"No." He pointed to the door, I opened it, and he went out. A cab was

waiting for him beside the pavement. The clock struck five as I shut

the door. At six o'clock I entered my little stronghold in Bruton

Street. At eight I descended the stairs, in all things my master's

double. In all things I declare advisedly, for warned by experience I

wore upon the thumb of my left hand just such a little finger-stall of

violet velvet as Sir William Dagmar used in order to conceal his

deformity whenever he went abroad. This was secured around my wrist

with an elastic band, and I took the precaution to stiffen its interior

with a thin ferrule, so that no involuntary working of the thumb joint

might betray me. For precaution's sake I carried a revolver, mastering

by an effort of will my natural repugnance for such gruesome

implements. I proceeded to the Heath by three different hansoms, and a

fourth conveyed me to my point of destination, a secluded little tree

sheltered spot at an angle of a lane about a hundred yards from the

gate of the Kingsmere Hospital for Consumptives. There I alighted, and

bidding the driver to await me, I hurried towards the hospital. The

gate upon the occasion of my first visit stood open; now it was shut,

but latched, not locked. I passed through and sought the house. It was

my opinion, from what I had observed, that all welcome visitors to that

building possessed master keys to the front door, and were accustomed

to enter unceremoniously. Unwilling to attract unnecessary attention to

myself, since I had no latch-key, I decided upon a rear attack. I

therefore passed down the side of the house and, flanking the sheds,

approached the kitchen door. It was shut, the window blinds were

closely drawn, but a light gleamed through the crevices. I rapped

gently on the panels once, twice, thrice, at short intervals. Upon the

third summons I heard the sound of cautiously drawn bolts, and the door

opened about four inches on a chain. A wrinkled grey-bearded face

peered out at me. "_Qui va la?_ Who is dare?" demanded a cracked voice,

its foreign accent in the English fairly rasping the evidently

unfamiliar words.

"It is I, my friend, Sir William Dagmar," I replied very softly in

French.

The old man immediately released the chain and threw the door wide.

"Enter, Monsieur," he said politely.

I did not require a second invitation, but before attending to me the

old man refastened the door. He then turned and looked at me

inquiringly. His expression was a curious combination of cunning and

intelligence. I saw at once that he was astonished at the manner of my

coming, and that he considered that he was entitled to an explanation.

"I wish to see Mademoiselle Le Mar, privately and quickly," I muttered

in his ear.

"But, Monsieur," he began.

I took a sovereign from my pocket and allowed him to perceive it. He

stopped dead in his speech and a greedy look came into his eyes.

"Contrive to let her know that I am here," I said quietly.

He nodded and hobbled out of the kitchen, making so little noise,

however, in his exit that I guessed he wore rubber-soled boots. Mine

were shod with felt. My object in sending for Marion Le Mar was to

obtain a guide over the house, a very important desideratum, since I

had never been inside its walls until that moment. I was kept waiting

about ten minutes, when the old fellow suddenly reappeared.

"Monsieur! She comes," he muttered, and stretched out a skinny paw for

the money.

I let it drop into his hand, and turned at a sound to behold standing

in the open doorway the woman I had seen in my master's company last

Sunday on the Heath. I had thought her beautiful on that occasion,

although her head and all the upper portion of her face were hidden

with a veil. Now I caught my breath, and for an instant dreamed I

looked upon a spirit from some other world. Her forehead was broad and

low; her head, exquisitely shaped, was covered with a glory of gleaming

gold which admirably contrasted with the dark and level pencilling of

her brows, and the russet flashing of her wonderful red-brown eyes. The

one weak spot in my composition is that I am the slave of female beauty

wherever found, and yet until that moment I had been wise enough to

worship the sex collectively. But standing in the doorway I recognized

my fate, and I bowed my head before her.

She advanced and offered me her hand. Only then I perceived that she

wore a uniform, a nurse's uniform; but that stiff apparel which makes

most women appear unlovely could not deny the expression of her charms.

"Monsieur," she whispered, "you sent for me."

"Yes, my child," I answered in still lower tones. I pressed her hand,

then let it fall, though I grieved to release it. "Where is Cavanagh?"

"Upstairs in the operating room with Dr. Fulton. I must be quick, for

they are almost ready to begin. Sir Charles has just arrived."

"Ah! so Cavanagh still persists. I had hoped to find it otherwise."

"Alas! Monsieur. I have begged him to go, but he had determined to see

all."

"In that case, for your sake, my child, I shall bear him company."

"What--you!"

"Yes, Marion! You have work to do, and he may need my care!"

She gazed at me a moment with a look of passionate gratitude, then of a

sudden, stooping low, she caught and kissed my hand. It tingled for

days afterwards.

"Heaven bless you, Monsieur!" she cried, her whole face radiant. "Come,

then, and we shall go to them. Sir Charles will be enchanted, for he

hates that George should be present, since we have no one to spare who

might attend him if the poor boy should feel ill or swoon. If that

should happen, Monsieur, you will take him away at once; is it not so?"

"Immediately, my child."

It seemed that there no longer existed any reason why we should

converse in whispers, and we did not. Indeed, my beautiful conductress

filled the journey with gay chatter and musical ripples of laughter.

Evidently, thought I, she must love Cavanagh already to distraction,

when the small courtesy I have proposed can inspire her with such happy

spirits. Absurd as it may appear, I began to feel jealous of Cavanagh

already, although Marion had never seen me in my proper person, and was

no doubt unaware of my existence. She led me down a spacious hall

carpeted with oil cloth, and up a staircase that was not carpeted at

all, to the floor above. We passed down a corridor and stopped at the

third closed door, from beneath which exuded a long narrow bar of

brilliant white light. Her manner while ascending the stairs had

gradually calmed, but she was still excited, and she opened the door

with a burst of informing words pouring from her lips. Never shall I

forget that moment. I glanced in with a face that I flatter myself was

expressionless to the perfection of indifference, and I took care to

make my lip curl in Sir William Dagmar's characteristic aspect of

querulous cynicism. But in truth my every sense was awake and

poignantly acquisitive. The apartment was large, full thirty feet

square. It contained two operating benches placed within easy distance.

The upper slab of one was absent; upon the other lay a squat, bulky

figure, strapped into position and covered with a sheet. Above each

table depended from the ceiling a perfect swarm of incandescent lamps,

each furnished with a powerful reflector which caught and cast the rays

of light upon the bench beneath. Tables stood about the walls of the

room, at regular intervals, covered with all manner of basins,

batteries, knives, forceps, scissors, and other surgical instruments.

There was no other furniture except a solitary chair perched near the

door, upon which Mr. Cavanagh was seated. Sir Charles Venner and Dr.

Fulton, clad in clean white aprons and overalls, with their sleeves

rolled up and secured with bands above their bare elbows, stood beside

one of the tables steeping some ugly looking knives in a basin of

steaming fluid. At the end of the occupied operating bench stood two

full blood African negroes. Their appearance was not remarkable, and in

the glance I flashed upon them I could discover no point in which they

differed from any other negroes I had seen, except that like the

surgeons they were both attired in white. Mr. Cavanagh got to his feet

as we entered. His countenance was pale and tense. I perceived that he

was nervous, but he had evidently wound himself up to the highest pitch

of determination of which his nature was capable, and I thought it

probable, whatever the others expected, that he would comport himself

like a man. Marion addressed her announcement to the surgeons, but her

eyes were bent upon her lover, and to him in truth she spoke. She

lauded what she called my devotion to the skies, and to my surprise the

others appeared to accept me at her valuation.

Sir Charles Venner nodded commendingly. Dr. Fulton said, "It is

confoundedly good of you, Dagmar," and Mr. Cavanagh gave me a look of

earnest gratitude.

I dismissed the subject with a shoulder shrug, and asked Dr. Fulton to

assign me a position. He directed me to stand near Cavanagh until all

was ready. I obeyed, and for a space of some minutes I watched Marion,

who flitted about the place arranging certain instruments upon the

several tables, and wringing dripping sponges dry with antiseptic

towels.

When Sir Charles had completed his preparations, he turned to the

nearest negro. "Beudant," he said, "you may light the asbestos." He

spoke in French.

The fellow bowed and hurried to the fireplace. I saw a great flame

rise, which flushed the negro's glistening forehead with a crimson glow.

"Jussieu," said Sir Charles, "it is time!"

The second negro bowed and glided from the room, followed by Dr.

Fulton. Sir Charles dipped his hands into a basin of fluid offered him

by Marion, and wiped his fingers with a towel. Two minutes later a bell

tinkled, "Beudant," said the surgeon.

The negro bowed again like a slave to a lamp, and noiselessly departed.

Very soon I heard the dull tramp of slippered feet on the corridor

without. The door opened, and the negroes re-entered the room bearing

between them a long slab, on which rested the inert figure of a young

man. He seemed about twenty-two years of age. His face was extremely

pale. His eyes were closed and his mouth was propped wide open with a

curious spring wedge. He was nude to the waist, but thence downwards

wrapped in an eiderdown shawl. His chest was narrow and his body

hideously emaciated. As his chest moved up and down under his deep

laboured breathing the ribs projected horribly, leaving dark hollows

between. He was strapped securely to the slab and in such a thorough

fashion that he could scarcely have moved a muscle howsoever much he

had been minded. But he was evidently unconscious, doubtless in an

anaesthetised sleep. This curious procession was followed by Dr. Fulton

and a tall elderly gentleman similarly apparelled to the surgeons. I

had never set eyes on him before. He had an eager, enthusiastic face.

His nose was very long; he had high cheek-bones and prominent grey eyes

full of a strange fanatical light. I put him down at one glance as a

devotee of science. Afterwards I discovered that his name was Vernet,

that he was a Frenchman, and resident house-surgeon to the hospital,

which in fact he owned.

He was the last to enter, and he closed and locked the door behind him.

The negroes advanced to the bench, and having deposited the slab with

its senseless burden, they moved over to the other operating table.

Already the room had become oppressively hot, and I noticed beads of

perspiration stand out on Sir Charles Venner's forehead as he bent to

examine his patient with a stethoscope. Dr. Fulton beckoned Cavanagh

and myself to approach, and by signs he directed us to stand at the

feet of the young man upon whom Sir Charles was about to operate. We

were thus quite out of the way of those who had work to do, but we

could see everything, and I desired no better vantage post. Dr. Fulton

stood behind the patient's head at the other end of the slab, holding

in one hand a large rubber face mask, in the other a large stoppered

phial, connected by a tube with the mask. Sir Charles Venner stood

beside the patient between the two operating benches; and beside him

was Dr. Vernet. Marion faced them from across the patient's body. She

held in one hand a sponge, in the other a basin.

Sir Charles Venner lost no time in proceeding to business, nor did he

give us the least warning of his intention. Casting his stethoscope

aside, he seized a small thin-bladed knife and applied its edge with a

free sweeping stroke, as an accomplished artist might draw a freehand

with a pencil, diagonally across the patient's third and fourth ribs,

within an inch of the breast bone. A thin streak of blood followed the

cut as quickly as thunder follows lightning. Marion instantly applied

her sponge to the wound, and the red line disappeared. The surgeon,

without pausing, made another swift incision at right angles to the

first along the third rib, and followed this with a third, parallel to

the first, some six inches apart. Marion pursued his cuts with her

sponge, dipping it each time into her basin, which doubtless contained

some powerful astringent drug, for the wounds once touched ceased to

bleed. Sir Charles Venner made some further rapid cuts, and with

inimitable dexterity he presently raised the flap of flesh and muscle

so detached by his knife from the patient's ribs, back across the

chest, and secured it there with a dart attached by a string to a

bandage passed about the subject's loins. With the speed of magic he

applied half a dozen tiny silver spring clips to the dripping flesh, in

order to secure the ruptured blood vessels. Dr. Vernet then handed him

a tiny razor bladed saw, with which, to my horror, he immediately

attacked the bared heaving ribs. The ghastly sight sickened me so much

that I closed my eyes, and for some minutes I fought like a tiger with

the weakness that threatened to undo me. The world was rocking,

rocking, ay, and beginning to swing. I should in the end probably have

fainted, but that my companion, Mr. Cavanagh, observing my condition of

a sudden pressed his handkerchief to my nostrils. I inhaled an

intoxicating, subtle, but most powerful reviving essence. Afterwards I

learned that Marion had supplied him with several capsules of nitrate

of amyl, of which he had himself already consumed more than one. I felt

the blood rush to my head and swell out my cheeks and scalp and skin.

The effect was magical. My weakness passed like a black dream, and with

restored courage I opened my eyes. There was now a gaping cavity in the

patient's breast, through which I could see at work the mysterious

machinery of life. The inner flap of the exposed lung had been uplifted

and secured aside with a ligature. Below panted and pulsed a crimson

and purple-coloured shapeless thing. It fascinated and at the same time

terrified me. With a frightful effort I tore my eyes away and looked at

Sir Charles. He was screwing a sharp-edged, curved hollow tube to the

end of a long and curiously fashioned syringe. This syringe was

furnished here and there with golden taps and tubes and tiny force

pumps. One tube stretched beyond the operator and ran to the other

operating table. I followed it with my eyes and saw that it terminated

in a long, thick, hollow needle which reposed in the hands of the negro

Beudant. The other negro, Jussieu, knife in hand, bent over an object

lying on the slab before him--the squat, bulky figure which had excited

my curiosity upon my entering the chamber, and which then had been

covered with a sheet. But the sheet had now vanished, and before and

exposed to my view lay an enormous ape, a chimpanzee I fancy, which was

strapped to the bench exactly in the same fashion and attitude as Sir

Charles Venner's patient. The ape's huge hairy breast was disfigured

with a square, bloody opening, but I saw that he was alive, for he

breathed. The negro Jussieu had evidently performed an operation on all

fours with that executed by Sir Charles Venner! The idea almost stunned

me. Jussieu was then a great surgeon, although a negro. Next instant I

considered the ape, and a panic horror almost overwhelmed me. George

Cavanagh was again my saviour. There came a sound of rushing waters to

my ears, and the room began to whirl and sway. On the very threshold of

oblivion once again the thin and penetrating flavour of the nitrate of

amyl restored to me my faculties. I buried my teeth in my lower lip and

cursed myself for a pitiful poltroon. I looked up to meet Marion's

eyes. She smiled at me so tender an encouragement that I turned cold

with shame; that she, a delicate woman, could bear unmoved a sight that

stole my manhood, fired my heart with more of rage than wonder, though

I wondered too. I fiercely resolved not to be weak again.

Until that moment the silence had been absolute, but of a sudden Sir

Charles spoke. "Wait for the systole, Vernet!"

I glanced down and saw Dr. Vernet insert his right hand into the hole

in the patient's breast. He was armed with a large, cup-shaped clasp.

He fumbled for a moment, and then, nodding his head, he withdrew his

hand.

Sir Charles threw Cavanagh a quick scornful glance. "Attend, if you

wish to understand," he commanded. "I'll try to be explicit!"

I looked for the first time at Cavanagh. He held a kerchief tightly to

his face, but his eyes, which I alone could see, were simply lurid.

"Go on!" he muttered in a muffled voice.

Sir Charles inserted the edged tube attached to the syringe with both

hands into the patient's breast.

"This is the right ventricle," he began, speaking in quick, disjointed

sentences. "Its function is to force the venous blood through the

pulmonary veins to the right auricle; thence to be distributed over the

body. I am now--about to--insert--a needle into the right ventricle

through the pericardium and walls. How is the pulse, Fulton?"

"Right, sir."

"Are you ready, Beudant, Jussieu?"

"At the word, sir," replied the negroes.

"Good!" exclaimed Sir Charles. "I am too!" He withdrew one hand from

the ghastly cavity and seized the syringe pump, which he began to

compress. "I am now forcing into our subject's right ventricle the

solution of my invention, which is destined to slay the tubercle

bacilli. In two seconds the lungs will be suffused with the fluid, and

in two minutes we shall have worked the miracle of absolutely

destroying every bacillus contained therein. But we shall also have

killed the patient's blood. See, it is already decomposing. Mark how

white the lung grows. To work, Jussieu!" he cried. "To work!"

"Ready, sir!" cried back the negro. I could not see what he did, but I

saw the tube connecting Sir Charles Venner's patient with the opposite

table suddenly rigidify as though a rod had been slipped down its

hollow interior.

"We are now correcting the solution's destructive action on our

subject's blood by forcing into his heart a fresh supply of living

arterial blood taken from the left auricle of the ape lying yonder,"

explained Sir Charles. "Vernet is meanwhile extracting our subject's

own decomposed and now useless blood, which is really blood no longer,

from the greater artery in his right leg. You see, Cavanagh, we have

established a perfect system of drainage. We are supplying good blood

and removing bad."

"My God!" cried Cavanagh. "It is white!"

His exclamation referred to Dr. Vernet's work. The French surgeon had

made a deep incision in the patient's right thigh, from which gushed a

steady fountain of yellow fluid.

"Shout when it colours, Vernet!" commanded Sir Charles.

I looked on, speechless with amazement, I had no longer the least

inclination to faint. Indeed, my whole soul was so steeped in wonder,

that I forgot I lived. I was merely a rapt acquisitive spirit being

initiated into the fundamental mysteries of nature by a great, indeed,

a giant intellect. Sir Charles Venner appeared to me then something

like a god. His left hand was plunged into the patient's breast,

perhaps grasping the heart, that seat of life. His right compressed and

controlled the movements of the syringe. His face gleamed like marble

in the brilliant white light of the reflectors. It was pale, composed,

expressionless, yet full of watchful intelligence and power. He stood

upon his feet as steady as a rock. Every moment he uttered some sharp,

pregnant direction to one or other of his assistants, which was at once

implicitly obeyed. "No greater man has ever lived!" thought I then, and

I have not altered my opinion since.

In about three minutes, though the period seemed longer to my

electrified imagination, I saw a red light flash into the milky

fountain that flowed under Dr. Vernet's guidance.

"Enough!" he cried.

"Good!" exclaimed Sir Charles.

The fountain stopped flowing on instant, for Dr. Vernet had squeezed

the artery between a pair of forceps, and with deft fingers he began to

bind it with a ligature of golden wire. I glanced from him to Sir

Charles. He was now bending closely above the cavity in the subject's

breast; the syringe had disappeared. He seemed to be sewing something

in the hollow, but I could distinguish nothing for blood. Marion's

sponge plied backwards and forwards with the regularity of a machine.

"What are you doing now?" cried a voice beside me, so harsh and

strained that I hardly recognized it.

"Sewing up the punctured ventricle," replied Sir Charles with a sort of

chuckle. "Some of your friends would be a bit surprised, eh, Cavanagh,

if you told them that you saw a doctor patch a man's heart with thread

and needle, as a sempstress might a rent gown!"

Cavanagh uttered a hollow groan, and I turned just in time to catch

him. He had swooned! I carried him to the other end of the room, where

I laid him down upon the floor and hurriedly unfastened his collar and

cravat. I was hot with rage, for I wished to witness the end of the

operation; but I dared not leave him because of Marion. Even as I knelt

to chafe his wrists, I heard Sir Charles address her sharply: "Now

then, Marion, attend to me. The young fool is all right. Dagmar will

look after him."

I managed to awaken Cavanagh at last with a capsule I found clutched in

his hand, but several precious minutes had been wasted, and we returned

to the table only in time to see Sir Charles sewing up with golden wire

the flap of muscle which had been the door of his more important work.

The operation was over. The negroes were already starting to remove the

carcase of the dead ape, whose life blood had been stolen to try and

prolong the existence of its fellow creature, man! The other surgeons

were grouped about the still living subject, but Sir Charles Venner was

no longer in command. Dr. Fulton now held supreme authority. He

occupied Venner's former post, and with one hand he fingered the

subject's now unfastened wrists, while in the other he grasped a small

hypodermic syringe. For some moments a deathly hush obtained, that was

but intensified by the slow and stertorous breathing of the patient on

the slab.

Dr. Fulton's expression was strained and passionately anxious. It

formed a curious contrast to Sir Charles Venner's stolid immobility.

The others watched him, not the patient. That is to say, all but

Marion. She had slipped an arm about George Cavanagh, and she was

tenderly supporting him, oblivious of everything else.

"Well?" asked Sir Charles at last.

I gasped with relief to hear his voice.

"Weaker; curse it!" replied Dr. Fulton.

"Inject?"

"No; last of all. The battery, quick, the glass stool!"

Sir Charles and Dr. Vernet darted off. Sir Charles returned with a

glass bench, which he placed upon the floor at Fulton's feet, and upon

which Fulton immediately stepped. Dr. Vernet stopped beside a distant

table and began to pull out something that looked like a cylinder from

the side of a huge wooden box. We heard the rapidly intermittent

clicking sound of the working battery at once.

"Stop!" shouted Fulton.

I saw the patient's legs twitch and draw up half way to his stomach,

and his arms spasmodically jerk.

This was repeated a dozen times in as many seconds, but gradually the

motions ceased.

"Awaken him!" commanded Dr. Fulton.

Sir Charles applied a small phial to the patient's nostrils. After a

while the poor fellow turned his head aside as though unconsciously

trying to escape a torture. But the phial followed him remorselessly,

and presently he moaned. Sir Charles at once removed the spring wedge

from his mouth. His teeth clicked, shut, and he uttered a heartrending

gurgling groan.

"More battery!" shouted Fulton. "Softly, softly!"

The patient's muscles jerked again, but less violently than before. He

tossed and turned his head, trying vainly to escape the phial; thus for

a moment, then of a sudden his eyes opened and he gazed about him.

"Stop battery!" cried Dr. Fulton. "Marion, come here!"

The girl left her lover and hurried forward. She stooped over the

patient and looked into his eyes. "Ah, my poor fellow!" she murmured

soothingly in English, "you are awake at last, I see. It is all over

now--all over--nothing more to fear now. Soon you will be well and

strong. Stronger than you have ever been in your life before--for you

are cured."

He looked up at her with a dull, vacant stare, then uttered a little

gasp of pain, for Dr. Fulton had plunged the hypodermic needle in his

arm.

The injection's effect was miraculous. Within three minutes his face

flushed crimson, his dull eyes brightened, and he actually attempted to

sit up. Marion, however, gently pressed him back, but she allowed his

head to rest upon her arm.

"I--I--feel fine!" he gasped.

"Hush!" said Marion; "you must not talk. You must be very good and keep

still, for that is the only way you can get better."

Sir Charles Venner pressed a glass into her hand.

"Try and drink this," she proceeded. "It is not medicine, only a little

brandy and water. Ah! that's right. You'll do splendidly now. There, my

boy, shut your eyes, and try to sleep. You'll soon sleep, and you'll

wake well and strong."

The poor lad obeyed her, and he seemed to sleep immediately, but

Marion's prophecy was not fulfilled. He never opened his eyes again.

For a long hour we watched him, the hearts of us all racked with

anxiety. Every few minutes Dr. Fulton injected some drug into his arm,

and by degrees the full force of the battery was applied. But all in

vain.

"He is dead!" said Dr. Fulton at last, stepping dejectedly from the

glass stool. "Turn off the battery, Vernet, please."

"Our nineteenth failure!" observed Sir Charles Venner, folding his arms

and looking down at the corpse with a face of stone. "And they have all

died of shock. Nothing else."

Mr. Cavanagh started forward. "How can you be sure of that?" he

demanded. "How do you know that your accursed solution did not poison

him?" The young man's face was the hue of ivory, but his big eyes were

ablaze with passion.

Sir Charles Venner gave a wintry smile. "We have proved it beyond

doubt," he replied. "We have tested the blood a hundred times."

"Bah!" retorted Cavanagh with a savage sneer. "A fig for your tests.

But even if they are reliable, how do you know that he did not bleed to

death from the wound you made in his heart?"

"Test again, autopsy. Would you care to see? Look here!" He caught up a

knife and approached the corpse. "I'm willing, Cavanagh, to bet you a

thousand pounds that not one drop of blood has passed my puncture in

the ventricle!"

"Done!"

"Venner," cried Dr. Fulton, "Venner, you are betting on a certainty."

"Then I'll pay the stake I win to any charity you like to name." Sir

Charles Venner bent over the body, but even as he poised the knife to

cut, Mr. Cavanagh cried out in strangled tones: "Stop! I--I withdraw."

Venner looked up with a cold sneering laugh. "Then pay!" said he.

"No--no! I--I--can't afford it." Mr. Cavanagh put his right hand into

his breast pocket. His countenance was perfectly livid. He stepped back

a pace and looked at Marion.

"George!" she cried, "what ails you, dear?" She was trembling like a

leaf in the wind.

"Life!" he answered, and uttered a laugh that still echoes in my ears.

Next instant he produced a revolver and before our eyes put the muzzle

to his mouth. There followed a click, a sharp report, and he fell at

our feet a corpse.

There are periods of crisis in human happenings when a cycle of years

may be compressed into a few minutes of ordinary time, and such a

period was that which succeeded the tragedy I have described. I felt my

soul grow cold and hard and more old than all my previous life had made

it. I stood like a frozen image gazing at the artist's clay, waiting in

an agony of expectation for Marion to scream. But she made no cry, and

after a long, most dreadful pause, something impelled me to look at

her. She was swaying to a fall and already insensible. I took her in my

arms and bore her senseless body from the awful room. At the door,

however, I was obliged to halt, for the threshold was occupied with the

two negroes and the wrinkled old woman I had seen in the kitchen the

first night I had visited the hospital. They were transfixed with

horror, and I had to force a passage for my burden. In doing so,

involuntarily I turned. Dr. Fulton was kneeling beside Mr. Cavanagh

examining his wound. Sir Charles Venner stood at a little distance

puffing calmly at a cigarette. I shuddered and passed on. Where I would

have gone, Providence alone knows. But the old woman followed me,

crying out in a cracked voice in French: "But, M'sieur, why not come

this way, to Mademoiselle's own room."

She led me to a prettily furnished little chamber at the very end of

the corridor. I laid Marion very gently down upon the bed, and turned

to the old woman, who was already fussing at my side with salts and sal

volatile.

"Don't touch her!" I commanded sternly. "Let her sleep as long as God

wills. She will awake too soon in any case to the misery this night has

brought her."

"As Monsieur pleases!" replied the beldame, and with a look of ghoulish

delight she hurried off, doubtless to gloat over the corpses in the

operating room.

Left alone, I leaned over the unconscious girl, and softly pressed my

lips upon her beautiful, but clay cold brow. An angel could not have

been the worse for that caress, for in my heart there was no thought

save of pitiful and tender reverence.

A moment later I was traversing the passage, on my way to the

staircase. Someone called to me as I passed the chamber of death, but I

paid no heed, and I descended the steps as quickly as I could. The hall

door stood before me. The latch yielded to my touch. Issuing forth I

banged it shut, and ran out into the night as though I were pursued

with furies. On alighting from my cab at the Marble Arch I glanced at

my watch. To my astonishment it pointed barely to midnight. I thought

it must have stopped, but the public-houses were still open.

A second cab took me to Bruton Street, whence having changed my attire,

I drove to my master's house. As I entered I noted upon the floor at my

feet a paste-board visiting card, which had evidently been slipped

beneath the door by a disappointed caller. I picked it up and held it

to the light, uttering, as I read, a long, low whistle of surprise. It

was inscribed with three printed words: "Mr. Sefton Dagmar."

V

THE CAMPAIGN OPENS

That paste-board gave me a shock; it sent a chill, creepy feeling down

my spine. It smelt dangerous. I read the name again: "Mr. Sefton

Dagmar!" So, while my master was away journeying down to Newhaven to

keep the appointment, I had fabricated, with his nephew; by a snarl of

chance, his nephew had called at his house in London. Perhaps they had

passed each other on the road.

I turned over the card and received a second shock. Across it was

scrawled in pencil:--"Will call to-morrow morning at 10. Urgent."

"Curse the luck!" I muttered. "Uncle and nephew will meet and my master

will learn that, in spite of his injunction not to leave the house, I

disobeyed him. Subsequent discoveries will infallibly re-excite his

first and easily smothered distrust of myself!" It seemed to be more

than ever important that the secret of the identity of my master's

impersonator should be preserved and that not the remotest breath of

suspicion should attach to me. Otherwise it would be impossible to

improve my fortunes without assuming the naked and hideous character of

a blackmailer, the very idea of which was bitterly repugnant to my

disposition. I hurried into Sir William Dagmar's library, lit the gas

and caught up a time-table. It informed me that the first passenger

train from Newhaven would arrive in London on the following morning at

10.15. I made a hasty calculation. It would take Sir William fifteen

minutes to drive from the station, and the train might be a little

late, trains often are. If Mr. Sefton Dagmar therefore might be relied

on to be punctual, I should have at least half an hour wherein to

smoothe out the snarl of fate arranged for my undoing. Much might be

done in half an hour! Relieved by the reflection, I put out the light

and went upstairs to bed. I was very tired, but I cannot truthfully

declare that I slept. Whenever my eyes closed I saw horrid visions. Mr.

Cavanagh lying on the floor with his skull shattered and blood oozing

from the hole in his head; or a white faced man stretched upon a marble

slab with a dreadful bloody cavity in his chest; sometimes a hairy

chested ape similarly situated! God defend me from such another night!

At dawn I arose from my bed of torture and lay for an hour in a plunge

bath filled with hot water. A subsequent ice cold shower and a careful

toilet restored to my appearance its pristine freshness, but there were

many grey hairs about my temples which I had never seen before. I am

not a lover of wine, but I dared not face the day without support, and

I derived the stimulus I needed from a bottle of my master's champagne.

Afterwards I felt better, but I also felt that I should never be able

to smile light-heartedly again. The hours that followed I devoted to

thoughts of Marion Le Mar. I admitted to myself that I loved her, and

deep down in my heart I knew that for her sake and at her bidding I

would sacrifice, if need arose, anything, even my life. It was a

strange conviction that, to be entertained by a man like me--a man

whose motto had ever been--"First person paramount." And yet I speedily

recognized that it was as much a part of me as my hand, and might only

as easily be combated or parted with. I had no hope of winning her,

however, no hope at all, hardly even a wish. She seemed set as far

beyond my reach as the stars, and her contemplation inspired me with a

realization of my unworthiness and her divinity which was neither

humiliating nor discomforting. "For," thought I, "the stars shine upon

us all, the noble and the base alike, and who shall say that they

discriminate between the ardent looks of worshippers?"

The bell rang and I opened the door for Mr. Sefton Dagmar. In one

second I comprehended why Sir William disliked his nephew. My master,

for all his faults, was a deep-natured man of large mental mould.

Before me stood his absolute antithesis. I saw a small, shallow,

smiling, cunning face, that betrayed to the keen observer every emotion

of the mind. The features were regular, even handsome, yet puny, and

the soul that looked out of his eyes was facile, treacherous and

sycophantic. He wore a slight yellow moustache, and his eyebrows were

white. He looked too young. I judged him to be twenty-five. He was tall

and very slight; he wore a pale brown overcoat and a suit beneath of

tasteless checked tweed.

"Mr. Sefton Dagmar?" I asked with deference.

He nodded, looking me swiftly up and down. "Uncle in?" he airily

demanded.

"No, sir; but I expect him shortly. Will you step inside?"

"Might as well," he drawled, but he entered with alacrity, and I led

the way to the ante-chamber.

"Where is my uncle?" he enquired, as I removed his overcoat.

"I do not know, sir?"

"He got my card, I suppose?"

"Not yet, sir. He has been away."

"All night?"

"Yes sir."

He whistled then faced me with a cunning smile. "You are new," he

began. "Where is Butts?"

"He left a month ago."

"What is your name?"

"Brown, sir?"

He nodded, eyeing me as a cat might a mouse. "You look a good sort," he

declared presently. "How do you get on with my uncle, Brown?"

I affected to hesitate. "Fairly well, thank you, sir," I replied

stammering a little.

"That means damned poorly," he retorted, nodding his head again. "Oh! I

know him, Brown; I know him, you need'nt tell me. Why Brown, I'm his

only living relative, his sole heir, and how do you think he treats me?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir?"

"He allows me a paltry three hundred a year, on the condition that I

live in Newhaven with a beastly solicitor fellow to whom he made me

sign articles!"

"That seems very hard, sir."

"Hard, Brown," he cried, his eyes agleam, "Hard! you call it hard! Why

the old monster is a millionaire, and as I told you before I am his

only living relative!"

I put on an expression of shocked sympathy. "It is almost incredible!"

I gasped.

He gave me a grateful look. "It is true, though!" he declared, "true as

gospel. And the only excuse he could rake up for doing it was that I

outran the constable a bit at Oxford. He's the meanest old skin-flint

in the United Kingdom!"

"I wish I could help you, sir," I murmured in my most reverential

manner. "It seems very hard and really wrong, sir, that a nice handsome

young gentleman like you, if you'll pardon me for speaking so, sir, to

your face, should be tied up in a little village like Newhaven when you

might be enjoying yourself and seeing life in London and Paris, sir!"

"As I ought to be," he cried hotly, evidently stirred to anger at my

picture of his misfortune. "It's a cursed shame, Brown, a cursed shame!"

"It is indeed, sir. I only wish I could help you, sir."

He gave me a thoughtful look. "You never know," he muttered, "the mouse

helped the lion!"

I nearly laughed in his face, but controlling the impulse I said

instead--"And with the best of good will, sir!"

"You're a damned good fellow, Brown!" he cried with energy. "And when I

am Sir Sefton Dagmar I shall not forget you." His voice sank into a low

confidential key. "By the way, Brown, there is a small service you

might render me."

"Anything," I answered eagerly, "I'd do anything for _you_, sir!"

He grinned with pleasure, the callow youth. "It's nothing much," he

muttered. "Only I want you to tell me exactly how your master is--the

state of his health, I mean. I can never get any satisfaction out of

him, and I have a lot of friends who want to know." He sighed and

frowned.

_Post obit_ bond-holders--was my reflection.

"I don't think he will live very long, sir," I whispered, looking

nervously about me. "At night he coughs something dreadful, sir, and he

just lives on medicines."

Mr. Sefton Dagmar's face looked for a moment like that of a happy

cherub.

"Do you really think so, Brown?" he cried excitedly.

"I'm sure of it, sir."

"Well, see here, Brown, when he dies, I'll make you my man, if you

like!"

"Will you really, sir?" I tried to look extravagantly delighted.

"Yes--and I'll give you twice as much screw as you get now, whatever he

gives you. But for that I'll expect you to do some things for me in the

meanwhile." He looked me keenly in the eyes.

"Anything at all, sir," I protested.

"Very good. I want you to drop me a line every week to tell me how he

is, and if he takes any sudden turn for the worse you may send me a

telegram."

"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"

"No!" He glanced anxiously towards the door. "No one can hear us, can

they?"

"There's no one in the house, sir, but you and me."

"That's famous; well, Brown, see here, I'm heavily in debt and some of

the beggars are pressing me into a corner. That's why I came up to

town."

"Yes, sir!"

"And--and--" his face changed colour, "there is a woman too!" he

stammered, "an actress!"

"There's always a woman, I should think, where a handsome young

gentleman like you, sir, is concerned," I murmured with a sympathetic

smile.

His vanity was tickled, but the conceited grin my words had called to

his lips quickly faded into a look of anxiety. The matter was

manifestly serious.

"They are the devil, Brown," he solemnly assured me. "This one has got

me into a dickens own mess, she's as pretty as a picture, Brown, but a

perfect brute all the same!"

"Breach of promise, sir?"

He nodded, with a lugubrious frown. "I've been served with a writ," he

muttered, "and there's nothing for it but to make a clean breast to the

governor!"

"Can I help you in any way, sir?"

"I thought you might have something to suggest as to how I should

broach it to him, Brown. When is he in the best humour--morning,

afternoon or evening?"

"If you'd take my advice, sir," I replied, "you'll not tell your uncle

at all, sir. He can't last long, and I should think that, as you are a

lawyer, you ought to be able to stave off the proceedings for a month

or so. If you were to confess, he'd be bound to be terribly annoyed,

and the odds are he'd do you some injury in his will. He knows he is

dying, sir."

Mr. Sefton Dagmar turned quite pale. "I never thought of that!" he

cried. "By Jove, so he might. He might cut me off with a shilling. The

entail is barred long enough ago."

I was dying to get him out of the house, if only for half an hour. I

had hit upon the tail end of a plan.

"It would never do to run such a risk!" I assured him. "And if you'll

allow me to guide you, sir, you'll run away at once. He will be here in

a minute, and the odds are that he'll come in bad tempered."

"I'll go!" he replied. "But, Brown, I'd like to see him, just to be

sure how he is looking."

"Then come back in an hour or two. But be sure, sir, and say nothing

about your having been here before. He's a terribly suspicious man, and

if he thought that you and I had been conferring, he would dismiss me

straight off the reel!"

"Never fear, Brown. I wouldn't have you sacked for the world. You'll be

too useful to me here."

"I really believe I shall, sir."

In another moment he had gone, and I watched him walking up the street,

through a slit in the blind, until he had disappeared. It was exactly

twenty minutes past ten. I hurried to my master's study and, quick as

thought, turned the whole place topsy turvy. I ransacked his private

drawers and scattered their contents broadcast, I even overturned his

heap of reference books. I heard the latch turn in the front door as I

descended the stairs.

"Oh, it is you at last, sir. Thank God!" I cried as Sir William Dagmar

appeared.

He was looking like a ghost, white and utterly wearied out, and his

chin was sunk upon his chest; but my words startled him, and he turned

on me with compressed lips, in sudden energy.

"What is the matter, Brown?" he demanded.

"Oh, if you please, sir, I have had a terrible night!" (I poured out

the words in a perfect stream.) "Just as I was going to bed, sir, it

was about eight o'clock, sir, for I was uncommon tired, the bell rang.

I went down to open the door and there you were standing, at least I

thought it was you, sir. He looked exactly like you, and he spoke like

you, sir, and he called me 'Brown,' sir----"

"Great God!" exclaimed my master, and he fell to trembling like a leaf.

"What is that you say, but wait! wait!----"

He staggered into the dining room and clutched a decanter of spirit,

which he held up with a shaking hand to his lips. He took a deep

draught, and then broke into a frightful fit of coughing. I tended upon

him as gently as a woman, and half led, half carried him to a sofa,

where I forced him to lie down. But his anxiety was in flames, and as

soon as he could he sat up and commanded me to proceed.

"What did this--this double of me say and do?" he gasped. "Tell me

quickly!"

"He went straight up stairs, sir. He was there about half an hour, and

then your study bell rang. He was standing by your desk with your

time-table in his hand, sir. He said to me--'I suppose, Brown, you

thought I had gone to Newhaven!'

"'Yes, sir,' said I, and he laughed like anything, just as though he

was very much amused about something, and all the while I thought he

was you, sir. The only thing was, sir, that he wore a different

overcoat, and I kept wondering what you had done with your fur coat,

sir. He was searching the time-table, and presently, sir, he looked

over at me and he said--'Why, Brown, if I'd gone to Newhaven, I

couldn't have got back until ten fifteen to-morrow morning.'

"'Indeed, sir!' says I. And at that he simply roared out laughing.

'Brown,' he cries, 'you'll be the death of me!' I was very much

astonished, sir, and I thought that you'd taken leave of your senses,

sir, but after you--that is to say--_he_--after he'd got over his

laughing--he looks me in the face and says--says he--'Brown, you fool,

'can't you see I'm not your master! Here look at my thumbs!' And sure

enough, sir, he had both his thumbs quite complete, sir, and then I

knew he couldn't be you, sir! I was that dumbfounded for a bit, sir,

that I was ready to sink through the floor, and all I could do was just

gape at his hands. Then of a sudden he whips one of them into his

pocket, sir, and he pulled out a pistol, which he clapped to my head.

'Listen to me, Brown!' says he, very quiet like, but in a terrible

voice, sir, 'Listen to me, Brown!' says he. 'Your master is in Newhaven

by now, and he can't get back till the morning. When he comes tell him

from me, that his double will find out to-night all he wants to know,

and that he'll hear from me within a week. Tell him, too, that he

needn't bother suspecting young Sefton, I could have got the young ass

to help me if I'd wanted, but he was too great a fool, and I scorn to

have him blamed. Tell Sir William I'm playing a lone hand, and that it

rests with him to keep it a lone hand. And now, Brown, you just stay

here for the next half hour, while I go through the house, and don't

you budge, or as sure as death I'll plug a bullet through your brains!'

"With that, sir, he dragged me into a corner, and put my face to the

wall--and--and--I stayed there, sir!"

"What!" thundered my master. "How long?"

I began to whimper. "I--I--take shame to admit I played the coward,

sir," I blubbed out.

"But if--if you'd heard him--speak, sir--and seen the look in his

eyes--sir--you--you--may be----'"

"Enough!" he interjected very sharply. "I'm not blaming you, my man,

I'm asking for information. How long did you stay in the corner where

he put you?"

"A long while, sir."

"How soon did he leave the house?"

"I don't know, sir. I seemed to hear noises for hours and hours,

sir--and--and--" here I broke down with a really artistic sob. "It's

turned me quite grey, sir--all about the temples--and I was brown as

brown--last evening, sir!"

Sir William got to his feet and placed a hand upon my shoulder.

"There, there, Brown, compose yourself!" he said in kinder tones. "I

can see that you have had a great fright, and you were right to run no

risks. But tell me did you send for the police after you discovered

that the man had gone?"

"I--no, sir," I stammered. "You told me on no account to leave the

house!"

"Brown!" he cried indignantly.

"Well, sir--I--I--I--simply daren't venture outside the house, sir!" I

blurted out.

My master frowned and shook his head. "Just as well, perhaps!" he

muttered to himself. He added in a louder key. "Well, my man, you have

given me much to think over, and I have trouble enough upon my hands

already."

"Trouble, sir!" I repeated.

"A dear friend of mine is dead. You know him, Brown, Mr. George

Cavanagh. He shot himself last night in his studio!"

It was on the tip of my tongue to scream out--"in his studio!" I was so

surprised, but I restrained myself just in time and cried instead:--

"Good heavens! sir, how awful! Why did he do it, sir?"

Sir William shrugged his shoulders. "They say that it was in a fit of

despair, because the great picture he was painting was accidentally

destroyed by fire. But you may read for yourself, Brown, the morning

papers are full of it!"

The papers! I had never even thought to look at one. I had been so

preoccupied. My master went on speaking. "I'll go upstairs, Brown, and

have a bath," he said, "after which I shall attend the inquest!"

"But your double, sir!" I cried. "Ought not we to tell the police at

once about him, sir?"

He shook his head. "No, no, Brown. Better not, better not. He is

probably some friend of mine who has been playing a practical joke at

my expense. Keep what has happened to yourself, Brown. I do not wish to

be laughed at!"

"Very good, sir," I muttered dubiously. "But all the same I don't think

he was joking, sir. I'll be bound you'll find he has robbed you. The

study is just upside down! I have not tried to put it in order, sir, so

that you might see it as he left it!"

Sir William gave me a wan smile. "I keep no valuables in the house,

Brown," he replied, "except my manuscripts, and they are worthless to

anyone but myself."

Without another word he left the room, and I also hurried out in order

to prepare his bath. I did not venture to converse with him again, for

he had fallen into one of his impenetrable silent moods which

inevitably stirred him to wrath against any interrupter. As soon as I

had dressed him he left the house, still steeped in speechless thought.

He looked ten years older than he had the previous day, and I felt

really sorry to remember the additional cup of fear and horror he would

be called upon to drink when he and the others had ascertained the full

extent and import of my most recent impersonation.

After he had gone, I snatched open the first paper that came to my

hand. It was the _Morning Mail_. I discovered the black scare headline

in a second. Yes, sure enough it related how Mr. Cavanagh's valet had

found his master lying on the studio floor a little after midnight,

stone dead, with a revolver clutched in his right hand. The man had not

heard the shot, but he had been awakened by some noise, and he had

thought his master had called out to him. He admitted that he was a

heavy sleeper, and he did not remember hearing Mr. Cavanagh enter the

house. The artist's great picture upon which he had been working for a

year, and which was almost finished, was half destroyed by fire, and it

looked as though by accident, for a naked gas jet burned perilously

close to the easel. The bullet which had killed Mr. Cavanagh had been

found by the police embedded in the plaster of a distant wall, near the

ceiling. The writer of the article had ingeniously concluded that the

artist on entering his studio and observing the fruit of his ardent

labours destroyed beyond repair, had, in the first sharp flush of his

despair, committed suicide!

As for me, when I scanned the page and considered one by one the

circumstantial dove-tailing details of that ghastly history--I confess

that for a moment I doubted my senses' evidence. A little reflection,

however, brought me to a realization of the truth, and a greater

respect than ever for a certain eminent surgeon--to wit--Sir Charles

Venner. I saw in everything I read, his calm, cold-blooded scheming. On

my last glimpse he had been languidly smoking a cigarette, which he

must have lighted before the breath had quite departed from poor

Cavanagh's mutilated corpse. Perhaps nay, undoubtedly, he had even then

been planning how to act, and so arrange matters that no scandal might

be associated with the name of his accursed hospital.

As clearly as though I had been present I saw him ordering that

dreadful funeral; saw him take Cavanagh's latch-key from his chain; saw

him direct one of the negroes to prepare a conveyance; saw him lead the

negroes carrying the body to a waiting vehicle--and that silent cortege

move across the Heath to St. John's Wood. I saw him then open Mr.

Cavanagh's door and noiselessly motion the negroes to bear the corpse

within. I watched him dispose the body on the floor with scientific

calculation as to the proper direction of the bullet, and then climbing

upon a chair or perhaps on the negroes' shoulders force the bullet

through the curtain into the plaster. Perhaps that noise had awakened

Cavanagh's drowsy headed servant! I saw him approach the easel and set

fire to the great picture, so as to supply the world with a motive for

the suicide--and finally I saw him steal away with his ebony attendants

from the house--three dark malignant spirits, veritable caterers of

death!

Somehow I shuddered to think of Sir Charles Venner. I felt him to be a

foeman more worthy of my steel than all his fellows, and I half wished,

half feared to cross swords with him. It is true that already I had

twice managed to out-wit him, and he had not dreamed in either case of

doubting my assumed identity. But I could not claim much credit in the

latter bout, nor feel much satisfaction, since throughout that awful

evening Sir Charles had been too occupied to do more than throw a hasty

glance in my direction. What would happen, I wondered, in a real fair

battle of wits, each of us forewarned of the encounter? I had profound

faith in my powers and resources, but I dared not forecast that issue!

Twice we had met, and twice I had succeeded. Would we strive again, and

who would win on the third and fatal meeting?

Such were the questions I asked myself unceasingly; but I could answer

none of them.

It was not until almost four o'clock in the afternoon that my master

returned home, and he was accompanied by Sir Charles Venner and Dr.

Fulton. I was at once called into the study and put through a rigid

cross-examination, by all three, regarding my pretended visitor of the

previous evening. But I had expected such an ordeal, and I came through

with colours flying. I was much concerned, however, to perceive that

Sir William Dagmar looked very ill. He coughed incessantly and so

haggard and careworn was his visage that I believed he would presently

collapse. My prognostications were justified by the event. Soon after I

had been dismissed the bell rang violently, and I hurried upstairs to

see the two surgeons carrying my master's unconscious body to the

bedroom. I undressed him there and put him to bed; whereupon they

carefully examined him, and held a long and anxious consultation over

his condition. An hour passed before he recovered from his swoon, but

even when he awoke it was not to his proper senses, for he immediately

began to babble a stream of meaningless nonsense. The surgeons looking

very grave agreed to administer an opiate, and they injected some fluid

hypodermically into his arm.

Sir Charles then informed me that they feared a serious attack of

meningitis, and he promised to send a trained nurse within an hour to

look after the sick man. He left at once, but Dr. Fulton remained until

my master went to sleep. The nurse arrived half an hour later, and I

prepared one of the spare bed-rooms for her use. She was an angular

hard-featured woman named Hargreaves, but she had a soft voice and

pleasing manners, and she seemed to know her business. Mr. Sefton

Dagmar arrived at about seven o'clock. As soon as he heard that his

uncle was ill and likely to die, he went half crazy with joy and

insisted upon staying in the house. I did not wish him to at all, but

there was nothing for me to do except put up with the infliction, and

prepare another bed-room. However, he sent me out soon after dinner to

despatch a telegram to Newhaven for his baggage, and for that little

involuntary service that he did me, I became reconciled to his

presence. The fact was, I needed an excuse to quit the house upon

business of my own. Ever since my master had swooned I had been

thinking very hard, and it seemed to me that if I wished to improve my

fortunes, I must strike at once before all the geese, whom I expected

to lay me golden eggs, should die. Having sent Mr. Sefton Dagmar's

wire, I took a cab to Cheapside and sought out a cheap stationer's

shop. I bought some common note paper and envelopes, and begging the

loan of a pen, I scratched in straggling print the following epistle to

Sir Charles Venner:--

"Sir--If you will inquire at the Colonnade Hotel for Mr. Seth Halford

to-morrow evening at nine o'clock, you will be shown to a room, where

you will find Dagmar the second. Kindly bring money and come alone!"

I posted this letter at the G.P.O., and returned to Curzon Street. In

the morning Sir William Dagmar was in a high fever and raving

deliriously. As I had a houseful to provide for, and am not a lover of

trouble, I went early abroad and arranged with a restaurateur to supply

all our meals. I then drove in a cab to a post office in the Old Kent

Road and sent myself a telegram from my dying mother, which arrived at

noon. Sir Charles Venner visited his patient at one, and after he had

gone I showed my telegram to Mr. Sefton Dagmar and Nurse Hargreaves,

both of whom urged me to attend the summons, assuring me that I was not

needed at the house. I tearfully allowed their protestations to

prevail, and betook myself to my little stronghold in Bruton Street.

There arrived, I spent the rest of that day making myself up to

represent the old actor whom I had impersonated on the occasion when I

had shadowed my master to the Kingsmere Hospital for Consumptives. For

a purpose, to be afterwards explained, I furnished my pockets with a

small assortment of wigs, beards and moustaches. When darkness fell I

issued forth and rode in a cab to the Colonnade Hotel. The clerk stared

at me rather haughtily when I asked for a room in so swell a place, but

I satisfied his scruples with half a sovereign, which tip no doubt

induced him to believe me an eccentric millionaire. I told him that I

expected a visitor, my friend, Sir Charles Venner, the great surgeon,

at nine o'clock, and desired him to be shown up at once to my bedroom.

After that he was all obsequiousness. I dined at the hotel, and to

fortify myself for the fray I drank a small bottle of sparkling

burgundy. At a quarter to nine I repaired to my room, which was

situated near the first angle of the building on turning from the

staircase, on the second floor. It was furnished in the ordinary style

very plainly and simply. I quickly stripped the dressing-table of its

contents and placed it in the middle floor. I set a chair on either

side of the table, and I sat down upon the one that faced the

door--which I had left unlatched--I then put on a pair of goggles and

waited.

Sir Charles Venner was praiseworthily punctual. Big Ben was still

chiming the hour when I heard his tap on the panel.

"Come in!" I cried.

The handle turned and he entered, just pausing on the threshold to tip

the waiter who had brought him up.

"My dear old chap!" I exclaimed for the waiter's benefit, "this is good

of you, as ever, punctual to the tick!"

He closed the door carefully behind him, and advanced towards the

table, pulling off his gloves as he did so. I, on the contrary, had

been careful to keep my hands thickly gloved, for I wanted those keen

eyes of his to have as few recognizing details as possible to remember,

and hands are tell tale things, as I had proved sufficiently already.

"I suppose I may be seated!" he began in steady tones.

I nodded, eating him with my gaze. His countenance was perfectly

impassive, but his eyes returned my stare with penetrating interest.

He sat down and calmly crossed his knees. "My time is limited," he

declared. "Kindly proceed to business. You sent for me and I am here!"

I bowed my head. "True, Sir Charles," I replied in an assumed voice. "I

do not propose to detain you long. The Kingsmere Hospital for

Consumptives doubtless claims your care, so I shall be as brief as

possible!"

I watched him sharply, but he did not turn a hair nor move a muscle.

"Go on!" was all he said.

"Shall we avoid details?" I enquired.

"Unnecessary details, sir. But tell me all you know!"

"Not very much!" I said gently. "Unlawful secret society! We'll call

that number one, and bracket with it George Cavanagh's death by

suicide." A look of relief crossed his face at the word suicide. I

smiled and proceeded. "Number two: Vivisection is unlawful--I

fancy--and you might be convicted of murder on my showing. It would be

for a jury to determine, for all the great surgeon that you are. I

think that is enough Sir Charles!"

"Bah!" said he, and a curious gleam came into his eyes. "You can

scandalize and perhaps destroy my practice, that is all. I admit you

have me in a chain, but take care not to strain the bond too far. I do

not depend upon my practice for a living, and in the cause of science I

shall dare to face scandal, if you press me!"

"I am glad to hear that you have a private fortune," I answered

quietly. "I have the less compunction in asking you to contribute to

another man's support. The world's wealth is distributed very unevenly,

Sir Charles. Do you not agree with me?"

For the first time a shade of annoyance crossed his face. "I must

decline to discuss abstractions with a blackmailer," he replied in

irritated tones. "What is your name, and what is your price?"

"My name for the present is Seth Halford, Sir Charles. I shall not deny

that it is liable to frequent change--" I smiled--"but I defy you to

detect its transmutations, sir, or follow its vicarious possessor to

his lair. As for my price, I have no object in withholding that--It is

ten thousand pounds!"

"And is it not subject, like your name, to change?"

"Not by so much as one farthing, Sir Charles."

He nodded and got languidly to his feet. "I came here prepared to

sacrifice five hundred," he said quietly. "Two in cash, the balance

to-morrow. I am not sure that I am not pleased to save the money."

"Will you save it?" I asked.

"Unless you hedge immediately in your outrageously extravagant demand."

"Unhappily, Sir Charles, that is utterly impossible."

"Then I shall save it!"

"How?"

"By calling in the police and arresting you for attempted blackmail."

I broke into a soft rippling laugh. "So--" I muttered, "you only value

your neck at five hundred pounds! Such fine and delicate vertebrae they

are too!"

The irony brought some colour to his cheek. "My neck is in no danger,"

he retorted angrily. "What can you prove against us you fool, except

that I performed a wonderful operation in the cause of science, in the

ardent hope of saving a man's life, and in the sure trust of

benefitting the whole human race?"

"But the man died, doctor, and he was one of nineteen! The coroner will

shortly have a harvest, nineteen autopsies, Sir Charles! Think of them!

Nineteen autopsies!"

"You fool," he repeated in tones of repressed passion, "if there were

even ninety--what of it? But enough of this! choose between five

hundred pounds and the lock-up. Choose quickly!"

He turned as he spoke and strode to the door. His hand was already on

the latch. In another second the door would have been thrown wide.

Perhaps there was a policeman in the passage, I thought it unlikely but

still--possible! At all events it was time for me to cease trifling

with my adversary.

"You appear, Sir Charles Venner, to have forgotten the matter of

Cavanagh's death!" I hissed out. "He killed himself at the hospital,

and his body was discovered at the studio!"

"That can be explained!" he retorted; but his hand fell softly from the

latch. "We have plenty of witnesses who saw his suicide."

"Suicide!" I sneered. "What _of rule three, you one of seven

murderers_!"

Sir Charles Venner re-crossed the room and quietly resumed his chair.

His face was still as expressionless as a mask, but all the lustre had

departed from his eyes.

"What do you know of rule three?" he asked in lifeless tones after a

long intense pause.

I knew so little that it seemed necessary to lie. "Enough to hang you,"

I murmured, smiling pleasantly. "I should tell you perhaps, my dear Sir

Charles, that I have impersonated Sir William Dagmar more often than I

have fingers and toes--during the past twelve months. Ha! you start!" I

laughed wickedly. "Did you really permit yourself to dream that you

have guessed the full extent of my depredations on your order--from

your one or two chance and predestined discoveries. Oh! oh! Ha! ha!

This is really too good!"

He bit his lips and eyed me sternly. "I shall need better proof than

your word," he said.

I nodded, got to my feet and strode to the door. I threw it open and

with an elaborate bow pointed to the passage.

"You shall have it," I cried, "but only in the police court!"

"Bluff!" he sneered. "Bluff!" He did not move from his chair.

"Oh!" said I, "you choose to pay yourself a compliment! So you think I

would follow your example of a moment since? But you are wrong!" I

walked to the electric bell and pressed the button.

Sir Charles Venner's impassivity disappeared like magic. His face

turned scarlet and he sprang instantly afoot.

"Curse you!" he grated out, "what would you do?"

"Sir, our interview is at an end. My servant will show you to the

street!"

"The sum you ask is utterly beyond our means!"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Five thousand!" he hissed.

I yawned.

"Seven then, though it will ruin us!" he cried distractedly.

I took out a cigarette and struck a light. He watched me expel five

puffs of vapour from my mouth, but I did not so much as glance at him.

Then a servant appeared in the doorway.

"You rang, sir?" he enquired.

"Yes!" I looked at the fellow approvingly. He was a much stouter man

and perhaps an inch taller than I, and he had large feet. He was

attired in the hotel uniform. He wore a dragoon's moustache, and he

looked like an old soldier. "I wish you to be good enough to show my

dear friend, Sir Charles Venner, to the street." I turned to Sir

Charles and immediately perceived that my adversary had become my

victim.

"When and where shall we meet again?" he muttered hoarsely.

"Ten?" said I. He was grey, grey to his lips. His eyes shone like stars.

"Yes, ten!" he replied.

"I'll drop you a line!" I said with a smile. "But how careless of me, I

almost forget my hospital subscription list. How much may I put you

down for? You know the cause is a deserving one. Shall we say two

hundred pounds?"

"Oh, I suppose so," he said.

"Cash, old chap? Or will you send me a cheque?" I frowned as our eyes

met, and he read my meaning.

"I brought the money with me," he replied. "I may as well hand it over

to you now. I shall thereby save a postage stamp!" He threw a bundle of

notes upon the table.

I smiled again and looking steadily into his eyes held out one hand.

"Well, good night to you, old boy--sleep well--and be good till we meet

again!"

I fancy Sir Charles Venner had never been submitted to a more

intolerable piece of degradation. To be commanded to shake hands with

one's blackmailer! His eyes were simply murderous, but he obeyed. It

was only a form of course, for our fingers barely touched, but his

involuntary shiver of repulsion was communicated to my frame even in

that swift contact, and I had enough fine feeling in me to appreciate

his passionate disgust. To be candid, I liked him all the better

because of it, for although there is not a spark of pride in my

composition, a constitutional weakness obliges me to respect pride in

other people.

Five minutes after he had gone, I left my room and strolled to the head

of the stairs. As I had expected, a gentleman was seated upon the

lounge that faced the door of the elevator, I could not see his face

for it was concealed behind a newspaper. But I marked one incongruous

circumstance in his apparel. He wore evening dress, and ordinary street

boots of black leather. I am afraid I was so vulgar as to permit myself

the indulgence of a wink. I passed him and leisurely descended the

first flight of stairs. Of a sudden I stopped, and turning about ran

upstairs again at the top of my speed, taking three steps at a time. My

gentleman had already begun to descend the stairs. I passed him without

a glance, swearing in a low but audible key at my forgetfulness. In

another moment I was back in my room pressing the electric button.

"So!" thought I, "they have employed a detective to shadow me. Well, we

shall see!"

Presently a knock sounded on the door, and the waiter entered, who had

shown Sir Charles out.

"Shut it," I said. He obeyed.

"What is your name?" I demanded.

"Martin, sir."

"Well, look here, Martin," said I, "my old friend Sir Charles Venner

has just bet me a hundred pounds that I cannot succeed in getting out

of this hotel in some disguise, without his suspecting me, during the

next half hour. Now he is waiting in the vestibule, is he not?"

The waiter grinned. "No, sir, just inside the coffee room door; I was

wondering what he wanted. He gave me half a crown, sir."

"Half a crown!" I sneered. "Look here Martin----" I took Sir Charles'

own roll from my pocket and selected two brand new five pound notes.

"Now Sir Charles thinks himself very smart, and he fancies he can see

through a disguise in a second. But I reckon a bit on my smartness too,

for when I was a young man before I made a fortune out of mining I was

on the stage. With your help, my man, I'll do Sir Charles up, do him

brown--and these notes will be yours for helping me!"

Martin's eyes almost burst out of their sockets. "All right, sir!" he

cried excitedly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Exchange clothes with me for ten minutes. Here are the notes, my

man--I'll pay you beforehand. All I'll have to do to win my bet is to

slip out of the house and return. Hurry up, Martin!"

But Martin had already begun to slip off his coat. The bank notes were

tightly clutched between his teeth, so he could not reply, but I was

rather glad of that. I induced him to remove even his boots, and in

five minutes I was to all appearances a hotel waiter. A false moustache

gave me a general look of Martin, but a glance in the mirror showed me

a bad fault, the long hair of my previous character, the old

Shakesperean actor, fell upon my collar, while Martin's hair was

cropped closely to his head. But I dared not exchange the wig I was

wearing for another in Martin's presence, for fear of exciting his

distrust, neither dared I remove my false bushy grey eyebrows.

Difficulties, however, are made to be surmounted. Whispering a word of

warning in Martin's ear, I opened the door, and in a loud voice

commanded him to procure me a cab. Martin cried out--"Very good, sir!"

and I slipped into the passage, banging the door behind me. My trick

was successful, the corridor was deserted. In two seconds I had pulled

off my wig and substituted another, also I tore off my false eyebrows

and stuffed them into my pocket, that is to say, into Martin's pocket.

I then strode down the corridor and turned the corner with the brisk

step and manner of a waiter going on an urgent message. My gentleman

spy was again seated on the lounge that faced the elevator, and once

more intrenched behind a newspaper.

He threw at me one quick glance over the edge of the journal, and his

face vanished. I had just time to photograph his features on my

mind--no more. Running down the stairs I reached the vestibule, which

to my delight was thronged with guests. A moment later, having given

the coffee room a wide berth, I passed through the open hall door and

gained the street. A gentleman was standing on the footpath paying off

a cab from which he had just alighted. I sprang into the vehicle and

drove to Piccadilly Circus. A second took me to Marble Arch, and a

third to Bruton Street. Feeling assured that I had not been followed, I

slipped upstairs and into my room.

An hour later, Brown, Sir William Dagmar's discreet valet, stepped out

of an omnibus before the General Post Office, letter in hand addressed

to Sir Charles Venner. The letter, which was subscribed in printed

characters, contained these words:--"To-morrow afternoon, at 4.30,

inquire at Bolingbroke Hotel, Piccadilly, for Dr. Rudolf Garschagen.

Bank of England notes alone acceptable. Dagmar II."

I slept that night at Bruton Street.

VI

A BATTLE OF WITS

At ten o'clock on the next morning, as I approached my master's house

in Curzon Street, I saw Sir Charles Venner's brougham waiting before

the door. I thought it highly probable that Sir Charles would require

me to give an account of my absence from duty, whether he suspected me

or not, for he was in the position of a man obliged by circumstances to

suspect everyone, even his nearest and dearest friend. Nerving myself

for the encounter, I assumed a dejected and lugubrious expression, and

slowly mounting the steps, I inserted my latch-key in the lock. The

hall was deserted, but I heard a mutter of voices in the ante-room, and

thither I betook myself at once. "Best get it over quickly," was my

thought.

The door was ajar, and peering through I perceived Mr. Sefton Dagmar

and Sir Charles Venner in earnest converse. Mr. Dagmar's hat was lying

upon the table. Sir Charles carried his in his hand. I rapped softly

upon the panel and entered.

"Ah, Brown!" exclaimed the younger man. "Back, I see."

"Good morning, sir," I muttered, and turning to Sir Charles I anxiously

enquired after my master.

"Your master is much worse!" he replied, looking at me very keenly. "I

expect the crisis to-night!"

"He will recover, sir, I hope. You will surely save him, Sir Charles!"

"I don't know!"

Mr. Sefton Dagmar took up his hat and left the room, throwing me a wink

as he passed. "I think it's up to me to take a constitutional," he

observed, by way of excusing his departure. "Au revoir, Sir Charles!"

"Au revoir!" returned the surgeon. His eyes had never left my face. He

waited until we heard the street door close, then he said quietly: "And

how is your mother, Brown?"

"She is dead, sir!" I spoke the words in a low, dull tone, but without

attempting any exhibition of emotion. I knew better than to play such a

game with the man before me.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he observed. "You'll want to attend her

funeral, I suppose. When is she to be buried?"

"This afternoon, sir," I answered looking at the floor.

He drew in a long, sharp inspiration, which said plainer than words: "I

thought so!"

I understood that he suspected me. I raised my eyes to his, however,

with a worried melancholy expression, and I said in a hesitating way.

"It's very good of you, sir, to sympathize with me--I'm

sure--I--I--I--feel almost emboldened to take a liberty. I'm, I'm in

great trouble, sir?"

"Well, Brown?" His eyes were gleaming like drawn swords.

"It's this way, sir," I muttered. "My mother's illness has run

away--with my little bit of savings, sir--and--and--the undertaker

wants spot cash for the coffin, sir. He won't trust me, and I don't

know what to do, seeing master is so ill. It'd be all right, if he was

well, for I haven't drawn my last month's wages, sir."

"I see, you wish me to lend you some money."

I hung my head in real artistic shame. "I'd never dare--ask--you, sir!"

I muttered brokenly, "but since you've said it yourself, sir, I--I--" I

paused as if unable to proceed.

"How much do you need?"

"Five pounds would do, sir. Master owes me eight, and I could make it

over to you, if you'd only be so good. You see, sir, I'd hate"--I

choked--"a--a--pauper funeral, sir."

"Naturally, my man," his voice was much kinder. "But there will be no

need for that. I shall lend you the money with pleasure. Let me see,

it's ten now, I shall return to see your master again at twelve and

bring the money with me. I have only a few shillings about me at this

moment!"

"Thank you, sir," I stammered. "I'll never forget it of you, sir!" At

that juncture I allowed a tear to roll down my cheek, as I raised my

face to look at him, but I brushed it hastily away, as though ashamed.

He did not appear to notice anything, however, and without another word

he left the house. I considered that I had allayed his suspicions, but

I dared not make too sure, for that man possessed a more admirable

control of feature than any other I had ever known. I determined,

therefore, to be careful and remit no precaution, however small or

troublesome, in order to secure myself. To that end I took an early

opportunity of confiding my trouble to Nurse Hargreaves, and I almost

made her weep by the touching manner in which I described my mother's

death.

Sir Charles returned punctually at twelve o'clock and he put five

sovereigns into my hand as I admitted him. He was also kind enough to

tell me that I might leave the house at once, in order to conduct my

mother's funeral arrangements. I took him at his word. My first thought

as I stepped into the street was this:--"Am I to be shadowed? And if

so, how shall I discover the spy?" The pavement was dotted with

pedestrians who all appeared to be minding their own business. I walked

briskly towards Piccadilly. Before long I knew that I was followed, I

cannot explain how I knew, for although I seized every opportunity I

could to look back, I could not locate my shadower; but I felt that I

was shadowed, felt it in my bones. I was thrilled, exhilarated!

Difficulties and dangers always delight me, and always call, as with a

trumpet blast, my best faculties to action. I considered what to do. I

might easily have shaken off my pursuer had I wished, but to even

display such a desire would inevitably convert Sir Charles Venner's

suspicions into convictions. It was my ambition, on the other hand, to

destroy his suspicions altogether. An inspiration came to me at

Piccadilly Circus. I smothered a cry of delight, and entered an Oxford

Street omnibus. The end seat was vacant. I took it, and gazed

watchfully behind me. To even a trained observer like myself, it was no

easy task to pick out of the great moving throng that followed my

conveyance the man whose business was wrapped up in my own. But I did

not despair, and set steadily to work. At Oxford Circus I was sure that

he had not entered my 'bus. There I alighted and took another to London

Bridge. In which of the omnibuses and cabs trailing behind me was he

then seated? Nearest of all was a Bank 'bus; I did not believe it

contained him. Beyond that an empty hansom rolled along, then a

fourwheeler, then a greengrocer's cart, with a smart looking pony

between the shafts. I thought he might be in the fourwheeler, but no,

it turned down Museum Street. This brought the greengrocer's cart

nearer to the empty hansom, and gave me a chance to examine some of the

passengers on a Chancery Lane 'bus beyond. At Red Lion Street we pulled

up, and the Bank 'bus passed us with a good start, also the empty

hansom. I had now a good view of the Chancery Lane 'bus over the

greengrocer's cart, and of another 'bus behind that, bound for Gray's

Inn Road. We soon passed Chancery Lane, and so lost one more 'bus. The

pony drawing the greengrocer's cart was now almost touching our steps

with his nose. Not a soul of those who alighted from the Chancery Lane

'bus came our way. I examined the Gray's Inn Road 'bus, but it

contained only three women and a boy. Two hansoms now joined the

procession, but the first carried an eye-glassed snob, and the other an

officer in uniform. I was beginning to feel very puzzled when it

suddenly occurred to me to prospect the greengrocer's cart, which

hitherto I had scarcely more than glanced at. Two costers occupied the

seat, but otherwise the cart was empty. The driver was a real

unmistakable hall-marked coster, but his companion gave me a doubt. For

one thing, he was smoking a cigar; for another, he held on to his seat

in order to support himself; for a third, although he wore no collar,

he had a remarkably white neck--for a coster.

"There," said I, "is my man."

I did not look at him again. There was no need. To kill time I bought a

paper at the next corner, and diligently studied its contents, until we

came to London Bridge, where I alighted, and transferred myself to a

New Cross 'bus. I mounted to the top and began to scan the houses that

we passed with the closest possible attention. It was not, however,

until we left Tabard Street behind and had half traversed the Old Kent

Road, that I discovered what I was looking for. This was a "double

event"--so to speak. An apartment house and an undertaker's

establishment, situated within easy walking distance of each other.

Many a coffin shop did I see, and many an apartment house, but they

were unhappily too separated for my purpose. The fortunate combination

occurred between Astley Street and Ossary Road. First came the

undertaker's shop, and then the apartment house. Nothing could have

been more suitable. Opposite the latter I swung myself from the 'bus,

and stepped upon the footpath. The greengrocer's cart passed me by some

twenty yards at a smart trot, then slowed down to a walk. I strode up

to the door of the apartment house, and rapped sharply on the knocker.

It was a low, grimy, building, with many grimy windows, whose shuttered

blinds had once been green, but now were grey with grease and dust. A

card in either lower windows signified its calling: "Apartments to let!"

The door was opened by a greasy-faced woman, whose coal black oily

locks were crimped in curl-papers. I pushed past her into the hall,

without so much as "by your leave," and shut the door behind me. I

acted so, lest my shadower should suspect that I visited the house for

the first time. The woman at once began to protest at the top of her

voice, against my cavalier behaviour. But I cut her short with a

sovereign, which she bit, in the fashion of her class, eyeing me the

while as though she expected me to snatch it back again.

Silence thus secured, I addressed her in this fashion: "Madam, I am a

woodcarver by trade, and a rich old gentleman has just commissioned me

to carve a wonderful design upon a coffin in which he wishes to bury

his wife who is lately dead. My master, however, jealous at my good

fortune, has dismissed me from his employ, and as it is necessary for

me to get immediately to work, I must hire a room in the neighbourhood

without delay. If you have a front room on the ground floor which you

can let to me, I shall be glad to pay you for it at the rate of one

pound for every day I use it in advance, and give you the pound you are

biting, into the bargain!"

"Lawks!" she cried, then uttered a croaking laugh. "You must be getting

well paid for the job!"

"A hundred pounds!" I replied.

"No wonder you are in a hurry."

"Have you such a room as I require?" I demanded impatiently.

She opened a door at her right hand, and showed me a musty guest

chamber, which still smelt of its former occupant, who must have been a

tanner, I should say.

"It will do," I declared.

"Yes, but will you bring the coffin here?"

"Assuredly."

"Not for a pound a day, though, mister!" she retorted with a cunning

smile. "Why, all my boarders would clear out!"

"How much do you want, then?"

"Two quid, not a penny less."

I paid the money into her hand. Her eyes glinted with rage and

self-contempt, because she had not demanded three, but I did not choose

to heed.

"I shall return in ten minutes with the coffin!" I said quickly. "In

the meanwhile that room is mine. Please see that no one goes into it,

and do not on any account open the window!"

In another moment I was out of the house, and walking back briskly

towards the city, followed at a distance by the greengrocer's cart.

The undertaker's shop was half a mile away. I reached it in less than

four minutes, and entered with the air of a busy bourgeois.

"How much that box?" I asked of the proprietor, pointing to an

imitation oak coffin that was half hidden behind several more showy

constructions.

"Four pounds," said he.

"Could you deliver it at once?"

"No, sir, my carts are all out."

"You have attendants?"

He scratched his head, "How fur?" he questioned.

"Only a few hundred yards down the street! I'm willing to pay an extra

five shillings for promptitude." He stepped to an open glass door and

shouted--"Jim! Frank!"

Two young men, evidently apprentices, answered his call. I put down

four sovereigns and five shillings on the counter.

The undertaker picked up the money, and pointed to my purchase. "Pick

out the plain oak and take it to this gentleman's house!" he commanded.

"He'll show you the way! Do you want a receipt, sir?"

"I'll call back for it," I replied, and strode from the shop.

The small procession that I headed occasioned a good deal of comment,

and excited not a few grisly jests as we proceeded. But I paid no heed

to any, and marched along with the expression of a lover lately

bereaved of his sweetheart.

One pitiful "poor chap, he looks down in the mug, Bill, don't he?" more

than rewarded me for all the honest effort I was putting forth, and

compensated for the jokes besides. I looked neither to right nor left,

and not once back; but I knew that the greengrocer's cart still

steadily dogged my wanderings.

My new landlady admitted us without a protest. I made my attendants

place the coffin upon the bed, and dismissed them with a shilling

apiece. I then locked the door and crept to the window. I was just in

time to see, through a slit in the shutter, the greengrocer's cart set

off at a swift trot towards London. Cautiously raising the sash I

pushed aside the blind and craned out my head. No, I had not been

misled. The road ran straight, and although I watched the cart until it

was swallowed up in a maze of other vehicles, near a thousand yards

away, neither of the costers seemed to find it worth while to look back.

I closed the window, and sitting down beside the coffin, laughed until

my sides ached. Once again I had crossed swords with Sir Charles

Venner, and once again the victory was mine. I did not respect him the

less, but I admit that I glorified myself the more. I could not,

however, afford much time for self-gratulation. I had a great deal to

do, and it was already two o'clock. Stepping into the passage, I

shouted for the landlady, and made that astonished woman a present of

my coffin. It is evident that she thought me a lunatic, but what cared

I for that? In another moment I was hasting down the road, looking on

all sides for a cab. An empty fourwheeler overtook me at last, and I

drove like mad to London Bridge, where I took a hansom to Bruton

Street. I was very hungry by then, but I could not spare a minute for a

meal, and I comforted myself with the reflection that, granted a little

luck, I might dine that evening in absolute security on the fat of the

land, a rich man in veritable deed.

I had once known rather intimately a Polish Jew named Kutnewsky, who

had been my fellow lodger in a boarding-house at Leeds. Him I resolved

to personate. He was a fat, podgy person, with a hook nose, and a long,

thick black beard, and his voice was oily, his foreign accent hideous.

All the while I dressed, I practised his voice and accent. I had it at

last to a T. The wonderful development of my facial muscles enabled me

to raise or depress the tip of my nose at will, so as to lend it either

a pug, or a Judaic cast, as I preferred. A false wig and beard with

clothes in keeping completed my disguise. I was very soon a Jew--in

fact, the double of Kutnewsky. I then packed a small valise with a

complete suit of fashionable clothes, which had been originally made

for a man of my size, by a Bond Street tailor, and which were still

almost brand new, although I had bought them at a rag shop for a song.

I included also in my bag, a travelling cap, a white shirt, a doubled

linen collar, a smart tie, and a pair of light patent leather boots.

The boots I wore were heavy hand-sewn bluchers, two sizes too large for

me. I slipped into my pocket a black moustache and a pair of large

black eyebrows. Finally, I exchanged my ordinary set of false teeth for

a plate planted with hideous yellow fangs, some of which protruded from

my lip. At a quarter to four, I was ready to face the world. A glance

at the window showed me that a fine rain was falling; I therefore put

on a mackintosh, and cramming a glossy silk hat upon my head, I set out

armed with my valise and an umbrella. A fourwheeler took me to Oxford

Circus, whence a hansom brought me back to Piccadilly and the

Bolingbroke Hotel. I presented myself to the clerk, whom I informed in

execrable broken English, that I was the famous German Court Surgeon,

Herr Dr. Garschagen, just arrived from Berlin, to confer with my

equally eminent colleague, Sir Charles Venner, upon a case of great

moment, in which my advice had been urgently demanded. I declared that

I had telegraphed from Berlin to secure apartments on the first floor,

and I became very angry when the clerk protested that my message had

not been received, and that there was not a single vacant apartment on

the first floor. He, however, very deferentially led me himself to a

room on the third floor, which I reluctantly engaged. I told him to

send Sir Charles up immediately he arrived, and with a foreign

boorishness I slammed the door in his face. My first act was to empty

my valise and conceal its contents in a wardrobe. That effected, I

arranged the dressing-table just as I had done on the previous day in

my room at the Colonnade Hotel, and I set my empty valise thereon. I

then removed my waterproof, and putting on a pair of goggles, I sat

down to await my victim. As before he was prompt to the fraction of a

minute. A small thin-featured waiter ushered him in. As before Sir

Charles gave his attendant a shilling and entered the room; I, grinding

out the while, a string of guttural, yet oily greetings in broken

English. Sir Charles Venner's face was pale, but icily composed. He

eyed me for a full minute with a look of piercing hate, then, taking

off his hat, he quietly sat down upon the chair I had provided. I

followed his example.

"Is Dr. Rudolf Garschagen identical with Mr. Seth Halford?" he asked

quietly.

"Undoubtedly, Sir Charles."

"I stood in need of your assurance!" he muttered frowning. "But I

confess I should like you to explain the meaning of your present

mummery. You were excellently well disguised before!"

I bowed profoundly. "Thank you for the compliment, Sir Charles. I shall

explain with pleasure. It is my custom to change my appearance as often

as my clothes. The wisdom of this course will be apparent to you, when

you consider that you have already confessed to a confused impression

of me in your mind!"

His frown grew more black. "You appear to be a confoundedly clever

fellow!" he exclaimed in irritated tones.

"I entertain such a lively respect for my opponent that I have tried to

show you my best!" I replied, laying a gloved hand on my heart.

"I did not come here to exchange compliments with you," he retorted

coldly. "Kindly get to business."

"Have you the money?" I demanded.

"Yes. But I shall not give you a solitary farthing until I am furnished

with a substantial guarantee that this will be your last impertinence.

My--er--friends and I do not propose to let you hold our souls in pawn."

"What guarantee do you require?"

He took a paper from his packet and tossed it carelessly upon the

table. "Read!" said he.

The paper contained a confession that I--a blank was left for my

name--on a certain night, stole from Sir Charles Venner, by means of

impersonation and fraud, the sum of three hundred pounds.

"I suppose you wish me to sign this?" I asked.

"Certainly, and to disclose your identity besides!"

I smiled grimly and tore the paper into shreds.

"You must be satisfied with my oath, which I give you freely, that you

will never hear from me again, Sir Charles. Now, please, the money."

"I am sorry," he said softly. "But we cannot do business on those

terms!"

I bowed and got at once to my feet. "Then our interview is at an end!"

I moved towards the bell, but I had not advanced two paces when he

cried out, "Stop!"

I turned to look into the muzzle of a revolver. Sir Charles Venner's

right eye gleamed behind the sights, and his expression was

diabolically wicked. I hate fire-arms. They make me nervous, especially

when pointed in the direction of my vital organs, by a presumably

desperate man. A cold shivering thrill quivered up my spine, and I felt

my knee joints loosen. My eyes, however, did not cease to serve me, and

with a gasp of reviving hope I noted that the pistol was not cocked.

It, however, takes more than a second to recover from such a shock as I

had received, and Sir Charles had only perceived my first sharp gush of

fear.

"Remove your glasses and your wig!" he commanded in a low but terrible

voice.

My impulse was to obey unhesitatingly, but with an iron effort I

subdued it.

"Be quick!" he cried.

I smiled. It was a miserable grimace, I dare admit, nevertheless I

smiled.

"By the God above us you will die in your tracks, unless you are

unmasked before I count six!"

I said to myself--"Oh, no, I shall not. Sir Charles Venner is a

consumptive, with at most a year of life before him. Men cling to life

most dearly when their days are numbered. Moreover, well he knows, this

surgeon, that if he kills me he must hang! and speedily."

"One!" said he.

I smiled again.

"Two!"

"You are a great mathematician!" I sneered, and bowed to him.

"Three!"

"Murder me some other time, Sir Charles!" I muttered, "when you may do

so with some hope of giving the penalty leg bail!"

"Four!" he cried, in a voice that froze my blood. And with his thumb he

raised the hammer of the pistol.

"You will hang!" I gasped. "You will hang, and we shall meet in Hell!"

"Five!" he hissed.

"Fire!" I cried. It was the most courageous act of my life!

Sir Charles Venner let his hand fall, and his eyes. I heard a click,

and I watched him restore the pistol to his pocket. In one second he

had aged ten years. He was now an old man, haggard faced and trembling.

I strode to the bell and pressed the button. I had won the battle

well--woe to the vanquished! I stalked over to the door and threw it

wide. "Get out of this!" I grated. "Get out of this and go--hang

yourself if you want to cheat the hangman. You've had your fun, and now

by heaven! I'll have my pound of flesh!"

He raised to me the face of a panic-stricken craven. "For Christ's

sake!" he cried, and even pleaded with his hands. He was beaten indeed.

Not only his courage, but his pride was shattered into fragments. I

surveyed the wreck I had occasioned, and relented.

"Well, then!" I said, "the money!"

With feverish hands he tore from his coat a small bundle of notes and

forced them upon me.

"Count them, count them!" he mumbled.

"Go!" I ordered sternly.

"But, but--your oath!"

"I'll keep it--go!"

He uttered a hollow groan, and rushed out of the room.

I looked at the notes. They were brand new, and ten in number. Each

represented one thousand pounds. Hearing footfalls I concealed them,

and a second later, there came to me the small thin-faced waiter who

had conducted Sir Charles to my apartment.

I gave him a florin, and said. "I want a man, big--my own size--just

like me--to carry a box. You are too small. Send me a man like I want

at once, but he must belong to your hotel, I can trust no strangers!"

The fellow bowed and promised, and hurried off. I put on my hat, and as

soon as he had disappeared, I followed him. A gentleman stood by the

elevator door, as though waiting for it to ascend. I passed him, and

began to descend the stairs. He immediately rang the bell three times.

Was that a signal, I wondered. I returned very quickly, but he still

stood there, and he did not seem to be aware of my existence. But he

rang the bell _once_. I again began to descend the stairs. Again the

bell rang three times. I came to the lower floor, and there another

gentleman was standing before the elevator door. I passed him and he

rang the bell twice. "How curious!" thought I, "my room is on the third

floor of the hotel. There the bell was thrice rung; but on the second

floor only twice, and most remarkable coincidence of all, the elevator

does not trouble to appear!" I had left the second floor--I returned to

it! The waiting gentleman rang once! I was satisfied. "Sir Charles

Venner," said I, "has put at least three detectives on my trail!"

I marched straight up to the elevator door and rang the bell

myself--one long continued ring. It appeared at once. "Ze third floor!"

I muttered to the attendant. "Ich haf forgotten zomding!" I gave the

man a shilling, and a moment later I was back in my room with the door

shut. I began to undress, and when the knock that I expected sounded, I

stood in my socks and underclothes alone.

"Come in," I cried.

A burly red face waiter entered. He wore a short black beard at the

sight of which I rejoiced. "Shut the door!" said I. He obeyed.

"Mein friendt!" said I, looking at him very keenly, "do you vish to

earn a sovereign?"

"Rather!" he cried.

"Then vill you go a message for me!"

"Yes, sir--"

"You see dose boots." I pointed to the pair I had removed.

"Yes, sir."

"Take off your own and put on dose. You are going to valk through some

mud, and as it rains I do not vish you to catch cold. They will fit

you!" I added, for he seemed to hesitate. He looked extremely

astonished, but he sat down and did my bidding. I smiled upon him very

genially. "If you do well, I shall double your reward!" I said. "What

is your name, my man!"

"Clint, sir."

"Very good, Clint. Now I vant you to leaf zis hotel without any von

knowing dat you go! I tell you vy ven you come back. Here, take zis

zovereign."

He took it, but he frowned. "I'd get into a row, sir, if it was known,"

he muttered doubtfully.

I gave him another sovereign. "Don't you vorry apout dot row," said I.

"I fix you wit your boss. I not vant you to do nozzing wrong, my boy,

hein?"

"No, sir, of course not!" He looked much happier.

"Zen put on zis waterproof of mine, so. Button it opp to ze chin. Ach,

Himmel, zat is goot! Now mein friend, zis cap, so! button ze flap under

ze chin! So, sehr goot, your mutter not know you now, hein!"

He looked in the glass and laughed aloud at his reflection. I took off

my goggles and handed them to him. "Put on dose!" I said, "und dat is

all!"

He obeyed me, and I almost shouted out in my delight, he looked so very

like a man disguised.

"Now mein friendt, you can go!" said I.

"Where to, sir?" he enquired.

I gave him a handful of silver. "You take a cab," I began, "and you

drive to ze Marble Arch, zere you get out, und you take a 'bus to

Cricklewood, you mind dat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Vell, ven you come to ze Cricklewood terminus, you find a man zere

vaiting for you--a big Sherman gentleman, like me. You say to him:

"Doctor!" und he vill take you at once across a hill to his house, und

he give you a small box! You bring that box back to me quick, und take

care not to lose it--for it is vorth much geld--zat is money. You know

now what you do? Hein?"

He assured me that he understood, and would follow my instructions to

the letter, whereupon I dismissed him to his fate. In another moment I

had changed my fang teeth for a more fashionable set, and ten minutes

later I slipped out of the passage, locking my door behind me, as smart

a dude as ever stepped from a Bond Street band-box. My facial disguise

consisted of a monocle, a dark wig, black eyebrows, and a sweet little

silky black moustache. I walked with mincing steps, and I screwed up my

features till they looked as vacuous and expressionless as possible. I

found on turning the corner that a gentleman, whose figure I

recognized, was standing before the elevator door. For a second I went

cold. "Had my decoy then failed of its purpose?" I asked myself. In a

fever of anxiety I began to descend the stairs, straining my ears to

listen. No signal bell rang--but I heard swift footfalls in the

passage. In a flash I understood. Two of my three shadowers had

followed the waiter, Clint, but the third had remained behind to watch

my room. He would certainly be furnished with a master key, and within

a minute, he would open my door and discover my escape. Moreover, he

would know for certain whom he must thenceforth follow, for he had

given me a sharp look as I passed him.

Instead of hurrying, however, I walked more leisurely than before.

Three spies would have been too much for me, but one I did not care

for. I felt confident I would elude him as soon as I pleased. As it

transpired we reached the ground floor almost together, for he

descended in the elevator. I took a good look at him, and marched to

the street door. Beckoning to a porter, I directed him in mealy tones

to fetch me a hansom. One stood already by the kerb, but instinct told

me that it belonged to my spy. The porter blew his whistle, and a

second hansom soon appeared. I threw the porter half a crown and sprang

aboard. "Streeters', Bond Street!" I cried, and we were off. My mission

was to dispose of my bank-notes; for well I knew that their numbers

would be noted, and that the longer they remained in my possession the

more certainly would they provide a clue to the ultimate establishment

of my identity. On the other hand, to pay them into my bank would have

been equivalent to making a present of my secret to my enemy. I would,

it is true, lose something by the exchange, but I could well afford to

pay handsomely for my security. My shadower followed me so closely,

that I perceived he was no longer anxious to conceal his occupation. We

alighted from our cabs within ten paces of each other, and he trod upon

my heels as I entered the great jewellers. I had a mind to turn and

offer him my arm. I bought two magnificent necklaces, and a long string

of splendid brilliants under his very nose, paying therefore my

L10,000, and receiving two hundred pounds in change. I then purchased a

little brooch for twenty guineas. As we left the shop, I nodded kindly

to my shadower, and advised him in an underbreath to be careful. He

made no reply, but he gritted his teeth together in the manner of a

bull-dog. He looked rather like a bull-dog too, in other respects. He

had a long forehead, great heavy jaws, and little watchful eyes. The

clocks were striking a quarter to six as we resumed our hansoms. I

drove to the Alhambra Music Hall and purchased a stall. I then

proceeded to Verrey's restaurant and ordered a first-rate dinner. My

spy took a seat at my table without asking my permission, and we gazed

at each other steadily while we discussed the meal. But while I ate

roast pheasant, he partook of beef, and while I drank sparkling

Burgundy, he absorbed a quart of bitter beer. I would have engaged him

in conversation, for I am of a sociable disposition, and I bore him no

ill-will, but the fact is, he was an extremely vulgar fellow, and if I

had not been simply ravenous, his table manners must infallibly have

destroyed my appetite. When I could eat no more, I bought from my

waiter a sheet of note-paper, an envelope, and a lead pencil. I then

smoked a cigar, and when eight struck, I drove to the theatre. My

shadower secured a seat three rows behind me. I studied the programme,

and discovered that the second succeeding item was to be a song dance

performed by a lady named Pearl Glynn. I had never heard of her, but I

know her class as well as any man that lives. Taking out my pencil and

paper, I scratched the following epistle: "Dear Miss Glynn,--A humble

adorer begs you to accept the enclosed, and to grant him a moment's

interview, before your turn." I slipped this into the envelope together

with the brooch I had bought at Streeters' for twenty guineas; I

addressed it and beckoned to an usher. I gave it to him together with a

wink and half a sovereign. He returned in ten minutes and begged me to

follow him. I got up and glanced at my spy. He also got up, looking

horribly uneasy. But I knew the theatre and he did not. I fancied I

could hear him gnash his teeth, in impotent rage, to see his quarry

escaping under his nose. As I approached the wing door leading to the

stage and dressing rooms with my conductor, I took care not to lose

sight of him. Oblivious of the comfort of those who obstructed him, he

was toilfully climbing over empty fauteuils, or squeezing his way

between rows of people in my wake. I feel sure that many of his victims

thought him mad, but I heartily admired him for his energy and

perseverance, and just before the door closed behind me, and upon him,

I turned and kissed my hand to him in token of appreciation. I knew

well what he would do. Finding he could not pass the door, he would

turn and rush out of the theatre to wait for me at the stage-door in

the other street. I stopped dead and addressed the usher.

"My man," said I, "I have changed my mind. I'll go back."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Just as you like, sir," he replied.

In fact, we immediately returned into the auditorium, and two minutes

later, I had traversed the promenade, descended the stairs, and was

running like a hare across Leicester Square; alone, alone!

A cab took me to Bruton Street, and nine o'clock had barely struck when

I was once again plain Brown, Sir William Dagmar's discreet and

faithful valet.

I have never been intoxicated in my life, but it is often wise to

assume a virtue, though you have it not, as the old proverb advises.

It seemed good to me to be drunk just then, and better still, the

nearer I approached my master's house. As I mounted the steps I reeled.

It cost me eighty seconds of painful effort to find the keyhole. I did

not, as it happens, use it even when found, for the door opened

suddenly, and I staggered forward into Sir Charles Venner's arms. I had

expected him to confront me, nevertheless, it shocked me to find my

expectations realized, and to be convinced how tenaciously he had clung

to his first suspicions. I picked myself up and stood before him, a

swaying, blinking maudlin figure. With much circumstance and drunken

gravity, I explained to him that I had buried my mother, and that to

steady my nerves I had taken afterwards a single glass of wine, which

must surely have been drugged. Sir Charles treated me as tenderly as

any woman could have done. He pretended to believe my story, and he

protested that the rascally landlord, who had drugged me, deserved

richly to be prosecuted. He guided me to my bed-room, and assisted me

to bed. He then declared that he would prepare me a reviving draught,

and taking a tumbler from my dressing-table, he dissolved with water a

couple of tiny white pillules, which mixture he persuaded me to drink.

I knew his purpose, of course. He wished to search me. But I was in no

wise alarmed nor unwilling, for I had left everything I possessed at

Bruton Street, and my pockets contained only my keys, and half a

handful of loose silver. Saying to myself: "Morphia!" I swallowed the

draught, and even drained the glass. Within five minutes I was sleeping

like the dead, whereupon Sir Charles Venner searched to his heart's

content, poor man.

VII

A DREAM OF LOVE

I awoke with a racking headache and an uneasy sensation that I had

overslept myself. I sprang up and dipped my head into a basin of

ice-cold water. That tranquillized the pain I suffered, yet my

uneasiness continued, nay, it became intensified when I glanced at my

watch, and saw that it was after nine o'clock. Very hastily I began to

dress, but ere I came to my collar I paused and reflected. I am not a

particularly introspective man, nor more than a skin-deep psychologist,

but it was not a difficult thing to trace to its source the cause of my

uneasiness. It patently derived its origin from the habits of servitude

to which I had submitted myself during the last three months. There

suddenly occurred to me to ask myself this question: "Agar Hume, how

long will you permit such habits to persist?" I answered at once: "Why,

a day or two, at most!"

The fact is, I was a rich man, and the pride of purse, the first pride

I had ever experienced, was beginning to swell my head already.

In my room at Bruton Street I had almost five hundred pounds in cash,

as well as jewels for which I had last night paid L9,800. I possessed,

moreover, a credit balance at my bank of exactly one hundred and

forty-two pounds. I considered therefore that it would be absurd for me

to continue playing the lackey to my master for a beggarly eight pounds

per month, when a sufficient capital was ready to my hands, with which,

and one or two smiles of the fickle goddess, I could make myself a

millionaire. I forthwith determined to quit Sir William Dagmar's

service as soon as possible. Yes; that very morning I would leave! Why

linger, when every day now spent in Curzon Street postponed my

advancement in life, and perhaps wasted opportunities for

self-aggrandisement that might never return. Such a course would

certainly awaken and fortify Sir Charles Venner's suspicions, but what

cared I for that. He could prove nothing against me, and, besides, I

would soon be utterly beyond his reach. It was my idea to go to France;

there realize upon my jewels, and with the proceeds speculate upon the

Bourse. If I won, well and good! If I lost, also well and good, there

was always England and the blackmailing business to fall back upon! My

only regret in departing was contained in this fact. Although I had met

with marvellous success in exploring the secrets of my master's ghastly

society of consumptives, I had by no means plumbed all its depths. The

mystery of the monthly dicing by the members for the L7,000 cheque was

still unexplained, and I could not think of it without tasting

something of the torture that afflicted Tantalus. It was not only

curiosity that plagued me. I am a good workman and, like every other

really conscientious artisan, it distresses me to see a job blotched or

scamped for the lack of a little skill or perseverance. For that reason

in particular I hated the thought of leaving any part of the task which

I had set myself to perform unfinished. Nevertheless, I felt that I

should be standing in my own light if I allowed personal vanity to

prevent me from seizing the earliest opportunity to improve my fortunes.

"Yes; I'll go!" said I aloud at last; and I leisurely completed my

toilet. I then packed into a bag my few belongings, and proceeded

noiselessly downstairs, resolved to enjoy a last breakfast at my

master's expense, and thereafter bid the place a long farewell. The

house was very silent. Sir William's door was shut, and no one appeared

to be awake. So much the better, thought I, and having arrived upon the

ground floor, I pushed open the pantry door and entered.

To my surprise, Nurse Hargreaves was standing before the table, with

her back to me, doing something; but what, I could not see. She had not

heard my approach, that was evident, for she did not turn her head. The

stove was ablaze and the kettle was merrily singing. Perhaps its song

had drowned my footfalls.

"Making a poultice, nurse?" I asked, stepping forward.

She started at my voice and turned. I uttered a little cry, then with a

curious heart thrill I caught my breath and paused, transfixed,

overwhelmed! I looked not at Nurse Hargreaves, but into the eyes of

Marion Le Mar.

"Ah!" she murmured, "you thought I was Nurse Hargreaves?"

"My name is Le Mar!" she went on, turning calmly to her work again.

"Nurse Hargreaves has gone to another case. I have taken her place!"

She was just as beautiful, nay, rather more beautiful than ever, in

spite of her expression of deep melancholy and the dark sleepless

hollows that undercast her eyes. I watched her--dumbstricken, but with

all my heart in the looks with which I worshipped her--and through the

while I gladly wondered how for one instant I could have forgotten that

incomparable woman. I had forgotten her! I had coldly purposed to leave

England and her. But already that resolve was dead and buried. Not even

to make myself a millionaire could I forego the rapture I discovered in

gazing on her face; and to remain now, meant that I should dwell under

the same roof!

I forgot my life governing maxim at that moment: "First person

paramount!" I was the slave of a woman, who had never seen me in my

proper person until then, and who seeing me at last had turned

carelessly away, after one swift unlingering regard. It was a galling

thought, but it possessed no influence except to wound. I loved her and

I knew it. I knew besides that her heart was buried in a dead man's

grave. And yet I, the most selfish wretch alive, there and then bowed

my head to fate, and in sad humility determined to sacrifice my

fortunes to the uncertain chance of serving her and the sure bliss of

seeing her and breathing the air she breathed.

Life is a very marvellous affair, and so too is love. I have never

professed to understand either. Therefore I shall make no pretence to

explain nor even speculate upon my strange experience. I shall merely

relate what passed as best I may.

Marion's interest in her occupation was sincere, but it did not prevent

her mentally remarking on my silence. I saw her brows contract at

length, and soon afterwards she spoke, but without looking up.

"You are Brown, I suppose?"

"Yes--at--at least," I stammered, "that is how Sir William Dagmar calls

me."

"Indeed! What then is your name?"

"Agar Hume, madam."

She gave me a glance of nascent curiosity, and asked me to pour some

boiling water in a bowl. I complied, and she prepared to leave the

room. Her poultice was made.

"Pardon me," I said. "How is Sir William this morning?"

"Still very low, although sensible. His crisis is past, however, and

Sir Charles Venner feels confident he will recover."

"Thank you!" I bowed gravely. "Permit me, madam, to relieve you of that

burden."

"Please do not trouble."

"Madam, pardon me, but I insist!"

She raised her eyebrows, but she gave me the bowl. I read her thoughts;

they said: "This valet has borrowed manners from his master. He might

almost pass for a gentleman."

My cheeks burned. I followed her upstairs and into my master's room.

Sir William Dagmar was awake. He looked a mere skeleton, and his

transparent face was as white as the coverlid.

He greeted me with a wan smile and a hoarse whisper: "It is good to see

you again, Brown," he muttered. "It proves to me that I am on the mend."

I took his feeble hand and pressed it gently. At the bottom of my heart

I really liked the man. "You must make haste and get well, sir," I said

softly. "The world grows impatient for your book."

Ah! vanity! Sir William's cheeks flushed, and a warm light flashed into

his deep thoughtful eyes. "I'll not keep it waiting a minute longer

than I can help!" he cried. But at that Marion stepped forward and

compelled me from the room.

It was a keen pleasure to prepare her breakfast. I gave her the things

that I myself liked best, and half an hour later it fed my vanity to

watch her eat. I waited upon her, but she did not speak to me

throughout the meal. Nurse Hargreaves had once insisted upon my sitting

down with her to table. But somehow I preferred to serve Marion as a

flunkey, rather than dine with any other woman in the world.

Presently she gave me instance of her spirit. Mr. Sefton Dagmar entered

the room when she had almost finished.

"Ah, Brown!" said he, "I'm late as usual. Good morning, Miss Le Mar;

you are looking rather pale. Did the old buck give you a bad night?"

The vacuous puppy! Marion blushed and her eyes glittered.

"Do you refer to your uncle?" she asked in freezing tones.

"Well, now," he replied with a leer of admiration, "who else would you

suppose? Much better have taken my tip and gone with me to a

music-hall, my dear. You are too doocid pretty a girl to be tied up by

a sick bed. Waste of charms, and all that sort of thing."