"At a large price," I said. "If you have brought your cheque-book I'll

lend you a pen."

"You want me to make you an offer? Otherwise I should sell them by

auction for you, deducting ten per cent. commission."

"Not by auction," I said impulsively. "I couldn't bear to know how much

or rather how little, my Georgian bureau fetched. It was there, as I

think I told you, that I wrote my 'Guide to the Round Pond.' Give me an

inclusive price for the lot, and never, never let me know the details."

He named an inclusive price. It was something under a hundred-and-fifty

pounds. I shouldn't have minded that if it had only been a little over

ten pounds. But it wasn't.

"Right," I agreed. "And, oh, I was nearly forgetting. There's an old

opera hat of exquisite workmanship, which----"

"Ah, now clothes had much better be sold by auction. Make a pile of all

you don't want and I'll send round a sack for them: I have an auction

sale every Wednesday."

"Very well. Send round to-morrow. And you might--er--also send round

a--er--cheque for--quite so. Well, then good morning."

When he had gone I went into my bedroom and made a pile of my opera-hat.

It didn't look very impressive--hardly worth having a sack specially

sent round for it. To keep it company I collected an assortment of

clothes. It pained me to break up my wardrobe in this way, but I wanted

the bidding for my opera-hat to be brisk, and a few preliminary suits

would warm the public up. Altogether it was a goodly pile when it was

done. The opera-hat perched on the top, half of it only at work.

* * * * *

To-day I received from Mr. Bennett a cheque, a catalogue and an account.

The catalogue was marked "Lots 172-179." Somehow I felt that my opera

hat would be Lot 176. I turned to it in the account.

"_Lot 176--Six shillings_"

"It did well," I said. "Perhaps in my heart of hearts I hoped for seven

and sixpence, but six shillings--yes, it was a good hat."

And then I turned to the catalogue.

"_Lot 176_--Frock coat and vest, dress coat and vest, ditto, pair of

trousers and opera hat."

"_And opera hat._" Well, well. At least it had the position of honour at

the end. My opera hat was starred.

LITTLE PLAYS FOR AMATEURS

[~Note.~--_There are only six plots allowed to us who are not

professionals. Here they are. When you have read them, then you will

know all about amateur theatricals._]

XL. "FAIR MISTRESS DOROTHY"

_The scene is an apartment in the mansion of Sir Thomas Farthingale.

There is no need to describe the furniture in it, as rehearsals will

gradually show what is wanted. A picture or two of previous Sir Thomas's

might be seen on the walls, if you have an artistic friend who could

arrange this; but it is a mistake to hang up your own ancestors, as some

of your guests may recognise them, and thus pierce beneath the

vraisemblance of the scene._

_The period is that of Cromwell--sixteen something._

_The costumes are, as far as possible, of the same period._

Mistress Dorothy Farthingale _is seated in the middle of the stage,

reading a letter and occasionally sighing_.

_Enter_ My Lord Carey.

~Carey.~ Mistress Dorothy alone! Truly Fortune smiles upon me.

~Dorothy~ (_hiding the letter quickly_). An she smiles, my lord, I needs

must frown.

~Carey~ (_used to this sort of thing and no longer put off by it_). Nay,

give me but one smile, sweet mistress. (_She sighs heavily._)

You sigh! Is't for me?

~Dorothy~ (_feeling that the sooner he and the audience understand the

situation the better_). I sigh for another, my lord, who is

absent.

~Carey~ (_annoyed_). Zounds, and zounds again! A pest upon the fellow!

(_He strides up and down the room, keeping out of the way of his

sword as much as possible._) Would that I might pink the pesky

knave!

~Dorothy~ (_turning upon him a look of hate_). Would that you might have

the chance, my lord, so it were in fair fighting. Methinks

Roger's sword-arm will not have lost its cunning in the wars.

~Carey.~ A traitor to fight against his King.

~Dorothy.~ He fights for what he thinks is right. (_She takes out his

letter and kisses it._)

~Carey~ (_observing the action_). You have a letter from him!

~Dorothy~ (_hastily concealing it and turning pale_). How know you that?

~Carey.~ Give it to me! (_She shrieks and rises._) By heavens, madam, I

will have it! (_He struggles with her and seizes it._)

_Enter_ Sir Thomas.

~Sir Thomas.~ Odds life, my lord, what means this?

~Carey~ (_straightening himself_). It means, Sir Thomas, that you

harbour a rebel within your walls. Master Roger Dale, traitor,

corresponds secretly with your daughter.

(_Who, I forgot to say, has swooned._)

~Sir Thomas~ (_sternly_). Give me the letter. Ay, 'tis Roger's hand, I

know it well. (_He reads the letter, which is full of

thoughtful metaphors about love, aloud to the audience.

Suddenly his eyebrows go up and down to express surprise. He

seizes_ Lord Carey _by the arm_.) Ha! Listen! "To-morrow when

the sun is upon the western window of the gallery, I will be

with thee." The villain!

~Carey~ (_who does not know the house very well_). When is that?

~Sir Thomas.~ Why, 'tis now, for I have but recently passed through the

gallery and did mark the sun.

~Carey~ (_fiercely_). In the name of the King, Sir Thomas, I call upon

you to arrest this traitor.

~Sir Thomas~ (_sighing_). I loved the boy well, yet----

(_He shrugs his shoulders expressively and goes out with_ Lord

Carey _to collect sufficient force for the arrest._)

_Enter_ Roger _by secret door R._

~Roger.~ My love!

~Dorothy~ (_opening her eyes_). Roger!

~Roger.~ At last!

(_For the moment they talk in short sentences like this. Then_

Dorothy _puts her hand to her brow as if she is remembering

something horrible._)

~Dorothy.~ Roger! Now I remember! It is not safe for you to stay!

~Roger~ (_very brave_). Am I a puling child to be afraid?

~Dorothy.~ My Lord Carey is here. He has read your letter.

~Roger.~ The black-livered dog! Would I had him at my sword's point to

teach him manners.

(_He puts his hand to his heart and staggers into a chair._)

~Dorothy.~ Oh, you are wounded!

~Roger.~ Faugh, 'tis but a scratch. Am I a puling----

(_He faints. She binds up his ankle._)

_Enter_ Lord Carey _with two soldiers._

~Carey.~ Arrest this traitor! (_Roger is led away by the soldiers._)

~Dorothy~ (_stretching out her hands to him_). Roger! (_She sinks into a

chair._)

~Carey~ (_choosing quite the wrong moment for a proposal_). Dorothy, I

love you! Think no more of this traitor, for he will surely

hang. 'Tis your father's wish that you and I should wed.

~Dorothy~ (_refusing him_). Go, lest I call in the grooms to whip you.

~Carey.~ By heaven---- (_Thinking better of it._) I go to fetch your

father.

(_Exit._)

_Enter_ Roger _by secret door L._

~Dorothy.~ Roger! You have escaped.

~Roger.~ Knowest not the secret passage from the wine cellar, where we

so often played as children? 'Twas in that same cellar the

thick-skulled knaves immured me.

~Dorothy.~ Roger, you must fly! Wilt wear a cloak of mine to elude our

enemies?

~Roger~ (_missing the point rather_). Nay, if I die, let me die like a

man, not like a puling girl. Yet, sweetheart----

_Enter_ Lord Carey _by ordinary door._

~Carey~ (_forgetting himself in his confusion_). Odds my zounds, dod

sink me! What murrain is this?

~Roger~ (_seizing Sir Thomas's sword, which had been accidentally left

behind on the table, as I ought to have said before, and

advancing threateningly_). It means, my lord, that a villain's

time has come. Wilt say a prayer?

(_They fight, and Carey is disarmed before they can hurt each

other._)

~Carey~ (_dying game_). Strike, Master Dale!

~Roger.~ Nay, I cannot kill in cold blood.

(_He throws down his sword._ Lord Carey _exhibits considerable

emotion at this, and decides to turn over an entirely new

leaf._)

_Enter two soldiers._

~Carey.~ Arrest that man! (Roger _is seized again._) Mistress Dorothy,

it is for you to say what shall be done with the prisoner.

~Dorothy~ (_standing up if she was sitting down, and sitting down if she

was standing up_). Ah, give him to me, my lord!

~Carey~ (_joining the hands of Roger and Dorothy_). I trust to you,

sweet mistress, to see that the prisoner does not escape again.

(Dorothy _and_ Roger _embrace each other, if they can do it

without causing a scandal in the neighbourhood, and the curtain

goes down._)

XLI. "A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING"

_The scene is a drawing-room (in which the men are allowed to smoke--or

a smoking-room in which the women are allowed to draw--it doesn't much

matter) in the house of somebody or other in the country._ George

Turnbull _and his old College friend_, Henry Peterson, _are confiding in

each other, as old friends will, over their whiskies and cigars. It is

about three o'clock in the afternoon._

~George~ (_dreamily, helping himself to a stiff soda_). Henry, do you

remember that evening at Christ Church College, five years ago,

when we opened our hearts to each other?...

~Henry~ (_lighting a cigar and hiding it in a fern-pot_). That moonlight

evening on the Backs, George, when I had failed in my

Matriculation examination?

~George.~ Yes; and we promised that when either of us fell in love the

other should be the first to hear of it? (_Rising solemnly._)

Henry, the moment has come. (_With shining eyes._) I am in love.

~Henry~ (_jumping up and grasping him by both hands_). George! My dear

old George! (_In a voice broken with emotion._) Bless you.

George!

(_He pats him thoughtfully on the back three times, nods his

own head twice, gives him a final grip of the hand, and returns

to his chair._)

~George~ (_more moved by this than he cares to show_). Thank you.

Henry. (_Hoarsely._) You're a good fellow.

~Henry~ (_airily, with a typically British desire to conceal his

emotion_). Who is the lucky little lady?

~George~ (_taking out a picture postcard of the British Museum and

kissing it passionately_). Isobel Barley!

(_If_ Henry _is not careful he will probably give a start of

surprise here, with the idea of suggesting to the audience that

he_ (1) _knows something about the lady's past, or_ (2) _is in

love with her himself. He is, however, thinking of a different

play. We shall come to that one in a moment._)

~Henry~ (_in a slightly dashing manner_). Little Isobel? Lucky dog!

~George.~ I wish I could think so. (_Sighs._) But I have yet to approach

her, and she may be another's. (_Fiercely._) Heavens, Henry, if

she should be another's!

_Enter_ Isobel.

~Isobel~ (_brightly_). So I've run you to earth at last. Now what have

you got to say for yourselves?

~Henry~ (_like a man_). By Jove! (_Looking at his watch._) I had no

idea--is it really--poor old Joe--waiting----

(_Dashes out tactfully in a state of incoherence._)

~George~ (_rising and leading_ Isobel _to the front of the stage_).

Miss Barley, now that we are alone I have something I want to

say to you.

~Isobel~ (_looking at her watch_). Well, you must be quick. Because I'm

engaged.

(_George drops her hand and staggers away from her._)

~Isobel.~ Why, what's the matter?

~George~ (_to the audience, in a voice expressing the very deeps of

emotion_). Engaged! She is engaged! I am too late!

(_He sinks into a chair, and covers his face with his hands._)

~Isobel~ (_surprised_). Mr. Turnbull! What has happened?

~George~ (_waving her away with one hand_). Go! Leave me! I can bear

this best alone. (_Exit Isobel._) Merciful heavens, she is

plighted to another.

_Enter_ Henry.

~Henry~ (_eagerly_). Well, old man?

~George~ (_raising a face white with misery--that is to say, if he has

remembered to put the French chalk in the palms of his hands_).

Henry, I am too late! She is another's!

~Henry~ (_in surprise_). Whose?

~George~ (_with dignity_). I did not ask her. It is nothing to me.

Good-bye, Henry. Be kind to her.

~Henry.~ Why, where are you going?

~George~ (_firmly_). To the Rocky Mountains. I shall shoot some bears.

Grizzly ones. It may be that thus I shall forget my grief.

~Henry~ (_after a pause_). Perhaps you are right, George. What shall I

tell--her?

~George.~ Tell her--nothing. But should anything (_feeling casually in

his pockets_) happen to me--if (_going over them again quickly_)

I do not come back, then (_searching them all, including the

waist coat ones, in desperate haste_) give her, give her, give

her (_triumphantly bringing his handkerchief out of the last

pocket_) this, and say that my last thought was of her.

Good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye.

(_Exit to Rocky Mountains._)

_Enter_ Isobel.

~Isobel.~ Why, where's Mr. Turnbull?

~Henry~ (_sadly_). He's gone.

~Isobel.~ Gone? Where?

~Henry.~ To the Rocky Mountains. To shoot bears. (_Feeling that some

further explanation is needed._) Grizzly ones.

~Isobel.~ But he was _here_ a moment ago.

~Henry.~ Yes, he's only _just_ gone.

~Isobel.~ Why didn't he say good-bye? (_Eagerly._) But perhaps he left a

message for me? (_Henry shakes his head._) Nothing? (_Henry bows

silently and leaves the room._) Oh! (_She gives a cry and throws

herself on the sofa._) And I loved him! George, George, why

didn't you speak?

_Enter_ George _hurriedly. He is fully dressed for a shooting

expedition in the Rocky Mountains, and carries a rifle under

his arm._

* * * * *

~George~ (_to the audience_). I have just come back for my

pocket-handkerchief. I must have dropped it in here somewhere.

(_He begins to search for it, and in the ordinary course of

things comes upon_ Isobel _on the sofa. He puts his rifle down

carefully on a table, with the muzzle pointing at the prompter

rather than at the audience, and staggers back._) Merciful

heavens! Isobel! Dead! (_He falls on his knees beside the

sofa._) My love, speak to me!

~Isobel~ (_softly_). George!

~George.~ She is alive! Isobel!

~Isobel.~ Don't go, George!

~George.~ My dear, I love you! But when I heard that you were another's,

honour compelled me----

~Isobel~ (_sitting up quickly_). What do you mean by another's?

~George.~ You said you were engaged!

~Isobel~ (_suddenly realising how the dreadful misunderstanding arose

which nearly wrecked two lives_). But I only meant I was engaged

to play tennis with Lady Carbrook!

~George.~ What a fool I have been! (_He hurries on before the audience

can assent._) Then, Isobel, you _will_ be mine?

~Isobel.~ Yes, George. And you won't go and shoot nasty bears, will you,

dear? Not even grizzly ones?

~George~ (_taking her in his arms_). Never, darling. That was only

(_turning to the audience with the air of one who is making his

best point_) ~A slight misunderstanding.~

CURTAIN.

XLII. "MISS PRENDERGAST"

_As the curtain goes up two ladies are discovered in the morning-room of

Honeysuckle Lodge engaged in work of a feminine nature._ Miss Alice

Prendergast _is doing something delicate with a crochet-hook, but it is

obvious that her thoughts are far away. She sighs at intervals and

occasionally lays down her work and presses both hands to her heart. A

sympathetic audience will have no difficulty in guessing that she is in

love. On the other hand, her elder sister_, Miss Prendergast, _is

completely wrapped up in a sock for one of the poorer classes, over

which she frowns formidably. The sock, however, has no real bearing upon

the plot, and she must not make too much of it._

~Alice~ (_hiding her emotions_). Did you have a pleasant dinner-party

last night, Jane?

~Jane~ (_to herself_). Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. (_Looking

up._) Very pleasant indeed, Alice. The Blizzards were there, and

the Podbys, and the Slumphs. (_These people are not important

and should not be over-emphasised._) Mrs. Podby's maid has given

notice.

~Alice.~ Who took you in?

~Jane~ (_brightening up_). Such an interesting man, my dear. He talked

most agreeably about Art during dinner, and we renewed the

conversation in the drawing-room. We found that we agreed upon

all the main principles of Art, considered as such.

~Alice~ (_with a look in her eyes which shows that she is recalling a

tender memory_). When I was in Shropshire last week---- What was

your man's name?

~Jane~ (_with a warning glance at the audience_). You know how difficult

it is to catch names when one is introduced. I am certain he

never heard mine. (_As the plot depends partly upon this, she

pauses for it to sink in._) But I enquired about him afterwards,

and I find that he is a Mr.----

_Enter_ Mary, _the parlourmaid._

~Mary~ (handing letter). A letter for you, Miss.

~Jane~ (_taking it_). Thank you, Mary. (_Exit_ Mary _to work up her

next line._) A letter! I wonder who it is from! (_Reading the

envelope._) "Miss Prendergast, Honeysuckle Lodge." (_She opens

it with the air of one who has often received letters before,

but feels that this one may play an important part in her

life._) "Dear Miss Prendergast, I hope you will pardon the

presumption of what I am about to write to you, but whether you

pardon me or not, I ask you to listen to me. I know of no woman

for whose talents I have a greater admiration or for whose

qualities I have a more sincere affection than yourself. Since I

have known you, you have been the lodestar of my existence, the

fountain of my inspiration. I feel that, were your life joined

to mine, the joint path upon which we trod would be the path to

happiness, such as I have as yet hardly dared to dream of. In

short, dear Miss Prendergast, I ask you to marry me, and I will

come in person for my answer. Yours truly (_in a voice of

intense surprise_) Jas. Bootle!"

(_At the word "Bootle" a wave of warm colour rushes over Alice

and dyes her from neck to brow. If she is not an actress of

sufficient calibre to ensure this, she must do the best she can

by starting abruptly and putting her hand to her throat._)

~Alice~ (_aside, in a choking voice_). Mr. Bootle! In love with Jane!

~Jane.~ My dear! The man who took me down to dinner! Well!

~Alice~ (_picking up her work again and trying to be calm_). What will

you say?

~Jane~ (_rather pleased with herself_). Well, really--I--this is--Mr.

Bootle! Fancy!

~Alice~ (_starting up_). Was that a ring? (_She frowns at the prompter

and a bell is heard to ring._) It is Mr. Bootle! I know his

ring, I mean I know---- Dear, I think I will go and lie down. I

have a headache.

(_She looks miserably at the audience, closes her eyes, and

goes off with her handkerchief to her mouth, taking care not to

fall over the furniture._)

_Enter_ Mary, _followed by James Bootle._

~Mary.~ Mr. Bootle. (_Exit finally._)

~Jane.~ Good morning, Mr. Bootle.

~Bootle.~ I beg--I thought--why, of course! It's Miss--er--h'm, yes. How

do you do? Did you get back safely last night?

~Jane.~ Yes, thank you. (_Coyly._) I got your letter.

~Bootle.~ My letter? (_Sees his letter on the table. Furiously._) You

opened my letter!

~Jane~ (_mistaking his fury for passion_). Yes, James. And (_looking

down on the ground_) the answer is "Yes."

~Bootle~ (_realising the situation_). By George! (_Aside._) I have

proposed to the wrong lady. Tchck!

~Jane.~ You may kiss me, James.

~Bootle.~ Have you a sister?

~Jane~ (_missing the connection_). Yes, I have a younger sister, Alice.

(_Coldly._) But I hardly see----

~Bootle~ (_beginning to understand how he made the mistake_). A younger

sister! Then you are Miss Prendergast? And my letter--Ah!

_Enter_ Alice.

~Alice.~ You are wanted, Jane, a moment.

~Jane.~ Will you excuse me, Mr. Bootle?

(_Exit._)

~Bootle~ (_to Alice, as she follows her sister out_). Don't go!

~Alice~ (_wanly, if she knows how_). Am I to stay and congratulate you?

~Bootle.~ Alice! (_They approach the footlights, while_ Jane, _having

finished her business, comes in unobserved and watches from the

back._) It is all a mistake! I didn't know your Christian

name--I didn't know you had a sister. The letter I addressed to

Miss Prendergast I meant for Miss Alice Prendergast.

~Alice.~ James! My love! But what can we do?

~Bootle~ (_gloomily_). Nothing. As a man of honour I cannot withdraw. So

two lives are ruined!

~Alice.~ You are right, James. Jane must never know. Good-bye!

(_They give each other a farewell embrace._)

~Jane~ (_aside_). They love. (_Fiercely._) But he is mine; I will hold

him to his promise! (_Picking up a photograph of Alice as a

small child from an occasional table._) Little Alice! And I

promised to take care of her--to protect her from the cruel

world. Baby Alice! (_She puts her handkerchief to her eyes._)

No! I will not spoil two lives! (_Aloud._) Why good-bye, Alice?

(Bootle _and_ Alice, _who have been embracing all this time,

unless they can think of something else to do, break away in

surprise._)

~Alice.~ Jane--we--I----

~Jane~ (_calmly_). Dear Alice! I understand perfectly. Mr. Bootle said

in his letter to you that he was coming for his answer, and I

see what answer you have given him. (_To_ Bootle.) You remember

I told you it would be "Yes." I know my little sister, you see.

~Bootle~ (_tactlessly_). But--you told me I could kiss you!

~Jane~ (_smiling_). And I tell you again now. I believe it is usual for

men to kiss their sisters-in-law? (_She offers her cheek._

Bootle, _whose day it is, salutes her respectfully._) And now

(_gaily_) perhaps I had better leave you young people alone!

(_Exit, with a backward look at the audience expressive of the

fact that she has been wearing the mask._)

~Bootle.~ Alice, then you are mine, after all!

~Alice.~ James! (_They k---- No, perhaps better not. There has been

quite enough for one evening._) And to think that she knew all

the time. Now I am quite, quite happy. And James--you _will_

remember in future that I am Miss _Alice_ Prendergast?

~Bootle~ (_gaily_). My dear, I shall only be able to remember that you

are The Future Mrs. Bootle!

CURTAIN.

XLIII. "AT DEAD OF NIGHT"

_The stage is in semi-darkness as_ Dick Trayle _throws open the window

from outside, puts his knee on the sill, and falls carefully into the

drawing-room of Beeste Hall. He is dressed in a knickerbocker suit with

arrows on it (such as can always be borrowed from a friend), and, to

judge from the noises which he emits, is not in the best of training.

The lights go on suddenly; and he should seize this moment to stagger to

the door and turn on the switch. This done he sinks into the nearest

chair and closes his eyes._

_If he has been dancing very late the night before, he may drop into a

peaceful sleep; in which case the play ends here. Otherwise, no sooner

are his eyes closed than he opens them with a sudden start and looks

round in terror._

~Dick~ (_striking the keynote at once_). No, no! Let me out--I am

innocent! (_He gives a gasp of relief as he realises the

situation._) Free! It is true, then! I have escaped! I dreamed

that I was back in prison again! (_He shudders and helps

himself to a large whisky-and-soda, which he swallows at a

gulp._) That's better! Now I feel a new man--the man I was

three years ago. Three years! It has been a lifetime!

(_Pathetically to the audience._) Where is Millicent now? (_The

audience guesses that she is in the making-up room, but musn't

say so._) Alas! (_He falls into a reverie, from which he is

suddenly wakened by a noise outside. He starts, and then creeps

rapidly to the switch, arriving there at the moment when the

lights go out. Then he goes swiftly behind the window curtain.

The lights go up again as_ Jasper Beeste _comes in with a

revolver in one hand and a bull's-eye lantern of apparently

enormous candle power in the other._)

~Jasper~ (_in immaculate evening dress_). I thought I heard a noise, so

I slipped on some old things hurriedly and came down.

(_Fingering his perfectly-tied tie._) But there seems to be

nobody here. (_Turns round suddenly to the window._) Ha, who's

there? Hands up, blow you (_he ought to swear rather badly here,

really_) hands up or I fire!

(_The stage is suddenly plunged into darkness, there is the

noise of a struggle, and the lights go on to reveal_ Jasper _by

the door covering_ Dick _with his revolver._)

~Jasper.~ Let's have a little light on you. (_Brutally._) Now then, my

man, what have you got to say for yourself? Ha! An escaped

convict, eh?

~Dick~ (_to himself, in amazement_). Jasper Beeste!

~Jasper.~ So you know my name?

~Dick~ (_in the tones of a man whose whole life has been blighted by the

machinations of a false friend_). Yes, Jasper Beeste, I know

your name. For two years I have said it to myself every night,

when I prayed Heaven that I should meet you again.

~Jasper.~ Again? (_Uneasily._) We have met before?

~Dick~ (_slowly_). We have met before, Jasper Beeste. Since then I have

lived a lifetime of misery. You may well fail to recognise me.

_Enter_ Millicent Wilsdon_--in a dressing gown, with her hair

over her shoulders, if the county will stand it._

~Millicent~ (_to Jasper_). I couldn't sleep--I heard a

noise--I--(_suddenly seeing the other_) Dick! (_She trembles._)

~Dick.~ Millicent! (_He trembles too._)

~Jasper.~ Trayle! (_So does he._)

~Dick~ (_bitterly_). You shrink from me, Millicent. (_With strong common

sense._) What is an escaped convict to the beautiful Miss

Wilsdon?

~Millicent.~ Dick--I--you--when you were sentenced----

~Dick.~ When I was sentenced--the evidence was black against me, I

admit--I wrote and released you from your engagement. You are

married now?

~Millicent~ (_throwing herself on a sofa_). Oh, Dick!

~Jasper~ (_recovering himself_). Enough of this. Miss Wilsdon is going

to marry me to-morrow.

~Dick.~ To marry _you_! (_He strides over to sofa and pulls Millicent to

her feet._) Millicent, look me in the eyes! Do you love him?

(_She turns away._) Say "Yes" and I will go back quietly to my

prison. (_She raises her eyes to his._) Ha! I thought so! You

don't love him! Now then I can speak.

~Jasper~ (_advancing threateningly_). Yes, to your friends, the

warders. Millicent, ring the bell.

~Dick~ (_wresting the revolver from his grasp_). Ha, would you? Now

stand over there and listen to me. (_He arranges his audience,_

Millicent _on a sofa on the right, Jasper, biting his finger

nails, on the left._) Three years ago Lady Wilsdon's diamond

necklace was stolen. My flat was searched and the necklace was

found in my hatbox. Although I protested my innocence I was

tried, found guilty, and sentenced to ten years' penal

servitude, followed by fifteen years' police supervision.

~Millicent~ (_raising herself on the sofa_). Dick, you were innocent--I

know it. (_She flops back again._)

~Dick.~ I was. But how could I prove it? I went to prison. For a year

black despair gnawed at my heart. And then something happened.

The prisoner in the cell next to mine tried to communicate with

me by means of taps. We soon arranged a system and held

conversations together. One day he told me of a robbery in which

he and another man had been engaged--the robbery of a diamond

necklace.

~Jasper~ (_jauntily_). Well?

~Dick~ (_sternly_). A diamond necklace, Jasper Beeste, which the other

man hid in the hatbox of another man in order that he might woo

the other man's _fiancée_! (Millicent _shrieks._)

~Jasper~ (_blusteringly_). Bah!

~Dick~ (_quietly_). The man in the cell next to mine wants to meet this

gentleman again. It seems that he has some old scores to pay

off.

~Jasper~ (_sneeringly_). And where is he?

~Dick.~ Ah, where is he? (_He goes to the window and gives a low

whistle. A stranger in knickerbockers jumps in and advances with

a crab-like movement._) Good! here you are. Allow me to present

you to Mr. Jasper Beeste.

~Jasper~ (_in horror_). Two-toed Thomas! I am undone!

~Two-toed Thomas~ (_after a series of unintelligible snarls_). Say the

word, guv'nor, and I'll kill him. (_He prowls round_ Jasper

_thoughtfully._)

~Dick~ (_sternly_). Stand back! Now, Jasper Beeste, what have you to

say?

~Jasper~ (_hysterically_). I confess. I will sign anything. I will go to

prison. Only keep that man off me.

~Dick~ (_going up to a bureau and writing aloud at incredible speed_).

"I, Jasper Beeste, of Beeste Hall, do hereby declare that I

stole Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace and hid it in the hatbox

of Richard Trayle; and I further declare that the said Richard

Trayle is innocent of any complicity in the affair. (_Advancing

with the paper and a fountain pen._) Sign, please."

(_Jasper signs. At this moment two warders burst into the

room._)

~First Warder.~ There they are!

(_He seizes_ Dick. Two-toed Thomas _leaps from the window, pursued by

the second Warder_. Millicent _picks up the confession and

advances dramatically._)

~Millicent.~ Do not touch that man! Read this!

(_She hands him the confession with an air of superb pride._)

~First Warder~ (_reading_). Jasper Beeste! (_Slipping a pair of

handcuffs on_ Jasper.) You come along with me, my man. We've

had our suspicions of you for some time. (_To_ Millicent, _with

a nod at_ Dick). You'll look after that gentleman, miss?

~Millicent.~ Of course! Why, he's engaged to me. Aren't you, Dick?

~Dick.~ This time, Millicent, for ever!

CURTAIN.

XLIV. "THE LOST HEIRESS"

_The Scene is laid outside a village inn in that county of curious

dialects, Loamshire. The inn is easily indicated by a round table

bearing two mugs of liquid, while a fallen log emphasises the rural

nature of the scene._ Gaffer Jarge _and_ Gaffer Willyum _are seated at

the table, surrounded by a fringe of whisker_, Jarge _being slightly

more of a gaffer than_ Willyum.

~Jarge~ (_who missed his dinner through nervousness and has been

ordered to sustain himself with soup--as he puts down the

steaming mug_). Eh, bor but this be rare beer. So it be.

~Willyum~ (_who had too much dinner and is now draining his liquid

paraffin_). You be right, Gaffer Jarge. Her be main rare beer.

(_He feels up his sleeve, but thinking better of it, wipes his

mouth with the back of his hand._) Main rare beer, zo her be.

(_Gagging._) Zure-lie.

~Jarge.~ Did I ever tell 'ee, bor, about t' new squoire o' these

parts--him wot cum hum yesterday from furren lands? Gaffer

Henry wor a-telling me.

~Willyum~ (_privately bored_). Thee didst tell 'un, lad, sartain sure

thee didst. And Gaffer Henry, he didst tell 'un too. But tell

'un again. It du me good to hear 'un, zo it du. Zure-lie.

~Jarge.~ A rackun it be a main queer tale, queerer nor any them writing

chaps tell about. It wor like this. (_Dropping into English, in

his hurry to get his long speech over before he forgets it._)

The old Squire had a daughter who disappeared when she was three

weeks old, eighteen years ago. It was always thought she was

stolen by somebody, and the Squire would have it that she was

still alive. When he died a year ago he left the estate and all

his money to a distant cousin in Australia, with the condition

that if he did not discover the missing baby within twelve

months everything was to go to the hospitals. (_Remembering his

smock and whiskers with a start._) And here du be the last day,

zo it be, and t' Squoire's daughter, her ain't found.

~Willyum~ (_puffing at a new and empty clay pipe_). Zure-lie. (Jarge, _a

trifle jealous of_ Willyum's _gag, pulls out a similar pipe, but

smokes it with the bowl upside down to show his independence_.)

T' Squire's darter (Jarge _frowns_)--her bain't (Jarge _wishes

he had thought of "bain't"_)--her bain't found. (_There is a

dramatic pause, only broken by the prompter._) Her ud be little

Rachel's age now, bor?

~Jarge~ (_reflectively_). Ay, ay. A main queer lass little Rachel du be.

Her bain't like one of us.

~Willyum.~ Her do be that fond of zoap and water. (_Laughter._)

~Jarge~ (_leaving nothing to chance_). Happen she might be a real grand

lady by birth, bor.

_Enter_ Rachel, _beautifully dressed in the sort of costume in

which one would go to a fancy-dress ball as a village maiden_.

~Rachel~ (_in the most expensive accent_). Now, Uncle George (_shaking

a finger at him_), didn't you promise me you'd go straight

home? It would serve you right if I never tied your tie for you

again. (_She smiles brightly at him._)

~Jarge~ (_slapping his thigh in ecstasy_). Eh, lass! yer du keep us old

uns in order. (_He bursts into a falsetto chuckle, loses the

note, blushes and buries his head in his mug._)

~Willyum~ (_rising_). Us best be gettin' down along, Jarge, a rackun.

~Jarge.~ Ay, bor, time us chaps was moving. Don't 'e be long, lass.

(_Exeunt, limping heavily._)

~Rachel~ (_sitting down on the log_). Dear old men! How I love them all

in this village! I have known it all my life. How strange it is

that I have never had a father or mother. Sometimes I seem to

remember a life different to this--a life in fine houses and

spacious parks, among beautifully dressed people (_which is

surprising seeing that she was only three weeks old at the time;

but the audience must be given a hint of the plot_), and then it

all fades away again. (_She looks fixedly into space._)

_Enter_ Hugh Fitzhugh, _Squire._

~Fitzhugh~ (_standing behind Rachel, but missing her somehow_). Did

ever man come into stranger inheritance? A wanderer in Central

Australia, I hear unexpectedly of my cousin's death through an

advertisement in an old copy of a Sunday newspaper. I hasten

home--too late to soothe his dying hours; too late indeed to

enjoy my good fortune for more than one short day. To-morrow I

must give up all to the hospitals, unless by some stroke of

Fate this missing girl turns up. (_Impatiently._) Pshaw! She

is dead. (_Suddenly he notices_ Rachel.) By heaven, a pretty

girl in this out-of-the-way village! (_He walks round her._)

Gad, she is lovely! Hugh, my boy, you are in luck. (_He takes

off his hat._) Good evening, my dear!

~Rachel~ (_with a start_). Good evening.

~Fitzhugh~ (_aside_). She is adorable. She can be no common village

wench. (_Aloud._) Do you live here, my girl?

~Rachel.~ Yes, I have always lived here. (_Aside._) How handsome he is.

Down, fluttering heart.

~Fitzhugh~ (_sitting on the log beside her_). And who is the lucky

village lad who is privileged to woo such beauty?

~Rachel.~ I have no lover, Sir.

~Fitzhugh~ (_taking her hand_). Can Hodge be so blind?

~Rachel~ (_innocently_). Are you making love to me?

~Fitzhugh.~ Upon my word I--(_He gets up from the log, which is not

really comfortable._) What is your name?

~Rachel.~ Rachel. (_She rises._)

~Fitzhugh.~ It is the most beautiful name in the world. Rachel, will you

be my wife?

~Rachel.~ But we have known each other such a short time!

~Fitzhugh~ (_lying bravely_). We have known each other for ever.

~Rachel.~ And you are a rich gentleman, while I----

~Fitzhugh.~ A gentleman, I hope, but rich--no. To-morrow I shall be a

beggar. No, not a beggar if I have your love, Rachel.

~Rachel~ (_making a lucky shot at his name_). Hugh! (_They embrace._)

~Fitzhugh.~ Let us plight our troth here. See, I give you my ring!

~Rachel.~ And I give you mine.

(_She takes one from the end of a chain which is round her

neck, and puts it on his finger._ Fitzhugh _looks at it and

staggers back._)

~Fitzhugh.~ Heavens! They are the same ring! (_In great excitement._)

Child, child, who are you? How came you by the crest of the

Fitzhughs?

~Rachel.~ Ah, who am I? I never had any parents. When they found me they

found that ring on me, and I have kept it ever since!

~Fitzhugh.~ Let me look at you! It must be! The Squire's missing

daughter!

(Gaffers Jarge _and_ Willyum, _having entered unobserved at the

back some time ago, have been putting in a lot of heavy by-play

until wanted._)

~Jarge~ (_at last_). Lor' bless 'ee, Willyum, if it bain't Squire

a-kissin' our Rachel.

~Willyum.~ Zo it du be. Here du be goings-on! What will t' passon say?

~Jarge~ (_struck with an idea_). Zay, bor, don't 'ee zee a zort o'

loikeness atween t' maid and t' Squire?

~Willyum.~ Jarge, if you bain't right, lad. Happen she do have t' same

nose!

(_Hearing something_, Fitzhugh _and_ Rachel _turn round._)

~Fitzhugh.~ Ah, my men! I'm your new Squire. Do you know who this is?

~Willyum.~ Why, her du be our Rachel.

~Fitzhugh.~ On the contrary, allow me to introduce you to Miss Fitzhugh,

daughter of the late Squire!

~Jarge.~ Well, this du be a day! To think of our Rachel now!

~Fitzhugh.~ _My_ Rachel now!

~Rachel~ (_who, it is to be hoped, has been amusing herself somehow

since her last speech_). Your Rachel always.

CURTAIN.

XLV. "THE LITERARY LIFE"

_The Scene is the Editor's room in the Office of "The Lark." Two walls

of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by magnificently

bound books; the third wall at the back is hidden by boxes of immensely

expensive cigars. The windows, of course, are in the fourth wall, which,

however, need not be described, as it is never quite practicable on the

stage. The floor of this apartment is chastely covered with rugs shot by

the Editor in his travels, or in the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some

cases, presented by admiring readers from abroad. The furniture is both

elegant and commodious._

William Smith, Editor, _comes in. He is superbly dressed in a

fur coat and an expensive cigar. There is a blue pencil behind

his ear, and a sheaf of what we call in the profession

"typewritten manuscripts" under his arm. He sits down at his

desk and pulls the telephone towards him._

~Smith~ (_at the telephone_). Hallo, is that you, Jones?... Yes, it's

me. Just come up a moment. (_Puts down telephone and begins to

open his letters._)

_Enter_ Jones, _his favourite sub-editor. He is dressed quite

commonly, and is covered with ink. He salutes respectfully as

he comes into the room._

~Jones.~ Good afternoon, chief.

~Smith.~ Good afternoon. Have a cigar?

~Jones.~ Thank you, chief.

~Smith.~ Have you anything to tell me?

~Jones.~ The circulation is still going up, chief. It was three million

and eight last week.

~Smith~ (_testily_). How often have I told you not to call me "chief,"

except when there are ladies present? Why can't you do what

you're told?

~Jones.~ Sorry, sir, but the fact is there are ladies present.

~Smith~ (_fingering his moustache_). Show them up. Who are they?

~Jones.~ There is only one. She says she's the lady who has been

writing our anonymous "Secrets of the Boudoir" series which has

made such a sensation.

~Smith~ (in amazement). I thought you told me _you_ wrote those.

~Jones~ (simply). I did.

~Smith.~ Then why----

~Jones.~ I mean I did tell you. The truth is they came in anonymously,

and I thought they were more likely to be accepted if I said I

had written them. (_With great emotion._) Forgive me, chief, but

it was for the paper's sake. (_In matter-of-fact tones._) There

were one or two peculiarities of style I had to alter. She had a

way of----

~Smith~ (_sternly_). How many cheques for them have you accepted for the

paper's sake?

~Jones.~ Eight. For a thousand pounds each.

~Smith~ (_with tears in his eyes_). If your mother were to hear of

this----

~Jones~ (_sadly_). Ah, chief, I never had a mother.

~Smith~ (_slightly put out, but recovering himself quickly_). What would

your father say if----

~Jones.~ Alas, I have no relations. I was a foundling.

~Smith~ (_nettled_). In that case I shall certainly tell the master of

your workhouse. To think that there should be a thief in this

office.

~Jones~ (_with great pathos_). Chief, chief, I am not so vile as that. I

have carefully kept all the cheques in an old stocking, and----

~Smith~ (_in surprise_). Do you wear stockings?

~Jones~ When I bicycle. And as soon as the contributor comes forward----

~Smith~ (_stretching out his hand and grasping that of Jones_). My dear

boy, forgive me. You have been hasty, perhaps, but zealous. In

any case, your honesty is above suspicion. Leave me now. I have

much to think of. (_Rests his head on his hands. Then,

dreamily._) You have never seen your father; for thirty years

_I_ have not seen my wife.... Ah, Arabella!

~Jones.~ Yes, sir. (_Rings bell._)

~Smith.~ She _would_ split her infinitives.... We quarrelled.... She

left me.... I have never seen her again.

~Jones.~ (_excitedly_). Did you say she split her infinitives?

~Smith.~ Yes. That was what led to our separation. Why?

~Jones.~ Nothing, only--it's very odd. I wonder----

_Enter_ Boy.

~Boy.~ Did you ring, Sir?

~Smith.~ No. But you can show the lady up. (_Exit_ Boy.) You'd better

clear out, Jones. I'll explain to her about the money.

~Smith.~ Right you are, Sir. (_Exit._)

(Smith _leans back in his chair and stares in front of him._)

~Smith~ (_to himself_). Arabella!

_Enter_ Boy, _followed by a stylishly dressed lady of middle

age._

~Boy.~ Mrs. Robinson. (_Exit._)

(Mrs. Robinson _stops short in the middle of the room and

stares at the Editor; then staggers and drops on to the sofa._)

~Smith~ (_in wonder_). Arabella!

~Mrs. Robinson.~ William!

(_They fall into each other's arms._)

~Arabella.~ I had begun to almost despair. (_Smith winces._) "Almost to

despair," I mean, darling.

~Smith~ (_with a great effort_). No, no, dear. You were right.

~Arabella.~ How sweet of you to think so, William.

~Smith.~ Yes, yes, it's the least I can say.... I have been very lonely

without you, dear.... And now, what shall we do? Shall we get

married again quietly?

~Arabella.~ Wouldn't that be bigamy?

~Smith.~ I think not, but I will ask the printer's reader. He knows

everything. You see, there will be such a lot to explain,

otherwise.

~Arabella.~ Dear, can you afford to marry?

~Smith.~ Well, my salary as editor is only twenty thousand a year, but I

do a little reviewing for other papers.

~Arabella.~ And I have--nothing. How can I come to you without even a

trousseau?

~Smith.~ Yes, that's true.... (_Suddenly_) By Jove, though, you _have_

got something! You have eight thousand pounds! We owe you that

for your articles. (_With a return to his professional manner._)

Did I tell you how greatly we all appreciated them? (_Goes to

telephone._) Is that you, Jones? Just come here a moment. (_To_

Arabella) Jones is my sub-editor; he is keeping your money for

you.

_Enter_ Jones.

~Jones~ (_producing an old stocking_). I've just been round to my rooms

to get that money--(_sees_ Arabella)--oh, I beg your pardon.

~Smith~ (_waving an introduction_). Mrs. Smith--my wife. This is our

sub-editor, dear--Mr. Jones. (_Arabella puts her hand to her

heart and seems about to faint._) Why, what's the matter?

~Arabella~ (_hoarsely_). Where did you get that stocking?

~Smith~ (_pleasantly_). It's one he wears when he goes bicycling.

~Jones.~ No; I misled you this afternoon, chief. This stocking was all

the luggage I had when I first entered the Leamington workhouse.

~Arabella~ (_throwing herself into his arms_). My son! This is your

father! William--our boy!

~Smith~ (_shaking hands with Jones_). How are you? I say, Arabella, then

that was one of _my_ stockings?

~Arabella~ (_to her boy_.) When I saw you on the stairs you seemed to

dimly remind me----

~Jones.~ To remind you dimly, mother.

~Smith.~ No, my boy. In future, nothing but split infinitives will

appear in our paper. Please remember that.

~Jones~ (_with emotion_). I will endeavour to always remember it, dad.

CURTAIN.

SUCCESSFUL MEN

[_This series is designed to assist parents in choosing a career for

their sons. The author has devoted considerable time to research among

the best authorities, and the results are now laid before the public in

the hope that they will bring encouragement to those who are hesitating

at the doors of any of the great professions._]

XLVI. THE SOLICITOR

The office was at its busiest, for it was Friday afternoon. John Blunt

leant back in his comfortable chair and toyed with the key of the safe,

while he tried to realise his new position. He, John Blunt, was junior

partner in the great London firm of Macnaughton, Macnaughton,

Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton.

He closed his eyes, and his thoughts wandered back to the day when he

had first entered the doors of the firm as one of two hundred and

seventy-eight applicants for the post of office-boy. They had been

interviewed in batches, and old Mr. Sanderson, the senior partner, had

taken the first batch.

"I like your face, my boy," he had said heartily to John.

"And I like yours," replied John, not to be outdone in politeness.

"Now I wonder if you can spell 'mortgage'?"

"One 'm,'" said John tentatively.

Mr. Sanderson was delighted with the lad's knowledge, and engaged him at

once.

For three years John had done his duty faithfully. During this time he

had saved the firm more than once by his readiness--particularly on one

occasion, when he had called old Mr. Sanderson's attention to the fact

that he had signed a letter to a firm of stockbrokers, "Your loving

husband, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton &

Macnaughton." Mr. Sanderson, always a little absent-minded, corrected

the error, and promised the boy his articles. Five years later John

Blunt was a solicitor.

And now he was actually junior partner in the firm--the firm of which it

was said in the City, "If a man has Macnaughton, Macnaughton,

Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton behind him he is all right." The

City is always coining pithy little epigrams like this.

There was a knock at the door of the enquiry office and a

prosperous-looking gentleman came in.

"Can I see Mr. Macnaughton?" he said politely to the office-boy.

"There isn't no Mr. Macnaughton," replied the latter. "They all died

years ago."

"Well, well, can I see one of the partners?"

"You can't see Mr. Sanderson, because he's having his lunch," said the

boy. "Mr. Thorpe hasn't come back from lunch yet, Mr. Peters has just

gone out to lunch, Mr. Williams is expected back from lunch every

minute, Mr. Gourlay went out to lunch an hour ago, Mr. Beamish----"

"Tut, tut, isn't anybody in?"

"Mr. Blunt is in," said the boy, and took up the telephone. "If you wait

a moment I'll see if he's awake."

Half an hour later Mr. Masters was shown into John Blunt's room.

"I'm sorry I was engaged," said John. "A most important client. Now what

can I do for you, Mr.--er--Masters?"

"I wish to make my will."

"By all means," said John cordially.

"I have only one child, to whom I intend to leave all my money."

"Ha!" said John, with a frown. "This will be a lengthy and difficult

business."

"But you can do it?" asked Mr. Masters anxiously. "They told me at the

hairdresser's that Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton &

Macnaughton was the cleverest firm in London."

"We can do it," said John simply, "but it will require all our care;

and I think it would be best if I were to come and stay with you for the

week-end. We could go into it properly then."

"Thank you," said Mr. Masters, clasping the other's hand. "I was just

going to suggest it. My motor-car is outside. Let us go at once."

"I will follow you in a moment," said John, and, pausing only to snatch

a handful of money from the safe for incidental expenses and to tell the

boy that he would be back on Monday, he picked up the well-filled

week-end bag which he always kept ready, and hurried after the other.

Inside the car Mr. Masters was confidential.

"My daughter," he said, "comes of age to-morrow."

"Oh, it's a daughter?" said John in surprise. "Is she pretty?"

"She is considered to be the prettiest girl in the county."

"Really?" said John. He thought a moment, and added, "Can we stop at a

post-office? I must send an important business telegram." He took out a

form and wrote "Macmacmacmacmac, London. Shall not be back till

Wednesday. Blunt."

The car stopped and then sped on again.

"Amy has never been any trouble to me," said Mr. Masters, "but I am

getting old now, and I would give a thousand pounds to see her happily

married."

"To whom would you give it?" asked John, whipping out his pocket-book.

"Tut, tut, a mere figure of speech. But I would settle a hundred

thousand pounds on her on the wedding-day."

"Indeed?" said John thoughtfully. "Can we stop at another post-office?"

he added, bringing out his fountain-pen again.

He took out a second telegraph form and wrote:

"Macmacmacmacmac, London. Shall not be back till Friday. Blunt."

The car dashed on again, and an hour later arrived at a commodious

mansion standing in its own well-timbered grounds of upwards of several

acres. At the front door a graceful figure was standing.

"My solicitor, dear, Mr. Blunt," said Mr. Masters.

"It is very good of you to come all this way on my father's business,"

she said shyly.

"Not at all," said John. "A week or--or a fortnight--or----" he looked

at her again--"or--three weeks, and the thing is done."

"Is making a will so very difficult?"

"It's a very tricky and complicated affair indeed. However, I think we

shall pull it off. Er--might I send an important business telegram?"

"Macmacmacmacmac, London," wrote John. "Very knotty case. Date of return

uncertain. Please send more cash for incidental expenses. Blunt."

* * * * *

Yes, you have guessed what happened. It is an every-day experience in a

solicitor's life. John Blunt and Amy Masters were married at St.

George's, Hanover Square, last May. The wedding was a quiet one owing to

mourning in the bride's family--the result of a too sudden perusal of

Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton's bill

of costs. As Mr. Masters said with his expiring breath: he didn't mind

paying for our Mr. Blunt's skill; nor yet for our Mr. Blunt's valuable

time--even if most of it was spent in courting Amy; nor, again, for our

Mr. Blunt's tips to servants; but he did object to being charged the

first-class railway fare both ways when our Mr. Blunt had come down and

gone up again in the car. And perhaps I ought to add that that is the

drawback to this fine profession. One is so often misunderstood.

XLVII. THE PAINTER

Mr. Paul Samways was in a mood of deep depression. The artistic

temperament is peculiarly given to these moods, but in Paul's case there

was reason why he should take a gloomy view of things. His masterpiece.

"The Shot Tower from Battersea Bridge," together with the companion

picture "Battersea Bridge from the Shot Tower," had been purchased by a

dealer for seventeen and sixpence. His sepia monochrome, "Night," had

brought him an I.O.U. for five shillings. These were his sole earnings

for the last six weeks, and starvation stared him in the face.

"If only I had a little capital!" he cried aloud in despair. "Enough to

support me until my Academy picture is finished." His Academy picture

was a masterly study entitled, "Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean,

roll," and he had been compelled to stop halfway across the Channel

through sheer lack of ultramarine.

The clock struck two, reminding him that he had not lunched. He rose

wearily and went to the little cupboard which served as a larder. There

was but little there to make a satisfying meal--half a loaf of bread, a

corner of cheese, and a small tube of Chinese white. Mechanically he set

the things out....

He had finished and was clearing away when there came a knock at the

door. His charwoman, whose duty it was to clean his brushes every week,

came in with a card.

"A lady to see you, Sir," she said.

Paul read the card in astonishment.

"The Duchess of Winchester," he exclaimed. "What on earth--Show her in,

please." Hastily picking up a brush and the first tube which came to

hand, he placed himself in a dramatic position before his easel and set

to work.

"How do you do, Mr. Samways?" said the Duchess.

"G-good afternoon," said Paul, embarrassed both by the presence of a

duchess in his studio and by his sudden discovery that he was touching

up a sunset with a tube of carbolic tooth paste.

"Our mutual friend, Lord Ernest Topwood, recommended me to come to you."

Paul, who had never met Lord Ernest, but had once seen his name in a

ha'penny paper beneath a photograph of Mr. Arnold Bennett, bowed

silently.

"As you probably guess, I want you to paint my daughter's portrait."

Paul opened his mouth to say that he was only a landscape painter, and

then closed it again. After all, it was hardly fair to bother her Grace

with technicalities.

"I hope you can undertake this commission," she said pleadingly.

"I shall be delighted," said Paul. "I am rather busy just now, but I

could begin at two o'clock on Monday."

"Excellent," said the Duchess. "Till Monday, then." And Paul, still

clutching the tooth paste, conducted her to her carriage.

Punctually at 3.15 on Monday Lady Hermione appeared. Paul drew a deep

breath of astonishment when he saw her, for she was lovely beyond

compare. All his skill as a landscape painter would be needed if he were

to do justice to her beauty. As quickly as possible he placed her in

position and set to work....

"May I let my face go for a moment?" said Lady Hermione after three

hours of it.

"Yes, let us stop," said Paul. He had outlined her in charcoal and

burnt cork, and it would be too dark to do any more that evening.

"Tell me where you first met Lord Ernest?" she asked, as she came down

to the fire.

"At the Savoy in June," said Paul boldly.

Lady Hermione laughed merrily. Paul, who had not regarded his last

remark as one of his best things, looked at her in surprise.

"But your portrait of him was in the Academy in May!" she smiled.

Paul made up his mind quickly.

"Lady Hermione," he said with gravity, "do not speak to me of Lord

Ernest again. Nor," he added hurriedly, "to Lord Ernest of me. When your

picture is finished I will tell you why. Now it is time you went." He

woke the Duchess up, and made a few commonplace remarks about the

weather. "Remember," he whispered to Lady Hermione as he saw them to

their car. She nodded and smiled.

The sittings went on daily. Sometimes Paul would paint rapidly with

great sweeps of the brush; sometimes he would spend an hour trying to

get on his palette the exact shade of green bice for the famous

Winchester emeralds; sometimes in despair he would take a sponge and

wipe the whole picture out, and then start madly again. And sometimes

he would stop work altogether and tell Lady Hermione about his home-life

in Worcestershire. But always, when he woke the Duchess up at the end of

the sitting, he would say "Remember!" and Lady Hermione would nod back

at him.

It was a spring-like day in March when the picture was finished, and

nothing remained to do but to paint in the signature.

"It is beautiful!" said Lady Hermione, with enthusiasm. "Beautiful! Is

it at all like me?"

Paul looked from her to the picture, and back to her again.

"No," he said. "Not a bit. You know, I am really a landscape painter."

"What do you mean?" she cried. "You are Peter Samways, A.R.A., the

famous portrait painter!"

"No," he said sadly. "That was my secret. I am Paul Samways. A member of

the Amateur Rowing Association, it is true, but only an unknown

landscape painter. Peter Samways lives in the next studio, and he is not

even a relation."

"Then you have deceived me! You have brought me here under false

pretences!" She stamped her foot angrily. "My father will not buy that

picture, and I forbid you to exhibit it as a portrait of myself."

"My dear Lady Hermione," said Paul, "you need not be alarmed. I propose

to exhibit the picture as 'When the Heart is Young.' Nobody will

recognise a likeness to you in it. And if the Duke does not buy it I

have no doubt that some other purchaser will come along."

Lady Hermione looked at him thoughtfully. "Why did you do it?" she asked

gently.

"Because I fell in love with you."

She dropped her eyes, and then raised them gaily to his. "Mother is

still asleep," she whispered.

"Hermione!" he cried, dropping his palette and putting his brush behind

his ear.

She held out her arms to him.

* * * * *

As everybody remembers, "When the Heart is Young," by Paul Samways, was

the feature of the Exhibition. It was bought for £10,000 by a retired

bottle-manufacturer, whom it reminded a little of his late mother. Paul

woke to find himself famous. But the success which began for him from

this day did not spoil his simple and generous nature. He never forgot

his brother artists, whose feet were not yet on the top of the ladder.

Indeed one of his first acts after he was married was to give a

commission to Peter Samways, A.R.A.--nothing less than the painting of

his wife's portrait. And Lady Hermione was delighted with the result.

XLVIII. THE BARRISTER

The New Bailey was crowded with a gay and fashionable throng. It was a

remarkable case of shop-lifting. Aurora Delaine, 19, was charged with

feloniously stealing and conveying certain articles the property of the

Universal Stores, to wit, thirty-five yards of book muslin, ten pairs of

gloves, a sponge, two gimlets, five jars of cold cream, a copy of the

Clergy List, three hat-guards, a mariner's compass, a box of

drawing-pins, an egg-breaker, six blouses, and a cabman's whistle. The

theft had been proved by Albert Jobson, a shopwalker, who gave evidence

to the effect that he followed her through the different departments and

saw her take the things mentioned in the indictment.

"Just a moment," interrupted the Judge. "Who is defending the prisoner?"

There was an unexpected silence. Rupert Carleton, who had dropped idly

into court, looked round in sudden excitement. The poor girl had no

counsel! What if he--yes, he would seize the chance! He stood up

boldly. "I am, my Lord," he said.

Rupert Carleton was still in the twenties, but he had been a briefless

barrister for some years. Yet, though briefs would not come, he had been

very far from idle. He had stood for Parliament in both the Conservative

and Liberal interests (not to mention his own), he had written

half-a-dozen unproduced plays, and he was engaged to be married. But

success in his own profession had been delayed. Now at last was his

opportunity.

He pulled his wig down firmly over his ears, took out a pair of

_pince-nez_ and rose to cross-examine. It was the cross-examination

which was to make him famous, the cross-examination which is now given

as a model in every legal text-book.

"Mr. Jobson," he began suavely, "you say that you saw the accused steal

these various articles, and that they were afterwards found upon her?"

"Yes."

"I put it to you," said Rupert, and waited intently for the answer,

"that that is a pure invention on your part?"

"No."

With a superhuman effort Rupert hid his disappointment. Unexpected as

the answer was, he preserved his impassivity.

"I suggest," he tried again, "that you followed her about and concealed

this collection of things in her cloak with a view to advertising your

winter sale?"

"No. I saw her steal them."

Rupert frowned; the man seemed impervious to the simplest suggestion.

With masterly decision he tapped his _pince-nez_ and fell back upon his

third line of defence. "You saw her steal them? What you mean is that

you saw her take them from the different counters and put them in her

bag?"

"Yes."

"With the intention of paying for them in the ordinary way?"

"No."

"Please be very careful. You said in your evidence that prisoner when

told she would be charged, cried, 'To think that I should have come to

this! Will no one save me?' I suggest that she went up to you with her

collection of purchases, pulled out her purse, and said, 'What does all

this come to? I can't get any one to serve me.'"

"No."

The obstinacy of some people! Rupert put back his _pince-nez_ in his

pocket and brought out another pair. The historic cross-examination

continued.

"We will let that pass for the moment," he said. He consulted a blank

sheet of paper and then looked sternly at Mr. Jobson. "Mr. Jobson, how

many times have you been married?"

"Once."

"Quite so." He hesitated and then decided to risk it. "I suggest that

your wife left you?"

"Yes."

It was a long shot, but once again the bold course had paid. Rupert

heaved a sigh of relief.

"Will you tell the gentlemen of the jury," he said with deadly

politeness, "_why_ she left you."

"She died."

A lesser man might have been embarrassed, but Rupert's iron nerve did

not fail him.

"Exactly!" he said. "And was that or was that not on the night when you

were turned out of the Hampstead Parliament for intoxication?"

"I never was."

"Indeed? Will you cast your mind back to the night of April 24th, 1897?

What were you doing on that night?"

"I have no idea," said Jobson, after casting his mind back and waiting

in vain for some result.

"In that case you cannot swear that you were not being turned out of the

Hampstead Parliament----"

"But I never belonged to it."

Rupert leaped at the damaging admission.

"What? You told the Court you lived at Hampstead, and yet you say that

you never belonged to the Hampstead Parliament? Is _that_ your idea of

patriotism?"

"I said I lived at Hackney."

"To the Hackney Parliament, I should say. I am suggesting that you were

turned out of the Hackney Parliament----"

"I don't belong to that either."

"Exactly!" said Rupert triumphantly. "Having been turned out for

intoxication?"

"And never did belong."

"Indeed? May I take it then that you prefer to spend your evenings in

the public-house?"

"If you want to know," said Jobson angrily, "I belong to the Hackney

Chess Circle, and that takes up most of my evenings."

Rupert gave a sigh of satisfaction and turned to the jury.

"_At last_, gentlemen, we have got it. I thought we should arrive at the

truth in the end, in spite of Mr. Jobson's prevarications." He turned to

the witness. "Now, Sir," he said sternly, "you have already told the

Court that you have no idea what you were doing on the night of April

24th, 1897. I put it to you once more that this blankness of memory is

due to the fact that you were in a state of intoxication on the premises

of the Hackney Chess Circle. Can you swear on your oath that this is not

so?"

A murmur of admiration for the relentless way in which the truth had

been tracked down ran through the Court. Rupert drew himself up and put

on both pairs of _pince-nez_ at once.

"Come, Sir!" he said; "the jury is waiting."

But it was not Albert Jobson who answered. It was the counsel for the

prosecution. "My lord," he said, getting up slowly, "this has come as a

complete surprise to me. In the circumstances I must advise my clients

to withdraw from the case."

"A very proper decision," said his lordship. "The prisoner is discharged

without a stain on her character."

* * * * *

Briefs poured in upon Rupert next day, and he was engaged for all the

big Chancery cases. Within a week his six plays were accepted, and

within a fortnight he had entered Parliament as the miners' Member for

Coalville. His marriage took place at the end of a month. The wedding

presents were even more numerous and costly than usual, and included

thirty-five yards of book-muslin, ten pairs of gloves, a sponge, two

gimlets, five jars of cold cream, a copy of the Clergy List, three hat

guards, a mariner's compass, a box of drawing-pins, an egg-breaker, six

blouses, and a cabman's whistle. They were marked quite simply, "From a

grateful friend."

XLIX. THE CIVIL SERVANT

It was three o'clock, and the afternoon sun reddened the western windows

of one of the busiest of Government offices. In an airy room on the

third floor Richard Dale was batting. Standing in front of the coal-box

with the fire-shovel in his hands he was a model of the strenuous young

Englishman; and as for the third time he turned the Government

india-rubber neatly in the direction of square-leg and so completed his

fifty the bowler could hardly repress a sigh of envious admiration. Even

the reserved Matthews, who was too old for cricket, looked up a moment

from his putting and said, "Well played, Dick!"

The fourth occupant of the room was busy at his desk, as if to give the

lie to the thoughtless accusation that the Civil Service cultivates the

body at the expense of the mind. The eager shouts of the players seemed

to annoy him, for he frowned and bit his pen, or else passed his fingers

restlessly through his hair.

"How the dickens do you expect any one to think in this confounded

noise?" he cried suddenly.

"What's the matter, Ashby?"

"You're the matter. How am I going to get these verses done for _The

Evening Surprise_ if you make such a row? Why don't you go out to tea?"

"Good idea. Come on, Dale. You coming, Matthews?" They went out, leaving

the room to Ashby.

In his youth Harold Ashby had often been told by his relations that he

had a literary bent. His letters home from school were generally

pronounced to be good enough for _Punch_ and some of them, together with

a certificate of character from his Vicar, were actually sent to that

paper. But as he grew up he realised that his genius was better fitted

for work of a more solid character. His post in the Civil Service gave

him full leisure for his _Adam: A Fragment_, his _History of the

Microscope_, and his _Studies in Rural Campanology_, and yet left him

ample time in which to contribute to the journalism of the day.

The poem he was now finishing for _The Evening Surprise_ was his first

contribution to that paper, but he had little doubt that it would be

accepted. It was called quite simply "Love and Death," and it began like

this:

Love!

O love!

(All other things above).--

Why.

O why.

Am I afraid to die?

There were six more lines which I have forgotten, but I suppose they

gave the reason for this absurd diffidence.

Having written the poem out neatly, Harold put it in an envelope and

took it round to _The Evening Surprise_. The strain of composition had

left him rather weak, and he decided to give his brain a rest for the

next few days. So it happened that he was at the wickets on the

following Wednesday afternoon when the commissionaire brought him in the

historic letter. He opened it hastily, the shovel under his arm.

"Dear Sir," wrote the editor of _The Evening Surprise_, "will you come

round and see me as soon as convenient?"

Harold lost no time. Explaining that he would finish his innings later,

he put his coat on, took his hat and stick, and dashed out.

"How do you do?" said the editor. "I wanted to talk to you about your

work. We all liked your little poem very much. It will be coming out

to-morrow."

"Thursday," said Harold helpfully.

"I was wondering whether we couldn't get you to join our staff. Does the

idea of doing Aunt Miriam's Cosy Corner in our afternoon edition appeal

to you at all?"

"No," said Harold. "Not a bit."

"Ah, that's a pity." He tapped his desk thoughtfully. "Well, then, how

would you like to be a war correspondent?"

"Very much," said Harold. "I was considered to write rather good letters

home from school."

"Splendid! There's this little war in Mexico. When can you start? All

expenses and fifty pounds a week. You're not very busy at the office

just now, I suppose?"

"I could get sick leave easily enough," said Harold, "if it wasn't for

more than eight or nine months."

"Do; that will be excellent. Here's a blank cheque for your outfit. Can

you get off to-morrow? But I suppose you'll have one or two things to

finish up at the office first?"

"Well," said Harold cautiously, "I _was_ in, and I'd made ninety-six.

But if I go back and finish my innings now, and then have to-morrow for

buying things, I could get off on Friday."

"Good," said the editor. "Well, here's luck. Come back alive if you can,

and if you do we shan't forget you."

Harold spent the next day buying a war correspondent's outfit: the

camel, the travelling bath, the putties, the pith helmet, the quinine,

the sleeping-bag, and the thousand-and-one other necessities of active

service. On the Friday his colleagues at the office came down in a body

to Southampton to see him off. Little did they think that nearly a year

would elapse before he again set foot upon England.

I shall not describe all his famous _coups_ at Mexico. Sufficient to say

that experience taught him quickly all that he had need to learn; and

that whereas he was more than a week late with his cabled account of the

first engagement of the war he was frequently more than a week early

afterwards. Indeed the battle of Parson's Nose, so realistically

described in his last telegram, is still waiting to be fought. It is to

be hoped that it will be in time for his aptly-named book, _With the

Mexicans in Mexico_, which is coming out next month.

On his return to England Harold found that time had wrought many

changes. To begin with, the editor of _The Evening Surprise_ had passed

on to _The Morning Exclamation_.

"You had better take his place," said the ducal proprietor to Harold.

"Right," said Harold. "I suppose I shall have to resign my post at the

office?"

"Just as you like. I don't see why you should."

"I should miss the cricket," said Harold wistfully, "and the salary.

I'll go round see what I can arrange."

But there were also changes at the office. Harold had been rising

steadily in salary and seniority during his absence, and he found to his

delight that he was now a Principal Clerk. He found too that he had

acquired quite a reputation in the office for quickness and efficiency

in his new work.

The first thing to arrange about was his holiday. He had had no holiday

for more than a year, and there were some eight weeks owing to him.

"Hullo," said the Assistant Secretary as Harold came in, "you're

looking well. I suppose you can manage to get away for the week-ends?"

"I've been away on sick leave for some time," said Harold pathetically.

"Have you? You've kept it very secret. Come out and have lunch with me,

and we'll do a _matinée_ afterwards."

Harold went out with him happily. It would be pleasant to accept the

editorship of _The Evening Surprise_ without giving up the Governmental

work which was so dear to him, and the Assistant Secretary's words made

this possible, for a year or so anyhow. Then, when his absence from the

office began to be noticed, it would be time to think of retiring on an

adequate pension.

L. THE ACTOR

Mr. Levinski, the famous actor-manager, dragged himself from beneath the

car, took the snow out of his mouth, and swore heartily. Mortal men are

liable to motor accidents; even king's cars have backfired; but it seems

strange that actor-managers are not specially exempt from these

occurrences. Mr. Levinski was not only angry; he was also a little

shocked. When an actor-manager has to walk two miles to the nearest town

on a winter evening, one may be pardoned a doubt as to whether all is

quite right with the world.

But the completest tragedy has its compensations for some one. The

pitiable arrival of Mr. Levinski at "The Duke's Head," unrecognised and

with his fur coat slightly ruffled, might make a sceptic of the most

devout optimist, and yet Eustace Merrowby can never look back upon that

evening without a sigh of thankfulness; for to him it was the beginning

of his career. The story has often been told since--in about a dozen

weekly papers, half-a-dozen daily papers and three dozen provincial

papers--but it will always bear telling again.

There was no train to London that night, and Mr. Levinski had been

compelled to put up at "The Duke's Head." However, he had dined and was

feeling slightly better. He summoned the manager of the hotel.

"What does one do in this damn place?" he asked with a yawn.

The manager, instantly recognising that he was speaking to a member of

the aristocracy, made haste to reply. "Othello" was being played at the

town theatre. His daughter, who had already been three times, told him

that it was very sweet. He was sure his lordship....

Mr. Levinski dismissed him, and considered the point. He had to amuse

himself with something that evening, and the choice apparently lay

between "Othello" and the local Directory. He picked up the Directory.

By a lucky chance for Eustace Merrowby it was three years old. Mr.

Levinski put on his fur coat and went to see "Othello."

For some time he was as bored as he had expected to be, but halfway

through the Third Act he began to wake up. There was something in the

playing of the principal actor which moved him strangely. He looked at

his programme. "_Othello_--MR. EUSTACE MERROWBY." Mr. Levinski frowned

thoughtfully. "Merrowby," he said to himself. "I don't know the name,

but he's the man I want." He took out the gold pencil presented to him

by the Emperor--(the station-master had had a tie-pin)--and wrote a

note.

He was finishing breakfast next morning when Mr. Merrowby was announced.

"Ah, good morning," said Mr. Levinski, "good morning. You find me very

busy," and here he began to turn the pages of the Directory backwards

and forwards, "but I can give you a moment. What is it you want?"

"You asked me to call on you," said Eustace.

"Did I, did I?" He passed his hand across his brow with a noble gesture.

"I am so busy I forget. Ah, now I remember. I saw you play _Othello_

last night. You are the man I want. I am producing 'Oom Baas,' the great

South African drama, next April, at my theatre. Perhaps you know?"

"I have read about it in the papers," said Eustace. In all the papers

(he might have added) every day, for the last six months.

"Good. Then you may have heard that one of the scenes is an ostrich

farm. I want you to play 'Tommy.'"

"One of the ostriches?" asked Eustace.

"I do not offer the part of an ostrich to a man who has played

_Othello_. Tommy is the Kaffir boy who looks after the farm. It is a

black part, like your present one, but not so long. In London you cannot

expect to take the leading parts just yet."

"This is very kind of you," said Eustace gratefully. "I have always

longed to get to London. And to start in your theatre!--it's a wonderful

chance."

"Good," said Mr. Levinski. "Then that's settled." He waved Eustace away

and took up the Directory again with a business-like air.

And so Eustace Merrowby came to London. It is a great thing for a young

actor to come to London. As Mr. Levinski had warned him, his new part

was not so big as that of _Othello_; he had to say "Hofo tsetse!"--which

was alleged to be Kaffir for "Down, Sir!" to the big ostrich. But to be

at the St. George's Theatre at all was an honour which most men would

envy him, and his association with a real ostrich was bound to bring

him before the public in the pages of the illustrated papers.

Eustace, curiously enough, was not very nervous on the first night. He

was fairly certain that he was word-perfect; and if only the ostrich

didn't kick him in the back of the neck--as it had tried to once at

rehearsal--the evening seemed likely to be a triumph for him. And so it

was with a feeling of pleasurable anticipation that, on the morning

after, he gathered the papers round him at breakfast, and prepared to

read what the critics had to say.

He had a remarkable Press. I give a few examples of the notices he

obtained from the leading papers:

"Mr. Eustace Merrowby was Tommy."--_Daily Telegraph._

"The cast included Mr. Eustace Merrowby."--_Times._

" ... Mr. Eustace Merrowby ... "--_Daily Chronicle._

"We have no space in which to mention all the other

performers."--_Morning Leader._

"This criticism only concerns the two actors we have mentioned, and does

not apply to the rest of the cast."--_Sportsman._

"Where all were so good it would be invidious to single out anybody for

special praise."--_Daily Mail._

"The acting deserved a better play."--_Daily News._

" ... Tommy ..."--_Morning Post._

As Eustace read the papers he felt that his future was secure. True,

_The Era_, careful never to miss a single performer, had yet to say.

"Mr. Eustace Merrowby was capital as Tommy," and _The Stage_, "Tommy was

capitally played by Mr. Eustace Merrowby"; but even without this he had

become one of the Men who Count--one whose private life was of more

interest to the public than that of any scientist, general or diplomat

in the country.

Into Eustace Merrowby's subsequent career I cannot go at full length. It

is perhaps as a member of the Garrick Club that he has attained his

fullest development. All the good things of the Garrick which were not

previously said by Sydney Smith may safely be put down to Eustace; and

there is no doubt that he is the ringleader in all the subsequent

practical jokes which have made the club famous. It was he who pinned to

the back of an unpopular member of the committee a sheet of paper

bearing the words

KICK ME

--and the occasion on which he drew the chair from beneath a certain

eminent author as the latter was about to sit down is still referred to

hilariously by the older members.

Finally, as a convincing proof of his greatness, let it be said that

everybody has at least heard the name "Eustace Merrowby"--even though

some may be under the impression that it is the trade-mark of a sauce;

and that half the young ladies of Wandsworth Common and Winchmore Hill

are in love with him. If this be not success, what is?

LI. THE COLLECTOR

When Peter Plimsoll, the Glue King, died, his parting advice to his sons

to stick to the business was followed only by John, the elder. Adrian,

the younger, had a soul above adhesion. He disposed of his share in the

concern and settled down to follow the life of a gentleman of taste and

culture and (more particularly) patron of the arts. He began in a modest

way by collecting ink-pots. His range at first was catholic, and it was

not until he had acquired a hundred and forty-seven ink-pots of various

designs that he decided to make a specialty of historic ones. This

decision was hastened by the discovery that one of Queen Elizabeth's

inkstands--supposed (by the owner) to be the identical one with whose

aid she wrote her last letter to Raleigh--was about to be put on the

market. At some expense Adrian obtained an introduction, through a third

party, to the owner, at more expense the owner obtained, through the

same gentleman, an introduction to Adrian; and in less than a month the

great Elizabeth Ink-pot was safely established in Adrian's house. It was

the beginning of the "Plimsoll Collection."

This was twenty years ago. Let us to-day take a walk through the

galleries of Mr. Adrian Plimsoll's charming residence which, as the

world knows, overlooks the park. Any friend of mine is always welcome at

Number Fifteen. We will start with the North Gallery; I fear that I

shall only have time to point out a few of the choicest gems.

This is a Pontesiori sword of the thirteenth century--the only example

of the master's art without any notches.

On the left is a Capricci comfit-box. If you have never heard of

Capricci, you oughtn't to come to a house like this.

Here we have before us the historic de Montigny topaz. Ask your little

boy to tell you about it.

In the East Gallery, of course, the chief treasure is the Santo di Santo

amulet, described so minutely in his _Vindicia Veritatis_ by John of

Flanders. The original MS. of this book is in the South Gallery. You

must glance at it when we get there. It will save you the trouble of

ordering a copy from your library; they would be sure to keep you

waiting....

With some such words as these I lead my friends round Number Fifteen.

The many treasures in the private parts of the house I may not show, of

course; the bathroom, for instance, in which hangs the finest collection

of portraits of philatelists that Europe can boast. You must spend a

night with Adrian to be admitted to their company; and as one of the

elect, I can assure you that nothing can be more stimulating on a

winter's morning than to catch the eye of Frisby Dranger, F.Ph.S.,

behind the taps as your head first emerges from the icy waters.

* * * * *

Adrian Plimsoll sat at breakfast, sipping his hot water and crumbling a

dry biscuit. A light was in his eye, a flush upon his pallid

countenance. He had just heard from a trusty agent that the Scutori

breast-plate had been seen in Devonshire. His car was ready to take him

to the station.

But alas! a disappointment awaited him. On close examination the

breast-plate turned out to be a common Risoldo of inferior working.

Adrian left the house in disgust and started on his seven-mile walk

back to the station. To complete his misery a sudden storm came on.

Cursing alternately his agent and Risoldo, he made his way to a cottage

and asked for shelter.

An old woman greeted him civilly and bade him come in.

"If I may just wait till the storm is over," said Adrian, and he sat

down in her parlour and looked appraisingly (as was his habit) round the

room. The grandfather clock in the corner was genuine, but he was beyond

grandfather clocks. There was nothing else of any value; three china

dogs and some odd trinkets on the chimney-piece; a print or two----

Stay! What was that behind the youngest dog?

"May I look at that old bracelet?" he asked, his voice trembling a

little; and without waiting for permission he walked over and took up

the circle of tarnished metal in his hands. As he examined it his colour

came and went, his heart seemed to stop beating. With a tremendous

effort he composed himself and returned to his chair.

It was the Emperor's Bracelet!

Of course you know the history of this most famous of all bracelets.

Made by Spurius Quintus of Rome in 47 B.C., it was given by Cæsar to

Cleopatra, who tried without success to dissolve it in vinegar.

Returning to Rome by way of Antony it was worn at a minor conflagration

by Nero, after which it was lost sight of for many centuries. It was

eventually heard of during the reign of Canute (or Knut, as his admirers

called him); and John is known to have lost it in the Wash, whence it

was recovered a century afterwards. It must have travelled thence to

France, for it was seen once in the possession of Louis XI; and from

there to Spain, for Philip The Handsome presented it to Joanna on her

wedding day. Columbus took it to America, but fortunately brought it

back again; Peter The Great threw it at an indifferent musician; on one

of its later visits to England Pope wrote a couplet to it. And the most

astonishing thing in its whole history was that now for more than a

hundred years it had vanished completely. To turn up again in a little

Devonshire cottage! Verily truth is stranger than fiction.

"That's rather a curious bracelet of yours," said Adrian casually.

"My--er--wife has one just like it which she asked me to match. Is it an

old friend, or would you care to sell it?"

"My mother gave it me," said the old woman, "and she had it from hers.

I don't know no further than that. I didn't mean to sell it, but----"

"Quite right," said Adrian, "and after all, I can easily get another."

"But I won't say a bit of money wouldn't be useful. What would you think

a fair price, Sir? Five shillings?"

Adrian's heart jumped. To get the Emperor's Bracelet for five shillings!

But the spirit of the collector rose up strong within him. He laughed

kindly.

"My good woman," he said, "they turn out bracelets like that in

Birmingham at two shillings apiece. And quite new. I'll give you

tenpence."

"Make it one-and-sixpence," she pleaded. "Times are hard."

Adrian reflected. He was not, strictly speaking, impoverished. He could

afford one-and-sixpence.

"One-and-tuppence," he said.

"No, no, one-and-sixpence," she repeated obstinately.

Adrian reflected again. After all, he could always sell it for ten

thousand pounds, if the worst came to the worst.

"Well, well," he sighed, "one-and-sixpence let it be."

He counted out the money carefully. Then putting the precious bracelet

in his pocket he rose to go.

* * * * *

Adrian has no relations living now. When he dies he proposes to leave

the Plimsoll Collection to the nation, having, as far as he can

foresee--no particular use for it in the next world. This is really very

generous of him, and, no doubt, when the time comes, the papers will say

so. But it is a pity that he cannot be appreciated properly in his

lifetime. Personally I should like to see him knighted.

LII. THE STATESMAN

On a certain night in the middle of the season all London was gathered

in Lady Marchpane's drawing-room; all London, that is, which was worth

knowing--a qualification which accounted for the absence of several

million people who had never heard of Lady Marchpane. In one corner of

the room an Ambassador, with a few ribbons across his chest, could have

been seen chatting to the latest American Duchess; in another corner one

of our largest Advertisers was exchanging epigrams with a titled

Newspaper Proprietor. Famous Generals rubbed shoulders with

Post-Impressionist Artists; Financiers whispered sweet nothings to

Breeders of prize Poms; even an Actor-Manager might have been seen

accepting an apology from a Royalty who had jostled him.

"Hallo," said Algy Lascelles, catching sight of the dignified figure of

Rupert Meryton in the crowd; "how's William?"

A rare smile lit up Rupert's distinguished features. He was

Under-Secretary for Invasion Affairs, and "William" was Algy's pleasant

way of referring to the Bill which he was now piloting through the House

of Commons. It was a measure for doing something or other by means of a

what d'you call it--I cannot be more precise without precipitating a

European Conflict.

"I think we shall get it through," said Rupert calmly.

"Lady Marchpane was talking about it just now. She's rather interested,

you know."

Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line. He looked over

Algy's head into the crowd. "Oh!" he said coldly.

It was barely ten years ago that young Meryton, just down from Oxford,

had startled the political world by capturing the important seat of

Cricklewood (E.) for the Tariffadicals--as, to avoid plunging the

country into Civil War, I must call them. This was at a by-election, and

the Liberatives had immediately dissolved, only to come into power after

the General Election with an increased majority. Through the years that

followed, Rupert Meryton, by his pertinacity in asking the Invasion

Secretary questions which had been answered by him on the previous day,

and by his regard for the dignity of the House, as shown in his

invariable comment, "Come, come--not quite the Gentleman," upon any

display of bad manners opposite, established a clear right to a post in

the subsequent Tariffadical Government. He had now been Under-Secretary

for two years, and in this Bill his first real chance had come.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Meryton," said a voice. "Come and talk to me a

moment." With a nod to a couple of Archbishops Lady Marchpane led the

way to a little gallery whither the crowd had not penetrated. Priceless

Correggios, Tintorettos and G.K. Chestertons hung upon the walls, but

it was not to show him these that she had come. Dropping into a

wonderful old Chippendale chair, she motioned him to a Blundell-Maple

opposite her, and looked at him with a curious smile.

"Well," she said, "about the Bill?"

Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line. (He was rather good

at this.) Folding his arms, he gazed steadily into Lady Marchpane's

still beautiful eyes.

"It will go through," he said. "Through all its stages," he added

professionally.

"It must not go through," said Lady Marchpane gently.

Rupert could not repress a start, but he was master of himself again in

a moment.

"I cannot add anything to my previous statement," he said.

"If it goes through," began Lady Marchpane----

"I must refer you," said Rupert, "to my answer of yesterday."

"Come, come, Mr. Meryton, what is the good of fencing with me? You know

the position. Or shall I state it for you again?"

"I cannot believe you are serious."

"I am perfectly serious. There are reasons, financial reasons--and

others, why I do not want this Bill to pass. In return for my silence

upon a certain matter, you are going to prevent it passing. You know to

what I refer. On the 4th of May last----"

"Stop!" cried Rupert hoarsely.

"On the 4th of May last," Lady Marchpane went on relentlessly, "you and

I--in the absence of my husband abroad--had tea together at an A.B.C."

(Rupert covered his face with his hands.) "I am no fonder of scandal

than you are, but if you do not meet my wishes I shall certainly

confess the truth to Marchpane."

"You will be ruined too!" said Rupert.

"My husband will forgive me and take me back." She paused significantly.

"Will Marjorie Hale"--(Rupert covered his hands with his face)--"will

the good Miss Hale forgive you? She is very strict, is she not? And

rich? And rising young politicians want money more than scandal." She

raised her head suddenly at the sound of footsteps. "Ah, Archbishop, I

was just calling Mr. Meryton's attention to this wonderful

Botticell"--(she looked at it more closely)--"this wonderful Dana

Gibson. A beautiful piece of work, is it not?" The intruders passed on

to the supper-room, and they were alone again.

"What am I to do?" said Rupert sullenly.

"The fate of the Bill is settled to-day week, when you make your big

speech. You must speak against it. Confess frankly you were mistaken. It

will be a close thing, anyhow. Your influence will turn the scale."

"It will ruin me politically."

"You will marry Marjorie Hale and be rich. No rich man is ever ruined

politically. Or socially." She patted his hand gently. "You'll do it?"

He got up slowly. "You'll see next week," he said.

It is not meet that we should watch the unhappy Rupert through the

long-drawn hours of the night, as he wrestled with the terrible problem.

A moment's sudden madness on that May afternoon had brought him to the

cross-roads. On the one hand, reputation, wealth, the girl that he

loved; on the other, his own honour and--so, at least, he had said

several times on the platform--the safety of England. He rose in the

morning weary, but with his mind made up.

The Bill should go through!

Rupert Meryton was a speaker of a not unusual type. Although he provided

the opinions himself, he always depended upon his secretary for the

arguments with which to support them and the actual words in which to

give them being. But on this occasion he felt that a special effort was

required of him. He would show Lady Marchpane that the blackmail of

yesterday had only roused him to a still greater sacrifice on behalf of

his country. _He would write his own speech._

On the fateful night the House was crowded. It seemed that all the

guests at Lady Marchpane's a week before were in the Distinguished

Strangers' Gallery or behind the Ladies' Grille. From the Press Gallery

"Our Special Word-painter" looked down upon the statesmen beneath him,

his eagle eye ready to detect on the moment the Angry Flush, the Wince,

or the Sudden Paling of enemy, the Grim Smile or the Lofty Calm of

friend.

The Rt. Hon. Rupert Meryton, Tariffadical Member for Cricklewood (E.)

rose to his feet amidst cheers.

"Mr. Speaker," he said, "I rise--er--to-night, Sir--h'r'm, to--er----"

So much of his speech I may give, but urgent State reasons compel me to

withhold the rest. Were it ever known with which Bill the secret history

that I have disclosed concerns itself, the Great Powers in an instant

would be at each other's throats. But though I may not disclose the

speech I can tell of its effect on the House. And its effect was

curious. It was, in short, the exact opposite of what Rupert Meryton,

that promising Under Secretary, had intended.

It was the first speech that he had ever prepared himself. Than Rupert

there was no more dignified figure in the House of Commons; his honour

was proof, as we have seen, against the most insidious temptations; yet,

since one man cannot have all the virtues, he was distinctly stupid. It

would have been a hopeless speech anyhow; but, to make matters worse, he

had, in the most important part of it, attempted irony. And at the

beginning of the ironical passage even the Tariffadical word-painters

had to confess that it was their own stalwarts who "suddenly paled."

As Lady Marchpane had said, it was bound to be a close thing. The

Liberatives and the Unialists, of course, were solid against the Bill,

but there was also something of a cave in the Tariffadical Party. It was

bound to be a close thing, and Rupert's speech just made the difference.

When he sat down the waverers and doubters had made up their minds.

The Bill was defeated.

* * * * *

That the Tariffadicals should resign was natural; perhaps it was equally

natural that Rupert's secretary should resign too. He said that his

reputation would be gone if Rupert made any more speeches on his own,

and that he wasn't going to risk it. Without his secretary Rupert was

lost at the General Election which followed. Fortunately he had a

grateful friend in Lady Marchpane. She exerted her influence with the

Liberatives, and got him an appointment as Governor of the Stickjaw

Islands. Here, with his beautiful and rich wife, Sir Rupert Meryton

maintains a regal state, and upon his name no breath of scandal rests.

Indeed his only trouble so far has been with the Stickjaw language--a

difficult language, but one which, perhaps fortunately, does not lend

itself to irony.

LIII. THE MAGNATE

It was in October, 19--, that the word "Zinc" first began to be heard in

financial circles. City men, pushing their dominoes regretfully away,

and murmuring "Zinc" in apologetic tones, were back in their offices by

three o'clock, forgetting in their haste to leave the usual twopence

under the cup for the waitress. Clubmen, glancing at the tape on their

way to the smoking-room, said to their neighbours, "Zinc's moved a

point, I see," before covering themselves up with the _Times_. In the

trains, returning husbands asked each other loudly, "What's all this

about zinc?"--all save the very innocent ones, who whispered, "I say,

what _is_ zinc exactly?" The music-halls took it up. No sooner had the

word "Zinc" left the lips of an acknowledged comedian than the house was

in roars of laughter. The furore at the Collodium when Octavius Octo, in

his world-famous part of the landlady of a boarding-house, remarked, "I

know why my ole man's so late. 'E's buying zinc," is still remembered

in the bars round Piccadilly.

* * * * *

To explain it properly it will be necessary (my readers will be alarmed

to hear) to go back some thirty years. This, as a simple calculation

shows, takes us to June, 18--. It was in June, 18--, that Felix Moses, a

stout young man of attractive appearance (if you care for that style),

took his courage in both hands, and told Phyllida Sloan that he was

worth ten thousand a year and was changing his name to Mountenay. Miss

Sloan, seeing that it was the beginning of a proposal, said hastily that

she was changing hers to Abraham.

"You're marrying Leo Abraham?" asked Felix in amazement. "Ah!" A gust of

jealousy swept over him. He licked his lips. There was a dangerous look

in his eyes--a look that was destined in after days to make Emperors and

rival financiers quail. "Ah!" he said softly. "Leo Abraham! I shall not

forget!"

* * * * *

And now it will be necessary (my readers will be relieved to learn) to

jump forward some thirty years. This obviously takes us to September,

19--. Let us, on this fine September morning, take a peep into "No.----,

Throgneedle Street, E.C.," and see how the business of the mother city

is carried on.

On the fourth floor we come to the sanctum of the great man himself.

"Mr. Felix Mountenay--No admittance," is painted upon the outer door. It

is a name which is known and feared all over Europe. Mr. Mountenay's

private detective stands on one side of the door; on the other side is

Mr. Mountenay's private wolfhound. Murmuring the word, "Press," however,

we pass hastily through, and find ourselves before Mr. Mountenay

himself. Mr. Mountenay is at work; let us watch him through a typical

five minutes.

For a moment he stands meditating in the middle of the room. Kings are

tottering on their thrones. Empires hang upon his nod. What will he

decide? Suddenly he blows a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and rushes to

the telephone.

"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine _Prefs._ at?...

_What?_ ... No, Margarine Prefs. idiot.... Ah! Then sell. Keep on

selling till I tell you to stop.... Yes."

He hangs up the receiver. For two minutes he paces the room, smoking

rapidly. He stops a moment ... but it is only to remove his cigar-band,

which is in danger of burning. Then he resumes his pacings. Another

minute goes rapidly by. He rushes to the telephone again.

"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. down to now?...

Ah! Then buy. Keep on buying.... Yes."

He hangs up the receiver. By this master-stroke he has made a quarter of

a million. It may seem to you or me an easy way of doing it. Ah, but

what, we must ask ourselves, of the great brain that conceived the idea,

the foresight which told the exact moment when to put it into action,

the cool courage which seized the moment--what of the grasp of affairs,

the knowledge of men? Ah! Can we grudge it him, that he earns a quarter

of a million more quickly than we do?

Yet Mr. Felix Mountenay is not happy. When we have brought off a coup

for a hundred thousand even, we smile gaily. Mr. Mountenay did not

smile. Fiercely he bit another inch off his cigar and muttered to

himself.

The words were "Leo Abraham! Wait!"

* * * * *

This is positively the last row of stars. Let us take advantage of them

to jump forward another month. It was October 1st, 19--. (If that was a

Sunday, then it was October 2nd. Anyhow, it was October.)

Mr. Felix Mountenay was sleeping in his office. For once that iron brain

relaxed. He had made a little over three million in the last month and

the strain was too much for him. But a knock at the door restored him

instantly to his own cool self.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," said his secretary, "but somebody is selling

zinc."

The word "Zinc" touched a chord in Mr. Mountenay's brain which had lain

dormant for years. Zinc! Why did zinc remind him of Leo Abraham?

"Fetch the Encyclopædia Britannica, quick!" he cried.

The secretary, a man of herculean build, returned with some of it. With

the luck which proverbially attends rich men Mr. Mountenay picked up the

"Z" volume at once. As he read the Zinc article it all came back to him.

Leo Abraham had owned an empty zinc-mine! Was his enemy in his clutches

at last?

"Buy!" he said briefly.

In a fortnight the secretary had returned.

"Well," said Mr. Mountenay, "have you bought all the zinc that there

is?"

"Yes, Sir," said the Secretary. "And a lot that there isn't," he added.

"Good!" He paused a moment. "When Mr. Leo Abraham calls," he added

grimly, "show him up at once."

It was a month later that a haggard man climbed the stairs of No.----,

Throgneedle Street, and was shown into Mr. Mountenay's room.

"Well," said the financier softly, "what can I do for you?"

"I want some zinc," said Leo Abergavenny.

"Zinc," said Mr. Mountenay with a smile, "is a million pounds a ton. Or

an acre, or a gallon, or however you prefer to buy it," he added

humorously.

Leo went white.

"You wish to ruin me?"

"I do. A promise I made to your wife some years ago."

"My wife?" cried Leo. "What do you mean? I'm not married."

It was Mr. Mountenay's turn to go white. He went it.

"Not married? But Miss Sloan----"

Mr. Leo Abergavenny sat down and mopped his face.

"I don't know what you mean," he said. "I asked Miss Sloan to marry me,

and told her I was changing my name to Abergavenny. And she said that

she was changing hers to Moses. Naturally, I thought----"

"Stop!" cried Mr. Mountenay. He sat down heavily. Something seemed to

have gone out of his life; in a moment the world was empty. He looked up

at his old rival, and forced a laugh.

"Well, well," he said, "she deceived us both. Let us drink to our lucky

escape." He rang the bell.

"And then," he said in a purring voice, "we can have a little talk about

zinc. After all, business is still business."

LIV. THE ADVENTURER

Lionel Norwood, from his earliest days, had been marked out for a life

of crime. When quite a child he was discovered by his nurse killing

flies on the window-pane. This was before the character of the house-fly

had become a matter of common talk among scientists, and Lionel (like

all great men, a little before his time) had pleaded hygiene in vain. He

was smacked hastily and bundled off to a preparatory school, where his

aptitude for smuggling sweets would have lost him many a half-holiday

had not his services been required at outside-left in the hockey eleven.

With some difficulty he managed to pass into Eton, and three years

later--with, one would imagine, still more difficulty--managed to get

superannuated. At Cambridge he went down-hill rapidly. He would think

nothing of smoking a cigar in academical costume, and on at least one

occasion he drove a dogcart on Sunday. No wonder that he was requested,

early in his second year, to give up his struggle with the Little-go

and betake himself back to London.

London is always glad to welcome such people as Lionel Norwood. In no

other city is it so simple for a man of easy conscience to earn a living

by his wits. If Lionel ever had any scruples (which, after a perusal of

the above account of his early days, it may be permitted one to doubt)

they were removed by an accident to his solicitor, who was run over in

the Argentine on the very day that he arrived there with what was left

of Lionel's money. Reduced suddenly to poverty, Norwood had no choice

but to enter upon a life of crime.

Except, perhaps, that he used slightly less hair-oil than most, he

seemed just the ordinary man about town as he sat in his dressing-gown

one fine summer morning and smoked a cigarette. His rooms were furnished

quietly and in the best of taste. No signs of his nefarious profession

showed themselves to the casual visitor. The appealing letters from the

Princess whom he was blackmailing, the wire apparatus which shot the two

of spades down his sleeve during the coon-can nights at the club, the

thimble and pea with which he had performed the three-card trick so

successfully at Epsom last week--all these were hidden away from the

common gaze. It was a young gentleman of fashion who lounged in his

chair and toyed with a priceless straight-cut.

There was a tap at the door, and Masters, his confidential valet, came

in.

"Well," said Lionel, "have you looked through the post?"

"Yes, Sir," said the man. "There's the usual cheque from Her Highness, a

request for more time from the lady in Tite Street with twopence to pay

on the envelope, and banknotes from the Professor as expected. The young

gentleman of Hill Street has gone abroad suddenly, Sir."

"Ah!" said Lionel, with a sudden frown. "I suppose you'd better cross

him off our list, Masters."

"Yes, Sir. I had ventured to do so, Sir. I think that's all, except that

Mr. Snooks is glad to accept your kind invitation to dinner and bridge

to-night. Will you wear the hair-spring coat, Sir, or the metal clip?"

Lionel made no answer. He sat plunged in thought. When he spoke it was

about another matter.

"Masters," he said, "I have found out Lord Fairlie's secret at last. I

shall go to see him this afternoon."

"Yes, Sir. Will you wear your revolver, Sir, as it's a first call?"

"I think so. If this comes off, Masters, it will make our fortune."

"I hope so, I'm sure, Sir." Masters placed the whisky within reach and

left the room silently.

Alone, Lionel picked up his paper and turned to the Agony Column.

As everybody knows, the Agony Column of a daily paper is not actually so

domestic as it seems. When "~Mother~" apparently says to "~Floss~,"

"Come home at once. Father gone away for week. Bert and Sid longing to

see you," what is really happening is that Barney Hoker is telling Jud

Batson to meet him outside the Duke of Westminster's little place at 3

a.m. precisely on Tuesday morning, not forgetting to bring his jemmy and

a dark lantern with him. And Floss's announcement next day, "Coming home

with George," is Jud's way of saying that he will turn up all right, and

half thinks of bringing his automatic pistol with him too, in case of

accidents.

In this language--which, of course, takes some little learning--Lionel

Norwood had long been an expert. The advertisement which he was now

reading was unusually elaborate:

"Lost, in a taxi between Baker Street and Shepherd's Bush, a

gold-mounted umbrella with initials 'J.P.' on it. If Ellen will return

to her father immediately all will be forgiven. White spot on foreleg.

Mother very anxious and desires to return thanks for kind enquiries,

Answers to the name of Ponto. _Bis dat qui cito dat._"

What did it mean? For Lionel it had no secrets. He was reading the

revelation by one of his agents of the skeleton in Lord Fairlie's

cupboard!

Lord Fairlie was one of the most distinguished members of the Cabinet.

His vein of high seriousness, his lofty demeanour, the sincerity of his

manner, endeared him not only to his own party, but even (astounding as

it may seem) to a few high-minded men upon the other side, who admitted,

in moments of expansion which they probably regretted afterwards, that

he might, after all, be as devoted to his country as they were. For

years now his life had been without blemish. It was impossible to

believe that even in his youth he could have sown any wild oats;

terrible to think that these wild oats might now be coming home to

roost.

"What do you require of me?" he said courteously to Lionel, as the

latter was shown into his study.

Lionel went to the point at once.

"I am here, my lord," he said, "on business. In the course of my

ordinary avocations"--the parliamentary atmosphere seemed to be

affecting his language--"I ascertained a certain secret in your past

life which, if it were revealed, might conceivably have a not undamaging

effect upon your career. For my silence in this matter I must demand a

sum of fifty thousand pounds."

Lord Fairlie had grown paler and paler as this speech proceeded.

"What have you discovered?" he whispered. Alas! he knew only too well

what the damning answer would be.

"_Twenty years ago_," said Lionel, "_you wrote a humorous book._"

Lord Fairlie gave a strangled cry. His keen mind recognised in a flash

what a hold this knowledge would give his enemies. _Shafts of Folly_,

his book had been called. Already he saw the leading articles of the

future:

"We confess ourselves somewhat at a loss to know whether Lord Fairlie's

speech at Plymouth yesterday was intended as a supplement to his earlier

work, _Shafts of Folly_, or as a serious offering to a nation impatient

of levity in such a crisis...."

"The Cabinet's jester, in whom twenty years ago the country lost an

excellent clown without gaining a statesman, was in great form last

night...."

"Lord Fairlie has amused us in the past with his clever little parodies;

he may amuse us in the future; but as a statesman we can only view him

with disgust...."

"Well?" said Lionel at last. "I think your lordship is wise enough to

understand. The discovery of a sense of humour in a man of your

eminence----"

But Lord Fairlie was already writing out the cheque.

LV. THE EXPLORER

As the evening wore on--and one young man after another asked Jocelyn

Montrevor if she were going to Ascot, what? or to Henley, what? or what?

she wondered more and more if this were all that life would ever hold

for her. Would she never meet a man, a real man who had done something?

These boys around her were very pleasant, she admitted to herself; very

useful, indeed, she added, as one approached her with some refreshment;

but they were only boys.

"Here you are," said Freddy, handing her an ice in three colours. "I've

had it made specially cold for you. They only had the green, pink and

yellow jerseys left; I hope you don't mind. The green part is arsenic, I

believe. If you don't want the wafer I'll take it home and put it

between the sashes of my bedroom window. The rattling kept me awake all

last night. That's why I'm looking so ill, by-the-way."

Jocelyn smiled kindly and went on with her ice.

"That reminds me," Freddy went on, "we've got a nut here to-night. The

genuine thing. None of your society Barcelonas or suburban Filberts. One

of the real Cob family; the driving-from-the-sixth-tee,

inset-on-the-right, and New-Year's-message-to-the-country touch. In

short, a celebrity."

"Who?" asked Jocelyn eagerly. Perhaps here was a man.

"Worrall Brice, the explorer. Don't say you haven't heard of him or Aunt

Alice will cry."

Heard of him? Of course she had heard of him. Who hadn't?

Worrall Brice's adventures in distant parts of the empire would have

filled a book--had, in fact, already filled three. A glance at his flat

in St. James' Street gave you some idea of the adventures he had been

through. Here were the polished spurs of his companion in the famous

ride through Australia from south to north--all that had been left by

the cannibals of the Wogga-Wogga River after their banquet. Here was the

poisoned arrow which, by the merciful intervention of Providence, just

missed Worrall and pierced the heart of one of his black attendants, the

post-mortem happily revealing the presence of a new and interesting

poison. Here, again, was the rope with which he was hanged by mistake

as a spy in South America--a mistake which would certainly have had

fatal results if he had not had the presence of mind to hold his breath

during the performance. In yet another corner you might see his

favourite mascot, a tooth of the shark which bit him off the coast of

China. Spears, knives and guns lined the walls; every inch of the floor

was covered by skins. His flat was typical of the man--a man who had

done things.

"Introduce him to me," commanded Jocelyn. "Where is he?"

She looked up suddenly and saw him entering the ballroom. He was of

commanding height and his face was the face of the man who has been

exposed to the forces of Nature. The wind, the waves, the sun, the

mosquito had set their mark upon him. Down one side of his cheek was a

newly healed scar, a scratch from a hippopotamus in its last

death-struggle. A legacy from a bison seared his brow.

He walked with the soft, easy tread of the python, or the Pathan, or

some animal with a "pth" in it. Probably I mean the panther. He bore

himself confidently, and his mouth was a trap from which no superfluous

word escaped. He was the strong, silent man of Jocelyn's dreams.

"Mr. Worrall Brice, Miss Montrevor," said Freddy, and left them.

Worrall Brice bowed and stood beside her with folded arms, his gaze

fixed above her head.

"I shall not expect you to dance," said Jocelyn, with a confidential

smile which implied that he and she were above such frivolities. As a

matter of fact, he could have taught her the Wogga-Wogga one-step, the

Bimbo, the Kiyi, the Ju-bu, the Head-hunter's Hug and many other

cannibalistic steps which, later on, were to become the rage of London

and the basis of a revue.

"I have often imagined you as you kept watch over your camp," she went

on, "and I have seemed myself to hear the savages and lions roaring

outside the circle of fire, what time in the swamps the crocodiles were

barking."

"Yes," he said.

"It must be a wonderful life."

"Yes."

"If I were a man I should want to lead such a life; to get away from all

this," and she waved her hand round the room, "back to Nature. To know

that I could not eat until I had first killed my dinner; that I could

not live unless I slew the enemy! That must be fine!"

"Yes," said Worrall.

"I can't get Freddy to see it. He is quite content to have shot a few

grouse ... and once to have wounded a beater. There must be more in life

than that."

"Yes."

"I suppose I am elemental. Beneath the veneer of civilisation I am a

savage. To wake up with the war-cry of the enemy in my ears, to sleep

with the--er--barking of the crocodile in my dreams, that is life!"

Worrall Brice tugged at his moustache and gazed into space over her

head. Then he spoke.

"Crocodiles don't bark," he said.

Jocelyn looked at him in astonishment. "But in your book, _Through

Trackless Paths_!" she cried, "I know it almost by heart. It was you who

taught me. What are the beautiful words? 'On the banks of the sleepy

river two great crocodiles were barking.'"

"Not 'barking,'" said Worrall. "'Basking.' It was a misprint."

"Oh!" said Jocelyn. She had a moment's awful memory of all the occasions

when she had insisted that crocodiles barked. There had been a

particularly fierce argument with Meta Richards, who had refused to

weigh even the printed word of Worrall Brice against the silence of the

Reptile House on her last visit to the Zoo.

"Well," smiled Jocelyn, "you must teach me about these things. Will you

come and see me?"

"Yes," said Worrall. He rather liked to stand and gaze into the distance

while pretty women talked to him. And Jocelyn was very pretty.

"We live in South Kensington. Come on Sunday, won't you? 99, Peele

Crescent."

"Yes," said Worrall.

* * * * *

On Sunday Jocelyn waited eagerly for him in the drawing-room of Peele

Crescent. Her father was asleep in the library, her mother was dead; so

she would have the great man to herself for an afternoon. Later she

would have him for always, for she meant to marry him. And when they

were married she was not so sure that they would live with the noise of

the crocodile barking or coughing, or whatever it did, in their ears.

She saw herself in that little house in Green Street, with the noise of

motor-horns and taxi-whistles to soothe her to sleep.

Yet what a man he was! What had he said to her? She went over all his

words.... They were not many.

At six o'clock she was still waiting in the drawing-room at Peele

Crescent....

At six-thirty Worrall Brice had got as far as Peele Place....

At six-forty-five he was back in Peele Square again....

At seven o'clock, just as he was giving himself up for lost, he met a

taxi and returned to St. James' Street. He was a great Traveller, but

South Kensington had been too much for him.

Next week he went back unmarried to the jungle. It was the narrowest

escape he had had.

LVI. THE NEWSPAPER PROPRIETOR

The great Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires, paced

the floor of his luxurious apartment with bowed head, his corrugated

countenance furrowed with lines of anxiety. He had just returned from a

lunch with all his favourite advertisers ... but it was not this which

troubled him. He was thinking out a new policy for _The Daily Vane_.

Suddenly he remembered something. Coming up to town in his third motor,

he had glanced through the nineteen periodicals which his house had

published that morning, and in one case had noted matter for serious

criticism. This was obviously the first business he must deal with.

He seated himself at his desk and pushed the bell marked "38." Instantly

a footman presented himself with a tray of sandwiches.

"What do you want?" said Strong coldly.

"You rang for me, Sir," replied the trembling menial.

"Go away," said Strong. Recognising magnanimously, however, that the

mistake was his own, he pressed bell "28." In another moment the editor

of _Sloppy Chunks_ was before him.

"In to-day's number," said Strong, as he toyed with a blue pencil, "you

apologise for a mistake in last week's number." He waited sternly.

"It was a very bad mistake, Sir, I'm afraid. We did a great injustice

to----"

"You know my rule," said Strong. "The mistake of last week I could have

overlooked. The apology of this week is a more serious matter. You will

ask for a month's salary on your way out." He pressed a button and the

editor disappeared through the trap-door.

Alone again, Hector Strong thought keenly for a moment. Then he pressed

bell "38." Instantly a footman presented himself with a tray of

sandwiches.

"What do you mean by this?" roared Strong, his iron self-control for a

moment giving way.

"I b-beg your pardon, Sir," stammered the man. "I th-thought----"

"Get out!" As the footman retired, Strong passed his hand across his

forehead. "My memory is bad to-day," he murmured, and pushed bell "48."

A tall, thin man entered.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Brownlow," said the Proprietor. He toyed with

his blue pencil. "Let me see, which of our papers are under your charge

at the moment?"

Mr. Brownlow reflected.

"Just now," he said, "I am editing _Snippety Snips_, _The Whoop_, _The

Girls' Own Aunt_, _Parings_, _The Sunday Sermon_, _Slosh_ and _Back

Chat_."

"Ah! Well, I want you to take on _Sloppy Chunks_, too, for a little

while. Mr. Symes has had to leave us."

"Yes, Sir." Mr. Brownlow bowed and moved to the door.

"By the way," Strong said, "your last number of _Slosh_ was very good.

Very good indeed. I congratulate you. Good day."

Left alone, Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires,

resumed his pacings. His two mistakes with the bell told him that he was

distinctly not himself this afternoon. Was it only the need of a new

policy for _The Vane_ which troubled him? Or was it----

Could it be Lady Dorothy?

Lady Dorothy Neal was something of an enigma to Hector Strong. He was

making more than a million pounds a year, and yet she did not want to

marry him. Sometimes he wondered if the woman were quite sane. Yet, mad

or sane, he loved her.

A secretary knocked and entered. He waited submissively for half-an-hour

until the Proprietor looked up.

"Well?"

"Lady Dorothy Neal would like to see you for a moment, Sir."

"Show her in."

Lady Dorothy came in brightly.

"What nice-looking men you have here," she said. "Who is the one in the

blue waistcoat? He has curly hair."

"You didn't come to talk about _him_?" said Hector reproachfully.

"I didn't come to talk _to_ him really, but if you keep me waiting

half-an-hour---- Why, what are you doing?"

Strong looked up from the note he was writing. The tender lines had gone

from his face, and he had become the stern man of action again.

"I am giving instructions that the services of my commissionaire,

hall-boy, and fifth secretary will no longer be required."

"Don't do that," pleaded Dorothy.

Strong tore up the note and turned to her. "What do you want of me?" he

asked.

She blushed and looked down. "I--I have written a--a play," she

faltered.

He smiled indulgently. He did not write plays himself but he knew that

other people did.

"When does it come off?" he asked.

"The manager says it will have to at the end of the week. It came _on_ a

week ago."

"Well," he smiled, "if people don't want to go, I can't make them."

"Yes you can," she said boldly.

He gave a start. His brain working at lightning speed saw the

possibilities in an instant. At one stroke he could win Lady Dorothy's

gratitude, provide _The Daily Vane_ with a temporary policy and give a

convincing exhibition of the power of his press.

"Oh, Mr. Strong----"

"Hector," he whispered. As he rose from his desk to go to her, he

accidentally pressed the button of the trap-door. The next moment he was

alone.

* * * * *

"That the British public is always ready to welcome the advent of a

clean and wholesome home-grown play is shown by the startling success

of _Christina's Mistake_, which is attracting such crowds to The King's

every night." So wrote _The Daily Vane_, and continued in the same

strain for a column.

"Clubland is keenly exercised," wrote _The Evening Vane_, "over a

problem of etiquette which arises in the Second Act of _Christina's

Mistake_, the great autumn success at The King's Theatre. The point is

shortly this. Should a woman ..." And so on.

"A pretty story is going the rounds," said _Slosh_, "anent that charming

little lady, Estelle Rito, who plays the part of a governess in

_Christina's Mistake_, for which ("Manager" Barodo informs me) advance

booking up to Christmas has already been taken. It seems that Miss Rito

when shopping in the purlieus of Bond Street ..."

_Sloppy Chunks_ had a joke which set all the world laughing. It was

called

"~BETWEEN THE ACTS.~"

~Flossie.~ Who's the lady in the box with Mr. Johnson?

~Gussie.~ Hush! It's his wife!

And Flossie giggled so much that she could hardly listen to the last Act

of _Christina's Mistake_, which she had been looking forward to for

weeks!

The _Sunday Sermon_ offered free tickets to a hundred unmarried suburban

girls, to which class _Christina's Mistake_ might be supposed to make a

special religious appeal. But they had to collect coupons first for _The

Sunday Sermon_.

And finally _The Times_ of two months later, said:

"A marriage has been arranged between Lady Dorothy Neal, daughter of the

Earl of Skye, and the Hon. Geoffrey Bollinger."

Than a successful revenge nothing is sweeter in life. Hector Strong was

not the man to spare any one who had done him an injury. Yet I think his

method of revenging himself upon Lady Dorothy savoured of the

diabolical. He printed a photograph of her in _The Daily Picture

Gallery_. It was headed "The Beautiful Lady Dorothy Neal."

THE END

Transcriber's Notes

Simple and obvious errors corrected.

The hyphenation (or not) of several words appears to have changed over

the nine year period in which these stories were written or is

indeterminate. These include ballroom, blackbird, businesslike and

halfway. The hyphenations have been left in their original state.