CHAPTER XX

LIKE A TRAPPED ANIMAL

Macheson in those days felt himself rapidly growing older. An

immeasurable gap seemed to lie between him and the eager young apostle

who had plunged so light-heartedly into the stress of life. All that

wonderful enthusiasm, that undaunted courage with which he had faced

coldness and ridicule in the earlier days of his self-chosen vocation

seemed to have left him. Some way, somehow, he seemed to have suffered

shipwreck! There was poison in his system! Fight against it as he

might--and he did fight--there were moments when memory turned the life

which he had taken up so solemnly into the maddest, most fantastic fairy

story. At such times his blood ran riot, the sweetness of a strange,

unknown world seemed to be calling to him across the forbidden borders.

Inaction wearied him horribly--and, after all, it was inaction which

Holderness had recommended as the best means of re-establishing himself

in a saner and more normal attitude towards life!

"Look round a bit, old chap," he advised, "and think. Don't do anything

in a hurry. You're young, shockingly young for any effective work. You

can't teach before you understand. Life isn't such a sink of iniquity

as you young prigs at Oxford professed to find it. See the best of it

and the worst. You'll be able to put your finger on the weak spots quick

enough."

But the process of looking around wearied Macheson excessively--or was

it something else which had crept into his blood to his immense

unsettlement? There were several philanthropic schemes started by

himself and his college friends in full swing now, in or about London.

To each of them he paid some attention, studying its workings, listening

to the enthusiastic outpourings of his quondam friends and doing his

best to catch at least some spark of their interest. But it was all very

unsatisfactory. Deep down in his heart he felt the insistent craving for

some fiercer excitement, some mode of life which should make larger and

deeper demands upon his emotional temperament. A heroic war would have

appealed to him instantly--for that, he realized with a sigh, he was

born many centuries too late. For weeks he wandered about London in a

highly unsatisfied condition. Then one afternoon, in the waning of a

misty October day, he came face to face with Wilhelmina in Bond Street.

She was stepping into her motor brougham when she saw him. He had no

opportunity for escape, even if he had desired it. Her tired lips were

suddenly curved into a most bewildering smile. She withdrew her hand

from her muff and offered it to him--for the first time.

"So you are still in London, Mr. Macheson," she said. "I am very glad to

see you."

The words were unlike her, the tone was such as he had never heard her

use. Do what he could, he could not help the answering light which

sprang into his own eyes.

"I am still in London," he said. "I thought you were to go to

Marienbad?"

"I left it until it was too late," she answered. "Walk a little way with

me," she added abruptly. "I should like to talk to you."

"If I may," he answered simply.

She dismissed the brougham, and they moved on.

"I am sorry," she began, "that I was rude to you when you brought that

girl to me. You did exactly what was nice and kind, and I was hateful.

Please forgive me."

"Of course," he answered simply. "I felt sure that when you thought it

over you would understand."

"You are not going back--to Thorpe?" she asked.

"Not at present, at any rate," he answered.

She looked up at him with a faint smile.

"You can have the barn," she said.

His eyes answered her smile, but his tone was grave.

"I have given that up--for a little time, at any rate," he said. "I mean

that particular sort of work."

"My villagers must content themselves with Mr. Vardon, then," she

remarked.

He nodded.

"Perhaps," he said, "ours was a mistaken enterprise. I am not sure. But

at any rate, so far as Thorpe is concerned, I have abandoned it for the

present."

She was walking close to his side, so close that the hand which raised

her skirt as they crossed the street touched his, and her soft breath as

she leaned over and spoke fell upon his cheek.

"Why?"

He felt the insidious meaning of her whispered monosyllable, he felt her

eyes striving to make him look at her. His cheeks were flushed, but he

looked steadily ahead.

"There were several reasons," he said.

"Do tell me," she begged; "I am curious."

"For one," he said steadily, "I did an unjust thing at Thorpe. I

sheltered a criminal and helped him to escape."

"So it was you who did that," she remarked. "You mean, of course, the

man who killed Mr. Hurd?"

"Yes!" he answered. "I showed him where to hide. He either got clean

away, or he is lying at the bottom of the slate quarry. In either case,

I am responsible for him."

"Well," she said, "he is not at the bottom of the slate quarry. I can at

least assure you of that. I have had the place dragged, and every foot

of it gone over by experienced men from Nottingham."

"Really," he said, surprised. "Well, I am glad of it."

She sighed.

"I want you, if you can," she said, "to describe the man to me. It is

not altogether curiosity. I have a reason for wishing to know what he

was like."

"He was in such a state of panic," Macheson said doubtfully, "that I am

afraid I have only an imperfect impression of him. He was not very tall,

he had a round face, cheeks that were generally, I should think, rather

high-coloured, brown eyes and dark hair, almost black. He wore a thick

gold ring on the finger of one hand, and although he spoke good English,

I got the idea somehow that he was either a foreigner or had lived

abroad. He was in a terrible state of fear, and from what I could

gather, I should say that he struck old Mr. Hurd in a scuffle, and not

with any deliberate intention of hurting him."

She nodded.

"I have heard all that I want to," she declared.

They walked on in silence for several minutes. Then she turned to him

with a shrug of the shoulders.

"The subject," she declared, "is dismissed. I did not ask you to walk

with me to discuss such unpleasant things. I should like to know about

yourself."

He sighed.

"About myself," he answered, "there is nothing to tell. There isn't in

the whole of London a more unsatisfactory person."

She laughed softly.

"Such delightful humility," she murmured, "especially amongst the young,

is too touching. Nevertheless, go on. It amuses me to hear."

The note of imperiousness in her tone was pleasantly reminiscent. It was

the first reminder he had received of the great lady of Thorpe.

"Well," he said, "what do you want to know?"

"Everything," she answered. "I am possessed by a most unholy curiosity.

Your relatives for instance, and where you were born."

He shook his head.

"I have no relatives," he answered. "I was born in Australia. I am an

orphan, twenty-eight years old, and feel forty-eight, no profession, no

settled purpose in life. I am Japhet in search of a career."

She glanced at his shabby clothes. He had been to a mission-house in the

East End.

"You are poor?" she asked softly.

"I have enough, more than enough," he answered, "to live on."

Her eyes lingered upon his clothes, but he offered no explanation.

Enough to live on, she reflected, might mean anything!

"You say that you have no profession," she remarked. "I suppose you

would call it a vocation. But why did you want to come and preach to my

villagers at Thorpe? Why didn't you go into the Church if you cared for

that sort of thing?"

"There was a certain amount of dogma in the way," he answered. "I should

make but a poor Churchman. They would probably call me a free-thinker.

Besides, I wanted my independence."

She nodded.

"I am beginning to understand a little better," she said. "Now you must

tell me this. Why did you entertain the idea of mission work in a place

like Thorpe, when the whole of that awful East End was there waiting for

you?"

"All the world of reformers," he answered, "rushes to the East End. We

fancied there was as important work to be done in less obvious places."

"And you started your work," she asked, "directly you left college?"

"Before, I think," he answered. "You see, I wasn't alone. There were

several of us who felt the same way--Holderness, for instance, the man

who came to your house with me the other night. He works altogether upon

the political side. He's a Socialist--of a sort. Two of the others went

into the Church, one became a medical missionary. I joined in with a few

who thought that we might do more effective work without tying ourselves

down to anything, or subscribing to any religious denomination."

She looked at him curiously. He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular.

He wore even his shabby clothes with an air of distinction.

"I suppose," she said calmly, "that I must belong to a very different

world. But what I cannot understand is why you should choose a career

which you intend to pursue apparently for the benefit of other people.

All the young men whom I have known who have taken life seriously enough

to embrace a career at all, have at least studied their individual

tastes."

"Well," he answered, smiling, "it isn't that I fancy myself any better

than my fellows. I was at Magdalen, you know, under Heysey. I think that

it was his influence which shaped our ideas."

"Yes! I have heard of him," she said thoughtfully. "He was a good man.

At least every one says so. I'm afraid I don't know much about good men

myself. Most of those whom I have met have been the other sort."

The faint bitterness of her tone troubled him. There was deliberation,

too, in her words. Instinctively he knew that this was no idle speech.

"You have asked me," he reminded her, "a good many questions. I wonder

if I might be permitted to ask you one?"

"Why not? I can reserve the privilege of not answering it," she

remarked.

"People call you a fortunate woman," he said. "You are very rich, you

have a splendid home, the choice of your own friends, a certain

reputation--forgive me if I quote from a society paper--as a brilliant

and popular woman of the world. Yours is rather a unique position, isn't

it? I wonder," he added, "whether you are satisfied with what you get

out of life!"

"I get all that there is to be got," she answered, a slight hardness

creeping into her tone. "It mayn't be much, but it amuses

me--sometimes."

He shook his head.

"There is more to be got out of life," he said, "than a little

amusement."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"How about yourself? You haven't exactly the appearance of a perfectly

contented being."

"I'm hideously dissatisfied," he admitted promptly. "Something seems to

have gone wrong with me--I seem to have become a looker-on at life. I

want to take a hand, and I can't. There doesn't seem to be any place for

me. Of course, it's only a phase," he continued. "I shall settle down

into something presently. But it's rather beastly while it lasts."

She looked at him, her eyes soft with laughter. Somehow his confession

seemed to have delighted her.

"I'm glad you are human enough to have phases," she declared. "I was

beginning to be afraid that you might turn out to be just an ordinary

superior person. Perhaps you are also human enough to drink tea and eat

muffins. Try, won't you?"

They were in front of her door, which flew immediately open. She either

took his consent for granted, or chose not to risk his refusal, for she

went on ahead, and his faint protests were unheard. His hat and stick

passed into the care of an elderly person in plain black clothes; with

scarcely an effort at resistance, he found himself following her down

the hall. She stopped before a small wrought-iron gate, which a footman

at once threw open.

"It makes one feel as though one were in a hotel, doesn't it?" she

remarked, "but I hate stairs. Besides, I am going to take you a long,

long way up.... I am not at home this afternoon, Groves."

"Very good, madam," the man answered.

They stepped out into a smaller hall. A dark-featured young woman came

hurrying forward to meet them.

"I shall not need you, Annette," Wilhelmina said. "Go down and see that

they send up tea for two, and telephone to Lady Margaret--say I'm sorry

that I cannot call for her this afternoon."

"Parfaitement, madame," the girl murmured, and hurried away. Wilhelmina

opened the door of a sitting-room--the most wonderful apartment Macheson

had ever seen. A sudden nervousness seized him. He felt his knees

shaking, his heart began to thump, his brain to swim. All at once he

realized where he was! It was not the lady of Thorpe, this! It was the

woman who had come to him with the storm, the woman who had set burning

the flame which had driven him into a new world. He looked around half

wildly! He felt suddenly like a trapped animal. It was no place for him,

this bower of roses and cushions, and all the voluptuous appurtenances

of a chamber subtly and irresistibly feminine! He was bereft of words,

awkward, embarrassed. He longed passionately to escape.

Wilhelmina closed the door and raised her veil. She laid her two hands

upon his shoulders, and looked up at him with a faint but very tender

smile. Her forehead was slightly wrinkled, her fingers seemed to cling

to him, so that her very touch was like a caress! His heart began to

beat madly. The perfume of her clothes, her hair, the violets at her

bosom, were like a new and delicious form of intoxication. The touch of

her fingers became more insistent. She was drawing his face down to

hers.

"I wonder," she murmured, "whether you remember!"

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

RATHER A GHASTLY PART

Mademoiselle Rosine raised her glass. Her big black eyes flashed

unutterable things across the pink roses.

"I think," she said, "that we drink the good health of our host, Meester

Macheson, Meester Victor, is it not?"

"Bravo!" declared a pallid-looking youth, her neighbour at the round

supper table. "By Jove, if we were at the _Cote d'Or_ instead of the

_Warwick_, we'd give him musical honours."

"I drink," Macheson declared, "to all of us who know how to live! Jules,

another magnum, and look sharp."

"Certainly, sir," the man answered.

There flashed a quick look of intelligence between the waiter and a

maitre d'hotel who was lingering near. The latter hesitated for a

moment, and then nodded. It was a noisy party and none too reputable,

but a magnum of champagne was an order. They were likely to make more

noise still if they didn't get it. So the wine was brought, and more

toasts were drunk. Mademoiselle Rosine's eyes flashed softer things

than ever across the table, but she had the disadvantage of distance.

Ella Merriam, the latest American importation, held the place of honour

next Macheson, and she was now endeavouring to possess herself of his

hand under the table.

"I say, Macheson, how is it none of us ever ran up against you before?"

young Davenant demanded, leaning back in his chair. "Never set eyes on

you myself, from the day you left Magdalen till I ran up against you at

the Alhambra the other evening. Awfully studious chap Macheson was at

college," he added to the American girl. "Thought us chaps no end of

rotters because we used to go the pace a bit. That's so, isn't it,

Macheson?"

Macheson nodded.

"It is only the young who are really wise," he declared coolly. "As we

grow older we make fools of ourselves inevitably, either fools or

beasts, according to our proclivities. Then we begin to enjoy

ourselves."

The girl by his side laughed.

"I guess you don't mean that," she said. "It sounds smart, but it's real

horrid. How old are you, Mr. Macheson?"

"Older than I look and younger than I feel," he answered, gazing into

his empty glass.

"Have you found what you call your proclivities?" she asked.

"I am searching for them," Macheson answered. "The trouble is one

doesn't know whether to dig or to climb."

"Why should one search at all?" the other man asked, drawing out a gold

cigarette case from his trousers pocket, and carefully selecting a

cigarette. "Life comes easiest to those who go blindfold. I've got a

brother, private secretary to a Member of Parliament. He's got views

about things, and he makes an awful fag of life. What's the good of it!

He'll be an old man before he's made up his mind which way he wants to

go. This sort of thing's good enough for me!"

The magnum had arrived, and Macheson lifted a foaming glass.

"Davenant," he declared, "you are a philosopher. We will drink to life

as it comes! To life--as it comes!"

They none of them noticed the little break in his voice. A party of

newcomers claimed their attention. Macheson, too, had seen them. He had

seen her. Like a ghost at the feast, he sat quite motionless, his glass

half raised in the air, the colour gone from his cheeks, his eyes set in

a hard fast stare. Wilhelmina, in a plain black velvet gown, with a rope

of pearls about her neck, her dark hair simply arranged about her

pallid, distinguished face, was passing down the room, followed closely

by the Earl of Westerdean, Deyes, and Lady Peggy. Her first impulse had

been to stop; a light sprang into her eyes, and a delicate spot of

colour burned in her cheeks. Then her eyes fell upon his companions; she

realized his surroundings. The colour went: the momentary hesitation was

gone. She passed on without recognition; Lady Peggy, after a curious

glance, did the same. She whispered and laughed in Deyes' ear as they

seated themselves at an adjacent table. He looked round behind her back

and nodded, but Macheson did not appear to see him.

A momentary constraint fell upon the little party. The American young

lady leaned over to ask Davenant who the newcomers were.

"The elder man," he said, "is the Earl of Westerdean, and the

pretty fair woman Lady Margaret Penshore. The other woman is a Miss

Thorpe-Hatton. Macheson probably knows more about them than I do!"

Macheson ignored the remark. He whispered something in his neighbour's

ear, which made her laugh heartily. The temporary check to their

merriment passed away. Macheson was soon laughing and talking as much as

any of them.

"Supper," he declared, "would be the most delightful meal of the day in

any other country except England. In a quarter of an hour the lights

will be out."

"But it is barbarous," Mademoiselle Rosine declared. "Ah! Monsieur

Macheson, you should come to Paris! There it is that one may enjoy

oneself."

"I will come," Macheson answered, "whenever you will take me."

She clapped her hands.

"Agreed," she cried. "I have finished rehearsing. I have a week's

'vacance.' We will go to Paris to-morrow, all four of us!"

"I'm on," Davenant declared promptly. "I was going anyway in a week or

two."

Mademoiselle Rosine clapped her hands again.

"Bravo!" she cried. "And you, Mademoiselle?"

The girl hesitated. She glanced at Macheson.

"We will both come," Macheson declared. "Miss Merriam will do me the

honour to go as my guest."

"We'll stay at the Vivandiere," Davenant said. "I've a pal there who

knows the ropes right up to date. What about the two-twenty to-morrow?

We shall get there in time to change and have supper at Noyeau's."

"And afterwards--_au Rat Mort_----" Mademoiselle Rosine cried. "We will

drink a glass of champagne with _cher_ Monsieur Francois."

Davenant raised his glass.

"One more toast, then, before the bally lights go out!" he exclaimed.

"To Paris--and our trip!"

Some one touched Macheson on the arm. He turned sharply round. Deyes was

standing there. Tall and immaculately attired, there was something a

little ghostly in the pallor of his worn, beardless face, with its many

wrinkles and tired eyes.

"Forgive me for interrupting you, my dear fellow," he said. "We are

having our coffee outside, just on the left there. Miss Thorpe-Hatton

wants you to stop for a moment on your way out."

Macheson hesitated perceptibly. A dull flush of colour stained his

cheek, fading away almost immediately. He set his teeth hard.

"I shall be very happy," he said, "to stop for a second."

Deyes bowed and turned away. The room now was almost in darkness, and

the people were streaming out into the foyer. Macheson paid the bill and

followed in the wake of the others. Seeing him approach alone,

Wilhelmina welcomed him with a smile, and drew her skirts on one side to

make room for him to sit down. He glanced doubtfully around. She raised

her eyebrows.

"Your friends," she said, "are in no hurry. They can spare you for a

moment."

There was nothing in her tone to indicate any surprise at finding him

there, or in such company. She made a few casual remarks in her somewhat

languid fashion, and recalled him to the recollection of Lady Peggy, who

was to all appearance flirting desperately with Lord Westerdean. Deyes

had strolled across to a neighbouring group, and was talking to a

well-known actor. Wilhelmina leaned towards him.

"Has it ever occurred to you," she asked quietly, "that you left me a

little abruptly the other afternoon?"

His eyes blazed into hers. He found it hard to emulate the quiet

restraint of her tone and manner. It was a trick which he had never

cultivated, never inherited, this playing with the passions in kid

gloves, this muzzling and harnessing of the emotions.

"You know why," he said.

She inclined her head ever so slightly to where his late companions were

seated.

"And this?" she asked. "Am I responsible for this, too?"

He laughed shortly.

"It would never have occurred to me to suggest such a thing," he

declared. "I am amusing myself a little. Why not?"

"Are you?" she asked calmly.

Her eyes drew his. He almost fancied that the quiver at the corners of

her lips was of mirth.

"Somehow," she continued, "I am not sure of that. I watched you now and

then in there. It seemed to me that you were playing a part--rather a

ghastly part! There's nothing so wearisome, you know, as pretending to

enjoy yourself."

"I had a headache to-night," he said, frowning.

She bent towards him.

"Is it better now?" she whispered, smiling.

He threw out his hands with a quick fierce gesture. It was well that the

great room was wrapped in the mysterious obscurity of semi-darkness, and

that every one was occupied with the business of farewells. He sprang to

his feet.

"I am going," he said thickly. "My friends are expecting me."

She shook her head.

"Those are not your friends," she said. "You know very well that they

never could be. You can go and wish them good night. You are going to

see me home."

"No!" he declared.

"If you please," she begged softly.

He crossed the room unsteadily, and made his excuses with the best grace

he could. Mademoiselle Rosine made a wry face. Miss Ella laid her

fingers upon his arm and looked anxiously up at him.

"Say you won't disappoint us to-morrow," she said. "It's all fixed up

about Paris, isn't it? Two-twenty from Charing Cross."

"Yes!" he answered. "I will let you know if anything turns up."

They all stood around him. Davenant laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"Look here, old chap," he said, "no backing out. We've promised the

girls, and we mustn't disappoint them."

"Monsieur Macheson would not be so cruel," Mademoiselle Rosine pleaded.

"He has promised, and Englishmen never break their workd. Is it not so?

A party of four, yes! that is very well. But alone with Herbert here I

could not go. If you do not come, all is spoilt! Is it not so, my

friends?"

"Rather!" Davenant declared.

The other girl's fingers tightened upon his arm.

"Don't go away now," she whispered. "Come round to my flat and we'll all

talk it over. I will sing you my new song. I'm crazy about it."

Macheson detached himself as well as he could.

"I must leave you now," he declared. "I can assure you that I mean to

come to-morrow."

He hurried after Wilhelmina, who was saying good night to her friends. A

few minutes later they were being whirled westwards in her brougham.

CHAPTER II

PLAYING WITH FIRE

"And now," she said, throwing herself into an easy-chair and taking up a

fan, "we can talk."

He refused the chair which she had motioned him to wheel up to the fire.

He stood glowering down upon her, pale, stern, yet not wholly master of

himself. Against the sombre black of her dress, her neck and bosom shone

like alabaster. She played with her pearls, and looked up at him with

that faint maddening curl of the lips which he so loved and so hated.

"So you won't sit down. I wonder why a man always feels that he can

bully a woman so much better standing up."

"There is no question of bullying you," he answered shortly. "You are

responsible for my coming here. What is it that you want with me?"

"Suppose," she murmured, looking up at him, "that I were to say--another

kiss!"

"Suppose, on the other hand," he answered roughly, "you were to tell me

the truth."

She sighed gently.

"You jump so rapidly at conclusions," she declared. "Are you sure that

it would not be the truth!"

"If it were," he began fiercely.

"If it were," she interrupted, "well?"

"I would rather kiss Mademoiselle Rosine or whatever her name is," he

said. "I would sooner go out into the street and kiss the first woman I

met."

She shook her head.

"What an impossible person you are!" she murmured. "Of course, I don't

believe you."

He shrugged his shoulders, and glanced at the clock.

"Are you going to keep me here long?" he asked roughly. "I am going to

Paris to-morrow, and I have to pack my clothes."

"To Paris? With Mademoiselle Rosine?"

"Yes!"

She laughed softly.

"Oh! I think not," she declared. "That sort of thing wouldn't amuse you

a bit."

"We shall see!" he muttered.

"I am sure that you will not go," she repeated.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because--I beg you not to!"

"You!" he exclaimed. "You! Do you think that I am another of those

creatures of straw and putty, to dance to your whims, to be whistled to

your heel, to be fed with stray kisses, and an occasional kind word? I

think not! If I am to go to the Devil, I will go my own way."

"You inconsistent creature!" she said. "Why not mine?"

"I'll take my soul with me, such as it is," he answered. "I'll not make

away with it while my feet are on the earth."

"Do you know that you are really a very extraordinary person?" she said.

"What I am you are responsible for," he answered. "I was all right when

you first knew me. I may have been ignorant, perhaps, but at any rate I

was sincere. I had a conscience and an ideal. Oh! I suppose you found me

very amusing--a missioner who thought it worth while to give a part of

his life to help his fellows climb a few steps higher up. What devil was

it that sent you stealing down the lane that night from your house, I

wonder?"

She nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry you can speak of it like that," she said. "To me it was the

most delightful piece of sentiment! Almost like a poem!"

"A poem! It was the Devil's own poetry you breathed into me! What a poor

mad fool I became! You saw how easily I gave my work up, how I sulked up

to London, fighting with it all the time, with this madness--this----"

"Dear me," she said, "what an Adam you are! My dear Victor, isn't

it--you are very, very young. There is no need for you to manufacture a

huge tragedy out of a woman's kiss."

"What else is it but a tragedy," he demanded, "the kiss that is a

lie--or worse? You brought me here, you let me hold you in my arms, you

filled my brain with mad thoughts, you drove everything good and worth

having out of life, you filled it with what? Yourself! And then--you pat

me on the cheek and tell me to come, and be kissed some other day, when

you feel in the humour, a wet afternoon, perhaps, or when you are

feeling bored, and want to hunt up a few new emotions! It may be the way

with you and your kind. I call it hellish!"

"Well," she said, "tell me exactly what it is that you want?"

"To be laughed at--as you did before?" he answered fiercely. "Never

mind. It was the truth. You have lain in my arms, you came willingly,

your lips have been mine! You belong to me!"

"To be quite explicit," she murmured, "you think I ought to marry you."

"Yes!" he declared firmly. "A kiss is a promise! You seem to want to

live as a 'poseuse,' to make playthings of your emotions and mine. I

wanted to build up my life firmly, to make it a stable and a useful

thing. You came and wrecked it, and you won't even help me to rebuild."

"Let us understand one another thoroughly," she said. "Your complaint

is, then, that I will not marry you?"

The word, the surprising, amazing word, left her lips again so calmly

that Macheson was staggered a little, confused by its marvellous

significance. He was thrown off his balance, and she smiled as a

wrestler who has tripped his adversary. Henceforth she expected to find

him easier to deal with.

"You know--that it is not that--altogether," he faltered.

"What is it that you want then?" she asked calmly. "There are not many

men in the world who have kissed--even my hand. There are fewer

still--whom I have kissed. I thought that I had been rather kind to

you."

"Kind!" he threw out his arms with a despairing gesture. "You call it

kindness, the drop of magic you pour into a man's veins, the touch of

your body, the breath of your lips vouchsafed for a second, the elixir

of a new life. What is it to you? A caprice! A little dabbling in the

emotions, a device to make a few minutes of the long days pass more

smoothly. Perhaps it's the way in your world, this! You cheat yourself

of a whole-hearted happiness by making physiological experiments,

frittering away the great chance out of sheer curiosity--or something

worse. And we who don't understand the game--we are the victims!"

"Really," she said pleasantly, "you are very eloquent."

"And you," he said, "are----"

Her hand flashed out almost to his lips, long shapely fingers, ablaze

with the dull fire of emeralds.

"Stop," she commanded, "you are not quite yourself this evening. I am

afraid that you will say something which you will regret. Now listen.

You have made a most eloquent attack upon me, but you must admit that it

is a perfect tangle of generalities. Won't you condescend to look me in

the face, leave off vague complaints, and tell me precisely why you have

placed me in the dock and yourself upon the bench? In plain words, mind.

No evasions. I want the truth."

"You shall have it," he answered grimly. "Listen, then. I began at

Thorpe. You were at once rude and kind to me. I was a simple ass, of

course, and you were a mistress in all the arts which go to a man's

undoing. It wasn't an equal fight. I struggled a little, but I thanked

God that I had an excuse to give up my work. I came to London, but the

poison was working. Every morning before you were up, and every night

after dark, I walked round your square--and the days I saw you were the

days that counted."

"Dear me, how interesting!" she interrupted softly. "And to think that I

never knew!"

"I never meant you to know," he declared. "A fool I was from the first,

but never fool enough to misunderstand. When I brought Letty Foulton to

you, I brought her against my will. It was for the child's sake. And you

were angry, and then I saw you again--and you were kind!"

She smiled at him.

"I'm glad you admit that," she said gently. "I thought that I was very

kind indeed. And you repaid me--how?"

"Kind!" he cried fiercely. "Yes! you were kind! You were mine for the

moment, you lay in my arms, you gave me your lips! It was an impression!

It amused you to see any human being so much in earnest. Then the mood

passed. Your dole of charity had been given! I must sit apart and you

must smooth your hair. What did it all amount to? An episode, a trifling

debauch in sentiment--and for me--God knows!"

"To return once more," she said patiently, "to your complaint. Is it

that I will not marry you?"

"I did not ask that--at first," he answered. "It is a good deal, I

know."

"Then do you want to come and kiss me every day?" she asked, "because I

don't think that that would suit me either."

"I can believe it," he said.

"I am inclined to think," she said, "that you are a very grasping and

unreasonable person. I have permitted you privileges which more men than

my modesty permits me to tell you of have begged for in vain. You have

accepted them--I promised nothing beyond, nor have you asked for it. Yet

because I was obliged to talk reasonably to you, you flung yourself out

of my house, and I am left to rescue you at the expense of my pride,

perhaps also of my reputation, from associations which you ought to be

ashamed of."

"To talk reasonably to me," he repeated slowly. "Do you remember what

you said?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Naturally! And what I said was true enough."

"I was to be content with scraps. To go away and forget you, until

chance or a whim of yours should bring us together again."

"Did you want so much more?" she asked, with a swift maddening glance at

him.

He fell on his knees before her couch.

"Oh! I love you!" he said. "Forgive me if I am unreasonable or foolish.

I can't help it. You came so unexpectedly, so wonderfully! And you see I

lost my head as well as my heart. I have so little to offer you--and I

want so much."

Her hands rested for a moment caressingly upon his shoulders. A whole

world of wonderful things was shining out of her eyes. It was only her

lips that were cruel.

"My dear boy," she said, "you want what I may not give. I am very, very

sorry. I think there must have been some sorcery in the air that night,

the spell of the roses must have crept into my blood. I am sorry for

what I did. I am very sorry that I did not leave you alone."

He rose heavily to his feet. His face was grey with suffering.

"I ought to have known," he said. "I think that I did know."

"All the same," she continued, laying her hand upon his arm, "I think

that you are a rank extremist."

He shook his head.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Shall I teach you?" she whispered.

He flung her hand away.

"No!" he said savagely.

She sighed.

"I am afraid you had better go away," she said.

As he closed the door he fancied that he heard a sob. But it might have

been only fancy.

CHAPTER III

MONSIEUR S'AMUSE

"To-night," young Davenant declared, with something which was

suspiciously like a yawn, "I really think that we must chuck it just a

little earlier. Shall we say that we leave here at two, and get back to

the hotel?"

Mademoiselle Rosine pouted, but said nothing. The young lady from

America tried to take Macheson's hand.

"Yes!" she murmured. "Do let's! I'm dead tired."

She whispered something in Macheson's ear which he affected not to hear.

He leaned back in his cushioned seat and laughed.

"What, go home without seeing Francois!" he exclaimed. "He's keeping the

corner table for us, and we're all going to dance the Maxixe with the

little Russian girl."

"We could telephone," Davenant suggested. "Do you know that we haven't

been to bed before six one morning since we arrived in Paris?"

"Well, isn't that what we came for?" Macheson exclaimed. "We can go to

bed at half-past twelve in London. Maitre d'hotel, the wine! My friends

are getting sleepy. What's become of the music? Tell our friend

there--ah! Monsieur Henri!"

He beckoned to the leader of the orchestra, who came up bowing, with his

violin under his arm.

"Monsieur Henri, my friends are '_triste_,'" he explained. "They say

there is no music here, no life. They speak of going home to bed. Look

at mademoiselle here! She yawns! We did not come to Paris to yawn.

Something of the liveliest. You understand? Perhaps mademoiselle there

will dance."

"Parfaitement, monsieur."

The man bowed himself away, with a twenty-franc piece in the palm of his

hand. The orchestra began a gay two-step. Macheson, starting up, passed

his arm round the waist of a little fair-haired Parisienne just

arriving. She threw her gold satchel on to a table, and they danced

round the room. Davenant watched them with unwilling admiration.

"Well, Macheson's a fair knockout," he declared. "I'm hanged if he can

keep still for five minutes. And when I knew him at Oxford, he was one

of the most studious chaps in the college. Gad! he's dancing with

another girl now--look, he's drinking champagne out of her glass.

Shouldn't stand it, Ella."

Ella was watching him. Her eyes were very bright, and there was more

colour than usual in her cheeks.

"It's nothing to me what Mr. Macheson does," she said, with a catch in

her voice. "I don't understand him a bit. I think he's mad."

Mademoiselle Rosine leaned across and whispered in her ear. Ella shook

her head.

"You see--it is any girl with him," she said. "He dances with them, pays

their bills--see, he pays for Annette there, and away he goes--laughing.

You see it is so with them, too. He has finished with them now. He comes

back to us. Guess I'm not sure I want him."

Nevertheless she moved her skirts and made room for him by her side.

Macheson came up out of breath, and poured himself out a glass of wine.

"What a time they are serving supper!" he exclaimed.

Davenant groaned.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, "remember our dinner at Lesueur's. You

can't be hungry!"

"But I am," Macheson declared. "What are we here for but to eat and

drink and enjoy ourselves? Jove! this is good champagne! Mademoiselle

Rosine!"

He raised his glass and bowed. Mademoiselle Rosine laughed at him out of

her big black eyes. He was rather a fascinating figure, this tall,

good-looking young Englishman, who spoke French so perfectly and danced

so well.

"I would make you come and sit by me, Monsieur Macheson," she declared,

"but Ella would be jealous."

"What about me?" Davenant exclaimed.

"Oh! la, la!" she answered, pinching his arm.

"I'm sure I don't mind," Ella declared. "I guess we're all free to talk

to whom we please."

Macheson drew up a chair and sat opposite to them.

"I choose to look at you both," he said, banging the table with his

knife. "Garcon, we did not come here to eat your flowers or your

immaculate tablecloth. We ordered supper half an hour ago. Good! It

arrives."

No one but Macheson seemed to have much appetite. He ate and he drank,

and he talked almost alone. He ordered another bottle of wine, and the

tongues of the others became a little looser. The music was going now

all the time, and many couples were dancing. The fair-haired girl,

dancing with an older woman, touched him on the shoulder as she passed,

and laughed into his face.

"There is no one," she murmured, "who dances like monsieur."

He sprang up from his seat and whirled her round the room. She leaned

against his arm and whispered in his ear. Ella watched her with

darkening face.

"It is little Flossie from the _Folies Marigny_," Mademoiselle Rosine

remarked. "You must have a care, Ella. She has followed Monsieur

Macheson everywhere with her eyes."

He returned to his place and continued his supper.

"Hang it all, you people are dull to-night," he exclaimed. "Drink some

more wine, Davenant, and look after mademoiselle. Miss Ella!"

He filled her glass and she leaned over the table.

"Every one else seems to make love to you," she whispered. "I guess I'll

have to begin. If you call me Miss Ella again I shall box your ears."

"Ella then, what you will," he exclaimed. "Remember, all of you, that we

are here to have a good time, not to mope. Davenant, if you don't

sparkle up, I shall come and sit between the girls myself."

"Come along," they both cried. Mademoiselle Rosine held out her arms,

but Macheson kept his seat.

"Let's go up to the _Rat Mort_ if we're going," Ella exclaimed. "It's

dull here, and I'm tired of seeing that yellow-headed girl make eyes at

you."

Macheson laughed and drained his glass.

"_Au Rat Mort!_" he cried. "Good!"

They paid the bill and all trooped out. The fair-haired girl caught at

Macheson's hand as he passed.

"_Au Rat Mort?_" she whispered.

She threw a meaning glance at Ella.

"Monsieur is well guarded," she said softly.

"Malheureusement!" he answered, smiling.

Davenant drew him on one side as the girls went for their cloaks.

"I say, old chap," he began, "aren't you trying Ella a bit high? She's

not a bad-tempered girl, you know, but I'm afraid there'll be a row

soon."

Macheson paused to light a cigarette.

"A row?" he answered. "I don't see why."

"You're a bit catholic in your attentions, you know," Davenant remarked.

"Why not?" Macheson answered. "Ella is nothing to me. No more are the

rest of them. I amuse myself--that's all."

Davenant looked as he felt, puzzled.

"Well," he said. "I'm not sure that Ella sees it in that light."

"Why shouldn't she?" Macheson demanded.

"Well, hang it all, you brought her over, didn't you?" Davenant reminded

him.

"She came over as my guest," Macheson answered. "That is to say, I pay

for her whenever she chooses to come out with us, and I pay or shall pay

her hotel bill. Beyond that, I imagine that we are both of us free to

amuse ourselves as we please."

"I don't believe Ella looks at it in that light," Davenant said

hesitatingly. "You mean to say that there is nothing--er----"

"Of course not," Macheson interrupted.

"Hasn't she----"

"Oh! shut up," Macheson exclaimed. "Here they come."

Ella passed her arm through his. Mademoiselle Rosine had told her while

she stood on tiptoe and dabbed at her cheeks with a powder-puff, that

she was too cold. The Messieurs Anglais were often so difficult. They

needed encouragement, so very much encouragement. Then there were more

confidences, and Madame Rosine was very much astonished. What sort of a

man was this Monsieur Macheson, yet so gallant, so gay! She promised

herself that she would watch him.

"We will drive up together, you and I," Ella whispered in his ear, but

Macheson only laughed.

"I've hired a motor car for the night," he said. "In you get! I'm going

to sit in front with the chauffeur and sing."

"You will do nothing of the sort," Ella declared, almost sharply. "You

will come inside with us."

"Anywhere, anyhow," he answered. "To the little hell at the top of the

hill, Jean, and drive fast," he directed. "Jove! it's two o'clock! Hurry

up, Davenant. We shall have no time there at all."

There was barely room for four. Mademoiselle Rosine perched herself

daintily on Davenant's knee. Ella tried to draw Macheson into her arms,

but he sank on to the floor, and sat with his hands round his knees

singing a French music-hall song of the moment. They shouted to him to

leave off, but he only sang the louder. Then, in a block, he sprang from

the car, seized the whole stock of a pavement flower-seller, and, paying

her magnificently, emptied them through the window of the car into the

girls' laps, and turning round as suddenly--disappeared.

"He's mad--quite mad," Ella declared, with a sigh. "I don't believe we

shall see him again to-night."

Nevertheless, he was on the pavement outside the _Rat Mort_ awaiting

them, chaffing the commissionaire. He threw open the door and welcomed

them.

"They are turning people away here," he declared. "Heaps of fun going

on! All the artistes from the Circus are here, and a party of Spaniards.

Francois has kept our table. Come along."

Ella hung on to him as they climbed the narrow, shabby staircase.

"Say," she pleaded in his ear, "don't you want to be a little nicer to

me to-night?"

"Command me," he answered. "I am in a most amenable temper."

"Sit with me instead of wandering round so. You don't want to talk to

every pretty girl, do you?"

He laughed.

"Why not? Aren't we all on the same quest? It is the 'camaraderie' of

pleasure!"

They reached the bend of the stairs. From above they could hear the

music, the rattle of plates, the hum of voices. She leaned towards him.

"Kiss me, please," she whispered.

He stooped down and raised her hand to his lips. She drew it slowly away

and looked at him curiously.

"Your lips are cold," she said.

He laughed.

"The night is young," he answered. "See, there is Francois."

They passed on. Ella was a little more content. It was the most

promising thing he had said to her.

CHAPTER IV

AT THE "DEAD RAT"

Monsieur Francois piloted the little party himself to the corner table

which he had reserved for them. He had taken a fancy to this tall young

Englishman, whose French, save for a trifle of accent, was as perfect as

his own, who spent money with both hands, who was gay as the gayest, and

yet who had the air of being little more than a looker-on at the

merriment which he did so much to promote.

"We are full to-night, monsieur," he said. "There will be a great crowd.

Yet you see your table waits. Mademoiselle Bolero herself begged for it,

but I said always--'No! no! no! It is for monsieur and his friends.'"

"You are a prince," Macheson exclaimed as they filed into their places.

"To-night we are going to prove to ourselves that we are indeed in

Paris! Sommelier, the same wine--in magnums to-night! My friend is

sleepy. We must wake him up. Ah, mademoiselle!" he waved his hand to the

little short-skirted danseuse. "You must take a glass of wine with us,

and afterwards--the Maxixe! Waiter, a glass, a chair for mademoiselle!"

Mademoiselle came pirouetting up to them. Monsieur was very kind. She

would take a glass of champagne, and afterwards--yes! the Maxixe, if

they desired it!

They sat with their backs to the wall, facing the little space along

which the visitors to the cafe came and went, and where, under

difficulties, one danced. The leader of the orchestra came bowing and

smiling towards them, playing an American waltz, and Macheson, with a

laugh, sprang up and guided mademoiselle through the throng of people

and hurrying waiters.

"Monsieur comes often to Paris?" she asked, as they whirled around.

"For the first time in my life," Macheson answered. "We are here on a

quest! We want to understand what pleasure means!"

Mademoiselle sighed ever so slightly under the powder with which her

pretty face was disfigured.

"One is gay here always," she said somewhat doubtfully, "but it is the

people who come seldom who enjoy themselves the most."

Macheson laughed as he led her back to their table.

"You are right," he declared. "Pleasure is a subtle thing. It does not

do to analyse."

Macheson filled her glass.

"Sit down," he said, "and tell us about the people. It is early yet, I

suppose?"

She nodded.

"Yes," she answered. "There are many who come every night who have not

yet arrived."

Ella leaned forward to ask a question, and mademoiselle nodded. Yes!

that was Bolero at the small table opposite. She sat with three men, one

of whom was busy sketching on the back of the menu card. Bolero, with

her wonderful string of pearls, smileless, stolid, with the boredom in

her face of the woman who sees no more worlds to conquer. Monsieur with

the ruffled hair and black eyes? Yes! a Russian certainly. Mademoiselle,

with a smile which belied her words, was not sure of his name, but

Francois spoke always of His Highness! The gentleman with the

smooth-shaven face, who read a newspaper and supped alone? Mademoiselle

looked around. She hesitated. After all, monsieur and his friends were

only casual visitors. It was not for them to repeat it, but the

gentleman was a detective--one of the most famous. He had watched for

some one for many nights. In the end it would happen. Ah! Some one was

asking for a cake-walk? Mademoiselle finished her wine hastily and

sprang up. She will return? But certainly, if monsieur pleases!

The band struck up something American. Mademoiselle danced up and down

the little space between the tables. Ella laid her hand upon Macheson's

shoulder.

"Why do you want to talk to every one?" she whispered. "I think you

forget sometimes that you are not alone."

Macheson laughed impatiently.

"My dear young lady," he said, "you too forget that we are on a quest.

We are here to understand what pleasure means--how to win it. We must

talk to every one, do everything everybody else does. It's no good

looking on all the time."

"But you never talk to me at all," she objected.

"Rubbish!" he answered lightly. "You don't listen. Come, I am getting

hungry. Davenant, we must order supper."

Davenant, whose hair Mademoiselle Rosine had been ruffling, whose tie

was no longer immaculate, and who was beginning to realize that he had

drunk a good deal of wine, leaned forward and regarded Macheson with

admiration.

"Old man," he declared, "you're great! Order what you like. We will eat

it--somehow, won't we, Rosine?"

She laughed assent.

"For me," she begged, "some caviare, and afterwards an omelette."

"Consomme and dry biscuits--and some fruit!" Ella suggested.

Macheson gave the order and filled their glasses. It was half-past two,

and people were beginning to stream in. Unattached ladies strolled down

the room--looking for a friend--or to make one. Their more fortunate

sisters of the "haute demi-monde" were beginning to arrive with their

escorts, from the restaurants and cafes. Greetings were shouted up and

down the room. Suddenly Ella's face clouded over again. It was the girl

in blue, with whom Macheson had danced at Lesueur's, who had just

entered with a party of friends, women in lace coats and wonderful opera

cloaks, the men all silk-hatted--the shiniest silk hats in Europe--white

gloves, supercilious and immaculate. A burst of applause greeted her,

as, with her blue skirts daringly lifted, she danced down the room to

the table which was hastily being prepared for them. Her piquant face

was wreathed with smiles, she shouted greetings everywhere, and when she

saw Macheson, she threw him kisses with both hands, which he stood up

and gallantly returned. She was the centre of attraction until

Mademoiselle Anna from the Circus arrived, and to reach her place leaped

lightly over an intervening table, with a wonderful display of red silk

stocking and filmy lingerie. The place became gayer and noisier every

moment. Greetings were shouted from table to table. The spirit of

Bohemianism seemed to flash about the place like quicksilver. People who

were complete strangers drank one another's health across the room. The

hard-worked waiters were rushing frantically about. The popping of corks

was almost incessant, a blue haze of tobacco smoke hung about the room.

Macheson, leaning back in his place, watched with eyes that missed

little. He saw the keen-faced little man whose identity mademoiselle had

disclosed, calmly fold up his paper, light a cigarette, and stroll

across the room to a table nearly opposite. A man was sitting there with

a couple of women--a big man with a flushed face and tumbled hair. The

waiter was opening a magnum of champagne--everything seemed to promise a

cheerful time for the trio. Then a word was whispered in his ear. The

newcomer bowed apologetically to the ladies and accepted a glass of

wine. But a moment later the two men left the place together--and

neither returned.

"What are you staring at?" Ella demanded curiously.

Macheson looked away from the door and smiled quietly.

"I was wondering," he answered, "what it was like--outside?"

"Would you like to go?" she whispered eagerly in his ear. "I'm ready.

The others could come on afterwards."

"What, without supper?" he exclaimed. "My dear girl, I'm starving.

Besides--I didn't mean that altogether."

"It's rather hard to know what you do mean," she remarked with a sigh.

"Say, I don't understand you a little bit!"

"How should you," he answered, "when I'm in the same fix myself?"

"I wish you were like other boys," she remarked. "You're so difficult!"

He looked at her--without the mask--for a moment, and she drew back,

wondering. For his eyes were very weary, and they spoke to her of things

which she did not understand.

"Don't try," he said. "It wouldn't be any good."

Mademoiselle sank into her chair opposite to them, breathless and hot.

She accepted a glass of wine and begged for a cigarette. She whispered

in Macheson's ear that the big man was a forger, an affair of the year

before last. He was safe away from Paris, but the price of his liberty

was more than he could pay. The man there to the left with the lady in

pink, no! not the Vicomte, the one beyond, he was tried for murder a

month ago. There was a witness missing--the case fell through,

but--mademoiselle shook her shoulders significantly. The lady with fair

hair and dark eyes, Macheson asked, was she English? But certainly,

mademoiselle assured him. She was the divorced wife of an English

nobleman. "To-night she is alone," mademoiselle added, "but it is not

often! Ah, monsieur!"

Mademoiselle shook her finger across the table. Macheson's too curious

glance had provoked a smile of invitation from the lady!

"I really think you might remember that I am here," Ella remarked. "It

is very interesting to hear you talk French, but I get tired of it!"

Mademoiselle took the hint and flitted away. Supper arrived and created

a diversion. Nevertheless, Macheson alone of the little party seemed to

have absorbed successfully the spirit of the place. He was almost

recklessly gay. He drank toasts right and left. He was the centre from

which the hilarity of the room seemed to radiate. Davenant was half

muddled with wine, and sleepy. He sat with his arm about Rosine, who

looked more often towards Macheson. Ella, who had refused to eat

anything, was looking flushed and angry. She had tried to link her arm

in her companion's, but he had gently disengaged it. She kept whispering

in his ear, and sat with her eyes glued upon Mademoiselle Flossie, whose

glances and smiles were all for Macheson. And soon after the end came.

The band began a waltz--"L'Amoureuse"--it was apparently mademoiselle

herself who had commanded it. With the first bars, she sprang to her

feet and came floating down the room, her arms stretched out towards

Macheson. She leaned over the table, her body swaying towards him, her

gesture of invitation piquant, bewitching. Macheson, springing at once

to his feet, rested his hand for a moment upon the table which hemmed

him in, and vaulted lightly into the room. A chorus of laughter and

bravoes greeted his feat.

"But he is un homme galant, this Englishman," a Frenchwoman cried out,

delighted. Every one was watching the couple. But Ella rose to her feet

and called a waiter to move the table.

"I am going," she said angrily. "I have had enough of this. You people

can come when you like."

They tried to stop her, but it was useless. She swept down the room,

taking not the slightest notice of Macheson and his companion, a spot of

angry colour burning in her cheeks. Davenant and Mademoiselle Rosine

stood up, preparing to follow her. The former shouted to Macheson, who

brought his partner up to their table and poured her out a glass of

champagne.

"Ella's gone!" Davenant exclaimed. "You'll catch it!"

Macheson smiled.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Are you off too?"

"As soon as the Johnny brings the bill," Davenant answered.

"I'll settle up," Macheson declared. "Take the automobile. I'll follow

you in a few minutes."

Mademoiselle Flossie, called back to her own table, hurried off with a

parting squeeze of Macheson's hand. He sat down alone for a moment. At

the other end of the room, a darkey with a doll's hat upon his head was

singing a coon song!

CHAPTER V

THE AWAKENING

Alone for the first moment of the evening, it seemed to Macheson that a

sudden wave of confounding thoughts surged into his brain, at war from

the first with all that was sensuous and brilliant in this new and

swiftly developed phase of his personality. He closed his eyes for a

moment, and when again he opened them it seemed indeed as though a

miracle had taken place. The whole atmosphere of the room was changed.

He looked around, incredulous, amazed. The men especially were

different. Such good fellows as they had seemed a few moments ago--from

his altered point of view Macheson regarded them now in scornful

curiosity. Their ties were awry, their hair was ruffled, their faces

were paled or flushed. The laughter of women rang still through the

place, but the music had gone from their mirth. It seemed to him that he

saw suddenly through the smiles that wreathed their lips, saw underneath

the barren mockery of it all. This hideous travesty of life in its

gentler moods had but one end--the cold, relentless path to oblivion.

Louder and louder the laughter rang, until Macheson felt that he must

close his ears. The Devil was using his whip indeed.

Mademoiselle la Danseuse, seeing him alone, paused at his table on her

way through the room.

"Monsieur is _triste_," she remarked, "because his friends have

departed."

Macheson shook his head.

"I am off, too, in a few minutes," he answered.

A waiter with immovable face slipped a note into his hand, under cover

of presenting the bill. Macheson read it and glanced across the room.

Mademoiselle Flossie was watching him with uplifted eyebrows and

expectant smile. Macheson shook his head, slightly but unmistakably. The

young lady in blue shrugged her shoulders and pouted.

Mademoiselle la Danseuse was watching him curiously.

"I wonder," she said softly, "why monsieur comes here."

"In search of pleasure," Macheson answered grimly.

She looked at him fixedly, and Macheson, momentarily interested,

returned her gaze. Then he saw that underneath the false smile, for a

moment laid aside, there was something human in her face.

"Monsieur makes a brave show, but he does not succeed," she remarked.

"And you?" he asked. "Why do you come here?"

"It pays--very well," she answered quietly, and left him.

Macheson settled his bill and called for the vestiaire. In the further

corner of the room two women were quarrelling. The languid senses of

those who still lingered in the place were stirred. The place was

electrified instantly with a new excitement. A fight, perhaps--every one

crowded around. Unnoticed, Macheson walked out.

Down the narrow stairs he groped his way, with the music of the

orchestra, the fierce hysterical cries of the women, the mock cheering

of those who crowded round, in his ears. He passed out into the

blue-grey dawn. The stars were faint in the sky, and away eastwards

little fleecy red clouds were strewn over the house-tops. He stood on

the pavement and drew in a long breath. The morning breeze was like a

draught of cold water; it was as though he had come back to life again

after an interlude spent in some other world. Overhead he could still

hear the music of the "Valse Amoureuse," the swell of voices. He

shivered, with the cold perhaps--or the memory of the nightmare!

The commissionaire, hat in hand, summoned a coupe, and Macheson took his

place in the small open carriage. Down the cobbled street they went, the

crazy vehicle swaying upon its worn rubber tyres, past other night

resorts with their blaze of lights and string of waiting cabs; past

women in light boots, in strange costumes, artificial in colour and

shape, painted, bold-eyed, uncanny pilgrims in the City of Pleasure;

past the great churches, silent and stern in the cold morning light;

past weary-eyed scavengers into the heart of the city, where a thin

stream of early morning toilers went on their relentless way. Once more

he entered the obscurity of his dimly lit hotel, where sleepy-eyed

servants were sweeping, and retired to his room, into which he let

himself at last with a sigh of relief. He threw up the blinds and

opened the windows. To be alone within those four walls was a blessed

thing.

He threw off his coat and glanced at his watch. It was half-past five.

His eyes were hot, but he had no desire for sleep. He walked restlessly

up and down for a few minutes, and then threw himself into an

easy-chair. Suddenly he looked up.

Some one was knocking softly at his door. He walked slowly towards it

and paused. All his senses were still pulsating with a curious sense of

excitement; when he stood still he could almost hear his heart beat.

From outside came the soft rustling of a woman's gown--he knew very well

who it was that waited there. He stood still and waited. Again there

came the knocking, to him almost like a symbolical thing in its

stealthy, muffled insistence. He felt himself battling with a sudden

wave of emotions, struggling with a passionate, unexpected desire to

answer the summons. He took a quick step forwards. Then sanity came, and

the moment seemed far away--a part of the nightmare left behind. He

waited until he heard the quiet, reluctant footsteps pass away down the

corridor. Then he muttered something to himself, which sounded like a

prayer. He sank into a chair and passed his hand across his forehead.

The recollection of that moment was horrible to him. He stared at the

door with fascinated eyes. What if he had opened it!

He still had no desire for sleep, but he began slowly to undress. His

clothes, his tie, everything he had been wearing, seemed to him to reek

of accumulated perfumes of the night, and he flung them from him with

feverish disgust. There was a small bath-room opening from his sleeping

chamber, and with a desire for complete cleanliness which was not wholly

physical, he filled the bath and plunged in. The touch of the cold water

was inspiring and he stepped out again into a new world. Much of the

horror of so short a time ago had gone, but with his new self had come

an ever-increasing distaste for any resumption, in any shape or form, of

his associations of the last few days. He must get away. He rummaged

through his things and found a timetable. In less than an hour he was

dressed, his clothes were packed, and the bill was paid. He wrote a

short note to Davenant and a shorter one to Ella. Ignoring the events of

the last night, he spoke of a summons home. He enclosed the receipted

hotel bill, and something with which he begged her to purchase a

souvenir of her visit. Then he drank some coffee, and with a somewhat

stealthy air made his way to the lift, and thence to the courtyard of

the hotel. Already a small victoria was laden with his luggage; the

concierge, the baggage-master, the porters, were all tipped with a

prodigality almost reckless. Shaven, and with a sting of the cold water

still upon his skin, in homely flannel shirt and grey tweed travelling

clothes, he felt like a man restored to sanity and health as his cab

lumbered over the long cobbled street, on its way to the Gare du Nord.

It was only a matter of a few hours, and yet how sweet and fresh the

streets seemed in the early morning sunshine. The shops were all open,

and the busy housewives were hard at work with their bargaining, the

toilers of the city thronged the pavements, everywhere there was

evidence of a real and rational life. The city of those few hours ago

was surely a city of nightmares. The impassable river flowed between.

Macheson leaned back in his carriage and his eyes were fixed upon the

blue sunlit sky. His lips moved; a song of gratitude was in his heart.

He felt like the prisoner before whom the iron gates have been rolled

back, disclosing the smiling world!

CHAPTER VI

THE ECHO OF A CRIME

"Macheson, by Jove! Where on earth have you sprung from?"

Holderness threw down his pen and held out both his hands. Macheson drew

a long sigh of relief.

"From the pigsties, Dick. Whew! It's good to see you again--to be here!"

Holderness surveyed his friend critically.

"What have you been up to?" he asked. "Look washed out, as though you'd

had a fever or something. I've been expecting to see you every day."

"I've been on a pleasure trip to Paris," Macheson answered. "Don't talk

about it, for God's sake."

Holderness roared with laughter.

"You poor idiot!" he exclaimed. "Been on the razzle-dazzle, I believe. I

wish I'd known. I'd have come."

"It's all very well to laugh," Macheson answered. "I feel like a man

who's been living in a sewer."

"Are you cured?" Holderness asked abruptly.

Macheson hesitated. As yet he had not dared to ask himself that

question. Holderness watched the struggle in his face.

"I'm sorry I asked you that," he said quietly. "Look here! I know what

you've come to me for, and I can give it you. You can start at once if

you like."

"Work?" Macheson asked eagerly. "You mean that?"

"Of course! Tons of it! Henwood's at his wits' end in Stepney. He's

started lecturing, and the thing's taken on, but he can't go on night

after night. We don't want anything second-rate either. Then I want help

with the paper."

"I'll help you with the paper as soon as you like," Macheson declared.

"I'd like to go to Stepney, too, but could we hit it, Henwood and I?"

"Of course," Holderness answered. "What are you thinking of, man? You

haven't become a straw-splitter, have you?"

"Not I," Macheson answered "but you have crystallized your ideas into a

cult, haven't you? I might find myself on the other side of the traces."

"Rot!" Holderness answered vigorously. "Look here! This is what we call

ugliness and dirt. We say that these things make for misery. We say that

it is every man's duty, and every woman's, too, to keep themselves clean

and clean-living, for the sake of the community. We take the Christian

code. It is the most complete, the most philosophic, the most beautiful.

We preach it not from the Christian standpoint, but from the point of

view of the man of common sense. Doctrinal religions are all very well

in their way, but the great bald fact remains that the truth has not

been vouchsafed to us through any of them. Therefore we say live the

life and wait. From a scientific point of view we believe, of course,

in a future state. It may be that the truth awaits us there. You can

work to that, can't you?"

"Of course," Macheson answered, "but don't you rather overlook the

support which doctrine gives to the weak and superstitious?"

"Bah! There are the strong to be considered," Holderness declared.

"Think how many men of average intelligence chuck the whole thing

because they can't stomach doctrine. Besides, these people all think, if

you want to confirm 'em or baptize 'em or anything of that sort, that

you've your own axe to grind. Jolly suspicious lot the East-Enders, I

can tell you."

"I'll go and see Henwood," Macheson declared.

Holderness glanced at his watch.

"We'll have something to eat and go together," he declared. "Look here,

I'm really pushed or I wouldn't bother you. Can you do me a country walk

in November for the paper? I have two a month. You can take the last

number and see the sort of thing."

"I'll try," Macheson promised. "You can give me a couple of days, I

suppose?"

"A week--only I want it off my mind. You can get out somewhere and rub

up your impressions. We'll dine for half a crown in Soho, and you shall

tell me about Paris."

Macheson groaned.

"Shut up about Paris," he begged. "The thought of it's like a nightmare

to me--a nightmare full of puppet gnomes, with human masks and the faces

of devils underneath."

"The masks came off?" Holderness asked.

Macheson shivered.

"They did," he answered.

"Do you good," Holderness declared coolly, locking his desk. "I've been

through it. So long as the masks came off it's all right. What was it

sent you there, Victor?"

"A piece of madness," Macheson answered in a low tone, "supreme, utter

madness."

"Cured?"

"Oh! I hope so," Macheson answered. "If not--well, I can fight."

Holderness stood still for a moment. There was a queer look in his eyes.

"There was a woman once, Victor," he said, "who nearly made mincemeat of

my life. She could have done it if she liked--and she wasn't the sort

who spares. She died--thank God! You see I know something about it."

They walked out arm in arm, and not a word passed between them till they

reached the street. Then Holderness called a hansom.

"I feel like steak," he declared. "Entre-cote with potatoes, maitre

d'hotel. Somehow I feel particularly like steak. We will chuck Soho and

dine at the Cafe Royal."

They talked mostly of Henwood and his work. Holderness spoke of it as

successful, but the man himself was weakly. The strain of holding his

difficult audience night after night had begun to tell on him.

Macheson's help would be invaluable. There was a complete school of

night classes running in connexion with the work, and also a library.

"You can guess where the money came from for those," he added, smiling.

"On the women's side there was only the cookery, and the care of the

children. All very imperfect, but with the making of great things about

it."

They went into the Cafe proper for their coffee, sitting at a

marble-topped table, and Holderness called for dominoes. But they had

scarcely begun their game before Macheson started from his seat, and

without a word of explanation strode towards the door. He was just in

time to stop the egress of the man whom he had seen slip from his seat

and try to leave the place.

"Look here," he said, touching him on the shoulder. "I want to talk to

you."

The man made no further attempt at escape. He was very shabby and thin,

but Macheson had recognized him at once. It was the man who had come

stealing down the lane from Thorpe on that memorable night--the man for

whose escape from justice he was responsible.

"My friend won't interfere with us," Macheson said, leading him back to

their seats. "Sit down here."

The man sat down quietly. Holderness took up a paper.

"Go ahead," he said. "I shan't listen."

"If I am to talk," the man said, "I must have some absinthe. My throat

is dry. I have things to say to you, too."

Macheson called a waiter and ordered it.

"Look here," the man said, "I know all that you want to say to me. I can

save you time. It was I who called upon old Mr. Hurd. It was out of

kindness that I went. He has a daughter whom I cannot find. She is in

danger, and I went to warn him. He struck me first. He lost his temper.

He would not tell me where to find her, he would not give me even the

money I had spent on my journey. I, too, lost my temper. I returned the

blow. He fell down--and I was frightened. So I ran away."

Macheson nodded.

"Well," he said, "you seem to have struck an old man because he would

not let you blackmail him, and I, like a fool, helped you to escape."

"Blackmail!" The man looked around him as though afraid of the word. His

cheeks were sunken, but his brown eyes were still bright. "It wasn't

that," he said. "I brought information that was really valuable. There

is a young lady somewhere who is in danger of her life. I came to warn

him; I believed what I had always been told, that she was his daughter.

I found out that it was a lie. It was a conspiracy against me. He never

had a daughter. But I am going to find out who she is!"

"What if I give you up to the police?" Macheson asked.

"For the sake of the woman whom the old man Hurd was shielding you had

better not. You had very much better not," was the hoarse reply. "If you

do, it may cost a woman her life."

"Why are you staying on in England?" Macheson asked.

"To find that woman, and I will find her," he added, with glittering

eyes. "Listen! I have seen her riding in a carriage, beautifully

dressed, with coachman and footman upon the box, an aristocrat. I always

said that she was that. It was a plot against us--to call her that old

man's daughter."

"All this has nothing to do with me," Macheson said quietly. "The only

thing I have to consider is whether I ought or ought not to hand you

over to the police."

The man eyed him craftily. He had little fear.

"If you did, sir," he said, "it would be an injustice. I only touched

the old man in self-defence."

Macheson looked at him gravely.

"I hope that that is the truth," he said. "You can go."

The man stood up. He did not immediately depart.

"What is it?" Macheson asked.

"I was wondering, sir," he said, in a confidential whisper, "whether you

could not give me an idea as to who the lady was who called herself

Stephen Hurd's daughter in Paris six years ago."

Macheson shook his head.

"I have no idea," he answered curtly.

The man shuffled away. Macheson lit a cigarette and watched him for a

moment steadfastly through the large gilt-framed mirror.

"Queer sort of Johnny, your friend," Holderness remarked.

"He's a bad lot, I'm afraid," Macheson answered. "Somehow or other I

can't help wishing that I hadn't seen him."

Holderness laughed.

"Man alive," he said, "it's a good thing you've come back to me, or

you'd be a bundle of nerves in no time. We'll get along now, if you're

ready. You might find something to say to 'em to-night. I know Henwood's

pretty well pumped dry."

They left the place, and took an omnibus citywards.

CHAPTER VII

A COUNTRY WALK

It was exactly such a day as he would have chosen for his purpose when

Macheson stepped out of the train at the wayside station and set his

face towards Thorpe. A strong blustering wind, blowing down from the

hills, had dried the road of all save a slight coating of mud, a wind

fresh from the forest, so fresh and strong that he walked with his cap

in his hand and his head thrown back, glad to breathe it in his lungs

and feel the sting of it on his cheeks. It seemed to him that he had

been away for months, as he climbed the long hill towards the village.

The fields now were brown instead of green, a pungent smell of freshly

turned earth and burning wood was in his nostrils. The hedges and trees

were bare; he caught a glimpse of the great house itself from an

unexpected point. Everywhere he was receiving familiar impressions. He

came to the avenue up which he had passed on his first visit to the

house, continually he met carts bearing her name, and villagers, most of

whom he noticed with some surprise, looked at him doubtfully. Presently

he arrived at the village itself, and stopped before the long, low,

white house where Stephen Hurd lived. He paused for a moment,

hesitating whether to fulfil this part of his mission now, or to wait

until later in the day. Eventually, with the idea of getting the thing

over, he opened the gate and rang the front-door bell.

He was shown into the study, and in a few minutes Stephen Hurd came in,

smoking a pipe, his hands in his pockets. When he saw who his visitor

was he stopped short. He did not offer his hand or ask Macheson to sit

down. He looked at him with a heavy frown upon his face.

"You wished to see me?" he said.

"I did," Macheson answered. "Perhaps my call is inopportune. I have come

from London practically for no other reason than to ask you a single

question."

Hurd laughed shortly.

"You had better ask it then," he said. "I thought that you might have

other business in the neighbourhood. Preaching off, eh?"

"My question is simply this," Macheson said calmly. "Have you, or had

you, ever a sister?"

A dull red flush streamed into the young man's face. He removed his pipe

from his mouth and stared at Macheson. His silence for several moments

seemed to arise from the fact that surprise had robbed him of the powers

of speech.

"Who put you up to asking that?" he demanded sharply.

Macheson raised his eyebrows slightly.

"My question is a simple one," he said. "If you do not choose to answer

it, it is easy for me to procure the information from elsewhere. The

first villager I met would tell me. I preferred to come to you."

"I have no sister," Hurd said slowly. "I never had. Now you must tell me

why you have come here to ask me this."

"I am told," Macheson said, "that years ago a girl in Paris represented

herself as being your father's daughter. She is being inquired for in a

somewhat mysterious way."

"And what business is it of yours?" Hurd demanded curtly.

"None--apparently," Macheson answered. "I am obliged to you for your

information. I will not detain you any longer."

But Stephen Hurd barred the way. Looking into his face, Macheson saw

already the signs of a change there. His eyes were a little wild, and

though it was early in the morning he smelt of spirits.

"No! you don't," he declared truculently. "You're not going till you

tell me what you mean by that question."

"I am afraid," Macheson answered, "that I have nothing more to tell

you."

"You will tell me who this mysterious person is," Hurd declared.

Macheson shook his head.

"No!" he said. "I think that you had better let me pass."

"Not yet," Hurd answered. "Look here! You've been in communication with

the man who came here and murdered my father. You know where he is."

"Scarcely that, was it?" Macheson answered. "There was a struggle, but

your father's death was partly owing to other causes. However, I did not

come here to discuss that with you. I came to ask you a question, which

you have answered. If you will permit me to pass I shall be obliged."

Hurd hesitated for a moment.

"Look here," he said, with an assumption of good nature, "there's no

reason why you and I should quarrel. I want to know who put you up to

asking me that question. It isn't that I want to do him any harm. I'll

guarantee his safety, if you like, so far as I am concerned. Only I'm

anxious to meet him."

Macheson shook his head.

"I do not know where he is myself," he answered. "In any case, I could

not give you any information."

Stephen Hurd stood squarely in front of the door.

"You'll have to," he said doggedly. "That's all there is about it."

Macheson took a step forward.

"Look here," he said, "I shouldn't try that on if I were you. I am

stronger than you are, and I have studied boxing. I don't care about

fighting, but I am going to leave this room--at once."

"The devil you are," Hurd cried, striking at him. "Take that, you

canting hypocrite."

Macheson evaded the blow with ease. Exactly how it happened he never

knew, but Hurd found himself a few seconds later on his back--and alone

in the room. He sprang up and rushed after Macheson, who was already in

the front garden. His attack was so violent that Macheson had no

alternative. He knocked him into the middle of his rose bushes, and

opened the gate, to find himself face to face with the last person in

the world whom he expected to see in Thorpe. It was Wilhelmina herself

who was a spectator of the scene!

"Mr. Macheson," she said gravely, "what is the meaning of this?"

Macheson was taken too completely by surprise to frame an immediate

answer. Stephen Hurd rose slowly to his feet, dabbing his mouth with his

handkerchief.

"A little disagreement between us," he said, with an evil attempt at a

smile. "We will settle it another time."

"You will settle it now," the lady of the Manor said, with authority in

her tone. "Shake hands, if you please. At once! I cannot have this sort

of thing going on in the village."

Macheson held out his hand without hesitation.

"The quarrel was not of my seeking," he said. "I bear you no ill-will,

Hurd. Will you shake hands?"

"No!" Stephen Hurd answered fiercely.

Macheson's hand fell to his side.

"I am sorry," he said.

"You will reconsider that, Mr. Hurd," Wilhelmina said quietly.

"No!" he answered. "I am sorry, Miss Thorpe-Hatton, to seem ungracious,

but there are reasons why I cannot accept his hand. He knows them well

enough. We cannot possibly be friends. Don't let us be hypocrites."

Wilhelmina turned away coldly.

"Very well," she said. "Mr. Macheson, will you walk with me a little

way? I have something to say to you."

"With pleasure," he answered. "I'm sorry, Hurd," he added, turning

round.

There was no answer. Together they walked up the village street. Already

the shock of seeing her had passed away, and he was fighting hard

against the gladness which possessed him. He had paid dearly enough

already for his folly. He was determined that there should be no return

of it.

"Which way were you going?" she asked.

"To the hills," he answered. "I can leave you at the church entrance.

But before you go----"

"I am not going," she answered. "I should love a walk. I will come with

you to the hills."

He looked at her doubtfully. She appeared to him so different a person

in her country clothes--a dark brown tailor-made suit, with short skirt,

a brown tam-o'-shanter and veil. She was not much more than a child

after all. Her mouth was a little sad, and she was very pale and seemed

tired.

"If you care to walk so far," he said gravely--"and with me!"

"What am I expected to say to that?" she asked demurely.

"I think that you know what I mean," he answered, avoiding her eyes.

"Your villagers will certainly think it strange to see their mistress

walking with the poor missioner who wasn't allowed to hold his

services."

"I am afraid," she answered, "that my people have learnt to expect the

unexpected from me. Now tell me," she continued, "what has brought you

back to the scene of your persecutions? I am hoping you are going to

tell me that it is to apologize for the shockingly rude way you left me

last time we met."

"I did not know that you were here," he answered. "I came for two

reasons--first, to collect materials for a short article in a friend's

magazine, and secondly, to ask a question of Stephen Hurd."

"Apparently," she remarked, "your question annoyed him."

"He seemed annoyed before I asked it," Macheson remarked; "I seem to

have offended him somehow or other."

"I should imagine," she said drily, "that that is not altogether

incomprehensible to you."

So she knew or guessed who it was that had been Letty Foulton's

companion in London. Macheson was silent. They walked on for some

distance, climbing all the time, till Wilhelmina paused, breathless, and

leaned against a gate.

"I hope," said she, "that you are collecting your impressions. If so, I

am sure they must be in the air, for you have not looked to the right or

to the left."

He smiled and stood by her side, looking downwards. The village lay

almost at their feet, and away beyond spread the mist-wreathed country,

still and silent in the November afternoon. The wind had fallen, the

birds were songless, nothing remained of the busy chorus of summer

sounds. They stood on the edge of a plantation--the peculiar fragrance

of freshly turned earth from the ploughed fields opposite, and of the

carpet of wet leaves beneath their feet, had taken the place of all

those sweeter perfumes which a short while ago had seemed to belong

naturally to the place.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I have been thinking more about

something which I have to say to you."

"Is it something serious?" she asked.

"Rather," he admitted.

Her eyebrows were faintly contracted. She looked up at him pathetically.

"It will keep for a little time," she said. "Let us finish our walk

first. I am down here alone, and have been dull. This exercise is what I

wanted. It is doing me good. I will not have my afternoon spoilt. See, I

have the key of the gate here, we will go through the plantation and up

to the back of the beacon."

She led the way, giving him no time to protest, and he followed her,

vaguely uneasy. Through the plantation their feet fell noiselessly upon

a carpet of wet leaves; outside on the springy turf the rabbits

scampered away in hundreds to their holes. Then they began to climb.

Beneath them the country expanded and rolled away like a piece of

patchwork, dimly seen through a veil of mist. Wilhelmina turned towards

him with a laugh. There was more colour now in her cheeks. She was

breathless before they reached the summit and laid her hand upon his arm

for support.

"Confess," she said, "you like me better here than in London, don't

you?"

"You are more natural," he answered. "You are more like what I would

have you be."

She sat down on a piece of grey rock. They were at the summit now. Below

was the great house with its magnificent avenues and park, the tiny

village, and the quaint church. Beyond, a spreading landscape of

undulating meadows and well-tilled land. The same thought came to both

of them.

"Behold," she murmured, "my possessions."

He nodded.

"You should be very proud of your home," he said quietly. "It is very

beautiful."

She turned towards him. Her face was as cold and destitute of emotion as

the stone on which she sat.

"Do you wonder," she asked, "why I have never married?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"A matter of temperament, perhaps," he said. "You are inclined to be

independent, aren't you?"

"There have been things in my life--a very secret chamber," she said

slowly. "I think that some day I shall tell you about it, for I may need

help."

"I shall be glad," he said simply. "You know that!"

She rose and shook out her skirts.

"Come," she said, "it is too cold to sit down. I am going to take you to

Onetree Farm. Mrs. Foulton must give us some tea. I have a reason, too,"

she added more slowly, "for taking you there."

CHAPTER VIII

THE MISSING LETTY

Macheson knew directly they entered the farm that Wilhelmina had brought

him here for some purpose. For Mrs. Foulton straightened herself at the

sight of him, and forgot even her usual respectful courtesy to the lady

of the Manor.

"I have brought Mr. Macheson to see you, Mrs. Foulton," Wilhelmina said.

"We want you to give us some tea--and there is a question which I think

you ought to ask him."

The woman was trembling. She seemed for the moment to have no words.

"If you like," Wilhelmina continued calmly, "I will ask it for you. Did

you know, Mr. Macheson, that Letty Foulton has left home and has gone

away without a word to her mother?"

"I did not know it," Macheson answered gravely. "I am very sorry."

"You--didn't know it? You don't know where she is?" the woman demanded

fiercely.

"Certainly not," Macheson answered. "How should I?"

The woman looked bewildered. She turned towards Wilhelmina as though for

an explanation.

"Mr. Macheson has himself to blame," Wilhelmina said, "if his action in

bringing your daughter to me that night has been misunderstood. At any

rate, he cannot refuse to tell you now what he refused to tell me. You

understand, Mr. Macheson," she added, turning towards him, "Mrs. Foulton

insists upon knowing with whom you found her daughter having supper that

night in London."

Macheson hesitated only for a moment.

"Your daughter was with Mr. Stephen Hurd, Mrs. Foulton," he said.

The woman threw her apron over her head and hastened away. They heard

her sobbing in the kitchen. Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.

"What a bore!" she remarked. "We shan't get any tea. People of this sort

have no self-control."

Macheson looked at her sternly.

"Have the people here," he asked, "been connecting me with this child's

disappearance?"

"I suppose so," she answered carelessly. "Rather a new line for you,

isn't it--the gay Lothario! It's your own fault. You shouldn't be so

mysterious."

"You didn't believe it?" he said shortly.

"Why not? You've been--seeing life lately, haven't you?"

"You didn't believe it?" he repeated, keeping his eyes fixed upon her.

She came over to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Her pale

face was upturned to his. It seemed open to him to transform her

attitude into a caress.

"Of course not, dear," she answered. "If--any one else did, they will

soon know the truth."

"All the same," he muttered, "it's horrible. We must do something!"

She moved away from him wearily. His thoughts were full of the tragedy

of Letty Foulton's disappearance. He seemed scarcely to know that she

had been almost in his arms. He turned to her suddenly.

"I shall go back," he said, "to speak once more with Stephen Hurd."

She looked into his face and saw things there which terrified her. He

had moved already towards the door, but she stood in his way.

"No!" she cried. "It is not your affair. Let me deal with him!"

He shook his head.

"It is no matter," he said, "for a woman to interfere in."

"He will not listen to you," she continued eagerly. "He will tell you

that it is not your concern."

"It is the concern of every honest man," he interrupted. "You must

please let me go!"

She was holding his arm, and she refused to withdraw her fingers. Then

Mrs. Foulton intervened.

She had smoothed her hair and was carrying a tea-tray. They both looked

at her as though fascinated.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting, madam," she said quietly. "I had to

send Ruth up for the cream. The boy's at Loughborough market, and I'm a

bit shorthanded."

"I--oh! I'm sorry you bothered about the tea, Mrs. Foulton," Wilhelmina

said, with an effort. "But how good it looks! Come, Mr. Macheson! I

don't know whether you've had any lunch, but I haven't. I'm perfectly

ravenous."

"I've some sandwiches in my pocket," Macheson answered, moving slowly to

the table, "but to tell you the truth, I'd forgotten them."

She drew off her gloves and seated herself before the teapot. All the

time her eyes were fixed upon Macheson. She was feverishly anxious to

have him also seat himself, and he could scarcely look away from the

woman who, with a face like a mask, was calmly arranging the things from

the tray upon the table. When she left the room he drew a little breath.

"Do they feel--really, these people," he asked, "or are they Stoics?"

"We feel through our nerves," she answered, "and they haven't many. Is

that too much cream?--and pass the strawberry jam, please."

He ate and drank mechanically. The charm of this simple meal alone with

her was gone--it seemed to him that there was tragedy in the arrangement

of the table. She talked to him lightly, and he answered--what he

scarcely knew. Suddenly he interposed a question.

"When did this girl Letty leave home?" he asked.

"I am not sure," she answered. "We will ask Mrs. Foulton."

Mrs. Foulton came silently in.

"We want to know, Mrs. Foulton, when Letty went away," Wilhelmina asked.

"A week ago to-morrow, madam," Mrs. Foulton answered. "Is there anything

else you will be wanting?"

"Nothing, thank you," Wilhelmina answered, and then, seeing that the

woman lingered, she continued:

"Are you wanting to get rid of us?"

The woman hesitated.

"It isn't that, madam," she said, "but I'm wanting to step out as soon

as possible."

The same idea occurred at once to both Wilhelmina and Macheson.

"You are going down to the village, Mrs. Foulton?" Wilhelmina asked

gravely.

"I'm going down to have a bit of talk with Mr. Stephen Hurd, madam," she

answered grimly. "I'd be glad to clear away as soon as convenient."

Wilhelmina turned round in her chair, and laid her hand upon the woman's

arm.

"Mrs. Foulton," she said, "Mr. Macheson and I are going to see him at

once. Leave it to us, please."

Mrs. Foulton shook her head doubtfully.

"Letty's my daughter, madam, thank you kindly," she said. "I must go

myself."

Wilhelmina shook her head.

"No!" she said firmly. "You can go and see him afterwards, if you like.

Mr. Macheson and I are going to see what we can do first. Believe me,

Mrs. Foulton, it will be better for Letty."

The woman was shaken and Wilhelmina pushed home her advantage.

"We are going straight to the village now, Mrs. Foulton," she said. "You

will only have to be patient for a very short time. Come, Mr. Macheson.

If you are ready we will start."

They walked briskly along the country lane, through the early twilight.

They said little to one another.

Macheson was profoundly moved by the tragedy of Letty's disappearance.

With his marvellous gift of sympathy, he had understood very well the

suffering of the woman whom they had just left. He shivered when he

thought of the child. With every step they took, his face resolved

itself into grimmer lines. Wilhelmina was forced at last to protest.

"After all," she said, touching his arm, "this young man will scarcely

run away. Please remember that I am not an athletic person--and I have

not much breath left."

He slackened his pace at once.

"I am sorry," he said. "I was forgetting."

"Yes," she answered simply, "you were forgetting. I--noticed it!"

To Macheson, her irritation seemed childish--unworthy. He knew so little

of women--or their moods.

"What are you going to say to Stephen Hurd?" he asked abruptly.

"I shall make him marry Letty Foulton," she answered.

"Can you do it?" he demanded.

"He must marry her or go," she declared. "I will make that quite clear."

Macheson drew a little breath. He suddenly realized that for all his

impetuosity, the woman who walked so calmly by his side held the cards.

He slackened his pace. The lane had narrowed now, and on either side of

them was a tall holly hedge. Her hand stole through his arm.

"Well," she said softly, "you have not told me yet whether your

pilgrimage to Paris was a success."

He turned upon her almost fiercely.

"Yes!" he answered. "It was! A complete success! I haven't an atom of

sentiment left! Thank goodness!"

She laughed softly.

"I don't believe it," she whispered in his ear. "You went abroad to be

cured of an incurable disease. Do you imagine that the Mademoiselle

Rosines of the world count for anything? You foolish, foolish person. Do

you imagine that if I had not known you--I should have let you go?"

"I am not one of your tenants," he answered grimly.

"You might be," she laughed.

"You are very kind," he declared. "But I need not tell you that nothing

in this world would induce me to become one."

She walked on, humming to herself. He was hard to tame, she told

herself, but the end was so sure. Yet all her experience of his sex had

shown her nothing like this. It was the first time she had played such a

part. Was it only the novelty which she found attractive? She stole an

upward glance at him through the twilight. Taller and more powerful than

ever he seemed in the gathering darkness--so far as looks were concerned

he was certainly desirable enough. And yet the world--her world, was

full of handsome men. It must be something else which he possessed,

some other less obvious gift, perhaps that flavour of puritanism about

his speech and deportment, of which she was always conscious. He

resisted where other men not only succumbed but rushed to meet their

fate. It must be that, or----

She herself became suddenly serious. She looked straight ahead down the

darkening lane. Fate could surely not play her a trick so scurvy as

this. It could not be that she cared. Her hands were suddenly clenched;

a little cry broke from her lips. Her heart was beating like a girl's;

the delicious thrill of youth seemed to be thawing her long frozen

blood. Not again! she prayed, not again! It was a catastrophe this;

grotesque, impossible! She thrust out her hands, as though to guard

herself from some impending danger. Macheson turned to look at her in

surprise, and her eyes were glowing like stars.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked.

She laughed unnaturally.

"A memory," she answered, "a superstition if you like. Some one was

walking over the grave of my forgotten days."

She pointed to the front of the low white house, now only a few yards

away. A dogcart stood there waiting, with some luggage at the back.

Stephen Hurd himself, dressed for travelling, was standing in the

doorway.

CHAPTER IX

FOILED

"We seem to be just in time, Mr. Hurd," Wilhelmina said. "Do you mind

coming back for a moment into your study? Mr. Macheson and I have

something to say to you."

He glanced at his watch. He was wholly unable to conceal his annoyance

at their appearance.

"I am afraid," he said, with strained civility, "that I can only spare a

couple of minutes."

"You are going to town?" she asked, as he reluctantly followed her.

"Yes!" he answered. "Mr. White wished to see me early to-morrow morning

about the new leases, and I have to go before the committee about this

Loughborough water scheme."

"These are my affairs," she said, "so if you should miss your train, the

responsibility will be mine."

"I can spare five minutes," he answered, "but I cannot miss that train.

I have some private engagements. And, madam," he continued, struggling

with his anger, "I beg that you will not forget that even if I am in

your employ, this is my house, and I will not have that man in it!"

He pointed to Macheson, who was standing upon the threshold. Wilhelmina

stood between the two.

"Mr. Hurd," she said, "please control yourself. There is no reason why

we should any of us quarrel. Mr. Macheson and I are here to speak to you

of a matter in which he has become concerned. I asked him to come here

with me. We have come to see you about Letty!"

"What about her?" he demanded, with some attempt at bravado.

"We find that there is an impression in the village that Mr. Macheson is

responsible for her disappearance."

Hurd seized his opportunity without a second's hesitation.

"How do you know that it isn't the truth?" he demanded. "He wouldn't be

the first of these psalm-singing missioners who have turned out to be

hypocrites!"

Macheson never flinched. Wilhelmina only shrugged her shoulders.