As Mallow, at Drabble's elbow, stared at the demure little figure

clothed in black, he realized that this was the fate controlling all

things in connection with the affair he had in hand. Instantly he

recognized in her the newspaper descriptions of the unknown

housekeeper who had vanished so mysteriously and so completely from

Athelstane Place. By name she had just been made known to him as Mrs.

Arne, and he now learned that she and Madame Death-in-Life--the

notorious Madame Death-in-Life who was dreaded throughout Europe--were

one and the same person. He was face to face with the terrible woman

with the terrible nick-name, the stormy petrel of Anarchy. At the mere

rumour of her presence in their city, those in authority were wont

suspiciously to look about them and doubly to safeguard their rulers.

The Continental police would have given much to have had her safe in

Monte Valerien, or Spandau, or Siberia. Hitherto she had always evaded

them at the last moment--had thwarted their most zealous endeavours

and carefully laid plans. She was Italian by birth, and had married an

Englishman. She was now a widow and had made her husband's country her

permanent home. As she sat before him now, so peacefully knitting,

Mallow thought of Madame Defarge.

"I am delighted to see you, Mr. Mallow," she said in excellent

English, with but little trace of foreign accent. "I have been

expecting you for some time. You can go, doctor."

"But I want to----"

"You can go, doctor," repeated Mrs. Arne in the same unemotional

voice. Without another word, Drabble, the bully, stole out of the

room.

Mallow was amazed.

"It is necessary to preserve discipline here," said Madame, observing

his expression. "Pray be seated, Mr. Mallow. If you do not mind, I

will continue my knitting."

"I do not mind at all," replied Mallow, seating himself mechanically.

He watched her firm, plump hands clicking the shining needles together

as she wove her web of red wool-work.

She divined his thoughts. "You wonder at my employment," she said

without a smile. "It is very feminine, is it not? Not quite in keeping

perhaps, you think, with my reputation? But, you see, I am turning

fiction into fact."

"Madame Defarge, I suppose you mean?"

She nodded. "A wonderful character in a wonderful book. The 'Tale of

Two Cities' and your Carlyle's 'Revolution' are my favourite reading.

What times, what people, what glory! I had rather work with

guillotines than with bombs, but" (with a shrug) "what would you? We

have improved on all that. I speak your tongue well do I not?"

"Excellently well, Madame; you are never at a loss for a word."

"I am never at a loss for anything, my friend," returned Madame Arne

composedly. "But we must get to business. Tell me, why did you look so

fixedly at me when you entered the room?"

"Madame, your celebrity----"

"Tell me the truth, please."

"Well, it was your name."

"As a celebrity?"

"No, as the lady who used Mrs. Dacre's house as the means of

introducing Clara Trall to Mrs. Carson."

"Ah, so you know of that. You have been making inquiries. Why?"

"Because Clara has turned out badly, and has gone off to Italy with

her mistress's husband."

"Quite so; I know it."

"From Major Semberry, I presume. Is he, too----"

"He is----what I please," answered Mrs. Arne with an odd look. "We

will speak of him another time. So you are the man who is in love with

Mrs. Carson! Oh, don't trouble to deny it. I know it. You made

inquiries about me from Mrs. Dacre--on her behalf. A man does not take

up a woman's burden--not a burden of this kind--unless he has

something more than a platonic interest in her welfare."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Arne, but there are other subjects we can discuss

more profitably."

"As you please. The subject has no interest for me; but I may explain

that I purposely went to Mrs. Dacre's in the capacity of a dressmaker,

that I might answer Mrs. Carson's inquiry from a good address. I was

determined that she should engage Clara."

"As a spy?"

"Yes," admitted the woman, nonchalantly, "as a spy. It was necessary

that I should have Carson watched."

"But your spy has betrayed you?"

"So much the worse for her. She shall die. How or when I have not yet

determined."

Mallow shuddered. The woman repelled him. There was something uncanny

in her bare statement of fact. Even a suggestion of the melodramatic

would have relieved her assertion of its sheer brutality. But there

was not a tinge of it. She merely stated that the girl should be

killed, and went on knitting.

"You are not used to these things," she continued; "death is as

nothing to us. To kill or to be killed, we are always ready."

"Have you no fear?" gasped Mallow.

"Of the law? No."

"Of God?"

"That is a matter between Him and myself."

"Ah, well," said Laurence, recovering his self-control, "we had better

perhaps avoid anything approaching a theological discussion. But tell

me one thing. Who is this Carson?"

"Why, who should he be."

"Well, he might, for instance, be impersonating the unfortunate man

who was murdered in Athelstane Place."

Mrs. Arne's hands never stopped. Her colour never changed. "You have

imagination, I see," she observed coldly. "That is a pity. It is apt

to get people into trouble."

"Oh, as to that, I have trouble enough; and now that I have determined

to join you, I shall probably have a good deal more."

"That is very possible. We are hunted like rats. Why do you wish to

join us?"

"God knows," said Mallow, with a shrug.

"I also know. It is because Mrs. Carson will have nothing to say to

you. It is in your despair you come to us, to throw your life away."

Mallow breathed more freely now. For the moment he had been

unprepared. He had no excuse ready. He had relied upon the supreme

egotism and enthusiasm of Drabble to get over any difficulty as to his

intentions. But here was the most excellent of reasons already

provided for him by Madame Death-in-Life herself.

Silently he acquiesced. She saw in him the foolish lover--rejected,

dejected, yielding to despair. Mallow's silence convinced her she was

right.

"You do not speak," she said, glancing at him. "Well, there is no need

for you to do so. I am usually right in my conjectures. We have to

thank Mrs. Carson for providing us with a promising brother."

Mallow protested. "I am not a brother yet," said he, emphatically.

"And before I become one I must ask to know your exact aims, and the

means by which you hope to accomplish them."

"Our aims!" said Mrs. Arne, laying aside her work. "We have but one

aim--to establish the equality of man. The rich oppress the poor.

There must be no rich, no poor, no oppressed."

"That, Madame, is absolutely impossible. Arrange it as you will

to-day, you will be where you were to-morrow."

"I think not," replied Mrs. Arne. "We intend that each person shall

work for the general good, and that he shall be paid by the State. If

he refuse to work, then neither shall he be paid nor shall food be

allowed to him. In the midst of plenty, he shall starve to death."

"A somewhat drastic arrangement, surely?" said Mallow.

"By no means. It is an absolutely necessary one. At any cost the lazy

and the idle must be wiped out. Under such a _régime_ no man need

starve whilst he is willing to work. His life will be in his own

hands."

"And it is by the hurling of bombs and such-like missives you hope to

bring about your millennium?"

"Mr. Mallow, the world and its rulers will not listen to us. So long

as we are what those in power choose to call good citizens' the

injustice, the great wrongs under which we suffer now, will remain

unaltered. If we are to be heard, we must perforce make a hearing for

ourselves. Supplication is useless, hopeless. By terror alone can we

wrench the attention which is our right. That is why we resort to

force; that is why you hear of bombs, Mr. Mallow. For the safety of

their lives even a king, an emperor, must heed us. Persistence in

that direction will in the end secure to us the attention which we

claim--the attention which is our right. That will be the dawn of the

new era, Mr. Mallow, for we shall conquer. Till then--but there," said

Madame, resuming her knitting, "I have much to do. I must leave you. I

will place you in the hands of an instructor from whom you will learn

everything that is needful. Then you can come to me and say if you

will join us or not. I hope you will. We want men with brains and

money."

"Particularly money!" said Mallow, contemptuously. He was not to be

convinced by all her rhetoric.

"I do not deny it; we cannot have too much."

"Was it not a pity, then, to lose Carson and his fifty thousand

pounds?"

"We have not lost it or him yet," said Mrs. Arne, with a long breath.

"Think you that Italy is in the moon that my arm cannot reach him!"

"Then you did intend to have that fifty thousand!"

"I did; it was my scheme and to a point, it has been a successful

one."

"In that case," said Mallow, deliberately, "Major Semberry is with

you, no doubt. Without him you would have been helpless."

"Major Semberry has not taken the oath," said Mrs. Arne coldly, "but

he is one of us."

"How does he reconcile that with his allegiance to his sovereign?"

Mrs. Arne knitted rapidly. "You don't know our power," she said. "In

every grade of society we have our adherents--yes, even in your army.

I was introduced into Mrs. Dacre's house by a friend of the cause. I

am not a dressmaker, but it suited me to assume that capacity for the

moment. I told Semberry to give Mrs. Dacre's address to Mrs. Carson.

If I could not have got into that house, I should have given another

address. Mrs. Carson wrote, and her letter naturally was given to me.

I replied, and secured for the girl the position I designed for her. A

friend in society helped me there, and there are dozens of people who

can place me in any position I choose. You don't know my power. But

enough of this"--she rose and pressed an electric button. "I will

introduce you to Monsieur Rouge. He will instruct you. I have other

things to do."

That personage was not long in making his appearance.

A mere spectre of a man was Monsieur Rouge, with complexion, hair, and

eyes of a painfully washed-out hue. A cadaverous, lantern-jawed,

unholy looking person. In common with the generality of workmen of his

nationality--he was French--Monsieur Rouge was addicted to dark blue.

He wore trousers, blouse, and peaked cap all of that colour. He had a

habit, almost equine, of blinking and glancing out of the corners of

his eyes. He was evidently a nervous man, and seemed but poorly fitted

for the bold and daring path he had chosen to follow. Mallow was

surprised at his appearance, as he was at the fact that Mrs. Arne

should have chosen him for his instructor. But that lady evidently

knew what she was about. After a few curt and explicit directions,

conveyed to M. Rouge in his own tongue, she introduced him formally.

"Mr. Mallow," she said, "this is M. Rouge; at least, that is the name

by which he is known among us. He has been a member of the brotherhood

for some three years. You will find him a most enthusiastic disciple

of our cause."

"Vive l'Anarchie. A bas les tyrans," whispered M. Rouge in

endorsement.

"Keep your enthusiasm for a more fitting occasion, my friend," said

Mrs. Arne, as Mallow thought with somewhat unnecessary severity. "Go

with this gentleman, and tell him all that is permitted to be known by

one who has yet to take our oath. You," turning to Mallow, "will come

to me when you have made up your mind. For the present, good-bye--or,

rather, au revoir."

CHAPTER VI.

"ANOTHER LINK."

On the whole Mallow was interested in his Anarchistic friends. He

possessed a goodly supply of the right sort of curiosity, and this new

_milieu_ in which he found himself was unlike anything he had

experienced before. He was groping in an under-world of fanaticism and

crime premeditated, and it fascinated him not a little. He threw

himself heart and soul into the whole question, and, in company with

Monsieur Rouge, explored many queer corners, East and West. For the

time he made these people's cause his own. They were a small minority,

determined--ruthlessly determined--on becoming a majority, and he was

curious as to the methods by which they intended to accomplish their

end. Of necessity he was brought into contact with many creatures of

low order; creatures often needlessly ragged and unkempt, he thought.

He could only conclude that their reckless condition was of value to

them as a perpetual reminder of the terrible wrongs under which they

suffered. But to their fiery crusade against their better-dressed

neighbours, and to their bloodthirsty plans for the removal of

public buildings and public personages, Mallow lent a patient and

ever-attentive ear. He was surprised to find their crusade directed

against the aristocracy of intellect, as well as against that other

and larger aristocracy of wealth and caste. It sufficed for a man to

loom large on the horizon of public affairs--be it as warrior, orator,

or inventor--for him to mark the bull's-eye for their aim. They were

abominably indiscriminate. In truth, with this very aptly named

Monsieur Rouge at his elbow, ever ready with some fresh diabolical

inspiration of his turbulent brain, Mallow could not help likening

himself to a modern Dante, bent on the exploration of a new and more

terrible circle of hell, with a degraded Virgil for his guide.

But, though all very fine, this was not war, as the French say, and

Mallow felt he was losing sight of his purpose. Olive was in London,

safe under the wing of Mrs. Purcell, waiting patiently to see what

Time and his endeavours on her behalf were to bring for her. She had

taken Miss Slarge and Tui into her confidence, but for her hostess she

had reserved a somewhat abridged version of her recent experiences.

But, with one accord, all these ladies were consumed with feminine

fire and virtuous indignation against her husband. He was a downright

impostor, they declared, and no doubt he it was who had murdered the

unfortunate Mr. Carson. They were strenuous in their endeavours to

induce Olive to put the whole matter in the hands of the police. But

to this she was not to be persuaded, although she went so far as to

consult Mallow upon the advisability of such a course. He speedily

convinced her that the case required a manipulation much more delicate

than that which it was likely to receive at the hands of the police.

"Besides," said he, "once let the police take it up, and you will have

all your details, large as life, in the columns of the morning papers,

to say nothing of the evening ones, than which it is difficult to

conceive a more direct method of courting failure, if not disaster."

"Still, I don't know that the straightest course is not the best

course, after all," said Olive, judiciously. "Why not bring Major

Semberry face to face with Mrs. Purcell, and insist upon an

explanation?"

"For two reasons. First, the Major is keeping out of the way. Second,

he will lie like Ananias to save himself from getting into trouble.

No, Mrs. Carson, let my man continue to watch him, and when he is

caught tripping--as he will be, mark me, sooner or later--then will be

the time to drive him into a corner."

"Can you trust this man Vraik?"

"I think so. I have promised him a large reward if he pulls the case

through to my satisfaction; and he is the kind of man to sell his

miserable soul for money."

"He looks like a being of the lowest type," said Olive, who had seen

Vraik.

"Then he looks what he is. It is a mere accident, of course, that he

is with the law instead of against it. But I dare say he finds honesty

is the best possible policy, so far as cash goes, which is all that

concerns him. Have no fear, Mrs. Carson, money will keep Vraik true to

us, if nothing else will."

"Unless these Anarchists find out what you are doing, and treat him

still more liberally."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of their find-out," laughed Mallow. "Mrs. Arne and

he gang are by no means so clever as they fancy they are. She,

particularly, is blinded by her own egotism. Besides, even if they did

get at Vraik, they could not bribe him. They want money badly, these

people; in fact it was to your fifty thousand pounds they looked to

put them in funds. Unfortunately, Carson--we may still call him

Carson--has gone off with the plunder."

"Do you think these Anarchists will kill him, as Mrs. Arne

threatened?"

"In the end, no doubt; but not till the money is safe in their hands.

At present it lies in Carson's real name, whatever that may be. It is

possible they may induce him to hand it over, but it will only be to

save his life. While he has that money he is safe enough. It would not

serve them to kill the goose with the golden eggs. These people may

not be so clever as they imagine, but they are not fools enough for

that."

"Mr. Mallow, I tremble when I think of the dangers to which you are

exposed. Don't these wretches suspect you?"

"No!--that is, one of them does. Jeremiah Trall looks queerly at me at

times, because he has read Clara's report of our first conversation. I

fancy he is suspicious that it is something more than zeal for the

cause that has caused me to join. But he is safe enough. He hates

Drabble, and has told him that the letter is burnt. He is not likely

to trouble me. Besides, he is, I think, but a very lukewarm member of

the brotherhood."

"I don't trust any of them."

"Nor I! But I am safe so far, and they are not likely to give vent to

any of their explosive propensities here in London, and so run the

risk of being turned out of the only country in Europe which shelters

them. But I must be off, Mrs. Carson. Rouge is waiting for me round

the corner."

"Oh, Laurence, do take care of yourself!" implored poor Olive,

anxiously.

"Be sure of that, for your sake," and Mallow left the house, sighing

to think that he had now no right to say even so much to Olive.

Whosoever Carson was, Olive was his wife. "And yet"--he started as the

thought crossed his mind--"was she his wife? Was it not possible her

marriage might be illegal? If the man were an impostor, he had not

made her his wife under his real name--marriage under a false name is

no marriage, surely? By Jupiter! I'll lose no time in taking Dimbal's

opinion about this," muttered Mallow to himself. "There may be some

way of releasing her from that scamp's clutches, after all. But the

money will have to go. Well, let it go; she will gladly pay even fifty

thousand pounds for her freedom."

Round the corner--that is to say, in the back of a convenient little

public-house--M. Rouge, the devil's advocate, was waiting for Mallow.

It was late--after seven o'clock--and Laurence needed no clock to tell

him it was dinner-time. But that day he had received a note from Rouge

begging for an appointment at this especial hour. He felt obliged to

keep it, lest the man might wish to say something important. As

colourless and shrinking as ever Rouge stood up, cap in hand, when

Laurence entered. "I am glad to see Monsieur," he said in French. "Is

it that Monsieur is aware that Madame desires he should come to the

great meeting next week?"

"No," replied Mallow, carelessly; "what for?"

Rouge spoke again in the husky whisper he usually affected, and looked

steadily at Laurence. "It is to take the oath," he said. Laurence

winced.

Rouge saw his momentary hesitancy, and smiled in that uncanny fashion

of his, which often caused Mallow to think he was not quite right in

his head.

"It is not too late, if Monsieur is afraid," said he, with a shrug and

a sneer.

"Monsieur is not afraid," retorted Mallow sharply; "but Monsieur is

wise enough to consider all things before committing himself past

recall. When does the meeting take place?"

"On Wednesday next, Monsieur!"

"That is a week hence. Where?"

"In the cellar of the house in Poplar Street, Monsieur."

"In the cellar?" repeated Mallow, much surprised. "Will that be large

enough?"

Rouge laughed. "Oh, Monsieur does not know all the holes in which we

foxes hide. Holy Blue! it must not be that he know before he swears to

be true, for he might speak to the police." The wretch's expression

was feline as he whispered the last word. "But this cellar! it is a

great one--c'est énorme! Madame had it made, Madame preferred it. If

the police came! piff-paff! whirr! Houp-là!" he pointed upwards.

"I see! we dance on a volcano," said Laurence, uneasily. Rouge nodded.

"We would all die; the best and the worst."

"Sacrifice your own lives?"

"Yes, and those of others, Monsieur. When we take the oath we are

already as dead. Let Monsieur reflect."

"Monsieur has reflected," said Laurence, giving the man money. "I

shall be at Poplar Street next Wednesday. At what time?"

"Nine of the evening. It will be a great meeting, a grand meeting, and

Monsieur will take the oath."

Mallow nodded. "Yes, Monsieur will take the oath," he repeated, and,

after a second inquiring look, Rouge, with the money in his pocket,

glided out of the room. The cat-like movements of the man, his

glistening eyes and sibilant whispers, inspired Mallow with nothing

but repulsion. Still he was kind to him, and, knowing the poor wretch

often went without a meal, frequently gave him the price of one.

Whether Rouge was grateful Mallow knew not, but he gave no sign of

gratitude, and watched the young man unceasingly. He never told him

his real name, nor spoke of his past in any way. His conversation, for

the most part, consisted of extracts from revolutionary pamphlets,

imprecations upon those in power, and expressions of jubilation for

the day when a tide of blood should roll over Europe. To Mallow he was

a veritable creature of nightmare.

On leaving this red-hot destroyer of human civilization, Mallow walked

quickly to his lodgings in Half-Moon Street. The walk did him good. It

cooled his blood and cleared his brain. As he passed by Hyde Park he

noticed he was being followed. A man was dogging him like a shadow,

pausing when he paused, and following him steadily at no great

distance. Brave as he was, Mallow felt a qualm. He wondered if the

Anarchists, suspecting him of treachery, were having him watched. He

felt that suspense was worse than danger, so he determined to

right-about face and know the worst at once. He turned up a side

street for half a dozen yards. Then he faced round and walked back. By

this man[oe]uvre he almost ran into the arms of his follower.

"Jeremiah Trall!" exclaimed Mallow, recognizing him in the lamplight.

"What do you want? Why are you following me?"

Trall looked round swiftly, and beckoned Mallow into the comparative

darkness of the side street. "I wish to speak with you privately," he

said in his refined voice. "I am afraid of being watched."

"Come to my rooms, then."

"No," replied Trall, "they would follow. My life would not be safe.

Better here." He led Mallow up some distance into a gloomy corner.

"Mr. Mallow," he said, sinking his voice, "why are you joining us?"

"What is that to you?" asked Mallow, fencing.

"You have some scheme in your head, and I wish to know it. You are no

true Anarchist; you don't care two pins about the cause."

Mallow reflected. The man might be trying to trap him into some

incautious speech, duly to be reported to Mrs. Arne. Trall guessed the

cause of his hesitation and laughed.

"You may as well tell me," he said; "I know so much about you, that I

may as well know the rest."

"What do you mean, Trall?"

"That letter of Clara's. She reported to me all that passed between

you and Mrs. Carson. You are bent on dissolving that marriage and

getting back the money."

"Well, suppose I am. I can do that and still be true to the cause."

"No, you can't, Mr. Mallow. Carson was married to Miss Bellairs to get

that money for the cause."

"Then the husband of Miss Bellairs is not really Carson."

"No, he is not. He is a tool in the hands of this infernal Drabble, as

I am."

"What is this man's name--his real name?" asked Mallow.

"I don't know! I swear I don't know. Hush! I can't go on speaking to

you here; they have spies everywhere. But I just want to tell you that

no one but myself read that letter, and that it is in the fire. I know

you are not in earnest for the cause, and I am glad of it."

"And why, may I ask, are you glad of it? You are one of them."

"I am not!" denied Jeremiah, fiercely. "I am a drunken fool under the

thumb of Drabble. I wish to God the cause was at the bottom of the

sea, and Drabble kicking his heels in gaol--or the scaffold, if I

could only get him there. I had a position once Mr. Mallow, I am an

outcast now, solely through Drabble, who has been the curse of my

life. He treats me like a dog; but a dog can bite, and bite him I will

when he least expects it. He has ruined me; he has brought my niece,

Clara, into his cursed schemes. She, too, is under his thumb. Oh, my

God! If only you knew my life's history, you would pity me. Some day

I'll tell it to you, if only to show you how lost a man can become,

body and soul. Drabble is a devil--curse him! Hush! don't speak; I'll

go--I'll go. I only wanted to tell you that the secret of your real

intentions is quite safe with me. If you can ruin Drabble, and with

him that stony-hearted Jezebel, do it--do it, I say. Tread them under

foot--make them suffer as I have suffered, as they have made me

suffer."

Trall, gripping Mallow's hand, shook it violently, and disappeared

round the corner of the street.

Mallow was too much astonished to follow him.

He walked on home. Almost at his doorstep a hand was laid upon his

arm. He turned to see the villainous face of Vraik smirking at him.

"I've come to report, sir," whined the spy. "I've seen Major Semberry

in conversation with a light-haired, light-bearded man."

"Who is he?"

"Francis Hain, sir!--the man who was concerned in the murder. I'm sure

of it."

CHAPTER VII.

"AN UNEXPECTED MEETING."

"Francis Hain?" stammered Mallow, amazed. "Impossible! You must be

mistaken. You have never seen Francis Hain!"

Vraik rubbed his hands and leered.

"That's as true as true," he croaked; "but if I ain't seen 'im other

people 'ave. When you told me as 'ow you thought as all this business

was mixed up with the murder, I went and saw the landlord, and all

them tradespeople in and about Athelstane Place. From the description

I got of Hain, I know 'im as well as I know my own partner. I follered

that Major cove all these days till I'm fair worn out; and when I saw

him talkin' to a light-'aired man with a beard as long as yer arm, it

didn't take me long to recognize Hain. I tried to sneak up close and

listen but they got their matter done, and parted afore I could hear a

word.

"Where did you see them?"

"In Poplar Street."

"And when they parted, you followed one of them--which?"

"That Major cove, of course--didn't you tell me to keep an eye on

'im?"

Mallow was annoyed.

"I wanted you to use your own discretion," he said. "You should have

tracked down Hain, and handed him over to the police."

"I didn't like to do that without orders," whimpered Vraik. "You see,

I 'adn't got no orders so far as he was concerned."

"H'm. Well, of course, it is possible the man may not be Hain after

all."

"Well, if 't'aint, it's 'is twin--goin' by the description," said

Vraik, with emphasis. "But you just ask the Major cove about him."

"I intend to. But I'm pretty certain that the Major cove, as you call

him, won't tell the truth."

"You let me tackle him, Mr. Maller, and I'll soon screw it out of

'im."

"No," said Mallow, sharply. "I'll call on him myself. You continue to

watch Major Semberry until I have seen him. But if you should chance

to meet Hain again, give him in charge. I'll take the responsibility."

"Oh, as long as you do that, I don't care. I'll just get back to

Marquis Street, and keep an eye on the Major cove, but it's hard work,

sir, and precious dry."

"Here's half-a-sovereign," said Mallow, tossing him the coin. "Don't

get drunk on it."

Vraik slipped the piece into his pocket with a grin.

"Lord bless you, sir, I weren't born yesterday! I'm square, I am;" and

he slunk away in the darkness, leaving Mallow more than a trifle

disgusted at being obliged to come into contact with so degraded an

animal.

The various side-paths along which Mallow had so carefully travelled

began now to show signs of convergence.

They were pointing clearly to one principal highway, and that promised

to lead directly from Soho to Athelstane Place. But in no way did he

lose sight of the fact that, if at all possible, the capture of the

money itself was greatly to be desired. That was an additional reason

for refraining from putting matters into official hands; for, in that

event, fearful of extradition, the pseudo-Carson would probably cease

to affect Florence as a place of residence. On the contrary, as likely

as not he would decide to place a considerable expanse of water

between him and it. He decided it would be best at once to force from

Semberry a complete confession, if possible; always duly heedful, of

course, of that gentleman's anarchist connection and consequent

powers. It would be necessary to be more than ever circumspect. Next

morning, therefore, he proceeded to Marquis Street, St. James's. He

found his warrior busy with the consumption of his morning meal. His

reception was, he thought, unusually cordial. Had he known it, the

Major's first impulse had been to refuse to see him. But second

thoughts had prevailed; he determined it would be best to brazen it

out. In the face of danger the weak brain is ever cunning. Thus it was

that Mallow's reception was sufficiently jovial and hearty to have

disarmed his suspicions entirely. But they were on too solid a

foundation for that, and, though outwardly reciprocative, he was every

bit as alert as the Major.

"Mornin'," said Semberry, shaking hands with his visitor, "you're out

early. Had breakfast?"

"Yes, thank you. I must apologize for calling at so unusual an hour,

but the fact is I want to consult you about Carson."

"Nothin' to do with that chap, now," said the Major, wagging his head.

"He has gone his way, I go mine."

"And your way, I perceive, is also Italy," said Laurence, whose keen

eyes had not failed to see a Cook's tourist ticket lying open on the

table at "Lucerne to Chiasso."

Semberry had overlooked it. He was somewhat disconcerted; but he

hastened to make the best of a bad job.

"Yes, just goin' there to see Carson," said he, sweeping the tickets

into the pocket of his smoking-coat "As matter of fact, promised to

take a box over for him."

"Oh. Is it a sandal-wood one?"

"How the--how do you know he has a sandal-wood box?"

"Why, easily enough. He explained as much to Mrs. Carson when she

asked him why he had that everlasting smell about him. So you intend

taking the box over yourself, do you? You are indeed a good friend,

Major."

The Major was not appreciative of his position; but he replied bluffly

enough, "Goin' for m' own sake. Carson owes me money. Not likely to

see it unless I go m'self. Carson's a bit of a rogue, you know."

"Are you sure he isn't somewhat more than 'a bit,' Major? Are you

quite sure he is Angus Carson?"

"Course I am; who else would he be?" said Semberry, with an admixture

of indignation and ignorance in equal parts.

"Oh, don't ask me," replied Mallow, carelessly. "Only it was strange,

was it not, that Mrs. Purcell should say the picture taken at

Sandbeach did not represent her friend, Mr. Carson of Bombay?"

"Bad likeness, perhaps," growled Semberry. He was really uneasy now.

"On the contrary, it is a very good one--of the man who married Miss

Bellairs."

"Angus Carson."

"If you like to call him so."

Semberry jumped up with a scowl.

"Do you mean to insult me; doubt m' word!" he said savagely. "Carson's

been with me since his father died. Didn't lose sight of him till

marriage. 'S matter fact, don't 'prove the way he's treated wife;

that's another reason I'm goin' Italy, to bring him back and see

things square before I return t'India."

"If you can do that, Major, you will be extremely clever; but I doubt

very much your being able to persuade this stray lamb to return."

"Make him, if only to prove you and Mrs. Purcell wrong."

"Oh, I!--I have nothing to do with it. Carson may be the great Cham,

for all I care; but Mrs. Purcell will not be so easily satisfied. You

know her."

"Rather; interferin' old cat, that she is. Says Carson isn't Carson,

does she? What the deuce does the woman mean?"

"You had better ask her, Semberry, and settle the matter offhand."

"I'll ask her," said the Major, furiously. "What's more, I'll bring

back Carson himself to give her the lie. Hang it! she reflects on m'

honour as an officer and gentleman."

"Oh, you know what ladies are," replied Mallow, laughing but

observant; "once get an idea into their heads, and there is no getting

it out again. Mrs. Purcell, on the authority of that portrait,

declares that the man who married Miss Bellairs is not Carson; an idle

theory of hers, if you will, but one she is bent upon proving."

"She can't," contradicted Semberry, testily. "Man is Carson right

enough. I ought to know, and I say so. Will bring him back, I tell

you, just to prove it. Whole thing's silly nonsense."

Mallow yawned.

"Dare say. Doesn't interest me in the least. I am sorry for Mrs.

Carson, and I think she has been disgracefully treated; but I should

like, if possible, to see her husband return to her. However, as you

are going over to fetch him, I have no doubt that will arrange

itself."

"Didn't intend to fetch him!" grumbled Semberry, "but will now, just

to shut up Mrs. Purcell. Can't afford to play the doose with m'

reputation when I'm in the Service. Carson's box is here, if Mrs.

Purcell would like to see it."

Now, a sight of this precious box and its contents would, Mallow felt,

be very acceptable. But he could not say so without rousing Semberry's

suspicions. In such a position many a man would have jumped at the

Major's offer, and have brought Mrs. Purcell to Marquis Street; but

Mallow knew better. Of all things, caution was most essential. He

merely laughed.

"Oh, I'll tell Mrs. Purcell, if you like," said he affably. "I don't

think it's the box she wants to see so much as the man. Why not call

on her before you leave?"

"What's the use? She would not believe me. I'll bring back Carson, I

tell you, and he can shut her up himself. I ain't going to argue with

Mrs. Purcell."

"Well, perhaps she is rather a difficult subject, Major. When do you

go?"

"To-morrow, night train."

"Ah, well, pleasant journey. By the way, who was that fair chap you

were talking to yesterday--the man I saw you with in Poplar Street?

Excuse my asking, but I can't help thinking I know him."

The Major started, and looked searchingly at Mallow, who remained

unmoved.

"Oh, a friend of mine; I.C.S. man," he answered carelessly. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I fancied he was a doctor I had met somewhere."

"Doctor!" repeated Semberry, nervously; "no, he's not a doctor. Civil

engineer. He builds bridges of sorts. You don't know him. He's been

India way these last twenty years."

"Ah, strange, too--I am convinced I know him," said Mallow, rising.

"Just shows how apt one is to confuse faces. I could have sworn he was

a doctor. Well, I must be off. Shall I take any message from you to

Mrs. Purcell?"

"No. You can tell her, if you like, that I'm going to bring back

Carson," said the Major, grimly. "And if I don't prove he's the man he

says he is, she can write to the War Office and say I'm a swindler.

Have a peg before you go."

"No, thanks; too early for strong waters. Good-day."

"Day," replied Semberry, curtly, accompanying Mallow to the door.

When his visitor was fairly off the premises, the Major drew a long

breath and returned to his breakfast. "Time I got off," he muttered.

"Wonder what the chap's driving at. I was a fool to leave those

tickets about; but who'd ha' thought he'd have spotted them; who'd ha'

thought o' seeing him now, for the matter o' that."

In the street Mallow was looking for Vraik. He knew he was somewhere

not far off: Shortly he espied a ragged pavement artist at work on a

series of glaring presentments in coloured chalk within sight of the

Major's door. Mallow strolled across the road to drop a copper into

the man's hat. As he did so he spoke hurriedly.

"The Major's leaving town to-night or to-morrow. Watch him Charing

Cross or Victoria, and wire to my rooms at once when he goes."

"I'm fly," said the pavement artist, with a grin; and Mallow,

satisfied that Semberry was under proper surveillance, went his way

easy in his mind. Round the corner, as fate would have it, he ran

almost into the arms of a stout elderly gentleman in black.

"Oh, my dear sir, my dear sir!" protested the stranger, puffing, "you

knocked the wind out of me. Why, it's Mr. Mallow!"

"Mr. Brock?" said Mallow, recognizing the vicar. "Who would have

thought of meeting you here."

"Surprising, indeed," said Brock, shaking hands. "But I'm on my way to

see Major Semberry. Perhaps you can tell me where is Marquis Street,

Mr. Mallow?"

"Just round the corner. So you are visiting the Major?"

"My dear young friend, I wish to speak with him about Angus Carson.

With pain and grief I have heard of this terrible trouble between my

old friend's son and Olive. I have thought it possible that Major

Semberry might use his good offices to bring about a reconciliation.'

"I'm afraid that is beyond the Major's power, sir," said Mallow,

shaking his head. "Was it Mrs. Purcell who told you of this

separation?"

"It was. I received her letter two days back, and came up as soon as I

could. I have not yet seen Olive. I decided I would see the Major

first. This very painful matter must be settled."

"Mrs. Carson is not to blame, Mr. Brock. Her husband alone is at

fault."

"So Mrs. Purcell said," said Brock, solemnly. "Dear! dear! Angus is

not behaving in the way his upright father would have had him behave."

"His father? h'm," said Mallow, wondering if it would be wise to tell

Brock that Carson was an impostor. On second thoughts he decided to

hold his tongue. The open street hardly lent itself to explanations of

the kind. He suggested that the vicar should call on Mrs. Purcell

after he had seen Semberry.

"Certainly, it is my intention to do so, Mr. Mallow. We will put our

two old heads together, and see what we can do. Good-day, good-day,"

and Brock trotted off.

CHAPTER VIII.

"THE LIGHT-HAIRED MAN."

When Mallow returned to his rooms he found Lord Aldean seated in his

most comfortable arm-chair. His expression was extremely thoughtful,

and, withal, a trifle anxious. Polyphemus, as Laurence sometimes

called him--in allusion to his size--was not usually given to a gentle

melancholy. Mallow could only conclude there must be something wrong

with the boy.

"You here, Jim?" said he, throwing hat and gloves on a near table.

"What is the matter with you, man? You look as miserable as an owl."

"Mallow, you lack the delicacy of perception necessary for the correct

understanding of the feelings of a man in my condition. Besides, your

simile is rude."

"Oh, I see. Miss Ostergaard has been crushing you as usual."

"On the contrary, she is particularly amiable."

"That ought to encourage you."

"It does," said Aldean miserably; "so much so that I have made up my

mind to propose to her this very day."

"One would think you had made up your mind to be hanged--from your

expression. Why so dejected?"

"Mallow, I know what fear is now; my heart is in my boots."

"Is it? Then you had better reinstate it before you go on your knees.

What are you afraid of, you jackass? Miss Ostergaard won't eat you."

"She might say 'No,'" groaned the wretched Jim. He paled at the bare

idea of so terrible a catastrophe.

"She might, on the other hand, say 'Yes,'" replied Mallow consolingly.

"Come, Polyphemus, you needn't go out in a coach-and-four to meet your

troubles. Look at mine; they come right to my very door, confound

them."

"Mallow, you don't know how fond I am of that girl."

"I must, indeed, be dull of understanding, then," said he, "for you

have endeavoured to bring me to a very clear comprehension of your

feelings upon several occasions. Cheer up, old man!"--he clapped Jim's

broad shoulders--"you have every chance of success. The girl's in love

with you."

"Do you really think so?" said Jim, brightening. Then, with a deeper

groan, "No, no, she is always teasing me."

"Of course she is. But it is only her way. Some women are

like that--especially when in love. You must interpret them

contrariwise--like dreams, you know."

"In that case I may hope."

"Yes, hope and put your fortune to the test. Also, if you think you

are in a fit condition to do so, answer me a question."

"What is it?" asked Aldean, accepting a cigarette. "Do you put love

before friendship?"

"Well--er--no; that is not your friendship."

"You do not seem very certain on the point," said Mallow, dryly.

"However, I am about to ask your aid. At present I cannot leave

London. I am too heavily involved with these Anarchists, and I must

remain on the spot to watch Mrs. Arne and Drabble. Now, I saw Semberry

this morning, and learned, thanks to his carelessness in leaving

tickets about, that he is off to Italy. I want you to follow him there

and watch his little game with Carson."

"Oh, I'll go, of course," said Jim, with rather a long face; "but how

do you know Semberry is going to Carson?"

"Because that blackguard is in Italy. Moreover, I told Semberry about

Mrs. Purcell's assertion that the man who married Olive is not Carson.

It is now the expressed intention of our good Major to bring back his

friend, and--as he says--put his identity beyond doubt."

"Do you believe him?"

"No, Jim, I do not. Semberry funks Mrs. Purcell. He knows perfectly

well that the man is an impostor. He is simply going over to Italy for

the purpose of securing his share of the plunder. Then he will slip

down to Naples or Brindisi, and board the next out-going liner for

India, where he hopes to be safe. This is why I want you to hang on to

his tail, and stop him clearing out."

"I'm your man, Mallow. But I don't see how I can stop the beggar

without a warrant."

"Oh, a warrant is out of the question; besides, you can frighten him

without that. Interview this scamp who calls himself Carson, and get

the truth out of him if you can. Of course, I can't exactly forecast

events for you, but you must use your common sense; you have plenty of

it, you know, at a pinch. If the Major tries a bolt, tell him you will

communicate with the War Office; in fact, threaten him with the most

merciless exposure."

"But I can't do that."

"I can," said Mallow, with decision. "There is a man called Trall who

can prove that the fellow whom Semberry introduced as Carson is a

fraud. And I hope, also, when I get the evidence, to prove that the

real Carson was murdered in Athelstane Place with Semberry's

connivance. Tell him this. I don't think you will find him refractory

then."

"He is only the more likely to skidaddle, I should think."

"In that case, he'll have to chuck the army," said Mallow. "If the War

Office communicates what I know to Semberry's colonel, he will not

only be cashiered, but brought back to England under arrest. However,

as I say, I can't foretell events; you must use your discretion."

"I'll do my best," said Jim, feeling his muscle, as though the

question were best settled that way. "When does Semberry start?"

"Either to-night or to-morrow. He says to-night; but I don't trust

him. I have that man Vraik watching him; and as soon as he clears a

wire will be sent here. If I am in when it comes I'll advise you; but,

in any case, come round and keep a look-out for it yourself. Open

it--open any letter; I have no secrets from you."

"But won't you be in this evening?"

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no; I can't say. I have heard from Vraik that

the man Hain, who was concerned in that murder, is hanging round

Poplar Street. He was seen talking to Semberry yesterday. I must watch

for him; so, if I'm not back when you receive the wire, don't wait for

me. Start straight away for Italy. Lose no time; go by the same train,

if you can; or follow by the next. It's a case of life or death, Jim."

"You can depend on me," said Jim, shaking Mallow's hand; "I'll hang on

like grim death. If he gets away from me he'll be a smarter man than I

take him to be. But I say, Mallow, don't you get into trouble with

these beastly Anarchist chaps. They're a queer lot, you know."

"No fear, my boy; I know them. If I should get into any mess,

however--for accidents will occur--look up Vraik at the private

inquiry office I told you about. He knows Trall, and Trall is my very

good friend. He hates Drabble, and will help me so far as he is able

in any little difficulty."

"I understand," said Jim, with a nod.

"My poor Polyphemus, this will put an end to your courtship."

Lord Aldean looked somewhat rueful. "I am not likely to be away more

than a week or so, am I? and I dare say Tui will still be free when I

get back."

"Oh, you call her Tui now, do you?" laughed Mallow. "In my own mind, I

do--not to her face."

"That will be a pleasure to come. Seriously, Jim, I am greatly obliged

to you for your readiness to help me. Believe me, I shan't forget it."

"Oh, that's all right, Mallow. Our friendship is more than a name, I

hope," said Jim, with another shake of his whilom tutor's hand. He

then took his departure, in, be it said, a considerably more cheerful

frame of mind.

That same afternoon Mallow walked as far as Soho, with the intention

of seeing Mrs. Arne, and telling her that he had decided to take the

oath. As a matter of fact, he had not; but, as there were eight days

to the time appointed for his installation, he hoped that something

might turn up in the interval which would render it unnecessary for

him to go so far.

It was four o'clock when he arrived in the neighbourhood of Soho. The

sky was growing darker every minute; but there was still light

sufficient to distinguish the passers-by. At the entrance to Poplar

Street he was passed by a man walking swiftly--a tall, fair-bearded

man, who looked neither to right nor left, but raced on breathlessly

towards No. 49. Instinctively Mallow guessed this was his enemy.

"Francis Hain, to a certainty," he muttered under his breath; "light

hair, light beard, tall, thin--the exact description given in the

papers. Will he enter No. 49?" At No. 49, surely enough, the man

pulled up, and admitting himself, evidently with a latch-key,

disappeared within. Mallow's hot blood was at boiling point. Here was

the wretch who had murdered the unfortunate Carson within his grasp.

Heedless of the danger he was running, he knocked at the door of No.

49. It was opened almost immediately. He had given the signal knock

which Rouge had taught him. The door-keeper recognized him at once,

and the next minute he was standing in the dark passage of that

dangerous den.

"Where is the gentleman who entered just now?" he asked the

door-keeper breathlessly.

"Upstairs; he goes to see Madame," replied the man, who had no idea

that anything was wrong. Mallow had given the signal, and his face was

known to him. The door-keeper was quite easy in his mind.

Up the narrow stairs Mallow sprang two at a time, reckless, and full

of fierce courage. He was determined to face Hain, and wring the truth

from him at all costs. Caution, wisdom, fear, all went to the four

winds. The hot Irish fighting blood fizzled through his veins--burned

in his cheek. Rash and unthinking, he dashed forward with a courage

absolutely blind--the courage which wins or loses all. On the first

landing he caught a glimpse of a tall figure. He heard the click of a

turning door-knob. The next moment Mallow the hero, Mallow the fool,

had flung open the door and stood on the threshold of Mrs. Arne's

room. She was there, and near her stood the man Hain. "At last!" cried

Mallow between his teeth. "At last I have got you."

"What does he mean?" demanded Madame, in her metallic voice.

"It means that I want Francis Hain for murder."

The tall man slipped back a pace. His voice quavered. "I am not Hain,"

he said, keeping a wary eye on Mallow.

"You liar!" Mallow sprang forward. "You are Hain the murderer. You and

that woman--one of you--killed young Carson."

"Madman! Carson is alive in Italy."

"Carson is dead--murdered! You killed him. You are Hain."

"He is not Hain," said Mrs. Arne, simply.

"I am not Hain," repeated the man. Something in the tone of his voice

sounded strangely familiar to Mallow.

"No, you are not Hain," said Mallow, throwing himself at the man's

throat. "I know you now--you are Drabble"--his hand twitched away the

light beard, and the doctor's clean-shaven face was revealed--"Drabble

the murderer!"

"Kill the spy," breathed Madame Death-in-Life; "he knows too much."

"Enough to hang you both." Mallow threw Drabble on one side, ran past

Mrs. Arne, and dashed his gloved fist through the window. "Help! help!

Police! police!"

"Kill him! Kill him!" shrieked Madame, fiercely.

"Spy!" roared Drabble.

The two men swung and reeled across the floor. Neither uttered a word.

With clenched teeth and muscles tense they battled fiercely in the

small space. Madame rushed to the door and flung it open.

"A spy! a spy! Danger! Up! up! up!" she cried down the well of the

staircase. Immediately there was a noise of rushing feet--a babel of

fierce voices. Mallow heard rather than saw the room filling. He had a

firm grip on Drabble's throat, and the man was staggering and gurgling

for want of breath. Then a hundred hands--as it seemed--plucked him

back. He was hurled to the ground, and beaten and trampled into

insensibility.

CHAPTER IX.

"MAN PROPOSES."

"May I ask, Lord Aldean, if you have ever perused the biography of the

celebrated Dr. Johnson of Auchinleck?"

"Yes, Mrs. Purcell, I have. Mallow made me read it when I was cramming

for the 'varsity."

"Made you read it!" echoed Mrs. Purcell, majestically; "the word

'made' is misapplied, surely!"

"Well, it is a teaser, isn't it?" said Aldean, frankly; "shouldn't

read it to keep myself awake. Boswell's a bit long-winded, ain't he?"

"Boswell, Lord Aldean, whatever he may be, is not frivolous."

"I don't read anything, as a rule," confessed Jim, "except the

papers."

Mrs. Purcell frowned. "The general slovenliness of style of the daily

journals is not such as Dr. Johnson would have approved," said she, in

her deep voice. "The very letters of the illustrious lexicographer

have the roll and volume of ethic poetry."

"'Paradise Lost,'" said Miss Ostergaard; "everybody talks about it and

no one reads it."

"I have read it, Tui," observed Miss Slarge, rousing herself from her

brown study; "it afforded me useful hints on idolatry. Moloch, who is

mentioned therein, is identical with the Baal or Bel of the

Babylonians. The Romish festival of St. John, at the midsummer

solstice, is simply the relic of the Chaldean worship of Tammuz. One

of Bel's names was Oannes: the Latinized form of John in the sacred

language of the Papists, Joannes. Remove the 'J,' and you can see how

the idol was converted into the prophet."

"Most interesting," said Aldean, groaning, as this deluge of hard

names rattled about his head. "Do you write like Dr. Johnson, Miss

Slarge?"

"Alas! Rubina does not," sighed Mrs. Purcell. "Rather does she adopt

the antithetic style of Macaulay, the historian."

The conversation was taking place in Mrs. Purcell's drawing-room round

a cheerful fire. In the next room Olive was writing letters. She was,

in truth, somewhat depressed by the non-appearance of Mallow, whom she

had expected that evening, and felt little inclined for conversation.

True to his promise, Aldean had called at Mallow's rooms after dinner,

but, finding there neither his friend nor a telegram, had come over to

enjoy himself at Campden Hill. But that the business on hand might not

be neglected, he had left word that, if a telegram came, it was to be

sent on to him at Mrs. Purcell's house. Mallow's absence had not

surprised him. He concluded that he was in the neighbourhood of Poplar

Street, Hain-hunting. As it was, Mallow was at that moment a prisoner

in the Anarchist den, and, by his very warning to Aldean that his

absence might be indefinite, he had done away with all chance of

rescue.

Jim's true errand to Campden Hill was to propose to Miss Ostergaard.

He was determined to know the worst--or the best--before leaving for

Italy. But it chanced that Mrs. Purcell's Johnsonian mania was strong

upon her, for she pestered the poor boy with a hundred and one details

concerning her celebrated Samuel, until he fervently wished that he or

Johnson had never been born--not to speak of Bean, Goldy, Reynolds,

and all other illustrious old bores idolized of Mrs. Purcell. He was

hopelessly dazed with it all--and looked it. Nor did it add to his

comfort in any degree to find Tui heartily laughing at his plight. It

became too much for the wretched Jim. He grew both desperate and rude.

"Seems to me, the most creditable thing about Johnson," said he,

crossly, "was that he didn't murder Boswell."

"Murder Boswell!" gasped Mrs. Purcell. "Murder his biographer?"

"I mean the fellow who was always asking questions," explained Jim. "I

can't think how Johnson put up with his silly gabble. Fancy a fellow

asking another fellow what he'd do if he was shut up in a castle with

a baby. Such bosh, y'know!"

"Lord Aldean," said Mrs. Purcell, solemnly rising, "you are evidently

not aware that it was Boswell's object to afford the great Doctor an

opportunity for the display of his unrivalled fund of argument."

"And of contradiction," hinted Tui, sweetly.

Mrs. Purcell shook her head sadly. "I perceive that you are both of

you of the earth, earthly," she said pityingly. "The solemnity of the

learned lexicographer's periods is lost upon you. Rubina, let us leave

these unideaed young people to their own puny, foolish ways."

"Yes, Priscilla," said Miss Slarge, rising. "I must return to my

desk."

"No, Rubina, not with my consent. You shall do no such thing. To tax

your brain at so late an hour is the height of folly. In the next room

we will play draughts; it is a cheerful amusement."

Miss Slarge sighed, but complied. She knew from experience the

futility of attempting to argue with her ponderous sister.

As they left the room Aldean stepped forward to open the door. "Hope I

haven't been rude, Mrs. Purcell!"

"Rude? Certainly not, Lord Aldean; but it must be confessed that you

are sadly ignorant. Your style of conversation is neither elegant nor

well considered."

Jim returned to the fire and Tui, unabashed. He was bent on proposing;

and Tui, by some peculiar instinct, purely feminine, knew it. What is

more, she intended to let him have his say. Lately it had dawned upon

her that it was possible to play her fish too long. He might sulk away

from the hook; and she had no intention of allowing that to happen. So

she sat, and looked at the fire, and Jim sat and looked at her; while

the hearts of both beat a lively rataplan, utterly incommensurate with

so tranquil an occupation.

"I say!" began Jim, gracefully. "You don't think Mrs. Purcell's on her

hind legs? Do you?"

"Oh no!" responded Tui, still confining her interest to the fire.

"Women never get on their--I mean, never lose their tempers."

"Don't they?" said Aldean (this as a simple interrogation, not an

assertion).

"Of course not. I am a woman; I ought to know. How silly you are."

"I'm unideaed! Mrs. Purcell says so."

"She made the same remark about me. She stole the word, you know, from

Boswell, who got it from Johnson. It seems we are both of us"--Tui

sighed--"'unideaed.'"

"It's a kind of bond between us, isn't it?"

"Dear me, Lord Aldean, how should I know?" (Silence for a few moments,

during which, the ordinary medium for conversation proving unsuitable,

recourse was had to certain more subtle means--chiefly ocular.

Finally, a combination seemed to be decided upon.)

Aldean (gloomily): "I hate Dr. Johnson; don't you?"

Tui (viciously): "Not so much as I do Boswell--the nasty Poll-Pry."

Aldean: "So he is--so he was! That's another bond between us"

(insinuatingly), "ain't it?"

Tui (repeating herself): "How should I know, Lord Aldean?" (Silence.)

Aldean (desperately) "Do--do you think that marriages are made in

heaven?"

Tui (faintly): "I--I have heard that they are."

Aldean (speculating): "I wonder when they--whoever they are--will set

about manipulating ours?"

Tui (with a maidenly perturbation): "Ours, Lord Aldean! What do you

mean by ours?"

Aldean (moving his chair closer): "You know!" (No answer.) "I'm sure

you know."

Tui: "Ridiculous." (Deserts the fire for the hearthrug.)

Aldean (intercepting the field of view): "Tui! Oh" (with a gasp)

"Tui!" Certain physical demonstrations followed, amid which the dental

emissions necessary for the iteration of the name "Tui" crackled like

volleys from a machine-gun.

"Oh, Lord Aldean!" implored Tui, collecting her senses, "don't."

"Don't what, Tui?" said Jim, seizing her hand.

"Get up! If Mrs. Purcell came in, what would she say?"

"She would say I was proposing, Tui; and she wouldn't be far wrong.

Say 'Yes.'"

"Why should I say 'Yes?'"

"Because I love you and you love me."

"I haven't said that I love you," said Tui, rising in feigned alarm,

"I don't need you to say it. I can see it."

Henceforth, for some time, conversation became superfluous, if not

impossible.

At length Jim came to the point. "My darling!" he implored, "say that

you will marry me."

"How can I? It's so sudden; you're so--so--so very demonstrative. No,

no; I won't--I can't."

"Oh, very well, Miss Ostergaard," cried Aldean, suddenly releasing

her. "I'm a fool, and you're a hard-hearted coquette," and he turned

his back to fold his arms and sulk.

"Lord Aldean!" said Tui, faintly. There was no reply. "Lord Aldean,"

she repeated. Still no reply. Finally, in desperation, "Jim!"

"Oh, Tui, Tui!" His arms were round her. "Will you--will you?"

"I will," murmured Tui, with accents well-nigh liturgical.

"Dearest!"

Then there was a great silence, and what is perhaps best expressed by

typographic constellations.

* * * * * *

There came a knock--a discreet knock, be it said--at the door; and,

shortly following it, the footman--a concrete being indeed. His signal

gave rise to a very elegant little man[oe]uvre, whereby the width of

the hearthrug was speedily, if somewhat obtrusively, placed between

these two. Under his breath Jim muttered, "Hang it!"

"M'lord," said the Apollo in livery; "if you please, m'lord, there's a

person below who wishes to see your lordship."

"What sort of a person?"

"A low sort of person, m'lord. His business is important, he says."

"Hope nothing's wrong with Mallow, poor chap," mumbled Aldean, driving

the footman out of the room.

Then he went downstairs. In the hall he found a disreputable

marionette, who, at the sight of him, at once commenced profusely to

scrape and bow. This creature confessed to the name of Vraik, and

addressed Lord Aldean in a husky whisper--presumably that the lordly

footman should not hear.

"Mr. Mallow told me to send a wire to his rooms, m'lord," said the

man--"that is, when I saw the Major cove off. But bein' a bit late for

a telegram, I thought I might as well trot round myself. Mr. Mallow

wasn't in, and they told me you'd left a message for this place,

m'lord."

"Yes, I did. Well, what about the Major?"

"He's off to the Continong, m'lord; cleared off by the nine hexpress

from Victorier--took three boxes with 'im."

"Went off to-night, did he?" mused Jim. "That is just what Mallow

expected. He's a bit of a liar, that Major. Very well," he said to

Vraik, "I will convey your message to Mr. Mallow."

"What am I to do now, m'lord?"

"Call and see Mr. Mallow to-morrow. He will give you your orders. You

can go now, Vraik."

"Foggy night, m'lord--fog will get into the throat som'ow."

Aldean construed the remark correctly, and produced half-a-crown. The

creature slipped it into his pocket, and sneaked out with the

abasement he judged befitting to the occasion.

"Well," said Aldean, re-ascending the stairs, "I can't say Mallow's

particular as to whom he employs. But one can't work in mud, I

suppose, without getting a bit dirty. H'm! so the Major's off. That

means I'll have to go to-morrow. There's a nine o'clock, I think, as

well as the midday mail from Victoria. I had better take it, I

suppose. Hang it!" grumbled Jim--"just when she's said 'Yes.' This

comes of sticking closer than a brother."

On re-entering the drawing-room, Aldean found Tui the centre of

manifest congratulations. Olive and Mrs. Purcell, assisted by Miss

Slarge--who had returned from Babylon for the purpose--were showering

upon her many expressions of delight, osculatory and otherwise. Tui,

of course, was weeping. How things had progressed thus far, in so

incredibly short a space of time, Jim was at a loss to comprehend. He

felt a little out of his depth, and wondered if all was as it should

be. He supposed it was all natural enough. Still, he was obviously

disconcerted when the trio bore down upon him, brimful of compliments

and general expressions of goodwill. He blushed, and sought a corner

with as much speed as he felt to be compatible with politeness. But

even so he was only protected in the rear. Olive shook one hand and

said, "Oh, Lord Aldean, I am so glad." Mrs. Purcell took the other,

and continued, "Lord Aldean, I congratulate myself that beneath my

roof you have met the future partner of your joys and sorrows."

"I knew it would be all right," said Miss Slarge, beaming. "One

marriage invariably brings another. That superstition we can trace

back to the land of Uz."

"Thanks, awf'ly," muttered Jim, nervously.

Then once again Tui became the centre of attraction.

"Dearest Tui," said Olive.

"My sweet girl," said Miss Slarge.

"It will be a pleasing spectacle for me to witness the progress of

Love's young dream," rolled Mrs. Purcell, still majestic.

"Oh dear! you are all very kind," wept Tui. "How--how--how very happy

I am!"

"I fear you are not to see the progress of Love's young dream just

yet, Mrs. Purcell," blurted out Aldean. "I am going away, you know."

"Going away?" echoed the combined trio.

"Oh, Jim!" wailed Tui. "Oh, Jim!"

Aldean steeled his heart. "Major Semberry has bolted to Italy," he

said. "I must follow him--promised Mallow.'

"And why has Major Semberry departed so suddenly?"

"Guilty conscience, Mrs. Purcell. He's gone off to see Carson."

"To see my husband?" cried Olive, turning white. "Are you following

him?"

"Yes; by the nine train to-morrow. Don't want to go, but promised

Mallow. I can't break my promise, you know."

Tui jumped up and kissed him before them all. "Jim," she cried, "you

are a darling!"

CHAPTER X.

"WOMAN DISPOSES."

For a young gentleman to face with equanimity four ladies, each one

more or less gifted in her particular way, especially when the said

young gentleman has just proposed to one of them and been accepted,

requires a considerable amount of moral courage. Aldean confessed he

felt the want of it when Tui kissed him, and the three onlookers

smiled sympathetically. It was only when they quitted romance for

reality, and became interested in Olive's troubles in place of his

engagement, that Jim recovered his equanimity. Mrs. Purcell adjusted

the situation to the lower and less romantic topic with her usual

majesty.

"Be seated, Lord Aldean," she said, enthroning herself on the nearest

and most comfortable chair; "let me hear your opinion on this

unexpected and suspicious departure of Major Semberry."

"My opinion is the same as Mallow's," replied Jim, bluntly. "Semberry

has gone off to get his share of this money. It is my business to stop

him getting it."

"That will be difficult," said Olive, despondently.

"It would be, Mrs. Carson, if the Major were irresponsible as well as

a scamp, and if he did not happen to be in the Service. As it is, I

have the pull over him, and so has Mallow. We are in a position to

prove Carson's imposture through a third party, and--as Semberry must

have been accessory to the swindle--I can get him cashiered if he

doesn't leave the money alone and make a clean breast of his

conspiracy."

"How can you prove that Olive's husband is an impostor?" asked Tui.

"By bringing forward a man called Jeremiah Trall as a witness."

"Clara's uncle!" said Olive, nodding. "I know. Mr. Mallow told me all

about him. Oh! and I am married to this man."

"No, you are not, Mrs. Carson--or, rather, I should say, Miss

Bellairs."

"Lord Aldean!" cried Mrs. Purcell, while Olive remained silent, too

amazed for words, "I trust that you are not about to inform me that

this profligate has contracted a previous matrimonial alliance."

"No, but he is not Angus Carson, and he therefore married Miss

Bellairs under a false name. To do this wittingly nullifies a

marriage."

"Are you certain of that?" asked Olive, pale and anxious.

"Certain. Mallow saw Dimbal about it, and, to make doubly sure, they

took counsel's opinion on the subject. You are not married."

Tui threw her arms round her friend's neck.

"Oh, Olive," she said aloud, and then whispered slily, "I know why Mr.

Mallow consulted the lawyer."

"The iniquity of the fellow is preposterous," said Mrs. Purcell, in

her most stately tone; "nevertheless, if our dear Olive can be freed

from her matrimonial bonds, I shall rejoice sincerely and without

reserve."

"I should like to punish the wretch," cried Tui, vehemently.

"I'll punish him for you," murmured Jim in her ear. "Shall I kick him,

or wring his neck, or throw him into the Arno?"

"Well, I think the last would be best; it might wash the sin out of

him."

"Water was used for lustration by the Chaldeans," said Miss Slarge,

her ruling passion strong within her. Then the genuine woman asserted

herself. "Olive, my poor love, I trust indeed that this may be so, and

that you will escape from the power of this bad man."

"I was never in his power," cried Olive, proudly; "he was never my

husband. I hated him. I will throw the ring--no"--she stopped

suddenly, and replaced the wedding-ring on her finger--"I must not

cease to wear this until I am certain of my freedom. Lord Aldean," she

asked suddenly, "you go over to Italy to-morrow?"

"Yes, by the nine o'clock express from Victoria."

"And you will see this--this man who calls himself Carson?"

"It is probable. I must put a stop to his game and Semberry's. I

promised Mallow to do so."

"Then I will go to Florence with you."

Mrs. Purcell stared. Her face assumed an expression of horror.

"My dear," she said, aghast, "are you in your right mind?"

"Of course I am. I must and will know the truth about this man, and,

what is more, I intend to hear it from his own lips."

"But--but that woman!" gasped Miss Slarge.

"If I am not married to the man, she is nothing to me. Lord Aldean,

will you take me to Florence?"

"Certainly," said Jim, promptly; "and I think that you are brave and

right to face your troubles so boldly."

"She is a heroine," cried Tui; then whispered softly, "and you are a

dear."

"Pray consider the feelings of society," boomed Mrs. Purcell.

"I prefer to consider my own, thank you. It is no use talking, my mind

is made up, and Lord Aldean has consented to take me. I must know how

I stand towards this man. I must hear from himself that he is not

Carson, and I must recover the money stolen from me."

"Oh dear me!" wailed Miss Slarge. "Can't you wait until Mr. Brock

calls? He is in town. He writes to say that he will visit us to-morrow

afternoon."

"Can't wait," struck in Aldean, judiciously; "promised Mallow to

follow Semberry next train. Must be off nine sharp."

"I shall be at the station at half-past eight," cried Olive. "You get

the tickets and engage a carriage, Lord Aldean."

"Consider the feelings of Mr. Mallow.'

"Oh, he will be glad I am going. Mr. Mallow is not a prude. I'll write

him a note to-night. Perhaps he will be at the station in the

morning."

"No need to write," said Aldean, rising; "I am going round to his

rooms now. I'll tell him, if I see him, though it's just possible I

may not see him. He's so mixed up with these Anarchists that he never

keeps regular hours now."

"I cannot but condemn this insane determination."

"Oh, but, Mrs. Purcell, you can trust Olive with Lord Aldean," coaxed

Tui. "I am sure you ought to, when I trust him with her."

"I have a great mind to undertake the journey myself," cried Mrs.

Purcell, with energy, "but I fear that the excessive travelling would

prove highly injurious to me."

"Two days and two nights," hinted Aldean; "it's a corker of a trail."

"You must not think of going, Mrs. Purcell," said Olive, resolutely.

"I will go alone with Lord Aldean, so that is all about it.

Good-night, Lord Aldean; there is none too much time. I must go and

pack."

When Olive had left the room, both Aldean and Tui brought their

persuasive powers to bear upon Mrs. Purcell. After no small amount of

trouble, they succeeded in reducing her to a more pliable state of

mind. She confessed that Olive's position was so extraordinary, that

perhaps extraordinary measures were justifiable for the adjustment of

it. In the end, she went further, and expressed her opinion that it

was right the girl should go.

"But for her own sake," said Mrs. Purcell, severely, "the more so,

seeing that she has been so wantonly deceived by that unprincipled

profligate, you must take the greatest care of her, Lord Aldean."

"I will treat her as I would a sister of my own," said Jim.

This seemed to suffice Mrs. Purcell. She fussed out of the room to

help Olive with her packing, followed in a few minutes by Miss Slarge,

tearful and doubtful: The room was empty, and the two young people

grasped their opportunity for saying good-bye, after their own

fashion, and in their own time. Jim--in this instance, at least--was

nothing if not thorough, and fully twenty minutes elapsed before he

descended the staircase. As he lay in bed that night, he confessed to

himself that the love-scenes of fiction were not so highly coloured

after all. The course of his true love had at last begun to run very

smooth indeed.

But before going home to dream of his good fortune, Lord Aldean had

not forgotten to call at Mallow's rooms, only to learn from the night

porter that their occupant was still absent. Little thinking how

Laurence's impulsive Irish spirit had led him into difficulties, Jim

scribbled a few lines on his card, to say that Major Semberry had left

that evening for Florence, and that, with Mrs. Carson, he intended to

follow by the nine o'clock morning mail from Victoria. This card he

gave to the porter, with strict injunctions that it was to be handed

to Mr. Mallow immediately on his return. That done, Aldean abandoned

himself with a clear conscience to the full enjoyment of his dreams.

Shortly before eight o'clock next morning he drove to the station,

arriving there on the stroke of the half-hour. He quite expected to

find Mallow waiting for him; but there was no sign of him. Jim could

only conclude he had not received the card.

"Been out all night, I suppose," grumbled Aldean, in no very good

temper. "In the thick of it with the brutes in Soho, I expect. I only

hope he won't get into trouble with them. Must have spotted and

followed Hain; he's probably hanging on to him till the police run him

in."

It was a cold, raw morning, and Jim, in a fur-lined coat, rolled about

the platform like a giant bear. He took two through tickets to

Florence, bought a couple of morning papers and some illustrated

weeklies, and, with the assistance of the guard, engaged a carriage

supplied with foot-warmers. Hardly had he completed his preparations

when Olive made her appearance, accompanied, to his great delight, by

Miss Ostergaard. Both ladies were in the best of spirits.

"But I don't see Mr. Mallow," said Olive, her face falling somewhat.

"Does he not know that I am going?"

"Told him so last night--that is, I left an explanatory card for him;

but he can't have got it."

"Oh, Lord Aldean, I trust nothing is wrong with him."

"No fear of that," replied Jim, confidently. "You can trust Mallow to

look after himself; besides, he told me he might very likely be away

for some time over this Hain business."

"Is that the man connected with the murder?"

"Yes; Vraik reported that he had seen him talking to Semberry in

Poplar Street, so Mallow determined to catch him himself."

"Talking to Major Semberry?" said Tui, thoughtfully. "That looks as

though the Major had something to do with poor Mr. Carson's death."

"I have not the slightest doubt about it. Semberry knows a good deal

more than he is inclined to tell. But you needn't worry about Mallow,

Mrs. Carson--or, shall I say, Miss Bellairs?"

"No, no," said Olive, hurriedly. "Don't please do that for the

present. Have you the tickets?"

"Yes; tickets, and carriages, and papers. Everything is square."

"Are you well wrapped up?" asked Tui, with an air of proprietorship.

"Warm as toast," said Jim, laughing, and they walked down the

platform.

"You have left nothing behind, Jim?"

"Nothing, except my heart."

"And that is in good keeping," said Olive, smiling. "Lord Aldean, wait

in the carriage with Tui while I buy a paper."

"Plenty of papers here," said the stupid Aldean, not seeing her kindly

intention.

Tui, more quick-witted, turned over the journals.

"_Telegraph, Morning Post, Daily Mail, Sketch_, and _Graphic_," she

counted, "and not a single fashion-paper amongst them; so like a man."

Jim looked depressed, and Olive went off, laughing, in search of

publications of a more particularly feminine nature. Tui and her lover

were left alone in the carriage.

"Oh, what a donkey!" she said, shaking her head.

For the moment Aldean failed utterly to understand. Then a

comprehension of her meaning dawned upon him, and doubtless he did his

best to make amends.

Tui's farewell left him in a state of ecstasy, which endured long

after the train rolled out of the station. He stared solemnly out of

the window, and Olive, who knew well where his thoughts were, had not

the heart to break so sacred a silence. She let him dream on, and

secluded herself behind her morning paper. He had been indulging

himself for the best part of half an hour, when a startled exclamation

from Olive aroused him.

"Oh, how dreadful!" she said.

"'What's the matter?" said Jim, shortly. "Anything wrong?"

"I should think so. Poor Mr. Brock has been run over."

"By Jove! you don't say so? When? Where?"

"Yesterday evening, in Marquis Street," said Olive, referring to the

paper. "He was crossing the road, when a hansom, coming too quickly

round the corner, knocked him down. His leg was broken, and they took

him to Charing Cross Hospital."

"Poor old chap!" said Aldean, sympathetically. "Deuced hard lines on a

man of his age. Marquis Street, did you say? Why, that's where

Semberry lives."

"He intended calling on Major Semberry, I know," said Olive. "In his

letter to Miss Slarge he said so. Dear me, I am sorry for him."

"So am I. He's a good old chap, is Brock. May I see the account?"

Olive passed him the paper. He read the account, but beyond being

sincerely sorry for his friend the vicar, he attached no especial

importance to it. Little did he think how significant it really was.

This particular ill wind, in common with others of its kind, blew

great good to somebody. That somebody was Major Semberry. How good a

wind it was for him they neither of them knew till it was too late.

_THE FOURTH SCENE: IN FLORENCE_.

CHAPTER I.

"ON THE LONG TRAIL."

The efforts of some people to convert what is purely a business errand

into one of pleasure are rarely crowned with success, though there are

times when the process can be inversed with some degree of profit. "An

extreme busyness is an invariable sign of a deficient vitality." There

never was a greater truth than that. Complete enjoyment of the

picturesque argues the possession of a large capacity for dreaming and

dawdling. One must, so to speak, supply one's own atmosphere, steep

one's self in romance, acquaint one's self with the mystery of the

past for the toning down of an all-too-obvious present. The successful

pursuit of pleasure is every whit as arduous as the compilation of

pounds, shillings, and pence. Nay, more so, because for every man who

achieves the one, there are a thousand who achieve the other. True

enjoyment is, of all prey, the most elusive--the most horribly

tantalizing. You think you have it, and "heigh, presto!" the wily

thing is "right about face," and grinning at you half a mile away!

Call art a jealous mistress if you will. Pleasure is twin sister to

her. She demands and will have, the absolute abandonment of you--all

or nothing.

And so it was that neither Aldean nor Olive succeeded in extracting

any pleasure out of their well-nigh meteoric flight to Florence.

They could not give themselves up to the thing. Their object was

ever before them, and they were conscious only of it and the

hundred-and-one petty annoyances of a continental railway transit.

They ate, they slept, they talked, they read--not for the sake of

eating, talking, or reading, but merely to pass the time. They were

acutely aware of an all-pervading mustiness, of the rumble of wheels,

and of the fussy interference of various individuals terming

themselves officers--customs and otherwise.

Each station seemed more draughty than the last, and with each mile it

seemed to grow more cold. At last--in the early morning of the second

day--they found themselves at the Florence Centrale, in a temperature

and fog which would have done credit to the estuary of the Thames.

From Milan Aldean, ever practical, had telegraphed for rooms to the

Hotel Magenta; and thither they proceeded in course of time, in what

is known as an omnibus. A good breakfast, and both of them felt more

at peace with themselves, though Olive had to give in and lie down for

an hour or so. Aldean, whom nothing seemed to tire, shaved and bathed.

He dressed himself in fresh clothes and felt as fresh as paint. (The

simile was his own). Then, lighting a strong cigar--former experience

had proved to him the luxury of tobacco in these parts--he took a

brisk walk for the consideration of campaign details.

In a city of the size of Florence you have the disadvantage of being

able to run up against your next-door neighbour half-a-dozen times a

day. From the Via Tornabouni--haunted by _forestieri_--to the end of

the Lung 'Arno or Cascine Gardens is no very great stretch, and here,

in the Hyde Park of Florence, Aldean had a notion that his stroll

might prove most profitable. Failing that--the gentleman of whom he

was in search having no very pronounced artistic cravings--he argued

that Giacoso's rather than the Duomo, the Gambrinus Bier Halle rather

than the Uffizi should prove remunerative as a hunting ground. But

nowhere had he any luck. Perchance it was that Messieurs Semberry and

friend were resting for the moment. At all events, they showed no

signs of life, and Aldean, having drawn blank, returned to the hotel.

Olive was up and waiting for him--sufficiently refreshed, she said, to

get to business straight away. That their conversation might be

unfettered--it was certain to revolve round the one topic--they

lunched in a private room.

Aldean deplored his bad luck. "It's worse than looking for a needle in

a haystack," he declared.

"Have you examined the visitors' list?" asked Olive.

"No--no use. Semberry only arrived yesterday. They require somewhat

longer notice for these things in this part of the world. As to

Carson--well, of course, he will not be known as Carson here, and for

his other name we can hardly look, seeing we don't know it."

"What do you think is best to be done, then?"

"Well, Mrs. Carson," said Aldean, reflectively, "I think perhaps you

had better stay in this afternoon. It might frighten these young birds

did they happen to see you. They won't take so much notice of me; at

all events, they would not be likely to connect me with the business.

I'll walk round the town and keep my eyes open! Somewhere about five

I'll drive in the Cascine. If they show anywhere it will probably be

in the gardens."

"And if you do see them?"

"Oh, I'll keep them in sight, be sure. My next step then will depend

upon what they say or do. Semberry I can manage by threatening to

report his conduct at the War Office; but it will not be so easy to

deal with Carson."

"I think it will," said Olive, scornfully. "The man is a poor,

cowardly creature. You can terrorize him into obedience."

"In that case, I'll bring him here and let you deal with him. When we

get the truth out of him I shall--let me see," mused Aldean, "did I

promise Tui to kick him or drown him? One of the two, I'm sure."

"I almost despair of ever getting the money back," said Olive.

"Depends upon what he has done with it. I expect we shall have to get

him arrested, after all, and prove that he has annexed that fifty

thousand pounds under false pretences. The British Consul will help me

in all that. In the mean time I'll bring him here if I can."

Olive agreed that this seemed about the most feasible line of action.

She remained at home--glad indeed of the opportunity for rest--while

her coadjutor cast around for the trail. But in all his peregrinations

Jim caught no glimpse of those he was in search of. In no very good

temper he hailed a carriage and drove to the Cascine Gardens. His last

hope lay in that direction.

"If I don't see them here," he grumbled, "there's no chance of coming

across them to-night. I dare say I shall have to persuade the Consul

to take up the matter, after all."

As the wretched vettura bumped over the pavement of the Lung 'Arno,

Aldean scanned the faces of the chattering and gesticulating crowd.

The sun was dying in splendour over Bello Sguardo Hill. The river--yet

to be swollen by its winter rains--caught up the golden light, and

spread it over its vast gravel bed. To the green avenue of the Cascine

a variety of carriages, from the springless conveyance of the streets

to the imposing equipage emblazoned with armorial bearings

commensurate in size only with the age of the families they

represented, were hurrying there to parade between the mounted

gendarmes at either end. These latter were quite admirable in their

capacity of ornate signposts. Aldean found plenty to amuse him, but

still there was no sign of either fugitive. His patience was beginning

to show signs of wear, though there was no one to observe them but the

cocchiere, and he was impervious to everything of that nature. Just

then he became conscious of a man and a woman talking and laughing

together in a smart green victoria. They were travelling in the same

direction as himself, and, as they passed him, he noticed the coachman

was in livery. With something like a sigh of relief Aldean leaned

forward to instruct his man to follow--a somewhat difficult task to

him, for his Italian was none of the best in his calmest of moments.

"Cocchiere! Carozza! la carozza verdi, subito, presto." The Italian

jehu nodded and cracked his whip. At the same moment the green

victoria was stopped in the crowd. In another moment he would have

been alongside. "No, no!" shouted Aldean, laying his hand on the man's

arm. The bewildered cocchiere pulled up. Then Carson's carriage began

to move out of the throng. "Si! Si!" cried Aldean, in answer to the

interrogative aspect of his coachman. "Adagio! piano! slow, you fool!"

Jim's driver became suddenly inspired. He caught sight of a lady in

the green carriage. He was evidently driving a jealous husband bent

upon the spoliation of an intrigue. This appealed to him in every way.

With the greatest skill he kept in the rear of Carson's vehicle, and

turned only to hold up his five fingers twice. "Dieci lire!" he said,

as his inspirations--now aspirations--took definite shape.

"Si! si! venti lire si vi piace! adagio! comprenez? Parlezvous

Francais? non! ah quelle dommage. Allez! piano! Go slow, you ass!"

Thus did Aldean frantically endeavour to make himself clear. But those

two words, "venti lire," had done their work, and Jim congratulated

himself on his linguistic attainments. "Easier job than I thought,"

he said to himself. "I'll stick to Carson till I catch him. The brute!

he doesn't know I am at his tail. Gigglin' and laughin' with that

girl--hang him! hang her! hang 'em both!"

By this time it was getting dark, and people were beginning to leave

the Cascine for dinner. Quite ignorant that he was being followed,

Carson, in the highest spirits, drove along the Lung 'Arno, and in a

short time his carriage turned into the Piazza Santa Trinita, where it

stopped before the door of the Hotel du Sud, opposite to the column.

Clara and her friend alighted and disappeared into the hotel. Aldean

jumped down, and, bidding the coachman to wait, ran up the steps in

mortal terror lest he should miss them. The _concierge_--a vision of

gold lace and moustache--advanced with a smile, and in French begged

to know what Monsieur might require.

"I want to see the lady and gentleman who have just come in," replied

Aldean, in the same language.

"Signor and Signora Boldini," said the man. "Assuredly, Monsieur; they

are on the first floor. Shall I present the card of Monsieur?"

"There is no necessity. Take me upstairs and show me the room; Signor

Boldini expects me," said Aldean, making the best excuse he could

think of at the moment.

"In that case, I shall conduct Monsieur with pleasure," replied the

gold-laced personage, in his magnificent way. "Will Monsieur give

himself the trouble to ascend?"

Monsieur did, and was speedily ushered into a gilded and ornate salon.

In Italian the man announced that a gentleman desired to see Signor

Boldini. He closed the door, leaving Aldean face to face with Carson.

Clara paled somewhat as she recognized the visitor, but she kept her

head. She evidently meant to see things through. Carson shrank back at

the sight of Aldean as though expectant of a blow, and collapsed into

a chair nerveless and terrified. Jim looked on grimly.

"Well, Mr. Carson," he said, in no very amiable tone, "you have given

me a considerable amount of trouble. What have you to say for

yourself?"

"What need he say?" cried Clara, seeing that her accomplice was

incapable of speech. "How dare you come in here uninvited, Lord

Aldean?"

"Dare is not a word, young woman, that I am accustomed to hear from

domestic servants."

"I am no servant," replied Clara, with a flash of anger.

"Thought not," said Jim, coolly. "I never believed you were, but I

hardly expected to find that your real profession was that of spy."

"A spy, a spy! What do you mean?"

"Oh, I think you know pretty well. The report you made to your uncle

Jeremiah was the work of a spy."

"My uncle!" gasped Clara, steadying herself by the table. "Yes; your

uncle. I know all about him, so does Mr. Mallow, so does Miss

Bellairs."

"My wife?" murmured Carson, speaking for the first time.

"Oh, you have found your tongue at last, have you?" cried Jim,

striding over to the trembling coward. "I wonder why I don't throw you

out of the window."

"This violence--this insult----" panted the man.

"Oh, don't be afraid; I'm not going to make a mess of you just yet.

How dare you call Miss Bellairs your wife?"

"I--I was married to her."

"You were--under a false name, to rob her of her money. Perhaps you

are not aware that such a marriage is void. Miss Bellairs is not your

wife; her money is not yours. I am going to give you the chance of

handing it over. Take it, or go to gaol like the swindler you are."

"How dare you call him a swindler?" said Clara, savagely.

"Because I like to call things by their right names. It's a case of

speaking by the book. I know all about your Anarchist schemes, and

Madame Death-in-Life, Drabble, Rouge, and all the rest of the gang.

However, I didn't come here to waste breath on either of you. You come

along with me, Carson, or Boldini, or whatever else you choose to call

yourself."

"Where do you want me to go?" whimpered the wretched creature, looking

up at the towering figure of Aldean.

"To my hotel. Come along, up with you!"

Clara dashed to the bell. "I'll call the landlord and have you turned

out!" she said viciously. "You can't bully us!"

"Don't want to. Sorry if I'm not conducting the business according to

etiquette. You know more about this sort of thing than I do. Ring the

bell by all means, and I'll have up the police. Ring; go on."

"No, no, Clara, don't!" shrieked Boldini, leaping out of his chair at

the mention of the police. "He knows too much."

"Hold your tongue," said the woman, between her teeth. "He can prove

nothing, you fool."

"The police can judge of that," replied Aldean, quietly. "Ring."

But Miss Trall did not ring. She knew better. She recognized that

whatever he might know, Lord Aldean knew quite enough to make the

intervention of the police unpleasant. The game was up, she saw

plainly. So reluctantly she yielded.

"We can do all that is to be done here," said she, sullenly, fighting

every inch.

"I'm afraid not," answered Jim, suavely. "My hotel is the best place.

There's a cab waiting." Then, seeing that Clara was still irresolute,

he took out his watch. "I'll give you just two minutes."

Clara moved slowly across the room to where Boldini sat in sheer

terror. "What shall we do?" she asked, in a low voice.

"Go, go," moaned the man. "We must go; perhaps we can make terms."

Aldean overheard the remark. "It is my right to make terms," he said,

"and I make these. Give back the money; confess the whole conspiracy,

and you can go where you will."

For a moment or two the pair looked at one another. Clara bent forward

and whispered something in Boldini's ear. He nodded, and a gleam of

hope passed across his face as he rose, holding a handkerchief to his

mouth.

"We are ready to go with you," said Clara, turning towards Aldean.

"Very good. Come on."

CHAPTER II.

"ONE PORTION OF THE CONSPIRACY."

Certain features of the present position appealed to Lord Aldean. It

was his first experience of the kind, and perhaps what gratified him

most was the consciousness of the power which so suddenly had become

vested in him. The knowledge that in this human rubber he held all the

trumps in no wise lessened his enjoyment of the situation. There still

remained to play them, and he felt pretty confident that in the end he

and his partner would not have many tricks to deplore. For the moment

his antagonists were absolutely in his hands--the man frightened to

death of his skin; the woman believing that for the time being, at

least, discretion was surely the better part of valour.

He hurried them off to the Hotel Magenta, there to be dealt with by

the woman they had deceived and plundered.

As he fully expected, Olive was greatly agitated. He supposed it was

womanlike for her to show most anger at the sight of her whilom maid.

Her husband, after all, had at no time been anything to her--for him

she had nothing more than the contempt she had always felt. She

ignored him completely.

"How dare you come into my presence?" she said to the woman. "How can

you have the face to look at me, after the shameful way in which you

have behaved?"

"Blame your friend for that," answered Clara, doggedly. "I would not

have come at all had I known you were here."

"Exactly. That is why I did not think it necessary you should know of

Mrs. Carson's presence here," exclaimed Aldean, smoothly.

"Mrs. Carson!" sneered Clara, with a contemptuous laugh. "Oh yes; Mrs.

Carson, of course."

Olive looked at the woman with a flush of anger. "No insolence, if you

please," she said. "And you!" turning on her shrinking husband--"who

and what are you, pray?"

"Carlo Boldini," he replied almost inaudibly.

"Are you an Italian?"

"My father was. He married an Englishwoman."

"So I am Signora Boldini?" said Olive, bitterly.

Clara laughed again. "Oh yes! Signora Boldini," she repeated, seating

herself complacently beside her companion.

The two sat there like prisoners in the dock. Aldean began to feel

positively judicial. The woman was horribly insolent.

"I would suggest, for your own sake, that you endeavour to restrain

yourself," he said, moving to the end of the room in search of pen and

ink. "You are in quite enough trouble as it is."

"Oh, I don't mind her insolence, Lord Aldean," said Olive, quietly;

"she can do me no harm."

"Don't be too sure of that!" flashed out Miss Trall, vindictively.

"Clara, Clara!" implored Boldini, "it's best to say nothing--least

said, soonest mended."

Aldean, arranging his writing materials on a table at Olive's elbow,

looked up. "I fear you will find that proverb doesn't apply to what is

to come," said he cheerfully. "Mrs. Carson, as this lady may be called

for the present, will question you sufficiently closely as to the

various details of the conspiracy. You will answer her questions

categorically while I write them down. The little précis will then be

signed by you both and witnessed by myself."

"And if we refuse this confession, as you call it," questioned Clara,

who withal was obviously uneasy.

"Oh, in that case, as I have told you before, I hand you over to the

police. Now, then, come along; we have no time to waste on you.

Begin."

Jim dipped his pen into the ink and waited; while Olive, after a sharp

glance at the two before her, launched into the examination. Reversing

her previous attitude, she addressed herself exclusively to Boldini.

She judged a studied indifference to be more effectual from woman to

woman.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I have told you that my father was an Italian named Boldini. My

mother was an Englishwoman. I was brought up and educated in London."

"Are you an Anarchist?"

"Yes. I was affianced to the cause by my aunt, Mrs. Arne."

"Oh, so Mrs. Arne is your aunt?"

"My father's sister," explained Boldini, who was recovering his

self-possession somewhat. "He was an Anarchist, but he is dead. My

mother also is dead."

"Is Major Semberry in Florence?"

"No!" said Clara, loudly, before her accomplice could speak.

"Useless to lie," said Aldean, looking up; "we followed him here from

Victoria Station. Suppose you put your question in another form, Mrs.

Carson?"

"Where is Major Semberry staying?" amended Olive.

"At the Albergo della Pace, on the Lung 'Arno," replied Boldini,

seeing it was hopeless.

"Have you seen him?"

"Yes, once--this morning."

"Have you known Major Semberry long?"

"Since he came to England in the _Pharaoh_. I never met him before.

But I had heard of him."

"From whom?"

"From Dr. Drabble and my aunt."

"Is he an Anarchist?"

"No; his connection with us has to do merely with this money."

"You have the fifty thousand pounds in your possession?"

"Yes; part of it is in Paris."

"And where is the remainder?"

Boldini wriggled uneasily and looked at Clara. She gave him no

assistance, but kept her eyes fixedly on the floor. "I have the other

part of it at my hotel in circular notes on the Crédit Lyonnais."

"How many have you, and what is the value of each?"

"I have twenty of one thousand pounds."

"Twenty thousand," reckoned Olive. "Major Semberry's share, I

presume?" she added, with unconcealed scorn.

"Y-e-s," said Boldini, reluctantly, with another wriggle. "And the

remaining thirty thousand is at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris, you

say?"

"Yes. That is my share."

"We will talk of the money later," she said. "By the way," with a

glance at Boldini's hands, "I observe you have recovered the use of

your hand."

"It was never in need of recovery," snapped Clara.

"I guessed as much--one of the smaller embellishments of your very

ornate conspiracy. Boldini, since you confess that you are not Mr.

Carson, please to hand over that bangle."

Boldini shook it down on to his wrist. "You can have it with

pleasure," said he, sullenly, "but I can't get it off."

"How was it got on?" asked Aldean.

"It was filed through and joined on my wrist."

"Ah, well! I am afraid that process will have to be reversed

to-morrow. It can't be done here to-night. Who gave you that bangle?"

"Dr. Drabble.'

"Was it he who killed Angus Carson?" asked Olive, with embarrassing

suddenness.

"I don't know."

"Come, come!" cried Jim, sharply, "the truth, please."

"I am telling you the truth," retorted Boldini "I do not know who

killed Carson. I did not even know that he was killed until Miss

Bellairs there asked me about the smell of sandal-wood. Then, as I

read the account of the murder in the _Morning Planet_, it occurred to

me that the dead man might be the person I was representing. I asked

Semberry about it, and he admitted I was right; but he refused me all

details."

"Then Angus Carson was really murdered in Athelstane Place?"

"According to Semberry, yes."

"Did Semberry say that he had killed him?" asked Aldean.

"No. He swore he did not kill him; and that he did not know who did.

Drabble also declares himself innocent."

"You are all innocent, according to your own showing," said Olive,

ironically; "but I can hardly believe, Signor Boldini, that you were

so simple as to assume the impersonation of an original of whom you

know nothing."

Clara looked up with a strange smile on her sallow face. "You

evidently know nothing of the Anarchists," she said coldly. "Implicit

obedience is the first law with them. Carlo was told to represent a

man called Angus Carson. He did so without asking questions. How much

longer is this to go on?" she cried furiously; "it is now seven

o'clock. I am tired of it."

"I don't care for the Socratian method myself," observed Aldean,

blandly. "On the whole, I think it would be best, perhaps, for Boldini

here to acquaint us with the particulars of his share in the

conspiracy straight away."

"Tell them, Carlo!" commanded Miss Trall.

"Shall I tell them everything?" whimpered Boldini.

"Everything," she repeated emphatically. "We have cut ourselves off

from the brotherhood--so it really does not matter. Lord Aldean has

promised to let us go if we tell the truth. You had better tell him."

"Tell the truth and restore the money," murmured Jim, politely.

Boldini winced at the last remark, but nevertheless applied himself to

his most unpalatable task. He evidently intended cutting it as short

as possible. He started off at top speed. Aldean wrote down the gist

of what he said.