CHAPTER I_The Brightener

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THE BRIGHTENER

BY C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON

FRONTISPIECE BY WALTER DE MARIS

GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1921

C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON

INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

[Illustration: "A SLIGHT SOUND ATTRACTED OUR ATTENTION TO THE HISTORIC

STAIRWAY"]

PREFACE

_To the Kind People Who Read Our Books:_

I want to explain to you, in case it may interest you a little, why it

is that I want to keep the "firm name" (as we used to call it) of "C. N.

& A. M. Williamson," although my husband has gone out of this world.

It is because I feel very strongly that he helps me with the work even

more than he was able to do in this world. I always had his advice, and

when we took motor tours he gave me his notes to use as well as my own.

But now there is far more help than that. I cannot explain in words: I

can only feel. And because of that feeling, I could not bear to have the

"C. N." disappear from the title page.

Dear People who may read this, I hope that you will wish to see the

initials "C. N." with those of

A. M. WILLIAMSON

CONTENTS

BOOK I. THE YACHT

I. DOWN AND OUT

II. UP AND IN

III. THUNDERBOLT SIX

IV. THE BLACK THING IN THE SEA

V. WHAT I FOUND IN MY CABIN

VI. THE WOMAN OF THE PAST

VII. THE SECRET BEHIND THE SILENCE

VIII. THE GREAT SURPRISE

IX. THE GAME OF BLUFF

BOOK II. THE HOUSE WITH THE TWISTED CHIMNEY

I. THE SHELL-SHOCK MAN

II. THE ADVERTISEMENT

III. THE LETTER WITH THE PURPLE SEAL

IV. THE TANGLED WEB

V. THE KNITTING WOMAN OF DUN MOAT

VI. THE LIGHTNING STROKE

VII. THE RED BAIZE DOOR

VIII. "WHEN IN DOUBT, PLAY A TRUMP"

IX. THE RAT TRAP

BOOK III. THE DARK VEIL

I. THE GIRL WITH THE LETTER

II. THE HERMIT

III. THE CHAIR AT THE SAVOY

IV. THE SPIRIT OF JUNE

V. THE BARGAIN

VI. THE LAST SEANCE

BOOK IV. THE MYSTERY OF MRS. BRANDRETH

I. THE MAN IN THE CUSHIONED CHAIR

II. MRS. BRANDRETH

III. THE CONDITION SHE MADE

IV. THE OLD LOVE STORY

V. THE MAN WITH THE BRILLIANT EYES

VI. THE PICTURES

VII. SIR BEVERLEY'S IMPRESSIONS

VIII. WHILE WE WAITED

IX. THE GOOD NEWS

X. THE CLIMAX

XI. WHAT GABY TOLD

XII. THE WOMAN IN THE THEATRE

XIII. MRS. BRANDRETH'S STORY

THE BRIGHTENER

BOOK I

THE YACHT

CHAPTER I

DOWN AND OUT

"I wonder who will tell her," I heard somebody say, just outside the

arbour.

The somebody was a woman; and the somebody else who answered was a man.

"Glad it won't be me!" he replied, ungrammatically.

I didn't know who these somebodies were, and I didn't much care. For the

first instant the one thing I did care about was, that they should

remain outside my arbour, instead of finding their way in. Then, the

next words waked my interest. They sounded mysterious, and I loved

mysteries--_then_.

"It's an awful thing to happen--a double blow, in the same moment!"

exclaimed the woman.

They had come to a standstill, close to the arbour; but there was hope

that they mightn't discover it, because it wasn't an ordinary arbour. It

was really a deep, sweet-scented hollow scooped out of an immense _arbor

vitae_ tree, camouflaged to look like its sister trees in a group beside

the path. The hollow contained an old marble seat, on which I was

sitting, but the low entrance could only be reached by one who knew of

its existence, passing between those other trees.

I felt suddenly rather curious about the person struck by a "double

blow," for a "fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind"; and at that

moment I was a sort of modern, female Damocles myself. In fact, I had

got the Marchese d'Ardini to bring me away from the ball-room to hide in

this secret arbour of his old Roman garden, because my mood was out of

tune for dancing. I hadn't wished to come to the ball, but Grandmother

had insisted. Now I had made an excuse of wanting an ice, to get rid of

my dear old friend the Marchese for a few minutes.

"She couldn't have cared about the poor chap," said the man in a hard

voice, with a slight American accent, "or she wouldn't be here

to-night."

My heart missed a beat.

"They say," explained the woman, "that her grandmother practically

forced her to marry the prince, and arranged it at a time when he'd have

to go back to the Front an hour after the wedding, so they shouldn't be

_really_ married, if anything happened to him. I don't know whether

that's true or not!"

But I knew! I knew that it was true, because they were talking about me.

In an instant--before I'd decided whether to rush out or sit still--I

knew something more.

"_You_ ought to be well informed, though," the woman's voice continued.

"You're a distant cousin, aren't you?"

"'Distant' is the word! About forty-fourth cousin, four times removed,"

the man laughed with frank bitterness. (No wonder, as he'd

unsuccessfully claimed the right to our family estate, to hitch on to

his silly old, dug-up title!) Not only did I know, now, of whom they

were talking, but I knew one of those who talked: a red-headed giant of

a man I'd seen to-night for the first time, though he had annoyed

Grandmother and me from a distance, for years. In fact, we'd left home

and taken up the Red Cross industry in Rome, because of him. Indirectly

it was his fault that I was married, since, if it hadn't been for him, I

shouldn't have come to Italy or met Prince di Miramare. I did not stop,

however, to think of all this. It just flashed through my subconscious

mind, while I asked myself, "What has happened to Paolo? Has he been

killed, or only wounded? And what do the brutes mean by a 'double

blow'?"

I had no longer the impulse to rush out. I waited, with hushed breath. I

didn't care whether it were nice or not to eavesdrop. All I thought of

was my intense desire to hear what those two would say next.

"Like grandmother, like grand-daughter, I suppose," went on the

ex-cowboy baronet, James Courtenaye. "A hard-hearted lot my only

surviving female relatives seem to be! Her husband at the Front, liable

to die at any minute; her grandmother dying at home, and our fair young

Princess dances gaily to celebrate a small Italian victory!"

"You forget what's happened to-night, Sir Jim, when you speak of your

'_surviving_' female relatives," said the woman.

"By George, yes! I've got but one left now. And I expect, from what I

hear, I shall be called upon to support her!"

Then Grandmother was dead!--wonderful, indomitable Grandmother, who,

only three hours ago, had said, "You _must_ go to this dance, Elizabeth.

I wish it!" Grandmother, whose last words had been, "You are worthy to

be what I've made you: a Princess. You are exactly what I was at your

age."

Poor, magnificent Grandmother! She had often told me that she was the

greatest beauty of her day. She had sent me away from her to-night, so

that she might die alone. Or--had the news of the _other_ blow come

while I was gone, and killed her?

Dazedly I stumbled to my feet, and in a second I should have pushed past

the pair; but, just at this moment, footsteps came hurrying along the

path. Those two moved out of the way with some murmured words I didn't

catch: and then, the Marchese was with me again. I saw his plump figure

silhouetted on the silvered blue dusk of moonlight. He had brought no

ice! He flung out empty hands in a despairing gesture which told that he

also _knew_.

"My dear child--my poor little Princess----" he began in Italian; but I

cut him short.

"I've heard some people talking. Grandmother is dead. And--Paolo?"

"His plane crashed. It was instant death--not painful. Alas, the

telegram came to your hotel, and the Signora, your grandmother, opened

it. Her maid found it in her hand. The brave spirit had fled! Mr.

Carstairs, her solicitor, and his kind American wife came here at once.

How fortunate was the business which brought him to Rome just now,

looking after your interests! A search-party was seeking me, while I

sought a mere ice! And now the Carstairs wait to take you to your hotel.

I cannot leave our guests, or I would go with you, too."

He got me back to the old palazzo by a side door, and guided me to a

quiet room where the Carstairs sat. They were not alone. An American

friend of the ex-cowboy was with them--(another self-made millionaire,

but a _much_ better made one, of the name of Roger Fane)--and with him a

school friend of mine he was in love with, Lady Shelagh Leigh. Shelagh

ran to me with her arms out, but I pushed her aside. A darling girl, and

I wouldn't have done it for the world, if I had been myself!

She shrank away, hurt; and vaguely I was conscious that the dark man

with the tragic eyes--Roger Fane--was coaxing her out of the room. Then

I forgot them both as I turned to the Carstairs for news. I little

guessed how soon and strangely my life and Shelagh's and Roger Fane's

would twine together in a Gordian knot of trouble!

I don't remember much of what followed, except that a taxi rushed

us--the Carstairs and me--to the Grand Hotel, as fast as it could go

through streets filled with crowds shouting over one of those October

victories. Mrs. Carstairs--a mouse of a woman in person, a benevolent

Machiavelli in brain--held my hand gently, and said nothing, while her

clever old husband tried to cheer me with words. Afterward I learned

that she spent those minutes in mapping out my whole future!

You see, _she_ knew what I didn't know at the time: that I hadn't enough

money in the world to pay for Grandmother's funeral, not to mention our

hotel bills!

* * * * *

A clock, when you come to think of it, is a fortunate animal.

When it runs down, it can just comfortably stop. No one expects it to do

anything else. No one accuses it of weakness or lack of backbone because

it doesn't struggle nobly to go on ticking and striking. It is not

sternly commanded to wind itself. Unless somebody takes that trouble off

its hands, it stays stopped. Whereas, if a girl or a young, able-bodied

woman runs down (that is, comes suddenly to the end of everything,

including resources), she mayn't give up ticking for a single second.

_She_ must wind herself, and this is really quite as difficult for her

to do as for a clock, unless she is abnormally instructed and

accomplished.

I am neither. The principal things I know how to do are, to look pretty,

and be nice to people, so that when they are with me they feel purry and

pleasant. With this stock-in-trade I had a perfectly gorgeous time in

life, until--Fate stuck a finger into my mechanism and upset the working

of my pendulum.

I ought to have realized that the gorgeousness would some time come to a

bad and sudden end. But I was trained to put off what wasn't delightful

to do or think of to-day, until to-morrow; because to-morrow could take

care of itself and droves of shorn lambs as well.

Grandmother and I had been pals since I was five, when my father (her

son) and my mother quietly died of diphtheria, and left me--her

namesake--to her. We lived at adorable Courtenaye Abbey on the

Devonshire Coast, where furniture, portraits, silver, and china fit for

a museum were common, every-day objects to my childish eyes. None of

these things could be sold--or the Abbey--for they were all heirlooms

(of _our_ branch of the Courtenayes, not the Americanized ex-cowboy's

insignificant branch, be it understood!). But the place could be let,

with everything in it; and when Mr. Carstairs was first engaged to

unravel Grandmother's financial tangles, he implored her permission to

find a tenant. That was before the war, when I was seventeen; and

Grandmother refused.

"What," she cried (I was in the room, all ears), "would you have me

advertise the fact that we're reduced to beggary, just as the time has

come to present Elizabeth? I'll do nothing of the kind. You must stave

off the smash. That's your business. Then Elizabeth will marry a title

with money, or an American millionaire or someone, and prevent it from

_ever_ coming."

This thrilled me, and I felt like a Joan of Arc out to save her family,

not by capturing a foe, but a husband.

Mr. Carstairs did stave off the smash, Heaven or its opposite alone

knows how, and Grandmother spent about half a future millionaire

husband's possible income in taking a town house, with a train of

servants; renting a Rolls-Royce, and buying for us both the most divine

clothes imaginable. I was long and leggy, and thin as a young colt; but

my face was all right, because it was a replica of Grandmother's at

seventeen. My eyes and dimples were said to be Something to Dream About,

even then (I often dreamed of them myself, after much flattery at

balls!), and already my yellow-brown braids measured off at a yard and a

half. Besides, I had Grandmother's Early Manner (as one says of an

artist: and really she _was_ one), so, naturally, I received proposals:

_lots_ of proposals. But--they were the wrong lots!

All the good-looking young men who wanted to marry me had never a penny

to do it on. All the rich ones were so old and appalling that even

Grandmother hadn't the heart to order me to the altar. So there it

_was_! Then Jim Courtenaye came over from America, where, after an

adventurous life (or worse), he'd made pots of money by hook or by

crook, probably the latter. He stirred up, from the mud of the past, a

trumpery baronetcy bestowed by stodgy King George the Third upon an

ancestor in that younger, less important branch of the Courtenayes. Also

did he strive expensively to prove a right to Courtenaye Abbey as well,

though not one of _his_ Courtenayes had ever put a nose inside it and I

was the next heir, after Grandmother. He didn't fight (he kindly

explained to Mr. Carstairs) to snatch the property out of our mouths. If

he got it, we might go on living there till the end of our days. All he

wanted was to _own_ the place, and have the right to keep it up

decently, as we'd never been able to do.

Well, he had to be satisfied with his title and without the Abbey; which

was luck for us. But there our luck ended. Not only did the war break

out before I had a single proposal worth accepting, but an awful thing

happened at the Abbey.

Grandmother had to keep on the rented town house, for patriotic motives,

no matter _what_ the expense, because she had turned it into an

_ouvroir_ for the making of hospital supplies. She directed the work

herself, and I and Shelagh Leigh (Shelagh was just out of the schoolroom

then) and lots of other girls slaved seven hours a day. Suddenly, just

when we'd had a big "hurry order" for pneumonia jackets, there was a

shortage of material. But Grandmother wasn't a woman to be conquered by

shortages! She remembered a hundred yards of bargain stuff she'd bought

to be used for new dust-sheets at the Abbey; and as all the servants but

two were discharged when we left for town, the sheets had never been

made up.

_She_ could not be spared for a day, but I could. By this time I was

nineteen, and felt fifty in wisdom, as all girls do, since the war.

Grandmother was old-fashioned in some ways, but new-fashioned in others,

so she ordered me off to Courtenaye Abbey by myself to unlock the room

where the bundle had been put. Train service was not good, and I would

have to stay the night; but she wired to old Barlow and his wife--once

lodge-keepers, now trusted guardians of the house. She told Mrs. Barlow

(a pretty old Devonshire Thing, like peaches and cream, called by me

"Barley") to get my old room ready; and Barlow was to meet me at the

train. At the last moment, however, Shelagh Leigh decided to go with me;

and if we had guessed it, this was to turn out one of the most important

decisions of her life. Barlow met us, of course; and how he had changed

since last I'd seen his comfortable face! I expected him to be charmed

with the sight of me, if not of Shelagh, for I was always a favourite

with Barl and Barley; but the poor man was absent-minded and queer. When

a stuffy station-cab from Courtenaye Coombe had rattled us to the

shut-up Abbey, I went at once to the housekeeper's room and had a

heart-to-heart talk with the Barlows. It seemed that the police had been

to the house and "run all through it," because of reports that lights

had flashed from the upper windows out to sea at night--"_signals to

submarines_!"

Nothing suspicious was found, however, and the police made it clear that

they considered the Barlows themselves above reproach. Good people, they

were, with twin nephews from Australia fighting in the war! Indeed, an

inspector had actually apologized for the visit, saying that the police

had pooh-poohed the reports at first. They had paid no attention until

"the story was all over the village"; and there are not enough miles

between Courtenaye Abbey and Plymouth Dockyard for even the rankest

rumours to be disregarded long.

Barley was convinced that one of our ghosts had been waked up by the

war--the ghost of a young girl burned to death, who now and then rushes

like a column of fire through the front rooms of the second floor in the

west wing; but the old pet hoped I wouldn't let this idea of hers keep

me awake. The ghost of a nice English young lady was preferable in her

opinion to a German spy in the flesh! I agreed, but I was not keen on

seeing either. My nerves had been jumpy since the last air-raid over

London, consequently I lay awake hour after hour, though Shelagh was in

Grandmother's room adjoining mine, with the door ajar between.

When I did sleep, I must have slept heavily. I dreamed that I was a

prisoner on a German submarine, and that signals from Courtenaye Abbey

flashed straight into my face. They flashed so brightly that they set me

on fire; and with the knowledge that, if I couldn't escape at once, I

should become a Family Ghost, I wrenched myself awake with a start.

Yes, I _was_ awake; though what I saw was so astonishing that I thought

it must be another nightmare. There really was a strong light pouring

into my eyes. What it came from I don't know to this day, but probably

an electric torch. Anyhow, the ray was so powerful that, though directed

upon my face, it faintly lit another face close to mine, as I suddenly

sat up in bed.

Instantly that face drew back, and then--as if on a second thought,

after a surprise--out went the light. By contrast, the darkness was

black as a bath of ink, though I'd pulled back the curtains before going

to bed, and the sky was sequined with stars. But on my retina was

photographed a pale, illumined circle with a face looking out of

it--looking straight at me. You know how quickly these light-pictures

begin to fade, but, before this dimmed I had time to verify my first

waking impression.

The face was a woman's face--beautiful and hideous at the same time,

like Medusa. It was young, yet old. It had deep-set, long eyes that

slanted slightly up to the corners. It was thin and hollow-cheeked, with

a pointed chin cleft in the middle; and was framed with bright auburn

hair of a curiously _unreal_ colour.

When the blackness closed in, and I heard in the dark scrambling sounds

like a rat running amok in the wainscot, I gave a cry. In my horror and

bewilderment I wasn't sure yet whether I were awake or asleep; but

someone answered. Dazed as I was, I recognized Shelagh's sweet young

voice, and at the same instant her electric bed-lamp was switched on in

the next room. "Coming!--coming!" she cried, and appeared in the

doorway, her hair gold against the light.

By this time I had the sense to switch on my own lamp, and, comforted by

it and my pal's presence, I told Shelagh in a few words what had

happened. "Why, how weird! I dreamed the same dream!" she broke in. "At

least, I dreamed about a light, and a face."

Hastily we compared notes, and realized that Shelagh had not dreamed:

that the woman of mystery had visited us both; only, she had gone to

Shelagh first, and had not been scared away as by me, because Shelagh

hadn't thoroughly waked up.

We decided that our vision was no ghost, but that, for once, rumour was

right. In some amazing way a spy had concealed herself in the rambling

old Abbey (the house has several secret rooms of which we know; and

there might be others, long forgotten), and probably she had been

signalling until warned of danger by that visit from the police. We

resolved to rise at daybreak, and walk to Courtenay Coombe to let the

police know what had happened to us; but, as it turned out, a great deal

more was to happen before dawn.

We felt pretty sure that the spy would cease her activities for the

night, after the shock of finding our rooms occupied. Still it would be

cowardly--we thought--to lie in bed. We slipped on dressing-gowns,

therefore, and with candles (only our wing was furnished with electric

light, for which dear Grandmother had never paid) we descended

fearsomely to the Barlows' quarters. Having roused the old couple and

got them to put on some clothes, a search-party of four perambulated the

house. So far as we could see, however, the place was innocent of spies;

and at length we crept into bed again.

We didn't mean or expect to sleep, of course, but we must all have

"dropped off," otherwise we should have smelt the smoke long before we

did smell it. As it was, the great hall slowly burned until Barlow's

usual getting-up hour. Shelagh and I knew nothing until Barl came

pounding at my door. Then the stinging of our nostrils and eyelids was a

fire alarm!

It's wonderful how quickly you can do things when you have to! Ten

minutes later I was running as fast as I could go to the village, and

might have earned a prize for a two-mile sprint if I hadn't raced alone.

By the time the fire-engines reached the Abbey it was too late to save a

whole side of the glorious old "linen fold" panelling of the hall. The

celebrated staircase was injured, too, and several suits of historic

armour, as well as a number of antique weapons.

Fortunately the portraits were all in the picture gallery, and the fire

was stopped before it had swept beyond the hall. Where it had started

was soon learned, but "_how_" remained a mystery, for shavings and

oil-tins had apparently been stuffed behind the panelling. The theory of

the police was, that the spy (no one doubted the spy's existence now!)

had seen that the "game was up," since the place would be strictly

watched from that night on. Out of sheer spite, the female Hun had

attempted to burn down the famous old house before she lost her chance;

or had perhaps already made preparations to destroy it when her other

work should be ended.

There was a hue and cry over the county in pursuit of the fugitive,

which echoed as far as London; but the woman had escaped, and not even a

trace of her was found.

Grandmother openly claimed that HER inspiration in sending for some

dust-sheets had not only saved the Abbey, but England. It was most

agreeable to bask in self-respect and the praise of friends. When,

however, we were bombarded by newspaper men, who took revenge for

Grandmother's snubs by publishing interviews with Sir "Jim" (by this

time Major Courtenaye, D. S. O., M. C., unluckily at home with a

"Blighty" wound), the haughty lady lost her temper.

It was bad enough, she complained, to have the Abbey turned prematurely

into a ruin, but for That Fellow to proclaim that it wouldn't have

happened had _he_ been the owner was _too_ much! The democratic and

socialist papers ("rags," according to Grandmother) stood up for the

self-made cowboy baronet, and blamed the great lady who had "thrown away

in selfish extravagance" what should have paid the upkeep of an historic

monument. This, to a woman who directed the most patriotic _ouvroir_ in

London! And to pile Ossa on Pelion, our Grosvenor Square landlord was

cad enough to tell his friends (who told theirs, etc., etc.) that he had

never received his rent! Which statement, by the way, was all the more

of a libel because it was true.

Now you understand how Sir James Courtenaye was responsible for driving

us to Italy, and indirectly bringing about my marriage; for Grandmother

wiped the dust of Grosvenor Square from our feet with Italian passports,

and swept me off to new activities in Rome.

Here was Mr. Carstairs' moment to say, "I told you so! If only you had

left the Abbey when I advised you that it was best, all would have been

well. Now, with the central hall in ruins, nobody would be found dead in

the place, not even a munition millionaire." But being a particularly

kind man he said nothing of the sort. He merely implored Grandmother to

live economically in Rome: and of course (being Grandmother!) she did

nothing of the sort.

We lived at the most expensive hotel, and whenever we had any money,

gave it to the Croce Rossa, running up bills for ourselves. But we mixed

much joy with a little charity, and my descriptive letters to Shelagh

were so attractive that she persuaded Mr. and Mrs. Pollen, her guardians

(uncle and aunt; sickening snobs!), to bring her to Rome; pretext, Red

Cross work, which covered so much frivolling in the war! Then, not long

after, the cowboy's friend, Roger Fane, appeared on the scene, in the

American Expeditionary Force; a thrilling, handsome, and mysteriously

tragic person. James Courtenaye also turned up, having been ordered to

the Italian Front; but Grandmother and I contrived never to meet him.

And when our financial affairs began to rumble like an earthquake, Mr.

Carstairs decided to see Grandmother in person.

It was when she received his telegram, "Coming at once," that she

decided I must accept Prince di Miramare. She had wanted an Englishman

for me; but a Prince is a Prince, and though Paolo was far from rich at

the moment, he had the prospect of an immediate million--liras, alas!

not pounds. An enormously rich Greek offered him that sum for the

fourteenth-century Castello di Miramare on a mountain all its own, some

miles from Rome. In consideration of a large sum paid to Paolo's younger

brother Carlo, the two Miramare princes would break the entail; and this

quick solution of our difficulties was to be a surprise for Mr.

Carstairs.

Paolo and I were married as hastily as such matters can be arranged

abroad, between persons of different nations; and it was true (as those

cynics outside the arbour said) that my soldier prince went back to the

Front an hour after the wedding. It was just after we were safely

spliced that Grandmother ceased to fight a temperature of a hundred and

three, and gave up to an attack of 'flu. She gave up quite quietly, for

she thought that, whatever happened, I would be rich, because she had

browbeaten lazy, unbusinesslike Paolo into making a will in my favour.

The one flaw in this calculation was, his concealing from her the fact

that the entail was not yet legally broken. No contract between him and

the Greek could be signed while the entail existed; therefore Paolo's

will gave me only his personal possessions. These were not much; for I

doubt if even the poor boy's uniforms were paid for. But I am thankful

that Grandmother died without realizing her failure; and I hope that her

spirit was far away before the ex-cowboy began making overtures.

If it had not been for Mrs. Carstairs' inspiration, I don't know what

would have become of me!

CHAPTER II

UP AND IN

You may remember what Jim Courtenaye said in the garden: that he would

probably have to support me.

Well, he dared to offer, through Mr. Carstairs, to do that very thing,

"for the family's sake." At least, he proposed to pay off all our debts

and allow me an income of four hundred a year, if it turned out that my

inheritance from Paolo was nil.

When Mr. Carstairs passed on the offer to me, as he was bound to do, I

said what I felt dear Grandmother would have wished me to say: "I'll see

him d--d first!" And I added, "I hope you'll repeat that to the

_Person_."

I think from later developments that Mr. Carstairs cannot have repeated

my reply verbatim. But I have not yet quite come to the part about those

developments. After the funeral, when I knew the worst about the entail,

and that Paolo's brother Carlo was breaking it wholly for his _own_

benefit, and not at all for mine, Mrs. Carstairs asked sympathetically

if I had thought what I should like to do.

"Like to do?" I echoed, bitterly. "I should like to go home to the dear

old Abbey, and restore the place as it ought to be restored, and have

plenty of money, without lifting a finger to get it. What I _must_ do is

a different question."

"Well, then, my dear, supposing we put it in that brutal way. Have you

thought--er----"

"I've done nothing except think. But I've been brought up with about as

much earning capacity as a mechanical doll. The only thing I have the

slightest talent for being, is--a detective!"

"Good gracious!" was Mrs. Carstairs' comment on that.

"I've felt ever since spy night at the Abbey that I had it in me to make

a good detective," I modestly explained.

"'Princess di Miramare, Private Detective,' would be a distinctly

original sign-board over an office door," the old lady reflected. "But I

believe _I've_ evolved something more practical, considering your

name--and your age--(twenty-one, isn't it?)--and your _looks_. Not that

detective talent mayn't come in handy even in the profession I'm going

to suggest. Very likely it will--among other things. It's a profession

that'll call for all the talents you can get hold of."

"Do you by chance mean marriage?" I inquired, coldly. "I've never been a

wife. But I suppose I _am_ a sort of widow."

"If you weren't a sort of widow you couldn't cope with the profession

I've--er--invented. You wouldn't be independent enough."

"Invented? Then you _don't_ mean marriage! And not even the stage. I

warn you that I solemnly promised Grandmother never to go on the stage."

"I know, my child. She mentioned that to Henry--my husband--when they

were discussing your future, before you both left London. My idea is

_much_ more original than marriage, or even the stage. It popped into my

mind the night Mrs. Courtenaye died, while we were in a taxi between the

Palazzo Ardini and this hotel. I said to myself, 'Dear Elizabeth shall

be a Brightener!'"

"A Brightener?" I repeated, with a vague vision of polishing windows or

brasses. "I don't----"

"You wouldn't! I told you I'd invented the profession expressly for you.

Now I'm going to tell you what it is. I felt that you'd not care to be a

tame companion, even to the most gilded millionairess, or a social

secretary to a----"

"Horror!--no, I couldn't be a tame anything."

"That's why brightening is your line. A Brightener couldn't _be_ a

Brightener and tame. She must be brilliant--winged--soaring above the

plane of those she brightens; expensive, to make herself appreciated;

capable of taking the lead in social direction. Why, my dear, people

will fight to get you--pay any price to secure you! _Now_ do you

understand?"

I didn't. So she explained. After that dazzling preface, the explanation

seemed rather an anti-climax. Still, I saw that there might be something

in the plan--if it could be worked. And Mrs. Carstairs guaranteed to

work it.

My widowhood (save the mark!) qualified me to become a chaperon. And my

Princesshood would make me a gilded one. Chaperonage, at its best, might

be amusing. But chaperonage was far from the whole destiny of a

Brightener. A Brightener need not confine herself to female society, as

a mere Companion must. A young woman, even though a widow and a

Princess, could not "companion" a person of the opposite sex, even if he

were a _hundred_. But she might, from a discreet distance, be his

Brightener. That is, she might brighten a lonely man's life without

tarnishing her own reputation.

"After all," Mrs. Carstairs went on, "in spite of what's said against

him, Man _is_ a Fellow Being. If a cat may look at a King, Man may look

at a Princess. And unless he's in her set, he can be made to pay for the

privilege. Think of a lonely button or boot-maker! What would he give

for the honour of invitations to tea, with introductions and social

advice, from the popular Princess di Miramare? He might have a wife or

daughters, or both, who needed a leg up. _They_ would come extra! He

might be a widower--in fact, I've caught the first widower for you

already. But unluckily you can't use him yet."

"Ugh!" I shuddered. "Sounds as if he were a fish--wriggling on a hook

till I'm ready to tear it out of his gills!"

"He is a fish--a big fish. In fact, I may as well break it to you that

he is Roger Fane."

"Good heavens!" I cried. "It would take more electricity than I'm fitted

with to brighten his tragic and mysterious gloom!"

"Not at all. In fact, you are the only one who can brighten it."

"What are you driving at? He's dead in love with Shelagh Leigh."

"That's just _it_. As things are, he has no hope of marrying Shelagh.

She likes him, as you probably know better than I do, for you're her

best pal, although she's a year or so younger than you----"

"Two years."

"Well, as I was going to say, in many ways she's a child compared to

you. She's as beautiful as one of those cut-off cherubs in the

prayer-books, and as old-fashioned as an early Victorian sampler. These

blonde Dreams with naturally waving golden hair and rosebud mouths, and

eyes big as half-crowns, _have_ that drawback, as I've discovered since

I came to live in England. In _my_ country we don't grow early Victorian

buds. You know perfectly well that those detestable snobs, the Pollens,

don't think Fane good enough for Shelagh in spite of his money. Money's

the _one_ nice thing they've got themselves, which they can pass on to

Shelagh. Probably they forced the wretched Miss Pollen, who was the male

snob's sister, to marry the old Marquis of Leigh just as they wish to

_compel_ Shelagh to marry some other wreck of his sort--and die young,

as her mother did. The girl's a dear--a perfect _lamb_!--but lambs can't

stand up against lions. They generally lie down inside them. But with

_you_ at the helm, the Pollen lions could be forced----"

"Not if they knew it!" I cut in.

"They wouldn't know it. Did _you_ know that you were being forced to

marry that poor young prince of yours?"

"I wasn't forced. I was persuaded."

"We won't argue the point! Anyhow, the subject doesn't press. The scheme

I have in my head for you to launch Fane on the social sea (the _sea_ in

every sense of the word, as you'll learn by and by) can't come off till

you're out of your deepest mourning. I'll find you a quieter line of

goods to begin on than the Fane-Leigh business if you agree to take up

Brightening. The question is, _do_ you agree?"

"I do," I said more earnestly than I had said "I will" as I stood at

Paolo's side in church. For life hadn't been very earnest then. Now it

was.

"Good!" exclaimed Mrs. Carstairs. "Then that's _that_! The next thing is

to furnish you a charming flat in the same house with us. You must have

a background of your own."

"You forget--I haven't a farthing!" I fiercely reminded her. "But Mr.

Carstairs won't forget! I've made him too much trouble. The best

Brightening won't run to _half_ a Background in Berkeley Square."

"Wait," Mrs. Carstairs calmed me. "I haven't finished the whole

proposition yet. In America, when we run up a sky-scraper, we don't

begin at the bottom, in any old, commonplace way. We stick a few steel

girders into the earth; then we start at the top and work down. That's

what I've been doing with my plan. It's perfect. Only you've got to

support it with something."

"What is it you're trying to break to me?" I demanded.

The dear old lady swallowed heavily. (It must be something pretty awful

if it daunted _her_!)

"You like Roger Fane," she began.

"Yes, I admire him. He's handsome and interesting, though a little too

mysterious and tragic to live with for my taste."

"He's not mysterious at all!" she defended Fane. "His tragedy--for there

_was_ a tragedy!--is no secret in America. I often met him before the

war, when I ran over to pay visits in New York, though he was far from

being in the Four Hundred. But at the moment I've no more to say about

Roger Fane. I've been using him for a handle to brandish a friend of his

in front of your eyes."

My blood grew hot. "_Not_ the ex-cowboy?"

"That's no way to speak of Sir James Courtenaye."

"Then _he's_ what you want to break to me?"

"I want--I mean, I'm _requested_!--to inform you of a way he proposes

out of the woods for you--at least, the darkest part of the woods."

"I told Mr. Carstairs I'd see James Courtenaye d--d rather than----"

"_This_ is a different affair entirely. You must listen, my dear, unless

I'm to wash my hands of you! What I have to describe is the foundation

for the Brightening."

I swallowed some more of Grandmother's expressions which occurred to me,

and listened.

Sir James Courtenaye's second proposition was not an offer of charity.

He suggested that I let Courtenaye Abbey to him for a term of years, for

the sum of one thousand five hundred pounds per annum, the first three

years to be paid in advance. (This clause, Mrs. Carstairs hinted, would

enable me to dole out crumbs here and there for the quieting of

Grandmother's creditors.) Sir James's intention was, not to use the

Abbey as a residence, but to make of it a show place for the public

during the term of his lease. In order to do this, the hall must be

restored and the once-famous gardens beautified. This expense he would

undertake, carrying the work quickly to completion, and would reimburse

himself by means of the fees--a shilling a head--charged for viewing the

house and its historic treasures.

When I had heard all this, I hesitated what to answer, thinking of

Grandmother, and wondering what she would have said had she been in my

shoes. But as this thought flitted into my mind, it was followed by

another. One of Grandmother's few old-fashioned fads was her style of

shoe: pattern 1875. The shoes I stood in, at this moment, were pattern

1918. In _my_ shoes Grandmother would simply scream! And I wouldn't be

at my best in hers. This was the parable which commonsense put to me,

and Mrs. Carstairs cleverly offering no word of advice, I paused no

longer than five minutes before I snapped out, "Yes! The horrid brute

can have the darling place till I get rich."

"How sweet of you to consent so _graciously_, darling!" purred Mrs.

Carstairs. Then we both laughed. After which I fell into her arms, and

cried.

For fear I might change my mind, Mr. Carstairs got me to sign some

dull-looking documents that very day, and the oddness of their being all

ready to hand didn't strike me till the ink was dry.

"Henry had them prepared because he knew how _sensible_ you are at

heart--I mean _at head_," his wife explained. "Indeed, it is a

compliment to your intelligence."

Anyhow, it gave me a wherewithal to throw sops to a whole Zooful of

Cerberuses, and still keep enough to take that flat in the Carstairs'

house in Berkeley Square. Of course to do all this meant leaving Italy

for good and going back to England. But there was little to hold me in

Rome. My inheritance from my husband-of-an-hour could be packed in a

suitcase! Shelagh and her snobs travelled with us. And as soon as they

were demobilized, Roger Fane and James Courtenaye followed, if not us,

at least in our direction.

I don't think that Aladdin's Lamp builders "had anything on" Sir Jim's

(as he himself said), judging by the way the restorations simply flew.

From what I heard of the sums he spent, it would take the shillings of

all England and America as sightseers to put him in pocket. But as Mr.

Carstairs pointed out, that was _his_ business.

Mine was to gird my loins at Lucille's and Redfern's, in order to become

a Brightener. For my pendulum was ticking regularly now. I was no longer

down and out. I was up and in. Elizabeth, Princess di Miramare, was

spoiling for her first job.

CHAPTER III

THUNDERBOLT SIX

Looking back through my twenty-one-and-three-quarter years, I divide my

life, up to date, into thunderbolts.

Thunderbolt One: Death of my Father and Mother.

Thunderbolt Two: Spy Night at the Abbey.

Thunderbolt Three: My Marriage to Paolo di Miramare.

Thunderbolt Four: The "Double Blow."

Thunderbolt Five: Beggary!

Which brings me along the road to Thunderbolt Six.

* * * * *

Mrs. Percy-Hogge was, and is, exactly what you would think from her

name; which is why I don't care to dwell at length on the few months I

spent brightening her at Bath. It was bad enough _living_ them!

Now, if I were a Hogge instead of a Courtenaye, plus Miramare, I would

_be_ one, plain, unadulterated, and unadorned. _She_ adulterated her

Hogg with an "e," and adorned it with a "Percy," her late husband's

Christian name. He being in heaven or somewhere, the hyphen couldn't

hurt him; and with it, and his money, _and_ Me, she began at Bath the

attempt to live down the past of a mere margarine-making Hogg. Whole

bunches of Grandmother's friends were in the Bath zone just then, which

is why I chose it, and they were so touched by my widow's weeds that

they were charming to Mrs. P.-H. in order to please me. As most of

them--though stuffy--were titled, and there were two Marchionesses and

one Duchess, the result for Mrs. Percy-Hogge was brilliant. She, who had

never before known any one above a knight-ess, was in Paradise. She had

taken a fine old Georgian house, furnished from basement to attic by

Mallet, and had launched invitations for a dinner-party "to meet the

Dowager-Duchess of Stoke," when--bang fell Thunderbolt Six!

Naturally it fell on me, not her, as thunderbolts have no affinity for

Hoggs. It fell in the shape of a telegram from Mrs. Carstairs.

She wired:

Come London immediately, for consultation. Terrible theft at Abbey.

Barlows drugged and bound by burglars. Both prostrated. Affair

serious. Let me know train. Will meet. Love.

CAROLINE CARSTAIRS.

I wired in return that I would catch the first train, and caught it. The

old lady kept her word also, and met me. Before her car had whirled us

to Berkeley Square I had got the whole story out of her; which was well,

as an ordeal awaited me, and I needed time to camouflage my feelings.

I had been sent for in haste because the news of the burglary was not to

leak into the papers until, as Mrs. Carstairs expressed it, "those most

concerned had come to some sort of understanding." "You see," she added,

"this isn't an ordinary theft. There are wheels within wheels, and the

insurance people will kick up a row rather than pay. That's why we must

talk everything over; you, and Sir James, and Henry--and Henry is never

_quite_ complete without me, so I intend to be in the offing."

I knew she wouldn't stay there; but that was a detail!

The robbery had taken place the night before, and Sir James himself had

been the one to discover it. Complication number one (as you'll see in a

minute).

He, being now "demobbed" and a man of leisure, instead of reopening his

flat in town, had taken up quarters at Courtenaye Coombe to superintend

the repairs at the Abbey. His ex-cowboy habits being energetic, he

usually walked the two miles from the village, and appeared on the scene

ahead of the workmen.

This morning he arrived before seven o'clock, and went, according to

custom, to beg a cup of coffee from Mrs. Barlow. She and her husband

occupied the bedroom and sitting room which had been the housekeeper's;

but at that hour the two were invariably in the kitchen. Sir Jim let

himself in with his key, and marched straight to that part of the house.

He was surprised to find the kitchen shutters closed and the range

fireless. Suspecting something wrong, he went to the bedroom door and

knocked. He got no answer; but a second, harder rap produced a muffled

moan. The door was not locked. He opened it, and was horrified at what

he saw: Mrs. Barlow, on the bed, gagged and bound; her husband in the

same condition, but lying on the floor; and the atmosphere of the closed

room heavy with the fumes of chloroform.

It was Mrs. Barlow who managed to answer the knock with a moan. Barlow

was deeper under the spell of the drug than she, and--it appeared

afterward--in a more serious condition of collapse.

The old couple had no story to tell, for they recalled nothing of what

had happened. They had made the rounds of the house as usual at night,

and had then gone to bed. Barlow did not wake from his stupor until the

village doctor came to revive him with stimulants, and Mrs. Barlow's

first gleam of consciousness was when she dimly heard Sir James

knocking. She strove to call out, felt aware of illness, realized with

terror that her mouth was distended with a gag, and struggled to utter

the faint groan which reached his ears.

As soon as Sir Jim had attended to the sufferers, he hurried out, and,

finding that the workmen had arrived, rushed one of them back to

Courtenaye Coombe for the doctor and the village nurse. The moment he

(Sir Jim) was free to do so, he started on a voyage of discovery round

the house, and soon learned that a big haul had been brought off. The

things taken were small in size but in value immense, and circumstantial

evidence suggested that the thief or thieves knew precisely what they

wanted as well as where to get it.

In the picture gallery a portrait of King Charles I (given by himself to

a General Courtenaye of the day) had been cleverly cut out of its frame,

also a sketch of the Long Water at Hampton Court, painted and signed by

King Charles. The green drawing room was deprived of its chief treasure,

a quaint sampler embroidered by the hand of Mary Queen of Scots for her

"faithful John Courtenaye." From the Chinese boudoir a Buddha of the

Ming period was gone, and a jewel box of marvellous red lacquer

presented by Li Hung Chang to my grandmother. The silver cabinet in the

oak dining room had been broken open, and a teapot, sugar bowl, and

cream-jug, given by Queen Anne to an ancestress, were absent. The China

cabinet in the same room was bared of a set of green-and-gold coffee

cups presented by Napoleon I to a French great-great-grandmother of

mine; and from the big dining hall adjoining, a Gobelin panel, woven for

the Empress Josephine, after the wedding picture by David, had vanished.

A few _bibelots_ were missing also, here and there; snuff boxes of Beau

Nash and Beau Brummel; miniatures, old paste brooches and buckles

reminiscent of Courtenaye beauties; and a fat watch that had belonged to

George IV.

"All my pet things!" I mourned.

"Don't say that to any one except me," advised Mrs. Carstairs. "My dear,

_bits of a letter torn into tiny pieces--a letter from you--were found

in the Chinese Room_, and the Insurance people will be hatefully

inquisitive!"

"You don't mean to insinuate that they'll suspect me?" I blazed at her.

"Not of stealing the things with your own hands; and if they did, you

could easily prove an alibi, I suppose. Still, they're bound to follow

up every clue, and bits of paper with your writing on them, apparently

dropped by the thieves, _do_ form a tempting clue. You can't help

admitting it."

I did not admit it in the least, for at first glance I couldn't see

where the "temptation" lay to steal one's own belongings. But Mrs.

Carstairs soon made me see. Though the things were mine in a way, in

another way they were not mine. Being heirlooms, I could not profit by

them financially, in the open. Yet if I could cause them to disappear,

without being detected, I should receive the insurance money with one

hand, and rake in with the other a large bribe from some supposititious

purchaser.

"On the contrary, why shouldn't our brave Bart be suspected of precisely

the same fraud, and more of it?" I inquired. "If I could steal the

things, so could he. If they're my pets, they may be his. And he was on

the spot, with a lot of workmen in his pay! Surely such circumstantial

evidence against him weighs more heavily in the scales than a mere scrap

of paper against me? I've written Sir Jim once or twice, by the way, on

business about the Abbey since I've been in Bath. All he'd have to do

would be to tear a letter up small enough, so it couldn't be pieced

together and make sense----"

"Nobody's weighing anything in scales against either of you--yet,"

soothed Mrs. Carstairs, "unless you're doing it against each other! But

we don't know what may happen. That's why it seemed best for you and Sir

James to come together and exchange blows--I mean, _views_!--at once. He

called my husband up by long-distance telephone early this morning, told

him what had happened, and had a pow-wow on ways and means. They decided

not to inform the police, but to save publicity and engage a private

detective. In fact, Sir J---- asked Henry to send a good man to the

Abbey by the quickest train. He went--the man, I mean, not Henry; and

the head of his firm ought to arrive at our flat in a few minutes now,

to meet you and Sir James."

"Sir James! Even a galloping cowboy can't be in London and Devonshire at

the same moment."

"Oh, I forgot to mention, he must have travelled up by _your_ train. I

suppose you didn't see him?"

"I did not!"

"He was probably in a smoking carriage. Well, anyhow, he'll soon be with

us."

"Stop the taxi!" I broke in; and stopped it myself by tapping on the

window behind the chauffeur.

"Good heavens! what's the matter?" gasped my companion.

"Nothing. I want to inquire the name of that firm of private detectives

Sir James Courtenaye got Mr. Carstairs to engage."

"Pemberton. You must have seen it advertised. But why stop the taxi to

ask that?"

"I stopped the taxi to get out, and let you run home alone while I find

another cab to take me to another detective. You see, I didn't want to

go to the same firm."

"Isn't one firm of detectives enough at one time, on one job?"

"It isn't one job. You're the shrewdest woman I know. You _must_ see

that James Courtenaye has engaged _his_ detective to spy upon me--to dog

my footsteps--to discover if I suddenly blossom out into untold

magnificence on ill-got gains. I intend to turn the tables on him, and

when I come back to your flat, it will be in the company of my very own

little pet detective."

Mrs. Carstairs broke into adjurations and arguments. According to her, I

misjudged my cousin's motives; and if I brought a detective, it would be

an insult. But I checked her by explaining that my man would not give

himself away--he would pose as a friend of mine. I would select a

suitable person for the part. With that I jumped out of the taxi, and

the dear old lady was too wise to argue. She drove sadly home, and I

went into the nearest shop which looked likely to own a directory. In

that volume I found another firm of detectives with an equally

celebrated name. I taxied to their office, explained something of my

business, and picked out a person who might pass for a pal of a

(socialist) princess. He and I then repaired to Berkeley Square, and Sir

James and the Pemberton person (also Mr. Carstairs) had not been waiting

_much_ more than half an hour when we arrived.

I don't know what my "forty-fourth cousin four times removed" thought

about my dashing in with a strange Mr. Smith who apparently had nothing

to do with the case. And I didn't care. No, not even if he imagined the

square-jawed bull-dog creature to be a choice specimen of my circle at

Bath. In any case, my Mr. Smith was a dream compared with his Pemberton.

As to himself, however--Sir Jim--I had to acknowledge that he was far

from insignificant in personality. If there were to be any battle of

wits or manners between us, I couldn't afford to despise him.

When I had met him before, I was too utterly overwhelmed to study, or

even to notice him much, except to see that he was a big, red-headed

fellow, who loomed unnaturally large when viewed against the light. Now

I classified him as resembling a more-than-life-size statue--done in

pale bronze--of a Red Indian, or a soldier of Ancient Rome. The only

flaws in the statue were the red hair and the fiery blackness of the

eyes.

My Mr. Smith, as I have explained, wasn't posing as a detective, but he

was engaged to stop, look, listen, for all he was worth, and tell me his

impressions afterward--just as, no doubt, Mr. Pemberton was to tell Sir

James _his_.

We talked over the robbery in conclave; we amateurs suggesting theories,

the professionals committing themselves to nothing so premature. Why, it

was too early to form judgments, since the detective on the spot had not

yet been able to report upon fingerprints or other clues! The sole

decision arrived at, and agreed to by all, was to keep the affair among

ourselves for the present. This could be managed if none but private

detectives were employed and the police not brought into the case. When

the meeting broke up and I was able to question Mr. Smith, I was

disappointed in him. I had hoped and expected (having led up to it by

hints) that he would say: "Sir James Courtenaye is in this." On the

contrary, he tactlessly advised me to "put that idea out of my head.

There was nothing in it." (I hope he meant the idea, not the head!)

"I should say, speaking in the air," he remarked, "that the caretakers

are the guilty parties, or at least have had some hand in the business.

Though of course I might change my mind if I were on the spot."

I assured him fiercely that any one possessed of a mind at all would

change it at sight of dear old Barl and Barley. Nothing on earth would

make me believe anything against them. Why, if they didn't have

Almost-Haloes and Wings, Sir James and the insurance people would have

objected to them as guardians. The very fact that they had been kept on

without a word of protest from any one, when Courtenaye Abbey was let to

Sir James was, I argued, the best of testimonials to the Barlows'

character. Nevertheless, my orders were that Mr. Smith should go to

Devonshire and take a room at the Courtenaye Arms, dressed and painted

to represent a landscape artist. "The Abbey is to be opened to the

public in a few days, in spite of the best small show-things being

lost," I reminded him, from what we had heard Sir Jim say. "You can see

the Barlows, and judge of them. But what is _much_ more important,

you'll also see Sir James Courtenaye, who lodges in the inn, and can

judge of _him_. In my opinion he has revenged himself for losing his

suit to grab the Abbey and everything in it, by taking what he could lay

his hands on without being suspected."

"But you do suspect him?" said Mr. Smith.

"For that matter, so does he suspect me," I retorted.

"You _think_ so," the detective amended.

"Don't you?"

"No, Princess, I do not."

"What _do_ you think, then? Or don't you think _anything_?"

"I do think something." He tried to justify his earning capacity.

"What, if I may ask?"

He--a Smith, a mere Smith!--dared to grin.

"Of course you may ask, Princess," he replied. "But it's too early yet

for me to answer your question in fairness to myself. About the theft I

have not formed a firm theory, but I have about Sir James Courtenaye. I

would not have ventured even to mention it, however, if you had not

drawn me out, for it is indirectly concerned with the case."

"Directly or indirectly, I wish to know it," I insisted. "And as you're

in my employ, I think I have the right."

"Very well, madam, you shall know it--later," he said.

CHAPTER IV

THE BLACK THING IN THE SEA

I went back to Bath, and Mrs. Percy-Hogge; but I no longer felt that I

was enjoying a rest cure. Right or wrong, I had the impression of being

_watched_. I was sure that Sir James Courtenaye had put detectives "on

my track," in the hope that I might be caught communicating with my

hired bravos or the wicked receiver of my stolen goods. In other days

when a man stared or turned to gaze after me, I had attributed the

attention to my looks; now I jumped to the conviction that he was a

detective. And in fact, I began to jump at anything--or nothing.

It was vain for Mrs. Carstairs (who ran down to Bath, after I'd written

her a wild letter) to guarantee that even an enemy--(which she vowed Sir

James _wasn't_!)--could rake up no shred of evidence against me, with

the exception of the torn letter. She couldn't deny that, materially

speaking, it _would_ be a "good haul" for me to sell the heirlooms, and

obtain also the insurance money. But then, I hadn't done it, and nobody

could accuse me of doing it, because no one knew the things were gone.

Oh, well, _yes_! Some detectives knew; and the poor old Barlows had

bitter cause to know. A few others, too, including Sir James Courtenaye.

None of them _counted_, however, because none of them would talk.

Mrs. Carstairs said it was absurd of me to imagine that Sir James was

having me watched. But imagination and not advice had the upper hand of

my nerves; and, seeing this, she prescribed a change of air.

"I meant Mrs. Percy-Hogge only for a stop-gap," she explained. "You've

squeezed her into Society now; and for yourself, you've come to the time

when you can lighten your mourning. I've waited for that, to start you

on your new job. You'll go what my cook calls 'balmy on the crumpet' if

you keep fancying every queer human being you meet in Milsom Street a

detective on your track. The best thing for you is, not to _have_ a

track! And the way to manage that, is to be at _sea_."

I was at sea--figuratively--till Mrs. Carstairs explained more. She

recalled to my mind what she had said in our first chat about

Brightening: how she had suggested my "taking the helm," to steer Roger

Fane into the Social Sea.

"I think I mentioned then that I referred to the sea, in the literal

sense of the word," she went on. "I promised to tell you what I meant,

when the right moment came, and now it has come. I haven't been idle

meanwhile, I assure you, for I like Roger Fane as much as _you_ like

Shelagh Leigh. And between us two, we'll marry them over the Pollens'

snobby heads."

In short, Mr. Carstairs had a client who had a yacht at Plymouth. The

client's name was Lord Verrington. The yacht's name was _Naiad_, and

Lord Verrington wished to let her for an absurdly large sum. Roger Fane

didn't mind paying this sum. It was the right time of year for a

yachting trip. If I would lend eclat to such a trip by Brightening it,

the Pollens would permit their precious Shelagh to go. Mr. Pollen (whom

Grandmother had refused to know) would even join the party himself.

Indeed, no one would refuse if asked by me, and the Pollens would be so

dazzled by Roger Fane's sudden social success that their consent to the

engagement was a foregone conclusion.

I snapped at the chance of escape. To be sure, it was a temporary

escape, as the guests were invited for a week only; still, lots of

things may happen in a week. Why look beyond seven perfectly good days?

Besides, I was to be given a huge "bonus" for my services, enough to pay

the rent of my expensive flat for a year. But I wasn't entirely selfish

in accepting. I've never half described to you the odd, reserved charm

of that mysterious millionaire, Roger Fane, whose one fault was his

close friendship with Sir James Courtenaye. And for his sake, as well as

dear little Shelagh's, I would gladly have done all I could to bring the

two together.

Knowing that titles impressed the Pollens, I secured several: one earl

with countess attached (legally, at all events), a pretty sister of the

latter; a bachelor marquis, and ditto viscount. These, with Shelagh,

myself, Roger Fane, and Mr. Pollen, would constitute the party, should

all accept.

They all did, partly for me, perhaps, and partly for each other, but

largely from curiosity, as the _Naiad_ had the reputation of being the

most luxuriously appointed small steam yacht in British waters, (She had

been "interned" in Spain during the war!) Also, Roger had secured as

_chef_ a famous Frenchman, just demobilized. Altogether, the prospect

offered attractions. The start was to be made from Plymouth on a summer

afternoon. We were to cruise along the coast, and eventually make for

Jersey and Guernsey, where none of the party had ever been. My things

were packed, and I was ready to take a morning train for Plymouth--a

train by which all those of us in town would travel--when a letter

arrived for me. It was from Mrs. Barlow, announcing the sudden death of

her husband, from heart failure. He had never recovered the shock of the

robbery, or the heavy dose of chloroform which the thieves had

administered. And this, Barley added, as if in reproach, was not all

Barlow had been forced to endure. It had been a cruel blow to find

himself supplanted as guardian at the Abbey. The excuse for thus

superseding him and his wife was, of course, the state of their health

after the ordeal through which they had passed. Nevertheless, Barlow

felt (said his wife) that they were no longer trusted. They had loved

the lodge, which was home to them in old days; but they had been

promoted from lodge-keeping to caretaking, and it was humiliating to be

sent back while strangers usurped their place at the Abbey. This

grievance (in Barley's opinion) had killed her husband. As for her, she

would follow him into the grave, were it not for the loving care of

Barlow's nephews from Australia, the brave twin soldier boys she had

often mentioned to me. They were with her now, and would take her to the

old family home close to Dudworth Cove, which the boys had bought back

from the late owner. Barlow's body would go with them, and be buried in

the graveyard where generations of Barlows slept.

It was a blow to hear of the old man's death, and to learn that I was

blamed for heartlessness by Barley. Of course I had nothing to do with

the affair. The Barlows were not really suspected, and had in truth been

removed for their own health's sake to the lodge where their possessions

were. The new caretakers had been engaged by Sir James, in consultation,

I believed, with the insurance people: and my secret conviction was,

that they had been supplied by Pemberton's Agency of Private Detectives.

My impulse was to rush to the Abbey and comfort Mrs. Barlow, even at the

risk of meeting my tenant engaged in the same task. But to do this would

have meant delaying the trip, and disappointing everyone, most of all

Shelagh and Roger Fane; so, advised by Mrs. Carstairs, I sent a telegram

instead, picked up Shelagh and her uncle, and took the Plymouth train.

This was the easier to do, because the wonderful old lady offered to go

herself to the Abbey on a mission of consolation. She promised to send a

telegram to our first port, saying how Barley was, and everything else I

wished to know.

Shelagh was so happy, so excited, that I was glad I'd listened to reason

and kept the tryst. Never had I seen her as pretty as she looked on that

journey to Devon: her eyes blue stars, her cheeks pink roses. But when

the skies began to darken her eyes darkened, too. Had she been a

barometer she could not have responded more sensitively to the storm;

for a storm we had, cats and dogs pelting down on the roof of the train.

"I was sure something horrid would happen!" she whispered. "It was too

good to be true that Roger and I should have a whole, heavenly week

together on board a yacht. Now we shall have to wait till the weather

clears. Or else be sea-sick. I don't know which is worse!"

Roger met us, in torrents of rain and gusts of wind, at Plymouth. But

things were not so black as they looked. He had engaged rooms for

everyone, and a private salon for us all, at the best hotel. We would

stay the night and have a dance, with a band of our own. By the next day

the sea would have calmed down enough to please the worst of sailors,

and we would start. Perhaps we could even get off in the morning.

This prophecy was rather too optimistic, for we didn't get off till

afternoon; but by that time the water was flat as a floor, and one was

tempted to forget there had ever been a storm. We were not to forget it

for long, alas! Brief as it had been, that storm was to leave its

lasting influence upon our fate: Roger Fane's, Shelagh Leigh's, and

mine.

By four-thirty, the day after the downpour, we had all come on board the

lovely _Naiad_, had "settled" into our cabins, and were on deck--the

girls in white serge or linen, the men in flannels--ready for tea.

If it had arrived, and we had been looking into our tea cups instead of

at the seascape, the whole of Roger Fane's and Shelagh's life might have

been different--mine, too, perhaps! But as it was, Shelagh and Roger

were leaning on the rail together, and her gaze was fixed upon the blue

water, because somehow she couldn't meet Roger's just then. What he had

said to her I don't know; but more to avoid giving an answer than

because she was wildly interested, the girl exclaimed: "What can that

dark thing be, drifting--and bobbing up and down in the waves? I suppose

it couldn't be a dead _shark_?"

"Hardly in these waters," said Roger Fane. "Besides, a dead shark floats

wrong side up, and his wrong side is white. This thing looks black."

In ordinary circumstances I wouldn't have broken in on a _tete-a-tete_,

but others were extricating themselves from their deck chairs, so I

thought there was no harm in my being the first.

"More like a coffin than a shark," I said, with my elbows beside

Shelagh's on the rail.

At that the whole party hurled itself in our direction, and the nearer

the _Naiad_ brought us to the floating object, the more like a coffin it

became to our eyes. At last it was so much like, that Roger decided to

stop the yacht and examine the thing, which might even be an odd-shaped

small boat, overturned. He went off, therefore, to speak with the

captain, leaving us in quite a state of excitement.

Almost before we'd thought the order given, the _Naiad_ slowed down, and

came to rest like a great Lohengrin swan in the clear azure wavelets. A

boat was quickly lowered, and we saw that Roger himself accompanied the

two rowers.

A few moments before he had looked so happy, so at peace with the world,

that the tragic shadow in his eyes had actually vanished. His whole

expression and bearing had been different, and he had seemed years

younger--almost boyish, in his dark, shy, reserved way. But as he went

down in the boat, he was again the Roger Fane I had known and wondered

about.

"If he's superstitious, this will seem a bad omen," I thought. "That is,

if the thing _does_ turn out to be a coffin."

None of us remembered the tea we'd been pining for, though a white-clad

steward was hovering with trays of cakes, cream, and strawberries. We

could do nothing but hang over the rail and watch the _Naiad's_ boat. We

saw it reach the Thing, in whose neighbourhood it paused with lifted

oars, while a discussion went on between Roger and the rowers.

Apparently they argued, with due respect, against the carrying out of

some order or suggestion. He was not a man to be disobeyed, however.

After a moment or two, the work of taking the black thing in tow was

begun.

We were very near now, and could plainly see all that went on. Coffin or

not, the mysterious object was a long, narrow box of some sort (the

men's reluctance to pick it up pretty well proved _what_ sort, to my

mind), and curiously enough a rope was tied round it. There appeared to

be a lump of knots on top, and a loose end trailing like seaweed, which

made the task of taking the derelict in tow an easy one. To this broken

rope Roger deftly attached the rope carried in the boat, and it was not

long before the rescue party started to return.

"Is it a coffin or a treasure chest?" girls and men eagerly called down

to Roger. Everyone screamed some question--except Shelagh and me. We

were silent, and Shelagh's colour had faded. She edged closer to me,

until our shoulders touched. Hers felt cold to my warm flesh.

"Why, you're shivering, dear!" I said. "You're not _afraid_ of that

wretched thing--whatever it is?"

"We both _know_ what it is, without telling, don't we?" she replied, in

a half whisper. "I'm not _afraid_ of it, of course. But--it's awful that

we should come across a coffin floating in the sea, on our first day

out. I feel as if it meant bad luck for Roger and me. How can they all

squeal and chatter so? I suppose Roger is bound to bring the dreadful

thing on board. It wouldn't be decent not to. But I wish he needn't."

I rather wished the same, partly because I knew how superstitious

sailors were about such matters, and how they would hate to have a

coffin--presumably containing a dead body--on board the _Naiad_. It

really wasn't a gay yachting companion! However, I tried to cheer

Shelagh. It would take more than this to bring her bad luck _now_, I

said, when things had gone so far; and she might have more trust in me,

whom she had lately named her _mascotte_.

All the men frankly desired to see the _trouvaille_ at close quarters,

and most of the women wanted a peep, though they weren't brutally open

about it. If there had been any doubt, it would have vanished as the

Thing was being hauled on board by grave-faced, suddenly sullen sailors.

It was a "sure enough" coffin, and--it seemed--an unusually large one!

It had to be placed on deck, for the moment, but Roger had the dark

shape instantly covered with tarpaulins; and an appeal from his clouded

eyes made me suggest adjourning indoors for tea. We could have it in the

saloon, which was decorated like a boudoir, and full of lilies and

roses--Shelagh's favourite flowers.

"Let's not talk any more about the business!" Roger exclaimed, when

Shelagh's uncle seemed inclined to mix the subject with food. "I wish it

hadn't happened, as the men are foolishly upset. But it can't be helped,

and we must do our best. The--er--it sha'n't stop on deck. That would be

to keep Jonah under our eyes. I've thought of a place where we can

ignore it till to-morrow, when we'll land it as early as we can at St.

Heliers. I'm afraid the local authorities will want to tie us up in a

lot of red tape. But the worst will be to catechize us as if we were

witnesses in court. Meanwhile, let's forget the whole affair."

"Righto!" promptly exclaimed all three of the younger guests; but Mr.

Pollen was not thus to be deprived of his morbid morsel.

"Certainly," he agreed. "But before the subject is shelved, _where_ is

the 'place' you speak of? I mean, where is the coffin to rest throughout

the night?"

Roger gave a grim laugh, and looked obstinate. "I'll tell you this

much," he said. "None of you'll have it for a near neighbour, so none of

you need worry."

After that, even Mr. Pollen could not persist. We disposed of an

enormous tea, after the excitement, and then some of us played bridge.

When we separated, however, to pace the deck--two by two, for a

"constitutional" before dinner--one could see by the absorbed expression

on faces, and guess by the low-toned voices, what each pair discussed.

My companion, Lord Glencathra, thought that Somebody must have died on

Some Ship, and been thrown overboard. But I argued that this could

hardly be, because--surely--bodies buried at sea were not put into

coffins, were they? I had heard that the custom was to sew them up in

sailcloth or something, and weight them well. Besides, there was the

broken rope tied round the coffin, which seemed to show that it had been

tethered, and got loose--in the storm, perhaps. How did Lord Glencathra

account for that fact? He couldn't account for it. Nor could any one

else.

CHAPTER V

WHAT I FOUND IN MY CABIN

I did all I could to make dinner a lively meal, and with iced Pommery of

a particularly good year as my aide-de-camp, superficially at least I

succeeded. But whenever there was an instant's lull in the conversation,

I felt that everyone was asking him or herself, "_Where_ is the coffin?"

The plan had been to have a little moonlight fox-trotting and jazzing on

deck; but with that Black Thing hidden somewhere on board, we confined

ourselves to more bridge and star-gazing, according to taste. I, as

professional Brightener, nobly kept Mr. Pollen out of everybody's way by

annexing him for a stroll. This deserved the name of a double

brightening act, for I brightened the lives of his fellow guests by

saving them from him; and I brightened his by encouraging him to talk of

Well-Connected People.

"Who _was_ she before she married Lord Thingum-bob?" ... or, "Yes, she

was Miss So-and-So, a cousin of the Duke of Dinkum," might have been

heard issuing sapiently from our lips, had any one been mentally

destitute enough to eavesdrop. But I had my reward. Dear little Shelagh

Leigh and Roger Fane seemed to have cheered each other. I left them

standing together, elbows on the rail, as they had stood before the

affair of the afternoon. The moonlight was shining full upon Shelagh's

bright hair and pearl-white face, as she looked up, eager-eyed, at

Roger; and _he_ looked--at least, his _back_ looked!--as if there were

nobody on land or sea except one Girl.

Having lured Mr. Pollen to make a fourth at a bridge table where the

players were too polite to kill him, I ventured to vanish. There being

no one on board with whom I wished to flirt, my one desire after two

hard hours of Brightening was to curl up in my cabin with a nice book. I

quite looked forward to the moment for shutting myself cosily in, for

the cabin was a delicious pink-and-white nest--the biggest room on

board, as a tribute to my princesshood.

Hardly had I opened the door, however, when my dream-bubble broke. A

very odd and repellent odour greeted me, and seemed almost to push me

back across the threshold. I held my ground, however, and sniffed with

curiosity and disgust.

Somebody had been at my perfume--my expensive pet perfume, made

especially for me in Rome (one drop exquisite; two, oppressive), and

must have spilt the lot. But worse than this, the heavy fragrance was

mingled with a reek of stale brandy.

Anger flashed in me, like a match set to gun-cotton. Some impertinent

person had sneaked into my stateroom and played a stupid practical joke.

Or, if not that, one of the pleasantly prim, immaculate women (a cross

between the stewardess and ladies'-maid type) engaged to hook up our

frocks and make up our cabins, was secretly a confirmed--_ROTTER_!

I switched on the light, shut the door smartly without locking it, and

flung a furious glance around. The creature had actually dared to place

a brandy bottle conspicuously upon my dressing table, among gold-handled

brushes and silver gilt boxes, and, as a crowning impertinence, had left

a tumbler beside the bottle, a quarter full of strong-smelling brown

stuff. Close by lay my lovely crystal flask of "Campagna Violets,"

empty. I could get no more anywhere, and it had cost five pounds! I

could hardly breathe in the room. Oh, evidently a stewardess must have

gone stark mad, or else some practical joker had waited to play the

_coup_ until the stewardesses were in bed!

As I thought this, my eyes as well as my nostrils warned me of something

strange. The rose-coloured silk curtains which, when I went to dinner,

had been gracefully looped back at head and foot of my pretty bed (a

real bed, not a mere berth!) were now closely drawn with a secretive

air. This made me imagine that it was a practical joke I had to deal

with, and my fancy flew to all sorts of weird surprises, any one of

which I might find hidden behind the draperies.

I trust that I have a sense of humour, and I can laugh at a jest against

myself as well as any woman, perhaps better than most. But to-night I

was in no mood to laugh at jests, and I wondered how anybody had the

heart (not to mention the _cheek_!) to perpetrate one after the shock we

had experienced. Besides, I couldn't think of a person likely to play a

trick on me. Certainly my host wouldn't do so. Shelagh, my best and most

intimate pal, was far too gentle and sensitive-minded. As for the other

guests, none were of the noisy, bounding type who take liberties even

with distant acquaintances, for fun.

All this ran through my mind, as a cinema "cut-in" flashes across the

screen; and it wasn't until I'd passed in review the characters of my

fellow guests that I summoned courage to pull back the bed-curtains.

When I did so, I gave a jerk that slipped them along the rod as far as

they would go. And then--I saw the last thing in the world I could have

pictured.

A woman, fully dressed, was stretched on the pink silk coverlet fast

asleep, her head deep sunk in the embroidered pillow.

It was all I could do to keep back a cry--for this was no woman I had

seen on board, not even a drunken or sleep-walking stewardess. Yet her

face was not strange to me. That was the most horrible, the most

mysterious part! There was no mistake, for the face was impossible to

forget. As I stared, almost believing that I dreamed, another scene rose

between my eyes and the dainty little cabin of the _Naiad_.

It also was a scene in a dream. I knew it was a dream, but it was

torturingly vivid. I was a prisoner on a German submarine, in war-time,

and signals from my own old home--Courtenaye Abbey--flashed into my

eyes. They flashed so brightly that they set me on fire. I wakened from

the nightmare with a start. A strong light dazzled me, and, striking my

face, lit up another face as well. Just for an instant I saw it; then

the revealing ray died into darkness. But on my retina was photographed

those features, in a pale, illumined circle.

A second sufficed to bring back to my brain this old dream and the

waking reality which followed, that night at the Abbey, long ago--the

night which Shelagh and I called "Spy Night." For here, in my cabin on

the yacht _Naiad_, on the crushed pillow of my bed, was that face.

As I realized this, without benefit of any doubt, a faint sickness swept

over me. It was partly horror of the past; partly physical disgust of

the brandy-reek--stronger than ever now--hanging like an unseen canopy

over the bed; and partly cold fear of a terrifying Presence.

There she lay, sunk in drugged and drunken sleep, the Woman of Mystery,

in whose existence no one but Shelagh and I had ever quite believed: the

woman who had visited us in our sleep, and who--almost certainly--had

fired the Abbey, hoping that we and the Barlows might suffocate in our

beds.

The face was just the same as it had been then: "beautiful and hideous

at the same time, like Medusa," I had described it; only now it was

older, and though still beautiful, somehow _ravaged_. The hair still

glowed with the vivid auburn colour which I had thought "unreal

looking"; but now it was tumbled and unkempt. Loose locks strayed over

the dainty pillow, and at the bottom of the bed, pushed tightly against

the footboard by a pair of untidy, high-heeled shoes, was a dusty black

toque half covered with a very thick motor-veil of gray tissue. There

was a gray cloak, too, in a tumbled mass on the pink coverlet, and a

pair of soiled gloves. Everything about the sleeper was sordid and

repulsive, a shuddering contrast to the exquisite freshness of the bed

and room--everything, that is, except the face. Its half-wrecked beauty

was still supreme, and even in the ruin drink or drugs had wrought, it

forced admiration.

"_A German spy_--here in my cabin--on board Roger Fane's yacht!" I said

the words slowly in my mind, not with my tongue. Not a sound, not the

faintest whisper, passed my lips. Yet suddenly the long, dark lashes on

bruise-blue lids began to quiver. It was as if my _thought_ had shaken

the woman by the shoulder, and roused what was left of her soul.

I should have liked to dash out of the room and with a shriek bring

everyone on board to my cabin. But I stood motionless, concentrating my

gaze on those trembling eyelids. Something inside me seemed to say:

"Don't be a coward, Elizabeth Courtenaye!" It was exactly like

Grandmother's voice. I had a conviction that _she_ wanted me to see this

thing through as a Courtenaye should, shirking no responsibility, and

solving the mystery of past and present without bleating for help.

The fringed lids parted, shut, quivered again, and flashed wide open. A

pair of pale eyes stared into mine--wicked eyes, cruel eyes, green as a

cat's. Like a cat, too, the creature gathered herself together as if for

a spring. Her muscles rippled and jerked. She sat up, and in chilled

surprise I thought I saw recognition in her stare.

CHAPTER VI

THE WOMAN OF THE PAST

"Oh, you've come at last!" she rasped, in a harsh, throaty voice

roughened by drink. "I know you. I----"

"And I know you!" I cut her short, to show that I was not cowed.

Sitting up in bed, hugging her knees, she started at my words so that

the springs shook. Whatever it was she had meant to say, she forgot it

for the moment, and challenged me: "That's a lie!" she snapped. "You

_don't_ know me yet--but you soon will."

"I've known you since you came into my room at Courtenaye Abbey the

night you tried to burn down the house," I said. "You were spying for

the Germans in the war. Heaven knows all the harm you may have done. I

can't imagine for whom you're spying now. Anyhow, you can't frighten me

again. The war's over, but I'll have you arrested for what you did when

it was on."

The woman scowled and laughed, more Medusa-like than ever. I really felt

as if she might turn me to stone. But she shouldn't guess her power.

"Pooh!" she said, showing tobacco-stained teeth. "You won't want to

arrest me when you hear who I am, Lady Shelagh Leigh!"

"Lady Shelagh Leigh!" It was on my lips to cry, "I'm not Shelagh Leigh!"

But I stopped in time. The less I let her find out about me, and the

more I could find out about her before rousing the yacht, the better. I

spoke not a word, but waited for her to go on--which she did in a few

seconds.

"That makes you sit up, doesn't it?" she sneered. "That hits you where

you _live_! Why did you think I chose your cabin? I didn't select it by

chance. I confess I was taken back at your remembering. I thought I

hadn't given you time for much study of my features that other night.

But it doesn't matter. You can't do anything to me. I'll soon prove

_that_! But I had a good look at _you_, there in your friend's old

Devonshire rat-trap. I knew who you both were. It was easy to find out!

And the other day, when I heard that Lady Shelagh Leigh was likely to

marry Roger Fane, I said to myself, 'Gosh! One of the girls I saw at the

darned old Abbey!'"

"Oh, you said _that_ to yourself!" I echoed. And, though my knees

failed, I kept to my feet. To stand towering above the squatting figure

on the bed seemed to give me moral as well as physical advantage. "How

did you know, pray, which girl I was?"

"I knew, 'pray,'" she mocked, "because you've got the best room on this

yacht. Roger'd be sure to give that to his best girl. Which is how I'm

sure you're not Elizabeth Courtenaye."

"How clever you are!" I said.

"Yes--I'm clever--when I'm not a fool. Don't think, anyhow, that you can

beat me in a battle of brains. I've come on board this boat to succeed,

and I _will_ succeed in one of two ways, I don't care a hang which. But

nothing on God's earth can hold me back from one or the other--least of

all, can _you_. Why, you can ask any question you please, and I'll

answer. I'll tell the truth, too--for the more I say, and the more

you're shocked, the more helpless you are--do you see?"

"No, I don't see," I drew her on.

"Don't you guess yet who I am?"

"I've guessed what you _were_--a German spy."

"That's ancient history. One must live--and one must have money--plenty

of money. I must! And I've had it. But it's gone from me--like most good

things. Now I must have more--a lot more. Or else I must die. I don't

care which. But _others_ will care. I'll make them."

Looking at her, I doubted if she had the power; though she must have had

it in lost days of gorgeous youth. Yet again I remained silent. I saw

that she was leading up to something in particular, and I let her go on.

"You're not much of a guesser," she said, "so I'll introduce myself.

Lady-who-thinks-she's-going-to-marry Roger Fane, let me make known to

you the lady who _has_ married him--Mrs. Fane, _nee_ Linda Lehmann. I've

changed my name since, more than once. At present I'm Katherine Nelson.

But Linda Lehmann is the name that matters to Roger. You're nothing in

looks, by the by, to what _I_ was at your age. _Nothing!_"

If my knees had been weak before, they now felt as if struck with a

mallet! She might be lying, but something within me was horribly sure

that she spoke the truth. I'd never heard full details of Roger Fane's

"tragedy," but Mrs. Carstairs had dropped a few hints which, without

asking questions, I'd patched together. I had gleaned that he'd married

(when almost a boy) an actress much older than himself; and that, till

her sudden and violent death after many years--nine or ten at least--his

life had been a martyrdom. How the woman contrived to be alive I

couldn't see. But such things happened--to people one didn't know! The

worst of it was that _I did_ know Roger Fane, and liked him. Besides, I

loved Shelagh, whose happiness was bound up with Roger's. It seemed as

if I couldn't bear to have those two torn apart by this cruel

creature--this drunkard--this _spy_! Yet--what could I do?

At the moment I could think of nothing useful, because, if she was

Roger's wife, her boast was justified: for his sake and Shelagh's she

mustn't be handed over to the police, to answer for any political crime

I might prove against her--or even for trying to burn down the Abbey.

Oh, this business was beyond what I bargained for when I engaged to

"brighten" the trip on board the _Naiad_! Still, all the spirit in me

rallied to work for Roger Fane--even to work out his salvation if that

could be. And I was glad I'd let the woman believe I was Shelagh Leigh.

"Roger's wife died five years ago, just before the war began," I said.

"She was killed in a railway accident--an awful one, where she and a

company of actors she was travelling with were burned to death."

The creature laughed. "Have you never been to a movie show, and seen how

easy it is to die in a railway accident?--to _stay_ dead to those you're

tired of, and to be alive in some other part of this old world, where

you think there's more fun going on? It's been done on the screen a

hundred times--and off it, too. I was sick to death of Roger. I'd never

have married a stick like him--always preaching!--if I hadn't been down

and out. When I met him, it was in a beastly one-horse town where I was

stranded. The show had chucked me--gone off and left me without a cent.

I was sick--too big a dose of dope, if you want to know. But _Roger_

didn't know--you can bet. Not then! I took jolly good care to toe the

mark, till he'd married me all right. He _was_ a sucker! I suppose he

was twenty-two and over, but Peter Pan wasn't in it with him in some

ways. He kept me off the stage--and tried to keep me off everything else

worth doing for five years. Then I left him, for my health and looks had

come back, and I got a fair part in a play on tour. There I met a

countryman of mine--oh! don't be encouraged to hope! I never gave Roger

any cause to divorce me; and if I had, I'd have done it so he couldn't

prove a thing!"

"When you say the man was your countryman, I suppose you mean a German,"

I said.

"Well, yes," she replied, with the flaunting frankness she affected in

these revelations. "German-American he was. I'm German by birth, and

grew up in America. I've been back often and long since then. But this

man had a scheme. He wanted me to go into it with him. I didn't see my

way at first though there was big money, so he left the show before the

accident. When I found myself alive and kicking among the dead that day,

however, I saw my chance. I left a ring and a few things to identify me

with a woman who was killed, and I lit out. It was in the dead of night,

so luck was on my side for once. I wrote my friend, and it wasn't long

before I was at work with him for the German Government. The Abbey

affair was after he'd got out of England and into Germany through

Switzerland. He was a sailor, and had been given command of a big new

submarine. If it hadn't been for the row you and your pal kicked up,

we--he on the water and I on land--might have brought off one of the big

stunts of the war. You tore it--after I'd been mewed up in the old

rat-warren for a week, and everything was working just right! I wish to

goodness the whole house had burned, and I did wish _you'd_ burned with

it. But I don't know if to-night isn't going to pay me--and you--just as

well. There's a lot owing from you to me. I haven't told you all yet. My

friend's submarine was caught, and he went down with her. I blame that

to you. If I hadn't failed him with the signals, he might be alive now."

"I was more patriotic than I knew!" I flung back. "As you're so

confidential, tell me how you got into the Abbey, and where you hid."

She shook her dyed and tousled head. "That's where I draw the line," she

said. "I've told you what I have told to please myself, not you. You

can't profit by a word of it. That's where my fun comes in! If I split

about the Abbey, you might profit somehow--or your friend the Courtenaye

girl would. I want to punish her, too."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Perhaps in that case you won't care to explain

how you came on board the _Naiad_?"

"I don't mind that," the ex-spy made concession. "I went out of England

after the Abbey affair--friends helped me away--and I worked in New York

till things grew too hot. Then I came over as a Red Cross nurse, got

into France, and stopped till the other day. I'd be there still if I

hadn't picked up a weekly London gossip-rag, and seen a paragraph about

a certain rumoured engagement! You can guess _whose_! It called

Roger--_my_ Roger, mind you!--a 'millionaire.' He never was poor, even

in my day; he'd made a lucky strike before we met, with an invention. I

said to myself: 'Linda, my girl, 'twould be tempting Providence to lie

low and let another woman spend his money.' I started as soon as I

could, but missed him in London, and hurried on to Plymouth. If it

hadn't been for that bally storm I shouldn't have caught him up! The

yacht would have sailed. As it was, before you came on board this

afternoon I presented myself, thickly veiled. I had a card from a London

newspaper, and an old card of Roger's which was among a few things of

his I'd kept for emergencies. I can copy his handwriting well enough not

be suspected, except by an intimate friend of his, so I scribbled on the

card an order to view the yacht. I got on all right, and wandered about

with a notebook and a stylo. I soon found the right place to hide--in

the storeroom, behind some barrels. But I had to make everyone who'd

seen me think I'd gone on shore. That was easy! I told a sailor fellow

by the gang plank I was going, and said I'd mislaid an envelope in which

I'd slipped a tip for him and another man. I thought I'd left it on a

table in the dining saloon, and he'd better look for it, or it might be

picked up by somebody. He went before I could say 'knife!' and the

envelope really _was_ there, so he didn't have to hurry back. Two

minutes later I was in the storeroom, and no one the wiser. Lord! but I

got the jumps waiting for the stewardesses to be safe in bed before I

could creep out to pay your cabin a call!"

"So, to cure the 'jumps' you annexed a whole bottle of brandy," I said.

"I did--for that and another reason you may find out by and by. But I'm

hanged if you're not a cool hand, for a young girl who has just heard

her lover's a married man. I thought by this time you'd be in

hysterics."

"Girls of _my_ generation don't have hysterics," I taunted her. By the

dyed hair and vestiges of rouge and powder which streaked the battered

face I guessed that a sneer at her age would sting like a wasp. I wanted

to rouse the woman's temper. If she lost her head, she might show her

hand!

"You'll have worse than hysterics, you fool, before I finish," she

snapped. "I'm going to make Roger Fane acknowledge me as his wife and

give me everything I want--money, and motor cars, and pearls--and, best

of all, a _position in society_. I'm tired of being a free lance."

"He won't do it!" I cried.

"He'll have to--when he hears what will happen if he doesn't. If I can't

live a life worth living, I'll die. Roger Fane will go off this yacht

under arrest as my murderer."

"You deserve that he should kill you, but he will not," I said.

"He'll _hang_ for killing me, anyhow. You see, the more _motive_ he has

to destroy me, the more impossible for him--or you--to prove his

innocence. Do you think I'd have told you all this, if any one was

likely to believe such a cock-and-bull story as the truth would sound to

a jury? But I'm through now! I've said what I came to say. I'm ready to

act. Do you want a row, or will you go quietly to the door of Roger's

cabin (he must be there by this time) and tell him that his wife, Linda

Lehmann, is waiting for him in your stateroom? _That_'ll fetch him!"

I had no doubt it would. My only doubt was what to do! But if I refused,

the woman was sure to keep her word, and rouse the yacht by screams.

That would be the worst thing possible for Shelagh and Roger. I decided

to go, and break to him the news with merciful swiftness.

If I could, I would have turned a key upon the creature, but the doors

of the _Naiad's_ cabins were furnished only with bolts. My one hope,

that she'd keep to my room, owed itself to the fact that she was too

drunk to move comfortably, and that, despite her bluff, the best trump

she had was quiet diplomacy with Roger.

Softly I closed the door, and tiptoed to his, three staterooms distant

from mine. My tap was so light that, if he had gone to sleep, I should

have had to knock again. But he opened the door at once. He was fully

dressed, and had a book in his hand.

"Something has happened," I whispered in answer to his amazed look. "Let

me come in and explain. I can't talk out here."

He stood aside in silence, and I stepped in. Then I motioned him to shut

the door.

CHAPTER VII

THE SECRET BEHIND THE SILENCE

This was the first time I'd seen Roger's cabin, and I had no eyes now

for its charm of decoration; but I saw that it was large, and divided by

a curtained arch into a bedroom and a tiny yet complete study fitted

with bookshelves and a desk.

"You're pale as death!" He lowered his voice cautiously. "Sit down in

this chair." As he spoke he led me through the bedroom part of the cabin

to the study, and there I sank gratefully into the depths of a big

chair, where, no doubt, he had sat reading under the light of a shaded

lamp.

"Now what is it?" he asked, bending over me. As I stammered out my

story, for a few seconds I forgot the fear of being followed. Our backs

were turned to the door. But I had not got far in the tale when I felt

that _she_ had come into the room. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw

her--a shabby, sinister figure--hanging on to the curtain that draped

the archway.

Roger's start and stifled exclamation proved that, whatever else she

might be, the woman was no imposter.

"You devil!" he gasped.

"Your wife!" she retorted.

"Hush," I whispered. "For every sake let's keep this quiet!"

"_I'll_ be quiet for my own sake, if he accepts my terms," said the

woman. "If not, the whole yacht----"

"Be silent!" Roger commanded. "Princess, I've got to see this through.

You'd better go now, and leave me alone with her."

He was right. My presence would hinder rather than help. I saw the

greenish eyes dart from his face to mine when he called me "Princess";

but she must have fancied it a pet name, for no question flashed from

her lips as I tiptoed across the room.

When I got back to my own quarters, I noticed at once that the brandy

bottle and the tumbler which had accompanied it were gone from my

dressing table. Nor were they to be found in the cabin. The woman must

have taken them to Roger's room, and placed them somewhere before I saw

her. "Disgusting!" I murmured, for my thought was that the debased

wretch had clung lovingly to the drink. Even though I'd sharpened my

wits to search all her motives, I failed over that simple-seeming act.

"Oh, poor Roger!" I said to myself. "And poor Shelagh!"

I sat miserably on the window seat (for the rumpled bed was now

abhorrent), and wondered what would happen next. But I had not long to

wait. A few moments passed--how many I don't know--and the crystalline

silence of the gliding _Naiad_ was splintered by a scream.

'Scream' is the word one must use for a cry of pain or fear. Yet it

isn't the right word for the sound that snatched me to my feet. It was

not shrill, it was not loud. What might have ended in a shriek subsided

to a choked breath, a gurgle. My heart's pounding seemed louder as I

listened. My ears expected a following cry, but it did not come. Two or

three doors gently opened, that was all. Again dead silence fell; and I

felt in it that others listened, fearing to speak lest the sound had

been no more than a moan in a dream. Presently the doors closed again,

each listener afraid of disturbing a neighbour. And even I, who knew the

secret behind the silence, prayed that the choked scream might have come

when it did as a mere coincidence. Someone might really have had

nightmare!

As time passed, I almost persuaded myself that it was so, and that, at

worst, there would be no crime to mark this night with crimson on the

calendar. But the next quarter hour was the _deadest_ time I'd ever

known. I felt like one entombed alive, praying to be liberated from a

vault. Then, at last--when those who'd waked slept again--came a faint

knock at my door.

I flew to slip back the bolt, and pulled Roger Fane into the room. One

would not have believed a face so brown could bleach so white!

For an instant we stared into each other's eyes. When I could speak, I

stammered a question--I don't know what, and I don't think he

understood. But the spell broke.

"You _heard_?" he faltered.

"The cry? Yes. It was----"

"She's dead."

"_Dead!_ You killed her?"

"My God, no! But if you think that, what will--_others_ think?"

"If you had killed her, you couldn't be blamed," I tried to encourage

him. "Only----"

"Didn't she make some threat to you? I hoped she had. She told me----"

"Yes, there was something--I hardly remember what. It was like

drunkenness. She said--I think--that if you wouldn't take her back,

you'd be arrested--as her murderer."

"That was it--her ultimatum. She must have been mad. I offered a big

allowance, if she'd go away and not make a scandal. I'd have to give up

Shelagh, of course, but I wanted to save my poor little love from

gossip. That devil would have no compromise. It should be all or

nothing. I must swear to acknowledge her as my wife on board this

yacht--to-morrow morning--before Shelagh--before you all. If I wouldn't

promise that, she'd kill herself at once, in a way to throw the guilt on

me. She'd do it so that I couldn't clear myself or be cleared. I

wouldn't promise, of course. I hoped, anyhow, that she was bluffing. But

I didn't know her! When nothing would change me, she showed a tiny phial

she had in her hand, and said she'd drink the stuff in it before I could

touch her. It was prussic acid, she told me--and already she'd poured

enough to kill ten men into a tumbler she'd stolen from my cabin on

purpose. She'd mixed the poison with brandy from the storeroom. Even if

I threw the tumbler through the porthole, mine would be missing. There's

one to match each room, you see. A small detail, but important.

"'Now will you promise?' she repeated. I couldn't--for I should not have

kept my word. She looked at me a second. I saw in her eyes that she was

going to do the thing, and I jumped at her--but I was too late. She

nearly drained the phial. And she'd hardly flung it away before she was

dead--with an awful, twisted face--and that cry. If I hadn't caught her,

she'd have fallen with a crash. This is the end of things for me."

"Oh, no--don't say that!" I begged.

"What else is there to say? There she lies, dead in my cabin. There's

prussic acid on the floor--and the phial broken. The room reeks of

bitter almonds. No one but you will believe I didn't kill her--perhaps

not even Shelagh. Just because the woman made my past life horrible--and

I had a chance of happiness--the temptation would be irresistible."

"Let me think. Do let me think!" I persisted. "Surely there's a way out

of the trap."

"I don't _see_ one," said Roger. "Throwing a body overboard is the

obvious thing. But it would be worse than----"

"Wait!" I cut him short. "I've thought of another thing--_not_ obvious.

But it's hard to do--and hateful. The only help I could lend you is--a

hint. The rest would depend on yourself. If you were strong

enough--brave enough--it might give you Shelagh."

"I'm strong enough for anything with the remotest hope of Shelagh,

and--I trust--brave enough, too. Tell me your plan."

I had to draw a long breath before I could answer. I needed air! "You're

right." I said. "To give the body to the sea would make things worse.

You couldn't be sure it would not be found, and the woman traced by the

police. If they discovered who she was--that she'd been your wife--you

would be suspected even if nothing were proved through those who saw a

veiled woman come on board."

"That's what I meant. Yet you must see that even with your testimony, my

innocence can't be proved if the story of this night has to be told."

"I do see. You might not be proved guilty, but you'd be under a cloud.

Shelagh would still want to marry you. But she's very young, and easy to

break as a butterfly. The Pollens----"

"I wouldn't accept such a sacrifice even if they'd let her make it. Yet

you speak of hope!----"

"I do--a desperate hope. Can you open that coffin you brought on board

to-day, take out--whatever is in it--and--and----"

"My God!"

"I warned you the plan was terrible. I hardly thought you would----"

"I would--for Shelagh. But you don't understand. That coffin will be

opened by the police at St. Heliers to-morrow, and----"

"I do understand. It's you who do not. Everyone on board knows that the

coffin was floating in the sea--that we came on it by accident. You

could have had nothing to do with its being where it was. If you had,

you wouldn't have taken it on board! The body found in that coffin

to-morrow won't be associated with you. _She_--must have altered

horribly since old days. And she has changed her name many times. The

initials on her linen won't be L.L. There'll be a nine-days' wonder over

the mystery. But _you_ won't be concerned in it. As for what's in the

coffin now, _that_ can safely be given to the sea. Whatever it may be,

and whenever or wherever it's found, it won't be connected with the name

of Roger Fane. If there's the name of the maker on the coffin, it must

come off. Oh, don't think I do not realize the full horror of the thing.

I do! But between two evils one must choose the less, if it hurts no

one. It seems to me it is so with this. Why should Shelagh's life and

yours be spoiled by a cruel woman--a criminal--whose last act was to try

to ruin the man she'd injured, sinned against for years? As for--_the

other_--the unknown one--if the spirit can see, surely it would be glad

to help in such a cause? What you would have to do, you'd do reverently.

There must be tarpaulin on board, or canvas coverings that wouldn't be

looked for, or missed. There must be a screw-driver--and things like

that. The great danger is, if the coffin's in plain sight anywhere, and

a man on watch----"

"There's no danger of that kind. The coffin is in the bathroom adjoining

my cabin."

"Then--doesn't it seem that Fate bade you put it there?"

For a moment Roger covered his face with his hands. I saw him shudder.

But he flung back his head and looked me in the eyes. "I'll go on

obeying Fate's orders," he said.

Without another word between us, he left me. The door shut, and I sat

staring at it, as if I could see beyond.

I had spoken only the truth. There was no sin against living or dead in

what I had urged Roger to do. Yet the bare thought of it was so grim

that I felt like an up-to-date Lady Macbeth.

I had forgotten to beg that he would come back and tell of his success

or--failure. But I was sure he would come, sooner or later, whatever

happened, and I sat quite still--waiting. I kept my eyes on the door, to

see the handle turn, or gazed at my little travelling clock to watch the

dragging moments. I longed for news. Yet I was glad when time went on

without a sign. The quick coming back of Roger would have meant that he

had failed--that all hope was ended.

Twenty minutes; thirty; forty; fifty, passed, seeming endless. But when

with the sixtieth minute came the faint tap I awaited, down sank my

heart. Roger could not have finished his double task in an hour!

I dashed to the door, and the light from my cabin showed the man's face,

ashy pale. Yet I did not read despair on it.

Without a word I dragged him into the room once more; and only when the

door was closed did I dare to whisper "_Well?_"

CHAPTER VIII

THE GREAT SURPRISE

"_There was no body in the coffin_," Roger said.

"Empty?" I gasped.

"Not empty. No. There was something there. Will you come to my cabin and

see what it was? Don't look frightened. There's nothing to alarm you.

And--Princess, the rest of the plan you gave me has been--_carried out_.

Thanks to your woman's wit, I believe that my future and Shelagh's is

clear. And, before Heaven, my conscience is clear, too."

"Oh, Roger, it's thanks to your own courage more than to me. Is--is all

_safe_?"

"The coffin--isn't empty now. It is fastened up, just as it was. The

broken rope is round it again. It's covered with the tarpaulin as

before. No one outside the secret would guess it had been disturbed.

There's no maker's mark to trace it by. I owe more than my life--I owe

my very _soul_--to you. For I haven't much fear of what may come at St.

Heliers to-morrow or after."

"Nor I. Oh, I am _thankful_, for Shelagh's sake even more than yours, if

possible. Her heart would have broken. Now she need never know."

"She must know--and choose. I shall tell her--everything I did. Only I

need not bring you into it."

"If you tell her about yourself, you must tell her about me," I said.

"I'd like to be with you when you speak to her--if you think you must

speak."

"I'm sure I must. If all goes well to-morrow, she can marry me without

fear of scandal--if she's willing to marry me, after what I've done

to-night."

"She will be. And she shall hear from me that this woman who killed

herself and our spy of the Abbey were one. As for to-morrow--all _must_

go well! But--the thing you found--in the coffin. You'll have to dispose

of it somehow."

"It's for _you_ to decide about that--I think."

"For me? What can it have to do with me?"

"You'll see--in my cabin. If you'll trust me and come."

I went with him, my heart pounding as I entered the room. It seemed as

if some visible trace of tragedy must remain. But there was nothing. All

was in order. The brandy bottle had disappeared--into the sea, no doubt.

The tumbler so cleverly taken from this cabin was clean, and in its

place. There were no bits of broken glass from the phial to be seen. And

the odour of bitter almonds with which the place had reeked was no

longer very strong. The salt breeze blowing through two wide-open

portholes would kill it before dawn.

"But where is the _thing_?" I asked.

"In the study," Roger answered. He motioned me to pass through the

curtained archway, as I had passed before; and there I had to cover my

lips with my hand to press back a cry. The desk, the big chair I had sat

in, and a sofa were covered with objects familiar to me as my own face

in a looking-glass. There was Queen Anne's silver tea-service and

Napoleon's green-and-gold coffee cups. There were Li Hung Chang's box of

red lacquer and the wondrous Buddha; there were the snuff-boxes, the

miniatures, the buckles and brooches; the fat watch of George the

Fourth; half unrolled lay Charles the First's portrait and sketch, and

the Gobelin panel which had been the Empress Josephine's. In fact, all

the treasures stolen from Courtenaye Abbey! Here they were in Roger

Fane's cabin on board the _Naiad_, and they had come out of a coffin

found floating in the sea!

* * * * *

When I could think at all, I tried to think the puzzle out, and I tried

to do it alone, for Roger was in no state to bend his mind to trifles.

But, in his almost pathetic gratitude, he wished to help me; and when we

had locked up the things in three drawers of his desk, we sat together

discussing theories. Something must be planned, something settled,

before day!

It was Roger who unfolded the whole affair before my eyes, unfolded it

so clearly that I could not doubt he was right. My trust--everyone's

trust--in the Barlows had been misplaced. They were the guilty ones! If

they had not organized the plot, they had helped to carry it through as

nobody else could have carried it through.

I told Roger of the two demobilized nephews about whom--if he had

heard--he had forgotten. I explained that they were twin sons of a

brother of old Barlow's, who had taken them to Australia years ago when

they were children. Vaguely I recalled that, when I was very young,

Barlow had worried over news from Australia: his nephews had been in

trouble of some sort. I fancied they had got in with a bad set. But that

was ancient history! The twins had evidently "made good." They had

fought in the war, and had done well. They must have saved money, or

they could not have bought the old house on the Dorset coast which had

belonged to the Barlows for generations. It was at this point, however,

that Roger stopped me. _Had_ the boys "saved" money, or--had they got it

in a way less meritorious? Had they needed, for pressing reasons of

their own, to possess that place on the coast? The very question called

up a picture--no, a series of pictures--before my eyes. I saw, or Roger

made me see, almost against my will, how the scheme might have been

worked--_must_ have been worked!--from beginning to end; and how at last

it had most strangely failed. Again, the Fate that had sailed on the

Storm! For an hour we talked, and made our plan almost as intricately as

the thieves or their backers had made theirs. Then, as dawn paled the

sky framed by the open portholes, I slipped off to my own cabin. I did

not go to bed (I could not, where _she_ had lain!) and I didn't sleep.

But I curled up on the long window seat, with cushions under my head,

and thought. I thought of a thousand things: of Roger's plan and mine,

of how I could return the heirlooms yet keep the secret; of what Sir Jim

would say when he learned of their reappearance; and, above all, I

thought of what our discovery in the coffin would mean for Roger Fane.

Yes, that was far more important to him even than to me! For the fact

that the coffin had been the property of thieves meant that no claim

would ever be made to it. The mystery of its present occupant would

therefore remain a mystery till the end of time, and--Roger was safe!

The next day we reached St. Heliers, after a quick voyage through blue,

untroubled waters; and there we came in for all the red tape that Roger

had foreseen, if not more. But how inoffensive, even pleasing, is red

tape to a man saved from handcuffs and a prison cell!

The body of an unknown woman in a coffin picked up at sea gave the

chance for a dramatic "story" to flash over the wires from Jersey to

London; and the evident fact that death had been caused by poison added

an extra thrill. Every soul on board the _Naiad_ was questioned, down to

the _chef's_ assistant; but the same tale was told by all. The coffin

had first been sighted at a good distance, and mistaken for a dead shark

or a small, overturned boat. The whole party were agreed that it must be

brought on board, though no one had wanted it for a travelling

companion, and the sailors especially had objected. (Now, by the way,

they were revelling in reflected glory. They would not have missed this

experience for the world!) I quaked inwardly, fearing that someone might

mention the veiled female journalist who had arrived before the start,

with an order to view the _Naiad_. But so completely was her departure

from the yacht taken for granted, that none who had seen her recalled

the incident.

There was no suspicion of Roger Fane, nor of any one else on board, for

there was no reason to suppose that any of us had been acquainted with

the dead.

The description wired to London was of "a woman unknown; probable age

between forty and fifty; hair dyed auburn; features distorted by effect

of poison; hands well shaped, badly kept; figure medium; black serge

dress; underclothing plain and much torn, without initials or

laundry-marks; no shoes."

It was unlikely that landlords or chance acquaintances should identify

the woman newly arrived from France with the woman picked up in a coffin

at sea. And the gray-veiled motor toque, the gray cloak worn by the

"journalist," and even the battered boots, with high, broken heels, were

safely hidden with the heirlooms from the Abbey.

All through the week of our trip the three drawers in Roger's desk

remained locked, the little Yale key hanging on Roger's key ring. And

all that week (there was no excuse to make for home before the appointed

time) our Plan had to lie in abeyance. I was impatient. Roger was not.

With Shelagh by his side--and very often in his arms--the incentive for

haste was all mine. But I was happy in their happiness, wondering only

whether Roger would not be tempting Providence if he told the truth to

Shelagh.

Nothing, however, would move the man from his resolution. The one point

he would yield was to postpone the confession (if "confession" is a fair

word) until the last day, in order not to disturb Shelagh's pleasure in

the trip. She was to hear the story the night before we landed; and I

begged once more that I might be present to help plead his cause. But

Roger wanted no help. And he wanted Shelagh to decide for herself. He

would state the case plainly, for and against. Hearing him, the girl

would know what was for her own happiness.

"At worst I shall have these wonderful days with her to remember," he

said to me. "Nothing can rob me of them. And they are a thousand times

the best of my life so far."

I believed that, equally, nothing could rob him of Shelagh! But--I

wasn't quite sure. And the difference between just "believing" and being

"quite sure" is the difference between mental peace and mental storm. I

had gone through so much with Roger, and for him, that by this time I

loved the man as I might love a brother--a dear and somewhat trying

brother. As for Shelagh, I would have given one of my favourite fingers

or toes to buy her happiness. Consequently, the hour of revelation was a

bad hour for me.

I knew that, till it was over, I should be incapable of Brightening.

Lest I should be called upon in any such capacity, therefore, I went to

bed after dinner with an official headache.

"Now he must be telling her," I groaned to my pillow.

"Now he must have told!"

"Now she must be making up her mind!"

"Now it must be _made_ up. She'll be giving her answer. And if it's

'no,' he won't by a word or look plead his own cause. _Hang_ the fool!

And bless him!"

Then followed a blank interval when I couldn't at all guess what might

be happening. I no longer speculated on the chances. My brain became a

blank. And my pillow was a furnace.

I was striving in vain to read a book whose pages I scarcely saw, and

whose name I've forgotten, when a tap came at the door. Shelagh Leigh

burst in before I could answer.

"Oh, _Elizabeth_!" she gasped, and fell into my arms.

I held the girl tight for an instant, her beating heart against mine.

Then I inquired: "What does 'Oh, Elizabeth!' mean precisely?"

"It means, of course, that I'm going to marry poor, darling Roger as

soon as I possibly can, to comfort him all the rest of his life. And

that you'll be my 'Matron of Honour,' American fashion," she explained.

"Roger is a hero, and you are a heroine."

"No, a Brightener," I corrected. But Shelagh didn't understand. And it

didn't matter that she did not.

CHAPTER IX

THE GAME OF BLUFF

When the trip finished where it had begun, instead of travelling up to

London with most of my friends, I stopped behind in Plymouth. If any one

fancied I was going to Courtenaye Abbey to wail at the shrine of lost

treasures, why, I had never said (in words) that such was my intention.

In fact, it was not.

What I did, as soon as backs were turned, was to make straight for

Dudworth Cove, on the rocky Dorset Coast. I went by motor car with Roger

Fane as chauffeur; and by aid of a road map and a few questions we drove

to the old farmhouse which the Barlow boys had lately bought.

Of course it was possible that Mrs. Barlow and the two Australian

nephews had departed in haste, after their loss. They might or might not

have read in the papers about the coffin containing the body of a woman

picked up at sea by a yacht. Probably they had read of it, since the

word "coffin" at the head of a column would be apt to catch their guilty

eyes. But even so, they would hardly expect that this coffin, containing

a corpse, and a certain other coffin, with very different contents, were

one and the same. In any case, they need not greatly fear suspicion

falling upon them, and Roger and I thought they would remain at the farm

engaged in eager, secret search. As for Barlow, for whom the coffin had

doubtless been made, he, too, might be there; or he might have left the

Abbey at night, about the time of his "death," to wait in some

agreed-upon hiding place.

The house was visible from the road; rather a nice old house, built of

stone, with a lichened roof and friendly windows. It had a lived-in air,

and a thin wreath of smoke floated above the kitchen chimney. There were

two gates, and both were padlocked, so the car had to stop in the road.

I refused Roger's companionship, however. The fact that he was close by

and knew where I was seemed sufficient safeguard. I climbed over the

fence with no more ado than in pre-flapper days, and walked across the

weedy grass to the house. No one answered a knock at the front door, so

I went to the back, and caught "Barley" feeding a group of chickens.

The treacherous old thing was in deep mourning, with a widow's cap, and

her dress of black bombazine (or some equally awful stuff) was pinned up

under a big apron. At sight of me she jumped, and almost dropped a pan

of meal; but even the most innocent person is entitled to jump! She

recovered herself quickly, and called up the ghost of a welcoming

smile--such a smile as may decently decorate the face of a newly made

widow.

"Why, Miss--Princess!" she exclaimed. "This is a surprise. If anything

could make me happy in my sad affliction it would be a visit from you.

My nephews are out fishing--they're very fond of fishing, poor

boys!--but come in and let me give you a cup of tea."

"I will come in," I said, "because I must have a talk with you, but I

don't want tea. And, really, Mrs. Barlow, I wonder you have the _cheek_

to speak of your 'sad affliction.'"

By this time I was already over the threshold, and in the kitchen, for

she had stood aside for me to pass. Just inside the door I turned on

her, and saw the old face--once so freshly apple-cheeked--flush darkly,

then fade to yellow. Her eyes stared into mine, wavered, and dropped;

but no tears came.

"'Cheek?'" she repeated, as if reproving slang. "Miss--Princess--I don't

know what you mean."

"I think you know very well," I said, "because you have _no_ 'sad

affliction.' Your husband is as much alive as I am. The only loss you've

suffered is the loss of the coffin in which he _wasn't_ buried!"

The woman dropped, like a jelly out of its mould, into a kitchen chair.

"My Heavens! Miss Elizabeth, you don't know what you're saying!" she

gasped, dry-lipped.

"I know quite well," I caught her up. "And to show that I know, I'm

going to reconstruct the whole plot." (This was bluff. But it was part

of the Plan). "Barlow's nephews were expert thieves. They'd served a

term for stealing at home, in Australia. They spent a short leave at

Courtenaye Coombe, and you showed them over the Abbey. Then and there

they got an idea. They bribed you and Barlow to help them carry it out

and give them a letter of mine to tear into bits and turn suspicion on

me. Probably they worked with rubber gloves and shoes--as you know the

detectives have found no fingermarks or footprints. Every man is said to

have his price. You two had yours! Just how much more than others you

knew about old secret 'hidie-holes' in the Abbey I can't tell, but I'm

sure you did know more than any of us. There was always the lodge, too,

which was the same as your own, and full of your things! I'm practically

certain there's a secret way to it, through the cellars. Ah, I thought

so!" (As her face changed.) "Trusted as you were, a burglary in the

night was easy as falling off a log--and all that binding and gagging

business. The trouble was to get the stolen things out of the

country--let's say to Australia, where Barlow's nephews could count upon

a receiver, or a buyer, maybe some old associate of their pre-prison

days. Among you all, you hit on quite a clever plan. Only a dear, kind

creature like you, respected by everyone, could have hypnotized even old

Doctor Pyne into believing Barlow was dead--no matter _what_ strong drug

you used! You wouldn't let any one come near the body afterward. You

loved your husband so much you would do everything for him yourself--in

death as in life. How pathetic--how estimable! And then you and the two

'boys' brought the coffin here, to have it buried in the old cemetery,

with generations of other respectable Barlows. The night after the

funeral the twins dug it up, as neatly as they dug trenches in France,

and left the case underground as a precaution. Perhaps Barlow's 'ghost'

watched the work. But that's of no importance. What was of importance

was the next step. They took the coffin to a nice convenient cave

(that's what made this house worth buying back, isn't it?) and tethered

the thing there to wait an appointed hour. At that hour a boat would

quietly appear, and bear it away to a smart little sailing ship.

Then--ho! for Australia or some place where heirlooms from this country

can be disposed of without talk or trouble. I would bet that Barlow is

on that ship now, and you meant to join him, instead of waiting for a

better world. But there came the storm, and a record wave or two ran

into the cave. Alas for the schemes of mice and men--and Barlow's!"

Not once did she interrupt. I doubt if the woman could have uttered a

word had she dared; for the game of Bluff was new to her. She believed

that by sleuth-hound cunning I had tracked her down, following each move

from the first, and biding my time to strike until all proofs (the

coffin and its contents) were within my grasp. By the time I had paused

for lack of breath, the old face was sickly white, like candle-grease,

and the remembrance of affection was so keen that I could not help

pitying the creature. "You realize," I said, "everything is known. Not

only do _I_ know, but others. And we have all the stolen things in our

possession. I've come here to offer you a chance of saving

yourselves--though it's compounding a felony or something, I suppose! We

can put you in the way of replacing the heirlooms in the night, just as

they were taken away--by that secret passage you know. If you try to

play us false, and hope to get the things back, we won't have mercy a

second time. We shall find Barlow before you can warn him. And as for

his nephews----"

"Yes! _What_ about his nephews?" broke in a rough voice.

I started (only a statue could have resisted that start!) and turning my

head I saw a tall young man close behind me, in the doorway by which I'd

entered. Whether or not Mrs. Barlow had seen him, I don't know. She did

not venture to speak, but a glance showed me a gleam of malicious relief

in the eyes I had once thought limpid as a brook. If she'd ever felt any

fondness for me, it was gone. She hated and feared me with a deadly

fear. The thought shot through my brain that she would willingly sit

still and see me murdered, if she and her husband could be saved from

open shame by my disappearance.

The man in the doorway was sunburned to a lobster-red, and had features

like those of some gargoyle. He must have been eavesdropping long enough

to gather a good deal of information, for there was fury in his eyes,

and deadly decision in the set of his big jaw.

Where was Roger Fane? I wondered. Without Roger I was lost, and my fate

might never be known. Suddenly I was icily afraid--for something might

have happened to Roger. But at that same frozen instant a very strange

thing happened to me. _My thoughts flew to Sir James Courtenaye!_ I had

always disliked him--or fancied so. But he was so strong--such a giant

of a man! What a wonderful champion he would be now! What _hash_ he

would make of the Barlow twins! Quickly I controlled myself. This was

the moment when the game of Bluff (which had served me well so far)

might be my one weapon of defence.

"As for Barlow's nephews," I echoed, with false calmness, "theirs is the

principal guilt, and theirs ought to be the heaviest punishment."

The Crimson Gargoyle shut the door, deliberately, with a horrid,

purposeful kind of deliberation, and with a stride or two came close to

me. I stepped back, but he followed, towering above me with the air of a

big bullying boy out to scare the life from a little one. To give him

stare for stare I had to look straight up, my chin raised, and the

threatening eyes, the great red face, seemed to fill the world--as a

cat's face and eyes must seem to a hypnotized mouse.

I shook myself free from the hypnotic grip. Yet I would not let my gaze

waver. Grandmother wouldn't, and no Courtenaye should!

"Who is going to punish us?" barked the Gargoyle.

"The police," I barked back. And almost I could have laughed at the

difference in size and voice. I was so like a slim young Borzoi yapping

at the nose of a bloodhound.

"Rot!" snorted the big fellow. "Damn rot!" (and I thought I heard a

faint chuckle from the chair). "If the police were on to us, you

wouldn't be here. This is a try-on."

"You'll soon see whether it's a try-on or not," I defied him. "As a

matter of fact, out of pity for your two poor old dupes, we haven't told

the police yet of what we've found out. I say 'we,' for I'm far from

being alone or unprotected. I came to speak with Mrs. Barlow because she

and her husband once served my family, and were honest till you tempted

them. But if I'm kept here more than the fifteen minutes I specified,

there is a man who----"

"There isn't," snapped the Gargoyle. "There was, but there isn't now. My

brother Bob and me was out in our boat. I don't mind tellin' you, as you

know so much, that we've spent quite a lot of time beatin' and prowlin'

around these shores since the big storm." (The thought flashed through

my brain: "Then they haven't read about the _Naiad_! Or else they didn't

guess that the coffin was the same. That's _one_ good thing! They can

never blackmail Roger, whatever happens to me!") But I didn't speak. I

let him pause for a second, and go on without interruption. "Comin' home

we seen that car o' yourn outside our gate. Thought it was queer! Bob

says to me, 'Hank, go on up to the house, and make me a sign from behind

the big tree if there's anythin' wrong.' The feller in the car hadn't

seen or heard us. We took care o' that! I slid off my shoes before I got

to the door here, and listened a bit to your words o' wisdom. Then I

slipped out as fur as the tree, and I made the sign. Bob didn't tell me

what he meant to do. But I'm some on mind readin'. I guess that

gentleman friend of yourn has gone to sleep in his automobile, as any

one might in this quiet neighbourhood, where folks don't pass once in

four or five hours. Bob can drive most makes of cars. Shouldn't wonder

if he can manage this one. If you hear the engine tune up, you'll know

it's him takin' the chauffeur down to the sea."

My bones felt like icicles; but I thought of Grandmother, and wouldn't

give in. Also, with far less reason, I thought of Sir James. Strange,

unaccountable creature that I was, my soul cried aloud for the

championship of his strength! "The sea hasn't brought you much luck

yet," I brazened. "I shouldn't advise you to try it again."

"I ain't askin' your advice," retorted the man who had indirectly

introduced himself as "Hank Barlow." "All I ask is, where's the stuff?"

"What stuff?" I played for time, though I knew very well the "stuff" he

meant.

"The goods from the Abbey. I won't say you wasn't smart to get on to the

cache, and nab the box out o' the cave. Only you wasn't quite smart

enough--savez? The fellers laugh best who laugh last. And we're those

fellers!"

"You spring to conclusions," I said. But my voice sounded small in my

own ears--small and thin as the voice of a child. (Oh, to know if this

brute spoke truth about his brother and Roger Fane and the car, or if he

were fighting me with my own weapon--Bluff!)

Henry Barlow laughed aloud--though he mightn't laugh last! "Do you call

yourself a 'conclusion'? I'll give you just two minutes, my handsome

lady, to make up your mind. If you don't tell me then where to lay me

'and on you know _what_, I'll spring at _you_."

By the wolf-glare in his eyes and the boldness of his tone I feared that

his game wasn't wholly bluff. By irony of Fate, he had turned the tables

on me. Thinking the power was all on my side and Roger's, I'd walked

into a trap. And if, indeed, Roger had been struck down from behind, I

did not see any way of escape for him or me. I had let out that I knew

too much.

Even if I turned coward, and told Hank Barlow that the late contents of

his uncle's coffin were on board the _Naiad_, he could not safely allow

Roger or me to go free. But I _wouldn't_ turn coward! To save the secret

of the Abbey treasures meant saving the secret of what that coffin now

held. My sick fear turned to hot rage. "Spring!" I cried. "Kill me if

you choose. _My_ coffin will keep a secret, which yours couldn't do!"

He glared, nonplussed by my violence.

"Devil take you, you cat!" he grunted.

"And you, you hound!" I cried.

His eyes flamed. I think fury would have conquered prudence, and he

would have sprung then, to choke my life out, perhaps. But he hadn't

locked the door. At that instant it swung open, and a whirlwind burst

in. The whirlwind was a man. And the man was James Courtenaye.

* * * * *

I did not tell Sir Jim that my spirit had forgotten itself so utterly as

to call him. It was quite unnecessary, as matters turned out, to "give

myself away" to this extent. For, you see, it was not my call that

brought him. It was Roger's.

As Shelagh Leigh was my best friend, so was, and is, Jim Courtenaye

Roger Fane's. All the first part of Roger's life tragedy was known to my

"forty-fourth cousin four times removed." For years Roger had given him

all his confidence. The ex-cowboy had even advised him in his love

affair with Shelagh, to "go on full steam ahead, and never mind

breakers"--(alias Pollens). This being the case, it had seemed to Roger

unfair not to trust his chum to the uttermost end. He had not intended

to mention me as his accomplice; but evidently cowboys' wits are as

quick as their lassoes. Jim guessed at my part in the business,

thinking, maybe--that only the sly sex could hit upon such a Way Out.

Anyhow, he was far from shocked; in fact, deigned to approve of me for

the first time, and hearing how I had planned to restore the stolen

heirlooms, roared with laughter.

Roger, conscience-stricken because my secret had leaked out with his,

wished to atone by telling me that his friend had scented the whole

truth. Jim Courtenaye, however, urged him against this course. He

reckoned the Barlow twins more formidable than Roger and I had thought

them, and insisted that he should be a partner in our game of Bluff.

Only, he wished to be a silent partner till the right time came to

speak. Or that was the way he put it. His real reason, as he boldly

confessed afterward, was that, if I knew he was "in it," I'd be sure to

make a "silly fuss"!

It was arranged between him and Roger that he should motor from

Courtenaye Coombe to Dudworth Cove, put up his car at the small hotel,

and inconspicuously approach the Barlows' farm on foot. In some quiet

spot which he would guarantee to find, he was to "lurk" and await

developments. If help were wanted, he would be there to give it. If not,

he would peacefully remove himself, and I need never know that he had

been near the place.

All the details of this minor plot were well mapped out, and the only

one that failed (not being mapped out) was a tyre of his Rolls-Royce

which stepped on a nail as long as Jael's. Wishing to do the trick

alone, Jim had taken no chauffeur; and he wasn't as expert at pumping up

tyres as at breaking in bronchos. He was twenty minutes past scheduled

time, in consequence, and arrived at the spot appointed just as Bob

Barlow had bashed Roger Fane smartly on the head from behind.

Naturally this incident kept his attention engaged for some moments. He

had to overpower the Barlow twin, who was on the alert, and not to be

taken by surprise. The Australian was still in good fighting trim, and

gave Sir James some trouble before he was reduced to powerlessness. Then

a glance had to be given Roger, to make sure he had not got a knock-out

blow. Altogether, Hank Barlow had five minutes' grace indoors with me,

before--the whirlwind. If it had been _six_ minutes----But then, it

wasn't! So why waste thrills upon a horror which had not time to

materialize? And oh, how I _did_ enjoy seeing those twins trussed up

like a pair of monstrous fowls on the kitchen floor! It had been clever

of Sir Jim to place a coil of rope in Roger's car in case of

emergencies. But when I said this, to show my appreciation, he replied

drily that a cattleman's first thought is rope! "That's what you are

accustomed to call me, I believe," he added. "A cattleman."

"I shall never call you it again," I quite meekly assured him.

"You won't? What will you call me, then?"

"Cousin--if you like," I said.

"That'll do--for the present," he granted.

"Or 'friend,' if it pleases you better?" I suggested.

"Both are pretty good to go on with."

So between us there was a truce--and no more Pembertons or even Smiths:

which is why "Smith" never revealed what _he_ thought about what Sir Jim

thought of me. And I would not try to guess--would you? But it was only

to screen Roger, and not to content me, that Sir James Courtenaye

allowed my original plan to be carried out: the heirlooms to be

mysteriously returned by night to the Abbey, and the Barlow tribe to

vanish into space, otherwise Australia. He admitted this bluntly. And I

retorted that, if he hadn't saved my life, I should say that such

friendship wasn't worth much. But there it was! He _had_ saved it. And

things being as they were, Shelagh told Roger that I couldn't reasonably

object if Jim were asked to be best man at the wedding, though I was to

be "best woman."

She was right. I couldn't. And it was a lovely wedding. I lightened my

mourning for it to white and lavender--just for the day. Mrs. Carstairs

said I owed this to the bride and bridegroom--also to myself, as

Brightener, to say nothing of Sir Jim.

BOOK II

THE HOUSE WITH THE TWISTED CHIMNEY

CHAPTER I

THE SHELL-SHOCK MAN

"Do you want to be a Life Preserver as well as a Brightener, Elizabeth,

my child?" asked Mrs. Carstairs.

"Depends on whose life," I replied, making a lovely blue smoke ring

before I spoke and another when I'd finished.

I hoped to shock Mrs. Carstairs, in order to see what the nicest old

lady on earth would look like when scandalized. But I was disappointed.

She was not scandalized. She asked for a cigarette, and took it; my

last.

"The latest style in my country is to make your smoke ring loop the

loop, and do it through the nose," she informed me, calmly. "I can't do

it myself--yet. But Terry Burns can."

"Who's Terry Burns?" I asked.

"The man whose life ought to be preserved."

"It certainly ought," said I, "if he can make smoke rings loop the loop

through his nose. Oh, you know what I _mean_!"

"He hardly takes enough interest in things to do even that, nowadays,"

sighed Mrs. Carstairs.

"Good heavens! what's the matter with the man--senile decay?" I flung at

her. "Terry isn't at all a decayed name."

"And Terry isn't a decayed man. He's about twenty-six, if you choose to

call that senile. He's almost _too_ good-looking. He's not physically

ill. And he's got plenty of money. All the same, he's likely to die

quite soon, I should say."

"Can't anything be done?" I inquired, really moved.

"I don't know. It's a legacy from shell shock. You know what _that_ is.

He's come to stay with us at Haslemere, poor boy, because my husband was

once in love with his mother--at the same time I was worshipping his

father. Terry was with us before--here in London in 1915--on leave soon

after he volunteered. Afterward, when America came in, he transferred.

But even in 1915 he wasn't exactly _radiating_ happiness (disappointment

in love or something), but he was just boyishly cynical then, nothing

worse; and _the_ most splendid specimen of a young man!--his father over

again; Henry says, his _mother_! Either way, I was looking forward to

nursing him at Haslemere and seeing him improve every day. But, my

_dear_, I can do _nothing_! He has got so on my nerves that I _had_ to

make an excuse to run up to town or I should simply have--_slumped_. The

sight of me slumping would have been terribly bad for the poor child's

health. It might have finished him."

"So you want to exchange my nerves for yours," I said. "You want me to

nurse your protege till _I_ slump. Is that it?"

"It wouldn't come to that with you," argued the ancient darling. "You

could bring back his interest in life; I know you could. You'd think of

something. Remember what you did for Roger Fane!"

As a matter of fact, I had done a good deal more for Roger Fane than

dear old Caroline knew or would ever know. But if Roger owed anything to

me, I owed him, and all he had paid me in gratitude and banknotes, to

Mrs. Carstairs.

"I shall never forget Roger Fane, and I hope he won't me," I said.

"Shelagh won't let him! But _he_ hadn't lost interest in life. He just

wanted life to give him Shelagh Leigh. She happened to be my best pal;

and her people were snobs, so I could help him. But this Terry Burns of

yours--what can I do for him?"

"Take him on and see," pleaded the old lady.

"Do you wish him to fall in love with me?" I suggested.

"He wouldn't if I did. He told me the other day that he'd loved only one

woman in his life, and he should never care for another. Besides, I

mustn't conceal from you, this would be an unsalaried job."

"Oh, indeed!" said I, slightly piqued. "I don't want his old love! Or

his old money, either! But--well--I might just go and have a look at

him, if you'd care to take me to Haslemere with you. No harm in seeing

what can be done--if anything. I suppose, as you and Mr. Carstairs

between you were in love with all his ancestors, and he resembles them,

he must be worth saving--apart from the loops. Is he English or American

or _what_?"

"American on one side and What on the other," replied the old lady.

"That is, his father, whom I was in love with, was American. The mother,

whom Henry adored, was French. All that's quite a romance. But it's

ancient history. And it's the present we're interested in. Of course I'd

care to take you to Haslemere. But I have a better plan. I've persuaded

Terry to consult the nerve specialist, Sir Humphrey Hale. He's

comparatively easy to persuade, because he'd rather yield a point than

bother to argue. That's how I got my excuse to run up to town: to

explain the case to Sir Humphrey, and have my flat made ready for

Terence to live in, while he's being treated."

"Oh, that's it," I said, and thought for a minute.

My flat is in the same house as the Carstairs', a charming old house in

which I couldn't afford to live if Dame Caroline (title given by me, not

His Gracious Majesty) hadn't taught me the gentle, well-paid Art of

Brightening.

You might imagine that a Brightener was some sort of patent polisher for

stoves, metal, or even boots. But you would be mistaken. _I_ am the one

and only Brightener!

But this isn't what I was thinking about when I said, "Oh, that's it?" I

was attempting to track that benevolent female fox, Caroline Carstairs,

to the fastness of her mental lair. When I flattered myself that I'd

succeeded, I spoke again.

"I see what you'd be at, Madame Machiavelli," I warned her. "You and

your husband are so fed up with the son of your ancient loves, that he's

spoiling your holiday in your country house. You've been wondering how

on earth to shed him, anyhow for a breathing space, without being

unkind. So you thought, if you could lure him to London, and lend him

your flat----"

"Dearest, you are an ungrateful young Beastess! Besides, you're only

half right. It's true, poor Henry and I are worn out from sympathy. Our

hearts are squeezed sponges, and have completely collapsed. Not that

Terry complains. He doesn't. Only he is so horribly bored with life and

himself and us that it's killing all three. I _had_ to think of

something to save him. So I thought of you."

"But you thought of Sir Humphrey Hale. Surely, if there's any cure for

Mr.----"

"Captain----"

"Burns. Sir Humphrey can----"

"He can't. But I had to _use_ him with Terry. I couldn't say: 'Go live

in our flat and meet the Princess di Miramare. He would believe the

obvious thing, and be put off. You are to be thrown in as an extra: a

charming neighbour who, as a favour to me, will see that he's all right.

When you've got him interested--not in yourself, but in life--I shall

explain--or confess, whichever you choose to call it. He will then

realize that the fee for his cure ought to be yours, not Sir Humphrey's,

though naturally you couldn't accept one. Sir Humphrey has already told

me that, judging from the symptoms I've described, it seems a case

beyond doctor's skill. You know, Sir H---- has made his pile, and

doesn't have to tout for patients. But he's a good friend of Henry's and

mine."

"You have very strong faith in _me_!" I laughed.

"Not too strong," said she.

The Carstairs' servants had gone with them to the house near Haslemere;

but if Dame Caroline wanted a first-rate cook at a moment's notice, she

would wangle one even if there were only two in existence, and both

engaged. The shell-shock man had his own valet--an ex-soldier--so with

the pair of them, and a char-creature of some sort, he would do very

well for a few weeks. Nevertheless, I hardly thought that, in the end,

he would be braced up to the effort of coming, and I should not have

been surprised to receive a wire:

Rather than move, Terry has cut his throat in the Japanese garden.

Which shows that despite all past experiences, I little knew my

Caroline!

Captain Burns--late of the American Flying Corps--did come; and what is

more, he called at my flat before he had been fifteen minutes in his

own. This he did because Mrs. Carstairs had begged him to bring a small

parcel which he must deliver by hand to me personally. She had

telegraphed, asking me to stop at home--quite a favour in this wonderful

summer, even though it was July, the season proper had passed; but I

couldn't refuse, as I'd tacitly promised to brighten the man. So there I

sat, in my favourite frock, when he was ushered into the drawing room.

Dame Caroline had told me that "Terry" was good-looking, but her

description had left me cold, and somehow or other I was completely

unprepared for the real Terry Burns.

Yes, _real_ is the word for him! He was so real that it seemed odd I had

gone on all my life without having known there was this Terence Burns.

Not that I fell in love with him. Just at the moment I was much occupied

in trying to keep alight an old fire of resentment against a man who had

saved my life; a "forty-fourth cousin four times removed" (as he called

himself), Sir James Courtenaye. But when I say "real," I mean he was one

of those few people who would seem important to you if you passed him in

a crowd. You would tell yourself regretfully that there was a friend

you'd missed making: and you would have had to resist a strong impulse

to rush back and speak to him at any price.

If, at the first instant of meeting, I felt this strong personal

magnetism, or charm, or whatever it was, though the man was down

physically at lowest ebb, what would the sensation have been with him at

his best?

He was tall and very thin, with a loose-boned look, as if he ought to be

lithe and muscular, but he came into the room listlessly, his shoulders

drooping, as though it were an almost unbearable bore to put one foot

before another. His pallor was of the pathetic kind that gives an odd

transparence to deeply tanned skin, almost like a light shining through.

His hair was a bronzy brown, so immaculately brushed back from his

square forehead as to remind you of a helmet, except that it rippled all

over. And he had the most appealing eyes I ever saw.

They were not dark, tragic ones like Roger Fane's. I thought that when

he was well and happy, they must have been full of light and joy. They

were slate-gray with thick black lashes, true Celtic eyes: but they were

dull and tired now, not sad, only devoid of interest in anything.

It wasn't flattering that they should be devoid of interest in me. I am

used to having men's eyes light up with a gleam of surprise when they

see me for the first time. This man's eyes didn't. I seemed to read in

them: "Yes, I suppose you're very pretty. But that's nothing to me, and

I hope you don't want me to flirt with you, because I haven't the energy

or even the wish."

I'm sure that, vaguely, this was about what was in his mind, and that he

intended getting away from me as soon as would be decently polite after

finishing his errand. Still, I wasn't in the least annoyed. I was sorry

for him--not because he didn't want to be bothered with me, but because

he didn't want to be bothered with anything. Millionaire or pauper, I

didn't care. I was determined to brighten him, in spite of himself. He

was too dear and delightful a fellow not to be happy with somebody, some

day. I couldn't sit still and let him sink down and down into the

depths. But I should have to go carefully, or do him more harm than

good. I could see that. If I attempted to be amusing he would crawl

away, a battered wreck.

What I did was to show no particular interest in him. I took the tiny

parcel Mrs. Carstairs had ordered him to bring, and asked casually if

he'd care to stop in my flat till his man had finished unpacking.

"I don't know how _you_ feel," I said, "but I always hate the first hour

in a new place, with a servant fussing about, opening and shutting

drawers and wardrobes. I loathe things that squeak."

"So do I," he answered, dreamily. "Any sort of noise."

"I shall be having tea in a few minutes," I mentioned. "If you don't

mind looking at magazines or something while I open Mrs. Carstairs'

parcel, and write to her, stay if you care to. I should be pleased. But

don't feel you'll be rude to say 'no.' Do as you like."

He stayed, probably because he was in a nice easy chair, and it was

simpler to sit still than get up, so long as he needn't make

conversation. I left him there, while I went to the far end of the room,

where my desk was. The wonderful packet, which must be given into my

hand by his, contained three beautiful new potatoes, the size of

marbles, out of the Carstairs' kitchen garden! I bit back a giggle, hid

the rare jewels in a drawer, and scribbled any nonsense I could think of

to Dame Caroline, till I heard tea coming. Then I went back to my guest.

I gave him tea, and other things. There were late strawberries, and some

Devonshire cream, which had arrived by post that morning, anonymously.

Sir James Courtenaye, that red-haired cowboy to whom I'd let the

ancestral Abbey, was in Devonshire. But there was no reason why he

should send me cream, or anything else. Still, there it was. Captain

Burns, it appeared, had never happened to taste the Devonshire variety.

He liked it. And when he had disposed of a certain amount (during which

time we hardly spoke), I offered him my cigarette case.

For a few moments we both smoked in silence. Then I said, "I'm

disappointed in you."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you haven't looped any loops through your nose."

He actually laughed! He looked delightful when he laughed.

"I was trying something of the sort one day, and failing," I explained.

"Mrs. Carstairs said she had a friend who could do it, and his name was

Terence Burns."

"I've almost forgotten that old stunt," he smiled indulgently. "Think of

Mrs. Carstairs remembering it! Why, I haven't had time to remember it

myself, much less try it out, since I was young."

"That _is_ a long time ago!" I ventured, smoking hard.

"You see," he explained quite gravely, smoking harder, "I went into the

war in 1915. It wasn't _our_ war then, for I'm an American, you know.

But I had a sort of feeling it ought to be everybody's war. And besides,

I'd fallen out of love with life about that time. War doesn't leave a

man feeling very young, whether or not he's gone through what I have."

"I know," said I. "Even we women don't feel as young as we hope we look.

I'm twenty-one and a half, and feel forty."

"I'm twenty-seven, and feel ninety-nine," he capped me.

"Shell shock is--the _devil_!" I sympathized. "But men get over it. I

know lots who have." I took another cigarette and pushed the case toward

him.

"Perhaps they wanted to get over it. I don't want to, particularly,

because life has rather lost interest for me, since I was about

twenty-two; I'm afraid that was one reason I volunteered. Not very

brave! I don't care now whether I live or die. I didn't care then."

"At twenty-two! Why, you weren't grown up!"

"_You_ say that, at twenty-one?"

"It's different with a girl. I've had such a lot of things to make me

feel grown up."

"So have I, God knows." (By this time he was smoking like a chimney.)

"Did _you_ lose the one thing you'd wanted in the world? But no--I

mustn't ask that. I don't ask it."

"You may," I vouchsafed, charmed that--as one says of a baby--he was

"beginning to take notice." "No, frankly, I didn't lose the one thing in

the world I wanted most, because I've never quite known yet what I did

or do want most. But not knowing leaves you at loose ends, if you're

alone in the world as I am." Then, having said this, just to indicate

that my circumstances conduced to tacit sympathy with his, I hopped like

a sparrow to another branch of the same subject. "It's bad not to get

what we want. But it's dull not to want anything."

"Is it?" Burns asked almost fiercely. "I haven't got to that yet. I wish

I had. When I want a thing, it's in my nature to want it for good and

all. I want the thing I wanted before the war as much now as ever.

That's the principal trouble with me, I think. The hopelessness of

everything. The uselessness of the things you _can_ get."

"Can't you manage to want something you might possibly get?" I asked.

He smiled faintly. "That's much the same advice that the doctors have

given--the advice this Sir Humphrey Hale of the Carstairs will give

to-morrow. I'm sure. 'Try to take an interest in things as they are.'

Good heavens! that's just what I _can't_ do."

"_I_ don't give you that advice," I said. "It's worse than useless to

_try_ and take an interest. It's _stodgy_. What I mean is, _if_ an

interest, alias a chance of adventure, should breeze along, don't shut

the door on it. Let it in, ask it to sit down, and see how you like it.

But then--maybe you wouldn't recognize it as an adventure if you saw it

at the window!"

"Oh, I think I should do that!" he defended himself. "I'm man enough yet

to know an adventure when I meet it. That's why I came into your war.

But the war's finished, and so am I. Really, I don't see why any one

bothers about me. I wouldn't about myself, if they'd let me alone!"

"There I'm with you," said I. "I like to be let alone, to go my own way.

Still, people unfortunately feel bound to do their best. Mrs. Carstairs

has done hers. If Sir Humphrey gives you up, she'll thenceforward

consider herself free from responsibility--and you free to 'dree your

own weird'--whatever that means!--to the bitter end. As for me, I've no

responsibility at all. I don't advise you! In your place, I'd do as

you're doing. Only, I've enough fellow feeling to let you know, in a

spirit of comradeship, if I hear the call of an adventure.... There, you

_did_ the 'stunt' all right that time! A _lovely_ loop the loop! I

wouldn't have believed it! Now watch, please, while I try!"

He did watch, and I fancy that, in spite of himself, he took an

interest! He laughed out, quite a spontaneous "Ha, ha!" when I began

with a loop and ended with a sneeze.

It seems too absurd that a siren should lure her victim with a sneeze

instead of a song. But it was that sneeze which did the trick. Or else,

my mumness now and then, and not seeming to care a Tinker's Anything

whether he thought I was pretty or a fright. He warmed toward me visibly

during the loop lesson, and I was as proud as if a wild bird had settled

down to eat out of my hand.

That was the beginning: and a commonplace one, you'll say! It didn't

seem commonplace to me: I was too much interested. But even I did not

dream of the weird developments ahead!

CHAPTER II

THE ADVERTISEMENT

It was on the fourth day that I got the idea--I mean, the fourth day of

Terry Burns' stay in town.

He had dropped in to see me on each of these days, for one reason or

other: to tell me what Sir Humphrey said; to sneer at the treatment; to

beg a cigarette when his store had given out; or something else equally

important; I (true to my bargain with Caroline) having given up all

engagements in order to brighten Captain Burns.

I was reading the _Times_ when a thought popped into my head. I shut my

eyes, and studied its features. They fascinated me.

It was morning: and presently my Patient unawares strolled in for the

eleven-o'clock glass of egg-nogg prescribed by Sir Humphrey and offered

by me.

He drank it. When he had pronounced it good, I asked him casually how he

was. No change. At least, none that he noticed. Except that he always

felt better, more human, in my society. That was because I appeared to

be a bit fed up with life, too, and didn't try to cheer him.

"On the contrary," I said, "I was just wondering whether I might ask you

to cheer _me_. I've thought of something that might amuse me a little.

Yes, I'm sure it would! Only I'm not equal to working out the details

alone. If I weren't afraid it would bore you...."

"Of course it wouldn't, if it could amuse you!" His eyes lit. "Tell me

what it is you want to do?"

"I'm almost ashamed. It's so childish. But it would be _fun_."

"If I could care to do anything at all, it would be something childish.

Besides, I believe you and I are rather alike in several ways. We have

the same opinions about life. We're both down on our luck."

I gave myself a mental pat on the head. I ought to succeed on the stage,

if it ever came to that!

"Well," I hesitated. "I got the idea from an article in the _Times_.

There's something on the subject every day in every paper I see, but it

never occurred to me till now to get any fun out of it: the Housing

Problem, you know. Not the one for the working classes--I wouldn't be so

mean as to 'spoof' them--nor the _Nouveaux Pauvres_, of whom I'm one!

It's for the _Nouveaux Riches_. They're fair game."

"What do you want to do to them?" asked Terry Burns.

"Play a practical joke; then dig myself in and watch the result. Perhaps

there'd be none. In that case, the joke would be on me."

"And on me, if we both went in for the experiment. We'd bear the blow

together."

"It wouldn't kill us! Listen--I'll explain. It's simply idiotic. But

it's something to _do_: something to make one wake up in the morning

with a little interest to look forward to. The papers all say that

_every_body is searching for a desirable house to be sold, or let

furnished; and that there _aren't_ any houses! On the other hand, if you

glance at the advertisement sheets of _any_ newspaper, you ask yourself

if every second house in England isn't asking to be disposed of! Now, is

it only a 'silly-season' cry, this grievance about no houses, or is it

true? What larks to concoct an absolutely adorable 'ad.', describing a

place with every perfection, and see what applications one would get!

Would there be thousands or just a mere dribble, or none at all? Don't

you think it would be fun to find out--and reading the letters if there

were any? People would be sure to say a lot about themselves. Human

nature's _like_ that. Or, anyhow, we could force their hands by putting

into the 'ad.' that we would let our wonderful house only to the right

sort of tenants. 'No others need apply'."

"But that would limit the number of answers--and our fun," said Terry.

On his face glimmered a grin. After all, the "kid" in him had been

scotched, not killed.

"Oh, no," I argued. "They'd be serenely confident that they and they

alone were the right ones. Then, when they didn't hear from the

advertiser by return, they'd suppose that someone more lucky had got

ahead of them. Yes, we're on the right track! We must want to let our

place furnished. If we wished to sell, we'd have no motive in trying to

pick and choose our buyer. Any creature with money would do. So our

letters would be tame as Teddy-bears. What _we_ want is human

documents!"

"Let's begin to think out our 'ad.'!" exclaimed the patient, sitting up

straighter in his chair. Already two or three haggard years seemed to

have fallen from his face. I might have been skilfully knocking them off

with a hammer!

Like a competent general, I had all my materials at hand: Captain Burns'

favourite brand of cigarettes, matches warranted to light without damns,

a notebook, several sharp, soft-leaded pencils, and some illustrated

advertisements cut from _Country Life_ to give us hints.

"What sort of house _have_ we?" Terry wanted to know. "Is it town or

country; genuine Tudor, Jacobean, Queen Anne, or Georgian----"

"Oh, _country_! It gives us more scope," I cried. "And I think Tudor's

the most attractive. But I may be prejudiced. Courtenaye Abbey--our

place in Devonshire--is mostly Tudor. I'm too poor to live there.

Through Mr. Carstairs it's let to a forty-fourth cousin of mine who did

cowboying in all its branches in America, coined piles of oof in

something or other, and came over here to live when he'd collected

enough to revive a little old family title. But I adore the Abbey."

"Our house shall be Tudor," Terry assented. "It had better be historic,

hadn't it?"

"Why not? It's just as easy for us. Let's have the _oldest_ bits earlier

than Tudor--what?"

"By Jove! Yes! King John. Might look fishy to go behind _him_!"

So, block after block, by suggestion, we two architects of the aerial

school built up the noble mansion we had to dispose of. With loving and

artistic touch, we added feature after feature of interest, as

inspirations came. We were like benevolent fairy god-parents at a baby's

christening, endowing a beloved ward with all possible perfections.

Terry noted down our ideas at their birth, lest we should forget under

pressure of others to follow; and at last, after several discarded

efforts, we achieved an advertisement which combined every attribute of

an earthly paradise.

This is the way it ran:

"To let furnished, for remainder of summer (possibly longer), historic

moated Grange, one of the most interesting old country places in

England, mentioned in Domesday Book, for absurdly small rent to

desirable tenant; offered practically free. The house, with foundations,

chapel, and other features dating from the time of King John, has

remained unchanged save for such modern improvements as baths (h. & c.),

electric lighting, and central heating, since Elizabethan days. It

possesses a magnificent stone-paved hall, with vaulted chestnut roof

(15th century), on carved stone corbels; an oak-panelled banqueting hall

with stone, fan-vaulted roof and mistrels' gallery. Each of the several

large reception rooms is rich in old oak, and has a splendid Tudor

chimney-piece. There are over twenty exceptionally beautiful bedrooms,

several with wagon plaster ceilings. The largest drawing-room overlooks

the moat, where are ancient carp, and pink and white water-lilies. All

windows are stone mullioned, with old leaded glass; some are exquisite

oriels; and there are two famous stairways, one with dog gates. The

antique furniture is valuable and historic. A fascinating feature of the

house is a twisted chimney (secret of construction lost; the only other

known by the advertiser to exist being at Hampton Court). All is in good

repair; domestic offices perfect, and the great oak-beamed,

stone-flagged kitchen has been copied by more than one artist. There are

glorious old-world gardens, with an ornamental lake, some statues,

fountains, sundials; terraces where white peacocks walk under the shade

of giant Lebanon cedars; also a noble park, and particularly charming

orchard with grass walks. Certain servants and gardeners will remain if

desired; and this wonderful opportunity is offered for an absurdly low

price to a tenant deemed suitable by the advertiser. Only gentlefolk,

with some pretensions to intelligence and good looks, need reply, as the

advertiser considers that this place would be wasted upon others. Young

people preferred. For particulars, write T. B., Box F., the _Times_."

We were both enraptured with the result of our joint inspirations. We

could simply _see_ the marvellous moated grange, and Terry thought that

life would be bearable after all if he could live there. What a pity it

didn't exist, he sighed, and I consoled him by saying that there were

perhaps two or three such in England. To my mind Courtenaye Abbey was as

good, though moatless.

* * * * *

We decided to send our darling not only to the _Times_, but to five

other leading London papers, engaging a box at the office of each for

the answers, the advertisement to appear every day for a week. In order

to keep our identity secret even from the discreet heads of advertising

departments, we would have the replies called for, not posted. Terry's

man, Jones, was selected to be our messenger, and had to be taken more

or less into our confidence. So fearful were we of being too late for

to-morrow's papers, that Jones was rushed off in a taxi with

instructions, before the ink had dried on the last copy.

Our suspense was painful, until he returned with the news that all the

"ads." had been in time, and that everything was satisfactorily settled.

The tidings braced us mightily. But the tonic effect was brief. Hardly

had Terry said, "Thanks, Jones. You've been very quick," when we

remembered that to-morrow would be a blank day. The newspapers would

publish T. B.'s advertisement to-morrow morning. It would then be read

by the British public in the course of eggs and bacon. Those who

responded at once, if any, would be so few that it seemed childish to

think of calling for letters that same night.

"I suppose, if you go the rounds in the morning of day after to-morrow,

it will be soon enough," Terry remarked to the ex-soldier, with the

restrained wistfulness of a child on Christmas Eve asking at what hour

Santa Claus is due to start.

I also hung upon Jones' words; but still more eagerly upon Captain

Burns' expression.

"Well, sir," said the man, his eyes on the floor--I believe to hide a

joyous twinkle!--"that might be right for letters. But what about the

telegrams?"

"Telegrams!" we both echoed in the same breath.

"Yes, sir. When the managers or whatever they were had read the 'ad.,'

they were of opinion there might be telegrams. In answer to my question,

the general advice was to look in and open the boxes any time after

twelve noon to-morrow."

Terry and I stared at each other. Our hearts beat. I knew what his was

doing by the state of my own. He who would have sold his life for a song

(a really worthwhile song) was eager to preserve it at any price till

his eyes had seen the full results of our advertisement.

_Telegrams!_

Could it be possible that there would be telegrams?

CHAPTER III

THE LETTER WITH THE PURPLE SEAL

I invited Terry to breakfast with me at nine precisely next day, and

each of us was solemnly pledged not to look at a newspaper until we

could open them together.

We went to the theatre the night before (the first time Terry could

endure the thought since his illness), and supped at the Savoy

afterward, simply to mitigate the suffering of suspense. Nevertheless, I

was up at seven-thirty A. M., and at eight-forty-eight was in the

breakfast room gazing at six newspapers neatly folded on the

flower-decked table.

At eight-fifty-one, my guest arrived, and by common consent we seized

the papers. He opened three. I opened three. Yes, there it _was_! How

perfect, how thrilling! How even better it appeared in print than we had

expected! Anxiously we read the other advertisements of country houses

to let or sell, and agreed that there was nothing whose attractions came

within miles of our, in all senses of the word, priceless offer.

How we got through the next two and a half hours I don't know!

I say two and a half advisedly: because, as Jones had six visits to pay,

we thought we might start him off at eleven-thirty. This we did; but his

calmness had damped us. _He_ wasn't excited. Was it probable that any

one else--except ourselves--could be?

Cold reaction set in. We prepared each other for the news that there

were no telegrams or answers of any sort. Terry said it was no use

concealing that this would be a bitter blow. I had not the energy to

correct his rhetoric, or whatever it was, by explaining that a blow

can't be bitter.

Twelve-thirty struck, and produced no Jones; twelve-forty-five; one;

Jones still missing.

"I ought to have told him to come back at once after the sixth place,

even if there wasn't a thing," said Terry. "Like a fool, I didn't: he

may have thought he'd do some other errands on the way home, if he'd

nothing to report. Donkey! Ass! Pig."

"Captain Burns' man, your highness," announced my maid. "He wants to

know----"

"Tell him to come in!" I shrieked.

"Yes, your highness. It was only, should he bring them all in here, or

leave them in Mr. Carstairs' apartment below."

"_All!_" gasped Terry.

"Here," I commanded.

Jones staggered in.

You won't believe it when I tell you, because you didn't see it. That

is, you won't unless _you_ have inserted _the_ Advertisement of the

Ages--the Unique, the Siren, the Best yet Cheapest--in six leading

London journals at once.

There were eight bundles wrapped in newspaper. Enormous bundles! Jones

had two under each arm, and was carrying two in each hand, by loops of

string. As he tottered into the drawing room, the biggest bundle

dropped. The string broke. The wrapping yawned. Its contents gushed out.

Not only telegrams, but letters with no stamps or post-marks! They must

have been rushed frantically round to the six offices by messengers.

It was true, then, what the newspapers said: all London, all England,

yearned, pined, prayed for houses. Yet people must already be living

_somewhere_!

Literally, there were thousands of answers. To be precise, Captain

Burns, Jones, and I counted two thousand and ten replies which had

reached the six offices by noon on the first day of the advertisement:

one thousand and eight telegrams; the rest, letters dispatched by hand.

Each sender earnestly hoped that his application might be the first!

Heaven knew how many more might be _en route_! What a tribute to the

Largest Circulations!

Jones explained his delay by saying that "the stuff was coming in thick

as flies"; so he had waited until a lull fell upon each great office in

turn. When the count had been made by us, and envelopes neatly piled in

stacks of twenty-four on a large desk hastily cleared for action, Terry

sent his servant away. And then began the fun!

Yes, it was fun: "fun for the boys," if "death to the frogs." But we

hadn't gone far when between laughs we felt the pricks of conscience.

Alas for all these people who burned to possess our moated grange

"practically free," at its absurdly low rent! And the moated grange

didn't exist. Not one of the unfortunate wretches would so much as get

an answer to his S. O. S.

They were not all _Nouveaux Riches_ by any means, these eager senders of

letters and telegrams. Fearing repulse from the fastidious moat-owner,

they described themselves attractively, even by wire, at so much the

word. They were young; they were of good family; they were lately

married or going to be married. Their husbands or fathers were V. C.'s.

There was every reason why they, and they alone, should have the house.

They begged that particulars might be telegraphed. They enclosed stamps

on addressed envelopes. As the moated grange was "rich in old oak," so

did we now become rich in new stamps! Some people were willing to take

the house on its description without waiting to see it. Others assured

the advertiser that money was no object to them; he might ask what rent

he liked; and these were the ones on whom we wasted no pity. If this was

what the first three hours brought forth, how would the tide swell by

the end of the day--the end of the _week_? Tarpeia buried under the

shields and bracelets wasn't _in_ it with us!

Terry and I divided the budget, planning to exchange when all had been

read. But we couldn't keep silent. Every second minute one or other of

us exploded: "You _must_ hear this!" "Just listen to _one_ more!"

About halfway through my pile, I picked up a remarkably alluring

envelope. It was a peculiar pale shade of purple, the paper being of

rich satin quality suggesting pre-war. The address of the newspaper

office was in purple ink, and the handwriting was impressive. But what

struck me most was a gold crown on the back of the envelope, above a

purple seal; a crown signifying the same rank as my own.

I glanced up to see if Terry were noticing. If he had been, I should

have passed the letter to him as a _bonne bouche_, for this really was

_his_ show, and I wanted him to have all the plums. But he was grinning

over somebody's photograph, so I broke the seal without disturbing him.

I couldn't keep up this reserve for long, however; I hadn't read far

when I burst out with a "By Jove!"

"What is it?" asked Terry.

"We've hooked quite a big fish," said I. "Listen to this: 'The Princess

Avalesco presents her compliments to T. B., and hopes that he will----'

but, my goodness _gracious_, Captain Burns! What's the matter?"

The man had gone pale as skim-milk, and was staring at me as though I'd

turned into a Gorgon.

CHAPTER IV

THE TANGLED WEB

"Read the name again, please," Terry said, controlling his voice.

"Avalesco--the Princess Avalesco." I felt suddenly frightened. I'd been

playing with the public as if people were my puppets. Now I had a vague

conviction at the back of my brain that Fate had made a puppet of me.

"I thought so. But I couldn't believe my own ears," said Terry. "Good

heavens! what a situation!"

"I--don't understand," I hesitated. "Perhaps you'd rather not have me

understand? If so, don't tell me anything."

"I must tell you!" he said.

"Not unless you wish."

"I do! We are pals now. You've helped me. Maybe you can go on helping.

You'll advise me, if there's any way I can use this--this _amazing_

chance."

I said I'd be glad to help, and then waited for him to make the next

move.

Captain Burns sat as if dazed for a few seconds, but presently he asked

me to go on with the letter.

I took it up where I'd broken off. "Compliments to T. B., and hopes that

he will be able to let his moated grange to her till the end of

September. The Princess feels sure, from the description, that the place

will suit her. T. B. will probably know her name, but if not, he can

have any references desired. She is at the Savoy and has been ill, or

would be glad to meet T. B. in person. Her companion, Mrs. Dobell, will,

however, hold herself free to keep any appointment which may be made by

telephone. The Princess hopes that the moated grange is still free, and

feels that, if she obtains early possession, her health will soon be

restored in such beautiful surroundings. P. S.--The Princess is

particularly interested in the _twisted chimney_, and trusts there is a

history of the house."

I read fast, and when I'd finished, looked up at Terry. "If you have a

secret to tell, I'm ready with advice and sympathy," said my eyes.

"When the Princess Avalesco was Margaret Revell, I was in love with

her," Terry Burns answered them. "I adored her! She was seven or eight

years older than I, but the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Of course

she wouldn't look at me! I was about as important as a slum child to

her. In America, the Revells were like your royalties. She was a

princess, even then--without a title. To get one, she sold herself. To

think that _she_ should answer that fool advertisement of ours! Heavens!

I'm like Tantalus. I see the blessed water I'd give my life to drink,

held to my lips, only to have it snatched away!"

"Why snatched away?" I questioned.

"'Why?' Because if there _were_ a moated grange, I could meet her. Her

husband's dead. You know he was killed before Roumania'd been fighting a

week. Things are very different with me, too, these days. I'm a man--not

a boy. And I've come into more money than I ever dreamed I'd have. Not a

huge fortune like hers, but a respectable pile. Who knows what might

have happened? But there's _no_ moated grange, and so----"

"Why shouldn't there be one?" I broke in. And while he stared blankly, I

hurried on. I reminded Captain Burns of what I had said yesterday: that

there were houses of that description, more or less, in England, _real_

houses!--my own, for instance. Courtenaye Abbey was out of the question,

because it was let to my cousin Jim, and was being shown to the public

as a sort of museum; but there were other places. I knew of several. As

Captain Burns was so rich, he might hire one, and let it to the Princess

Avalesco.

For a moment he brightened, but a sudden thought obscured him, like a

cloud.

"Not places with twisted chimneys!" he groaned.

This brought me up short. I stubbed my brain against that twisted

chimney! But when I'd recovered from the blow, I raised my head. "Yes,

places with twisted chimneys! At least, _one_ such place."

"Ah, Hampton Court. You said the only other twisted chimney was there."

"The _advertisement_ said that."

"Well----"

"It's a pity," I admitted, "that I thought of the twisted chimney. It

was an unnecessary extravagance, though I meant well. But it never would

have occurred to me as an extra lure if I hadn't known about a house

where such a chimney exists. The one house of the kind I ever heard of

except Hampton Court."

Terry sprang to his feet, a changed man, young and vital.

"Can we get it?"

"Ah, if I knew! But we can try. If you don't care what you pay?"

"I don't. Not a--hang."

I, too, jumped up, and took from my desk a bulky volume--Burke. This I

brought back to my chair, and sat down with it on my lap. On one knee

beside me, Terry Burns watched me turn the pages. At "Sc" I stopped, to

read aloud all about the Scarletts. But before beginning I warned Terry:

"I never knew any of the Scarletts myself," I said, "but I've heard my

grandmother say they were the wickedest family in England, which meant a

lot from _her_. She wasn't exactly a _saint_!"

We learned from the book what I had almost forgotten, that Lord

Scarlett, the eleventh baron, held the title because his elder brother,

Cecil, had died in Australia unmarried. He, himself, was married, with

one young son, his wife being the daughter of a German wine merchant.

As I read, I remembered the gossip heard by my childish ears. "Bertie

Scarlett," as Grandmother called him, was not only the wickedest, but

the poorest peer in England according to her--too poor to live at Dun

Moat, his place in Devonshire, my own county. The remedy was

marriage--with an heiress. He tried America. Nothing doing. The girls he

invited to become Lady Scarlett drew the line at anything beneath an

earl. Or perhaps his reputation was against him. There were many people

who knew he was unpopular at Court; unpopular being the mildest word

possible. And he was middle-aged and far from good-looking. So the best

he could manage was a German heiress, of an age not unsuited to his own.

Her father, Herr Goldstein, lived in some little Rhine town, and was

supposed to be rolling in marks (that was six or seven years before the

war); however, the Goldsteins met Lord Scarlett not in Germany but at

Monte Carlo, where Papa G. was a well-known punter. Luck went wrong with

him, and later the war came. Altogether, the marriage had failed to

accomplish for Bertie Scarlett's pocket and his place what he had hoped

from it. And apparently the one appreciable result was a little boy,

half of German blood. There were hopes that, after the war, Herr

Goldstein's business might rise again to something like its old value,

in which case his daughter would reap the benefit. Meanwhile, however,

if Grandmother was right, things were at a low ebb; and I thought that

Lord Scarlett would most likely snap at an offer for Dun Moat.

Terry was immensely cheered by my story and opinion. But such a

ready-made solution of the difficulty seemed too good to be true. He got

our advertisement, and read it out to me, pausing at each detail of

perfection which we had light-heartedly bestowed upon our moated grange.

"The twisted chimney and the moat aren't everything," he groaned. "Carp

and water-lilies we might supply, if they don't exist; peacocks, too.

Nearly all historic English houses are what the agents call 'rich in old

oak.' But what about those 'exquisite oriels,' those famous fireplaces,

those stairways, those celebrated ceilings, and corbels--whatever they

are? No one house, outside our brains, can have them _all_. If

anything's missing in the list she'll cry off, and call T. B. a fraud."

"She'll only remember the most exciting things," I said. "I don't see

her walking round the house with the 'ad.' in her hand, do you? She'll

be captured by the _tout ensemble_. But the first thing is to catch our

hare--I mean our house. You 'phone to the companion, Mrs. Dobell, at

once. Say that before you got her letter you'd practically given the

refusal of your place to someone else, but that you met the Princess

Avalesco years ago, and would prefer to have her as your tenant, if she

cares to leave the matter open for a few days. She'll say 'yes' like a

shot. And meanwhile, I'll be inquiring the state of affairs at Dun

Moat."

"How can you inquire without going there, and wasting a day, when we

might be getting hold of another place, perhaps, and--and _building_ a

twisted chimney to match the 'ad.'?" Terry raged, walking up and down

the room.

"Quite simply," I said. "I'll get Jim Courtenaye on long-distance 'phone

at the Abbey, where he's had a telephone installed. He doesn't live

there, but at Courtenaye Coombe, a village close by. However, I hear

he's at the Abbey from morn till dewy eve, so I'll ring him up. What he

doesn't know about the Scarletts he'll find out so quickly you'll not

have time to turn."

"How do you know he'll be so quick?" persisted Terry. "If he's only your

forty-fourth cousin he may be luke-warm----"

I stopped him with a look. "Whatever else Jim Courtenaye may be, he's

_not_ luke-warm!" I said. "He has red hair and black eyes. And he is

either my fiercest enemy or my warmest friend, I'm not sure which.

Anyhow, he saved my life once, at great trouble and danger to himself;

so I don't think he'll hesitate at getting a little information for me

if I pay him the compliment of calling him up on the 'phone."

"I _see_!" said Terry. And I believe he did see--perhaps more than I

meant him to see. But at worst, he would in future realize that there

_were_ men on earth not so blind to my attractions as he.

While Terry 'phoned from the Carstairs' flat to the companion of

Princess Avalesco, I 'phoned from mine to Jim. And I could not help it

if my heart beat fast when I in London heard his voice answering from

Devonshire. He has one of those nice, drawly American voices that _do_

make a woman's heart beat for a man whether she likes him or hates him!

I explained what I wanted to find out about the Scarletts, and that it

must be "quite in confidence." Jim promised to make inquiries at once,

and when I politely said: "Sorry to give you so much bother," he

replied, "You needn't let _that_ worry you, my dear!"

Of course, he had no right to call me his "dear." I never heard of it

being done by the _best_ "forty-fourth cousins." But as I was asking a

favour of him, for Terry Burns' sake I let it pass.

These Americans, especially ex-cowboy ones, _do_ seem to act with

lightning rapidity. I suppose it comes from having to lasso creatures

while going at cinema speed, or else getting out of their way at the

same rate of progress! I expected to hear next morning at earliest, but

that evening, just before shutting-up time for post offices, my 'phone

bell rang. Jim Courtenaye was at the other end, talking from the Abbey.

"Lord and Lady Scarlett are living at Dun Moat," he said, "with their

venomous little brute of a boy; and they must be dashed hard up, because

they have only one servant in their enormous house, and a single

gardener on a place that needs a dozen. But it seems that Scarlett has

refused several big offers both to sell and let. Heaven knows why.

Perhaps the man's mad. Anyhow, that's all I can tell you at present.

They say it's no good hoping Scarlett will part. But I might find out

_why_ he won't, if that's any use."

"It isn't," I answered. "But thanks, all the same. How did you get hold

of this information so soon?"

"Very simply," said Jim. "I ran over to the nearest town, Dawlish, in

the car, and had a pow-wow with an estate agent, as if I were wanting

the house myself. I'm just back."

"You really are good!" I exclaimed, rather grudgingly, for Grandmother

and I always suffered in changing our opinions of people, as snakes must

suffer when they change their skins.

"I'd do a lot more than that for you, you know!" he said.

I did know. He had already done more--much more. But my only response

was to ring off. That was safest!

Next morning Terry Burns and I took the first train to Devonshire, and

at Dawlish hired a taxi for Dun Moat, which is about twelve miles from

there.

We were going to beard the Scarlett lion in his den!

CHAPTER V

THE KNITTING WOMAN OF DUN MOAT

"I must and _shall_ have this place!" Terry said, as our humble taxi

drove through the glorious old park, and came in sight of the house.

There were the old-world gardens; the statues; the fountains (it was a

detail that they didn't fount!); there were the white peacocks

(moulting); there was the moat so crammed with water-lilies that if the

Scarletts had eaten the carp, they would never be missed. There were the

"exquisite oriels," and above all, there was the twisted chimney!

An air of tragic neglect hung over everything. The grass needed mowing;

the flowers grew as they liked. Glass was even missing from several

windows. Still, it was miraculously the twin of the place we had

described in our embarrassingly perfect "ad."

As we stood in front of the enormous, nail-studded door, and Terry

pressed again and again an electric bell (the one modern touch about the

place), he had the air of waiting a signal to go "over the top."

"You look fierce enough to bayonet fifty Boches off your own bat!" I

whispered.

"Lady Scarlett _is_ a Boche, isn't she?" he mumbled back. And just

then--after we'd rung ten times--an old woman opened the door--a witch

of an old woman; a witch out of a German fairy-book.

The instant I saw her, I felt that there was _something wrong_ about

this house. From under wrinkled lids the woman peered out, ratlike; and

though her lips were closed--leaving the first word to us--her eyes

said, "What the devil do you want? Whatever it is, you won't get it, so

the sooner you go the better."

We had planned that I should start the ball rolling, by mention of my

grandmother's name. But Terry was bursting with renewed interest in

life, and the woman was answering his question before I had time to

speak. "Let the place? No, sir! His lordship refuses all offers. It is

useless to make one. He does not see strangers."

"We are not strangers," I rapped out with all Grandmother's haughtiness.

"Tell Lord Scarlett that the Princess di Miramare, grand-daughter of

Mrs. Raleigh Courtenaye, wishes a few words with him."

_That_ was the way to manage her! She came of a breed over whom for

centuries Prussian Junkers had power of life and death; and though she

spoke English, it was with the precise wording of one who has learned

the language painfully. In me she recognized the legitimate tyrant, and

yielded.

We were admitted with reluctance into a magnificent hall which magically

matched our description: stone-paved, with a vaulted roof, and an

immense oriel window the height of two stories. While our gaze travelled

from the carved stone chimney-piece to ancient suits of armour, and such

Tudor and Jacobean furniture as remained unsold, a slight sound

attracted our attention to the "historic staircase," with its

"dog-gates."

A woman was coming down. She had knitting in her hand, and had dropped

one of her needles. It was that which made the slight noise we'd heard;

and Terry stepped quickly forward to pick it up.

His back was turned to me as he offered the stiletto-like instrument to

its owner, so I could not see his face. But I could imagine that

charming smile of his, as he looked up at the figure on the stairs. Just

so might Sir Walter Raleigh have looked when he'd neatly spread his

cloak for Queen Bess; and if he had happened to ask a favour then, it

would have been hard for the sovereign to resist!

The woman coming downstairs did not resemble any portrait of the Virgin

Queen. She was stout and short-necked; and with her hard, dark face, her

implacable eyes, and her knitting, was as much like Madame Defarge in

modern dress as a German could be. But even Madame Defarge was a woman!

And probably she used her influence now and then in favour of some

handsome male head, preferring to see female ones pop into the sawdust!

Her face softened slightly as she accepted the needle, and stiffened

again as I came forward.

"My husband is occupied," she said, in much the same stilted English as

that of her old servant. "He sends his compliments to the Princess di

Miramare and her friend, and hopes both will excuse him. If it is an

offer for our place you have come to make, I must refuse in his name. We

do not wish to move."

Her tone, her expression, gave to her words the solemnity of an oath

sworn by a houseful of Medes and Persians.

It seemed that there was nothing left for us to do, save bow to Lady

Scarlett's decision, and retire defeated to our taxi. But I felt that my

reputation as a Brightener was at stake, with Terry's hopes. If we

failed, instead of brightening I should have blighted him for ever! That

couldn't, shouldn't be!

All there was of me yearned for an inspiration, and it came.

"My friend, Captain Burns, wouldn't ask you to move," I heard myself

saying. "He's so anxious to have Dun Moat that he'd offer you any rent

within reason, and would invite you to select some retired rooms for

yourselves, where you might live undisturbed by the tenant. This house

is so large it occurs to me that such an arrangement wouldn't be

uncomfortable."

Terry flashed me a look of amazement, which turned to acquiescence; and

the surprise on Lady Scarlett's face was encouraging. Evidently no one

else had made such a suggestion. She seemed not only astonished, but

tempted.

For a moment she reflected; then admitted that my proposal was a new

one. She would submit it to her husband. They would talk it over if we

cared to wait. We did care to; and the lady vanished like a stout ghost

into the dimness of stony shadows.

Terry said that he felt his head growing gray, hair by hair, with

suspense; but when Lady Scarlett came back at last no change could be

seen by the naked eye.

"My husband and I will consider your proposal," she said, "provided the

price is satisfactory, and taking it for granted that we agree on the

rooms for our occupation. We should want those known as the 'garden

court suite.' And we should ask one hundred and fifty pounds a week, for

a possible term of ten weeks, on the proviso that we could terminate the

tenancy with a fortnight's notice at any time after the first month."

I was dumbfounded. The place, unique and beautiful as it was, had been

allowed to run down so disastrously, and everything outside and inside

seemed to be in such a state of disrepair, that it was worth at most a

rent of thirty guineas a week. Terry might call himself rich, but surely

he'd not consent to being rooked to that extent, in order to be landlord

to his love. I expected him to protest, to bargain, and beat the lady

down. But he brushed the financial question away like a cobweb, and

began to haggle about the rooms.

"The money part will be all right," he said. "But I want a lady to come

here--a lady who's been ill. She must have the prettiest rooms there

are: something overlooking the moat, with jolly oriel windows and plenty

of old oak."

Lady Scarlett smiled. "There is no obstacle to that! The suite I specify

is at the far end of the house, in a comparatively modern wing, and most

people would think it the least desirable. We like it because it is

compact and private. We can keep it going with one servant. It is called

the 'garden court suite' because it is built round a small square. There

is a separate outside entrance, as well as one door communicating with

the house. The suite has generally been occupied by a bachelor heir."

As she talked, Terry reflected. "Look here, Lady Scarlett!" he

exclaimed, just contriving not to break in. "I've half a mind to confide

in you. The truth is, I want to pose as the owner of this place. I

suppose you wouldn't sell it?"

"We could not if we would," replied the daughter of the German

wine-seller. "It is entailed and the entail cannot be broken till our

son comes of age."

"That settles _that_! But you said beforehand, nothing would induce you

to turn out----"

"No money you could offer: not a thousand, not ten thousand a week--at

least, at present. The garden court suite is the one solution."

"Well, so be it! But--I beg your pardon if I'm rude--could you--er--seem

not to be there? Could I say I'd lent the rooms to someone I didn't like

to turn out? If you'd consent, I'd make it two hundred a week."

Lady Scarlett's blackberry-and-skim-milk eyes lit. "You want the lady to

believe that you have bought Dun Moat?"

For answer, he told her of our advertisement, and the result. I thought

this a mistake. You'd only to look at the woman to see that she'd no

sense of humour; and to confide in a person without one is courting

trouble. Besides, I still had that impression of _something wrong_. I

had no definite suspicion; but why had the Scarletts, poor as they were,

determined to stick to the house? However, I could no more have stopped

Terry Burns when he got going than I could have stopped a torrent by

throwing in rose-petals. Which shows how he had changed. The worry a few

days ago would have been to get him going!

As Lady Scarlett listened she knitted, with strong, predatory hands.

Language, they say, is used to conceal thought. So, it occurred to me,

is knitting. I felt, watching her as a wise mouse should watch a cat,

that she was making up her mind to some action more beneficial to

herself than Terry. But for my life I couldn't guess what. She seemed to

weave a knitted screen between my mind and hers!

In the end, however, she announced that for two hundred pounds a week

her family could--to all intents and purposes--blot itself temporarily

out of existence, in the suite of the garden court. The American lady

might believe them to be poor relations of Captain Burns, or even

servants, for all she cared! Having arrived at this conclusion, she

proposed fetching her husband, that an agreement of an informal kind

might be drawn up. Again she vanished; and when Lord Scarlett appeared,

it was alone.

There were a number of ancestral portraits hanging on the walls of the

great hall: fox-faced men, most of them, with a prevailing, sharp-nosed,

slant-eyed type; and "Bertie" Scarlett was no exception to the rule. As

he came deliberately down the stairway which his wife had descended, I

remembered a scandal of his youth that Grandmother had sketched. He'd

been in a crack regiment once, and though desperately poor had tried to

live as a smart man about town. At some country-house party he'd been

accused of cheating at baccarat. The story was hushed up, but he had

left the army; and people--particularly royalties--had looked down their

noses at him ever since. His tweeds were shabby now, and he was growing

middle-aged and bald; all the same he had the air of the leading man in

a _cause celebre_. I hadn't liked his wife, and I liked him as little!

He made the same point as hers: that the agreement might be terminated

by him (_not_ by the tenant) with a fortnight's notice, given at any

time after the first month. This was a queer proviso, as queer as the

family resolve to remain on the spot. And it seemed to me that one was

part and parcel of the other, though I couldn't see the link which

united the two.

As for Terry, he puzzled over none of these things. He wanted the place

even on preposterous terms. When Lord Scarlett had drawn up an

agreement, his signature flashed across the paper like a streak of

lightning, so wild was he to rush back to London bearing the news to his

princess. Lord Scarlett--sure of his mad client--offered to have the

agreement polished up in legal form without further bother for Captain

Burns, and we were free to go.

Terry could talk of nothing on the way home but his marvellous luck.

_Hang_ the money! He'd have paid twice as much, if need be. The next

thing was to smarten the place: buy some more "historic" furniture to

fill the gaps made by sales, send down a decorator to see what beds,

etc., needed renovating, have an expert look at the drains and the

central heating (long unused) which had been put in with German money,

engage a staff of servants for indoors and out; get hold of two or three

young peacocks whose tails hadn't moulted.

"If I don't care how much I spend, don't you think we can make an

earthly paradise of the place in a week?" he appealed.

"We?" I echoed. "Why, I thought my part was played!"

His grieved eyes reproached me. What? After going so far, I was going to

desert him in the midst of the woods? He begged me to stand by him till

all was ready to receive the Princess. If I didn't, something was sure

to go wrong.

Well, once a Brightener, always a Brightener, I suppose! And acting on

this principle I yielded. I promised to stop for a week at Dawley St.

Ann, a village within a mile of Dun Moat (there's a dear old inn

there!), and superintend preparations for the beloved tenant. When she

was safely installed, I would go home--or elsewhere, and Terry could

take my rooms at the inn. Being her neighbour as well as landlord, he'd

easily find excuses to see the Princess every day, and thus get his

money's worth of Dun Moat.

All this was settled before we reached London; and the first thing Terry

thought of on entering the flat (mine, not his!) was to ring up the

Savoy. The answer came quickly; and I saw a light of rapture on his

face. The Princess herself was at the telephone!

CHAPTER VI

THE LIGHTNING STROKE

It was amazing what Terry and I accomplished in the next few days, I at

Dawley St. Ann, close to Dun Moat, he flashing back and forth between

there and London!

My incentive and reward in one consisted of the all but incredible

change for the better in him. Terry's, was the hope of meeting the

Adored Lady; for he had not met her yet. Her voice thrilled him through

the telephone, saying that of _course_ she "remembered Terry Burns," but

it was her companion, Mrs. Dobell, who received him at the Savoy. She it

was who carried messages from the still-ailing Princess Avalesco to him,

and handed on to the Princess his vague explanations as to how he had

acquired Dun Moat. But Terry had seen, in the two ladies' private

sitting room at the hotel, an ivory miniature of the Princess, and its

beauty had poured oil on the fire of his love. At what period in her

career it had been painted he didn't know, not daring or caring to ask

Mrs. Dobell; but one thing was sure--it showed her lovelier than of old.

Seeing the boy on the way to such a cure as twenty Sir Humphrey Hales

could never have produced, I was happy while wrestling for his sake with

the servant problem, placing brand-new "antique" furniture in half-empty

rooms, and watching neglected lawns rolled to velvet. But not once

during my daily pilgrimage to Dun Moat did I catch sight of Lord or Lady

Scarlett or their old German servant. True to the bargain, they had

officially ceased to exist; and my one tangible reminder of the family

was a glimpse of a little boy who stared through a closed window of the

end wing--the "suite of the garden court."

I'd been passing that way to criticize the work of the gardeners, and

looked up to admire the twisted chimney, which rose practically at the

junction of the oldest part of the house with the newest. Just for an

instant, a small hatchet face peered at me, and vanished as if its owner

had been snatched away by a strong hand; but I had time to say to

myself, "Like father like son!" And I smiled in remembering that Jim

Courtenaye had called the Scarlett's heir a "venomous little brute."

At last came the day when the Princess Avalesco, Mrs. Dobell, and a maid

were to motor down and take possession of Dun Moat. Terry (much thanked

through the telephone for supplying the place with servants, etcetera)

was on the spot before them. He had dashed over to see me at Dawley St.

Ann (where I was packing for my return to town), looking extremely

handsome; and had excitedly offered to run back and tell me "all about

her" before I had to take my train.

"I shall go with you to the station," he said. "You've been the most

gorgeous brick to me! You've given me happiness and new life. And the

one thing which could make to-day better than it is, would be your

stopping on."

I merely smiled at this, for I'd pointed out that my continued presence

would be misunderstood by the Princess Avalesco, to his disadvantage;

and he reluctantly agreed. So when he had gone to meet his Wonder-of

the-World I continued to pack.

Very likely he would forget such a trifle as the time for my train, I

thought, and if he did turn up it would be at the last minute. I was

surprised, therefore, when, after an hour, I saw him whirling up to the

inn door in the one and only village taxi.

A moment later I was bidding him enter my sitting room. A question

trembled on my lips, but the sight of his face choked it into a gasp.

Terry came in, and flung himself into a chair.

"Good heavens, what's happened?" I ventured.

He did not answer at first. He only stared. Then he found his voice. "I

don't know how to tell you what's happened," he groaned. "You'll despise

me. You'll want to kick me out of your room."

"I won't!" I spoke sharply, to bring him to himself. "What _is_ it?

Hasn't she come?"

"She has come. _That's_ it!"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, my dear Pal, I--I don't love her any more."

If I hadn't been sitting in a chair I should have collapsed on to

one--or the floor.

"You don't _love_ her?" I faltered.

"No. And that's not all. It's perhaps not even the worst!"

"If you don't tell me at once, I shall scream."

"I hardly know how. I--oh, good lord!--I--I've fallen in love with

someone else."

I must now make a confession as shameful as his. My mind jumped to the

conclusion that Terry Burns was referring to me. I expected him to

explain that, on seeing his ideal after these many years, he found that

after all it was his faithful Pal he loved! I was conceited enough to

think this quite natural, though regrettable, and my first impulse was

to spare us both the pain of such an avowal.

"Good gracious!" I warded him off. "So hearts can really be caught in

the rebound? But what I most want to know is, why have you unloved

Princess Avalesco?"

"It's most horribly disloyal and beastly of me. If you _must_ know, it's

because she's lost her beauty, and has got fat. I wouldn't have believed

that a few years could make such a difference. And she can't be

thirty-five! But she's a mountain. And her hair looks jolly queer. I

think it must have come out with some illness, and she's got on her head

one of those things you call a combination."

"We don't! We call it a transformation," I corrected him in haste. "Oh,

this is awful! Think of the fortune you've spent to offer Dun Moat to

your lady-love for a few weeks, only to discover that she _isn't_ your

lady-love! What a waste! I suppose now you'll go up to London----"

"No," said Terry, "I shall stay here. And--I can't feel that the money's

wasted in taking Dun Moat. Just seeing such a face as I've seen is worth

every sovereign."

"Face?" I echoed.

"Yes. I told you I'd fallen in love. You must have guessed it was with

someone at Dun Moat, as I've been nowhere else."

I hadn't guessed that. But I wasn't going to let him know that my

guesses had come home to roost! "It can't be Mrs. Dobell," I said,

"because you've seen her before, and she's old. Has the Princess got a

beautiful Cinderella for a maid, and----"

"No--no!" Terry protested. "I almost wish it were like that. It would be

humiliating, but simple. The thing that's happened--this lightning

stroke--is far from simple. I may have gone mad. Or, I may have fallen

in love with a ghost."

Relieved of my first suspicion, I pressed him to tell the story in as

few words as possible.

It seemed that Terry had arrived at Dun Moat before the Princess; and to

pass the time he began strolling about the gardens. His walk took him

all round the rambling old house, and something made him glance suddenly

up at one of the windows. There was no sound; yet it was as if a voice

had called. And at the window stood a girl.

She was looking down at him. And though the window was high and overhung

with ivy, Terry's eyes met hers. It was, he repeated, "a lightning

stroke!"

"She was rather like what Margaret Revell used to be years ago, when I

was a boy and fell in love with her," Terry went on. "I mean, she was

that type. And though she looked even lovelier than Margaret in those

days--_lots_ lovelier, and younger, too--I thought it must be the

Princess. You see, there didn't seem to be any one else it could be. And

at that distance, behind window glass, and after all these years, how

could I be sure? I said to myself, 'So the auto must have come and I've

missed hearing it. She's making her tour of the house without me!' I

couldn't stand that, so I sprinted for the door. And I was just in time

to meet the motor drawing up in front of it. Great Heligoland! The shock

I got when--at that moment of all others, my eyes dazzled with a

dream--I saw the real Princess! Somehow I blundered through the meeting

with her, and didn't utterly disgrace myself. But I made an excuse about

taking a friend to a train, and bolted as soon as I could. I didn't come

straight here. I went back to the window where I'd seen the face--the

vision--the ghost--whatever it was. No one was there. A curtain was

pulled across. And I remembered then that I'd always seen it covered.

Say, Princess, do you think I'm going mad--just when I hoped I was

cured? Was it the spirit of Margaret Revell's lost youth I saw,

or--or----"

"At which window was the--er--Being?" I cut in sharply.

"It was close under the twisted chimney."

"Ah! In the wing where the Scarletts are: the suite of the garden

court!"

"Yes. I forgot when I thought it must be Margaret, that the window was

in the Scarletts' wing. Of course, Margaret couldn't have gone there.

Princess, you're afraid to tell me, but you _do_ think I'm off my head!"

"I don't," I assured him. "Just what I think I hardly know myself. But I

shouldn't wonder if you'd stumbled on to the key of the mystery."

"What mystery?"

"The mystery of Dun Moat; the mystery of the Scarletts; why they

wouldn't let or sell the place until I happened to think of bribing them

with the suggestion that they should stay on. Captain Burns, it wasn't a

ghost you saw, never fear! It was a real live person--the incarnate

reason why at all costs the Scarletts must stay at Dun Moat."

Terry blushed with excitement. "Oh, if I could believe you, I should be

almost happy! If that girl--that heavenly girl!--exists at Dun Moat, and

I'm the tenant, I shall meet her. I----"

He went on rhapsodizing until the look in my eyes pulled him up short!

"What is it?" he asked. "Don't you approve of my wanting to meet her?

Don't you----"

"I approve with all my heart," I said. "But I'm wondering--_wondering_!

Why are the Scarletts hiding a girl? Has she done something that makes

it wise to keep her out of sight? Or is it _they_ who don't wish her to

be seen, for reasons of their own?"

"Madam, the porter is asking if your luggage is ready to go down,"

announced a maid.

"Luggage!" Terry and I stared at each other. I had forgotten that I was

going to London.

"But you can't leave me now!" he implored.

"I've changed my mind," I explained to the maid. "I shall take another

train!"

CHAPTER VII

THE RED BAIZE DOOR

It ended in my deciding to stop on at the inn, while Terry Burns went

into lodgings. I felt that he was right. I _had_ to stand by!

It wasn't only the romance of Terry falling out of love with his

Princess, and in love with a face, which held me. There was more in the

affair than that. The impression I had received when the old servant

first opened the door of Dun Moat came back to me sharply--and indeed it

had never gone--an impression that there was something _wrong_ in the

house.

I didn't for a moment believe that Terry had "seen a ghost," or had an

optical illusion. He'd distinctly beheld a girl at the window--evidently

the same window from which the Scarlett boy had looked at me. Though he

had seen her for a moment only, by questioning I got quite an accurate

description of her appearance: large dark eyes in a delicate oval face;

full red lips, the upper one very short; a cleft chin; a slender little

aquiline nose, and auburn hair parted Madonna fashion on a broad

forehead. She had worn a black dress, Terry thought, cut rather low at

the throat. In order to look out, she had held back the gray curtain;

and recalling the picture she made, it seemed to him that she had a

frightened air. His eyes had met hers, and she had bent forward, as if

she wished to speak. He had paused, but as he did so the girl started,

and drew hastily back. It was then that Terry ran toward the door,

thinking a rejuvenated, rebeautified Margaret Revell was making a tour

of exploration without him.

Now that he was out of love with the Princess Avalesco, there was no

longer a pressing reason to keep me in the background. For all he cared,

she might misunderstand the situation as much as she confoundedly

pleased! It was decided, therefore, that I should promptly call. I would

be nice to her, and try to get myself invited often to Dun Moat. I would

wander in the garden, where I must be seen by the Scarletts; and as

their presence in the "suite of the garden court" was no secret from me,

it seemed that there would be no indiscretion in my visiting Lady

Scarlett. Once in that wing, it would go hard if I didn't get a peep at

all its occupants!

I knew that the Scarletts kept up communication with the outer world, so

far as obtaining food was concerned, through the old German woman, whose

name was Hedwig Kramm. She lived in the main part of the house, and was

ostensibly in the service of the tenant, but most of her time was spent

in looking after her master and mistress. I thought that she might be

handy as a messenger.

I went next day to Dun Moat, Terry having explained me as a friend who'd

helped get the house ready for guests, and thus deserved gratitude from

them. If I had inwardly reproached him for fickleness when he confessed

his _volte face_, I exonerated him at sight of his old love. On

principle, regard for a woman shouldn't change with her looks. But a

man's affection can't spread to the square inch!

Not that the Princess Avalesco's inches _were_ square. They were, on the

contrary, quite, quite round. But there were so terribly many of them,

mostly in the wrong place! And what was left of her beauty was

concentrated in a small island of features at the centre of a large sea

of face; one of those faces that ought to wear _stays_! Luckily she

needed no pity from me. She didn't know she was a tragic figure--if you

could call her a figure! And she didn't miss Terry's love, because she

loved herself overwhelmingly.

I succeeded in my object. She took a fancy to me as (so to speak) a

fellow princess. I sauntered through garden paths, hearing about all the

men who wanted to marry her, and was able to get a good look at _the_

window. There was, however, nothing to see there. An irritating gray

curtain covered it like a shut eyelid.

"Captain Burns has put some sort of old retainers into that wing it

seems," said Princess Avalesco, seeing me glance up. "He has a right to

do so, of course, as I'm paying a ridiculously low rent for this

wonderful house, and I've more rooms anyhow than I know what to do with.

He tells me the wing is comparatively modern, and not interesting, so I

don't mind."

I rejoiced that she was resigned! I'm afraid, if _I'd_ been the tenant

of Dun Moat, I should have felt about that "suite of the garden court"

as Fatima felt about Bluebeard's little locked room. In fact, I _did_

feel so; and though I was able to say "Yes" and "No" and "Oh, really?"

at the right places, I was thinking every moment how to find out what

that dropped curtain hid.

At first, I had planned to send Lady Scarlett a message by Kramm; but I

reflected that a refusal to receive visitors would raise a barrier

difficult to pass except by force. And force, unless we could be sure of

an affair for the police, was out of the question.

"_L'audace! Toujours l'audace!_" was the maxim which rang through my

head; and before I had been long with the Princess Avalesco that day I'd

resolved to try its effect.

My hostess and her companion had arranged to motor to Dawlish directly

after tea. They invited me to go with them, or if I didn't care to do

that, they offered to put off the excursion, rather than my visit should

be cut short. I begged them to go, however, asking permission to remain

in their absence to chat with the housekeeper, and learn whether various

things ordered at Captain Burns' request had arrived.

With this excuse I got rid of the ladies, and as the new servants had

been engaged by me, I was _persona grata_ in the house. Five minutes

after the big car had spun away, I was hurrying through a long corridor

that led to the end wing. As it had been built for bachelors, there was

only one means of direct communication with the house. This was on the

ground floor, and all I knew of it by sight was a door covered with red

baize. I judged that this door would be locked, and that Kramm would

have a key. If I could make myself heard on the other side, I hoped that

the Scarletts would think Kramm had mislaid her key, and would come to

let her in.

I was right. The red door was provided with a modern Yale lock. This

looked so new that I fancied it had been lately supplied; and, if so,

the Scarletts--not Terry--had provided it! Now, a surface of baize is

difficult to pound upon with any hope of being heard at a distance. I

resorted to tapping the silver ball handle of my sunshade on the door

frame; and this I did again and again without producing the effect I

wanted.

The sole result was a horrid noise which I feared might attract the

attention of some servant. With each rap I threw a glance over my

shoulder. Luckily, however, the long passage with its stone floor, its

row of small, deep windows, and its dark figures in armour, was far from

any part of the house where servants came and went.

At last I heard a sound behind the baize. It was another door opening,

and a child's voice squeaked, "Who's there? Is that you, Krammie?"

For an instant I was taken aback--but only for an instant. "No," I

confessed in honeyed tones, "it isn't Krammie; but its someone with

something nice for you. Can't you open the door?"

A latch turned, and a cautious crack revealed one foxy eye and half a

freckled nose. "Oh, it's _you_, is it?" was the greeting. "I saw you in

the garden."

"And I saw you at the window," said I. "That's why I've brought you a

present. I like boys."

"_What_ have you brought?" was the canny question.

Ah, what _had_ I brought? I must make up my mind quickly, for to cement

a friendship with this boy might be important. "A wrist-watch," I said,

deciding on a sacrifice. "A ripping watch, with radium figures you can

see in the dark. It's on a jolly gray suede strap. I'll give it to you

now--that is, if you'd like it.'

"Ye--es, I'd like it," said little Fox-face. "But my mother and father

don't want any one except Kramm to come in here. I'd get a whopping if I

let you in."

The door was wider open now. I could easily have pushed past the child;

but I was developing a plan more promising.

"Are your parents at home?" I primly asked.

"Yes. They're home, all right. They're never anywhere else, these days!

But they're in the garden court. I was going up to my room when I heard

the row at this door. I thought it must be Krammie."

"Look here," I said, "would your mother mind if you came out with me? I

know her, so I don't see why she should object. I'd give you the watch,

and a tophole tip, too. I think boys like tips! What do you say?"

"I'll come for a bit," he decided. "Mother'd be in a wax if she knew,

and so'd Father! But what I was going upstairs for when I heard you was

a punishment. I was sent to my room. Nobody'll look for me till food

time, and then 'twill only be Kramm. _She's_ all right, Krammie is! She

won't give me away. She'll let me in again with her key, and they won't

know I've been out. But we've got to find her."

"I'll find her," I promised. "Come along!"

He came, sneaking out like the little fox he was. I caught a glimpse of

two steps leading down to a stone vestibule, and beyond that a heavy

wooden door which the boy had shut behind him before beginning to parley

with me. Gently as I could, I closed the baize door, which locked itself

automatically; and the child being safely barred out from his own

quarters, I broke it to him that we must delay seeing Kramm. She'd be

sure to fuss, and want to bundle him back! We'd better have our fun

first. There was time.

Fox-face agreed, though with reluctance, which showed his fear of that

"whopping." But he brightened when I proposed foraging in the big hall

for some cakes left from tea. To my joy they were still on the table,

and, seizing a plate of chocolate eclairs, I rejoined the boy on the

terrace. We sat on a cushioned stone seat, and Fox-face (who said that

his name was "the same as his father's, Bertie") began industriously to

stuff. He did not, however, forget the watch or the tip. With his mouth

full he demanded both, and got them. In his delight, he warmed to

something more than fox, and I snatched this auspicious moment.

Delicately, as if walking on eggs (at sixpence each), I questioned him.

How did he like being mewed up in one wing of his own home? What did he

do to amuse himself? Wasn't it dull with no one to play with?

"Well, of course, there's Cecil," he said, munching. "I liked her at

first. She's pretty, about as pretty as you are, or maybe prettier. And

she brought me presents, just like you have. But she's in bed most of

the time now, so she's no fun any more. I sit with her sometimes, to see

she keeps still, and doesn't go to the window. She did go one day, when

I went out for a minute, because I thought she was asleep. But Mother

came and caught her at it."

"Oh, yes, Cecil!" I echoed. "That pretty girl with dark eyes, and hair

the colour of chestnuts. What relation is she to you?"

"I s'pose she's my cousin," said Bertie. "That's what she told me the

day she came--when she brought the presents. But Mother says she's no

_proper_ relation. How do _you_ know about her hair and eyes? You didn't

see her, did you? Mother'll have a fit if you did! She and Father don't

want any one to see Cecil. The minute she told them all about herself

they made her hide."

I was thinking hard. "Cecil" was the girl's name! That Lord Scarlett who

died in Australia had been Cecil. Grandmother had talked of him, and

said he was the "only decent one of the lot, though a ne'er-do-weel."

Now, the likeness of the name, and the boy's babblings, made me suspect

the plot of an old-fashioned melodrama.

"Oh, I guessed about her hair and eyes, because you said she was so

pretty; and dark eyes and auburn hair are the prettiest of all," I

assured him gaily. "I'm great at guessing things; I can guess like

magic! Now, I guess the presents she brought you were from Australia."

"So they were!" laughed Bertie. "That's what she said. And she told me

stories about things out there, before she got so weak."

"Poor Cecil! What's the matter with her?" I ventured.

"I don't know," mumbled the boy, interested in an eclair. "She cries a

lot. Mother says she's in a decline."

"Oughtn't she to see a doctor?" I wondered.

"Mother thinks a doctor'd be no good. Besides, I don't 'spect she'd let

one see Cecil, anyhow. I told you she won't allow any one in."

"Why does your mother give Cecil a room whose window looks over the

moat, if it's so important she should hide?" I persisted.

"All the rooms in that wing where we live are like that," Bertie

explained. "They've windows on the little court inside, and windows

outside, on the moat. But the outside window in Cecil's room is nailed

shut now, so she couldn't open it if she tried. And those little old

panes set in lead are thick as _thick_! I don't believe you could smash

one unless you had a hammer. Father says you couldn't. I mean, he says

_Cecil_ couldn't. And since the day Mother scolded Cecil for looking

out, the curtain's nailed down. It doesn't matter, though. Plenty of

light comes from the garden side."

"Where was Cecil before you went to live in the wing?" I asked. "Was she

in the house?"

"Oh, she'd been in that wing for weeks before Father and I moved in,"

said the boy. "Mother slept there at night. And Cecil could look out as

much as she liked, because there was no one about except us, and

Krammie. Krammie doesn't count! She's the same as the family, because

she's so old--she nursed Mother when Mother was a baby. Seems funny she

_could_ have been a baby, doesn't it? But Krammie loves her better than

any one, except me. She never splits on me to them if I do anything. But

now I've eaten all the cakes, so we'd better go and find Krammie. If we

don't, she may go into the wing first. There'd be the _devil_ to pay

then!"

It seemed to me that there was the devil to pay already--a devil in

woman's form--unless my imagination had made a fool of me. I shivered

with disgust at the thought of those two witches--the middle-aged one

and the hag. I hope I didn't take their wickedness for granted because

they were both _Germans_, though we have got into that habit in the last

five years, with all we've gone through, and with the villains who used

to be Russian in novels now being German!

If I did hand over my prize to the elder witch, the boy was lost to me.

I should never get a second chance to catch my fox with cake! And even

were I sure that he wouldn't blab, or that Kramm wouldn't, the secret of

our meeting was certain to leak out. In that case, the red baize door

would never again open to my knock. So what was I to do?

"Come along," urged the boy. Having got all he could get out of me, he

began to sulk. "I don't want to stay with you any more."

"Wait a minute," I pleaded. "I'm thinking of something--something to do

for _you_."

Though I wasn't a German, the most diabolical plot had just jumped into

my head!

CHAPTER VIII

"WHEN IN DOUBT, PLAY A TRUMP"

It was a case of now or never!

"Look here, Bertie," I said, "what I've been thinking of is this: you'd

better hide, and let me go alone to find Krammie. _Suppose_ your mother

has looked in your room! She'll know from Kramm that the ladies are

motoring, so she may come out to speak with Kramm and ask for you.

Squeeze into this clump of lilac bushes at the end of the terrace! Trust

me to make everything right, and be back soon."

The picture of his mother on the warpath transformed Bertie to a jelly.

He was in the lilac bushes almost before I'd finished; and I hurried

off, ostensibly to seek Kramm. I did not, however, seek far, or in any

direction where she was likely to be. Presently I came back and in my

turn plunged into the bushes. I broke the news that I hadn't seen Kramm.

It looked as if the worst had happened. But Bertie must buck up. I'd

thought of a splendid plan! "How would you like to stay with me," I

wheedled, "until your mother is ready to crawl to get you back, cry and

sob, and swear not to punish you?"

The boy looked doubtful. "I've heard my mother _swear_," he said, "but

never cry or sob. Do you think she would?"

"I'm sure," I urged. "And you'll have the time of your life with me! All

the money you want for toys and chocolates. And you needn't go to bed

till you choose."

"What kind of toys?" he bargained. "Tanks and motor cars that go?"

"Rath_er_! And marching soldiers, and a gramophone."

"Righto, I'll come! And I don't care a darn if I never see Mother or

Father again!" decided the cherub.

I would have given as much for a taxi as Richard the Third for a horse;

but I'd walked from the village, and must return in the same way. We

started at once, hand in hand, stepping out as Bertie Scarlett the

second had never, perhaps, stepped before. It was only a mile to Dawley

St. Ann, and in twenty minutes I had smuggled my treasure into the inn

by a little-used side door. This led straight to my rooms, and I whisked

the boy in without being seen. So far, so good. But what to do with him

next was the question!

I saw that, in such an emergency, Terry Burns would hinder more than

help. He was cured of the listlessness, the melancholia, which had been

the aftermath of shell shock; but he was rather like a male Sleeping

Beauty just roused from a hundred years' nap--full of reawakened fire

and vigour, though not yet knowing what use to make of his brand-new

energy. It was my job to advise _him_, not his to counsel me! And if I

flung at his head my version of the "Cecil" story, his one impulse would

be to batter down the sported oak of the garden court suite.

He and I had agreed, in calm moments, that it would be vain and worse

than vain to appeal to the police. But calm moments were ended,

especially for Terry. _He_ might think that the police would act on the

story we could now patch together. _I_ didn't think so, or I wouldn't

have stolen the heir of all the Scarletts.

Well, I _had_ stolen him. Here he was in my small sitting room, stuffing

chocolates bestowed on me by Terry. On top of uncounted cakes they would

probably make him _sick_; and I couldn't send for a doctor without

endangering the plot.

No! the child must be disposed of, and there wasn't a minute to waste.

Terry's lodgings were as unsuited for a hiding-place as my rooms at the

inn. Both of us were likely to be suspected when Bertie was missed. I

didn't much care for myself, but I did care for Terry, because my

business was to keep him out of trouble, not to get him into it, even

for his love's sake.

Suddenly, as I concentrated on little Fox-face, and how to camouflage

him for my purpose, Jim Courtenaye's description of the child drifted

into my head.

_Jim!_ The thought of Jim just then was like picking up a pearl on the

way to the poor-house!

_Dear_ Jim! I hadn't been sure what my feeling for him was, but at this

minute I adored him. I adored him because he was a wild-western devil

capable of lassoing enemies as he would cows. I adored him because the

fire of his nature blazed out in his red hair and his black eyes. Jim

was an anachronism from some barbaric century of Courtenayes. Jim was a

precious heirloom. He had called the Scarlett boy a "venomous little

brute!" I could hear again his voice through the telephone "_I'd do more

than that for you_."

Idiot that I was, in that I'd _rung him off_! And I hadn't made a sign

of life since, though he was sure to have heard that I was at Dawley St.

Ann, within forty miles of the Abbey and Courtenaye Coombe.

I could have torn my hair, only it's too pretty to waste. Instead, I ran

into the next room, pulled the bell-rope and demanded the village taxi

immediately, if not sooner. Then I flew back to Bertie and made him up

for a new part.

This was done--to his mingled amusement and disgust--by means of a

tight-fitting, veiled motor-hood of my own and a scarlet cape, short for

a grown-up girl, but long for a small boy. This produced a fair

imitation of what the police would call "a female child," should they

catch sight of my companion. But as it happened, they did not; nor did

any one else at Dawley St. Ann, so far as I was aware. By my

instructions the taxi drew up at the side door, and while Timmins, the

chauffeur, was starting the engine (he'd stopped it, as I kept him

waiting), I rushed Bertie into the car. Once in, I squashed him down on

the floor, seated tailor fashion, with a perfectly good, perfectly new

box of burnt almonds on his lap.

"Drive as fast as you dare without being held up," I ordered; and

Timmins, lately demobbed from the Tank Corps, obeyed with violence. The

distance was forty miles; the hour of starting, six; and at seven-thirty

we were spinning up the long avenue at Courtenaye Abbey; good going for

Devonshire hills!

I took the chance that Jim might be at the Abbey rather than at

Courtenaye Coombe, where he lodged. The way was shorter and--there were

as many hiding-places in the Abbey as at Dun Moat. Luck was with me! It

had been one of the days when Jim opened the Abbey to tourists, and he

was late because he'd gone the rounds with the guardian. His small car,

which he drove himself, stood before the door, and from that door he

flew like a Jack-in-the-box as we dashed up.

"Elizabeth! I mean Princess!" he exclaimed.

"Call me _anything_!" I whispered, recklessly, bending out of the car as

we shook hands. "Mum's the word! But look what I've brought; something I

want you to _store_ for me."

A jerk of my head introduced him to a red-cloaked, gray-veiled child

asleep on the taxi floor.

Most men would have shown some sign of surprise or other emotion. But

Jim Courtenaye's _sang-froid_ is a tribute to the cinema life he must

have led even before he burst into the war. Whether he thought that the

object in red was my own offspring, concealed from the world till now, I

don't know and probably never shall. All I do know is that, judging from

his expression, it might have been a borrowed shoulder of veal.

Deftly he scooped Bertie up without rousing him, and had borne the

bundle gently through the open door before it occurred to Timmins to

turn his head. "Hurray!" thought I. "Not a soul has seen the little

wretch between Dun Moat and here!"

I jumped out of the car and followed Jim into the house, which I'd never

entered since it had been let to him. He had not paused in the great

hall, but was carrying his burden toward a small room which Grandmother

had used for receiving tenants, and such bothersome business. I flashed

in after him, and realized that Jim had fitted it up as a private

sanctum.

Somehow I didn't like him to go on fancying quaint things about my

character, and by the time he'd deposited Bertie on a huge sofa like a

young bed, I had plunged into my story.

I told him all from beginning to end; and when I'd reached the latter,

to my surprise Jim jumped up and shook my hands. "Are you congratulating

me?" I asked.

"No. It's because I'm so pleased I don't need to!"

"You mean?"

"Well, let's put it that I'm glad Burns may have to be congratulated

some day on being engaged to the Baroness Scarlett, instead of to--the

Princess Miramare."

So, he _had_ known of my activities, and had misunderstood my interest

in Terry! Brighteners alas! are always being misunderstood.

"I'd forgotten," I said, primly, "that the _women_ of the Scarlett

family inherit the title if there's no son. That would account for a

_lot_!... And so you don't think my theory of what's going on at Dun

Moat is too melodramatic?"

"My experience is," said Jim, "that nothing is ever quite so

melodramatic as real life. I believe this Cecil girl must be a

legitimate daughter of the chap who died in Australia. She must have

proofs, and they're probably where the Scarlett family can't lay hands

on them, otherwise she'd be under the daisies before this. That Defarge

type you talk about doesn't stop at trifles, especially if it's made in

Germany. And we both know Scarlett's reputation. I needn't call him

'Lord Scarlett' any more! But what beats me is this: why did the fly

walk into the spider-web? If the girl had common sense she must have

seen she wouldn't be a welcome visitor, coming to turn her uncle out of

home and title for himself and son. Yet you say she brought presents for

the kid."

"I wonder," I thought aloud, "if she could have meant to suggest some

friendly compromise? Maybe she'd heard a lot from her father about the

marvellous old place. Grandmother said, I remember, that Cecil Scarlett

was so poor he lived in Australia like a labourer, though his father

died here, while he was there, and he inherited the title. Think what

the description of Dun Moat would be like to a girl brought up in the

bush! And maybe her mother was of the lower classes, as no one knew

about the marriage. What if the daughter came into money from sheep or

mines, or something, and meant to propose living at Dun Moat with her

uncle's family? I can _see_ her, arriving _en surprise_, full of

enthusiasm and loving-kindness, which wouldn't 'cut ice' with Madame

Defarge!"

"Not much!" agreed Jim, grimly. "_She'd_ calmly begin knitting the

shroud!"

So we talked on, thrashing out one theory after another, but sure in any

case that there _was_ a prisoner at Dun Moat. Jim made me quite proud by

applauding my plot, and didn't need to be asked before offering to help

carry it out. Indeed, as my "sole living relative" (he put it that way),

he would now take the whole responsibility upon himself. The police were

not to be called in except as a last resort: and that night or next day,

according to the turn of the game, the trump card I'd pulled out of the

pack should be played for all it was worth!

CHAPTER IX

THE RAT TRAP

Did you ever see a wily gray rat caught in a trap? Or, still more

thrilling, a _pair_ of wily gray rats?

This is what I saw that same night when I'd motored back from Courtenaye

Abbey to Dawley St. Ann.

But let me begin with what happened first.

Jim wished to go with me, to be on hand in case of trouble. But the

reason why I'd hoped to find him at the Abbey was because we have a

secret room there which everyone knows (including tourists at a shilling

a head), and at least one more of which no outsiders have been told. The

latter might come in handy, and I begged Jim to "stand by," pending

developments.

I'd asked Terry to dine and had forgotten the invitation; consequently

he was at the inn in a worried state when I returned. He feared there

had been an accident, and had not known where to seek for my remains.

But in my private parlour over a hasty meal (I was starving!) I told him

the tale as I had told it to Jim.

Of course he behaved just as I'd expected--leaped to his feet and

proposed breaking into the wing of the garden court.

"They may kill her to-night!" he raged. "They'll be capable of anything

when they find the boy gone."

I'd hardly begun to point out that the girl had never been in less

danger, when someone tapped at the door. We both jumped at the sound,

but it was only a maid of the inn. She announced that a servant from Dun

Moat was asking for me, on business of importance.

Terry and I threw each other a look as I said, "Give Captain Burns time

to go; then bring the person here."

Terry went at my command, but not far; he was ordered to the public

parlour--to toy with Books of Beauty. Of course it was old Hedwig Kramm

who had come.

Her eyes darted hawk glances round the room, seeming to penetrate the

chintz valances on chairs and sofa! She announced that the son of Lord

Scarlett was lost. Search was being made. She had called to learn if I

had seen him.

"Why do you think of _me_?" I inquired arrogantly.

The boy had been noticed peeping out of the window when I walked in the

garden. He had said that I was "a pretty lady," and that he wished he

were down there with me. He would get me to take him in my motor, if I

had one.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I can't tell you where he is," I said, "and

even if I could, why should I? Let Lord and Lady Scarlett call, if they

wish to catechise me."

"They cannot," objected the old woman. "Her ladyship is prostrated with

grief. His lordship is with her."

"As they please," I returned. "I have nothing more to say--to you."

The creature was driven to bay. She loved the "venomous little brute!"

"Would you have something more to say if they did come?" she faltered.

"_Something about the child?_"

"I might," I drawled, "rack my memory for the time when I saw him last."

"You _do_ know where he is!" she squealed.

"I'm afraid," I said, "that I must ask you to leave my room."

She bounced out as if she'd been shot from an air gun!

It was ten o'clock, but light enough for me to see her scuttling along

the road as I peered through the window. When she had scuttled far

enough, I called to Terry.

"The Scarletts are coming!" I sang to the tune of "The Campbells."

"Whether it's maternal instinct or a guilty conscience or _what_, Madame

Defarge has guessed that I've got the child. She'll be doubly sure when

Kramm reports my gay quips and quirks. To get here by the shortest and

quietest way, the Scarletts must pass your lodgings. The instant you see

them, take Jones and race to Dun Moat. When you reach there you'll know

what to do. But in case they hide the girl as a Roland for my Oliver,

I'm going to play the most beautiful game of bluff you ever saw."

"I wish I _could_ see it!" said Terry.

"But you'd rather see Cecil! You'd better start now. It's on the cards

that the Scarletts came part way with Kramm to wait for her news."

Whether they had done this or not, I don't know. But the effect on Terry

of the suggestion was good. And certainly the pair did arrive almost

before it seemed that Kramm's short legs could have carried her to Dun

Moat.

They gloomed into my sitting room like a pair of funeral mutes.

"My servant tells me you have seen my son," the woman I had known as

Lady Scarlett began.

"She has imagination!" I smiled.

"You mean to say you have _not_ seen him?" blustered Fox-face Pere.

"I say neither that I have nor that I haven't," I replied. "The little I

know about the child inclines me to believe he wasn't too happy at home,

so why----"

"Oh, you _admit_ knowing something!" The woman caught me up like a

dropped stitch in her knitting. "I believe you've got the child here. We

can have you arrested for kidnapping. The police----"

I laughed. "Have the police ever _seen_ the little lamb? If they have,

they might doubt the force of his attraction on a woman of my type. And

you have no _proof_. But I'll let the local police look under my bed and

into my wardrobes, if you'll let them search the suite you occupy at Dun

Moat on proof _I_ can produce."

"What are you hinting at?" snapped the late Lord Scarlett. "Do you

intimate that we've hidden our own child at home and come to you with

some blackmailing scheme----"

"No," I stopped him. "I don't think you're in a position to try a

blackmail 'stunt.' My 'hints,' as you call them, concerned the _real_

Lady Scarlett; the legitimate daughter of your elder brother Cecil, and

his namesake."

As I flung this bomb I sprang up and stood conspicuously close to the

old-fashioned bell rope.

The man and woman sprang up also. The former had turned yellowish green,

the latter brick-red. They looked like badly lit stage demons.

"So _that's_ it!" spluttered the German wine merchant's daughter, when

she could speak.

"That's it," I echoed. "Now, do you still want to call the police and

charge me with kidnapping? You can search my rooms yourselves if you

like. You'll find nothing. _Can you say the same of your own?_"

"Yes!" Scarlett jerked the word out. "We can and do say the same. Do you

think we're fools enough to leave the place alone with only Kramm on

guard, if we had someone concealed there?"

"Ah, the cap fits!" I cried. "I didn't accuse you. As you said, I merely

'hinted.'"

I scored a point, to judge by their looks. But they had scored against

me also. I realized that my guess had not been wrong. There was a secret

hiding-place to which the garden court suite had access. That was one

reason why the Scarletts had chosen the suite. By this time Terry Burns

was there, with Kramm laughing in her sleeve while pretending to be

outraged at his intrusion. If only _I_ were on the spot instead of

Terry, I might have a sporting chance to ferret out the secret, for

I--so to speak--had been reared in an atmosphere of "hidie-holes" for

priests, cavaliers, and kings, of whom several in times of terror had

found asylum at our old Abbey. But Terry Burns was an American. It

wasn't in his blood to detect secret springs and locks!

I ceased to depend on what Terry might do, and "fell back upon myself."

"You talk like a madwoman!" sneered Madame Defarge. But her hands

trembled. She must have missed her knitting!

"Mine is inspired madness," said I. And then I did feel an inspiration

coming--as one feels a sneeze in church. "Of course," I went on, "if

you've hidden the poor drugged girl in that cubby-hole under the twisted

chimney----"

The woman would have sprung at me if Scarlett had not grabbed her arm.

My hand was on the tassel of the bell rope; and joy was in my heart, for

at last I'd grabbed their best trump. If Bertie The Second was the Ace,

the twisted chimney had supplied its Jack!

"Keep your head, Hilda," Scarlett warned his wife. "There's a vile plot

against us. This--er--lady and her American partner have tricked us into

letting Dun Moat, with the object of blackmail. We must be careful----"

"No," I corrected him, "you must be _frank_. So will I. We knew nothing

of your secret when we came to Dun Moat. We got on the track by

accident. As a matter of fact, Captain Burns saw the real Lady Scarlett

at the window, and she would have called to him for help if she could.

No doubt by that time she'd realized that you were slowly doing her to

death----"

"What a devilish accusation!" Scarlett boomed. "Since you know so much,

in self-defence I'll tell you the true history of this girl. We _have_

taken my brother's daughter into the house. We have given her shelter.

She is _not_ legitimate. My brother was married in England before going

to Australia, and his wife--an actress--still lives. Therefore, to make

known Cecil's parentage would be to accuse her father of bigamy and soil

the name. Hearing the truth about him turned her brain. She fell into a

kind of fit and was very ill, raving in delirium for days on end. My

wife was nursing her in the garden court rooms when you came with Burns

and begged us to let the house. My poverty tempted me to consent. For

the honour of my family I wished to hide the girl! And frankly (you ask

for frankness!), had she died despite my wife's care, I should have

tried to give the body--_private burial_. Now, you've heard the whole

unvarnished tale."

"Doubtless I've heard the tale told to that poor child," I said. "At

last I understand how you persuaded her to hide like a criminal while

you two thoroughly cooked up your plot against her. But the tale _isn't_

unvarnished! It's all varnished and nothing else. I'm not my

grandmother's grand-daughter for nothing! What _she_ didn't know and

remember about the 'noble families of England'--especially in her own

country--wasn't worth knowing! I inherit some of her stories and all of

her memory. The last Lord Scarlett, your elder brother, went to

Australia because that actress he was madly in love with had a husband

who popped up and made himself disagreeable. Oh, I can prove

_everything_ against you! And I know where the true Lady Scarlett is at

this minute. You can prove _nothing_ against me. You don't know where

your son is, and you won't know till you hand that poor child from

Australia over to Captain Burns and me. If you do that, and she recovers

from your wife's '_nursing_,' I can promise for all concerned that

bygones shall be bygones, and your boy shall be returned to you. I dare

say that's 'compounding a felony' or something. But I'll go as far as

that. What's your answer?"

The two glared into one another's eyes. I thought each said to the

other, "This was _your_ idea. It's all your fault. I _told_ you how it

would end!" But wise pots don't waste time in calling kettles black.

They saved their soot-throwing for me.

"You are indeed a true descendant of old Elizabeth Courtenaye," rasped

the man. "You're even more dangerous and unscrupulous than your

grandmother! My wife and I are innocent. But you and your American are

in a position to turn appearances against us. Besides, you have our son

in your power; and rather than the police should be called into this

affair by _either_ side, my brother's daughter--ill as she is--shall be

handed over to you when Bertie is returned to us."

"That won't do," I objected. "Bertie is at a distance. I can't

communicate with--his guardian--till the post office opens to-morrow. On

condition that Lady Scarlett is released _to-night_, however, and _only_

on that condition, I will guarantee that the boy shall be with you by

ten-thirty A. M. Meanwhile, you can be packing to clear out of Dun Moat,

as I hardly think you'll care to claim your niece's hospitality longer,

in the circumstances."

"We have no money!" the woman choked.

"You've forgotten what you took from Lady Scarlett. And six weeks'

advance of rent paid you by Captain Burns: twelve hundred pounds. He'll

forget, too, if you offer the right inducement. You could have had more

from him, if you hadn't insisted on the clause leaving you free to turn

your tenant out at a fortnight's notice after the first month. I

understand _now_ why you wanted it. If the girl had signed her name to a

document you'd prepared, leaving her money to you--shares in some

Australian mine, perhaps--it would have been convenient to you for her

to die. And then----"

"Why waste time in accusations?" quailed Scarlett. "_We_ won't waste it

defending ourselves! If you're so anxious to get hold of the girl, come

home with us and we'll turn over all responsibility to you."

"Very well," I said, and pulled the bell.

The woman started. "What are you doing that for?" she jerked.

"I wish to order the taxi to take us to Dun Moat," I explained. "I

confess I'm not so fond of your society that I'd care to walk a mile

with you at night along a lonely road. I'm not a coward, I hope. But

you'd be two against one. And you might hold me up----"

"As you've held us up!" the man snapped.

"Exactly," I agreed.

* * * * *

Wolves in sheep's clothing have to behave like sheep when they're in

danger of having their nice white wool stripped off. No doubt this is

the reason that, when we arrived at the outside entrance of the

bachelor's wing, my companions were meek as Mary's lamb.

Inside the suite of the garden court we found Terry Burns and his man

raging, and Kramm sulking, in a room with a broken window. Terry had

smashed the glass in order to get in, but his search had been vain. To

do the old servant justice, she had the instinct of loyalty. I believe

that no bribe would have induced her to betray her mistress. It remained

for the Scarletts to give themselves away, which they did--with the

secret of the room under the twisted chimney.

The room was built into the huge thickness of the wall which formed a

junction between the old house and the more modern wing. The wonderful

chimney was not a true chimney at all, but gave ventilation and light,

also a means of escape by way of a rope ladder over the roof. But the

rope had fallen to pieces long ago, and the prisoner of these days might

never have found means of escape, had it not been for that trump-card

named Bertie. The room under the twisted chimney would have been a

convenient home substitute for the family vault.

Fate was for us, however--and for her. Even the Lady with the Shears

might have felt compunction in cutting short the thread of so fair, so

sweet a life as Cecil Scarlett's. Anyhow, that was what Terry said in

favour of Destiny, when some days had passed, and it was clear that with

good care the girl would live.

We didn't take her to the inn, as I had planned when keeping the taxi,

for Terry--caring less than nothing now for the night's rest of Princess

Avalesco--ruthlessly routed the ladies from their beauty sleep. What

they thought about us, and about the half-conscious invalid, I don't

know; for true to my bargain with the Scarletts, no explanations

detrimental to them were made. I think it passed with the ladies that

the girl had arrived ill, in a late train; and that Terry, emboldened by

love of her, begged his tenant's hospitality. So, you see, they were

partly right. Besides, the Princess Avalesco had lived in Roumania,

where _anything_ can happen.

When Jim brought back Bertie, he brought also a doctor--by request. The

doctor was his friend; and Jim's friends are generally ready to--well,

to overlook unconventionalities.

I told you Princess Avalesco loved herself so much that she didn't miss

Terry's love. She missed it so little that after a few weeks' romance

she proposed a bedside wedding at Dun Moat, with herself as hostess;

for, of course, nothing would induce her to shorten her tenancy!

Cecil had confessed to falling in love with Terry through the window, at

first sight.

Therefore the wedding did take place, with Jim Courtenaye as best man,

and myself as "Matron of Honour," as Americans say. Cecil looked so

divine as a bride that no woman who saw her could have helped wishing to

be married against a background of pillows! I almost envied her. But Jim

said that he didn't envy Terry. His ideal of a bride was entirely

different, and he was prepared to describe her to me some day when I was

in a good humour!

BOOK III

THE DARK VEIL

CHAPTER I

THE GIRL WITH THE LETTER

Brightening continued to be fun. As time went on I brightened charming

people, queer people, people with their hearts in the right place and

their "H's" in the wrong one. I was an expensive luxury, but it paid to

have me, as it pays to get a good doctor or the best quality in boots.

After several successful operations and some lurid adventures, I was

doing so well on the whole that I felt the need of a secretary. How to

hit on the right person was the problem, for I wanted her young, but not

too young; pretty, but not too pretty; lively, not giddy; sensible, yet

never a bore; a lady, but not a howling swell; accomplished, but not

overwhelming; in fact, perfection.

This time I didn't hide my light under a bushel of initials, nor in a

box at a newspaper office. I announced that the "Princess di Miramare

requires immediately the services of a gentlewoman (aged from twenty-one

to thirty) for secretarial work four or five hours six days of the week.

Must be intelligent and experienced typist-stenographer. Salary, three

guineas a week. Apply personally, between 9:30 and 11:30 A. M. No

letters considered."

I gave the address of my own flat and awaited developments with high

hope; for I conceitedly expected an "ad." under my own name to attract a

good class of applicants.

It appeared in several London dailies and succeeded like a July sale. I

wouldn't have believed that there were such crowds of pretty typists on

earth! Luckily, the lift boy was young, so he enjoyed the rush.

As for me, I felt like a spider that has got religion and pities its

flies; there were so many flies--I mean girls--and each in one way or

other was more desirable than the rest! I might have been reduced to

tossing up a copper or having the applicants draw lots, if something

very special hadn't happened.

The twenty-sixth girl brought a letter of introduction from Robert

Lorillard.

_Robert Lorillard!_ Why, the very name is a thrill!

Of course I was in love with Robert Lorillard when I was seventeen, just

before the war. Everybody was in love with him that year. It was the

fashionable thing to be. Whenever Grandmother let me come up to town I

went to the theatre to adore dear Robert. Women used to boast that

they'd seen him fifty times in some favourite play. But never did he act

on the stage so stirring a part as that thrust upon him in August, 1914!

I _must_ let the girl with the letter wait while I tell you the story,

in case you've not heard the true version.

While she hung upon my decision, and I gazed at Lorillard's signature

(worth guineas as an autograph), my mind raced back along the years.

Oh, that gorgeous spring before the war!

I wasn't "_out_"; but somehow I contrived to be "_in_." That is, in all

the things that I'd have died rather than miss.

We were absurdly poor, but Grandmother knew everyone; and that April,

while she was looking for a town house and arranging to present me, we

stayed with the Duchess of Stane. Her daughter, Lady June, was _the_

girl in Society just then. She had been The Girl for several years. She

was the prettiest, the most original, and the most daring one in her

set. She wasn't twenty-three, but she'd picked up the most extraordinary

reputation! I should think there could hardly have been more interest in

the doings of "professional beauties" in old days than was taken in

hers. No illustrated weekly was complete without her newest portrait

done by the photographer of the minute; no picture Daily existed that

wouldn't pay well for a snapshot of Lady June Dana, even with a foot out

of focus, or a hand as big as her head! And she _loved_ it all! She

lived, lived every minute! It didn't seem as if there could be a world

without June.

I was only a flapper, but I worshipped at the shrine, and the goddess

didn't mind being worshipped. She used to let me perch on her bed when

she took her morning tea, looking a dream in a rosebud-wreathed bit of

tulle called a boudoir cap, and a nighty like the first outline sketch

for a ballgown. She reeled off yards of stuff for my benefit about the

men who loved her (their name was legion!), and among others was Robert

Lorillard.

All the clever people who "did" things came to Stane House, provided

they were good to look at and interesting in themselves. Lorillard was

there nearly every Sunday for luncheon, and at other times, too. I

couldn't help staring at him, though I knew it was rude, for he was so

handsome, so--almost divine!

One laughs at writers who make their heroes "Greek statues," but really

Lorillard _was_ like the Apollo Belvedere, in the Vatican: those perfect

features, that high yet winning air (someone has said) "of the greatest

statue that ever was a gentleman, the greatest gentleman that ever was a

statue."

I think June met Lorillard away from home often: and once, when

Grandmother and I had gone to live in our own house, and I'd been

presented, June took me behind the scenes after a matinee at his

theatre. He was charming to me, and I loved him more than ever, with

that delicious, hopeless, agonizing love of seventeen.

People talked about June with Lorillard, but no more than with a dozen

other men. Nobody dreamed of their marrying, and none less than she

herself. As for him, though he was madly in love, he must have known

that as an eligible he'd have as much chance with a royal princess as

with Lady June Dana.

It was in this way that matters stood when the war broke out. And among

the first volunteers of note went Robert Lorillard. No doubt he would

have gone sooner or later in any case. But being taken up, thrown down,

smiled at, and frowned on by June was getting upon his nerves, as even I

could see, so war--fighting, and dying perhaps--must have been a welcome

counter-irritant.

The season was over, but Grandmother kept on the house she had taken, as

an _ouvroir_, where she mobilized a regiment of women for war work. It

was in the same square as Stane House, where the Duchess was mobilizing

a rival regiment. June and I worked under our different taskmistresses;

but I saw a good deal of her--and all that went on. The moment she heard

that Lorillard had offered himself, and was furiously training for a

commission, she was a changed girl. She was like a creature burning with

fever; but I thought her more beautiful than she'd ever been, with that

rose-flame in her cheeks and blue fire in her eyes.

One afternoon she got me off from work, asking me to shop with her. But

instead of going to Bond Street, we made straight for Robert Lorillard's

flat in St. James's Square. How he could have been there that day I

don't know, for he was in some training camp or other I suppose; but

she'd sent an urgent wire, no doubt, begging him to get a few hours'

leave.

Anyhow, there he _was_--waiting for us. I shall never forget his

face--though he forgot my existence! June forgot it also. I'd been

dragged at her chariot wheels (it was a taxi!) to play propriety; my

first appearance as a chaperon. I might as well have been a fly on the

wall for both of them!

Robert opened the door of the flat himself when we rang (servants were

superfluous for that interview!) and they looked at each other, those

two. Eyes drank eyes! Lorillard didn't seem to see me. I drifted vaguely

in after June, and effaced myself superficially. The most rarefied sense

of honour couldn't be expected, perhaps, in a flapper whose favourite

stage hero was about to play _the_ part of his life--unrehearsed--with

the said flapper's most admired heroine.

Instead of shutting myself up in a cupboard or something, or at the

least closing my eyes and stuffing my fingers into my ears, I hovered in

a handy background. I saw June burst out crying and throw herself into

Lorillard's arms. I heard her sob that she realized now she couldn't

live without him; that he was the only person on earth who

mattered--ever had, or ever would matter. I heard him gasp a few

explosive "Darlings!" and "Angels!" And then I heard June coolly--no,

hotly!--propose that they should be married at once--_at once_!

Even _I_ floated sympathetically on a rose-coloured wave of love, as I

listened and looked; so where must Lorillard have floated--he who had

adored, and never hoped?

In one of his own plays the noble hero would have put June from him in

super-unselfishness, declaiming "No, beloved. I cannot accept this

sacrifice, made on a mad impulse. I love you too much to take you for my

own." But, thank God, real men aren't built on those stiff lines! As for

this one, he simply _hugged_ his glorious, incredible luck (including

the giver) as hard as he could.

It took the two about one hour to come to themselves, and remember that

they had heads as well as hearts; while I, for my part, remembered

mostly my right foot, which had gone to sleep during efforts of

self-obliteration. I _had_ to stamp it at last, which drew surprised

attention to me; so I was officially offered the role of confidante, and

agreed with June that the wedding _must_ be secret. The Duchess and four

_terrifically_ powerful uncles would make as much fuss as if June were

Queen Elizabeth bent on marrying a commoner, and it would end in the

lovers being parted.

Well, they were married by special license three days later, with me and

a man friend of Lorillard's as witnesses. When the knot was safely tied,

June and Robert went together and broke it to the Duchess--not the knot,

but the news. The Duchess of Stane is supposed to know more bad words

than any other peeress in England, and judging from June's account of

the scene, she hurled them all at Lorillard, with a few spontaneous

creations for her daughter. When the lady and her vocabulary were

exhausted, however, common sense refilled the vacuum. The Duchess and

the Family made the best of a bad bargain, hoping, no doubt, that

Lorillard would soon be safely killed; and a delicious dish of romance

was served up to the public.

_I_ was the only one beyond pardon, it seemed. According to the Duchess

I was a wicked little treacherous cat not to have told her what was

going on, so that it could have been stopped in time. A complaint was

made to Grandmother. But that peppery old darling--after scolding me

well--took my part, and quarrelled with the Duchess.

June was too busy being _The_ Bride of All War Brides to bother much

with me, and Lorillard was training hard for France. So a kind of magic

glass wall arose between the Affair and me. Months passed (everyone

knows the history of those months!) and then the air raids began:

Zeppelins over London!

It was _smart_, you know, not to be frightened, but to run out and gape,

or go up on the roof, when one of those great silver shapes was sighted

in the night sky. June went on the roof. Oh poor, beautiful June! A

fragment of shrapnel pierced her heart and killed her instantly, before

she could have felt a pang.

The news almost "broke Lorillard up," so his pal who witnessed the

marriage with me put the case. Robert hadn't even once been back in

"Blighty" since he first went out. Ninety-six hours' leave was due just

then. He spent it coming to June's funeral, and--returning to the Front.

Since that tragic time long ago he had seen a great deal of fighting,

had been wounded twice, had received his Captaincy and a D. S. O. Four

years and a half had been eaten by Hun locusts since he'd last appeared

on the stage, and more than three since the death of June. Everyone

thought that Lorillard would take up his old career where he had laid it

down. But he refused several star parts, and announced that he never

intended to act again. The reason was, he said, that he did not wish to

do so; that he could hardly remember how he had felt at the time when

acting made up the great interest of his life.

He bought a quaint old cottage near the river, not many miles from a

house the Duchess owned--a happy house, where he had spent week-ends

that wonderful summer of 1914. June had loved the place, and her body

lay (buried in a glass coffin to preserve its beauty for ever) in the

cedar-shaded graveyard of the country church near by. Once she had

laughingly told Lorillard she would like to lie there if she died, and

he had persuaded the Duchess to fulfil the wish. Instead of a gravestone

there was a sundial, with the motto "All her days were happy days and

all her hours were hours of sun."

Robert Lorillard's cottage was within walking distance of the

churchyard, and I imagine he often went there. Anyhow, he went nowhere

else. After some months an anonymous book of poems appeared--poems of

such extreme beauty and pure passion that all the critics talked about

them. Bye and bye others began to talk, and it leaked out through the

publisher that Lorillard was the author.

I loved those poems so much that I couldn't resist scribbling a few

lines to Robert in my first flush of enthusiasm. He didn't answer. I'd

hardly expected a reply; but now, long after, here was a letter from him

introducing a girl who wanted to be my secretary!

He wrote:

DEAR PRINCESS DI MIRAMARE,

I don't ask if you remember me. I _know_ you do, because of one we

have both greatly loved. I meant to thank you long ago for the kind

things you took the trouble to say about my verses. The thoughts

your name called up were very poignant. I put off acknowledging

your note. But you will forgive me, because you are a real friend;

and for that reason I venture to send you a strong personal

recommendation with Miss Joyce Arnold, who will ask for a position

as your secretary. I saw your advertisement in the _Times_, and

showed it to Miss Arnold, offering to introduce her to you. She

nursed me in France when she was a V. A. D. (she has a decoration,

bye the bye, for her courage in hideous air raids), and she has

been my secretary for some months. All I need say about her I can

put into a few words. _She is absolutely perfect._ It will be a

great wrench for me to lose her valuable help with the work I give

my time to nowadays, but I am going abroad for a while, and shall

not need a secretary.

You too have lived and suffered since we met! Do take from me

remembrances and thoughts of a friendship which will never fade.

Yours sincerely always,

ROBERT LORILLARD.

I'd been too much excited when she said, "I have an introduction to you

from Captain Lorillard," to do more than glance at the girl, and ask her

to sit down. But as I finished the letter I looked up, to meet the gaze

of a pair of gray eyes.

Caught staring, Miss Arnold blushed; and what with those eyes and that

colour I thought her one of the most delightful girls I'd ever seen.

I don't mean that she was one of the prettiest. She was (and is) pretty.

But it wasn't entirely her _looks_ you thought of, in seeing her first.

It was something that shone out from her eyes, and seemed to make a

sweet, happy brightness all around her. Eyes are windows, and something

_must_ be on the other side, but, alas! it seldom shines through. The

windows are dim, or the blinds are down to cover dulness. Joyce Arnold

had a living spirit behind those big, bright soul-windows that were her

eyes!

As for the rest, she was tall and slim, and delicately long-limbed. She

had milk-white skin with a soft touch of rose on the cheek bones; a few

freckles which were like the dust from tiger-lily petals, and a

charming, sensitive mouth, full and red.

"Why, of course I want you!" I said. "I'm lucky to secure you, too! How

glad I am that you didn't come after I'd engaged someone else! But even

if you had, I'd have managed to get rid of her one way or other."

Miss Arnold smiled. She had the most contagious smile!--though it struck

me even then that it wasn't a _merry_ smile. Her face, with its piquant

little nose, was meant to be gay and happy I thought; yet it wasn't

either. It was more plucky and brave; and the eyes had known sadness, I

felt sure. I guessed her age as twenty-three or twenty-four.

She said that she would love to work for me. The girls who were waiting

to be interviewed were sent politely away in search of other engagements

while I settled things with Miss Arnold. The more I looked at her, the

more I talked with her, the more definite became an impression that I'd

seen her before--a long time ago. At last I asked her the question: "Can

it be that we've met somewhere?"

Colour streamed over her pale face. "Yes, Princess, we have," she said.

"At least, we didn't exactly _meet_. It couldn't be called that."

"What was it then, if not a meeting?" I encouraged her.

"I was in my first job as secretary. I was with Miss Opal Fawcett. When

it was Ben Ali's day out--Ben Ali was her Arab butler, you know--I used

to open the door. I opened it for you and--and Lady June Dana when you

came. I remember quite well, though I never thought _you_ would."

Why did the girl blush so? I wondered. Could it be that she was ashamed

of having been with Opal Fawcett, or--was it something to do with the

mention of June? Miss Arnold had evidently just left her place with

Robert Lorillard and probably the name of his wife had been "taboo"

between them, for I couldn't fancy Robert talking of June with any

one--unless with some old friend who had known her well.

"Ah, that's it!" I exclaimed. "Now I do remember. June and I spoke of

you afterward, as we were going away. We said, 'What an interesting

girl!' Nearly five years ago! It seems a hundred."

Miss Arnold didn't speak, and again my thoughts flew back.

Opal Fawcett suddenly sprang into fame with the breaking out of the war,

when all the sweethearts and wives of England yearned to give "mascots"

to their loved men who fought, or to get news from beyond the veil, of

those who had "gone west." Opal had, however, been making her weird way

to success for several years before. She had a strange history--as

strange as her own personality.

A man named Fawcett edited a Spiritualistic paper, called the _Gleam_.

One foggy October night (it was All Hallow E'en) he heard a shrill,

wailing cry outside his old house in Westminster. (Naturally it was a

_haunted_ house, or he wouldn't have cared to live in it!) Someone had

left a tiny baby girl in a basket at his door, and with it a letter in a

woman's handwriting. This said that the child had been born in October,

so its name must be Opal.

Fawcett was a bachelor; but he imagined that spirit influences had

turned the unknown mother's thoughts to him. For this reason he kept the

baby, obligingly named it Opal, and brought it up in his own religious

beliefs.

Opal was extremely proud of her romantic debut in life, and when she had

decided upon a career for herself, she wrote her autobiography up to

date. As she was quite young at the time--not more than twenty-five--the

book was short. She had a certain number of copies bound in specially

dyed silk supposed to be of an opal tint, changeable from blue to

pinkish purple, and these she gave to her friends or sold to her

clients.

I say "clients," because, after being a celebrated "child medium" during

her foster father's life, and then failing on the stage as an actress,

she discovered that palmistry was her forte. At least it was one among

several others. You told her the date when you were born, and she "did"

your horoscope. She advised people also what colours they ought to wear

to "suit their aura," and what jewels were lucky or unlucky. Later, when

the war came, she took to crystal gazing. Perhaps she had begun it

before, but it was then that she suddenly "caught on." One heard all

one's friends talking about her, saying, "Have you ever been to Opal

Fawcett? She's _absolutely wonderful_! You must go!" Accordingly we

went.

When June and Lorillard were waiting in secret suspense for their

special license, June implored Robert to let Opal look into the crystal

for him, and read his hand. He tried to beg off, because he had met Miss

Fawcett during her disastrous year on the stage. In a play of ancient

Rome in which he was the star, Opal Fawcett had been a sort of

walking-on martyr, and he had a scene with her in the arena, defending

her from a doped, milk-fed lion. Opal had acted, clung, and twined so

much more than necessary that Robert had disliked the scene intensely,

always fearing that the audience might "queer" it by laughing. He would

not complain to the management, because the girl had been given the part

through official friendship, and was already marked down as prey by the

critics. He hadn't wished to do her harm; but neither did he care to

have his future foretold by her.

June was so keen, however, that he consented to be led like a lamb to

the sacrifice. I heard from her how they went together to the old house

which the spiritualist had left to his adopted daughter; and I heard

what happened at the interview. June was vexed because Opal _would_ see

Robert alone. She had wanted to be in the room, and listen to

everything! Opal was most ungrateful, June said, because she (June) had

sent lots of people to have their "hands read," and get special jewels

prescribed for them, like medicines. Robert had laughed to June about

what Opal claimed to see for him in her crystal, but had pretended to

forget most of the "silly stuff," and be unable to repeat it. June had

worried, fearing lest misfortunes had appeared in the crystal, and that

Robert wished to hide the fact from her.

"I'll get it all out of Opal myself!" she exclaimed to me, and took me

with her to Miss Fawcett's next day.

The excuse for this visit was to have my hand "told," and to order a

mascot for Robert, to take with him to the front: his own lucky jewel

set in a design made to fit his horoscope!

I was delighted to go, for I'd never seen a fortune teller; but June was

too eager to talk about Robert to spare me much time with the seeress.

My hand-telling was rather perfunctory, for Miss Fawcett didn't feel the

same need to see me alone which she had felt with Lorillard, and June

was very much on the spot, sighing, fussing, and looking at her

wrist-watch.

Opal was as reticent about the interview with Lorillard as Robert had

been, though, unlike him, she didn't laugh. So poor June got little for

her pains, and I learned nothing about my character that Grandmother

hadn't told me when she was cross. Still, it was an experience. I'd

never forgotten the tall, white, angular young woman wearing amethysts

and a purple robe, in a purple room: a creature who looked as if she'd

founded herself on Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and overshot the mark. It

seemed, also, that I'd never forgotten her secretary, though perhaps I'd

not thought of the girl from that day to this.

"Do tell me how you happened to be with Opal Fawcett," I couldn't help

blurting out from the depths of my curiosity. "You seem

so--so--absolutely _alien_ from her and her 'atmosphere'."

"Oh, it's quite simple," said Joyce Arnold, not betraying herself if she

considered me intrusive or rude. "An aunt of mine--a dear old maid--was

a great disciple of Mr. Fawcett. She thought Opal the wonder of the

world, at about ten or twelve, as 'the child medium,' and she used to

take me often to the house. I was five or six years younger than Opal,

and Aunt Jenny hoped it would 'spiritualize' me to play with her. We

never quite lost sight of each other after that, Opal and I. When she

went into business--I mean, when she became a hand-reader and so on--I

was beginning what I called my 'profession.' She engaged me as her

secretary, and I stayed on till I left her to 'do my bit' in the war, as

a V. A. D. That's the way I met Captain Lorillard, you know. It was the

most splendid thing that ever happened, when he asked me to work for him

after he was invalided back from the Front. You see, I was dead tired

after four years without a rest. We'd had a lot of air raids at my

hospital, and I suppose it was rather a strain. I was ordered home. And

oh, it's been Paradise at that heavenly place on the river, helping to

put down in black and white the beautiful thoughts of such a man!"

As she spoke, an expression of rapture, that was like light, illumined

the girl's face for an instant, bright as a flash of sunshine on a white

bird's wing. But it passed, and her eyes darkened with some quick memory

of pain. She looked down, thick black lashes shadowing her cheeks.

"By Jove!" I thought. "There's a _story_ here!"

Robert Lorillard wrote that Miss Arnold was "perfect." Yet he had sent

her away. He said he was going away himself. But I felt sure he wasn't.

Or else, he was going on purpose. He had _searched the newspapers to

find a place for her_. If he hadn't done that deliberately, he would

never have seen my advertisement.

And she? The girl was breaking her heart at the loss of her "Paradise."

What did it mean?

CHAPTER II

THE HERMIT

Joyce Arnold was ready to begin work at once.

She had, it seemed, already given up her lodgings in the village near

Robert Lorillard's cottage. Opal Fawcett had offered the hospitality of

her house for a fortnight, and while there Joyce would pay her way by

writing Opal's letters in spare hours, the newest secretary being absent

on holiday. In the meantime, now that it was decided she should come to

me, Miss Arnold would look for rooms somewhere in my neighbourhood.

I let it go at this for a few days. But when just half a week had passed

I realized that Joyce Arnold wasn't merely a perfect secretary, she was

a perfect companion as well. Not perfect in a horrid, "high-brow" way,

but simply adorable to have in the house.

It was on a Wednesday that she brought me Lorillard's letter. On the

following Saturday, at luncheon, I suddenly said, "Look here, Miss

Arnold, how would you like to live with me instead of in lodgings?"

She blushed with surprise. (She blushed easily and beautifully.)

"Why, I--should love it, of course," she stammered, "if you're really

sure that you----"

"Of course I'm sure," I cut her short. "What I'm beginning to wonder is,

how I ever got on without you!"

She laughed.

"You've known me only three days and a half! And----"

"Long enough to be sure that you're absolutely IT," said I. "If already

you seem to me indispensable, how _could_ Robert Lorillard have made up

his mind to part with you, after _months_?"

I didn't mean to be cruel or inquisitorial. The words sprang out--spoke

themselves. But I could have boxed my own ears when I saw their effect

on the girl. She grew red, then white, and tears gushed to her eyes.

They didn't fall, because she was afraid to wink, and stared me steadily

in the face, hoping the salt lake might safely soak back. All the same I

saw that I'd struck a hard blow.

"Captain Lorillard was very nice, and really sorry in a way to lose me,

I think," she replied, rather primly. "But he told you, didn't he, that

he was going away?"

"Oh, of course! Stupid of me to forget for a minute," I mumbled,

earnestly peeling a plum, so that she might have time to dispose of

those tears without absorbing them. I was more certain than ever that

here was a "story" in the broken connection between Joyce Arnold and

Robert Lorillard: that if he were really leaving home it was for a

reason which concerned _her_.

It wasn't all curiosity which made me rack my brain with mental

questions. It was partly old admiration for Robert and new affection for

his late secretary. "Why should he want to get rid of such a girl?" I

asked myself, as at last I ate the plum.

The fruit was more easily swallowed than the idea that he hadn't

_wanted_ Joyce Arnold to go on working for him. It wouldn't be human for

man or woman--especially man--_not_ to want her. But--well--I tried to

put the thought aside for the moment, in order to wrestle with it when

those eyes of hers could no longer read my mind.

I turned the subject to Opal Fawcett.

"Could you leave Miss Fawcett at once, and come to me?" I asked. "Would

she be vexed? Or would you rather stay with her over Sunday?"

"I could come this afternoon," Joyce said. "I'd be glad to. And I don't

think Opal would mind. She wanted me at first. But--but----Well, I'm

beginning to bore her now; or anyhow, we're getting on each other's

nerves."

This reply, and the embarrassed look on Joyce's face, set me going upon

a new track. Was Opal Fawcett in the "story" which my imagination had

begun to write around Miss Arnold and Robert Lorillard? If so, what

could be her part in it?

I found no satisfactory answer. Years ago, when she was on the stage and

acting with Lorillard, Opal had perhaps been in love with him, like

hundreds of other women. But since then he'd married, and fought in the

war, and later had led the life of a hermit, while she pursued her

successful "career" in town. It was unlikely that they had seen much of

each other, even if their old, slight acquaintance had been kept up at

all. Still, Opal might have been curious about Lorillard and the "simple

life." She might have welcomed Joyce for the sake of what she could tell

of him, and Joyce might have rebelled when she saw what Opal wanted from

her.

I thanked my own wits for giving me this "tip." Without it, I mightn't

have resisted the strong temptation to proceed with a little dextrous

"pumping" on my own--just a word wedged into some chink in the armour

now and then, to find out if poor Joyce had fallen a victim to

Lorillard's undying charm.

As it was, I determined to shut up like a clam, and do as I would be

done by were I in the girl's place. If she'd slipped into loving her

employer, and he had thought best to banish her, for her own good, the

wound in poor Joyce's self-respect must be as deep as that in her heart.

Every sensitive nerve must throb with anguish, and only a _wretch_ would

deliberately probe the hurt with questions, in mere selfish curiosity.

"It's not your business," I said to myself. And I vowed to do all I

could to make Joyce Arnold forget--whatever it was that she might want

to forget.

She did come to me that afternoon. I had one spare room in my flat, and

I made it as pretty and homelike as I could with flowers and books and

little things I stole from my own quarters. The girl was pathetically

grateful! She opened out to me like a flower--that is, in affection. I

felt in her a warm, eager anxiety to serve and help me, not for the

wages I gave, but for love. It was like a perfume in the place. And

Joyce Arnold was intelligent as well as sweet. She had been highly

educated, and there seemed to be few things she hadn't thought about.

Most of the old aunt's money had been spent in making the girl what she

was, so there was little left; but Joyce would always be able to earn

her living.

If she tired of secretarial work, she could quite well teach music, both

piano and voice production. She had taken singing lessons from a famous

and successful man. Had her voice been strong enough, she might have got

concert engagements, it was so honey-sweet, so exquisitely trained. But

she called it a "twilight voice"; which it really was, and often I gave

up going out for the joy of having her sing to me alone in the dusk.

It was only at those times that I knew--actually _knew_!--how sad she

was, to the point of heartbreak. By day, when we worked or talked

together, her manner was charmingly bright. She was interested in my

affairs, and her quiet, delicious sense of humour was one of her

greatest attractions for me. But at the piano, before the lights were

on, the girl was at the mercy of her secret, whatever it might be. It

came like a ghost, and stared her in the eyes. It said to her: "You

can't shut me out. It is to _me_ you sing. I _make_ you sing!"

To hear that "twilight voice" of hers, half crooning, half chanting,

those passion-flower songs of Laurence Hope's, or "Omar," would have

waked a soul in a stone image!

Good heavens! how could Robert Lorillard have sent her away? How, on the

contrary, could he have helped wanting this noble, brave, sweet creature

to warm his life for ever?

That's what I asked myself over and over again. And on top of that

question another. What if--he _hadn't_ helped it?

It was one evening, while she improvised a queer little "song of sleep"

for me that this thought came. It burst like a bombshell in my brain;

and the reason it hadn't burst before was because my mind always

pictured June and Robert together.

I was lying deep among cushions on a sofa, and involuntarily I started

up.

Joyce broke off her song in the midst.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said; "only--it just popped into my head that I'd forgotten

to telephone for--for a car to-morrow."

"For a car?" Joyce echoed. "How stupid of me, if you mentioned it! I

can't remember----"

"No, I didn't mention it," I said. (No wonder, when I hadn't even

_thought_ of it until this minute!) "But I--I _meant_ to. I'd made up my

mind to go to 'Pergolas,' the Duchess of Stane's place on the river; you

must have seen it when you were working for Robert Lorillard."

It was the first time I'd uttered his name since that impulsive break at

the luncheon table, over a fortnight ago now!

Whether or not her face blushed I couldn't see in the twilight, but her

_voice_ blushed as she said:

"Oh, yes! I've seen--the gates. Surely the duchess isn't there at this

time of the year?"

"She generally takes a 'rest cure' of a week or two at Pergolas this

month. It's perfect peace, and you know how dreamlike the river is in

autumn."

"I--know," Joyce murmured. "The woods all golden, and mists like creamy

veils across the blue distance. I know!"

There was a passion of suppressed longing and regret in her tone.

"Wouldn't you like to go with me?" I coaxed. "It's such lovely country

for a spin. And--I've never been there; but I suppose we must pass close

to Robert Lorillard's cottage? We go through Stanerton village. We could

stop and see if he's still at home, or if he's gone----"

"No--no, thank you, Princess," Joyce said, hastily, "I don't--care very

much for motoring. If you're to be away to-morrow I'll get through some

mending, and some letters of my own."

I didn't argue. I should have been surprised if she'd accepted. It would

have made the thing commonplace. And it would have upset my plan. I

can't call it a "deep-laid plan," because I'd laid it on no firmer

foundation than the spur of the moment; but I was wildly excited about

it. Fully armoured like Minerva it had leapt into my brain while I said

to myself, "What _if_----?"

Joyce 'phoned to the garage where I hired cars occasionally, and ordered

something to come at ten o'clock next morning. For me to take this joy

ride meant throwing over a whole day's engagements like so many

ninepins. But I didn't care a rap!

I could see when I was ready to start that Joyce was even more excited

than I. No doubt she was thinking that, when I came back, I might bring

news of _him_. We spoke, however, only of the duchess.

To me, a harmless, necessary fib isn't much more vicious than a cat of

the same description; that is, if the fib is for the benefit of a

friend. But I'd rather tell the truth if it can be managed, so I really

intended to call on the Duchess. The village of Stanerton--on the

outskirts of which Lorillard lived--happened to be on my way to

Pergolas. I couldn't help _that_, could I? So I told my chauffeur to ask

for River Orchard Cottage--the address on Robert's note introducing Miss

Arnold.

Everyone seemed to know the place. It was half a mile out of the

village, and you went to it up a side road: a very old cottage altered

and modernized. The name was old, too: it really was an orchard, and it

was really on the river. That was what half a dozen people informed us

in a breath, and they would have added much information about Lorillard

himself if I'd cared to hear. But all I wanted to learn about him from

them was whether he had gone away. He hadn't. He had been seen out

walking the day before.

"I _told_ you so!" I said to myself.

As the car slowed down and stopped before a white gate I seemed to lose

my identity for a moment. It became merged with that of Joyce Arnold. I

felt as if she--the _real_ Joyce--had raced here in some winged vehicle

of thousand-spirit power, travelling far faster than any road-bound

earthly car, and, having waited for me, now slipped into my skin.

The sight of that gate made my heart beat as it must have made hers beat

every day when she came in the morning to work. Yes! As I laid my hand

on the latch I wasn't my somewhat blasee and sophisticated self: I was

the girl to whom this place was Paradise.

The white gate was flanked by two tall clipped yews. Inside, a wide path

of irregular paving-stones, with grass and flowers sprouting between,

led to a low thatched cottage--oh, but a glorified cottage: a cottage

that looked as if it had died and gone to heaven! The flagged path had

tubs on either side. In them grew funny little Dutch treelets shaped

like birds and animals of different sorts; and the lawn kept all the

noble, gnarled giants that once had made it an orchard. The cottage was

yellow, like cottages in Devonshire, and the old thatch had the gray

satin sheen of chinchilla. A huge magnolia was trained over the front,

and climbing roses and wisteria, all in the sere and yellow leaf or bare

now; but I could picture the place in spring, when the diamond-paned bow

windows sparkled through a canopy of flowers, when the great apple trees

were like a pink-and-white sunrise of blossom, and underneath spread a

carpet of forget-me-nots and tulips.

How sweet must have been the air then, how blue the river background,

and how melodious the low song of a distant weir!

To-day, the air was faintly acrid with the scent of bonfire smoke--the

odour of autumn; and the sounds of wind and water over the weir were sad

as a song of homesickness.

I tapped an old-fashioned knocker upon a low green door. An elderly maid

appeared. I saw by the bleak glint of a pale eye that she meant to say,

"Not at home," and hastened to forestall her.

"See if Captain Lorillard is in, and if so tell him that Princess di

Miramare has come from town on purpose for a talk with him," I flung in

the stolid face.

There was no answer to that except obedience! The woman left me waiting

in a delightful little square hall furnished with a very few, very

beautiful, old things. And in a minute Robert Lorillard almost bounded

out of a room into which the maid had vanished.

It was the first time we had seen each other since the day he married

June Dana.

I had sat down on a cushioned chest in the hall. At sight of him I

jumped up, and meaning to hold out a hand, found myself holding out two!

He took both, pressed them, and without speaking we looked long at each

other. For both of us the past had come alive.

He was the same, yet not the same. Certainly not less handsome, but

changed, as all men who have been through the war are changed--anyhow,

imaginative men. Though he had been back from the Front for over a year

(he was invalided out after his last wound, just before the Armistice)

the tan wasn't off his face yet, perhaps never would be. There were a

few lines round his eyes and a few silver threads in his black hair. He

smiled at me; but it was the smile of a man who has suffered, and known

a hell of loneliness.

It was Robert who spoke first, saying entirely commonplace things in the

beautiful voice that used to thrill London. He was so glad to see me!

How nice it was of me to come! Then, suddenly, he remembered something.

I could _see_ him remembering. He remembered that he was supposed to be

away.

"I ought to be in France," he said. "All my arrangements are made to go.

Yet I haven't got off. I'm glad now that I haven't."

"So am I, very glad," I echoed. "I should have been too disappointed!

But--I _felt_ you wouldn't be gone."

He looked somewhat startled.

"I always was a procrastinator," he said. "Come into my study, won't

you?"

Still holding me by the hand he led me like a child into the room out of

which he had shot--an adorable room, with a beamed ceiling and

diamond-paned windows looking under trees to the river. In front of his

desk--where he could glance up for inspiration as he wrote--was a

life-sized portrait of June, by Sargent; June in the gray dress and hat

she had worn the day she promised--no, _offered_--to marry Robert.

"You see!" he said, with a slight gesture toward the picture, with its

bunched red-bronze hair and brilliant eyes of blue, "this is where I sit

and work."

"And where used Joyce Arnold to sit and work?" something in me blurted

out.

The man winced--just visibly--no more. His eyes flashed to mine a kind

of challenge. There was sudden anger in it, and pleading as well. Then,

of course, I _knew_--all I had come to find out. And he must have known

that I knew!

But I'd come for a great deal more than finding out.

I don't think I'm a coward, yet I was dreadfully frightened--in a blue

funk of doing or saying the wrong thing at a moment when it might be

"now or never." My knees felt like badly poached eggs with no toast to

repose upon. I lost my head a little, and what I did I didn't do really,

because it did itself.

I looked as scared as I felt, and gasped: "Oh, _Robert_!" (I'd never

called him "Robert" to his face before; only behind his back.)

My face of fright deflected his rage. You can't be furious with a

quivering jelly! But he didn't speak. The challenge in his eyes softened

to reproach. Then he looked at the portrait.

"Miss Arnold sat where she, too, could see June," he answered quietly.

"Poor, poor Joyce!" I said. "And poor you!"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Why, I mean--and I, too, can see June while I say it!--I mean that you

are making a terrible mistake. Oh, Robert Lorillard, don't pretend not

to understand. We're not two strangers fencing! I'm not just a bold

creature rushing in where angels fear to tread. I know!--I _have_ rushed

in, but I'm not bold. I'm frightened to death. Only--I had to come.

Every day I see that glorious girl breaking her heart. She hasn't said a

word, or looked a look, or wept a weep. She's a _soldier_. But she's

like a lost soul turned out of Paradise. The more I got to know of her

the more I felt you _couldn't_ have sent her away and found another

place for her because you were bored. So I came to see you. And you

needn't mind my knowing the real reason you sent her out of your house.

I won't tell her. If any one does that it must be you. And it _ought_ to

be you. You love each other. You belong to each other. You'd be divinely

happy together. You're wretched apart."

"_You_ say that?" Robert exclaimed, when by sheer force of lungs I'd

made him hear me through. "You--June's friend!"

"Yes. It's because I was her friend, and knew her so well, that I want

you to listen to your own heart; for if you don't, you'll break Joyce

Arnold's. June wouldn't want you to sacrifice your two lives on the

shrine of her memory. She loved happiness, herself. And she liked other

people to be happy."

Robert's eyes lit, whether with joy or anger I couldn't tell.

"You think June would be willing to have me marry another woman?" he

said.

"Yes, I do, if you loved the woman. And you do love her. It would be

useless to tell me you don't."

"I'm not going to tell you I don't. I've tried not to. I hoped she

didn't care."

"She does. Desperately, frightfully. I do believe it's killing her."

"God! And she saved my life. Elizabeth, I'd give mine for her, a dozen

times over, but----"

"What she needs is for you to give it _to_ her, not for her: give it

once and for all, to have and to hold while your heart's in your body."

I fired advice at him like bullets from a Maxim gun, and every bullet

reached its billet. I was so carried away by my wish for joy to rise

from tragedy that I hardly knew what I said, yet I felt that I had

caught Lorillard and carried him with me. The next thing I definitely

knew with my mere brain, I was sitting down with elbows on Robert's

desk, facing him as he leaned toward me. My whole self was a listening

Ear, while he told--as a man hypnotized might tell the hypnotizer--the

tale of his acquaintance with Joyce Arnold.

I'd already learned from his letter and from words she had let drop that

Joyce had nursed him in a hospital in France, when she was "doing her

bit" as a V. A. D. But she had been silent about the life-saving

episode, which had won for her a decoration and Robert Lorillard's deep

admiration and gratitude.

It seemed that during an air raid, when German machines were bombing the

hospital, Joyce had in her ward three officers just operated upon, and

too weak to walk. A bomb fell and killed one of these as Joyce and

another nurse were about to move his cot into the next ward. Then, in a

sudden horror of darkness and noise of destroying aeroplanes, she had

carried Robert in her arms to a place of comparative safety. After that

she had returned to her own ward and got the other man who lay in his

cot, though her fellow nurse had been struck down, wounded or dead.

"How she did it I've never known, or she either," said Lorillard,

dreaming back into the past. "She's tall and strong, of course, and at

that time I was reduced to a living skeleton. Still, even in my bones

I'm a good deal bigger than she is. The weight must have been enough to

crush her, yet she carried me from one ward to another, in the dark,

when the light had been struck out. And the wound in my side never bled

a drop. It was like a miracle."

"'Spect she loved you lots already, without quite knowing it," I told

him. "There've been miracles going on in the world ever since Christ,

and they always will go on, because love works them, and _only_ love. At

least, that's _my_ idea! And I don't believe God would have let Joyce

work that one, the way she did, if He hadn't meant her love to wake love

in you."

"If I could think so," said Robert, "it would make all the difference;

for I've been fighting my own heart with the whole strength of my soul,

and it's been a hard struggle. I felt it would be such a hideous

treachery to June--my beautiful June, who gave herself to me as a

goddess might to a mortal!--the meanest ingratitude to let another woman

take her place when her back is turned--even such a splendid woman as

Joyce Arnold."

"I know just how you feel," I humoured him. "You remember, I was with

June when she threw herself into your arms and offered to marry you. You

were in love with her, and you'd never dreamed till that minute there

was any hope. But that was a different love from this, I'm sure, because

no two girls could be more different, one from another, than June Dana

and Joyce Arnold. Your love for June was just glorious romance. Perhaps,

if she'd lived, and you and she had passed years together as husband and

wife, the wonderful colours of the glory would have faded a little. She

tired so of every-day things. But Joyce is born to be the companion of a

man she loves, and she would never tire or let him tire. You and June

hardly had enough time together to realize that you were married. And

it's over three years and a half since she--since the gods who loved her

let her die young. She can't come to this world again. She basked in joy

herself; and she won't grudge it to you, if she knows. And for you, joy

and Joyce are one, for the rest of both your lives."

Lorillard sprang up suddenly and seized my hands.

"Portia come back to life and judgment--I believe you're right!" he

cried. "Take me to town with you. Take me to Joyce!"

As we stood, thrilled, hand in hand, the door opened. The same servant

who had let me in announced acidly: "_Another_ lady to see you, sir."

The lady in question had come so near the door that she must have seen

us before we could start apart.

I knew her at first glance: Opal Fawcett.

CHAPTER III

THE CHAIR AT THE SAVOY

It was five years since I'd seen Opal Fawcett--for the first and last

time, that day I went to her house with June.

Then she had gleamed wraithlike in the purple dusk of her purple room,

with its purple-shaded lamps. Now she stood in full daylight, against

the frank background of a country cottage wall. Yet she was still a mere

film of a woman. She seemed to carry her own eerie effect with her

wherever she went, as the heroines of operas are accompanied by their

special spot-light and _leitmotif_.

Whether the servant was untrained, or spiteful because a long-standing

rule had been broken in my favour, I can't tell. But I'm sure that, if

he'd been given half a chance, Robert would have made some excuse not to

see Opal. There she was, however, on the threshold, and looking like one

of those "Dwellers on the Threshold" you read of in psychic books.

As he had no invisible cloak, and couldn't crawl under a sofa, poor

Robert was obliged to say pleasantly, "How do you do?"

Standing back a little, trying to look about two inches tall instead of

five foot ten, I watched the greeting. I wanted to judge from it, if I

could, to what extent the old acquaintance had been kept up. But I might

have saved myself waste of brain tissue. Robert was anxious to leave no

mystery.

"Princess," he said, hastily, when he had taken his guest's slim hand in

its gray glove, "Princess, I think you must have heard of Miss Opal

Fawcett."

"Oh, yes. And we have met--once," I replied.

Opal's narrow gray eyes turned to me--not without reluctance I thought.

"I remember well," she murmured, in her plaintive voice. "I never forget

a face. You were Miss Courtenaye then. Lately I've been hearing of you

from Miss Arnold, who used to be my secretary, and is now yours."

I was thankful she didn't bring in _June's_ name!

"Miss Fawcett and I have known each other a good many years," Robert

hurried on. "She was once in a play with me, before she found her real

_metier_. She kindly comes to see me now and then, when she can take a

day off."

"I want to bid you good-bye--if you are really going out of England,"

Opal said.

She had ceased to look at me now, but I went on looking hard at her. She

was in what might be a spirit conception of a motor costume: smoke gray

velvet, and yards of long, floating veil shot from gray to mauve. She

wore a close toque with two little jutting Mercury wings, from behind

which those yards of unnecessary chiffon fell. She had a narrow oval

face, which Nature and (I thought) Art combined to make pale as pearl.

Her hair, pushed forward by the toque, was so colourless a brown that it

looked like thick shadow. She had a beautifully cut, delicate nose, but

her lips were thin and the upper one rather long and flat, otherwise she

would have been pretty. Even as it was she had a kind of fascination,

and I thought her the most graceful, willowy creature I'd ever seen.

"Well," said Robert, "as it happens I've put off going abroad, through a

kind of mental laziness. But in the ordinary course of events you'd have

come to-day only to find me gone--which would have been a pity. When I

answered your letter, I told you----"

"Yes, but I _felt_ you'd still be here," she cut him short. "Apparently

the Princess had the same premonition."

"Oh, I just happened to be passing," I fibbed, "and took my chance.

Fortunately, I came in the nick of time to give Captain Lorillard a lift

to town in my car. It will save him a journey by train."

"Then I am in the nick of time, too!" said Opal. "If I'd been ten

minutes later I might have missed him. I felt _that_, too! I told my

taxi man to drive at least as fast as the legal limit."

I guessed she was longing to get Robert to herself, and that he was glad

there was no chance of it. Was he _really_ going abroad? she wanted to

know. Or only just to London for a change?

Robert was restive under her uncanny questionings, but answered that he

wasn't quite sure about the future. Travelling in France and Italy

seemed to be disagreeable at the moment. Passports, too, were a bother.

He'd be more certain of his plans in a few days, and would let her know.

Opal betrayed no crude emotion. Yet I was sure that, under her

restrained manner--soft as a gentle breeze on a summer night--she would

have enjoyed stamping her foot and having hysterics. Instead, she asked

Robert about a psychic play she wanted him to write (he hadn't written a

line of it!), told him a little news concerning people they both knew,

and bethought herself that she "mustn't keep us."

Not more than twenty minutes after she had floated in Miss Fawcett

floated forth again. Robert took her to her taxi, and then could hardly

wait to get off in my car. As for me, I'd forgotten all about the

Duchess. We chose the longer of the two roads to London, hoping to miss

Opal; but soon passed her taxi going at a leisurely pace. The Wraith

must have had another of her mystic "feelings," and counted on our

choice of that turning!

"She says she has 'helpers' from beyond," Robert explained, when we were

flying on, far ahead. "She asks their advice, and they tell her what to

do in daily life. She wanted to provide me with one or two, but I wasn't

'taking any.' Not that I'm a convinced materialist, or that I don't

believe the dark veil can ever be lifted--I'm rather inclined the other

way round--but I prefer to manage my own affairs without 'helpers' I've

never known or seen on earth. Of course, it would be different if----Oh,

you know what I mean. But even then--well, I should be afraid of being

deceived. It's better not to begin anything like that when you can't be

sure."

"Did Opal Fawcett ever try to persuade you to--to----?" Courage failed

me. But Robert understood only too well what was in my mind.

"Yes, she did," he admitted. "She wrote me--after--that awful thing

happened. I hadn't heard from her for a long time till then. I'd almost

forgotten her existence. She said in the letter that June's spirit had

come to her with a message for me."

"_Cheek!_" I exclaimed.

"Well, I'm afraid that's rather the way I felt about it, though probably

Opal meant well, and a lot of people think she's wonderful. Several

friends begged me in urgent letters to go to Opal Fawcett: assured me

she'd given them indescribable comfort, put them in touch with those

they loved who'd 'passed on.' But somehow I couldn't be persuaded,

Princess. A voice inside me always used to say: 'Why should June want to

talk to you through Opal Fawcett? If she can come back, why shouldn't

she speak with you direct, instead of through a third person?'"

"That's how I should have argued it out in your place," I agreed.

"And--and June never----?"

"No. She never came, never made me realize her near presence, never

seemed to influence me in favour of Opal--though Opal didn't give up

till months had passed. When she first came after writing to say she

must see me, it was to beg me to visit her for _June's sake_. Afterward,

when she saw she was making me uncomfortable, she stopped her

persuasions. Since then--fairly often when Joyce Arnold was here--she

has turned up at the cottage: sometimes just for a friendly chat like an

ordinary human being (though I never feel she is one), sometimes to

discuss that 'psychic play'--as she calls it--an idea of hers she wants

me to work out for the stage."

"Is it a good idea?" I wanted to know.

"Yes. Mysterious and dramatic at the same time. Yet I've always made

excuses. I don't fancy collaborating with Miss Fawcett, though that may

sound ungrateful."

It didn't, to my ears, especially as Opal's object seemed transparent as

the depths of her own crystal. Of course she was still in love with

Robert, and had seized first one chance, then another, of getting into

touch with him. I was rather sorry for her, in a vague, impersonal way;

for to love Robert Lorillard and lose him would hurt. I could realize

that, without the trouble and pain of being seriously in love with him

myself.

"It's a good thing," I thought, "that Joyce Arnold's stopping with me at

this time and not with Opal Fawcett! It would be as much as the girl's

life is worth to be engaged to Robert in _that_ house!"

Could Opal suspect, I wondered, the truth about the broken love story?

Somehow I thought not. I might be mistaken, but the rather patronizing

way in which she'd spoken of Joyce didn't seem like that of a jealous

woman. If Joyce and she had got upon each other's nerves lately because

of Robert, I imagined that suspicion had been on the other side. Joyce

would have been more than human if she could go on accepting hospitality

from a woman who so plainly showed her love for Robert Lorillard.

We raced back to London, for I feared that Robert's mood might change

for the worse--that an autumn chill of remorse might shiver through his

veins.

All was well, however--very well. I made him talk to me of Joyce nearly

the whole way; and at the end of the journey I had him waiting for her

in the drawing room of my flat before he quite knew what had happened to

him.

My secretary was in her own room, writing her own letters as she'd said

she would do.

"Back already, Princess?" she exclaimed, jumping up when I'd knocked and

been told to come in. "Why, you've hardly more than had time to get

there and back, it seems, to say nothing of lunch!"

"I haven't had any lunch," I said.

"No lunch? Poor darling! Why----"

"I was too busy," I broke in. "And I wanted to get back."

"Only this morning you were longing to go!"

"I know! It does sound chameleon-like. But second thoughts are often

best. Come into the drawing room and you'll see that mine were--much

best."

She came, in all innocence. I opened the door. I thrust her in. I

exclaimed: "Bless you, my children!" and shut the two in together.

This was taking it boldly for granted that Joyce was as much in love

with Robert as he with her. But why be early Victorian and ignore the

lovely, naked truth, instead of late Georgian and save beating round the

bush for both of the lovers?

Those words of mine figuratively flung them into each other's arms,

where--according to my idea--the sooner they were the better!

I should think if my words missed fire, their eyes didn't miss, judging

from what I'd seen in hers when speaking of him, in his when speaking of

her! And certainly the pair of them couldn't have wasted _much_ time in

foolish preliminaries; for in about half an hour Joyce appeared in the

dining room, where I was eating an _immense_ luncheon.

"Oh, Princess!" she breathed, hovering just over the threshold; and

instantly Robert loomed behind her. "It's too wonderful. It can't be

true."

Robert didn't speak. He merely gazed. Years had rolled off him since

morning. He looked an inspired boy, with a dash of silver powder on his

hair. Slipping his arm round Joyce's waist he brought her to me. As I

sat at the table they both knelt down close to my feet, and each

earnestly kissed one of my hands! It would have been a beautiful effect

if I hadn't choked, trying wildly to bolt a mouthful of something, and

had to be slapped on the back. That choke was a disguised blessing,

however, for it made us all laugh when I got my breath; and when you're

on the top pinnacle of a great emotion, it's a safe outlet to laugh!

My suggestion was, that nobody but our three selves should share the

secret, and that the wedding--to be hurried on--should be sprung as a

surprise upon the public. Robert and Joyce agreed on general principles;

but each made one exception.

Robert said that he felt it would be "caddish" to make a bid for

happiness without telling the Duchess of Stane what was in his mind. She

couldn't reasonably object to his marrying again, and wouldn't object,

he argued; but if he didn't confide in her she'd have a right to think

him a coward.

Joyce's one exception--of all people on earth!--was Opal Fawcett! And

when I shrieked "Why?" she'd only say that she "owed a debt of gratitude

to Opal." Therefore Opal had a right to know before any one else that

she was engaged.

The girl didn't add "to Robert Lorillard," but a flash of intuition like

a searchlight showed me the meaning behind her words. Living in the same

house with Opal, eating Opal's bread and salt (very little else, I

daresay!), Joyce had guessed Opal's secret--or had been forced to hear a

confidence. That, and nothing else, was the reason why she wouldn't be

engaged to Robert "behind Opal's back!"

Well, I hope I'm not precisely a coward myself, but I didn't envy Joyce

Arnold and Robert Lorillard their self-appointed tasks. They were

carried out, however, with soldierly promptness the day after the

engagement, and nothing terrific happened--or at least, was reported.

"Opal was very sweet," Joyce announced, vouchsafing no details of the

interview.

"The--Duchess was very sensible," was Robert's description of what

passed between him and his exalted ex-mother-in-law.

"I suppose you asked them not to tell?" was my one question.

"Oh, Opal _won't_ tell!" exclaimed Joyce; and I believed that she was

right. According to Opal's view, _telling_ things only helped them to

happen.

"I begged the Duchess to say nothing to anybody," answered Robert. Our

eyes met, and we smiled--Robert rather ruefully.

Of course the Duchess did the contrary of what she'd been begged to do,

and said something to everybody. In less than a week the world was aware

that Robert Lorillard, its lost idol, was coming back to life; that he

who had been for a few months the husband of wonderful June Dana--the

Duchess of Stane's daughter--was engaged to a "V.-A.-D. girl who'd

nursed him in the war, and had been his secretary or something."

But, after all, the talk mattered very little to those most concerned.

They were divinely happy, the two who were talked about, though they

would have liked to be let alone. I suppose, for Robert, it was a

different kind of happiness from that which the condescension of his

goddess had given him: less dazzling perhaps; more like the warm

sweetness of early spring and its flowers, compared with a tropical

summer of scented magnolias and daturas. June had been a goddess

stepping down from her golden pedestal, and Joyce was a loving, adoring

human girl, ready for all that wifehood might mean.

Robert shut up the little place by the river (where they planned to live

later), and stopped at an hotel in town, though he had never let the

flat in St. James's Square, the scene of his engagement to June.

I began helping Joyce choose a trousseau that could be got together in

haste, for they were to go to the south of France and Italy for their

honeymoon; and one day, after shopping the whole morning and part of the

afternoon, we were to meet Robert for tea at the Savoy.

You know that soft amber light there is in the big _foyer_ of the Savoy

at tea-time, like the beautiful subdued light in dreams? Since the war

it brings back to me ghosts of all the jolly, handsome boys one used to

see there, whose bodies sleep now under the poppies and _bluets_ of

France; and as Joyce and I walked in, rather late, the thought of those

boys and those days came over me with the sobbing music of the violins.

"It's like the beat, beat of invisible hearts," I said to myself. And

suddenly I was sad.

There sat Robert, waiting for us. He had taken a table for three, and

one of the chairs, I noticed, was a noble one covered with velvet

brocade--a chair like a Queen's throne.

He rose at sight of us, and I saw that a little woman at a table close

by was looking at him with intense interest. In fact, her interest in

Robert gave her a kind of fictitious interest of her own, in my eyes,

she seemed so absorbed in him.

She was one of those women you'd know to be American if you met them

crawling up the North Pole; and as she was in travelling dress I fancied

that it was not long since she had landed.

"She probably admired him on the stage when she was here before the war,

and hasn't been in England since till now," I thought, to be interrupted

by Robert himself.

"That armchair's for you, Princess," he said, as I was going to slip

into a smaller one and leave the "throne" for the bride-elect.

For an instant we disputed; then I was about to yield, laughing, when

the little woman in brown jumped up with a gasp.

"Oh, you _can't_ sit in that chair!" she exclaimed. "Don't you

_see_--there's someone there?"

We all three started and stared, thinking, of course, that the creature

was mad. But her face looked sane, and pathetically pleading.

"Do forgive me!" she begged. "I forget that everyone doesn't see what I

see. _They_ are so clear to me always. I'm not insane. But I couldn't

let you sit in that chair. You may have heard of me. I am Priscilla Hay

Reardon, of Boston. I can't at this moment give you the name of the

lovely girl--the lady in the chair--but she would tell me, I think, if I

asked her. I must describe her to you, though, she's so beautiful, and

she so wants you all--no, not _all_; only the gentleman--to recognize

her. She has red-brown hair, in glossy waves, and immense blue eyes,

like violet flame. She has a dainty nose; full, drooping red lips, the

upper one very short and haughty; a cleft in her chin; wonderful

complexion, with rosy cheeks, the colour high under the eyes; a long

throat; a splendid figure, though slim; and she is dressed in gray, with

an ostrich plume trailing over a gray hat that shades her forehead. She

has a string of gray pearls round her neck--_black_ pearls she says they

are; she wears a chiffon scarf held by an emerald brooch, and on her

hand is a ring with a marvellous square emerald."

Robert, Joyce, and I were speechless. The description of June was

exact--June in the gray dress and hat she had worn the day we went to

Robert's rooms, the day they were engaged; the dress he had made her

wear when Sargent painted her portrait.

CHAPTER IV

THE SPIRIT OF JUNE

Before one of us could utter a word, the little woman hurried on.

"Ah, the lovely girl has begun to talk very fast now! I can hardly

understand what she says, because she's half crying. It's to

you she speaks, sir; I don't know your name! But, yes--it's

_Robert_... 'Robert!' the girl is sobbing. 'Have you forgotten me

already?'... Do those words convey any special impression to your mind,

sir, or has this spirit mistaken you for someone else?"

Robert was ghastly, and Joyce looked as if she were going to faint. Even

I--to whom this scene meant less than to them--even I was flabbergasted.

That is the _one_ word! If you don't know what it means, you're lucky,

because in that case you've never been it. I should translate from

experience: "FLABBERGASTED; astounded and bewildered at the same time,

with a slight dash of premature second childhood thrown in."

I heard Robert answer in a strained voice:

"The words do convey an impression to my mind. But--this is too

sacred--too private a subject. We can't discuss it here. I----"

"I know!" the woman breathlessly agreed. "_She_ feels it, too. She

wouldn't have chosen a place like this. She's explaining--how for a long

time she's tried to reach you, but couldn't make you understand. Now

I've given her the chance. She's suffering terribly because of the

barrier between you. I pity her. I wish I could help! Maybe I could if

you'd care to come to my rooms. I'm staying in this hotel. I've just

arrived in England from Boston, the first visit in my life. I haven't

been in London much more than two hours now! I've got a little suite

upstairs."

If she'd got a "little suite" at the Savoy, the woman must have money.

She couldn't be a common or garden medium cadging for mere fees.

Besides, no common or garden person, an absolute stranger to Robert

Lorillard, met by sheer accident, could have described June Dana and

that gray dress of four years ago; her jewels, too! Robert's name she

might have picked up if Joyce or I had let it drop by accident; but the

last was inexplicable. The thing that had happened--that was

happening--seemed to me miraculous, and tragic. I felt that Fate had

seized the bright bird of happiness and would crush it to death, unless

something intervened. And what could intervene? I struggled not to see

the future as a foregone conclusion. But I could see it in no other way

except by shutting my eyes.

Robert turned to Joyce. He didn't say to her, "What am I to do?" Yet she

read the silent question and answered it.

"Of course you must go," she said. "It--whether it's genuine or not,

you'll have to find out. You can't let it drop."

"No, I can't let it drop," he echoed. He looked stricken. He, too, saw

the dark, fatal hand grasping the white bird.

He had loved June passionately, but the beautiful body he'd held in his

arms lay under that sundial by the riverside. Her spirit was of another

world. And he'd not have been a human, hot-blooded man, if the

reproachful wraith of an old love could be more to him than the brave

girl who'd saved his life and won his soul back from despair.

I saw, as if through their eyes, the thing they faced together, those

two, and suddenly I rebelled against that figure of Destiny. I was wild

to save the white bird before its wings had ceased to flutter. I didn't

know at all what to do. But I had to do something. I simply _had_ to!

Miss Reardon rose.

"Would you like to come with me now?" she asked, addressing Robert, not

Joyce or me. She ignored us, but not in a rude way. Indeed, there was a

direct and rather childlike simplicity in her manner, which impressed

one with her genuineness. I was afraid--horribly afraid--and almost

sure, that she _was_ genuine. I respected her against my will, because

she didn't worry to be polite; but at the same time I didn't intend to

be shunted. I determined to be in at the death--or whatever it was!

"Aren't you going to invite us, too?" I asked. "If the--the apparition

is the spirit we think we recognize, she and I were dear friends."

Miss Reardon's round, mild eyes searched my face. Then they turned as if

to consult another face which only they could see. It was creepy to

watch them gaze steadily at something in that big, _empty_ armchair.

"Yes," she agreed. "The lady--Lady----Could it be 'June'?--It sounds

like June--says it's true you were her friend. But she says '_Not the

other._' The other mustn't come."

"I wouldn't wish to come," Joyce protested. She was waxen pale. "I'll go

home," she said to Robert. "Don't bother about me. Don't think about me

at all. Afterward you can--tell me whatever you care to tell."

"No!" Robert and I spoke together, moved by the same thought. "Don't go

home. Wait here for us."

"Very well," the girl consented, more to save argument at such a moment,

I think, than because she wished to do what we asked.

She sank down in one of the chairs we had taken and Robert and I

followed Miss Reardon. She appeared to think that we were sure to know

her name quite well. I didn't know it, for I was a stranger in the world

of Spiritualism. But her air of being modestly proud of the name seemed

to prove that her reputation as a medium was good--that she'd never been

found out in any fraud. And going up in the lift the words spoke

themselves over and over in my head: "She couldn't know who Robert is,

if it's true she's never been in England before, and if she has come to

London to-day. At least, I don't see how she could."

In silence we let Miss Reardon lead us to the sitting room of her suite

on the third floor. It was small but pretty, and smelt of La France

roses, though none were visible, nor were there any other flowers there.

Robert and I looked at each other as this perfume rushed to meet us. La

France roses were June's favourites, and belonged to the month of her

birth. Robert had sent them to her often, especially when they were out

of season and difficult to get.

"_She_ is here, waiting for us!" exclaimed Miss Reardon. "Oh, _surely_

you must see her--on the sofa, with her feet crossed--such pretty

diamond buckles on her shoes!--and her lap full of roses. She holds up

one rose, she kisses it, to you--Robert--Robert--some name that begins

with L. I can't hear it clearly. But Robert is enough."

Yes, Robert was enough--more than enough!

Miss Reardon asked in an almost matter-of-fact way if he would like to

sit down on the sofa beside June, who wished him to do so. He didn't

answer; but he sat down, and his eyes stared at vacancy. I knew from

their expression, however, that he saw nothing.

"What will be the next thing?" I wondered.

I had not long to wait to find out!

"_She_ asks me to take your hand and hers. Then she will talk to you

through me," Miss Reardon explained. As she spoke, she drew up a small

chair in front of the sofa, leaned forward, took Robert's right hand in

hers, and held out the left, as if grasping another hand--a hand unseen.

As the medium did this, with thin elbows resting on thin knees, she

closed her eyes. A look of _blankness_ came over her face like a mist. I

can't describe it in any other way. Presently her chin dropped slightly.

She seemed to sleep.

Neither Robert nor I had uttered a word since we entered the room. We

waited tensely.

Just what I expected to happen I hardly know, for I had no experience of

"manifestations" or seances. But what did happen surprised me so that I

started, and just contrived to suppress a gasp.

A voice. It did not sound like Miss Reardon's voice, with its rather

pleasant American accent. It was a creamy English voice, young and

full-noted. "_June!_" I whispered under my breath, where I sat across

the length of the room from the sofa. I glanced at Robert. There was

surprise on his face, and some other emotion deep as his heart. But it

was not joy.

"Dearest, have you forgotten me so soon?" the voice asked. "Speak to me!

It's I, your June."

It was a wrench for Robert to speak, I know. There was the pull of

self-consciousness in the opposite direction--distaste for conversation

with the Invisible while alien eyes watched, alien ears listened. And

then, to reply as if to June, was virtually to admit that he believed in

her presence, that all doubt of the medium was erased from his mind. But

after a second's pause he obeyed the command.

"No," he said, "I've not forgotten and I never can forget."

"Yet you are engaged to marry this Joyce Arnold!" mourned the voice that

was like June's.

I almost jumped out of my chair at the sound of Joyce's name. It was

another proof that the medium was genuine.

Robert's tone as he answered was more convinced than before I thought.

And the youth had died out of his eyes. They looked old.

"Do you want me to live all my life alone, now that I've lost you,

June?" he asked.

"Darling, you are not alone!" answered the voice. "I'm always with you.

I love you so much that I've chosen to stay near you, and be earth

bound, rather than lead my own life on the plane where I might be. I

thought you would want me here. I thought that some day, if I tried long

enough, you would feel my touch, you would see my face. After a while I

hoped I was succeeding. I looked at you from the eyes of my portrait in

your study. Now and then it seemed as if you _knew_. But then that girl

interfered. Oh, Robert, in giving up my progression from plane to plane

till you could join me, has the sacrifice been all in vain?"

The voice wrung my heart. It shook as with a gust of fears. Its pleading

sent little stabs of ice through my veins. So what must Robert have

felt?

"No, no! The sacrifice isn't in vain!" he cried. "I didn't know, I

didn't understand that those on the other side came back to us, and

cared for us in the same way they cared on earth. I am yours now and

always, June, of course. Order my life as you will."

"Ah, my dear one, I thank you!" The voice rose high in happiness. "I

felt you wouldn't fail me if I could only _reach_ you, and at last my

prayer is answered. Nothing can separate us now through eternity if you

love me. You won't marry that girl?"

"Not if it is against your wish, June. It must be that you see things

more clearly, where you are, than I can see them. If you tell me to

break my word to Joyce Arnold, I must--I will do so."

"I tell you this, my dearest," said the voice. "If you do _not_ break

with her, you and I are lost to each other for ever. When I chose to be

earth bound I staked everything on my belief in your love. Without it in

_full_, I shall drift--drift, through the years, through ages, I know

not how long, in expiation. Besides, I am not _dead_, I am more alive

than I was in what you call life. You are my husband, beloved, as much

as you ever were. Think what I suffer seeing another woman in your arms!

My capacity for suffering is increased a thousandfold--as is my capacity

for joy. If you make her your wife----"

"I will not!" Robert choked. "I promise you that. Never shall you suffer

through me if I can help it."

"Darling!" breathed the voice. "My husband! How happy you make me. This

is our true _marriage_--the marriage of spirits. Oh, do not let the

barrier rise between us again. Put Joyce Arnold out of your heart as

well as your life, and talk to me every day in future. Will you do

that?"

"How can I to talk to you every day?" he asked.

"As we are talking now. Through a medium. This one will not always be

near you. But there will be somebody. I've often tried to get word

through to you. I never could, because you wouldn't _believe_. Now you

believe, and we need not be parted again. You know the way to _open the

door_. It is never shut. It stands ajar. Remember!"

"I will remember," Robert echoed. And his voice was sad as the sound of

the sea on a lonely shore at night. There was no warm happiness for him

in the opening of a door between two worlds. The loss of Joyce was more

to him than the gain of this spirit-wife who claimed him from far off as

all her own. It seemed to me that a released soul should have read the

truth in his unveiled heart. But perhaps it did read--and did not care.

The voice was talking on.

"I am repaid for everything now," it said. "My sacrifice is no

sacrifice. For to-day I must say good-bye. Power is leaving me. I have

felt too much. I must rest, and regain vitality--for to-morrow.

_To-morrow_, Robert, my Robert! By that time we can talk with no

restraint, for you will have parted with Joyce Arnold. After to-day you

will never see her again?"

"No. After to-day I will never see her again, voluntarily, as that is

your wish."

"Good! What time to-morrow will you talk with me?"

"At any time you name."

"At this same hour, then, in this same room."

"So be it. If the medium consents."

"I shall make her consent. And you and I will agree upon someone else to

bring us together, when she must go elsewhere, as I can see through her

mind that she soon must. Good-bye, dearest husband, for twenty-four long

hours. Yet it isn't really good-bye, for I am seldom far from you. Now

that you _know_, you will feel me near. I----"

The voice seemed to fade. The last words were a faint whisper. The new

sentence died as it began. The medium's eyelids quivered. Her flat

breast rose and fell. The "influence" was gone!

CHAPTER V

THE BARGAIN

That night was one of the worst in my life. I was so fond of Robert

Lorillard, and I'd grown to love Joyce Arnold so well that the breaking

of their love idyll hurt as if it had been my own.

Never shall I forget the hour when we three talked together at my flat

after that seance at the Savoy, or the look on those two faces as Robert

and Joyce agreed to part! Even I had acquiesced at first in that

decision--but only while I was still half stunned by the shock of the

great surprise, and thrilled by the seeming miracle. At sight of the two

I loved quietly giving each other up, making sacrifice of their hearts

on a cold altar, I had a revulsion of feeling.

I jumped up, and broke out desperately.

"I don't believe it's true! Something _tells_ me it isn't! Don't spoil

your lives without making sure."

"How can we be surer than we are?" Robert asked. "You recognized June's

voice."

"I _thought_ then that I did," I amended. "I was excited. Now, I don't

trust my own impression."

"But the perfume of La France roses? Even if the woman could have found

out other things, how should she know about a small detail like June's

favourite flower? How could she have the perfume already in her room

when we came--as if she were sure of our coming there--which of course

she couldn't have been," Robert argued.

"I don't _see_ how she could have been sure," I had to grant him. "I

don't see through any of it. But they're so deadly clever, these

people--the fraudulent ones, I mean. They couldn't impress the public as

they do if they weren't up to every trick. All I say is, _wait_. Don't

decide irrevocably yet. The way the voice talked didn't seem to me a bit

like June. Only the tones were like hers; and they might have been

imitated by anybody who'd known her, or who'd been coached by someone."

"Dear Princess, you're so anxious for our happiness that I fear you're

thinking of impossible things. Who could have an object in parting Joyce

and me? I can think of no one. Still less could this stranger from

America have a motive, even if she lied, and really knew who I was

before she spoke to us at the Savoy."

"I admit it does sound just as impossible as you say!" I agreed,

forlornly. "But things that _sound_ impossible may be possible. And we

must find out. In justice to Joyce and yourself--even in justice to

June's spirit, which I _can't_ think would be so selfish--we must find

out!"

"What would you suggest?" Joyce asked rather timidly. But there was a

faint colour in her cheeks, like a spark in the ashes of hope.

"Detectives!" I said. "Or rather _a_ detective. I know a good man. He

served me very well once, when some of our family treasures disappeared

from Courtenaye Abbey, and it rather looked as if I'd stolen them

myself. He can learn without any shadow of doubt when Miss Reardon did

land, and when she came to London. Besides, he's sure to have colleagues

on the other side who can give him all sorts of details about the woman:

how she's thought of at home, whether she's ever been caught out as a

cheat, and so on. Will you both consent to that? Because if you will,

I'll 'phone to my man this moment."

They did consent. At least, Robert did, for Joyce left the decision

entirely to him. She was so afraid, poor girl, of seeming determined to

_hold_ him at any price, that she would hardly speak. As for Robert,

though he felt that I was justified in getting to the bottom of things,

I saw that he believed in the truth of the message he'd received. If it

were not the spirit of June who had come to command his allegiance, he

still had a right to his warm earthly happiness with Joyce Arnold. But

if it were indeed her spirit who claimed all he had to give for the rest

of life, it was a fair debt, and he would pay in full.

I received the detective (my old friend Smith) alone, in another room,

when he came. The necessary discussion would have been torture for

Robert and intolerable for Joyce. When Smith left I had at least this

encouragement to give the two: it would be simple to learn what I wished

to learn about Miss Reardon, on both sides of the Atlantic.

That was better than nothing. But it didn't make the dark watches of the

night less dark. I had an ugly presentiment that Smith, smart as he was,

would get hold of little to help us, if anything. Yet at the same time I

felt that there _was_ something to get hold of--somewhere!

If I hadn't implored them to wait, Joyce and Robert would have decided

to publish the news that their marriage (which somehow everyone knew

about!) would "not take place." This concession they did make to me; but

they agreed together that they mustn't meet. My cheerful flat felt like

a large grave fitted with all modern conveniences, when it had been

deprived of Robert. And Joyce trying to be normal and not to shed gloom

over me, her employer, was _too_ agonizing!

Robert didn't even write to Joyce. I suppose he couldn't trust himself.

But he wrote to me, and gave the history of his second interview with

Miss Reardon. June had come again, and had reminded him of incidents

about which, he said, "no outsider could possibly know."

"I can't help believing now that there are more things in heaven and

earth than I'd dreamed of in my philosophy," he ended his letter.

"There's no getting round the fact that what I should have thought a

miracle has happened. The spirit of June has claimed me from the 'other

side.' And even if I were brutal enough, disloyal enough, to disown the

claim, to pretend to Joyce and myself that I _didn't_ believe, neither

Joyce nor I could have a moment's happiness, married. She knows that as

well as I do. As my wife her life would be spoiled. June would always

stand between us, separating us one from the other. I think I should be

driven mad. Joyce's heart would be broken!

"I've promised to talk with June through a medium every day. Miss

Reardon has to leave London in a fortnight, but June's voice asked me to

go to Opal Fawcett. You remember my telling you that Opal suggested this

long ago, saying that June wanted to get in touch with me? I wouldn't

hear of it then, because at that time I had no reason to believe in the

genuineness of visits from one world to another. Now it's different. I

shall go to Opal.

"Tell Joyce that I'll write her to-night. It won't be a letter such as I

should wish to write. But she will understand."

Yes, she would understand! One could always trust Joyce to understand,

even if she were on the rack!

It was the next day--the third day after the unforgettable one at the

Savoy--when my tame detective brought his budget. He would have come

even sooner, he said, if there hadn't been a delay in the cable service.

Miss Reardon, Smith learned, had never been exposed as an impostor. She

was respected personally, and had attained a certain amount of fame both

in Boston (where she lived) and New York. She had been several times

invited to visit England, but had never been able to accept until now.

She had arrived by the ship and at the time stated. When we met her at

the Savoy, she could not have been more than two hours in London.

Therefore her story seemed to be true in every detail, and what was

more, she had not been met at ship or train by any one.

I simply _hated_ poor dear little Smith. He ought to have nosed out

_something_ against the woman! What are detectives _for_?

"You've been an angel to fight for my happiness," Joyce said. "I adore

you for it. And so does Robert, I know--though he mustn't put such

feelings into words, or even _have_ feelings if he can help it. There's

nothing more to fight about now. The best thing I can pray for is that

Robert may forget our--dream, and that he may be happy in this other

dream--of June."

"And you?" I asked. "What prayer do you say for yourself? Do _you_ pray

to forget?"

"Oh, no!" she answered. "I don't want to forget. I wouldn't forget, if I

could. You see, it wasn't a dream to me. It was--it always will be--the

best thing in my life--the glory of my life. In my heart I shall live it

all over and over again till I die. I don't mind suffering. I've seen so

much pain in the war, and the courage that went with it. I shall have my

roses--not La France; deep red roses they'll be, red as blood, and sharp

with thorns, but sweet as heaven. There!" and her voice changed. "Now

you know, Princess! We'll never speak of this again, because we don't

need to, do we?"

"No--o," I agreed. "You're a grand girl, Joyce, worth two of----But

never mind! And I'll try to make you as happy as I can."

She thanked me for that; she was always thanking me for something. Soon,

however, she broke the news that she must go away. She loved me and her

work, yet she couldn't stop in London; she just couldn't. Not as things

were. If Robert had been turning his back on England she might have

stayed. But his promise to communicate with June daily through Opal

bound him to London. Joyce thought that she might try India. She had

friends there in the Army and in the Civil Service. She might do useful

work as a nurse among the purdah women and their babies, where mortality

was very high, she'd heard. "I _must_ be busy--busy every minute of the

day," she cried, hiding her anguish with that smile of hers which I'd

learned to love.

What Robert had said to her in his promised letter, the only one he

wrote, she didn't tell. I knew no more than that it had been written and

received. Probably it wasn't an ideal letter for a girl to wear over her

heart, hidden under her dress. Robert would have felt it unfair to write

that kind of letter. All the same I'm sure that Joyce _did_ wear it

there!

As for me, I was absolutely _sick_ about everything. I felt as if my two

dearest friends had been put in prison on a false charge, and as

though--if I hadn't cotton wool for a brain--I ought to be able to get

them out.

"There's a clue to the labyrinth if I could see it," I told myself so

often that I was tired of the thought. And the most irritating part was

that now and then I seemed to catch a half glimpse of the clue dangling

back and forth like a thread of spider's web close to my eyes. But

invariably it was gone before I'd _really_ caught sight of it. And all

the good that _concentrating_ did was to bump my intelligence against

the pale image of Opal Fawcett.

I didn't understand how Opal, even with the best--or worst--will in the

world, could have stage-managed this drama, though I should have liked

to think she had done it.

Miss Reardon frankly admitted having heard of Opal (who hadn't heard of

her), among those interested in spiritism, during the last few years;

but as the American woman had never before been in England, and Opal had

never crossed to America, the Boston medium hardly needed to say that

she'd never met Miss Fawcett. As for correspondence, if there _were_ a

secret between the pair, of course they'd both deny it. And so, though I

longed to fling a challenge to Opal, I saw that it would be stupid to

put the two women, if guilty, on their guard. Besides, how _could_ they,

through any correspondence, have contrived the things that had happened?

Suddenly, through the darkness of my doubts, shot a lightning flash: the

thought of Jim Courtenaye.

Superficially judging, Sir James Courtenaye, wild man of the West, but

lately transplanted, appeared the last person to assist in working out a

psychic problem. All the same a great longing to prop myself against him

(figuratively!) overwhelmed me; and for fear the impulse might pass, I

wired at once:

Please come if you can. Wish to consult you.

ELIZABETH DI MIRAMARE.

Jim was, as usual, hovering between Courtenaye Coombe and Courtenaye

Abbey. There were hours between us, even by telegraph, and the best I

expected was an answer in the afternoon to my morning's message. But at

six o'clock his name was announced, and he walked into the drawing room

of my flat as large as life, or a size or two larger.

"Good gracious!" I gasped. "You've _come_?"

"You're not surprised, are you?" he retorted.

"Why, yes," I said. "I didn't suppose----"

"Then you're not so brainy as I thought you were," said he. "Also you

didn't look at time-tables. What awful catastrophe has happened to you,

Elizabeth, to make you want to see me?"

I couldn't help laughing, although I didn't feel in the least like

laughter; and besides, he had no right to call me Elizabeth.

"Nothing has happened to _me_," I explained. "It's to somebody else----"

"Oh, somebody you've been trying to 'brighten,' I suppose?"

"Yes, and failed," I confessed.

He scowled.

"A man?"

"A man and his girl." Whereupon I emptied the whole story into the bowl

of Jim's intelligence.

"Do you see light?" I asked at last.

"No," he returned, stolidly. "I don't."

Oh, how disappointed I was! I'd hardly known how much I'd counted on Jim

till I got that answer.

"But I might find some," he added, when he'd watched the effect of his

words on me.

"How?" I implored.

"There's only one way, if any, to get the kind of light you want," said

Jim. "It might be a difficult way, and it might be a long one."

"Yet you think light _could_ be got? The kind of light I want?" I

clasped my hands and deliberately tried to look irresistible.

"Who can tell? The one thing certain is, that trying would take all my

time away from everything else, maybe for weeks, maybe for months."

His tone made my face feel the way faces look in those awful concave

mirrors: about three feet in length and three inches in width.

"Then you won't undertake the task?" I quavered.

"I don't say that," grudged Jim.

"You _wouldn't_ say it if you could meet Joyce Arnold," I coaxed. "She's

such a darling girl. Poor child, she's out now, pulling strings for a

job in India."

"Meeting her wouldn't make any difference to me," said Jim. "It's for

you I'd try to bring off this stunt--if I tried at all."

"Oh, then do it for me," I broke out.

"That's what I was working up to," he replied. "I wouldn't say 'yes' and

I wouldn't say 'no' till I knew what you'd do for me in return if I

succeeded."

"Why, I'd thank you a thousand times!" I cried. "I'd--I'd never forget

you as long as I live."

"There's not much in that for me. I hate being thanked for things. And

what good would it do me to be remembered by you at a distance, perhaps

married to some beast or other?"

"But if I marry I sha'n't marry a beast," I sweetly assured my

forty-fourth cousin four times removed.

"I should think any man you married a beast, if he wasn't me," said Jim.

"Good heavens!" I breathed. "Surely _you_ don't want to marry me!"

"Surely I do," he retorted. "And what's more, you know it jolly well."

"I don't."

"You do. You've known it ever since that affair of the yacht. If you

hadn't, you wouldn't have asked me to hide the Scarlett kid. I knew then

that you knew. And you'd be a fool if you hadn't known--which you're

not."

I said no more, because--I was found out! I _had_ known. Only, I hadn't

let myself think about it much--until lately perhaps. But now and then I

_had_ thought. I'd thought quite a good deal.

When he had me silenced, Jim went on:

"Just like a woman! You're willing to let me sacrifice all my

engagements and inclinations to start off on a wild-goose chase for you,

while you give nothing in return----"

"But I would!" I cut in.

"What would you give?"

"What do you want?"

"Yourself, of course."

"Oh!"

"If you'll marry me in case I find out that someone's been playing a

devil's trick on Lorillard," said Jim, "I'll do--my damnedest! How's

that?"

I shrugged my shoulders, and looked debonair; which was easy, as my nose

is that shape. Yet my heart pounded.

"You seem to think the sacrifice of your engagements and inclinations

worth a big price!"

"I know it's a big price," he granted. "But every man has his price.

That happens to be mine. You may not have to pay, however, even in the

event of my success. Because, in the course of my operations I may do

something that'll land me in quod. In that case, you're free. I wouldn't

mate you with a gaol bird."

I stared, and gasped.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you know me intimately enough to be sure that once I'm on the

warpath I stop at nothing?" he challenged.

"I don't think you'd be easy to stop," I said. "That's why I've called

on you to help me. But really, I can't understand what there is in the

thing to send you to prison."

"You don't need to understand," snorted Jim. "I sha'n't get there if I

can keep out, because that would be the way to lose my prize. But I

suppose from your point of view the great thing is for your two dearest

friends to be happy ever after."

"Not at a terrible cost to you," I just stopped myself from saying.

Instead, I hedged: "You frighten me!" I cried. "And you make me

curious--_fearfully_ curious. What _can_ you be meaning to do?"

"That's my business!" said Jim.

"You've got a plan--already?"

"Yes, I've got a plan--already, if----"

"If what?"

"If you agree to the bargain. Do you?"

I nodded.

He seized my hand and squeezed it hard.

"Then I'm off," he said. "You won't hear from me till I have news, good

or bad. And meanwhile I have no address."

With that he was gone.

I felt as if he had left me alone in the dark.

CHAPTER VI

THE LAST SEANCE

The only way in which I could keep Joyce with me for a little while

longer was by pretending to be ill. _That_ fetched her. And it wasn't

all pretense, either, because I was horribly worried, not only about her

and Robert, but about Jim. And about myself.

I said not a word to Joyce of Jim and his mission. So far as she knew

I'd abandoned hope--as she had. We heard nothing from Robert, or

concerning him, and each day that built itself up was a gloomier _cul de

sac_ than the last.

Bye and bye there came the end of Miss Reardon's fortnight in London.

"Now Robert will be turned over to Opal," I groaned to myself. And I was

sure that the same thought was in the mind of Joyce. Just one or two

days more, and after that a long monotony of bondage for him, year in

and year out!

As I waked in the morning with these words on my lips, Joyce herself

knocked, playing nurse, with a tray of coffee and toast.

"I would have let you sleep on," she said, "but a note has come by

messenger for you, with 'Urgent' on the envelope in such a nice

handwriting I felt you'd want to have it. So I brought your breakfast at

the same time."

The nice handwriting was Jim's. He had vowed not to write till there was

"news, good or bad." My fingers trembled as I tore open the letter. I

read:

Make Lorillard invite you and Miss Arnold _and your fiance_ to a

seance before Miss Reardon goes. It will have to be to-day or

to-morrow. Don't take "no" for an answer. Manage it somehow. If you

insist, Lorillard will force Reardon to consent. When the stunt's

fixed up, let me hear at once.

Yours, Jim.

L---- is at his flat. You know the address.

By Jove! This was a facer! Could I bring the thing off? But I simply

_must_. I knew Jim well enough to be sure that the clock of fate had

been wound up by him, ready to strike, and that it wouldn't strike if I

didn't obey orders.

I pondered for a minute whether or no to tell Joyce, but quickly decided

_no_. The request must first come from Robert.

I braced myself with hot coffee, and thought hard. Then I asked Joyce

for writing materials, and scribbled a note to Robert. I wrote:

There is a reason why you _must_ get us invited by Miss Reardon to

the last seance she gives before leaving. When I say "us," I mean

_Joyce_ as well as myself, and the man I've just promised to marry.

I know this will seem shocking to you, perhaps impossible, as you

agreed not to see Joyce again, "_voluntarily_." But oh, Robert,

trust me, and _make_ it possible for the sake of a brave girl who

once saved your life at the risk of her own. Seeing her this time

won't count as "voluntary" on your part. It is necessary.

When the note was ready I said to Joyce that I'd just had news of Robert

Lorillard from a great friend of mine who was much interested in his

welfare. This news necessitated my writing Robert, and as I was still in

bed I must request her to send the letter by hand.

"Go out to the nearest post office yourself, and have a messenger take

it," I directed.

While she was gone I got up, bathed, and put on street dress for the

first time since I'd been "playing 'possum."

I felt much better, I explained when Joyce came back, and added that,

later in the day, I might even be inclined "for a walk or something."

"If you're so well as that, you'll be ready to let me go to India soon,

won't you, dear?" she hinted. No doubt my few words about Robert, and

the sight of his name on a letter, had made the poor girl desperate

under her calm, controlled manner.

I was desperate, too, knowing that her whole future depended on the

success of Jim's plan. If it failed, I should have to let her go, and

all would be over!

"You must do what's best for you," I answered. "But don't talk about it

now. Wait till to-morrow."

Joyce was dumb.

Hours passed, and no reply from Robert. I began to fear he'd gone

away--or that he was hideously offended. We'd got through a pretence of

luncheon, when at last a messenger came. Thank heaven, Robert's

handwriting was on the envelope!

He wrote:

I don't understand your wish, dear Princess. It seems like

deliberate torture of Joyce and me that she should be present when

I am visited by the spirit of June--for that is what actually

happens. June materializes. I see her, as well as hear her voice.

Can Joyce bear this? You seem to think she can, and so I must. For

you are a friend of friends, and you wouldn't put me to such a test

without the best of reasons.

I expected that Miss Reardon would refuse to receive strangers on

such an occasion. But rather to my surprise she has consented, and

a seance is arranged for this evening at nine o'clock in her rooms.

To-morrow would have been too late, as she is leaving for the south

of France, to stay with some American millionairess at Cannes, who

hopes to get into touch with a son on the Other Side. You see, I

don't use that old, cold word "dead." I couldn't now I know how

near, and how like their earthly selves, are those who go beyond.

So you are engaged to be married! Don't think I'm indifferent

because I leave mention of your news till the last. I'm deeply

interested. Bless you, Princess!

Yours ever, R. L.

I read this letter, destroying it (in case Joyce became importunate),

and then broke it to her that Robert earnestly wished us to attend the

last seance with Miss Reardon.

She turned sickly white.

"I can't go!" she almost sobbed. "I simply can't."

Then I said that it would hurt Robert horribly if she didn't. He

wouldn't have asked such a thing without the strongest motive. I would

be with her, I went on; and tried to pull her thoughts up out of tragic

gulfs by springing the news of my engagement upon her. It may have

sounded irrelevant, almost heartlessly so, but it braced the girl. And

she little guessed that the engagement would not exist save for Robert

and her!

I 'phoned Jim at the address on his letter, a house in Westminster

which--when I happened to notice--was in the same street as Opal

Fawcett's. It was a relief to hear his voice answer "Hello!" for he had

demanded immediate knowledge of our plans; and goodness knew what

mysterious preparations for his _coup_ he might have to elaborate.

He would meet us at the Savoy, he said, at 8:45, and I could introduce

him to Miss Reardon before the seance began.

Joyce and I started at 8:30, in a taxi, having made a mere stage

pretence of dinner. We hardly spoke on the way, but I held her hand, and

pressed it now and then.

Jim was waiting for us just inside the revolving doors of the hotel.

"I'd have liked to come for you in a car," he said aside to me, "but I

thought it would be hard on Miss Arnold--and maybe on you--to have more

of my society than need be, you know!"

"Why on me?" I hastily inquired.

His black eyes blazed into mine.

"Well, I've sort of blackmailed you, haven't I?"

"Have you?"

"Into this engagement of ours."

"Oh, I haven't got time to think of that just now!" I snapped. "Let's go

to Miss Reardon's rooms."

We went. Jim said no more, except to mention that Captain Lorillard had

already gone up.

Joyce may have imagined Jim to be the "great friend interested in

Robert's welfare," but as for me, I wondered how he knew Robert by

sight. Then I scolded myself: "Silly one! Hasn't he been

watching--playing detective for you?"

It was poignant, remembering the last time when Robert, Joyce, and I had

met in Miss Reardon's sitting room--the last day of their happiness. But

we greeted each other quietly, like old friends, though Joyce's heart

must have contracted at sight of the man's changed face. All the renewed

youth and joyous manhood her love had given him had burned out of his

eyes. He looked as he'd looked when I saw him that day at River Orchard

Cottage.

Miss Reardon was slightly nervous in manner, and flushed like a girl

when I introduced Sir James Courtenaye to her. But soon she recovered

her prim little poise, and began making arrangements for the seance.

"Mr. Lorillard has already tested my _bona fides_ to his own

satisfaction," she said. "He has examined my small suite, and knows that

no person, no theatrical 'properties' are concealed about the place. If

any of you would like to look around, however, before we start, I'm more

than willing. Also if you'd care to bind my hands and feet, or sit in a

circle and hold me fast, I've no objection."

As she made this offer, she glanced from one to the other of us. Pale,

silent Joyce shook her head. Jim "left it to Princess di Miramare," and

I decided that if Captain Lorillard was satisfied, we were.

"Very well," purred Miss Reardon. "In that case there's nothing more to

wait for. Captain Lorillard, will you switch off the lights as usual?"

"Oh!" I broke in, surprised, "I thought you'd told us that the

'influence' was just as strong in light as darkness?"

"That is so," replied the medium, "except for materialization. For that,

darkness is essential. There's some _quality_ in darkness that They

need. They can't get the _strength_ to materialize in light conditions."

"How can we see anything if the room's pitch-black?" I persisted.

"Explain to your friends, Captain Lorillard, what takes place," bade

Miss Reardon.

"When--June comes--she brings a faint radiance with her--seems to evolve

it out of herself," Robert said in a low voice.

As he spoke he switched off the light, and profound silence fell upon

us.

Some moments passed, and nothing happened.

Joyce and I sat with locked cold hands. I was on the right of the

medium, and from my chair quite close to hers could easily have reached

out and touched her, if I'd wished. On her left, at about the same

distance, sat Robert. Jim was the only one who stood. He had refused a

chair, and propped his long length against the wall between two doors:

the door opening into the hall outside the suite, and that leading to

Miss Reardon's bedroom and bath.

We could faintly hear each other breathe. Then, after five or six

minutes, perhaps, I heard odd, gasping sounds as if someone struggled

for breath. These gasps were punctuated with moans, and I should have

been frightened if the direction and nearness of the queer noise hadn't

told me at once that it came from the medium. I'd never before been to a

materializing seance, yet I felt instinctively that this was the

convulsive sort of thing to expect.

Suddenly a dim light--oh, hardly a light!--a pale greenish glimmer, as

if there were a glowworm in the room--became faintly visible. It seemed

to swim in a delicate gauzy mist. Its height above the floor (this was

the thought flashing into my mind) was about that of a tall woman's

heart. A perfume of La France roses filled the room.

At first our eyes, accustomed to darkness, could distinguish nothing

except this glowworm light and the surrounding haze of lacy gray. Then,

gradually, we became conscious of a figure--a slender shape in floating

draperies. More and more distinct it grew, as slowly it moved toward

us--toward Robert Lorillard; and my throat contracted as I made out the

semblance of June Dana.

The form was clad in the gray dress which Miss Reardon had so

surprisingly described when we met her first--the dress June had worn

the day of her engagement--the dress of the portrait at River Orchard

Cottage. The gray hat with the long curling plume shaded the face, and

so obscured it that I should hardly have recognized it as June's had it

not been for the thick wheel of bright, red-brown hair on each side

bunching out under the hat exactly as June had worn her hair that year.

A long, thin scarf filmed like a cloud round the slowly moving figure,

looped over the arms, which waved gracefully as if the spirit-form swam

in air rather than walked. There was an illusive glitter of rings--just

such rings as June had worn: one emerald, one diamond. A dark streak

across the ice-white throat showed her famous black pearls;

and--strangest thing of all--the green light which glimmered through

filmy folds of scarf was born apparently in a glittering emerald brooch.

At first the vision (which might have come through the wall of the room,

for all we could tell) floated toward Robert. None save spirit-eyes

could have made him out distinctly in the darkness that was lit only by

the small green gleam. But I fancied that he always sat in the same seat

for these seances; he had taken his chair in a way so matter of course.

Therefore the spirit would know where to find him!

Within a few feet of distance, however, the form paused, and swayed as

if undecided. "She has seen that there are others in the room besides

Robert and the medium," I thought. "Will she be angry? Will she vanish?"

Hardly had I time to finish the thought, however, when the electricity

was switched on with a click. The light flooding the room dazzled me for

a second, but in the bright blur I saw that Jim Courtenaye had seized

the gray figure. All ghostliness was gone from it. A woman was

struggling with him in dreadful silence--a tall, slim woman with June

Dana's red-bronze hair, June Dana's gray dress and hat and scarf.

She writhed like a snake in Jim's merciless grasp, but she kept her head

bent not to show her face, till suddenly in some way her hat was knocked

off. With it--caught by a hatpin, perhaps--went the gorgeous, bunched

hair.

"A wig!" I heard myself cry. And at the same instant Joyce gasped out

"_Opal!_"

Yes, it was Opal, disguised as June, in the gray dress and hat and

scarf, with black pearls and emeralds all copied from the portrait--and

the haunting fragrance of roses that had been June's.

The likeness was enough to deceive June's nearest and dearest in that

dimmest of dim lights which was like the ghost of a light, veiled with

all those chiffon scarves. But with the room bright as day, all

resemblance, except in clothes and wig and height, vanished at a glance.

The woman caught in her cruel fraud was a pitiable sight, yet I had no

pity for her then. Staring at the whitened face, framed in dishevelled,

mouse-brown hair, the long upper lip painted red in a high Cupid's bow

to resemble June's lovely mouth, I was sick with disgust. As at last she

yielded in despair to Jim's fierce clutch, and dropped sobbing on the

sofa, I felt I could have struck her. But she had no thought for me nor

for any of us--not even for Jim, who had ruined the game, nor for Miss

Reardon, who must have sold her to him at a price; for no one at all

except Robert Lorillard.

When she'd given up hope of escape, and lay panting, exhausted, flung

feebly across the sofa, she looked up at Robert.

"I loved you," she wept. "That's why I did it; I couldn't let you go to

another woman. I thought I saw a way to keep you always near me--almost

as if you were mine. You can't _hate_ a woman who loves you like that!"

Robert did not answer. I think he was half dazed. He stood staring at

her, frozen still like the statue of a man. I was frightened for him. He

had endured too much. Joyce couldn't go to him yet, though he would be

hers--all hers, for ever--bye and bye--but _I_ could go, as a friend.

I laid my hand on his arm, and spoke his name softly.

"Robert, I always felt there was fraud," I said. "Now, thank Heaven, we

know the truth before it's too late for you to be happy, as June herself

would want you to be happy, if she knew. She wasn't cruel--the _real_

June. She wasn't like this false one at heart. Go, now, I beg, and take

Joyce home to my flat--she's almost fainting. You must look after her. I

will stay here. Jim Courtenaye'll watch over me--and later we'll bring

you explanations of everything."

So I got them both away. And when they were gone the whole story was

dragged from Opal. Jim forced her to confess; and with Robert out of

sight--lost for ever to the wretched woman--the task wasn't difficult.

You see, Miss Reardon _had_ sold her beforehand. Jim doesn't care what

price he pays when he wants a thing!

First of all, he'd taken a house that was to let furnished, near Opal's.

She didn't know him from Adam, but he had her description. He followed

her several times, and saw her go to the Savoy; even saw her go to Miss

Reardon's rooms. Then, to Miss Reardon he presented himself, _en

surprise_, and pretended to know five times as much as he did know; in

fact, as much as he suspected. By this trick he broke down her guard;

and before she had time to build it up again, flung a bribe of two

thousand pounds--ten thousand dollars--at her head. She couldn't resist,

and eventually told him everything.

Opal and she had corresponded for several years, it seemed, as fellow

mediums, sending each other clients from one country to another. When

Opal learned that the Boston medium was coming to England, she asked if

Miss Reardon would do her a great favour. In return for it, the American

woman's cabin on shipboard and all expenses at one of London's best

hotels would be paid.

This sounded alluring. Miss Reardon asked questions by letter, and by

letter those questions were answered. A plan was formed--a plan that was

a _plot_. Opal kept phonographic records of many voices among those of

her favourite clients--did this with their knowledge and consent, making

presents to them of their own records to give to friends. It was just an

"interesting fad" of hers! Such a record of June's voice she had posted

to Boston. Miss Reardon, who was a clever mimic (a fine professional

asset!) learned to imitate the voice. She had a description from Opal of

the celebrated gray costume with the jewels June wore, and knew well how

to "work" her knowledge of June's favourite perfume.

As to that first meeting at the Savoy, Opal was aware that Joyce and I

met Robert there on most afternoons. A suite was taken for Miss Reardon

in the hotel, and the lady was directed to await developments in the

_foyer_ at a certain hour--an old stage photograph of Robert Lorillard

in her hand-bag. The rest had been almost simple, thanks to Opal's

knowledge of June's life and doings; to her deadly cleverness, and the

device of a tiny electric light glimmering through a square of emerald

green glass on the "spirit's" breast, under scarves slowly unfolded. If

it had not been for Jim, Robert would have become her bond-slave, and

Joyce would have fled from England.

* * * * *

"Well, are you satisfied?" Jim asked, spinning me home at last in his

own car.

"More than satisfied," I said. "Joyce and Robert will marry after all,

and be the happiest couple on earth. They'll forget this horror."

"Which is what you'd like to do if I'd let you, I suppose," said Jim.

"Forget! You mean----?"

"Yes. The promise I dragged out of you, and everything."

"I never forget my promises," I primly answered.

"But if I let you off it? Elizabeth, that's what I'm going to do! I love

you too much, my girl, to blackmail you permanently--to get you for my

wife in payment of a bargain. I may be pretty bad, but I'm hanged if I'm

as bad as that."

I burst out laughing.

"_Idiot!_" I gurgled. "Haven't you the wits to see I _want_ to marry

you? I'm in love with you, you fool. Besides, I'm tired of being matron

of honour, and you being best man every time people I 'brighten' marry!"

"It sha'n't happen again!" said Jim.

And then he almost took my breath away. _What_ a strong man he is!

BOOK IV

THE MYSTERY OF MRS. BRANDRETH

CHAPTER I

THE MAN IN THE CUSHIONED CHAIR

"Nice end of a honeymoon I'm having!" Jim grumbled. "With my wife

thinking and talking all the time about another fellow."

"My darling, adored man!" I exclaimed. "You know perfectly well that

you're the background and undercurrent and foundation of all my

thoughts, every minute of the day and night. And this 'other fellow' is

_dying_."

Yes; "darling, adored" were my adjectives for Jim Courtenaye, whom I had

once abused.

All the same, if a cat may look at a king, a bride may just glance at a

man who isn't her bridegroom.

"Ruling passion strong in--marriage, I suppose," said Jim. "I bet you'd

like to try your hand at 'brightening' that chap--though judging from

his face, he's almost past even your blandishments. _I_ wouldn't be past

'em--not in my _coffin_! But it isn't every blighter who can love as I

do, you minx."

"And 'tisn't every blighter who has such a perfect woman to love," I

capped him with calm conceit.

"But I wish I _could_ 'brighten' that poor fellow. Or else I wish that

someone else would!"

And at this instant my wish was granted in the most amazing way!

A girl appeared--but no, I mustn't let her arrive upon the scene just

yet. First, I must explain that Jim and I were on shipboard, coming back

to England from America, where we had been having the most wonderful

honeymoon. Jim had taken me out West, and showed me the places where he

had lived in his cowboy days. We had ridden long trails together, in the

Grand Canyon of Arizona, and in the Yosemite Valley of California. I had

never imagined that life could be so glorious, and our future

together--Jim's and mine--stretched before us like a dream of joy. We

were going to live in the dear old Abbey which had been the home of the

Courtenayes for hundreds and hundreds of years, and travel when we

liked. Because we were so much in love and so happy, I yearned to make a

few thousand other people happy also--though it did seem impossible that

any one on earth could be as joyous as we were.

This was our second day out from New York on the _Aquitania_, and my

spirits had been slightly damped by discovering that two

fellow-passengers if not more were extremely miserable. One of these

lived in a stateroom next to our suite. In my cabin at night I could

hear her crying and moaning to herself in a fitful sleep. I had not seen

her, so far as I knew, but I fancied from the sound of those sobs that

she was young.

When I told Jim, he wanted to change cabins with me, so that I should

not be disturbed. But I refused to budge, saying that I _wasn't_

disturbed. My neighbour didn't cry or talk in her sleep all through the

night by any means. Besides, once I had dropped off, the sounds were not

loud enough to wake me. This was true enough not to be a fib, but my

_realest_ reason for clinging to the room was an odd fascination in that

mysterious sorrow on the other side of the wall; sorrow of a woman I

hadn't seen, might perhaps never see, yet to whom I could send out warm

waves of sympathy. I felt as if those waves had colours, blue and gold,

and that they would soothe the sufferer.

Her case obsessed me until, in the sunshine of a second summer day at

sea, the one empty chair on our crowded deck was filled. A man was

helped into it by a valet or male nurse, and a steward. My first glimpse

of his face as he sank down on to carefully placed cushions made my

heart jump in my breast with pity and protest against the hardness of

fate.

If he'd been old, or even middle-aged, or if he had been one of those

colourless characters dully sunk into chronic invalidism, I should have

felt only the pity without the protest. But he was young, and though it

was clear that he was desperately ill, it was clear, too, in a more

subtle, psychic way, that he had not been ill long; that love of life or

desire for denied happiness burned in him still.

Of course Jim was not really vexed because I discussed this man and

wondered about him, but my thoughts did play round that piteously

romantic figure a good deal, and it rather amused Jim to see me forget

the mystery of the cabin in favour of the cushioned chair.

"Once a Brightener, always a Brightener, I suppose!" he said. Now that

I'd dropped my "Princesshood" to marry James Courtenaye, I need never

"brighten" any one for money again. But I didn't see why I should not go

sailing along on a sunny career of brightening for love. According to

habit, therefore, my first thought was: What _could_ be done for the man

in the cushioned chair?

Maybe Jim was right! If he hadn't been young and almost better than

good-looking, my interest might not have been so keen. He was the wreck

of a gorgeous creature--one of those great, tall, muscular men you feel

were born to adorn the Guards.

The reason (the physical reason, not the psychic one) for thinking he

hadn't been ill long was the colour of the invalid's face. The pallor of

illness hadn't had time to blanch the rich brown that life in the open

gives. So thin was the face that the aquiline features stood out

sharply; but they seemed to be carved in bronze, not moulded in plaster.

As for the psychic reason, I found it in the dark eyes that met mine now

and then. They were not black like those of my own Jim, which contrasted

so strikingly with auburn hair. Indeed, I couldn't tell whether the eyes

were brown or deep gray, for they were set in shadowy hollows, and the

brows and thick lashes were even darker than the hair, which was lightly

silvered at the temples. Handsome, arresting eyes they must always have

been; but what stirred me was the violent _wish_ that seemed actually to

speak from them.

Whether it was a wish to live, or a haunting wish for joy never

gratified, I could not decide. But I felt that it must have been burnt

out by a long illness.

I had only just learned a few things about the man, when there came that

surprising answer to my prayer for someone to "brighten" him. My maid

had got acquainted with his valet-nurse, and had received a quantity of

information which she passed to me.

"Mr. Tillett's" master was a Major Ralston Murray, an Englishman, who

had gone to live in California some years ago, and had made a big

fortune in oil. He had been in the British Army as a youth, Tillett

understood, and when the European war broke out, he went home to offer

himself to his country. He didn't return to America till after the

Armistice, though he had been badly wounded once or twice, as well as

gassed. At home in Bakersfield, the great oil town where he lived,

Murray's health had not improved. He had been recommended a long sea

journey, to Japan and China, and had taken the prescription. But instead

of doing him good, the trip had been his ruin. In China he was attacked

with a malady resembling yellow fever, though more obscure to

scientists. After weeks of desperate illness, the man had gained

strength for the return journey; but, reaching California, he was told

by specialists that he must not hope to recover. After that verdict his

one desire was to spend the last days of his life in England. Not long

before a distant relative had left him a place in Devonshire--an old

house which he had loved in his youth. Now he was on his way there, to

die.

So this was the wonderful wish, I told myself. Yet I couldn't believe it

was all. I felt that there must be something deeper to account for the

burning look in those tortured eyes. And of course I was more than ever

interested, now that his destination proved to be near Courtenaye Abbey.

Ralston Old Manor was not nearly so large nor so important a place

historically as ours, but it was ancient enough, and very charming.

Though we were not more than fifteen miles away, I had never met the old

bachelor, the Mr. Ralston of my day. He was a great recluse, supposed to

have had his heart broken by my beautiful grandmother when they were

both young. It occurred to me that this Ralston Murray must be the old

man's namesake, and the place had been left him on that account.

Now, at last, having explained the man in the cushioned chair, I can

come back to the moment when my wish was granted: the wish that, if not

I, someone else might "brighten" him.