"Mr. Hurd," she said, "we will not waste time. Mr. Macheson and I are

both perfectly aware that you are responsible for Letty's

disappearance."

"It's--it's false!" he declared, swallowing with an effort a more

obnoxious word. "Why, I haven't left the village since the day she went

away."

"But you are going--to-night," Wilhelmina remarked.

He flushed.

"I'm going away on business," he answered. "I don't see why it should be

taken for granted that I'm going to see her."

"Nevertheless," Wilhelmina said quietly, "between us three there isn't

the slightest doubt about it. I tell you frankly that the details of

your private life in an ordinary way do not interest me in the least.

But, on the other hand, I will not have you playing the Don Juan amongst

the daughters of my tenants. You have been very foolish and you will

have to pay for it. I do not wish to make you lose your train to-night,

but you must understand that if you ever return to Thorpe, you must

bring back Letty Foulton as your wife."

He stared at her incredulously.

"As my--wife!" he exclaimed.

"Precisely," Wilhelmina answered. "I will give her a wedding present of

a thousand pounds, and I will see that your own position here is made a

permanent one."

He had the appearance of a man beside himself with anger. Was this to be

the end of his schemes and hopes! He, to marry the pretty uneducated

daughter of a working farmer--a girl, too, who was his already for the

asking. He struggled with a torrent of ugly words.

"I--I must refuse!" he said, denying himself more vigorous terms with an

effort.

She looked at him steadily.

"Better think it over, Mr. Hurd," she said. "I am in earnest."

He hesitated for a moment, and then, with a glance at the clock, moved

towards the door.

"Very well," he said, "I will think it over. I will let you know

immediately I return from London."

She shook her head.

"You can take as long as you like to reflect," she answered, "but it

must be here in this room. Mr. Macheson and I will wait."

He turned towards her.

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said, "will you allow me to speak to you alone

for two minutes?"

She shook her head.

"It is not necessary," she answered. "Mr. Macheson does not count. You

can say whatever you will before him."

A smile that was half a sneer curved his lips. He was like a rat in a

corner, and he knew that he must fight. He must use the weapon which he

had feared with a coward's fear.

"The matter on which I wish to speak to you," he said, looking straight

at her, "is not directly connected with the affair which we have been

discussing. If you will give me two minutes, I think I can make you

understand."

She met his challenge without flinching. She was a shade paler, perhaps;

the little glow which the walk through the enchanted twilight had

brought into her cheeks had faded away. But her gaze was as cool and

contemptuous as before. She showed no sign of any fear--of any desire to

conciliate.

"I think," she said, "that I can understand without. You can consider

that we are alone. Whatever you may have to say to me, I should prefer

that Mr. Macheson also heard."

Macheson looked from one to the other uneasily.

"Shall I wait in the passage?" he asked. "I should be within call."

"Certainly not," she answered. "This person," she continued, indicating

Stephen with a scornful gesture, "is, I believe, about to make a

bungling attempt to blackmail me! I should much prefer that you were

present."

Stephen Hurd drew a sharp breath. Her words stung like whips.

"I don't know--about blackmail," he said, still holding himself in. "I

want nothing from you. I only ask to be left alone. Stop this nonsense

about Letty Foulton and let me catch my train. That's all I want."

Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.

"You are a very wearisome person," she declared. "Did you ever know me

to change my mind? Every word I have said to you I absolutely mean. No

more, no less!"

One of the veins at his temple was protruding. He was passionately

angry.

"You think it wise," he cried threateningly, "to make an enemy of me!"

She laughed derisively, a laugh as soft as velvet, but to him maddening.

"My dear young man," she said carelessly, "I think I should prefer you

in that capacity. I should probably see less of you."

He took a quick stride forward. He thrust his face almost into hers. She

drew back with a gesture of disgust.

"You," he cried, striking the table with his clenched fist, "to pretend

to care what becomes of any fool of a girl who chooses to take a lover!

Is it because you're in love with this would-be saint here?"

He struck the table again. He was absolutely beside himself with rage.

He seemed even to find a physical difficulty in speech. Wilhelmina

raised her eyebrows.

"Go on," she said coolly. "I am curious to hear the rest."

Macheson suddenly intervened. He stepped between the two.

"This has gone far enough," he said sternly. "Hurd, you are losing your

head. You are saying things you will be sorry for afterwards. And I

cannot allow you to speak like this to a woman--in my presence!"

"Let him go on," Wilhelmina said calmly. "I am beginning to find him

interesting."

Hurd laughed fiercely.

"What!" he cried. "You want to hear of your 'Apache' lover, the man you

took from the gutters of Paris into----"

Macheson struck him full across the mouth, but Wilhelmina caught at his

arm. She had overestimated her courage or her strength--he was only just

in time to save her from falling.

"Brute!" she muttered, and the colour fled from her cheeks like breath

from a looking-glass.

Macheson laid her on the couch and rang the bell. Suddenly he realized

that they were alone. From outside came the sound of wheels. He sprang

up listening. Wilhelmina, too, opened her eyes. She waved him away

feebly. He smiled back his comprehension.

"The servants are coming," he said. "I can hear them. I promise you that

if he catches the train, I will!"

[Illustration: "GO ON," SHE SAID COOLLY, "I AM CURIOUS TO HEAR THE

REST." Page 240]

He vaulted through the window which he had already opened. The sound of

wheels had died away, but he set his face at once towards the station,

running with long easy strides, and gradually increasing his pace.

Stephen Hurd, with his handkerchief to his mouth, and with all his

nerves tingling with a sense of fierce excitement, looked behind him

continually, but saw nothing. Long before he reached the station he had

abandoned all fear of pursuit. Yet during the last half-mile Macheson

was never more than a few yards from him, and on St. Pancras platform he

was almost the first person he encountered.

"Macheson! By God!"

He almost dropped the coat he was carrying. He looked at Macheson as one

might look at a visitor from Mars. It was not possible that this could

be the man from whom he had fled. Macheson smiled at him grimly.

"How did--how did you get here?" the young man faltered.

"By the same train as you," Macheson answered. "How else? Where are you

going to meet Letty?"

Hurd answered with a curse.

"Why the devil can't you mind your own business?" he demanded.

"This is my business," Macheson answered.

Then he turned abruptly round towards the hesitating figure of the girl

who had suddenly paused in her swift approach.

"It is my business to take you home, Letty," he said. "I have come to

fetch you!"

Letty looked appealingly towards Stephen Hurd. What she saw in his

face, however, only terrified her.

"Look here," he said thickly, "I've had almost enough of this. You can

go to the devil--you and Miss Thorpe-Hatton, too! I won't allow any one

to meddle in my private concerns. Come along, Letty."

He would have led her away, but Macheson was not to be shaken off. He

kept his place by the girl's side.

"Letty," he said, "are you married to him?"

"Not yet," she answered hesitatingly. "But we are going to be."

"Where are you going to now?"

She glanced towards Stephen.

"I am going to take her away with me," he declared sullenly, "as soon as

I can get my luggage on this cab."

"Letty," Macheson said, "a few hours ago Miss Thorpe-Hatton offered

Stephen Hurd a dowry for you of a thousand pounds, if he would promise

to bring you back as his wife. He refused. He has not the slightest

intention of making you his wife. I am sorry to have to speak so

plainly, but you see we haven't much time for beating about the bush,

have we? I want you to come with me to Berkeley Square. Mrs. Brown will

look after you."

She turned towards the young man piteously.

"Stephen," she said, "tell Mr. Macheson that he is mistaken. We are

going to be married, aren't we?"

"Yes," he answered. "At least I always meant to marry you. What I shall

do if every one starts bullying me I'm sure I don't know. Cut the whole

lot of you, I think, and be off to the Colonies."

"You don't mean that, Stephen," she begged.

He pointed to the cab laden now with his luggage.

"Will you get in or won't you, Letty?" he asked.

She shrank back.

"Stephen," she said, "I thought that you were going to bring mother up

with you."

He laughed hardly.

"Your mother wasn't ready," he said. "We can send for her later."

"Don't you think, Stephen," she pleaded, "that it would be nice for me

to stay with Mrs. Brown until--until we are married?"

"If you go to Mrs. Brown," he said gruffly, "you can stay with her.

That's all! I won't be fooled about any longer. Once and for all, are

you coming?"

She took a hesitating step forward, but Macheson led her firmly towards

another hansom.

"No!" he answered, "she is not. You know where she will be when you have

the marriage license."

Stephen sprang into his cab with an oath. Even then Letty would have

followed him, but Macheson held her arm.

"You stay here, Letty," he said firmly.

She covered her face with her hands, but she obeyed.

CHAPTER X

MYSTERIES IN MAYFAIR

That night, and for many nights afterwards, Macheson devoted himself to

his work in the East End. The fascination of the thing grew upon him; he

threw himself into his task with an energy which carried him often out

of his own life and made forgetfulness an easy task. Night after night

they came, these tired, white-faced women, with a sprinkling of sullen,

dejected-looking men; night after night he pleaded and reasoned with

them, striving with almost passionate earnestness to show them how to

make the best of the poor thing they called life. Gradually his efforts

began to tell upon himself. He grew thinner, there were shadows under

his eyes, a curious intangible depression seemed to settle upon him.

Holderness one night sought him out and insisted upon dinner together.

"Look here, Victor," he said, "I have a bone to pick with you. You'd

better listen! Don't sit there staring round the place as though you saw

ghosts everywhere."

Macheson smiled mirthlessly.

"But that is just what I do see," he answered. "The conscience of every

man who knows must be haunted with them! The ghosts of starving men and

unsexed women! What keeps their hands from our throats, Dick?"

"Common sense, you idiot," Holderness answered cheerfully. "There's a

refuse heap for every one of nature's functions. You may try to rake it

out and cleanse it, but there isn't much to be done. Hang that mission

work, Victor! It's broken more hearts than anything else on earth! A man

can but do what he may."

"The refuse heap is man's work!" Macheson muttered.

"But not wholly his responsibility," Holderness declared. "We're part of

the machine, but remember the wheels are driven by fate, or God, or

whatever the hidden motive force of the universe may be. Don't lose

yourself, Macheson! Sentiment's a good thing under control. It's a

sickly master."

"You call it sentiment, if one feels the horror of this garbage heap!

Come to-night and look into their faces."

"I've done it," Holderness declared. "I've been through it all. Hang it

all, do you forget that I'm the editor of a Socialist magazine? No! feel

it you must, but don't let it upset your mental balance. Don't lose your

values!"

Macheson left his friend in a saner frame of mind. His words came back

to him that night as he watched the little stream of people file out

from the bare white-washed building, with its rows of cheap cane chairs.

It was so true! To give way to despair was simply to indulge in a

sentimental debauch. Yet in a sense he had never felt so completely the

pitiful ineffectiveness of his task. How could he preach the Christian

morality, expound the Christian doctrines, to a people whose very

sufferings, whose constant agony, was a hideous and glaring proof that

by the greater part of the world those doctrines were ignored!

A man was shown into his room afterwards, as he was putting on his

overcoat. Almost with relief Macheson saw that he at least had no

pitiful tale to tell. He was a small dapper man, well dressed, and spoke

with a slight American accent.

"Mr. Macheson," he said, "I'm taking the liberty of introducing myself.

Peter Drayton my name is, never mind my profession. It wouldn't interest

you."

Macheson nodded.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, with some curiosity.

"Say, I've been very much interested in these talks of yours to the

people," Mr. Drayton remarked. "But it's occurred to me that you're on

the wrong end of the stick. That's why I'm here. You're saying the right

things, and you've got the knack of saying them so that people have just

got to listen, but you're saying them to the wrong crowd."

"I don't understand," Macheson was forced to confess.

"Well, I reckon it's simple enough," Drayton answered. "These people

here don't need to have their own misery thrust down their throats, even

while you're trying to show them how to bear it. It's the parties who

are responsible for it all that you want to go for. See what I mean?"

"I think so," Macheson admitted, "but----"

"Look here," Drayton interrupted, "you're a man of common sense, and you

know that life's more or less a stand-up fight. Those that are licked

live here in Whitechapel--if you can call it living--and those who win

get to Belgravia! It's a pitiless sort of affair this fight, but there

it is. Now which of the two do you think need preaching to, these

people, or the people who are responsible for them? You've started a

mission in Whitechapel--it would have been more logical, if there's a

word of truth in your religion, to have started it in Mayfair."

Macheson laughed.

"They wouldn't listen to me," he declared.

"I'd see to that," Drayton answered quickly. "It's my business. I want

you to give a course of--well, we'd call them lectures, in the West End.

You can say what you like. You can pitch into 'em as hot as Hell! I'll

guarantee you a crowded audience every time."

"I have no interest in those people," Macheson said. "Why should I go

and lecture to them? My sympathies are all down here."

"Exactly," Drayton answered. "I want you to stir up the people who can

really help, people who can give millions, pull down these miles of

fever-tainted rat holes, endow farms here and abroad. Lash them till

their conscience squeaks! See? What's the good of preaching to these

people? That won't do any good! You want to preach to the really

ignorant, the really depraved, the West-Enders!"

"Do I understand," Macheson asked, "that you have a definite scheme in

which you are inviting me to take part?"

Drayton lit a cigarette and led the way out.

"Look here," he said, "I'll walk with you as far as you're going, and

tell you all about it...."

It was a sort of pilgrimage which Macheson undertook during these

restless nights, a walk seemingly purposeless, the sole luxury which he

permitted himself. Always about the same hour he found himself on the

garden side of Berkeley Square, always he stood and looked, for a period

of time of which he took no count, at the tall, dimly lit house, across

whose portals he had once passed into fairyland. Then came a night when

everything was changed. Lights flashed from the windows, freshly painted

window-boxes had been filled with flowers, scarce enough now; everything

seemed to denote a sudden spirit of activity. Macheson stood and watched

with a curious sense of excitement stirring in his blood. He knew very

well what was happening. She was coming, perhaps had already arrived in

town. He realized as he stood there, a silent motionless figure, how far

gone in his folly he really was, how closely woven were the bonds that

held him. For time seemed to him of no account beside the chance of

seeing her, if only for a moment, as she passed in or out. He never knew

how long he waited there--it was long enough, however, for his patience

to be rewarded. Smoothly, with flashing lights, a little electric

brougham turned into the Square and pulled up immediately opposite to

him. The tall footman sprang to the ground, the door flew open, he saw

a slim, familiar figure, veiled and dressed in a dark travelling

costume, pass leisurely up the steps and into the arc of light which

streamed through the open door. The brougham glided away, the door was

closed, she was gone. Still Macheson leaned forward, watching the spot

where she had been, his heart thumping against his sides, his senses

thrilled with the excitement of her coming. Suddenly his attention was

diverted in a curious manner. He became conscious that he was not the

only watcher under the chestnut trees. A man had stolen out from amongst

the deeper shadows close up to the railings, and was standing by his

side. Macheson recognized him with a start.

"What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly.

His fellow-watcher, too, showed signs of excitement. His cheeks were

flushed. He pointed across the road with shaking finger, and looked up

into Macheson's face with a triumphant chuckle.

"Run to earth at last!" he exclaimed. "You saw her! You saw her, too!"

"I saw a lady enter that house," Macheson answered. "What of it?"

The man whom he had once befriended drew a breath between his clenched

teeth.

"There she goes!" he muttered. "The woman who dared to call herself the

daughter of a poor land-agent! The woman who is deceiving her world

to-day as she deceived us--once! Bah! It is finished!"

He started to cross the road. Macheson kept by his side.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

The man pointed to the brilliantly lit house.

"There!" he answered fiercely. "I am going to see her. To-night! At

once! She shall not escape me this time!"

"What do you want with her?" Macheson asked.

"Money--or exposure, such an exposure," the man answered. "But she will

pay. She owes a good deal; but she will pay."

"And supposing," Macheson said, "that I were to tell you that this lady

is a friend of mine, and that I will not have you intrude upon her--what

then?"

Something venomous gleamed in the man's eyes. A short unpleasant laugh

escaped him.

"Not all the devils in hell," he declared, "would keep me from going to

her. For five years she's fooled us! Not a day longer, not an hour!"

Macheson's hand rested lightly upon the man's shoulder.

"Can you reach her from prison?" he asked calmly.

The man turned and snarled at him. He knew well enough that escape or

resistance alike was hopeless. He was like a pigmy in the hands of the

man who held him.

"This isn't your affair," he pleaded earnestly. "Let me go, or I shall

do you a mischief some day. Remember it was you who helped me to escape.

You can't give me away now."

"I helped you to escape," Macheson said, "but I did not know what you

had done. There is another matter. You have to go away from here quietly

and swear never to molest----"

The man ducked with a sudden backward movement, and tried to escape, but

Macheson was on his guard.

"You are a fool," the man hissed out, his small bead-like eyes

glittering as though touched with fire, his thick red lips parted,

showing his ugly teeth. "It is money alone I want from her. I have but

to breathe her name and this address in a certain quarter of Paris, and

there are others who would take her life. Let me go!"

Then Macheson was conscious of a familiar figure crossing the street in

their direction. He had seen him come furtively out of the house they

had been watching, and had recognized him at once. It was Stephen Hurd.

Keeping his grasp upon his captive's shoulder, Macheson intercepted him.

"Hurd," he said, "I want to speak to you."

Hurd started, and his face darkened with anger when he saw who it was

that had accosted him. Macheson continued hurriedly.

"Look here," he said. "I owe you this at any rate. I have just caught

our friend here watching this house. Have you ever seen him before?"

Hurd looked down into the face of the man who, with an evil shrug of the

shoulders, had resigned himself--for the present--to the inevitable.

"Never," he answered. "Can't say I'm particularly anxious to see him

again. Convert of yours?" he asked, with a sneer.

"He is the man who visited your father on the night of his death,"

Macheson said.

Stephen Hurd was like a man electrified. He seized hold of the other's

arm in excitement.

"Is this true?" he demanded.

The man blinked his eyes.

"You have to prove it," he said. "I admit nothing."

"You can leave him to me," Stephen Hurd said, turning to Macheson.

Macheson nodded and prepared to walk on.

"There is a police-station behind to the left," he remarked.

Hurd took no notice. He had thrust his arm tightly through the other

man's.

"I have been looking for you," he said eagerly. "We must have a talk

together. We will take this hansom," he added, hailing one.

The man drew back.

"Are you going to take me to the police-station?" he demanded.

"Police-station, no!" Hurd answered roughly. "What good would that do

me? Get in! Cafe Monico!"

CHAPTER XI

THE WAY OF SALVATION

Holderness leaned back in his worn leather chair and shouted with

laughter. He treated with absolute indifference the white anger in

Macheson's face.

"Victor," he cried, "don't look at me as though you wanted to punch my

head. Down on your knees, man, and pray for a sense of humour. It's the

very salt of life."

"That's all very well," Macheson answered, "but I can't exactly see----"

"That's because you're deficient," Holderness shouted, wiping the tears

from his eyes. "I haven't laughed so much for ages. Here you come from

the East to the West, with all the world's tragedy tearing at your

heart, flowing from your lips, a flagellator, a hater of the people to

whom you speak, seeking only to strike and to wound, and they accept you

as a new sensation! They bare their back to your whip! They have made

you the fashion! Oh! this funny, funny world of ours!"

Macheson smiled grimly.

"I'll grant you the elements of humour in the situation," he said, "but

you can scarcely expect me to appreciate it, can you? I never came here

to play the mountebank, to provide a new sensation for these tired dolls

of Society. Dick, do you think St. Paul could have opened their eyes?"

Holderness shook his head.

"I don't know," he declared. "They're a difficult class--you see, they

have pluck, and a sort of fantastic philosophy which goes with breeding.

They're not easily scared."

Macheson thought of his friend's words later in the afternoon, when he

stood on the slightly raised platform of the fashionable room where his

lectures were given. Not a chair was empty. Macheson, as he entered,

gazed long and steadily into those rows of tired, distinguished-looking

faces, and felt in the atmosphere the delicate wave of perfume shaken

from their clothes--the indescribable effect of femininity. There were

men there, too, mostly as escorts, correctly dressed, bored, vacuous,

from intent rather than lack of intelligence. Macheson himself,

carelessly dressed from design, his fine figure ill-clad, with untidy

boots and shock hair, felt his anger slowly rising as he marked the stir

which his coming had caused. He to be the showman of such a crowd! It

was maddening! That day he spoke to them without even the ghost of a

smile parting his lips. He sought to create no sympathy. He cracked his

whip with the cool deliberation of a Russian executioner.

... "I was asked the other day," he remarked, "by an enterprising

journalist, what made me decide to come here and deliver these lectures

to you. I did not tell him. It is because I wanted to speak to the most

ignorant class in Christendom. You are that class. If you have

intelligence, you make it the servant of your whims. If you have

imagination, you use it to enlarge the sphere of your vices. You are

worse than the ostrich who buries his head in the sand--you prefer to go

underground altogether....

"As you sit here--with every tick of your jewelled watches, out in the

world of which in your sublime selfishness you know nothing, a child

dies, a woman is given to sin, a man's heart is broken. What do you

care? What do you know of that infernal, that everlasting tragedy of sin

and suffering that seethes around you? Why should you care? Your life is

attuned to the most pagan philosophy which all the ages of sin have

evolved. You have sunk so low that you are content to sit and listen to

the story of your ignominy...."

What fascination was it that kept them in their places? Holderness, who

was sitting in the last row, fully expected to see them leave their

seats and stream out; Macheson himself would not have been surprised.

His voice had no particular charm, his words were simple words of abuse,

he attempted no rhetorical flourishes, nor any of the tricks of oratory.

He stood there like a disgusted schoolmaster lecturing a rebellious and

backward school. Holderness, when he saw that no one left, chuckled to

himself. Macheson, aware that his powers of invective were spent,

suddenly changed his tone.

Consciously or unconsciously, he told them, every one was seeking to

fashion his life according to some hidden philosophy, some unrealized

ideal. With religion, as it was commonly understood, he had, in that

place at any rate, nothing to do. Even the selfish drifting down the

stream of idle pleasures, which constituted life for most of them, was

the passive acceptance in their consciousness of the old "faineant"

philosophy of "laissez faire." Had they any idea of the magnificent

stimulus which work could give to the emptiest life! For health's

sake alone, they were willing sometimes to step out of the rut of

their easy-going existence, to discipline their bodies at foreign

watering-places, to take up courses of physical exercises, as prescribed

by the fashionable crank of the moment. What they would do for their

bodies, why should they not try for their souls! The one was surely as

near decay as the other--the care of it, if only they would realize it,

was ten thousand times more important! He had called them, perhaps, many

hard names. There was one he could not call them. He could not call them

cowards. On the contrary, he thought them the bravest people he had ever

known, to live the lives they did, and await the end with the equanimity

they showed. The equivalent of Hell, whatever it might be, had evidently

no terrors for them....

He concluded his address abruptly, as his custom was, a few minutes

later, and turned at once to leave the platform. But this afternoon an

unexpected incident occurred. A man from the middle of the audience rose

up and called to him by name.

Macheson, surprised, paused and turned round. It was Deyes who stood

there, immaculately dressed in morning clothes, his long face pale as

ever, his manner absolutely and entirely composed. He was swinging his

eyeglass by its narrow black ribbon, and leaning a little forward.

"Sir," he said, once more addressing Macheson, "as one of the audience

whose shortcomings have so--er--profoundly impressed you, may I take the

liberty of asking you a question? I ask it of you publicly because I

imagine that there are many others here besides myself to whom your

answer may prove interesting."

Macheson came slowly to the front of the platform.

"Ask your question, sir, by all means," he said.

Deyes bowed.

"You remind me, if I may be permitted to say so," he continued, "of the

prophet who went about with sackcloth and ashes on his head, crying

'Woe! woe! woe!' but who was either unable or unwilling to suggest any

means by which that doleful cry might be replaced by one of more

cheerful import. In plain words, sir, according to your lights--what

must we do to be saved?"

There was a murmur of interest amongst the audience. There were many

upon whom Macheson's stinging words and direct denunciation had left

their mark. They sat up eagerly and waited for his answer. He came to

the edge of the platform and looked thoughtfully into their faces.

"In this city," he said, "it should not be necessary for any one to ask

that question. My answer may seem trite and hackneyed. Yet if you will

accept it, you may come to the truth. Take a hansom cab, and drive as

far, say, as Whitechapel. Walk--in any direction--for half a mile. Look

into the faces of the men, the women and the children. Then go home and

think. You will say at first nothing can be done for these people. They

have dropped down too low, they have lost their humanity, they only

justify the natural law of the survival of the fittest. Think again! A

hemisphere may divide the East and the West of this great city; but

these are human beings as you are a human being, they are your brothers

and your sisters. Consider for a moment this natural law of yours. It is

based upon the principle of the see-saw. Those who are down, are down

because the others are up. Those men are beasts, those women are

unsexed, those children are growing up with dirt upon their bodies and

sin in their hearts, because you others are what you are. Because!

Consider that. Consider it well, and take up your responsibility. They

die that you may flourish! Do you think that the see-saw will be always

one way? A revolution in this world, or justice in the next! Which would

you rather face?"

Deyes bowed slightly.

"You have given me an answer, sir, for which I thank you," he answered.

"But you must allow me to remind you of the great stream of gold which

flows all the while from the West to the East. Hospitals, mission

houses, orphanages, colonial farms--are we to have no credit for these?"

"Very little," Macheson answered, "for you give of your superfluity.

Charity has little to do with the cheque-book. Besides, you must

remember this. I am not here to-day to plead the cause of the East. I am

here to talk to you of your own lives. I represent, if you are pleased

to have it so, the Sandow of your spiritual body. I ask you to submit

your souls to my treatment, as the professor of physical culture would

ask for your bodies. This is not a matter of religion at all. It is a

matter, if you choose to call it so, of philosophy. Your souls need

exercise. You need a course of thinking and working for the good of some

one else--not for your own benefit. Give up one sin in your life, and

replace it with a whole-hearted effort to rescue one unfortunate person

from sin and despair, and you will gain what I understand to be the

desire of all of you--a new pleasure. Briefly, for your own sakes, from

your own point of view, it is a personal charity which I am advocating,

as distinguished from the charity of the cheque-book."

"One more question, Mr. Macheson," Deyes continued quietly. "Where do we

find the lost souls--I mean upon what principle of selection do we

work?"

"There are many excellent institutions through which you can come into

touch with them," Macheson answered. "You can hear of these through the

clergyman of your own parish, or the Bishop of London."

Deyes thanked him and sat down. The lecture was over, and the people

slowly dispersed. Macheson passed into the room at the back of the

platform. Drayton, who was waiting for him there, pushed over a box of

cigarettes. He knew that Macheson loved to smoke directly he had

finished talking.

"Macheson," he said solemnly, "you're a marvel. Why, in my country, I

guess they'd come and scratch your eyes out before they'd stand plain

speaking like that."

Macheson was looking away into vacancy.

"I wonder," he said softly, "if it does any good--any real good?"

Drayton, who was looking through a cash-book with gleaming eyes, opened

his lips to speak, but thought better of it. He pointed instead towards

the table.

The usual pile of notes was there--all the latest novelties in fancy

stationery were represented there, crested, coroneted, scented. Macheson

began to tear them open and as rapidly destroy them with a little

gesture of disgust. They were mostly of the same type. The girls were

all so anxious to do a little good, so tired of the wearisome round of

Society, wouldn't Mr. Macheson be very kind and give them some personal

advice? Couldn't he meet them somewhere, or might they come and see him?

They did hope that he wouldn't think them bold! It would be such a help

to talk to him. The married ladies were bolder still. They felt the same

craving for advice, but their proposals were more definite. Mr. Macheson

must come and see them! They would be quite alone (underlined), there

should be no one else there to worry him. Then followed times and

addresses. One lady, whose coronet and motto were familiar to him, would

take no denial. He was to come that afternoon. Her carriage was waiting

at the side door and would bring him directly to her. Macheson looked up

quickly. Through the window he could see a small brougham, with cockaded

footman and coachman, waiting outside. He swept all the notes into the

flames.

"For Heaven's sake, go and send that carriage away, Drayton," he begged.

Drayton laughed and disappeared. On the table there remained one more

note--a square envelope, less conspicuous perhaps than the others, but

more distinguished-looking. Macheson broke the seal. On half a sheet of

paper were scrawled these few lines only.

"For Heaven's sake, come to me at once.--Wilhelmina."

He started and caught up his hat. In a few minutes he was on his way to

Berkeley Square.

CHAPTER XII

JEAN LE ROI

Over a marble-topped table in a retired corner of the cafe Stephen Hurd

listened to the story of the man whom Macheson had delivered over to

him, and the longer he listened the more interesting he found it. When

at last all was told, the table itself was strewn with cigarette stumps,

and their glasses had three times been replenished. The faces of both

men were flushed.

"You see," the little man said, glancing for a moment at his

yellow-stained fingers, and then beginning to puff furiously at a fresh

cigarette, "the time is of the shortest. Jean le Roi--well, his time is

up! He may be here to-morrow, the next day, who can tell? And when he

comes he will kill her! That is certain!"

Hurd shuddered and drank some of his whisky.

"Look here," he said, "we mustn't have that. Revenge, of course, he will

want--but there are other ways."

The little man blinked his eyes.

"You do not know Jean le Roi," he said. "To him it is a pastime to kill!

For myself I do not know the passions as he would know them. Where

there was money I would not kill. It would be as you have said--there

are other ways. But Jean le Roi is different."

"Jean le Roi, as you call him, must be tamed, then," Hurd said. "You

speak of money. I have been her agent, so I can tell you. What do you

think might be the income of this lady?"

Johnson was deeply interested. He leaned across the table. His little

black eyes were alight with cupidity.

"Who can tell?" he murmured. "It might be two, perhaps three, four

thousand English pounds a year. Eh?"

Stephen Hurd laughed scornfully.

"Four thousand a year!" he repeated. "Bah! She fooled you all to some

purpose! Her income is--listen--is forty thousand pounds a year! You

hear that, my friend? Forty thousand pounds a year!"

The little man's face was a study in varying expressions. He leaned back

in his chair, and then crouched forward over the table. His beady eyes

were almost protruding, a spot of deeper colour, an ugly purple patch,

burned upon his cheeks. The words seemed frozen upon his lips. Twice he

opened his mouth to speak and said nothing.

Stephen Hurd took off his hat and placed it upon the table before him.

His listener's emotion was catching.

"Forty thousand pounds," he said softly, "livres you call it! It is a

great fortune. She has deceived you, too! You must make her pay for it."

Johnson was recovering himself slowly. His voice when he spoke shook,

but it was with the dawn of a vicious anger!

"Yes!" he muttered, speaking as though to himself, "she has deceived us!

She must pay! God, how she must pay!"

His fingers twitched upon the table. He was blinking rapidly.

"There is the money," he said softly, "and there is Jean le Roi!"

It was a night of shocks for him. Again his eyes were dilated. He shrank

back in his chair and clutched at Hurd's sleeve.

"It is himself!" he whispered hoarsely. "It is Jean le Roi! God in

Heaven, he will kill us!"

Johnson collapsed for a moment. In his face were all the evidences of an

abject fear, and Stephen Hurd was in very nearly as evil a plight. The

man who was threading his way through the tables towards them was

alarming enough in his appearance and expression to have cowed braver

men.

"Jean le Roi--he fears nothing--he cares for nothing, not even for me,

his father," Johnson muttered with chattering teeth. "If he feels like

it he will kill us as we sit here."

Hurd, who was facing the man, watched him with fascinated eyes. He was

over six feet high, and magnificently formed. Notwithstanding his ready

made clothes, fresh from a French tailor, his brown hat ludicrously too

small and the blue stubble of a recently cropped beard, he was almost as

impressively handsome as he was repulsive to look at. He walked with the

grace of a savage animal in his native woods; there was something indeed

not altogether human in the gleam of his white teeth and stealthy,

faultless movements. He came straight to where they sat, and his hand

fell like a vice upon the shoulder of the shrinking elder man. It was

further characteristic of this strange being that when he spoke there

was no anger in his tone. His voice indeed was scarcely raised above a

whisper.

"What are you doing here, old man?" he asked. "Why did you not meet me?

Eh?"

"I will tell you, tell you everything, Jean," Johnson answered. "Sit

down here and drink with us. Everything shall be made quite clear to

you. I came for your sake--to get money, Jean. Sit down, my boy."

Jean le Roi sat down.

"I sit with you," he said, "and I will drink with you, because I have no

money to pay for myself. But we are not friends yet, old man! I will

hear first what you have done. And who is this?"

His eyes flashed as he looked upon Hurd. Johnson interposed quickly.

"A friend, a good friend," he exclaimed. "He will be of service to us,

great service. Only a few minutes ago he told me something astounding,

something for you also to hear, dear Jean. It is wonderful news."

Jean le Roi interrupted.

"What I want to hear from you," he said, in a soft, vicious whisper, "is

why, when they let me out of that cursed place, you were not there with

money and clothes for me, as I ordered. But for the poor faithful

Annette, whom I did not desire to see, I might have starved on the day

of my release. Stop!----" he held up his hand as Johnson was on the

point of pouring out a copious explanation, "order me brandy first. Tell

them to bring me the bottle. Do not speak till I have drunk."

They called a waiter and gave the order. They waited in an uneasy

silence until it arrived. Jean le Roi drank at first sparingly, but his

eyes rested lovingly upon the bottle.

"Now speak," he commanded.

Johnson told his story with appropriate gestures.

"After it was all over," he began rapidly, "and one saw that a rescue

was impossible, I followed madame! It was a moment of fury, I thought.

She will repent, she will pay for lawyers for his defence. So I hung

about her hotel, only to find that she had left, stolen away. As you

know, she did not appear at the trial! It was a bargain with the police

that they should not call her if she betrayed you! She escaped me, Jean,

and as you know, I had no money. All, every penny had been spent on your

clothes and your horse and carriage, to make you a gentleman."

Jean le Roi extended his hands. "Money well spent indeed! Let the old

man continue!"

"She escaped me, Jean, and it was many months before I found a clue on

an old label--just the words 'Thorpe, England.' So I wrote there, and

the letter did not come back as the others. I waited a little time and I

wrote again, this time to receive an answer! It was a stern, angry

letter from a man who called himself her father, and signed himself

Stephen Hurd. He was what is called here an estate agent, and he had

not very much money. He would not send one pound. He said that the

marriage was illegal, and if one came to England he threatened the law!

I wrote again--humbly, piteously. I spoke of your hardships. I told how

all the time you raved of your dear wife, how you repented your

madness--how it was for love of her only that you had committed such a

crime! There came no answer. I forwarded the letters which you had

written to her--I begged, oh! how I begged for just a little money for

the small luxuries, the good wine, the tobacco, the newspapers. They

sent nothing!"

Jean le Roi drew in his breath with a gasp.

"Oh!" he muttered. "So they sent nothing!"

"Not one sou, Jean--not one sou! And all the while the time of your

release was drawing near. What could I do! Well, I raised the money. How

I will not tell you, my boy, but I went on a fruit boat from Havre to

Southampton, and from there down to Thorpe. I saw the old man Stephen

Hurd. It was on a Sunday night that I arrived, and I found him alone.

He was as hard, Jean, as his letters. When I pressed him he ordered

me out of the house. I would not go. I said that I would see my

daughter-in-law. I would remain until I saw her, I said, even if I slept

under a hedge. Again he ordered me out of the house. I was firm; I

refused. Then he struck me, there was a quarrel, and he fell. I thought

at first that he was unconscious, but when I examined him--he was dead."

Johnson finished his speech in a stealthy whisper, leaning half way

across the table. Jean le Roi poured himself out more brandy, but he was

unmoved.

"The old trick, I suppose," he remarked carelessly, making a swift

movement with his hand.

"No! no!" Johnson declared earnestly. "I used no weapon! It was an

accident, a pure accident. Remember that this is his son. He would not

be here if it was not quite certain that it was accident--and accident

alone."

Jean le Roi lifted his head and gazed curiously at Stephen Hurd.

"So you," he murmured, "are my brother-in-law?"

Johnson leaned once more across the table.

"It is where you, where we all have been deceived," he said

impressively. "Listen. She was never the daughter of Stephen Hurd at

all. It was a schoolgirl's freak to take that name, when she was eluding

her chaperon and amusing herself in Paris. Stephen Hurd was her

servant."

"And she?" Jean le Roi asked softly.

Johnson spread out his yellow-stained fingers. His voice trembled, his

eyes shone. It was like speaking of something holy.

"She is a great lady," he said. "She goes to Court, she has houses, and

horses and carriages, troops of servants, a yacht, motor-cars. She is

rich--fabulously rich, Jean. She has--listen--forty thousand pounds,

livres mind, a year."

"More than that," Hurd muttered.

"More than that," Johnson repeated.

Jean le Roi was no longer unmoved. He drew a long breath and his teeth

seemed to come together with a click.

"There is no mistake?" he asked softly. "An income of forty thousand

pounds?"

"There is no mistake," Stephen Hurd assured him. "I will answer for

that."

Jean le Roi's face was white and vicious. Yet for a time he said nothing

and his two companions watched him anxiously. There was something

uncanny about his silence.

"It is a great deal of money," he said at last. "Often in prison I was

hungry, I had no cigarettes. I was forced to drink water. A great deal

of money! And she is my wife! Half of what she has belongs to me! That

is the law, eh?"

"I don't know about that," Stephen Hurd said, "but she has certainly

treated you very badly."

Jean le Roi struck the table with his fist, not violently, and yet

somehow with a force which made itself felt.

"It is over--that!" he said. "I am a man who knows when he has been

ill-treated; who knows, too, what it is that a wife owes to her husband.

Tell me where it is that she lives, old man. Write it down."

Johnson drew from his pocket a stump of pencil and the back of an

envelope. He wrote slowly and with care. Jean le Roi extended the palm

of his hand to Stephen Hurd.

"He will warn madame, perhaps," he suggested. "Why does he sit here with

us, this young man? Is it that he, too, wants money?"

"No! no! my son," Johnson intervened hastily. "Madame treated him

badly. He would not be sorry to see her humiliated."

Jean le Roi smiled.

"It shall be done," he promised. "But from one of you I must have money.

I cannot present myself before my wife so altered. No one would believe

my story."

"How much do you want?" Hurd asked uneasily.

"Twenty pounds English," Jean le Roi answered. "I cannot resume my

appearance as a gentleman on less."

Hurd took out some notes.

"I will lend you that," he said slowly.

Jean le Roi's long fingers took firm hold of the notes. He buttoned them

up in his pocket, slapped the place where they were, and poured out more

brandy.

"Now," he said, "I am prepared. Madame shall discover what it means to

deceive her fond husband!"

Hurd moved in his seat uneasily. There was something ominous in the

villainous curve of the man's lips--in the utter absence of any direct

threats. What was it that was passing in his mind?

"You are not thinking of any violence?" he asked. "Remember she is a

proud woman, and you cannot punish her more than by simply appearing and

declaring yourself."

Jean le Roi smiled.

"We shall see," he declared.

CHAPTER XIII

THE KING OF THE APACHES

Wilhelmina was resting--and looked in need of it. All the delicate

colours and fluttering ribbons of her Doucet dressing-jacket could not

hide the pallor of her cheeks, or the hollows under her eyes. Macheson,

who came in sternly enough, felt himself moved to a troublous pity.

Nothing seemed left of the great lady--or the "poseuse"!

"You are kind," she murmured, "to come so soon. Sit down, please!"

"Is there any trouble?" he asked. "You look worried."

She laughed unnaturally.

"No wonder," she answered. "For five years I have been living more or

less on the brink of a volcano. From what I have heard, I fancy that an

eruption is about due."

"Tell me about it," he asked.

She passed him a telegram. It was from Paris, and it was signed Gilbert

Deyes.

"Jean le Roi was free yesterday. Left immediately for England."

Macheson looked up. He did not understand.

"And who," he asked, "is Jean le Roi?"

She looked him in the eyes.

"My husband," she told him quietly. "At least that is what I suppose the

law would say that he was."

Macheson had been prepared for something surprising, but not for this.

He looked at her incredulously. He found himself aimlessly repeating her

words.

"Your husband?"

"I was married five years ago in Paris," she said in a dull, emotionless

tone. "No one over here knows about it, or has seen him, because he has

been in prison all the time. It was I who sent him there."

"I can't believe this," he said, in a low tone. "It is too amazing."

Then a light broke in upon him and he began to understand.

"He is in England now," she said, "and I am afraid."

"Jean le Roi?" he muttered.

"King of the Apaches," she answered bitterly. "'The greatest rogue in

Paris,' they said, when they sentenced him."

"Sentenced him!" he repeated, bewildered.

"He has been in prison since the day we were married," she continued.

"It was I who sent him there."

He bowed his head. He felt that it was not right to look at her. An

infinite wave of tenderness swept through his whole being. He was

ashamed of his past thoughts of her, of his hasty judgments. All the

time she had been carrying this in her bosom. Her very pride seemed to

him now magnificent. He felt suddenly like a querulous child.

"What can I do to help you?" he asked softly.

She came a little nearer to him.

"I am afraid," she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. "Ever

since I heard the story of his life, as it was told in court, I have

been afraid. When he was taken, he swore to be revenged. For the last

twenty-four hours I have felt somehow that he was near! Read this!"

She passed him a letter. The notepaper was thick and expensive, and

headed by a small coronet.

"My dearest wife," it began. "At last this miserable separation

comes to an end! I am here in London, on my way to you! Prepare

to throw yourself into my arms. How much too long has our

happiness been deferred!

"I should have been with you before, dear Wilhelmina, but for

more sordid considerations. I need money. I need money very

badly. Send me, please, a thousand pounds to-morrow between

three and four--or shall I come and fetch it, and you?

"As you will.

"Your devoted husband,

"Jean."

He gave her back the letter gravely.

"What was your answer?" he asked.

"I sent nothing," she declared. "I did not reply. But I am

afraid--horribly afraid! He is a terrible man. If we were alone, he

would kill me as you or I would a fly. If only they could have proved

the things at the trial which were known to be true, he would never have

seen the daylight again. But even the witnesses were terrified. They

dared not give evidence against him."

"Will you tell me," Macheson asked, "how it all came about? Not unless

you like," he added, after a moment's hesitation. "Not if it is painful

to you."

She sat down upon the couch, curling herself up at the further end of

it, and building up the pillows at the further end to support her head.

Against the soft green silk, her face was like the face of a tired

child. Something seemed to have gone out of her. She was no longer

playing a part--not even to him--not even to herself. There was nothing

left of the woman of the world. It was the child who told him her story.

"You must listen," she said, "and you may laugh at me if you like, but

you must not be angry. My story is the story of a fool! Sit down,

please--at the end of the couch if you don't mind! I like to have you

between me and the door."

He obeyed her in silence, and she continued. She spoke like a child

repeating her lesson. She held a crumpled-up lace handkerchief in her

hand, and her eyes, large and intent, never left his.

"This is the story of a girl," she said, "an orphan who went abroad

with a chaperon to travel in Europe and perfect her French. In Paris the

chaperon fell ill, the girl hired a guide recommended by the hotel, to

show her the sights.

"They saw all that the tourist sees, and the chaperon was still ill. The

girl thought that she would like to see something of the Parisians

themselves; she was tired of Cook's English people and Americans. So she

gave the guide money to buy himself clothes, and bade him take her to

the restaurants and places where the world of Paris assembled. It was

known at the hotel, perhaps through the servants, that the girl was

rich. The guide heard it and told some one else. Between them they

concocted a plot. The girl was to be the victim. She was only eighteen.

"One day they were lunching at the Cafe de Paris--the guide and the

girl--when a young man entered. He was exceedingly handsome, and very

wonderfully turned out after the fashion of the French dandy. The guide,

as the young man passed, rose up and bowed respectfully. The young man

nodded carelessly. Then he saw the girl, and he looked at her as no man

had ever looked before. And the girl ought to have been angry, but

wasn't.

"She asked the guide who the young man was. He told her that it was the

Duke of Languerois, head of one of the oldest families in France. His

father and grandfather, and for a time he himself, had been in their

service! The girl looked across at the young man with interest, and the

young man returned her gaze. That was what he was there for.

"As they left the restaurant her guide fell behind for a moment, and

when she looked round she saw him talking to the young man. Of course

she wanted to know what they had been saying, and with much apparent

reluctance the guide told her. The young man had been inquiring about

mademoiselle, where they spent their time, how he could meet them. Of

course he had told nothing. But the young man was very persistent and

very much in earnest! She encouraged the guide to talk about him, and

she believed what she was told. He was rich, noble, adored in French

society, and he was in love with mademoiselle. She was very soon given

to understand this.

"For several days the young man was always in evidence. He was perfectly

respectful, he never attempted to address her. It was all most cunningly

planned. Then one evening, when she was driving with her guide through a

narrow street, a man sprang suddenly upon the step of her carriage and

snatched at her jewels. Another on the other side had passed his arm

round the guide's neck and almost throttled him, and a third was

struggling with the coachman. It was one of those lightning-like attacks

by Apaches, which were common enough then--at least it seemed like one.

The girl screamed, and, of course, the young man, who had been following

in another voiture, appeared. One of the thieves he threw on to the

pavement, the others fled. And the young man was a hero! It was well

arranged!"

Her voice broke for a moment, and Macheson moved uneasily upon the sofa.

If he could he would have stopped her. He could guess as much of the

miserable story as it was necessary for him to know! But she ignored

his threatened interruption. She was determined, having kept her secret

for so long, that he should know now the whole truth.

"After that, things moved rapidly. The girl was as near her own mistress

as a child of her age could be. She was lonely and the young man proved

a delightful companion. He had many attractive gifts, and he knew how to

make use of them. All the time he made love to her. For a time she

resisted, but she had very little chance. She was just at the age when

all girls are more or less fools. In the end she consented to a secret

marriage. Afterwards he was to take her to his family. But that time

never came.

"They were married at eleven o'clock one morning, and went afterwards to

a cafe for dejeuner. The young man that day was ill at ease and nervous.

He kept looking about him as though he was afraid of being followed. He

spoke vaguely of danger from the anger of his noble relations. They were

scarcely seated at luncheon before a man came quietly into the place and

whispered a few words in his ear. Whatever those few words were, the

young man went suddenly pale and called for his hat and stick. He wrote

an address on a piece of paper and gave it to the girl. He begged her to

follow him in an hour--he would introduce her then to his friends. And

he left her alone. The girl was troubled and uneasy. He had gone off

without even paying for the luncheon. He had the air of a desperate man.

She began to realize what she had done.

"She was preparing to depart when an Englishman, who had been

lunching at the other end of the room, came over, and, with a word

of apology, sat down by her side. He saw that she was young, and a

fellow-countryman, and he told her very gravely that he was sure she

could not be aware of the character of the man with whom she had been

lunching. Her eyes grew wide open with horror. The man, he said, was the

illegitimate son of a French nobleman, and his mother had been married

to a guide--her guide! He had perhaps the worst character of any man in

Paris. He had been tried for murder, imprisoned for forgery, and he was

now suspected of being the leader of a band of desperate criminals who

were dreaded all over Paris. This and other things he told her of the

man whom she had just married. The girl listened as though turned to

stone, with the piece of paper which he had given her crumpled up in her

hands. Then the police came. They asked her questions. She pretended at

first to know nothing. At last she addressed the commissionary. If she

gave him the address where this young man could be found, he and all his

friends, might she depart without mention being made of her, or her name

appearing in any way? The commissionary agreed, and she gave him the

piece of paper. The Englishman--it was Gilbert Deyes--took her back to

her hotel, and the police captured Jean le Roi and the whole band of his

associates. The girl returned to England that night. Jean le Roi was

sentenced to six years' penal servitude. His time was up last week."

"What a diabolical plot!" Macheson exclaimed. "But the marriage! It

could have been annulled, surely?"

"Perhaps," she answered, "but I did not dare to face the publicity. I

felt that I should never be able to look any one in the face again. I

had given my name to the guide Johnson as Clara Hurd. I hoped that they

might never find me."

"They cannot do you any harm," Macheson declared. "Let me go with you to

the lawyers. They will see that you are not molested."

She shook her head.

"It is not so easy," she said. "The marriage was quite legal. To have it

annulled I should have to enter a suit. The whole story would come out.

I could never live in England afterwards."

"But you don't mean," he protested, "to remain bound to this blackguard

all your life!"

"How can I free myself," she asked, "except by making myself the

laughing-stock of the country?"

"Why did you send for me?" he asked bluntly.

"To ask for your advice--and to protect me," she added, with a shiver.

"It is not only money that Jean le Roi wants! It is vengeance because I

betrayed him."

"As for that, I won't leave you except when you send me away," he

declared. "And my advice! If you want that, the right thing to me seems

simple enough. Go at once to your lawyers. They will tell you the proper

course. At the worst, the man could be bought off for the present."

She raised her head.

"I will not give him one penny," she declared. "I have always sworn

that."

"But I'm afraid if you won't try to divorce him that he can claim some,"

Macheson said.

"Then he must come and take it by force," she declared.

There was silence between them. Then she rose to her feet and came and

stood before him.

"I ought to have told you all this long ago," she said simply. "To-day I

felt that I must tell you without another hour's delay. Now that you

know, I am not so terrified. But you must promise to come and see me

every day while that brute remains in London."

"Yes! I promise that," he answered, also rising to his feet.

They heard her maid moving about in the bedroom.

"Hortense is reminding me that I must dress for dinner," she remarked

with a faint smile. "One must dine, you know, even in the midst of

tragedies."

Macheson prepared to take his departure.

"I shall come to-morrow," he said, "if you do not send for me before."

CHAPTER XIV

BEHIND THE PALM TREES

Lady Peggy was fussing round the drawing-room, talking to all her guests

at once.

"I haven't the least idea who takes anybody in," she declared. "James

said he'd see to that, so you might just as well put your hand in a

lucky-bag. And I'm not at all sure that you'll get any dinner. I've got

a new _chef_--drives up in a high dogcart with such a sweet little

groom. He may be all right. Jules, the maitre d'hotel at Claridge's, got

him for me, and, Wilhelmina, sooner than come out like a ghost, I'd

really take lessons in the use of the rouge-pot. My new maid's a perfect

treasure at it. No one can ever tell whether my colour's natural or not.

I don't mind telling you people it generally isn't. But anyhow, it isn't

daubed on like Lady Sydney's--makes her look for all the world like one

of 'ces dames,' doesn't it? I'm sure I'd be afraid to be seen speaking

to her if I were a man. Gilbert," she broke off, addressing Deyes, who

was just being ushered in, "how dare you come to dinner without being

asked? I'm sure I have not asked you. Don't say I did, now. You refused

me eight times running, and I crossed you off my list."

Deyes held out a card as he bowed over his hostess's fingers.

"My dear lady," he said, "here is the proof that I am not an intruder. I

am down to take in our hostess of Thorpe!"

"You have bribed James," she declared. "I hope it cost you a great deal

of money. I will not believe that I asked you. However, since you are

here, go and tell Wilhelmina some of your stories. I hate pale cheeks,

and Wilhelmina blushes easily. No use looking at the clock, Duke. Dinner

will be at least half an hour late, I'm sure. These foreign _chefs_ have

no idea of punctuality. What's that? Dinner served! Two minutes before

time. Well, we're all here, aren't we? I knew it would be either too

early or too late. Duke, you will have to take me in. By the time we get

there the soup will probably be cold. You'd better pray that we're

starting with caviare and oysters! Such a slow crowd, aren't they--and

such chatterboxes! I wish they'd move on a little faster and talk a

little less. No! Only thirty. Nice sociable number, I call it, for a

round table. I asked Victor Macheson, the man who's so rude to us all

every Thursday afternoon for a guinea a time--I don't know why we pay it

to be abused,--but he wouldn't come. I met him before he developed, and

I don't think he liked me."

"You got my telegram?" Deyes asked, as he unfolded his napkin.

Wilhelmina nodded.

"Yes!" she answered. "It was very good of you to warn me. I have had--a

letter already. The campaign has begun."

Deyes nodded.

"Chosen your weapons yet?" he asked.

"I haven't much choice, have I?" she answered, a little bitterly. "I

fight, of course."

Deyes was carefully scanning the menu through his horn-rimmed eyeglass.

"Becassine a la Broche," he murmured. "I must remember that."

Then he turned in his chair and looked at Wilhelmina.

"You are worrying," he declared abruptly.

She shrugged her shoulders, alabaster white, rising from the unrelieved

black of her velvet gown.

"My maid's fault," she added. "I ought to have worn white. Of course I'm

worrying. I don't care about carrying the signs of it about with me

though. I think I shall have to adopt Peggy's advice, and go to the

rouge-pot."

"Perhaps," he said deliberately, "it will not be necessary."

She looked up at him quickly. His words sounded encouraging.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that a way may be found to induce a certain gentleman to return

to his native country and stay there," Deyes said smoothly. "After

dinner we are going to have some talk. Please oblige me now by

abandoning the discussion and eating something. Ah! that champagne will

do you good."

Her neighbour on the other side addressed her, and Wilhelmina was

conscious of a sudden lightening of the load upon her heart. Like every

one else, she had confidence in this tall, self-contained man whose life

was somewhat of a mystery even to his friends, and who had about him

that suggestion of power which reticence nearly always brings. He was

going to help her. She pushed all those miserable thoughts away from

her. She became herself again.

"Let no one imagine," Lady Peggy said, carefully knocking the end of a

cigarette upon the table, "that I am going to try to catch the eyes of

all you women, and go sailing away with my nose in the air to look at

engravings in the drawing-room. You can just get up and go when you

like, any or all of you. There are bridge tables laid out for you in the

library, music and a hopping girl--I don't call it dancing--in the

drawing-room, a pool in the billiard-room, or flirtation in the

winter-garden. Coffee and liqueurs will follow you wherever you go. Take

your choice, good people. For myself, the Duke is telling me stories of

Cairo. J'y suis, j'y reste. I'm only thankful no one else can hear

them!"

The party at the great round table dispersed slowly by two and threes.

Wilhelmina and Deyes strolled into the winter-garden. Deyes lit a

cigarette and stood with his hands behind him. Wilhelmina was leaning

against the back of a chair. She was too excited to sit down.

"Please!" she begged.

Deyes threw his cigarette away. His face seemed to harden and soften at

the same time. His mouth was suddenly firm, but his eyes glowed. All the

boredom was gone from his manner and expression.

"Wilhelmina," he said, "I have wanted to marry you ever since I saw you

in the Cafe de Paris with that atrocious blackguard who has caused you

so much suffering. You may remember that I have hinted as much to you

before!"

She was startled--visibly disturbed.

"You know very well," she said, "that you are speaking of impossible

things!"

"Things that were impossible, Wilhelmina," he said. "Suppose I take Jean

le Roi off your hands? Suppose I promise to send him back to his own

country like a rat to his hole? Suppose I promise that your marriage

shall be annulled without a line in the newspapers, without a single

vestige of publicity?"

"You cannot do it," she murmured eagerly.

"You want your freedom, then?" he asked.

"Yes! I want my freedom," she answered. "I have a right to it, haven't

I?"

"And I," he said slowly, "want you!"

There was a short pause. Through the palms came the faint wailing of a

violin, the crash of pianoforte chords, the clear soft notes of a

singer. Wilhelmina felt her eyes fill with tears. She was overwrought,

and there were new things, things that were strange to her, in the worn,

lined face of the man who was bending towards her.

"Wilhelmina," he said softly, "life, our life, does its best to strangle

the emotions. One feels that one does best with a pulse which has

forgotten how to quicken, and a heart which beats to the will of its

owner. But the most hardened of us come to grief sometimes. I am afraid

that I have come--very much to grief!"

"I am sorry," she said quietly.

He drew away and his face became like marble.

"You mean--that it isn't any use?" he asked hoarsely.

She looked at him, and he did not press for words.

"Is it--the missioner?" he asked.

Her head sank a little lower, but still she did not answer. Gilbert

Deyes drew himself upright. He remembered the cigarette which had burnt

itself out between his fingers, and he carefully re-lit it.

"I am now," he said, blowing a cloud of blue smoke into the heart of a

yellow rose, "confronted by a somewhat hackneyed, but always interesting

problem. Do I care for you enough--or too little--or too much--to

continue your friend, when my aid will probably ensure the loss of you

for ever! It is not a problem to be hurried over, this!"

"There is no need for haste," she answered. "I know you, Gilbert, better

than you know yourself. I am very sure that you will help me--if you

can."

He laughed bitterly.

"You are a good deal surer of me than I am of myself," he answered. "Why

should I give you up to a boy who hasn't learnt yet the first lesson of

life?"

"What is it?" she asked. "I am not clear that I have graduated."

"You can see it blazoned over the portals as you pass through the

gates," he answered, "'Abandon all enthusiasm, ye who enter here.' The

pathways of life are heaped with the corpses of those who will not

understand. Do you think that this boy will fare better than the rest,

with his preaching and lectures and East End work? It's sheer

impertinence! Man, the individual, is only a pawn in the game of life.

Why should he imagine that he can alter the things that are?"

"Even the striving to alter them," she said, "may tend towards

betterment."

"A platitude," he declared--"and hopeless!"

She raised her eyes to his.

"Anyhow," she said softly, "I care for him."

He bowed low.

"Incomprehensible," he murmured. "Take your freedom and marry this young

man if you must. But I warn you that you will be miserable. Apples and

green figs don't grow on the same tree."

He drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Jean le Roi," he said, "was married to Annette Hurier, in the town of

Chalons, two years before he posed before you as the Duke of Languerois.

You will find Annette's address in there. It took me a year to trace

this out--a wasted year! Bah! you women are all disappointments. We will

go and play bridge."

Lady Peggy stared at Wilhelmina when they entered the library a few

minutes later.

"What on earth have you been doing to her, Gilbert?" she demanded.

"She's a changed woman!"

"Making love to her!" Deyes answered.

Lady Peggy laughed.

"If I believed you," she declared, "I'd give up this rubber and go and

lose myself amongst the palms with you. Come and cut in--you too,

Wilhelmina."

But Wilhelmina excused herself. She drove homewards with a soft smile

upon her lips, and the dead weight lifted from her heart.

CHAPTER XV

THE ONLY WAY

It was a round table, too, at which Macheson dined that night, but with

a different company. For they were all men who sat there, men with

earnest faces and thoughtful eyes. The graces of evening dress and

society talk they knew nothing of. They were the friends of Macheson's

college days, the men who had sworn amongst themselves that, however

they might live, they would devote the greater part of their life to

their fellow-creatures.

They were smoking pipes, and a great bowl of tobacco was on the table.

Few of them took wine, but Macheson and Holderness were drinking whisky.

Holderness, their senior, was usually the one who started their informal

talk.

"My work's been easy enough all the time," he remarked, leaning forward.

"There were no end of labour-papers, but all being run either for the

trades' unions, or some special industrial branch. I started a labour

magazine--Macheson found the money, of course--and I'm paying my way

now. I don't know whether the thing does any good. At any rate it's an

effort! I've been hearing about your colony, Franklin. I shall want an

article on it presently."

A tall, thin young man removed his pipe from his mouth.

"You shall have it as soon as I can find time," he answered. "We're

going strong, but really there's very little credit due to me. It was

Macheson's money and Macheson's idea. We've got an entire village now

near Llandirog, and the whole population come from the prisons. Macheson

and I used to attend the police-courts ourselves, hear all the cases,

and form our own conclusions as to the prisoners. If we thought there

was any hope for them, we made a note, met them when they came out, and

offered them a job, on probation--in our village. We have to leave it to

the chaplains now--I can't spare time to be always in London. We've two

woollen mills, a saw-mill, and a bakery, besides all the shops, and

nearly a thousand acres of well-farmed land. At first the people round

were terribly shy of us, but that's all over now. Why, we have less

trouble with the police in our village than any for miles around. We're

paying our way, too."

"You've done thundering well, Franklin," Macheson declared. "I remember

what a rough time you had at first. Uphill work, wasn't it?"

"That's what makes it such a relief to have pulled through," Franklin

declared, re-lighting his pipe. "I shouldn't like to say how much I had

to draw from Macheson before we turned the corner. Glad to say we've

paid a bit back now, though. Tell us about your idea, Holroyd. They tell

me it's working well in some of the large cities."

"It's simple enough," Holroyd answered, smiling. "It was just the

application of common sense to the laws of charity. Nearly every one's

charitable by instinct--only sometimes it's so difficult for a busy man

to know exactly when and how to give. I started in one of the big

cities, looking up prosperous middle-class families. I'd try to induce

them, instead of just writing cheques for institutions and making things

for bazaars, to take a personal interest in a family of about the same

size as their own who were in a bad way. When they promised, all I had

to do was to find the poor family and bring them together, and it was

astonishing how much the one could do for the other without undue

effort. There were the clothes, of course, and old housekeeping things,

odd bits of furniture, food from the kitchen, a job for one of the boys

in the garden, a day's work for one of the girls in the house. I tell

you I have lists of hundreds of poor families, who feel now that they

have some one to fall back upon, and the richer half of the combination

take a tremendous interest in their foster-family, as some of them call

it. Sometimes there is trouble, but the world is governed by majorities,

and in the majority of cases the thing has turned out excellently."

"There's the essence of charity in the idea--the personal note,"

Macheson remarked. "How's the Canadian farm going, Finlayson?"

"We're paying our way," Finlayson answered, "and you should see our

boys. They come out thin and white--all skin and bones. You wouldn't

recognize one of them in six months! They're good workers, too. We've

nine hundred altogether in the North-West, and we want more. I'm hoping

to take a hundred back with me."

"It's a grand country," Macheson said. "I'm glad it's part of the

Empire, Finlayson, or I should grudge you those boys. We can't spare too

many. Hinton, your work speaks for itself."

Hinton, the only one in clerical dress, smiled a little wearily.

"Sometimes," he said, "I wish it would speak a little louder. East End

work is all the same. One feels ashamed of preaching religion to a

starving people."

Macheson nodded his sympathy.

"I know what you mean," he said. "It drove me from the East to the West.

We should preach at the one and feed the other!... Of course, I

personally have always been handicapped. I haven't been able to

subscribe to any of the established churches. But I do believe in the

laws of retribution, whether you call them human or Divine. One's moral

delinquencies pay one out just as bodily excesses do. Always one's debts

are to be paid, and it's a terrible burden the drones must carry. After

all, I've come to the conclusion that there's heaps of sound moral

teaching to be drummed into our fellow-creatures without the necessity

of being orthodox!"

"You speak lightly of your own work, Macheson," Franklin said, "but

there is one thing we must none of us forget. Our schools, our farms,

our colonies, all our attempts, indeed, owe their very being to your

open purse----"

Macheson held out his hand.

"Franklin," he said, "I want to tell you something which I think none of

you know. I want to tell you where most of my money came from, and

you'll understand then why I've been so anxious to get rid of it--or a

part of it--in this way. Did you ever hear of Ferguson Davis, the

money-lender? Yes, I can see by your faces you did. Well, he was my

mother's brother, and he died without a will when I was a child, and the

whole lot came to me!"

"A million and a quarter," some one murmured.

"More," Macheson answered. "I was at Oxford when I understood exactly

the whole business, and it seemed like nothing but a curse to me. Then I

talked to the dear old professor, and he showed me the way. I can

honestly say that not one penny of that money has ever been spent,

directly or indirectly, upon myself. I believe that if the old man could

come to life and read my bank-book he'd have a worse fit than the one

which carried him off. I appointed myself the trustee of his fortune,

and it's spread pretty well all over the world. I've never refused to

stand at the back of any reasonable scheme for the betterment of our

fellow-creatures. There have been a few failures perhaps, but many

successes. The Davis buildings are mine--in trust, of course. They've

done well. I've a larger scheme on hand now on the same lines. And in

spite of it all the money grows! I can't get rid of it. The old man

chose his investments well, and many of our purely philanthropic schemes

are beginning to pay their way. It isn't that I care a fig about the

money, but you must try to make these things self-supporting, or you

injure the character of those who benefit by them. Now I've told you all

the truth, but don't let it go out of this room. You can consider

yourselves fellow-trustees with me, if you like. Show me an honest way

to use money for the real benefit of the world's unfortunates, and it's

yours as much as mine."

"It's magnificent," Franklin murmured.

"It's justice," Macheson answered. "The money was wrung from the poor,

and it goes back to them. Perhaps it's a saner distribution, for it's

the improvident and shiftless of the world who go to the money-lender."

There was a knock at the door. The hall-porter of the club in which they

were holding their informal meeting entered and addressed Macheson.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but there is a young man here who

wants to see you at once. He would not give his name, but he says that

his business is urgent."

"Where is he?" Macheson asked.

"In the smaller strangers' room, sir."

Macheson excused himself, and, crossing the hall, entered the barely

furnished apartment, on the left of the entrance. A young man was

walking up and down with fierce, restless movements. He was pale,

untidily dressed, and in his eyes there was a curious look of terror, as

though all the time he saw beyond the walls of the room things which

kept him breathless with fear. Macheson, pausing for a moment on the

threshold, failed on the instant to recognize him. Then he closed the

door and advanced into the room.

"Hurd!" he exclaimed. "What do you want? What is the matter?"

"Matter enough," Hurd declared wildly. "I have been a fool and a

blackguard. Those two got round me--the old man and his cursed step-son!

I must have been mad!"

"What have you done?" Macheson asked sharply.

"She treated me badly," Hurd continued, "made a fool of me before you,

and turned me away from Thorpe. I wanted to cry quits with her, and

those two got hold of me. Jean le Roi is her husband. She refused to see

him--to hear from him. Letty Foulton is there, and I have been allowed

to visit her. I knew the back way in, and I took Jean le Roi there--an

hour ago--and he is waiting in her room until she comes home!"

"Good God!" Macheson murmured. "You unspeakable blackguard!"

He glanced at the clock. It was past midnight.

"What time was she expected home?" he demanded.

"Soon after eleven! She was only dining out. He--he swore that he only

wanted to talk to her, to threaten her with exposure. She deserved that!

But he is a madman. When I left him I was afraid. He carries a knife

always, and he kept on saying that she was his wife. I left him there

waiting--and when I wanted him to promise that there should be no

violence, he laughed at me. He is hidden in her room. I thought that it

was only money he wanted--but--but----"

Macheson flung him on one side. He caught up his hat and rushed out of

the club.

CHAPTER XVI

MAN TO MAN

Hortense smiled softly to herself as she laid down the ivory-backed

brushes. What did it mean, she wondered, when her mistress went out with

tired eyes and pallid cheeks, and came home with the colour of a rose

and eyes like stars, humming an old French love-song, and her feet

moving all the time to some unheard music? It was years since she had

seen her like this! Hortense knew the signs and was well pleased. At

last, then, the household was to be properly established. A woman as

beautiful as her mistress without a lover was to Hortense an

incomprehensible thing.

"You can go now, Hortense," her mistress ordered. "I will have my coffee

half an hour earlier to-morrow morning."

"Very good, madame," the girl answered. "There is nothing else to-night,

then?"

"Nothing, thank you," Wilhelmina answered. "You had better go to bed

now. I have been keeping you up rather late the last few evenings. We

must both turn over a new leaf."

Hortense departed, smiling to herself. It was always like this--when it

came. One thought of others and one wanted to be alone. She, too,

hummed a few bars of that love-song as she climbed the stairs to her

room.

Wilhelmina rose from her chair and stood for a moment looking at herself

in the long, oval looking-glass. Hortense had chosen for her a French

dressing-jacket, with the palest of light blue ribbons drawn through the

lace. Wilhelmina looked at herself and smiled. Was it the light, the

colouring, or was she really still so good to look at? Her hair, falling

over her shoulders, was long and silky, the lines seemed to have been

smoothed out of her face--she was like herself when she had been a girl!

She followed the slender lines of her figure, down past the lace of her

petticoat to her feet, still encased in her evening slippers with

diamond buckles, and she laughed softly to herself. What was she yet but

a girl? Fate had cheated her of some of the years, but she was barely

twenty-five. How wonderful to be young still and feel one's blood flow

to music like this! Her thoughts ran riot. Her mouth trembled and a

deeper colour stained her cheeks. Then she heard a voice behind her, a

living voice in her room. And as swiftly as those other mysterious

thoughts had stolen into her heart, came the chill of a deadly,

indescribable fear.

"Charming! Ravishing! It is almost worth the six years of waiting, dear

wife!"

She began to tremble. She could not have called out or framed any

intelligible sentence to save her life. It was like a nightmare. The

horror was there, without the power of movement or speech.

He moved his position and came within the range of her terrified

vision. Hurd's twenty pounds and a little more added to it had done

wonders. He wore correct evening clothes, correctly worn. Except for his

good looks--the good looks of a devil--he would have attracted notice

nowhere. He leaned against the couch, and though his lips curled into a

sneer, there was a flame in his eyes, a horrible admiration.

She tried to pray.

"You are overcome," he murmured softly. "Ah! Why not? Six years since

our happiness was snatched from us, cherie! Ah! but it was cruel! You

have thought of me, I trust! You have pitied me! Ah! how often I have

lain awake at night in my cell, fondly imagining some such reunion--as

this."

She forced herself to speak through lips suddenly pale. What strange

words they sounded, frozen things, scarcely audible! Yet the effort hurt

her.

"I will give you--the money," she said. "More, if you will!"

"Ah!" he said reflectively, "the money! I had forgotten that. It was not

kind of you to run away and hide, little woman! It was not kind of you

to send me nothing when I was in prison! Oh! I suffered, I can tell you!

There is a good deal to be made up for! Pet, if you had not reminded me,

just now these things seem so little. Dear little wife, you are

enchanting. Almost you turn my head."

He came slowly towards her. She threw up her hands.

"Wait!" she begged, "oh, wait! Listen! I am in your power. I admit it. I

will make terms. I will sign anything. What is it that you want? You

shall be rich, but you must go away. You must leave me now!"

He looked at her steadily and it seemed to her that his eyes were on

fire with evil things.

"Little wife," he said, with a shade of mockery in his lowered tone. "I

cannot do that. Consider how you were snatched from my arms! Consider

the cruelty of it. As for the money--bah! I have come to claim my own.

Don't you understand, you bewitching little fool? It is you I want! The

money can wait! I cannot!"

He came nearer still and she shrank, like a terrified dumb thing,

against her magnificent dressing-table, with its load of priceless

trinkets. She tried to call out, but her voice seemed gone, and he only

laughed as he laid his hand over her mouth and drew her gently towards

him. With a sudden unnatural strength she wrested herself from his arms.

"Oh! listen to me, listen to me for one moment first," she begged

frantically. "It's true that I married you, but it was all a plot--and I

was a child! You shall have your share of my money! Leave me alone and I

swear it! You shall be rich! You can go back to Paris and be an

adventurer no longer. You shall spend your own money. You can live your

own life!"

Even then her brain moved quickly. She dared not speak of Annette, for

fear of making him desperate. It was his cupidity to which she appealed.

"I am no wife of yours," she moaned. "You shall have more money than you

ever had before in your life. But don't make me kill myself! For I

shall, if you touch me!"

He was so close to her now that his hot breath scorched her cheek.

"Is it that another has taken my place?" he asked.

"Yes!--no! that is, there is some one whom I love," she cried. "Listen!

You know what you can do with money in Paris. Anything! Everything!"

He was so close to her now that the words died away upon her lips.

"Little wife," he whispered, "don't you understand--that I am a man, and

that it is you I want?"

Again she tried to scream, but his hand covered her mouth. His arm was

suddenly around her. Then he started back with an oath and looked

towards the door of her bedroom.

"Who is in that room?" he asked quickly.

"My maid," she lied.

He took a quick step across the room. The door was flung open and

Macheson entered. Wilhelmina fainted, but forced herself back into

consciousness with a sheer effort of will. Sobbing and laughing at the

same time, she tried to drag herself towards the bell, but Jean le Roi

stood in the way. Jean le Roi was calm but wicked.

"What are you doing in my wife's bedroom?" he asked.

"I am here to see you out of the house," Macheson answered, with one

breathless glance around the room. "Will you come quietly?"

"Out of my own house?" Jean le Roi said softly. "Out of my wife's room?

Who are you?"

[Illustration: THE BONE SNAPPED, AND THE KNIFE FELL FROM THE NERVELESS

FINGERS. Page 301]

"Never mind," Macheson answered. "Her friend! Let that be enough. And

let me tell you this. If I had come too late I would have wrung your

neck."

Jean le Roi sprang at him like a cat, his legs off the ground, one arm

around the other's neck, and something gleaming in his right hand.

Nothing but Macheson's superb strength saved him. He risked being

throttled, and caught Jean le Roi's right arm in such a grip that he

swung him half round the room. The bone snapped, and the knife fell from

the nerveless fingers. But Macheson let go a second too soon. Jean le

Roi had all the courage and the insensibility to pain of a brute animal.

He stretched out his foot, and with a trick of his old days, tripped

Macheson so that he fell heavily. Jean le Roi bent over him on his

knees, breathing heavily, and with murder in his eyes. Macheson scarcely

breathed! He lay perfectly still. Jean le Roi staggered to his feet and

turned towards Wilhelmina.

"You see, madame," he said, seizing her by the wrist, "how I shall deal

with your lovers if there are any more of them. No use tugging at that

bell. I saw to that before you came! I'm used to fighting for what I

want, and I think I've won you!"

He caught her into his arms, but suddenly released her with a low animal

cry. He knew that this was the end, for he was pinioned from behind, a

child in the mighty grip which held him powerless. "You are a little too

hasty, my friend," Macheson remarked. "I was afraid I might not be so

quick as you on my feet, so I rested for a moment. But no man has ever

escaped from this grip till I chose to let him go. Now," he added,

turning to Wilhelmina, "the way is clear. Will you go outside and rouse

the servants? Don't come back."

"You are--quite safe?" she faltered.

"Absolutely," he answered. "I could hold him with one hand."

Jean le Roi lifted his head. His brain was working swiftly.

"Listen!" he exclaimed. "It is finished! I am beaten! I, Jean le Roi,

admit defeat. Why call in servants? The affair is better finished

between ourselves."

Wilhelmina paused. In that first great rush of relief, she had not

stopped to think that with Jean le Roi a prisoner, and herself as

prosecutrix, the whole miserable story must be published. He continued.

"Give me money," he said, "only a half of what you offered me just now,

and you shall have your freedom."

Wilhelmina smiled. Something of the joy of a few hours ago came faintly

back to her.

"I have already that," she answered. "I learnt the truth to-night."

Jean le Roi shrugged his shoulders. The game was up then! What an

evening of disasters!

"Let me go," he said. "I ask no more."

Wilhelmina and Macheson exchanged glances. She vanished into her room

for a moment, and reappeared in a long wrapper.

"Come with me softly," she said, "and I will let you out."

So they three went on tiptoe down the broad stairs. Macheson and

Wilhelmina exchanged no words. Yet they both felt that the future was

different for them.

"You can give Mr. Macheson your address," Wilhelmina said, as they stood

at the front door. "I will send you something to help you make a fresh

start."

But Jean le Roi laughed.

"I play only for the great stakes," he murmured, with a swagger, "and

when I lose--I lose."

So he vanished into the darkness, and Macheson and Wilhelmina remained

with clasped hands.

"To-morrow," he whispered, stooping and kissing her fingers.

"To-morrow," she repeated. "Thank God you came to-night!"

She was too weary, too happy to ask for explanations, and he offered

none. All the time, as he crossed the Square and turned towards his

house, those words rang in his ears--To-morrow!

CHAPTER XVII

LORD AND LADY BOUNTIFUL

Deyes caught a vision of blue in the window, and crossed the lawn. Lady

Peggy leaned over the low sill. Between them was only a fragrant border

of hyacinths.

"You know that our host and hostess have deserted us?" she asked.

He nodded.

"They have gone over to this wonderful Convalescent Home that Macheson

is building in the hills," he remarked. "I am not sure that I consider

it good manners to leave us to entertain one another."

"I am not sure," she said, "that it is proper. Wilhelmina should have

considered that we are her only guests."

She sat down in the window-sill and leaned back against the corner. She

had slept well, and she was not afraid of the sunshine--blue, too, was

her most becoming colour. He looked at her admiringly.

"You are really looking very well this morning," he said.

"Thank you," she answered. "I was expecting that."

"I wonder," he said, "how you others discover the secret of eternal

youth. You and Macheson and Wilhelmina all look younger than you did

last year. I seem to be getting older all by myself."

She looked at him critically. There were certainly more lines about his

face and the suspicion of crow's-feet about his tired eyes.

"Age," she said, "is simply a matter of volition. You wear yourself out

fretting for the impossible!"

"One has one's desires," he murmured.

"But you should learn," she said, "to let your desires be governed by

your reason. It is a foolish thing to want what you may not have."

"You think that it is like that with me?" he asked.

"All the world knows," she answered, "that you are in love with

Wilhelmina!"

"One must be in love with someone," he remarked.

"Naturally! But why choose a woman who is head and ears in love with

some one else?"

"It cannot last," he answered, "she has married him."

Lady Peggy reached out for a cushion and placed it behind her head.

"That certainly would seem hopeful in the case of an ordinary

woman--myself, for instance," she said. "But Wilhelmina is not an

ordinary woman. She always would do things differently from other

people. I don't want to make you more unhappy than you are, but I

honestly believe that Wilhelmina is going to set a new fashion. She is

going to try and re-establish the life domestic amongst the upper

classes."

"She always was such a reformer," he sighed.

Lady Peggy nodded sympathetically.

"Of course, one can't tell how it may turn out," she continued, "but at

present they seem to have turned life into a sort of Garden of Eden, and

do you know I can't help fancying that there isn't the slightest chance

for the serpent. Wilhelmina is so fearfully obstinate."

"The thing will cloy!" he declared.

"I fancy not," she answered. "You see, they don't live on sugar-plums.

Victor Macheson is by way of being a masterful person, and Wilhelmina is

only just beginning to realize the fascination of being ruled. Frankly,

Gilbert, I don't think there's the slightest chance for you!"

He sighed.

"I am afraid you are right," he said regretfully. "I began to realize it

last night, when we went into the library unexpectedly, and Wilhelmina

blushed. No self-respecting woman ought to blush when she is discovered

being kissed by her own husband."

"Wilhelmina," Lady Peggy said, stretching out her hand for one of Deyes'

cigarettes, "may live to astonish us yet, but of one thing I am

convinced. She will never even realize the other sex except through her

own husband. I am afraid she will grow narrow--I should hate to write as

her epitaph that she was an affectionate wife and devoted mother--but I

am perfectly certain that that is what it will come to."

"In that case," Deyes remarked gloomily, "I may as well go away."

"No! I shouldn't do that," Lady Peggy said. "I should try to alter my

point of view."

"Direct me, please," he begged.

"I should try," she continued, "to put a bridle upon my desires and take

up the reins. You could lead them in a more suitable direction."

"For instance?"

"There is myself," she declared.

He laughed quietly.

"You!" he repeated. "Why, you are the most incorrigible flirt in

Christendom. You would no more tie yourself up with one man than enter a

nunnery."

She sighed.

"I have always been misunderstood," she declared, looking at him

pathetically out of her delightful eyes. "What you call my flirtations

have been simply my attempts, more or less clumsy, to gain a husband. I

have been most unlucky. No one ever proposes to me!"

He laughed derisively.

"Your victims have been too loquacious," he replied. "How about Gayton,

who went to Africa because you offered to be his friend, and Horris--he

came to my rooms to tell me all about it the day you refused him, and

Sammy Palliser--you treated him shockingly!"

"I had forgotten them," she admitted. "They were nice men, too, all of

them, but they all made the same mistake. I remember now they did

propose to me. That, of course, was fatal."

"I scarcely see----" he began.

She patted him gently on the arm.

"My dear Gilbert," she said, "haven't I always said that I never intend

to marry any one who proposes to me? When I have quite made up my mind,

I am going to do the proposing myself!"

"Whether it is Leap Year or not?" he asked.

"Decidedly!" she answered. "Men can always shuffle out of a Leap Year

declaration. My man won't be able to escape. I can promise you that."

"Does he--exist then?" Deyes asked.

She laughed softly.

"He's existed for a good many years more than I have," she answered. "I

wasn't thinking of marrying a baby."

"Ah! Does he know?"

"Well, I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "He ought to, but he's such

a stupid person."

It was then that Gilbert Deyes received the shock of his life. He

discovered quite suddenly that her eyes were full of tears. For the

first time for many years he nearly lost his head.

"Perhaps," he suggested, dropping his voice and astonished to find that

it was not quite so steady as usual, "he has been waiting!"

"I am afraid not," she answered, looking down for a moment at the buckle

in her waistband.

He looked round.

"If only he were here now," he said. "Could one conceive a more

favourable opportunity? An April morning, sunshine, flowers, everything

in the air to make him forget that he is an old fogey and doesn't

deserve----"

She lifted her eyes to his, now deliciously wet. Her brows were

delicately uplifted.

"I couldn't do it," she murmured, "unless he were in the same room."

Deyes stepped over the hyacinths and vaulted through the window.

* * * * *

Wilhelmina selected a freshly cut tree-stump, carefully brushed away the

sawdust, and sat down. Macheson chose another and lighted a cigarette.

Eventually they decided that they were too far away, and selected a

tree-trunk where there was room for both. Wilhelmina unrolled a plan,

and glancing now and then at the forest of scaffold poles to their left,

proceeded to try to realize the incomplete building. Macheson watched

her with a smile.

"Victor," she exclaimed, "you are not to laugh at me! Remember this is

my first attempt at doing anything--worth doing, and, of course, I'm

keen about it. Are you sure we shall have enough bedrooms?"

"Enough for a start, at any rate," he answered. "We can always add to

it."

She looked once more at that forest of poles, at the slowly rising

walls, through whose empty windows one could see pictures of the valley

below.

"One can build----" she murmured, "one can build always. But think,

Victor, what a lot of time I wasted before I knew you. I might have done

so much."

He smiled reassuringly.

"There is plenty of time," he declared. "Better to start late and build

on a sure foundation, you know. A good many of my houses had to come

down as fast as they went up. Do you remember, for instance, how I

wanted to convert all your villagers by storm?"

She smiled.

"Still--I'm glad you came to try," she said softly. "That horrid foreman

is watching us, Victor. I am going to look the other way."

"He has gone now," Macheson said, slipping his arm around her waist.

"Dear, do you know I don't think that one person can build very well

alone. It's a cold sort of building when it's finished--the life built

by a lonely man. I like the look of our palace better, Wilhelmina."

"I should like to know where my part comes in?" she asked.

"Every room," he answered, "will need adorning, and the lamps--one

person alone can never keep them alight, and we don't want them to go

out, Wilhelmina. Do you remember the old German, who said that beautiful

thoughts were the finest pictures to hang upon your walls? Think of next

spring, when we shall hear the children from that miserable town running

about in the woods, picking primroses--do you see how yellow they are

against the green moss?"

Wilhelmina rose.

"I must really go and pick some," she said. "What about your pheasants,

Victor?"

He laughed.

"I'll find plenty of sport, never fear," he answered, "without keeping

the kiddies shut out. Why, the country belongs to them! It's their

birthright, not ours."

They walked through the plantation side by side. The ground was still

soft with the winter's rains, but everywhere the sunlight came sweeping

in, up the glade and across the many stretching arms of tender

blossoming green. The ground was starred with primroses, and in every

sheltered nook were violets. A soft west wind blew in their faces as

they emerged into the country lane. Below them was the valley, hung with

a faint blue mist; all around them the song of birds, the growing sounds

of the stirring season. Stephen Hurd came cantering by, and stopped for

a moment to speak about some matter connected with the estates.

"My love to Letty," Wilhelmina said graciously, as he rode off. Then she

turned to Macheson.

"Stephen Hurd is a little corner in your house," she remarked.

"In our house," he protested. "I should never have considered him if he

had not worked out his own salvation. If he had reached me ten minutes

later----"

She gripped his arm.

"Don't," she begged.

He laughed.

"Don't ever brood over grisly impossibilities," he said. "The man never

breathed who could have kept you from me. Across the hills home, or are

your shoes too thin?"

He swung open the gate, and they passed through, only to descend the

other side, along the broad green walk strewn with grey rocks and

bordered with gorse bushes, aglow with yellow blossom. They skirted the

fir plantation, received the respectful greetings of Mrs. Green at the

gamekeeper's cottage, and, crossing the lower range of hills, approached

the house by the back avenue. And Wilhelmina laughed softly as they

passed along the green lane, for her thoughts travelled back to one wild

night when, with upraised skirts and flying, trembling footsteps, she

had sped along into a new world. She clung to her husband's arm.

"I came this way, dear, when I set out that night--to kiss you."

He stooped down and kissed her full on the lips.

"A nice state you flung me into," he remarked.

"It was rather an exciting evening," she said demurely.

They walked straight into the morning-room, which was indiscreet, and

Wilhelmina screamed.

"Peggy," she cried, "Peggy, you bad girl!"

The two women went off together, of course, to talk about it, and Deyes

and Macheson, like Englishmen all the world over, muttered something

barely comprehensible, and then looked at one another awkwardly.

"Care for a game of billiards?" Macheson suggested.

"Right oh!" Deyes answered, in immense relief.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,

every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and

intent.