm pretty sure these letters are both written by

one hand! Look, these two 'a's are identical, and the capital 'D' is

absolutely similar in both."

Oddly thrilled, Sir Richard bent over the papers; and saw that Anstice

had spoken the obvious truth.

"By Gad, Anstice, you're right!" For a moment he did not know whether to

be disturbed or relieved by the discovery. "It looks uncommonly as

though the same hand were at work again; and in that case----"

"In that case the mischief-maker shall be brought to book." A new look

of resolution drove away the weary lines from the speaker's face. "I

hope with all my heart it _is_ the same person who's at the old

game--and I'll find out who it is if it costs me every penny I've got!"

"Quite right, quite the right spirit," said Sir Richard, watching him

keenly the while. "It's damnably unfair that a story of that sort should

be circulated about you--and the blackguard who's responsible deserves a

heavy punishment for the lie."

In an instant the vivacity died out of Anstice's face; and again its

hopeless expression struck Sir Richard with a sense of pain.

"Of course the thing is not exactly a lie," he said. "I mean, I did act

too hastily, though God knows I did it for the best. But if the whole

story is to be raked up again--by Jove, I believe after all it would be

better to let sleeping dogs lie!"

"You forget--this is not the first letter which has fallen like a

bombshell into Littlefield," Sir Richard reminded him quietly; and

Anstice flushed a dull red.

"Of course not ... what a fool I am! Thinking of the past, of that

horrible morning, I forgot Mrs. Carstairs. But"--he squared his

shoulders aggressively--"I shall not forgot again. This thing is going

to be sifted now, and the mystery solved. May I take these letters with

me?"

"Certainly." Sir Richard felt Anstice had the better right to the

documents. "You will take care of them, of course; and if you follow my

advice you will not show them to anyone--yet."

"Quite so." Anstice put the two letters carefully away in his

pocket-book. "Now I must go, Sir Richard; but please believe I am

grateful for your kindness in this matter."

He shook hands with Sir Richard, and hurried away to his waiting car;

and as he drove from the house his lips were firmly set together, and

the look in his eyes betokened no good to the wretched creature who had

penned this latest communication.

And Sir Richard, watching him from a side window, felt a sharp pang of

regret that this man, whom he liked and trusted, had not managed,

apparently, to win his daughter's affection.

"Damme if I wouldn't rather have had him for a son-in-law than the

other," he said to himself presently. "Cheniston's a decent fellow

enough, brainy and a thoroughly steady sort of chap, but there is

something about this man that I rather admire. It may be his pluck, or

his quiet tenacity of purpose--I'm hanged if I know what it is; but on

my soul I'm inclined to wish I'd been called upon to give my little girl

into his keeping. As for that affair in India, it's not every man who

would have had the pluck to shoot the girl, and precious few men would

have lived it down as he has done. I believe I'd have put a bullet

through my brain if it had been me," said Sir Richard honestly, "but I

can quite realize that it's a long sight finer to see the thing through.

And if there's to be fresh trouble over these confounded anonymous

scrawls, well, I'll stick to the fellow through thick and thin!"

And with this meritorious resolve Sir Richard went back to his

comfortable fire and the paper which he had not, as yet, had the heart

to peruse.

CHAPTER II

On the day following Sir Richard's interview with Anstice the latter

received an unexpected call from the Vicar of Littlefield parish.

The two men were on fairly intimate terms. For the clergyman, as a

scholar and a gentleman, Anstice had a real respect, though the

religious side of Mr. Carey's office, as expressed in his spiritual

ministrations, could hardly be expected to appeal to the man who could

never rid himself of the feeling that God had deliberately failed him at

a critical moment.

Mr. Carey, on his side, had a genuine liking for Anstice, whose skill he

admired with the impersonal admiration which a specialist in one

profession accords to an expert in another vocation. But mingled with

his admiration was an uneasy suspicion that all was not well with the

spiritual health of this most indifferent of his parishioners, and he

was grieved, with the charity of a large and generous nature, by the

gloom, the melancholy, which at times were written only too plainly on

the other's face.

The two men were brought into contact now and again by the very nature

of their respective callings. Soul and body are after all so closely

related that the health of the one depends largely on that of the other;

and at times both priest and physician must take their share in the

gracious task of healing. And on the occasions when their work brought

them together the mutual liking and respect between the two was sensibly

strengthened.

So that it did not cause Anstice more than a passing sensation of

surprise when on this cold and raw November evening the Reverend Fraser

Carey was announced as a visitor.

"Mr. Carey here? Where have you taken him, Alice?"

"Into the drawing-room, sir. The fire's not lighted, but I can put a

match to it in a moment."

"No, don't do that." Anstice hated the little-used drawing-room. "Take

Mr. Carey into my room, and bring up some coffee directly, will you?"

"Yes, sir." The maid, who in common with the rest of the household

regarded Anstice with an admiration not unmixed with awe, withdrew to

carry out her instructions; and hastily finishing an important letter,

Anstice went in search of his rare visitor.

"Hallo, Carey--jolly good of you to look me up on a beastly night like

this." He poked the fire into a brighter blaze, and drew forward a

capacious leather chair. "Sit down and light up. We'll have some coffee

presently--I know you don't care for anything stronger."

"Thanks, Anstice." Mr. Carey sank down into the big chair and held his

transparent-looking hands to the flames. "It is a bad night, as you say,

and this fire is uncommonly cosy."

Fraser Carey was a man of middle age who, through constitutional

delicacy, looked older than his years. His features, well-cut in

themselves, were marred by the excessive thinness and pallor of his

face; and his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, told a story of unrestful

nights spent in wrestling with some mental or physical pain which

forbade the refreshment of sleep. He had never consulted Anstice

professionally, though he had called upon his services on behalf of a

little niece who sometimes visited him; and Anstice wondered now and

then what scruple it was which prevented his friend making use of such

skill as he might reasonably claim to possess.

To-night Carey looked even more tired, more fragile than ever; and

Anstice refrained from speech until he had poured out two cups of

deliciously fragrant coffee and had seen that Carey's pipe was in full

blast.

Then: "It is quite a time since you dropped in for a chat," he said

cheerfully. "Yet this isn't a specially busy season of the year for you

parsons, is it? _We_ are run off our legs with influenza and all the

rest of it, thanks to the weather, but you----"

"We parsons are generally busy, you know," returned Carey with a smile.

"Human nature being what it is there is no close-time for sin--nor for

goodness either, God be thanked," he added hastily.

"I suppose not." Having satisfactorily loaded his pipe Anstice lay back

and puffed luxuriously. "In any case I'm glad you've found time to drop

in. By the way, there is a woman down in Blue Row about whom I wanted to

see you. I think you know the family--the man is a blacksmith, Richards

by name."

He outlined the needs of the case, and Carey took a few notes in the

little book he carried for the purpose. After that the conversation

ranged desultorily over various local matters mildly interesting to

both; and then there fell a sudden pause which Anstice at least felt to

be significant.

It was broken, abruptly, by the clergyman, who sat upright in his chair,

and, laying his empty pipe down on the table, turned to face his host

more fully.

"Anstice." His thin, rather musical voice held a new and arresting note.

"My visit to you to-night was not of, a purely social nature. I came

because--I may have been wrong--because I felt it to be both an

obligation and an act of friendship to come here to discuss with you a

peculiar situation which has arisen within the last day or two in

Littlefield."

Instantly Anstice guessed what was to follow; and he knocked the ashes

out of his pipe with a rather impatient gesture which was not lost on

the other man.

"If you will listen to me for one moment," said Carey hastily, "you may

then refuse to discuss the subject if you wish. But I think it will

really be better if you can bring yourself to listen to me first."

Even Anstice's annoyance was not proof against the other man's

moderation; and he spoke with creditable mildness.

"I think I know what you want to say, Carey. Is it--this interesting

subject--concerned with certain statements which are being made about

me--anonymously--in the parish?"

Carey's face lost a little of its uneasiness.

"Yes," he said, "since you appear to be already acquainted with the fact

there is no use in denying it. Indeed, I don't wish to do so, seeing

that is what I came to say to you."

"You have received such a letter yourself?"

"Yes. I received a letter this morning."

"I see." For a moment Anstice sat in silence, his lips set firmly

together; and the other man, watching, was struck, as Sir Richard had

been on the previous day, by the look of suffering in his face. "Well,

Carey, is it asking you too much to let me know exactly what form the

accusation against me took? Or have you the letter with you?"

"No. I burnt the letter immediately," Carey answered. "Naturally such

communications are best destroyed--and forgotten--at once. But"--he

hesitated--"the fact is I have since discovered that I am not the only

person to be addressed by the unknown correspondent."

"Indeed?" Anstice's eyes flashed. "Is it permissible to ask who else has

been thus--honoured?"

The clergyman paused a moment before replying, and it was evident a

conflict was taking place in his mind. The struggle was, however, soon

terminated, and he answered Anstice's question resolutely.

"Yes, it is quite permissible. Indeed, I had already gained the consent

of the other--victim"--he smiled deprecatingly--"to tell you, if

necessary, what was being said behind your back."

"Well?" Anstice's tone was peremptory, but his friend did not resent it.

"The other anonymous letter--the only other one of which I have any

knowledge--was addressed to the wife of your colleague--I don't think

he's your rival--Dr. Willows."

"Oh!" Anstice opened his eyes; he had not expected this revelation.

"Poor little woman! What a shame to victimize her!"

"Yes--as you know, she's quite a girl, they've only been married three

months; and the letter worried her considerably--so much so, in fact,

that as Willows is away on a week's holiday she sent for me to advise

her in the matter."

"What advice did you give her?"

"Well, in the first flush of indignation she was all for sending the

horrid thing on to you--a pretty sure sign that any accusation against

you had missed its mark," said Carey with a smile. "However, her heart

failed her at the critical moment and she sent for me instead. She was

at school with some young cousins of mine and we are on quite friendly

terms; so she confided her perplexity to me at once."

"I see." Anstice was thinking hard. "And I suppose you returned her

confidence by giving her yours?"

"Yes." Carey looked at him frankly. "I requested her to keep my

confidence as I would keep hers--save to you--and I am sure she will do

so. But"--he spoke gravely now--"I am afraid, Anstice, there is someone

in the neighbourhood who wishes to work you ill."

"By the way"--Anstice was not listening very closely--"you have not yet

told me the nature of the accusation. I presume it was the same in both

cases?"

"Practically, yes. It was a statement, made very plainly and directly,

that you--you----"

He broke off, his thin cheeks flushing; and Anstice smiled rather dryly.

"Don't let it distress you," he said, with an attempt at jocularity.

"Suppose I save you the trouble of repeating the contents of the

letters. I daresay the writer stated that I once, in order to get myself

out of a tight place in India, wantonly sacrificed the woman who was my

companion?"

"Yes," said Carey slowly, "that was the substance of both

communications. The idea was, I gather, to prevent the recipients having

confidence in you by pointing to you as one who would save himself at

the expense of a woman. Of course"--he spoke more fluently now--"no one

who knew you would dream of attaching any weight whatever to that sort

of cruel and senseless lie; and as I told Mrs. Willows, such a baseless

slander is better left to die for want of notice. She quite agreed with

me," he added hastily, and Anstice's face cleared.

"Thanks, Carey." He held out his hand, and Carey's transparent, fingers

clasped it with a strength which would have been surprising to one who

did not know the indomitable spirit which dwelt in the wasted frame.

"You are a true friend, and your friendship deserves some return.

Unfortunately the only return I can make is to tell you the miserable

story which is perverted by the anonymous writer into something less

creditable than--I hope--you will judge it to be."

He sprang up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in

pockets as usual; and in that position, looking down on his friend as he

sat in his capacious chair, he outlined once again the happenings of

that bygone Indian dawn.

He related the affair shortly--it was not a subject on which he cared to

dwell; and the clergyman listened thoughtfully, his sunken eyes fixed on

the pale face beneath the clustering black hair with an intentness of

regard which would have disturbed anyone less engrossed than the

narrator of the sad little story.

When he had finished Anstice moved abruptly.

"Well, that's the truth--and now you see that those statements made

about me are the most insidious form of lying--with a good foundation of

half-truths. That's what makes it so infernally hard to refute them."

"I see." Carey loaned forward thoughtfully, shielding his face from the

flames with his thin hands. "It is a pitiful story, Anstice; and if you

will allow me to say so I admire and respect a man who can live down the

memory of a tragedy as you have done."

"I have lived it down--yes," said Anstice, rather grimly. "But it's been

jolly hard at times not to throw up the sponge. Several people have

suggested--discreetly--that suicide is quite justifiable in cases of

this sort, but----"

"Suicide is _never_ justifiable." The clergyman's delicate features

stiffened. "From the days of Judas Iscariot--the most notorious suicide

in the history of the world, I suppose--it has been the refuge of the

coward, the ingrate, the weak-minded. People talk of the pluck required

to enable a man to take his own life. What pluck is there in

deliberately turning one's back on the problems one hasn't the courage,

or the patience, to solve? Believe me, suicide--self-murder--is an

unthinkable resource to a really brave man."

He stopped; but Anstice made no reply, though a rather cynical smile

played about his lips; and presently Carey went on speaking.

"It always seems to me such sheer folly, such egregious lunacy, to

precipitate one's self into the unknown, seeing that one can hardly

expect the Giver of Life to welcome the soul He has not called. And I

have often wondered what depths of misery, of shame, must overwhelm the

uninvited soul in what someone has called 'the first five minutes after

Death.'"

His voice sank to a whisper on the last words; and for a moment the room

was very still. Then Carey leaned forward and laid one hand on the

other's arm with a rather deprecating smile.

"Forgive me, Anstice! The subject we were discussing is one on which I

find it difficult to hold my peace. But knowing you, I know that suicide

is not, would never be, the way out to one of your disposition."

Anstice moved restlessly.

"Odd you should use that expression," he said quickly. "Others have

employed it in connection with this miserable story of mine. No, suicide

is not the way out--nor is another expedient to which I have had

recourse. But"--suddenly his face lost its quietness and grew keen,

alert--"this slander has got to be stopped. You see this is not the

first time the neighborhood has been infested with this plague."

"You refer to the unhappy circumstances connected with my predecessor's

wife?"

"Yes. You know the story, of course?"

"Yes. I am also acquainted--but very slightly--with Mrs. Carstairs."

"Then you know a much-maligned woman," said Anstice. "And it is in order

to save her from further unhappiness that I intend to sift this matter

to the bottom."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," said Carey earnestly. "And if I can

help you in any way my services are yours. First of all, how do you

propose starting on the sifting process?"

"I have already made a start," rejoined Anstice. "Through the good

offices of Sir Richard Wayne, who has also been pestered with a letter,

I have discovered that the writing of those communications and of those

earlier ones you mentioned just now is in many respects identical."

Carey sat upright, his face alight with interest.

"Really? You think the writer of both is the same?"

"Yes. Of course until I have studied the two letters in my possession a

little more closely I can't be positively certain on the point; but I

intend to submit them both to an expert at the first opportunity."

"I can help you there," said Carey quite eagerly. "I mean, if you do not

know of a reliable expert I can give you the name of the cleverest man

in England."

"Can you?" Anstice's notebook was out in a second. "Thanks very much--I

will write to him to-morrow. But in my own mind I have not a shadow of

doubt that the same person wrote them both."

"By the way"--Carey spoke slowly--"how many people about here would be

likely to know the story you have told me to-night? Out in India, of

course, there might be some who would remember such a tragic episode.

But it's a far cry from Alostan to Littlefield."

"The only people in the neighbourhood who have heard the true story are,

so far as I know, Sir Richard Wayne and"--he hesitated--"and his

daughter, who is now Mrs. Cheniston."

"I see." Fraser Carey's eyes had noted the change of tone as Anstice

spoke the last name; and his quick humanism was stirred by the pitiful

idea which crossed his mind. "Sir Richard's daughter knew the story?

And--may we conclude that her husband would naturally share her

knowledge?"

"Naturally--yes." He emphasized the word. "You see I omitted to tell you

that the girl I--the girl who was with me in the hut was engaged to this

very man, Bruce Cheniston, whom Miss Wayne eventually married."

"Was she, indeed?" Carey was really surprised. "What a strange

coincidence that you should meet again--as I suppose you met--in

Littlefield."

"We met, yes," said Anstice, his eyes growing fierce at the remembrance

of their meeting. "But--well, as you will readily see, none of those

persons is in the least likely to have anything to do with the letters

we are discussing. I daresay Mrs. Carstairs may possibly know the

story--if her brother saw fit to hand it on to her. But so far as I know

they are the only people who do know it, and naturally we can write all

of them off the list of suspects at once."

"Quite so. I wonder"--Carey rose as he spoke--"I wonder if anyone else

has received one of those shameful letters? Of course should the matter

go no further there is not much real harm done, though of course----"

"Whether there are other letters or not the matter is going to be

thoroughly investigated," said Anstice resolutely; and Carey experienced

a disturbing and quite unusual pang of regret for his own vanished youth

and strength as he heard the ring of determination in the other man's

voice, noted the firm set of his lips and the proud and dauntless

gesture with which he threw back his head, his black eyes sparkling.

"Well, I shall follow the course of events with deep interest," he said,

striving as he spoke to fight down that unworthy sensation of envy of

another's superior equipment for the battle of life. "Of course I will

keep my own counsel; and in a few days at latest you should know whether

your enemy intends to strike again."

"It is very good of you to take an interest in the horrible affair."

Anstice was really grateful. "Must you go? You haven't given me much of

your company to-night."

"I must go--yes." His smile robbed the words of any discourtesy. "But

don't forget to call upon me if you want any help. And for the sake of

all concerned, but especially, if I may say so, for the sake of the poor

lady at Cherry Orchard, I trust you may be able to clear the matter up

for all the world to see."

"It is chiefly for Mrs. Carstairs' sake that I intend to do so,"

returned Anstice briefly. "Personally I don't care what may be said

about me; but I don't mean Mrs. Carstairs to be victimized further. And

if it costs me every penny I've got in the world the writer of these

letters shall be brought to book!"

And Fraser Carey agreed, mentally, with Sir Richard's estimation of Mrs.

Carstairs' new champion. But he went further than Sir Richard, in that

he found occasion to wonder whether after all this unexpected and

unwelcome repetition of the former anonymous campaign which had

convulsed Littlefield might not in the end prove the salvation of the

man against whom it was presumably directed.

Unlike Sir Richard, Carey was an observer of men, a student of human

nature, and he had not failed to notice the increased alertness which

had characterized Anstice this evening as he discussed the situation.

The rather bitter, indifferent look which generally clouded his face had

lifted, giving way to a brighter, more open expression; and the half

melancholy cynicism which Carey had deplored had vanished before the

eager determination to see an innocent and wronged woman righted in the

eyes of the world.

"The man has brooded so long over what he considers to be an injustice

of God that he has lost, temporarily, his sense of proportion," said

Carey to himself as he trudged, rather wearily, homeward. "But if he

devotes himself, as he seems anxious to do, to the service of a woman

who has suffered an equal injustice, though at the hands of man this

time, possibly he will forgot his own bitterness in the contemplation of

her marred life. And God, who is the God of Justice, whatever scoffers

may say, will bring the truth to light in His own good time. So the two

tragedies may react on one another; for the lives of all of us are bound

together by mysterious and undreamed-of links; and in the effort to free

the soul of a woman from its bondage his own soul may well find its

freedom."

But Fraser Carey was a mystic; and since the materialistic world looks

with suspicion on mysticism, it is probable that even Anstice, who knew

and respected him, would have heard his last speech with a passing

wonder that a man should hold so unpractical and untenable a view of

existence as the words would seem to imply.

CHAPTER III

Before he went to bed on the night of Carey's visit to him Anstice wrote

a letter to the expert recommended by his friend, inquiring whether an

appointment could be made for the following Friday afternoon; and on

Thursday night a laconic telegram arrived fixing three o'clock on Friday

for the suggested interview.

It had seemed to Anstice that a personal interview with the expert would

be far more satisfactory than a prolonged correspondence; and he hurried

through his work on Friday morning and caught the noon express to London

with a minute to spare.

He had the carriage to himself; and during the quick journey to town he

pored over the two specimens of handwriting which he was taking up for

examination until he was more than ever convinced that both were written

by the same hand.

Mr. Clive, the noted handwriting expert, had a flat in Lincoln's Inn;

and thither Anstice hastened in a taxi, arriving just as the clocks of

London were striking three; a feat in punctuality which possibly

accounted for the pleasant smile with which Mr. Clive greeted his

visitor.

The expert was a tall and thin person, with deep-set and brilliant eyes

hidden more or less by a pair of rimless eyeglasses; and Anstice was

suddenly and humorously reminded of the popular idea of a detective as

exemplified in Sherlock Holmes and his accomplished brethren.

When he smiled Mr. Clive lost his somewhat austere expression; and as

Anstice obeyed his invitation to enter his sitting-room the latter felt

that he had come to the right person with whom to discuss the problem of

these annoying letters.

"Now, Dr. Anstice." Clive pushed forward a chair for his visitor and

sank into another one himself, leaning back and joining his finger-tips

in a manner which again reminded Anstice involuntarily of the

super-detective. "I expect your time is as valuable as mine--probably

more so--and we won't waste it in preliminaries. I gather you have some

specimens of handwriting to submit to me?"

"Yes. I have two letters to show you." He drew them carefully from his

notebook. "What I want to know is, whether they were both written by the

same hand or not."

Mr. Clive unlaced his finger-tips and took the papers carefully from his

visitor; after which, rather to Anstice's amusement, he removed his

eyeglasses and proceeded to study the letters without their aid.

For several minutes he pored over them in silence, the letters spread

out on the table before him; and Anstice, watching, could make nothing

of the inscrutable expression on his face. Presently he rose, went to a

little cabinet at the end of the room, and took from it a small

magnifying glass, with whose aid he made a further study of the two

documents; after which he resumed his eyeglasses and turned to Anstice

with a smile.

"Your little problem is quite simple, Dr. Anstice," he said amiably. "As

soon as I looked at these letters I guessed them to be the work of one

hand. With the help of my glass I know my guess to be correct."

For a moment Anstice could not tell whether he were relieved or

disappointed by this confirmation of his own suspicions; but the expert

did not wait for his comments.

"If you will look through the glass you will see that the similarities

in many of the letters are so striking that there is really no possible

question as to their being written by one hand." He pushed the papers

and glass across to Anstice, who obediently bent over the table and

studied the letters as they lay before him. "For instance"--Clive moved

to Anstice's side and, leaning over his shoulder, pointed with a slim

finger--"that 'I' in India is identical with the one with which this

letter opens; and that 's' with its curly tail could not possibly have

been traced by any hand save that which wrote this one. There are other

points of resemblance--the spaces between the words, for instance--which

prove conclusively, to my mind at least, that the letters are the work

of one person; but I expect you have already formed an opinion of your

own on the subject."

"Yes," said Anstice. "To be frank, I have. I was quite sure in my own

mind that they were written by one person; but I wanted an expert

opinion. And now the only thing to be discovered is--who is that

person?"

Clive smiled.

"That is a different problem--and a more difficult one," he said

quietly. "These anonymous letters are very often exceedingly hard nuts

to crack. But probably you have someone in your mind's eye already."

"No," said Anstice quickly, moved by a sudden desire to enlist this

man's sympathy and possible help. "I'm completely in the dark. But I

intend to find out who wrote these things. I suppose"--for a second he

hesitated--"I suppose it isn't in your province to give me any possible

clue as to the identity of the writer?"

The other laughed rather dryly.

"I'm not a clairvoyant," he said, "and I can't tell from handling a

letter who wrote it, as the psychometrists profess to be able to do. But

I will tell you one or two points I have noted in connection with these

things." He flicked them rather disdainfully with his finger. "They are

written by a woman--and I should not wonder if that woman were a

foreigner."

"A foreigner?" Anstice was genuinely surprised. "I say, what makes you

think that? The writing is not foreign."

"No. You are right there inasmuch as the regulation writing of a

foreigner, French, Italian, Spanish, is fine and pointed in character,

while this is more round, more sprawling and clumsy. But"--he frowned

thoughtfully, and Anstice thought he looked more like Sherlock Holmes

than ever--"there is one point in connection with this last letter which

has evidently not struck you. Suppose you read it through carefully once

more, and see if you can discover something in it which appears a trifle

un-English, so to speak."

Anstice took the second letter as desired, and read it through

carefully, while Clive watched him with an interest which was not

feigned. Although Anstice had no suspicion of the fact, Clive, who had

travelled in India, had in the light of that letter identified his

visitor directly with the central figure in that bygone tragedy in

Alostan; and although, owing to his absence from England, Clive had not

been one of the experts consulted in the Carstairs case, it was not hard

for him to place the first letter as belonging to that notorious series

of anonymous scrawls which had roused so much interest in the Press a

couple of years before this date.

Just where the connection between the two cases came Clive could not

discover, but he had always felt a curiously strong sympathy with the

unknown man who had carried out a woman's wish just ten minutes too

soon, and he would willingly have helped Anstice to solve this problem

if he could have seen his way to find the solution.

Presently Anstice looked up rather apologetically.

"I'm awfully stupid, but I don't see what you mean about a

foreigner...."

Clive smiled.

"Don't you? Well, I'll explain. And after all I may be wrong, you know.

However, here goes." He bent down again and pointed to the word India,

which for some reason was set in inverted commas. "Don't you notice any

peculiarities about these commas? Think of the usual manner in which an

English writer uses them--and note the difference here."

Anstice studied the word with suddenly keen attention, and instantly

noted the peculiarity of which Clive had spoken.

"The first double comma, so to speak, is set below the line, and the

other one above. But English writers and printers use both above the

line. Isn't that so?"

"Yes. Whereas in the majority of French or Italian printing the commas

are set as they are here--a trick which, to my mind, points to the

strong probability, at least, of the writer of this letter being a

foreigner of sorts."

"Italian! Why----" Suddenly a vision of the woman with the Italian name,

Tochatti, Mrs. Carstairs' personal attendant, flashed into Anstice's

mind, and Clive's eyes grew still keener in expression as he noted the

eager tone in his visitor's voice.

"Well?" As Anstice paused the expert spoke quickly. "Does the suggestion

convey anything to your mind?"

"Yes," said Anstice. "It does. But the only Italian--or

half-Italian--person I know, a woman, by the way, is absolutely the last

one I could suspect in the matter."

"Really?" As he spoke Clive removed his eyeglasses once more and stared

with his brilliant eyes at the other man's face. "Don't forget that in

cases like these it is generally the last person to be suspected who

turns out to be the one responsible. Of course I don't know the facts of

the case, and my suggestions are therefore of little practical value. At

the same time the very fact that you are able at once to identify an

Italian in the case----"

"She is not altogether Italian," said Anstice slowly. "She's a

half-breed, so to speak--and I really can't in fairness suspect her,

devoted as she is to Mrs. Carstairs----"

He broke off abruptly, annoyed with himself for having betrayed so much;

but Clive's manner suddenly became more animated.

"See here, Dr. Anstice." He sat down again, and handed his cigarette

case to his visitor. "May I be frank with you?"

"Certainly." He accepted a cigarette and Clive resumed immediately.

"I think I am correct in assuming that the first letter is one of those

supposed--by some people--to have been written by Mrs. Carstairs, wife

of Major Carstairs of the Indian Army?"

"Yes." It would have been folly to deny the correctness of the

assumption.

"Well, I was not professionally interested in the case, but all along I

have had very grave doubts as to the course of justice in that unhappy

affair. And I have always thought the sentence was unjustifiably

severe."

Anstice's face cleared, and his manner lost its first stiffness.

"I am glad to hear you say so," he said heartily. "For my own part I am

perfectly convinced Mrs. Carstairs was absolutely innocent in the

matter. You see, I have the privilege of her acquaintance, and it would

be quite impossible for her to stoop to so low and degrading an action."

"Just so." For a second the expert wondered whether Dr. Anstice's

interest in Mrs. Carstairs arose from a purely personal dislike to see

an innocent woman unjustly accused or from some warmer feeling; but

after all it was no concern of his, and he dismissed that aspect of the

case from his mind for the present. "But I should like to ask you to

explain one thing to me. Would it have been possible for this Italian

woman of whom you speak to have written those former letters? I gather

that it is not altogether impossible, though I daresay improbable, for

her to be connected with this last one; but of course, if she must be

acquitted of any hand in the first, the clue drops to the ground at

once."

"Well"--for a second Anstice hesitated, then resolved to speak plainly.

"To tell you the truth, it would have been quite possible for her to be

mixed up in both affairs--save for one thing. The woman, is a servant in

the household of Mrs. Carstairs; but she's not only absolutely devoted

to her mistress, but is also unable to write even her name."

"What proof have you of that?" The question shot out so abruptly that

Anstice was genuinely startled.

"Proof? Well, the woman herself admits it, and certainly she has never

been seen to write so much as a word----"

"That does not prove she could not write quite well if she wished to,"

said Clive quietly. "People do strange things in this queer world of

ours, Dr. Anstice, as I expect you know considerably better than I do.

Have you never had an hysterical patient who declared she could not walk

and after being carried about for months has been discovered dancing a

fandango in her bedroom on the sly?"

He laughed and threw away his cigarette.

"Perhaps that's not quite a typical case, but you must have known of

many people who declare they have lost the use of one or more of their

faculties--possibly in order to gain sympathy from their friends?"

"Quite so." Anstice could not but admit the fact. "But as you say, in

these cases there is generally some definite object to be gained, even

if it is only the desire for sympathy. In this case, however, the motive

appears to be lacking, for I gather that long before the anonymous

letters began to arrive this woman had admitted her inability to handle

pen or pencil."

"Really? That complicates matters a little," said Clive thoughtfully.

"Though, of course, if the woman were a schemer it is possible she might

prepare the way, so to speak, for some time beforehand. In any case it

is an interesting problem. But I don't quite see why this

woman--supposing it to be she--? should start another campaign,

directed, this time, against you. Surely she can't want her mistress, to

whom you say she is devoted, to be suspected once more?"

"I don't know--I confess it is a problem beyond my powers to solve,"

said Anstice rather hopelessly; and Clive answered at once, with a kind

note in his voice.

"Don't say that, Dr. Anstice. All sorts of mysteries have come to light

sooner or later, you know, and it is quite on the cards this one may be

easier to solve than you think at present. At any rate, if I may give

you a word of advice, keep your eye on the Italian woman. I'll swear

those inverted commas are of foreign origin, and as a doctor you ought

to be able to find some way of penetrating through any imposition in the

way of pretence."

"Thanks," said Anstice, rather amused at this tribute to his powers.

"I'll do my best. Anyway, you have given me valuable help, and I'll

follow up this clue at once."

"Do--and let me know the result." Clive followed his visitor to the

door. "I really am genuinely interested in the case, and I shall be

pleased to hear from you how things progress."

They parted on mutually cordial terms, and an Anstice walked away he

began to feel as though, after all, this mystery might yet be solved;

though he was bound to confess that at present the introduction of

Tochatti's name merely complicated matters.

He had a couple of hours to fill in before repairing to the station, and

feeling in the mood for exercise, he set out for a brisk walk, careless

of whither his steps led him while he pondered over his recent interview

with Clive.

After the quiet and pastoral solitude of Littlefield London seemed

unpleasantly crowded and noisy. The reek of petrol was a poor substitute

for the clean country air, and the hoot of innumerable motors and 'buses

struck on his ear with new and singularly disagreeable force as he took

his way along Piccadilly.

Suddenly a noise considerably louder and more ominous than the rest

penetrated his hearing, and looking hastily round he saw that a

collision had taken place between a taxi-cab and a motor-van bearing the

name of a well-known firm in Oxford Street--with apparently tragic

results to the taxi-cab, which lurched in the road like a drunken man

vainly attempting to steer a straight course, and eventually toppled

half over on to the pavement, where it struck a lamp-post with a

terrific crash as it came to rest.

With the rapidity peculiar to the life of cities a crowd instantly began

to assemble; and as a burly policeman, notebook in hand, pushed through

the people, a middle-aged gentleman stepped, with some difficulty, out

of the wrecked cab, and stumbled forward on to the kerb, almost into the

arms of Anstice, who reached the spot at the same moment and caught him

as he staggered and seemed about to fall.

"Hold up, sir!" Anstice involuntarily gripped the gentleman's shoulder

to support him; and his friendly tone and prompt help apparently assured

the other man, who pulled himself together pluckily.

"Thanks, thanks!" He was white, and evidently had been somewhat upset,

for the taxi had swerved half across the road to the discomfort of its

occupant. "You are most kind. I am really not hurt, only a little

shaken. The driver of the van was entirely to blame--I hope, constable,

you will make all possible inquiries into the matter."

As a first step towards doing so the policeman stolidly requested the

speaker's name and address, and these having been furnished he proceeded

to interrogate the van-driver and the taxi-man, both of whom were only

too ready to pour out voluble explanations, each accusing the other of

carelessness with a freedom of language only known, apparently, to those

who have intimate acquaintance with the dark ways of motors and their

accompanying vices.

In the meantime the middle-aged gentleman turned to Anstice with a word

of gratitude for his timely support.

"You're sure you're not hurt?" Anstice thought the other man looked

oddly white. "I'm a doctor--and if I can do anything for you----"

"No, I'm really all right, thanks." He relinquished Anstice's arm, which

he had been unconsciously holding, and looked round him. "By good luck

I'm opposite my club, and if this fellow has finished with me I'll go in

and sit down."

The constable intimated that he had no further need of him for the

moment; and having asserted his readiness to appear in court in

connection with the case he turned back to Anstice.

"Will you come in and have a peg with me?" His invitation was cordial.

"I'm all alone--just back from India, and if you can spare five minutes,

I'll be glad of your company."

"Thanks." Anstice was curiously attracted towards the man. "I'm killing

time, waiting for a train, and I'll come with pleasure."

They went up the steps of the building outside which the accident had

occurred; and five minutes later his new friend, brushed and tidied,

every speck of dust removed from his well-cut suit, led him to a

comfortable corner of the smoking-room and invited him to take a seat,

calling to a waiter as they sat down.

"What will you drink--whisky-and-soda? Right--I'll have the same--a

large whisky for me," he said, as the man moved away. "I really feel as

though I want a stiff drink," he added, rather apologetically, to

Anstice.

"I expect you do--your taxi came a fearful bump on the kerb," said

Anstice, "You were lucky not to get shoved through the window."

"Yes--it was down, fortunately, or I might have got in quite a nasty

mess with cut glass." He hesitated a moment. "By the way, shall we

exchange cards? Here's mine, at any rate."

He laughed and pushed the slip of pasteboard over to Anstice, who

returned the courtesy before picking it up. But as the latter glanced at

it perfunctorily, with no premonition of the surprise in store for him,

the name he read thereon sent a sudden thrill through his veins; and he

uttered a quite involuntary exclamation which caused his companion to

look up in amazement.

For by one of those strange coincidences which happen every day, yet

never lose their strangeness, the man who sat opposite to Anstice on

this murky November afternoon was Chloe Carstairs' husband, Major

Carstairs.

CHAPTER IV

For a moment his _vis-à-vis_ regarded him with a very natural surprise.

Then:

"You seem a little astonished," he said, with a hint of stiffness in his

manner. "May I ask if my name is familiar to you? I don't think I

remember yours--though"--he stole another glance at the card, and his

brows drew together a little thoughtfully--"Now that I come to look at

it I do seem to have heard it before."

"I daresay you have, if you have lived in India. Unfortunately, my name

was pretty well known in that country once, for the proverbial nine

days." His voice was a little savage. "But don't trouble about _my_

name--let me admit at once that yours is perfectly familiar to me."

He broke off as the waiter approached with their glasses; and until he

had vanished Anstice said no more. Then he continued steadily:

"You see I am living at present in Littlefield; and I have the honour of

being acquainted with a lady bearing the same name as yourself."

"You mean my wife?" He spoke calmly; and Anstice found himself admiring

the other's composure. "Then you will be able to give me the latest news

of her and of my little daughter. Has she--Cherry, I mean--quite

recovered from that serious burning accident in September?"

"Quite, I think." For a second Anstice's heart was sick within him as he

remembered the night on which that accident had taken place; but he

stifled the memory and continued steadily. "She got over it splendidly,

and she is not marked by even the tiniest scar."

"That's a good thing." Major Carstairs took a drink from the contents of

his glass, and then, setting it down, looked Anstice squarely in the

face. "See here, Dr. Anstice, by a strange coincidence you and I have

been brought together this afternoon, and I should be very much obliged

if you will be kind enough to answer me one or two questions."

"I am quite ready to answer any questions you may care to ask, Major

Carstairs." Anstice sat upright and pushed aside his glass, and Major

Carstairs began at once.

"First of all, how long have you been in Littlefield?"

"A little over twelve months. I went there, to be exact, in September of

last year."

"I see. And you have been acquainted with Mrs. Carstairs during the

whole of that time?"

"Not quite. I first met Mrs. Carstairs in the spring, when I was called

in to attend her professionally."

"I see. As a doctor you will naturally be acquainted with many people in

the neighbourhood; and that being so"--Major Carstairs moistened his

lips and went heroically on--"you are of course familiar with my wife's

story--you know all about those damned anonymous letters--and their

sequel?"

"Yes." Anstice met his gaze fully. "I know the story, and I am glad of

this opportunity to assure you of my unswerving belief in Mrs.

Carstairs' innocence of the charge brought against her. I hope you don't

consider my assertion uncalled-for," he added hastily.

For a long moment Major Carstairs said nothing, gazing ahead of him

thoughtfully, and Anstice studied the face of Chloe Carstairs' husband

with deep interest.

He said to himself that this man was a gentlemen and a man of honour.

There was something about him, something dignified, reserved, a little

sad, which won Anstice's usually jealously-withheld sympathy at once;

and although he had hitherto pictured Major Carstairs as harsh,

unforgiving, narrow-minded, inasmuch as he could not bring himself to

believe his wife innocent of a degrading charge, now that he saw the man

himself, traced the lines in his face which spoke of tragedy, noted the

sadness in his eyes, and heard the gentle note in his voice as he spoke

of Chloe, Anstice was ready to swear that this man had not lightly

disbelieved his wife.

If he had left her, it had not been done easily. He had surely acted in

accordance with his lights, which would permit no compromise in a matter

of honour; and as he now sat opposite to Major Carstairs, Anstice felt a

strange new respect springing up in his heart for the man who had had

the courage to stand by his inward convictions, however terribly,

tragically mistaken those convictions might have been.

When at length that long pause ended, Anstice was surprised by the

manner of its ending.

Major Carstairs leaned across the little table and laid his

square-fingered hand, brown with the suns of India, on Anstice's arm.

"From the bottom of my heart I thank you for those words," he said

earnestly. "I am glad to know my wife has one friend, at least, in

Littlefield, who is able to believe in her innocence."

"She has more than one, sir," returned Anstice significantly, as

Carstairs withdrew his hand. "Sir Richard Wayne is as firmly convinced

as I that Mrs. Carstairs has been the victim of a cruel injustice.

And----"

"Sir Richard? Ah, yes, he was always a true friend to Chloe." He spoke

absently and for a second said no more. Then he suddenly bent forward

resolutely. "Dr. Anstice, I see you are to be trusted. Well, you have

doubtless heard that I left my wife because I could not bring myself to

acquit her of the charge brought against her. I don't know how much you

may have learned, but I give you my word the evidence against her

was--or appeared to be--overwhelming."

"So I have heard." Anstice's tone was strictly non-committal, and after

a glance at his impassive face Carstairs went on speaking.

"You must forgive me for reminding you that Mrs. Carstairs never

categorically denied the charges made. That is to say, she implied that

any such denial was, or should be, unnecessary; and it seemed as though

her pride forbade her realizing how unsatisfactory her silence was--to

others."

"Forgive me, Major Carstairs." Anstice took advantage of a momentary

pause. "May I not just suggest that a categorical denial was

unnecessary? Surely to anyone who knew her, Mrs. Carstairs' silence must

have been sufficient refutation of the charge?"

He was almost sorry for his impulsive words when he noted their effect.

Major Carstairs' naturally florid complexion turned grey; and his whole

face grew suddenly aged. In that moment Anstice felt that his speech,

with its implied rebuke, had been both impertinent and unjust; yet he

hardly knew how to repair his error without committing still another

breach of good taste.

Accordingly he said nothing; and after a moment had passed Major

Carstairs spoke with something of an effort.

"I am glad to see my wife has found a champion in you," he said, with a

smile which Anstice felt to be forced. "And even although as a partisan

of hers you naturally think me cruel and unjust, may I ask you to

believe that I would give years--literally years--of my life to be able

to think myself mistaken in my first judgment of that unhappy affair!"

The note of passion in the last words moved Anstice powerfully; and he

forgot his own delicate position in a sudden quite unusual desire to

justify himself.

"Major Carstairs, forgive me if I seem to you impertinent, meddlesome. I

know quite well that this is no business of mine, but--but I know Mrs.

Carstairs, and I know she has been made bitterly unhappy by this

wretched misunderstanding. And I am sure, as sure as I am that you and I

sit here to-day, that she never wrote one word of all those beastly

letters--why, I can almost prove it to you, if you really care for such

proof--and then----"

He stopped short, arrested by the change in Carstairs' face. His eyes

suddenly blazed with a new and startling fire; and the hand which had

been idly playing with a glass clenched itself into a determined fist.

"My God, man, what are you saying? If you can prove my wife to be

innocent, why in God's name do you let me sit here in Purgatory?"

"I ... I said almost----" Anstice positively stammered, so taken by

surprise was he.

"Well, that's enough to be going on with." Carstairs spoke resolutely.

"Look here, I'll tell you something I meant to keep to myself. For the

last two months--ever since I received my wife's short and formal letter

telling me of Cherry's accident--I've been haunted by the thought that

perhaps after all I was mistaken--frightfully, appallingly mistaken, in

the conclusion I came to at the time of the trial. At first I was

convinced, as you know, that the verdict was the only possible one; and,

although it nearly killed me, I could do nothing but leave her and

return to India alone. But in the last few weeks I have asked myself

whether after all I have not made a terrible mistake. Supposing my wife

were innocent, that her silence were the only possible course open to a

proud and honourable woman ... supposing that a grievous wrong had been

done, and the real writer of those letters allowed to escape scot-free.

Oh, there were endless suppositions once I began to dwell on the

possibility of my wife's absolute ignorance of the vile things ... and

when at last I was able to sail for England I came home with the full

determination to go into the matter once more, to rake up, if necessary,

the whole sad affair from the beginning, and see whether there were not

some other solution to the mystery than the one I was forced to accept

at the time of the trial."

"You mean that, sir?" Anstice spoke eagerly, and the other man nodded.

"Then I'm bound to say I think it is something more than coincidence

that has brought us together to-day. I'm not a religious fellow, and I

always feel that if there be a God He went back on me years ago in a way

I had not deserved, but I do think that there is something more than

chance in our meeting; and if good comes out of it, and the truth is

brought to light, well"--he laughed with a sudden gaiety that surprised

himself--"I'll forget my old grudge against the Almighty and admit there

is justice in the world after all!"

"Dr. Anstice," said Carstairs, "I don't understand you. Would you mind

explaining a little more clearly just what you mean? Why should a

meeting between you and me be anything more than the prelude--as I hope

it may be--to a very pleasant friendship? I honour your belief in my

wife, but when you speak of proof----"

"Look here, Major Carstairs." With a sudden resolve Anstice pulled his

note-case out of his pocket and extracted two sheets of thin paper

therefrom. "You will probably be surprised when I tell you that those

infernal letters have started again, and this time I am the person

honoured by the writer's malicious accusations."

"The letters have started again? And you are the victim? But----"

"Well, look at this charming epistle sent to a certain gentleman in

Littlefield a day or two ago." Anstice handed across the letter he had

received from Sir Richard Wayne, and Major Carstairs took the sheet

gingerly, as though afraid of soiling his fingers by mere contact with

the paper.

He read the letter through, and then looked at Anstice with a new

expression in his eyes, which were so oddly reminiscent of Cherry's

brown orbs.

"Dr. Anstice, were you the hero of that unfortunate episode in the hills

a few years ago?"

Anstice nodded.

"I was the hero, if you put it so. Personally I should say I feel more

like the villain of the piece. That, anyway, is how the writer of this

letter regards me."

"Oh, that's nonsense." He spoke authoritatively. "You could have done

nothing else, and I think myself you showed any amount of pluck in

carrying out the girl's request. You and I, who have been in India, know

what strange and terrible things happen out there; and I tell you

plainly that if I had been that unfortunate girl's brother, or father, I

should have thanked you from the bottom of my heart for having the

courage to do as you did."

Now it was Anstice's turn to change colour. These words, so heartily

spoken, spoken, moreover, by a man who knew the world, whose

commendation carried weight by reason of the speaker's position, fell

with an indescribably soothing touch on the sore places in Anstice's

soul, and in that moment his inward wound received its first impetus

towards healing.

He threw back his head with something of the old proud gesture which was

now so rarely seen, and his voice, as he replied, held a new note of

confidence.

"Thanks awfully, sir." His manner was almost boyish. "You have no idea

what it means to me to hear you say that. Of course I acted as I did,

meaning it for the best, but things turned out so tragically wrong----"

"That was not your fault." Major Carstairs' reply was decisive. "And

anyone who ventures to criticize your action proclaims himself a fool.

As for the stupid accusations in this letter, well, I should say no one

would give them a second's credence."

"Well, I did venture to hope that my few friends would not believe it,"

returned Anstice, smiling. "And if I had only myself to consider I

should not bother my head about it. But you see there is someone

else----"

"You mean Mrs. Carstairs?" His manner was suddenly brisk. "Quite so. Of

course a second series of letters would remind the neighbourhood of the

first. Well, if you can bring yourself to allow me to have that letter I

will submit it to one of those handwriting fellows----"

Anstice interrupted him abruptly.

"I've already done so. And the report of the expert I consulted--a

well-known man of the name of Clive--is that both these letters were

written by the same hand."

"Ah! And did the expert utter any further authoritative dicta on the

matter?"

"He gave me two--possible--clues." Anstice spoke slowly. "The letters

are, he says, probably written by a woman, and there is a strong

presumption in favour of that woman being a foreigner--for instance"--he

paused--"an Italian."

"An Italian?" For a second Major Carstairs looked blank. Then a ray of

light illumined his mental horizon. "I say, you're not thinking of my

wife's maid, old Tochatti, are you?"

"Well"--he spoke deliberately--"to tell you the truth, ever since Clive

suggested a foreigner, I _have_ been wondering whether the woman

Tochatti could have anything to do with the letters."

"But old Tochatti! Why, she is absolutely devoted to my wife--been with

her for years, ever since she was a child. No, believe me, Dr. Anstice,

you must write Tochatti off the list."

"Very well." Anstice mentally reserved the right to his own opinion. "As

you say, the woman certainly appears devoted both to Mrs. Carstairs and

the child. But I'm sure you will agree it is wise to leave no clue

uninvestigated in so serious a matter?"

"Quite so. And you may rest assured the matter shall be thoroughly

investigated. By the way, you said something about a train. Are you

returning to Littlefield to-night?"

"Yes. And it's time I was moving on," said Anstice, glancing at his

watch. "Shall I have the pleasure of your company on the journey?"

"Not to-night. I have one or two matters to attend to in town, and I

must write and prepare Mrs. Carstairs for my visit. But I shall

certainly be down shortly, and I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting

you again before very long."

"I hope we may meet soon," said Anstice heartily, and Major Carstairs

escorted his guest to the steps of the Club, where he took a cordial

farewell of him and stood watching the tall figure swing along

Piccadilly with the stride of an athlete.

"So that's the fellow there was all the '_gup_' about." Major Carstairs

had heard the story of Hilda Ryder's death discussed a good many times

during his sojourn in India. "A thoroughly decent chap, I should say,

and it's deuced hard luck on him to go through life with a memory of

that sort rankling in his soul. Ah, well, we all have our private

memories--ghosts which haunt us and will not be laid; and at least there

is no disgrace in that story of his. At the worst it could only be

called a miscalculation--a mistake. But what if my mistake has been a

more grievous one--what if Chloe is innocent and I have misjudged her

cruelly? If that should be so," said Major Carstairs, "then my ghost

will never be laid. The man who shot Hilda Ryder will be forgiven for

his too hasty deed. But for a mistake such as mine there could be no

forgiveness."

And as he turned to re-enter the club his face looked suddenly haggard

and old.

CHAPTER V

The more Anstice pondered over the matter of the anonymous letters, the

more inclined he was to believe that the woman Tochatti was one of the

prime movers, if not the sole participator, in the affair.

Leaving the subject of motive out of the question for the moment, it was

evident that Tochatti, of all the household, would have the most free

access to her mistress' writing-table or bureau; and Anstice knew,

through a chance word, that on the occasion of Mrs. Carstairs' fatal

visit to Brighton, she had been accompanied by her maid.

True, the woman was supposed, by those around her, to be incapable of

writing, even to the extent of signing her name; but, as the export had

pointed out in the course of the interview, it was not unknown for a

person to deny the possession of some faculty, either from a desire to

gain sympathy or from some other and less creditable reason.

The question of motive, however, was a more complicated one. Why should

this woman seek to injure her mistress in the first place, and having

done her an irrevocable wrong--always supposing Tochatti to be the

culprit--why should she seek now to bring dishonour on a man who had

never, to his knowledge, done her any harm?

The thing seemed, on the face of it, absurd; yet somehow Anstice could

not relinquish his very strong notion that Tochatti was in reality at

the bottom of the business, and on the Sunday following his visit to Mr.

Clive he walked over to Greengates to discuss the matter with Sir

Richard Wayne.

Sir Richard was almost pathetically pleased to see his visitor, for he

missed his pretty daughter sorely, and he welcomed Anstice cordially on

this foggy November afternoon.

Over their cigars in Sir Richard's cosy sanctum Anstice gave him an

outline of his visit to the handwriting expert and the conclusions to be

drawn therefrom--a narrative to which Sir Richard listened with close

attention; and when Anstice had finished his story the older man took up

the subject briskly.

"You really think this woman may be implicated? Of course, as you say,

she would have opportunities for tampering with Mrs. Carstairs'

belongings; but still--the question of motive----"

"I quite realize that difficulty, Sir Richard. But I confess to a very

strong feeling of distrust for the woman since visiting Clive. He

suggested almost at once that the writer was a foreigner, and Tochatti

is about the only foreign, or half-foreign, person in Littlefield, I

should say."

"Quite so." Sir Richard leaned back in his chair and placed his

finger-tips together in a judicial attitude. "Well, let us consider the

question of motive a little more fully. If the writer really were

Tochatti, we must suppose her to be actuated by some strong feeling. The

question is, what feeling would be sufficiently strong to drive her to a

deed of this nature?"

He paused; but Anstice, having no suggestion to make, kept silence, and

Sir Richard went on with his speech.

"Generally speaking, in the character of a woman of a Southern nature,

we find one or two strongly-marked attributes. One is a capacity for

love, equalled only by a capacity for hatred. Of course Tochatti is only

half Italian, but personally I distrust what we may call half-breeds

even more than the real thing. You know the old proverb, 'An Englishman

Italianate He is a devil incarnate'--and I believe there is some truth

in the words."

"I share your distrust for half-breeds," said Anstice fervently. "And in

this case, although she speaks excellent English as a rule, it always

seems to me that Tochatti is more than half Italian. Do you agree with

me?"

"I do--and that's why I distrust her," returned Sir Richard grimly. "I

confess I don't like the women of the Latin races--those of the lower

classes, anyway. A woman of that sort who is supplanted by a rival is

about the most dangerous being on the face of the earth. She sticks at

nothing--carries a knife in her garter, a phial of poison in her

handbag, and will quite cheerfully sacrifice her own life if she may

mutilate or destroy the aforesaid hated rival."

"So I have always understood. But in this case, if you will excuse me

pointing it out, there is no possibility of love entering into it. To

begin with, Tochatti is a middle-aged woman; and of course there could

not be any question of rivalry between her and her mistress."

"Oh, of course not. I was speaking generally," Sir Richard reminded him.

"But there are other reasons for jealousy besides the primary reason,

love. You know, in the case of these last letters, which are certainly

actuated by some very real spite against you ... why, what's the matter

now?" For Anstice had uttered an exclamation which sounded almost

exultant.

"By Jove, sir, I believe I've got it--the reason why the woman should

feel spiteful towards me!" In his excitement he threw away his cigar,

half-smoked, and Sir Richard, noting the action, guessed that an

important revelation was at hand.

"You've got it, eh?" Sir Richard sat upright in his chair. "Well, may I

hear it? It's no secret, I suppose?"

"Secret? Heavens, no--but how intensely stupid I've been not to think of

it before!"

"Go on--you're rousing my curiosity," said Sir Richard as Anstice came

to a sudden stop. "Tell me how on earth you have managed to rouse the

woman's spite. Personally, seeing how cleverly you pulled her adored

Cherry through that illness of hers, I should have thought she would

have extended her devotion to you."

"That's just how the trouble began," rejoined Anstice quickly. "You

remember how the child set herself on fire one night in September?"

"Yes--on the night before Iris' wedding day." In spite of himself

Anstice winced, and the other man noted the fact and wondered. "Set fire

to herself with a candle, didn't she?"

"Yes--and Tochatti put out the flames somehow, burning one of her hands

in the process."

"Did she? I had forgotten that."

"Yes--with the result that she was not able to take her fair share of

nursing the child, and I accordingly installed a nurse."

"Yes, I remember--a bonny girl, with a voice as soft as the coo of a

wood-pigeon."

"Just so. Well, I--or rather Mrs. Carstairs--had a pitched battle with

Tochatti before she would consent to Nurse Trevor being engaged; and the

girl herself told me that the woman did her very best to make her life

unbearable while she was at Cherry Orchard."

"The deuce she did! But if she were really incapacitated----"

"She was; but with the unreasonableness of women--some women," he

corrected himself hastily, "she resented her enforced helplessness, and

looking back I can recall very well how she used to scowl at me when I

visited Cherry."

"Really! You're not imagining it?"

"I'm not an imaginative person," returned Anstice dryly. "I assure you

it was no fancy of mine. She used to answer any questions I put to her

with a most irritating sullenness; and once or twice even Mrs. Carstairs

reproved her--before me--for her unpleasant manner."

"You think that would be sufficient to account for the animus against

you displayed in these letters?"

"Honestly, I do. You see, luckily or unluckily, the child took a great

fancy to Nurse Trevor; and being ill and consequently rather spoilt, she

behaved capriciously towards her former beloved Tochatti--with the

result that the woman hated the nurse--and hated me the more for having

introduced her into the household."

Sir Richard nodded meditatively.