Foreword

ON a certain day in the year of grace 1920, there came into being a

special and very select club. There was no entrance fee and no

subscription, in which respect it differed from all other clubs. Its

membership was limited to six: the _Actor_, the _Barrister_, the

_Doctor_, the _Ordinary Man_, the _Soldier_, and the _Writer_. And since

each in his own particular trade had achieved what the world calls fame,

except the Ordinary Man, who was only ordinary, it was decided that for

purposes of convenience they should be entered in the list of members

alphabetically according to their trade, and further that they should

carry out the only rule of the club in the order of that entry. And the

only rule of the club was, that on certain nights, to be mutually agreed

on, the member whose turn it was should give to the remaining members an

exceedingly good dinner, after which he should tell them a story

connected with his own trade, that should be of sufficient interest to

keep them awake.

And the only penalty of the club was that if the story was not of

sufficient interest to keep the audience awake, the offending member

should pay a sum of ten pounds to a deserving charity.

No rule was deemed necessary as to the quality of the dinner: the

members had elected themselves with discretion.

_I_ _The Actor’s Story, being The Patch on the Quilt_

“THE trouble in my game,” he began, “is that the greatest plays can

never be staged. There would be no money in them. The public demand a

plot—a climax: after that the puppets cease strutting, the curtain

rings down. But in life—in real life—there’s no plot. It’s just a

series of anti-climaxes strung together like a patchwork quilt, until

there comes the greatest anti-climax of all and the quilt is finished.”

He passed his hand through his fast-greying hair, and stared for a

moment or two at the fire. The Soldier was filling his pipe; the Writer,

his legs stretched in front of him, had his hands thrust deep in his

trouser pockets.

“It’s one of the patches in one of the quilts that my story is about,”

continued the actor thoughtfully. “Just an episode in the life of a

woman—or shall I say, just the life of a woman in an episode?

“You remember that play of mine—‘John Pendlesham’s Wife’?” He turned to

the Barrister, who nodded.

“Very well,” he answered. “Molly Travers was your leading lady.”

“I was out of England,” said the Soldier. “Never saw it.”

“It’s immaterial.” The Actor lit a cigarette. “The play itself has

nothing to do with my story, except indirectly. But as you didn’t see

it, I will just explain this much. I, of course, was John

Pendlesham—Molly was my wife, and the third act constituted what, in my

opinion, was the finest piece of emotional acting which that consummate

actress has ever done in her career.”

The Writer nodded. “I agree. She was superb.”

“Night after night the fall of the curtain found her nearly fainting;

night after night there was that breathless moment of utter silence

followed by a perfect crash of applause. I am mentioning these old facts

because her marvellous performance does concern my story directly—even

though the play does not.

“We had been running about a month, I suppose, when my story begins. I

had just come off after the third act, and was going to my

dressing-room. For some reason, instead of going by the direct door

which led into it from the stage, I went outside into the passage. There

were some hands moving furniture or something. . . .

“I think you’ve all of you been behind at my theatre. First you come to

the swing doors out of the street, inside which the watch dog sits

demanding callers’ business. Then there is another door, and beyond that

there are three steps down to my room. And it was just as I was opening

my door on that night that I happened to look round.

“Standing at the top of the three stairs was a woman who was staring at

me. I only saw her for a moment: then the watch dog intervened, and I

went into my room. But I _had_ seen her for a moment: I had seen her for

long enough to get the look in her eyes.

“We get all sorts and conditions of people behind, as you’d

expect—stage-struck girls, actors out of a shop, autograph hunters,

beggars. And the watch dog knew my invariable rule: only personal

friends and people who had made an appointment by letter were allowed

inside the second door. But a rule cannot legislate for every case.

“Gad! you fellows, it’s many years now since that night, but I can still

feel, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the message in that girl’s

eyes. There had been hope and fear and pitiful entreaty: the look of one

who had staked everything on a last desperate throw: the look of a

mother who is fighting for her child. It was amazing: I couldn’t

understand it. As I stood just inside my door I couldn’t have told you

whether she was old or young, plain or pretty. And yet in that one

fleeting second this vivid, jumbled message had reached me.” The Actor

pressed out his cigarette, and there was silence while he lit another

one.

“For a moment I hesitated,” he continued after a while; “then I rang the

bell for the watch dog.

“‘Who is that lady I saw outside there?’ I asked, as he came in.

“‘Won’t give no name, sir,’ he answered. ‘Wants to see you, but I told

her the rules.’

“Once again I hesitated; probably I’d exaggerated—put a totally false

construction on her expression, probably she was looking for a job like

the rest of them. And then I knew that I’d got to see that woman, and

that I should have no peace of mind until I’d heard what she had to say.

The watch dog was regarding me curiously; plainly he could see no reason

whatever for my hesitation. He was a matter-of-fact fellow, was the

guardian of the door.

“‘Show her in, I’ll see her now.’ I had my back to him, but I could feel

his virtuous indignation. After all, rules are rules.

“‘Now, sir?’ he echoed.

“‘Now; at once.’

“He went out, and I heard him go up the steps.

“‘Mr. Trayne will see you. Come this way.’

“And then the door opened again, and I turned to face the woman. She was

young—quite young, dressed in a kind of cheap suburban frock. Her shoes

had been good ones—once, now—well, however skilfully a patch is put on

it is still a patch. Her gloves showed traces of much needle and cotton;

the little bag she carried was rubbed and frayed. And over the cheap

suburban frock she had on a coat which was worn and threadbare.

“‘It was good of you to see me, Mr. Trayne.’

“She was nervous and her voice shook a little, but she faced me quite

steadily.

“‘It’s a very unusual thing for me to do,’ I said. ‘But I saw you at the

top of the stairs, and . . .’

“‘I know it’s unusual,’ she interrupted. ‘The man outside there told me

your rule. But believe me’—she was talking with more assurance now—‘my

reason for coming to see you is very unusual also.’

“I pulled up a chair for her. ‘What is your reason?’ I asked.

“She took a deep breath and began fumbling with her handkerchief.

“‘I know you will think me mad,’ she began, ‘but I don’t want to tell

you my reason now. I want to wait until after the play is over, and I

know you go on at once in the fourth act.’

“‘You’ve seen the play, then?’ I remarked.

“‘I’ve seen the play,’ was her somewhat astonishing answer, ‘every night

since the first.’

“‘Every night!’ I stared at her in surprise. ‘But . . .’

“I must have glanced at her clothes or something and she saw what was in

my mind.

“‘I suppose you think that I hardly look as if I could afford such

luxuries,’ she smiled faintly. ‘I’ve only seen it from the gallery and

pit, you know. And even that has meant that I’ve had to go without

lunch. But—you see—it was necessary for me to see it: I had to. It was

part of my plan—a necessary part.’

“‘I don’t want to seem dense,’ I said gently, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t

quite follow. How can seeing my play thirty odd times be a necessary

part of your plan?’

“‘That’s what I don’t want to tell you now,’ she repeated, and once more

her hands began twisting nervously. ‘I want to wait till afterwards,

when perhaps you’ll—of your kindness—do as I ask you. Oh! Mr.

Trayne—for God’s sake, don’t fail me!’ She leant forward beseechingly

in her chair.

“‘My dear child,’ I answered quietly—I don’t think she can have been

much more than twenty, ‘you haven’t told me yet what you want me to do.’

“‘I want you to come to a house in Kensington with me,’ she said

steadily.”

Once again the Actor paused, and stared at the fire. Then he gave a

short laugh.

“When she said that, I looked at her pretty sharply. Without appearing

conceited or anything of that sort, one has occasionally in the course

of one’s career, received certain flattering attentions from charming

women—attentions which—er—one is tempted to conceal from one’s wife.”

“Precisely,” murmured the Ordinary Man. “Precisely.”

“And for a moment, I must confess that the thought passed through my

mind that this was one of those occasions. And it wasn’t until the

colour rose to her face and stained it scarlet, that I realised that not

only had I made a mistake, but that I had been foolish enough to let her

see that I had.

“‘My God!’ she whispered, ‘you don’t think—you couldn’t think—that I

meant . . .’

“She rose and almost cowered away from me. ‘Why, I’m married.’

“I refrained from remarking that the fact was hardly such a conclusive

proof of the absurdity of my unspoken thought as she seemed to imagine.

I merely bowed, and said a little formally: ‘Please don’t jump to

conclusions. May I ask why you wish me to come to a house in Kensington

with you?’

“The colour ebbed away from her cheeks, and she sat down again.

“‘That’s the very thing I don’t want to tell you, until you come,’ she

answered very low. ‘I know it sounds absurd—it must do, it seems as if

I were being unnecessarily mysterious. But I can’t tell you, Mr. Trayne,

I can’t tell you . . . Not yet. . . .’

“And then the call boy knocked, and I had to go on for the last act. In

a way I suppose it was absurd of me—but life is made up of impulses. I

confess that the whole thing intrigued me. When a woman comes and tells

you that she has seen your play every night since it started; that she’s

had to go without her lunch to do so; that it was a necessary part of

some wonderful plan, and that she wants you to go to a house in

Kensington, the least curious man would be attracted. And from my

earliest infancy I’ve always been engrossed in other people’s business.

“‘All right,’ I said briefly. ‘I’ll come with you.’

“And then I had to put out my hand to steady her, I thought she was

going to faint. Reaction, I thought at the time; later, it struck me

that the reason was much more prosaic—lack of food.

“I stopped for a moment till she seemed herself again; then I told her

to wait outside.

“‘I shall be about half an hour,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll take a taxi,

and go down to Kensington. Tell them to give you a chair. . . .’

“And my last impression as I went on to the stage was of a white-faced

girl clutching the table, staring at me with great brown eyes that held

in them a dawning triumph.

“I think,” went on the Actor thoughtfully, “that that is where the

tragedy of it all really lay. Afterwards she told me that the part of

her plan which had seemed most difficult to her was getting my consent

to go with her to Kensington. Once that was done, she knew all would be

well, she was absolutely and supremely confident. And when I went on to

the stage for the fourth act, she felt that success had crowned her

efforts, that what was to come after was nothing compared to that which

she had already done. The inaccessible stronghold had been stormed, the

ogre had proved to be a lamb.

“Well, we went to Kensington. I sent my own car home, and we took a

taxi. During the drive she was very silent, and I didn’t try to make her

talk. Evidently no inkling of the mysterious plan was to be revealed

until we arrived at the address she had given the driver. It was some

obscure street that I had never heard of and the name of which I have

completely forgotten. I know it was somewhere not far from Barker’s.

“The door was opened by a repulsive-looking woman who peered at me

suspiciously. And then the girl took her on one side and whispered

something in her ear. Apparently it had the desired effect, as the

Gorgon retired grumbling to an odoriferous basement, leaving us alone in

the hall.

“When she had shut the door the girl turned to me.

“‘Will you come upstairs, Mr. Trayne. I want you to meet my husband.’

“I bowed. ‘Certainly,’ I said, and she led the way.

“‘So the husband was in the plan,’ I reflected as I followed her. Was he

a genius with a play that he proposed to read to me? I had suffered from

the plays of genius before. Or was he some actor down on his luck? If

so, why all the mystery? And then, when I’d made up my mind that it was

a mere begging case, we arrived at the room. Just before she turned the

handle of the door she again looked at me.

“‘My husband is ill, Mr. Trayne. You’ll excuse his being in bed.’

“Then we went in. Good Lord! you fellows,” the Actor leant forward in

his chair. “I’ve been pretty hard up in the old days, but as I stood

inside that door I realised for the first time what poverty—real

poverty—meant. Mark you, the girl was a lady; the weak,

cadaverous-looking fellow propped up in bed with a tattered shawl round

his shoulders was a gentleman. And beyond the bed, and one chair, and a

rackety old chest-of-drawers there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the

room. There was a curtain in the corner with what looked like a

washstand behind it, and a shelf by the bed with two cups and some

plates on it. And nothing else except an appalling oleograph of Queen

Victoria on the wall.

“‘This is Mr. Trayne, dear.’ She was bending over her husband, and after

a moment he looked up at me.

“‘It was good of you to come, sir,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ And then he

turned to his wife and I heard him say: ‘Have you told him yet, Kitty?’

“She shook her head. ‘Not yet, darling, I will now.’ She left his side

and came over to me.

“‘Mr. Trayne, I know you thought me very peculiar at the theatre. But I

was afraid that if I told you what I really wanted you’d have refused to

come. You get hundreds and hundreds of people coming to see you who

think they can act. Asking you to help them get a job and that sort of

thing. Well, I was afraid that if I told you that that was what I

wanted, you’d have told me to go away. Perhaps you’d have given me a

straw of comfort—taken my address—said you’d let me know if anything

turned up. But nothing would have turned up. . . . And, you see, I was

rather desperate.’

“The big brown eyes were fixed on me pleadingly, and somehow I didn’t

feel quite as annoyed as I should have done at what was nothing more nor

less than a blatant trick to appeal to my sympathy.

“‘Perhaps nothing would have turned up,’ I said gently, ‘but you must

remember that to-day the stage is a hopelessly overstocked profession.

There are hundreds of trained actors and actresses unable to obtain a

job.’

“‘I know that,’ she cried eagerly, ‘and that’s why I—why I thought out

this plan. I thought that if I could _really_ convince you that I could

act above the average . . .’

“‘And she can, Mr. Trayne,’ broke in her husband. ‘She’s good, I know

it.’

“‘We must leave Mr. Trayne to be the judge of that, Harry,’ she smiled.

‘You see,’ she went on to me, ‘what I felt was that there is an opening

for real talent. There is, isn’t there?’

“‘Yes,’ I agreed slowly. ‘There is an opening for _real_ talent. But

even that is a small one. . . . Have you ever acted before?’

“‘A little. In amateur theatricals!’

“I turned away. Amateur theatricals! More heart-burning and

disappointment has been caused by those abominable entertainments than

their misguided originators will ever realise.

“‘But don’t think I’m relying on that.’ The girl was speaking again, and

I almost laughed. ‘I want you to judge me to-night.’

“I swung round and looked at her. So this was the mysterious plan: I was

to witness an impromptu performance, which was to convince me that the

second Sarah Bernhardt had been discovered.

“‘I couldn’t have shown you, you see, in your dressing-room. I shouldn’t

have had time. That’s why I asked you to come here.’

“‘You have the courage of your convictions anyway,’ I said quietly. ‘I

am perfectly ready to be convinced.’

“‘Then will you sit there.’ She took off her hat and coat as I sat down

on the only available chair, and from underneath his pillow the man

produced a paper-covered book.

“‘You’ll forgive me if I read my lines, Mr. Trayne,’ he said. ‘I find I

can’t learn them—I can’t concentrate.’ He passed a thin, emaciated hand

over his forehead. ‘And it’s her you want to see.’

“He turned over the pages weakly; then he began to read. And I—I sat up

as if I’d been stung. At last everything was clear: the continual visits

to the theatre—everything. The part of all others which they had

selected to prove her ability, was the love-scene between Molly Travers

and myself in the third act of ‘John Pendlesham’s Wife. . . .’”

For a while there was silence, while the Actor thoughtfully lit another

cigarette.

“This unknown child,” he went on after a moment, “who had acted a little

in amateur theatricals, had deliberately challenged London’s greatest

emotional actress in her most marvellous success before, Heaven help us,

_me_—of all people. I suppose if I was writing a story I should say

that she triumphed; that as I sat in that bare and hideous room I

realised that before me was genius—a second and greater Molly; that

from that moment her foot was set on the ladder of fame, and there was

no looking back.”

The Actor laughed a little sadly. “Unfortunately, I’m not writing a

story, I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I sat through the next

twenty minutes. It was the most ghastly caricature of Molly that I have

ever thought of; the more ghastly because it was so intensely

unintentional. Every little gesture was faithfully copied; every little

trick and mannerism had been carefully learnt by heart. And this, as I

say, to me who acted with that divine genius every night. God! it was

awful. That marvellous line of Molly’s, when, standing in the centre of

the stage facing me across the table, she said: ‘Then you don’t want me

back?’ that line which was made marvellous merely through the consummate

restraint with which she said it, sounded from this poor child like a

parlour-maid giving notice.

“And then, at last it was over, and I realised I had to say something.

They were both staring at me, hope shining clear in the girl’s eyes and

pride in the man’s.

“‘She’s great, isn’t she, Mr. Trayne?’ he said. ‘I’ve not had the

privilege of seeing you and Miss Travers in the part—but I feel that

now—why,’ he gave a little shaky laugh, ‘that it’s hardly necessary.’

“You see,” said the Actor slowly, “that was the devil of it all. They

were both so utterly certain, especially the man. The difficulty had

been to get me there; after that it had been easy. I glanced at the poor

fellow in the bed, and his thoughts were plain to read. No more grinding

poverty, no more unfurnished bed-sitting rooms, and—fame for the woman

he loved! And then he spoke again.

“‘I’m such a hopeless crock, Mr. Trayne, and she’—he took one of her

hands in both his own—‘she’s had to do all the work. Beastly, grinding

work in an office, when she was capable of this.’

“The girl bent over him, and I looked away. It seemed to me that the

ground on which I stood was holy.”

The Actor gave a short laugh which deceived no one. “I suppose I was an

ass,” he went on, “but I’d do it again to-day. ‘It was wonderful,’ I

said, ‘quite wonderful.’ And because I’m an actor they believed me. Not

that he, at any rate, required much convincing—he only wanted his

knowledge confirmed. Of course, when I spoke I didn’t realise what I was

letting myself in for. I should have done, I suppose, but—I wasn’t left

long in doubt. If she was wonderful—and had not I, Herbert Trayne, said

so—what about a job? At once . . . With my backing it was easy. . . .

Which was all quite true except for the one vital fact of my having

lied. But, hang it, you fellows!” he exploded, “could you have told ’em

it was the most appalling exhibition of utter futility you’d ever

witnessed?”

“No, I couldn’t,” said the Soldier. “What happened?

“I can see them now,” continued the Actor. “He was holding her hand, and

looking up into her face—as a dog looks at the being it adores. And she

was smiling a little, and crying a little—tears of pure joy. The strain

was over, the lunches had not been missed in vain. And I stood there

like a dumb idiot racking my brains for something to say. They thought I

was wondering what job to offer her; they were right, I was.” The Actor

laughed shortly.

“But I’d gone into the morass, and there was nothing for it but to

blunder in deeper. The one vital essential was that in no circumstances

must the poor child ever be allowed to act. The other was money—and at

once. So I offered her then and there a job as Molly Travers’ understudy

at five pounds a week.”

“Great Scott!” The Doctor sat up with a jerk. “Understudy Molly?”

“I explained, of course,” went on the Actor, “that there was an

understudy already, and that to save unpleasantness it would be better

if she didn’t come to the theatre, unless I sent for her. That, of

course, it was more than likely that Miss Travers wouldn’t be ill during

the run of the play, and that in those circumstances I didn’t want to

offend the present understudy. And when another play came along, we must

see what we could do. That, thank Heaven, I knew was some way off yet!

It gave me breathing space.

“I gave her a week’s salary in advance, and I got away—somehow. I think

they were both a little dazed with the wonder of it, and they wanted to

be alone. I heard his voice—weak and quavering—as I shut the door.

“‘Oh! my very dear girl,’ he was whispering—and she was on her knees

beside the bed. And I blundered my way downstairs, cursing myself for a

sentimental fool. There’s whisky on the table, you fellows. Help

yourselves.”

But no one moved, and the Actor lit another cigarette.

“I saw her occasionally during the next two or three months,” he

continued, “though I never went to their rooms again. They had moved—I

knew that—because I used to post the cheque every week. But the few

times I did see her, I gathered that her husband was not getting any

better. And one day I insisted on Lawrence, the specialist, going to see

him. I couldn’t have one of my company being worried, I told her, over

things of that sort. I can see her face now as I said ‘one of my

company.’ I don’t know what Lawrence said to her, but he rang me up at

the theatre that night, and he did not mince his words to me.

“‘I give him a month,’ he said. ‘It’s galloping consumption.’

“It was just about a month later that the thing happened which I had

been dreading. Molly went down with ’flu. Her understudy—the real

one—was Violet Dorman, who was unknown then. And, of course it was her

chance.”

“One moment,” interrupted the Barrister. “Did anyone at the theatre know

about this girl?”

“Good God! no,” cried the Actor. “Not a soul. In this censorious world

actions such as mine in that case are apt to be misconstrued, which

alone was sufficient to make me keep it dark. No one knew.

“The first night—all was well. Molly went down in the afternoon, and it

didn’t come out in any of the evening papers. Violet acted

magnificently. She wasn’t Molly, of course—she isn’t now. But it was

her chance, and she took it—and took it well. Next morning the papers,

naturally, had it in. ‘Temporary indisposition of Miss Molly Travers.

Part filled at a moment’s notice with great credit by Miss Violet

Dorman.’ She had a press agent and he boomed her for all he was worth.

And I read the papers and cursed. Not that I grudged her her success in

the slightest, but I was thinking of the afternoon. It was matinée day

and the girl must read it in the papers.

“There was only one thing for it—to go round and see her. Whatever

happened I had to prevent her coming to the theatre. How I was going to

do it without giving the show away I hadn’t an idea, but somehow or

other it had got to be done. My blundering foolishness—even though it

had been for the best—had caused the trouble; it was up to me to try

and right it. So I went round and found her with a doctor in the

sitting-room. He was just going as I came in, and his face was grave.

“‘Harry’s dying,’ she said to me quite simply, and I glanced at the

doctor, who nodded.

“Poor child! I crossed over to her side, and though it seems an awful

thing to say, my only feeling was one of relief. After what Lawrence had

said I knew it was hopeless, and since the poor devil had to go he

couldn’t have chosen a more opportune moment from my point of view. It

solved the difficulty. If he was dying she couldn’t come to the theatre,

and by the time the funeral was over Molly would be back. I didn’t

realise that one doesn’t get out of things quite as easily as that.

“‘I’ve only just realised how bad he was,’ she went on in a flat, dead

voice.

“‘Does he know?’ I asked.

“‘No. He thinks he’s going to get better. Why didn’t you send for me

last night, Mr. Trayne?’

“It was so unexpected, that I hesitated and stammered.

“‘I couldn’t get at you in time,’ I said finally. ‘Miss Travers only

became ill late in the afternoon.’

“With a strange look on her face she opened a paper—some cursed rag I

hadn’t seen.

“‘It says here,’ she went on slowly, ‘that she was confined to her bed

all yesterday. Oh! it doesn’t matter much, does it?’ She put the paper

down wearily, and gave the most heartrending little sobbing laugh I’ve

ever heard.

“‘What do you mean?’ I stammered out.

“‘I suppose you did it for the best, Mr. Trayne. I suppose I ought to be

grateful. But you lied that night—didn’t you?’

“I was fingering a book on the table and for the life of me I couldn’t

think of anything to say. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she went on. ‘He still

thinks I’m a God-sent genius. And he mustn’t know.’

“‘Why should he?’ I said. And then I put my hand on her arm. ‘Tell me,

how did you find out?’

“‘You admit it then?’

“‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘I admit that I lied. I was so desperately sorry

for you.’

“‘I mentioned it to someone—a man who knew the stage—about a week ago.

He looked at me in blank amazement, and then he laughed. I suppose he

couldn’t help it: it was so ridiculous. I was furious—furious. But

afterwards I began to think, and I asked other people one or two

questions—and then that came,’ she pointed to the paper, ‘and I knew.

And now—oh! thank God—he’s dying. He mustn’t know, Mr. Trayne, he

mustn’t.’

“And at that moment he came into the room—tottered in is a better word.

“‘Boy,’ she cried in an agony, ‘what are you doing?’

“‘I thought I heard Mr. Trayne’s voice,’ he whispered, collapsing in the

chair. ‘I’m much better to-day, much. Bit weak still——’

“And then he saw the paper, and he leant forward eagerly.

“‘Ill,’ he cried. ‘Molly Travers ill. Why, my dear—but it’s your

chance.’ He read on a bit, and she looked at me desperately. ‘But why

weren’t you there last night? Who is this woman, Violet Dorman?’

“‘You see, Tracy,’ I said, picking up the paper and putting it out of

his reach, ‘it was so sudden, Miss Travers’ illness, that I couldn’t get

at your wife in time.’

“‘Quite,’ he whispered. ‘Of course. But there’s a matinée this

afternoon, isn’t there? Oh! I wonder if I’m well enough to go. I’m so

much better to-day.’ And then he looked at his wife. ‘My dear! my

dear—at last!’

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pathetic pride and love shining in a

man’s face before or since.

“‘I’m afraid you won’t be quite well enough to go,’ I muttered.

“‘Perhaps it would be wiser not to,’ he whispered. ‘But to think I shall

miss her first appearance. Have you come to fetch her now, Mr. Trayne?’

“‘Yes, darling,’ the girl replied, and her voice sounded as steady as a

rock. ‘Mr. Trayne has come to fetch me. But it’s early yet and I want

you to go back to bed now. . . .’

“Without a glance at me she helped him from the room and left me

standing there. I heard their voices—hers clear and strong, his barely

audible. And not for the first time in my life I marvelled at the wonder

of a woman who loves. I was to marvel more in a moment or two.

“She came back and shut the door. Then she stood facing me.

“‘There’s only one way, Mr. Trayne, though I think it’s going to break

my heart. I must go to the theatre.’

“‘But—your husband . . .’ I stammered.

“‘Oh! I’m not really going. I shall be here—at hand—the whole time.

Because if the end did come—why then—I _must_ be with him. But he’s

got to think I’ve gone; I’ve got to hide from him until after the

matinée is over. And then I must tell him’—she faltered a little—‘of

my success. I’ll keep the papers from him—if it’s necessary. . . .’ She

turned away and I heard her falter: ‘Three hours away from him—when

he’s dying. Oh, my God!’”

The Actor paused, and the Soldier stirred restlessly in his chair. “I

left shortly after,” he went on at length, “I saw she wanted me to.

“All through the play that afternoon it haunted me—the pathos of

it—aye, the horror of it. I pictured that girl hiding somewhere, while

in the room above the sands were running out. Longing with all the power

of her being to go to him—to snatch every fleeting minute with him—and

yet condemned by my stupidity to forfeit her right. And then at last the

show was over, and I went to her room again.

“She was by his side, kneeling on the floor, as I came in. As he saw me

he struggled up on his elbow, and one could see it was the end.

“‘Dear fellow,’ I said, ‘she was wonderful—just wonderful!’

“And the girl looked up at me through her blinding tears.

“‘Just wonderful,’ I said again. Five minutes later he died. . . .”

The Actor fell silent.

“Did you ever see her again?” asked the Soldier thoughtfully.

“Never: she disappeared. Just a patch on the quilt as I said. But there

was one thread missing. Three years later I received a registered

envelope. There was no letter inside, no word of any sort. Just these.”

He fumbled in his pocket. “There are twenty of them.”

He held out his hand, and the Soldier leaning forward saw that it

contained a little bundle of five-pound notes.

_II_ _The Barrister’s Story, being The Decision of Sir Edward

Shoreham_

“THIS morning,” he began, leaning back in his chair and crossing his

legs, “I mislaid my cigarette-case. I knew it was somewhere in the

study, but find it I could not. Finally, having searched all over my

writing table, I rang the bell, and somewhat irritably demanded its

immediate production. The butler stepped forward and lifted it up from

the centre of the blotting pad, where it had been the whole time,

literally under my nose. What peculiar temporary kink in the brain had

prevented my noticing the very thing I was looking for, when it was

lying in the most conspicuous place in which it could possibly have

been, I don’t know. I leave that to the Doctor. But the point of my

parable is this—it decided in my mind the story with which I should

bore you fellows to-night.”

He paused to light a cigar, then he glanced round at the faces of the

other five.

“And if, as I get on with it, you think you recognise the real

characters under the fictional names I shall give them, I can’t prevent

you. But don’t ask me to confirm your thoughts.”

“Exactly,” murmured the Actor. “Fire ahead.”

“It was about four years before the war,” commenced the Barrister, “that

I was stopping for a few nights at a certain house in Park Lane. It was

in the middle of the season—June, to be accurate—and I was waiting to

get in here. My wife was in the country, and, as I was more or less at a

loose end, I accepted the offer of staying at this house. My

hostess—shall we call her Granger, Ruth Granger—had been an old school

pal of my wife’s; in later years she had become a real, intimate friend

of us both.

“At the time of which I speak she was a lovely girl of twenty-six, with

the suffering of six years of hell in her eyes. At the age of twenty she

had married Sir Henry Granger, and that fatal mistake had been the cause

of the hell. Henry Granger was one of the most loathsome brutes it has

ever been my misfortune to run across. He had not one single instinct of

a gentleman in him, though he did happen to be the tenth baronet. How

her parents had ever allowed the marriage beat me completely. Perhaps it

was money, for Granger was rich; but whatever it was she married him,

and her hell began.

“Granger was simply an animal, a coarse and vicious animal. He drank

heavily without getting drunk, which is always a dangerous sign, and he

possessed the morals—or did not possess the morals, whichever you

prefer—of a monkey. He was unfaithful to her on their honeymoon—my

wife told me that; and from then on he made not the slightest attempt to

conceal his mode of life.”

The Barrister carefully removed the ash from his cigar. “I won’t labour

the point,” he went on with a faint smile. “We have all of us met the

type, but I’d like to emphasise the fact that I, at any rate, have never

met any member of that type who came within a mile of him. Most of ’em

have some semblance of decency about ’em—make some attempt to conceal

their affairs. Granger didn’t; he seemed to prefer that they should be

known. Sometimes since then I have wondered whether he was actuated by a

sort of blind rage—by a mad desire to pierce through the calm, icy

contempt of his wife; to make her writhe and suffer, because he realised

she was so immeasurably his superior.” He paused thoughtfully. “He made

her suffer right enough.”

“Did she never try for a divorce?” asked the Soldier.

“No, never. We discussed it once—she, and my wife and I; and I had to

explain to her our peculiar laws on the subject. His adultery by itself

was, of course, not sufficient, and for some reason she flatly refused

to consider a mere separation. She wouldn’t face the scandal and

publicity for only that. I said to her then: ‘Why not apply for a

restitution of conjugal rights. Get your husband to leave the house, and

if he doesn’t return in fourteen days——’

“She stopped me with a bitter laugh.

“‘It seems rather fatuous,’ she said slowly, ‘getting a lawyer to ask my

husband to do what he is only too ready to do—return to me.’

“‘But surely,’ I began, not quite taking her meaning.

“‘You see, Bill,’ she answered in a flat, dead voice, ‘my husband is

very fond of me—as a stopgap. After most of his episodes he honours me

with his attentions for two or three days.’

“That was the devil of it—he didn’t intend to let her divorce him. She

formed an excellent hostess for his house, and for the rest there were

always _les autres_. And he wanted her, too, because he couldn’t get

her, and that made him mad.”

The Barrister leant forward, and the firelight flickered on his thin,

ascetic face.

“Such was the state of affairs when I went to stay. The particular lady

at the time who was being honoured by Henry Granger was a shining light

in musical comedy—Nelly Jones, shall we call her? It is very far from

her real name. If possible, he had been more open over this affair than

usual; everyone who knew the Grangers in London knew about

it—_everyone_. He had twice dined with her at the same restaurant at

which his wife was entertaining, once deliberately selecting the next

table.”

“What an unmitigated swine!” cried the Ordinary Man.

“He was,” agreed the Barrister briefly. “But even that was not

sufficient to satisfy the gentleman. He proceeded to do a thing which

put him for ever outside the pale. He brought this girl to a reception

of his wife’s at his own house.

“It was the night that I arrived. She had fixed up one of those ghastly

entertainments which are now, thank Heaven, practically extinct.

Somebody sings and nobody listens, and you meet everybody you

particularly want to avoid. Mercifully I ran into an old pal, also of

your calling, Actor-man—Violet Seymour. No reason why I should disguise

her name at any rate. She was not acting at the moment, and we sat in a

sort of alcove-place at the top of the stairs, on the same landing as

the reception-room.

“‘There’s going to be a break here soon, Bill,’ she said to me after a

while. ‘Ruth is going to snap.’

“‘Poor girl!’ I answered. ‘But what the devil can one do, Violet?’

“‘Nothing,’ she said fiercely, ‘except alter your abominably unjust

laws. Why can’t she get a divorce, Bill? It’s vile—utterly vile.’

“And then—well, let’s call him Sir Edward Shoreham, joined us. He was

on the Bench—a judge, which makes the disguise of a false name pretty

thin, especially in view of what is to come. I remember he had recently

taken a murder case—one that had aroused a good deal of popular

attention—and the prisoner had been found guilty. We were talking about

it at the time Sir Edward arrived, with Violet, as usual, tilting lances

against every form of authority.

“I can see her now as she turned to Sir Edward with a sort of dreadful

fascination on her face.

“‘And so you sentenced him to death?’

“He nodded gravely. ‘Certainly,’ he answered. ‘He was guilty.’

“And then she turned half-away, speaking almost under her breath.

“‘And doesn’t it ever appall you? Make you wake in the middle of the

night, with your mouth dry and your throat parched. All this—life,

love—and in a cell, a man waiting—a man you’ve sent there. Ticking off

the days on his nerveless fingers—staring out at the sun. My God! it

would drive me mad.’

“Ned Shoreham smiled a little grimly.

“‘You seem to forget one unimportant factor,’ he answered; ‘the wretched

woman that man killed.’

“‘No, I don’t,’ she cried. ‘But the punishment is so immeasurably worse

than the crime. I don’t think death would matter if it came suddenly;

but to sit waiting with a sort of sickening helplessness——’

“It was then Ruth Granger joined us. Some woman was singing in the

reception-room and, for the moment, she was free from her duties as

hostess.

“‘You seem very serious,’ she said with her grave, sweet smile, holding

out her hand to Sir Edward.

“‘Miss Seymour is a revolutionary,’ he answered lightly, and I happened

at that moment to glance at Ruth. And for the moment she had let the

mask slip as she looked at Ned Shoreham’s face. Then it was replaced,

but their secret was out, as far as I was concerned, though on matters

of affection I am the least observant of mortals. If they weren’t in

love with one another, they were as near to it as made no odds. And it

gave me a bit of a shock.

“Shoreham was young—young, at any rate, for the Bench—and he was

unmarried. And somehow I couldn’t fit Shoreham into the situation of

loving another man’s wife. There had never been a breath of scandal that

I had heard; if there had been, it would have finished him for good. A

judge must be like Cæsar’s wife. And Shoreham, even then, had

established a reputation for the most scrupulous observance of the law.

His enemies called him cruel and harsh; those who knew him better

realised that his apparent harshness was merely a cloak he had wrapped

tightly round himself as a guard against a naturally tender heart. I

don’t know any man that I can think of who had such an undeviating idea

of duty as Shoreham, and without being in the least a prig, such an

exalted idea of the responsibilities of his position. And to realise

suddenly that he was in love with Ruth Granger, as I say, came as a

shock.

“‘What was the argument about?’ she said, sitting down beside me.

“‘Morality _versus_ the Law,’ chipped in Violet.

“‘The individual _versus_ the community,’ amended Sir Edward.

‘Justice—real justice—against sickly sentimentality, with all due

deference to you, Miss Seymour. There are hard cases, one knows, but

hard cases make bad laws. There’s been far too much lately of men taking

matters into their own hands—this so-called Unwritten Law. And it has

got to stop.’

“‘You would never admit the justification,’ said Ruth slowly.

“‘Never—in any circumstances,’ he answered. ‘You have the law—then

appeal to the law. Otherwise there occurs chaos.’

“‘And what of the cases where the law gives no redress?’ demanded

Violet, and even as she spoke Granger came up the stairs with this girl

on his arm.

“Ruth Granger rose, deathly white, and gazed speechlessly at her

husband’s coarse, sneering face. I don’t think for a moment she fully

grasped the immensity of the insult; she was stunned. The footmen were

staring open-mouthed; guests passing into the supper-room stopped and

smirked. And then it was over; the tension snapped.

“‘Have you had any supper, Sir Edward?’ said Ruth calmly, and with her

hand on his arm she swept past her husband, completely ignoring both him

and the girl, who flushed angrily.

“‘I suppose,’ said Violet Seymour to me, as Granger and the girl went

into the reception-room, ‘that had Ruth shot that filthy blackguard dead

on the stairs, Sir Edward would have piously folded his hands and, in

due course, sentenced her to death.’

“And at the moment I certainly sympathised with her point of view.”

The Barrister got up and splashed some soda-water into a glass. Then he

continued:

“I won’t weary you with an account of the rest of the reception. You can

imagine for yourselves the covert sneers and whisperings. I want to go

on two or three hours to the time when the guests had gone, and a

white-faced, tight-lipped woman was staring at the dying embers of a

fire in her sitting-room, while I stood by the mantelpiece wondering

what the devil to do to help. Granger was in his study, where he had

retired on the departure of Miss Jones, and I, personally, had seen two

bottles of champagne taken to him there by one of the footmen.

“‘It’s the end, Bill,’ she said, looking at me suddenly, ‘absolutely the

end. I can’t go on—not after to-night. How dared he bring that woman

here? How dared he?’

“Violet had been right—the break had come. Ruth Granger was desperate,

and there was an expression on her face that it wasn’t good to see. It

put the wind up me all right.

“‘Go to bed, Ruth,’ I said quietly. ‘There’s no good having a row with

Granger to-night; you can say what you want to say to-morrow.’

“And at that moment the door opened and her husband came in. As I said,

he was a man who never got drunk, but that night he was unsteady on his

legs. He stood by the door, swaying a little and staring at her with a

sneer on his face. He was a swine sober; in drink he was—well, words

fail. But, by God! you fellows, she got through him and into him until I

thought he was going to strike her. I believe that was what she was

playing for at the time, because I was there as a witness. But he

didn’t, and when she finished flaying him he merely laughed in her face.

“‘And what about your own damned lover, my virtuous darling?’ he

sneered. ‘What about the upright judge whom you adore—dear, kind Edward

Shoreham?’

“It was unexpected; she didn’t know he had guessed—and her face gave

her away for a moment. Then she straightened up proudly.

“‘Sir Edward Shoreham and I are on terms which an animal of your gross

mind couldn’t possibly understand,’ she answered coldly, and he laughed.

‘If you insinuate that he is my lover in the accepted sense of the word,

you lie and you know it.’

“Without another word she walked contemptuously by him, and the door

closed behind her. And after a moment or two I followed her, leaving him

staring moodily at the empty grate. I couldn’t have spoken to him

without being rude and, after all, I was under his roof.”

The Barrister leant back in his chair and crossed his legs.

“Now that was the situation,” he continued, “when I went to bed. My room

was almost opposite Lady Granger’s, and at the end of the passage, which

was a cul-de-sac, was the door leading into Granger’s study. I hadn’t

started to undress when I heard him come past my room and go along the

passage to his study. And I was still thinking over the situation about

ten minutes later when Lady Granger’s door opened. I knew it was hers

because I heard her speak to her maid, telling her to go to bed. The

girl said ‘Good night,’ and something—I don’t quite know what—made me

look through the keyhole of my door. I was feeling uneasy and alarmed; I

suppose the scene downstairs had unsettled me. And sure enough, as soon

as the maid’s footsteps had died away, I saw through my spy-hole Ruth

Granger go down the passage towards her husband’s study. For a moment I

hesitated; an outsider’s position is always awkward between husband and

wife. But one thing was very certain, those two were in no condition to

have another—and this time a private—interview. I opened my door

noiselessly and peered out. It struck me that if I heard things getting

too heated I should have to intervene. She was just opening the door of

his study as I looked along the passage, and then in a flash the whole

thing seemed to happen. The door shut behind her; there was a pause of

one—perhaps two seconds—and a revolver shot rang out, followed by the

sound of a heavy fall. For a moment I was stunned; then I raced along

the passage as hard as I could, and flung open the door of the study.

“On the floor lay Henry Granger, doubled up and sprawling, while in the

middle of the room stood his wife staring at him speechlessly. At her

feet on the carpet was a revolver, an automatic Colt. I stood there by

the door staring foolishly, and after a while she spoke.

“‘There’s been an accident,’ she whispered. ‘Is he dead?’

“I went up to the body and turned it over. Through the shirt front was a

small hole; underneath the left shoulder blade was another. Henry

Granger had been shot through the heart from point-blank range; death

must have been absolutely instantaneous.

“‘My God, Ruth!’ I muttered. ‘How did it happen?’

“‘Happen?’ she answered vaguely. ‘There was a man . . . the window.’

“And then she fainted. The butler, with a couple of footmen, by this

time had appeared at the door, and I pulled myself together.

“‘Her ladyship’s maid at once,’ I said. ‘Sir Henry has been shot. Ring

up a doctor, and ask him to come round immediately.’

“The butler rushed off, but I kept the two footmen.

“‘Wait a moment,’ I cried, picking up the revolver. ‘A man did it. Pull

back the two curtains by the window, and I’ll cover him.’

“They did as I told them, pulled back the two heavy black curtains that

were in front of the window. It was set back in a sort of alcove, and I

had the revolver ready pointed to cover the murderer. I covered empty

air; there was no one there. Then I walked over to the window and looked

out. It was wide open, and there was a sheer drop of forty feet to the

deserted area below. I looked upwards—I looked sideways: plain

brickwork without footing for a cat.”

“‘Go down to the room below,’ I cried; ‘he may have got in there.’

“They rushed away to come back and tell me that not only were the

windows bolted, but that they were shuttered as well. And I thought they

looked at me curiously.”

He paused to relight his cigar; then he continued thoughtfully:

“I don’t quite know when I first began to feel suspicious about this

mysterious man. The thing had been so sudden that for a while my brain

refused to work; then gradually my legal training reasserted itself, and

I started to piece things together. Ruth had come-to again, and I put

one or two questions to her. She was still very dazed, but she answered

them quite coherently:

“A man in evening clothes—at least, she thought he had on evening

clothes—had been in the room as she came in. She heard a shot; the

light went out and the window was thrown up. And then she had turned on

the light just before I came in to see her husband lying dead on the

floor. She knew no more. I suppose I must have looked a bit thoughtful,

for she suddenly got up from her chair and came up to me.

“‘You believe me, Bill, don’t you?’ she said, staring at me.

“‘Of course, of course,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘Go and lie down now,

Ruth, because we shall have to send for the police.’

“Without another word she left the room with her maid, and, after

telling the footmen to wait downstairs till they were wanted, I sat down

to think. Now, this isn’t a detective story; such as it is, it concerns

a more interesting study than the mere detection of crime. It concerns

the struggle in the soul of an upright man between love and duty. And

the man was Sir Edward Shoreham.

“Unknown to me she sent for him—asked him to come at once—and he came.

He was shown by the butler into the study, where I was still sitting at

the desk, and he stopped motionless by the door staring at the body,

which had not been moved. I was waiting for the doctor, and I got up

surprised.

“‘The butler told me he had been shot,’ he said a little jerkily. ‘How

did it happen?’

“‘I wasn’t expecting you, Sir Edward,’ I answered slowly. ‘But I’m glad

that you’ve come. I’d like another opinion.’

“‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Is there any mystery?’

“‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened as far as I know the facts,’ I

said. ‘Lady Granger and her husband had a very bad quarrel to-night.

Then she came to bed, and so did I. Shortly afterwards her husband came

along into this room. Now, my bedroom is in the passage you have just

come along, and about ten minutes after Sir Henry came in here, his wife

followed him. I opened my door, because I was afraid they might start

quarrelling again, and he had been drinking. I saw her come in; there

was a pause, and then a revolver shot rang out.’

“‘Was this door shut?’ he snapped.

“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘it was. I rushed along the passage and came in. I

found her standing, with the revolver at her feet, staring at her

husband, who was lying where he is now. She said: ‘There’s been an

accident.’ And then she muttered something about a man and the window

before she fainted. I went to the window, and there was no one there. I

looked out; will you do the same?’

“I waited while he walked over and looked out, and after what seemed an

interminable time he came back again.

“‘How long was it after the shot before you looked out?’ His voice was

very low as he asked the question.

“‘Not a quarter of a minute,’ I answered, and we both stood staring at

one another in silence.

“‘Good God!’ he said at length, ‘what are you driving at?’

“‘I’m not driving at anything, Sir Edward,’ I answered. ‘At least, I’m

trying not to drive at it. But the man is dead, and the police must be

sent for. What are we going to say?’

“‘The truth, of course,’ he answered instantly.

“‘Quite,’ I said slowly. ‘But what is the truth?’

“He turned very white, and leant against one of the old suits of armour,

of which the dead man had a wonderful collection all over the house.

“‘Did Lady Granger see this man go out of the window?’ he asked at

length.

“‘No, she only heard him open it. You see, she says he switched off the

light. It was on when I rushed in.’

“‘A rope,’ he suggested.

“‘Impossible in the time,’ I said; ‘utterly impossible. Such a

suggestion would be laughed out of court.’

“He came over and sat down heavily in a chair, and his face was haggard.

“‘Sir Edward,’ I went on desperately, ‘the doctor will be here shortly;

the police must be sent for. We’ve got to decide something. This man

didn’t go out by the door or I’d have seen him; only a fly could have

gone out by the window. We’ve got to face the facts.’

“‘You don’t believe there was a man here at all,’ he said slowly.

“‘Heaven help me! I don’t,’ I answered. ‘It’s all so easy to

reconstruct. The poor girl was driven absolutely desperate by what

happened to-night, and by the last thing he said to her after their

quarrel.’ I looked at him for a moment before going on. ‘He accused her

of being in love with you.’ I said it deliberately, and he caught his

breath sharply.

“‘Can’t you see it all?’ I continued. ‘She came in here, and she shot

him; and when she’d done it her nerves gave, and she said the first

thing to me that came into her head.’

“‘If you’re right,’ he said heavily, ‘it means that Ruth will be tried

for murder!’ He got up with his hands to his temples. ‘My God!

Stratton,’ he cried, ‘this is awful. Premeditated murder, too—not done

blindly in the middle of a quarrel, but a quarter of an hour after it

was over.’

“‘That’s how it would strike a jury,’ I answered gravely.

“‘Supposing she had done it suddenly, blindly’—he was talking half to

himself—‘snatched the revolver off the table as he tried to make love

to her, let’s say.’ And then he stopped and stared at me.

“‘Supposing that had happened, it would be better for her to say so at

once,’ I said.

“‘But it didn’t happen,’ he answered; ‘it couldn’t have.’

“‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It didn’t happen; it couldn’t have. But supposing it

had, Sir Edward, what then?’

“‘Stop, Stratton,’ he cried. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop!’

“‘There’s no good stopping,’ I said. ‘We haven’t any time for argument.

Your legal knowledge has suggested the same solution as occurred to me.

If _now_, at once, when we send for the police, she says it was an

accident—gives a complete story, chapter and verse——’

“‘Invents it, you mean,’ he interrupted.

“‘Call it what you like,’ I said, ‘but, unless she does that and

substantiates the story, she will be tried for the premeditated and

wilful murder of her husband. She’ll have to be tried anyway, but if she

makes a voluntary confession—makes a story out of it that will appeal

to sentiment—they will acquit her. It’s the only chance.’

“‘But it’s monstrous, man,’ he muttered—only now his eyes were fixed on

me questioningly.

“‘Look here, Sir Edward,’ I said, ‘let’s discuss this matter calmly.

Humanly speaking, we know what happened. Ruth came along that passage,

opened this door, and shot her husband dead through the heart—that is

the case as I should put it to the jury, the plain issue shorn of all

its trappings. What is going to be the verdict?’

“Shoreham plucked at his collar as if he were fighting for breath.

“‘If, on the other hand, the shot was not immediate—and I am the only

witness as to that; if I had heard his voice raised in anger; if he had

sprung at her, tried to kiss her, and she blindly, without thought, had

snatched up the first thing that came to her hand, the revolver, not

even knowing it was loaded—what then? The servants can be squared. She

was talking wildly when she mentioned this man—didn’t know what she was

saying. And then, when she got back to her room she realised that the

truth was best, and rang you up, a Judge. What better possible proof

could any jury have of her desire to conceal nothing? And you with your

reputation on the Bench——’

“‘Ah, don’t, don’t!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘You’re driving me mad!

You’re—you’re——!’

“‘Why, Ned, what’s the matter?’

“We both swung round. Ruth had come in, unnoticed by us, and was staring

at Shoreham with wonder in her eyes. Then, with a shudder, she stepped

past her husband’s body and came into the room.

“‘They’ve just told me you were here,’ she said, and then she gave a

little cry. ‘Ned, why are you looking like that? Ned! you don’t

think—you don’t think I did it?’

“She cowered back, looking first at him and then at me.

“‘You _can’t_ think I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I tell you there was a

man here—the man who shot him. Oh! they’ll believe me, won’t they?’

“‘Ruth,’ I said, ‘I want you to realise that we’re both of us your

friends.’ Which is the sort of fatuous remark one does make when the

tension is a bit acute. She never even glanced at me as I spoke; with a

sort of sick horror in her eyes, she was staring at Shoreham, and I

blundered on: ‘When you talked about this man you were

unnerved—distraught; you didn’t know what you were saying. We both

realise that. But now we’ve got to think of the best way of—of helping

you. You see, the police must be sent for—we ought to have sent for

them sooner—and——’

“She walked past me and went over to Shoreham.

“‘Do you believe I did it, Ned?’ she said quietly. ‘If I swear to you

that I didn’t—would that convince you?’

“‘But, Ruth,’ he cried desperately, ‘it isn’t me you’ve got to

convince—it’s the police. A man couldn’t have got out of that window in

the time. It’s a physical impossibility. If you told it to the police,

they’d laugh. Tell us the truth, my dear. I beseech you. Tell us the

truth, and we’ll see what can be done.’

“She stood very still, with her hands clenched by her sides. And then

quite deliberately she spoke to Shoreham.

“‘If you don’t believe there was a man here,’ she said, ‘you _must_

think I shot my husband. There was no one else who could have done it.

Well—supposing I did. You acknowledge no justification for such an

act?’

“I started to speak, but she silenced me with an imperative wave of her

hand.

“‘Please, Bill——Well, Ned—I’m waiting. If I did shoot him—what

then?’”

The Barrister paused to relight his cigar, and the others waited in

silence.

“She was staring at Shoreham,” he went on after a while, “with a faint,

half-mocking, wholly tender smile on her lips, and if either he or I had

been less dense that smile should have made us think. But at the moment

I was absorbed in the problem of how to save her; while she was absorbed

in a very different one concerning the mentality of the man she cared

for. And Shoreham—well, he was absorbed in the old, old fight between

love and duty, and the fierceness of the struggle was showing on his

face.

“There in front of him stood the woman he loved, the woman who had just

shot her husband, and the woman who was now free for him to marry. He

knew as well as I did that in adopting the line I had suggested lay the

best chance of getting her acquitted. He knew as well as I did that the

vast majority of juries would acquit if the story were put to them as we

had outlined it. He could visualise as well as I the scene in court.

Counsel for the defence—I’d already fixed on Grayson in my mind as her

counsel—outlining the whole scene: her late husband’s abominable

conduct culminating in this final outrage at her reception. And then as

he came to the moment of the tragedy, I could picture him turning to the

jury with passionate sincerity in his face—appealing to them as

men—happily married, perhaps, but men, at any rate, to whom home life

was sacred.

“I could hear his voice—low and earnest—as he sketched for them that

last scene. This poor, slighted, tormented woman—girl, gentlemen, for

she is little more than a girl—went in desperation to the man—well, he

is dead now, and we will leave it at that—to the man who had made her

life a veritable hell. She pleaded with him, gentlemen, to allow her to

divorce him—pleaded for some remnant of decent feelings in him. And

what was his answer—what was the answer of this devil who was her

husband? Did he meet her half-way? Did he profess the slightest sorrow

for his despicable conduct?

“No, gentlemen—not one word. His sole response was to spring at her in

his drunken frenzy and endeavour to fix his vile attentions on her. And

she, mad with terror and fright, snatched up the revolver which was

lying on the desk. It might have been a ruler—anything; she was not

responsible at the moment for what she did. Do you blame her, gentlemen?

You have daughters of your own. She no more knew what she had in her

hand than a baby would. To keep him away—that was her sole idea. And

then—suddenly—it happened. The revolver went off—the man fell dead.

“What did this girl do, gentlemen, after that? Realising that he was

dead, did she make any attempt to conceal what she had done—to conceal

her share in the matter? No—exactly the reverse. Instantly she rang up

Sir Edward Shoreham, whose views on such matters are well known to you

all. And then and there she told him everything—concealing nothing,

excusing nothing. Sir Edward Shoreham of all people, who, with due

deference to such a distinguished public man, has at times been regarded

as—well—er—not lenient in his judgments. And you have heard what Sir

Edward said in the box. . . .”

Once again the Barrister paused and smiled faintly.

“I’d got as far as that, you see, before Shoreham answered her. And he

had got as far as that, too, I think. He saw it all, built on a

foundation of lies—built on the foundation of his dishonour. No one

would ever know except us three—but that doesn’t make a thing easier

for the Edward Shorehams of the world.

“And then he spoke—in a low, tense voice:

“‘If you shot him, dear,’ he said, ‘nothing matters save getting you

off.’

“Some people,” pursued the Barrister, “might call it a victory—some

people would call it a defeat. Depends on one’s outlook; depends on how

much one really believes in the ‘Could not love you half so much, loved

I not honour more’ idea. But certainly the murderer himself was very

pleased.”

“The murderer?” cried the Ordinary Man sitting up suddenly.

“The murderer,” returned the Barrister. “That’s why I mentioned about my

cigarette-case this morning. He had been standing behind the suit of

armour in the corner the whole time. He came out suddenly, and we all

stared at him speechlessly, and then he started coughing—a dreadful

tearing cough—which stained his handkerchief scarlet.

“‘I must apologise,’ he said when he could speak, ‘but there was another

thing besides shooting Granger that I wanted to do before I died. That

was why I didn’t want to be caught to-night. However, a man must cough

when he’s got my complaint. But I’m glad I restrained myself long enough

to hear your decision, Sir Edward. I congratulate you on it.’

“‘You scoundrel!’ began Shoreham, starting forward, ‘why didn’t you

declare yourself sooner?’

“‘Because there’s another thing I wanted to do,’ he repeated wearily.

‘In Paris, in the Rue St. Claire, there lives a woman. She was beautiful

once—to me she is beautiful now. She was _my_ woman until——’ And his

eyes sought the dead body of Henry Granger.

“Ruth took a deep breath. ‘Yes—until?’ she whispered.

“‘Until he came,’ said the man gravely. ‘And God will decide between him

and me. But I would have liked to look on her once more, and hold her

hand, and tell her, yet again, that I understood—absolutely.’

“It was then Ruth Granger crossed to him.

“‘What is her name and the number of the house?’ she said.

“‘Sybil Deering is her name,’ he answered slowly, ‘and the number is

fourteen.’

“‘Will you leave it to me?’ she asked.

“For a moment he stared at her in silence, then he bowed.

“‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Lady Granger, and I hope you

will have all the happiness you deserve.’ He glanced at Shoreham and

smiled. ‘When a man loves everything else goes to the wall, doesn’t it?

Remember that in the future, Sir Edward, when they’re standing before

you, wondering, trying to read their fate. Someone loves them, just as

you love her.’”

The Barrister rose and drained his glass.

“And that is the conclusion of your suffering,” he remarked.

“Was the man hanged?” asked the Soldier.

“No, he died a week later of galloping consumption.”

“And what of the other two?” demanded the Actor.

“They married, and are living happily together to-day, doing fruit

farming as a hobby.”

“Fruit farming!” echoed the Doctor. “Why fruit farming?”

“Something to do,” said the Barrister. “You see, Sir Edward has never

tried another case. Some men are made that way.”

_III_ _The Doctor’s Story, being Sentence of Death_

“SOONER or later,” began the Doctor, settling himself comfortably in his

chair, “it comes to most of us. Sooner or later a man or a woman comes

to consult us on what they imagine to be some trifling malady, and when

we make our examination we find that it isn’t trifling. And occasionally

we find that not only is the matter not trifling, but that—well, you

all have seen Collier’s picture, ‘The Sentence of Death.’

“It’s a thing, incidentally, which requires careful thought—just how

much you will tell. Different people take things different ways, and

where it might be your duty to tell one man the half-truth, to another

it might be just as much your duty to lie. But broadly speaking, I,

personally, have always maintained that, unless the circumstances are

quite exceptional, it is a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth,

however unpleasant it may be. What would a man say if his lawyer or his

stockbroker lied to him?

“Which brings me to the opening of my story. It was in the May before

the War that a man came into my consulting-room—a man whom I will call

Jack Digby. I motioned him to a chair on the other side of my desk, so

placed that the light from the window fell on his face. I put him down

as a man of about three-and-thirty who was used to an outdoor life. His

face was bronzed, his hands were sunburnt, and the whole way he carried

himself—the set of his shoulders, the swing of his arms as he walked

across the room—indicated the athlete in good condition. In fact, he

was an unusual type to find in a Harley Street consulting-room, and I

told him so by way of opening the conversation.

“He grinned, a very pleasant, cheery grin, and put his hat on the floor.

“‘Just a matter of form, Doctor,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and

crossing his legs. ‘I’m thinking of entering for the matrimonial stakes,

and before saddling-up I thought I’d just get you to certify me sound in

wind and limb.’

“Now he spoke very easily and naturally, but something—I don’t quite

know what—made me look at him a little more closely. The study of human

nature is a vital necessity if the study of human ailments is to be

successful—and one gets plenty of opportunity for it if one is a

consulting physician. And I suddenly wondered if it was ‘just a matter

of form’ in his mind. The ordinary young, healthy man doesn’t usually

take the trouble to be overhauled by a doctor merely because he is going

to be married.

“However, at that stage of the proceedings my thoughts were my own, and

I answered him in the same vein. And while he was taking off his coat

and shirt we talked casually on various topics. Then I started my

examination. And within half a minute I knew that something was very,

very wrong.

“‘I would like you to take off your vest, please, Mr. Digby,’ I said,

and for a moment he stared at me in silence. I was watching him quietly,

and it was then I knew that my first surmise was correct. In his eyes

there was a look of dreadful fear.

“He stripped his vest off, and I continued my examination. And after I’d

finished I walked over to my desk.

“‘You can put on your clothes again,’ I said gravely, to swing round as

I felt his hand like a vice on my shoulder.

“‘What is it?’ he muttered. ‘Tell me.’

“‘It was not altogether a matter of form with you, was it, Mr. Digby?’ I

answered. ‘Put on your clothes; I want to ask you a few questions.’

“‘Hang it, man!’ he cried. ‘I can’t wait. What have you found?’

“‘I would like to have another opinion before telling you.’ I was

fencing for time, but he was insistent.

“‘You can have another opinion—you can have fifty other opinions,’ he

cried, still gripping me by the shoulder—‘but I want to know what you

think _now_. Can I marry?’

“‘You cannot,’ I said gravely, and his hand fell to his side. Then he

slowly walked across the room and stood with his back to me, staring out

of the window. Once his shoulders shook a little, but except for that he

stood quite motionless. And after a while he picked up his clothes and

started to dress.

“I said nothing until he had finished; with a man of his type talking is

a mistake. It was not until he again sat down in the chair opposite me

that I broke the silence.

“‘You asked me a specific question, Mr. Digby,’ I said quietly, ‘and I

answered as a man of your type would like to be answered. But I now want

to modify my reply slightly. And I will put it this way. If I had a

daughter, I would not allow a man whose heart was in the condition that

yours is to marry her. It would not be fair to her; it would certainly

not be fair to any possible children.’

“He nodded gravely, though he didn’t speak.

“‘You feared something of this sort when you came to me?’ I asked.

“‘My mother died of it,’ he answered quietly. ‘And once or twice lately,

after exercise, I’ve had an agonising twinge of pain.’ And then, under

his breath, he added: ‘Thank God, she doesn’t know!’

“‘But I would like another opinion,’ I continued. ‘There are men, as you

know, who are entirely heart specialists, and I will give you the

address of one.’

“‘Confirmation of the death sentence,’ he laughed grimly. ‘No

saddling-up for me—eh, Doctor?’

“‘Not as you are at present, Mr. Digby.’ I was writing the address of

the biggest heart man on a piece of paper, though I felt it was useless.

It didn’t require an expert to diagnose this trouble.

“‘Is there any chance of getting better?’ he cried eagerly, and I

stopped writing and looked at him. There was hope—a dawning hope in his

eyes—and for a moment I hesitated.

“My own opinion was that there was no chance: that he might, with care

and luck, live for two or three years—perhaps more—but that he might

equally well drop dead at any moment. It was enough—that momentary

hesitation; the eager look in his eyes faded, and he sat back wearily in

his chair.

“‘Don’t bother,’ he said slowly; ‘I see how it is.’

“‘No, you don’t, Mr. Digby,’ I answered. ‘You see how I think it is.

Which is an altogether different matter. There is always a chance.’

“‘That’s juggling with words,’ he said, with a twisted little smile.

‘The great point is that I’m not in a position to ask this girl to marry

me.’

“He glanced at the slip of paper I handed to him, then he rose.

“‘I would like you to go and see him,’ I said quietly. ‘You see I feel

the gravity of what I’ve had to tell you this morning very much, and in

fairness to myself as well as to you, my dear fellow, I’d like you to go

to Sir John.’

“For a few seconds he stood there facing me, then he grinned as he had

done at the beginning of the interview.

“‘All right, Doctor,’ he cried. ‘I’ll go, and Sir John shall drive the

nail right in.’

“‘I’m sorry,’ I said—‘infernally sorry. You’ve taken it, if I may say

so, like a very brave man.’

“He turned away abruptly. ‘What the deuce is the good of whining?’ he

cried. ‘If it’s the same as in my mother’s case, the end will be very

abrupt.’

“The next moment he was gone—a man under sentence of death. And the

pitiful tragedy of it hit one like a blow. He was so essentially the

type of man who should have married some charming girl and have

children. He was just a first-class specimen of the sporting Englishman,

but——” The Doctor paused and looked at the Soldier. “The type that

makes a first-class squadron-leader,” and the Soldier nodded.

“It was in the afternoon,” continued the Doctor after a while, “that Sir

John Longworth rang me up. Digby had been to him, and the result was as

I expected. Two years, or possibly two days, and as for marriage, out of

the question entirely. He had merely confirmed my own diagnosis of the

case, and there for a time the matter rested. In the stress of work Jack

Digby passed from my mind, until Fate decreed that we should meet again

in what were to prove most dramatic circumstances.

“It was two months later—about the beginning of July—that I decided to

take a short holiday. I couldn’t really spare the time, but I knew that

I ought to take one. So I ran down for a long week-end to stop with some

people I knew fairly well in Dorsetshire. They had just taken a big

house a few miles from Weymouth, and I will call them the Maitlands.

There were Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, and a son, Tom, up at the ’Varsity,

and a daughter, Sybil. When I arrived I found they had a bit of a

house-party, perhaps a dozen in all, and after tea the girl, whom I’d

met once or twice before, took me round the place.

“She was a charming girl, very, very pretty, of about twenty-two or

three, and we chattered on aimlessly as we strolled through the gardens.

“‘You’re quite a big party,’ I laughed, ‘and I thought I was coming for

a quiet week-end.’

“‘We’ve got two or three more arriving to-night,’ she said. ‘At least I

think so. One of them is a most elusive person.’ She was staring

straight in front of her as she spoke, and for the moment she seemed to

have forgotten my existence.

“‘Male or female—the elusive one?’ I asked lightly.

“‘A man,’ she answered abruptly, and changed the conversation.

“But being an old and wary bird, I read into her harmless remark a

somewhat deeper significance than was perhaps justified, and it struck

me very forcibly that if I were the man I would not be elusive in the

circumstances. She surely was most amazingly pretty.”

“With great deductive ability,” murmured the Actor, as the Doctor paused

to refill his pipe, “we place the elusive man as Jack Digby.”

“You go to blazes!” laughed the teller of the story. “I haven’t got to

that yet. Of course you’re quite right—he was; though when I found it

out a little later it came as a complete surprise to me. I’d almost

forgotten his existence.

“It was her father who first mentioned his name. I was having a sherry

and bitters with him in his study before going up to dress for dinner,

and the conversation turned on the girl. I think I said how

extraordinarily pretty I thought she was, and remarked that I supposed

somebody would soon be walking off with her.

“Joe Maitland’s face clouded a little.

“‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘both her mother and I have been

expecting it for some time. A most charming man, and Sybil is in love

with him, I’m sure. We all thought that he was in love with her,’ and

then he exploded—‘damn it, it isn’t a question of thinking, I _know_

he’s in love with her! And for some extraordinary reason he won’t tell

her so. He’s kept away from her for the last two months, after having

lived in her pocket. And he’s not the type that monkeys round and makes

a girl fond of him for no reason. He’s coming here to-night, and——’

“My host, still frowning slightly, lit a cigarette. So evidently this

was the elusive man, I thought, putting down my glass. It was no

business of mine, and then suddenly I stood very still as I heard him

speak again.

“‘Jack Digby is as white as they’re made,’ he was saying, but I didn’t

hear any more. Luckily my back was towards him, so he couldn’t see my

face. Jack Digby! Poor devil! With Sybil Maitland, the girl, in his

mind, the blow I’d given him must have been even crueller than I’d

thought. And what a strange coincidence that I should be going to meet

him again in such circumstances. Maitland was still rambling on, but I

was paying no attention to him. I could, of course, say nothing unless

Digby gave me permission; but it struck me that if I told him how the

land lay—if I told him that not only was his silence being completely

misconstrued, but that it was making the girl unhappy, he might allow me

to tell her father the truth. After all, the truth was far better; there

was nothing to be ashamed of in having a rotten heart.

“And it was just as I had made up my mind to see Digby that night that

the door opened and Tom, the boy, came in. I hadn’t seen him since he

was quite a child, and the first thing that struck me about him was that

he was almost as good-looking as his sister. He’d got the same eyes, the

same colouring, but—there was the devil of a but. Whereas his sister

gave one the impression of being utterly frank and fearless, the boy

struck me immediately as being the very reverse. That he was the apple

of his mother’s eye, I knew—but that signifies nothing. Thank God!

mothers are made that way. And as I stood watching him talking to his

father I recalled certain vague rumours that I’d heard recently and had

paid scant attention to at the time. Rumours of wild extravagance up at

Oxford—debts well into the four figures. . . . They came back to my

mind, those idle bits of gossip, and they assumed a definite

significance as I studied the boy’s face. It was weak—utterly weak; he

gave one the impression of having no mental or moral stamina whatever.

He poured himself out a glass of sherry, and his hand wasn’t quite

steady, which is a bad sign in a boy of under twenty-one. And he was a

little frightened of his father, which is bad in a boy of any age when

the father is a man like Joe Maitland. And that wasn’t all, either.

There was something more—something much bigger on his mind: I was sure

of it. There was fear in his heart; you could see it lurking round his

eyes—round his mouth. I glanced at Joe, but he seemed quite oblivious

of it, and then I left them and went up to dress for dinner. I remember

wondering as I turned into my room whether the boy had got into another

scrape—then I dismissed him from my mind. Jack Digby was a more

interesting and more pressing problem.

“I met him in the hall as I came down, and he gave a sudden start of

astonishment.

“‘Why, Doctor,’ he said quietly as we shook hands, ‘this is a surprise.

I’d no idea you were to be here.’

“‘Nor I that you were coming,’ I answered, ‘until Mr. Maitland happened

to mention it a little while ago.’

“‘You haven’t said anything to him, have you?’ he cried anxiously.

“‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘you ought to know that doctors don’t.’ He

muttered an apology, and I went on: ‘You know, Digby, I can’t help

thinking you’re making a mistake in not telling the truth.’

“He shook his head vigorously. ‘I’m sure I’m not,’ he answered. ‘The

mistake I’ve made has been in coming here at all. I haven’t seen her

since the day—when you told me. And I oughtn’t to have come now. It’s

the last—I swear that. I couldn’t help it; I had to see her once again.

I’m going to Africa in August—big game shooting.’

“I stared at him gravely, and after a while he went on:

“‘No one knows better than you,’ he said gravely, ‘my chance of

returning. And when I don’t come back—she’ll forget me.’ I saw his

hands clench at his side. ‘But if I tell her now—why, she’ll want me to

stop in England—to go to specialists—to eke out life to the full two

or three years. It’ll be hell—hell! Hell for both of us. Every day

she’ll be wondering if she is going to hear I’m dead; it’ll ruin her

life. Whereas Africa, if she doesn’t know about my heart, will be

sudden. You see, Doctor, she is the only one to be considered—the only

one.’

“I drew a deep breath; truly Joe Maitland had been right. This man was

white clean through. And then he gave a little choking gasp, and,

turning round, I saw the girl coming towards us across the hall.

“‘I didn’t know you’d come, old man,’ I heard her say, and then I moved

away and left them. It was one of those occasions when you say it’s the

smoke that has got into your eyes—and you lie.”

For a while the Doctor was silent; then he gave a short laugh.

“They sat next to one another at dinner, opposite me, and I’m afraid my

partner must have thought I was a little wanting in intellect. They were

such a perfectly ideal couple; and I noticed old Joe Maitland watching

them every now and then. But gradually, as the meal progressed, a

puzzled look began to creep into the girl’s eyes, and once she bit her

lip suddenly and turned abruptly to the man on her other side. It was

then that Digby looked across the table at me, and in that moment I

realised that he was right. For him to remain in England would be

impossible for both of them; the end, quick and sudden in an African

jungle—if he ever got as far—was the only way out.

“‘My God! Doctor,’ he said as he came round and sat down next to me

after the ladies had gone, ‘I knew I was a fool to come, but I didn’t

think it was going to be as bad as this.’

“‘When are you going to start?’ I asked.

“‘As soon as I can get things fixed up at home, here, and make some sort

of arrangements for carriers and people the other end. One must act, I

suppose, even though it’s the last appearance.’ He gave a mirthless

laugh. ‘I’ve always wanted to go South from Khartoum—I wonder how far

I’ll get.’ Then he began to drum on the table with his fingers. ‘And

what I wonder still more,’ he went on slowly, ‘is how in Heaven’s name

I’ll get through this evening. You see, though I didn’t actually propose

in so many words before I came to see you, I’d—I’d let things drift to

such a position that a proposal was hardly necessary. That’s the devil

of it. . . . She knows I worship the ground she walks on—and I know she

cares too.’

“‘How long are you going to stop here?’ I asked.

“‘I accepted for the week-end,’ he said abruptly. ‘I shall go first

thing to-morrow. I can’t stand it.’

“At that we left it, and I didn’t speak to him again until the thing

occurred which even now—though seven years have slipped by—is as

clearly imprinted on my brain as if it had happened last night.

“I couldn’t sleep very well that night, and at about two I switched on

my light, with the idea of reading. I was just reaching out for a book

when I heard the sound of voices from a room almost opposite. I listened

for a moment, then I got up and went to the door. For the voices were

excited and angry; something unusual was evidently happening. For a

moment or two I hesitated; then I slipped on a dressing-gown and looked

out. Across the passage the door of a room was open, and through it the

light was streaming out. And then I heard Joe Maitland speak, and his

words literally rooted me to the ground with amazement.

“‘So, Mr. Digby, you’re just a common damned thief. The gentleman

crook—what? The amateur cracksman. That’s what they call them on the

stage, I believe. Sounds better. But I prefer the more homely name of

thief.’

“It was then that I appeared in the door, and Maitland swung round.

“‘Oh, it’s you, is it, Tranton?’ He had a revolver in his hand, and he

lowered it when he saw who it was. ‘A pretty tableau, isn’t it? It

appears that a second edition of—what was the gentleman’s

name—Raffles, wasn’t it?—has been honouring me with his presence.

Unfortunately, Tom and I both happened to hear him.’

“But I was paying no attention to what he was saying; my eyes were fixed

on Digby and—Tom. Digby, with a quiet smile on his face and his hands

in his pockets, was standing beside an open safe. He was still in

evening clothes, and once he glanced my way. Then he looked back again

at his host, and I looked at Tom. He was in his dressing-gown, and he

was shivering as if he had the ague. He was standing close to his

father, and a little behind him—and Joe Maitland was too engrossed with

Digby to notice the condition he was in.

“‘Can you advance any reason, Mr. Digby,’ he demanded, ‘why I shouldn’t

call up the local police?’

“‘None whatever, Mr. Maitland,’ he answered gravely. ‘Your son caught me

fair and square.’

“And it seemed to me that Tom made an effort to speak, though no words

came from his lips.

“‘You damned scoundrel!’ cried Maitland. ‘You come to my house—you make

love to my daughter—and then you abuse my hospitality by trying to

steal my wife’s jewellery!’

“It was at that moment that the girl came in. I saw Digby catch his

breath and lean against the wall for support; then he straightened up

and faced his host again. Just once had he glanced at her, with her

glorious hair falling over her shoulders and a startled look of wonder

in her great eyes. Then resolutely he looked away.

“‘What’s happened, Daddy?’ she whispered. ‘I heard your voice and——’

“‘This has happened, my dear,’ said Maitland grimly. ‘We have been

privileged to discover Mr. Digby’s method of earning a livelihood.’ He

pointed to the open safe. ‘He apparently ingratiates himself with people

for the express purpose of stealing their valuables. In other words, a

common thief.’

“‘I don’t believe it!’ she flashed out, imperiously. ‘Jack—a thief! How

can you say such a thing?’

“‘Then may I ask what he was doing when your brother discovered him by

the open safe? Besides, he admits it himself.’

“‘Jack!’ The cry seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. ‘Say

it’s a lie!’

“For one second he hesitated; then he spoke quite steadily, though he

didn’t look at her.

“‘I am afraid, Miss Maitland—that I can’t say it’s untrue.’

“And then there fell one of those silences that can be felt. She was

staring at Jack Digby, was the girl—staring at him with a great

amazement dawning on her face.

“‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘look at me!’

“He raised his eyes and looked at her, and a little pulse was beating

just above his jaw. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, she

gave a little laugh that was half a sob and turned away.

“‘I see,’ she said below her breath. ‘I see.’

“But what it was she saw, I didn’t at the moment realise. It was to be

made clear a little later.”

The Doctor paused and threw a log on the fire.

“Yes, I found out later what she thought,” he went on after a while,

“and for the first and probably the last time in my life I was guilty of

a breach of professional confidence. It was about half an hour later

that I went round to Jack Digby’s room. Maitland, after thinking it

over—and it is possible that I had something to do with his

decision—had dismissed the idea of sending for the police. Digby was to

clear out by the first train next morning, and was never to make an

attempt to communicate with the girl again. And Jack Digby had bowed in

silence and gone to his own room. He wouldn’t look at me as he passed; I

think he knew that he hadn’t deceived me.

“He was sitting by the open window when I went in, still in his evening

clothes, and he looked round with a start as I entered. His face was

drawn and grey.

“‘My dear chap,’ I said, before he could speak, ‘is it worth while?’

“‘I don’t understand what you mean, Doctor,’ he said slowly.

“‘Oh, yes, you do!’ I answered. ‘You deceived Mr. Maitland all

right—you didn’t deceive me. It was Tom who opened the safe—not you.’

“For a moment I thought he was going to deny it; then he gave a little

mirthless laugh.

“‘Perfectly correct,’ he said. ‘As you say, it was Tom who opened the

safe. I caught him absolutely in the act. And then Mr. Maitland came.’

“‘But—good God!’ I cried, ‘what an unutterable young waster he must be

to let you shoulder the blame!’

“Digby faced me steadily. ‘I made him. You see, I saw it was the chance

I had been looking for.’

“‘You mean you told him about your heart?’

“‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘But I told him I was entangled with another

woman, and that the best way of saving his sister’s feelings was to let

her think——’

“And then the boy broke down utterly. With his hands on my shoulders he

stood there facing me, and he made me swear I wouldn’t tell the girl.

“‘She must never know, Doctor. I’ve done it for her. She must never

know.’

“And even as he spoke, the words died away on his lips, and he stood

motionless, staring past me at the door. Without looking round I knew

what had happened—I could smell the faint scent she used.

“‘What have you done for me, Jack, and why must I never know?’

“She came steadily up to him, and his hands fell to his side.

“‘Why, you’ve been crying, dear,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

“True to his purpose, he started some fantastic story about sorrow at

having been found out, but she cut him short.

“‘Don’t lie, Jack—not now,’ she whispered. ‘I know it wasn’t you who

opened the safe. I know it was Tom. But what I want to know is why you

said you did it.’

“It was then I made up my mind.

“‘I’m going to tell her, Digby, whether you like it or not,’ and she

looked at me quickly. He didn’t say anything; things had got beyond him.

And very briefly I told her the truth about his heart.

“She listened to me in absolute silence, and when I’d finished she just

turned round to him and held out both her arms.

“‘Thank God! I know, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was

because you’d got fond of another woman. I thought—oh! Heaven knows

what I thought! But now—oh! you stupid, wonderful boy!’

“I went to the window and looked out! It must have been five minutes

later that I found the girl at my side.

“‘Is it absolutely hopeless?’ she asked.

“‘Humanly speaking,’ I answered, ‘yes.’

“‘How long?’ and she put her hand on my arm.

“‘Two days; two months; at the utmost, two years,’ I said gravely.

“‘And why shouldn’t I look after him for those two years?’ she demanded

fiercely.

“‘I’m thinking of a possible child,’ I said quietly, and she began to

tremble a little.

“‘That’s ridiculous,’ she cried—‘quite ridiculous.’”

The Doctor was carefully cleaning out the bowl of his pipe. “In the

morning Jack Digby had gone, leaving behind him a note for her. She

showed it to me later.

“‘The Doctor is right, my darling,’ it ran. ‘It’s just Fate, and there’s

not much use kicking. I’m glad though that you know the truth—it helps.

Good-bye, dear heart. God bless you.’”

The Doctor paused.

“Is that all?” said the Ordinary Man.

“Very nearly,” answered the Doctor. “I had been right when I said two

months, only the cause of death was not what I expected. How he got

across the water so soon I don’t know. But he did—in a cavalry

regiment. And he stopped one—somewhere up Ypres way.”

“And the girl?” asked the Soldier.

“Has not got over it yet,” said the Doctor.

“And did she ever hear from him again?” demanded the Barrister.

“Once, from France. Written just before—the end. She didn’t show me

_that_ one. Pass the whisky, Actor-man. Talking makes one’s throat

infernally dry.”

_IV_ _The Ordinary Man’s Story, being The Pipes of Death_

“ANY of you know Burma?” asked the Ordinary Man, putting out his hand

for the tobacco-jar.

“I’ve been there,” grunted the Soldier. “Shooting. Years ago. West of

the Irawadi from Rangoon.”

“It’s years since I was there, too,” said the Ordinary Man. “More than a

score. And if I wasn’t so beastly fat and lazy I’d like to go back for a

visit. Only a visit, mind you. I’ve got to the time of life when I find

that London is quite good enough for my needs. But the story which I

propose to inflict on you fellows to-night concerns Burma, and delving

into the past to get the details right has brought the fascination of

the place back to me.

“I was about thirty-five at the time—and my benevolent Aunt Jane had

not then expired and endowed me with all her worldly goods. I was

working for a City firm who had considerable interests out

there—chiefly teak, with a strong side-line in rubies.

“At that time, as you may know, the ruby mines in the Mandalay area were

second to none, and it was principally to give my employers a report on

the many clashing interests in those mines that I went back to England

after a few months in the country. And it was in their office that I met

a youngster, who had just joined the firm, and who, it turned out, was

going out to Burma on the same boat as myself. Jack Manderby was his

name, and I suppose he must have been ten or eleven years younger than

I. He was coming to my district, and somewhat naturally I was a bit

curious to see what sort of a fellow he was.

“I took to him from the very first moment, and after we’d lunched

together a couple of times my first impression was strengthened. He was

a real good fellow—extraordinarily good-looking and straight as a die,

without being in the least degree a prig.

“We ran into a good south-westerly gale the instant we were clear of the

Isle of Wight, which necessitated a period of seclusion on my part. In

fact, my next appearance in public was at Gibraltar.

“And the first person I saw as I came on deck was Jack Manderby. He was

leaning over the side bargaining with some infernal robber below, and at

his side was a girl. In the intervals of haggling he turned to her, and

they both laughed; and as I stood for a few minutes watching them, it

struck me that Master Jack had made good use of the four days since we

left England. Then I strolled over and joined them.

“‘Hullo, old man!’ he cried, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Is the rumour

correct that you’ve been engaged in research work below, and had given

orders not to be disturbed?’

“‘Your vulgar jests leave me unmoved,’ I answered with dignity. ‘At any

rate, I appear to have arrived in time to save you being robbed. That

man is a thief and the son of a thief, and all his children are

thieves.’

“Jack laughed; then he swung round to the girl.

“‘By the way, you haven’t met Mr. Walton, have you? This is Miss

Felsted, old boy, who is going out to Rangoon.’

“We shook hands, and no more was said at the time. But one thing was

definitely certain. Whatever the girl was going to Rangoon for, the gain

was Rangoon’s. She was an absolute fizzer—looked you straight in the

face with the bluest of eyes that seemed to have a permanent smile

lurking in them. And then, suddenly, I noticed her left hand. On the

third finger was a diamond ring. It couldn’t be Jack she was engaged to,

and I wondered idly who the lucky man was. Because he was

lucky—infernally lucky.

“I think,” continued the Ordinary Man, pulling thoughtfully at his pipe,

“that I first began to scent complications at Malta. We landed there for

a few hours, and the idea was that Miss Felsted, Jack, and I should

explore Valetta. Now, I don’t quite know how, but we got separated. I

spent a pleasant two hours with a naval pal in the Union Club, while

Jack and the girl apparently went up by the narrow-gauge railway to

Citta Vecchia, in the centre of the island. And since no one in the full

possession of their senses would go on that line for fun, I wondered. I

wondered still more when they came back to the ship. Jack was far too

open and above-board to be very skilful at hiding his feelings. And

something had happened that day.

“Of course, it was no concern of mine. Jack’s affairs were entirely his

own; so were the girl’s. But a ship is a dangerous place sometimes—it

affords unequalled and unending opportunities for what in those days

were known as flirtations, and to-day, I believe, are known as ‘pashes.’

And to get monkeying round with another fellow’s fiancée—well, it leads

to complications generally. However, as I said, it was no concern of

mine, until it suddenly became so the evening before we reached Port

Said.

“I was talking to Jack on deck just before turning in. We were strolling

up and down—the sea like a mill-pond, and almost dazzling with its

phosphorescence.

“‘Is Miss Felsted going out to get married?’ I asked him casually.