CHAPTER I

The Master Mummer

By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of Sinners,"

"The Betrayal," Etc.

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

_A. L. BURT COMPANY_

_Publishers New York_

_Copyright_, 1904,

BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

_All rights reserved_

[Illustration: "Let the boy have his chance," said Allan.]

The Master Mummer

Book I

CHAPTER I

Sheets of virgin manuscript paper littered my desk, the smoke of much

uselessly consumed tobacco hung about the room in a little cloud. Many a

time I had dipped my pen in the ink, only to find myself a few minutes

later scrawling ridiculous little figures upon the margin of my

blotting-pad. It was not at all an auspicious start for one who sought

immortality.

There came a growl presently from the other side of the room, where

Mabane, attired in a disreputable smock, with a short black pipe in the

corner of his mouth, was industriously defacing a small canvas. Mabane

was tall and fair and lean, with a mass of refractory hair which was the

despair of his barber; a Scotchman with keen blue eyes, and humorous

mouth amply redeeming his face from the plainness which would otherwise

have been its lot. He also was in search of immortality.

"Make a start for Heaven's sake, Arnold," he implored. "To look at you

is an incitement to laziness. The world's full of things to write about.

Make a choice and have done with it. Write something, even if you have

to tear it up afterwards."

I turned round in my chair and regarded Mabane reproachfully.

"Get on with your pot-boiler, and leave me alone, Allan," I said. "You

do not understand my difficulties in the least. It is simply a matter of

selection. My brain is full of ideas--brimming over. I want to be sure

that I am choosing the best."

There came to me from across the room a grunt of contempt.

"Pot-boiler indeed! What about short stories at ten guineas a time, must

begin in the middle, scented and padded to order, Anthony Hopeish, with

the sugar of Austin Dobson and the pepper of Kipling shaken on _ad

lib._? Man alive, do you know what pot-boilers are? It's a perfect

conservatory you're living in. Got any tobacco, Arnold?"

I jerked my pouch across the room, and it was caught with a deft little

backward swing of the hand. Allan Mabane was an M.C.C. man, and a

favourite point with his captain.

"You've got me on the hip, Allan," I answered, rising suddenly from my

chair and walking restlessly up and down the large bare room. "The devil

himself might have put those words into your mouth. They are

pot-boilers, every one of them, and I am sick of it. I want to do

something altogether different. I am sure that I can, but I have got

into the way of writing those other things, and I can't get out of it.

That is why I am sitting here like an owl."

Mabane refilled his pipe and smoked contentedly.

"I know exactly how you're feeling, old chap," he said sympathetically.

"I get a dash of the same thing sometimes--generally in the springtime.

It begins with a sort of wistfulness, a sense of expansion follows, you

go about all the time with your head in the clouds. You want to collect

all the beautiful things in life and express them. Oh, I know all about

it. It generally means a girl. Where were you last night?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Where I shall be to-night, to-morrow night--where I was a year ago.

That is the trouble of it all. One is always in the same place."

He shook his head.

"It is a very bad attack," he said. "Your generalities may be all right,

but they are not convincing."

"I have not spoken a word to a woman, except to Mrs. Burdett, for a week

or more," I declared.

Mabane resumed his work. Such a discussion, his gesture seemed to

indicate, was not worth continuing. But I continued, following out my

train of thought, though I spoke as much to myself as to my friend.

"You are right about my stories," I admitted. "I have painted

rose-coloured pictures of an imaginary life, and publishers have bought

them, and the public, I suppose, have read them. I have dressed up

puppets of wood and stone, and set them moving like mechanical

dolls--over-gilded, artificial, vulgar. And all the time the real thing

knocks at our doors."

Mabane stepped back from his canvas to examine critically the effect of

an unexpected dash of colour.

"The public, my dear Greatson," he said abstractedly, "do not want the

real thing--from you. Every man to his _mêtier_. Yours is to sing of

blue skies and west winds, of hay-scented meadows and Watteau-like

revellers in a paradise as artificial as a Dutch garden. Take my advice,

and keep your muse chained. The other worlds are for the other writers."

I was annoyed with Mabane. There was just sufficient truth in his words

to make them sound brutal. I answered him with some heat.

"Not if I starve for it, Allan? The whole cycle of life goes humming

around us, hour by hour. It is here, there, everywhere. I will bring a

little of it into my work, or I will write no more."

Mabane shook his head. He was busy again upon his canvas.

"It is always the humourist," he murmured, "who is ambitious to write a

tragedy--and _vice versâ_. The only sane man is he who is conscious of

his limitations."

"On the contrary," I answered quickly, "the man who admits them is a

fool. I have made up my mind. I will dress no more dolls in fine

clothes, and set them strutting across a rose-garlanded stage. I will

create, or I will leave alone. I will write of men and women, or not at

all."

"It will affect your income," Mabane said. "It will cost you money in

postage stamps, and your manuscripts will be declined with thanks."

His gentle cynicism left me unmoved. I had almost forgotten his

presence. I was standing over by the window, looking out across a

wilderness of housetops. My own thoughts for the moment were sufficient.

I spoke, it is true, but I spoke to myself.

"A beginning," I murmured. "That is all one wants. It seems so hard, and

yet--it ought to be so easy. If one could but lift the roofs--could but

see for a moment underneath."

"I can save you the trouble," Mabane remarked cheerfully, strolling over

to my side. "Where are you looking? Chertsey Street, eh? Well, in all

probability mamma is cooking the dinner, Mary is scrubbing the floor,

Miss Flora is dusting the drawing-room, and Miss Louisa is practising

her scales. You have got a maggot in your brain, Greatson. Life such as

you are thinking of is the most commonplace thing in the world. The

middle-classes haven't the capacity for passion--even the tragedy of

existence never troubles them. Don't try to stir up the muddy waters,

Arnold. Write a pretty story about a Princess and her lovers, and draw

your cheque."

"There are times, Allan," I remarked thoughtfully, "when you are an

intolerable nuisance."

Mabane shrugged his shoulders and returned to his work. Apparently he

had reached a point in it which required his undivided attention, for he

relapsed almost at once into silence. Following his example, I too

returned to my desk and took up my pen. As a rule my work came to me

easily. Even now there were shadowy ideas, well within my mental

grasp--ideas, however, which I was in the humour to repel rather than to

invite. For I knew very well whither they would lead me--back to the

creation of those lighter and more fanciful figures flitting always

across the canvas of a painted world. A certain facility for this sort

of thing had brought me a reputation which I was already growing to

hate. More than ever I was determined not to yield. Mabane's words had

come to me with a subtle note of mockery underlying their undoubted

common-sense. I thrust the memory of them on one side. Certain gifts I

knew that I possessed. I had a ready pen and a facile invention.

Something had stirred in me a late-awakened but irresistible desire to

apply them to a different purpose than ever before. As I sat there the

creations of my fancy flitted before me one by one--delicate, perhaps,

and graceful, thoughtfully conceived, adequately completed. Yet I knew

very well that they were like ripples upon the water, creatures without

lasting forms or shape, images passing as easily as they had come into

the mists of oblivion. The human touch, the transforming fire of life

was wholly wanting. These April creations of my brain--carnival figures,

laughing and weeping with equal facility, lacked always and altogether

the blood and muscle of human creatures. The mishaps of their lives

struck never a tragic note; always the thrill and stir of actual

existence were wanting. I would have no more of them. I felt myself

capable of other things. I would wait until other things came.

The door was pushed open, and Arthur smiled in upon us. This third

member of our bachelor household was younger than either Mabane or

myself--a smooth-faced, handsome boy, resplendent to-day in frock-coat

and silk hat.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Hard at work, both of you!"

Mabane laid down his brush and surveyed the newcomer critically.

"Arthur," he declared with slow emphasis, "you do us credit--you do

indeed. I hope that you will show yourself to our worthy landlady, and

that you will linger upon the doorstep as long as possible. This sort of

thing is good for our waning credit. I am no judge, for I never

possessed such a garment, but there is something about the skirts of

your frock-coat which appeals to me. There is indeed, Arthur. And then

your tie--the cunning arrangement of it----"

"Oh, rats!" the boy exclaimed, laughing. "Give me a couple of

cigarettes, there's a good chap, and do we feed at home to-night?"

Mabane produced the cigarettes and turned back to his work.

"We do!" he admitted with a sigh. "Always on Tuesdays, you know.

By-the-bye, are you going to the works in that costume?"

"Not likely! It's my day at the depôt, worse luck," Arthur answered,

pausing to strike a match. "What's up with Arnold?"

"Got the blues, because his muse won't work," Mabane said. "He wants to

strike out in a new line--something blood-curdling, you

know--Tolstoi-like, or Hall Caineish--he doesn't care which. He wants to

do what nobody else ever will--take himself seriously. I put it down in

charity to dyspepsia."

"Mabane is an ass!" I grunted. "Be off, Arthur, there's a good chap, and

don't listen to him. He hasn't the least idea what he is talking about."

Arthur, however, happened to be in no hurry. He tilted his hat on the

back of his head, and leaned upon the table.

"I have always noticed," he remarked affably, "that under Allan's most

asinine speeches there usually lurks a substratum of truth. Are you

really going to write a serious novel, Arnold?"

I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair resignedly. Arthur was a

most impenetrable person, and if he meant to stay, I knew very well that

it was hopeless to attempt to hurry him.

"I had some idea of it," I admitted. "By-the-bye, Arthur, you are a

person with a deep insight into life. Can't you give me a few hints? I

haven't even made a start."

Arthur considered the matter in all seriousness.

"It is a bit difficult for you, I daresay," he remarked. "You stop

indoors so much, and when you do go out you mope off into the country by

yourself. You want to knock about the restaurants and places to get

ideas. That's what Gorman always does. You see you get all your

characters from life in them, and they seem so much more natural."

"And who," I asked, "is Mr. Gorman? I do not recognize the name."

"Pal of mine," Arthur answered easily. "I don't bring him here because

he's a bit loud for you chaps. Writes stories for no end of papers.

_Illustrated Bits_ and the _Cigarette Journal_ print anything he cares

to send. I thought perhaps you'd know the name."

Mabane went off into a peal of laughter behind his canvas. The boy

remained imperturbable.

"Of course, I'm not comparing his work with Arnold's," he declared.

"Arnold's stuff is no end better, of course. But, after all, the chap's

got common-sense. If they want me to draw a motor I go and sit down in

front of it. If Arnold wants to write of real things, real men and

women, you know, he ought to go out and look for them. If he sits here

and just imagines them, how can he be sure that they are the real thing?

See what I mean?"

There was a short silence. Arthur was swinging his long legs backwards

and forwards, and whistling softly to himself. I looked at him for a

moment curiously. The words of an ancient proverb flitted through my

brain.

"Arthur," I declared solemnly, laying down my pen, "you are a prophet in

disguise, the prophet sent to lift the curtain which is before my eyes.

Which way shall I go to find these real men and real women, to look upon

these tragic happenings? For Heaven's sake direct me. Where, for

instance, does Mr. Gorman go?"

Arthur swung himself off, laughing.

"Gorman goes everywhere," he answered. "If I were you I should try one

of the big railway stations. So long!"

I rose to my feet, and taking down my hat commenced to brush it. Mabane

looked up from his work.

"Where are you off to, Arnold?" he asked.

Some curious instinct or power of divination might indeed have given me

a passing glimpse of the things which lay beyond, through the portals of

that day, for I answered him seriously enough--even gravely.

"The prophet has spoken," I said. "I must obey! I shall start with

Charing Cross."

CHAPTER II

Why the man should have spoken to me at all I could not tell. Yet it is

certain that I heard his simple and courteous inquiry with a thrill of

pleasure, not unmixed with excitement. From the first moment of my

arrival upon the platform I had singled him out, the only interesting

figure in a crowd of nonentities. Perhaps I had lingered a little too

closely by his side, had manifested more curiosity in him than was

altogether seemly. At any rate, he spoke to me.

"Do you know if the Continental train is punctual?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I answered. "This guard would tell us, perhaps."

"Signalled in, sir," the man declared. "Two minutes late only."

My new acquaintance thanked me and lit a cigarette. He seemed in no

hurry to depart, and I was equally anxious to engage him in

conversation. For although he was dressed with the trim and quiet

precision of the foreigner or man of affairs, there was something about

his beardless face, his broadly humorous mouth, and easy, nonchalant

bearing which suggested the person who juggled always with the ball of

life.

"Marvellous!" he murmured, looking after the guard. "Two minutes late

from Paris--and perhaps beyond. It is a wonderful service. Now, if I had

come to meet any one, and had a pressing appointment immediately

afterwards, this train would have been an hour late. As it is--ah, well,

one is foolish to grumble," he added, with a little shrug of the

shoulders.

"You, like me, then," I remarked, "are a loiterer."

He flashed a keen glance upon me.

"I see that I have met," he said slowly, "with someone of similar tastes

to my own. I will confess at once that you are right. For myself I feel

that there is nothing more interesting in this great city of yours than

to watch the people coming and going from it. All your railway stations

fascinate me, especially those which are the connecting links with other

countries. Perhaps it is because I am an idle man, and must needs find

amusement somewhere."

"Yet," I objected, "for a single face or personality which is

suggestive, one sees a thousand of the type which only irritates--the

great rank and file of the commonplace. I wonder, after all, whether the

game is worth the candle."

"One in a thousand," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yet think what that one

may mean--a walking drama, a tragedy, a comedy, an epitome of life or

death. There is more to be read in the face of that one than in the

three hundred pages of the novel over which we yawn ourselves to sleep.

Here is the train! Now let us watch the people together--that is, if you

really mean that you have no friends to look out for."

"I really mean it," I assured him. "I am here out of the idlest

curiosity. I am by profession a scribbler, and I am in search of an

idea."

Once more he regarded me curiously.

"Your name is Greatson, is it not--Arnold Greatson? You were pointed out

to me once at the Vagabonds' Club, and I never forget a face. Here they

come! Look! Look!"

The train had come to a standstill. People were streaming out upon the

platform. My companion laid his fingers upon my arm. He talked rapidly

but lightly.

"You see them, my young friend," he exclaimed. "Those are returning

tourists from Switzerland; the thin, sharp-featured girl there, with a

plaid skirt and a satchel, is an American. Heavens! how she talks! She

has lost a trunk. The whole system will be turned upside down until she

has found it or been compensated. The two young men with her are silent.

They are wise. Alone she will prevail. You see the man of commerce; he

is off already. He has been to France, perhaps to Belgium also, to buy

silks and laces. And the stout old gentleman? See how happy he looks to

be back again where English is spoken, and he can pay his way in

half-crowns and shillings. You see the milliner's head-woman, dressed

with obtrusive smartness, though everything seems a little awry. She has

been over to Paris for the fashions; in a few days her firm will send

out a little circular, and Hampstead or Balham will be much impressed.

And--what do you make of those two, my young friend?"

It seemed to me that my companion's tone was changed, that his whole

appearance was different. I was suddenly conscious of an irresistible

conviction. I did not believe any longer that he was, like me, an idle

loiterer here. I felt that his presence had a purpose, and that it was

connected in some measure with the two people to whom my attention was

so suddenly drawn. They were, in that somewhat heterogeneous crowd,

sufficiently noticeable. The man, although he assumed the jauntiness of

youth, was past middle-age, and his mottled cheeks, his thin, watery

eyes, and thick red neck were the unmistakeable hall-marks of years of

self-indulgence. He was well dressed and groomed, and his demeanour

towards his companion was one of deferential good humour. She, however,

was a person of a very different order. She was a girl apparently

between fifteen and sixteen, her figure as yet undeveloped, her dresses

a little too short. Her face was small and white, her mouth had a most

pathetic droop, and in her eyes--wonderful, deep blue eyes--there was a

curious look of shrinking fear, beneath which flashed every now and then

a gleam of positive terror. Her dark hair was arranged in a thick

straight fringe upon her forehead, and in a long plait behind, after the

schoolgirl fashion. Notwithstanding the _gaucherie_ of her years and her

apparent unhappiness, she carried herself with a certain dignity and

grace of movement which were wonderfully impressive. I watched her

admiringly.

"They are rather a puzzle," I admitted. "I suppose they might very well

be father and daughter. It is certain that she is fresh from some

convent boarding-school. I don't like the way she looks at the man, do

you? It is as though she were terrified to death. I wonder if he is her

father?"

My companion did not answer me. He was straining forward as though

anxious to hear the instructions which the man was giving to a porter

about the luggage; my presence seemed to be a thing which he had wholly

forgotten. The girl stood for a moment alone. More than ever one seemed

to perceive in her eyes the nameless fear of the hunted animal. She

looked around her furtively, yet with a strange, half-veiled wildness in

her dilated eyes. I should scarcely have been surprised to have seen her

make a sudden dash for freedom. Presently, however, the man, having

identified all his luggage, turned towards her.

"That's all right," he declared cheerfully. "Now I think that I shall

take you straight away for lunch somewhere, and then we must go to the

shops. Are you hungry, Isobel?"

"I--I do not know," she answered, so tremulously that the words scarcely

reached us, though we were standing only a few feet away.

"We will soon find out," he said. "Hansom, there! Café Grand!"

The cab drove off, and I realized then how completely for the last few

moments I had forgotten my companion. I turned to look for him, and

found him standing close to my side. He was apparently absorbed in

thought, and seemed to have lost all interest in our surroundings. His

hands were thrust deep in his overcoat pockets, and his eyes were fixed

upon the ground. The stream of people from the train had melted away

now, and we were almost alone upon the platform. I hesitated for a

moment, and then walked slowly off. I did not wish to seem discourteous

to the man with whom I had exchanged a few remarks more intimate than

those which usually pass between strangers, but he had distinctly the

air of one wishing to be alone, and I was unwilling to seem intrusive. I

had barely taken a dozen steps, however, before I was overtaken. My

companion of a few minutes before was again by my side. All traces of

his recent preoccupation seemed to have vanished. He was smoking a fresh

cigarette, and his bright, deep-set eyes were lit with gentle mirth.

"Well, Mr. Novelist," he exclaimed, "have you succeeded? Is your languid

muse stirred? Have you seen a face, a look, a gesture--anything to prick

your imagination?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I have seen one thing," I answered, "which it is not easy to forget. I

have seen fear, and very pathetic it was."

"You mean----?"

"In the face of that child, or rather girl, with that coarse-looking

brute of a man."

The light seemed to die out from my companion's face. Once more he

became stern and thoughtful.

"Yes," he agreed; "I too saw that. If one were looking for tragedy, one

might perhaps find it there."

We stood now together on the pavement outside the station. My companion

glanced at his watch.

"Come," he said; "I have a fancy that you and I might exchange a few

ideas. I am a lonely man, and to-day I am not in the humour for

solitude. Do me the favour to lunch with me!"

I did not hesitate for a moment. It was exactly the sort of invitation

which I had coveted.

"I shall be delighted," I answered.

"I myself," my companion continued, "have no gift for writing. My

talents, such as they are, lie in a different direction. But I have been

in many countries, and adventures have come to me of various sorts. I

may be able even to start you on your way--if, indeed, the author of

_The Lost Princess_ is ever short of an idea."

I smiled.

"I can assure you," I said, "that my pilgrimage this morning has no

other object than to find one. I begin to fear that I have written too

much lately. At any rate, the well of my inspiration, if I may use so

grandiloquent a term, has run dry."

He put up his stick and hailed a hansom.

"After all," he said, "it is possible--yes, it is possible that you may

succeed. Adventures wait for us everywhere, if only we go about in a

proper frame of mind. We will lunch, I think, at the Café Grand."

I followed my prospective host into the cab. Was it altogether a

coincidence, I wondered, that we were bound for the same restaurant

whither the man and the girl had preceded us a few minutes before?

CHAPTER III

Mr. Grooten, as my new acquaintance called himself, belied neither his

appearance nor his modest reference to himself. He proved at once that

he knew how to order a satisfactory luncheon, going through the _menu_

with the quiet deliberation of a connoisseur, neither seeking nor

accepting any advice from the dark-visaged waiter who stood by his side,

and finally writing out his few carefully chosen dishes with a special

postscript as to the coffee, which, by-the-bye, we were never to taste.

He then leaned over the table and began to talk.

Apparently my host had been in every country of the world, and mixed

with people of note in each. His anecdotes were always pungent, personal

without being egotistical, and savoured always with a certain dry and

perfectly natural humour. I found myself both interested and fascinated

by his constant flow of reminiscences, and yet at times my attention

wandered. For within a few yards of us were seated the man and the

child.

Everything that was noticeable in their demeanour towards one another at

the station was even more apparent here. A bottle of champagne stood

upon the table. The man had ordered such a luncheon that the head-waiter

was seldom far from his side, and the manager in person had come to pay

his respects. He himself was apparently doing full justice to it. His

cheeks were flushed, his eyes moist, and his little bursts of laughter

as he persevered in his attentions to his companion grew louder and more

frequent. But opposite to him, the child's face was unchanged. Her glass

was full of wine, but she seemed never to touch it. Her long white

fingers played with her bread, but she seemed to eat little or nothing.

Her face was pallid and drawn; there was terror--absolute, undiluted

terror--in her unnaturally large eyes. Often when the man spoke to her

she shivered. Her eyes seemed constantly trying to escape his gaze,

wandering round the room, the terror of a hunted animal in their soft,

luminous depths. Once they rested upon mine--I was seated in the corner

facing her--and it seemed to me that there was appeal--desperate,

frenzied appeal--in that long, tense look which thrilled all my pulses

with passionate sympathy. Yet she held herself all the while stiff and

erect. There was a certain sustaining pride in her close, firm-set

mouth. There was never any sign of tears, though more than once her lips

parted for a moment in a pitiful quiver.

The table at which we were sitting was just inside the door, in the

left-hand corner. The man and the girl were upon the opposite side, and

a few yards further in the room. My host, with his face to the door,

could see neither of them, therefore, without turning round, and owing

to our table being pushed far into the corner, only his back was visible

to the people in the restaurant. I, sitting facing him, had an excellent

view of the girl and her companion, and I was all the while a witness of

the silent drama being played out between the two. There came a time

when I felt that I could stand it no longer. I leaned over our small

table, and interrupted my companion in the middle of a story.

"Forgive me," I said, "but I wish you could see that child's face. There

is something wrong, I am sure. She is terrified to death. Look, that

brute is trying to force her to drink her wine. I really can't sit and

watch it any longer."

The man who was my host, and who had called himself Mr. Grooten, nodded

his head slightly. I knew at once, however, that he was in close

sympathy with me.

"I have been watching them," he said. "There is a mirror over your head;

I have seen everything. It is a hideous-looking affair, but what can one

do?"

"I know what I am going to do, at any rate," I said, laying my serviette

deliberately upon the table. "I don't care what happens, but I am going

to speak to the child."

Mr. Grooten raised his eyebrows. Beyond this faint expression of

surprise his face betrayed neither approval nor disapproval.

"What will you gain?" he asked.

"Probably nothing," I answered. "And yet I shall try all the same. I

dare not go away with the memory of that child's face haunting me. I

must make an effort, even though it seems ridiculous. I can't help it."

My companion smiled softly.

"As you will, my impetuous young friend," he said. "This promises to be

interesting. I will await your return."

I did not hesitate any longer. I rose to my feet, and crossed the space

which lay between the two tables. As I drew nearer to her I watched the

child's face. At first a flash of desperate hope seemed suddenly to

illumine it; then a fear more abject even than before took its place as

she glanced at her companion. She watched me come, reading without a

doubt the purpose in my mind with a sort of fascinated wonder. Her eyes

were still fastened upon mine when at last I paused before her. I leaned

over the table, keeping my shoulder turned upon the man.

"You will forgive me," I said to her in a low tone, "but I believe that

you are in trouble. Can I help you? Don't be afraid to tell me if I

can."

"You--you are very kind, sir," she began, breathlessly; "I----"

Her companion intervened. Astonishment and anger combined to render his

voice unsteady.

"Eh? What's this? Who the devil are you, sir, and what do you mean by

speaking to my ward?"

I disregarded his interruption altogether. I still addressed myself only

to the child, and I spoke as encouragingly as I could.

"Don't be afraid to tell me," I said. "Think that I am your brother. I

want to help you if I can."

"Oh, if you only could!" she moaned.

Her companion seized me by the arm and forced me to turn round. His face

was red almost to suffocation, and two thick blue veins stood out upon

his forehead in ugly fashion. His voice was scarcely articulate by

reason of his attempt to keep it low.

"Of all the infernal impertinence! What do you mean by it, sir? Who are

you? How dare you force yourself upon strangers in this fashion?"

"I am quite aware that I am doing an unusual thing," I answered, "and I

perhaps deserve all that you can say to me. At the same time, I am here

to have my question answered. You have a child with you who is

apparently terrified to death. I insist upon hearing from her own lips

whether she is in need of friends."

White and mute, she looked from one to the other. It was the man who

answered.

"If this were not a public place," he said, still struggling with his

anger, "I'd punish you as you deserve, you impudent young cub. This

young lady is my ward, and I have just brought her from a convent, where

she has lived since she was three years old. She is strange and shy, of

course, and I was perhaps wrong to bring her to a public place. I did

it, however, out of kindness. I wanted her to enjoy herself, but I

perhaps did not appreciate her sensitiveness and the fact that only a

few days ago she parted with the friends with whom she has lived all her

life. Now, sir," he added, with a sneer upon his coarse lips, "I have

been compelled to answer your questions to avoid a disturbance in a

public place; but I promise you that if you do not make yourself scarce

in thirty seconds I will send for the manager."

I looked once more at the child, from whose white, set face every gleam

of hope seemed to have fled.

"I can do nothing for you, then?" I asked.

Her eyes met mine helplessly. She shook her head. She did not speak at

all.

"Is it true--what he has told me?" I asked.

She murmured an assent so faint, that though I was bending over her, it

scarcely did more than reach my ears. I could do no more. I turned away

and resumed my seat. Grooten smiled at me.

"Well, Sir Knight Errant," he said lightly; "so you could not free the

maiden?"

"I was made to feel and look like a fool, of course," I answered, "but I

don't mind about that. To tell you the truth, I am not satisfied now.

The man says that he is her guardian, and that he has just brought her

from a convent, where she has lived all her life. He vouchsafed to

explain things to me to avoid a row, but he was desperately angry. She

has never been out of the convent since she was three years old, and she

is very nervous and shy. That was his story, and he told it plausibly

enough. I could not get anything out of her, except an admission that

what he said was the truth."

Mr. Grooten nodded thoughtfully.

"After all," he said, "she is only a child, fourteen or fifteen at the

most, I should suppose. I have paid the bill, and, as you see, I have my

coat on. Are you ready?"

"Directly I have finished my coffee," I answered. "It looks too good to

leave."

"Finish it, by all means," he answered. "I am in no particular hurry.

By-the-bye, I forget whether I showed you this."

He drew a small shining weapon, with rather a long barrel, from his

pocket, but though he invited me to inspect it, he retained it in his

own hand.

"I bought it in New York a few months ago," he remarked; "it is the

latest weapon of destruction invented."

"Is it a revolver?" I asked, a little puzzled by its shape.

"Not exactly," he answered, fingering it carelessly; "it is in reality a

sort of air-gun, with a wonderful compression, and a most ingenious

silencer; quite as deadly, they say, as any firearm ever invented. It

ejects a cylindrically-shaped bullet, tapered down almost to the

fineness of a needle. Now," he added, with a faint smile and a rapid

glance round the room, "if only one dared--" he turned in his chair, and

I saw the thing steal out below his cuff, "one could free the child

quite easily--quite easily."

It was all over in a moment--a wonderful, tense moment, during which I

sat frozen to my chair, stricken dumb and motionless with the tragedy

which it seemed that I alone had witnessed. For there had been a little

puff of sound, so slight that no other ears had noticed it. The seat in

front of me was empty, and the man on my right had fallen forwards, his

hand pressed to his side, his face curiously livid, patchy with streaks

of dark colour, his eyes bulbous. Waiters still hurried to and fro, the

hum of conversation was uninterrupted. And then suddenly it came--a cry

of breathless horror, of mortal unexpected agony--a cry, it seemed, of

death. The waiters stopped in their places to gaze breathlessly at the

spot from which the cry had come, a silver dish fell clattering from the

fingers of one, and its contents rolled unnoticed about the floor. The

murmur of voices, the rise and fall of laughter and speech, ceased as

though an unseen finger had been pressed upon the lips of everyone in

the room. Men rose in their places, women craned their necks. For a

second or two the whole place was like a tableau of arrested motion.

Then there was a rush towards the table across which the man had fallen,

a doubled-up heap. A few feet away, with only that narrow margin of

table-cloth between them, the girl sat and stared at him, still white

and panic-stricken, yet with a curious change in her face from which all

the dumb terror which had first attracted my attention seemed to have

passed away.

CHAPTER IV

The manager, who was very flurried, closed the door of the little room

into which the wounded man had been carried.

"Can you tell me his name, or shall we look for his card-case?" he

asked.

I glanced towards the child. She was by far the most composed of the

three. Only she remained with her back turned steadily upon the sofa.

"His name is Delahaye," she said; "Major Sir William Delahaye, I think

they called him."

"And where does he live--in London? Tell me his address. I will send a

cab there at once!"

"I do not know his address," the child answered. "I do not know where he

lives."

The manager stared at her.

"You were with him, were you not?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then surely you must know something more about him than just his name?"

"He called himself my guardian. I believe that when I was very young he

took me to the convent where I have been ever since. Two days ago he

came to fetch me away."

"What is your name?"

"Isobel de Sorrens!"

"You are not related to him, then?"

She shuddered a little.

"I hope not," she said simply.

"Well, where was he taking you to?" the manager asked impatiently.

"Surely there must be someone I can send to."

"I believe that he has a house in London," the child said. "I really do

not know anything more. You could send to Madame Richard at the Convent

St. Argueil. I suppose she knows all about him. She told me that I was

to consider him my guardian."

The manager turned to me. I was an occasional customer, and he knew who

I was.

"Can you tell me anything about him, Mr. Greatson? The doctor will be

here in a moment, but I feel that I ought to be sending for some of his

friends. I am afraid that he is very ill."

"You were not in the room at the time it happened?" I remarked.

The manager shook his head.

"No, I was in the office."

"Have you sent for the police?" I asked.

"Police, no!" he exclaimed. "What have the police to do with it? It was

an ordinary fit, surely."

I felt that I had held my peace long enough.

"It was not a fit at all," I said gravely. "He was shot with a sort of

air-gun by a man sitting at my table. I think that you ought to send for

the police at once. The man's name was Grooten, but I know nothing else

about him."

The manager was for a moment speechless. The child looked at me eagerly.

"It was the little old gentleman who was sitting with you who did it,"

she exclaimed. "I saw him at Charing Cross."

"Yes, it was he!" I answered.

The child turned away.

"Perhaps after all, then," she murmured to herself, "I may have friends

in the world."

The manager, whose name was Huber, was inclined to be incredulous.

"An air-gun would have made as much noise as a revolver," he said. "Are

you sure of what you say, Mr. Greatson?"

"There is no doubt at all about it," I answered, "and you ought to

inform the police at once. This man--Grooten, he called himself--pulled

the pistol out of his pocket, and was pretending to show it to me when

he fired the shot. He told me that it was a new invention which he had

bought in America, and which was quite noiseless."

The manager hurried from the room. The child and I were alone, except

for the man on the couch. Every now and then he groaned--a sound I could

not hear without a shiver. The child, however, was unmoved. She fixed

her dark eyes on me.

"Do you think that he will get away?" she asked eagerly.

"You mean the man who shot Major Delahaye?"

"Yes."

"I think that it is very likely. He has a good start, and I expect that

he had made his arrangements."

"I hope he does," she murmured passionately. "I wish that I could help

him."

"You have no idea who he was?" I asked. "I do not believe that Grooten

was his real name."

She shook her head.

"I have never seen him before in my life," she said. "If I did know I

should not tell anyone."

The doctor came at last. In reality it was barely five minutes since he

had been sent for, but time dragged itself along slowly in that little

room. Directly afterwards Huber, the manager, returned, followed by a

sergeant of the police. We all waited for the doctor's examination. I

fetched a chair for the child, and she thanked me with a wan little

smile. Always she sat with her back to the sofa. There was something

terribly suggestive in her utter lack of sympathy with the wounded man.

The doctor finished his examination at last. He came towards us.

"The wound is a very curious one," he said, "and I am afraid that the

bullet will be difficult to extract, but it is not in itself serious. It

is really only a flesh wound, but the man is suffering from severe

shock, and I don't like the action of his heart. He can be removed quite

safely. If you like I will telephone for an ambulance and take him to

the hospital. Do you know anything about this affair, sergeant?"

"Very little as yet, sir," the man answered. "I want this gentleman's

description of the person who showed him the pistol. The commissionaire

saw him leave, I understand, and one of the waiters saw something in his

hand. Was he a friend of yours, sir?"

"I only know his name," I answered. "He called himself Mr. Grooten, and

I judged him to be a foreigner, though he spoke perfect English. He

seemed to be about fifty years old, clean-shaven, and of under medium

height."

"Too vague," the sergeant remarked. "Had he any peculiarity of feature

or expression, anything which would help towards identification?"

"None that I can remember," I answered.

"How was he dressed?"

"Quietly. I could not remember anything that he wore."

"Did he give you any idea of his intention? Did he speak of Major

Delahaye at all as though he knew him?"

I shook my head.

"We simply both remarked," I said slowly, "that this--young lady seemed

to be very frightened of her companion, and I do not think that we

formed a favourable impression of him. He gave me not the slightest

intimation, however, of his intention to interfere."

"It could not have been an accident, I suppose?" Mr. Huber suggested.

"I might have thought so," I answered, "if he had not immediately left

the place. He disappeared so quickly that I did not even see him go."

"You sat by accident at the same table?" the sergeant asked.

"No, we came together," I answered. "We met at Charing Cross, and he

spoke to me. He knew my name, and reminded me that we had once met at

the 'Vagabonds' Club.'"

"Did you remember him?"

"I cannot say that I did," I answered.

"And afterwards?"

"We talked together for some time, and when we left the station he asked

me to lunch here."

"Did he arrive by train, or was he meeting anyone at Charing Cross?" the

sergeant asked.

"Neither, so far as I could see," I answered. "He seemed to be simply

loitering. I ought to tell you, though, that we saw Major Delahaye and

this young lady arrive by the Continental train, and he seemed to be

interested in them."

The sergeant turned to Isobel.

"Did you know him?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "I did not notice him at the station at all. I saw

that he was sitting at the same table downstairs as this gentleman, but

I am quite sure that I have never seen him before in my life."

The sergeant put away his pocket-book.

"I am very sorry to trouble you," he said, "but I think it would be

better for you all to come to Bow Street and see the superintendent."

"I am quite willing to do so," I answered, "though I can tell him no

more than I have told you."

The child moved suddenly towards me. Her thin, shabbily gloved fingers

gripped my arm with almost painful force. Her eyes were full of

passionate appeal.

"I may go with you," she murmured. "You will not leave me alone?"

"The young lady will be required also," the sergeant remarked.

"We will go together, of course," I said gently. "Come!"

CHAPTER V

We crossed the road from the police-station, and found ourselves in one

of the narrow streets fringing Covent Garden. The air was fragrant here

with the perfume of white and purple lilac, great baskets full of which

were piled up in the gutter. The girl half closed her eyes.

"Delicious!" she murmured. "This reminds me of St. Argueil! You have

flowers too, then, in London?"

I bought her a handful, which she sniffed and held to her face with

delight.

"Ah!" she said a little sadly. "I had forgotten that there were any

beautiful things left in the world. Thank you so much, Mr. Arnold."

"At your age," I said cheerfully, "you will soon find out that the

world--even London--is a treasure-house of beautiful things."

She looked down the narrow, untidy street, strewn with the refuse from

the market waggons and trucks which blocked the way, making all but

pedestrian traffic an impossibility--at the piles of empty baskets in

the gutter, and the slatternly crowd of loiterers. Then she looked up at

me with a faint smile.

"London--is not all like this, then?" she remarked.

I shook my head.

"This is a back street, almost a slum," I said. "I daresay you have

lived in the country always, and just at first it does not seem possible

that there should be anything beautiful about a great city. When you get

a little older I think that you will see things differently. The beauty

of a great city thronged with men and women is a more subtle thing than

the mere joy of meadows and hills and country lanes--but it exists all

the same. And now," I continued, stopping short upon the pavement, "I

must take you to your friends. Tell me where they live. You have the

address, perhaps."

"What friends?" she asked me, with wide-open eyes.

"You told the superintendent of police that you had friends in London,"

I reminded her.

Then she smiled at me--a very dazzling smile, which showed all her white

teeth, and which seemed somehow to become reflected in her dark blue

eyes.

"But I meant you!" she exclaimed. "I thought that you knew that! There

is no one else. You are my friend, I know very well, for you came and

spoke kindly to me when I was terrified--terrified to death."

The shadow of gravity rested only for a moment upon her face. She

laughed gaily at my consternation.

"Then where am I to take you?" I asked.

"Stupid," she murmured; "I am going with you, of course. Why--why--you

don't mind, do you?" she asked, with a sudden catch in her throat.

I felt like a brute, and I hastened to make what amends I could. I

smiled at her reassuringly.

"Mind! Of course I don't mind," I declared. "Only, you see, there are

three of us--all men--and we live together. I was afraid----"

"I shall not mind that at all," she interrupted cheerfully. "If they are

nice like you, I think that it will be delightful. There were only girls

at the convent, you know, and the sisters, and a few masters who came to

teach us things, but they were not allowed to speak to us except to give

out the lessons, and they were very stupid. I do not think that I shall

be any trouble to you at all. I will try not to be."

I looked at her--a little helplessly. After all, though she was tall for

her years, she was only a child. Her dress was of an awkward length, her

long straight fringe and plaited hair the coiffure of the schoolroom.

The most surprising thing of all in connection with her was that she

showed no signs of the tragedy which had so recently been played out

around her. Her eyes had lost their nameless fear; there was even colour

in her cheeks.

"Come along, then!" I said. "We will turn into the Strand and take a

hansom."

She walked buoyantly along by my side, as tall within an inch or so as

myself, and with a certain elegance in her gait a little hard to

reconcile with her years. All the while she looked eagerly about her,

her eyes shining with curiosity.

"We passed through Paris at night," she said, with a little reminiscent

shudder, as though every thought connected with that journey were a

torture, "and I have never really been in a great city before. I hope

you meant what you said," she added, looking up at me with a quick

smile, "and that there are parts of London more beautiful than this."

"Many," I assured her. "You shall see the parks. The rhododendrons will

be out soon, and I think that you will find them beautiful, though, of

course, the town can never be like the country. Here's a hansom with a

good horse. Jump in!"

* * * * *

I think that our arrival at Number 4, Earl's Crescent, created quite as

much sensation as I had anticipated. When I opened the door of the

large, barely-furnished room, which we called our workshop, Arthur

sprang from the table on which he had been lounging, and Mabane, who was

still working, dropped his brush in sheer amazement. I turned towards

the girl.

"These are my friends, Isobel, of whom I have been telling you," I said.

"This is Mr. Arthur Fielding, who is the ornamental member of the

establishment, and that is Mr. Allan Mabane, who paints very bad

pictures, but who contrives to make other people think that they are

worth buying. Allan, this young lady, Miss Isobel de Sorrens, and I have

had a little adventure together. I will explain all about it later on."

They both advanced with extended hands. The girl, as though suddenly

conscious of her position, gave a hand to each, and looked at them

almost piteously.

"You will not mind my coming," she begged, with a tremulous little note

of appeal in her tone. "I do not seem to have any friends, and Mr.

Arnold has been so kind to me. If I may stay here for a little while I

will try--oh, I am sure, that I will not be in anyone's way!"

The pathos of her breathless little speech was almost irresistible. The

child, as she stood there in the centre of the room, looking eagerly

from one to the other, conquered easily. I do not know if either of the

other two were conscious of the new note of life which she seemed to

bring with her into our shabby, smoke-smelling room, but to me it came

home, even in those first few moments, with wonderful poignancy. An

alien note it was, but a wonderfully sweet one. We three men had drifted

away from the whole world of our womenkind. She seemed to bring us back

instantly into touch with some of the few better and rarer memories

round which the selfishness of life is always building a thicker crust.

For one thing, at that moment I was deeply grateful--that I knew my

friends. My task was made a sinecure.

"My dear young lady," Mabane exclaimed, with unmistakeable earnestness,

"you are heartily welcome. We are delighted to see you here!"

"More than welcome," Arthur declared. "We are all one here, you know,

Miss de Sorrens; and if you are Arnold's friend, you must be ours."

For the first time tears stood in her eyes. She brushed them proudly

away.

"You are very, very kind," she said. "I cannot tell you how grateful I

am to you both."

Arthur rushed for our one easy-chair, and insisted upon installing her

in it. Mabane lit a stove and left the room swinging a kettle. I drew a

little sigh of relief, and threw my hat into a corner. Apparently she

had conquered my friends as easily as she had conquered me.

"Arthur," I said, "please entertain Miss de Sorrens for a few moments,

will you. I must go and interview Mrs. Burdett."

"I'll do my best, Arnold," he assured me. "Mrs. Burdett's in the

kitchen, I think. She came in just before you."

Mrs. Burdett was our housekeeper and sole domestic. She was a

hard-featured but kindly old woman, with a caustic tongue and a soft

heart. She heard my story unmoved, betraying neither enthusiasm or

disapproval. When I had finished, she simply set her cap straight and

rubbed her hands upon her apron.

"I'd like to see the child, as you call her, Mr. Arnold," she said. "You

young gentlemen are so easy deceived, and it's an unusual thing that

you're proposing, not to say inconvenient."

So I took Mrs. Burdett back with me to the studio. As we opened the door

the music of the girl's strange little foreign laugh was ringing through

the room. Arthur was mounted upon his hobby, talking of the delights of

motoring, and she was listening with sparkling eyes. They stopped at

once as we entered.

"This is Mrs. Burdett, Isobel," I said, "who looks after us here, and

who is going to take charge of you. She will show you your room. I'm

sorry that you will find it so tiny, but you can see that we are a

little cramped here!"

Isobel rose at once.

"You should have seen our cells at St. Argueil," she exclaimed, smiling.

"Some of us who were tall could scarcely stand upright. May I come with

you, Mrs. Burdett?"

Mrs. Burdett's tone and answer relieved me of one more anxiety. The door

closed upon them. We three men were alone.

"Is this," Mabane asked curiously, "a practical joke, or a part of your

plot? What does it all mean? Where on earth did you come across the

child? Who is she?"

I took a cigarette from my case and lit it.

"The responsibility for the whole affair," I declared, "remains with

Arthur."

The boy whistled softly. He looked at me with wide-open eyes.

"Come," he declared, "I like that. Why, I have never seen the girl

before in my life, or anyone like her. Where do I come in, I should like

to know?"

"It was you," I said, "who started me off to Charing Cross."

"You mean to say that you picked her up there?" Mabane exclaimed.

"I will tell you the whole story," I answered. "She comes with the halo

of tragedy about her. Listen!"

Then I told them of the things which had happened to me during the last

few hours.

CHAPTER VI

I certainly could not complain of any lack of interest on the part of my

auditors. They listened to every word of my story with rapt attention.

When I had finished they were both silent for several moments. Mabane

eyed me curiously. I think that at first he scarcely knew whether to

believe me altogether serious.

"The man who was with the girl," Arthur asked at last--"this Major

Delahaye, or whatever his name was--is he dead?"

"He was alive two hours ago," I answered.

"Will he recover?"

"I believe that there is just a bare chance--no more," I answered. "He

had a weak heart, and the shock was almost enough to kill him."

"And your friend--the man who shot him--where is he?" Mabane asked. "Is

he in custody?"

I shook my head.

"He disappeared," I answered, "as though by magic. You see, we were

sitting at the table next the door, and he had every opportunity for

slipping out unnoticed."

"It was at the Café Grand, you said, wasn't it?" Arthur asked.

I nodded.

"How about the commissionaire, then?"

"He saw the man come out, but he took no particular notice of him," I

answered. "He crossed the street at an ordinary walking pace, and he was

out of sight before the commotion inside began."

"It seems to me," Mabane remarked, "that you must have found yourself in

rather an awkward position."

"I did," I answered grimly. "Of course my story sounded a bit thin, and

the police made me go to the station with them. As luck would have it,

however, I knew the inspector, and I managed to convince him that I was

telling the truth, or I doubt whether they would have let me go. I

suppose," I added, a little doubtfully, "that you fellows must think me

a perfect idiot for bringing the child here, but upon my word I don't

know what else I could have done. I simply couldn't leave her there, or

in the streets. I'm awfully sorry--"

"Don't be an ass," Arthur interrupted energetically. "Of course you

couldn't do anything but bring her here. You acted like a sensible chap

for once."

"Have you questioned her," Mabane asked, "about her friends? If she has

none in London, she must have some somewhere!"

"I have questioned her," I answered, "but not very successfully. She

appears to know nothing about her relations, or even her parentage. She

has been at the convent ever since she can remember, and she has seen no

one outside it except this man who took her there and came to fetch her

away."

"And what relation is he?" Allan asked.

"None! He called himself simply her guardian."

Arthur walked across the room for his pipe, and commenced to fill it.

"Well," he said, "you are like the man in the Scriptures, who found what

he went out for to see. You've got your adventure, at any rate. All

owing to my advice, too. Hullo!"

We all turned round. The door of the room was suddenly opened and

closed. My host of a few hours ago stood upon the threshold, smiling

suavely upon us. He wore a low black hat, and a coat somewhat thicker

than the season of the year seemed to demand. Every article of attire

was different, but his face seemed to defy disguise. I should have known

Mr. Grooten anywhere.

His unexpected presence seemed to deprive me almost of my wits. I simply

gaped at him like the others.

"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "You here!"

He stood quite still for a moment, listening. Then he glanced sharply

around the room. He looked at Mabane, and he looked at Arthur. Finally

he addressed me.

"I fancy that I am a fairly obvious apparition," he remarked. "Where is

the child?"

"She is here," I answered, "in another room with our housekeeper just

now. But----"

"I have only a few seconds to spare," Mr. Grooten interrupted

ruthlessly. "Listen to me. You have chosen to interfere in this concern,

and you must take your part in it now. You have the child, and you must

keep her for a time. You must not let her go, on any account.

Unfortunately, the man who sold me that pistol was a liar. Delahaye is

not dead. It is possible even that he may recover. Will you swear to

keep the child from him?"

I hesitated. It seemed to me that Grooten was taking a great deal for

granted.

"You must remember," I said, "that I have absolutely no legal hold upon

her. If Delahaye is her guardian it will be quite easy for him to take

her away."

"He is not her legal guardian," Grooten said sharply. "He has no just

claim upon her at all."

"Neither have I," I reminded him.

"You have possession," Grooten exclaimed. "I tell you that neither

Delahaye, if he lives, nor any other person, will appeal to the law to

force you to give the child up. This is the truth. I see you still

hesitate. Listen! This also is truth. The child is in danger from

Delahaye--hideous, unmentionable danger."

I never thought of doubting his word. Truth blazed out from his keen

grey eyes; his words carried conviction with them.

"I will keep the child," I promised him. "But tell me who you are, and

what you have to do with her."

"No matter," he answered swiftly. "I lay this thing upon you, a charge

upon your honour. Guard the child. If Delahaye recovers there will be

trouble. You must brave it out. You are an Englishman; you are one of a

stubborn, honourable race. Do my bidding in this matter, and you shall

learn what gratitude can mean."

Once more he listened for a moment intently. Then he continued.

"I am followed by the police," he said. "They may be here at any moment.

You can tell them of my visit if it is necessary. My escape is provided

for."

"But surely you will tell me something else about the child," I

exclaimed. "Tell me at least----"

He held out his hand.

"You are safer to know nothing," he said quickly. "Be faithful to what

you have promised, and you will never regret it."

With almost incredible swiftness he disappeared. We all three looked at

one another, speechless. Then from outside came the sound of light

footsteps, and a laugh as from the throat of a singing bird. The door

was thrown open, and Isobel entered.

"Such a funny little man has just gone out!" she exclaimed. "He had a

handkerchief tied round his face as though he had been fighting. What

lazy people!" she added, looking around. "I expected to find tea ready.

Will you please tell me some more about motor-cars, Mr. Arthur?"

She sat on a stool in our midst, and chattered while we fed her with

cakes, and screamed with laughter at Mabane's toast. The tragedy of a

few hours ago seemed to have passed already from her mind. She was all

charm and irresponsibility. The gaunt, bare room, which for years had

mocked all our efforts at decoration, seemed suddenly a beautiful place.

Easily, and with the effortless grace of her fifteen years, she laughed

her way into our hearts.

CHAPTER VII

"Arnold!"

I waved my left hand.

"Don't disturb me for a few minutes, Allan, there's a good chap," I

begged. "I'm hard at it."

"Found your plot, then, eh?"

"I've got a start, anyhow! Give me half an hour. I only want to set the

thing going."

Mabane grunted, and took up his brush. For once I was thankful that we

were alone. At last I saw my way. After weeks of ineffective scribbling

a glimpse of the real thing had come to me.

The stiffness had gone from my brain and fingers. My pen flew over the

paper. The joy of creation sang once more in my heart, tingled in all my

pulses. We worked together and in silence for an hour or more. Then,

with a little sigh of satisfaction, I leaned back in my chair.

"The story goes, then?" Mabane remarked.

"Yes, it goes," I assented, my eyes fixed absently upon the loose sheets

of manuscript strewn all over my desk. Already I was finding it hard to

tear my thoughts away from it.

There was a short silence. Then Mabane, who had been filling his pipe,

came over to my side.

"You heard from the convent this morning, Arnold?"

"Yes! The letter is here. Read it!"

Mabane shook his head.

"I can't read French," he said.

"They want her back again," I told him, thoughtfully. "The woman appears

to be honest enough. She admits that they have no absolute claim--they

do not even know her parentage. They have been paid, she says, regularly

and well for the child's education, and if she is now without a home

they would like her to go back to them. She thinks it possible that

Major Delahaye's relatives, or the people for whom he acted, might

continue the payments, but they are willing to take their risk of that.

The long and short of it is, that they want her back again."

"As a pupil still?" Mabane asked.

"They would train her for a teacher. In that case she would have to

serve a sort of novitiate. She would practically become a nun."

Mabane withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and looked thoughtfully into

the bowl of it.

"I never had a sister," he said, "and I really know nothing whatever

about children. But does it occur to you, Arnold, that this--young lady

seems particularly adapted for a convent?"

"I believe," I said firmly, "that it would be misery for her."

Mabane walked over to his canvas and came back again.

"What about Delahaye?" he asked.

"He is still unconscious at the hospital," I answered.

Mabane hesitated.

"I do not wish to seem intrusive, Arnold," he said, "but I can't help

remembering that a certain lady with whom you were very friendly once

married a Delahaye!"

I nodded.

"I should have told you, in any case," I said. "This is the man--Major

Sir William Delahaye, whom Eileen Marigold married."

"Then surely you recognized him in the restaurant?"

"I never met him," I answered. "This marriage was arranged very quickly,

as you know, and I was abroad when it took place. I called on Lady

Delahaye twice, but I did not meet her husband on either occasion."

Mabane fingered the loose sheets of my manuscript idly.

"Your story, Arnold," he said, "is having a tragic birth. Will Delahaye

really die, do you think?"

"The doctors are not very hopeful," I told him. "The wound itself is not

mortal, but the shock seems to have affected him seriously. He is not a

young man, and he has lived hard all his days."

"If he dies," Mabane said thoughtfully, "your friend Grooten, I think

you said he called himself, will have to disappear altogether. In that

case I suppose we--shall be compelled to send the child back to the

convent?"

"Unless----"

"Unless what?"

"Unless we provide for her ourselves," I answered boldly.

Mabane smoked furiously for a few moments. His hands were thrust deep

down in his trousers pockets. He looked fixedly out of the window.

"Arnold," he said abruptly, "do you believe in presentiments?"

"It depends whether they affect me favourably or the reverse," I

answered carelessly. "You Scotchmen are all so superstitious."

"You may call it superstition," Mabane continued. "Everything of the

sort which an ignorant man cannot understand he calls superstition. But

if you like, I will tell you something which is surely going to happen.

I will tell you what I have seen."

I leaned forward in my chair, and looked curiously into Allan's face.

His hard, somewhat commonplace features seemed touched for the moment by

some transfiguring fire. His keen, blue-grey eyes were as soft and

luminous as a girl's. He had actually the appearance of a man who sees a

little way beyond the border. Even then I could not take him seriously.

"Speak, Sir Prophet!" I exclaimed, with a little laugh. "Let my eyes

also be touched with fire. Let me see what you see."

Mabane showed no sign of annoyance. He looked at me composedly.

"Do not be a fool, Arnold," he said. "You may believe or disbelieve, but

some day you will know that the things which I have in my mind are

true."

I think that I was a little bewildered. I realized now what at first I

had been inclined to doubt--that Mabane was wholly in earnest.

Unconsciously my attitude towards him changed. It is hard to mock a man

who believes in himself.

"Go ahead, then, Allan," I said quietly. "Remember that you have told me

nothing yet."

Mabane turned towards me. He spoke slowly. His face was serious--almost

solemn.

"The man Delahaye will never claim the child," he said. "I think that he

will die. The man who shot him has gone--we shall not hear of him again,

not for many years, if at all. He has gone like a stone dropped into a

bottomless tarn. We shall not send the child back to the convent. She

will remain here."

He paused, as though expecting me to speak. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Come," I said, "I shall not quarrel with your prophecy so far, Allan.

The introduction of a feminine element here seems a little incongruous,

but after all she is very young."

Mabane unclasped his arms, and looked thoughtfully around the room.

Already there was a change since a few days ago. The ornaments and

furniture were free from dust. There were two great bowls of flowers

upon the table, some studies which had hung upon the wall were replaced

with others of a more sedate character. The atmosphere of the place was

different. Wild untidiness had given place to some semblance of order.

There was an attempt everywhere at repression. Mabane knocked the ashes

from his pipe.

"For five years," he said abstractedly, "you and I and Arthur have lived

here together. Are you satisfied with those five years? Think!"

I looked from my desk out of the window, over the housetops up into the

sunshine, and I too was grave. Satisfied! Is anyone short of a fool ever

satisfied?

"No! I am not," I admitted, a little bitterly.

"Tell me what you think of these five years, Arnold. Tell me the truth,"

Mabane persisted. "Let me know if your thoughts are the same as mine."

"Drift," I answered. "We have worked a little, and thought a little--but

our feet have been on the earth a great deal oftener than our heads have

touched the clouds."

"Drift," Mabane repeated. "It is a true word. We have gained a little

experience of the wrong sort: we have learnt how to adapt our poor

little gifts to the whim of the moment. Such as our talent has been, we

have made a servant of it to minister to our physical necessities. We

have lived little lives, Arnold--very little lives."

"Go on," I murmured. "This at least is truth!"

Mabane paused. He looked at his pipe, but he did not relight it.

"There is a change coming," he said, slowly. "We are going to drift no

longer. We are going to be drawn into the maelstrom of life. What it may

mean for you and for me and for the boy, I do not know. It will change

us--it must change our work. I shall paint no more guesses at

realism--after someone else; and you will write no more of princesses,

or pull the strings of tinsel-decked puppets, so that they may dance

their way through the pages of your gaily-dressed novels. And an end has

come to these things, Arnold. No, I am not raving, nor is this a jest.

Wait!"

"You speak," I told him, "like a seer. Since when was it given to you to

read the future so glibly, my friend?"

Mabane looked at me with grave eyes. There was no shadow of levity in

his manner.

"I am not a superstitious man, Arnold," he said, "but I come, after all,

of hill-folk, and I believe that there are times when one can feel and

see the shadow of coming things. My grandfather knew the day of his

death, and spoke of it; my father made his will before he set foot on

the steamer which went to the bottom on a calm day between Dover and

Ostend. Nothing of this sort has ever come to me before. You yourself

have called me too hard-headed, too material for an artist. So I have

always thought myself--until to-day. To-day I feel differently."

"Is it this child, then, who is to open the gates of the world to us?" I

asked.

"Remember," Mabane answered, "that before many months have passed she

will be a woman."

I moved in my chair a little uneasily.

"I wonder," I said, half to myself, "whether I did well to bring her

here!"

Mabane laughed shortly.

"It was not you who brought her," he declared. "She was sent."

"Sent?"

"Aye, these things are not of our choosing, Arnold. There is something

behind which drives the great wheels. You can call it Fate or God,

according to your philosophy. It is there all the time, the one eternal

force."

I looked at Mabane steadfastly. He did not flinch.

"Psychologically, my dear Allan," I said, "you appear to be in a very

interesting state just now."

Mabane shrugged his shoulders. He crossed the room for some tobacco, and

began to refill his pipe.

"Well," he said, "I have finished. To-morrow, I suppose, I shall want to

kick myself for having said as much as I have. Listen! Here they come."

Isobel came into the room, followed by Arthur in a leather jacket and

breeches. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes danced with excitement. She

threw off her tam-o'-shanter, and stood deftly re-arranging for a moment

her wind-tossed hair.

"Glorious!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it has been glorious! Mr. Arthur, how

can I thank you? I have never enjoyed myself so much in my life. If the

Sister Superior could only have seen me--and the girls!"

"Motoring, I presume," Mabane remarked, "is amongst the pleasures denied

to the young ladies of the convent?"

She laughed gaily.

"Pleasures! Why, there are no pleasures for those poor girls. One may

not even smile, and as for games, even they are not permitted. I think

that it is shameful to make such a purgatory of a place. One may not,

one could not, be happy there. It is not allowed."

She caught the look which flashed from Mabane to me, and turned

instantly around.

"Oh, Monsieur Arnold," she cried breathlessly, "you do not think--I

shall not have to return there?"

"Not likely!" Arthur interposed with vigour. "By Jove! if anyone shut

you up there again I'd come and fetch you out."

She threw a quick glance of gratitude towards him, but her eyes returned

almost immediately to mine. She waited anxiously for me to speak.

"If we can possibly prevent it," I said slowly, "you shall never return

there. I do not think that it is at all the proper place for you. But

you must remember that we are, after all, people of no authority.

Someone might come forward to-morrow with a legal right to claim you,

and we should be helpless."

[Illustration: "If we can possibly prevent it," I said slowly, "you

shall never return there."]

Slowly the colour died away from her cheeks. Her eyes became

preternaturally bright and anxious.

"There is no one," she faltered, "except that man. He called himself my

guardian."

"Had you seen him before he came to the convent and fetched you away?" I

asked.

"Only once," she answered. "He came to St. Argueil about a year ago. I

hated him then. I have hated him ever since. I think that if all men

were like that I would be content to stay in the convent all my life."

"You don't remember the circumstances under which he took you there, I

suppose?" Mabane asked thoughtfully.

She shook her head.

"I do not remember being taken there at all," she answered. "I think

that I was not more than four or five years old."

"And all the time no one else has been to see you or written to you?" I

asked.

"No one!"

She smothered a little sob as she answered me. It was as though my

questions and Mabane's, although I had asked them gently enough, had

suddenly brought home to her a fuller sense of her complete loneliness.

Her eyes were full of tears. She held herself proudly, and she fought

hard for her self-control. Arthur glanced indignantly at both of us. He

had the wit, however, to remain silent.

"There are just one or two more questions, Isobel," I said, "which I

must ask you some time or other."

"Now, please, then," she begged.

"Did Major Delahaye ever mention his wife to you?"

"Never."

"You did not even know, then, when you arrived in London where he was

taking you?"

"I knew nothing," she admitted. "He behaved very strangely, and I was

miserable every moment of the time I was with him. I understood that I

was to have a companion and live in London."

I felt my blood run cold for a moment. I did not dare to look at Mabane.

"I do not think," I said, "that you need fear anything more from Major

Delahaye, even if he should recover."

"You mean--?" she cried breathlessly.

"We should never give you up to him," I declared firmly.

"Thank God!" she murmured. "Mr. Arnold," she added, looking at me

eagerly, "I can paint and sing and play the piano. Can't people earn

money sometimes by doing these things? I would work--oh, I am not afraid

to work. Couldn't I stay here for a little while?"

"Of course you can," I assured her. "And there is no need at all for you

to think about earning money yet. It is not that which troubles us at

all. It is the fact that we have no legal claim upon you, and people may

come forward at any moment who have."

Arthur glanced towards her triumphantly.

"What did I tell you?" he exclaimed.

She looked timidly across at Mabane.

"The other gentleman won't mind?" she asked timidly.

Mabane smiled at her, and his smile was a revelation even to us who knew

him so well.

"My dear young lady," he said, "you will be more than welcome. I have

just been telling Arnold that your coming will make the world a

different place for us."

The girl's smile was illumining. It seemed to include us all. She held

out both her hands. Mabane seized one and bent over it with the air of a

courtier. The other was offered to me. Arthur was content to beam upon

us all from the background. At that precise moment came a tap at the

door. Mrs. Burdett brought in a telegram.

I tore it open, and hastily reading it, passed it on to Mabane. He

hesitated for a moment, and then turned gravely to Isobel.

"Major Delahaye will not trouble you any more," he said. "He died in the

hospital an hour ago."

CHAPTER VIII

"A shade more to the right, please. There, just as you are now! Don't

move! In five minutes I shall have finished for the day."

Isobel smiled.

"I think that your five minutes," she said, "last sometimes for a very

long time. But I am not tired--no, not at all. I can stay like this if

you wish until the light goes."

"You are splendid," Mabane murmured. "The best sitter--oh, hang it,

who's that?"

"There is certainly some one at the door," Isobel remarked.

Mabane paused in his work to shout fiercely, "Come in!" I too looked up

from my writing. A woman was ushered into the room--a woman dressed in

fashionable mourning, of medium height, and with a wealth of fair,

fluffy hair, which seemed to mock the restraining black bands. Mrs.

Burdett, visibly impressed, lingered in the background.

The woman paused and looked around. She looked at me, and the pen

slipped from my nerveless fingers. I rose to my feet.

"Eil--Lady Delahaye!" I exclaimed.

She inclined her head. Her demeanour was cold, almost belligerent.

"I am glad to find you here, Arnold Greatson," she said. "You are a

friend, I believe, of the man who murdered my husband?"

"You have been misinformed, Lady Delahaye," I answered quietly. "I was

not even an acquaintance of his. We met that day for the first time."

By the faintest possible curl of the lips she expressed her contemptuous

disbelief.

"Ah!" she said. "I remember your story at the inquest. You will forgive

me if, in company, I believe, with the majority who heard it, I find it

a trifle improbable."

I looked at her gravely. This was the woman with whom I had once

believed myself in love, the woman who had jilted me to marry a man of

whom even his friends found it hard to speak well.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "my story may have sounded strangely, but it

was true. I presume that you did not come here solely with the purpose

of expressing your amiable opinion of my veracity?"

"You are quite right," she admitted drily. "I did not."

She was silent for a few moments. Her eyes were fixed upon Isobel, and I

did not like their expression.

"May I offer you a chair, Lady Delahaye?" I asked.

"Thank you, I prefer to stand--here," she answered. "This, I believe, is

the young person who was with my husband?"

She extended a sombrely gloved forefinger towards Isobel, who met her

gaze unflinchingly.

"That is the young lady," I answered. "Have you anything to say to her?"

"My errand here is with her," Lady Delahaye declared. "What is it that

you call yourself, girl?"

Isobel was a little bewildered. She seemed scarcely able to appreciate

Lady Delahaye's attitude.

"My name," she said, "is Isobel de Sorrens."

"You asserted at the inquest," Lady Delahaye continued, "that my husband

was your guardian. What did you mean by such an extraordinary

statement?"

Isobel seemed suddenly to grasp the situation. Her finely arched

eyebrows were raised, her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkling. She rose

slowly to her feet, and, child though she was, the dignity of her

demeanour was such that Lady Delahaye with her accusing forefinger

seemed to shrink into insignificance.

"I think," she said, "that you are a very rude person. Major Delahaye

took me to the convent of St. Argueil when I was four years old, and

left me there. He visited me twelve months ago, and brought me to

England you know when. I was with him for less than twenty-four hours,

and I was very unhappy indeed all the time. I did not understand the

things which he said to me, nor did I like him at all. I think that if

he had left me out of his sight for a moment I should have run away."

Lady Delahaye was very pale, and her eyes were full of unpleasant

things. I found myself looking at her, and marvelling at the folly which

I had long since forgotten.

"You perhaps complained of him--to his murderer! It is you, no doubt,

who are responsible for my husband's death!"

Isobel's lips curled contemptuously.

"Major Delahaye," she said, "did not permit me to speak to anyone. As

for the man whom you call his murderer, I never saw him before in my

life, nor should I recognize him again if I saw him now. I do not know

why you come here and say all these unkind things to me. I have done you

no harm. I am very sorry about Major Delahaye, but--but--"

Her lips quivered. I hastily interposed.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "I do not know what the immediate object of

your visit here may be, but----"

"The immediate object of my visit," she interrupted coldly, "is as

repugnant to me, Mr. Greatson, as it may possibly be disappointing to

you. I am here, however, to carry out my husband's last wish. This child

herself has asserted that he was her guardian. By his death that most

unwelcome post devolves upon me."

Isobel turned white, as though stung by a sudden apprehension. She

looked towards me, and I took her hand in mine. Lady Delahaye smiled

unpleasantly upon us both.

"You mean," I said, "that you wish to take her away from us?"

"Wish!" Lady Delahaye repeated coldly. "I can assure you that I am not

consulting my own wishes upon the subject at all. What I am doing is

simply my duty. The child had better get her hat on."

Isobel did not move, but she turned very pale. Her eyes seemed fastened

upon mine. She waited for me to speak. The situation was embarrassing

enough so far as I was concerned, for Lady Delahaye was obviously in

earnest. I tried to gain time.

"May I ask what your intentions are with regard to the child? You intend

to take her to your home--to adopt her, I suppose?"

Lady Delahaye regarded me with cold surprise.

"Certainly not," she answered. "I shall find a fitting position for her

in her own station of life."

"May I assume then," I continued, with some eagerness, "that you know

what that is? You are acquainted, perhaps, with her parentage?"

She returned my gaze steadily.

"I may be," she answered. "That, however, is beside the question. I

intend to do my duty by the child. If you have been put to any expense

with regard to her, you can mention the amount and I will defray it. I

have answered enough questions. What is your name, child--Isobel? Get

ready to come with me."

Isobel answered her steadily, but her eyes were filled with shrinking

fear.

"I do not wish to come with you," she said. "I do not like you at all."

Lady Delahaye raised her eyebrows. It seemed to me that in a quiet way

she was becoming angry.

"Unfortunately," she said, "your liking or disliking me makes very

little difference. I have no choice in the matter at all. The care of

you has devolved upon me, and I must undertake it. You had better come

at once."

Isobel trembled where she stood. I judged it time to intervene.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the duty of looking after this child is

evidently a distasteful one to you. We will relieve you of it. She can

remain with us."

Lady Delahaye looked at me in astonishment. Then she laughed, and it

seemed to all of us that we had never heard a more unpleasant travesty

of mirth.

"Indeed!" she exclaimed. "And may I ask of whom your household

consists?"

"Of myself and my two friends, Mabane and Fielding. We have a most

responsible housekeeper, however, who will be able to look after the

child."

"Until she herself can qualify for the position, I presume," Lady

Delahaye remarked drily. "What a delightful arrangement! A sort of

co-operative household. Quite Arcadian, I am sure, and so truly

philanthropic. You have changed a good deal during the last few years,

Mr. Arnold Greatson, to be able to stand there and make such an

extraordinary proposition to me."

I was determined not to lose my temper, though, as a matter of fact, I

was fiercely angry.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "we are not prepared to give this child up to

you. It will perhaps help to shorten a--a painful interview if you will

accept that from me as final."

The change in Isobel was marvellous. The brilliant colour streamed into

her cheeks. Her long-drawn, quivering sigh of relief seemed in the

momentary silence which followed my pronouncement a very audible thing.

Lady Delahaye looked at me as though she doubted the meaning of my

words.

"You are aware," she said, "that this will mean great unpleasantness for

you. You know the law?"

"I neither know it nor wish to know it," I answered. "We shall not give

up the child."

I glanced at Mabane. His confirmation was swift and decisive.

"I am entirely in accord with my friend, madam," he said, with grim

precision.

"The law will compel you," she declared.

"We will do our best, then," he answered, "to cheat the law."

"I should like to add, Lady Delahaye," I continued, "that our

housekeeper, who has been in the service of my family for over thirty

years, has willingly undertaken the care of the child, and I can assure

you, in case you should have any anxieties concerning her, that she will

be as safe under our charge as in your own."

Lady Delahaye moved towards the door. On the threshold she turned and

laid her hand upon my arm. I was preparing to show her out. There was

meaning in her eyes as she leaned towards me.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "we were once friends, or I should drive

straight from here to my solicitors. I presume you are aware that your

present attitude is capable of very serious misrepresentation?"

"I must take the risk of that, Lady Delahaye," I answered. "I ask you to

remember, however, that the law would also require you to prove your

guardianship. Do you yourself know anything of the child's parentage?"

She did not answer me directly.

"I shall give you," she said, "twenty-four hours for reflection. At the

end of that time, if I do not hear from you, I shall apply to the

courts."

I held the door open and bowed.

"You will doubtless act," I said, "according to your discretion."

The moment seemed propitious for her departure. All that had to be said

had surely passed between us. Yet she seemed for some reason unwilling

to go.

"I am not sure, Mr. Greatson," she said, "that I can find my way out.

Will you be so good as to see me to my carriage?"

I had no alternative but to obey. Our rooms were on the fifth floor of a

block of flats overlooking Chelsea Embankment, and we had no lift. We

descended two flights of the stone stairs in silence. Then she suddenly

laid her fingers upon my arm.

"Arnold," she said softly, "I never thought that we should meet again

like this."

"Nor I, Lady Delahaye," I answered, truthfully enough.

"You have changed."

I looked at her. She had the grace to blush.

"Oh, I know that I behaved badly," she murmured, "but think how poor we

were, and oh, how weary I was of poverty. If I had refused Major

Delahaye I think that my mother would have turned me out of doors. I

wrote and told you all about it."

"Yes," I admitted, "you wrote!"

"And you never answered my letter."

"It seemed to me," I remarked, "that it needed no answer."

"And afterwards," she said, "I wrote and asked you to come and see me."

"Lady Delahaye----" I began.

"Eileen!" she interrupted.

"Very well, then, if you will have it so, Eileen," I said. "You have

alluded to events which I have forgotten. Whether you or I behaved well

or ill does not matter in the least now. It is all over and done with."

"You mean, then, that I am unforgiven?"

"On the contrary," I assured her, "I have nothing to forgive."

She flashed a swift glance of reproach up on me. To my amazement there

were tears in her eyes.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "I can find my way to the street alone. I will

not trouble you further."

She swept away with a dignity which became her better than her previous

attitude. There was nothing left for me to do but to turn back.

CHAPTER IX

Isobel was standing quite still in the middle of the room, her hands

tightly clenched, a spot of colour aflame in her cheeks. Arthur, who had

passed Lady Delahaye and me upon the stairs, had apparently just been

told the object of her visit.

"Oh, I hate that woman!" Isobel exclaimed as I entered, "I hate her! I

would rather die than go to her. I would rather go back to the convent.

She looks at me as though I were something to be despised, something

which should not be allowed to go alive upon the earth!"

Arthur would have spoken, but Mabane interrupted him. He laid his hand

gently upon her shoulder.

"Isobel," he said gently, "you need have no fear. I know how Arnold

feels about it, and I can speak for myself also. You shall not go to

her. We will not give you up. I do not believe that she will go to the

courts at all. I doubt if she has any claim."

"Why, we'd hide you, run away with you, anything," Arthur declared

impetuously. "Don't you be scared, Isobel, I don't believe she can do a

thing. The law's like a great fat animal. It takes a plaguey lot to move

it, and then it moves as slowly as a steam-roller. We'll dodge it

somehow."

She gave them a hand each. Her action was almost regal. It some way, it

seemed that in according her our protection we were receiving rather

than conferring a favour.

"My friends," she said, "you are so kind that I have no words with which

to thank you. But you will believe that I am grateful."

It was then for the first time that they saw me upon the threshold.

Isobel looked at me anxiously.

"She has gone?"

I nodded.

"I do not think that she will trouble us again just yet," I said. "At

the same time, we must be prepared. Tell me, whereabouts is this school

from which you came, Isobel?"

"St. Argueil? It is about three hours' journey from Paris. Why do you

ask?"

"Because I think that I must go there," I answered. "We must try and

find out what legal claims Major Delahaye had upon you. What is the name

of the Principal?"

"Madame Richard is the lay principal," Isobel answered, "but Sister

Ursula is really the head of the place. We girls saw her, though, very

seldom--only those who were going to remain," she added, with a little

shudder.

"And this Madame Richard," I asked, "is she a kindly sort of a person?"

Isobel shook her head doubtfully.

"I did not like her," she said. "She is very stern. She is not kind to

anyone."

"Nevertheless, I suppose she will tell me what she knows," I said. "Give

me the Bradshaw, Allan, and that old Continental guide."

I presently became immersed in planning out my route. When at last I

looked up, Mabane was working steadily. The others had gone. I looked

round the room.

"Where are Arthur and Isobel?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Like calling to like," he remarked tersely. "They have gone trailing."

I put the Bradshaw down.

"I shall leave for Paris at midnight, Mabane," I said.

He nodded.

"It seems to be the most sensible thing to do," he remarked. "There is

no other way of getting to the bottom of the affair."

So I went to pack my bag. And within an hour I was on my way to France.

* * * * *

I rose to my feet, after a somewhat lengthy wait, and bowed. Between

this newcomer and myself, across the stone floor, lay the sunlight, a

long, yellow stream which seemed to me the only living thing which I had

as yet seen in this strange, grim-looking building. I spoke in

indifferent French. She answered me in perfect English.

"I have the honour to address----"

"Madame Richard. I am the lay principal of the convent. Will you permit

me?"

The blind fell, and there was no more sunlight. I was conscious of a

sudden chill. The bare room, with its stone-flagged floor, its plain

deal furniture, depressed me no less than the cold, forbidding

appearance of the woman who stood now motionless before me. She was

paler than any woman whom I had ever seen in my life. A living person,

she seemed the personification of lifelessness. Her black hair was

streaked with grey; her dress, which suggested a uniform in its

severity, knew no adornment save the plain ivory cross which hung from

an almost invisible chain about her neck. Her expression indicated

neither curiosity nor courtesy. She simply waited. I, although as a rule

I had no great difficulty in finding words, felt myself almost

embarrassed.

"I have come from London to see you," I said. "My name is

Greatson--Arnold Greatson."

There was not a quiver of expression in her cold acknowledgment of my

declaration. Nevertheless, at that moment I received an inspiration. I

was perfectly sure that she knew who I was and what I had come for.

"I have come to know," I continued, "if you can give me any information

as to the friends or parentage of a young lady who was recently, I

believe, a pupil of yours--a Miss Isobel de Sorrens?"

"The young lady is still in your charge, I hear," Madame Richard

remarked quietly.

Notwithstanding my inspiration I was startled.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"We despatched a messenger only yesterday to escort Isobel back here,"

Madame Richard answered. "Your address was the destination given us."

"May I ask who gave it you? At whose instigation you sent?"

"At the instigation of those who have the right to consider themselves

Isobel's guardians," Madame Richard said quietly.

"Isobel's guardians!" I repeated softly. "But surely you know, Madame

Richard--you have heard of the tragedy which happened in London? Major

Delahaye died last week."

"We have been informed of the occurrence," she answered, her tone as

perfectly emotionless as though she had been discussing the veriest

trifle. "We were content to recognize Major Delahaye as representing

those who have the right to dispose of Isobel's future. His death,

however, alters many things. Isobel will be placed in even surer hands."

"Isobel has, I presume, then, relatives living?" I remarked. "May I know

their names?"

Madame Richard was silent for a moment. She was regarding me steadily. I

even fancied that the ghost of a hard smile trembled upon her lips.

"I have no authority to disclose any information whatever," she said.

I bowed.

"I have no desire to seem inquisitive," I said. "On the other hand, I

and my friends are greatly interested in the child. I will be frank with

you, Madame Richard. We have no claim upon her, I know, but we should

certainly require to know something about the people into whose charge

she was to pass before we gave her up."

"She is to come back here," Madame Richard answered calmly. "We are

ready to receive her. She has lived with us for ten years. I presume

under the circumstances, and when I add that it is the desire of those

who are responsible for her that she should immediately return to us,

that you will not hesitate to send her?"

"Madame Richard," I answered gravely, "you who live so far from the

world lose touch sometimes with its worst side. We others, to our

sorrow, know more, though our experience is dearly enough bought. Let me

tell you that I should hesitate at any time to give back the child into

the care of those who sent her out into the world alone with such a man

as Major Delahaye."

Madame Richard touched the cross which hung upon her bosom. Her eyes, it

seemed to me, narrowed a little.

"Major Delahaye," she said, "was the nominee of those who have the right

to dispose of the child."

"Then," I answered, "I shall require their right proven before Isobel

leaves us. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I was present

when Major Delahaye was shot, and I am not sure that the bullet of his

assassin did not prevent a worse crime. The child was terrified to

death. It is my honest conviction that her fear was not uncalled for."

Madame Richard raised her hand slightly.

"Monsieur," she said, "such matters are not our concern. It is because

of the passions and evil doing of the world outside that we cling so

closely here to our own doctrine of isolation. Whatever she may have

suffered, Isobel will learn to forget here. In the blessed years which

lie before her, the memory of her unhappy pilgrimage will grow dim and

faint. It may even be for the best that she has realized for a moment

the shadow of evil things."

"Isobel is intended, then?" I asked.

"For the Church," Madame Richard answered. "That is the present decision

of those who have the right to decide for her. We ourselves do not care

to take pupils who have no idea at all of the novitiate. Occasionally we

are disappointed, and those in whom we have placed faith are tempted

back into the world. But we do our best while they are here to show them

the better way. We feared that we had lost Isobel. We shall be all the

more happy to welcome her back."

I shivered a little. I could not help feeling the cold repression of the

place. A vision of thin, grey-gowned figures, with pallid faces and

weary, discontented eyes, haunted me. I tried to fancy Isobel amongst

them. It was preposterous.

"Madame," I said, "I do not believe that Isobel is adapted by nature or

disposition for such a life."

"The desire for holiness," Madame Richard answered, "is never very

apparent in the young. It is the child's great good fortune that she

will grow into it."

"I am afraid," I answered, "that our views upon this matter are too far

apart to render discussion profitable. You have spoken of those who have

the right to dispose of the child's future. I will go and see them."

"It is not necessary," Madame Richard answered. "We will send to England

for the child."

"Do I understand, Madame Richard," I said, "that you decline to give me

the address of those who stand behind you in the disposal of Isobel?"

"They would not discuss the matter with you," she answered calmly.

"Their decision is already made. Isobel is for the Church."

I took up my hat.

"I will not detain you any further, Madame," I said.

"A messenger is already in London to bring back the child," she

remarked.

"As to that," I answered, "it is perhaps better to be frank with you,

Madame Richard. Your messenger will return alone."

For the first time the woman's face showed some signs of feeling. Her

dark eyebrows contracted a little. Her expression was coldly repellent.

"You have no claim upon the child," she said.

"Neither do I know of any other person who has," I answered.

"We have had the charge of her for ten years. That itself is a claim. It

is unseemly that she should remain with you."

"Madame," I answered, "Isobel is meant for life--not a living death."

The woman crossed herself.

"There is but one life," she said. "We wish to prepare Isobel for it."

"Madame," I said, "as to that, argument between us is impossible. I

shall consult with my friends. Your messenger shall bring back word as

to our decision."

The face of the woman grew darker.

"But surely," she protested, "you will not dare to keep the child?"

"Madame," I answered, "humanity makes sometimes strange claims upon us.

Isobel is as yet a child. She came into my keeping by the strangest of

chances. I did not seek the charge of her. It was, to tell the truth, an

embarrassment to me. Yet she is under my care to-day, and I shall do

what I believe to be the right thing."

"Monsieur," she said, "you are interfering in matters greater than you

have any knowledge of."

"It is in your power," I reminded her, "to enlighten me."

"It is not a power which I am able to use," she answered.

"Then I will not detain you further, Madame," I said.

As I passed out she leaned over towards me. She had already rung a bell,

and outside I could hear the shuffling footsteps of the old servant who

had admitted me.

"Monsieur," she said, "if you keep the child you make enemies--very

powerful enemies. It is long since I lived in the world, but I think

that the times have not changed very much. Of the child's parentage I

may not tell you, but as I hope for salvation I will tell you this. It

will be better for you, and better for the child, that she comes back

here, even to embrace what you have called the living death."

"Madame," I said, "I will consider all these things."

"It will be well for you to do so, Monsieur," she said with meaning. "An

enemy of those in whose name I have spoken must needs be a holy man, for

he lives hand in hand with death."

CHAPTER X

So I was driven back to Argueil, the red-tiled, sleepy old town, with

its great gaunt church, whose windows, as the lumbering cart descended

the hill, were stained blood-red by the dying sunset. Behind, on the

hillside, was the convent, with its avenue of stunted elms, its

close-barred windows, its terrible prison-like silence. As I looked

behind, holding on to the sides of the springless cart to avoid being

jostled into the road, I found myself shivering. The convent

boarding-schools which I had heard of had been very different sort of

places. Even after my brief visit there this return into the fresh

country air, the smell of the fields, the colour and life of the rolling

landscape, were blessed things. I was more than ever satisfied with my

decision. It was not possible to send the child back to such a place.

Across a great vineyard plain, through which the narrow white road ran

like a tightly drawn band of ribbon, I came presently to the village of

Argueil. The street which led to the inn was paved with the most

abominable cobbles, and I was forced to hold my hat with one hand and

the side of the cart with the other. My blue-smocked driver pulled up

with a flourish in front of the ancient gateway of the _Leon d'Or_, and

I was very nearly precipitated on to the top of the broad-backed horse.

As I gathered myself together I was conscious of a soft peal of

laughter--a woman's laughter, which came from the arched entrance to the

inn. I looked up quickly. A too familiar figure was standing there

watching me,--Lady Delahaye, trim, elegant, a trifle supercilious. By

her side stood the innkeeper, white-aproned and obsequious.

I clambered down on to the pavement, and Lady Delahaye advanced a little

way to meet me. She held out a delicately gloved hand, and smiled.

"You must forgive my laughing, Arnold," she said. "Really, you looked

too funny in that terrible cart. What an odd meeting, isn't it? Have you

a few minutes to spare?"

"I believe," I answered, "that I cannot get away from this place till

the evening. Shall we go in and sit down?"

She shook her head.

"The inn-parlour is too stuffy," she answered. "I was obliged to come

out myself for some fresh air. Let us walk up the street."

I paid for my conveyance, and we strolled along the broad sidewalk. Lady

Delahaye seemed inclined to thrust the onus of commencing our

conversation upon me.

"I presume," I said, "that we are here with the same object?"

She glanced at me curiously.

"Indeed!" she remarked. "Then tell me why you came."

"To discover that child's parentage, if possible," I answered promptly.

"I want to discover who her friends are, who really has the right to

take charge of her."

"You perplex me, Arnold," she said thoughtfully. "I do not understand

your position in the matter. I always looked upon you as a somewhat

indolent person. Yet I find you now taking any amount of trouble in a

matter which really does not concern you at all. Whence all this

good-nature?"

"Lady Delahaye----"

"Eileen," she interrupted softly.

"Lady Delahaye," I answered firmly. "You must forgive me if I remind you

that I have no longer the right to call you by any other name. I am not

good-natured, and I am afraid that I am still indolent. Nevertheless, I

am interested in this child, and I intend to do my utmost to prevent her

returning to this place."

"I am still in the dark," she said, looking at me curiously. "She is

nothing to you. A more unsuitable home for her than with three young men

I cannot imagine. You seem to want to keep her there. Why? She is a

child to-day, it is true--but in little more than a year's time she will

be a woman. The position then for you will be full of embarrassments."

"I find the position now," I answered, "equally embarrassing. We can

only give the child up to you, send her back to the convent, or keep her

ourselves. Of the three we prefer to keep her."

"You seem to have a great distaste for the convent," she remarked, "but

that is because you are not a Catholic, and you do not understand these

things. She would at least be safe there, and in time, I think, happy."

We were at the head of the village street now, upon a slight eminence. I

pointed backwards to the prison-like building, standing grim and

desolate on the bare hillside.

"I should consider myself no less a murderer than the man who shot your

husband," I answered, "if I sent her there. I have made all the

enquiries I could in the neighbourhood, and I have added to them my own

impressions. The secular part of the place may be conducted as other

places of its sort, but the great object of Madame Richard's sister is

to pass her pupils from that into the religious portion. Isobel is not

adapted for such a life."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders.

"Well," she said, "I am a Catholic, so of course I don't agree with you.

But why do you hesitate to give the child up to me?"

I was silent for a moment. It was not easy to put my feeling into words.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you must forgive my reminding you that on the

occasion of your visit to us you did not attempt to conceal the fact

that your feelings towards her were inimical. Beyond that, I was pledged

not to hand her back into your husband's care, and----"

"Pledged by whom?" she asked quickly.

"I am afraid," I said, "that I cannot answer you that question."

She flashed an angry glance upon me.

"You pretend that the man who called himself Grooten was not your

friend. Yet you have been in communication with him since!"

"I saw Mr. Grooten for the first time in my life on the morning of that

day," I answered.

"You know where he is now?" she asked, watching me keenly.

"I have not the slightest idea. I wish that I did know," I declared

truthfully. "There is no man whom I am more anxious to see."

"You would, of course, inform the police?" she asked.

"I am afraid not," I answered.

Again she was angry. This time scarcely without reason.

"Your sympathies, in short, are with the murderer rather than with his

victim--the man who was shot without warning in the back? It accords, I

presume, with your idea of fair play?"

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the subject is unpleasant and futile. Let us

return to the inn."

She turned abruptly around. She made a little motion as of dismissal,

but I remained by her side.

"By-the-bye," I said, "we were to exchange confidences. You are here, of

course, to visit the convent? Why?"

She smiled enigmatically.

"I am not sure, my very simple conspirator," she said, "whether I will

imitate your frankness. You see, you have blundered into a somewhat more

important matter than you have any idea of. But I will tell you this, if

you like. You may call that place a prison, or any hard names you

please--yet it is destined to be Isobel's home. Not only that, but it is

her only chance. I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not

think that it matters. You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by

any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible

thing which could happen to Isobel."

I walked by her side for a moment in silence. There was in her words and

tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger,

which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame

Richard. There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, as lightly as possible, "you have told me a

great deal, and less than nothing at all. Yet I gather that you know

more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose."

"Yes," she admitted, "that is perhaps true."

"Why not let me share your knowledge?" I suggested boldly.

"You carry candour," she remarked, smiling, "to absurdity. We are on

opposite sides. Ah, how delicious this is!"

We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for

some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right

angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom. The perfume of the

pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both--a

waft of delicate and poignant freshness. Lady Delahaye stood still, and

half closed her eyes.

"How perfectly delicious," she murmured. "Arn--Mr. Greatson, do get me

just the tiniest piece. I can't quite reach."

I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her

dress. The orchard was gay with bees and a few early butterflies, blue

and white and orange coloured. In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few

yards away a girl was singing. Suddenly I stopped and pointed.

"Look!"

An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the

drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside.

Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework

of soft green foliage and blossoms.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you are yourself a young woman. Could you bear

to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the

sweet places, all the joy of living? Would you be content to build for

yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?"

She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.

"There is all the difference in the world," she declared. "I am a woman;

although I am not old, I know what life is. I know what it would be to

give it up. But the child--she knows nothing. She is too young to know

what lies before her. As yet her eyes are not opened. Very soon she

would be content there."

I shook my head. I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.

"Indeed no!" I protested. "You reckon nothing for disposition. In her

heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already

stirring in her blood. The convent would be slow torture to her. She

shall not go there!"

Lady Delahaye smiled--mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden

knowledge which she may not share.

"You think yourself her friend," she said. "In reality you are her

enemy. If not the convent, then worse may befall her."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"As to that," I said, "we shall see!"

We resumed our walk. Again we were nearing the inn. Lady Delahaye looked

at me every now and then curiously. My feeling towards her had grown

more and more belligerent.

"You puzzle me, Arnold," she said softly. "After all, Isobel is but a

child. What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that

you should espouse her cause with so much fervour? If she were a few

years older one could perhaps understand."

I disregarded her innuendo.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "if you were as much her friend as I believe

that I am, you would not hesitate to tell me all that you know. I have

no other wish than to see her safe, and amongst her friends, but I will

give her up to no one whom I believe to be her enemy."

"Arnold," she answered gravely, "I can only repeat what I have told you

before. You are interfering in greater concerns than you know of. Even

if I would, I dare not give you any information. The fate of this child,

insignificant in herself though she is, is bound up with very important

issues."

Our eyes met for a moment. The expression in hers puzzled me--puzzled me

to such an extent that I made her no answer. Slowly she extended her

hand.

"At least," she said, "let us part friends--unless you choose to be

gallant and wait here for me until to-morrow. It is a dreary journey

home alone."

I took her hand readily enough.

"Friends, by all means," I answered, "but I must get back to Paris

to-night. A messenger from Madame Richard is already waiting for me in

London."

She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned away.

"It must be as you will, of course," she said coldly. "I do not wish to

detain you."

Nevertheless, her farewell look haunted me as I sped across the great

fertile plain on my way to Paris.

CHAPTER XI

Mabane laid down his brush, Arthur sprang from his seat upon the table

and greeted me with a shout. Isobel said nothing, but her dark blue eyes

were fastened upon my face as though seeking to read her fate there.

They had evidently been waiting for my coming. I remember thinking it

strange, even then, that these other two men should apparently share to

the fullest degree my own interest in the child's fate.

"I have failed," I announced shortly.

I took Isobel's hand. It was cold as ice, and I could feel that she was

trembling violently.

"Madame Richard would tell me nothing, Isobel," I said. "I believe that

she knows all about you, and I believe that Lady Delahaye does too. But

they will tell me nothing."

"And?" she demanded, with quivering lips. "And?"

"It is for you to decide," I said gravely. "Lady Delahaye wants you, so

does Madame Richard. On the other hand, if you like to stay with us

until someone proves their right to take you away, you will be very

welcome, Isobel! Stop one moment," I added hastily, for I saw the quick

colour stream into her cheeks, and the impetuous words already trembling

upon her lips, "I want you to remember this: Madame Richard makes no

secret of her own wishes as regards your future. She desires you to take

the veil. You have lived at the convent, so I presume you are able to

judge for yourself as regards that. Lady Delahaye, on the other hand, is

a rich woman, and she professes to be your friend. Your life with her,

if she chose to make it so, would be an easy and a pleasant one. We, as

you know, are poor. We have very little indeed to offer you. We live

what most people call a shiftless life. We have money one day, and none

the next. Our surroundings and our associations are not in the least

like what a child of your age should become accustomed to. Nine people

out of ten would probably pronounce us utterly unsuitable guardians for

you. It is only right that you should understand these things."

She looked at me with tear-bedimmed eyes.

"I want to stay with you," she pleaded. "Don't send me away--oh, don't!

I hate the convent, and I am afraid of Lady Delahaye. I will do

everything I can not to be a nuisance to you. I am not afraid to work,

or to help Mrs. Burdett. Only let me stay."

I smiled, and looked around at the others.

"It is settled," I declared. "We appoint ourselves your guardians. You

agree, Mabane?"

"Most heartily," he answered.

"And you, Arthur?"

"Great heavens, yes!" he answered vehemently.

"You are very good," she murmured, "very good to me. All my life I shall

remember this."

She held out both her hands. Her eyes were fixed still upon mine. Mabane

laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Dear child," he said, "do not forget that there are three of us. I too

am very happy to be one of your guardians."

She gave him the hand which Arthur had seized upon. I think that we had

none of us before seen a smile so dazzling as hers.

"Dear friends," she murmured, "I only hope that you will never regret

this great, great kindness."

Then suddenly she flitted away and went to her room. We three men were

left alone.

I think that for the first few moments there was some slight

awkwardness, for we were men, and we spoke seldom of the things which

touched us most. Arthur, however, broke almost immediately into speech,

and relieved the tension.

"And to think that it was I," he exclaimed, "who sent you out plot

hunting to the station! Arnold, what a sensible chap you are!"

We all laughed.

"A good many people," Mabane remarked quietly, "would call us three

fools. Tell us, Arnold, did you really discover nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing," I declared. "Stop, though. I did find out this.

There is some secret about the child's parentage. I have spoken with two

people who know it, and one of them warned me that in keeping the child

we were interfering in a greater matter than we had any idea of. Of

course it might have been a bluff, but I fancy that Lady Delahaye was in

earnest."

"You do not think," Mabane asked, "that she was Major Delahaye's

daughter?"

"I do not," I answered, with a little shudder. "I am sure that she was

not."

"Whoever she is," Arthur declared, "there's one thing jolly certain, and

that is she's thoroughbred. She has the most marvellous nerve I ever

knew. We got in a tight corner this morning. I took her down to

Guildford in a trailer, and I had to jump the pavement to avoid a

runaway. She never flinched for a moment. Half the girls I know would

have squealed like mad. She only laughed, and asked whether she should

get out. She's as thoroughbred as they make them."

"Perhaps," I answered, "but I'm not going to have you risk her life with

your beastly motoring, Arthur. Take her out in a car, if you want to.

Who's this?"

We turned towards the door. Was it the ghost of Madame Richard who stood

there pale, cold, and in the sombre garb of her sisterhood?

"This lady has been before," Mabane said, placing a chair for her. "She

has come from the convent, and she brought a letter from Madame

Richard."

"You are Mr. Greatson?" she asked.

I bowed, and took the letter which she handed to me. I tore it open. It

contained a few lines only.

"SIR,--

"I have been informed of the unfortunate event which has placed

under your protection one of my late pupils, Isobel de Sorrens. We

are willing and anxious to receive her back here, and I have sent

the bearer to accompany her upon the journey. She will also defray

what expenses her sojourn with you may have occasioned.

"I am, sir, yours respectfully,

"EMILY RICHARD."

I put the letter back in the envelope and laid it upon the table.

"I have seen Madame Richard," I said. "The child will remain with us for

the present."

The cold, dark eyes met mine searchingly.

"But, monsieur," the woman said, "how can that be? You are not a

relative, you surely have no claim----"

"It will save time, perhaps," I interrupted, "if I explain that I have

discussed all these matters with Madame Richard, and the decision which

I have come to is final. The child remains here."

The woman looked at me steadfastly.

"Madame Richard will not be satisfied with that decision," she said.

"You will be forced to give her up."

"And why," I asked, "should a penniless orphan, as I understand Isobel

is, be of so much interest to Madame Richard?"

The woman watched me still, and listened to my words as though seeking

to discover in them some hidden meaning. Then she leaned a little

towards me.

"Can I speak with you alone, monsieur?" she said.

"These are my friends," I answered, "from whom I have no secrets."

"None?"

"None," I repeated.

She hesitated. Then, although the door was fast closed, she dropped her

voice.

"You know--who the child is," she said softly.

"Upon my word, I do not," I answered. "I saw the man, under whose care

she was, shot, and I brought her here because she was friendless. I know

no more about her."

"That," she said quietly, "is hard to believe."

"I have no interest in your belief or disbelief," I answered. "Pardon me

if I add, madame, that I have no interest in the continuation of this

conversation."

She rose at once.

"You are either a very brave man," she said, "or a very simple one. I

shall await further instructions from Madame Richard."

She departed silently and without any leave-taking. We all three looked

at one another.

"Now what in thunder did she mean by that!" Arthur exclaimed blankly.

"It appears to me," Mabane said, "that you went plot hunting with a

vengeance, Arnold."

Arthur was walking restlessly up and down the room, his hands in his

pockets, a discontented frown upon his smooth young face. He stopped

suddenly in front of us.

"I don't know much about the law, you fellows," he said, "but it seems

to me that any of these people who seem to want to take Isobel away from

us have only to go before the court and establish some sort of a legal

claim, and we should have to give her up."

"That is true enough," I admitted. "The strange part of it is, though,

that no one seems inclined to take this course."

Arthur threw down a letter upon the table.

"This came for you yesterday, Arnold," he said. "I haven't opened it, of

course, but you can see from the name at the back of the envelope that

it is from a firm of solicitors."

I took it up and opened it at once. I knew quite well what Arthur

feared. This is what I read--

"17, LINCOLN'S INN, LONDON.

"DEAR SIR,--

"We beg to inform you that we have been instructed by a client, who

desires to remain anonymous, to open for you at the London and

Westminster Bank an account on your behalf as guardian of Miss

Isobel de Sorrens, a young lady who, we understand, is at present

in your care.

"The amount placed at our disposal is three hundred a year. We

shall be happy to furnish you with cheque book and full authority

to make use of this sum if you will favour us with a call,

accompanied by the young lady, but we are not in a position to

afford you any information whatever as to our client's identity.

"Trusting to have the pleasure of seeing you shortly,

"We are, yours truly,

"HAMILTON & PLACE."

I laid the letter on the table without a word. Mabane and Arthur in turn

read it. Then there was an ominous silence. I think that we all had the

same thought. It was Arthur, however, who expressed it.

"What beastly rot!" he exclaimed.

I turned to Mabane.

"I imagine," he said, "that we should not be justified in refusing this

offer. At the same time, if anyone has the right to provide for the

child, why do they not come forward and claim her?"

At that moment Isobel came in. I took up the letter and placed it in her

hand.

"Isobel," I said, "we want you to read this."

She read it, and handed it back to me without a word. We were all

watching her eagerly. She looked at me appealingly.

"Is it necessary," she asked, "for me to accept this money?"

"Tell us," I said, "exactly how you feel."

"I think," she said, "that if there is anyone from whom I have the right

to accept all this money, I ought to know who they are. I do not want to

be a burden upon anyone," she added hesitatingly, "but I would rather

work every moment of the day--oh, I think that I would rather starve

than touch this money, unless I know who it is that offers it."

I laughed as I tore the letter in half.

"Dear child," I said, resting my hand upon her shoulder, "that is what

we all hoped that you would say!"

CHAPTER XII

Lady Delahaye sank down upon the couch against which I had been

standing.

"Poor, bored man!" she exclaimed, with mock sympathy. "I ought to have

asked some entertaining people, oughtn't I? There isn't a soul here for

you to talk to!"

"On the contrary," I answered, "there are a good many more people here

than I expected to see. I understood that you were to be alone."

"And you probably think that I ought to be," she remarked. "Well, I

never was conventional. You know that. I shut myself up for a month. Now

I expect my friends to come and console me."

"It is not likely," I said, "that you will be disappointed."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Perhaps not. Those whom I do not want will come, of course. As for the

others--well!"

She looked up at me. I sat down by her side.

"Ah! That is nice of you," she said softly. "I wanted to have a quiet

talk. Tell me why you are looking so glum."

"I was not conscious of it," I answered. "To tell you the truth, I was

wondering whether Isobel were not a little young to bring to a gathering

of this description."

"My dear Arnold," she murmured, "there are only one or two of my

particular friends here. The rest dropped in by accident. Isobel does

not seem to me to be particularly out of place, and she is certainly

enjoying herself."

The echoes of her light laugh reached us just then. Several men were

standing over her chair. She was the centre of what seemed to be a very

amusing conversation. Arthur was standing on the outskirts of the group,

apparently a little dull.

"She enjoys herself always," I answered. "She is of that disposition.

Still----"

She put her hands up to her ears.

"Come, I won't be lectured," she exclaimed. "Seriously, I wanted you

here. I had something to say to you--something particular."

"Waiving the other matter, then," I said, "I am wholly at your service."

"I may be prolix," she said quietly. "Forgive me if I am, but I want you

to understand me. I am beginning to see that I have adopted a wrong

position with regard to a certain matter which we have discussed at your

rooms and at Argueil. I want to reopen the subject from an entirely

different point of view."

"You mean," I said, "the subject of Isobel?"

"Of course! The first time I came to see you," Lady Delahaye said,

looking up at me with penitence in her blue eyes, "I was horrid. I am

very, very sorry. I did not know then who Isobel was, and I was angry

with everyone--with poor Will, with the child herself, and with you. You

must forgive me! I was very much upset."

"I will never think of it again," I promised her.

"Then, again, at Argueil," she continued, "I adopted a wrong tone

altogether. Yours was the more natural, the more human point of view.

There are certain very grave reasons why the child would be very much

better out of the world. A life of seclusion would, I believe, in the

end, when she is able to understand, be the happiest for her. And

yet--she ought to have her chance!"

"I am glad that you admit that," I murmured.

"Now I am going to ask you something," she went on. "You will not be

angry with me, I am sure. Do you think that a girl of Isobel's age and

appearance is in her proper place in bachelor quarters, living with

three young men?"

"I do not," I admitted. "I look upon it as a most regrettable necessity.

Still, you must not make it sound worse than it is. We have a

housekeeper who is the very essence of respectability, and Isobel is

under her care."

"I want to make it no longer a necessity," Lady Delahaye said, smiling.

"I want to relieve you and your conscience at the same time of a very

awkward incubus. Listen! This is what I propose. Let Isobel come to me

for a year! I shall treat her as my own daughter. She will have plenty

of amusement. There are the theatres, and no end of scratch

entertainments where one can take a girl of her age who is too young for

society. She will mix with young people of her own age, she will have

every advantage which, to speak frankly, must be denied to her in her

present position. At the end of that year I shall tell her her history.

It is a sad and a miserable one. You may as well know that now. She can

then take her choice of the convent, or any other mode of life which

between us we can make possible for her. And I am very much inclined to

believe, Arnold, that she will choose the convent."

"Is there any real reason, Lady Delahaye?" I asked, "why you should not

tell me now what you propose to tell Isobel in a year's time? There have

been so many mysterious circumstances in connection with this affair

that it is hard to come to any decision when one is ignorant of so

much."

"There are reasons--grave reasons--why I can tell you nothing," she

answered. "Indeed, I would like to, Arnold," she continued earnestly,

"but my position is a very difficult one. I think that you might trust

me a little."

"I am sure that you wish to do what is best," I said, a little

awkwardly, "but you must see that my position also is a little

difficult. I, too, am under a promise!"

Her eyes flashed indignantly.

"To the man who killed my husband! The man whom you are shielding!" she

exclaimed indignantly. "I think that you might at least have the grace

to leave him out of the conversation."

"I have never introduced him," I answered. "I do not wish to do so. As

to shielding him, I have not the slightest idea as to his whereabouts.

Be reasonable, Lady Delahaye. I----"

"Reasonable," she interrupted. "That is what I want you to be! Ask

yourself a plain question. Which is the more fitting place for her--my

house, or your chambers?"

She pointed to Isobel, who was leaning back in her chair laughing

heartily into the face of a young man who was bending over her. By

chance she looked just then older even than her years, and Arthur's glum

figure, too, in the background was suggestive.

"Your house, without a doubt," I answered gravely, "if it is the house

of a friend."

Her satin slipper beat the ground impatiently. She looked at me with a

frown upon her face.

"Do you believe, then," she asked, "that I am her enemy? Does my offer

sound like it?"

"Indeed, no," I answered, rising. "I am going to give Isobel herself a

chance of accepting or declining it."

I crossed the room. Isobel, seeing me come, rose at once.

"Is it time for us to go?" she asked.

"Not quite!" I answered. "Go and talk to Lady Delahaye for a few

minutes. She has something to say to you."

Isobel made a little grimace, so slight that only I could notice it, and

took my place upon the sofa. I talked for a few minutes with some of the

men whom I knew, and then Arthur touched me on the arm.

"Can't we go, Arnold?" he exclaimed, a little peevishly. "I've never

been so bored in all my life."

"We must wait for a few minutes," I answered. "Isobel is talking to Lady

Delahaye."

"I don't know a soul here, and I'm dying for a cigarette."

I pointed through the curtain to the anteroom adjoining.

"You can smoke in there," I remarked. "I'll introduce you to Miss

Ernston if you like, the girl who drives the big Panhard in the park. I

heard her say that she was going in there to get one of Lady Delahaye's

Russian cigarettes!"

Arthur shook his head. He was covertly watching Isobel, sitting on the

sofa.

"I'll go in and have the cigarette," he said, "but, Arnold, there's no

fresh move on, is there? You're looking pretty glum!"

I shook my head.

"No, there is nothing exactly fresh," I answered. "Come along and smoke,

will you! I want Lady Delahaye and Isobel to have their talk out."

He followed me reluctantly into the smaller of Lady Delahaye's

reception-rooms, where we smoked for a few minutes in silence. Then

Mabel Ernston stopped to speak to me for a moment, and I introduced

Arthur. I left them talking motors, and stepped back into the other

room. Isobel had already risen to her feet, and Lady Delahaye was

looking at her curiously as though uncertain how far she had been

successful. She saw me enter, and beckoned me to approach.

"I think that Isobel is tired," she said, in a tone which was meant to

be kind. "She has promised to come and see me again."

Isobel looked at me. Her mouth, which a few minutes before had been

curved with smiles, was straight now, and resolutely set. She was

distinctly paler, and her manner seemed to have acquired a new gravity.

I must confess that my first impulse was one of relief. Isobel had not

found Lady Delahaye's offer, then, so wonderfully attractive.

"Do you mind coming home now, Arnold?" she asked. "I did not know that

it was so late."

I saw Lady Delahaye's face darken at her simple use of my Christian

name, and the touch of her fingers upon my arm. Arthur heard our voices,

and came to us at once. So we took leave of our hostess, and turned

homewards.

For a long time we walked almost in silence. Then Isobel turned towards

me with a new gravity in her face, and an unusual hesitation in her

tone.

"Arnold," she said, "Lady Delahaye has been pointing out to me one or

two things which I had not thought of before. I suppose she meant to be

kind. I suppose it is right that I should know. But----" her voice

trembled--"I wish she had not told me."

"Lady Delahaye is an interfering old cat!" Arthur exclaimed viciously.

"Don't take any notice of her, Isobel."

"But I must know," she answered, "whether the things which she said were

true."

"They were probably exaggerations," I said cheerfully; "but let us hear

them, at any rate."

"She said," Isobel continued, looking steadily in front of her, "that

you were all three very poor indeed, and that I had no right to come and

live with you, and make you poorer still, when I had a home offered me

elsewhere. She said that I should disturb your whole life, that you

would have to give up many things which were a pleasure to you, and you

would not be able to succeed so well with your work, as you would have

to write altogether for money. And she said that I should be grown up

soon, and ought to live where there are women; and when I told her about

Mrs. Burdett she laughed unpleasantly, and said that she did not count

at all. And that is why--she wants me--to go there!"

Again the shadow of tragedy gleamed in the child's white face. Her face

was strained, her eyes had lost the deep softness of their colouring,

and there lurked once more in their depths the terror of nameless

things. To me the sight of her like this was so piteous that I wasted

not a moment in endeavouring to reassure her.

"Rubbish!" I exclaimed cheerfully. "Sheer and unadulterated rubbish! We

are not rich, Isobel, but the trifle the care of you will cost us

amounts to nothing at all. We are willing and able to take charge of you

as well as we can. You know that!"

Ah! She drew a long sigh of relief. It was wonderful how her face

changed.

"But why is Lady Delahaye so cruel--why is she so anxious that I should

not stay with you?" she said.

I laughed.

"Lady Delahaye is mysterious," I answered. "I have come to the

conclusion, Isobel, that you must be a princess in disguise, and that

Lady Delahaye wants to claim all the rewards for having taken charge of

you!"

"Don't be silly!" she laughed. "Princesses are not brought up at Madame

Richard's, without relations or friends to visit them, and no pocket

money."

"Nevertheless," I answered, "when I consider the number of people who

are interested in you, and Lady Delahaye's extraordinary persistence, I

am inclined to stick to my theory. We shall look upon you, Isobel, as an

investment, and some day you shall reward us all."

Her hand slipped into mine. Her eyes were soft enough now.

"Dear friend," she murmured, "I think that it is my heart only which

will reward you--my great, great gratitude. I am afraid of Lady

Delahaye, Arnold. There are things in her eyes when she looks at me

which make me shiver. Do not let us go there again, please!"

Arthur broke in impetuously.

"You shall go nowhere you don't want to, Isobel. Arnold and I will see

to that."

"And--about the other thing--she mentioned," Isobel began.

"She was right and wrong," I answered. "Of course, it would be better

for you if one of us had a sister or a mother living with us, but Mrs.

Burdett has always seemed to us like a mother, and I think--that it will

be all right," I concluded a little lamely. "We need not worry about

that, at present at any rate. Come, we've had a dull afternoon, and I

sold a story yesterday. Let's go to Fasolas, and have a half-crown

dinner."

"I'm on," Arthur declared. "We'll go and fetch Allan."

"You dear!" Isobel exclaimed. "I shall wear my new hat!"

Book II

CHAPTER I

"I have no doubt," Mabane said gloomily, "that Arthur is right. He ought

to know more about it than old fogies like you and me, Arnold. We had

the money, and we ought to have insisted upon it. You gave way far too

easily."

"That's all very well," I protested, "but I don't take in a woman's

fashion paper, and Isobel assured us that the hat was all right. She

looks well enough in it, surely!"

"Isobel looks ripping!" Arthur declared, "but then, she looks ripping in

anything. All the same, the hat's old-fashioned. You look at the hats

those girls are wearing, who've just come in--flat, bunchy things, with

flowers under the brim. That's the style just now."

"Isobel shall have one, then," I declared. "We will take her West

to-morrow. We can afford it very well."

She came up to us beaming. She was a year older, and her skirts were a

foot longer. Her figure was, perhaps, a shade more developed, and her

manner a little more assured. In other respects she was unchanged.

"What are you two old dears worrying about?" she exclaimed lightly. "You

have the air of conspirators. No secrets from me, please. What is it all

about?"

"We are lamenting the antiquity of your hat," Mabane answered gravely.

"Arthur assures us that it is out of date. It ought to be flat and

bunchy, and it isn't!"

"Geese!" she exclaimed lightly, "both of you! Arthur, I'm ashamed of

you. You may know something about motors, but you are very ignorant

indeed about hats. Come along, all of you, and gaze at my miniatures. I

am longing to see how they look framed."

"As regards the hat----" I began.

"I will not hear anything more about it," she interrupted, laughing. "Of

course, if you don't like to be seen with me--oh! Why, look! look!"

We had stopped before a case of miniatures. In the front row were two

somewhat larger than the others, and Isobel's first serious attempts.

Behind each was stuck a little ivory board bearing the magic word

"Sold."

"Sold!" Arthur exclaimed incredulously.

"It may be a mistake," I said slowly.

Mabane and I exchanged glances. We knew very well that, though the

miniatures showed promise of talent, they were amateurish and imperfect,

and the reserve which we had placed upon them was quite out of all

proportion to their merit. It must surely be a mistake! We followed

Isobel across the room. A little elderly gentleman was sitting before a

desk, engaged in the leisurely contemplation of a small open ledger.

Isobel had halted in front of him. There was a delicate flush of pink on

her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant.

"Are my miniatures sold, please?" she exclaimed. "My name is Miss de

Sorrens. They have a small ivory board just behind them which says

'Sold.'"

The elderly gentleman looked up, and surveyed her calmly over the top of

his spectacles.

"What did you say that your name was, madam, and the number of your

miniatures?" he enquired.

"Miss Isobel de Sorrens," she answered breathlessly, "and my miniatures

are number two hundred and seven and eight--a portrait of an elderly

lady, and two hundred and eighty-nine--a child."

The little old gentleman turned over the pages of his ledger in very

leisurely fashion, and consulted a recent entry.

"Your miniatures are sold, Miss de Sorrens," he said, "for the reserve

price placed upon them--twenty guineas each. The money will be paid to

you on the close of the Exhibition, according to our usual custom."

"Please tell me who bought them," she begged. "I want to be quite sure

that there is no mistake."

"There is certainly no mistake," he answered, smiling. "The first one

was bought by--let me see--a nobleman in the suite of the Archduchess of

Bristlaw, the Baron von Leibingen. I believe that her Highness is

proposing to visit the Exhibition this afternoon. The other purchaser

paid cash, but refused his name. Ah! Excuse me!"

He rose hastily, and moved towards the door. A little group of people

were entering, before whom the bystanders gave way with all that respect

which the British public invariably displays for Royalty. Isobel watched

them with frank and eager interest. Mabane and I moved over to her side.

"Is it true?" I asked her.

"He says so," she answered, still a little bewildered. "Arnold, can you

imagine it? Forty guineas! I--I----"

There followed an amazing interlude. The little party of newcomers,

before whom everyone was obsequiously giving way, came face to face with

us. Mabane and I stepped back at once, but Isobel remained motionless.

An extraordinary change had come over her. Her eyes seemed fastened upon

the woman who was the central figure of the little procession, and the

girl who walked by her side. Someone whispered to her to move back. She

took no notice. She seemed as though she had not heard. Royalty raised

its lorgnettes, and dropped them with a crash upon the polished wood

floor. Then those who were quick to understand knew that something lay

beneath this unusual awkwardness.

The manager of the Gallery, who, catalogue in hand, had been prepared

personally to conduct the Royal party round, looked about him, wondering

as to the cause of the _contretemps_. His eyes fell upon Isobel.

"Please step back," he whispered to her, angrily. "Don't you see that

the Princess is here, and the Archduchess of Bristlaw? Clear the way,

please!"

The manager was a small man, and Isobel's eyes travelled over his head.

She did not seem to hear him speak. The Archduchess recovered herself.

She took the shattered lorgnettes from the hand of her lady-in-waiting.

She pointed to Isobel.

"Who is this young person?" she asked calmly. "Does she wish to speak to

me?"

A wave of colour swept into Isobel's cheeks. She drew back at once.

"I beg your pardon, Madame," she said. But even when she had rejoined my

side her eyes remained fixed upon the face of the Archduchess and her

companion.

There was a general movement forward. One of the ladies in the suite,

however, lingered behind. Our eyes met, and Lady Delahaye held out her

hand.

"Your ward is growing," she murmured, "in inches, if not in manners.

When are you going to engage a chaperon for her?"

"When I think it necessary, Lady Delahaye," I answered, with a bow.

"You artists have--such strange ideas," she remarked, smiling up at me.

"You wish Isobel to remain a child of nature, perhaps. Yet you must

admit that a few lessons in deportment would be of advantage."

"To the Archduchess, apparently," I answered. "One does not often see a

great lady so embarrassed."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders. She dropped her voice a little.

"Are we never to meet without quarrelling, Arnold?" she whispered,

looking up into my eyes. "It used not to be like this."

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "it is not my fault. We seem to have taken

opposite sides in a game which I for one do not understand. Twice during

the last six months you have made attempts which can scarcely be called

honourable to take Isobel from us. Our rooms are continually watched. We

dare not let the child go out alone. Now this woman from Madame

Richard's has come to live in the same building. She, too, watches."

"It is only the beginning, Arnold," she said quietly. "I told you more

than a year ago that you were interfering in graver concerns than you

imagined. Why don't you be wise, and let the child go? The care of her

will bring nothing but trouble upon you!"

Her words struck home more surely than she imagined, for in my heart had

lain dormant for months the fear of what was to come, the shadow which

was already creeping over our lives. Nevertheless, I answered her

lightly.

"You know my obstinacy of old, Lady Delahaye," I said. "We are wasting

words, I think."

She shrugged her shoulders and passed on. Mabane touched me on the

shoulder.

"Isobel would like to go," he said. "Arthur and she are at the door

already."

I turned to leave the place. We were already in the passage which led

into Bond Street, when I felt myself touched upon the shoulder. A tall,

fair young man, with his hair brushed back, and very blue eyes, who had

been in the suite of the Archduchess, addressed me.

"Pardon me," he said, "but you are Mr. Arnold Greatson, I believe?"

I acknowledged the fact.

"The Archduchess of Bristlaw begs that you will spare her a moment. She

will not detain you longer."

I turned to Mabane.

"Take Isobel home," I said. "I will follow presently."

We re-entered the Gallery. The majority of the Royal party were busy

examining the miniatures. The Archduchess was talking earnestly to Lady

Delahaye in a remote corner. My guide led me directly to her.

"Her Highness permits me to present you," he said to me. "This is Mr.

Arnold Greatson, your Highness."

The Archduchess acknowledged my bow graciously.

"You are the Mr. Arnold Greatson who writes such charming stories," she

said. "Yes, it is so, is it not?"

"Your Highness is very kind," I answered.

"I learn," she continued, "that you are also the guardian of the young

lady who gave us all such a start. Pardon me, but you surely seem a

little young for such a post."

"The circumstances, your Highness," I answered, "were a little

exceptional."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, yes, so I have heard. Lady Delahaye has been telling me the story.

I understand that you have never been able to discover the child's

parentage. That is very strange!"

"There are other things in connection with my ward, your Highness," I

said, "which seem to me equally inexplicable."

"Yes? I am very interested. Will you tell me what they are?"

"By all means," I answered. "I refer to the fact that though no one has

come forward openly to claim the child, indirect efforts to induce her

to leave us are continually being made by persons who seem to desire

anonymity. Whenever she has been alone in the streets she has been

accosted under various pretexts."

The Archduchess was politely surprised.

"But surely you are aware," she remarked, "of the source of some at

least of these attempts?"

"Madame Richard," I said, "the principal of the convent where Isobel was

educated, seems particularly anxious to have her return there."

The Archduchess nodded her head slowly.

"Well," she said, "is that so much to be wondered at? Even we who are of

the world might consider--you must pardon me, Mr. Greatson, if I speak

frankly--the girl's present position an undesirable one. How do you

suppose, then, that the principal of a convent boarding-school, whose

sister, I believe, is a nun, would be likely to regard the same thing?"

"Your Highness knows, then, of the convent?" I remarked.

The Archduchess lifted her eyebrows lightly. Her gesture seemed intended

to convey to me the fact that she had not sent for me to answer my

questions. I remained unabashed, however, and waited for her reply.

Several curious facts were beginning to group themselves together in my

mind.

"I have heard of the place," she said coldly. "I believe it to be an

excellent institution. I sent for you, Mr. Greatson, not, however, to

discuss such matters, but solely to ask for information as to the

child's parentage. It seems that you are unable to give me this."

"Lady Delahaye knows as much--probably more--than I," I answered.

It seemed to me that the Archduchess and Lady Delahaye exchanged quick

glances. I affected, however, to have noticed nothing.

"I will be quite candid with you, Mr. Greatson," the Archduchess

continued. "My interest in the girl arises, of course, from the

wonderful likeness to my own daughter, and to other members of my

family. Your ward herself was obviously struck with it. I must confess

that I, too, received something of a shock."

"I think," I answered, "that it was apparent to all of us."

The Archduchess coughed. For a Royal personage, she seemed to find some

little difficulty in proceeding.

"The history of our family is naturally a matter of common knowledge,"

she said slowly. "Any connection with it, therefore, which this child

might be able to claim would be of that order which you, as a man of the

world, would doubtless understand. Nevertheless, I am sufficiently

interested in her to be inclined to take any steps which might be

necessary for her welfare. I propose to set some enquiries on foot.

Providing that the result of them be as I suspect, I presume you would

have no objection to relinquish the child to my protection?"

"Your Highness," I answered, "I could not answer such a question as that

without consideration, or without consulting Isobel herself."

The Archduchess frowned upon me, and I was at once made conscious that I

had fallen under her displeasure. I fancy, however, that I appeared as I

felt, quite unimpressed.

"I cannot understand any hesitation whatsoever upon your part, Mr.

Greatson," she said. "Under my care the child's future would be

fittingly provided for. Her position with you must be, at the best, an

equivocal one."

"Your Highness," I answered steadily, "my friends and I are handicapped

perhaps by our sex, but we have a housekeeper who is an old family

servant, and a model of respectability. In all ways and at all times we

have treated Isobel as a very dear sister. The position may seem an

equivocal one--to a certain order of minds. Those who know us, I may

venture to say, see nothing harmful to the child in our guardianship."

The Archduchess stared at me, and I gathered that she was not used to

anything save implicit obedience from those to whom she made

suggestions. She stared, and then she laughed softly. There was more

than a spice of malice in her mirth.

"Which of you three young men are going to fall in love with her?" she

asked bluntly. "You call her a child, but she is almost a woman, and she

is beautiful. She will be very beautiful."

"Your Highness," I answered coldly, "it is a matter which we have not as

yet permitted ourselves to consider."

The Archduchess was displeased with me, and she took no further pains to

hide her displeasure.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, with a little wave of dismissal, "for the

present I have no more to say."

She turned her back upon me, and I at once left the Gallery.