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12

JIM STANDING SIEGE

THE next few meals was pretty sandy, but that don't make no difference when you are hungry; and when you ain't it ain't no satisfaction to eat, anyway, and so a little grit in the meat ain't no particular drawback, as far as I can see. Then we struck the east end of the Desert at last, sailing on a northeast course. Away off on the edge of the sand, in a soft pinky light, we see three little sharp roofs like tents, and Tom says: “It's the pyramids of Egypt.” It made my heart fairly jump. You see, I had seen a many and a many a picture of them, and heard tell about them a hundred times, and yet to come on them all of a sudden, that way, and find they was REAL, 'stead of imaginations, 'most knocked the breath out of me with surprise. It's a curious thing, that the more you hear about a grand and big and bully thing or person, the more it kind of dreamies out, as you may say, and gets to be a big dim wavery figger made out of moonshine and nothing solid to it. It's just so with George Washington, and the same with them pyramids. And moreover, besides, the thing they always said about them seemed to me to be stretchers. There was a feller come to the Sunday-school once, and had a picture of them, and made a speech, and said the biggest pyramid covered thirteen acres, and was most five hundred foot high, just a steep mountain, all built out of hunks of stone as big as a bureau, and laid up in perfectly regular layers, like stair-steps. Thirteen acres, you see, for just one building; it's a farm. If it hadn't been in Sunday-school, I would 'a' judged it was a lie; and outside I was certain of it. And he said there was a hole in the pyramid, and you could go in there with candles, and go ever so far up a long slanting tunnel, and come to a large room in the stomach of that stone mountain, and there you would find a big stone chest with a king in it, four thousand years old. I said to myself, then, if that ain't a lie I will eat that king if they will fetch him, for even Methusalem warn't that old, and nobody claims it. As we come a little nearer we see the yaller sand come to an end in a long straight edge like a blanket, and on to it was joined, edge to edge, a wide country of bright green, with a snaky stripe crooking through it, and Tom said it was the Nile. It made my heart jump again, for the Nile was another thing that wasn't real to me. Now I can tell you one thing which is dead certain: if you will fool along over three thousand miles of yaller sand, all glimmering with heat so that it makes your eyes water to look at it, and you've been a considerable part of a week doing it, the green country will look so like home and heaven to you that it will make your eyes water AGAIN. It was just so with me, and the same with Jim. And when Jim got so he could believe it WAS the land of Egypt he was looking at, he wouldn't enter it standing up, but got down on his knees and took off his hat, because he said it wasn't fitten' for a humble poor nigger to come any other way where such men had been as Moses and Joseph and Pharaoh and the other prophets. He was a Presbyterian, and had a most deep respect for Moses which was a Presbyterian, too, he said. He was all stirred up, and says: “Hit's de lan' of Egypt, de lan' of Egypt, en I's 'lowed to look at it wid my own eyes! En dah's de river dat was turn' to blood, en I's looking at de very same groun' whah de plagues was, en de lice, en de frogs, en de locus', en de hail, en whah dey marked de door-pos', en de angel o' de Lord come by in de darkness o' de night en slew de fust-born in all de lan' o' Egypt. Ole Jim ain't worthy to see dis day!” And then he just broke down and cried, he was so thankful. So between him and Tom there was talk enough, Jim being excited because the land was so full of history--Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the bulrushers, Jacob coming down into Egypt to buy corn, the silver cup in the sack, and all them interesting things; and Tom just as excited too, because the land was so full of history that was in HIS line, about Noureddin, and Bedreddin, and such like monstrous giants, that made Jim's wool rise, and a raft of other Arabian Nights folks, which the half of them never done the things they let on they done, I don't believe. Then we struck a disappointment, for one of them early morning fogs started up, and it warn't no use to sail over the top of it, because we would go by Egypt, sure, so we judged it was best to set her by compass straight for the place where the pyramids was gitting blurred and blotted out, and then drop low and skin along pretty close to the ground and keep a sharp lookout. Tom took the hellum, I stood by to let go the anchor, and Jim he straddled the bow to dig through the fog with his eyes and watch out for danger ahead. We went along a steady gait, but not very fast, and the fog got solider and solider, so solid that Jim looked dim and ragged and smoky through it. It was awful still, and we talked low and was anxious. Now and then Jim would say: “Highst her a p'int, Mars Tom, highst her!” and up she would skip, a foot or two, and we would slide right over a flat-roofed mud cabin, with people that had been asleep on it just beginning to turn out and gap and stretch; and once when a feller was clear up on his hind legs so he could gap and stretch better, we took him a blip in the back and knocked him off. By and by, after about an hour, and everything dead still and we a-straining our ears for sounds and holding our breath, the fog thinned a little, very sudden, and Jim sung out in an awful scare: “Oh, for de lan's sake, set her back, Mars Tom, here's de biggest giant outen de 'Rabian Nights a-comin' for us!” and he went over backwards in the boat. Tom slammed on the back-action, and as we slowed to a standstill a man's face as big as our house at home looked in over the gunnel, same as a house looks out of its windows, and I laid down and died. I must 'a' been clear dead and gone for as much as a minute or more; then I come to, and Tom had hitched a boat-hook on to the lower lip of the giant and was holding the balloon steady with it whilst he canted his head back and got a good long look up at that awful face. Jim was on his knees with his hands clasped, gazing up at the thing in a begging way, and working his lips, but not getting anything out. I took only just a glimpse, and was fading out again, but Tom says: “He ain't alive, you fools; it's the Sphinx!” I never see Tom look so little and like a fly; but that was because the giant's head was so big and awful. Awful, yes, so it was, but not dreadful any more, because you could see it was a noble face, and kind of sad, and not thinking about you, but about other things and larger. It was stone, reddish stone, and its nose and ears battered, and that give it an abused look, and you felt sorrier for it for that. We stood off a piece, and sailed around it and over it, and it was just grand. It was a man's head, or maybe a woman's, on a tiger's body a hundred and twenty-five foot long, and there was a dear little temple between its front paws. All but the head used to be under the sand, for hundreds of years, maybe thousands, but they had just lately dug the sand away and found that little temple. It took a power of sand to bury that cretur; most as much as it would to bury a steamboat, I reckon. We landed Jim on top of the head, with an American flag to protect him, it being a foreign land; then we sailed off to this and that and t'other distance, to git what Tom called effects and perspectives and proportions, and Jim he done the best he could, striking all the different kinds of attitudes and positions he could study up, but standing on his head and working his legs the way a frog does was the best. The further we got away, the littler Jim got, and the grander the Sphinx got, till at last it was only a clothespin on a dome, as you might say. That's the way perspective brings out the correct proportions, Tom said; he said Julus Cesar's niggers didn't know how big he was, they was too close to him. Then we sailed off further and further, till we couldn't see Jim at all any more, and then that great figger was at its noblest, a-gazing out over the Nile Valley so still and solemn and lonesome, and all the little shabby huts and things that was scattered about it clean disappeared and gone, and nothing around it now but a soft wide spread of yaller velvet, which was the sand. That was the right place to stop, and we done it. We set there a-looking and a-thinking for a half an hour, nobody a-saying anything, for it made us feel quiet and kind of solemn to remember it had been looking over that valley just that same way, and thinking its awful thoughts all to itself for thousands of years, and nobody can't find out what they are to this day. At last I took up the glass and see some little black things a-capering around on that velvet carpet, and some more a-climbing up the cretur's back, and then I see two or three wee puffs of white smoke, and told Tom to look. He done it, and says: “They're bugs. No--hold on; they--why, I believe they're men. Yes, it's men--men and horses both. They're hauling a long ladder up onto the Sphinx's back--now ain't that odd? And now they're trying to lean it up a--there's some more puffs of smoke--it's guns! Huck, they're after Jim.” We clapped on the power, and went for them a-biling. We was there in no time, and come a-whizzing down amongst them, and they broke and scattered every which way, and some that was climbing the ladder after Jim let go all holts and fell. We soared up and found him laying on top of the head panting and most tuckered out, partly from howling for help and partly from scare. He had been standing a siege a long time--a week, HE said, but it warn't so, it only just seemed so to him because they was crowding him so. They had shot at him, and rained the bullets all around him, but he warn't hit, and when they found he wouldn't stand up and the bullets couldn't git at him when he was laying down, they went for the ladder, and then he knowed it was all up with him if we didn't come pretty quick. Tom was very indignant, and asked him why he didn't show the flag and command them to GIT, in the name of the United States. Jim said he done it, but they never paid no attention. Tom said he would have this thing looked into at Washington, and says: “You'll see that they'll have to apologize for insulting the flag, and pay an indemnity, too, on top of it even if they git off THAT easy.” Jim says: “What's an indemnity, Mars Tom?” “It's cash, that's what it is.” “Who gits it, Mars Tom?” “Why, WE do.” “En who gits de apology?” “The United States. Or, we can take whichever we please. We can take the apology, if we want to, and let the gov'ment take the money.” “How much money will it be, Mars Tom?” “Well, in an aggravated case like this one, it will be at least three dollars apiece, and I don't know but more.” “Well, den, we'll take de money, Mars Tom, blame de 'pology. Hain't dat yo' notion, too? En hain't it yourn, Huck?” We talked it over a little and allowed that that was as good a way as any, so we agreed to take the money. It was a new business to me, and I asked Tom if countries always apologized when they had done wrong, and he says: “Yes; the little ones does.” We was sailing around examining the pyramids, you know, and now we soared up and roosted on the flat top of the biggest one, and found it was just like what the man said in the Sunday-school. It was like four pairs of stairs that starts broad at the bottom and slants up and comes together in a point at the top, only these stair-steps couldn't be clumb the way you climb other stairs; no, for each step was as high as your chin, and you have to be boosted up from behind. The two other pyramids warn't far away, and the people moving about on the sand between looked like bugs crawling, we was so high above them. Tom he couldn't hold himself he was so worked up with gladness and astonishment to be in such a celebrated place, and he just dripped history from every pore, seemed to me. He said he couldn't scarcely believe he was standing on the very identical spot the prince flew from on the Bronze Horse. It was in the Arabian Night times, he said. Somebody give the prince a bronze horse with a peg in its shoulder, and he could git on him and fly through the air like a bird, and go all over the world, and steer it by turning the peg, and fly high or low and land wherever he wanted to. When he got done telling it there was one of them uncomfortable silences that comes, you know, when a person has been telling a whopper and you feel sorry for him and wish you could think of some way to change the subject and let him down easy, but git stuck and don't see no way, and before you can pull your mind together and DO something, that silence has got in and spread itself and done the business. I was embarrassed, Jim he was embarrassed, and neither of us couldn't say a word. Well, Tom he glowered at me a minute, and says: “Come, out with it. What do you think?” I says: “Tom Sawyer, YOU don't believe that, yourself.” “What's the reason I don't? What's to hender me?” “There's one thing to hender you: it couldn't happen, that's all.” “What's the reason it couldn't happen?” “You tell me the reason it COULD happen.” “This balloon is a good enough reason it could happen, I should reckon.” “WHY is it?” “WHY is it? I never saw such an idiot. Ain't this balloon and the bronze horse the same thing under different names?” “No, they're not. One is a balloon and the other's a horse. It's very different. Next you'll be saying a house and a cow is the same thing.” “By Jackson, Huck's got him ag'in! Dey ain't no wigglin' outer dat!” “Shut your head, Jim; you don't know what you're talking about. And Huck don't. Look here, Huck, I'll make it plain to you, so you can understand. You see, it ain't the mere FORM that's got anything to do with their being similar or unsimilar, it's the PRINCIPLE involved; and the principle is the same in both. Don't you see, now?” I turned it over in my mind, and says: “Tom, it ain't no use. Principles is all very well, but they don't git around that one big fact, that the thing that a balloon can do ain't no sort of proof of what a horse can do.” “Shucks, Huck, you don't get the idea at all. Now look here a minute--it's perfectly plain. Don't we fly through the air?” “Yes.” “Very well. Don't we fly high or fly low, just as we please?” “Yes.” “Don't we steer whichever way we want to?” “Yes.” “And don't we land when and where we please?” “Yes.” “How do we move the balloon and steer it?” “By touching the buttons.” “NOW I reckon the thing is clear to you at last. In the other case the moving and steering was done by turning a peg. We touch a button, the prince turned a peg. There ain't an atom of difference, you see. I knowed I could git it through your head if I stuck to it long enough.” He felt so happy he begun to whistle. But me and Jim was silent, so he broke off surprised, and says: “Looky here, Huck Finn, don't you see it YET?” I says: “Tom Sawyer, I want to ask you some questions.” “Go ahead,” he says, and I see Jim chirk up to listen. “As I understand it, the whole thing is in the buttons and the peg--the rest ain't of no consequence. A button is one shape, a peg is another shape, but that ain't any matter?” “No, that ain't any matter, as long as they've both got the same power.” “All right, then. What is the power that's in a candle and in a match?” “It's the fire.” “It's the same in both, then?” “Yes, just the same in both.” “All right. Suppose I set fire to a carpenter shop with a match, what will happen to that carpenter shop?” “She'll burn up.” “And suppose I set fire to this pyramid with a candle--will she burn up?” “Of course she won't.” “All right. Now the fire's the same, both times. WHY does the shop burn, and the pyramid don't?” “Because the pyramid CAN'T burn.” “Aha! and A HORSE CAN'T FLY!” “My lan', ef Huck ain't got him ag'in! Huck's landed him high en dry dis time, I tell you! Hit's de smartes' trap I ever see a body walk inter--en ef I--” But Jim was so full of laugh he got to strangling and couldn't go on, and Tom was that mad to see how neat I had floored him, and turned his own argument ag'in him and knocked him all to rags and flinders with it, that all he could manage to say was that whenever he heard me and Jim try to argue it made him ashamed of the human race. I never said nothing; I was feeling pretty well satisfied. When I have got the best of a person that way, it ain't my way to go around crowing about it the way some people does, for I consider that if I was in his place I wouldn't wish him to crow over me. It's better to be generous, that's what I think.

13

GOING FOR TOM'S PIPE:

BY AND BY we left Jim to float around up there in the neighborhood of the pyramids, and we clumb down to the hole where you go into the tunnel, and went in with some Arabs and candles, and away in there in the middle of the pyramid we found a room and a big stone box in it where they used to keep that king, just as the man in the Sunday-school said; but he was gone, now; somebody had got him. But I didn't take no interest in the place, because there could be ghosts there, of course; not fresh ones, but I don't like no kind. So then we come out and got some little donkeys and rode a piece, and then went in a boat another piece, and then more donkeys, and got to Cairo; and all the way the road was as smooth and beautiful a road as ever I see, and had tall date-pa'ms on both sides, and naked children everywhere, and the men was as red as copper, and fine and strong and handsome. And the city was a curiosity. Such narrow streets--why, they were just lanes, and crowded with people with turbans, and women with veils, and everybody rigged out in blazing bright clothes and all sorts of colors, and you wondered how the camels and the people got by each other in such narrow little cracks, but they done it--a perfect jam, you see, and everybody noisy. The stores warn't big enough to turn around in, but you didn't have to go in; the storekeeper sat tailor fashion on his counter, smoking his snaky long pipe, and had his things where he could reach them to sell, and he was just as good as in the street, for the camel-loads brushed him as they went by. Now and then a grand person flew by in a carriage with fancy dressed men running and yelling in front of it and whacking anybody with a long rod that didn't get out of the way. And by and by along comes the Sultan riding horseback at the head of a procession, and fairly took your breath away his clothes was so splendid; and everybody fell flat and laid on his stomach while he went by. I forgot, but a feller helped me to remember. He was one that had a rod and run in front. There was churches, but they don't know enough to keep Sunday; they keep Friday and break the Sabbath. You have to take off your shoes when you go in. There was crowds of men and boys in the church, setting in groups on the stone floor and making no end of noise--getting their lessons by heart, Tom said, out of the Koran, which they think is a Bible, and people that knows better knows enough to not let on. I never see such a big church in my life before, and most awful high, it was; it made you dizzy to look up; our village church at home ain't a circumstance to it; if you was to put it in there, people would think it was a drygoods box. What I wanted to see was a dervish, because I was interested in dervishes on accounts of the one that played the trick on the camel-driver. So we found a lot in a kind of a church, and they called themselves Whirling Dervishes; and they did whirl, too. I never see anything like it. They had tall sugar-loaf hats on, and linen petticoats; and they spun and spun and spun, round and round like tops, and the petticoats stood out on a slant, and it was the prettiest thing I ever see, and made me drunk to look at it. They was all Moslems, Tom said, and when I asked him what a Moslem was, he said it was a person that wasn't a Presbyterian. So there is plenty of them in Missouri, though I didn't know it before. We didn't see half there was to see in Cairo, because Tom was in such a sweat to hunt out places that was celebrated in history. We had a most tiresome time to find the granary where Joseph stored up the grain before the famine, and when we found it it warn't worth much to look at, being such an old tumble-down wreck; but Tom was satisfied, and made more fuss over it than I would make if I stuck a nail in my foot. How he ever found that place was too many for me. We passed as much as forty just like it before we come to it, and any of them would 'a' done for me, but none but just the right one would suit him; I never see anybody so particular as Tom Sawyer. The minute he struck the right one he reconnized it as easy as I would reconnize my other shirt if I had one, but how he done it he couldn't any more tell than he could fly; he said so himself. Then we hunted a long time for the house where the boy lived that learned the cadi how to try the case of the old olives and the new ones, and said it was out of the Arabian Nights, and he would tell me and Jim about it when he got time. Well, we hunted and hunted till I was ready to drop, and I wanted Tom to give it up and come next day and git somebody that knowed the town and could talk Missourian and could go straight to the place; but no, he wanted to find it himself, and nothing else would answer. So on we went. Then at last the remarkablest thing happened I ever see. The house was gone--gone hundreds of years ago--every last rag of it gone but just one mud brick. Now a person wouldn't ever believe that a backwoods Missouri boy that hadn't ever been in that town before could go and hunt that place over and find that brick, but Tom Sawyer done it. I know he done it, because I see him do it. I was right by his very side at the time, and see him see the brick and see him reconnize it. Well, I says to myself, how DOES he do it? Is it knowledge, or is it instink? Now there's the facts, just as they happened: let everybody explain it their own way. I've ciphered over it a good deal, and it's my opinion that some of it is knowledge but the main bulk of it is instink. The reason is this: Tom put the brick in his pocket to give to a museum with his name on it and the facts when he went home, and I slipped it out and put another brick considerable like it in its place, and he didn't know the difference--but there was a difference, you see. I think that settles it--it's mostly instink, not knowledge. Instink tells him where the exact PLACE is for the brick to be in, and so he reconnizes it by the place it's in, not by the look of the brick. If it was knowledge, not instink, he would know the brick again by the look of it the next time he seen it--which he didn't. So it shows that for all the brag you hear about knowledge being such a wonderful thing, instink is worth forty of it for real unerringness. Jim says the same. When we got back Jim dropped down and took us in, and there was a young man there with a red skullcap and tassel on and a beautiful silk jacket and baggy trousers with a shawl around his waist and pistols in it that could talk English and wanted to hire to us as guide and take us to Mecca and Medina and Central Africa and everywheres for a half a dollar a day and his keep, and we hired him and left, and piled on the power, and by the time we was through dinner we was over the place where the Israelites crossed the Red Sea when Pharaoh tried to overtake them and was caught by the waters. We stopped, then, and had a good look at the place, and it done Jim good to see it. He said he could see it all, now, just the way it happened; he could see the Israelites walking along between the walls of water, and the Egyptians coming, from away off yonder, hurrying all they could, and see them start in as the Israelites went out, and then when they was all in, see the walls tumble together and drown the last man of them. Then we piled on the power again and rushed away and huvvered over Mount Sinai, and saw the place where Moses broke the tables of stone, and where the children of Israel camped in the plain and worshiped the golden calf, and it was all just as interesting as could be, and the guide knowed every place as well as I knowed the village at home. But we had an accident, now, and it fetched all the plans to a standstill. Tom's old ornery corn-cob pipe had got so old and swelled and warped that she couldn't hold together any longer, notwithstanding the strings and bandages, but caved in and went to pieces. Tom he didn't know WHAT to do. The professor's pipe wouldn't answer; it warn't anything but a mershum, and a person that's got used to a cob pipe knows it lays a long ways over all the other pipes in this world, and you can't git him to smoke any other. He wouldn't take mine, I couldn't persuade him. So there he was. He thought it over, and said we must scour around and see if we could roust out one in Egypt or Arabia or around in some of these countries, but the guide said no, it warn't no use, they didn't have them. So Tom was pretty glum for a little while, then he chirked up and said he'd got the idea and knowed what to do. He says: “I've got another corn-cob pipe, and it's a prime one, too, and nearly new. It's laying on the rafter that's right over the kitchen stove at home in the village. Jim, you and the guide will go and get it, and me and Huck will camp here on Mount Sinai till you come back.” “But, Mars Tom, we couldn't ever find de village. I could find de pipe, 'case I knows de kitchen, but my lan', we can't ever find de village, nur Sent Louis, nur none o' dem places. We don't know de way, Mars Tom.” That was a fact, and it stumped Tom for a minute. Then he said: “Looky here, it can be done, sure; and I'll tell you how. You set your compass and sail west as straight as a dart, till you find the United States. It ain't any trouble, because it's the first land you'll strike the other side of the Atlantic. If it's daytime when you strike it, bulge right on, straight west from the upper part of the Florida coast, and in an hour and three quarters you'll hit the mouth of the Mississippi--at the speed that I'm going to send you. You'll be so high up in the air that the earth will be curved considerable--sorter like a washbowl turned upside down--and you'll see a raft of rivers crawling around every which way, long before you get there, and you can pick out the Mississippi without any trouble. Then you can follow the river north nearly, an hour and three quarters, till you see the Ohio come in; then you want to look sharp, because you're getting near. Away up to your left you'll see another thread coming in--that's the Missouri and is a little above St. Louis. You'll come down low then, so as you can examine the villages as you spin along. You'll pass about twenty-five in the next fifteen minutes, and you'll recognize ours when you see it--and if you don't, you can yell down and ask.” “Ef it's dat easy, Mars Tom, I reckon we kin do it--yassir, I knows we kin.” The guide was sure of it, too, and thought that he could learn to stand his watch in a little while. “Jim can learn you the whole thing in a half an hour,” Tom said. “This balloon's as easy to manage as a canoe.” Tom got out the chart and marked out the course and measured it, and says: “To go back west is the shortest way, you see. It's only about seven thousand miles. If you went east, and so on around, it's over twice as far.” Then he says to the guide, “I want you both to watch the tell-tale all through the watches, and whenever it don't mark three hundred miles an hour, you go higher or drop lower till you find a storm-current that's going your way. There's a hundred miles an hour in this old thing without any wind to help. There's two-hundred-mile gales to be found, any time you want to hunt for them.” “We'll hunt for them, sir.” “See that you do. Sometimes you may have to go up a couple of miles, and it'll be p'ison cold, but most of the time you'll find your storm a good deal lower. If you can only strike a cyclone--that's the ticket for you! You'll see by the professor's books that they travel west in these latitudes; and they travel low, too.” Then he ciphered on the time, and says-- “Seven thousand miles, three hundred miles an hour--you can make the trip in a day--twenty-four hours. This is Thursday; you'll be back here Saturday afternoon. Come, now, hustle out some blankets and food and books and things for me and Huck, and you can start right along. There ain't no occasion to fool around--I want a smoke, and the quicker you fetch that pipe the better.” All hands jumped for the things, and in eight minutes our things was out and the balloon was ready for America. So we shook hands good-bye, and Tom gave his last orders: “It's 10 minutes to 2 P.M. now, Mount Sinai time. In 24 hours you'll be home, and it'll be 6 to-morrow morning, village time. When you strike the village, land a little back of the top of the hill, in the woods, out of sight; then you rush down, Jim, and shove these letters in the post-office, and if you see anybody stirring, pull your slouch down over your face so they won't know you. Then you go and slip in the back way to the kitchen and git the pipe, and lay this piece of paper on the kitchen table, and put something on it to hold it, and then slide out and git away, and don't let Aunt Polly catch a sight of you, nor nobody else. Then you jump for the balloon and shove for Mount Sinai three hundred miles an hour. You won't have lost more than an hour. You'll start back at 7 or 8 A.M., village time, and be here in 24 hours, arriving at 2 or 3 P.M., Mount Sinai time.” Tom he read the piece of paper to us. He had wrote on it: “THURSDAY AFTERNOON. Tom Sawyer the Erro-nort sends his love to Aunt Polly from Mount Sinai where the Ark was, and so does Huck Finn, and she will get it to-morrow morning half-past six.” * [* This misplacing of the Ark is probably Huck's error, not Tom's. --M.T.] “That'll make her eyes bulge out and the tears come,” he says. Then he says: “Stand by! One--two--three--away you go!” And away she DID go! Why, she seemed to whiz out of sight in a second. Then we found a most comfortable cave that looked out over the whole big plain, and there we camped to wait for the pipe. The balloon come back all right, and brung the pipe; but Aunt Polly had catched Jim when he was getting it, and anybody can guess what happened: she sent for Tom. So Jim he says: “Mars Tom, she's out on de porch wid her eye sot on de sky a-layin' for you, en she say she ain't gwyne to budge from dah tell she gits hold of you. Dey's gwyne to be trouble, Mars Tom, 'deed dey is.” So then we shoved for home, and not feeling very gay, neither. END.

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"My dear," said William Brenton to his wife, "do you think I shall be missed if I go upstairs for a while? I am not feeling at all well." [Illustration: "Do you think I shall be missed?"] "Oh, I'm so sorry, Will," replied Alice, looking concerned; "I will tell them you are indisposed." "No, don't do that," was the answer; "they are having a very good time, and I suppose the dancing will begin shortly; so I don't think they will miss me. If I feel better I will be down in an hour or two; if not, I shall go to bed. Now, dear, don't worry; but have a good time with the rest of them." William Brenton went quietly upstairs to his room, and sat down in the darkness in a rocking chair. Remaining there a few minutes, and not feeling any better, he slowly undressed and went to bed. Faint echoes reached him of laughter and song; finally, music began, and he felt, rather than heard, the pulsation of dancing feet. Once, when the music had ceased for a time, Alice tiptoed into the room, and said in a quiet voice-- "How are you feeling, Will? any better?" "A little," he answered drowsily. "Don't worry about me; I shall drop off to sleep presently, and shall be all right in the morning. Good night." He still heard in a dreamy sort of way the music, the dancing, the laughter; and gradually there came oblivion, which finally merged into a dream, the most strange and vivid vision he had ever experienced. It seemed to him that he sat again in the rocking chair near the bed. Although he knew the room was dark, he had no difficulty in seeing everything perfectly. He heard, now quite plainly, the music and dancing downstairs, but what gave a ghastly significance to his dream was the sight of his own person on the bed. The eyes were half open, and the face was drawn and rigid. The colour of the face was the white, greyish tint of death. "This is a nightmare," said Brenton to himself; "I must try and wake myself." But he seemed powerless to do this, and he sat there looking at his own body while the night wore on. Once he rose and went to the side of the bed. He seemed to have reached it merely by wishing himself there, and he passed his hand over the face, but no feeling of touch was communicated to him. He hoped his wife would come and rouse him from this fearful semblance of a dream, and, wishing this, he found himself standing at her side, amidst the throng downstairs, who were now merrily saying good-bye. Brenton tried to speak to his wife, but although he was conscious of speaking, she did not seem to hear him, or know he was there. [Illustration: He again sat in the rocking-chair.] The party had been one given on Christmas Eve, and as it was now two o'clock in the morning, the departing guests were wishing Mrs. Brenton a merry Christmas. Finally, the door closed on the last of the revellers, and Mrs. Brenton stood for a moment giving instructions to the sleepy servants; then, with a tired sigh, she turned and went upstairs, Brenton walking by her side until they came to the darkened room, which she entered on tiptoe. "Now," said Brenton to himself, "she will arouse me from this appalling dream." It was not that there was anything dreadful in the dream itself, but the clearness with which he saw everything, and the fact that his mind was perfectly wide awake, gave him an uneasiness which he found impossible to shake off. In the dim light from the hall his wife prepared to retire. The horrible thought struck Brenton that she imagined he was sleeping soundly, and was anxious not to awaken him--for of course she could have no realization of the nightmare he was in--so once again he tried to communicate with her. He spoke her name over and over again, but she proceeded quietly with her preparations for the night. At last she crept in at the other side of the bed, and in a few moments was asleep. Once more Brenton struggled to awake, but with no effect. He heard the clock strike three, and then four, and then five, but there was no apparent change in his dream. He feared that he might be in a trance, from which, perhaps, he would not awake until it was too late. Grey daylight began to brighten the window, and he noticed that snow was quietly falling outside, the flakes noiselessly beating against the window pane. Every one slept late that morning, but at last he heard the preparations for breakfast going on downstairs--the light clatter of china on the table, the rattle of the grate; and, as he thought of these things, he found himself in the dining-room, and saw the trim little maid, who still yawned every now and then, laying the plates in their places. He went upstairs again, and stood watching the sleeping face of his wife. Once she raised her hand above her head, and he thought she was going to awake; ultimately her eyes opened, and she gazed for a time at the ceiling, seemingly trying to recollect the events of the day before. "Will," she said dreamily, "are you still asleep?" There was no answer from the rigid figure at the front of the bed. After a few moments she placed her hand quietly over the sleeper's face. As she did so, her startled eyes showed that she had received a shock. Instantly she sat upright in bed, and looked for one brief second on the face of the sleeper beside her; then, with a shriek that pierced the stillness of the room, she sprang to the floor. "Will! Will!" she cried, "speak to me! What is the matter with you? Oh, my God! my God!" she cried, staggering back from the bed. Then, with shriek after shriek, she ran blindly through the hall to the stairway, and there fell fainting on the floor.

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William Brenton knelt beside the fallen lady, and tried to soothe and comfort her, but it was evident that she was insensible. "It is useless," said a voice by his side. Brenton looked up suddenly, and saw standing beside him a stranger. Wondering for a moment how he got there, and thinking that after all it was a dream, he said-- "What is useless? She is not dead." "No," answered the stranger, "but _you_ are." [Illustration: He saw standing beside him a stranger.] "I am what?" cried Brenton. "You are what the material world calls dead, although in reality you have just begun to live." "And who are you?" asked Brenton. "And how did you get in here?" The other smiled. "How did _you_ get in here?" he said, repeating Brenton's words. "I? Why, this is my own house." "Was, you mean." "I mean that it is. I am in my own house. This lady is my wife." " _Was_," said the other. "I do not understand you," cried Brenton, very much annoyed. "But, in any case, your presence and your remarks are out of place here." "My dear sir," said the other, "I merely wish to aid you and to explain to you anything that you may desire to know about your new condition. You are now free from the incumbrance of your body. You have already had some experience of the additional powers which that riddance has given you. You have also, I am afraid, had an inkling of the fact that the spiritual condition has its limitations. If you desire to communicate with those whom you have left, I would strongly advise you to postpone the attempt, and to leave this place, where you will experience only pain and anxiety. Come with me, and learn something of your changed circumstances." "I am in a dream," said Brenton, "and you are part of it. I went to sleep last night, and am still dreaming. This is a nightmare and it will soon be over." "You are saying that," said the other, "merely to convince yourself. It is now becoming apparent to you that this is not a dream. If dreams exist, it was a dream which you left, but you have now become awake. If you really think it is a dream, then do as I tell you--come with me and leave it, because you must admit that this part of the dream is at least very unpleasant." "It is not very pleasant," assented Brenton. As he spoke the bewildered servants came rushing up the stairs, picked up their fallen mistress, and laid her on a sofa. They rubbed her hands and dashed water in her face. She opened her eyes, and then closed them again with a shudder. "Sarah," she cried, "have I been dreaming, or is your master dead?" The two girls turned pale at this, and the elder of them went boldly into the room which her mistress had just left. She was evidently a young woman who had herself under good control, but she came out sobbing, with her apron to her eyes. "Come, come," said the man who stood beside Brenton, "haven't you had enough of this? Come with me; you can return to this house if you wish;" and together they passed out of the room into the crisp air of Christmas morning. But, although Brenton knew it must be cold, he had no feeling of either cold or warmth. "There are a number of us," said the stranger to Brenton, "who take turns at watching the sick-bed when a man is about to die, and when his spirit leaves his body, we are there to explain, or comfort, or console. Your death was so sudden that we had no warning of it. You did not feel ill before last night, did you?" "No," replied Brenton. "I felt perfectly well, until after dinner last night." "Did you leave your affairs in reasonably good order?" "Yes," said Brenton, trying to recollect. "I think they will find everything perfectly straight." "Tell me a little of your history, if you do not mind," inquired the other; "it will help me in trying to initiate you into our new order of things here." "Well," replied Brenton, and he wondered at himself for falling so easily into the other's assumption that he was a dead man, "I was what they call on the earth in reasonably good circumstances. My estate should be worth $100,000. I had $75,000 insurance on my life, and if all that is paid, it should net my widow not far from a couple of hundred thousand." "How long have you been married?" said the other. [Illustration: A Venetian café.] "Only about six months. I was married last July, and we went for a trip abroad. We were married quietly, and left almost immediately afterwards, so we thought, on our return, it would not be a bad plan to give a Christmas Eve dinner, and invite some of our friends. That," he said, hesitating a moment, "was last night. Shortly after dinner, I began to feel rather ill, and went upstairs to rest for a while; and if what you say is true, the first thing I knew I found myself dead." "Alive," corrected the other. "Well, alive, though at present I feel I belong more to the world I have left than I do to the world I appear to be in. I must confess, although you are a very plausible gentleman to talk to, that I expect at any moment to wake and find this to have been one of the most horrible nightmares that I ever had the ill luck to encounter." The other smiled. "There is very little danger of your waking up, as you call it. Now, I will tell you the great trouble we have with people when they first come to the spirit-land, and that is to induce them to forget entirely the world they have relinquished. Men whose families are in poor circumstances, or men whose affairs are in a disordered state, find it very difficult to keep from trying to set things right again. They have the feeling that they can console or comfort those whom they have left behind them, and it is often a long time before they are convinced that their efforts are entirely futile, as well as very distressing for themselves." "Is there, then," asked Brenton, "no communication between this world and the one that I have given up?" The other paused for a moment before he replied. "I should hardly like to say," he answered, "that there is _no_ communication between one world and the other; but the communication that exists is so slight and unsatisfactory, that if you are sensible you will see things with the eyes of those who have very much more experience in this world than you have. Of course, you can go back there as much as you like; there will be no interference and no hindrance. But when you see things going wrong, when you see a mistake about to be made, it is an appalling thing to stand there helpless, unable to influence those you love, or to point out a palpable error, and convince them that your clearer sight sees it as such. Of course, I understand that it must be very difficult for a man who is newly married, to entirely abandon the one who has loved him, and whom he loves. But I assure you that if you follow the life of one who is as young and handsome as your wife, you will find some one else supplying the consolations you are unable to bestow. Such a mission may lead you to a church where she is married to her second husband. I regret to say that even the most imperturbable spirits are ruffled when such an incident occurs. The wise men are those who appreciate and understand that they are in an entirely new world, with new powers and new limitations, and who govern themselves accordingly from the first, as they will certainly do later on." "My dear sir," said Brenton, somewhat offended, "if what you say is true, and I am really a dead man----" "Alive," corrected the other. "Well, alive, then. I may tell you that my wife's heart is broken. She will never marry again." "Of course, that is a subject of which you know a great deal more than I do. I all the more strongly advise you never to see her again. It is impossible for you to offer any consolation, and the sight of her grief and misery will only result in unhappiness for yourself. Therefore, take my advice. I have given it very often, and I assure you those who did not take it expressed their regret afterwards. Hold entirely aloof from anything relating to your former life." Brenton was silent for some moments; finally he said-- "I presume your advice is well meant; but if things are as you state, then I may as well say, first as last, that I do not intend to accept it." "Very well," said the other; "it is an experience that many prefer to go through for themselves." "Do you have names in this spirit-land?" asked Brenton, seemingly desirous of changing the subject. "Yes," was the answer; "we are known by names that we have used in the preparatory school below. My name is Ferris." "And if I wish to find you here, how do I set about it?" "The wish is sufficient," answered Ferris. "Merely wish to be with me, and you _are_ with me." "Good gracious!" cried Brenton, "is locomotion so easy as that?" "Locomotion is very easy. I do not think anything could be easier than it is, and I do not think there could be any improvement in that matter." "Are there matters here, then, that you think could be improved?" "As to that I shall not say. Perhaps you will be able to give your own opinion before you have lived here much longer." "Taking it all in all," said Brenton, "do you think the spirit-land is to be preferred to the one we have left?" "I like it better," said Ferris, "although I presume there are some who do not. There are many advantages; and then, again, there are many--well, I would not say disadvantages, but still some people consider them such. We are free from the pangs of hunger or cold, and have therefore no need of money, and there is no necessity for the rush and the worry of the world below." "And how about heaven and hell?" said Brenton. "Are those localities all a myth? Is there nothing of punishment and nothing of reward in this spirit-land?" There was no answer to this, and when Brenton looked around he found that his companion had departed. [Illustration: Venice.]

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William Brenton pondered long on the situation. He would have known better how to act if he could have been perfectly certain that he was not still the victim of a dream. However, of one thing there was no doubt--namely, that it was particularly harrowing to see what he had seen in his own house. If it were true that he was dead, he said to himself, was not the plan outlined for him by Ferris very much the wiser course to adopt? He stood now in one of the streets of the city so familiar to him. People passed and repassed him--men and women whom he had known in life--but nobody appeared to see him. He resolved, if possible, to solve the problem uppermost in his mind, and learn whether or not he could communicate with an inhabitant of the world he had left. He paused for a moment to consider the best method of doing this. Then he remembered one of his most confidential friends and advisers, and at once wished himself at his office. He found the office closed, but went in to wait for his friend. Occupying the time in thinking over his strange situation, he waited long, and only when the bells began to ring did he remember it was Christmas forenoon, and that his friend would not be at the office that day. The next moment he wished himself at his friend's house, but he was as unsuccessful as at the office; the friend was not at home. The household, however, was in great commotion, and, listening to what was said, he found that the subject of conversation was his own death, and he learned that his friend had gone to the Brenton residence as soon as he heard the startling news of Christmas morning. Once more Brenton paused, and did not know what to do. He went again into the street. Everything seemed to lead him toward his own home. Although he had told Ferris that he did not intend to take his advice, yet as a sensible man he saw that the admonition was well worth considering, and if he could once become convinced that there was no communication possible between himself and those he had left; if he could give them no comfort and no cheer; if he could see the things which they did not see, and yet be unable to give them warning, he realized that he would merely be adding to his own misery, without alleviating the troubles of others. He wished he knew where to find Ferris, so that he might have another talk with him. The man impressed him as being exceedingly sensible. No sooner, however, had he wished for the company of Mr. Ferris than he found himself beside that gentleman. "By George!" he said in astonishment, "you are just the man I wanted to see." "Exactly," said Ferris; "that is the reason you do see me." "I have been thinking over what you said," continued the other, "and it strikes me that after all your advice is sensible." "Thank you," replied Ferris, with something like a smile on his face. "But there is one thing I want to be perfectly certain about. I want to know whether it is not possible for me to communicate with my friends. Nothing will settle that doubt in my mind except actual experience." "And have you not had experience enough?" asked Ferris. "Well," replied the other, hesitating, "I have had some experience, but it seems to me that, if I encounter an old friend, I could somehow make myself felt by him." "In that case," answered Ferris, "if nothing will convince you but an actual experiment, why don't you go to some of your old friends and try what you can do with them?" "I have just been to the office and to the residence of one of my old friends. I found at his residence that he had gone to my"--Brenton paused for a moment--"former home. Everything seems to lead me there, and yet, if I take your advice, I must avoid that place of all others." "I would at present, if I were you," said Ferris. "Still, why not try it with any of the passers-by?" Brenton looked around him. People were passing and repassing where the two stood talking with each other. "Merry Christmas" was the word on all lips. Finally Brenton said, with a look of uncertainty on his face-- "My dear fellow, I can't talk to any of these people. I don't know them." Ferris laughed at this, and replied-- "I don't think you will shock them very much; just try it." "Ah, here's a friend of mine. You wait a moment, and I will accost him." Approaching him, Brenton held out his hand and spoke, but the traveller paid no attention. He passed by as one who had seen or heard nothing. "I assure you," said Ferris, as he noticed the look of disappointment on the other's face, "you will meet with a similar experience, however much you try. You know the old saying about one not being able to have his cake and eat it too. You can't have the privileges of this world and those of the world you left as well. I think, taking it all in all, you should rest content, although it always hurts those who have left the other world not to be able to communicate with their friends, and at least assure them of their present welfare." "It does seem to me," replied Brenton, "that would be a great consolation, both for those who are here and those who are left." "Well, I don't know about that," answered the other. "After all, what does life in the other world amount to? It is merely a preparation for this. It is of so short a space, as compared with the life we live here, that it is hardly worth while to interfere with it one way or another. By the time you are as long here as I have been, you will realize the truth of this." "Perhaps I shall," said Brenton, with a sigh; "but, meanwhile, what am I to do with myself? I feel like the man who has been all his life in active business, and who suddenly resolves to enjoy himself doing nothing. That sort of thing seems to kill a great number of men, especially if they put off taking a rest until too late, as most of us do." "Well," said Ferris, "there is no necessity of your being idle here, I assure you. But before you lay out any work for yourself, let me ask you if there is not some interesting part of the world that you would like to visit?" "Certainly; I have seen very little of the world. That is one of my regrets at leaving it." "Bless me," said the other, "you haven't left it." "Why, I thought you said I was a dead man?" "On the contrary," replied his companion, "I have several times insisted that you have just begun to live. Now where shall we spend the day?" "How would London do?" "I don't think it would do; London is apt to be a little gloomy at this time of the year. But what do you say to Naples, or Japan, or, if you don't wish to go out of the United States, Yellowstone Park?" "Can we reach any of those places before the day is over?" asked Brenton, dubiously. "Well, I will soon show you how we manage all that. Just wish to accompany me, and I will take you the rest of the way." "How would Venice do?" said Brenton. "I didn't see half as much of that city as I wanted to." "Very well," replied his companion, "Venice it is;" and the American city in which they stood faded away from them, and before Brenton could make up his mind exactly what was happening, he found himself walking with his comrade in St. Mark's Square. "Well, for rapid transit," said Brenton, "this beats anything I've ever had any idea of; but it increases the feeling that I am in a dream." "You'll soon get used to it," answered Ferris; "and, when you do, the cumbersome methods of travel in the world itself will show themselves in their right light. Hello!" he cried, "here's a man whom I should like you to meet. By the way, I either don't know your name or I have forgotten it." "William Brenton," answered the other. "Mr. Speed, I want to introduce you to Mr. Brenton." "Ah," said Speed, cordially, "a new-comer. One of your victims, Ferris?" "Say one of his pupils, rather," answered Brenton. [Illustration: In Venice.] "Well, it is pretty much the same thing," said Speed. "How long have you been with us, and how do you like the country?" "You see, Mr. Brenton," interrupted Ferris, "John Speed was a newspaper man, and he must ask strangers how they like the country. He has inquired so often while interviewing foreigners for his paper that now he cannot abandon his old phrase. Mr. Brenton has been with us but a short time," continued Ferris, "and so you know, Speed, you can hardly expect him to answer your inevitable question." "What part of the country are you from?" asked Speed. "Cincinnati," answered Brenton, feeling almost as if he were an American tourist doing the continent of Europe. "Cincinnati, eh? Well, I congratulate you. I do not know any place in America that I would sooner die in, as they call it, than Cincinnati. You see, I am a Chicago man myself." Brenton did not like the jocular familiarity of the newspaper man, and found himself rather astonished to learn that in the spirit-world there were likes and dislikes, just as on earth. "Chicago is a very enterprising city," he said, in a non-committal way. "Chicago, my dear sir," said Speed, earnestly, "is _the_ city. You will see that Chicago is going to be the great city of the world before you are a hundred years older. By the way, Ferris," said the Chicago man, suddenly recollecting something, "I have got Sommers over here with me." "Ah!" said Ferris; "doing him any good?" "Well, precious little, as far as I can see." "Perhaps it would interest Mr. Brenton to meet him," said Ferris. "I think, Brenton, you asked me a while ago if there was any hell here, or any punishment. Mr. Speed can show you a man in hell." "Really?" asked Brenton. "Yes," said Speed; "I think if ever a man was in misery, he is. The trouble with Sommers was this. He--well, he died of delirium tremens, and so, of course, you know what the matter was. Sommers had drunk Chicago whisky for thirty-five years straight along, and never added to it the additional horror of Chicago water. You see what his condition became, both physical and mental. Many people tried to reform Sommers, because he was really a brilliant man; but it was no use. Thirst had become a disease with him, and from the mental part of that disease, although his physical yearning is now gone of course, he suffers. Sommers would give his whole future for one glass of good old Kentucky whisky. He sees it on the counters, he sees men drink it, and he stands beside them in agony. That's why I brought him over here. I thought that he wouldn't see the colour of whisky as it sparkles in the glass; but now he is in the Café Quadra watching men drink. You may see him sitting there with all the agony of unsatisfied desire gleaming from his face." "And what do you do with a man like that?" asked Brenton. "Do? Well, to tell the truth, there is nothing _to_ do. I took him away from Chicago, hoping to ease his trouble a little; but it has had no effect." "It will come out all right by-and-by," said Ferris, who noticed the pained look on Brenton's face. "It is the period of probation that he has to pass through. It will wear off. He merely goes through the agonies he would have suffered on earth if he had suddenly been deprived of his favourite intoxicant." "Well," said Speed, "you won't come with me, then? All right, good-bye. I hope to see you again, Mr. Brenton," and with that they separated. Brenton spent two or three days in Venice, but all the time the old home hunger was upon him. He yearned for news of Cincinnati. He wanted to be back, and several times the wish brought him there, but he instantly returned. At last he said to Ferris-- "I am tired. I must go home. I have _got_ to see how things are going." "I wouldn't if I were you," replied Ferris. "No, I know you wouldn't. Your temperament is indifferent. I would rather be miserable with knowledge than happy in ignorance. Good-bye." It was evening when he found himself in Cincinnati. The weather was bright and clear, and apparently cold. Men's feet crisped on the frozen pavement, and the streets had that welcome, familiar look which they always have to the returned traveller when he reaches the city he calls his home. The newsboys were rushing through the streets yelling their papers at the top of their voices. He heard them, but paid little attention. "All about the murder! Latest edition! All about the poison case!" He felt that he must have a glimpse at a paper, and, entering the office of an hotel where a man was reading one, he glanced over his shoulder at the page before him, and was horror-stricken to see the words in startling headlines-- THE BRENTON MURDER. _The Autopsy shows that Morphine was the Poison used. Enough found to have killed a Dozen Men. Mrs. Brenton arrested for Committing the Horrible Deed_. [Illustration: The Brenton Murder.]

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For a moment Brenton was so bewildered and amazed at the awful headlines which he read, that he could hardly realize what had taken place. The fact that he had been poisoned, although it gave him a strange sensation, did not claim his attention as much as might have been thought. Curiously enough he was more shocked at finding himself, as it were, the talk of the town, the central figure of a great newspaper sensation. But the thing that horrified him was the fact that his wife had been arrested for his murder. His first impulse was to go to her at once, but he next thought it better to read what the paper said about the matter, so as to become possessed of all the facts. The headlines, he said to himself, often exaggerated things, and there was a possibility that the body of the article would not bear out the naming announcement above it. But as he read on and on, the situation seemed to become more and more appalling. He saw that his friends had been suspicious of his sudden death, and had insisted on a post-mortem examination. That examination had been conducted by three of the most eminent physicians of Cincinnati, and the three doctors had practically agreed that the deceased, in the language of the verdict, had come to his death through morphia poisoning, and the coroner's jury had brought in a verdict that "the said William Brenton had been poisoned by some person unknown." Then the article went on to state how suspicion had gradually fastened itself upon his wife, and at last her arrest had been ordered. The arrest had taken place that day. [Illustration: Mrs. Brenton.] After reading this, Brenton was in an agony of mind. He pictured his dainty and beautiful wife in a stone cell in the city prison. He foresaw the horrors of the public trial, and the deep grief and pain which the newspaper comments on the case would cause to a woman educated and refined. Of course, Brenton had not the slightest doubt in his own mind about the result of the trial. His wife would be triumphantly acquitted; but, all the same, the terrible suspense which she must suffer in the meanwhile would not be compensated for by the final verdict of the jury. Brenton at once went to the jail, and wandered through that gloomy building, searching for his wife. At last he found her, but it was in a very comfortable room in the sheriffs residence. The terror and the trials of the last few days had aged her perceptibly, and it cut Brenton to the heart to think that he stood there before her, and could not by any means say a soothing word that she would understand. That she had wept many bitter tears since the terrible Christmas morning was evident; there were dark circles under her beautiful eyes that told of sleepless nights. She sat in a comfortable armchair, facing the window; and looked steadily out at the dreary winter scene with eyes that apparently saw nothing. Her hands lay idly on her lap, and now and then she caught her breath in a way that was half a sob and half a gasp. Presently the sheriff himself entered the room. "Mrs. Brenton," he said, "there is a gentleman here who wishes to see you. Mr. Roland, he tells me his name is, an old friend of yours. Do you care to see any one?" The lady turned her head slowly round, and looked at the sheriff for a moment, seemingly not understanding what he said. Finally she answered, dreamily-- "Roland? Oh, Stephen! Yes, I shall be very glad to see him. Ask him to come in, please." The next moment Stephen Roland entered, and somehow the fact that he had come to console Mrs. Brenton did not at all please the invisible man who stood between them. "My dear Mrs. Brenton," began Roland, "I hope you are feeling better to-day? Keep up your courage, and be brave. It is only for a very short time. I have retained the noted criminal lawyers, Benham and Brown, for the defence. You could not possibly have better men." At the word "criminal" Mrs. Brenton shuddered. "Alice," continued Roland, sitting down near her, and drawing his chair closer to her, "tell me that you will not lose your courage. I want you to be brave, for the sake of your friends." He took her listless hand in his own, and she did not withdraw it. Brenton felt passing over him the pangs of impotent rage, as he saw this act on the part of Roland. Roland had been an unsuccessful suitor for the hand which he now held in his own, and Brenton thought it the worst possible taste, to say the least, that he should take advantage now of her terrible situation to ingratiate himself into her favour. The nearest approach to a quarrel that Brenton and his wife had had during their short six months of wedded life was on the subject of the man who now held her hand in his own. It made Brenton impatient to think that a woman with all her boasted insight into character, her instincts as to what was right and what was wrong, had such little real intuition that she did not see into the character of the man whom they were discussing; but a woman never thinks it a crime for a man to have been in love with her, whatever opinion of that man her husband may hold. "It is awful! awful! awful!" murmured the poor lady, as the tears again rose to her eyes. "Of course it is," said Roland; "it is particularly awful that they should accuse you, of all persons in the world, of this so-called crime. For my part I do not believe that he was poisoned at all, but we will soon straighten things out. Benham and Brown will give up everything and devote their whole attention to this case until it is finished. Everything will be done that money or friends can do, and all that we ask is that you keep up your courage, and do not be downcast with the seeming awfulness of the situation." Mrs. Brenton wept silently, but made no reply. It was evident, however, that she was consoled by the words and the presence of her visitor. Strange as it may appear, this fact enraged Brenton, although he had gone there for the very purpose of cheering and comforting his wife. All the bitterness he had felt before against his former rival was revived, and his rage was the more agonizing because it was inarticulate. Then there flashed over him Ferris's sinister advice to leave things alone in the world that he had left. He felt that he could stand this no longer, and the next instant he found himself again in the wintry streets of Cincinnati. The name of the lawyers, Benham and Brown, kept repeating itself in his mind, and he resolved to go to their office and hear, if he could, what preparations were being made for the defence of a woman whom he knew to be innocent. He found, when he got to the office of these noted lawyers, that the two principals were locked in their private room; and going there, he found them discussing the case with the coolness and impersonal feeling that noted lawyers have even when speaking of issues that involve life or death. "Yes," Benham was saying, "I think that, unless anything new turns up, that is the best line of defence we can adopt." "What do you think might turn up?" asked Brown. "Well, you can never tell in these cases. They may find something else--they may find the poison, for instance, or the package that contained it. Perhaps a druggist will remember having sold it to this woman, and then, of course, we shall have to change our plans. I need not say that it is strictly necessary in this case to give out no opinions whatever to newspaper men. The papers will be full of rumours, and it is just as well if we can keep our line of defence hidden until the time for action comes." "Still," said Brown, who was the younger partner, "it is as well to keep in with the newspaper fellows; they'll be here as soon as they find we have taken charge of the defence." "Well, I have no doubt you can deal with them in such a way as to give them something to write up, and yet not disclose anything we do not wish known." "I think you can trust me to do that," said Brown, with a self-satisfied air. "I shall leave that part of the matter entirely in your hands," replied Benham. "It is better not to duplicate or mix matters, and if any newspaper man comes to see me I will refer him to you. I will say I know nothing of the case whatever." "Very well," answered Brown. "Now, between ourselves, what do you think of the case?" [Illustration] "Oh, it will make a great sensation. I think it will probably be one of the most talked-of cases that we have ever been connected with." "Yes, but what do you think of her guilt or innocence?" "As to that," said Benham, calmly, "I haven't the slightest doubt. She murdered him." As he said this, Brenton, forgetting himself for a moment, sprang forward as if to strangle the lawyer. The statement Benham had made seemed the most appalling piece of treachery. That men should take a woman's money for defending her, and actually engage in a case when they believed their client guilty, appeared to Brenton simply infamous. "I agree with you," said Brown. "Of course she was the only one to benefit by his death. The simple fool willed everything to her, and she knew it; and his doing so is the more astounding when you remember he was quite well aware that she had a former lover whom she would gladly have married if he had been as rich as Brenton. The supreme idiocy of some men as far as their wives are concerned is something awful." [Illustration: Publicity.] "Yes," answered Benham, "it is. But I tell you, Brown, she is no ordinary woman. The very conception of that murder had a stroke of originality about it that I very much admire. I do not remember anything like it in the annals of crime. It is the true way in which a murder should be committed. The very publicity of the occasion was a safeguard. Think of poisoning a man at a dinner that he has given himself, in the midst of a score of friends. I tell you that there was a dash of bravery about it that commands my admiration." "Do you imagine Roland had anything to do with it?" "Well, I had my doubts about that at first, but I think he is innocent, although from what I know of the man he will not hesitate to share the proceeds of the crime. You mark my words, they will be married within a year from now if she is acquitted. I believe Roland knows her to be guilty." "I thought as much," said Brown, "by his actions here, and by some remarks he let drop. Anyhow, our credit in the affair will be all the greater if we succeed in getting her off. Yes," he continued, rising and pushing back his chair, "Madam Brenton is a murderess."

5

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Brenton found himself once more in the streets of Cincinnati, in a state of mind that can hardly be described. Rage and grief struggled for the mastery, and added to the tumult of these passions was the uncertainty as to what he should do, or what he _could_ do. He could hardly ask the advice of Ferris again, for his whole trouble arose from his neglect of the counsel that gentleman had already given him. In his new sphere he did not know where to turn. He found himself wondering whether in the spirit-land there was any firm of lawyers who could advise him, and he remembered then how singularly ignorant he was regarding the conditions of existence in the world to which he now belonged. However, he felt that he must consult with somebody, and Ferris was the only one to whom he could turn. A moment later he was face to face with him. "Mr. Ferris," he said, "I am in the most grievous trouble, and I come to you in the hope that, if you cannot help me, you can at least advise me what to do." "If your trouble has come," answered Ferris, with a shade of irony in his voice, "through following the advice that I have already given you, I shall endeavour, as well as I am able, to help you out of it." "You know very well," cried Brenton, hotly, "that my whole trouble has occurred through neglecting your advice, or, at least, through deliberately not following it. I _could_ not follow it." "Very well, then," said Ferris, "I am not surprised that you are in a difficulty. You must remember that such a crisis is an old story with us here." "But, my dear sir," said Brenton, "look at the appalling condition of things, the knowledge of which has just come to me. It seems I was poisoned, but of course that doesn't matter. I feel no resentment against the wretch who did it. But the terrible thing is that my wife has been arrested for the crime, and I have just learned that her own lawyers actually believe her guilty." "That fact," said Ferris, calmly, "will not interfere with their eloquent pleading when the case comes to trial." Brenton glared at the man who was taking things so coolly, and who proved himself so unsympathetic; but an instant after he realized the futility of quarrelling with the only person who could give him advice, so he continued, with what patience he could command-- "The situation is this: My wife has been arrested for the crime of murdering me. She is now in the custody of the sheriff. Her trouble and anxiety of mind are fearful to contemplate." "My dear sir," said Ferris, "there is no reason why you or anybody else should contemplate it." "How can you talk in that cold-blooded way?" cried Brenton, indignantly. "Could you see _your_ wife, or any one _you_ held dear, incarcerated for a dreadful crime, and yet remain calm and collected, as you now appear to be when you hear of another's misfortune?" "My dear fellow," said Ferris, "of course it is not to be expected that one who has had so little experience with this existence should have any sense of proportion. You appear to be speaking quite seriously. You do not seem at all to comprehend the utter triviality of all this." "Good gracious!" cried Brenton, "do you call it a trivial thing that a woman is in danger of her life for a crime which she never committed?" "If she is innocent," said the other, in no way moved by the indignation of his comrade, "surely that state of things will be brought out in the courts, and no great harm will be done, even looking at things from the standpoint of the world you have left. But I want you to get into the habit of looking at things from the standpoint of this world, and not of the other. Suppose that what you would call the worst should happen--suppose she is hanged--what then?" Brenton stood simply speechless with indignation at this brutal remark. "If you will just look at things correctly," continued Ferris, imperturbably, "you will see that there is probably a moment of anguish, perhaps not even that moment, and then your wife is here with you in the land of spirits. I am sure that is a consummation devoutly to be wished. Even a man in your state of mind must see the reasonableness of this. Now, looking at the question in what you would call its most serious aspect, see how little it amounts to. It isn't worth a moment's thought, whichever way it goes." "You think nothing, then, of the disgrace of such a death--of the bitter injustice of it?" [Illustration: The broken toy.] "When you were in the world did you ever see a child cry over a broken toy? Did the sight pain you to any extent? Did you not know that a new toy could be purchased that would quite obliterate all thoughts of the other? Did the simple griefs of childhood carry any deep and lasting consternation to the mind of a grown-up man? Of course it did not. You are sensible enough to know that. Well, we here in this world look on the pain and struggles and trials of people in the world you have left, just as an aged man looks on the tribulations of children over a broken doll. That is all it really amounts to. That is what I mean when I say that you have not yet got your sense of proportion. Any grief and misery there is in the world you have left is of such an ephemeral, transient nature, that when we think for a moment of the free, untrammelled, and painless life there is beyond, those petty troubles sink into insignificance. My dear fellow, be sensible, take my advice. I have really a strong interest in you, and I advise you, entirely for your own welfare, to forget all about it. Very soon you will have something much more important to do than lingering around the world you have left. If your wife comes amongst us I am sure you will be glad to welcome her, and to teach her the things that you will have already found out of your new life. If she does not appear, then you will know that, even from the old-world standpoint, things have gone what you would call 'all right.' Let these trivial matters go, and attend to the vastly more important concerns that will soon engage your attention here." Ferris talked earnestly, and it was evident, even to Brenton, that he meant what he said. It was hard to find a pretext for a quarrel with a man at once so calm and so perfectly sure of himself. "We will not talk any more about it," said Brenton. "I presume people here agree to differ, just as they did in the world we have both left." "Certainly, certainly," answered Ferris. "Of course, you have just heard my opinion; but you will find myriads of others who do not share it with me. You will meet a great many who are interested in the subject of communication with the world they have left. You will, of course, excuse me when I say that I consider such endeavours not worth talking about." "Do you know any one who is interested in that sort of thing? and can you give me an introduction to him?" "Oh! for that matter," said Ferris, "you have had an introduction to one of the most enthusiastic investigators of the subject. I refer to Mr. John Speed, late of Chicago." "Ah!" said Brenton, rather dubiously. "I must confess that I was not very favourably impressed with Mr. Speed. Probably I did him an injustice." "You certainly did," said Ferris. "You will find Speed a man well worth knowing, even if he does waste himself on such futile projects as a scheme for communicating with a community so evanescent as that of Chicago. You will like Speed better the more you know him. He really is very philanthropic, and has Sommers on his hands just now. From what he said after you left Venice, I imagine he does not entertain the same feeling toward you as you do toward him. I would see Speed if I were you." "I will think about it," said Brenton, as they separated. To know that a man thinks well of a person is no detriment to further acquaintance with that man, even if the first impressions have not been favourable; and after Ferris told Brenton that Speed had thought well of him, Brenton found less difficulty in seeking the Chicago enthusiast. "I have been in a good deal of trouble," Brenton said to Speed, "and have been talking to Ferris about it. I regret to say that he gave me very little encouragement, and did not seem at all to appreciate my feelings in the matter." "Oh, you mustn't mind Ferris," said Speed. "He is a first-rate fellow, but he is as cold and unsympathetic as--well, suppose we say as an oyster. His great hobby is non-intercourse with the world we have left. Now, in that I don't agree with him, and there are thousands who don't agree with him. I admit that there are cases where a man is more unhappy if he frequents the old world than he would be if he left it alone. But then there are other cases where just the reverse is true. Take my own experience, for example; I take a peculiar pleasure in rambling around Chicago. I admit that it is a grievance to me, as an old newspaper man, to see the number of scoops I could have on my esteemed contemporaries, but--" "Scoop? What is that?" asked Brenton, mystified. "Why, a scoop is a beat, you know." "Yes, but I don't know. What is a beat?" "A beat or a scoop, my dear fellow, is the getting of a piece of news that your contemporary does not obtain. You never were in the newspaper business? Well, sir, you missed it. Greatest business in the world. You know everything that is going on long before anybody else does, and the way you can reward your friends and jump with both feet on your enemies is one of the delights of existence down there." "Well, what I wanted to ask you was this," said Brenton. "You have made a speciality of finding out whether there could be any communication between one of us, for instance, and one who is an inhabitant of the other world. Is such communication possible?" "I have certainly devoted some time to it, but I can't say that my success has been flattering. My efforts have been mostly in the line of news. I have come on some startling information which my facilities here gave me access to, and I confess I have tried my best to put some of the boys on to it. But there is a link loose somewhere. Now, what is your trouble? Do you want to get a message to anybody?" "My trouble is this," said Brenton, briefly, "I am here because a few days ago I was poisoned." "George Washington!" cried the other, "you don't say so! Have the newspapers got on to the fact?" "I regret to say that they have." "What an item that would have been if one paper had got hold of it and the others hadn't! I suppose they all got on to it at the same time?" "About that," said Brenton, "I don't know, and I must confess that I do not care very much. But here is the trouble--my wife has been arrested for my murder, and she is as innocent as I am." "Sure of that?" " _Sure_ of it?" cried the other indignantly. "Of course I am sure of it." "Then who is the guilty person?" "Ah, that," said Brenton, "I do not yet know." "Then how can you be sure she is not guilty?" "If you talk like that," exclaimed Brenton, "I have nothing more to say." "Now, don't get offended, I beg of you. I am merely looking at this from a newspaper standpoint, you know. You must remember it is not you who will decide the matter, but a jury of your very stupid fellow-countrymen. Now, you can never tell what a jury _will_ do, except that it will do something idiotic. Therefore, it seems to me that the very first step to be taken is to find out who the guilty party is. Don't you see the force of that?" "Yes, I do." "Very well, then. Now, what were the circumstances of this crime? who was to profit by your death?" Brenton winced at this. "I see how it is," said the other, "and I understand why you don't answer. Now--you'll excuse me if I am frank--your wife was the one who benefited most by your death, was she not?" "No," cried the other indignantly, "she was not the one. That is what the lawyers said. Why in the world should she want to poison me, when she had all my wealth at her command as it was?" "Yes, that's a strong point," said Speed. "You were a reasonably good husband, I suppose? Rather generous with the cash?" "Generous?" cried the other. "My wife always had everything she wanted." "Ah, well, there was no--you'll excuse me, I am sure--no former lover in the case, was there?" Again Brenton winced, and he thought of Roland sitting beside his wife with her hand in his. "I see," said Speed; "you needn't answer. Now what were the circumstances, again?" "They were these: At a dinner which I gave, where some twenty or twenty-five of my friends were assembled, poison, it appears, was put into my cup of coffee. That is all I know of it." "Who poured out that cup of coffee?" "My wife did." "Ah! Now, I don't for a moment say she is guilty, remember; but you must admit that, to a stupid jury, the case _might_ look rather bad against her." "Well, granted that it does, there is all the more need that I should come to her assistance if possible." "Certainly, certainly!" said Speed. "Now, I'll tell you what we have to do. We must get, if possible, one of the very brightest Chicago reporters on the track of this thing, and we have to get him on the track of it early. Come with me to Chicago. We will try an experiment, and I am sure you will lend your mind entirely to the effort. We must act in conjunction in this affair, and you are just the man I've been wanting, some one who is earnest and who has something at stake in the matter. We may fail entirely, but I think it's worth the trying. Will you come?" "Certainly," said Brenton; "and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your interest and sympathy." Arriving at a brown stone building on the corner of two of the principal streets in Chicago, Brenton and Speed ascended quickly to one of the top floors. It was nearly midnight, and two upper stories of the huge dark building were brilliantly lighted, as was shown on the outside by the long rows of glittering windows. They entered a room where a man was seated at a table, with coat and vest thrown off, and his hat set well back on his head. Cold as it was outside, it was warm in this man's room, and the room was blue with smoke. A black corn-cob pipe was in his teeth, and the man was writing away as if for dear life, on sheets of coarse white copy paper, stopping now and then to fill up his pipe or to relight it after it had gone out. "There," said Speed, waving his hand towards the writer with a certain air of proprietory pride, "there sits one of the very cleverest men on the Chicago press. That fellow, sir, is gifted with a nose for news which has no equal in America. He will ferret out a case that he once starts on with an unerringness that would charm you. Yes, sir, I got him his present situation on this paper, and I can tell you it was a good one." "He must have been a warm friend of yours?" said Brenton, indifferently, as if he did not take much interest in the eulogy. "Quite the contrary," said Speed. "He was a warm enemy, made it mighty warm for _me_ sometimes. He was on an opposition paper, but I tell you, although I was no chicken in newspaper business, that man would scoop the daylight out of me any time he tried. So, to get rid of opposition, I got the managing editor to appoint him to a place on our paper; and I tell you, he has never regretted it. Yes, sir, there sits George Stratton, a man who knows his business. Now," he said, "let us concentrate our attention on him. First let us see whether, by putting our whole minds to it, we can make any impression on _his_ mind whatever. You see how busily he is engaged. He is thoroughly absorbed in his work. That is George all over. Whatever his assignment is, George throws himself right into it, and thinks of nothing else until it is finished. _Now_ then." In that dingy, well-lighted room George Stratton sat busily pencilling out the lines that were to appear in next morning's paper. He was evidently very much engrossed in his task, as Speed had said. If he had looked about him, which he did not, he would have said that he was entirely alone. All at once his attention seemed to waver, and he passed his hand over his brow, while perplexity came into his face. Then he noticed that his pipe was out, and, knocking the ashes from it by rapping the bowl on the side of the table, he filled it with an absent-mindedness unusual with him. Again he turned to his writing, and again he passed his hand over his brow. Suddenly, without any apparent cause, he looked first to the right and then to the left of him. Once more he tried to write, but, noticing his pipe was out, he struck another match and nervously puffed away, until clouds of blue smoke rose around him. There was a look of annoyance and perplexity in his face as he bent resolutely to his writing. The door opened, and a man appeared on the threshold. "Anything more about the convention, George?" he said. "Yes; I am just finishing this. Sort of pen pictures, you know." "Perhaps you can let me have what you have done. I'll fix it up." "All right," said Stratton, bunching up the manuscript in front of him, and handing it to the city editor. That functionary looked at the number of pages, and then at the writer. "Much more of this, George?" he said. "We'll be a little short of room in the morning, you know." "Well," said the other, sitting back in his chair, "it is pretty good stuff that. Folks always like the pen pictures of men engaged in the skirmish better than the reports of what most of them say." "Yes," said the city editor, "that's so." "Still," said Stratton, "we could cut it off at the last page. Just let me see the last two pages, will you?" These were handed to him, and, running his eye through them, he drew his knife across one of the pages, and put at the bottom the cabalistic mark which indicated the end of the copy. "There! I think I will let it go at that. Old Rickenbeck don't amount to much, anyhow. We'll let him go." "All right," said the city editor. "I think we won't want anything more to-night." [Illustration: "She's pretty as a picture."] Stratton put his hands behind his head, with his fingers interlaced, and leaned back in his chair, placing his heels upon the table before him. A thought-reader, looking at his face, could almost have followed the theme that occupied his mind. Suddenly bringing his feet down with a crash to the floor, he rose and went into the city editor's room. "See here," he said. "Have you looked into that Cincinnati case at all?" "What Cincinnati case?" asked the local editor, looking up. "Why, that woman who is up for poisoning her husband." "Oh yes; we had something of it in the despatches this morning. It's rather out of the local line, you know." "Yes, I know it is. But it isn't out of the paper's line. I tell you that case is going to make a sensation. She's pretty as a picture. Been married only six months, and it seems to be a dead sure thing that she poisoned her husband. That trial's going to make racy reading, especially if they bring in a verdict of guilty." The city editor looked interested. "Want to go down there, George?" "Well, do you know, I think it'll pay." "Let me see, this is the last day of the convention, isn't it? And Clark comes back from his vacation to-morrow. Well, if you think it's worth it, take a trip down there, and look the ground over, and give us a special article that we can use on the first day of the trial." "I'll do it," said George. * * * * * Speed looked at Brenton. "What would old Ferris say _now_, eh?"

6

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Next morning George Stratton was on the railway train speeding towards Cincinnati. As he handed to the conductor his mileage book, he did not say to him, lightly transposing the old couplet-- "Here, railroad man, take thrice thy fee, For spirits twain do ride with me." George Stratton was a practical man, and knew nothing of spirits, except those which were in a small flask in his natty little valise. When he reached Cincinnati, he made straight for the residence of the sheriff. He felt that his first duty was to become friends with such an important official. Besides this, he wished to have an interview with the prisoner. He had arranged in his mind, on the way there, just how he would write a preliminary article that would whet the appetite of the readers of the Chicago _Argus_ for any further developments that might occur during and after the trial. He would write the whole thing in the form of a story. [Illustration: "Raising the veil."] First, there would be a sketch of the life of Mrs. Brenton and her husband. This would be number one, and above it would be the Roman numeral I. Under the heading II. would be a history of the crime. Under III. what had occurred afterwards--the incidents that had led suspicion towards the unfortunate woman, and that sort of thing. Under the numeral IV. would be his interview with the prisoner, if he were fortunate enough to get one. Under V. he would give the general opinion of Cincinnati on the crime, and on the guilt or innocence of Mrs. Brenton. This article he already saw in his mind's eye occupying nearly half a page of the _Argus_. All would be in leaded type, and written in a style and manner that would attract attention, for he felt that he was first on the ground, and would not have the usual rush in preparing his copy which had been the bane of his life. It would give the _Argus_ practically the lead in this case, which he was convinced would become one of national importance. The sheriff received him courteously, and, looking at the card he presented, saw the name Chicago _Argus_ in the corner. Then he stood visibly on his guard--an attitude assumed by all wise officials when they find themselves brought face to face with a newspaper man; for they know, however carefully an article may be prepared, it will likely contain some unfortunate overlooked phrase which may have a damaging effect in a future political campaign. "I wanted to see you," began Stratton, coming straight to the point, "in reference to the Brenton murder." "I may say at once," replied the sheriff, "that if you wish an interview with the prisoner, it is utterly impossible, because her lawyers, Benham and Brown, have positively forbidden her to see a newspaper man." "That shows," said Stratton, "they are wise men who understand their business. Nevertheless, I wish to have an interview with Mrs. Brenton. But what I wanted to say to you is this: I believe the case will be very much talked about, and that before many weeks are over. Of course you know the standing the _Argus_ has in newspaper circles. What it says will have an influence, even over the Cincinnati press. I think you will admit that. Now a great many newspaper men consider an official their natural enemy. I do not; at least, I do not until I am forced to. Any reference that I may make to you I am more than willing to submit to you before it goes to Chicago. I will give you my word, if you want it, that nothing will be said referring to your official position, or to yourself personally, that you do not see before it appears in print. Of course you will be up for re-election. I never met a sheriff who wasn't." The sheriff smiled at this, and did not deny it. "Very well. Now, I may tell you my belief is that this case is going to have a powerful influence on your re-election. Here is a young and pretty woman who is to be tried for a terrible crime. Whether she is guilty or innocent, public sympathy is going to be with her. If I were in your place, I would prefer to be known as her friend rather than as her enemy." "My dear sir," said the sheriff, "my official position puts me in the attitude of neither friend nor enemy of the unfortunate woman. I have simply a certain duty to do, and that duty I intend to perform." "Oh, that's all right!" exclaimed the newspaper man, jauntily. "I, for one, am not going to ask you to take a step outside your duties; but an official may do his duty, and yet, at the same time, do a friendly act for a newspaper man, or even for a prisoner. In the language of the old chestnut, 'If you don't help me, don't help the bear.' That's all I ask." "You maybe sure, Mr. Stratton, that anything I can do to help you I shall be glad to do; and now let me give you a hint. If you want to see Mrs. Brenton, the best thing is to get permission from her lawyers. If I were you I would not see Benham--he's rather a hard nut, Benham is, although you needn't tell him I said so. You get on the right side of Brown. Brown has some political aspirations himself, and he does not want to offend a man on so powerful a paper as the _Argus_, even if it is not a Cincinnati paper. Now, if you make him the same offer you have made to me, I think it will be all right. If he sees your copy before it goes into print, and if you keep your word with him that nothing will appear that he does _not_ see, I think you will succeed in getting an interview with Mrs. Brenton. If you bring me a note from Brown, I shall be very glad to allow you to see her." Stratton thanked the sheriff for his hint. He took down in his note-book the address of the lawyers, and the name especially of Mr. Brown. The two men shook hands, and Stratton felt that they understood each other. When Mr. Stratton was ushered into the private office of Brown, and handed that gentleman his card, he noticed the lawyer perceptibly freeze over. "Ahem," said the legal gentleman; "you will excuse me if I say that my time is rather precious. Did you wish to see me professionally?" "Yes," replied Stratton, "that is, from a newspaper standpoint of the profession." "Ah," said the other, "in reference to what?" "To the Brenton case." "Well, my dear sir, I have had, very reluctantly, to refuse information that I would have been happy to give, if I could, to our own newspaper men; and so I may say to you at once that I scarcely think it will be possible for me to be of any service to an outside paper like the _Argus_" "Local newspaper men," said Stratton, "represent local fame. That you already possess. I represent national fame, which, if you will excuse my saying so, you do not yet possess. The fact that I am in Cincinnati to-day, instead of in Chicago, shows what we Chicago people think of the Cincinnati case. I believe, and the _Argus_ believes, that this case is going to be one of national importance. Now, let me ask you one question. Will you state frankly what your objection is to having a newspaper man, for instance, interview Mrs. Brenton, or get any information relating to this case from her or others whom you have the power of controlling?" "I shall answer that question," said Brown, "as frankly as you put it. You are a man of the world, and know, of course, that we are all selfish, and in business matters look entirely after our own interests. My interest in this case is to defend my client. Your interest in this case is to make a sensational article. You want to get facts if possible, but, in any event, you want to write up a readable column or two for your paper. Now, if I allowed you to see Mrs. Brenton, she might say something to you, and you might publish it, that would not only endanger her chances, but would seriously embarrass us, as her lawyers, in our defence of the case." "You have stated the objection very plainly and forcibly," said Stratton, with a look of admiration, as if the powerful arguments of the lawyer had had a great effect on him. "Now, if I understand your argument, it simply amounts to this, that you would have no objection to my interviewing Mrs. Brenton if you have the privilege of editing the copy. In other words, if nothing were printed but what you approve of, you would not have the slightest hesitancy about allowing me that interview." "No, I don't know that I would," admitted the lawyer. "Very well, then. Here is my proposition to you: I am here to look after the interests of our paper in this particular case. The _Argus_ is probably going to be the first paper outside of Cincinnati that will devote a large amount of space to the Brenton trial, in addition to what is received from the Associated Press dispatches. Now you can give me a great many facilities in this matter if you care to do so, and in return I am perfectly willing to submit to you every line of copy that concerns you or your client before it is sent, and I give you my word of honour that nothing shall appear but what you have seen and approved of. If you want to cut out something that I think is vitally important, then I shall tell you frankly that I intend to print it, but will modify it as much as I possibly can to suit your views." "I see," said the lawyer. "In other words, as you have just remarked, I am to give you special facilities in this matter, and then, when you find out some fact which I wish kept secret, and which you have obtained because of the facilities I have given to you, you will quite frankly tell me that it must go in, and then, of course, I shall be helpless except to debar you from any further facilities, as you call them. No, sir, I do not care to make any such bargain." "Well, suppose I strike out that clause of agreement, and say to you that I will send nothing but what you approve of, would you then write me a note to the sheriff and allow me to see the prisoner?" "I am sorry to say"--the lawyer hesitated for a moment, and glanced at the card, then added--"Mr. Stratton, that I do not see my way clear to granting your request." "I think," said Stratton, rising, "that you are doing yourself an injustice. You are refusing--I may as well tell you first as last--what is a great privilege. Now, you have had some experience in your business, and I have had some experience in mine, and I beg to inform you that men who are much more prominent in the history of their country than any one I can at present think of in Cincinnati, have tried to balk me in the pursuit of my business, and have failed." "In that matter, of course," said Brown, "I must take my chances. I don't see the use of prolonging this interview. As you have been so frank as to--I won't say threaten, perhaps warn is the better word--as you have been so good as to warn me, I may, before we part, just give _you_ a word of caution. Of course we, in Cincinnati, are perfectly willing to admit that Chicago people are the smartest on earth, but I may say that if you print a word in your paper which is untrue and which is damaging to our side of the case, or if you use any methods that are unlawful in obtaining the information you so much desire, you will certainly get your paper into trouble, and you will run some little personal risk yourself." "Well, as you remarked a moment ago, Mr. Brown, I shall have to take the chances of that. I am here to get the news, and if I don't succeed it will be the first time in my life." "Very well, sir," said the lawyer. "I wish you good evening." "Just one thing more," said the newspaper man, "before I leave you." "My dear sir," said the lawyer, impatiently, "I am very busy. I've already given you a liberal share of my time. I must request that this interview end at once." "I thought," said Mr. Stratton, calmly, "that perhaps you might be interested in the first article that I am going to write. I shall devote one column in the _Argus_ of the day after to-morrow to your defence of the case, and whether your theory of defence is a tenable one or not." Mr. Brown pushed back his chair and looked earnestly at the young man. That individual was imperturbably pulling on his gloves, and at the moment was buttoning one of them. "Our _defence_!" cried the lawyer. "What do you know of our defence?" "My dear sir," said Stratton, "I know _all_ about it." "Sir, that is impossible. Nobody knows what our defence is to be except Mr. Benham and myself." "And Mr. Stratton, of the Chicago _Argus_," replied the young man, as he buttoned his coat. "May I ask, then, what the defence is?" "Certainly," answered the Chicago man. "Your defence is that Mr. Brenton was insane, and that he committed suicide." Even Mr. Brown's habitual self-control, acquired by long years of training in keeping his feelings out of sight, for the moment deserted him. He drew his breath sharply, and cast a piercing glance at the young man before him, who was critically watching the lawyer's countenance, although he appeared to be entirely absorbed in buttoning his overcoat. Then Mr. Brown gave a short, dry laugh. "I have met a bluff before," he said carelessly; "but I should like to know what makes you think that such is our defence?" " _Think_!" cried the young man. "I don't think at all; I _know_ it." "How do you know it?" "Well, for one thing, I know it by your own actions a moment ago. What first gave me an inkling of your defence was that book which is on your table. It is Forbes Winslow on the mind and the brain; a very interesting book, Mr. Brown, _very_ interesting indeed. It treats of suicide, and the causes and conditions of the brain that will lead up to it. It is a very good book, indeed, to study in such a case. Good evening, Mr. Brown. I am sorry that we cannot co-operate in this matter." Stratton turned and walked toward the door, while the lawyer gazed after him with a look of helpless astonishment on his face. As Stratton placed his hand on the door knob, the lawyer seemed to wake up as from a dream. "Stop!" he cried; "I will give you a letter that will admit you to Mrs. Brenton."

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"There!" said Speed to Brenton, triumphantly, "what do you think of _that_? Didn't I say George Stratton was the brightest newspaper man in Chicago? I tell you, his getting that letter from old Brown was one of the cleverest bits of diplomacy I ever saw. There you had quickness of perception, and nerve. All the time he was talking to old Brown he was just taking that man's measure. See how coolly he acted while he was drawing on his gloves and buttoning his coat as if ready to leave. Flung that at Brown all of a sudden as quiet as if he was saying nothing at all unusual, and all the time watching Brown out of the tail of his eye. Well, sir, I must admit, that although I have known George Stratton for years, I thought he was dished by that Cincinnati lawyer. I thought that George was just gracefully covering up his defeat, and there he upset old Brown's apple-cart in the twinkling of an eye. Now, you see the effect of all this. Brown has practically admitted to him what the line of defence is. Stratton won't publish it, of course; he has promised not to, but you see he can hold that over Brown's head, and get everything he wants unless they change their defence." "Yes," remarked Brenton, slowly, "he seems to be a very sharp newspaper man indeed; but I don't like the idea of his going to interview my wife." "Why, what is there wrong about that?" "Well, there is this wrong about it--that she in her depression may say something that will tell against her." "Even if she does, what of it? Isn't the lawyer going to see the letter before it is sent to the paper?" "I am not so sure about that. Do you think Stratton will show the article to Brown if he gets what you call a scoop or a beat?" "Why, of course he will," answered Speed, indignantly; "hasn't he given him his word that he will?" "Yes, I know he has," said Brenton, dubiously; "but he is a newspaper man." "Certainly he is," answered Speed, with strong emphasis; "that is the reason he will keep his word." "I hope so, I hope so; but I must admit that the more I know you newspaper men, the more I see the great temptation you are under to preserve if possible the sensational features of an article." "I'll bet you a drink--no, we can't do that," corrected Speed; "but you shall see that, if Brown acts square with Stratton, he will keep his word to the very letter with Brown. There is no use in our talking about the matter here. Let us follow Stratton, and see what comes of the interview." "I think I prefer to go alone," said Brenton, coldly. "Oh, as you like, as you like," answered the other, shortly. "I thought you wanted my help in this affair; but if you don't, I am sure I shan't intrude." "That's all right," said Brenton; "come along. By the way, Speed, what do you think of that line of defence?" "Well, I don't know enough of the circumstances of the case to know what to think of it. It seems to me rather a good line." "It can't be a good line when it is not true. It is certain to break down." "That's so," said Speed; "but I'll bet you four dollars and a half that they'll prove you a raving maniac before they are through with you. They'll show very likely that you tried to poison yourself two or three times; bring on a dozen of your friends to prove that they knew all your life you were insane." "Do you think they will?" asked Brenton, uneasily. "Think it? Why, I am sure of it. You'll go down to posterity as one of the most complete lunatics that ever, lived in Cincinnati. Oh, there won't be anything left of you when _they_ get through with you." Meanwhile, Stratton was making his way to the residence of the sheriff. "Ah," said that official, when they met, "you got your letter, did you? Well, I thought you would." "If you had heard the conversation between my estimable friend Mr. Brown and myself, up to the very last moment, you wouldn't have thought it." "Well, Brown is generally very courteous towards newspaper men, and that's one reason you see his name in the papers a great deal." "If I were a Cincinnati newspaper man, I can assure you that his name wouldn't appear very much in the columns of my paper." "I am sorry to hear you say that. I thought Brown was very popular with the newspaper men. You got the letter, though, did you?" "Yes; I got it. Here it is. Read it." The sheriff scanned the brief note over, and put it in his pocket. "Just take a chair for a moment, will you, and I will see if Mrs. Brenton is ready to receive you." [Illustration: Jane.] Stratton seated himself, and, pulling a paper from his pocket, was busily reading when the sheriff again entered. "I am sorry to say," he began, "after you have had all this trouble, that Mrs. Brenton positively refuses to see you. You know I cannot _compel_ a prisoner to meet any one. You understand that, of course." "Perfectly," said Stratton, thinking for a moment. "See here, sheriff, I have simply _got_ to have a talk with that woman. Now, can't you tell her I knew her husband, or something of that sort? I'll make it all right when I see her." * * * * * "The scoundrel!" said Brenton to Speed, as Stratton made this remark. "My dear sir," said Speed, "don't you see he is just the man we want? This is not the time to be particular." "Yes, but think of the treachery and meanness of telling a poor unfortunate woman that he was acquainted with her husband, who is only a few days dead." "Now, see here," said Speed, "if you are going to look on matters in this way you will be a hindrance and not a help in the affair. Don't you appreciate the situation? Why, Mrs. Brenton's own lawyers, as you have said, think her guilty. What, then, can they learn by talking with her, or what good can they do her with their minds already prejudiced against her? Don't you see that?" Brenton made no answer to this, but it was evident he was very ill at ease. * * * * * "Did you know her husband?" asked the sheriff. "No, to tell you the truth, I never heard of him before. But I must see this lady, both for my good and hers, and I am not going to let a little thing like that stand between us. Won't you tell her that I have come with a letter from her own lawyers? Just show her the letter, and say that I will take up but very little of her time. I am sorry to ask this much of you, but you see how I am placed." "Oh, that's all right," said the sheriff, good-naturedly; "I shall be very glad to do what you wish," and with that he once more disappeared. The sheriff stayed away longer this time, and Stratton paced the room impatiently. Finally, the official returned, and said-- "Mrs. Brenton has consented to see you. Come this way, please. You will excuse me, I know," continued the sheriff, as they walked along together, "but it is part of my duty to remain in the room while you are talking with Mrs. Brenton." "Certainly, certainly," said Stratton; "I understand that." "Very well; then, if I may make a suggestion, I would say this: you should be prepared to ask just what you want to know, and do it all as speedily as possible, for really Mrs. Brenton is in a condition of nervous exhaustion that renders it almost cruel to put her through any rigid cross-examination." "I understand that also," said Stratton; "but you must remember that she has a very much harder trial to undergo in the future. I am exceedingly anxious to get at the truth of this thing, and so, if it seems to you that I am asking a lot of very unnecessary questions, I hope you will not interfere with me as long as Mrs. Brenton consents to answer." "I shall not interfere at all," said the sheriff; "I only wanted to caution you, for the lady may break down at any moment. If you can marshal your questions so that the most important ones come first, I think it will be wise. I presume you have them pretty well arranged in your own mind?" "Well, I can't say that I have; you see, I am entirely in the dark. I got no help whatever from the lawyers, and from what I know of their defence I am thoroughly convinced that they are on the wrong track." "What! did Brown say anything about the defence? That is not like his usual caution." "He didn't intend to," answered Stratton; "but I found out all I wanted to know, nevertheless. You see, I shall have to ask what appears to be a lot of rambling, inconsequential questions because you can never tell in a case like this when you may get the key to the whole mystery." "Well, here we are," said the sheriff, as he knocked at a door, and then pushed it open. From the moment George Stratton saw Mrs. Brenton his interest in the case ceased to be purely journalistic. Mrs. Brenton was standing near the window, and she appeared to be very calm and collected, but her fingers twitched nervously, clasping and unclasping each other. Her modest dress of black was certainly a very becoming one. George thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful. As she was standing up, she evidently intended the interview to be a short one. "Madam," said Stratton, "I am very sorry indeed to trouble you; but I have taken a great interest in the solution of this mystery, and I have your lawyers' permission to visit you. I assure you, anything you say will be submitted to them, so that there will be no danger of your case being prejudiced by any statements made." "I am not afraid," said Mrs. Brenton, "that the truth will injure or prejudice my case." "I am sure of that," answered the newspaper man; and then, knowing that she would not sit down if he asked her to, he continued diplomatically, "Madam, will you permit me to sit down? I wish to write out my notes as carefully as possible. Accuracy is my strong point." "Certainly," said Mrs. Brenton; and, seeing that it was not probable the interview would be a short one, she seated herself by the window, while the sheriff took a chair in the corner, and drew a newspaper from his pocket. "Now, madam," said the special, "a great number of the questions I ask you may seem trivial, but as I said to the sheriff a moment ago, some word of yours that appears to you entirely unconnected with the case may give me a clue which will be exceedingly valuable. You will, therefore, I am sure, pardon me if some of the questions I ask you appear irrelevant." Mrs. Brenton bowed her head, but said nothing. "Were your husband's business affairs in good condition at the time of his death?" "As far as I know they were." "Did you ever see anything in your husband's actions that would lead you to think him a man who might have contemplated suicide?" Mrs. Brenton looked up with wide-open eyes. "Certainly not," she said. "Had he ever spoken to you on the subject of suicide?" "I do not remember that he ever did." "Was he ever queer in his actions? In short, did you ever notice anything about him that would lead you to doubt his sanity? I am sorry if questions I ask you seem painful, but I have reasons for wishing to be certain on this point." "No," said Mrs. Brenton; "he was perfectly sane. No man could have been more so. I am certain that he never thought of committing suicide." "Why are you so certain on that point?" "I do not know why. I only know I am positive of it." "Do you know if he had any enemy who might wish his death?" "I doubt if he had an enemy in the world. I do not know of any." "Have you ever heard him speak of anybody in a spirit of enmity?" "Never. He was not a man who bore enmity against people. Persons whom he did not like he avoided." "The poison, it is said, was put into his cup of coffee. Do you happen to know," said Stratton, turning to the sheriff, "how they came to that conclusion?" "No, I do not," answered the sheriff. "In fact, I don't see any reason why they should think so." "Was morphia found in the coffee cup afterwards?" "No; at the time of the inquest all the things had been cleared away. I think it was merely presumed that the morphine was put into his coffee." "Who poured out the coffee he drank that night?" "I did," answered his wife. "You were at one end of the table and he at the other, I suppose?" "Yes." "How did the coffee cup reach him?" "I gave it to the servant, and she placed it before him." "It passed through no other hands, then?" "No." "Who was the servant?" Mrs. Brenton pondered for a moment. "I really know very little about her. She had been in our house for a couple of weeks only." "What was her name?" "Jane Morton, I think." "Where is she now, do you know?" "I do not know." "She appeared at the inquest, of course?" said Stratton, turning to the sheriff. "I think she did," was the answer. "I am not sure." He marked her name down in the note-book. "How many people were there at the dinner?" "Including my husband and myself, there were twenty-six." "Could you give me the name of each of them?" "Yes, I think so." She repeated the names, which he took down, with certain notes and comments on each. "Who sat next your husband at the head of the table?" "Miss Walker was at his right hand, Mr. Roland at his left." "Now, forgive me if I ask you if you have ever had any trouble with your husband?" "Never." "Never had any quarrel?" Mrs. Brenton hesitated for a moment. "No, I don't think we ever had what could be called a quarrel." "You had no disagreement shortly before the dinner?" Again Mrs. Brenton hesitated. "I can hardly call it a disagreement," she said. "We had a little discussion about some of the guests who were to be invited." "Did he object to any that were there?" "There was a gentleman there whom he did not particularly like, I think, but he made no objection to his coming; in fact, he seemed to feel that I might imagine he had an objection from a little discussion we had about inviting him; and afterwards, as if to make up for that, he placed this guest at his left hand." Stratton quickly glanced up the page of his notebook, and marked a little cross before the name of Stephen Roland. "You had another disagreement with him before, if I might term it so, had you not?" Mrs. Brenton looked at him surprised. "What makes you think so?" she said. "Because you hesitated when I spoke of it." "Well, we had what you might call a disagreement once at Lucerne, Switzerland." "Will you tell me what it was about?" "I would rather not." "Will you tell me this--was it about a gentleman?" "Yes," said Mrs. Brenton. "Was your husband of a jealous disposition?" "Ordinarily I do not think he was. It seemed to me at the time that he was a little unjust--that's all." "Was the gentleman in Lucerne?" "Oh no!" "In Cincinnati?" "Yes." "Was his name Stephen Roland?" Mrs. Brenton again glanced quickly at the newspaper man, and seemed about to say something, but, checking herself, she simply answered-- "Yes." Then she leaned back in the armchair and sighed. "I am very tired," she said. "If it is not absolutely necessary, I prefer not to continue this conversation." Stratton immediately rose. "Madam," he said, "I am very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken to answer my questions, which I am afraid must have seemed impertinent to you, but I assure you that I did not intend them to be so. Now, madam, I would like very much to get a promise from you. I wish that you would promise to see me if I call again, and I, on my part, assure you that unless I have something particularly important to tell you, or to ask, I shall not intrude upon you." "I shall be pleased to see you at any time, sir." When the sheriff and the newspaper man reached the other room, the former said-- "Well, what do you think?" "I think it is an interesting case," was the answer. "Or, to put it in other words, you think Mrs. Brenton a very interesting lady." "Officially, sir, you have exactly stated my opinion." "And I suppose, poor woman, she will furnish an interesting article for the paper?" "Hang the paper!" said Stratton, with more than his usual vim. The sheriff laughed. Then he said-- "I confess that to me it seems a very perplexing affair all through. Have you got any light on the subject?" "My dear sir, I will tell you three important things. First, Mrs. Brenton is innocent. Second, her lawyers are taking the wrong line of defence. Third," tapping his breast-pocket, "I have the name of the murderer in my note-book."

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"Now," said John Speed to William Brenton, "we have got Stratton fairly started on the track, and I believe that he will ferret out the truth in this matter. But, meanwhile, we must not be idle. You must remember that, with all our facilities for discovery, we really know nothing of the murderer ourselves. I propose we set about this thing just as systematically as Stratton will. The chances are that we shall penetrate the mystery of the whole affair very much quicker than he. As I told you before, I am something of a newspaper man myself; and if, with the facilities of getting into any room in any house, in any city and in any country, and being with a suspected criminal night and day when he never imagines any one is near him--if with all those advantages I cannot discover the real author of that crime before George Stratton does, then I'll never admit that I came from Chicago, or belonged to a newspaper." "Whom do you think Stratton suspects of the crime? He told the sheriff," said Brenton, "that he had the name in his pocket-book." "I don't know," said Speed, "but I have my suspicions. You see, he has the names of all the guests at your banquet in that pocket-book of his; but the name of Stephen Roland he has marked with two crosses. The name of the servant he has marked with one cross. Now, I suspect that he believes Stephen Roland committed the crime. You know Roland; what do you think of him?" "I think he is quite capable of it," answered Brenton, with a frown. "Still, you are prejudiced against the man," put in Speed, "so your evidence is hardly impartial." "I am not prejudiced against any one," answered Brenton; "I merely know that man. He is a thoroughly despicable, cowardly character. The only thing that makes me think he would not commit a murder, is that he is too craven to stand the consequences if he were caught. He is a cool villain, but he is a coward. I do not believe he has the courage to commit a crime, even if he thought he would benefit by it." "Well, there is one thing, Brenton, you can't be accused of flattering a man, and if it is any consolation for you to know, you may be pretty certain that George Stratton is on his track." "I am sure I wish him success," answered Brenton, gloomily; "if he brings Roland to the gallows I shall not mourn over it." "That's all right," said Speed; "but now we must be up and doing ourselves. Have you anything to propose?" "No, I have not, except that we might play the detective on Roland." "Well, the trouble with that is we would merely be duplicating what Stratton is doing himself. Now, I'll tell you my proposal. Supposing that we consult with Lecocq." "Who is that? The novelist?" "Novelist? I don't think he has ever written any novels--not that I remember of." "Ah, I didn't know. It seemed to me that I remembered his name in connection with some novel." "Oh, very likely you did. He is the hero of more detective stories than any other man I know of. He was the great French detective." "What, is he dead, then?" "Dead? Not a bit of it; he's here with us. Oh, I understand what you mean. Yes, from your point of view, he is dead." "Where can we find him?" "Well, I presume, in Paris. He's a first-rate fellow to know, anyhow, and he spends most of his time around his old haunts. In fact, if you want to be certain to find Lecocq, you will generally get him during office hours in the room he used to frequent while in Paris." "Let us go and see him, then." * * * * * "Monsieur Lecocq," said Speed, a moment afterwards, "I wish to introduce to you a new-comer, Mr. Brenton, recently of Cincinnati." "Ah, my dear Speed," said the Frenchman, "I am very pleased indeed to meet any friend of yours. How is the great Chicago, the second Paris, and how is your circulation? --the greatest in the world, I suppose." "Well, it is in pretty good order," said Speed; "we circulated from Chicago to Paris here in a very much shorter time than the journey usually occupies down below. Now, can you give us a little of your time? Are you busy just now?" "My dear Speed, I am always busy. I am like the people of the second Paris. I lose no time, but I have always time to speak with my friends." "All right," said Speed. "I am like the people of the second Chicago, generally more intent on pleasure than business; but, nevertheless, I have a piece of business for you." "The second Chicago?" asked Lecocq. "And where is that, pray?" "Why, Paris, of course," said Speed. Lecocq laughed. "You are incorrigible, you Chicagoans. And what is the piece of business?" "It is the old thing, monsieur. A mystery to be unravelled. Mr. Brenton here wishes to retain you in his case." "And what is his case?" was the answer. Lecocq was evidently pleased to have a bit of real work given him. [Illustration: The detective.] Speed briefly recited the facts, Brenton correcting him now and then on little points where he was wrong. Speed seemed to think these points immaterial, but Lecocq said that attention to trivialities was the whole secret of the detective business. "Ah," said Lecocq, sorrowfully, "there is no real trouble in elucidating that mystery. I hoped it would be something difficult; but, you see, with my experience of the old world, and with the privileges one enjoys in this world, things which might be difficult to one below are very easy for us. Now, I shall show you how simple it is." "Good gracious!" cried Speed, "you don't mean to say you are going to read it right off the reel, like that, when we have been bothering ourselves with it so long, and without success?" "At the moment," replied the French detective, "I am not prepared to say who committed the deed. That is a matter of detail. Now, let us see what we know, and arrive, from that, at what we do not know. The one fact, of which we are assured on the statement of two physicians from Cincinnati, is that Mr. Brenton was poisoned." "Well," said Speed, "there are several other facts, too. Another fact is that Mrs. Brenton is accused of the crime." "Ah! my dear sir," said Lecocq, "that is not pertinent." "No," said Speed, "I agree with you. I call it very impertinent." Brenton frowned, at this, and his old dislike to the flippant Chicago man rose to the surface again. The Frenchman continued marking the points on his long forefinger. "Now, there are two ways by which that result may have been attained. First, Mr. Brenton may have administered to himself the poison; secondly, the poison may have been administered by some one else." "Yes," said Speed; "and, thirdly, the poison may have been administered accidentally--you do not seem to take that into account." "I do not take that into account," calmly replied the Frenchman, "because of its improbability. If there were an accident; if, for instance, the poison was in the sugar, or in some of the viands served, then others than Mr. Brenton would have been poisoned. The fact that one man out of twenty-six was poisoned, and the fact that several people are to benefit by his death, point, it seems to me, to murder; but to be sure of that, I will ask Mr. Brenton one question. My dear sir, did you administer this poison to yourself?" "Certainly not," answered Brenton. "Then we have two facts. First, Mr. Brenton was poisoned; secondly, he was poisoned by some person who had an interest in his death. Now we will proceed. When Mr. Brenton sat down to that dinner he was perfectly well. When he arose from that dinner he was feeling ill. He goes to bed. He sees no one but his wife after he has left the dinner-table, and he takes nothing between the time he leaves the dinner-table and the moment he becomes unconscious. Now, that poison must have been administered to Mr. Brenton at the dinner-table. Am I not right?" "Well, you seem to be," answered Speed. "Seem? Why, it is as plain as day. There cannot be any mistake." "All right," said Speed; "go ahead. What next?" "What next? There were twenty-six people around that table, with two servants to wait on them, making twenty-eight in all. There were twenty-six, I think you said, including Mr. Brenton." "That is correct." "Very well. One of those twenty-seven persons has poisoned Mr. Brenton. Do you follow me?" "We do," answered Speed; "we follow you as closely as you have ever followed a criminal! Go on." "Very well, so much is clear. These are all facts, not theories. Now, what is the thing that I should do if I were in Cincinnati? I would find out whether one or more of those guests had anything to gain by the death of their host. That done, I would follow the suspected persons. I would have my men find out what each of them had done for a month before the time of the crime. Whoever committed it made some preparation. He did something, too, as you say, in America, to cover up his tracks. Very well. By the keen detective these actions are easily traced. I shall at once place twenty-seven of the best men I know on the track of those twenty-seven persons." "I call that shadowing with a vengeance," remarked the Chicago man. "It will be very easy. The one who has committed the crime is certain, when he is alone in his own room, to say something, or to do something, that will show my detective that he is the criminal. So, gentlemen, if you can tell me who those twenty-seven persons are, in three days or a week from this time I will tell you who gave the poison to Mr. Brenton." "You seem very sure of that," said Speed. "Sure of it? It is simply child's play. It is mere waiting. If, for instance, at the trial Mrs. Brenton is found guilty, and sentenced, the one who is the guilty party is certain to betray himself or herself as soon as he or she is alone. If it be a man who hopes to marry Mrs. Brenton, he will be overcome with grief at what has happened. He will wring his hands and try to think what can be done to prevent the sentence being carried out. He will argue with himself whether it is better to give himself up and tell the truth, and if he is a coward he will conclude not to do that, but will try to get a pardon, or at least have the capital sentence commuted into life imprisonment. He will possibly be cool and calm in public, but when he enters his own room, when his door is locked, when he believes no one can see him, when he thinks he is alone, then will come his trial. Then his passions and his emotions will betray him. It is mere child's play, as I tell you, and long before there is a verdict I will give you the name of the murderer." "Very well, then," said Speed, "that is agreed; we will look you up in a week from now." "I should be pained," said Lecocq, "to put you to that trouble. As soon as I get the report from my men I will communicate with you and let you know the result. In a few days I shall give you the name of the assassin." "Good-bye, then, until I see you again," answered Speed; and with this he and Brenton took their departure. "He seems to be very sure of himself," said Brenton. [Illustration: Jane Morton.] "He will do what he says, you may depend on that." The week was not yet up when Monsieur Lecocq met John Speed in Chicago. "By the look of satisfaction on your face," said Mr. Speed, "I imagine you have succeeded in unravelling the mystery." "Ah," replied the Frenchman; "if I have the appearance of satisfaction, it is indeed misplaced." "Then you have not made any discovery?" "On the contrary, it is all as plain as your big buildings here. It is not for that reason, but because it is so simple that I should be foolish to feel satisfaction regarding it." "Then who is the person?" "The assassin," replied the Frenchman, "is one whom no one has seemed to think of, and yet one on whom suspicion should have been the first to fall. The person who did Monsieur Brenton the honour to poison him is none other than the servant girl, Jane Morton."

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"Jane Morton!" cried Speed; "who is she?" "She is, as you may remember, the girl who carried the coffee from Mrs. Brenton to monsieur." "And are you sure she is the criminal?" The great detective did not answer; he merely gave an expressive little French gesture, as though the question was not worth commenting upon. "Why, what was her motive?" asked Speed. For the first time in their acquaintance a shade of perplexity seemed to come over the enthusiastic face of the volatile Frenchman. "You are what you call smart, you Chicago people," he said, "and you have in a moment struck the only point on which we are at a loss." "My dear sir," returned Speed, "that is _the_ point in the case. Motive is the first thing to look for, it seems to me. You said as much yourself. If you haven't succeeded in finding what motive Jane Morton had for poisoning her employer, it appears to me that very little has been accomplished." "Ah, you say that before you know the particulars. I am certain we shall find the motive. What I know now is that Jane Morton is the one who put the poison in his cup of coffee." "It would take a good deal of nerve to do that with twenty-six people around the table. You forget, my dear sir, that she had to pass the whole length of the table, after taking the cup, before giving it to Mr. Brenton." "Half of the people had their backs to her, and the other half, I can assure you, were not looking at her. If the poison was ready, it was a very easy thing to slip it into a cup of coffee. There was ample time to do it, and that is how it was done." "May I ask how you arrived at that conclusion?" "Certainly, certainly, my dear sir. My detectives report that each one of the twenty-seven people they had to follow were shadowed night and day. But only two of them acted suspiciously. These two were Jane Morton and Stephen Roland. Stephen Roland's anxiety is accounted for by the fact that he is evidently in love with Mrs. Brenton. But the change in Jane Morton has been something terrible. She is suffering from the severest pangs of ineffectual remorse. She has not gone out again to service, but occupies a room in one of the poorer quarters of the city--a room that she never leaves except at night. Her whole actions show that she is afraid of the police--afraid of being tracked for her crime. She buys a newspaper every night, locks and bars the door on entering her room, and, with tears streaming from her eyes, reads every word of the criminal news. One night, when she went out to buy her paper, and what food she needed for the next day, she came unexpectedly upon a policeman at the corner. The man was not looking at her at all, nor for her, but she fled, running like a deer, doubling and turning through alleys and back streets until by a very roundabout road she reached her own room. There she locked herself in, and remained without food all next day rather than go out again. She flung herself terror-stricken on the bed, after her room door was bolted, and cried, 'Oh, why did I do it? why did I do it? I shall certainly be found out. If Mrs. Brenton is acquitted, they will be after me next day. I did it to make up to John what he had suffered, and yet if John knew it, he would never speak to me again.'" [Illustration: "Oh, why did I do it?"] "Who is John?" asked Speed. "Ah, that," said the detective, "I do not know. When we find out who John is, then we shall find the motive for the crime." "In that case, if I were you, I should try to find John as quickly as possible." "Yes, my dear sir, that is exactly what should be done, and my detective is now endeavouring to discover the identity of John. He will possibly succeed in a few days. But there is another way of finding out who John is, and perhaps in that you can help me." "What other way?" "There is one man who undoubtedly knows who John is, and that is Mr. Brenton. Now, I thought that perhaps you, who know Brenton better than I do, would not mind asking him who John is." "My dear sir," said Speed, "Brenton is no particular friend of mine, and I only know him well enough to feel that if there is any cross-examination to be done, I should prefer somebody else to do it." "Why, you are not afraid of him, are you?" asked the detective. "Afraid of him? Certainly not, but I tell you that Brenton is just a little touchy and apt to take offence. I have found him so on several occasions. Now, as you have practically taken charge of this case, why don't you go and see him?" "I suppose I shall have to do that," said the Frenchman, "if you will not undertake it." "No, I will not." "You have no objection, have you, to going with me?" "It is better for you to see Brenton alone. I do not think he would care to be cross-examined before witnesses, you know." "Ah, then, good-bye; I shall find out from Mr. Brenton who John is." "I am sure I wish you luck," replied Speed, as Lecocq took his departure. Lecocq found Brenton and Ferris together. The cynical spirit seemed to have been rather sceptical about the accounts given him of the influence that Speed and Brenton, combined, had had upon the Chicago newspaper man. Yet he was interested in the case, and although he still maintained that no practical good would result, even if a channel of communication could be opened between the two states of existence, he had listened with his customary respect to what Brenton had to say. "Ah," said Brenton, when he saw the Frenchman, "have you any news for me?" "Yes, I have. I have news that I will exchange, but meanwhile I want some news from you." "I have none to give you," answered Brenton. "If you have not, will you undertake to answer any questions I shall ask you, and not take offence if the questions seem to be personal ones?" "Certainly," said Brenton; "I shall be glad to answer anything as long as it has a bearing on the case." "Very well, then, it has a very distinct bearing on the case. Do you remember the girl Jane Morton?" "I remember her, of course, as one of the servants in our employ. I know very little about her, though." "That is just what I wish to find out. Do you know _anything_ about her?" "No; she had been in our employ but a fortnight, I think, or perhaps it was a month. My wife attended to these details, of course. I knew the girl was there, that is all." The Frenchman looked very dubious as Brenton said this, while the latter rather bridled up. "You evidently do not believe me?" he cried. Once more the detective gave his customary gesture, and said-- "Ah, pardon me, you are entirely mistaken. I have this to acquaint you with. Jane Morton is the one who murdered you. She did it, she says, partly for the sake of John, whoever he is, and partly out of revenge. Now, of course, you are the only man who can give me information as to the motive. That girl certainly had a motive, and I should like to find out what the motive was." Brenton meditated for a few moments, and then suddenly brightened up. "I remember, now, an incident which happened a week of two before Christmas, which may have a bearing on the case. One night I heard--or thought I heard--a movement downstairs, when I supposed everybody had retired. I took a revolver in my hand, and went cautiously down the stairs. Of course I had no light, because, if there was a burglar, I did not wish to make myself too conspicuous a mark. As I went along the hall leading to the kitchen, I saw there was a light inside; but as soon as they heard me coming the light was put out. When I reached the kitchen, I noticed a man trying to escape through the door that led to the coalshed. I fired at him twice, and he sank to the floor with a groan. I thought I had bagged a burglar sure, but it turned out to be nothing of the kind. He was merely a young man who had been rather late visiting one of the girls. I suspect now the girl he came to see was Jane Morton. As it was, the noise brought the two girls there, and I never investigated the matter or tried to find out which one it was that he had been visiting. They were both terror-stricken, and the young man himself was in a state of great fear. He thought for a moment that he had been killed. However, he was only shot in the leg, and I sent him to the house of a physician who keeps such patients as do not wish to go to the hospital. I did not care to have him go to the hospital, because I was afraid the newspapers would get hold of the incident, and make a sensation of it. The whole thing was accidental; the young fellow realized that, and so, I thought, did the girls; at least, I never noticed anything in their behaviour to show the contrary." "What sort of a looking girl is Jane Morton?" asked Ferris. "She is a tall brunette, with snapping black eyes." "Ah, then, I remember her going into the room where you lay," said Ferris, "on Christmas morning. It struck me when she came out that she was very cool and self-possessed, and not at all surprised." "All I can say," said Brenton, "is that I never noticed anything in her conduct like resentment at what had happened. I intended to give the young fellow a handsome compensation for his injury, but of course what occurred on Christmas Eve prevented that: I had really forgotten all about the circumstance, or I should have told you of it before." "Then," said Lecocq, "the thing now is perfectly clear. That black-eyed vixen murdered you out of revenge." [Illustration]

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It was evident to George Stratton that he would have no time before the trial came off in which to prove Stephen Roland the guilty person. Besides this, he was in a strange state of mind which he himself could not understand. The moment he sat down to think out a plan by which he could run down the man he was confident had committed the crime, a strange wavering of mind came over him. Something seemed to say to him that he was on the wrong track. This became so persistent that George was bewildered, and seriously questioned his own sanity. Whenever he sat alone in his own room, the doubts arose and a feeling that he was on the wrong scent took possession of him. This feeling became so strong at times that he looked up other clues, and at one time tried to find out the whereabouts of the servant girls who had been employed by the Brentons. Curiously enough, the moment he began this search, his mind seemed to become clearer and easier; and when that happened, the old belief in the guilt of Stephen Roland resumed its sway again. But the instant he tried to follow up what clues he had in that direction, he found himself baffled and assailed again by doubts, and so every effort he put forth appeared to be nullified. This state of mind was so unusual with him that he had serious thoughts of abandoning the whole case and going back to Chicago. He said to himself, "I am in love with this woman and I shall go crazy if I stay here any longer." Then he remembered the trust she appeared to have in his powers of ferreting out the mystery of the case, and this in turn encouraged him and urged him on. All trace of the girls appeared to be lost. He hesitated to employ a Cincinnati detective, fearing that what he discovered would be given away to the Cincinnati press. Then he accused himself of disloyalty to Mrs. Brenton, in putting his newspaper duty before his duty to her. He was so torn by his conflicting ideas and emotions that at last he resolved to abandon the case altogether and return to Chicago. He packed up his valise and resolved to leave that night for big city, trial or no trial. He had described his symptoms to a prominent physician, and that physician told him that the case was driving him mad, and the best thing he could do was to leave at once for other scenes. He could do no good, and would perhaps end by going insane himself. As George Stratton was packing his valise in his room, alone, as he thought, the following conversation was taking place beside him. "It is no use," said Speed; "we are merely muddling him, and not doing any good. The only thing is to leave him alone. If he investigates the Roland part of the case he will soon find out for himself that he is on the wrong track; then he will take the right one." "Yes," said Brenton; "but the case comes on in a few days. If anything is to be done, it must be done now." "In that I do not agree with you," said Speed. "Perhaps everything will go all right at the trial, but even if it does not, there is still a certain amount of time. You see how we have spoiled things by interfering. Our first success with him has misled us. We thought we could do anything; we have really done worse than nothing, because all this valuable time has been lost. If he had been allowed to proceed in his own way he would have ferreted out the matter as far as Stephen Roland is concerned, and would have found that there was no cause for his suspicion. As it is he has done nothing. He still believes, if left alone, that Stephen Roland is the criminal. All our efforts to lead him to the residence of Jane Morton have been unavailing. Now, you see, he is on the eve of going back to Chicago." "Well, then, let him go," said Brenton, despondently. "With all my heart, say I," answered Speed; "but in any case let us leave him alone." Before the train started that night Stratton said to himself that he was a new man. Richard was himself again. He was thoroughly convinced of the guilt of Stephen Roland, and wondered why he had allowed his mind to wander off the topic and waste time with other suspicions, for which he now saw there was no real excuse. He had not the time, he felt, to investigate the subject personally, but he flattered himself he knew exactly the man to put on Roland's track, and, instead of going himself to Chicago, he sent off the following despatch:-- "Meet me to-morrow morning, without fail, at the Gibson House. Answer." Before midnight he had his answer, and next morning he met a man in whom he had the most implicit confidence, and who had, as he said, the rare and valuable gift of keeping his mouth shut. "You see this portrait?" Stratton said, handing to the other a photograph of Stephen Roland. "Now, I do not know how many hundred chemist shops there are in Cincinnati, but I want you to get a list of them, and you must not omit the most obscure shop in town. I want you to visit every drug store there is in the city, show this photograph to the proprietor and the clerks, and find out if that man bought any chemicals during the week or two preceding Christmas. Find out what drugs he bought, and where he bought them, then bring the information to me." "How much time do you give me on this, Mr. Stratton?" was the question. "Whatever time you want. I wish the thing done thoroughly and completely, and, as you know, silence is golden in a case like this." [Illustration: "How much time do you give me?"] "Enough said," replied the other, and, buttoning the photograph in his inside pocket, he left the room. * * * * * There is no necessity of giving an elaborate report of the trial. Any one who has curiosity in the matter can find the full particulars from the files of any paper in the country. Mrs. Brenton was very pale as she sat in the prisoner's dock, but George Stratton thought he never saw any one look so beautiful. It seemed to him that any man in that crowded courtroom could tell in a moment that she was not guilty of the crime with which she was charged, and he looked at the jury of twelve supposedly good men, and wondered what they thought of it. [Illustration: In the prisoner's dock.] The defence claimed that it was not their place to show who committed the murder. That rested with the prosecution. The prosecution, Mr. Benham maintained, had signally failed to do this. However, in order to aid the prosecution, he was quite willing to show how Mr. Brenton came to his death. Then witnesses were called, who, to the astonishment of Mrs. Brenton, testified that her husband had all along had a tendency to insanity. It was proved conclusively that some of his ancestors had died in a lunatic asylum, and one was stated to have committed suicide. The defence produced certain books from Mr. Brenton's library, among them Forbes Winslow's volume on "The Mind and the Brain," to show that Brenton had studied the subject of suicide. The judge's charge was very colourless. It amounted simply to this: If the jury thought the prosecution had shown Mrs. Brenton to have committed the crime, they were to bring in a verdict of guilty, and if they thought otherwise they were to acquit her; and so the jury retired. As they left the court-room a certain gloom fell upon all those who were friendly to the fair prisoner. Despite the great reputation of Benham and Brown, it was the thought of every one present that they had made a very poor defence. The prosecution, on the other hand, had been most ably conducted. It had been shown that Mrs. Brenton was chiefly to profit by her husband's death. The insurance fund alone would add seventy-five thousand dollars to the money she would control. A number of little points that Stratton had given no heed to had been magnified, and appeared then to have a great bearing on the case. For the first time, Stratton admitted to himself that the prosecution had made out a very strong case of circumstantial evidence. The defence, too, had been so deplorably weak that it added really to the strength of the prosecution. A great speech had been expected of Benham, but he did not rise to the occasion, and, as one who knew him said, Benham evidently believed his client guilty. As the jury retired, every one in the court-room felt that there was little hope for the prisoner; and this feeling was intensified when, a few moments after, the announcement was made in court, just as the judge was preparing to leave the bench, that the jury had agreed on the verdict. Stratton, in the stillness of the court-room, heard one lawyer whisper to another, "She's doomed." There was intense silence as the jury slowly filed into their places, and the foreman stood up. "Gentlemen of the jury," was the question, "have you agreed upon a verdict?" "We have," answered the foreman. "Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?" "Not guilty," was the clear answer. At this there was first a moment of silence, and then a ripple of applause, promptly checked. Mrs. Brenton was free.

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George Stratton sat in the court-room for a moment dazed, before he thought of the principal figure in the trial; then he rose to go to her side, but he found that Roland was there before him. He heard her say, "Get me a carriage quickly, and take me away from here." So Stratton went back to his hotel to meet his Chicago detective. The latter had nothing to report. He told him the number of drug stores he had visited, but all without avail. No one had recognized the portrait. "All right," said Stratton; "then you will just have to go ahead until you find somebody who does. It is, I believe, only a question of time and perseverance." Next morning he arose late. He looked over the report of the trial in the morning paper, and then, turning to the leader page, read with rising indignation the following editorial:-- "THE BRENTON CASE. "The decision of yesterday shows the glorious uncertainty that attends the finding of the average American jury. If such verdicts are to be rendered, we may as well blot out from the statute-book all punishment for all crimes in which the evidence is largely circumstantial. If ever a strong case was made out against a human being it was the case of the prosecution in the recent trial. If ever there was a case in which the defence was deplorably weak, although ably conducted, it was the case that was concluded yesterday. Should we, then, be prepared to say that circumstantial evidence will not be taken by an American jury as ground for the conviction of a murderer? The chances are that, if we draw this conclusion, we shall be entirely wrong. If a man stood in the dock, in the place of the handsome young woman who occupied it yesterday, he would to-day have been undoubtedly convicted of murder. The conclusion, then, to be arrived at seems to be that, unless there is the direct proof of murder against a pretty woman, it is absolutely impossible to get the average jury of men to convict her. It would seem that the sooner we get women on juries, especially where a woman is on trial, the better it will be for the cause of justice." Then in other parts of the paper there were little items similar to this-- "If Mrs. Brenton did not poison her husband, then who did?" That afternoon George Stratton paid a visit to Mrs. Brenton. He had hoped she had not seen the paper in question, but he hoped in vain. He found Mrs. Brenton far from elated with her acquittal. "I would give everything I possess," she said, "to bring the culprit to justice." After a talk on that momentous question, and when George Stratton held her hand and said good-bye, she asked him-- "When do you go to Chicago?" "Madam," he said, "I leave for Chicago the moment I find out who poisoned William Brenton." She answered sadly-- "You may remain a long time in Cincinnati." "In some respects," said Stratton, "I like Cincinnati better than Chicago." "You are the first Chicago man I ever heard say that," she replied. "Ah, that was because they did not know Cincinnati as I do." "I suppose you must have seen a great deal of the town, but I must confess that from now on I should be very glad if I never saw Cincinnati again. I would like to consult with you," she continued, "about the best way of solving this mystery. I have been thinking of engaging some of the best detectives I can get. I suppose New York would be the place." "No; Chicago," answered the young man. "Well, then, that is what I wanted to see you about. I would like to get the very best detectives that can be had. Don't you think that, if they were promised ample reward, and paid well during the time they were working on the case, we might discover the key to this mystery?" "I do not think much of our detective system," answered Stratton, "although I suppose there is something in it, and sometimes they manage in spite of themselves to stumble on the solution of a crime. Still, I shall be very glad indeed to give you what advice I can on the subject. I may say I have constituted myself a special detective in this case, and that I hope to have the honour of solving the problem." "You are very good, indeed," she answered, "and I must ask you to let me bear the expense." "Oh, the paper will do that. I won't be out of pocket at all," said Stratton. "Well, I hardly know how to put it; but, whether you are successful or not, I feel very grateful to you, and I hope you will not be offended at what I am going to say. Now, promise me that you won't!" "I shall not be offended," he answered. "It is a little difficult to offend a Chicago newspaper man, you know." "Now, you mustn't say anything against the newspaper men, for, in spite of the hard things that some of them have said about me, I like them." "Individually or collectively?" [Illustration: "I feel very grateful to you."] "I am afraid I must say individually. You said you wouldn't be offended, so after your search is over you must let me----. The labourer is worthy of his hire, or I should say, his reward--you know what I mean. I presume that a young man who earns his living on the daily press is not necessarily wealthy." "Why, Mrs. Brenton, what strange ideas you have of the world! We newspaper men work at the business merely because we like it. It isn't at all for the money that's in it." "Then you are not offended at what I have said?" "Oh, not in the least. I may say, however, that I look for a higher reward than money if I am successful in this search." "Yes, I am sure you do," answered the lady, innocently. "If you succeed in this, you will be very famous." "Exactly; it's fame I'm after," said Stratton, shaking her hand once more, and taking his leave. When he reached his hotel, he found the Chicago detective waiting for him. "Well, old man," he said, "anything new?" "Yes, sir. Something very new." "What have you found out?" "Everything." "Very well, let me have it." "I found out that this man bought, on December 10th, thirty grains of morphia. He had this morphia put up in five-grain capsules. He bought this at the drug store on the corner of Blank Street and Nemo Avenue." "Good gracious!" answered Stratton. "Then to get morphia he must have had a physician's certificate. Did you find who the physician was that signed the certificate?" "My dear sir," said the Chicago man, "this person is himself a physician, unless I am very much mistaken. I was told that this was the portrait of Stephen Roland. Am I right?" "That is the name." "Well, then, he is a doctor himself. Not doing a very large practice, it is true, but he is a physician. Did you not know that?" [Illustration: "Here's the detailed report."] "No," said Stratton; "how stupid I am! I never thought of asking the man's occupation." "Very well, if that is what you wanted to know, here's the detailed report of my investigation." When the man left, Stratton rubbed his hands. "Now, Mr. Stephen Roland, I have you," he said.

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After receiving this information Stratton sat alone in his room and thought deeply over his plans. He did not wish to make a false step, yet there was hardly enough in the evidence he had secured to warrant his giving Stephen Roland up to the police. Besides this, it would put the suspected man at once on his guard, and there was no question but that gentleman had taken every precaution to prevent discovery. After deliberating for a long while, he thought that perhaps the best thing he could do was to endeavour to take Roland by surprise. Meanwhile, before the meditating man stood Brenton and Speed, and between them there was a serious disagreement of opinion. * * * * * "I tell you what it is," said Speed, "there is no use in our interfering with Stratton. He is on the wrong track, but, nevertheless, all the influence we can use on him in his present frame of mind will merely do what it did before--it will muddle the man up. Now, I propose that we leave him severely alone. Let him find out his mistake. He will find it out in some way or other, and then he will be in a condition of mind to turn to the case of Jane Morton." "But don't you see," argued Brenton, "that all the time spent on his present investigation is so much time lost? I will agree to leave him alone, as you say, but let us get somebody else on the Morton case." "I don't want to do that," said Speed; "because George Stratton has taken a great deal of interest in this search. He has done a great deal now, and I think we should he grateful to him for it." "Grateful!" growled Brenton; "he has done it from the most purely selfish motives that a man can act upon. He has done it entirely for his paper--for newspaper fame. He has done it for money." "Now," said Speed, hotly, "you must not talk like that of Stratton to me. I won't say what I think of that kind of language coming from you, but you can see how seriously we interfered with his work before, and how it nearly resulted in his departure for Chicago. I propose now that we leave him alone." "Leave him alone, then, for any sake," replied Brenton; "I am sure I build nothing on what he can do anyway." "All right, then," returned Speed, recovering his good nature. "Now, although I am not willing to put any one else on the track of Miss Jane Morton, yet I will tell you what I am willing to do. If you like, we will go to her residence, and influence her to confess her crime. I believe that can be done." "Very well; I want you to understand that I am perfectly reasonable about the matter. All I want is not to lose any more time." "Time?" cried Speed; "why, we have got all the time there is. Mrs. Brenton is acquitted. There is no more danger." "That is perfectly true, I admit; but still you can see the grief under which she labours, because her name is not yet cleared from the odium of the crime. You will excuse me, Speed, if I say that you seem to be working more in the interests of Stratton's journalistic success than in the interests of Mrs. Brenton's good name." "Well, we won't talk about that," said Speed; "Stratton is amply able to take care of himself, as you will doubtless see. Now, what do you say to our trying whether or not we can influence Jane Morton to do what she ought to do, and confess her crime?" "It is not a very promising task," replied Brenton; "it is hard to get a person to say words that may lead to the gallows." "I'm not so sure about that," said Speed; "you know the trouble of mind she is in. I think it more than probable that, after the terror of the last few weeks, it will be a relief for her to give herself up." "Very well; let us go." The two men shortly afterwards found themselves in the scantily furnished room occupied by Jane Morton. That poor woman was rocking herself to and fro and moaning over her trouble. Then she suddenly stopped rocking, and looked around the room with vague apprehension in her eyes. She rose and examined the bolts of the door, and, seeing everything was secure, sat down again. "I shall never have any peace in this world again," she cried to herself. She rocked back and forth silently for a few moments. "I wish," she said, "the police would find out all about it, and then this agony of mind would end." Again she rocked back and forth, with her hands helplessly in her lap. "Oh, I cannot do it, _I cannot do it_!" she sobbed, still rocking to and fro. Finally she started to her feet. "I _will_ do it," she cried; "I will confess to Mrs. Brenton herself. I will tell her everything. She has gone through trouble herself, and may have mercy on me." "There, you see," said Speed to Brenton, "we have overcome the difficulty, after all." "It certainly looks like it," replied Brenton. "Don't you think, however, that we had better stay with her until she _does_ confess? May she not change her mind?" "Don't let us overdo the thing," suggested Speed; "if she doesn't, come to time, we can easily have another interview with her. The woman's mind is made up. She is in torment, and will be until she confesses her crime. Let us go and leave her alone." * * * * * George Stratton was not slow to act when he had once made up his mind. He pinned to the breast of his vest a little shield, on which was the word "detective." This he had often found useful, in a way that is not at all sanctioned by the law, in ferreting out crime in Chicago. As soon as it was evening he paced up and down in front of Roland's house, and on the opposite side of the road. There was a light in the doctor's study, and he thought that perhaps the best way to proceed was to go boldly into the house and put his scheme into operation. However, as he meditated on this, the light was turned low, and in a few moments the door opened. The doctor came down the steps, and out on the pavement, walking briskly along the street. The reporter followed him on the other side of the thoroughfare. Whether to do it in the dark or in the light, was the question that troubled Stratton. If he did it in the dark, he would miss the expression on the face of the surprised man. If he did it in the light, the doctor might recognize him as the Chicago reporter, and would know at once that he was no detective. Still, he felt that if there was anything in his scheme at all, it was surprise; and he remembered the quick gasp of the lawyer Brown when he told him he knew what his defence was. He must be able to note the expression of the man who was guilty of the terrible crime. Having made up his mind to this, he stepped smartly after the doctor, and, when the latter came under a lamp-post, placed his hand suddenly on his shoulder, and exclaimed-- "Doctor Stephen Roland, I arrest you for the murder of William Brenton!"

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Stephen Roland turned quietly around and shook the hand from his shoulder. It was evident that he recognized Stratton instantly. "Is this a Chicago joke?" asked the doctor. "If it is, Mr. Roland, I think you will find it a very serious one." "Aren't you afraid that _you_ may find it a serious one?" "I don't see why I should have any fears in the premises," answered the newspaper man. "My dear sir, do you not realize that I could knock you down or shoot you dead for what you have done, and be perfectly justified in doing so?" "If you either knock or shoot," replied the other, "you will have to do it very quickly, for, in the language of the wild and woolly West, I've got the drop on you. In my coat pocket is a cocked revolver with my forefinger on the trigger. If you make a hostile move I can let daylight through you so quickly that you won't know what has struck you." "Electric light, I think you mean," answered the doctor, quietly. "Even a Chicago man might find it difficult to let daylight through a person at this time in the evening. Now, this sort of thing may be Chicago manners, but I assure you it will not go down here in Cincinnati. You have rendered yourself liable to the law if I cared to make a point of it, but I do not. Come back with me to my study. I would like to talk with you." Stratton began to feel vaguely that he had made a fool of himself. His scheme had utterly failed. The doctor was a great deal cooler and more collected than he was. Nevertheless, he had a deep distrust of the gentleman, and he kept his revolver handy for fear the other would make a dash to escape him. They walked back without saying a word to each other until they came to the doctor's office. Into the house they entered, and the doctor bolted the door behind them. Stratton suspected that very likely he was walking into a trap, but he thought he would be equal to any emergency that might arise. The doctor walked into the study, and again locked the door of that. Pulling down the blinds, he turned up the gas to its full force and sat down by a table, motioning the newspaper man to a seat on the other side. "Now," he said calmly to Stratton, "the reason I did not resent your unwarrantable insult is this: You are conscientiously trying to get at the root of this mystery. So am I. Your reason is that you wish to score a victory for your paper. My motive is entirely different, but our object is exactly the same. Now, by some strange combination of circumstances you have come to the conclusion that I committed the crime. Am I right?" "You are perfectly correct, doctor," replied Stratton. "Very well, then. Now, I assure you that I am entirely innocent. Of course, I appreciate the fact that this assurance will not in the slightest degree affect your opinion, but I am interested in knowing why you came to your conclusion, and perhaps by putting our heads together, even if I dislike you and you hate me, we may see some light on this matter that has hitherto been hidden. I presume you have no objection at all to co-operate with me?" "None in the least," was the reply. "Very well, then. Now, don't mind my feelings at all, but tell me exactly why you have suspected me of being a murderer." "Well," answered Stratton, "in the first place we must look for a motive. It seems to me that you have a motive for the crime." "And might I ask what that motive is, or was?" "You will admit that you disliked Brenton?" "I will admit that, yes." "Very well. You will admit also that you were--well, how shall I put it? --let us say, interested in his wife before her marriage?" "I will admit that; yes." "You, perhaps, will admit that you are interested in her now?" "I do not see any necessity for admitting that; but still, for the purpose of getting along with the case, I will admit it. Go on." "Very good. Here is a motive for the crime, and a very strong one. First, we will presume that you are in love with the wife of the man who is murdered. Secondly, supposing that you are mercenary, quite a considerable amount of money will come to you in case you marry Brenton's widow. Next, some one at that table poisoned him. It was not Mrs. Brenton, who poured out the cup of coffee. The cup of coffee was placed before Brenton, and my opinion is that, until it was placed there, there was no poison in that cup. The doomed man was entirely unsuspicious, and therefore it was very easy for a person to slip enough poison in that cup unseen by anybody at that table, so that when he drank his coffee nothing could have saved him. He rose from the table feeling badly, and he went to his room and died. Now, who could have placed that poison in his cup of coffee? It must have been one of the two that sat at his right and left hand. A young lady sat at his right hand. She certainly did not commit the crime. You, Stephen Roland, sat at his left hand. Do you deny any of the facts I have recited?" "That is a very ingenious chain of circumstantial evidence. Of course, you do not think it strong enough to convict a man of such a serious crime as murder?" "No; I quite realize the weakness of the case up to this point. But there is more to follow. Fourteen days before that dinner you purchased at the drug store on the corner of Blank Street and Nemo Avenue thirty grains of morphia. You had the poison put up in capsules of five grains each. What do you say to that bit of evidence added to the circumstantial chain which you say is ingenious?" The doctor knit his brows and leaned back in his chair. "By the gods!" he said, "you are right. I did buy that morphia. I remember it now. I don't mind telling you that I had a number of experiments on hand, as every doctor has, and I had those capsules put up at the drug store, but this tragedy coming on made me forget all about the matter." "Did you take the morphia with you, doctor?" "No, I did not. And the box of capsules, I do not think, has been opened. But that is easily ascertained." The doctor rose, went to his cabinet, and unlocked it. From a number of packages he selected a small one, and brought it to the desk, placing it before the reporter. "There is the package. That contains, as you say, thirty grains of morphia in half a dozen five-grain capsules. You see that it is sealed just as it left the drug store. Now, open it and look for yourself. Here are scales; if you want to see whether a single grain is missing or not, find out for yourself. "Perhaps," said the newspaper man, "we had better leave this investigation for the proper authorities." "Then you still believe that I am the murderer of William Brenton?" "Yes, I still believe that." "Very well; you may do as you please. I think, however, in justice to myself, you should stay right here, and see that this box is not tampered with until the proper authorities, as you say, come." Then, placing his hand on the bell, he continued--"Whom shall I send for? An ordinary policeman, or some one from the central office? But, now that I think of it, here is a telephone. We can have any one brought here that you wish. I prefer that neither you nor I leave this room until that functionary has appeared. Name the authority you want brought here," said the doctor, going to the telephone, "and I will have him here if he is in town." The newspaper man was nonplussed. The Doctor's actions did not seem like those of a guilty man. If he were guilty he certainly had more nerve than any person Stratton had ever met. So he hesitated. Then he said-- "Sit down a moment, doctor, and let us talk this thing over." "Just as you say," remarked Roland, drawing up his chair again. Stratton took the package, and looked it over carefully. It was certainly just in the condition in which it had left the drug store; but still, that could have been easily done by the doctor himself. "Suppose we open this package?" he said to Roland. "With all my heart," said the doctor, "go ahead;" and he shoved over to him a little penknife that was on the table. The reporter took the package, ran the knife around the edge, and opened it. There lay six capsules, filled, as the doctor had said. Roland picked up one of them, and looked at it critically. "I assure you," he said, "although I am quite aware you do not believe a word I say, that I have not seen those capsules before." He drew towards him a piece of paper, opened the capsule, and, let the white powder fall on the paper. He looked critically at the powder, and a shade of astonishment came over his face. He picked up the penknife, took a particle on the tip of it, and touched it with his tongue. "Don't fool with that thing!" said Stratton. "Oh, my dear fellow," he said, "morphia is not a poison in small quantities." The moment he had tasted it, however, he suddenly picked up the paper, put the five grains on his tongue, and swallowed them. Instantly the reporter sprang to his feet. He saw at once the reason for all the assumed coolness. The doctor was merely gaining time in order to commit suicide. "What have you done?" cried the reporter. "Done, my dear fellow? nothing very much. This is not morphia; it is sulphate of quinine."

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In the morning Jane Morton prepared to meet Mrs. Brenton, and make her confession. She called at the Brenton residence, but found it closed, as it had been ever since the tragedy of Christmas morning. It took her some time to discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Brenton, who, since the murder, had resided with a friend except while under arrest. For a moment Mrs. Brenton did not recognize the thin and pale woman who stood before her in a state of such extreme nervous agitation, that it seemed as if at any moment she might break down and cry. "I don't suppose you'll remember me, ma'am," began the girl, "but I worked for you two weeks before--before----" "Oh yes," said Mrs. Brenton, "I remember you now. Have you been ill? You look quite worn and pale, and very different from what you did the last time I saw you." "Yes," said the girl, "I believe I have been ill." . "You _believe_; aren't you sure?" "I have been very ill in mind, and troubled, and that is the reason I look so badly,--Oh, Mrs. Brenton, I wanted to tell you of something that has been weighing on my mind ever since that awful day! I know you can never forgive me, but I must tell it to you, or I shall go crazy." "Sit down, sit down," said the lady, kindly; "you know what trouble I have been in myself. I am sure that I am more able to sympathize now with one who is in trouble than ever I was before." "Yes, ma'am; but you were innocent, and I am guilty. That makes all the difference in the world." "Guilty!" cried Mrs. Brenton, a strange fear coming over her as she stared at the girl; "guilty of _what_?" "Oh, madam, let me tell you all about it. There is, of course, no excuse; but I'll begin at the beginning. You remember a while before Christmas that John came to see me one night, and we sat up very late in the kitchen, and your husband came down quietly, and when we heard him coming we put out the light and just as John was trying to get away, your husband shot twice at him, and hit him the second time?" "Oh yes," said Mrs. Brenton, "I remember that very well. I had forgotten about it in my own trouble; but I know that my husband intended to do something for the young man. I hope he was not seriously hurt?" [Illustration: "Guilty! Guilty of what?"] "No, ma'am; he is able to be about again now as well as ever, and is not even lame, which we expected he would be. But at the time I thought he was going to be lame all the rest of his life, and perhaps that is the reason I did what I did. When everything was in confusion in the house, and it was certain that we would all have to leave, I did a very wicked thing. I went to your room, and I stole some of your rings, and some money that was there, as well as a lot of other things that were in the room. It seemed to me then, although, of course, I know now how wicked it was, that you owed John something for what he had gone through, and I thought that he was to be lame, and that you would never miss the things; but, oh! madam, I have not slept a night since I took them. I have been afraid of the police and afraid of being found out. I have pawned nothing, and they are all just as I took them, and I have brought them back here to you, with every penny of the money. I know you can never forgive me, but I am willing now to be given up to the police, and I feel better in my mind than I have done ever since I took the things." "My poor child!" said Mrs. Brenton, sympathetically, "was that _all_?" "All?" cried the girl. "Yes, I have brought everything back." "Oh, I don't mean that, but I am sorry you have been worried over anything so trivial. I can see how at such a time, and feeling that you had been wronged, a temptation to take the things came to you. But I hope you will not trouble any more about the matter. I will see that John is compensated for all the injury he received, as far as it is possible for money to compensate him. I hope you will keep the money. The other things, of course, I shall take back, and I am glad you came to tell me of it before telling any one else. I think, perhaps, it is better never to say anything to anybody about this. People might not understand just what temptation you were put to, and they would not know the circumstances of the case, because nobody knows, I think, that John was hurt. Now, my dear girl, do not cry. It is all right. Of course you never will touch anything again that does not belong to you, and the suffering you have gone through has more than made up for all the wrong you have done. I am sure that I forgive you quite freely for it, and I think it was very noble of you to come and tell me about it." Mrs. Brenton took the package from the hands of the weeping girl, and opened it. She found everything there, as the girl had said. She took the money and offered it to Jane Morton. The girl shook her head. "No," she cried, "I cannot touch it. I cannot, indeed. It has been enough misery to me already." "Very well," said Mrs. Brenton. "I would like very much to see John. Will you bring him to me?" The girl looked at her with startled eyes. "You will not tell him?" she said. "No indeed, I shall tell him nothing. But I want to do what I can for him as I said. I suppose you are engaged to be married?" "Yes," answered the girl; "but if he knew of this he never, never would marry me." "If he did not," said Mrs. Brenton, "he would not be worthy of you. But he shall know nothing about it. You will promise to come here and see me with him, will you not?" "Yes, madam," said the girl. "Then good-bye, until I see you again." Mrs. Brenton sat for a long time thinking over this confession. It took her some time to recover her usual self-possession, because for a moment she had thought the girl was going to confess that she committed murder. In comparison with that awful crime, the theft seemed so trivial that Mrs. Brenton almost smiled when she thought of the girl's distress. * * * * * "Well," said John Speed to Mr. Brenton, "if that doesn't beat the Old Harry. Now I, for one, am very glad of it, if we come to the real truth of the matter." "I am glad also," said Brenton, "that the girl is not guilty, although I must say things looked decidedly against her." "I will tell you why I am glad," said Speed. "I am glad because it will take some of the superfluous conceit out of that French detective Lecocq. He was so awfully sure of himself. He couldn't possibly be mistaken. Now, think of the mistakes that man must have made while he was on earth, and had the power which was given into his hands in Paris. After all, Stratton is on the right track, and he will yet land your friend Roland in prison. Let us go and find Lecocq. This is too good to keep." "My dear sir," said Brenton, "you seem to be more elated because of your friend Stratton than for any other reason. Don't you want the matter ferreted out at all?" "Why, certainly I do; but I don't want it ferreted out by bringing an innocent person into trouble." "And may not Stephen Roland be an innocent person?" "Oh, I suppose so; but I do not think he is." "Why do you not think so?" "Well, if you want the real reason, simply because George Stratton thinks he isn't. I pin my faith to Stratton." "I think you overrate your friend Stratton." "Overrate him, sir? That is impossible. I love him so well that I hope he will solve this mystery himself, unaided and alone, and that in going back to Chicago he will be smashed to pieces in a railway accident, so that we can have him here to congratulate him."

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"I suppose," said Roland, "you thought for a moment I was trying to commit suicide. I think, Mr. Stratton, you will have a better opinion of me by-and-by. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you imagined I induced you to come in here to get you into a trap." "You are perfectly correct," said Stratton; "and I may say, although that was my belief, I was not in the least afraid of you, for I had you covered all the time." "Well," remarked Roland, carelessly, "I don't want to interfere with your business at all, but I wish you wouldn't cover me quite so much; that revolver of yours might go off." "Do you mean to say," said Stratton, "that there is nothing but quinine in those capsules?" "I'll tell you in a moment," as he opened them one by one. "No, there is nothing but quinine here. Thirty grains put up in five-grain capsules." George Stratton's eyes began to open. Then he slowly rose, and looked with horrified face at the doctor. "My God!" he cried; "who got the thirty grains of morphia?" "What do you mean?" asked the doctor. "Mean? Why, don't you see it? It is a chemist's mistake. Thirty grains of quinine have been sent you. Thirty grains of morphia have been sent to somebody else. Was it to William Brenton?" "By Jove!" said the doctor, "there's something in that. Say, let us go to the drug store." The two went out together, and walked to the drug store on the corner of Blank Street and Nemo Avenue. "Do you know this writing?" said Doctor Roland to the druggist, pointing to the label on the box. "Yes," answered the druggist; "that was written by one of my assistants." "Can we see him for a few moments?" "I don't know where he is to be found. He is a worthless fellow, and has gone to the devil this last few weeks with a rapidity that is something startling." "When did he leave?" "Well, he got drunk and stayed drunk during the holidays, and I had to discharge him. He was a very valuable man when he was sober; but he began to be so erratic in his habits that I was afraid he would make a ghastly mistake some time, so I discharged him before it was too late." "Are you sure you discharged him before it was too late?" The druggist looked at the doctor, whom he knew well, and said, "I never heard of any mistake, if he did make it." "You keep a book, of course, of all the prescriptions sent out?" "Certainly." "May we look at that book?" "I shall be very glad to show it to you. What month or week?" "I want to see what time you sent this box of morphia to me." "You don't know about what time it was, do you? "Yes; it must have been about two weeks before Christmas." The chemist looked over the pages of the book, and finally said, "Here it is." "Will you let me look at that page?" "Certainly." The doctor ran his finger down the column, and came to an entry written in the same hand. "Look here," he said to Stratton, "thirty grains of quinine sent to William Brenton, and next to it thirty grains of morphia sent to Stephen Roland. I see how it was. Those prescriptions were mixed up. My package went to poor Brenton." The druggist turned pale. "I hope," he said, "nothing public will come of this." "My dear sir," said Roland, "something public will _have_ to come of it. You will oblige me by ringing up the central police station, as this book must be given in charge of the authorities." "Look here," put in Stratton, his newspaper instinct coming uppermost, "I want to get this thing exclusively for the _Argus_." "Oh, I guess there will be no trouble about that. Nothing will be made public until to-morrow, and you can telegraph to-night if we find the box of capsules in Brenton's residence. We must take an officer with us for that purpose, but you can caution or bribe him to keep quiet until to-morrow." When the three went to William Brenton's residence they began a search of the room in which Brenton had died, but nothing was found. In the closet of the room hung the clothes of Brenton, and going through them Stratton found in the vest pocket of one of the suits a small box containing what was described as five-grain capsules of sulphate of quinine. The doctor tore one of these capsules apart, so as to see what was in it. Without a moment's hesitation he said-- "There you are! That is the morphia. There were six capsules in this box, and one of them is missing. William Brenton poisoned himself! Feeling ill, he doubtless took what he thought was a dose of quinine. Many men indulge in what we call the quinine habit. It is getting to be a mild form of tippling. Brenton committed unconscious suicide!" [Illustration]

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A group of men; who were really alive, but invisible to the searchers, stood in the room where the discovery was made. Two of the number were evidently angry, one in one way and one in another. The rest of the group appeared to be very merry. One angry man was Brenton himself, who was sullenly enraged. The other was the Frenchman, Lecocq, who was as deeply angered as Brenton, but, instead of being sullen, was exceedingly voluble. "I tell you," he cried, "it is not a mistake of mine. I went on correct principles from the first. I was misled by one who should have known better. You will remember, gentlemen," he continued, turning first to one and then the other, "that what I said was that we had certain facts to go on. One of those facts I got from Mr. Brenton. I said to him in your presence, 'Did you poison yourself?' He answered me, as I can prove by all of you, 'No, I did not.' I took that for a fact. I thought I was speaking to a reasonable man who knew what he was talking about." "Haven't I told you time and again," answered Brenton, indignantly, "that it was a mistake? You asked me if I poisoned myself. I answered you that I did not. Your question related to suicide. I did _not_ commit suicide. I was the victim of a druggist's mistake. If you had asked me if I had taken medicine before I went to bed, I should have told you frankly, 'Yes. I took one capsule of quinine.' It has been my habit for years, when I feel badly. I thought nothing of that." "My dear sir," said Lecocq, "I warned you, and I warned these gentlemen, that the very things that seem trivial to a thoughtless person are the things that sometimes count. You should have told me _everything_. If you took anything at all, you should have said so. If you had said to me, 'Monsieur Lecocq, before I retired I took five grains of quinine,' I should have at once said; 'Find where that quinine is, and see if it _is_ quinine, and see if there has not been a mistake.' I was entirely misled; I was stupidly misled." "Well, if there was stupidity," returned Brenton, "it was your own." "Come, come, gentlemen," laughed Speed, "all's well that ends well. Everybody has been mistaken, that's all about it. The best detective minds of Europe and America, of the world, and of the spirit-land, have been misled. You are _all_ wrong. Admit it, and let it end." "My dear sir," said Lecocq, "I shall not admit anything. I was not wrong; I was misled. It was this way----" "Oh, now, for goodness' sake don't go over it all again. We understand the circumstances well enough." "I tell you," cried Brenton, in an angry tone, "that---- "Come, come," said Speed, "we have had enough of this discussion. I tell you that you are all wrong, every one of you. Come with me, Brenton, and we will leave this amusing crowd." "I shall do nothing of the kind," answered Brenton, shortly. "Oh, very well then, do as you please. I am glad the thing is ended, and I am glad it is ended by my Chicago friend." "Your Chicago friend!" sneered Brenton, slightingly; "It was discovered by Doctor Stephen Roland." "My dear fellow," said Speed, "Stephen Roland had all his time to discover the thing, and didn't do it, and never would have done it, if George Stratton hadn't encountered him. Well, good-bye, gentlemen; I am sorry to say that I have had quite enough of this discussion. But one thing looms up above it all, and that is that Chicago is ahead of the world in everything--in detection as well as in fires." "My dear sir," cried Lecocq, "it is not true. I will show you in a moment--" "You won't show _me_," said Speed, and he straightway disappeared. "Come, Ferris," said Brenton, "after all, you are the only friend I seem to have; come with me." "Where are you going?" asked Ferris, as they left. "I want to see how my wife takes the news." "Don't," said Mr. Ferris--"don't do anything of the kind. Leave matters just where they are. Everything has turned out what you would call all right. You see that your interference, as far as it went, was perfectly futile and useless. I want now to draw your attention to other things." "Very well, I will listen to you," said Brenton, "if you come with me and see how my wife takes the news. I want to enjoy for even a moment or two her relief and pleasure at finding that her good name is clear." "Very well," assented Ferris, "I will go with you." When they arrived they found the Chicago reporter ahead of them. He had evidently told Mrs. Brenton all the news, and her face flushed with eager pleasure as she listened to the recital. "Now," said the Chicago man, "I am going to leave Cincinnati. Are you sorry I am going?" "No," said Mrs. Brenton, looking him in the face, "I am not sorry." Stratton flushed at this, and then said, taking his hat in his hand, "Very well, madam, I shall bid you good day." "I am not sorry," said Mrs. Brenton, holding out her hand, "because I am going to leave Cincinnati myself, and I hope never to see the city again. So if you stayed here, you see, I should never meet you again, Mr. Stratton." "Alice," cried Stratton, impulsively grasping her hand in both of his, "don't you think you would like Chicago as a place of residence?" "George," she answered, "I do not know. I am going to Europe, and shall be there for a year or two." Then he said eagerly-- "When you return, or if I go over there to see you after a year or two, may I ask you that question again?" "Yes," was the whispered answer. * * * * * "Come," said Brenton to Ferris, "let us go."

1

A GENERAL PRACTITIONER

Drumtochty was accustomed to break every law of health, except wholesome food and fresh air, and yet had reduced the Psalmist's farthest limit to an average life-rate. Our men made no difference in their clothes for summer or winter, Drumsheugh and one or two of the larger farmers condescending to a topcoat on Sabbath, as a penalty of their position, and without regard to temperature. They wore their blacks at a funeral, refusing to cover them with anything, out of respect to the deceased, and standing longest in the kirkyard when the north wind was blowing across a hundred miles of snow. If the rain was pouring at the Junction, then Drumtochty stood two minutes longer through sheer native dourness till each man had a cascade from the tail of his coat, and hazarded the suggestion, halfway to Kildrummie, that it had been “a bit scrowie,” a “scrowie” being as far short of a “shoor” as a “shoor” fell below “weet.” [Illustration: SANDY STEWART “NAPPED” STONES] This sustained defiance of the elements provoked occasional judgments in the shape of a “hoast” (cough), and the head of the house was then exhorted by his women folk to “change his feet” if he had happened to walk through a burn on his way home, and was pestered generally with sanitary precautions. It is right to add that the gudeman treated such advice with contempt, regarding it as suitable for the effeminacy of towns, but not seriously intended for Drumtochty. Sandy Stewart “napped” stones on the road in his shirt sleeves, wet or fair, summer and winter, till he was persuaded to retire from active duty at eighty-five, and he spent ten years more in regretting his hastiness and criticising his successor. The ordinary course of life, with fine air and contented minds, was to do a full share of work till seventy, and then to look after “orra” jobs well into the eighties, and to “slip awa” within sight of ninety. Persons above ninety were understood to be acquitting themselves with credit, and assumed airs of authority, brushing aside the opinions of seventy as immature, and confirming their conclusions with illustrations drawn from the end of last century. When Hillocks' brother so far forgot himself as to “slip awa” at sixty, that worthy man was scandalized, and offered laboured explanations at the “beerial.” “It's an awfu' business ony wy ye look at it, an' a sair trial tae us a'. A' never heard tell o' sic a thing in oor family afore, an' it's no easy accoontin' for't. “The gudewife was sayin' he wes never the same sin' a weet nicht he lost himsel on the muir and slept below a bush; but that's neither here nor there. A'm thinkin' he sappit his constitution thae twa years he wes grieve aboot England. That wes thirty years syne, but ye're never the same aifter thae foreign climates.” Drumtochty listened patiently to Hillocks' apology, but was not satisfied. “It's clean havers about the muir. Losh keep's, we've a' sleepit oot and never been a hair the waur. “A' admit that England micht hae dune the job; it's no cannie stravagin' yon wy frae place tae place, but Drums never complained tae me if he hed been nippit in the Sooth.” The parish had, in fact, lost confidence in Drums after his wayward experiment with a potato-digging machine, which turned out a lamentable failure, and his premature departure confirmed our vague impression of his character. “He's awa noo,” Drumsheugh summed up, after opinion had time to form; “an' there were waur fouk than Drums, but there's nae doot he was a wee flichty.” When illness had the audacity to attack a Drumtochty man, it was described as a “whup,” and was treated by the men with a fine negligence. Hillocks was sitting in the post-office one afternoon when I looked in for my letters, and the right side of his face was blazing red. His subject of discourse was the prospects of the turnip “breer,” but he casually explained that he was waiting for medical advice. “The gudewife is keepin' up a ding-dong frae mornin' till nicht aboot ma face, and a'm fair deaved (deafened), so a'm watchin' for MacLure tae get a bottle as he comes wast; yon's him noo.” The doctor made his diagnosis from horseback on sight, and stated the result with that admirable clearness which endeared him to Drumtochty. “Confoond ye, Hillocks, what are ye ploiterin' aboot here for in the weet wi' a face like a boiled beet? Div ye no ken that ye've a titch o' the rose (erysipelas), and ocht tae be in the hoose? Gae hame wi' ye afore a' leave the bit, and send a haflin for some medicine. Ye donnerd idiot, are ye ettlin tae follow Drums afore yir time?” And the medical attendant of Drumtochty continued his invective till Hillocks started, and still pursued his retreating figure with medical directions of a simple and practical character. [Illustration: “THE GUDEWIFE IS KEEPIN' UP A DING-DONG”] “A'm watchin', an' peety ye if ye pit aff time. Keep yir bed the mornin', and dinna show yir face in the fields till a' see ye. A'll gie ye a cry on Monday--sic an auld fule--but there's no are o' them tae mind anither in the hale pairish.” Hillocks' wife informed the kirkyaird that the doctor “gied the gudeman an awfu' clear-in',” and that Hillocks “wes keepin' the hoose,” which meant that the patient had tea breakfast, and at that time was wandering about the farm buildings in an easy undress with his head in a plaid. It was impossible for a doctor to earn even the most modest competence from a people of such scandalous health, and so MacLure had annexed neighbouring parishes. His house--little more than a cottage--stood on the roadside among the pines towards the head of our Glen, and from this base of operations he dominated the wild glen that broke the wall of the Grampians above Drumtochty--where the snow drifts were twelve feet deep in winter, and the only way of passage at times was the channel of the river--and the moorland district westwards till he came to the Dunleith sphere of influence, where there were four doctors and a hydropathic. Drumtochty in its length, which was eight miles, and its breadth, which was four, lay in his hand; besides a glen behind, unknown to the world, which in the night time he visited at the risk of life, for the way thereto was across the big moor with its peat holes and treacherous bogs. And he held the land eastwards towards Muirtown so far as Geordie, the Drumtochty post, travelled every day, and could carry word that the doctor was wanted. He did his best for the need of every man, woman and child in this wild, straggling district, year in, year out, in the snow and in the heat, in the dark and in the light, without rest, and without holiday for forty years. One horse could not do the work of this man, but we liked best to see him on his old white mare, who died the week after her master, and the passing of the two did our hearts good. It was not that he rode beautifully, for he broke every canon of art, flying with his arms, stooping till he seemed to be speaking into Jess's ears, and rising in the saddle beyond all necessity. But he could rise faster, stay longer in the saddle, and had a firmer grip with his knees than any one I ever met, and it was all for mercy's sake. When the reapers in harvest time saw a figure whirling past in a cloud of dust, or the family at the foot of Glen Urtach, gathered round the fire on a winter's night, heard the rattle of a horse's hoofs on the road, or the shepherds, out after the sheep, traced a black speck moving across the snow to the upper glen, they knew it was the doctor, and, without being conscious of it, wished him God speed. [Illustration] Before and behind his saddle were strapped the instruments and medicines the doctor might want, for he never knew what was before him. There were no specialists in Drumtochty, so this man had to do everything as best he could, and as quickly. He was chest doctor and doctor for every other organ as well; he was accoucheur and surgeon; he was oculist and aurist; he was dentist and chloroformist, besides being chemist and druggist. It was often told how he was far up Glen Urtach when the feeders of the threshing mill caught young Burnbrae, and how he only stopped to change horses at his house, and galloped all the way to Burnbrae, and flung himself off his horse and amputated the arm, and saved the lad's life. “You wud hae thocht that every meenut was an hour,” said Jamie Soutar, who had been at the threshing, “an' a'll never forget the puir lad lying as white as deith on the floor o' the loft, wi' his head on a sheaf, an' Burnbrae haudin' the bandage ticht an' prayin' a' the while, and the mither greetin' in the corner. “'Will he never come?' she cries, an' a' heard the soond o' the horse's feet on the road a mile awa in the frosty air. “'The Lord be praised!' said Burnbrae, and a' slippit doon the ladder as the doctor came skelpin' intae the close, the foam fleein' frae his horse's mooth. “Whar is he?' wes a' that passed his lips, an' in five meenuts he hed him on the feedin' board, and wes at his wark--sic wark, neeburs--but he did it weel. An' ae thing a' thocht rael thochtfu' o' him: he first sent aff the laddie's mither tae get a bed ready. “Noo that's feenished, and his constitution 'ill dae the rest,” and he carried the lad doon the ladder in his airms like a bairn, and laid him in his bed, and waits aside him till he wes sleepin', and then says he: 'Burnbrae, yir gey lad never tae say 'Collie, will yelick?' for a' hevna tasted meat for saxteen hoors.' “It was michty tae see him come intae the yaird that day, neeburs; the verra look o' him wes victory.” [Illustration: “THE VERRA LOOK O' HIM WES VICTORY”] Jamie's cynicism slipped off in the enthusiasm of this reminiscence, and he expressed the feeling of Drumtochty. No one sent for MacLure save in great straits, and the sight of him put courage in sinking hearts. But this was not by the grace of his appearance, or the advantage of a good bedside manner. A tall, gaunt, loosely made man, without an ounce of superfluous flesh on his body, his face burned a dark brick color by constant exposure to the weather, red hair and beard turning grey, honest blue eyes that look you ever in the face, huge hands with wrist bones like the shank of a ham, and a voice that hurled his salutations across two fields, he suggested the moor rather than the drawing-room. But what a clever hand it was in an operation, as delicate as a woman's, and what a kindly voice it was in the humble room where the shepherd's wife was weeping by her man's bedside. He was “ill pitten the gither” to begin with, but many of his physical defects were the penalties of his work, and endeared him to the Glen. That ugly scar that cut into his right eyebrow and gave him such a sinister expression, was got one night Jess slipped on the ice and laid him insensible eight miles from home. His limp marked the big snowstorm in the fifties, when his horse missed the road in Glen Urtach, and they rolled together in a drift. MacLure escaped with a broken leg and the fracture of three ribs, but he never walked like other men again. He could not swing himself into the saddle without making two attempts and holding Jess's mane. Neither can you “warstle” through the peat bogs and snow drifts for forty winters without a touch of rheumatism. But they were honorable scars, and for such risks of life men get the Victoria Cross in other fields. [Illustration: “FOR SUCH RISKS OF LIFE MEN GET THE VICTORIA CROSS IN OTHER FIELDS”] MacLure got nothing but the secret affection of the Glen, which knew that none had ever done one-tenth as much for it as this ungainly, twisted, battered figure, and I have seen a Drumtochty face soften at the sight of MacLure limping to his horse. Mr. Hopps earned the ill-will of the Glen for ever by criticising the doctor's dress, but indeed it would have filled any townsman with amazement. Black he wore once a year, on Sacrament Sunday, and, if possible, at a funeral; topcoat or waterproof never. His jacket and waistcoat were rough homespun of Glen Urtach wool, which threw off the wet like a duck's back, and below he was clad in shepherd's tartan trousers, which disappeared into unpolished riding boots. His shirt was grey flannel, and he was uncertain about a collar, but certain as to a tie which he never had, his beard doing instead, and his hat was soft felt of four colors and seven different shapes. His point of distinction in dress was the trousers, and they were the subject of unending speculation. “Some threep that he's worn thae eedentical pair the last twenty year, an' a' mind masel him gettin' a tear ahint, when he was crossin' oor palin', and the mend's still veesible. “Ithers declare 'at he's got a wab o' claith, and hes a new pair made in Muirtown aince in the twa year maybe, and keeps them in the garden till the new look wears aff. “For ma ain pairt,” Soutar used to declare, “a' canna mak up my mind, but there's ae thing sure, the Glen wud not like tae see him withoot them: it wud be a shock tae confidence. There's no muckle o' the check left, but ye can aye tell it, and when ye see thae breeks comin' in ye ken that if human pooer can save yir bairn's life it 'ill be dune.” The confidence of the Glen--and tributary states--was unbounded, and rested partly on long experience of the doctor's resources, and partly on his hereditary connection. “His father was here afore him,” Mrs. Macfadyen used to explain; “atween them they've hed the countyside for weel on tae a century; if MacLure disna understand oor constitution, wha dis, a' wud like tae ask?” For Drumtochty had its own constitution and a special throat disease, as became a parish which was quite self-contained between the woods and the hills, and not dependent on the lowlands either for its diseases or its doctors. “He's a skilly man, Doctor MacLure,” continued my friend Mrs. Macfayden, whose judgment on sermons or anything else was seldom at fault; “an' a kind-hearted, though o' coorse he hes his faults like us a', an' he disna tribble the Kirk often. “He aye can tell what's wrang wi' a body, an' maistly he can put ye richt, and there's nae new-fangled wys wi' him: a blister for the ootside an' Epsom salts for the inside dis his wark, an' they say there's no an herb on the hills he disna ken. “If we're tae dee, we're tae dee; an' if we're tae live, we're tae live,” concluded Elspeth, with sound Calvinistic logic; “but a'll say this for the doctor, that whether yir tae live or dee, he can aye keep up a sharp meisture on the skin.” “But he's no veera ceevil gin ye bring him when there's naethin' wrang,” and Mrs. Macfayden's face reflected another of Mr. Hopps' misadventures of which Hillocks held the copyright. “Hopps' laddie ate grosarts (gooseberries) till they hed to sit up a' nicht wi' him, an' naethin' wud do but they maun hae the doctor, an' he writes 'immediately' on a slip o' paper. “Weel, MacLure had been awa a' nicht wi' a shepherd's wife Dunleith wy, and he comes here withoot drawin' bridle, mud up tae the cen. “'What's a dae here, Hillocks?” he cries; 'it's no an accident, is't?' and when he got aff his horse he cud hardly stand wi' stiffness and tire. “'It's nane o' us, doctor; it's Hopps' laddie; he's been eatin' ower mony berries.' [Illustration: “HOPPS' LADDIE ATE GROSARTS”] “If he didna turn on me like a tiger. “Div ye mean tae say----' “'Weesht, weesht,' an' I tried tae quiet him, for Hopps wes comin' oot. “'Well, doctor,' begins he, as brisk as a magpie, 'you're here at last; there's no hurry with you Scotchmen. My boy has been sick all night, and I've never had one wink of sleep. You might have come a little quicker, that's all I've got to say.' “We've mair tae dae in Drumtochty than attend tae every bairn that hes a sair stomach,' and a' saw MacLure wes roosed. “'I'm astonished to hear you speak. Our doctor at home always says to Mrs. 'Opps “Look on me as a family friend, Mrs. 'Opps, and send for me though it be only a headache.”' “'He'd be mair sparin' o' his offers if he hed four and twenty mile tae look aifter. There's naethin' wrang wi' yir laddie but greed. Gie him a gude dose o' castor oil and stop his meat for a day, an' he 'ill be a' richt the morn.' “'He 'ill not take castor oil, doctor. We have given up those barbarous medicines.' “'Whatna kind o' medicines hae ye noo in the Sooth?' “'Well, you see, Dr. MacLure, we're homoeopathists, and I've my little chest here,' and oot Hopps comes wi' his boxy. “'Let's see't,' an' MacLure sits doon and taks oot the bit bottles, and he reads the names wi' a lauch every time. “'Belladonna; did ye ever hear the like? Aconite; it cowes a'. Nux Vomica. What next? Weel, ma mannie,' he says tae Hopps, 'it's a fine ploy, and ye 'ill better gang on wi' the Nux till it's dune, and gie him ony ither o' the sweeties he fancies. “'Noo, Hillocks, a' maun be aff tae see Drumsheugh's grieve, for he's doon wi' the fever, and it's tae be a teuch fecht. A' hinna time tae wait for dinner; gie me some cheese an' cake in ma haund, and Jess 'ill tak a pail o' meal an' water. “'Fee; a'm no wantin' yir fees, man; wi' that boxy ye dinna need a doctor; na, na, gie yir siller tae some puir body, Maister Hopps,' an' he was doon the road as hard as he cud lick.” His fees were pretty much what the folk chose to give him, and he collected them once a year at Kildrummie fair. “Well, doctor, what am a' awin' ye for the wife and bairn? Ye 'ill need three notes for that nicht ye stayed in the hoose an' a' the veesits.” “Havers,” MacLure would answer, “prices are low, a'm hearing; gie's thirty shillings.” “No, a'll no, or the wife 'ill tak ma ears off,” and it was settled for two pounds. Lord Kilspindie gave him a free house and fields, and one way or other, Drumsheugh told me, the doctor might get in about L150. a year, out of which he had to pay his old housekeeper's wages and a boy's, and keep two horses, besides the cost of instruments and books, which he bought through a friend in Edinburgh with much judgment. There was only one man who ever complained of the doctor's charges, and that was the new farmer of Milton, who was so good that he was above both churches, and held a meeting in his barn. (It was Milton the Glen supposed at first to be a Mormon, but I can't go into that now.) He offered MacLure a pound less than he asked, and two tracts, whereupon MacLure expressed his opinion of Milton, both from a theological and social standpoint, with such vigor and frankness that an attentive audience of Drumtochty men could hardly contain themselves. Jamie Soutar was selling his pig at the time, and missed the meeting, but he hastened to condole with Milton, who was complaining everywhere of the doctor's language. [Illustration] “Ye did richt tae resist him; it 'ill maybe roose the Glen tae mak a stand; he fair hands them in bondage. “Thirty shillings for twal veesits, and him no mair than seeven mile awa, an' a'm telt there werena mair than four at nicht. “Ye 'ill hae the sympathy o' the Glen, for a' body kens yir as free wi' yir siller as yir tracts. “Wes't 'Beware o' gude warks' ye offered him? Man, ye choose it weel, for he's been colleckin' sae mony thae forty years, a'm feared for him. “A've often thocht oor doctor's little better than the Gude Samaritan, an' the Pharisees didna think muckle o' his chance aither in this warld or that which is tae come.” THROUGH THE FLOOD.

2

THROUGH THE FLOOD

Doctor MacLure did not lead a solemn procession from the sick bed to the dining-room, and give his opinion from the hearthrug with an air of wisdom bordering on the supernatural, because neither the Drumtochty houses nor his manners were on that large scale. He was accustomed to deliver himself in the yard, and to conclude his directions with one foot in the stirrup; but when he left the room where the life of Annie Mitchell was ebbing slowly away, our doctor said not one word, and at the sight of his face her husband's heart was troubled. He was a dull man, Tammas, who could not read the meaning of a sign, and labored under a perpetual disability of speech; but love was eyes to him that day, and a mouth. “Is't as bad as yir lookin', doctor? tell's the truth; wull Annie no come through?” and Tammas looked MacLure straight in the face, who never flinched his duty or said smooth things. “A' wud gie onything tae say Annie hes a chance, but a' daurna; a' doot yir gaein' tae lose her, Tammas.” MacLure was in the saddle, and as he gave his judgment, he laid his hand on Tammas's shoulder with one of the rare caresses that pass between men. [Illustration: A' DOOT YIR GAEIN' TAE LOSE HER, TAMMAS.”] “It's a sair business, but ye 'ill play the man and no vex Annie; she 'ill dae her best, a'll warrant.” “An' a'll dae mine,” and Tammas gave MacLure's hand a grip that would have crushed the bones of a weakling. Drumtochty felt in such moments the brotherliness of this rough-looking man, and loved him. Tammas hid his face in Jess's mane, who looked round with sorrow in her beautiful eyes, for she had seen many tragedies, and in this silent sympathy the stricken man drank his cup, drop by drop. “A' wesna prepared for this, for a' aye thocht she wud live the langest.... She's younger than me by ten years, and never wes ill.... We've been mairit twal year laist Martinmas, but it's juist like a year the day... A' wes never worthy o' her, the bonniest, snoddest (neatest), kindliest lass in the Glen.... A' never cud mak oot hoo she ever lookit at me, 'at hesna hed ae word tae say aboot her till it's ower late.... She didna cuist up tae me that a' wesna worthy o' her, no her, but aye she said, 'Yir ma ain gudeman, and nane cud be kinder tae me.' ... An' a' wes minded tae be kind, but a' see noo mony little trokes a' micht hae dune for her, and noo the time is bye.... Naebody kens hoo patient she wes wi' me, and aye made the best o 'me, an' never pit me tae shame afore the fouk.... An' we never hed ae cross word, no ane in twal year.... We were mair nor man and wife, we were sweethearts a' the time.... Oh, ma bonnie lass, what 'ill the bairnies an' me dae withoot ye, Annie?” [Illustration: “THE BONNIEST, SNODDEST, KINDLIEST LASS IN THE GLEN” ] The winter night was falling fast, the snow lay deep upon the ground, and the merciless north wind moaned through the close as Tammas wrestled with his sorrow dry-eyed, for tears were denied Drumtochty men. Neither the doctor nor Jess moved hand or foot, but their hearts were with their fellow creature, and at length the doctor made a sign to Marget Howe, who had come out in search of Tammas, and now stood by his side. [Illustration] “Dinna mourn tae the brakin' o' yir hert, Tammas,” she said, “as if Annie an' you hed never luved. Neither death nor time can pairt them that luve; there's naethin' in a' the warld sae strong as luve. If Annie gaes frae the sichot' yir een she 'ill come the nearer tae yir hert. She wants tae see ye, and tae hear ye say that ye 'ill never forget her nicht nor day till ye meet in the land where there's nae pairtin'. Oh, a' ken what a'm saying', for it's five year noo sin George gied awa, an' he's mair wi' me noo than when he wes in Edinboro' and I was in Drumtochty.” [Illustration] “Thank ye kindly, Marget; thae are gude words and true, an' ye hev the richt tae say them; but a' canna dae without seem' Annie comin' tae meet me in the gloamin', an' gaein' in an' oot the hoose, an' hearin' her ca' me by ma name, an' a'll no can tell her that a'luve her when there's nae Annie in the hoose. “Can naethin' be dune, doctor? Ye savit Flora Cammil, and young Burnbrae, an' yon shepherd's wife Dunleith wy, an' we were a sae prood o' ye, an' pleased tae think that ye hed keepit deith frae anither hame. Can ye no think o' somethin' tae help Annie, and gie her back tae her man and bairnies?” and Tammas searched the doctor's face in the cold, weird light. “There's nae pooer on heaven or airth like luve,” Marget said to me afterwards; “it maks the weak strong and the dumb tae speak. Oor herts were as water afore Tammas's words, an' a' saw the doctor shake in his saddle. A' never kent till that meenut hoo he hed a share in a'body's grief, an' carried the heaviest wecht o' a' the Glen. A' peetied him wi' Tammas lookin' at him sae wistfully, as if he hed the keys o' life an' deith in his hands. But he wes honest, and wudna hold oot a false houp tae deceive a sore hert or win escape for himsel'.” “Ye needna plead wi' me, Tammas, to dae the best a' can for yir wife. Man, a' kent her lang afore ye ever luved her; a' brocht her intae the warld, and a' saw her through the fever when she wes a bit lassikie; a' closed her mither's een, and it was me hed tae tell her she wes an orphan, an' nae man wes better pleased when she got a gude husband, and a' helpit her wi' her fower bairns. A've naither wife nor bairns o' ma own, an' a' coont a' the fouk o' the Glen ma family. Div ye think a' wudna save Annie if I cud? If there wes a man in Muirtown 'at cud dae mair for her, a'd have him this verra nicht, but a' the doctors in Perthshire are helpless for this tribble. “Tammas, ma puir fallow, if it could avail, a' tell ye a' wud lay doon this auld worn-oot ruckle o' a body o' mine juist tae see ye baith sittin' at the fireside, an' the bairns roond ye, couthy an' canty again; but it's no tae be, Tammas, it's no tae be.” “When a' lookit at the doctor's face,” Marget said, “a' thocht him the winsomest man a' ever saw. He was transfigured that nicht, for a'm judging there's nae transfiguration like luve.” “It's God's wull an' maun be borne, but it's a sair wull for me, an' a'm no ungratefu' tae you, doctor, for a' ye've dune and what ye said the nicht,” and Tammas went back to sit with Annie for the last time. Jess picked her way through the deep snow to the main road, with a skill that came of long experience, and the doctor held converse with her according to his wont. “Eh, Jess wumman, yon wes the hardest wark a' hae tae face, and a' wud raither hae ta'en ma chance o' anither row in a Glen Urtach drift than tell Tammas Mitchell his wife wes deein'. “A' said she cudna be cured, and it wes true, for there's juist ae man in the land fit for't, and they micht as weel try tae get the mune oot o' heaven. Sae a' said naethin' tae vex Tammas's hert, for it's heavy eneuch withoot regrets. “But it's hard, Jess, that money wull buy life after a', an' if Annie wes a duchess her man wudna lose her; but bein' only a puir cottar's wife, she maun dee afore the week's oot. “Gin we hed him the morn there's little doot she would be saved, for he hesna lost mair than five per cent, o' his cases, and they 'ill be puir toon's craturs, no strappin women like Annie. [Illustration: “IT'S OOT O' THE QUESTION, JESS, SAE HURRY UP”] “It's oot o' the question, Jess, sae hurry up, lass, for we've hed a heavy day. But it wud be the grandest thing that was ever dune in the Glen in oor time if it could be managed by hook or crook. “We 'ill gang and see Drumsheugh, Jess; he's anither man sin' Geordie Hoo's deith, and he wes aye kinder than fouk kent;” and the doctor passed at a gallop through the village, whose lights shone across the white frost-bound road. “Come in by, doctor; a' heard ye on the road; ye 'ill hae been at Tammas Mitchell's; hoo's the gudewife? a' doot she's sober.” “Annie's deein', Drumsheugh, an' Tammas is like tae brak his hert.” “That's no lichtsome, doctor, no lichtsome ava, for a' dinna ken ony man in Drumtochty sae bund up in his wife as Tammas, and there's no a bonnier wumman o' her age crosses our kirk door than Annie, nor a cleverer at her wark. Man, ye 'ill need tae pit yir brains in steep. Is she clean beyond ye?” “Beyond me and every ither in the land but ane, and it wud cost a hundred guineas tae bring him tae Drumtochty.” [Illustration: ] “Certes, he's no blate; it's a fell chairge for a short day's work; but hundred or no hundred we'll hae him, an' no let Annie gang, and her no half her years.” “Are ye meanin' it, Drumsheugh?” and MacLure turned white below the tan. “William MacLure,” said Drumsheugh, in one of the few confidences that ever broke the Drumtochty reserve, “a'm a lonely man, wi' naebody o' ma ain blude tae care for me livin', or tae lift me intae ma coffin when a'm deid. “A' fecht awa at Muirtown market for an extra pound on a beast, or a shillin' on the quarter o' barley, an' what's the gude o't? Burnbrae gaes aff tae get a goon for his wife or a buke for his college laddie, an' Lachlan Campbell 'ill no leave the place noo without a ribbon for Flora. “Ilka man in the Klldrummie train has some bit fairin' his pooch for the fouk at hame that he's bocht wi' the siller he won. “But there's naebody tae be lookin' oot for me, an' comin' doon the road tae meet me, and daffin' (joking) wi' me about their fairing, or feeling ma pockets. Ou ay, a've seen it a' at ither hooses, though they tried tae hide it frae me for fear a' wud lauch at them. Me lauch, wi' ma cauld, empty hame! “Yir the only man kens, Weelum, that I aince luved the noblest wumman in the glen or onywhere, an' a' luve her still, but wi' anither luve noo. “She had given her heart tae anither, or a've thocht a' micht hae won her, though nae man be worthy o' sic a gift. Ma hert turned tae bitterness, but that passed awa beside the brier bush whar George Hoo lay yon sad simmer time. Some day a'll tell ye ma story, Weelum, for you an' me are auld freends, and will be till we dee.” MacLure felt beneath the table for Drumsheugh's hand, but neither man looked at the other. “Weel, a' we can dae noo, Weelum, gin we haena mickle brichtness in oor ain names, is tae keep the licht frae gaein' oot in anither hoose. Write the telegram, man, and Sandy 'ill send it aff frae Kildrummie this verra nicht, and ye 'ill hae yir man the morn.” [Illustration: “THE EAST HAD COME TO MEET THE WEST”] “Yir the man a' coonted ye, Drumsheugh, but ye 'ill grant me ae favor. Ye 'ill lat me pay the half, bit by bit--a' ken yir wullin' tae dae't a'--but a' haena mony pleasures, an' a' wud like tae hae ma ain share in savin' Annie's life.” Next morning a figure received Sir George on the Kildrummie platform, whom that famous surgeon took for a gillie, but who introduced himself as “MacLure of Drumtochty.” It seemed as if the East had come to meet the West when these two stood together, the one in travelling furs, handsome and distinguished, with his strong, cultured face and carriage of authority, a characteristic type of his profession; and the other more marvellously dressed than ever, for Drumsheugh's topcoat had been forced upon him for the occasion, his face and neck one redness with the bitter cold; rough and ungainly, yet not without some signs of power in his eye and voice, the most heroic type of his noble profession. MacLure compassed the precious arrival with observances till he was securely seated in Drumsheugh's dog cart--a vehicle that lent itself to history--with two full-sized plaids added to his equipment--Drumsheugh and Hillocks had both been requisitioned--and MacLure wrapped another plaid round a leather case, which was placed below the seat with such reverence as might be given to the Queen's regalia. Peter attended their departure full of interest, and as soon as they were in the fir woods MacLure explained that it would be an eventful journey. “It's a richt in here, for the wind disna get at the snaw, but the drifts are deep in the Glen, and th'ill be some engineerin' afore we get tae oor destination.” Four times they left the road and took their way over fields, twice they forced a passage through a slap in a dyke, thrice they used gaps in the paling which MacLure had made on his downward journey. [Illustration] “A' seleckit the road this mornin', an' a' ken the depth tae an inch; we 'ill get through this steadin' here tae the main road, but oor worst job 'ill be crossin' the Tochty. “Ye see the bridge hes been shaken wi' this winter's flood, and we daurna venture on it, sae we hev tae ford, and the snaw's been melting up Urtach way. There's nae doot the water's gey big, and it's threatenin' tae rise, but we 'ill win through wi' a warstle. “It micht be safer tae lift the instruments oot o' reach o' the water; wud ye mind haddin' them on yir knee till we're ower, an' keep firm in yir seat in case we come on a stane in the bed o' the river.” By this time they had come to the edge, and it was not a cheering sight. The Tochty had spread out over the meadows, and while they waited they could see it cover another two inches on the trunk of a tree. There are summer floods, when the water is brown and flecked with foam, but this was a winter flood, which is black and sullen, and runs in the centre with a strong, fierce, silent current. Upon the opposite side Hillocks stood to give directions by word and hand, as the ford was on his land, and none knew the Tochty better in all its ways. [Illustration: “THEY PASSED THROUGH THE SHALLOW WATER WITHOUT MISHAP”] They passed through the shallow water without mishap, save when the wheel struck a hidden stone or fell suddenly into a rut; but when they neared the body of the river MacLure halted, to give Jess a minute's breathing. “It 'ill tak ye a' yir time, lass, an' a' wud raither be on yir back; but ye never failed me yet, and a wumman's life is hangin' on the crossin'.” With the first plunge into the bed of the stream the water rose to the axles, and then it crept up to the shafts, so that the surgeon could feel it lapping in about his feet, while the dogcart began to quiver, and it seemed as if it were to be carried away. Sir George was as brave as most men, but he had never forded a Highland river in flood, and the mass of black water racing past beneath, before, behind him, affected his imagination and shook his nerves. He rose from his seat and ordered MacLure to turn back, declaring that he would be condemned utterly and eternally if he allowed himself to be drowned for any person. “Sit doon,” thundered MacLure; “condemned ye will be suner or later gin ye shirk yir duty, but through the water ye gang the day.” Both men spoke much more strongly and shortly, but this is what they intended to say, and it was MacLure that prevailed. Jess trailed her feet along the ground with cunning art, and held her shoulder against the stream; MacLure leant forward in his seat, a rein in each hand, and his eyes fixed on Hillocks, who was now standing up to the waist in the water, shouting directions and cheering on horse and driver. “Haud tae the richt, doctor; there's a hole yonder. Keep oot o't for ony sake.” [Illustration: “A HEAP OF SPEECHLESS MISERY BY THE KITCHEN FIRE.”] That's heap of speechless misery by the kitchen fire, and carried him off to the barn, and spread some corn on the threshing floor and thrust a flail into his hands. “Noo we've tae begin, an' we 'ill no be dune for an' oor, and ye've tae lay on withoot stoppin' till a' come for ye, an' a'll shut the door tae haud in the noise, an' keep yir dog beside ye, for there maunna be a cheep aboot the hoose for Annie's sake.” “A'll dae onything ye want me, but if--if--” “A'll come for ye, Tammas, gin there be danger; but what are ye feared for wi' the Queen's ain surgeon here?” Fifty minutes did the flail rise and fall, save twice, when Tammas crept to the door and listened, the dog lifting his head and whining. It seemed twelve hours instead of one when the door swung back, and MacLure filled the doorway, preceded by a great burst of light, for the sun had arisen on the snow. [Illustration: “MA AIN DEAR MAN”] His face was as tidings of great joy, and Elspeth told me that there was nothing like it to be seen that afternoon for glory, save the sun itself in the heavens. “A' never saw the marrow o't, Tammas, an' a'll never see the like again; it's a' ower, man, withoot a hitch frae beginnin' tae end, and she's fa'in' asleep as fine as ye like.” “Dis he think Annie ... 'ill live?” “Of coorse he dis, and be aboot the hoose inside a month; that's the gud o' bein' a clean-bluided, weel-livin'----” “Preserve ye, man, what's wrang wi' ye? it's a mercy a' keppit ye, or we wud hev hed anither job for Sir George. “Ye're a richt noo; sit doon on the strae. A'll come back in a whilie, an' ye i'll see Annie juist for a meenut, but ye maunna say a word.” Marget took him in and let him kneel by Annie's bedside. He said nothing then or afterwards, for speech came only once in his lifetime to Tammas, but Annie whispered, “Ma ain dear man.” When the doctor placed the precious bag beside Sir George in our solitary first next morning, he laid a cheque beside it and was about to leave. “No, no,” said the great man. “Mrs. Macfayden and I were on the gossip last night, and I know the whole story about you and your friend. “You have some right to call me a coward, but I'll never let you count me a mean, miserly rascal,” and the cheque with Drumsheugh's painful writing fell in fifty pieces on the floor. [Illustration: “I'M PROUD TO HAVE MET YOU”] As the train began to move, a voice from the first called so that all the station heard. “Give's another shake of your hand, MacLure; I'm proud to have met you; you are an honor to our profession. Mind the antiseptic dressings.” It was market day, but only Jamie Soutar and Hillocks had ventured down. “Did ye hear yon, Hillocks? hoo dae ye feel? A'll no deny a'm lifted.” Halfway to the Junction Hillocks had recovered, and began to grasp the situation. “Tell's what he said. A' wud like to hae it exact for Drumsheugh.” “Thae's the eedentical words, an' they're true; there's no a man in Drumtochty disna ken that, except ane.” “An' wha's thar, Jamie?” “It's Weelum MacLure himsel. Man, a've often girned that he sud fecht awa for us a', and maybe dee before he kent that he hed githered mair luve than ony man in the Glen. “'A'm prood tae hae met ye', says Sir George, an' him the greatest doctor in the land. 'Yir an honor tae oor profession.' “Hillocks, a' wudna hae missed it for twenty notes,” said James Soutar, cynic-in-ordinary to the parish of Drumtochty. A FIGHT WITH DEATH.

3

A FIGHT WITH DEATH

When Drumsheugh's grieve was brought to the gates of death by fever, caught, as was supposed, on an adventurous visit to Glasgow, the London doctor at Lord Kilspindie's shooting lodge looked in on his way from the moor, and declared it impossible for Saunders to live through the night. “I give him six hours, more or less; it is only a question of time,” said the oracle, buttoning his gloves and getting into the brake; “tell your parish doctor that I was sorry not to have met him.” Bell heard this verdict from behind the door, and gave way utterly, but Drumsheugh declined to accept it as final, and devoted himself to consolation. “Dinna greet like that, Bell wumman, sae lang as Saunders is still living'; a'll never give up houp, for ma pairt, till oor ain man says the word. “A' the doctors in the land dinna ken as muckle aboot us as Weelum MacLure, an' he's ill tae beat when he's trying tae save a man's life.” MacLure, on his coming, would say nothing, either weal or woe, till he had examined Saunders. Suddenly his face turned into iron before their eyes, and he looked like one encountering a merciless foe. For there was a feud between MacLure and a certain mighty power which had lasted for forty years in Drumtochty. [Illustration: “GAVE WAY UTTERLY”] “The London doctor said that Saunders wud sough awa afore mornin', did he? Weel, he's an authority on fevers an' sic like diseases, an' ought tae ken. “It's may be presumptous o' me tae differ frae him, and it wudna be verra respectfu' o' Saunders tae live aifter this opeenion. But Saunders wes awe thraun an' ill tae drive, an' he's as like as no tae gang his own gait. “A'm no meanin' tae reflect on sae clever a man, but he didna ken the seetuation. He can read fevers like a buik, but he never cam across sic a thing as the Drumtochty constitution a' his days. “Ye see, when onybody gets as low as puir Saunders here, it's juist a hand to hand wrastle atween the fever and his constitution, an' of coorse, if he had been a shilpit, stuntit, feckless effeegy o' a cratur, fed on tea an' made dishes and pushioned wi' bad air, Saunders wud hae nae chance; he wes boond tae gae oot like the snuff o' a candle. [Illustration] “But Saunders hes been fillin' his lungs for five and thirty year wi' strong Drumtochty air, an' eatin' naethin' but kirny aitmeal, and drinkin' naethin' but fresh milk frae the coo, an' followin' the ploo through the new-turned sweet-smellin' earth, an' swingin' the scythe in haytime and harvest, till the legs an' airms o' him were iron, an' his chest wes like the cuttin' o' an oak tree. “He's a waesome sicht the nicht, but Saunders wes a buirdly man aince, and wull never lat his life be taken lichtly frae him. Na, na, he hesna sinned against Nature, and Nature 'ill stand by him noo in his oor o' distress. “A' daurna say yea, Bell, muckle as a' wud like, for this is an evil disease, cunnin, an' treacherous as the deevil himsel', but a' winna say nay, sae keep yir hert frae despair. “It wull be a sair fecht, but it 'ill be settled one wy or anither by sax o'clock the morn's morn. Nae man can prophecee hoo it 'ill end, but ae thing is certain, a'll no see deith tak a Drumtochty man afore his time if a' can help it. “Noo, Bell ma wumman, yir near deid wi' tire, an' nae wonder. Ye've dune a' ye cud for yir man, an' ye'll lippen (trust) him the nicht tae Drumsheugh an' me; we 'ill no fail him or you. “Lie doon an' rest, an' if it be the wull o' the Almichty a'll wauken ye in the mornin' tae see a livin' conscious man, an' if it be ither-wise a'll come for ye the suner, Bell,” and the big red hand went out to the anxious wife. “A' gie ye ma word.” Bell leant over the bed, and at the sight of Saunders' face a superstitious dread seized her. “See, doctor, the shadow of deith is on him that never lifts. A've seen it afore, on ma father an' mither. A' canna leave him, a' canna leave him.” [Illustration: “BELL LEANT OVER THE BED”] “It's hoverin', Bell, but it hesna fallen; please God it never wull. Gang but and get some sleep, for it's time we were at oor work. “The doctors in the toons hae nurses an' a' kinds o' handy apparatus,” said MacLure to Drumsheugh when Bell had gone, “but you an' me 'ill need tae be nurse the nicht, an' use sic things as we hev. “It 'ill be a lang nicht and anxious wark, but a' wud raither hae ye, auld freend, wi' me than ony man in the Glen. Ye're no feared tae gie a hand?” “Me feared? No, likely. Man, Saunders cam tae me a haflin, and hes been on Drumsheugh for twenty years, an' though he be a dour chiel, he's a faithfu' servant as ever lived. It's waesome tae see him lyin' there moanin' like some dumb animal frae mornin' tae nicht, an' no able tae answer his ain wife when she speaks. “Div ye think, Weelum, he hes a chance?” “That he hes, at ony rate, and it 'ill no be your blame or mine if he hesna mair.” While he was speaking, MacLure took off his coat and waistcoat and hung them on the back of the door. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and laid bare two arms that were nothing but bone and muscle. “It gar'd ma very blood rin faster tae the end of ma fingers juist tae look at him,” Drumsheugh expatiated afterwards to Hillocks, “for a' saw noo that there was tae be a stand-up fecht atween him an' deith for Saunders, and when a' thocht o' Bell an' her bairns, a' kent wha wud win. “'Aff wi' yir coat, Drumsheugh,' said MacLure; 'ye 'ill need tae bend yir back the nicht; gither a' the pails in the hoose and fill them at the spring, an' a'll come doon tae help ye wi' the carryin'.'” It was a wonderful ascent up the steep pathway from the spring to the cottage on its little knoll, the two men in single file, bareheaded, silent, solemn, each with a pail of water in either hand, MacLure limping painfully in front, Drumsheugh blowing behind; and when they laid down their burden in the sick room, where the bits of furniture had been put to a side and a large tub held the centre, Drumsheugh looked curiously at the doctor. [Illustration.] “No, a'm no daft; ye needna be feared; but yir tae get yir first lesson in medicine the nicht, an' if we win the battle ye can set up for yersel in the Glen. “There's twa dangers--that Saunders' strength fails, an' that the force o' the fever grows; and we have juist twa weapons. “Yon milk on the drawers' head an' the bottle of whisky is tae keep up the strength, and this cool caller water is tae keep doon the fever. “We 'ill cast oot the fever by the virtue o' the earth an' the water.” “Div ye mean tae pit Saunders in the tub?” “Ye hiv it noo, Drumsheugh, and that's hoo a' need yir help.” “Man, Hillocks,” Drumsheugh used to moralize, as often as he remembered that critical night, “it wes humblin' tae see hoo low sickness can bring a pooerfu' man, an' ocht tae keep us frae pride.” “A month syne there wesna a stronger man in the Glen than Saunders, an' noo he wes juist a bundle o' skin and bone, that naither saw nor heard, nor moved nor felt, that kent naethin' that was dune tae him. “Hillocks, a' wudna hae wished ony man tae hev seen Saunders--for it wull never pass frae before ma een as long as a' live--but a' wish a' the Glen hed stude by MacLure kneelin' on the floor wi' his sleeves up tae his oxters and waitin' on Saunders. “Yon big man wes as pitifu' an' gentle as a wumman, and when he laid the puir fallow in his bed again, he happit him ower as a mither dis her bairn.” Thrice it was done, Drumsheugh ever bringing up colder water from the spring, and twice MacLure was silent; but after the third time there was a gleam in his eye. “We're haudin' oor ain; we're no bein' maistered, at ony rate; mair a' canna say for three oors. “We 'ill no need the water again, Drumsheugh; gae oot and tak a breath o' air; a'm on gaird masel.” It was the hour before daybreak, and Drumsheugh wandered through fields he had trodden since childhood. The cattle lay sleeping in the pastures; their shadowy forms, with a patch of whiteness here and there, having a weird suggestion of death. He heard the burn running over the stones; fifty years ago he had made a dam that lasted till winter. The hooting of an owl made him start; one had frightened him as a boy so that he ran home to his mother--she died thirty years ago. The smell of ripe corn filled the air; it would soon be cut and garnered. He could see the dim outlines of his house, all dark and cold; no one he loved was beneath the roof. The lighted window in Saunders' cottage told where a man hung between life and death, but love was in that home. The futility of life arose before this lonely man, and overcame his heart with an indescribable sadness. What a vanity was all human labour, what a mystery all human life. [Illustration] But while he stood, subtle change came over the night, and the air trembled round him as if one had whispered. Drumsheugh lifted his head and looked eastwards. A faint grey stole over the distant horizon, and suddenly a cloud reddened before his eyes. The sun was not in sight, but was rising, and sending forerunners before his face. The cattle began to stir, a blackbird burst into song, and before Drumsheugh crossed the threshold of Saunders' house, the first ray of the sun had broken on a peak of the Grampians. MacLure left the bedside, and as the light of the candle fell on the doctor's face, Drumsheugh could see that it was going well with Saunders. “He's nae waur; an' it's half six noo; it's ower sune tae say mair, but a'm houpin' for the best. Sit doon and take a sleep, for ye're needin' 't, Drumsheugh, an', man, ye hae worked for it.” As he dozed off, the last thing Drumsheugh saw was the doctor sitting erect in his chair, a clenched fist resting on the bed, and his eyes already bright with the vision of victory. He awoke with a start to find the room flooded with the morning sunshine, and every trace of last night's work removed. The doctor was bending over the bed, and speaking to Saunders. “It's me, Saunders, Doctor MacLure, ye ken; dinna try tae speak or move; juist let this drap milk slip ower--ye 'ill be needin' yir breakfast, lad--and gang tae sleep again.” [Illustration: “A CLENCHED FIST RESTING ON THE BED”] Five minutes, and Saunders had fallen into a deep, healthy sleep, all tossing and moaning come to an end. Then MacLure stepped softly across the floor, picked up his coat and waistcoat, and went out at the door. Drumsheugh arose and followed him without a word. They passed through the little garden, sparkling with dew, and beside the byre, where Hawkie rattled her chain, impatient for Bell's coming, and by Saunders' little strip of corn ready for the scythe, till they reached an open field. There they came to a halt, and Doctor MacLure for once allowed himself to go. His coat he flung east and his waistcoat west, as far as he could hurl them, and it was plain he would have shouted had he been a complete mile from Saunders' room. Any less distance was useless for the adequate expression. He struck Drumsheugh a mighty blow that well-nigh levelled that substantial man in the dust and then the doctor of Drumtochty issued his bulletin. “Saunders wesna tae live through the nicht, but he's livin' this meenut, an' like to live. “He's got by the warst clean and fair, and wi' him that's as good as cure. “It' ill be a graund waukenin' for Bell; she 'ill no be a weedow yet, nor the bairnies fatherless. “There's nae use glowerin' at me, Drumsheugh, for a body's daft at a time, an' a' canna contain masel' and a'm no gaein' tae try.” Then it dawned on Drumsheugh that the doctor was attempting the Highland fling. “He's 'ill made tae begin wi',” Drumsheugh explained in the kirkyard next Sabbath, “and ye ken he's been terrible mishannelled by accidents, sae ye may think what like it wes, but, as sure as deith, o' a' the Hielan flings a' ever saw yon wes the bonniest. “A' hevna shaken ma ain legs for thirty years, but a' confess tae a turn masel. Ye may lauch an' ye like, neeburs, but the thocht o' Bell an' the news that wes waitin' her got the better o' me.” “THE DOCTOR WAS ATTEMPTING THE HIGHLAND FLING” Drumtochty did not laugh. Drumtochty looked as if it could have done quite otherwise for joy. “A' wud hae made a third gin a bed been there,” announced Hillocks, aggressively. [Illustration] “Come on, Drumsheugh,” said Jamie Soutar, “gie's the end o't; it wes a michty mornin'.” “'We're twa auld fules,' says MacLure tae me, and he gaithers up his claithes. 'It wud set us better tae be tellin' Bell.' “She wes sleepin' on the top o' her bed wrapped in a plaid, fair worn oot wi' three weeks' nursin' o' Saunders, but at the first touch she was oot upon the floor. “'Is Saunders deein', doctor?' she cries. 'Ye promised tae wauken me; dinna tell me it's a' ower.' “'There's nae deein' aboot him, Bell; ye're no tae lose yir man this time, sae far as a' can see. Come ben an' jidge for yersel'.' “Bell lookit at Saunders, and the tears of joy fell on the bed like rain. “'The shadow's lifted,' she said; 'he's come back frae the mooth o' the tomb. “'A' prayed last nicht that the Lord wud leave Saunders till the laddies cud dae for themselves, an' thae words came intae ma mind, 'Weepin' may endure for a nicht, but joy cometh in the mornin'.” “'The Lord heard ma prayer, and joy hes come in the mornin',' an' she gripped the doctor's hand. [Illustration] “'Ye've been the instrument, Doctor MacLure. Ye wudna gie him up, and ye did what nae ither cud for him, an' a've ma man the day, and the bairns hae their father.' “An' afore MacLure kent what she was daein', Bell lifted his hand to her lips an' kissed it.” “Did she, though?” cried Jamie. “Wha wud hae thocht there wes as muckle spunk in Bell?” “MacLure, of coorse, was clean scandalized,” continued Drumsheugh, “an' pooed awa his hand as if it hed been burned. “Nae man can thole that kind o' fraikin', and a' never heard o' sic a thing in the parish, but we maun excuse Bell, neeburs; it wes an occasion by ordinar,” and Drumsheugh made Bell's apology to Drumtochty for such an excess of feeling. “A' see naethin' tae excuse,” insisted Jamie, who was in great fettle that Sabbath; “the doctor hes never been burdened wi' fees, and a'm judgin' he coonted a wumman's gratitude that he saved frae weedowhood the best he ever got.” [Illustration: “I'VE A COLD IN MY HEAD, TO-NIGHT”] “A' gaed up tae the Manse last nicht,” concluded Drumsheugh, “and telt the minister hoo the doctor focht aucht oors for Saunders' life, an' won, and ye never saw a man sae carried. He walkit up and doon the room a' the time, and every other meenut he blew his nose like a trumpet. “'I've a cold in my head to-night, Drumsheugh,' says he; 'never mind me.'” “A've hed the same masel in sic circumstances; they come on sudden,” said Jamie. “A' wager there 'ill be a new bit in the laist prayer the day, an' somethin' worth hearin'.” And the fathers went into kirk in great expectation. “We beseech Thee for such as be sick, that Thy hand may be on them for good, and that Thou wouldst restore them again to health and strength,” was the familiar petition of every Sabbath. The congregation waited in a silence that might be heard, and were not disappointed that morning, for the minister continued: “Especially we tender Thee hearty thanks that Thou didst spare Thy servant who was brought down into the dust of death, and hast given him back to his wife and children, and unto that end didst wonderfully bless the skill of him who goes out and in amongst us, the beloved physician of this parish and adjacent districts.” “Didna a' tell ye, neeburs?” said Jamie, as they stood at the kirkyard gate before dispersing; “there's no a man in the coonty cud hae dune it better. 'Beloved physician,' an' his 'skill,' tae, an' bringing in 'adjacent districts'; that's Glen Urtach; it wes handsome, and the doctor earned it, ay, every word. “It's an awfu' peety he didna hear you; but dear knows whar he is the day, maist likely up--” Jamie stopped suddenly at the sound of a horse's feet, and there, coming down the avenue of beech trees that made a long vista from the kirk gate, they saw the doctor and Jess. One thought flashed through the minds of the fathers of the commonwealth. It ought to be done as he passed, and it would be done if it were not Sabbath. Of course it was out of the question on Sabbath. The doctor is now distinctly visible, riding after his fashion. There was never such a chance, if it were only Saturday; and each man reads his own regret in his neighbor's face. The doctor is nearing them rapidly; they can imagine the shepherd's tartan. Sabbath or no Sabbath, the Glen cannot let him pass without some tribute of their pride. Jess had recognized friends, and the doctor is drawing rein. “It hes tae be dune,” said Jamie desperately, “say what ye like.” Then they all looked towards him, and Jamie led. [Illustration] “Hurrah,” swinging his Sabbath hat in the air, “hurrah,” and once more, “hurrah,” Whinnie Knowe, Drumsheugh, and Hillocks joining lustily, but Tammas Mitchell carrying all before him, for he had found at last an expression for his feelings that rendered speech unnecessary. It was a solitary experience for horse and rider, and Jess bolted without delay. But the sound followed and surrounded them, and as they passed the corner of the kirkyard, a figure waved his college cap over the wall and gave a cheer on his own account. “God bless you, doctor, and well done.” “If it isna the minister,” cried Drumsheugh, “in his goon an' bans, tae think o' that; but a' respeck him for it.” Then Drumtochty became self-conscious, and went home in confusion of face and unbroken silence, except Jamie Soutar, who faced his neighbors at the parting of the ways without shame. “A' wud dae it a' ower again if a' hed the chance; he got naethin' but his due.” It was two miles before Jess composed her mind, and the doctor and she could discuss it quietly together. “A' can hardly believe ma ears, Jess, an' the Sabbath tae; their verra jidgment hes gane frae the fouk o' Drumtochty. “They've heard about Saunders, a'm thinkin', wumman, and they're pleased we brocht him roond; he's fairly on the mend, ye ken, noo. “A' never expeckit the like o' this, though, and it wes juist a wee thingie mair than a' cud hae stude. “Ye hev yir share in't tae, lass; we've hed mony a hard nicht and day thegither, an' yon wes oor reward. No mony men in this warld 'ill ever get a better, for it cam frae the hert o' honest fouk.” THE DOCTOR'S LAST JOURNEY.

4

THE DOCTOR'S LAST JOURNEY

Drumtochty had a vivid recollection of the winter when Dr. MacLure was laid up for two months with a broken leg, and the Glen was dependent on the dubious ministrations of the Kildrummie doctor. Mrs. Macfayden also pretended to recall a “whup” of some kind or other he had in the fifties, but this was considered to be rather a pyrotechnic display of Elspeth's superior memory than a serious statement of fact. MacLure could not have ridden through the snow of forty winters without suffering, yet no one ever heard him complain, and he never pled illness to any messenger by night or day. “It took me,” said Jamie Soutar to Milton afterwards, “the feck o' ten meenuts tae howk him 'an' Jess oot ae snawy nicht when Drums turned bad sudden, and if he didna try to excuse himself for no hearing me at aince wi' some story aboot juist comin' in frae Glen Urtach, and no bein' in his bed for the laist twa nichts. “He wes that carefu' o' himsel an' lazy that if it hedna been for the siller, a've often thocht, Milton, he wud never hae dune a handstroke o' wark in the Glen. “What scunnered me wes the wy the bairns were ta'en in wi' him. Man, a've seen him tak a wee laddie on his knee that his ain mither cudna quiet, an' lilt 'Sing a song o' saxpence' till the bit mannie would be lauchin' like a gude are, an' pooin' the doctor's beard. [Illustration] “As for the weemen, he fair cuist a glamour ower them; they're daein' naethin' noo but speak aboot this body and the ither he cured, an' hoo he aye hed a couthy word for sick fouk. Weemen hae nae discernment, Milton; tae hear them speak ye wud think MacLure hed been a releegious man like yersel, although, as ye said, he wes little mair than a Gallio. “Bell Baxter was haverin' awa in the shop tae sic an extent aboot the wy MacLure brocht roond Saunders when he hed the fever that a' gied oot at the door, a' wes that disgusted, an' a'm telt when Tammas Mitchell heard the news in the smiddy he wes juist on the greeting. “The smith said that he wes thinkin' o' Annie's tribble, but ony wy a' ca' it rael bairnly. It's no like Drumtochty; ye're setting an example, Milton, wi' yir composure. But a' mind ye took the doctor's meesure as sune as ye cam intae the pairish.” It is the penalty of a cynic that he must have some relief for his secret grief, and Milton began to weary of life in Jamie's hands during those days. Drumtochty was not observant in the matter of health, but they had grown sensitive about Dr. MacLure, and remarked in the kirkyard all summer that he was failing. “He wes aye spare,” said Hillocks, “an' he's been sair twisted for the laist twenty year, but a' never mind him booed till the year. An' he's gaein' intae sma' buke (bulk), an' a' dinna like that, neeburs. “The Glen wudna dae weel withoot Weelum MacLure, an' he's no as young as he wes. Man, Drumsheugh, ye micht wile him aff tae the saut water atween the neeps and the hairst. He's been workin' forty year for a holiday, an' it's aboot due.” Drumsheugh was full of tact, and met MacLure quite by accident on the road. “Saunders'll no need me till the shearing begins,” he explained to the doctor, “an' a'm gaein' tae Brochty for a turn o' the hot baths; they're fine for the rheumatics. [Illustration] “Wull ye no come wi' me for auld lang syne? it's lonesome for a solitary man, an' it wud dae ye gude.” “Na, na, Drumsheugh,” said MacLure, who understood perfectly, “a've dune a' thae years withoot a break, an' a'm laith (unwilling) tae be takin' holidays at the tail end. “A'll no be mony months wi' ye a' thegither noo, an' a'm wanting tae spend a' the time a' hev in the Glen. Ye see yersel that a'll sune be getting ma lang rest, an' a'll no deny that a'm wearyin' for it.” As autumn passed into winter, the Glen noticed that the doctor's hair had turned grey, and that his manner had lost all its roughness. A feeling of secret gratitude filled their hearts, and they united in a conspiracy of attention. Annie Mitchell knitted a huge comforter in red and white, which the doctor wore in misery for one whole day, out of respect for Annie, and then hung it in his sitting-room as a wall ornament. Hillocks used to intercept him with hot drinks, and one drifting day compelled him to shelter till the storm abated. Flora Campbell brought a wonderful compound of honey and whiskey, much tasted in Auchindarroch, for his cough, and the mother of young Burnbrae filled his cupboard with black jam, as a healing measure. Jamie Soutar seemed to have an endless series of jobs in the doctor's direction, and looked in “juist tae rest himsel” in the kitchen. MacLure had been slowly taking in the situation, and at last he unburdened himself one night to Jamie. “What ails the fouk, think ye? for they're aye lecturin' me noo tae tak care o' the weet and tae wrap masel up, an' there's no a week but they're sendin' bit presents tae the house, till a'm fair ashamed.” “Oo, a'll explain that in a meenut,” answered Jamie, “for a' ken the Glen weel. Ye see they're juist try in' the Scripture plan o' heapin' coals o' fire on yer head. [Illustration: “TOLD DRUMSHEUGH THAT THE DOCTOR WAS NOT ABLE TO RISE”] “Here ye've been negleckin' the fouk in seeckness an' lettin' them dee afore their freends' eyes withoot a fecht, an' refusin' tae gang tae a puir wumman in her tribble, an' frichtenin' the bairns--no, a'm no dune--and scourgin' us wi' fees, and livin' yersel' on the fat o' the land. “Ye've been carryin' on this trade ever sin yir father dee'd, and the Glen didna notis. But ma word, they've fund ye oot at laist, an' they're gaein' tae mak ye suffer for a' yir ill usage. Div ye understand noo?” said Jamie, savagely. For a while MacLure was silent, and then he only said: “It's little a' did for the puir bodies; but ye hev a gude hert, Jamie, a rael good hert.” It was a bitter December Sabbath, and the fathers were settling the affairs of the parish ankle deep in snow, when MacLure's old housekeeper told Drumsheugh that the doctor was not able to rise, and wished to see him in the afternoon. “Ay, ay,” said Hillocks, shaking his head, and that day Drumsheugh omitted four pews with the ladle, while Jamie was so vicious on the way home that none could endure him. Janet had lit a fire in the unused grate, and hung a plaid by the window to break the power of the cruel north wind, but the bare room with its half-a-dozen bits of furniture and a worn strip of carpet, and the outlook upon the snow drifted up to the second pane of the window and the black firs laden with their icy burden, sent a chill to Drumsheugh's heart. The doctor had weakened sadly, and could hardly lift his head, but his face lit up at the sight of his visitor, and the big hand, which was now quite refined in its whiteness, came out from the bed-clothes with the old warm grip. [Illustration: “WITH THE OLD WARM GRIP”] “Come in by, man, and sit doon; it's an awfu' day tae bring ye sae far, but a' kent ye wudna grudge the traivel. “A' wesna sure till last nicht, an' then a' felt it wudna be lang, an' a' took a wearyin' this mornin' tae see ye. “We've been friends sin' we were laddies at the auld school in the firs, an' a' wud like ye tae be wi' me at the end. Ye 'ill stay the nicht, Paitrick, for auld lang syne.” Drumsheugh was much shaken, and the sound of the Christian name, which he had not heard since his mother's death, gave him a “grue” (shiver), as if one had spoken from the other world. “It's maist awfu' tae hear ye speakin' aboot deein', Weelum; a' canna bear it. We 'ill hae the Muirtown doctor up, an' ye 'ill be aboot again in nae time. “Ye hevna ony sair tribble; ye're juist trachled wi' hard wark an' needin' a rest. Dinna say ye're gaein' tae leave us, Weelum; we canna dae withoot ye in Drumtochty;” and Drumsheugh looked wistfully for some word of hope. “Na, na, Paitrick, naethin' can be dune, an' it's ower late tae send for ony doctor. There's a knock that canna be mista'en, an' a' heard it last night. A've focht deith for ither fouk mair than forty year, but ma ain time hes come at laist. “A've nae tribble worth mentionin'--a bit titch o' bronchitis--an' a've hed a graund constitution; but a'm fair worn oot, Paitrick; that's ma complaint, an' its past curin'.” Drumsheugh went over to the fireplace, and for a while did nothing but break up the smouldering peats, whose smoke powerfully affected his nose and eyes. [Illustration: “DRUMSHEUGH LOOKED WISTFULLY”] “When ye're ready, Paitrick, there's twa or three little trokes a' wud like ye tae look aifter, an' a'll tell ye aboot them as lang's ma head's clear. “A' didna keep buiks, as ye ken, for a' aye hed a guid memory, so naebody 'ill be harried for money aifter ma deith, and ye 'ill hae nae accoonts tae collect. “But the fouk are honest in Drumtochty, and they 'ill be offerin' ye siller, an' a'll gie ye ma mind aboot it. Gin it be a puir body, tell her tae keep it and get a bit plaidie wi' the money, and she 'ill maybe think o' her auld doctor at a time. Gin it be a bien (well-to-do) man, tak half of what he offers, for a Drumtochty man wud scorn to be mean in sic circumstances; and if onybody needs a doctor an' canna pay for him, see he's no left tae dee when a'm oot o' the road.” “Nae fear o' that as lang as a'm livin', Weelum; that hundred's still tae the fore, ye ken, an' a'll tak care it's weel spent. “Yon wes the best job we ever did thegither, an' dookin' Saunders, ye 'ill no forget that nicht, Weelum”--a gleam came into the doctor's eyes--“tae say neathin' o' the Highlan' fling.” The remembrance of that great victory came upon Drumsheugh, and tried his fortitude. “What 'ill become o's when ye're no here tae gie a hand in time o' need? we 'ill tak ill wi' a stranger that disna ken ane o's frae anither.” “It's a' for the best, Paitrick, an' ye 'ill see that in a whilie. A've kent fine that ma day wes ower, an' that ye sud hae a younger man. “A' did what a' cud tae keep up wi' the new medicine, but a' hed little time for readin', an' nane for traivellin'. “A'm the last o' the auld schule, an' a' ken as weel as onybody thet a' wesna sae dainty an' fine-mannered as the town doctors. Ye took me as a' wes, an' naebody ever cuist up tae me that a' wes a plain man. Na, na; ye've been rael kind an' conseederate a' thae years.” “Weelum, gin ye cairry on sic nonsense ony langer,” interrupted Drumsheugh, huskily, “a'll leave the hoose; a' canna stand it.” “It's the truth, Paitrick, but we 'ill gae on wi' our wark, far a'm failin' fast. “Gie Janet ony sticks of furniture she needs tae furnish a hoose, and sell a' thing else tae pay the wricht (undertaker) an' bedrel (grave-digger). If the new doctor be a young laddie and no verra rich, ye micht let him hae the buiks an' instruments; it 'ill aye be a help. “But a' wudna like ye tae sell Jess, for she's been a faithfu' servant, an' a freend tae. There's a note or twa in that drawer a' savit, an' if ye kent ony man that wud gie her a bite o' grass and a sta' in his stable till she followed her maister--' “Confoond ye, Weelum,” broke out Drumsheugh; “its doonricht cruel o' ye to speak like this tae me. Whar wud Jess gang but tae Drumsheugh? she 'ill hae her run o' heck an' manger sae lang as she lives; the Glen wudna like tae see anither man on Jess, and nae man 'ill ever touch the auld mare.” [Illustration] “Dinna mind me, Paitrick, for a” expeckit this; but ye ken we're no verra gleg wi' oor tongues in Drumtochty, an' dinna tell a' that's in oor hearts. “Weel, that's a' that a' mind, an' the rest a' leave tae yersel'. A've neither kith nor kin tae bury me, sae you an' the neeburs 'ill need tae lat me doon; but gin Tammas Mitchell or Saunders be stannin' near and lookin' as if they wud like a cord, gie't tae them, Paitrick. They're baith dour chiels, and haena muckle tae say, but Tammas hes a graund hert, and there's waur fouk in the Glen than Saunders. “A'm gettin' drowsy, an' a'll no be able tae follow ye sune, a' doot; wud ye read a bit tae me afore a' fa' ower? “Ye 'ill find ma mither's Bible on the drawers' heid, but ye 'ill need tae come close tae the bed, for a'm no hearin' or seein' sae weel as a' wes when ye cam.” Drumsheugh put on his spectacles and searched for a comfortable Scripture, while the light of the lamp fell on his shaking hands and the doctor's face where the shadow was now settling. [Illustration] “Ma mither aye wantit this read tae her when she wes sober” (weak), and Drumsheugh began, “In My Father's house are many mansions,” but MacLure stopped him. “It's a bonnie word, an' yir mither wes a sanct; but it's no for the like o' me. It's ower gude; a' daurna tak it. “Shut the buik an' let it open itsel, an' ye 'ill get a bit a've been readin' every nicht the laist month.” Then Drumsheugh found the Parable wherein the Master tells us what God thinks of a Pharisee and of a penitent sinner, till he came to the words: “And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes to heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.” “That micht hae been written for me, Paitrick, or ony ither auld sinner that hes feenished his life, an' hes naethin' tae say for himsel'. “It wesna easy for me tae get tae kirk, but a' cud hae managed wi' a stretch, an' a' used langidge a' sudna, an' a' micht hae been gentler, and not been so short in the temper. A' see't a' noo. “It's ower late tae mend, but ye 'ill maybe juist say to the fouk that I wes sorry, an' a'm houpin' that the Almichty 'ill hae mercy on me. “Cud ye ... pit up a bit prayer, Paitrick?” “A' haena the words,” said Drumsheugh in great distress; “wud ye like's tae send for the minister?” “It's no the time for that noo, an' a' wud rather hae yersel'--juist what's in yir heart, Paitrick: the Almichty 'ill ken the lave (rest) Himsel'.” So Drumsheugh knelt and prayed with many pauses. “Almichty God ... dinna be hard on Weelum MacLure, for he's no been hard wi' onybody in Drumtochty.... Be kind tae him as he's been tae us a' for forty year.... We're a' sinners afore Thee.... Forgive him what he's dune wrang, an' dinna cuist it up tae him.... Mind the fouk he's helpit .... the wee-men an' bairnies.... an' gie him a welcome hame, for he's sair needin't after a' his wark.... Amen.” “Thank ye, Paitrick, and gude nicht tae ye. Ma ain true freend, gie's yir hand, for a'll maybe no ken ye again. “Noo a'll say ma mither's prayer and hae a sleep, but ye 'ill no leave me till a' is ower.” Then he repeated as he had done every night of his life: “This night I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” He was sleeping quietly when the wind drove the snow against the window with a sudden “swish;” and he instantly awoke, so to say, in his sleep. Some one needed him. “Are ye frae Glen Urtach?” and an unheard voice seemed to have answered him. “Worse is she, an' suffering awfu'; that's no lichtsome; ye did richt tae come. “The front door's drifted up; gang roond tae the back, an' ye 'ill get intae the kitchen; a'll be ready in a meenut. “Gie's a hand wi' the lantern when a'm saidling Jess, an' ye needna come on till daylicht; a' ken the road.” [Illustration] Then he was away in his sleep on some errand of mercy, and struggling through the storm. “It's a coorse nicht, Jess, an' heavy traivellin'; can ye see afore ye, lass? for a'm clean confused wi' the snaw; bide a wee till a' find the diveesion o' the roads; it's aboot here back or forrit. “Steady, lass, steady, dinna plunge; i'ts a drift we're in, but ye're no sinkin'; ... up noo; ... there ye are on the road again. “Eh, it's deep the nicht, an' hard on us baith, but there's a puir wumman micht dee if we didna warstle through; ... that's it; ye ken fine what a'm sayin.' “We 'ill hae tae leave the road here, an' tak tae the muir. Sandie 'ill no can leave the wife alane tae meet us; ... feel for yersel” lass, and keep oot o' the holes. “Yon's the hoose black in the snaw. Sandie! man, ye frichtened us; a' didna see ye ahint the dyke; hoos the wife?” After a while he began again: “Ye're fair dune, Jess, and so a' am masel'; we're baith gettin' auld, an' dinna tak sae weel wi' the nicht wark. “We 'ill sune be hame noo; this is the black wood, and it's no lang aifter that; we're ready for oor beds, Jess.... ay, ye like a clap at a time; mony a mile we've gaed hegither. “Yon's the licht in the kitchen window; nae wonder ye're nickering (neighing).... it's been a stiff journey; a'm tired, lass.... a'm tired tae deith,” and the voice died into silence. Drumsheugh held his friend's hand, which now and again tightened in his, and as he watched, a change came over the face on the pillow beside him. The lines of weariness disappeared, as if God's hand had passed over it; and peace began to gather round the closed eyes. The doctor has forgotten the toil of later years, and has gone back to his boyhood. [Illustration: “SHE'S CARRYIN' A LIGHT IN HER HAND”] “The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want,” he repeated, till he came to the last verse, and then he hesitated. “Goodness and mercy all my life Shall surely follow me. “Follow me ... and ... and ... what's next? Mither said I wes tae haed ready when she cam. “'A'll come afore ye gang tae sleep, Wullie, but ye 'ill no get yir kiss unless ye can feenish the psalm.' “And ... in God's house ... for evermore my ... hoo dis it rin? a canna mind the next word ... my, my-- “It's ower dark noo tae read it, an' mither 'ill sune be comin.” Drumsheugh, in an agony, whispered into his ear, “'My dwelling-place,' Weelum.” “That's it, that's it a' noo; wha said it? “And in God's house for evermore My dwelling-place shall be. “A'm ready noo, an' a'll get ma kiss when mither comes; a' wish she wud come, for a'm tired an' wantin' tae sleep. “Yon's her step ... an' she's carryin' a licht in her hand; a' see it through the door. “Mither! a' kent ye wudna forget yir laddie for ye promised tae come, and a've feenished ma psalm. “And in God's house for evermore My dwelling-place shall be. “Gie me the kiss, mither, for a've been waitin' for ye, an' a'll sune be asleep.” The grey morning light fell on Drumsheugh, still holding his friend's cold hand, and staring at a hearth where the fire had died down into white ashes; but the peace on the doctor's face was of one who rested from his labours. THE MOURNING OF THE GLEN

5

THE MOURNING OF THE GLEN.

Dr. MacLure was buried during the great snowstorm which is still spoken of, and will remain the standard of snowfall in Drumtochty for the century. The snow was deep on the Monday, and the men that gave notice of his funeral had hard work to reach the doctor's distant patients. On Tuesday morning it began to fall again in heavy, fleecy flakes, and continued till Thursday, and then on Thursday the north wind rose and swept the snow into the hollows of the roads that went to the upland farms, and built it into a huge bank at the mouth of Glen Urtach, and laid it across our main roads in drifts of every size and the most lovely shapes, and filled up crevices in the hills to the depth of fifty feet. On Friday morning the wind had sunk to passing gusts that powdered your coat with white, and the sun was shining on one of those winter landscapes no townsman can imagine and no countryman ever forgets. The Glen, from end to end and side to side, was clothed in a glistering mantle white as no fuller on earth could white it, that flung its skirts over the clumps of trees and scattered farmhouses, and was only divided where the Tochty ran with black, swollen stream. The great moor rose and fell in swelling billows of snow that arched themselves over the burns, running deep in the mossy ground, and hid the black peat bogs with a thin, treacherous crust. [Illustration.] Beyond, the hills northwards and westwards stood high in white majesty, save where the black crags of Glen Urtach broke the line, and, above our lower Grampians, we caught glimpses of the distant peaks that lifted their heads in holiness unto God. It seemed to me a fitting day for William MacLure's funeral, rather than summer time, with its flowers and golden corn. He had not been a soft man, nor had he lived an easy life, and now he was to be laid to rest amid the austere majesty of winter, yet in the shining of the sun. Jamie Soutar, with whom I toiled across the Glen, did not think with me, but was gravely concerned. “Nae doot it's a graund sicht; the like o't is no gien tae us twice in a generation, an' nae king wes ever carried tae his tomb in sic a cathedral. “But it's the fouk a'm conseederin', an' hoo they'll win through; it's hard eneuch for them 'at's on the road, an' it's clean impossible for the lave. [Illustration: “TOILED ACROSS THE GLEN”] “They 'ill dae their best, every man o' them, ye may depend on that, an' hed it been open weather there wudna hev been six able-bodied men missin'. “A' wes mad at them, because they never said onything when he wes leevin', but they felt for a' that what he hed dune, an', a' think, he kent it afore he deed. “He hed juist ae faut, tae ma thinkin', for a' never jidged the waur o' him for his titch of rochness--guid trees hae gnarled bark--but he thotched ower little o' himsel'. “Noo, gin a' hed asked him hoo mony fouk wud come tae his beerial, he wud hae said, 'They 'ill be Drumsheugh an' yersel', an' may be twa or three neeburs besides the minister,' an' the fact is that nae man in oor time wud hae sic a githerin' if it werena for the storm. [Illustration] “Ye see,” said Jamie, who had been counting heads all morning, “there's six shepherds in Glen Urtaeh--they're shut up fast; an' there micht hae been a gude half dizen frae Dunleith wy, an' a'm telt there's nae road; an' there's the heich Glen, nae man cud cross the muir the day, an' it's aucht mile round;” and Jamie proceeded to review the Glen in every detail of age, driftiness of road and strength of body, till we arrived at the doctor's cottage, when he had settled on a reduction of fifty through stress of weather. [Illustration: “ANE OF THEM GIED OWER THE HEAD IN A DRIFT, AND HIS NEEBURS HAD TAE PU' HIM OOT,”] Drumsheugh was acknowledged as chief mourner by the Glen, and received us at the gate with a labored attempt at everyday manners. “Ye've hed heavy traivellin', a' doot, an' ye 'ill be cauld. It's hard weather for the sheep an' a'm thinkin' this 'ill be a feeding storm. “There wes nae use trying tae dig oot the front door yestreen, for it wud hae been drifted up again before morning. We've cleared awa the snow at the back for the prayer; ye 'ill get in at the kitchen door. “There's a puckle Dunleith men-----” “Wha?” cried Jamie in an instant. “Dunleith men,” said Drumsheugh. “Div ye mean they're here, whar are they?” “Drying themsels at the fire, an' no withoot need; ane of them gied ower the head in a drift, and his neeburs hed tae pu' him oot. “It took them a gude fower oors tae get across, an' it wes coorse wark; they likit him weel doon that wy, an', Jamie, man”--here Drumsheugh's voice changed its note, and his public manner disappeared--“what div ye think o' this? every man o' them has on his blacks.” “It's mair than cud be expeckit” said Jamie; “but whar dae yon men come frae, Drumsheugh?” Two men in plaids were descending the hill behind the doctor's cottage, taking three feet at a stride, and carrying long staffs in their hands. “They're Glen Urtach men, Jamie, for are o' them wes at Kildrummie fair wi' sheep, but hoo they've wun doon passes me.” “It canna be, Drumsheugh,” said Jamie, greatly excited. “Glen Urtach's steikit up wi' sna like a locked door. [Illustration: “TWO MEN IN PLAIDS WERE DESCENDING THE HILL”] “Ye're no surely frae the Glen, lads?” as the men leaped the dyke and crossed to the back door, the snow falling from their plaids as they walked. “We're that an' nae mistak, but a' thocht we wud be lickit ae place, eh, Charlie? a'm no sae weel acquant wi' the hill on this side, an' there wes some kittle (hazardous) drifts.” “It wes grand o' ye tae mak the attempt,” said Drumsheugh, “an' a'm gled ye're safe.” “He cam through as bad himsel' tae help ma wife,” was Charlie's reply. “They're three mair Urtach shepherds 'ill come in by sune; they're frae Upper Urtach an' we saw them fording the river; ma certes it took them a' their time, for it wes up tae their waists and rinnin' like a mill lade, but they jined hands and cam ower fine.” And the Urtach men went in to the fire. The Glen began to arrive in twos and threes, and Jamie, from a point of vantage at the gate, and under an appearance of utter indifference, checked his roll till even he was satisfied. [Illustration] “Weelum MacLure 'ill hae the beerial he deserves in spite o' sna and drifts; it passes a' tae see hoo they've githered frae far an' near. “A'm thinkin' ye can colleck them for the minister noo, Drumsheugh. A'body's here except the heich Glen, an' we mauna luke for them.” “Dinna be sae sure o' that, Jamie. Yon's terrible like them on the road, wi' Whinnie at their head;” and so it was, twelve in all, only old Adam Ross absent, detained by force, being eighty-two years of age. “It wud hae been temptin' Providence tae cross the muir,” Whinnie explained, “and it's a fell stap roond; a' doot we're laist.” “See, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, as he went to the house, “gin there be ony antern body in sicht afore we begin; we maun mak allooances the day wi' twa feet o' sna on the grund, tae say naethin' o' drifts.” “There's something at the turnin', an' it's no fouk; it's a machine o' some kind or ither--maybe a bread cart that's focht its wy up.” “Na, it's no that; there's twa horses, are afore the ither; if it's no a dogcairt wi' twa men in the front; they 'ill be comin' tae the beerial.” “What wud ye sae, Jamie,” Hillocks suggested, “but it micht be some o' thae Muirtown doctors? they were awfu' chief wi' MacLure.” “It's nae Muirtown doctors,” cried Jamie, in great exultation, “nor ony ither doctors. A' ken thae horses, and wha's ahind them. Quick, man, Hillocks, stop the fouk, and tell Drumsheugh tae come oot, for Lord Kilspindie hes come up frae Muirtown Castle.” Jamie himself slipped behind, and did not wish to be seen. “It's the respeck he's gettin' the day frae high an' low,” was Jamie's husky apology; “tae think o' them fetchin' their wy doon frae Glen Urtach, and toiling roond frae the heich Glen, an' his Lordship driving through the drifts a' the road frae Muirtown, juist tae honour Weelum MacLure's beerial. [Illustration: “TWA HORSES, ANE AFORE THE ITHER”] “It's nae ceremony the day, ye may lippen tae it; it's the hert brocht the fouk, an' ye can see it in their faces; ilka man hes his ain reason, an' he's thinkin' on't though he's speakin' o' naethin' but the storm; he's mindin' the day Weelum pued him out frae the jaws o' death, or the nicht he savit the gude wife in her oor o' tribble. “That's why they pit on their blacks this mornin' afore it wes licht, and wrastled through the sna drifts at risk o' life. Drumtochty fouk canna say muckle, it's an awfu' peety, and they 'ill dae their best tae show naethin', but a' can read it a' in their een. “But wae's me”--and Jamie broke down utterly behind a fir tree, so tender a thing is a cynic's heart--“that fouk 'ill tak a man's best wark a' his days without a word an' no dae him honour till he dees. Oh, if they hed only githered like this juist aince when he wes livin', an' lat him see he hedna laboured in vain. His reward has come ower late”. During Jamie's vain regret, the castle trap, bearing the marks of a wild passage in the snow-covered wheels, a broken shaft tied with rope, a twisted lamp, and the panting horses, pulled up between two rows of farmers, and Drumsheugh received his lordship with evident emotion. “Ma lord ... we never thocht o' this ... an' sic a road.” “How are you, Drumsheugh? and how are you all this wintry day? That's how I'm half an hour late; it took us four hours' stiff work for sixteen miles, mostly in the drifts, of course.” “It wes gude o' yir lordship, tae mak sic an effort, an' the hale Glen wull be gratefu' tae ye, for ony kindness tae him is kindness tae us.” [Illustration: HE HAD LEFT HIS OVERCOAT AND WAS IN BLACK] “You make too much of it, Drumsheugh,” and the clear, firm voice was heard of all; “it would have taken more than a few snow drifts to keep me from showing my respect to William MacLure's memory.” When all had gathered in a half circle before the kitchen door, Lord Kilspindie came out--every man noticed he had left his overcoat, and was in black, like the Glen--and took a place in the middle with Drumsheugh and Burnbrae, his two chief tenants, on the right and left, and as the minister appeared every man bared his head. The doctor looked on the company--a hundred men such as for strength and gravity you could hardly have matched in Scotland--standing out in picturesque relief against the white background, and he said: “It's a bitter day, friends, and some of you are old; perhaps it might be wise to cover your heads before I begin to pray.” Lord Kilspindie, standing erect and grey-headed between the two old men, replied: “We thank you, Dr. Davidson, for your thoughtfulness; but he endured many a storm in our service, and we are not afraid of a few minutes' cold at his funeral.” A look flashed round the stern faces, and was reflected from the minister, who seemed to stand higher. His prayer, we noticed with critical appreciation, was composed for the occasion, and the first part was a thanksgiving to God for the life work of our doctor, wherein each clause was a reference to his services and sacrifices. No one moved or said Amen--it had been strange with us--but when every man had heard the gratitude of his dumb heart offered to heaven, there was a great sigh. After which the minister prayed that we might have grace to live as this man had done from youth to old age, not for himself, but for others, and that we might be followed to our grave by somewhat of “that love wherewith we mourn this day Thy servant departed.” Again the same sigh, and the minister said Amen. The “wricht” stood in the doorway without speaking, and four stalwart men came forward. They were the volunteers that would lift the coffin and carry it for the first stage. One was Tammas, Annie Mitchell's man; and another was Saunders Baxter, for whose life MacLure had his great fight with death; and the third was the Glen Urtach shepherd for whose wife's sake MacLure suffered a broken leg and three fractured ribs in a drift; and the fourth, a Dunleith man, had his own reasons of remembrance. “He's far lichter than ye wud expeck for sae big a man--there wesna muckle left o' him, ye see--but the road is heavy, and a'il change ye aifter the first half mile.” “Ye needna tribble yersel, wricht,” said the man from Glen Urtach; “the'll be nae change in the cairryin' the day,” and Tammas was thankful some one had saved him speaking. Surely no funeral is like unto that of a doctor for pathos, and a peculiar sadness fell on that company as his body was carried out who for nearly half a century had been their help in sickness, and had beaten back death time after time from their door. Death after all was victor, for the man that had saved them had not been able to save himself. As the coffin passed the stable door a horse nieghed within, and every man looked at his neighbour. It was his old mare crying to her master. Jamie slipped into the stable, and went up into the stall. “Puir lass, ye're no gaen' wi' him the day, an' ye 'ill never see him again; ye've hed yir last ride thegither, an' ye were true tae the end.” [Illustration: “DEATH AFTER ALL WAS VICTOR”] After the funeral Drumsheugh came himself for Jess, and took her to his farm. Saunders made a bed for her with soft, dry straw, and prepared for her supper such things as horses love. Jess would neither take food nor rest, but moved uneasily in her stall, and seemed to be waiting for some one that never came. No man knows what a horse or a dog understands and feels, for God hath not given them our speech. If any footstep was heard in the courtyard, she began to neigh, and was always looking round as the door opened. But nothing would tempt her to eat, and in the night-time Drumsheugh heard her crying as if she expected to be taken out for some sudden journey. The Kildrummie veterinary came to see her, and said that nothing could be done when it happened after this fashion with an old horse. [Illustration] “A've seen it aince afore,” he said. “Gin she were a Christian instead o' a horse, ye micht say she wes dying o' a broken hert.” He recommended that she should be shot to end her misery, but no man could be found in the Glen to do the deed and Jess relieved them of the trouble. When Drumsheugh went to the stable on Monday morning, a week after Dr. MacLure fell on sleep, Jess was resting at last, but her eyes were open and her face turned to the door. “She wes a' the wife he hed,” said Jamie, as he rejoined the procession, “an' they luved ane anither weel.” The black thread wound itself along the whiteness of the Glen, the coffin first, with his lordship and Drumsheugh behind, and the others as they pleased, but in closer ranks than usual, because the snow on either side was deep, and because this was not as other funerals. They could see the women standing at the door of every house on the hillside, and weeping, for each family had some good reason in forty years to remember MacLure. When Bell Baxter saw Saunders alive, and the coffin of the doctor that saved him on her man's shoulder, she bowed her head on the dyke, and the bairns in the village made such a wail for him they loved that the men nearly disgraced themselves. “A'm gled we're through that, at ony rate,” said Hillocks; “he wes awfu' taen up wi' the bairns, conseederin' he hed nane o' his ain.” There was only one drift on the road between his cottage and the kirkyard, and it had been cut early that morning. Before daybreak Saunders had roused the lads in the bothy, and they had set to work by the light of lanterns with such good will that, when Drumsheugh came down to engineer a circuit for the funeral, there was a fair passage, with walls of snow twelve feet high on either side. [Illustration.] “Man, Saunders,” he said, “this wes a kind thocht, and rael weel dune.” But Saunders' only reply was this: “Mony a time he's hed tae gang round; he micht as weel hae an open road for his last traivel.” [Illustration: “STANDING AT THE DOOR”] When the coffin was laid down at the mouth of the grave, the only blackness in the white kirkyard, Tammas Mitchell did the most beautiful thing in all his life. He knelt down and carefully wiped off the snow the wind had blown upon the coffin, and which had covered the name, and when he had done this he disappeared behind the others, so that Drumsheugh could hardly find him to take a cord. For these were the eight that buried Dr. MacLure--Lord Kilspindie at the head as landlord and Drumsheugh at his feet as his friend; the two ministers of the parish came first on the right and left; then Burnbrae and Hillocks of the farmers, and Saunders and Tammas for the plowmen. So the Glen he loved laid him to rest. When the bedrel had finished his work and the turf had been spread, Lord Kilspindie spoke: “Friends of Drumtochty, it would not be right that we should part in silence and no man say what is in every heart. We have buried the remains of one that served this Glen with a devotion that has known no reserve, and a kindliness that never failed, for more than forty years. I have seen many brave men in my day, but no man in the trenches of Sebastopol carried himself more knightly than William MacLure. You will never have heard from his lips what I may tell you to-day, that my father secured for him a valuable post in his younger days, and he preferred to work among his own people; and I wished to do many things for him when he was old, but he would have nothing for himself. He will never be forgotten while one of us lives, and I pray that all doctors everywhere may share his spirit. If it be your pleasure, I shall erect a cross above his grave, and shall ask my old friend and companion Dr. Davidson, your minister, to choose the text to be inscribed.” “We thank you, Lord Kilspindie,” said the doctor, “for your presence with us in our sorrow and your tribute to the memory of William MacLure, and I choose this for his text: “'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'” Milton was, at that time, held in the bonds of a very bitter theology, and his indignation was stirred by this unqualified eulogium. “No doubt Dr. MacLure hed mony natural virtues, an' he did his wark weel, but it wes a peety he didna mak mair profession o' releegion.” “When William MacLure appears before the Judge, Milton,” said Lachlan Campbell, who that day spoke his last words in public, and they were in defence of charity, “He will not be asking him about his professions, for the doctor's judgment hass been ready long ago; and it iss a good judgment, and you and I will be happy men if we get the like of it. “It is written in the Gospel, but it iss William MacLure that will not be expecting it.” “What is't Lachlan?” asked Jamie Soutar eagerly. The old man, now very feeble, stood in the middle of the road, and his face, once so hard, was softened into a winsome tenderness. “'Come, ye blessed of My Father ... I was sick and ye visited Me.'” [Illustration: GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS, THAT A MAN LAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIENDS.]

1

IN ST. JACOB STRAAT.

“The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.” “It is the Professor von Holzen,” said a stout woman who still keeps the egg and butter shop at the corner of St. Jacob Straat in The Hague; she is a Jewess, as, indeed, are most of the denizens of St. Jacob Straat and its neighbour, Bezem Straat, where the fruit-sellers live--“it is the Professor von Holzen, who passes this way once or twice a week. He is a good man.” “His coat is of a good cloth,” answered her customer, a young man with a melancholy dark eye and a racial appreciation of the material things of this world. Some say that it is not wise to pass through St. Jacob Straat or Bezem Straat alone and after nightfall, for there are lurking forms within the doorways, and shuffling feet may be heard in the many passages. During the daytime the passer-by will, if he looks up quickly enough, see furtive faces at the windows, of men, and more especially of women, who never seem to come abroad, but pass their lives behind those unwashed curtains, with carefully closed windows, and in an atmosphere which may be faintly imagined by a glance at the wares in the shop below. The pavement of St. Jacob Straat is also pressed into the service of that commerce in old metal and damaged domestic utensils which seems to enable thousands of the accursed people to live and thrive according to their lights. It will be observed that the vendors, with a knowledge of human nature doubtless bred of experience, only expose upon the pavement articles such as bedsteads, stoves, and other heavy ware which may not be snatched up by the fleet of foot. Within the shops are crowded clothes and books and a thousand miscellaneous effects of small value. A hush seems to hang over this street. Even the children, white-faced and melancholy, with deep expressionless eyes and drooping noses, seem to have realized too soon the gravity of life, and rarely indulge in games. He whom the butter-merchant described as Professor von Holzen passed quickly along the middle of the street, with an air suggesting a desire to attract as little attention as possible. He was a heavy-shouldered man with a bad mouth--a greedy mouth, one would think--and mild eyes. The month was September, and the professor wore a thin black overcoat closely buttoned across his broad chest. He carried a pair of slate-coloured gloves and an umbrella. His whole appearance bespoke learning and middle-class respectability. It is, after all, no use being learned without looking learned, and Professor von Holzen took care to dress according to his station in life. His attitude towards the world seemed to say, “Leave me alone and I will not trouble you,” which is, after all, as satisfactory an attitude as may be desired. It is, at all events, better than the common attitude of the many, that says, “Let us exchange confidences,” leading to the barter of two valueless commodities. The professor stopped at the door of No. 15, St. Jacob Straat--one of the oldest houses in this old street--and slowly lighted a cigar. There is a shop on the ground-floor of No. 15, where ancient pieces of stove-pipe and a few fire-irons are exposed for sale. Von Holzen, having pushed open the door, stood waiting at the foot of a narrow and grimy staircase. He knew that in such a shop in such a quarter of the town there is always a human spider lurking in the background, who steals out upon any human fly that may pause to look at the wares. This spider presently appeared--a wizened woman with a face like that of a witch. Von Holzen pointed upward to the room above them. She shook her head regretfully. “Still alive,” she said. And the professor turned toward the stair, but paused at the bottom step. “Here,” he said, extending his fingers. “Some milk. How much has he had?” “Two jugs,” she replied, “and three jugs of water. One would say he has a fire inside him.” “So he has,” said the professor, with a grim smile, as he went upstairs. He ascended slowly, puffing out the smoke of his cigar before him with a certain skill, so that his progress was a form of fumigation. The fear of infection is the only fear to which men will own, and it is hard to understand why this form of cowardice should be less despicable than others. Von Holzen was a German, and that nation combines courage with so deep a caution that mistaken persons sometimes think the former adjunct lacking. The mark of a wound across his cheek told that in his student days this man had, after due deliberation, considered it necessary to fight. Some, looking at Von Holzen's face, might wonder what mark the other student bore as a memento of that encounter. Von Holzen pushed open a door that stood ajar at the head of the stair, and went slowly into the room, preceded by a puff of smoke. The place was not full of furniture, properly speaking, although it was littered with many household effects which had no business in a bedroom. It was, indeed, used as a storehouse for such wares as the proprietor of the shop only offered to a chosen few. The atmosphere of the room must have been a very Tower of Babel, where strange foreign bacilli from all parts of the world rose up and wrangled in the air. Upon a sham Empire table, _très antique_, near the window, stood three water-jugs and a glass of imitation Venetian work. A yellow hand stretching from a dark heap of bedclothes clutched the glass and held it out, empty, when Von Holzen came into the room. “I have sent for milk,” said the professor, smoking hard, and heedful not to look too closely into the dark corner where the bed was situated. “You are kind,” said a voice, and it was impossible to guess whether its tone was sarcastic or grateful. Von Holzen looked at the empty water-jugs with a smile, and shrugged his shoulders. His intention had perhaps been a kind one. A bad mouth usually indicates a soft heart. “It is because you have something to gain,” said the hollow voice from the bed. “I have something to gain, but I can do without it,” replied Von Holzen, turning to the door and taking a jug of milk from the hand of a child waiting there. “And the change,” he said sharply. The child laughed cunningly, and held out two small copper coins of the value of half a cent. Von Holzen filled the tumbler and handed it to the sick man, who a moment later held it out empty. “You may have as much as you like,” said Von Holzen, kindly. “Will it keep me alive?” “Nothing can do that, my friend,” answered Von Holzen. He looked down at the yellow face peering at him from the darkness. It seemed to be the face of a very aged man, with eyes wide open and blood-shot. A thickness of speech was accounted for by the absence of teeth. The man laughed gleefully. “All the same, I have lived longer than any of them,” he said. How many of us pride ourselves upon possessing an advantage which others never covet! “Yes,” answered Von Holzen, gravely. “How old are you?” “Nearly thirty-five,” was the answer. Von Holzen nodded, and, turning on his heel, looked thoughtfully out of the window. The light fell full on his face, which would have been a fine one were the mouth hidden. The eyes were dark and steady. A high forehead looked higher by reason of a growth of thick hair standing nearly an inch upright from the scalp, like the fur of a beaver in life, without curl or ripple. The chin was long and pointed. A face, this, that any would turn to look at again. One would think that such a man would get on in the world. But none may judge of another in this respect. It is a strange fact that intimacy with any who has made for himself a great name leads to the inevitable conclusion that he is unworthy of it. “Wonderful!” murmured Von Holzen--“wonderful! Nearly thirty-five!” And it was hard to say what his thoughts really were. The only sound that came from the bed was the sound of drinking. “And I know more about the trade than any, for I was brought up to it from boyhood,” said the dying man, with an uncanny bravado. “I did not wait until I was driven to it, like most.” “Yes, you were skilful, as I have been told.” “Not all skill--not all skill,” piped the metallic voice, indistinctly. “There was knowledge also.” Von Holzen, standing with his hands in the pockets of his thin overcoat, shrugged his shoulders. They had arrived by an oft-trodden path to an ancient point of divergence. Presently Von Holzen turned and went towards the bed. The yellow hand and arm lay stretched out across the table, and Holzen's finger softly found the pulse. “You are weaker,” he said. “It is only right that I should tell you.” The man did not answer, but lay back, breathing quickly. Something seemed to catch in his throat. Von Holzen went to the door, and furtive steps moved away down the dark staircase. “Go,” he said authoritatively, “for the doctor, at once.” Then he came back towards the bed. “Will you take my price?” he said to its occupant. “I offer it to you for the last time.” “A thousand gulden?” “Yes.” “It is too little money,” replied the dying man. “Make it twelve hundred.” Von Holzen turned away to the window again thoughtfully. A silence seemed to have fallen over the busy streets, to fill the untidy room. The angel of death, not for the first time, found himself in company with the greed of men. “I will do that,” said Von Holzen at length, “as you are dying.” “Have you the money with you?” “Yes.” “Ah!” said the dying man, regretfully. It was only natural, perhaps, that he was sorry that he had not asked more. “Sit down,” he said, “and write.” Von Holzen did as he was bidden. He had also a pocket-book and pencil in readiness. Slowly, as if drawing from the depths of a long-stored memory, the dying man dictated a prescription in a mixture of dog-Latin and Dutch, which his hearer seemed to understand readily enough. The money, in dull-coloured notes, lay on the table before the writer. The prescription was a long one, covering many pages of the note-book, and the particulars as to preparation and temperature of the various liquid ingredients filled up another two pages. “There,” said the dying man at length, “I have treated you fairly. I have told you all I know. Give me the money.” Von Holzen crossed the room and placed the notes within the yellow fingers, which closed over them. “Ah,” said the recipient, “I have had more than that in my hand. I was rich once, and I spent it all in Amsterdam. Now read over your writing. I will treat you fairly.” Von Holzen stood by the window and read aloud from his book. “Yes,” said the other. “One sees that you took your diploma at Leyden. You have made no mistake.” Von Holzen closed the book and replaced it in his pocket. His face bore no sign of exultation. His somewhat phlegmatic calm successfully concealed the fact that he had at last obtained information which he had long sought. A cart rattled past over the cobble-stones, making speech inaudible for the moment. The man moved uneasily on the bed. Von Holzen went towards him and poured out more milk. Instead of reaching out for it, the sick man's hand lay on the coverlet. The notes were tightly held by three fingers; the free finger and the thumb picked at the counterpane. Von Holzen bent over the bed and examined the face. The sick man's eyes were closed. Suddenly he spoke in a mumbling voice--“And now that you have what you want, you will go.” “No,” answered Von Holzen, in a kind voice, “I will not do that. I will stay with you if you do not want to be left alone. You are brave, at all events. I shall be horribly afraid when it comes to my turn to die.” “You would not be afraid if you had lived a life such as mine. Death cannot be worse, at all events.” And the man laughed contentedly enough, as one who, having passed through evil days, sees the end of them at last. Von Holzen made no answer. He went to the window and opened it, letting in the air laden with the clean scent of burning peat, which makes the atmosphere of The Hague unlike that of any other town; for here is a city with the smell of a village in its busy streets. The German scientist stood looking out, and into the room came again that strange silence. It was an odd room in which to die, for every article in it was what is known as an antiquity; and although some of these relics of the past had been carefully manufactured in a back shop in Bezem Straat, others were really of ancient date. The very glass from which the dying man drank his milk dated from the glorious days of Holland when William the Silent pitted his Northern stubbornness and deep diplomacy against the fire and fanaticism of Alva. Many objects in the room had a story, had been in the daily use of hands long since vanished, could tell the history of half a dozen human lives lived out and now forgotten. The air itself smelt of age and mouldering memories. Von Holzen came towards the bed without speaking, and stood looking down. Never a talkative man, he was now further silenced by the shadow that lay over the stricken face of his companion. The sick man was breathing very slowly. He glanced at Von Holzen for a moment, and then returned to the dull contemplation of the opposite wall. Quite suddenly his breath caught. There were long pauses during which he seemed to cease to breathe. Then at length followed a pause which merged itself gently into eternity. Von Holzen waited a few minutes, and then bent over the bed and softly unclasped the dead man's hand, taking from it the crumpled notes. Mechanically he counted them, twelve hundred gulden in all, and restored them to the pocket from which he had taken them half an hour earlier. He walked to the window and waited. When at length the district doctor arrived, Von Holzen turned to greet him with a stiff bow. “I am afraid, Herr Doctor,” he said, in German, “You are too late.”

2

WORK OR PLAY?

“Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.” Two men were driving in a hansom cab westward through Cockspur Street. One, a large individual of a bovine placidity, wore the Queen's uniform, and carried himself with a solid dignity faintly suggestive of a lighthouse. The other, a narrower man, with a keen, fair face and eyes that had an habitual smile, wore another uniform--that of society. He was well dressed, and, what is rarer carried his fine clothes with such assurance that their fineness seemed not only natural but indispensable. “Sic transit the glory of this world,” he was saying. At this moment three men on the pavement--the usual men on the pavement at such times--turned and looked into the cab. “'Ere's White!” cried one of them. “White--dash his eyes! Brayvo! brayvo, White!” And all three raised a shout which seemed to be taken up vaguely in various parts of Trafalgar Square, and finally died away in the distance. “That is it,” said the young man in the frock-coat; “that is the glory of this world. Listen to it passing away. There is a policeman touching his helmet. Ah, what a thing it is to be Major White--to-day! To morrow--_bonjour la gloire_!” Major White, who had dropped his single eye-glass a minute earlier, sat squarely looking out upon the world with a mild surprise. The eye from which the glass had fallen was even more surprised than the other. But this, it seemed, was a man upon whom the passing world made, as a rule, but a passing impression. His attitude towards it was one of dense tolerance. He was, in fact, one of those men who usually allow their neighbours to live in a fool's-paradise, based upon the assumption of a blindness or a stupidity or an indifference, which may or may not be justified by subsequent events. This was, as Tony Cornish, his companion, had hinted, _the_ White of the moment. Just as the reader may be the Jones or the Tomkins of the moment if his soul thirst for glory. Crime and novel-writing are the two broad roads to notoriety, but Major White had practiced neither felony nor fiction. He had merely attended to his own and his country's business in a solid, common-sense way in one of those obscure and tight places into which the British officer frequently finds himself forced by the unwieldiness of the empire or the indiscretion of an effervescent press. That he had extricated himself and his command from the tight place, with much glory to themselves and an increased burden to the cares of the Colonial Office, was a fact which a grateful country was at this moment doing its best to recognize. That the authorities and those who knew him could not explain how he had done it any more than he himself could, was another fact which troubled him as little. Major White was wise in that he did not attempt to explain. “That sort of thing,” he said, “generally comes right in the end.” And the affair may thus be consigned to that pigeon-hole of the past in which are filed for future reference cases where brilliant men have failed and unlikely ones have covered themselves with sudden and transient glory. There had been a review of the troops that had taken part in a short and satisfactory expedition of which, by what is usually called a lucky chance, White found himself the hero. He was not of the material of which heroes are made; but that did not matter. The world will take a man and make a hero of him without pausing to inquire of what stuff he may be. Nay, more, it will take a man's name and glorify it without so much as inquiring to what manner of person the name belongs. Tony Cornish, who went everywhere and saw everything, was of course present at the review, and knew all the best people there. He passed from carriage to carriage in his smart way, saying the right thing to the right people in the right words, failing to see the wrong people quite in the best manner, and conscious of the fact that none could surpass him. Then suddenly, roused to a higher manhood by the tramp of steady feet, by the sight of his lifelong friend White riding at the head of his tanned warriors, this social success forgot himself. He waved his silk hat and shouted himself hoarse, as did the honest plumber at his side. “That's better work than yours nor mine, mister,” said the plumber, when the troops were gone; and Tony admitted, with his ready smile, that it was so. A few minutes later Tony found Major White solemnly staring at a small crowd, which as solemnly stared back at him, on the pavement in front of the Horse Guards. “Here, I have a cab waiting for me,” he had said; and White followed him with a mildly bewildered patience, pushing his way gently through the crowd as through a herd of oxen. He made no comment, and if he heard sundry whispers of “That's 'im,” he was not unduly elated. In the cab he sat bolt upright, looking as if his tunic was too tight, as in all probability it was. The day was hot, and after a few jerks he extracted a pocket-handkerchief from his sleeve. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Well, I was going to Cambridge Terrace. Joan sent me a card this morning saying that she wanted to see me,” explained Tony Cornish. He was a young man who seemed always busy. His long thin legs moved quickly, he spoke quickly, and had a rapid glance. There was a suggestion of superficial haste about him. For an idle man, he had remarkably little time on his hands. White took up his eye-glass, examined it with short-sighted earnestness, and screwed it solemnly into his eye. “Cambridge Terrace?” he said, and stared in front of him. “Yes. Have you seen the Ferribys since your glorious return to these--er--shores?” As he spoke, Cornish gave only half of his attention. He knew so many people that Piccadilly was a work of considerable effort, and it is difficult to bow gracefully from a hansom cab. “Can't say I have.” “Then come in and see them now. We shall find only Joan at home, and she will not mind your fine feathers or the dust and circumstance of war upon your boots. Lady Ferriby will be sneaking about in the direction of Edgware Road--fish is nearly two pence a pound cheaper there, I understand. My respected uncle is sure to be sunning his waistcoat in Piccadilly. Yes, there he is. Isn't he splendid? How do, uncle?” and Cornish waved a grey Suède glove with a gay nod. “How are the Ferribys?” inquired Major White, who belonged to the curt school. “Oh, they seem to be well. Uncle is full of that charity which at all events has its headquarters in the home counties. Aunt--well, aunt is saving money.” “And Miss Ferriby?” inquired White, looking straight in front of him. Cornish glanced quickly at his companion. “Oh, Joan?” he answered. “She is all right. Full of energy, you know--all the fads in their courses.” “You get 'em too.” “Oh yes; I get them too. Buttonholes come and buttonholes go. Have you noticed it? They get large. Neapolitan violets all over your left shoulder one day, and no flowers at all the week after.” Cornish spoke with a gravity befitting the subject. He was, it seemed a student of human nature in his way. “Of course,” he added, laying an impressive forefinger on White's gold-laced cuff, “it would never do if the world remained stationary.” “Never,” said the major, darkly. “Never.” They were talking to pass the time. Joan Ferriby had come between them, as a woman is bound to come between two men sooner or later. Neither knew what the other thought of Joan Ferriby, or if he thought of her at all. Women, it is to be believed, have a pleasant way of mentioning the name of a man with such significance that one of their party changes colour. When next she meets that man she does it again, and perhaps he sees it, and perhaps his vanity, always on the alert, magnifies that unfortunate blush. And they are married, and live unhappily ever afterwards. And--let us hope there is a hell for gossips. But men are different in their procedure. They are awkward and _gauche_. They talk of newspaper matters, and on the whole there is less harm done. The hansom cab containing these two men pulled up jerkily at the door of No. 9, Cambridge Terrace. Tony Cornish hurried to the door, and rang the bell as if he knew it well. Major White followed him stiffly. They were ushered into a library on the ground floor, and were there received by a young lady, who, pen in hand, sat at a large table littered with newspaper wrappers. “I am addressing the Haberdashers' Assistants,” she said, “but I am very glad to see you.” Miss Joan Ferriby was one of those happy persons who never know a doubt. One must, it seems, be young to enjoy this nineteenth-century immunity. One must be pretty--it is, at all events, better to be pretty--and one must dress well. A little knowledge of the world, a decisive way of stating what pass at the moment for facts, a quick manner of speaking--and the rest comes _tout seul_. This cocksureness is in the atmosphere of the day, just as fainting and curls and an appealing helplessness were in the atmosphere of an earlier Victorian period. Miss Ferriby stood, pen in hand, and laughed at the confusion on the table in front of her. She was eminently practical, and quite without that self-consciousness which in a bygone day took the irritating form of coyness. Major White, with whom she shook hands _en camarade_, gazed at her solemnly. “Who are the Haberdashers' Assistants?” he asked. Miss Ferriby sat down with a grave face. “Oh, it is a splendid charity,” she answered. “Tony will tell you all about it. It is an association of which the object is to induce people to give up riding on Saturday afternoons, and to lend their bicycles to haberdashers' assistants who cannot afford to buy them for themselves. Papa is patron.” Cornish looked quickly from one to the other. He had always felt that Major White was not quite of the world in which Joan and he moved. The major came into it at times, looked around him, and then moved away again into another world, less energetic, less advanced, less rapid in its changes. Cornish had never sought to interest his friend in sundry good works in which Joan, for instance, was interested, and which formed a delightful topic for conversation at teatime. “It is so splendid,” said Joan, gathering up her papers, “to feel that one is really doing something.” And she looked up into White's face with an air of grave enthusiasm which made him drop his eye-glass. “Oh yes,” he answered, rather vaguely. Cornish had already seated himself at the table, and was folding the addressed newspaper wrappers over circulars printed on thick note-paper. This seemed a busy world into which White had stepped. He looked rather longingly at the newspaper wrappers and the circulars, and then lapsed into the contemplation of Joan's neat fingers as she too fell to the work. “We saw all about you,” said the girl, in her bright, decisive way, “in the newspapers. Papa read it aloud. He is always reading things aloud now, out of the _Times_. He thinks it is good practice for the platform, I am sure. We were all”--she paused and banged her energetic fist down upon a pile of folded circulars which seemed to require further pressure--“very proud, you know, to know you.” “Good Lord!” ejaculated White, fervently. “Well, why not?” asked Miss Ferriby, looking up. She had expressive eyes, and they now flashed almost angrily. “All English people----” she began, and broke off suddenly, throwing aside the papers and rising quickly to her feet. Her eyes were fixed on White's tunic. “Is that a medal?” she asked, hurrying towards him. “Oh, how splendid! Look, Tony, look! A medal! Is it”--she paused, looking at it closely--“is it--the Victoria Cross?” she asked, and stood looking from one man to the other, her eyes glistening with something more than excitement. “Um--yes,” admitted White. Tony Cornish had risen to his feet also. He held out his hand. “I did not know that,” he said. There was a pause. Tony and Joan returned to their circulars in an odd silence. The Haberdashers' Assistants seemed suddenly to have diminished in importance. “By-the-by,” said Joan Ferriby at length, “papa wants to see you, Tony. He has a new scheme. Something very large and very important. The only question is whether it is not too large. It is not only in England, but in other countries. A great international affair. Some distressed manufacturers or something. I really do not quite know. That Mr. Roden--you remember? --has been to see him about it.” Cornish nodded in his quick way. “I remember Roden,” he answered. “The man you met at Hombourg. Tall dark man with a tired manner.” “Yes,” answered Joan. “He has been to see papa several times. Papa is just as busy as ever with his charities,” she continued, addressing White. “And I believe he wants you to help him in this one.” “Me?” said White, nervously. “Oh, I'm no good. I should not know a haberdasher's assistant if I saw him.” “Oh, but this is not the Haberdashers' Assistants,” laughed Joan. “It is something much more important than that. The Haberdashers' Assistants are only----” “Pour passer le temps,” suggested Cornish, gaily. “No, of course not. But papa is really rather anxious about this. He says it is much the most important thing he has ever had to do with--and that is saying a good deal, you know. I wish I could remember the name of it, and of those poor unfortunate people who make it--whatever it is. It is some stuff, you know, and sounds sticky. Papa has so many charities, and such long names to them. Aunt Susan says it is because he was so wild in his youth--but one cannot believe that. Would you think that papa had been wild in his youth--to look at him now?” “Lord, no!” ejaculated White, with pious solidity, throwing back his shoulders with an air that seemed to suggest a readiness to fight any man who should hint at such a thing, and he waved the mere thought aside with a ponderous gesture of the hand. Joan had, however, already turned to another matter. She was consulting a diary bound in dark blue morocco. “Let me see, now,” she said. “Papa told me to make an appointment with you. When can you come?” Cornish produced a minute engagement-book, and these two busy people put their heads together in the search for a disengaged moment. Not only in mind, but in face and manner, they slightly resembled each other, and might, by the keen-sighted, have been set down at once as cousins. Both were fair and slightly made, both were quick and clever. Both faced the world with an air of energetic intelligence that bespoke their intention of making a mark upon it. Both were liable to be checked in a moment of earnest endeavour by a sudden perception of the humorous, which liability rendered them somewhat superficial, and apt of it lightly from one thought to another. “I wish I could remember the name of papa's new scheme,” said Joan, as she bade them good-bye. When they were in the cab she ran to the door. “I remember,” she cried. “I remember now. It is malgamite.”

3

BEGINNING AT HOME.

“Charity creates much of the misery it relieves, but it does not relieve all the misery it creates.” Charity, as all the world knows, should begin at an “at home.” Lord Ferriby knew as well as any that there are men, and perhaps even women, who will give largely in order that their names may appear largely and handsomely in the select subscription lists. He also knew that an invitation card in the present is as sure a bait as the promise of bliss hereafter. So Lady Ferriby announced by card (in an open envelope with a halfpenny stamp) that she should be “at home” to certain persons on a certain evening. And the good and the great flocked to Cambridge Terrace. The good and great are, one finds, a little mixed, from a social point of view. There were present at Lady Ferriby's, for instance, a number of ministers, some cabinet, others dissenting. Here, a man leaning against the wall wore a blue ribbon across his shirt front. There, another, looking bigger and more self-confident, had no shirt front at all. His was the cheap distinction of unsuitable clothes. “Ha! Miss Ferriby, glad to see you,” he said as he entered, holding out a hand which had the usual outward signs of industrial honesty. Joan shook the hand frankly, and its possessor passed on. “Is that the gas-man?” inquired Major White, gravely. He had been standing beside her ever since his arrival, seeking, it seemed, the protection of one who understood these social functions. It is to be presumed that the major was less bewildered than he looked. “Hush!” And Joan said something hurriedly in White's large ear. “Everybody has him,” she concluded; and the explanation brought certain calm into the mildly surprised eye behind the eye-glass. White recognized the phrase and its conclusive contemporary weight. “Here's a flat-backed man!” he exclaimed, with a ring of relief. “Been drilled, this man. Gad! He's proud!” added the major, as the new-comer passed Joan with rather a cold bow. “Oh, that's the detective,” explained Joan. “So many people, you know; and so mixed. Everybody has them. Here's Tony--at last.” Tony Cornish was indeed making his way through the crowd towards them. He shook hands with a bishop as he elbowed a path across the room, and did it with the pious face of a self-respecting curate. The next minute he was prodding a sporting baronet in the ribs at the precise moment when that nobleman reached the point of his little story and on the precise rib where he expected to be prodded. It is always wise to do the expected. At the sight of Tony Cornish, Joan's face became grave, and she turned towards him with her little frown of preoccupation, such as one might expect to find upon the face of a woman concerned in the great movements of the day. But before Tony reached her the expression changed to a very feminine and even old-fashioned one of annoyance. “Oh, here comes mother!” she said, looking beyond Cornish, who was indeed being pursued by a wizened little old lady. Lady Ferriby, it seemed, was not enjoying herself. She glanced suspiciously from one face to another, as if she was seeking a friend without any great hope of finding one. Perhaps, like many another, she looked upon the world from that point Of view. Cornish hurried up and shook hands. “Plenty of people,” he said. “Oh yes,” answered Joan, earnestly. “It only shows that there is, after all, a great deal of good in human nature, that in such a movement as this rich and poor, great and small, are all equal.” Cornish nodded in his quick sympathetic way, accepting as we all accept the social statements of the day, which are oft repeated and never weighed. Then he turned to White and tapped that soldier's arm emphatically. “Way to get on nowadays,” he said, “is to be prominent in some great movement for benefiting mankind.” Joan heard the words, and, turning, looked at Cornish with a momentary doubt. “And I mean to get on in the world, my dear Joan,” he said, with a gravity which quite altered his keen, fair face. It passed off instantly, as if swept away by the ready smile which came again. A close observer might have begun to wonder under which mask lay the real Tony Cornish. Major White looked stolidly at his friend. His face, on the contrary never changed. Lady Ferriby joined them at this moment--a silent, querulous-looking woman in black silk and priceless lace, who, despite her white hair and wrinkled face, yet wore her clothes with that carefulness which commands respect from high and low alike. The world was afraid of Lady Ferriby, and had little to say to her. It turned aside, as a rule, when she approached. And when she had passed on with her suspicious glance, her bent and shaking head, it whispered that there walked a woman with a romantic past. It is, moreover, to be hoped that the younger portion of Lady Ferriby's world took heed of this catlike, lonely woman, and recognized the melancholy fact that it is unwise to form a romantic attachment in the days of one's youth. “Tony,” said her ladyship, “they have eaten all the sandwiches.” And there was something in her voice, in her manner of touching Tony Cornish's arm with her fan that suggested in a far-off, cold way that this social butterfly had reached one of the still strings of her heart. Who knows? There may have been, in those dim days when Lady Ferriby had played her part in the romantic story which all hinted at and none knew, another such as Tony Cornish--gay and debonair, careless, reckless, and yet endowed with the power of making some poor woman happy. “My dear aunt,” replied Cornish, with a levity with which none other ever dared to treat her, “the benevolent are always greedy. And each additional virtue--temperance, loving-kindness, humility--only serves to dull the sense of humour and add to the appetite. Give them biscuits, aunt.” And offering her his arm, he good-naturedly led her to the refreshment-room to investigate the matter. As she passed through the crowded rooms, she glanced from face to face with her quick, seeking look. She cordially disliked all these people. And their principal crime was that they ate and drank. For Lady Ferriby was a miser. At the upper end of the room a low platform served as a safe retreat for sleepy chaperons on such occasions as the annual Ferriby ball. To-night there were no chaperons. Is not charity the safest as well as the most lenient of these? And does her wing not cover a multitude of indiscretions? Upon this platform there now appeared, amid palms and chrysanthemums, a long, rotund man like a bolster. He held a paper in his hand and wore a platform smile. His attitude was that of one who hesitated to demand silence from so well-bred a throng. His high, narrow forehead shone in the light of the candelabra. This was Lord Ferriby--a man whose best friend did his best for him in describing him as well-meaning. He gave a cough which had sufficient significance in it to command a momentary quiet. During the silence, a well-dressed parson stood on tiptoe and whispered something in Lord Ferriby's ear. The suggestion, whatever it may have been, was negated by the speaker on receipt of a warning shake of the head from Joan. “Er--ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Ferriby, and gained the necessary silence. “Er--you all know the purpose of our meeting here to-night. You all know that Lady Ferriby and myself are much honoured by your presence here. And--er--I am sure----” He did not, however, appear to be quite sure, for he consulted his paper, and the colonial bishop near the yellow chrysanthemums said, “Hear, hear!” “And I am sure that we are, one and all, actuated by a burning desire to relieve the terrible distress which has been going on unknown to us in our very midst.” “He has missed out half a page,” said Joan to Major White, who somehow found himself at her side again. “This is no place, and we have at the moment no time, to go into the details of the manufacture of malgamite. Suffice it to say, that such a--er--composition exists, and that it is a necessity in the manufacture of paper. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the painful fact has been brought to light by my friend Mr. Roden----” His lordship paused, and looked round with a half-fledged bow, but failed to find Roden. “By--er--Mr. Roden that the manufacture of malgamite is one of the deadliest of industries. In fact, the makers of malgamite, and fortunately they are comparatively few in number, stricken as they are by a corroding disease, occupy in our midst the--er--place of the lepers of the Bible.” Here Lord Ferriby bowed affably to the bishop, as if to say, “And that is where _you_ come in.” “We--er--live in an age,” went on Lord Ferriby--and the practical Joan nodded her head to indicate that he was on the right track now--“when charity is no longer a matter of sentiment, but rather a very practical and forcible power in the world. We do not ask your assistance in a vague and visionary crusade against suffering. We ask you to help us in the development of a definite scheme for the amelioration of the condition of our fellow-beings.” Lord Ferriby spoke not with the ease of long practice, but with the assurance of one accustomed to being heard with patience. He now waited for the applause to die away. “Who put him up to it?” Major White asked Joan. “Mr. Roden wrote the speech, and I taught it to papa,” was the answer. At this moment Cornish hurried up in his busy way. Indeed, these people seemed to have little time on their hands. They belonged to a generation which is much addicted to unnecessary haste. “Seen Roden?” he asked, addressing his question to Joan and her companion jointly. “Never in my life,” answered Major White. “Is he worth seeing?” But Cornish hurried away again. Lord Ferriby was still speaking, but he seemed to have lost the ear of his audience, and had lapsed into generalities. A few who were near the platform listened attentively enough. Some who hoped that they were to be asked to speak applauded hurriedly and finally whenever the speaker paused to take breath. The world is full of people who will not give their money, but offer readily enough what they call their “time” to a good cause. Lord Ferriby was lavish with his “time,” and liked to pass it in hearing the sound of his own voice. Every social circle has its talkers, who hang upon each other's periods in expectance of the moment when they can successfully push in their own word. Lord Ferriby, looking round upon faces well known to him, saw half a dozen men who spoke upon all occasions with a sublime indifference to the fact that they knew nothing of the subject in hand. With the least encouragement any one of them would have stepped on to the platform bubbling over with eloquence. Lord Ferriby was quite clever enough to perceive the danger. He must go on talking until Roden was found. Had not the pushing parson already intimated in a whisper that he had a few earnest thoughts in his mind which he would be glad to get off? Lord Ferriby knew those earnest thoughts, and their inevitable tendency to send the audience to the refreshment-room, where, as Lady Ferriby's husband, he suspected poverty in the land. “Is not Mr. Cornish going to speak?” a young lady eagerly inquired of Joan. She was a young lady who wore spectacles and scorned a fringe--a dangerous course of conduct for any young woman to follow. But she made up for natural and physical deficiencies by an excess of that zeal which Talleyrand deplored. “I think not,” answered Joan. “He never speaks in public, you know.” “I wonder why?” said the young lady, sharply and rather angrily. Joan shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She sometimes wondered why herself, but Tony had never satisfied her curiosity. The young lady moved away and talked to others of the same matter. There were quite a number of people in the room who wanted to know why Tony Cornish did not speak, and wished he would. The way to rule the world is to make it want something, and keep it wanting. “I make so bold as to hope,” Lord Ferriby was saying, “that when sufficient publicity has been given to our scheme we shall be able to raise the necessary funds. In the fulness of this hope, I have ventured to jot down the names of certain gentlemen who have been kind enough to assume the trusteeship. I propose, therefore, that the trustees of the Malgamite Fund shall be--er--myself----” Like a practiced speaker, Lord Ferriby paused for the applause which duly followed. And certain elderly gentlemen, who had been young when Marmaduke Ferriby was young, looked with much interest at the pictures on the wall. That Lord Ferriby should assume the directorship of a great charity was to send that charity on its way rejoicing. He stood smiling benevolently and condescendingly down upon the faces turned towards him, and rejoiced inwardly over these glorious obsequies of a wild and deplorable past. “Mr. Anthony Cornish,” he read out, and applause made itself heard again. “Major White.” And the listeners turned round and stared at that hero, whom they discovered calmly and stolidly entrenched behind the eye-glass, his broad, tanned face surmounting a shirt front of abnormal width. “Herr von Holzen.” No one seemed to know Herr von Holzen, or to care much whether he existed or not. “And--my--er--friend--the originator of this great scheme--the man whom we all look up to as the benefactor of a most miserable class of men--Mr. Percy Roden.” Lord Ferriby meant the listeners to applaud, and they did so, although they had never heard the name before. He folded the paper held in his hand, and indicated by his manner that he had for the moment nothing more to say. From his point of advantage he scanned the whole length of the large room, evidently seeking some one. Anthony Cornish had been the second name mentioned, and the majority hoped that it was he who was to speak next. They anticipated that he, at all events, would be lively, and in addition to this recommendation there hovered round his name that mysterious charm which is in itself a subtle form of notoriety. People said of Tony Cornish that he would get on in the world; and upon this slender ladder he had attained social success. But Cornish was not in the room, and after waiting a few moments, Lord Ferriby came down from the platform, and joined some of the groups of persons in the large room. For already the audience was breaking up into small parties, and the majority, it is to be feared, were by now talking of other matters. In these days we cannot afford to give sufficient time to any one object to do that object or ourselves any lasting good. Presently there was a stir at the door, and Cornish entered the large room, followed leisurely by a tired-looking man, for whom the idlers near the doorway seemed instinctively to make way. This man was tall, square-shouldered, and loose of limb. He had smooth dark hair, and carried his head thrown rather back from the neck. His eyes were dark, and the fact that a considerable line of white was visible beneath the pupil imparted to his whole being an air of physical delicacy suggestive of a constant feeling of fatigue. “Who is this?” asked Major White, aroused to a sense of stolid curiosity which few of his fellow-men had the power of awakening. “Oh, that,” said Joan, looking towards the door--“that is Mr. Percy Roden.”

4

A NEW DISCIPLE.

“Pour être heureux, il ne faut avoir rien à oublier.” There is in the atmosphere of the Hotel of the Vieux Doelen at The Hague something as old-world, as quiet and peaceful, as there is in the very name of this historic house. The stairs are softly carpeted; the great rooms are hung with tapestry, and otherwise decorated in a massive and somewhat gloomy style, little affected in the newer _caravanserais_. The house itself, more than three hundred years old, is of dark red brick with facings of stone, long since worn by wind and weather. The windows are enormous, and would appear abnormal in any other city but this. The Hotel of the Old Shooting gallery stands on the Toornoifeld and the unobservant may pass by without distinguishing it from the private houses on either side. This, indeed, is not so much a house of hasty rest for the passing traveler as it is a halting-place for that great army which is ever moving quietly on and on through the cities of the Old World--the corps diplomatique--the army whose greatest victory is peace. The traveller passing a night or two at the hotel may well be faintly surprised at the atmosphere in which he finds himself. If he be what is called a practical man, he will probably shake his head forebodingly over the prospects of the proprietor. There seems, indeed, to be a singular dearth of visitors. The winding stairs are nearly always deserted. The _salon_ is empty. There are no sounds of life, no trunks in the hall, and no idlers at the door. And yet at the hour of the _table d'hôte_ quiet doors are opened, and quiet men emerge from rooms that seemed before to be uninhabited. They are mostly smooth-haired men with a pensive reserve of manner, a certain polished cosmopolitan air, and the inevitable frock-coat. They bow gravely to each other, and seat themselves at separate tables. As often as not they produce books or newspapers, and read during the solemn meal. It is as well to watch these men and take note of them. Many of them are grey-headed. No one of them is young. But they are beginners, mere apprentices, at a very difficult trade, and in the days to come they will have the making of the history of Europe. For these men are attachés and secretaries of embassies. They will talk to you in almost any European tongue you may select, but they are not communicative persons. During the winter--the gay season at The Hague--there are usually a certain number of residents in the hotel. At the time with which we are dealing, Mrs. Vansittart was staying there, alone with her maid. Mrs. Vansittart was in the habit of dining at the small table near the stove--a gorgeous erection of steel and brass, which stands nearly in the centre of the smaller dining-room used in winter. Mrs. Vansittart seemed, moreover, to be quite at home in the hotel, and exchanged bows with a few of the gentlemen of the corps diplomatique. She was a graceful, dark-haired woman, with deep brown eyes that looked upon the world without much interest. This was not, one felt, a woman to lavish her attention or her thoughts upon a toy spaniel, as do so many ladies travelling alone with their maids in Continental hotels. Perhaps this woman of thirty-five years or so preferred to be frankly bored, rather than set up for herself a shivering four-legged object in life. Perhaps she was not bored at all. One never knows. The gentlemen from the embassies glanced at her over their books or their newspapers, and wondered who and what she might be. They knew, at all events, that she took no interest in those affairs of the great world which rumble on night and day without rest, with spasmodic bursts of clumsy haste, and with a never-failing possibility of surprise in their movements. This was no political woman, whatever else she might be. She would talk in quite a number of languages of such matters as the opera, a new book, or an old picture, and would then relapse again into a sort of waiting silence. At thirty-five it is perhaps not well to wait too patiently for those things that make a woman's life worth living. Mrs. Vansittart had not the air, however, of one who would wait indefinitely. When Mr. Percy Roden arrived at the hotel, he was assigned, at the hour of _table d'hôte_, a small table between those occupied respectively by Mrs. Vansittart and the secretary of the Belgian Embassy. Some subtle sense conveyed to Percy Roden that he had aroused Mrs. Vansittart's interest--the sense called vanity, perhaps, which conveys so much to young men, and so much that is erroneous. On the second evening, therefore, when he had returned from a busy day in the neighbourhood of Scheveningen, Roden half looked for the bow which was half accorded to him. That evening Mrs. Vansittart spoke to the waiter in English, which was obviously her native language, and Roden overheard. After dinner Mrs. Vansittart lingered in the _salon_ and a woman, had such been present, would have perceived that she made it easy for Roden to pause in passing and offer her his English newspaper, which had arrived by the evening post. The subtle is so often the obvious that to be unobservant is a social duty. “Thank you,” she replied. “I like newspapers. Although I have not been in England for years, I still take an interest in the affairs of my country.” Her manner was easy and natural, without that taint of a too sudden familiarity which is characteristic of the present generation. We are apt to allow ourselves to feel too much at home. “I, on the contrary,” replied Roden, with his tired air, “have never till now been out of England or English-speaking colonies.” His voice had a hollow sound. Although he was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence had no suggestion of strength. Mrs. Vansittart looked at him quickly as she took the newspaper from his hand. She had clever, speculative eyes, and was obviously wondering why he had gone to the colonies and why he had returned thence. So many sail to those distant havens of the unsuccessful under one cloud and return under another, that it seems wiser to remain stationary and snatch what passing sunshine there may be. Roden had not a colonial manner. He was well dressed. He was, in fact, the sort of man who would pass in any society. And it is probable that Mrs. Vansittart summed him up in her quick mind with perfect success. Despite our clothes, despite our airs and graces, we mostly appear to be exactly what we are. Mrs. Vansittart, who knew the world and men, did not need to be informed by Percy Roden that he was unacquainted with the Continent. Comparing him with the other men passing through the _salon_ to their rooms or their club, it became apparent that he had one sort of stiffness which they had not, and lacked another sort of stiffness which grows upon those who live and take their meals in public places. Mrs. Vansittart could probably have made a fair guess at the sort of education Percy Roden had received. For a man carries his school mark through life with him. “Ah,” she said, taking the newspaper and glancing at it with just sufficient interest to prolong the conversation, “then you do not know The Hague. It is a place that grows upon one. It is one of the social capitals of the world. Vienna, St. Petersburg, Paris, are the others. Madrid, Berlin, New York, are--nowhere.” She laughed, bowed with a little half--foreign gesture of thanks, and left him--left him, moreover, with the desire to see more of her. It seemed that she knew the secret of that other worldling, Tony Cornish, that the way to rule men is to make them want something and keep them wanting. As Roden passed through the hall he paused, and entered into conversation with the hall porter. During the course of this talk he made some small inquiries respecting Mrs. Vansittart. That lady had no need to make inquiries respecting Roden. Has it not been stated that she was travelling with her maid? “I see,” she said, when she saw him again the next day after dinner in the _salon_, “that your great philanthropic scheme is now an established fact. I have taken a great interest in its progress, and of course know the names of some who are associated with you in it.” Roden laughed indifferently, well pleased to be recognized. His notoriety was new enough and narrow enough to please him still. There is no man so much at the mercy of his own vanity as he who enjoys a limited notoriety. “Yes,” he answered, “we have got it into shape. Do you know Lord Ferriby?” “No,” answered Mrs. Vansittart, slowly, “I have not that pleasure. “Oh, Ferriby is a good enough fellow,” said Roden, kindly; and Mrs. Vansittart gave a little nod as she looked at him. Roden had drawn forward a chair, and she sat down, after a moment's hesitation, in front of the open fire. “So I have always heard,” she answered, “and a great philanthropist.” “Oh--yes.” Roden paused and took a chair. “Oh yes; but Tony Cornish is our right-hand man. The people seem to place greater faith in him than they do in Lord Ferriby. When it is Cornish who asks, they give readily enough. He is business-like and quick, and that always tells in the long run.” Percy Roden seemed disposed to be communicative, and Mrs. Vansittart's attitude was distinctly encouraging. She leant sideways on the arm of her chair, and looked at her companion with speculation in her intelligent eyes. She was perhaps reflecting that this was not the sort of man one usually finds engaged in philanthropic enterprise. It is likely that her thoughts were of this nature, and were, as thoughts so often are, transmitted silently to her companion's mind, for he proceeded, unasked, to explain. “It is not, properly speaking, a charity, you know,” he said. “It is more in the nature of a trade union. This is a practical age, Mrs. Vansittart, and it is necessary that charity should keep pace with the march of progress and be self-supporting.” There was a faint suggestion of glibness in his manner. It was probable that he had made use of the same arguments before. “And who else is associated with you in this great enterprise?” asked the lady, keeping him with the cleverness of her sex upon the subject in which he was obviously deeply interested. The shrewdest women usually treat men thus, and they generally know what subject interests a man most--namely, himself. “Herr von Holzen is the most important person,” replied Roden. “Ah!” said Mrs. Vansittart, looking into the fire; “and who is Herr von Holzen?” Roden paused for a moment, and the lady, looking half indifferently into the fire, noticed the hesitation. “Oh, he is a scientist--a professor at one of the universities over here, I believe. At all events, he is a very clever fellow--analytical chemist and all that, you know. It is he who has made the discovery upon which we are working. He has always been interested in malgamite, and he has now found out how it may be manufactured without injury to the workers. Malgamite, you understand, is an essential in the manufacture of paper, and the world will never require less paper than it does now, but more. Look at the tons that pass through the post-offices daily. Paper-making is one of the great industries of the world, and without malgamite, paper cannot be made at a profit to-day.” Roden seemed to have his subject at his fingers' ends, and if he spoke without enthusiasm, the reason was probably that he had so often said the same thing before. “I am much interested,” said Mrs. Vansittart, in her half-foreign way, which was rather pleasing. “Tell me more about it.” “The malgamite makers,” went on Roden, willingly enough, “are fortunately but few in numbers and they are experts. They are to be found in twos and threes in manufacturing cities--Amsterdam, Gothenburg, Leith, New York, and even Barcelona. Of course there are a number in England. Our scheme, briefly, is to collect these men together, to build a manufactory and houses for them--to form them, in fact, into a close corporation, and then supply the world with malgamite.” “It is a great scheme, Mr. Roden.” “Yes, it is a great scheme; and it is, I think, laid upon the right lines. These people require to be saved from themselves. As they now exist, they are well paid. They are engaged in a deadly industry, and know it. There is nothing more demoralizing to human nature than this knowledge. They have a short and what they take to be a merry life.” The tired--looking man paused and spread out his hands in a gesture of careless scorn. He had almost allowed himself to lapse into enthusiasm. “There is no reason,” he went on, “why they should not become a happy and respectable community. The first thing we shall have to teach them is that their industry is comparatively harmless, as it will undoubtedly be with Von Holzen's new process. The rest will, I think, come naturally. Altered circumstances will alter the people themselves.” “And where do you intend to build this manufactory?” inquired Mrs. Vansittart, to whom was vouch-safed that rare knowledge of the fine line that is to be drawn between a kindly interest and a vulgar curiosity. The two are nearer than is usually suspected. “Here in Holland,” was the reply. “I have almost decided on the spot--on the dunes to the north of Scheveningen. That is why I am staying at The Hague. There are many reasons why this coast is suitable. We shall be in touch with the canal system, and we shall have a direct outfall to the sea for our refuse, which is necessary. I shall have to live in The Hague--my sister and I.” “Ah! You have a sister?” said Mrs. Vansittart, turning in her chair and looking at him. A woman's interest in a man's undertaking is invariably centred upon that point where another woman comes into it. “Yes.” “Unmarried?” “Yes; Dorothy is unmarried.” Mrs. Vansittart gave several quick little nods of the head. “I am wondering two things,” she said--“whether she is like you, and whether she is interested in this scheme. But I am wondering more than that. Is she pretty, Mr. Roden?” “Yes, I think she is pretty.” “I am glad of that. I like girls to be pretty. It makes their lives so much more interesting--to the onlooker, _bien entendu_, but not to themselves. The happiest women I have known have been the plain ones. But perhaps your sister will be pretty and happy too. That would be so nice, and so very rare, Mr. Roden. I shall look forward to making her acquaintance. I live in The Hague, you know. I have a house in Park Straat, and I am only at this hotel while the painters are in possession. You will allow me to call on your sister when she joins you?” “We shall be most gratified,” said Roden. Mrs. Vansittart had risen with a little glance at the clock, and her companion rose also. “I am greatly interested in your scheme,” she said. “Much more than I can tell you. It is so refreshing to find charity in such close connection with practical common sense. I think you are doing a great work, Mr. Roden.” “I do what I can,” he replied, with a bow. “And Mr. Von Holzen,” inquired Mrs. Vansittart, stopping for a moment as she moved towards the doorway, which is large and hung with curtains--“does Mr. Von Holzen work from purely philanthropic motives also?” “Well--yes, I think so. Though, of course, he, like myself, will be paid a salary. Perhaps, however, he is more interested in malgamite from a scientific point of view.” “Ah, yes, from a scientific point of view, of course. Good night, Mr. Roden.” And she left him.

5

OUT OF EGYPT.

“Un esclave est moins celui qu'on vend que celui qui se donne” A sea fog was blowing across the smooth surface of the Maas where that river is broad and shallow, and a steamer anchored in the channel, grim and motionless, gave forth a grunt of warning from time to time, while a boy with mittened hands rang the bell hung high on the forecastle with a dull monotony. The wind blowing from the south-east drove before it the endless fog which hummed through the rigging, and hung there in little icicles that pointed to leeward. On the bridge of the steamer, looking like a huge woollen barrel surmounted by a comforter and a cap with ear-flaps, the Dutch pilot stood philosophically at his post. Near him the captain, mindful of the company's time-tables, walked with a quick, impatient step. The fog was blowing past at the rate of four or five miles an hour, but the supply of it, emanating from the low lands bordering the Scheldt, seemed to be inexhaustible. This fog, indeed, blows across Holland nearly the whole winter. The steamer's deck was covered with ice, over which sand had been strewn. The passengers were below in the warm saloon. Only the blue-faced boy at the bell on the forecastle was on the main-deck. At times one of the watch hurried from the galley to the forecastle with a pannikin of steaming coffee. The vessel had been anchored since daybreak and the sound of other bells and other whistles far and near told that she was not alone in these waters. The distant boom of a steamer creeping cautiously down from Rotterdam seemed to promise that farther inland the fog was thinner. A silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the rigging, reigned over all, so that men listened with anticipations of relief for the sound of answering bells. The sky at length grew a little lighter, and presently gaps made their appearance in the fog, allowing peeps over the green and still water. The captain and the pilot exchanged a few words--the very shortest of consultations. They had been on the bridge together all night, and had said all that there was to be said about wind and weather. The captain gave a sharp order in his gruff voice, and, as if by magic, the watch on deck appeared from all sides. The chief officer emerged from his cabin beneath the wheel-house, and went forward into the fog, turning up his collar. Presently the jerk and clink of the steam-winch told that the anchor was being got home. The fog had been humoured for six hours, and the time had now come to move on through thick or thin. What should Berlin, Petersburg, Vienna, know of a fog on the Maas? And there were mails and passengers on board this steamer. The clink of the winch brought one of these on deck. Within the high collar of his fur coat, beneath the brim of a felt hat pulled well down, the keen; fair face of Mr. Anthony Cornish came peering up the gangway to the upper bridge. He exchanged a nod with the captain and the pilot; for with these he had already been in conversation at the breakfast-table. He took his station on the bridge behind them, with his hands deep in the pockets of his loose coat, a cigarette between his lips. A shout from the forecastle soon intimated that the anchor was up, and the captain gave the order to the boy at the engine-room telegraph. Through the fog the forms of the three men on the look-out on the forecastle were dimly discernible. The great steamer crept cautiously forward into the fog. The second mate, with his hand on the whistle-line, blared out his warning note every half-minute. A dim shadow loomed up on the port-side, which presently took the form of a great steamer at anchor, and was left behind with a ringing bell and a booming whistle. Another shadow turned out to be a pilot-cutter, and the Dutch pilot exchanged a shouted consultation with an invisible person whom he called “Thou,” and who replied to the imperfectly heard questions with the words, “South East.” This shadow also was left behind, faintly calling, “South East,” “South East.” “It is a white buoy that I seek,” said the pilot, turning to those on the bridge behind him, his jolly red face puckered with anxiety. And quite suddenly the second officer, a bright-red Scotchman with little blue eyes like tempered gimlets, threw out a red hand and pointing finger. “There she rides,” he said. “There she rides; staar boarrrd your hellum!” And a full thirty seconds elapsed before any other eyes could pierce that gloom and perceive a great white buoy bowing solemnly towards the steamer like a courtier bidding a sovereign welcome. One voice had seemed to be gradually dominating the din of the many warning whistles that sounded ahead, astern, and all around the steamer. This voice, like that of a strong man knowing his own mind in an assembly of excited and unstable counsellors, had long been raised with a persistence which at last seemed to command all others, and the steamer moved steadily towards it; for it was the siren fog-horn at the pier-head. At one moment it seemed to be quite near, and at the next far away; for the ears, unaided by the eyes, can but imperfectly focus sound or measure its distance. “At last!” said the captain, suddenly, the anxiety wiped away from his face as if by magic. “At last, I hear the cranes aworking on the quay.” The purser had come to the bridge, and now approached Cornish. “Are you going to land them at the Hook or take them on to Rotterdam, sir?” he asked. “Oh, land 'em at the Hook,” replied Cornish, readily. “Have you fed them?” “Yes, sir. They have had their breakfast--such as it is. Poor eaters I call them, sir.” “Yes.” said Cornish, turning and looking at his burly interlocutor. “Yes, I do not suppose they eat much.” The purser shrugged his shoulders, and turned his attention to other affairs, thoughtfully. The little, beacon at the head of the pier had suddenly loomed out of the fog not fifty yards away--a very needle in a pottle of hay, which the cunning of the pilot had found. “Who are they, at any rate--these hundred and twenty ghosts of men?” asked the sailor, abruptly. “They are malgamite workers,” answered Cornish, cheerily. “And I am going to make men of them--not ghosts.” The purser looked at him, laughed in rather a puzzled way, and quitted the bridge. Cornish remained there, taking a quick, intelligent interest in the manoeuvres by which the great steamer was being brought alongside the quay. He seemed to have already forgotten the hundred and twenty men in the second-class cabin. His touch was indeed hopelessly light. He understood how it was that the steamer was made to obey, but he could not himself have brought her alongside. Cornish was a true son of a generation which understands much of many things, but not quite sufficient of any one. He stood at the upper end of the gangway as the malgamite workers filed off--a sorry crew, narrow-chested, hollow-eyed, with that half-hopeless, half-reckless air that tells of a close familiarity with disease and death. He nodded to them airily as they passed him. Some of them took the trouble to answer his salutation, others seemed indifferent. A few glanced at him with a sort of dull wonder. And indeed this man was not of the material of which great philanthropists are made. He was cheerful and heedless, shallow and superficial. “Get 'em into the train,” he said to an official at his side; and then, seeing that he had not been understood, gave the order glibly enough in another language. The ill-clad travellers shuffled up the gangway and through the custom-house. Few seemed to take an interest in their surroundings. They exchanged no comments, but walked side by side in silence--dumb and driven animals. Some of them bore signs of disease. A few stumbled as they went. One or two were half blind, with groping hands. That they were of different nationalities was plain enough. Here a Jew from Vienna, with the fear of the Judenhetze in his eyes, followed on the heels of a tow-headed giant from Stockholm. A cunning cockney touched his hat as he passed, and rather ostentatiously turned to help a white-haired little Italian over the inequalities of the gangway. One thing only they had in common--their deadly industry. One shadow lay over them all--the shadow of death. A momentary gravity passed across Cornish's face. These men were as far removed from him as the crawling beetle is from the butterfly. Who shall say, however, that the butterfly sees nothing but the flowers? As they passed him, some of them edged away with a dull humility for fear their poor garments should touch his fur coat. One, carrying a bird-cage, half paused, with a sort of pride, that Cornish might obtain a fuller view of a depressed canary. The malgamite workers of this winter's morning on the pier of Hoek were not the interesting industrials of Lady Ferriby's drawing-room. There their lives had been spoken of as short and merry. Here the merriment was scarcely perceptible. The mystery of the dangerous industries is one of those mysteries of human nature which cannot be explained by even the youngest of novelists. That dangerous industries exist we all know and deplore. That the supply of men and women ready to take employment in such industries is practically inexhaustible is a fact worth at least a moment's attention. Cornish made the necessary arrangements with the railway officials, and carefully counted his charges, who were already seated in the carriages reserved for them. He must at all events be allowed the virtues of a generation which is eminently practical and capable of overcoming the small difficulties of everyday life. He was quick to decide and prompt to act. Then he seated himself in a carriage alone, with a sigh of relief at the thought that in a few days he would be back in London. His responsibility ended at The Hague, where he was to hand over the malgamite workers to the care of Roden and Von Holzen. They were rather a depressing set of men, and Holland, as seen from the carriage window--a snow-clad plain intersected by frozen ditches and canals--was no more enlivening. The temperature was deadly cold; the dull houses were rime-covered and forbidding. The malgamite makers had been gathered together from all parts of the world in a home specially organized for them in London. A second detachment was awaiting their orders at Hamburg. But the principal workers were these now placed under Cornish's care. During the days of their arrival, when they had to be met and housed and cared for, the visionary part of this great scheme had slowly faded before a somewhat grim reality. Joan Ferriby had found the malgamite workers less picturesque than she had anticipated. “If they only washed,” she had confided to Major White, “I am sure they would be easier to deal with.” And after talking French very vivaciously and boldly with a man from Lyons, she hurried back to the West End, and to the numerous engagements which naturally take up much of one's time when Lent is approaching, and dilatory hospitality is stirred up by the startling collapse of the Epiphany Sundays. Here, however, were the malgamite workers and they had to be dealt with. It was not quite what many had anticipated, perhaps, and Cornish was looking forward with undisguised pleasure to the moment when he could rid himself of these persons whom Joan had gaily designated as “rather gruesome,” and whom he frankly recognized as sordid and uninteresting. He did not even look, as Joan had looked, to the wives and children who were to follow as likely to prove more picturesque and engaging. The train made its way cautiously over the fog-ridden plain, and Cornish shivered as he looked out of the window. “Schiedam,” the porters called. This, Schiedam? A mere village, and yet the name was so familiar. The world seemed suddenly to have grown small and sordid. A few other stations with historic names, and then The Hague. Cornish quitted his carriage, and found himself shaking hands with Roden, who was awaiting him on the platform, clad in a heavy fur coat. Roden looked clever and capable--cleverer and more capable than Cornish had even suspected--and the organization seemed perfect. The reserved carriages had been in readiness at the Hook. The officials were prepared. “I have omnibuses and carts for them and their luggage,” were the first words that Roden spoke. Cornish instinctively placed himself under Roden's orders. The man had risen immensely in his estimation since the arrival in London of the first malgamite maker. The grim reality of the one had enhanced the importance of the other. Cornish had been engaged in so many charities _pour rire_ that the seriousness of this undertaking was apt to exaggerate itself in his mind--if, indeed, the seriousness of anything dwelt there at all. “I counted them all over at the Hook,” he said. “One hundred and twenty--pretty average scoundrels.” “Yes; they are not much to look at,” answered Roden. And the two men stood side by side watching the malgamite workers, who now quitted the train and stood huddled together in a dull apathy on the roomy platform. “But you will soon get them into shape, no doubt,” said Cornish, with characteristic optimism. He was essentially of a class that has always some one at hand to whom to relegate tasks which it could do more effectually and more quickly for itself. The secret of human happiness is to be dependent upon as few human beings as possible. “Oh yes! We shall soon get them into shape--the sea air and all that, you know.” Roden looked at his _protégés_ with large, sad eyes, in which there was alike no enthusiasm and no spark of human kindness. Cornish wondered vaguely what he was thinking about. The thoughts were certainly tinged with pessimism, and lacked entirely the blindness of an enthusiasm by which men are urged to endeavour great things for the good of the masses, and to make, as far as a practical human perception may discern, huge and hideous mistakes. “Von Holzen is down below,” said Roden, at length. “As soon as he comes up we will draft them off in batches of ten, and pack them into the omnibuses. The luggage can follow. Ah! Here comes Von Holzen. You don't know him, do you?” “No; I don't know him.” They both went forward to meet a man of medium height, with square shoulders, and a still, clean-shaven face. Otto von Holzen raised his hat, and remained bare-headed while he shook hands. “The introduction is unnecessary,” he said. “We have worked together for many months--you on the other side of the North Sea, and I on this. And now we have, at all events, something to show for our work.” He had a quick, foreign manner, with a kind smile, and certain vivacity. This was a different sort of man to Roden--quicker to feel for others, to understand others; capable of greater good, and possibly of greater evil. He glanced at Cornish, nodded sympathetically, and then turned to look at the malgamite makers. These, standing in a group on the platform, holding in their hands their poor belongings, returned the gaze with interest. The train which had brought them steamed out of the station, leaving the malgamite makers gazing in a dull wonder at the three men into whose hands they had committed their lives.

6

ON THE DUNES.

“L'indifference est le sommeil du coeur.” The village of Scheveningen, as many know, is built on the sand dunes, and only sheltered from the ocean by a sea-wall. A new Scheveningen has sprung up on this sea-wall--a mere terrace of red brick houses, already faded and weather-worn, which stare forlornly at the shallow sea. Inland, except where building enterprise has constructed roads and built villas are sand dunes. To the south, beyond the lighthouse, are sand dunes. To the north, more especially and most emphatically, are sand dunes as far as the eye may see. This tract of country is a very desert, where thin maritime grasses are shaken by the wind, where suggestive spars lie bleaching, where the sand, driven before the breeze like snow, travels to and fro through all the ages. This afternoon, the dunes presented as forlorn an appearance as it is possible in one's gloomiest moments to conceive. The fog had, indeed, lifted a little, but a fine rain now drove before the wind, freezing as it fell, so that the earth was covered by a thin sheet of ice. The short January day was drawing to its close. To the north of the waterworks, three hundred yards away from that solitary erection, the curious may find to-day a few low buildings clustering round a water-tower. These buildings are of wood, with roofs of corrugated iron; and when they were newly constructed, not so many years ago, presented a gay enough appearance, with their green shutters and ornamental eaves. The whole was enclosed in a fence of corrugated iron, and approached by a road not too well constructed on its sandy bed. “We do not want the place to become the object of an excursion for tourists to The Hague,” said Roden to Cornish, as they approached the malgamite works in a closed carriage. Cornish looked out of the window and made no remark. So far as he could see on all sides, there was nothing but sand-hills and grey grass. The road was a narrow one, and led only to the little cluster of houses within the fence. It was a lonely spot, cut off from all communication with the outer world. Men might pass within a hundred yards and never know that the malgamite works existed. The carriage drove through the high gateway into the enclosure. There were a number of cottages, two long, low buildings, and the water-tower. “You see,” said Roden, “we have plenty of room to increase our accommodation when there is need of it. But we must go slowly and feel our way. It would never do to fail. We have accommodation here for a couple of hundred workers and their families; but in time we shall have five hundred of them in here--all the malgamite workers in the world.” He broke off with a laugh, and looked round him. There was a ring in his voice suggestive of a keen excitement. Could Percy Roden, after all, be an enthusiast? Cornish glanced at him uneasily. In Cornish's world sincere enthusiasm was so rare that it was never well received. Roden's manner changed again, however, and he explained the plan of the little village with his usual half-indifferent air. “These two buildings are the factories,” he said. “In them three hundred men can work at once. There we shall build sheds for the storage of the raw material. Here we shall erect a warehouse. But I do not anticipate that we shall ever have much malgamite on our hands. We shall turn over our money very quickly.” Cornish listened with the respectful attention which business details receive nowadays from those whose birth and education unfit them for such pursuits. It was obvious that he did not fully understand the terms of which Roden made use; but he tapped his smart boot with his cane, gave a quick nod of the head, and looked intelligently around him. He had a certain respect for Percy Roden, while that philanthropist did not perhaps appear quite at his best in his business moments. “And do you--and that foreign individual, Mr. Von Holzen--live inside this--zareba?” he asked. “No; Von Holzen lives as yet in Scheveningen, in a hotel there. And I have taken a small villa on the dunes, with my sister to keep house for me.” “Ah! I did not know you had a sister,” said Cornish, still looking about him with intelligent ignorance. “Does she take an interest in the malgamite scheme?” “Only so far as it affects me,” replied Roden. “She is a good sister to me. The house is between the waterworks and the steam-tram station. We will call in on our way back, if you care to.” “I should like nothing better,” replied Cornish, conventionally, and they continued their inspection of the little colony. The arrangements were as simple as they were effective. Either Roden or Von Holzen certainly possessed the genius of organization. In one of the cottages a cold collation was set out on two long tables. There was a choice of wines, and notably some bottles of champagne on a side table. “For the journalists,” explained Roden. “I have a number of them coming this afternoon to witness the arrival of the first batch of malgamite makers. There is nothing like judicious advertisement. We have invited a number of newspaper correspondents. We give them champagne and pay their expenses. If you will be a little friendly, they would like it immensely. They, of course, know who you are. A little flattery, you understand.” “Flattery and champagne,” laughed Cornish--“the two principal ingredients of popularity.” “I have here a number of photographs,” continued Roden, “taken by a good man in the neighbourhood. He has thrown in a view of the sea at the back, you see. It is not there; but he has put in the sky and sea from another plate, he tells me, to make a good picture of it. We shall send them to the principal illustrated papers.” “And I suppose,” said Cornish, with his gay laugh, “that some of the journalists will throw in background also.” “Of course,” answered Roden, gravely. “And the sentimentalists will be satisfied. The sentimentalists never stop at providing necessaries; they want to pamper. It will please them immensely to think that the malgamite makers, who have been collected from the slums of the world, have a sea view and every modern luxury.” “We must humour them,” said Cornish, practically. “We should not get far without them.” At this moment the sound of wheels made them both turn towards the entrance. It was an omnibus--the best omnibus with the finest horses--which brought the journalists. These gentlemen now descended from the vehicle and came towards the cottage, where Cornish and Roden awaited them. They were what is euphemistically called a little mixed. Some were too well dressed, others too badly. But all carried themselves with an air that bespoke a consciousness of greatness not unmingled with good-fellowship. The leader, a stout man, shook hands affably with Cornish, who assumed his best and most gracious manner. “Aha! Here we are,” he said, rubbing his hands together and looking at the champagne. Then somehow Cornish came to the front and Roden retired into the background. It was Cornish who opened the champagne and poured it into their glasses. It was Cornish who made the best jokes, and laughed the loudest at the journalistic quips fired off by his companions. Cornish seemed to understand the guests better than did Roden, who was inclined to be stiff towards them. Those who are assured of their position are not always thinking about it. Men who stand much upon their dignity have not, as a rule, much else to stand upon. “Here's to you, sir,” cried the stout newspaper man, with upraised glass and a heart full of champagne. “Here's to you--whoever you are. And now to business. Perhaps you'll trot us round the works.” This Cornish did with much success. He then stood beside the correspondents while the malgamite workers descended from the omnibus and took possession of their new quarters. He provided the journalists with photographs and a short printed account of the malgamite trade, which had been prepared by Von Holzen. It was finally Cornish who packed them into the omnibus in high good humour, and sent them back to The Hague. “Do not forget the sentiment,” he called out after them. “Remember it is a charity.” The malgamite workers were left to the care of Von Holzen, who had made all necessary preparations for their reception. “You are a cleverer man than I thought you,” said Roden to Cornish, as they walked over the dunes together in the dusk towards the Rodens' house. And it was difficult to say whether Roden was pleased or not. He did not speak much during the walk, and was evidently wrapped in deep thought. Cornish was light and inconsequent as usual. “We shall soon raise more money,” he said. “We shall have malgamite balls, and malgamite bazaars, malgamite balloon ascents if that is not flying too high.” The Villa des Dunes stands, as its name implies, among the sand hills, facing south and west. It is upon an elevation, and therefore enjoys a view of the sea, and, inland, of the spires of The Hague. The garden is an old one, and there are quiet nooks in it where the trees have grown to a quite respectable stature. Holland is so essentially a tidy country that nothing old or moss-grown is tolerated. One wonders where all the rubbish of the centuries has been hidden; for all the ruins have been decently cleared away and cities that teem with historical interest seem, with a few exceptions, to have been built last year. The garden of the Villa des Dunes was therefore more remarkable for cleanliness than luxuriance. The house itself was uninteresting, and resembled a thousand others on the coast in that it was more comfortable than it looked. A suggestion of warmth and lamp-light filtered through the drawn curtains. Roden led the way into the house, admitting himself with a latch-key. “Dorothy,” he cried, as soon as the door was closed behind them--the two tall men in their heavy coats almost filled the little hall--“Dorothy, where are you?” The atmosphere of the house--that subtle odour which is characteristic of all dwellings--was pleasant. One felt that there were flowers in the rooms, and that tea was in course of preparation. The door on the left-hand side of the hall was opened, and a small woman appeared there. She was essentially small--a little upright figure with bright brown hair, a good complexion, and gay, sparkling eyes. “I have brought Mr. Cornish,” explained Roden. “We are frozen, and want some tea.” Dorothy Roden came forward and shook hands with Cornish. She looked up at him, taking him all in, in one quick intuitive glance, from his smooth head to his neat boots. “It is horribly cold,” she said. One cannot always be original and sparkling, and it is wiser not to try too persistently. She turned and re-entered the drawing-room, with Cornish following her. The room itself was prettily furnished in the Dutch fashion, and there were flowers. Dorothy Roden's manner was that of a woman; no longer in her first girlhood, who had seen en and cities. She was better educated than her brother; she was probably cleverer. She had, at all events, the subtle air of self-restraint that marks those women whose lives are passed in the society of a man mentally inferior to themselves. Of course all women are in a sense doomed to this--according to their own thinking. “Percy said that he would probably bring you in to tea,” said Miss Roden, “and that probably you would be tired out.” “Thanks; I am not tired. We had a good passage, and everything has run as smoothly. Do you take an active interest in us?” Miss Roden paused in the action of pouring out tea, and looked across at her interlocutor. “Not an active one,” she answered, with a momentary gravity; and, after a minute, glanced at Cornish's face again. “It is going to be a big thing,” he said enthusiastically. “My cousin Joan Ferriby is working hard at it in London. You do not know her, I suppose?” “I was at school with Joan,” replied Miss Roden, with her soft laugh. “And we took a school-girl oath to write to each other every week when we parted. We kept it up--for a fortnight.” Cornish's smooth face betrayed no surprise; although he had concluded that Miss Roden was years older than Joan. “Perhaps,” he said, with ready tact, “you do not take an interest in the same things as Joan. In what may be called new things--not clothes, I mean. In factory girls' feather clubs, for instance, or haberdashers' assistants, or women's rights, or anything like that.” “No; I am not clever enough for anything like that. I am profoundly ignorant about women's rights, and do not even know what I want, or ought to want.” Roden, who had approached the table, laughed, and taking his tea, went and sat down near the fire. He, at all events, was tired and looked worn--as if his responsibilities were already beginning to weigh upon him. Cornish, too, had come forward, and, cup in hand, stood looking down at Miss Roden with a doubtful air. “I always distrust women who say that,” he said. “One naturally suspects them of having got what they want by some underhand means--and of having abandoned the rest of their sex. This is an age of amalgamation; is not that so, Roden?” He turned and sat down near to Dorothy. Roden thus appealed to, made some necessary remark, and then lapsed into a thoughtful silence. It seemed that Cornish was quite capable, however, of carrying on the conversation by himself. “Do you know nothing about your wrongs, either?” he asked Dorothy. “Nothing,” she replied. “I have not even the wit to know that I have any.” “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “No wonder Joan ceased writing to you. You are a most suspicious case, Miss Roden. Of course you have righted your wrongs--_sub rosa_--and leave other women to manage their own affairs. That is what is called a blackleg. You are untrue to the Union. In these days we all belong to some cause or another. We cannot help it, and recent legislation adds daily to the difficulty. We must either be rich or poor. At present the only way to live at peace with one's poorer neighbours is to submit to a certain amount of robbery. But some day the classes must combine to make a stand against the masses. The masses are already combined. We must either be a man or a woman. Some day the men must combine against the women, who are already united behind a vociferous vanguard. May I have some more tea?” “I am afraid I have been left behind in the general advance,” said Miss Roden, taking his cup. “I am afraid so. Of course I don't know where we are advancing to----” He paused and drank the tea slowly. “No one knows that,” he added. “Probably to a point where we shall all suddenly begin fighting for ourselves again.” “That is possible,” he said gravely, setting down his cup. “And now I must find my way back to The Hague. Good night.” “He is clever,” said Dorothy, when Roden returned after having shown Cornish the way. “Yes,” answered Roden, without enthusiasm. “You do not seem to be pleased at the thought,” she said carelessly. “Oh--it will be all right! If his cleverness runs in the right direction.”

7

OFFICIAL.

“One may be so much a man of the world as to be nothing in the world.” Political Economy will some day have to recognize Philanthropy as a possible--nay, a certain stumbling-block in the world's progress towards that millennium when Supply and Demand shall sit down together in peace. Charity is certainly sowing seed into the ridges of time which will bear startling fruit in the future. For Charity does not hesitate to close up an industry or interfere with a trade that supplies thousands with their daily bread. Thus the Malgamite scheme so glibly inaugurated by Lord Ferriby in his drawing-room bore fruit within a week in a quarter to which probably few concerned had ever thought of casting an eye. The price of a high-class tinted paper fell in all the markets of the world. This paper could only be manufactured with a large addition of malgamite to its other components. In what may be called the prospectus of the Malgamite scheme it was stated that this great charity was inaugurated for the purpose of relieving the distress of the malgamiters--one of the industrial scandals of the day--by enabling these afflicted men to make their deadly product at a cheaper rate and without danger to themselves. This prospectus naturally came to the hands of those most concerned, namely, the manufacturers of coloured papers and the brokers who supply those manufacturers with their raw material. Thus Lord Ferriby, beaming benignantly from a bower of chrysanthemums on a certain evening one winter not so many years ago, set rolling a small stone upon a steep hill. So, in fact, wags the world; and none of us may know when the echo of a careless word will cease vibrating in the hearts of some that hear. The malgamite trade was what is called a _close_ one--that is to say that this product passed out into the world through the hands of a few brokers and these brokers were powerless, in face of Lord Ferriby's announcement, to prevent the price of malgamite from falling. As this fell so fell the prices of the many kinds of paper which could not be manufactured without it. Thus indirectly, Lord Ferriby, with that obtuseness which very often finds itself in company with a highly developed philanthropy, touched the daily lives of thousands and thousands of people. And he did not know it. And Tony Cornish knew it not. And Joan and the subscribers never dreamt or thought of such a thing. The paper market became what is called sensitive--that is to say, prices rose and fell suddenly without apparent reason. Some men made money and others lost it. Presently, however--that is to say, in the month of March--two months after Tony Cornish had safely conveyed his malgamite makers to their new home on the sand dunes of Scheveningen--the paper markets of the world began to settle down again, and steadier prices ruled. This could be traced--as all commercial changes may be traced--to the original flow at one of the fountain-heads of supply and demand. It arose from the simple fact that a broker in London had bought some of the new malgamite--the Scheveningen malgamite--and had issued it to his clients, who said that it was good. He had, moreover, bought it cheaper. In a couple of days all the world--all the world concerned in the matter--knew of it. Such is commerce at the end of the century. And Cornish, casually looking in at the little office of the Malgamite Charity, where a German clerk recommended by Herr von Holzen kept the books of the scheme, found his table littered with telegrams. Tony Cornish had a reputation for being clever. He was, as a matter of fact, intelligent. The world nearly always mistakes intelligence for cleverness, just as it nearly always mistakes laughter for happiness. He was, however, clever enough to have found out during the last two months that the Malgamite scheme was a bigger thing than either he or his uncle had ever imagined. Many questions had arisen during those two months of Cornish's honorary secretary ship of the charity which he had been unable to answer, and which he had been obliged to refer to Roden and Von Holzen. These had replied readily, and the matter as solved by them seemed simple enough. But each question seemed to have side issues--indeed, the whole scheme appeared suddenly to bristle with side issues, and Tony Cornish began to find himself getting really interested in something at last. The telegrams were not alone upon his office table. There were letters as well. It was a nice little office, furnished by Joan with a certain originality which certainly made it different from any other office in Westminster. It had, moreover, the great recommendation of being above a Ladies' Tea Association, so that afternoon tea could be easily procured. The German clerk quite counted on receiving three half-holidays a week and Joan brought her friends to tea, and her mother to chaperon. These little tea-parties became quite notorious, and there was a question of a cottage piano, which was finally abandoned in favour of a banjo. It happened to be a wire-puzzle winter, and Cornish had the best collection of rings on impossible wire mazes, and glass beads strung upon intertwisted hooks, in Westminster, if not, indeed, in the whole of London. Then, of course, there were the committee meetings--that is to say, the meeting of the lady committees of the bazaar and ball sub-committees. The wire puzzles and the association tea were an immense feature of these. Cornish was quite accustomed to finding a number of letters awaiting him, and had been compelled to buy a waste-paper basket of abnormal dimensions--so many moribund charities cast envious eyes upon the Malgamite scheme, and wondered how it was done, and, on the chance of it, offered Cornish honourable honorary posts. But the telegrams had been few, and nearly all from Roden. There was a letter from Roden this morning. “DEAR CORNISH” (he wrote),-- “You will probably receive applications from malgamite workers in different parts of the world for permission to enter our works. Accept them all, and arrange for their enlistment as soon as possible. “Yours in haste, “P.R.” Percy Roden was usually in haste, and wrote a bad letter in a beautiful handwriting. Cornish turned to the telegrams. They were one and all applications from malgamite makers--from Venice to Valparaiso--to be enrolled in the Scheveningen group. He was still reading them when Lord Ferriby came into the little office. His lordship was wearing a new fancy waistcoat. It was the month of April--the month assuredly of fancy waistcoats throughout all nature. Lord Ferriby was, as usual, rather pleased with himself. He had walked down Piccadilly with great effect, and a bishop had bowed to him, recognizing, in a sense, a lay bishop. “What have you got there, Tony?” he asked, affably, laying his smart walking-stick on an inlaid bureau, which was supposed to be his, and was always closed, and had nothing in it. “Telegrams,” answered Cornish, “from malgamite makers, who want to join the works at Scheveningen. Seventy-six of them. I don't quite understand this business.” “Neither do I,” admitted Lord Ferriby, in a voice which clearly indicated that if he only took the trouble he could understand anything. “But I fancy it is one of the biggest things in charity that has ever been started.” In the company of men, and especially of young men, Lord Ferriby allowed himself a little license in speech. He at times almost verged on the slangy, which is, of course, quite correct and _de haut ton_, and he did not want to be taken for an old buffer, as were his contemporaries. Therefore he called himself an old buffer whenever he could. _Qui s'excuse s'accuse. _ “Of course,” he added, “we must take the poor fellows.” Without comment, Cornish handed him Roden's letter, and while Lord Ferriby read it, employed himself in making out a list of the names and addresses of the applicants. Cornish was, in fact, rising to the occasion. In other circumstances Anthony Cornish might with favourable influence--say that of a Scottish head clerk--have been made into what is called a good business man. Without any training whatever, and with an education which consisted only of a smattering of the classics and a rigid code of honour, he usually perceived what it was wise to do. Some people call this genius; others, luck. “I see,” said Lord Ferriby, “that Roden is of the same opinion as myself. A shrewd fellow, Roden.” And he pulled down his fancy waistcoat. “Then I may write, or telegraph, to these men, and tell them to come?” asked Cornish. “Most certainly, my dear Anthony. We will collect them, or muster them, as White calls it, in London, and then send them to Scheveningen, as before, when Roden and Herr von Holzen are ready for them. Send a note to White, whose department this mustering is. As a soldier he understands the handling of a body of men. You and I are more competent to deal with a sum of money.” Lord Ferriby glanced towards the door to make sure that it was open, so that the German clerk in the outer office should lose nothing that could only be for his good--might, in fact, pick up a few crumbs from the richly stored table of a great man's mind. Lord Ferriby leisurely withdrew his gloves and laid them on the inlaid bureau. He had the physique of a director of public companies, and the grave manner that impresses shareholders. He talked of the weather, drew Cornish's attention to a blot of ink on the high-art wallpaper, and then put on his gloves again, well pleased with himself and his morning's work. “Everything appears to be in order, my dear Anthony,” he said. “So there is nothing to keep me here any longer.” “Nothing,” replied Cornish; and his lordship departed. Cornish remained until it was time to go across St. James's Park to his club to lunch. He answered a certain number of letters himself, the others he handed over to the German clerk--a man with all the virtues, smooth, upright hair, and a dreamy eye. The malgamite makers were bidden to come as soon as they liked. After luncheon Cornish had to hurry back to Great George Street. This was one of his busy days. At four o'clock there was to be a meeting of the floor committee of the approaching ball, and Cornish remembered that he had been specially told to get a new bass string for the banjo. The Hon. Rupert Dalkyn had promised to come, but had vowed that he would not touch the banjo again unless it had new strings. So Cornish bought the bass string at the Army and Navy Stores, and the first preparation for the meeting of the floor committee was the tuning of the banjo by the German clerk. There were, of course, flowers to be bought and arranged _tant bien que mal_ in empty ink-stands, a conceit of Joan's, who refused to spend the fund money in any ornament less serious, while she quite recognized the necessity for flowers on the table of a mixed committee. The Hon. Rupert was the first to arrive. He was very small and neat and rather effeminate. The experienced could tell at a glance that he came from a fighting stock. He wore a grave and rather preoccupied air. He sat down on the arm of a chair and looked sadly into the fire, while his lips moved. “Got something on your mind?” asked Cornish, who was putting the finishing touches to the arrangement of the room. “Yes, a new song composed for the occasion 'The Maudlin Malgamite'; like to hear it?” “Well, I would rather wait. I think I hear a carriage at the door,” said Cornish, hastily. Rupert Dalkyn had to be elected to the floor committee because he was Mrs. Courteville's brother, and Mrs. Courteville was the best chaperon in London. She was not only a widow, but her husband had been killed in rather painful circumstances. “Poor dear,” the people said when she had done something perhaps a little unusual--“poor dear; you know her husband was killed.” So the late Courteville, in his lone grave by the banks of the Ogowe River, watched over his wife's welfare, and made quite a nice place for her in London society. Rupert himself had been intended for the Church, but had at Cambridge developed such an exquisite sense of humour and so killing a power of mimicry that no one of the dons was safe, and his friends told him that he really mustn't. So he didn't. Since then Rupert had, to tell the truth, done nothing. The exquisite sense of humour had also slightly evaporated. People said, “Oh yes, very funny,” than which nothing is more fatal to humour; and elderly ladies smiled a pinched smile at one side of their lips. It is so difficult to see a joke through those long-handled eye-glasses. Cornish was quite right when he said that he had heard a carriage, for presently the door opened, and Mrs. Courteville came in. She was small and slight--“a girlish figure,” her maid told her--and well dressed. She was just at that age when she did not look it--at an age, moreover, when some women seem to combine a maximum of experience with a minimum of thought. But who are we to pick holes in our neighbours' garments? If any of us is quite sure that he is not doing more harm than good in the world, let him by all means throw stones at Mrs. Courteville. Joan arrived next, accompanied by Lady Ferriby, who knew that if she stayed at home she would only have to give tea to a number of people towards whom she did not feel kindly enough disposed to reconcile herself to the expense. Joan glanced hastily from Mrs. Courteville to Tony. She had noticed that Mrs. Courteville always arrived early at the floor committee meetings when these were held at the Malgamite office or in Cornish's rooms. Joan wondered, while Mrs. Courteville was kissing her, whether the widow had come with her brother or before him. “Has he not made the room look pretty with that mimosa?” asked Mrs. Courteville, vivaciously. People did not know how matters stood between Joan Ferriby and Tony Cornish, and always wanted to know. That is why Mrs. Courteville said “he” only when she drew Joan's attention to the flowers. The meeting may best be described as lively. We belong, however, to an eminently practical generation, and some business was really transacted. The night for the Malgamite ball was fixed, and a list of stewards drawn up; and then the Hon. Rupert played the banjo. Lady Ferriby had some calls to pay, so Cornish volunteered to walk across the park with Joan, who had a healthy love of exercise. They talked of various matters, and of course returned again and again to the Malgamite affairs. “By the way,” said Joan, at the corner of Cambridge Terrace, “I had a letter this morning from Dorothy Roden. I was at school with her, you know, and never dreamt that Mr. Roden was her brother. In fact, I had nearly forgotten her existence. She is coming across for the ball. She says she saw you when you were at The Hague. You never mentioned her, Tony.” “Didn't I? She is not interested in the Malgamite scheme, you know. And nobody who is not interested in that is worth mentioning.” They walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then Cornish asked a question. “What sort of person was she at school?” “Oh, she was a frivolous sort of girl--never took anything seriously, you know. That is why she is not interested in the Malgamite, I suppose.” “I suppose so,” said Tony Cornish.

8

THE SEAMY SIDE.

“For this is death, and the sole death, When a man's loss comes to him from his gain.” Mrs. Vansittart told Roden that her house was in Park Street in The Hague. But she did not mention that it was at the corner of Orange Street, which makes all the difference. For Park Street is long, and the further end of it--the extremity furthest removed from the Royal Palace--is less desirable than the neighbourhood of the Vyverberg. Mrs. Vansittart's house was in the most desirable part of a most desirable little city. She was surrounded with houses inhabited by people bearing names well known in history. These people are, moreover, of a fascinating cosmopolitanism. They come from all parts of the world, in an ancestral sense. There are, for instance, Dutch people living here whose names are Scottish. There are others of French extraction, others again whose forefathers came to Holland with the Don Juan of the religious wars whose history reads like a romance. Outwardly Mrs. Vansittart's house was of dark red brick, with stone facings, and probably belonged to that period which in England is called Tudor. Inwardly the house was as comfortable as thick carpets and rich curtains and beautiful carvings could make it. The Dutch are pre-eminently the flower-growers of the world, and the observant traveller walking along Orange Street may note even in midwinter that the flowers in the windows are changed each day. In this, as in other _menus plaisirs_, Mrs. Vansittart had assumed the ways of the country of her adoption. For Holland suggests to the inquiring mind an elderly gentleman, now getting a little stout, who, after a wild youth, is beginning to appreciate the blessings of repose and comfort; who, having laid by a small sufficiency, sits peaceably by the fire, and reflects upon the days that are no more. It was Mrs. Vansittart's pleasant habit to surround herself with every comfort. She was an eminently self-respecting person--of that self-respect which denies itself nothing except excess. She liked to be well dressed, well housed, and well served. She possessed money, and with it she bought these adjuncts, which in a minor degree are within the reach of nearly everybody, though few have the wit to value them. She was not, however, a vociferously contented woman. Like many another, she probably wanted something that money could not buy. Mrs. Vansittart, in fulfilment of her promise to Percy Roden, called on Dorothy at the Villa des Dunes, who in due course came to the house at the corner of Park Street and Orange Street to return the visit. Dorothy had been out when Mrs. Vansittart called, but she thought she knew from her brother's description what sort of woman to expect. For Dorothy Roden had been educated abroad, and was not without knowledge of a certain class of English lady to be met with on the Continent, who is always well connected, invariably idle, and usually refers gracefully to a great sorrow in the past. But Dorothy knew, as soon as she saw Mrs. Vansittart that she had formed an entirely erroneous conception. This was not the sort of woman to seek the admiration of the first-comer, and Percy Roden had allowed his sister to surmise that, whether it had been sought or not, Mrs. Vansittart had certainly been accorded his highest admiration. “It is good of you to return my call so soon,” she said, in a friendly voice. “You have walked, I suppose, all the way from the Villa des Dunes. English girls are such great walkers now--a most excellent thing. I belong to the semi-generation older than yours, which preferred a carriage. I am an atrocious walker. You are not at all like your brother.” And she threw back her head and looked speculatively at her visitor. “Sit down,” she said, with a laugh. “You probably came here harbouring a prejudice against me. One should never get to know a woman through her men-folk. That is a rule almost without exception; you may take it from one who is many years older than you. But--well, _nous verrons_. Perhaps we are the exception.” “I hope so,” answered Dorothy, who was ready enough of speech. “At all events, all that Percy told me made me anxious to meet you. It is rather lonely, you know, at the Villa des Dunes. You see, Percy is engaged all day with his malgamiters. And, of course, we know no one here yet.” “There is Herr von Holzen,” suggested Mrs. Vansittart, ringing the bell for tea. “Oh yes. The man who is associated with Percy at the works? I do not know him. Percy has not brought him to the villa.” “Ah! Is that so? That is nice of your brother. Sometimes men, you know, make use of their wives or their sisters to help them in their business relationships. I have known a man use his pretty daughter to gain a client. Beauty levels all, you see. Not nice, no; I suppose Herr von Holzen, is--well--let us call him a foreign savant. Such a nice broad term, you know; covers such a plentiful lack of soap.” And she laughed easily, with eyes that were quite grave and alert. “My brother does not say much about him,” answered Dorothy Roden. “Percy never does tell me much of his affairs, and I am not sorry. I am sure I should not understand them. Stocks and shares and freights and things. I never quite know whether a freight is part of a ship; do you?” “No. There are so many things more useful to know, are there not? --things about people and human nature, for instance.” “Yes,” said Dorothy, looking at her companion thoughtfully--“yes.” And Mrs. Vansittart returned that thoughtful glance. “And the other man,” she said suddenly, “Mr.--Cornish--do you know him?” “He called at the Villa des Dunes. My brother brought him in to tea the evening of arrival of the first batch of malgamiters,” replied Dorothy. “Mr. Cornish interests me,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “I knew him when he was a boy--or little more than a boy. He came to Weimar with a tutor to learn German when I happened to be living there. I have heard of him from time to time since. One sees his name in the society papers, you know. He is one of those persons of whom something is expected by his friends--not by himself. The young man who expects something of himself is usually disappointed. Have you ever noticed in the biographies of great men, Miss Roden that people nearly always began to expect something of them when they were quite young? As if they were cast in a different mould from the very first. Really great men, I mean not the fashionable pianist or novelist of the hour whose portrait is in every illustrated journal for perhaps two months, and then he is forgotten.” Mrs. Vansittart spoke quickly in a foreign manner, asking with a certain vivacity questions which required no answer. Dorothy Roden was not slow of speech, but she touched topics with less airiness. Her mind seemed a trifle insular in its tendencies. One topic attracted her, and the rest were set aside. “Why does Mr. Cornish interest you?” she asked. Mrs. Vansittart shrugged her shoulders and leant back in her deep chair. “He strikes me as a person with infinite capacity for holding his cards. That is all. But perhaps he has no good cards in his hand? Nothing but rubbish--the twos and threes of ordinary drawing-room smartness--and never a trump. Who can tell? _Qui vivra verra_, Miss. Roden. It may not be in my time that the world shall hear of Tony Cornish--the real world, not the journalistic world, I mean. He may ripen slowly, and I shall be dead. I am getting elderly. How old do you think I am, Miss Roden?” “Thirty-five,” replied Dorothy; and Mrs. Vansittart turned sharply to look at her. “Ah!” she said, slowly and thoughtfully. “Yes, you are quite right. That is my age. And I suppose I look it. I suppose others would have guessed with equal facility, but not everybody would have had the honesty to say what they thought.” Dorothy laughed and changed colour. “I said it without thinking,” she answered. “I hope you do not mind.” “No, I do not mind,” said Mrs. Vansittart, looking out of the window. “But we were talking of Mr. Cornish.” “Yes,” answered Dorothy, buttoning her glove and glancing at the clock. “Yes; but I must not talk any longer or I shall be late, and my brother expects to find me at home when he returns from the works.” She rose and shook hands, looking Mrs. Vansittart in the eyes. When Dorothy had gone, the lady of the house stood for a minute looking at the closed door. “I wonder what she thinks of me?” she said. And Dorothy Roden, walking down Park Straat, was doing the same. She was wondering what she thought of Mrs. Vansittart. Although it was the month of April, the winter mists still rose at evening and swept seawards from the marshes of Leyden. The trees had scarcely begun to break into bud, for it had been a cold spring, and the ice was floating lazily on the canal as Dorothy walked along its bank. The Villa des Dunes was certainly somewhat lonely, standing as it did a couple of hundred yards back from a sandy road--one of the many leading from The Hague to Scheveningen. Between the villa and the road the dunes had scarcely been molested, except indeed, to cut a narrow roadway to the house. When Dorothy reached home, she found that her brother had not yet returned. She looked at the clock. He was later than usual. The malgamite works had during the last few weeks been absorbing more and more of his attention. When he returned home, tired, in the evening, he was not communicative. As for Otto von Holzen, he never showed his face outside the works now, but seemed to live the life of a recluse within the iron fence that surrounded the little colony. Percy Roden had not returned to the Villa des Dunes at the usual hour because he had other work to do. Von Holzen and he were now standing in one of the little huts in silence. The light of the setting sun glowed through the window upon their faces, upon the bare walls of the room, rendered barer and in no way beautified by a terrible German print purporting to represent the features of Prince Bismarck. Von Holzen stood, with his hands clasped behind his back, and looked out of the window across the dreary dunes. Roden stood beside him, slouching and heavy-shouldered, with his hands in his trouser pockets. His lower lip was pressed inward between his teeth. His eyes were drawn and anxious. On the bed, between the two men, lay a third--an old-looking youth with lank red hair. It was the story of St. Jacob Straat over again, and it was new to Percy Roden, who could not turn his eyes elsewhere. The man was dying. He was a Pole who understood no word of English. Indeed, these three men had no language in common in which to make themselves understood. “Can you do nothing at all?” asked Roden, for the second or third time. “Nothing,” answered Von Holzen, without turning round. “He was a doomed man when he came here.” The man lay on the bed and stared at Von Holzen's back. Perhaps that was the reason why Von Holzen so persistently looked out of the window. The work-hours were over, and from some neighbouring cottage the sounds of a concertina came on the quiet air. The musician had chosen a popular music-hall song, which he played over and over again with a maddening pertinacity. Roden bit his lip, and frowned at each repetition of the opening bars. Von Holzen, with a still, pale face and stern eyes, seemed to hear nothing. He had no nerves. At times he twisted his lips, moistening them with his tongue, and suppressed an impatient sigh. The man was a long time in dying. They had been waiting there two hours. This little incident had to be passed over as quietly as possible on account of the feelings of the concertina player and the others. The door stood ajar, and in the adjoining room a professional nurse, in cap and apron, sat reading a German newspaper. This also was a bedroom. The cottage was, in point of fact, the hospital of the malgamite workers. The nurse, whose services had not hitherto been wanted, had since the inauguration of the works spent some pleasant weeks at a pension at Scheveningen. She read her newspaper very philosophically, and waited. Roden it was who watched the patient. The dying man never heeded him, but looked persistently towards Von Holzen. The expression of his eyes indicated that if they had had a language in common he would have spoken to him. Roden saw the direction of the man's glance, and perhaps read its meaning. For Percy Roden was handicapped with that greatest of all drags on a successful career--a soft heart. He could speak harshly enough of the malgamiters as a class, but he was drawn towards this dumb individual, with a strong desire to effect the impossible. Von Holzen had not promised that there should be no deaths. He had merely undertaken to reduce the dangers of the malgamite industry gradually and steadily until they ceased to exist. He had, moreover, the strength of mind to give to this incident its proper weight in the balance of succeeding events. He was not, in a word, handicapped as was his colleague. The sun set beyond the quiet sea and over the sand dunes the shades of evening crept towards the west. The outline of Prince Bismarck's iron face faded slowly in the gathering darkness, until it was nothing but a shadow in a frame on the bare wall. The concertina player had laid aside his instrument. A sudden silence fell upon land and sea. Von Holzen turned sharply on his heel and leant over the bed. “Come along,” he said to Roden, with averted eyes. “It is all over. There is nothing more for us to do here.” With a backward glance towards the bed, Roden followed his companion, out of the room into the adjoining apartment where the nurse was sitting, and where their coats and hats lay on the bed. Von Holzen spoke to the woman in German. “So!” she answered, with a mild interest, and folded her paper. The two men went out into the keen air together, and did not look towards each other or speak. Perhaps they knew that if there is any difficulty in speaking of a subject it is better to keep silence. They crossed the sandy space between this cottage and the others grouped round the factory like tents around their headquarters. One of these huts was Von Holzen's--a three-roomed building where he worked and slept. Its windows looked out upon the factory, and commanded the only entrance to the railed enclosure within which the whole colony was confined. It was Von Holzen's habit to shut himself within his cottage for days together, living there in solitude like some crustacean within its shell. At the door he turned, with his fingers on the handle. “You must not worry yourself about this,” he said to Roden, with averted eyes. “It cannot be helped, you know.” “No; I know that.” “And of course we must keep our own counsel. Good night, Roden.” “Of course. Good night, Von Holzen.” And Percy Roden passed through the gateway, walking slowly across the dunes towards his own house; while Von Holzen watched him from the window of the little three-roomed cottage.

9

A SHADOW FROM THE PAST.

“Le plus sur moyen d'arriver à son but c'est de ne pas faire de rencontres en chemin.” “Yes, it was long ago--'lang, lang izt's her'--you remember the song Frau Neumayer always sang. So long ago, Mr. Cornish, that----Well, it must be Mr. Cornish, and not Tony.” Mrs. Vansittart leant back in her comfortable chair and looked at her visitor with observant eyes. Those who see the most are they who never appear to be observing. It is fatal to have others say that one is so sharp, and people said as much of Mrs. Vansittart, who had quick dark eyes and an alert manner. “Yes,” answered Cornish, “it is long ago, but not so long as all that.” His smooth fair face was slightly troubled by the knowledge that the recollections to which she referred were those of the Weimar days when she who was now a widow had been a young married woman. Tony Cornish had also been young in those days, and impressionable. It was before the world had polished his surface bright and hard. And the impression left of the Mrs. Vansittart of Weimar was that she was one of the rare women who marry _pour le bon motif_. He had met her by accident in the streets of The Hague a few hours ago, and having learnt her address, had, in duty bound, called at the house at the corner of Park Straat and Oranje Straat at the earliest calling hour. “I am not ignorant of your history since you were at Weimar,” said the lady, looking at him with an air of almost maternal scrutiny. “I have no history,” he replied. “I never had a past even, a few years ago, when every man who took himself seriously had at least one.” He spoke as he had learnt to speak, with the surface of his mind--with the object of passing the time and avoiding topics that might possibly be painful. Many who appear to be egotistical must assuredly be credited with this good motive. One is, at all events, safe in talking of one's self. Sufficient for the social day is the effort to avoid glancing at the cupboard where our neighbour keeps his skeleton. A silence followed Cornish's heroic speech, and it was perhaps better to face it than stave it off. “Yes,” said Mrs. Vansittart, at the end of that pause, “I am a widow and childless. I see the questions in your face.” Cornish gave a little nod of the head, and looked out of the window. Mrs. Vansittart was only a year older than himself, but the difference in their life and experience, when they had learnt to know each other at Weimar, had in some subtle way augmented the seniority. “Then you never--” he said, and paused. “No,” she answered lightly. “So I am what the world calls independent, you see. No encumbrance of any sort.” Again he nodded without speaking. “The line between an encumbrance and a purpose is not very clearly defined, is it?” she said lightly; and then added a question, “What are you doing in The Hague--Malgamite?” “Yes,” he answered, in surprise, “Malgamite.” “Oh, I know all about it,” laughed Mrs. Vansittart. “I see Dorothy Roden at least once a week.” “But she takes no part in it.” “No; she takes no part in it, _mon ami_, except in so far as it affects her brother and compels her to live in a sad little villa on the Dunes.” “And you--you are interested?” “Most assuredly. I have even given my mite. I am interested in”--she paused and shrugged her shoulders--“in you, since you ask me, in Dorothy, and in Mr. Roden. He gave the flowers at which you are so earnestly looking, by the way.” “Ah!” said Cornish, politely. “Yes,” answered Mrs. Vansittart, with a passing smile. “He is kind enough to give me flowers from time to time. You never gave me flowers, Mr. Cornish, in the olden times.” “Because I could not afford good ones.” “And you would not offer anything more reasonable?” “Not to you,” he answered. “But of course that was long ago.” “Yes. I am glad to hear that you know Miss Roden. It will make the little villa on the Dunes less sad. The atmosphere of malgamite is not cheerful. One sees it at its best in a London drawing-room. It is one of the many realities which have an evil odour when approached too closely.” “And you are coming nearer to it?” “It is coming nearer to me.” “Ah!” said Mrs. Vansittart, examining the rings with which her fingers were laden. “I thought there would be developments.” “There are developments. Hence my presence in The Hague. Lord Ferriby _et famille_ arrive to-morrow. Also my friend Major White.” “The fighting man?” inquired Mrs. Vansittart. “Yes, the fighting man. We are to have a solemn meeting. It has been found necessary to alter our financial basis----” Mrs. Vansittart held up a warning hand. “Do not talk to me of your financial basis. I know nothing of money. It is not from that point of view that I contemplate your Malgamite scheme.” “Ah! Then, if one may inquire, from what point of view....?” “From the human point of view; as does every other woman connected with it. We are advancing, I admit, but I think we shall always be willing to leave the--financial basis--to your down-trodden sex.” “It is very kind of you to be interested in these poor people,” began Cornish; but Mrs. Vansittart interrupted him vivaciously. “Poor people? Gott bewahre!” she cried. “Did you think I meant the workers? Oh no! I am not interested in them. I am interested in your Rodens and your Ferribys and your Whites, and even in your Tony Cornish. I wonder who will quarrel and who will--well, do the contrary, and what will come of it all? In my day young people were brought together by a common pleasure, but that has gone out of fashion. And now it is a common endeavour to achieve the impossible, to check the stars in their courses by the holding of mixed meetings, and the enunciation of second-hand platitudes respecting the poor and the masses--this is what brings the present generation into that intercourse which ends in love and marriage and death--the old programme. And it is from that point of view alone, _mon ami_, that I take a particle of interest in your Malgamite scheme.” All of which Tony Cornish remembered later; for it was untrue. He rose to take his leave with polite hopes of seeing her again. “Oh, do not hurry away,” she said. “I am expecting Dorothy Roden, who promised to come to tea. She will be disappointed not to see you.” Cornish laughed in his light way. “You are kind in your assumptions,” he answered. “Miss Roden is barely aware of my existence, and would not know me from Adam.” Nevertheless he stayed, moving about the room for some minutes looking at the flowers and the pictures, of which he knew just as much as was desirable and fashionable. He knew what flowers were “in,” such as fuchsias and tulips, and what were “out,” such as camellias and double hyacinths. About the pictures he knew a little, and asked questions as to some upon the walls that belonged to the Dutch school. He was of the universe, universal. Then he sat down again unobtrusively, and Mrs. Vansittart did not seem to notice that he had done so, though she glanced at the clock. A few minutes later Dorothy came in. She changed colour when Mrs. Vansittart half introduced Cornish with the conventional, “I think you know each other.” “I knew you were coming to The Hague,” she said, shaking hands with Cornish. “I had a letter from Joan the other day. They all are coming, are they not? I am afraid Joan will be very much disappointed in me. She thinks I am wrapped up heart and soul in the malgamiters--and I am not, you know.” She turned with a little laugh, and appealed to Mrs. Vansittart, who was watching her closely, as if Dorothy were displaying some quality or point hitherto unknown to the older woman. The girl's eyes were certainly brighter than usual. “Joan takes some things very seriously,” answered Cornish. “We all do that,” said Mrs. Vansittart, without looking up from the tea-table at which she was engaged. “Yes; it is a mistake, of course.” “Possibly,” assented Mrs. Vansittart. “Do you take sugar, Miss Roden?” “Yes, please--seriously. Two pieces.” “Are you like Joan?” asked Cornish, as he gave her the cup. “Do you take anything else seriously?” “Oh no,” answered Dorothy Roden, with a laugh. “And your brother?” inquired Mrs. Vansittart. “Is he coming this afternoon?” “He will follow me. He is busy with the new malgamiters who arrived this morning. I suppose you brought them, Mr. Cornish?” “Yes, I brought them. Twenty-four of them--the dregs, so to speak. The very last of the malgamiters, collected from all parts of the world. I was not proud of them.” He sat down and quickly changed the conversation, showing quite clearly that this subject interested him as little as it interested his companions. He brought the latest news from London, which the ladies were glad enough to hear. For to Dorothy Roden, at least, The Hague was a place of exile, where men lived different lives and women thought different thoughts. Are there not a hundred little rivulets of news which never flow through the journals, but are passed from mouth to mouth, and seem shallow enough, but which, uniting at last, form a great stream of public opinion, and this, having formed itself imperceptibly, is suddenly found in full flow, and is so obvious that the newspapers forget to mention it? Thus colonists and other exiles returning to England, and priding themselves upon having kept in touch with the progress of events and ideas in the old country, find that their thoughts have all the while been running in the wrong channels--that seemingly great events have been considered very small, that small ideas have been lifted high by the babbling crowd which is vaguely called society. From Tony Cornish, Mrs. Vansittart and Dorothy learnt that among other social playthings charity was for the moment being laid aside. We have inherited, it appears, a great box of playthings, and the careful student of history will find that none of the toys are new--that they have indeed been played with by our forefathers, who did just as we do. They took each toy from the box, and cried aloud that it was new, that the world had never seen its like before. Had it not, indeed? Then presently the toy--be it charity, or a new religion, or sentiment, or greed of gain, or war--is thrown back into the box again, where it lies until we of a later day drag it forth with the same cry that it is new. We grow wild with excitement over South African mines, and never recognize the old South Sea bubble trimmed anew to suit the taste of the day. We crow with delight over our East End slums, and never recognize the patched-up remnants of the last Crusade that fizzled out so ignominiously at Acre five hundred years ago. So Tony Cornish, who was _dans le movement_ gently intimated to his hearers that what may be called a robuster tone ruled the spirit of the age. Charity was going down, athletics were coming up. Another Olympiad had passed away. Wise indeed was Solon, who allowed four years for men to soften and to harden again. During the Olympiads it is to be presumed that men busied themselves with the slums that existed in those days, hearkened to the decadent poetry or fiction of that time, and then, as the robuster period of the games came round, braced themselves once more to the consideration of braver things. It appeared, therefore, that the Malgamite scheme was already a thing of the past so far as social London was concerned. A sensational 'Varsity boat-race had given charity its _coup de grace_, had ushered in the spring, when even the poor must shift for themselves. “And in the mean time,” commented Mrs. Vansittart, “here are four hundred industrials landed, if one may so put it, at The Hague.” “Yes; but that will be all right,” retorted Cornish, with his gay laugh. “They only wanted a start. They have got their start. What more can they desire? Is not Lord Ferriby himself coming across? He is at the moment on board the Flushing boat. And he is making a great sacrifice, for he must be aware that he does not look nearly so impressive on the Continent as he does, say in Piccadilly, where the policemen know him, and even the newspaper boys are dimly aware that this is no ordinary man to whom one may offer a halfpenny Radical paper----” Cornish broke off, and looked towards the door, which was at this moment thrown open by a servant, who announced--“Herr Roden. Herr von Holzen.” The two men came forward together, Roden slouching and heavy-shouldered, but well dressed; Von Holzen smaller, compacter, with a thoughtful, still face and calculating eyes. Roden introduced his companion to the two ladies. It is possible that a certain reluctance in his manner indicated the fact that he had brought Von Holzen against his own desire. Either Von Holzen had asked to be brought or Mrs. Vansittart had intimated to Roden that she would welcome his associate, but this was not touched upon in the course of the introduction. Cornish looked gravely on. Von Holzen was betrayed into a momentary gaucheness, as if he were not quite at home in a drawing-room. Roden drew forward a chair, and seated himself near to Mrs. Vansittart with an air of familiarity which the lady seemed rather to invite than to resent. They had, it appeared, many topics in common. Roden had come with the purpose of seeing Mrs. Vansittart, and no one else. Her manner, also, changed as soon as Roden entered the room, and seemed to appeal with a sort of deference to his judgment of all that she said or did. It was a subtle change, and perhaps no one noticed it, though Dorothy, who was exchanging conventional remarks with Von Holzen, glanced across the room once. “Ah,” Von Holzen was saying in his grave way, with his head bent a little forward, as if the rounded brow were heavy--“ah, but I am only the chemist, Miss Roden. It is your brother who has placed us on our wonderful financial basis. He has a head for finance, your brother, and is quick in his calculations. He understands money, whereas I am only a scientist.” He spoke English correctly but slowly, with the Dutch accent, which is slighter and less guttural than the German. Dorothy was interested in him, and continued to talk with him, leaving Cornish standing at a little distance, teacup in hand. Von Holzen was in strong contrast to the two Englishmen. He was graver, more thoughtful, a man of deeper purpose and more solid intellect. There was something dimly Napoleonic in the direct and calculating glance of his eyes, as if he never looked idly at anything or any man. It was he who made a movement after the lapse of a few moments only, as if, having recovered his slight embarrassment, he did not intend to stay longer than the merest etiquette might demand. He crossed the room, and stood before Mrs. Vansittart, with his heels clapped well together, making the most formal conversation, which was only varied by a stiff bow. “I have a friendly recollection,” he said, preparing to take his leave, “of a Charles Vansittart, a student at Leyden, with whom I was brought into contact again in later life. He was, I believe, from Amsterdam, of an English mother.” “Ah!” replied Mrs. Vansittart. “Mine is a common name.” And they bowed to each other in the foreign way.

10

DEEPER WATER.

“Une bonne intention est une échelle trop courte.” “I have had considerable experience in such matters, and I think I may say that the new financial scheme worked out by Mr. Roden and myself is a sound one,” Lord Ferriby was saying in his best manner. He was addressing Major White, Tony Cornish, Von Holzen, and Percy Roden, convened to a meeting in the private _salon_ occupied by the Ferribys at the Hotel of the Old Shooting Gallery, at The Hague. The _salon_ in question was at the front of the house on the first floor, and therefore looked out upon the Toornoifeld, where the trees were beginning to show a tender green, under the encouragement of a treacherous April sun. Major White, seated bolt upright in his chair, looked with a gentle surprise out of the window. He had so small an opinion of his understanding that he usually begged explanatory persons to excuse him. “No doubt you're quite right, but it's no use trying to explain it to _me_, don't you know,” he was in the habit of saying, and his attitude said no less at the present moment. Von Holzen, with his chin in the palm of his hand, watched Lord Ferriby's face with a greater attention than that transparent physiognomy required. Roden's attention was fully occupied by the papers on the table in front of him. He was seated by Lord Ferriby's side, ready to prompt or assist, as behoved a merely mechanical subordinate. Lord Ferriby, dimly conscious of this mental attitude, had spoken Roden's name with considerable patronage, and with the evident desire to give every man his due. Cornish, in his quick and superficial way, glanced from one face to the other, taking in _en passant_ any object in the room that happened to call for a momentary attention. He noted the passive and somewhat bovine surprise on White's face, and wondered whether it owed its presence thereto astonishment at finding himself taking part in a committee meeting or amazement at the suggestion that Lord Ferriby should be capable of evolving any scheme, financial or otherwise, out of his own brain. The committee thus summoned was a fair sample of its kind. Here were a number of men dividing a sense of responsibility among them so impartially that there was not nearly enough of it to go round. In a multitude of councilors there may be safety, but it is assuredly the councillors only who are safe. “The reasons,” continued Lord Ferriby, “why it is inexpedient to continue in our present position as mere trustees of a charitable fund are too numerous to go into at the present moment. Suffice it to say that there are many such reasons, and that I have satisfied myself of their soundness. Our chief desire is to ameliorate the condition of the malgamite workers. It must assuredly suggest itself to any one of us that the best method of doing this is to make the malgamite workers an independent corporation, bound together by the greatest of ties, a common interest.” The speaker paused, and turned to Roden with a triumphant smile, as much as to say, “There, beat that if you can.” Roden could not beat it, so he nodded thoughtfully, and examined the point of his pen. “Gentlemen,” said Lord Ferriby, impressively, “the greatest common interest is a common purse.” As the meeting was too small for applause, Lord Ferriby only allowed sufficient time for this great truth to be assimilated, and then continued--“It is proposed, therefore, that we turn the Malgamite Works into a company, the most numerous shareholders to be the malgamiters themselves. The most numerous shareholders, mark you--not the heaviest shareholders. These shall be ourselves. We propose to estimate the capital of the company at ten thousand pounds, which, as you know, is, approximately speaking, the amount raised by our appeals on behalf of this great charity. We shall divide this capital into two thousand five-pound shares, allot one share to each malgamite worker--say five hundred shares--and retain the rest--say fifteen hundred shares--ourselves. Of those fifteen hundred, it is proposed to allot three hundred to each of us. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes,” answered Major White, optimistically polishing his eye-glass with a pocket-handkerchief. “Any ass could understand that.” “Our friend Mr. Roden,” continued his lordship, “who, I mention in passing, is one of the finest financiers with whom I have ever had relationship, is of opinion that this company, having its works in Holland, should not be registered as a limited company in England. The reasons for holding such an opinion are, briefly, connected with the interference of the English law in the management of a limited liability company formed for the sole purpose of making money. We are not disposed to classify ourselves as such a company. We are not disposed to pay the English income tax on money which is intended for distribution in charity. Each malgamite worker, with his one share, is not, precisely speaking, so much a shareholder as a participator in profits. We are not in any sense a limited liability company.” That Lord Ferriby had again made himself clear was sufficiently indicated by the fact that Major White nodded his head at this juncture with portentous gravity and wisdom. “As to the question of profit and loss,” continued Lord Ferriby, “I am not, unfortunately, a business man myself, but I think we are all aware that the business part of the Malgamite scheme is in excellent hands. It is not, of course, intended that we, as shareholders, shall in any way profit by this new financial basis. We are shareholders in name only, and receive profits, if profits there be, merely as trustees of the Malgamite Fund. We shall administer those profits precisely as we have administered the fund--for the sole benefit of the malgamite workers. The profits of these poor men, earned on their own share, may reasonably be considered in the light of a bonus. So much for the basis upon which I propose that we shall work. The matter has had Mr. Roden's careful consideration, and I think we are ready to give our consent to any proposal which has received so marked a benefit. There are, of course, many details which will require discussion----Eh?” Lord Ferriby broke off short, and turned to Roden, who had muttered a few words. “Ah--yes. Yes, certainly. Mr. Roden will kindly spare us details as much as possible.” This was considerate and somewhat appropriate, as Tony Cornish had yawned more than once. “Now as to the past,” continued Lord Ferriby. “The works have been going for more than three months, and the result has been uniformly satisfactory----Eh?” “Many deaths?” inquired White, stolidly repeating his question. “Deaths? Ah--among the workers? Yes, to be sure. Perhaps Mr. von Holzen can tell you better than I.” And his lordship bowed in what he took to be the foreign manner across the table. “Yes,” replied Von Holzen, quietly, “there have, of course, been deaths, but not so many as I anticipated. The majority of the men had, as Mr. Cornish will tell you, death written on their faces when they arrived at The Hague.” “They certainly looked seedy,” admitted Tony. “We will, I think, turn rather to the--eh--er--living,” said Lord Ferriby, turning over the papers in front of him with a slightly reproachful countenance. He evidently thought it rather bad form of White to pour cold water over his new whitewash. For Lord Ferriby's was that charity which hopeth all things, and closeth her eye to practical facts, if these be discouraging. “I have here the result of the three months' work.” He looked at the papers with so condescending an air that it was quite evident that, had he been a business man and not a lord, he would have understood them at a glance. There was a short silence while he turned over the closely written sheets with an air of approving interest. “Yes,” he said, as if during those moments he had run his eye up all the column of figures and found them correct, “the result, as I say, gentlemen, has been most satisfactory. We have manufactured a malgamite which has been well received by the paper-makers. We have, furthermore, been able to supply at the current rate without any serious loss. We are increasing our plant, and the day is not so far distant when we may, at all events, hope to be self-supporting.” Lord Ferriby sat up and pulled down his waistcoat, a sure signal that the fountain of his garrulous inspiration was for the moment dried up. With great presence of mind Tony Cornish interposed a question which only Roden could answer, and after the consideration of some statistics, the proceedings terminated. It had been apparent all through that Percy Roden was the only business man of the party. In any question of figures or statistics his colleagues showed plainly that they were at sea. Lord Ferriby had in early life been managed by a thrifty mother, who had in due course married him to a thrifty wife. Tony Cornish's business affairs had been narrowed down to the financial fiasco of a tailor's bill far beyond his facilities. Major White had, in his subaltern days, been despatched from Gibraltar on a business quest into the interior of Spain to buy mules there for his Queen and country. He fell out with a dealer at Ronda, whom he knocked down, and returned to Gibraltar branded as unbusiness-like and hasty, and there his commercial enterprise had terminated. Von Holzen was only a scientist, a fact of which he assured his colleagues repeatedly. If plain speaking be a sign of friendship, then women are assuredly capable of higher flights than men. A lifelong friendship between two women usually means that they quarrelled at school, and have retained in later days the privilege of mutual plain speaking. If Jones, who was Tompkins's best man, goes yachting with Tompkins in later days, these two sinners are quite capable of enjoying themselves immensely in the present without raking about among the ashes of the past to seek the reason why Tompkins persisted, in spite of his friends' advice, in making an idiot of himself over that Robinson girl--Jones standing by all the while with the ring in his waistcoat pocket. Whereas, if the friendship existed between the respective ladies of Jones and Tompkins, their conversation will usually be found to begin with: “I always told you, Maria, when we were girls together,” or, “Well, Jane, when we were at school you never would listen to me.” A man's friendship is apparently based upon a knowledge of another's redeeming qualities. A woman's dearest friend is she whose faults will bear the closest investigation. It was doubtless owing to these trifling variations in temperament that Joan Ferriby learnt more about The Hague and Percy Roden and Otto von Holzen, and lastly, though not leastly, Mrs. Vansittart, in ten minutes than Tony Cornish could have learnt in a month of patient investigation. The first five of these ten precious minutes were spent in kissing Dorothy Roden, and admiring her hat, and holding her at arm's length, and saying, with conviction, that she was a dear. Then Joan asked why Dorothy had ceased writing, and Dorothy proved that it was Joan who had been in default, and lo! a bridge was thrown across the years, and they were friends once more. “And you mean to tell me,” said Joan, as they walked up the Korte Voorhout towards the canal and the Wood, “that you don't take any interest in the Malgamite scheme?” “No,” answered Dorothy. “And I am weary of the very word.” “But then you always were rather--well, frivolous, weren't you?” “I did not take lessons as seriously as you, perhaps, if that is what you mean,” admitted Dorothy. And Joan, who had come across to Holland full of zeal in well-doing, and as seriously as ever Queen Marguerite sailed to the Holy Land, walked on in silence. The trees were just breaking into leaf, and the air was laden with a subtle odour of spring. The Korte Voorhout is, as many know, a short broad street, spotlessly clean, bordered on either side by quaint and comfortable houses. The traffic is usually limited to one carriage going to the Wood, and on the pavement a few leisurely persons engaged in taking exercise in the sunshine. It was a different atmosphere to that from which Joan had come, more restful, purer perhaps, and certainly healthier, possibly more thoughtful; and charity, above all virtues, to be practiced well must be practiced without too much reflection. He who lets wisdom guide his bounty too closely will end by giving nothing at all. “At all events,” said Joan, “it is splendid of Mr. Roden to work so hard in the cause, and to give himself up to it as he does.” “Ye--es.” Joan turned sharply and looked at her companion. Dorothy Roden's face was not, perhaps, easy to read, especially when she turned, as she turned now, to meet an inquiring glance with an easy smile. “I have known so many of Percy's schemes,” she explained, “that you must not expect me to be enthusiastic about this.” “But this must succeed, whatever may have happened to the others,” cried Joan. “It is such a good cause. Surely nothing can be a better aim than to help such afflicted people, who cannot help themselves, Dorothy! And it is so splendidly organized. Why, Mr. Johnson, the labour expert, you know, who wears no collar and a soft hat, said that it could not have been better organized if it had been a strike. And a Bishop Somebody--a dear old man with legs like a billiard-table--said it reminded him of the early Christians' _esprit de corps_, or something like that. Doesn't sound like a bishop, though, does it?” “No, it doesn't,” admitted Dorothy, doubtfully. “So if your brother thinks it will not succeed,” said Joan, confidently, “he is wrong. Besides”--in a final voice--“he has Tony to help him, you know.” “Yes,” said Dorothy, looking straight in front of her, “of course he has Mr. Cornish.” “And Tony,” pursued Joan, eagerly, “always succeeds. There is something about him--I don't know what it is.” Dorothy recollected that Mrs. Vansittart had said something like this about Tony Cornish. She had said that he had the power of holding his cards and only playing them at the right moment. Which is perhaps the secret of success in life, namely, to hold one's cards, and, if the right moment does not present itself, never to play them at all, but to hold them to the end of the game, contenting one's self with the knowledge that one has had, after all, the makings of a fine game that might have been worth the playing. “There are people, you know,” Joan broke in earnestly, “who think that if they can secure Tony for a picnic the weather will be fine.” “And does he know it?” asked Dorothy, rather shortly. “Tony?” laughed Joan. “Of course not. He never thinks about anything like that.”

11

IN THE OUDE WEG.

“Le sage entend à demi mot.” The porter of the hotel on the Toornoifeld was enjoying his early cigarette in the doorway, when he was impelled by a natural politeness to stand aside for one of the visitors in the hotel. “Ah!” he said. “You promenade yourself thus early?” “Yes,” answered Cornish, cheerily, “I promenade myself thus early.” “You have had your coffee?” asked the porter. “It is not good to go near the canals when one is empty.” Cornish lingered a few minutes, and made the man's mind easy on this point. There are many who obtain a vast deal of information without ever asking a question, just as there are some--and they are mostly women--who ask many questions and are told many lies. Tony Cornish had a cheery way with him which made other men talk. He was also as quick as a woman. He went about the world picking up information. The city clocks were striking seven as he walked across the Toornoifeld, where the morning mist still lingered among the trees. The great square was almost deserted. Holland, unlike France, is a lie-abed country, and at an hour when a French town would be astir and its streets already thronged with people hurrying to buy or sell at the greatest possible advantage, a Dutch city is still asleep. Park Straat was almost deserted as Cornish walked briskly down it towards the Willem's Park and Scheveningen. A few street cleaners were leisurely working, a few milkmen were hurrying from door to door, but the houses were barred and silent. Cornish walked on the right-hand side of the road, which made it all the easier for Mrs. Vansittart to perceive him from her bedroom window as he passed Oranje Straat. “Ah!” said that lady, and rang the bell for her maid, to whom she explained that she had a sudden desire to take a promenade this fine morning. So Tony Cornish walked down the Oude Weg under the trees of that great thoroughfare, with Mrs. Vansittart following him leisurely by one of the side paths, which, being elevated above the road enabled her to look down upon the Englishman and keep him in sight. When he came within view of the broad road that cuts the Scheveningen wood in two and leads from the East Dunes to the West--from the Malgamite Works, in a word, to the cemetery--he sat down on a bench hidden by the trees. And Mrs. Vansittart, a hundred yards behind him, took possession of a seat as effectually concealed. They remained thus for some time, the object of a passing curiosity to the fish-merchants journeying from Scheveningen to The Hague. Then Tony Cornish seemed to perceive something on the road towards the sea which interested him, and Mrs. Vansittart, rising from her seat, walked down to the main pathway, which commanded an uninterrupted view. That which had attracted Cornish's attention was a funeral, cheap, sordid, and obscure, which moved slowly across the Oude Weg by the road, crossing it at right angles. It was a peculiar funeral, inasmuch as it consisted of three hearses and one mourning carriage. The dead were, therefore, almost as numerous as the living, an unusual feature in civil burials. From the window of the rusty mourning coach there looked a couple of debased countenances, flushed with drink and that special form of excitement which is especially associated with a mourning coach hired on credit and a funeral beyond one's means. Behind these two faces loomed others. There seemed to be six men within the carriage. The procession was not inspiriting, and Cornish's face was momentarily grave as he watched it. When it had passed, he rose and walked slowly back towards The Hague. Before he had gone far, he met Mrs. Vansittart face to face, who rose from a seat as he approached. “Well, _mon ami_,” she asked, with a short laugh, “have you had a pleasant walk?” “It has had a pleasant end, at all events,” he replied, meeting her glance with an imperturbable smile. She jerked her head upwards with a little foreign gesture of indifference. “It is to be presumed,” she said, as they walked on side by side, “that you have been exploring and investigating our--byways. Remember, my good Tony, that I live in The Hague, and may therefore be possessed of information that might be useful to you. It will probably be at your disposal when you need it.” She looked at him with daring black eyes, and laughed. A strong man usually takes a sort of pride in his power. This woman enjoyed the same sort of exultation in her own cleverness. She was not wise enough to hide it, which is indeed a grim, negative pleasure usually enjoyed by elderly gentlemen only. Social progress has, moreover, made it almost a crime to hide one's light under a bushel. Are we not told, in so many words, by the interviewer and the personal paragraphist, that it is every man's duty to set his light upon a candlestick, so that his neighbour may at least try to blow it out? Cornish had learnt to know Mrs. Vansittart at a period in her life when, as a young married woman, she regarded all her juniors with a matronly goodwill, none the less active that it was so exceedingly new. She had in those days given much good advice, which Cornish had respectfully heard. Fate had brought them together at the rare moment and in almost the sole circumstances that allow of a friendship being formed between a man and a woman. They walked slowly side by side now under the trees of the Oude Weg, inhaling the fresh morning air, which was scented by a hundred breaths of spring, and felt clean to face and lips. Mrs. Vansittart had no intention of resigning her position of mentor and friend. It was, moreover, one of those positions which will not bear being defined in so many words. Between men and women it often happens that to point out the existence of certain feelings is to destroy them. To say, “Be my friend,” as often as not makes friendship impossible. Mrs. Vansittart was too clever a woman to run such a risk in dealing with a man in whom she had detected a reserve of which the rest of the world had taken no account. It is unwise to enter into war or friendship without seeing to the reserves. “Do you remember,” asked Mrs. Vansittart, suddenly, “how wise we were when we were young? What knowledge of the world, what experience of life one has when all life is before one!” “Yes,” admitted Cornish, guardedly. “But if I preached a great deal, I at all events did you no harm,” said Mrs. Vansittart, with a laugh. “No.” “And as to experience, well, one buys that later.” “Yes; and the wise re-sell--at a profit,” laughed Cornish. “It is not a commodity that any one cares to keep. If we cannot sell it, we offer it for nothing, to the young.” “Who accept it, at an even lower valuation; and you and I, Mr. Tony Cornish, are cynics who talk cheap epigrams to hide our thoughts.” They walked on for a few yards in silence. Then Tony turned in his quick way and looked at her. He had thin, mobile lips, which expressed friendship and curiosity at this moment. “What are _you_ thinking?” he asked. She turned and looked at him with grave, searching eyes, and when these met his it became apparent that their friendship had re-established itself. “Of your affairs,” she answered, “and funerals.” “Both lugubrious,” suggested Cornish. “But I am obliged to you for so far honouring me.” He broke off, and again walked on in silence. She glanced at him half angrily, and gave a quick shrug of the shoulders. “Then you will not speak,” she said, opening her parasol with a snap. “So be it. The time has perhaps not come yet. But if I am in the humour when that time does come, you will find that you have no ally so strong as I. Ah, you may stick your chin out and look as innocent as you like! You are not easy in your mind, my good friend, about this precious Malgamite scheme. But I ask no confidences, and, _bon Dieu_! I give none.” She broke off with a little laugh, and looked at him beneath the shade of her parasol. She had a hundred foreign ways of putting a whole wealth of meaning into a single gesture, into a movement of a parasol or a fan, such as women acquire, and use upon poor defenceless men, who must needs face the world with stolid faces and slow, dumb hands. Cornish answered the laugh readily enough. “Ah!” he said, “then I am accused of uneasiness of mind of preoccupation, in fact. I plead guilty. I made a mistake. I got up too early. It was a fine morning, and I was tempted to take a walk before breakfast, which we have at half-past nine, in a fine old British way. We have toast and a fried sole. Great is the English milord!” They were in Park Straat now, in sight of Mrs. Vansittart's house. And that lady knew that her companion was talking in order to say nothing. “We leave this morning,” continued Cornish, in the same vein. “And we rather flatter ourselves that we have upheld the dignity of our nation in these benighted foreign parts.” “Ah, that poor Lord Ferriby! It is so easy to laugh at him. You think him a fool, although--or because--he is your uncle. So do I, perhaps. But I always have a little distrust for the foolishness of a person who has once been a knave. You know your uncle's reputation--the past one, I mean, not the whitewash. Do not forget it.” They had reached the corner of Oranje Straat, and Mrs. Vansittart paused on her own doorstep. “So you leave this morning,” she said. “Remember that I am in The Hague, and--well, we were once friends. If I can help you, make use of me. You have been wonderfully discreet, my friend. And I have not. But discretion is not required of a woman. If there is anything to tell you, you shall hear from me.” She held out her hand, and bade him good-bye with a semi-malicious laugh. Then she stood in the porch, and watched him walk quickly away. “So it is Dorothy Roden,” she said to herself, with a wise nod. “A queer case. One of those at first sight, one may suppose.” The Rodens, of whom she thought at the moment, were not only thinking, but speaking of her. They had finished breakfast, and Dorothy was standing at the window looking out over the Dunes towards the sea. Her brother was still seated at the table, and had lighted a cigarette. Like many another who offers an exaggerated respect to women as a whole, he was rather inclined to Bohemianism at home, and denied to his immediate feminine relations the privileges accorded to their sex in general. He was older than Dorothy, who had always been dependent upon him to a certain extent. She had a little money of her own, and quite recognized the fact that, should her brother marry, she would have to work for her living. In the mean time, however, it suited them both to live together, and Dorothy had for her brother that affection of which only women are capable. It amounts to an affectionate tolerance more than to a tolerant affection. For it perceives its object's little failings with a calm and judicial eye. It weighs the man in the balance, and finds him wanting. This, moreover, is the lot of a large proportion of women. This takes the place of that higher feeling which is probably the finest emotion of which the human heart is capable. And yet there are men who grudge these sufferers their petty triumphs, their poor little emancipation, their paltry wrangler-ships, their very bicycles. “You don't like this place--I know that,” Percy Roden was saying, in continuation of a desultory conversation. He looked up from the letters before him with a smile which was kind enough and a little patronizing. Patronage is perhaps the armour of the outwitted. “Not very much,” answered Dorothy, with a laugh. “But I dare say it will be better in the summer.” “I mean this villa,” pursued Roden, flicking the ash from his cigarette and leaning back in his chair. He had grand, rather tired gestures, which possibly impressed some people. Grandeur, however, like sentiment, is not indigenous to the hearth. Our domestic admirers are not always watching us. Dorothy was looking out of the window. “It is not a bad little place,” she said practically, “when one has grown accustomed to its sandiness.” “It will not be for long,” said Percy Roden. And his sister turned and looked at him with a sudden gravity. “Ah!” she said. “No; I have been thinking that it will be better for us to move into The Hague--Park Straat or Oranje Straat.” Dorothy turned and faced him now. There was a faint, far-off resemblance between these two, but Dorothy had the better face--shrewder, more thoughtful, cleverer. Her eyes, instead of being large and dark and rather dreamy, were grey and speculative. Her features were clear-cut and well-cut--a face suggestive of feeling and of self-suppression, which, when they go together, go to the making of a satisfactory human being. This was a woman who, to put it quite plainly, would scarcely have been held in honour by our grandmothers, but who promised well enough for her possible granddaughters; who, when the fads are lived down and the emancipation is over and the shrieking is done, will make a very excellent grandmother to a race of women who shall be equal to men and respected of men, and, best of all, beloved of men. Wise mothers say that their daughters must sooner or later pass through an awkward age. Woman is passing through an awkward age now, and Dorothy Roden might be classed among those who are doing it gracefully. She looked at her brother with those wise grey eyes, and did not speak at once. “Oranje Straat and Park Straat,” she said lightly, “cost money.” “Oh, that is all right!” answered her brother, carelessly, as one who in his time has handled great sums. “Then we are prosperous?” inquired Dorothy, mindful of other great schemes which had not always done their duty by their originator. “Oh yes! We shall make a good thing out of this Malgamite. The labourer is worthy of his hire, you know. There is no reason why we should not take a better house than this. Mrs. Vansittart knows of one in Park Straat which would suit us. Do you like her--Mrs. Vansittart, I mean?” His tone was slightly patronizing again. The Malgamite was a success, it appeared, and assuredly success is the most difficult emergency that a man has to face in life. “Very much,” answered Dorothy, quietly. She looked hard at her brother; for Dorothy had long ago gauged him, and had recently gauged Mrs. Vansittart with a facility which is quite incomprehensible to men and easy enough to women. She knew that her brother was not the sort of man to arouse the faintest spark of love in the heart of such a woman as her of whom they spoke. And yet Percy's tone implied as clearly as if the words had been spoken that he had merely to offer to Mrs. Vansittart his hand and heart in order to make her the happiest of women. Either Dorothy or her brother was mistaken in Mrs. Vansittart. Between a man and a woman it is usually the man who is mistaken in an estimate of another woman. Dorothy was wondering, not whether Mrs. Vansittart admired her brother, but why that lady was taking the trouble to convey to him that such was the case.

12

SUBURBAN

“Le bonheur c'est être né joyeux.” There are in the suburbs of London certain strata of men which lie in circles of diminishing density around the great city, like _debris_ around a volcano. London indeed erupts every evening between the hours of five and six, and throws out showers of tired men, who lie where they fall--or rather where their season ticket drops them--until morning, when they arise and crowd back again to the seething crater. The deposits of small clerks and tradespeople fall near at hand in a dense shower, bounded on the north by Finchley, on the south by Streatham. An outer circle of head clerks, Government servants, junior partners, covers the land in a stratum reaching as far south as Surbiton, as far north as the Alexandra Palace. And beyond these limits are cast the brighter lights of commerce, law, and finance, who fall, a thin golden shower, in the favoured neighbourhoods of the far suburbs, where, from eventide till morning, they play at being country gentlemen, talking stock and stable, with minds attuned to share and produce. Mr. Joseph Wade, banker, was one of those who are thrown far afield by the facilities of a fine suburban train service. He wore a frock-coat, a very shiny hat, and he read the _Times_ in the train. He lived in a staring red house, solid brick without and solid comfort within, in the favoured pine country of Weybridge. He was one of those pillars of the British Constitution who are laughed at behind their backs and eminently respected to their faces. His gardeners trembled before him, his coachman, as stout and respectable as himself, knew him to be a just and a good master, who grudged no man his perquisites, and behaved with a fine gentlemanly tact at those trying moments when the departing visitor is desirous of tipping and the coachman knows that it is blessed to receive. Mr. Wade rather scorned the amateur country-gentleman hobby which so many of his travelling companions affected. It led them to don rough tweed suits on Sunday, and walk about their paddocks and gardens as if these formed a great estate. “I am a banker,” he said, with that sound common sense which led him to avoid those cheap affectations of superiority that belong to the outer strata of the daily volcanic deposit--“I am a banker, and I am content to be a banker in the evening and on Sundays, as well as during bank-hours. What should I know about horses or Alderneys or Dorking fowls? None of 'em yield a dividend.” Mr. Wade, in fact, looked upon “The Brambles” as a place of rest, arriving there at half-past six, in time to dress for a very good dinner. After dinner he read in a small way by no means to be despised. He had a taste for biography, and cherished in his stout heart a fine old respect for Thackeray and Dickens and Walter Scott. Of the modern fictionists he knew nothing. “Seems to me they are splitting straws, my dear,” he once said to an earnest young person who thought that literature meant contemporary fiction, whereas we all know that the two are in no way connected. Joseph Wade was a widower, having some years before buried a wife as stout and sensible as himself. He never spoke of her except to his daughter Marguerite, now leaving school, and usually confined his remarks to a consideration of what Marguerite's mother would have liked in the circumstances under discussion at the moment. Marguerite had been educated at Cheltenham, and “finished” at Dresden, without any limit as to extras. She had come home from Dresden a few months before the Malgamite scheme was set on foot, to find herself regarded by her father in the light of a rather delicate financial crisis. The affection which had always existed between father and daughter soon developed into something stronger--something volatile and half mocking on her part, indulgent and half mystified on his. “She is rather a handful,” wrote Mr. Wade to Tony Cornish, “and too inconsequent to let my mind be easy about her future. I wish you would run down and dine and sleep at 'The Brambles' some evening soon. Monday is Marguerite's eighteenth birthday. Will you come on that evening?” “He is not thirty-three yet,” reflected Mr. Wade, as he folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope, “and she is the sort of girl who must be able to give a man her full respect before she can give him--er--anything else.” From which it may be perceived that the astute banker was preparing to face the delicate financial crisis. Cornish received the invitation the day after returning from Holland. Mr. Wade had been his father's friend and trustee, and was, he understood, distantly related to the mother whom Tony had never known. Such invitations were not infrequent, and it was the recipient's custom to set aside others in order to reply with an acceptance. A friendship had sprung up between two men who were not only divided by a gulf of years, but had hardly a thought in common. On arriving at Weybridge station, Cornish found Marguerite awaiting his arrival in a very high dog-cart drawn by an exceedingly shiny cob, which animal she proceeded to handle with vast spirit and a blithe ignorance. She looked trim and fresh, with bright brown hair under a smart sailor hat, and a complexion almost dazzling in its youthfulness and brilliancy. She nodded gaily at Cornish. “Hop up,” she said encouragingly, “and then hang on like grim death. There are going to be--whoa, my pet! --er--ructions. All right, William. Let go.” William let go, and made a dash at the rear step. The shiny cob squeaked, stood thoughtfully on his hind legs for a moment, and then dashed across the bridge, shaving a cab rather closely, and failing to observe a bank of stones at one side of the road. “Do you mind this sort of thing?” inquired Marguerite, as they bumped heavily over the obstruction. “Not in the least. Most invigorating, I consider it.” Marguerite arranged the reins carefully, and inclined the whip at a suitable angle across her companion's vision. “I'm learning to drive, you know,” she said, leaning confidently down from her high seat. “And papa thinks that because this young gentleman is rather stout he is quiet, which is quite a mistake. Whoa! Steady! Keep off the grass! Visitors are requested to keep to--Well, I'm”--she hauled the pony off the common, whither he had betaken himself, on to the road again--“blowed,” she added, religiously completing her unfinished sentence. They were now between high fences, and compelled to progress more steadily. “I am very glad you have come, you know,” Marguerite took the opportunity of assuring the visitor. “It is jolly slow, I can tell you, at times; and then you will do papa good. He is very difficult to manage. It took me a week to get this pony out of him. His great idea is for somebody to marry me. He looks upon me as a sort of fund that has to be placed or sunk or something, somewhere. There was a young Scotchman here the week before last. I have forgotten his name already. John--something--Fairly. Yes, that is it--John Fairly, of Auchen-something. It is better to be John Fairly, of Auchen-something, than a belted earl, it appears.” “Did John tell you so himself?” inquired Tony. “Yes; and he ought to know, oughtn't he? But that was what put me on my guard. When a Scotchman begins to tell you who he is, take my advice and sheer off.” “I will,” said Tony. “And when a Scotchman begins to tell you what he has, you may be sure that he wants something more. I smelt a rat at once. And I would not speak to him for the rest of the evening, or if I did, I spoke with a Scotch accent--just a suspeecion of an accent, you know--nothing to get hold of, but just enough to let him know that his Auchen-something would not go down with me.” She spoke with a sort of inconsequent earnestness, a relic of the school-days she had so lately left behind. She did not seem to have had time to decide yet whether life was a rattling farce or a matter of deadly earnest. And who shall blame her, remembering that older heads than hers are no clearer on that point? On approaching the red villa by its short entrance drive of yellow gravel, they perceived Mr. Wade slowly walking in his garden. The garden of “The Brambles” was exactly the sort of garden one would expect to find attached to a house of that name. It was chiefly conspicuous for its lack of brambles, or indeed of any vegetable of such disorderly habit. Yellow gravel walks intersected smooth lawns. April having drawn almost to its close, there were thin red lines of tulips standing at attention all along the flowery borders. Not a stalk was out of place. One suspected that the flowers had been drilled by a martinet of a gardener. The sight of an honest weed would have been a relief to the eye. The curse of too much gardener and too little nature lay over the land. “Ah!” said Mr. Wade, holding out a large white hand. “You perceive me inspecting the garden, and if you glance in the direction of McPherson's cottage you will perceive McPherson watching me. I pay him a hundred and twenty and he knows that it is too much.” “By the way, papa,” put in Marguerite, gravely, “will you tell McPherson that he will receive a month's notice if he counts the peaches this summer, as he did last year?” Mr. Wade laughed, and promised her a freer hand in this matter. They walked in the trim garden until it was time to dress for dinner, and Cornish saw enough to convince him that Mr. Wade was fully occupied between banking hours in his capacity as Marguerite's father. That young lady came down as the bell rang, in a white dress as fresh and girlish as herself, and during the meal, which was long and somewhat solemn, entertained the guest with considerable liveliness. It was only after she had left them to their wine, over which the banker loved to linger in the old-fashioned way that Mr. Wade put on his grave financial air. He fingered his glass thoughtfully, as if choosing, not a subject of conversation, but a suitable way of approaching a premeditated question. “You do not recollect your mother?” he said suddenly. “No; she died when I was two years old.” Mr. Wade nodded, and slowly sipped his port. “Queer thing is,” he said, after a pause and looking towards the door, “that that child is startlingly like what your mother used to be at the age of eighteen, when I first knew her. Perhaps it is only my imagination--not that I have much of that. Perhaps all girls are alike at that age--a sort of freshness and an optimism that positively take one's breath away. At any rate, she reminds me of your mother.” He broke off, and looked at Cornish with his slow and rather ponderous smile. His attitude towards the world was indeed one of conscious ponderosity. He did not attempt to understand the lighter side of life, but took it seriously as a work-a-day matter. “I was once in love with your mother,” he stated squarely. “But circumstances were against us. You see, your father was a lord's younger brother, and that made a great difference in Clapham in those days. I felt it a good deal at the time, but I of course got over it years and years ago. No sentiment about me, Tony. Sentiment and seventeen stone won't balance, you know.” The great man slowly drew the decanter towards him. “She got a better husband in your father--a clever, bright chap--and I was best man, I recollect. It was about that time--about your age I was--that I took seriously to my work. Before, I had been a little wild. And that interest has lasted me right up to the present time. Take my word for it, Tony, the greatest interest in life would be money-making--if one only knew what to do with the money afterwards.” The banker had been eating a biscuit, and he now swept the crumbs together with his little finger from all sides in a lessening circle until they formed a heap upon the white tablecloth. “It accumulates,” he said slowly, “accumulates, accumulates. And, after all, one can only eat and drink the best that are to be obtained, and the best costs so little--a mere drop in the ocean.” He handed Tony the decanter as he spoke. “Then I married Marguerite's mother, some years afterwards, when I was a middle-aged man. She was the only daughter of--the bank, you know.” And that seemed to be all that there was to be said about Marguerite's mother. Tony Cornish nodded in his quick, sympathetic way. Mr. Wade had told him none of this before, but it was to be presumed that he had heard at least part of it from other sources. His manner now indicated that he was interested, but he did not ask his companion to say one word more than he felt disposed to utter. It is probable that he knew these to be no idle after-dinner words, spoken without premeditation, out of a full heart; for Mr. Wade was not, as he had boasted, a person of sentiment, but a plain, straightforward business man, who, if he had no meaning to convey, said nothing. And in this respect it is a pity that more are not like him. “We have always been pretty good friends, you and I,” continued the banker, “though I know I am not exactly your sort. I am distinctly City; you are as distinctly West End. But during your minority, and when we settled up accounts on your coming of age, and since then, we have always hit it off pretty well.” “Yes,” said Cornish, moving his feet impatiently under the table. There was no mistaking the aim of all this, and Mr. Wade was too British in his habits to beat about the bush much longer. “I do not mind telling you that I have got you down in my will,” said the banker. Cornish bit his lip and frowned at his wine-glass. And it is possible that the man of no sentiment understood his silence. “I have frequently disbelieved what I have heard of you,” went on the elder man. “You have, doubtless, enemies--as all men have--and you have been a trifle reckless, perhaps, of what the world might say. If you will allow me to say so, I think none the worse of you for that.” Mr. Wade pushed the decanter across the table, and when Cornish had filled his glass, drew it back towards himself. It is wonderful what resource there is in half a glass of wine, if merely to examine it when it is hard to look elsewhere. “You remember, six months ago, I spoke to you of a personal matter,” said the banker. “I asked you if you had thoughts of marrying, and suggested something in the nature of a partnership if that would facilitate your plans in any way.” “That is not the sort of offer one is likely to forget,” answered Cornish. “I asked you if--well, if it was Joan Ferriby.” “Yes. And I answered that it was not Joan Ferriby. That was mere gossip, of which we are both aware, and for which neither of us cares a pin.” “Then it comes to this,” said Mr. Wade, drawing lines on the tablecloth with his dessert knife as if it were a balance-sheet, and he was casting the final totals there. “You are a man of the world; you are clever; you are like your father before you, in that you have something that women care about. Heaven only knows what it is, for I don't!” He paused, and looked at his companion as if seeking that intangible something. Then he jerked his head towards the drawing-room, where Marguerite could be dimly heard playing an air from the latest comic opera with a fine contempt for accidentals. “That child,” he said, “knows no more about life than a sparrow. A man like myself--seventeen stone--may have to balance his books at any moment. You have a clear field; for you may take my word for it that you will be the first in it. My own experience of life has been mostly financial, but I am pretty certain that the first man a woman cares for is the man she cares for all along, though she may never see him again. I don't hold it out as an inducement, but there is no reason why you should not know that she will have a hundred and fifty thousand pounds--not when I am dead, but on the day she marries.” Mr. Wade paused, and took a sip of his most excellent port. “Do not hurry,” he said. “Take your time. Think about it carefully--unless you have already thought about it, and can say yes or no now.” “I can do that.” Mr. Wade bent forward heavily, with one arm on the table. “Ah!” he said. “Which is it?” “It is no,” answered Cornish, simply. The banker passed his table-napkin across his lips, paused for a moment, and then rose with, as was his hospitable custom, his hand upon the sherry decanter. “Then let us go into the drawing-room,” he said.

13

THE MAKING OF A MAN.

“Heureux celui qui n'est forcée de sacrifier personne à son devoir.” “You know,” said Marguerite the next morning, as she and Cornish rode quietly along the sandy roads, beneath the shade of the pines--“you know, papa is such a jolly, simple old dear--he doesn't understand women in the least.” “And do you call yourself a woman nowadays?” inquired Cornish. “You bet. Bet those grey hairs of yours if you like. I see them! All down one side.” “They are all down both sides and on the top as well--my good--woman. How does your father fail to understand you?” “Well, to begin with, he thinks it necessary to have Miss Williams, to housekeep and chaperon, and to do oddments generally--as if I couldn't run the show myself. You haven't seen Miss Williams--oh, crikey! She has gone to Cheltenham for a holiday, for which you may thank your eternal stars. She is just the sort of person who _would_ go to Cheltenham. Then papa is desperately keen about my marrying. He keeps trotting likely _partis_ down here to dine and sleep--that's why you are here, I haven't a shadow of a doubt. None of the _partis_ have passed muster yet. Poor old thing, he thinks I do not see through his little schemes.” Cornish laughed, and glanced at Marguerite under the shade of his straw hat, wondering, as men have probably wondered since the ages began, how it is that women seem to begin life with as great a knowledge of the world as we manage to acquire towards the end of our experience. Marguerite made her statements with a certain careless _aplomb_, and these were usually within measurable distance of the fact, whereas a youth her age and ten years older, if he be of a didactic turn, will hold forth upon life and human nature with an ignorance of both which is positively appalling. “Now, I don't want to marry,” said Marguerite, suddenly returning to her younger and more earnest manner. “What is the good of marrying?” “What, indeed,” echoed Cornish. “Well, then, if papa tackles you--about me, I mean--when he has done the _Times_--he won't say anything before, the _Times_ being the first object in papa's existence, and yours very truly the second--just you choke him off--won't you?” “I will.” “Promise?” “Promise faithfully.” “That's all right. Now tell me--is my hat on one side?” Cornish assured her that her hat was straight, and then they talked of other things, until they came to a ditch suitable for some jumping lessons, which he had promised to give her. She was bewilderingly changeable, at one moment childlike, and in the next very wise--now a heedless girl, and a moment later a keen woman of the world--appearing to know more of that abode of evil than she well could. Her colour came and went--her very eyes seemed to change. Cornish thought of this open field which Marguerite's father had offered, and perhaps he thought of the hundred and fifty thousand pounds that lay beneath so bright a surface. On returning to “The Brambles,” they found Mr. Wade reading the _Times_ in the glass-covered veranda of that eligible suburban mansion. It being a Saturday, the great banker was taking a holiday, and Cornish had arranged not to return to town until midday. “Come here,” shouted Mr. Wade, “and have a cigar while you read the paper.” “And remember,” added Marguerite, slim and girlish in her riding-habit; “choke him off!” She stood on the door-step, looking over her shoulder, and nodded at Cornish, her fresh lips tilted at the corner by a smile full of gaiety and mysticism. “Read that,” said Mr. Wade, gravely. But Mr. Wade was always grave--was clad in gravity and a frock-coat all his waking moments--and Cornish took up the newspaper carelessly. He stretched out his legs and lighted a cigar. Then he leisurely turned to the column indicated by his companion. It was headed, “Crisis in the Paper Trade: the Malgamite Corner.” And Tony Cornish did not raise his eyes from the printed sheet for a full ten minutes. When at length he looked up, he found Mr. Wade watching him, placid and patient. “Can't make head or tail of it,” he said, with a laugh. “I will make both head and tail of it for you,” said Mr. Wade, who in his own world had a certain reputation for plain speaking. It was even said that this stout banker could tell a man to his face that he was a scoundrel with a cooler nerve than any in Lombard Street. “What has occurred,” he said, slowly folding the advertisement sheet of the _Times_, “is only what has been foreseen for a long time. The world has been degenerating into a maudlin state of sentiment for some years. The East End began it; a thousand sentimental charities have fostered the movement. Now, I am a plain man--a City man, Tony, to the tips of my toes.” And he stuck out a large square-toed foot and looked contemplatively at it. “Half of your precious charities--the societies that you and Joan Ferriby, and, if you will allow me to say so, that ass Ferriby, are mixed up in--are not fraudulent, but they are pretty near it. Some people who have no right to it are putting other people's money into their pockets. It is the money of fools--a fool and his money are soon parted, you know--but that does not make matters any better. The fools do not always part with their money for the right reason; but that also is of small importance. It is not our business if some of them do it because they like to see their names printed under the names of the royal and the great--if others do it for the mere satisfaction of being life--governors of this and that institution--if others, again, head the county lists because they represent a part of that county in Parliament--if the large majority give of their surplus to charities because they are dimly aware that they are no better than they should be, and wish to take shares in a concern that will pay a dividend in the hereafter. They know that they cannot take their money out of this world with them, so they think they had better invest some of it in what they vaguely understand to be a great limited company, with the bishops on the board and--I say it with all reverence--the Almighty in the chair. I would not say this to the first-comer because it would not be well received, and it is not fashionable to treat Charity from a common-sense point of view. It is fashionable to send a cheque to this and that charity--feeling that it is charity, and therefore will be all right, and that the cheque will be duly placed on the credit side of the drawer's account in the heavenly books, however it may be foolishly spent or fraudulently appropriated by the payee on earth. Half a dozen of the fashionable charities are rotten, but we have not had a thorough-going swindle up to this time. We have been waiting for it ... in Lombard Street. It is there....” He paused, and tapped the printed column of the _Times_ with a fat and inexorable forefinger. He was, it must be remembered, a mere banker--a person in the City, where honesty is esteemed above the finer qualities of charity and beneficence, where soul and sentiment are so little known that he who of his charity giveth away another's money is held accountable for his manner of spending it. “It is there, ... and you have the honour of being mixed up in it,” said Mr. Wade. Cornish took up the paper, and looked at the printed words with a vague surprise. “There is no knowing,” went on the banker, “how the world will take it. It is one of our greatest financial difficulties that there is never any knowing how the world will take anything. Of course, we in the City are plain-going men, who have no handles to our names and no time for the fashionable fads. We are only respectable, and we cannot afford to be mixed up in such a scheme as your malgamite business.” Mr. Wade glanced at Cornish and paused a moment. He was a stolid Englishman, who had received punishment in his time, and could hit hard when he deemed that hard hitting was merciful. “It has only been a question of time. The credulity of the public is such that, sooner or later, a bogus charity must assuredly have followed in the wake of the thousand bogus companies that exist to-day. I only wonder that it has not come sooner. You and Ferriby and, of course, the women have been swindled, my dear Tony--that is the head and the tail of it.” Cornish laughed gaily. “I dare say we have,” he admitted. “But I will be hanged if I see what it all means, now.” “It may mean ruin to those who have anything to lose,” explained Mr. Wade, calmly. “The whole thing has been cleverly planned--one of the cleverest things of recent years, and the man who thought it out had the makings of a great financier in him. What he wanted to do was to get the malgamite industry into his own hands. If he had formed a company and gone about it in a straightforward manner, the paper-makers of the whole world would have risen like one man and smashed him. Instead of that, he moved with the times, and ran the thing as a charity--a fashionable amusement, in fact. The malgamite industry is neither better nor worse than the other dangerous trades, and no man need go into it unless he likes. But the man who started this thing--whoever he may be--supplied that picturesqueness without which the public cannot be moved--and lo! We have an army of martyrs.” Mr. Wade paused and jerked the ash from his cigar. He glanced at Cornish. “No one suspected that there was anything wrong. It was plausibly put forth, and Ferriby ... did his best for it. Then the money began to come in, and once money begins to come in for a popular charity the difficulty is to stop it. I suppose it is still coming in?” “Yes,” said Cornish. “It is still coming in, and nobody is trying to stop it.” Mr. Wade laughed in his throat, as fat men do. “And,” he cried, sitting upright and banging his heavy fist down on the arm of his chair--“and there are millions in your malgamite works at the Hague--millions. If it were only honest it would be the finest monopoly the world has ever seen--for two years, but no longer. At the end of that period the paper-makers will have had time to combine and make their own stuff--then they'll smash you. But during those two years all the makers in the world will have to buy your malgamite at the price you chose to put upon it. They have their forward contracts to fulfil--government contracts, Indian contracts, newspaper contracts. Thousands and thousands of tons of paper will have to be manufactured at a loss every week during the next two years, or they'll have to shut up their mills. Now do you see where you are?” “Yes,” answered Cornish, “I see where I am, now.” His face was drawn and his eyes hard, like those of a man facing ruin. And that which was written on his face was an old story, so old that some may not think it worth the telling; for he had found out (as all who are fortunate will, sooner or later, discover) that success or failure, riches or poverty, greatness or obscurity, are but small things in a man's life. Mr. Wade looked at his companion with a sort of wonder in his shrewd old face. He had seen ruined men before now--he had seen criminals convicted of their wrong-doing--he had seen old and young in adversity, and, what is more dangerous still, in prosperity--but he had never seen a young face grow old in the twinkling of an eye. The banker was only thinking of this matter as a financial crisis, in which his great skill made him take a master's delight. There must inevitably come a great crash, and Mr. Wade's interest was aroused. Cornish was realizing that the crash would of a certainty fall between himself and Dorothy. “This thing,” continued the banker, judicially, “has not evolved itself. It is not the result of a singular chain of circumstances. It is the deliberate and careful work of one man's brain. This sort of speculative gambling comes to us from America. It was in America that the first cotton corner was conceived. That is what the paper means when it plainly calls it the malgamite corner. Now, what I want to know is this--who has worked this thing?” “Percy Roden,” answered Cornish, thoughtfully. “It is Roden's corner.” “Then Roden's a clever fellow,” said the great financier. “The sort of man who will die a millionaire or a felon--there is no medium for that sort. He has conducted the thing with consummate skill--has not made a mistake yet. For I have watched him. He began well, by saying just enough and not too much. He went abroad, but not too far abroad. He avoided a suspicious remoteness. Then he bided his time with a fine patience, and at the right moment converted it quietly into a company--with a capital subscribed by the charitable--a splendid piece of audacity. I saw the announcement in the newspaper, neatly worded, and issued at the precise moment when the public interest was beginning to wane, and before the thing was forgotten. People read it, and having found a new plaything--bicycles, I suppose--did not care two pins what became of the malgamite scheme, and yet they were not left in a position to be able to say that they had never heard that the thing had been turned into a company.” The banker rubbed his large soft hands together with a grim appreciation of this misapplied skill, which so few could recognize at its full value. “But,” he continued, in his deliberate, practical way, as if in the course of his experience he had never yet met a difficulty which could not be overcome, “it is more our concern to think about the future. The difficulty you are in would be bad enough in itself--it is made a hundred times worse by the fact that you have a man like Roden, with all the trumps in his hand, waiting for you to throw the first card. Of course, I know no details yet, but I soon shall. What seems complicated to you may appear simple enough to me. I am going to stand by you--understand that, Tony. Through thick and thin. But I am going to stand behind you. I can hit harder from there. And this is just one of those affairs with which my name must not be associated. So far as I can judge at present, there seems to be only one course open to you, and that is to abandon the whole affair as quietly and expeditiously as possible, to drop malgamite and the hope of benefiting the malgamite workers once and for all.” Tony was looking at his watch. It was, it appeared, time for him to go if he wanted to catch his train. “No,” he said, rising; “I will be d----d if I do that.” Mr. Wade looked at him curiously, as one may look at a sleeper who for no apparent reason suddenly wakes and stretches himself. “Ah!” he said slowly, and that was all.

14

UNSOUND.

“Be wiser than other people if you can; but do not tell them so.” If Major White was not a man of quick comprehension, he was, at all events, honest in his density. He never said that he understood when he did not do so. When he received a telegram in barracks at Dover to come up to London the next day and meet Cornish at his club at one o'clock, the major merely said that he was in a state of condemnation, and fixing his glass very carefully into his more surprised eye, studied the thin pink paper as if it were a unique and interesting proof of the advance of the human race. In truth, Major White never sent telegrams, and rarely received them. He blew out his cheeks and said a second time that he was damned. Then he threw the telegram into a waste-paper basket, which was rarely put to so legitimate a use; for the major never wrote letters if he could help it, and received so few that they hardly kept him supplied in pipe-lights. He apparently had no intention of replying to Cornish's telegram, arguing very philosophically in his mind that he would go if he could, and if he could not, it would not matter very much. A method of contemplating life, as a picture with a perspective to it, which may be highly recommended to fussy people who herald their paltry little comings and goings by a number of unnecessary communications. Without, therefore, attempting a surmise as to the meaning of this summons, White took a morning train to London, and solemnly reported himself to the hall porter of a club in St. James's Street as the well-dressed throng was leisurely returning from church. “Mr. Cornish told me to come and have lunch with him,” he said, in his usual bald style, leaving explanations and superfluous questions to such as had time for luxuries of that description. He was taken charge of by a button-boy, whose head reached the major's lowest waistcoat button, was deprived of his hat and stick, and practically commanded to wash his hands, to all of which he submitted under stolid and silent protest. Then he was led upstairs, refusing absolutely to hurry, although urged most strongly thereto by the boy's example and manner of pausing a few steps higher up and looking back. “Yes,” said the major, when he had heard Cornish's story across the table, and during the consumption of a perfectly astonishing luncheon--“yes; half the trouble in this world comes from the incapacity of the ordinary human being to mind his own business.” He operated on a creaming Camembert cheese with much thoughtfulness, and then spoke again. “I should like you to tell me,” he said, “what a couple of idiots like us have to do with these confounded malgamiters. We do not know anything about industry or workmen--or work, so far as that goes”--he paused and looked severely across the table--“especially you,” he added. Which was strictly true; for Tony Cornish was and always had been a graceful idler. He was one of those unfortunate men who possess influential relatives, than which there are few heavier handicaps in that game of life, where if there be any real scoring to be done, it must be compassed off one's own bat. To follow out the same inexpensive simile, influential relatives may get a man into a crack club, but they cannot elect him to the first eleven. So Tony Cornish, who had never done anything, but had waited vaguely for something to turn up that might be worth his while to seize, had no answer ready, and only laughed gaily in his friend's face. “The first thing we must do,” he said, very wisely leaving the past to take care of itself, “is to get old Ferriby out of it.” “'Cos he is a lord?” “Partly.” “'Cos he is an ass?” suggested White, as a plausible alternative. “Partly; but chiefly because he is not the sort of man we want if there is going to be a fight.” A momentary light gleamed in the major's eye, but it immediately gave place to a placid interest in the Camembert. “If there is going to be a fight,” he said, “I'm on.” In which trivial remark the major explained his whole life and mental attitude. And if the world only listened, instead of thinking what effect it is creating and what it is going to say next, it would catch men thus giving themselves away in their daily talk from morning till night. For Major White had always been “on” when there was fighting. By dint of exchanging and volunteering and asking, and generally bothering people in a thick-skinned, dull way, he always managed to get to the front, where his competitors--the handful of modern knights-errant who mean to make a career in the army, and inevitably succeed--were not afraid of him, and laughingly liked him. And the barrack-room balladists had discovered that White rhymes with Fight. And lo! Another man had made a name for himself in a world that is already too full of names, so that in the paths of Fame the great must necessarily fall against each other. After luncheon, in the smaller smoking-room, where they were alone, Cornish explained the situation at greater length to Major White, who did not even pretend to understand it. “All I can make of it is that that loose-shouldered chap Roden is a scoundrel,” he said bluntly, from behind a great cigar, “and wants thumping. Now, if there's anything in that line--” “No; but you must not tell him so,” interrupted Cornish. “I wish to goodness I could make you understand that cunning can only be met by cunning, not by thumps, in these degenerate days. Old Wade has taken us by the hand, as I tell you. They come to town, by the way, to-morrow, and will be in Eaton Square for the rest of the season. He says that it is his business to meet the low cunning of the small solicitors and the noble army of company promoters, and it seems that he knows exactly what to do. At any rate, it is not expedient to thump Roden.” Major White shrugged his shoulders with much silent wisdom. He believed, it appeared, in thumps in face of any evidence in favour of milder methods. “Deuced sorry for that girl,” he said. Cornish was lighting a cigarette. “What girl?” he asked quietly. “Miss Roden, chap's sister. She knows her brother is a dark horse, but she wouldn't admit it, not if you were to kill her for it. Women”--the major paused in his great wisdom--“women are a rum lot.” Which, assuredly, no one is prepared to deny. Cornish glanced at his companion through the cigarette smoke, and said nothing. “However,” continued the major, “I am at your service. Let us have the orders.” “To-morrow,” answered Cornish, “is Monday, and therefore the Ferribys will be at home. You and I are to go to Cambridge Terrace about four o'clock to see my uncle. We will scare him out of the Malgamite business. Then we will go upstairs and settle matters with Joan. Wade and Marguerite will drop in about half-past four. Joan and Marguerite see a good deal of each other, you know. If we have any difficulty with my uncle, Wade will give him the _coup de grâce_, you understand. His word will have more weight than ours We shall then settle on a plan of campaign, and clear out of my aunt's drawing-room before the crowd comes.” “And you will do the talking,” stipulated Major White. “Oh yes; I will do the talking. And now I must be off. I have a lot of calls to pay, and it is getting late. You will find me here to-morrow afternoon at a quarter to four.” Whereupon Major White took his departure, to appear again the next day in good time, placid and debonair--as he had appeared when called upon in various parts of the world, where things were stirring. They took a hansom, for the afternoon was showery, and drove through the crowded streets. Even Cambridge Terrace, usually a quiet thoroughfare, was astir with traffic, for it was the height of the season and a levee day. As the cab swung round into Cambridge Terrace, White suddenly pushed his stick up through the trap-door in the roof of the vehicle. “Ninety-nine,” he shouted to the driver in his great voice. “Not nine.” Then he threw himself back against the dingy blue cushions. Cornish turned and looked at him in surprise. “Gone off your head?” he inquired. “It is nine--you know that well enough.” “Yes,” answered White, “I know that, my good soul; but you could not see the door as I could when we came round the corner. Roden and Von Holzen are on the steps, coming out.” “Roden and Von Holzen in England?” “Not only in England,” said White, placidly, “but in Cambridge Terrace. And “--he paused, seeking a suitable remark among his small selection of conversational remnants--“and the fat is in the fire.” The cab had now stopped at the door of number ninety-nine. And if Roden or Von Holzen, walking leisurely down Cambridge Terrace, had turned during the next few moments, they would have seen a stationary hansom cab, with a large round face--mildly surprised, like a pink harvest moon--rising cautiously over the roof of it, watching them. When the coast was clear, Cornish and White walked back to number nine. Lord Ferriby was at home, and they were ushered into his study, an apartment which, like many other things appertaining to his lordship, was calculated to convey an erroneous impression. There were books upon the tables--the lives of great and good men. Pamphlets relating to charitable matters, missionary matters, and a thousand schemes for the amelioration of the human lot here and hereafter, lay about in profusion. This was obviously the den of a great philanthropist. His lordship presently appeared, carrying a number of voting papers, which he threw carelessly on the table. He was, it seemed, a subscriber to many institutions for the blind, the maimed, and the halt. “Ah!” he said, “I generally get through my work in the morning, but I find myself behindhand to-day. It is wonderful,” he added, directing his conversation and his benevolent gaze towards White, “how busy an idle man may be.” “M--m--yes!” answered the major, with his stolid stare. Cornish broke what threatened to be an awkward silence by referring at once to the subject in hand. “It seems,” he began, “that this Malgamite scheme is not what we took it to be.” Lord Ferriby looked surprised and slightly scandalized. Could it be possible for a fashionable charity to be anything but what it appeared to be? In his eyes, wandering from one face to the other, there lurked the question as to whether they had seen Roden and Von Holzen quit his door a minute earlier. But no reference was made to those two gentlemen, and Lord Ferriby, who, as a chairman of many boards, was a master of the art of conciliation and the decent closing of both eyes to unsightly facts, received Cornish's suggestion with a polite and avuncular pooh-pooh. “We must not,” he said soothingly, “allow our judgment to be hastily affected by the ill-considered statements of the--er--newspapers. Such statements, my dear Anthony--and you, Major White--are, I may tell you, only what we, as the pioneers of a great movement, must be prepared to expect. I saw the article in the _Times_ to which you refer--indeed, I read it most carefully, as, in my capacity of chairman of this--eh--char--that is to say, company, I was called upon to do. And I formed the opinion that the mind of the writer was--eh--warped.” Lord Ferriby smiled sadly, and gave a final wave of the hand, as if to indicate that the whole matter lay in a nutshell, and that nutshell under his lordship's heel. “Warped or not,” answered Cornish, “the man says that we have formed ourselves into a company, which company is bound to make huge profits, and those profits are naturally assumed to find their way into our pockets.” “My dear Anthony,” replied the chairman, with a laugh which was almost a cackle, “the labourer is worthy of his hire.” Which seems likely to become the _dernier cri_ of the overpaid throughout all the ages. “Even if we contradict the statement,” pursued Cornish, with a sudden coldness in his manner, “the contradiction will probably fail to reach many of the readers of this article, and as matters at present stand, I do not see that we are in a position to contradict.” “My dear Anthony,” answered Lord Ferriby, turning over his papers with a preoccupied air, as if the question under discussion only called for a small share of his attention--“my dear Anthony, the money was subscribed for the amelioration of the lot of the malgamite workers. We have not only ameliorated their lot, but we have elevated them morally and physically. We have far exceeded our promises, and the subscribers, who, after all, take a small interest in the matter, have every reason to be satisfied that their money has been applied to the purpose for which they intended it. They were kind enough to intrust us with the financial arrangements. The concern is a private one, and it is the business of no one--not even of the _Times_--to inquire into the method which we think well to adopt for the administration of the Malgamite Fund. If the subscribers had no confidence in us, they surely would not have given the management unreservedly into our hands.” Lord Ferriby spread out the limbs in question with an easy laugh. Has not a greater than any of us said that a man “may smile, and smile, and be a villain”? A silence followed, which was almost, but not quite, broken by the major, who took his glass from his eye, examined it very carefully, as if wondering how it had been made, and, replacing it with a deep sigh, sat staring at the opposite wall. “Then you are not disposed to withdraw your name from the concern?” asked Cornish. “Most certainly not, my dear Anthony. What have the malgamiters done that I should, so to speak, abandon them at the first difficulty which has presented itself?” “And what about the profits?” inquired Cornish, bluntly. “Mr. Roden is our paid secretary. He understands the financial situation, which is rather a complicated one. We may, I think, leave such details to him. And if I may suggest it (I may perhaps rightly lay claim to a somewhat larger experience in charitable finances than either of you), I should recommend a strict reticence on this matter. We are not called upon to answer idle questions, I think. And if--well--if the labourer is found worthy of his hire ... buy yourself a new hat, my dear Anthony. Buy yourself a new hat.” Cornish rose, and looked at his watch. “I wonder if Joan will give us a cup of tea,” he said. “We might, at all events, go up and try.” “Certainly--certainly. And I will follow when I have finished my work. And do not give the matter another thought--either of you--eh!” “He's been got at,” said Major White to his companion as they walked upstairs together, as if Lord Ferriby were a jockey or some common person of that sort.

15

PLAIN SPEAKING.

“Il est rare que la tête des rois soit faite à la mesure de leur couronne.” “What I want is something to eat,” Miss Marguerite Wade confided in an undertone to Tony Cornish, a few minutes later in Lady Ferriby's drawing-room. She said this with a little glance of amusement, as Cornish stood before her with two plates of biscuits, which certainly did not promise much sustenance. “Then,” answered Cornish, “you have come to the wrong house.” Marguerite kept him waiting while she arranged biscuits in her saucer. He set the plates aside, and returned to her in answer to her tacit order, conveyed by laying one hand on a vacant chair by her side. Marguerite was in the midst of that brief period of a woman's life wherein she dares to state quite clearly what she wants. “Why don't you marry Joan?” she asked, eating a biscuit with a fine young optimism, which almost implied that things sometimes taste as nice as they look. “Why don't you marry Major White?” retorted Tony; and Marguerite turned and looked at him gravely. “For a man,” she said, “that wasn't so dusty. So few men have any eyes in their head, you know.” And she thoughtfully finished the biscuits. “I think I'll go back to the bread-and-butter,” she said. “It's the last time Lady Ferriby will ask me to stay to tea, so I may as well be hanged for--three pence as three farthings. And I think I will be more careful with you in the future. For a man, you are rather sharp.” And she looked at him doubtfully. “When you attain my age,” replied Tony, “you will have arrived at the conclusion that the whole world is sharper than one took it to be. It does not do to think that the world is blind. It is better not to care whether it sees or not.” “Women cannot afford to do that,” returned Marguerite, with the accumulated wisdom of nearly a score of years. “Oh, hang!” she added, a moment later, under her breath, as she perceived Joan and Major White coming towards them. “I have a letter for you,” said Joan, “enclosed in one I received this morning from Mrs. Vansittart at The Hague. She is not coming to the Harberdashers' Assistants' Ball, and this is, I suppose, in answer to the card you sent her. She explains that she did not know your address.” And Joan looked at him with a doubting glance for a moment. Cornish took the letter, but did not ask permission to open it. He held it in his hand, and asked Joan a question. “Did you see Saturday's Times?” “Yes, of course I did,” she answered earnestly; “and of course, if it is true you will all wash your hands of the whole affair, I suppose. I was talking to Mr. Wade about it. He, however, placed both sides of the question before me in about ten words, and left me to take my choice--which I am incompetent to do.” “Papa doesn't understand women,” put in Marguerite. “Understands money, though,” retorted Major White, looking at her in somewhat severe astonishment, as if he had hitherto been unaware that she could speak. Marguerite took the rebuff with demurely closed lips, a probable indication that the only retort she could think of was hardly fit for enunciation. Then Cornish drifted out of the conversation, and presently moved away to the window, where he took the opportunity of opening Mrs. Vansittart's letter. Mr. Wade, near at hand, was explaining good-naturedly to Lady Ferriby that, with the best will in the world, five per cent, and perfect safety are not to be obtained nowadays. “MON AMI” (wrote Mrs. Vansittart in French), “I take a daily promenade after coffee in the Oude Weg. I sit on the bench where you sat, and more often than not I see the sight that you saw. I am not a sentimental woman, but, after all, one has a heart, and this is a pitiful affair. Also, I have obtained from a reliable source the information that the new system of manufacture is more deadly than the old, which I have long suspected, and which, I believe, has passed through your mind as well. You and I went into this thing without _le bon motif_; but Providence is dealing out fresh hands, and you, at all events, hold cards that call for careful and bold playing. My friend, throw your Haberdashers over the wall and act without delay.” “E. V.” She enclosed a formal refusal of the invitation to the Haberdashers' Assistants' Ball. Major White was not a talkative man, and towards Joan in particular his attitude was one of silent wonder. In preference to talking to her, he preferred to stand a little way off and look at her. And if, at these moments, the keen observer could detect any glimmer of expression on his face, that glimmer seemed to express abject abasement before a creation that could produce anything so puzzling, so interesting, so absolutely beautiful--as Joan. Cornish, seeing White engaged in his favourite pastime, took him by the arm and led him to the window. “Read that,” he said, “and then burn it.” “Of course,” Joan was saying to Marguerite, as he joined them, “there are, as your father says, two sides to the question. If papa and Tony and Major White withdraw their names and abandon the poor malgamiters now, there will be no help for the miserable wretches. They will all drift back to the cheaper and more poisonous way of making malgamite. And such a thing would be a blot upon our civilization--wouldn't it, Tony?” Marguerite nodded an airy acquiescence. She was watching Major White--that great strategist--tear up Mrs. Vansittart's letter and throw it into the fire, with a deliberate non-concealment which was perhaps superior to any subterfuge. The major joined the group. “That is the view that I take of it,” answered Tony. “And what do you say?” asked Joan, turning upon the major. “I? Oh, nothing!” replied that soldier, with perfect truthfulness. “Then what are you going to do?” asked Joan, who was practical, and, like many practical people, rather given to hasty action. “We are going to stick to the malgamiters,” replied Tony, quietly. “Through thick and thin?” inquired Marguerite, buttoning her glove. “Yes--through thick and thin.” Both girls looked at Major White, who stolidly returned their gaze, and appeared as usual to have no remark to offer. He was saved, indeed, from all effort in that direction by the advent of Lord Ferriby, who entered the room with more than his usual importance. He carried an open letter in his hand, and seemed by his manner to demand the instant attention of the whole party. There are some men and a few women who live for the multitude, and are not content with the attention of one or two persons only. And surely these have their reward, for the attention of the multitude, however pleasant it may be while it lasts, is singularly short-lived, and there is nothing more pitiful to watch than the effort to catch it when it has wandered. “Eh--er,” began his lordship, and everybody paused to listen. “I have here a letter from our clerk at the Malgamite office in Great George Street. It appears that there are a number of persons there--paper-makers, I understand--who insist upon seeing us, and refuse to leave the premises until they have done so.” Lord Ferriby's manner indicated quite clearly his pity for these persons who had proved themselves capable of such a shocking breach of good manners. “One hardly knows what to do,” he said, not meaning, of course, that his words should be taken _au pied de la lettre_. His hearers, he obviously felt assured, knew him better than to imagine that he was really at a loss. “It is difficult to deal with--er--persons of this description. What do you propose that we should do?” he inquired, turning, as if by instinct, to Cornish. “Go and see them,” was the reply. “But, my dear Anthony, such a crisis should be dealt with by Mr. Roden, whom one may regard as our--er--financial adviser.” “But as Roden is not here, we must do without his assistance. Perhaps Mr. Wade would consent to act as our financial adviser on this occasion,” suggested Cornish. “I'll go with you,” replied the banker, “and hear what they have to say, if you like. But of course I can take no part in anything in the nature of a controversy, and my name must not be mentioned.” “Incognito,” suggested Lord Ferriby, with a forced laugh. “Yes--incognito,” returned the banker, gravely. The major attracted general attention to himself by murmuring something inaudible, which he was urged to repeat. “Doocid decent of Mr. Wade,” he said, a second time. And that seemed to settle the matter, for they all moved towards the door. “Leave the carriage for me,” cried Marguerite over the banisters, as her father descended the stairs. “Seems to me,” she added to Joan in an undertone, “that the Malgamite scheme is up a gum-tree.” At the little office of the Malgamite Fund the directors of that charity found four gentlemen seated upon the chairs usually grouped round the table where the ball committee or the bazaar sub-committees held their sittings. One, who appeared to be what Lord Ferriby afterwards described, more in sorrow than in anger, as the ringleader, was a red-haired, brown-bearded Scotchman, with square shoulders and his head set thereon in a manner indicative of advanced radical opinions. The second in authority was a mild-mannered man with a pale face and a drooping sparse moustache. He had a gentle eye, and lips for ever parting in a mildly argumentative manner. The other two paper-makers appeared to be foreigners. “Ah'm thinking----” began the mild man in a long drawl; but he was promptly overpowered by his fellow-countryman, who nodded curtly to Mr. Wade, and said--“Lord Ferriby?” “No,” answered the banker, calmly. “That is my name,” said the chairman of the Malgamite Fund, with his finger in his watch-chain. The russet gentleman looked at him with a fierce blue eye. “Then, sir,” he said, “we'll come to business. For it's on business that we've come. My friend Mr. MacHewlett, is, like myself, in charge of one of the biggest mills in the country; here's Mossier Delmont of the great mill at Clermont-Ferrand, and Mr. Meyer from Germany. My own name's a plain one--like myself--but an honest one; it's John Thompson.” Lord Ferriby bowed, and Major White looked at John Thompson with a placid interest, as if he felt glad of this opportunity of meeting one of the Thompson family. “And we've come to ask you to be so good as to explain your position as regards malgamite. What are ye, anyway?” “My dear sir,” began Lord Ferriby, with one hand upraised in mild expostulation, “let us be a little more conciliatory in our manner. We are, I am sure (I speak for myself and my fellow-directors, whom you see before you), most desirous of avoiding any unpleasantness, and we are ready to give you all the information in our power, when”--he paused, and waved a graceful hand--“when you have proved your right to demand such information.” “Our right is that of representatives of a great trade. We four men, that have been deputed to see you on the matter, have at our backs no less than eight thousand employees--honest, hard-workin' men, whose bread you are taking out of their mouths. We are not afraid of the ordinary vicissitudes of commerce. If ye had quietly worked this monopoly in fair competition, we should have known how to meet ye. But ye come before the world as philanthropists, and ye work a great monopoly under the guise of doin' a good work. It was a dirty thing to do.” Lord Ferriby shrugged his shoulders. “My dear sir,” he said, “you fail to grasp the situation. We have given our time and attention to the grievances of these poor men, whose lot it has been our earnest endeavour to ameliorate. You are speaking, my dear sir, to men who represent, not eight thousand employes, but who represent something greater than they, namely, charity.” “Ah'm thinking!” began Mr. MacHewlett, plaintively, and the very richness of his accents secured a breathless attention. “Damn charity,” he concluded, abruptly. And Major White looked upon him in solid approval, as upon a plain-spoken man after his own heart. “And we,” said Mr. Thompson, “represent commerce, which was in the world before charity, and will be there after it, if charity is going to be handled by such as you.” There was, it appeared, no possibility of pacifying these irate paper-makers, whose plainness of speech was positively painful to ears so polite as those of Lord Ferriby. A Scotchman, hard hit in his tenderest spot, namely, the pocket, is not a person to mince words, and Lord Ferriby was for the moment silenced by the stormy attack of Mr. Thompson, and the sly, plaintive hits of his companion. But the chairman of the Malgamite Fund would not give way, and only repeated his assurances of a desire to conciliate, which desire took the form only of words, and must, therefore, have been doubly annoying to angry men. To him who wants war there is nothing more insulting than feeble offers of peace. Major White expressed his readiness to fight Messrs. Thompson and MacHewlett at one and the same time on the landing, but this suggestion was not well received. Upon two of the listeners no word was lost, and Mr. Wade and Cornish knew that the paper-makers had right upon their side. Quite suddenly Mr. Thompson's manner changed, and he glanced towards the door to see that it was closed. “Then it's a matter of paying,” he said to his companions. Turning towards Lord Ferriby, he spoke in a voice that sounded more contemptuous than angry. “We're plain business men,” he said. “What's your price--you and these other gentlemen?” “I have no price,” answered Cornish, meeting the angry blue eyes and speaking for the first time. “And mine is too high--for plain business men,” added Major White, with a slow smile. “Seeing that you're a lord,” said Thompson, addressing the chairman again, “I suppose it's a matter of thousands. Name your figure, and be done with it.” Lord Ferriby took the insult in quite a different spirit to that displayed by his two co-directors. He was pale with anger, and spluttered rather incoherently. Then he took up his hat and stick and walked with much dignity to the door. He was followed down the stairs by the paper-makers, Mr. Thompson making use of language that was decidedly bespattered with “winged words,” while Mr. MacHewlett detailed his own thoughts in a plaintive monotone. Lord Ferriby got rather hastily into a hansom and drove away. “There is nothing for it,” said Mr. Wade to Cornish in the gay little office above the Ladies' Tea Association--“there is nothing for it but to run Roden's Corner yourself.”

16

DANGER.

“The first and worst of all frauds is to cheat one's self.” Percy Roden was possessed of that love of horses which, like sentiment, crops up in strange places. He had never been able to indulge this taste beyond the doubtful capacities of the livery-stable. He found, however, that at the Hague he could hire a good saddle-horse, which discovery was made with suspicious haste after learning the fact that Mrs. Vansittart occasionally indulged in the exercise that his soul loved. Mrs. Vansittart said that she rode because one has to take exercise, and riding is the laziest method of fulfilling one's obligations in this respect. “I don't like horsy women,” she said; “and I cannot understand how my sex has been foolish enough to believe that any woman looks her best, or, indeed, anything but her worst, in the saddle.” There is a period in the lives of most men when they are desirous of extending their knowledge of the surrounding country on horseback, on a bicycle, on foot, or even on their hands and knees, if such journeys might be accomplished in the company of a certain person. Percy Roden was at this period, and he soon discovered that there are tulip farms in the neighbourhood of The Hague. A tulip farm may serve its purpose as well as ever did a ruin or a waterfall in more picturesque countries than Holland; for, indeed, during the last weeks in April and the early half of May, these fields of waving yellow, pink, and red are worth traveling many miles to see. As for Mrs. Vansittart, it may be said of her, as of the rest of her sex under similar circumstances, that it suited her purpose to say that she would like nothing better than to visit the tulip farms. Roden's suggestion included breakfast at the Villa des Dunes, whither Mrs. Vansittart drove in her habit, while her saddle-horse was to follow later. Dorothy welcomed her readily enough, with, however, a reserve at the back of her grey eyes. A woman is, it appears, ready to forgive much if love may be held out as an excuse, but Dorothy did not believe that Mrs. Vansittart had any love for Percy; indeed, she shrewdly suspected that all that part of this woman's life belonged to the past, and would remain there until the end of her existence. There are few things more astonishing to the close observer of human nature than the accuracy and rapidity with which one woman will sum up another. “You are not in your habit,” said Mrs. Vansittart, seating herself at the breakfast-table. “You are not to be of the party?” “No,” answered Dorothy. “I have never had the opportunity or the inclination to ride.” “Ah, I know,” laughed the elder woman. “Horses are old-fashioned, and only dowagers drive in a barouche to-day. I suppose you ride a bicycle, or would do so in any country but Holland, where the roads make that craze a madness. I must be content with my old-fashioned horse. If, in moving with the times, one's movements are apt to be awkward, it is better to be left behind, is it not, Mr. Roden?” Roden's glance expressed what he did not care to say in the presence of a third person. When a woman, whose every movement is graceful, speaks of awkwardness, she assuredly knows her ground. Mrs. Vansittart, moreover, showed clearly enough that she was on the safe side of forty by quite a number of years when it came to settling herself in the saddle and sitting her fresh young horse. “Which way?” she inquired when they reached the canal. “Not that way, at all events,” answered Roden, for his companion had turned her horse's head toward the malgamite works. He spoke with a laugh that was not pleasant to the ears, and a shadow passed through Mrs. Vansittart's dark eyes. She glanced across the yellow sand hills, where the works were effectually concealed by the rise and fall of the wind-swept land, from whence came no sign of human life, and only at times, when the north wind blew, a faint and not unpleasant odour like the smell of sealing-wax. For all that the world knew of the malgamite workers, they might have been a colony of lepers. “You speak,” said Mrs. Vansittart, “as if you were a failure instead of a brilliant success. I think”--she paused for a moment, as if the thought were a real one and not a mere conversational convenience, as are the thoughts of most people--“that the cream of social life consists of the cheery failures.” “I have no faith in my own luck,” answered Percy Roden, gloomily, whose world was a narrow one, consisting as it did of himself and his bank-book. Moreover, most men draw aside readily enough the curtain that should hide the world in which they live, whereas women take their stand before their curtain and talk, and talk--of other things. Mrs. Vansittart had never for a moment been mistaken in her estimate of her companion, of--as he considered himself--her lover. She had absolutely nothing in common with him. She was a physically lazy, but a mentally active woman, whose thoughts ran to abstract matters so persistently that they brought her to the verge of abstraction itself. Percy Roden, on the other hand, would, with better health, have been an athlete. In his youth he had overtaxed his strength on the football field. When he took up a newspaper now he read the money column first and the sporting items next. Mrs. Vansittart glanced at neither of these, and as often as not contented herself with the advertisements of new books, passing idly over the news of the world with a heedless eye. She, at all events, avoided the mistake, common to men and women of a journalistic generation, of allowing themselves to be vastly perturbed over events in far countries, which can in no way affect their lives. Roden, on the other hand, took a certain broad interest in the progress of the world, but only watched the daily procession of events with the discriminating eye of a business man. He kept his eye, in a word, on the main chance, as on a small golden thread woven in the grey tissue of the world's history. It was easy enough to make him talk of himself and of the Malgamite scheme. “And you must admit that you are a success, you know,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “I see your quiet grey carts, full of little square boxes, passing up Park Straat to the railway station in a procession every day.” “Yes,” admitted Roden. “We are doing a large business.” He was willing to allow Mrs. Vansittart to suppose that he was a rich man, for he was shrewd enough to know that the affections, like all else in this world, are purchasable. “And there is no reason,” suggested Mrs. Vansittart, “why you should not go on doing a large business, as you say your method of producing malgamite is an absolute secret.” “Absolute.” “And the process is preserved in your memory only?” asked the lady, with a little glance towards him which would have awakened the vanity of wiser men than Percy Roden. “Not in my memory,” he answered. “It is very long and technical, and I have other things to think of. It is in Von Holzen's head, which is a better one than mine.” “And suppose Herr von Holzen should fall down and die, or be murdered, or something dramatic of that sort--what would happen?” “Ah,” answered Roden, “we have a written copy of it, written in Hebrew, in our small safe at the works, and only Von Holzen and I have the keys of the safe.” Mrs. Vansittart laughed. “It sounds like a romance,” she said. She pulled up, and sat motionless in the saddle for a few moments. “Look at that line of sea,” she said, “on the horizon. What a wonderful blue.” “It is always dark like that with an east wind,” replied Roden, practically. “We like to see it dark.” Mrs. Vansittart turned and looked at him interrogatively, her mind only half-weaned from the thoughts which he never understood. “Because we know that the smell of malgamite will be blown out to sea,” he explained; and she gave a little nod of comprehension. “You think of everything,” she said, without enthusiasm. “No; I only think of you,” he answered, with a little laugh, which indeed was his method of making love. For fear of Mrs. Vansittart laughing at him, he laughed at love--a very common form of cowardice. She smiled and said nothing, thus tacitly allowing him, as she had allowed him before, to assume that she was not displeased. She knew that in love he was the incarnation of caution, and would only venture so far as she encouraged him to come. She had him, in a word, thoroughly in hand. They rode on, talking of other things; and Roden, having sped his shaft, seemed relieved in mind, and had plenty to say--about himself. A man's interests are himself, and malgamite naturally formed a large part of Roden's conversation. Mrs. Vansittart encouraged him with a singular persistency to talk of this interesting product. “It is wonderful,” she said--“quite wonderful.” “Well, hardly that,” he answered slowly, as if there were something more to be said, which he did not say. “And I do not give so much credit to Herr von Holzen as you suppose,” added Mrs. Vansittart, carelessly. “Some day you will have to fulfil your promise of taking me over the works.” Roden did not answer. He was perhaps wondering when he had made the promise to which his companion referred. “Shall we go home that way?” asked Mrs. Vansittart, whose experience of the world had taught her that deliberate and steady daring in social matters usually, succeeds. “We might have a splendid gallop along the sands at low tide, and then ride up quietly through the dunes. I take a certain interest in--well--in your affairs, and you have never even allowed me to look at the outside of the malgamite works.” “Should like to know the extent of your interest,” muttered Roden, with his awkward laugh. “I dare say you would,” replied Mrs. Vansittart, coolly. “But that is not the question. Here we are at the cross-roads. Shall we go home by the sands and the dunes?” “If you like,” answered Roden, not too graciously. According to his lights, he was honestly in love with Mrs. Vansittart, but Percy Roden's lights were not brilliant, and his love was not a very high form of that little-known passion. It lacked, for instance, unselfishness, and love that lacks unselfishness is, at its best, a sorry business. He was afraid of ridicule. His vanity would not allow him to risk a rebuff. His was that faintness of heart which is all too common, and owes its ignoble existence to a sullen vanity. He wanted to be sure that Mrs. Vansittart loved him before he betrayed more than a half-contemptuous admiration for her. Who knows that he was not dimly aware of his own inferiority, and thus feared to venture? The tide was low, as Mrs. Vansittart had foreseen, and they galloped along the hard, flat sands towards Scheveningen, where a few clumsy fishing-boats lay stranded. Far out at sea, others plied their trade, tacking to and fro over the banks, where the fish congregate. The sky was clear, and the deep-coloured sea flashed here and there beneath the sun. Objects near and far stood out in the clear air with a startling distinctness. It was a fresh May morning, when it is good to be alive, and better to be young. Mrs. Vansittart rode a few yards ahead of her companion, with a set face and deep calculating eyes. When they came within sight of the tall chimney of the pumping-station, it was she who led the way across the dunes. “Now,” she suddenly inquired, pulling up, and turning in her saddle, “where are your works? It seems that one can never discover them.” Roden passed her and took the lead. “I will take you there, since you are so anxious to go--if you will tell me why you wish to see the works,” he said. “I should like to know,” she answered, with averted eyes and a slow deliberation, “where and how you spend so much of your time.” “I believe you are jealous of the malgamite works,” he said, with his curt laugh. “Perhaps I am,” she admitted, without meeting his glance; and Roden rode ahead, with a gleam of satisfaction in his heavy eyes. So Mrs. Vansittart found herself within the gates of the malgamite works, riding quietly on the silent sand, at the heels of Roden's horse. The workmen's dinner-bell had rung as they approached, and now the factories were deserted, while within the cottages the midday meal occupied the full attention of the voluntary exiles. For the directors had found it necessary, in the interests of all concerned, to bind the workers by solemn contract never to leave the precincts of the works without permission. Roden did not speak, but led the way across an open space now filled with carts, which were to be loaded during the day in readiness for an early despatch on the following morning. Mrs. Vansittart followed without asking questions. She was prepared to content herself with a very cursory visit. They had not progressed thirty yards from the entrance gate, which Roden had opened with a key attached to his watch-chain, when the door of one of the cottages moved, and Von Holzen appeared. He was hatless, and came out into the sunshine rather hurriedly. “Ah, madame,” he said, “you honour us beyond our merits.” And he stood, smiling gravely, in front of Mrs. Vansittart's horse. She surreptitiously touched the animal with her heel, but Von Holzen checked its movement by laying his hand on the bridle. “Alas!” he said, “it happens to be our mixing day, and the factories are hermetically closed while the process goes forward. Any other day, madame, that your fancy brings you over the dunes, I should be delighted--but not to-day. I tell you frankly there is danger. You surely would not run into it.” He looked up at her with his searching gaze. “Ah! you think it is easy to frighten me, Herr von Holzen,” she cried, with a little laugh. “No; but I would not for the world that you should unwittingly run any risks in this place.” As he spoke, he led the horse quietly to the gate, and Mrs. Vansittart, seeing her helplessness, submitted with a good grace. Roden made no comment, and followed, not ill pleased, perhaps, at this simple solution of his difficulty. Von Holzen did not refer to the incident until late in the evening, when Roden was leaving the works. “This is too serious a time,” he said, “to let women, or vanity, interfere in our plans. You know that the deaths are on the increase. Anything in the nature of an inquiry at this time would mean ruin, and--perhaps worse. Be careful of that woman. I sometimes think that she is fooling you. --But I think,” he added to himself, when the gate was closed behind Roden, “that I can fool her.”

17

PLAIN SPEAKING.

“A tous maux, il y a deux remèdes--le temps et le silence.” “They call me Uncle Ben--comprenny?” one man explained very slowly to another for the sixth time across a small iron table set out upon the pavement. They were seated in front of the humble Café de l'Europe, which lies concealed in an alley that runs between the Keize Straat and the lighthouse of Scheveningen. It was quite dark and a lonely reveler at the next table seemed to be asleep. The economical proprietor of the Café de l'Europe had conceived the idea of constructing a long-shaped lantern, not unlike the arm of a railway signal, which should at once bear the insignia of his house and afford light to his out-door custom. But the idea, like many of the higher flights of the human imagination, had only left the public in the dark. “Yes,” continued the unchallenged speaker, in a voice which may be heard issuing from the door of any tavern in England on almost any evening of the week--the typical voice of the tavern-talker--“yes, they've always called me Uncle Ben. Seems as if they're sort o' fond of me. Me has seen many hundreds of 'em come and go. But nothing like this. Lord save us!” His hand fell heavily on the iron table, and he looked round him in semi-intoxicated stupefaction. He was in a confidential humour, and when a man is in this humour, drunk or sober, he is in a parlous state. It was certainly rather unfortunate that Uncle Ben should have in this expansive moment no more sympathetic companion than an ancient, intoxicated Frenchman, who spoke no word of English. “What I want to know, Frenchy,” continued the Englishman, in a thick, aggrieved voice, “is how long you've been at this trade, and how much you know about it--you and the other Frenchy. But there's none of us speaks the other's lingo. It is a regular Tower of Babble we are!” And Uncle Ben added to his mental confusion a further alcoholic fog. “That's why I showed yer the way out of the works over the iron fence by the empty casks, and brought yer by the beach to this 'ere house of entertainment, and stood yer a bottle of brandy between two of us--which is handsome, not bein' my own money, seeing as how the others deputed me to do it--me knowing a bit of French, comprenny?” Benjamin, like most of his countrymen, considering that if one speaks English in a loud, clear voice, and adds “comprenny” rather severely, as indicating the intention of standing no nonsense, the previous remarks will translate themselves miraculously in the hearer's mind. “You comprenny--eh? Yes. Oui.” “Oui,” replied the Frenchman, holding out his glass; and Uncle Ben's was that pride which goes with a gift of tongues. He struck a match to light his pipe--one of the wooden, sulphur-headed matches supplied by the _café_--and the guest at the next table turned in his chair. The match flared up and showed two faces, which he studied keenly. Both faces were alike unwashed and deeply furrowed. White, straggling beards and whiskers accentuated the redness of the eyelids, the dull yellow of the skin. They were hopeless and debased faces, with that disquieting resemblance which is perceptible in the faces of men of dissimilar features and no kinship, who have for a number of years followed a common calling, or suffered a common pain. These two men were both half blind; they had equally unsteady hands. The clothing of both alike, and even their breath, was scented by a not unpleasant odour of sealing-wax. It was quite obvious that not only were they at present half intoxicated, but in their soberest moments they could hardly be of a high intelligence. The reveller at the next table, who happened to be Tony Cornish, now drew his chair nearer. “Englishman?” he inquired. “That's me,” answered Uncle Ben, with commendable pride, “from the top of my head to me boots. Not that I've anything to say against foreigners.” “Nor I; but it's pleasant to meet a countryman in a foreign land.” Cornish deliberately brought his chair forward. “Your bottle is empty,” he added; “I'll order another. Friend's a Frenchman, eh?” “That he is--and doesn't understand his own language either,” answered Uncle Ben, in a voice indicating that that lack of comprehension rather intensified his friend's Frenchness than otherwise. The proprietor of the Café de l'Europe now came out in answer to Cornish's rap on the iron table, and presently brought a small bottle of brandy. “Yes,” said Cornish, pouring out the spirit, which his companions drank in its undiluted state from small tumblers--“yes, I'm glad to meet an Englishman. I suppose you are in the works--the Malgamite?” “I am. And what do you know about malgamite, mister?” “Well, not much, I am glad to say.” “There is precious few that knows anything,” said the man, darkly, and his eye for a moment sobered into cunning. “I have heard that it is a very dangerous trade, and if you want to get out of it I'm connected with an association in London to provide situations for elderly men who are no longer up to their work,” said Cornish, carelessly. “Thank ye, mister; not for me. I'm making my five-pound note a week, I am, and each cove that dies off makes the survivors one richer, so to speak--survival of the fittest, they call it. So we don't talk much, and just pockets the pay.” “Ah, that is the arrangement, is it?” said Cornish, indifferently. “Yes. We've got a clever financier, as they call it, I can tell yer. We're a good-goin' concern, we are. Some of us are goin' pretty quick, too.” “Are there many deaths, then?” “Ah! there you're asking a question,” returned the man, who came of a class which has no false shame in refusing a reply. Cornish looked at the man beneath the dim light of the unsuccessful lamp--a piteous specimen of humanity, depraved, besotted, without outward sign of a redeeming virtue, although a certain courage must have been there--this and such as this stood between him and Dorothy Roden. Uncle Ben had known starvation at one time, for starvation writes certain lines which even turtle soup may never wipe out--lines which any may read and none may forget. Tony Cornish had seen them before--on the face of an old dandy coming down the steps of a St. James's Street club. The malgamiter had likewise known drink long and intimately, and it is no exaggeration to say that he had stood cheek by jowl with death nearly all his life. Such a man was plainly not to be drawn away from five pounds a week. Cornish turned to the Frenchman--a little, cunning, bullet-headed Lyonnais, who would not speak of his craft at all, though he expressed every desire to be agreeable to monsieur. “When one is _en fête_,” he cried, “it is good to drink one's glass or two and think no more of work.” “I knew one or two of your men once,” said Cornish, returning to the genial Uncle Ben. “William Martins, I remember, was a decent fellow, and had seen a bit of the world. I will come to the works and look him up some day.” “You can look him up, mister, but you won't find him.” “Ah, has he gone home?” “He's gone to his long home, that's where he's gone.” “And his brother, Tom Martins, both London men, like myself?” inquired Cornish, without asking that question which Uncle Ben considered such exceedingly bad form. “Tom's dead, too.” “And there were two Americans, I recollect--I came across from Harwich in the same boat with them--Hewlish they were called.” “Hewlishes has stepped round the corner, too,” admitted Uncle Ben. “Oh yes; there's been changes in the works, there's no doubt. And there's only one sort o' change in the malgamite trade. Come on, Frenchy, time's up.” The men stood up and bade Cornish good night, each after his own manner, and went away steadily enough. It was only their heads that were intoxicated, and perhaps the brandy of the Café de l'Europe had nothing to do with this. Cornish followed them, and, in the Keize Straat, he called a cab, telling the man to drive to the house at the corner of Oranje Straat and Park Straat, occupied by Mrs. Vansittart. That lady, the servant said, in reply to his careful inquiry, was at home and alone, and, moreover, did not expect visitors. The man was not at all sure that madame would receive. “I will try,” said Cornish, writing two words in German on the corner of his visiting-card. “You see,” he continued, noticing a well-trained glance, “that I am not dressed, so if other visitors arrive, I would rather not be discovered in madame's salon, you understand?” Mrs. Vansittart shook hands with Cornish in silence, her quick eyes noted the change in him which the shrewd butler had noticed in the entrance-hall. The Cornish of a year earlier would have gone back to the hotel to dress. “I was just going out to the Witte society concert,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “I thought the open air and the wood would be pleasant this evening. Shall we go or shall we remain?” She stood with her hand on the bell looking at him. “Let us remain here,” he answered. She rang the bell and countermanded the carriage. Then she sat slowly down, moving as under a sort of oppression, as if she foresaw what the next few minutes contained, and felt herself on the threshold of one of the surprises that Fate springs upon us at odd times, tearing aside the veils behind which human hearts have slept through many years. For indifference is not the death, but only the sleep of the heart. “You have just arrived?” “No; I have been here a week.” “At The Hague?” “No,” answered Cornish, with a grave smile; “at a little inn in Scheveningen, where no questions are asked.” Mrs. Vansittart nodded her head slowly. “Then, _mon ami_,” she said, “the time has come for plain speaking?” “I suppose so.” “It is always the woman who wants to get to the plain speaking,” she said, with a smile, “and who speaks the plainest when one gets there. You men are afraid of so many words; you think them, but you dare not make use of them. And how are women to know that you are thinking them?” She spoke with a sort of tolerant bitterness, as if all these questions no longer interested her personally. She sat forward, with one hand on the arm of her chair. “Come,” she said, with a little laugh that shook and trembled on the brink of a whole sea of unshed tears, “I will speak the first word. When my husband died, my heart broke--and it was Otto von Holzen who killed him.” Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she threw herself back in the chair. Her hands were trembling. Cornish made a quick gesture of the hand--a trick he had learnt somewhere on the Continent, more eloquent than a hundred words--which told of his sympathy and his comprehension of all that she had left unsaid. For truly she had told him her whole history in a dozen words. “I have followed him and watched him ever since,” she went on at length, in a quiet voice; “but a woman is so helpless. I suppose if any of us were watched and followed as he has been our lives would appear a strange mixture of a little good and much bad, mixed with a mass of neutral idleness. But surely his life is worse than the rest--not that it matters. Whatever his life had been, if he had been a living saint, Tony, he would have had to pay--for what he has done to me.” She looked steadily into the keen face that was watching hers. She was not in the least melodramatic, and what was stranger, perhaps, she was not ashamed. According to her lights, she was a good woman, who went to church regularly, and did a little conventional good with her superfluous wealth. She obeyed the unwritten laws of society, and busied herself little in her neighbours' affairs. She was kind to her servants, and did not hate her neighbours more than is necessary in a crowded world. She led a blameless, unoccupied, and apparently purposeless life. And now she quietly told Tony Cornish that her life was not purposeless, but had for its aim the desire of an eye for an eye and a life for a life. “You remember my husband,” continued Mrs. Vansittart, after a pause. “He was always absorbed in his researches. He made a great discovery, and confided in Otto von Holzen, who thought that he could make a fortune out of it. But Von Holzen cheated and was caught. There was a great trial, and Von Holzen succeeded in incriminating my husband, who was innocent, instead of himself. The company, of course, failed, which meant ruin and dishonour. In a fit of despair my husband shot himself. And afterwards it transpired that by shooting himself at that time he saved my money. One cannot take proceedings against a dead man, it appears. So I was left a rich woman, after all, and my husband had frustrated Otto von Holzen. The world did not believe that my husband had done it on purpose; but I knew better. It is one of those beliefs that one keeps to one's self, and is indifferent whether the world believes or not. So there remain but two things for me to do--the one is to enjoy the money, and to let my husband see that I spend it as he would have wished me to spend it--upon myself; the other is to make Otto von Holzen pay--when the time comes. Who knows? the Malgamite is perhaps the time; you are perhaps the man.” She gave her disquieting little laugh again, and sat looking at him. “I understand,” he said at length. “Before, I was puzzled. There seemed no reason why you should take any interest in the scheme.” “My interest in the Malgamite scheme narrows down to an interest in one person,” answered Mrs. Vansittart, “which is what really happens to all human interests, my friend.”

18

A COMPLICATION.

“La plus grande punition infligée à l'homme, c'est faire souffrir ce qu'il aime, en voulant frapper ce qu'il hait.” Cornish had, as he told Mrs. Vansittart, been living a week at Scheveningen in one of the quiet little inns in the fishing-town, where a couple of apples are displayed before lace curtains in the window of the restaurant as a modest promise of entertainment within. Knowing no Dutch, he was saved the necessity of satisfying the curiosity of a garrulous landlady, who, after many futile questions which he understood perfectly, came to the conclusion that Cornish was in hiding, and might at any moment fall into the hands of the police. There are, it appears, few human actions that attract more curiosity for a short time than the act of colonization. But no change is in the long run so apathetically accepted as the presence of a colony of aliens. Cornish soon learnt that the malgamite works were already accepted at Scheveningen as a fact of small local importance. One or two fish-sellers took their wares there instead of going direct to The Hague. A few of the malgamite workers were seen at times, when they could get leave, on the Digue, or outside the smaller _cafés_. Inoffensive, stricken men these appeared to be, and the big-limbed, hardy fishermen looked on them with mingled contempt and pity. No one knew what the works were, and no one cared. Some thought that fireworks were manufactured within the high fence; others imagined it to be a gunpowder factory. All were content with the knowledge that the establishment belonged to an English company employing no outside labour. Cornish spent his days unobtrusively walking on the dunes or writing letters in his modest rooms. His evenings he usually passed at the Café de l'Europe, where an occasional truant malgamite worker would indulge in a mild carouse. From these grim revelers Cornish elicited a good deal of information. He was not actually, as his landlady suspected, in hiding, but desired to withhold as long as possible from Von Holzen and Roden the fact that he was in Holland. None of the malgamite workers recognized him; indeed, he saw none of those whom he had brought across to The Hague, and he did not care to ask too many questions. At length, as we have seen, he arrived at the conclusion that Von Holzen's schemes had been too deeply laid to allow of attack by subtler means, and as a preliminary to further action called on Mrs. Vansittart. The following morning he happened to take his walk within sight of the Villa des Dunes, although far enough away to avoid risk of recognition, and saw Percy Roden leave the house shortly after nine to proceed towards the works. Then Tony Cornish lighted a cigarette, and sat down to wait. He knew that Dorothy usually walked to The Hague before the heat of the day to do her shopping there and household business. He had not long to wait. Dorothy quitted the little house half an hour after her brother. But she did not go towards The Hague, turning to the right instead, across the open dunes towards the sea. It was a cool morning after many hot days, and a fresh, invigorating breeze swept over the sand hills from the sea. It was to be presumed that Dorothy, having leisure, was going to the edge of the sea for a breath of the brisk air there. Cornish rose and followed her. He was essentially a practical man--among the leaders of a practical generation. The day, moreover, was conducive to practical thoughts and not to dreams, for it was grey and yet of a light air which came bowling in from a grey sea whose shores have assuredly been trodden by the most energetic of the races of the world. For all around the North Sea and on its bosom have risen races of men to conquer the universe again and again. Cornish had come with the intention of seeing Dorothy and speaking with her. He had quite clearly in his mind what he intended to say to her. It is not claimed for Tony Cornish that he had a great mind, and that this was now made up. But his thoughts, like all else about him, were neat and compact, wherein he had the advantage of cleverer men, who blundered along under the burden of vast ideas, which they could not put into portable shape, and over which they constantly stumbled. He followed Dorothy, who walked briskly over the sand hills, upright, trim, and strong. She carried a stick, which she planted firmly enough in the sand as she walked. As he approached, he could see her lifting her head to look for the sea; for the highest hills are on the shore here, and stand in the form of a great barrier between the waves and the low-lying plains. She swung along at the pace which Mrs. Vansittart had envied her, without exertion, with that ease which only comes from perfect proportions and strength. Cornish was quite close to her before she heard his step, and turned sharply. She recognized him at once, and he saw the colour slowly rise to her face. She gave no cry of surprise, however, was in no foolish feminine flutter, but came towards him quietly. “I did not know you were in Holland,” she said. He shook hands without answering. All that he had prepared in his mind had suddenly vanished, leaving not a blank, but a hundred other things which he had not intended to say, and which now, at the sight of her face, seemed inevitable. “Yes,” he said, looking into her steady grey eyes, “I am in Holland--because I cannot stay away--because I cannot live without you. I have pretended to myself and to everybody else that I come to The Hague because of the Malgamite; but it is not that. It is because you are here. Wherever you are I must be; wherever you go I must follow you. The world is not big enough for you to get away from me. It is so big that I feel I must always be near you--for fear something should happen to you--to watch over you and take care of you. You know what my life has been....” She turned away with a little shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head. For a woman may read a man's life in his face--in the twinkling of an eye--as in an open book. “All the world knows that....” he continued, with a sceptical laugh. “Is it not written ... in the society papers? But it has always been aboveboard--and harmless enough....” Dorothy smiled as she looked out across the grey sea. He was, it appeared, telling her nothing that she did not know. For she was wise and shrewd--of that pure leaven of womankind which leaveneth all the rest. And she knew that a man must not be judged by his life--not even by outward appearance, upon which the world pins so much faith--but by that occasional glimpse of the soul of him, which may live on, pure through all impurity, or may be foul beneath the whitest covering. “Of course,” he continued, “I have wasted my time horribly--I have never done any good in the world. But--great is the extenuating circumstance! I never knew what life was until I saw it ... in your eyes.” Still she stood with her back half turned towards him, looking out across the sea. The sun had mastered the clouds and all the surface of the water glittered. A few boats on the horizon seemed to dream and sleep there. Beneath the dunes, the sand stretched away north and south in an unbroken plain. The wind whispered through the waving grass, and, far across the sands, the sea sang its eternal song. Dorothy and Cornish seemed to be alone in this world of sea and sand. So far as the eye could see, there were no signs of human life but the boats dreaming on the horizon. “Are you quite sure?” said Dorothy, without turning her head. “Of what...?” “Of what you say.” “Yes; I am quite sure.” “Because,” she said, with a little laugh that suddenly opened the gates of Paradise and bade one more poor human-being enter in--“because it is a serious matter ... for me.” Then, because he was a practical man and knew that happiness, like all else in this life, must be dealt with practically if aught is to be made of it, he told her why he had come. For happiness must not be rushed at and seized with wild eyes and grasping hands, but must be quickly taken when the chance offers, and delicately handled so that it be not ruined by over haste or too much confidence. It is a gift that is rarely offered, and it is only fair to say that the majority of men and women are quite unfit to have it. Even a little prosperity (which is usually mistaken for happiness) often proves too much for the mental equilibrium, and one trembles to think what the recipient would do with real happiness. “I did not come here intending to tell you that,” said Cornish, after a pause. They were seated now on the dry and driven sand, among the inequalities of the tufted grass. Dorothy glanced at him gravely, for his voice had been grave. “I think I knew,” she answered, with a sort of quiet exultation. Happiness is the quietest of human states. Cornish turned to look at her, and after a moment she met his eyes--for an instant only. “I came to tell you a very different story,” he said, “and one which at the moment seems to present insuperable difficulties. I can only show you that I care for you by bringing trouble into your life--which is not even original.” He broke off with a little, puzzled laugh. For he did not know how best to tell her that her brother was a scoundrel. He sat making idle holes in the sand with his stick. “I am in a difficulty,” he said at length--“so great a difficulty that there seems to be only one way out of it. You must forget what I have told you to-day, for I never meant to tell you until afterwards, if ever. Forget it for some months until the malgamite works have ceased to exist, and then, if I have the good fortune to be given an opportunity, I will”--he paused--“I will mention myself again,” he concluded steadily. Dorothy's lips quivered, but she said nothing. It seemed that she was content to accept his judgment without comment as superior to her own. For the wisest woman is she who suspects that men are wiser. “It is quite clear,” said Cornish, “that the Malgamite scheme is a fraud. It is worse than that; it is a murderous fraud. For Von Holzen's new system of making malgamite is not new at all, but an old system revived, which was set aside many years ago as too deadly. If it is not this identical system, it is a variation of it. They are producing the stuff for almost nothing at the cost of men's lives. In plain English, it is murder, and it must be stopped at any cost. You understand?” “Yes.” “I must stop it whatever it may cost me.” “Yes,” she answered again. “I am going to the works to-night to have it out with Von Holzen and your brother. It is impossible to say how matters really stand--how much your brother knows, I mean--for Von Holzen is clever. He is a cold, calculating man, who rules all who come near him. Your brother has only to do with the money part of it. They are making a great fortune. I am told that financially it is splendidly managed. I am a duffer at such things, but I understand better now how it has all been done, and I see how clever it is. They produce the stuff for almost nothing, they sell it at a great price, and they have a monopoly. And the world thinks it is a charity. It is not; it is murder.” He spoke quietly, tapping the ground with his stick, and emphasizing his words with a deeper thrust into the sand. The habit of touching life lightly had become second nature with him, and even now he did not seem quite serious. He was, at all events, free from that deadly earnestness which blinds the eye to all save one side of a question. The very soil that he tapped could have risen up to speak in favour of such as he; for William the Silent, it is said, loved a jest, and never seemed to be quite serious during the long years of the greatest struggle the modern world has seen. “It seems probable,” went on Cornish, “that your brother has been gradually drawn into it; that he did not know when he first joined Von Holzen what the thing really was--the system of manufacture, I mean. As for the financial side of it, I am afraid he must have known of that all along; but the older one gets the less desirous one is of judging one's neighbour. In financial matters so much seems to depend, in the formation of a judgment, whether one is a loser or a gainer by the transaction. There is a great fortune in malgamite, and a fortune is a temptation to be avoided. Others besides your brother have been tempted. I should probably have succumbed myself if it had not been--for you.” She smiled again in a sort of derision; as if she could have told him more about himself than he could tell her. He saw the smile, and it brought a flash of light to his eyes. Deeper than fear of damnation, higher than the creeds, stronger than any motive in a man's life, is the absolute confidence placed in him by a woman. “I went into the thing thoughtlessly,” he continued, “because it was the fashion at the time to be concerned in some large charity. And I am not sorry. It was the luckiest move I ever made. And now the thing will have to be gone through with, and there will be trouble.” But he laughed as he spoke; for there was no trouble in their hearts, neither could anything appall them.

19

DANGER.

“Beware equally of a sudden friend and a slow enemy.” Roden and Von Holzen were at work in the little office of the malgamite works. The sun had just set, and the soft pearly twilight was creeping over the sand hills. The day's work was over, and the factories were all locked up for the night. In the stillness that seems to settle over earth and sea at sunset, the sound of the little waves could be heard--a distant, constant babbling from the west. The workers had gone to their huts. They were not a noisy body of men. It was their custom to creep quietly home when their work was done, and to sit in their doorways if the evening was warm, or with closed doors if the north wind was astir, and silently, steadily assuage their deadly thirst. Those who sought to harvest their days, who fondly imagined they were going to make a fight for it, drank milk according to advice handed down to them from their sickly forefathers. The others, more reckless, or wiser, perhaps, in their brief generation, took stronger drink to make glad their hearts and for their many infirmities. They had merely to ask, and that which they asked for was given to them without comment. “Yes,” said Uncle Ben to the new-comers, “you has a slap-up time--while it lasts.” For Uncle Ben was a strong man, and waxed garrulous in his cups. He had made malgamite all his life and nothing would kill him, not even drink. Von Holzen watched Uncle Ben, and did not like him. It was Uncle Ben who played the concertina at the door of his hut in the evening. He sprang from the class whose soul takes delight in the music of a concertina, and rises on bank holidays to that height of gaiety which can only be expressed by an interchange of hats. He came from the slums of London, where they breed a race of men, small, ill-formed, disease-stricken, hard to kill. The north wind was blowing this evening, and the huts were all closed. The sound of Uncle Ben's concertina could be dimly heard in what purported to be a popular air--a sort of nightmare of a tune such as a barrel-organist must suffer after bad beer. Otherwise, there was nothing stirring within the enclosure. There was, indeed, a hush over the whole place, such as Nature sometimes lays over certain spots like a quiet veil, as one might lay a cloth over the result of an accident, and say, “There is something wrong here; go away.” Cornish, having tried the main entrance gate, found it locked, and no bell with which to summon those within. He went round to the northern end of the enclosure, where the sand had drifted against the high corrugated iron fencing, and where there were empty barrels on the inner side, as Uncle Ben had told him. “After all, I am a managing director of this concern,” said Cornish to himself, with a grim laugh, as he clambered over the fence. He walked down the row of huts very slowly. Some of them were empty. The door of one stood ajar, and a sudden smell of disinfectant made him stop and look in. There was something lying on a bed covered by a grimy sheet. “Um--m,” muttered Cornish, and walked on. There had been another visitor to the malgamite works that day. Then Cornish paused for a moment near Uncle Ben's hut, and listened to “Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay.” He bit his lips, restraining a sudden desire to laugh without any mirth in his heart, and went towards Von Holzen's office, where a light gleamed through the ill-closed curtains. For these men were working night and day now--making their fortunes. He caught, as he passed the window, a glimpse of Roden bending over a great ledger which lay open before him on the table, while Von Holzen, at another desk, was writing letters in his neat German hand. Then Cornish went to the door, opened it, and passing in, closed it behind him. “Good evening,” he said, with just a slight exaggeration of his usual suave politeness. “Halloa!” exclaimed Roden, with a startled look, and instinctively closing his ledger. He looked hastily towards Von Holzen, who turned, pen in hand. Von Holzen bowed rather coldly. “Good evening,” he answered, without looking at Roden. Indeed, he crossed the room, and placed himself in front of his companion. “Just come across?” inquired Roden, putting together his papers with his usual leisureliness. “No; I have been here some time.” Cornish turned and met Von Holzen's eyes with a ready audacity. He was not afraid of this silent scientist, and had been trained in a social world where nerve and daring are highly cultivated. Von Holzen looked at him with a measuring eye, and remembered some warning words spoken by Roden months before. This was a cleverer man than they had thought him. This was the one mistake they had made in their careful scheme. “I have been looking into things,” said Cornish, in a final voice. He took off his hat and laid it aside. Von Holzen went slowly back to his desk, which was a high one. He stood there close by Roden, leaning his elbow on the letters that he had been writing. The two men were thus together facing Cornish, who stood at the other side of the table. “I have been looking into things,” he repeated, “and--the game is up.” Roden, whose face was quite colourless, shrugged his shoulders with a sneering smile. Von Holzen slowly moistened his lips, and Cornish, meeting his glance, felt his heart leap upward to his throat. His way had been the way of peace. He had never seen that look in a man's eyes before, but there was no mistaking it. There are two things that none can mistake--an earthquake, and murder shining in a man's eyes. But there was good blood in Cornish's veins, and good blood never fails. His muscles tightened, and he smiled in Von Holzen's face. “When you were over in London a fortnight ago,” he said, “you saw my uncle, and squared him. But I am not Lord Ferriby, and I am not to be squared. As to the financial part of this business”--he paused, and glanced at the ledgers--“that seems to be of secondary importance at the moment. Besides, I do not understand finance.” Roden's tired eyes flickered at the way in which the word was spoken. “I propose to deal with the more vital questions,” Cornish continued, looking straight at Von Holzen. “I want details of the new process--the prescription, in fact.” “Then you want much,” answered Von Holzen, with his slight accent. “Oh, I want more than that,” was the retort; “I want a list of your deaths--not necessarily for publication. If the public were to hear of it, they would pull the place down about your ears, and probably hang you on your own water-tower.” Von Holzen laughed. “Ah, my fine gentleman, if there is any hanging up to be done, you are in it, too,” he said. Then he broke into a good-humoured laugh, and waved the question aside with his hand. “But why should we quarrel? It is mere foolishness. We are not schoolboys, but men of the world, who are reasonable, I hope. I cannot give you the prescription because it is a trade secret. You would not understand it without expert assistance, and the expert would turn his knowledge to account. We chemists, you see, do not trust each other. No; but I can make malgamite here before your eyes--to show you that it is harmless--what?” He spoke easily, with a certain fascination of manner, as a man to whom speech was easy enough--who was perhaps silent with a set purpose--because silence is safe. “But it is a long process,” he added, holding up one finger, “I warn you. It will take me two hours. And you, who have perhaps not dined, and this Roden, who is tired out--” “Roden can go home--if he is tired,” said Cornish. “Well,” answered Von Holzen, with outspread hands, “it is as you like. Will you have it now and here?” “Yes--now and here.” Roden was slowly folding away his papers and closing his books. He glanced curiously at Von Holzen, as if he were displaying a hitherto unknown side to his character. Von Holzen, too, was collecting the papers scattered on his desk, with a patient air and a half-suppressed sigh of weariness, as if he were entering upon a work of supererogation. “As to the deaths,” he said, “I can demonstrate that as we go along. You will see where the dangers lie, and how criminally neglectful these people are. It is a curious thing, that carelessness of life. I am told the Russian soldiers have it.” It seemed that in his way Herr von Holzen was a philosopher, having in his mind a store of odd human items. He certainly had the power of arousing curiosity and making his hearers wish him to continue speaking, which is rare. Most men are uninteresting because they talk too much. “Then I think I will go,” said Roden, rising. He looked from one to the other, and received no answer. “Good night,” he added, and walked to the door with dragging feet. “Good night,” said Cornish. And he was left alone for the first time in his life with Von Holzen, who was clearing the table and making his preparations with a silent deftness of touch acquired by the handling of delicate instruments, the mixing of dangerous drugs. “Then our good friend Lord Ferriby does not know that you are here?” he inquired, without much interest, as if acknowledging the necessity of conversation of some sort. “No,” answered Cornish. “When I have shown you this experiment,” pursued Von Holzen, setting the lamp on a side-table, “we must have a little talk about his lordship. With all modesty, you and I have the clearest heads of all concerned in this invention.” He looked at Cornish with his sudden, pleasant smile. “You will excuse me,” he said, “if while I am doing this I do not talk much. It is a difficult thing to keep in one's head, and all the attention is required in order to avoid a mistake or a mishap.” He had already assumed an air of unconscious command, which was probably habitual with him, as if there were no question between them as to who was the stronger man. Cornish sat, pleasantly silent and acquiescent, but he felt in no way dominated. It is one thing to assume authority, and another to possess it. “I have a little laboratory in the factory where I usually work, but not at night. We do not allow lights in there. Excuse me, I will fetch my crucible and lamp.” And he went out, leaving Cornish alone. There was only one door to the room, leading straight out into the open. The office, it appeared, was built in the form of an annex to one of the storehouses, which stood detached from all other buildings. In a few minutes Von Holzen returned, laden with bottles and jars. One large wicker-covered bottle with a screw top he set carefully on the table. “I had to find them in the dark,” he explained absent-mindedly, as if his thoughts were all absorbed by the work in hand. “And one must be careful not to jar or break any of these. Please do not touch them in my absence.” As he spoke, he again examined the stoppers to see that all was secure. “I come again,” he said, making sure that the large basket-covered bottle was safe. Then he walked quickly out of the room and closed the door behind him. Almost immediately Cornish was conscious of a bitter taste in his mouth, though he could smell nothing. The lamp suddenly burnt blue and instantly went out. Cornish stood up, groping in the dark, his head swimming, a deadly numbness dragging at his limbs. He had no pain, only a strange sensation of being drawn upwards. Then his head bumped against the door, and the remaining glimmer of consciousness shaped itself into the knowledge that this was death. He seemed to swing backwards and forwards between life and death--between sleep and consciousness. Then he felt a cooler air on his lips. He had fallen against the door, which did not fit against the threshold, and a draught of fresh air whistled through upon his face. “Carbonic acid gas,” he muttered, with shaking lips. “Carbonic acid gas.” He repeated the words over and over again, as a man in delirium repeats that which has fixed itself in his wandering brain. Then, with a great effort, he brought himself to understand the meaning of the words that one portion of his brain kept repeating to the other portion which could not comprehend them. He tried to recollect all that he knew of carbonic acid gas, which was, in fact, not much. He vaguely remembered that it is not an active gas that mingles with the air and spreads, but rather it lurks in corners--an invisible form of death--and will so lurk for years unless disturbed by a current of air. Cornish knew that in falling he had fallen out of the radius of the escaping gas, which probably filled the upper part of the room. If he raised himself, he would raise himself into the gas, which was slowly descending upon him, and that would mean instant death. He had already inhaled enough--perhaps too much. He lay quite still, breathing the draught between the door and the threshold, and raising his left hand, felt for the handle of the door. He found it and turned it. The door was locked. He lay still, and his brain began to wander, but with an effort he kept a hold upon his thoughts. He was a strong man, who had never had a bad illness--a cool head and an intrepid heart. Stretching out his legs, he found some object close to him. It was Von Holzen's desk, which stood on four strong legs against the wall. Cornish, who was quick and observant, remembered now how the room was shaped and furnished. He gathered himself together, drew in his legs, and doubled himself, with his feet against the desk, his shoulder against the door. He was long and lithe, of a steely strength which he had never tried. He now slowly straightened himself, and tore the screws out of the solid wood of the door, which remained hanging by the upper hinge. His head and shoulders were now out in the open air. He lay for a moment or two to regain his breath, and recover from the deadly nausea that follows gas poisoning. Then he rose to his feet, and stood swaying like a drunken man. Von Holzen's cottage was a few yards away. A light was burning there, and gleamed through the cracks of the curtains. Cornish went towards the cottage, then paused. “No,” he muttered, holding his head with both hands. “It will keep.” And he staggered away in the darkness towards the corner where the empty barrels stood against the fence.

20

FROM THE PAST.

“One and one with a shadowy third.” “You have the air, _mon ami_, of a malgamiter,” said Mrs. Vansittart, looking into Cornish's face--“lurking here in your little inn in a back street! Why do you not go to one of the larger hotels in Scheveningen, since you have abandoned The Hague?” “Because the larger hotels are not open yet,” replied Cornish, bringing forward a chair. “That is true, now that I think of it. But I did not ask the question wanting an answer. You, who have been in the world, should know women better than to think that. I asked in idleness--a woman's trick. Yes; you have been or you are ill. There is a white look in your face.” She sat looking at him. She had walked all the way from Park Straat in the shade of the trees--quite a pedestrian feat for one who confessed to belonging to a carriage generation. She had boldly entered the restaurant of the little hotel, and had told the waiter to take her to Mr. Cornish's apartment. “It hardly matters what a very young waiter, at the beginning of his career, may think of us. But downstairs they are rather scandalized, I warn you,” she said. “Oh, I ceased explaining many years ago,” replied Cornish, “even in English. More suspicion is aroused by explanation than by silence. For this wise world will not believe that one is telling the truth.” “When one is not,” suggested Mrs. Vansittart. “When one is not,” admitted Cornish, in rather a tired voice, which, to so keen an ear as that of his hearer, was as good as asking her why she had come. She laughed. “Yes,” she said, “you are not inclined to sit and talk nonsense at this time in the morning. No more am I. I did not walk from Park Straat and take your defences by storm, and subject myself to the insult of a raised eyebrow on the countenance of a foolish young waiter, to talk nonsense even with you, who are cleverer with your non-committing platitudes than any man I know.” She laughed rather harshly, as many do when they find themselves suddenly within hail, as it were, of that weakness which is called feeling. “No, I came here on--let us say--business. I hold a good card, and I am going to play it. I want you to hold your hand in the mean time; give me to-day, you understand. I have taken great care to strengthen my hand. This is no sudden impulse, but a set purpose to which I have led up for some weeks. It is not scrupulous; it is not even honest. It is, in a word, essentially feminine, and not an affair to which you as a man could lend a moment's approval. Therefore, I tell you nothing. I merely ask you to leave me an open field to-day. Our end is the same, though our methods and our purpose differ as much as--well, as much as our minds. You want to break this Malgamite corner. I want to break Otto von Holzen. You understand?” Cornish had known her long enough to permit himself to nod and say nothing. “If I succeed, _tant mieux_. If I fail, it is no concern of yours, and it will in no way affect you or your plans. Ah, you disapprove, I see. What a complicated world this would be if we could all wear masks! Your face used to be a safer one than it is now. Can it be that you are becoming serious--_un jeune homme sérieux? _ Heaven save you from that!” “No; I have a headache; that is all,” laughed Cornish. Mrs. Vansittart was slowly unbuttoning and rebuttoning her glove, deep in thought. For some women can think deeply and talk superficially at the same moment. “Do you know,” she said, with a sudden change of voice and manner, “I have a conviction that you know something to-day of which you were ignorant yesterday? All knowledge, I suppose, leaves its mark. Something about Otto von Holzen, I suspect. Ah, Tony, if you know something, tell it to me. If you hold a strong card, let me play it. You do not know how I have longed and waited--what a miserable little hand I hold against this strong man.” She was serious enough now. Her voice had a ring of hopelessness in it, as if she knew that limit against which a woman is fated to throw herself when she tries to injure a man who has no love for her. If the love be there, then is she strong, indeed; but without it, what can she do? It is the little more that is so much, and the little less that is such worlds away. Cornish did not deny the knowledge which she ascribed to him, but merely shook his head, and Mrs. Vansittart suddenly changed her manner again. She was quick and clever enough to know that whatever account stood open between Cornish and Von Holzen the reckoning must be between them alone, without the help of any woman. “Then you will remain indoors,” she said, rising, “and recover from your ... strange headache--and not go near the malgamite works, nor see Percy Roden or Otto von Holzen--and let me have my little try--that is all I ask.” “Yes,” answered Cornish, reluctantly; “but I think you would be wiser to leave Von Holzen to me.” “Ah!” said Mrs. Vansittart, with one of her quick glances. “You think that.” She paused on the threshold, then shrugged her shoulders and passed out. She hurried home, and there wrote a note to Percy Roden. “DEAR MR. RODEN, “It seems a long time since I saw you last, though perhaps it only seems so to _me_. I shall be at home at five o'clock this evening, if you care to take pity on a lonely countrywoman. If I should be out riding when you come, please await my return. “Yours very truly, “EDITH VANSITTART.” She closed the letter with a little cruel smile, and despatched it by the hand of a servant. Quite early in the afternoon she put on her habit, but did not go straight downstairs, although her horse was at the door. She went to the library instead--a small, large-windowed room, looking on to Oranje Straat. From a drawer in her writing-table she took a key, and examined it closely before slipping it into her pocket. It was a new key with the file-marks still upon it. “A clumsy expedient,” she said. “But the end is so desirable that the means must not be too scrupulously considered.” She rode down Kazerne Straat and through the wood by the Leyden Road. By turning to the left, she soon made her way to the East Dunes, and thus describing a circle, rode slowly back towards Scheveningen. She knew her way, it appeared, to the malgamite works. Leaving her horse in the care of the groom, she walked to the gate of the works, which was opened to her by the doorkeeper, after some hesitation. The man was a German, and therefore, perhaps, more amenable to Mrs. Vansittart's imperious arguments. “I must see Herr von Holzen without delay,” she said. “Show me his office.” The man pointed out the building. “But the Herr Professor is in the factory,” he said. “It is mixing-day to-day. I will, however, fetch him.” Mrs. Vansittart walked slowly towards the office where Roden had told her that the safe stood wherein the prescription and other papers were secured. She knew it was mixing-day and that Von Holzen would be in the factory. She had sent Roden on a fool's errand to Park Straat to await her return there. Was she going to succeed? Would she be left alone for a few moments in that little office with the safe? She fingered the key in her pocket--a duplicate obtained at some risk, with infinite difficulty, by the simple stratagem of borrowing Roden's keys to open an old and disused desk one evening in Park Straat. She had conceived the plan herself, had carried it out herself, as all must who wish to succeed in a human design. She was quite aware that the plan was crude and almost childish, but the gain was great, and it is often the simplest means that succeed. The secret of the manufacture of malgamite--written in black and white--might prove to be Von Holzen's death-warrant. Mrs. Vansittart had to fight in her own way or not fight at all. She could not understand the slower, surer methods of Mr. Wade and Cornish, who appeared to be waiting and wasting time. The German doorkeeper accompanied her to the office, and opened the door after knocking and receiving no answer. “Will the high-born take a seat?” he said; “I shall not be long.” “There is no need to hurry,” said Mrs. Vansittart to herself. And before the door was quite closed she was on her feet again. The office was bare and orderly. Even the waste-paper baskets were empty. The books were locked away and the desks were clear. But the small green safe stood in the corner. Mrs. Vansittart went towards it, key in hand. The key was the right one. It had only been selected by guesswork among a number on Roden's bunch. It slipped into the lock and turned smoothly, but the door would not move. She tugged and wrenched at the handle, then turned it accidentally, and the heavy door swung open. There were two drawers at the bottom of the safe which were not locked, and contained neatly folded papers. Her fingers were among these in a moment. The papers were folded and tied together. Many of the bundles were labelled. A long narrow envelope lay at the bottom of the drawer. She seized it quickly and turned it over. It bore no address nor any superscription. “Ah!” she said breathlessly, and slipped her finger within the flap of the envelope. Then she hesitated for a moment, and turned on her heel. Von Holzen was standing in the doorway looking at her. They stared at each other for a moment in silence. Mrs. Vansittart's lips were drawn back, showing her even, white teeth. Von Holzen's quiet eyes were wide open, so that the white showed all around the dark pupil. Then he sprang at her without a word. She was a lithe, strong woman, taller than he, or else she would have fallen. Instead, she stood her ground, and he, failing to get a grasp at her wrist, stumbled sideways against the table. In a moment she had run round it, and again they stared at each other, without a word, across the table where Percy Roden kept the books of the malgamite works. A slow smile came to Von Holzen's face, which was colourless always, and now a sort of grey. He turned on his heel, walked to the door, and, locking it, slipped the key into his pocket. Then he returned to Mrs. Vansittart. Neither spoke. No explanation was at that moment necessary. He lifted the table bodily, and set it aside against the wall. Then he went slowly towards her, holding out his hand for the unaddressed envelope, which she held behind her back. He stood for a moment holding out his hand while his strong will went out to meet hers. Then he sprang at her again and seized her two wrists. The strength of his arms was enormous, for he was a deep-chested man, and had been a gymnast. The struggle was a short one, and Mrs. Vansittart dropped the envelope helplessly from her paralyzed fingers. He picked it up. “You are the wife of Karl Vansittart,” he said in German. “I am his widow,” she replied; and her breath caught, for she was still shaken by the physical and moral realization of her absolute helplessness in his hands, and she saw in a flash of thought the question in his mind as to whether he could afford to let her leave the room alive. “Give me the key with which you opened the safe,” he said coldly. She had replaced the key in her pocket, and now sought it with a shaking hand. She gave it to him without a word. Morally she would not acknowledge herself beaten, and the bitterness of that moment was the self-contempt with which she realized a physical cowardice which she had hitherto deemed quite impossible. For the flesh is always surprised by its own weakness. Von Holzen looked at the key critically, turning it over in order to examine the workmanship. It was clumsily enough made, and he doubtless guessed how she had obtained it. Then he glanced at her as she stood breathless with a colourless face and compressed lips. “I hope I did not hurt you,” he said quietly, thereby putting in a dim and far-off claim to greatness, for it is hard not to triumph in absolute victory. She shook her head with a twisted smile, and looked down at her hands, which were still helpless. There were bands of bright red round the white wrists. Her gloves lay on the table. She went towards them and numbly took them up. He was impassive still, and his face, which had flushed a few moments earlier, slowly regained its usual calm pallor. It was this very calmness, perhaps, that suddenly incensed Mrs. Vansittart. Or it may have been that she had regained her courage. “Yes,” she cried, with a sort of break in her voice that made it strident--“yes. I am Karl Vansittart's wife, and I--cared for him. Do you know what that means? But you can't. All that side of life is a closed book to such as you. It means that if you had been a hundred times in the right and he always in the wrong, I should still have believed in him and distrusted you--should still have cared for him and hated you. But he was not guilty. He was in the right and you were wrong--a thief and a murderer, no doubt. And to screen your paltry name, you sacrificed Karl and the happiness of two people who had just begun to be happy. It means that I shall not rest until I have made you pay for what you have done. I have never lost sight of you--and never shall--” She paused, and looked at his impassive face with a strange, dull curiosity as she spoke of the future, as if wondering whether she had a future or had reached the end of her life--here, at this moment, in the little plank-walled office of the malgamite works. But her courage rose steadily. It is only afar off that Death is terrible. When we actually stand in his presence, we usually hold up our heads and face him quietly enough. “You may have other enemies,” she continued. “I know you have--men, too--but none of them will last so long as I shall, none of them is to be feared as I am--” She stopped again in a fury, for he was obviously waiting for her to pause for mere want of breath, as if her words could be of no weight. “If you fear anything on earth,” she said, acknowledging is one merit despite herself. “I fear you so little,” he answered, going to the door and unlocking it, “that you may go.” Her whip lay on the table. He picked it up and handed it to her, gravely, without a bow, without a shade of triumph or the smallest suspicion of sarcasm. There was perhaps the nucleus of a great man in Otto von Holzen, after all, for there was no smallness in his mind. He opened the door, and stood aside for her to pass out. “It is not because you do not fear me--that you let me go,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “But--because you are afraid of Tony Cornish.” And she went out, wondering whether the shot had told or missed.

21

A COMBINED FORCE.

“Hear, but be faithful to your interest still. Secure your heart, then fool with whom you will.” Mrs. Vansittart walked to the gate of the malgamite works, thinking that Von Holzen was following her on the noiseless sand. At the gate, which the porter threw open on seeing her approach, she turned and found that she was alone. Von Holzen was walking quietly back towards the factory. He was so busy making his fortune that he could not give Mrs. Vansittart more than a few minutes. She bit her lip as she went towards her horse. Neglect is no balm to the wounds of the defeated. She mounted her horse and looked at her watch. It was nearly five o'clock, and Percy Roden was doubtless waiting for her in Park Straat. It is a woman's business to know what is expected of her. Mrs. Vansittart recalled in a very matter-of-fact way the wording of her letter to Roden. She brushed some dust from her habit, and made sure that her hair was tidy. Then she fell into deep thought, and set her mind in a like order for the work that lay before her. A man's deepest schemes in love are child's play beside the woman's schemes that meet or frustrate his own. Mrs. Vansittart rode rapidly home to Park Straat. Mr. Roden, the servant told her, was awaiting her return in the drawing-room. She walked slowly upstairs. Some victories are only to be won with arms that hurt the bearer. Mrs. Vansittart's mind was warped, or she must have known that she was going to pay too dearly for her revenge. She was sacrificing invaluable memories to a paltry hatred. “Ah!” she said to Roden, whose manner betrayed the recollection of her invitation to him, “so I have kept you waiting--a minute, perhaps, for each day that you have stayed away from Park Straat.” Roden laughed, with a shade of embarrassment, which she was quick to detect. “Is it your sister,” she asked, “who has induced you to stay away?” “Dorothy has nothing but good to say of you,” he answered. “Then it is Herr von Holzen,” said Mrs. Vansittart, laying aside her gloves and turning towards the tea-table. She spoke quietly and rather indifferently, as one does of persons who are removed by a social grade. “I have never told you, I believe, that I happen to know something of your--what is he? --your foreman. He has probably warned you against me. My husband once employed this Von Holzen, and was, I believe, robbed by him. We never knew the man socially, and I have always suspected that he bore us some ill feeling on that account. You remember--in this room, when you brought him to call soon after your works were built--that he referred to having met my husband. Doubtless with a view to finding out how much I knew, or if I was in reality the wife of Charles Vansittart. But I did not choose to enlighten him.” She had poured out tea while she spoke. Her hands were unsteady still, and she drew down the sleeve of her habit to hide the discoloration of her wrist. She turned rather suddenly, and saw on Roden's face the confession that it had been due to Von Holzen's influence that he had absented himself from her drawing-room. “However,” she said, with a little laugh, and in a final voice, as if dismissing a subject of small importance--“however, I suppose Herr von Holzen is rising in the world, and has the sensitive vanity of persons in that trying condition.” She sat down slowly, remembering her pretty figure in its smart habit. Roden's slow eyes noted the pretty figure also, which she observed, one may be sure. “Tell me your news,” she said. “You look tired and ill. It is hard work making one's fortune. Be sure that you know what you want to buy before you make it, or afterwards you may find that it has not been worth while to have worked so hard.” “Perhaps what I want is not to be bought,” he said, with his eyes on the carpet. For he was an awkward player at this light game. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Then it must be either worthless or priceless.” He looked at her, but he did not speak, and those who are quick to detect the fleeting shade of pathos might have seen it in the glance of the tired eyes. For Percy Roden was only clever as a financier, and women have no use for such cleverness, only for the results of it. Roden was conscious of making no progress with Mrs. Vansittart, who handled him as a cat handles a disabled mouse while watching another hole. “You have been busier than ever, I suppose,” she said, “since you have had no time to remember your friends.” “Yes,” answered Roden, brightening. He was so absorbed in the most absorbing and lasting employment of which the human understanding is capable that he could talk of little else, even to Mrs. Vansittart. “Yes, we have been very busy, and are turning out nearly ten tons a day now. And we have had trouble from a quarter in which we did not expect it. Von Holzen has been much worried, I know, though he never says anything. He may not be a gentleman, Mrs. Vansittart, but he is a wonderful man.” “Ah,” said Mrs. Vansittart, indifferently; and something in her manner made him all the more desirous of explaining his reasons for associating himself with a person who, as she had subtly and flatteringly hinted more than once, was far beneath him from a social point of view. This desire rendered him less guarded than it was perhaps wise to be under the circumstances. “Yes, he is a very clever man--a genius, I think. He rises to each difficulty without any effort, and every day shows me new evidence of his foresight. He has done more than you think in the malgamite works. His share of the work has been greater than anybody knows. I am only the financier, you understand. I know about bookkeeping and about--money--how it should be handled--that is all.” “You are too modest, I think,” said Mrs. Vansittart, gravely. “You forget that the scheme was yours; you forget all that you did in London.” “Yes--while Von Holzen was doing more here. He had the more difficult task to perform. Of course I did my share in getting the thing up. It would be foolish to deny that. I suppose I have a head on my shoulders, like other people.” And Mr. Percy Roden, with his hand at his moustache, smiled a somewhat fatuous smile. He thought, perhaps, that a woman will love a man the more for being a good man of business. “Yes,” said Mrs. Vansittart, softly. “But I should like Von Holzen to have his due,” said Roden, rather grandly. “He has done wonders, and no one quite realizes that except perhaps Cornish.” “Indeed! Does Mr. Cornish give Herr von Holzen his due, then?” “Cornish does his best to upset Von Holzen's plans at every turn. He does not understand business at all. When that sort of man goes into business he invariably gets into trouble. He has what I suppose he calls scruples. It comes, I imagine, from not having been brought up to it.” Roden spoke rather hotly. He was of a jealous disposition, and disliked Mrs. Vansittart's attitude towards Cornish. “But he is no match for Von Holzen,” he continued, “as he will find to his cost. Von Holzen is not the sort of man to stand any kind of interference.” “Ah?” said Mrs. Vansittart again, in the slightly questioning and indifferent manner with which she received all defence of Otto von Holzen, and which had the effect of urging Roden to further explanation. “He is not a man I should care to cross myself,” he said, determined to secure Mrs. Vansittart's full attention. “He has the whole of the malgamiters at his beck and call, and is pretty powerful, I can tell you. They are a desperate set of fellows; men engaged in a dangerous industry do not wear kid gloves.” Mrs. Vansittart was watching him across the low tea-table; for Roden rarely looked at his interlocutor. He had more of her attention than he perhaps suspected. “Ah,” she said, rather more indifferently than before, “I think you exaggerate Herr von Holzen's importance in the world.” “I do not exaggerate the danger into which Cornish will run if he is not careful,” retorted Roden, half sullenly. There was a ring of anxiety in his voice. Mrs. Vansittart glanced sharply at him. It was borne in upon her that Roden himself was afraid of Von Holzen. This was more serious than it had at first appeared. There are periods in every man's history when human affairs suddenly appear to become unmanageable and the course of events gets beyond any sort of control--when the hand at the helm falters, and even the managing female of the family hesitates to act. Roden seemed to have reached such a crisis now, and Mrs. Vansittart; charm she never so wisely, could not brush the frown of anxiety from his brow. He was in no mood for love-making, and men cannot call up this fleeting humour, as a woman can, when it is wanted. So they sat and talked of many things, both glancing at the clock with a surreptitious eye. They were not the first man and woman to go hunting Cupid with the best will in the world--only to draw a blank. At length Roden rose from his chair with slow, lazy movements. Physically and morally he seemed to want tightening up. “I must go back to the works,” he said. “We work late to-night.” “Then do not tell Herr von Holzen where you have been,” replied Mrs. Vansittart, with a warning smile. Then, on the threshold, with a gravity and a glance that sent him away happy, she added, “I do not want you to discuss me with Otto von Holzen, you understand!” She stood with her hand on the bell, looking at the clock, while he went downstairs. The moment she heard the street door closed behind him she rang sharply. “The brougham,” she said to the servant, “at once.” Ten minutes later she was rattling down Maurits Kade towards the Villa des Dunes. A deep bank of clouds had risen from the west, completely obscuring the sun, so that it seemed already to be twilight. Indeed, nature itself appeared to be deceived, and as the carriage left the town behind and emerged into the sandy quiet of the suburbs, the countless sparrows in the lime-trees were preparing for the night. The trees themselves were shedding an evening odour, while, from canal and dyke and ditch, there arose that subtle smell of damp weed and grass which hangs over the whole of Holland all night. “The place smells of calamity,” said Mrs. Vansittart to herself, as she quitted the carriage and walked quickly along the sandy path to the Villa des Dunes. Dorothy was in the garden, and, seeing her, came to the gate. Mrs. Vansittart had changed her riding-habit for one of the dark silks she usually wore, but she had forgotten to put on any gloves. “Come,” she said rapidly, taking Dorothy's hand, and holding it--“come to the seat at the end of the garden where we sat one evening when we dined alone together. I do not want to go indoors. I am nervous, I suppose. I have allowed myself to give way to panic like a child in the dark. I felt lonely in Park Straat, with a house full of servants, so I came to you.” “I think there is going to be a thunderstorm,” said Dorothy. And Mrs. Vansittart broke into a sudden laugh. “I knew you would say that. Because you are modern and practical--or, at all events, you show a practical face to the world, which is better. Yes, one may say that much for the modern girl, at all events--she keeps her head. As to her heart--well, perhaps she has not got one.” “Perhaps not,” admitted Dorothy. They had reached the seat now, and sat down beneath the branches of a weeping-willow, trimly trained in the accurate Dutch fashion. Mrs. Vansittart glanced at her companion, and gave a little, low, wise laugh. “I did well to come to you,” she said, “for you have not many words. You have a sense of humour--that saving sense which so few people possess--and I suspect you to be a person of action. I came in a panic, which is still there, but in a modified degree. One is always more nervous for one's friends than for one's self. Is it not so? It is for Tony Cornish that I fear.” Dorothy looked steadily straight in front of her, and there was a short silence. “I do not know why he stays in Holland, and I wish he would go home,” continued Mrs. Vansittart. “It is unreasoning, I know, and foolish, but I am convinced that he is running into danger.” She stopped suddenly, and laid her hand upon Dorothy's; for she had caught many foreign ways and gestures. “Listen,” she said, in a lower tone. “It is useless for you and me to mince matters. The Malgamite scheme is a terrible crime, and Tony Cornish means to stop it. Surely you and I have long suspected that. I know Otto von Holzen. He killed my husband. He is a most dangerous man. He is attempting to frighten Tony Cornish away from here, and he does not understand the sort of person he is dealing with. One does not frighten persons of the stamp of Tony Cornish, whether man or woman. I have made Tony promise not to leave his room to-day. For to-morrow I cannot answer. You understand?” “Yes,” answered Dorothy, with a sudden light in her eyes, “I understand.” “Your brother must take care of himself. I care nothing for Lord Ferriby, or any others concerned in this, but only for Tony Cornish, for whom I have an affection, for he was part of my past life--when I was happy. As for the malgamiters, they and their works may--go hang!” And Mrs. Vansittart snapped her fingers. “Do you know Major White?” she asked suddenly. “Yes; I have seen him once.” “So have I--only once. But for a woman once is often enough--is it not so? --to enable one to judge. I wish we had him here.” “He is coming,” answered Dorothy. “I think he is coming to-morrow. When I saw Mr. Cornish yesterday, he told me that he expected him. I believe he wrote for him to come. He also wrote to Mr. Wade, the banker, asking him to come.” “Then he found things worse than he expected. He has, in a sense, sent for reinforcements. When does Major White arrive--in the morning?” “No; not till the evening.” “Then he comes by Flushing,” said Mrs. Vansittart, practically. “You are thinking of something. What is it?” “I was wondering how I could see some of the malgamite workers to-morrow. I know some of them, and it is from them that the danger may be expected. They are easily led, and Herr von Holzen would not scruple to make use of them.” “Ah!” said Mrs. Vansittart, “you have guessed that, too. I have more than guessed it--I know it. You must see these men to-morrow.” “I will,” answered Dorothy, simply. Mrs. Vansittart rose and held out her hand. “Yes,” she said, “I came to the right person. You are calm, and keep your head; as to the other, perhaps that is in safe-keeping too. Good night and come to lunch with me to-morrow.”

22

GRATITUDE.

“On se guérit de la bienfaisance par la connaissance de ceux qu'on oblige.” “Can you tell me if there is a moon to-night?” Mrs. Vansittart asked a porter in the railway station at The Hague. The man stared at her for a moment, then realized that the question was a serious one. “I will ask one of the engine-drivers, my lady,” he answered, with his hand at the peak of his cap. It was past nine o'clock, and Mrs. Vansittart had been waiting nearly half an hour for the Flushing train. Her carriage was walking slowly up and down beneath the glass roof of the entrance to the railway station. She had taken a ticket in order to gain access to the platform, and was almost alone there with the porters. Her glance travelled backwards and forwards between the clock and the western sky, visible beneath the great arch of the station. The evening was a clear one, for the month of June still lingered, but the twilight was at hand. The Flushing train was late to-night of all nights; and Mrs. Vansittart stamped her foot with impatience. What was worse was Dorothy Roden's lateness. Dorothy and Mrs. Vansittart, like two generals on the eve of a battle, had been exchanging hurried notes all day; and Dorothy had promised to meet Mrs. Vansittart at the station on the arrival of the train. “The moon is rising now, my lady--a half-moon,” said the porter approaching with that leisureliness which characterizes railway porters between trains. “Why does your stupid train not come?” asked Mrs. Vansittart, with unreasoning anger. “It has been signalled, my lady; a few minutes now.” Mrs. Vansittart gave a quick sigh of relief, and turned on her heel. She had long been unable to remain quietly in one place. She saw Dorothy coming up the slope to the platform. At last matters were taking a turn for the better--except, indeed, Dorothy's face, which was set and white. “I have found out something,” she said at once, and speaking quickly but steadily. “It is for to-night, between half-past nine and ten.” She had her watch in her hand, and compared it quickly with the station clock as she spoke. “I have secured Uncle Ben,” she said--all the ridicule of the name seemed to have vanished long ago. “He is drunk, and therefore cunning. It is only when he is sober that he is stupid. I have him in a cab downstairs, and have told your man to watch him. I have been to Mr. Cornish's rooms again, and he has not come in. He has not been in since morning, and they do not know where he is. No one knows where he is.” Dorothy's lip quivered for a moment, and she held it with her teeth. Mrs. Vansittart touched her arm lightly with her gloved fingers--a strange, quick, woman's gesture. “I went upstairs to his rooms,” continued Dorothy. “It is no good thinking of etiquette now or pretending----” “No,” said Mrs. Vansittart, hurriedly, so that the sentence was never finished. “I found nothing except two torn envelopes in the waste-paper basket. One in an uneducated hand--perhaps feigned. The other was Otto von Holzen's writing.” “Ah! In Otto von Holzen's writing--addressed to Tony at the Zwaan at Scheveningen?” “Yes.” “Then Otto von Holzen knows where Tony is staying, at all events. We have learnt something. You have kept the envelopes?” “Yes.” They both turned at the rumble of the train outside the station. The great engine came clanking in over the points, its lamp glaring like the eye of some monster. “Provided Major White is in the train,” muttered Mrs. Vansittart, tapping on the pavement with her foot. “If he is not in the train, Dorothy?” “Then we must go alone.” Mrs. Vansittart turned and looked her slowly up and down. “You are a brave woman,” she said thoughtfully. But Major White was in the train, being a man of his word in small things as well as in great. They saw him pushing his way patiently through the crowd of hotel porters and others who had advice or their services to offer him. Then he saw Mrs. Vansittart and Dorothy, and recognized them. “Give your luggage ticket to the hotel porter and let him take it straight to the hotel. You are wanted elsewhere.” Still Major White was only in his normal condition of mild and patient surprise. He had only met Mrs. Vansittart once, and Dorothy as often. He did exactly as he was told without asking one of those hundred questions which would inevitably have been asked by many men and more women under such circumstances, and followed the ladies out of the crowd. “We must talk here,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “One cannot do so in a carriage in the streets of The Hague.” Major White bowed gravely, and looked from one to the other. He was rather travel-worn, and seemed to be feeling the heat. “Tony Cornish has probably written to you about his discoveries as to the malgamite works. We have no time to go into that question, however,” said Mrs. Vansittart, who was already beginning to be impatient with this placid man. “He has earned the enmity of Otto von Holzen--a man who will stop at nothing--and the malgamiters are being raised against him by Von Holzen. Our information is very vague, but we are almost certain that an attempt is to be made on Tony's life to-night between half-past nine and ten. You understand?” Mrs. Vansittart almost stamped her foot. “Oh yes,” answered White, looking at the station clock. “Twenty minutes' time.” “We have the information from one of the malgamiters themselves, who knows the time and the place, but he is tipsy. He is in a carriage outside the station.” “How tipsy?” asked Major White; and both his hearers shrugged their shoulders. “How can we tell you that?” snapped Mrs. Vansittart; and Major White dropped his glass from his eye. “Where is your brother?” he said, turning to Dorothy. He was evidently rather afraid of Mrs. Vansittart, as a quick-spoken person not likely to have patience with a slow man. “He has gone to Utrecht,” answered Dorothy. “And Mr. von Holzen is not at the works, which are locked up. I have just come from there. By a lucky chance I met this man Ben, and have brought him here.” White looked at Dorothy thoughtfully, and something in his gaze made her change colour. “Let me see this man,” he said, moving towards the exit. “He is in that carriage,” said Dorothy, when they had reached a quiet corner of the station yard. “You must be quick. We have only a quarter of an hour now. He is an Englishman.” White got into the cab with Uncle Ben, who appeared to be sleeping, and closed the door after him. In a few moments he emerged again. “Tell the man to drive to a chemist's,” he said to Mrs. Vansittart. “The fellow is not so bad. I have got something out of him, and will get more. Follow in your carriage--you and Miss Roden.” It was Major White's turn now to take the lead, and Mrs. Vansittart meekly obeyed, though White's movements were so leisurely as to madden her. At the chemist's shop, White descended from the carriage and appeared to have some language in common with the druggist, for he presently returned to the carriage, carrying a tumbler. After a moment he went to the window of Mrs. Vansittart's neat brougham. “I must bring him in here,” he said. “You have a pair of horses which look as if they could go. Tell your man to drive to the pumping-station on the Dunes, wherever that may be.” Then he went and fetched Uncle Ben, whom he brought by one arm, in a dislocated condition, trotting feebly to keep pace with the major's long stride. Mrs. Vansittart's coachman must have received very decided orders, for he skirted the town at a rattling trot, and soon emerged from the streets into the quiet of the Wood, which was dark and deserted. Here, in a sandy and lonely alley, he put the horses to a gallop. The carriage swayed and bumped. Those inside exchanged no words. From time to time Major White shook Uncle Ben, which seemed to be a part of his strenuous treatment. At length the carriage stopped on the narrow road, paved with the little bricks they make at Gouda, that leads from Scheveningen to the pumping-station on the Dunes. Major White was the first to quit it, dragging Uncle Ben unceremoniously after him. Then, with his disengaged hand, he helped the ladies. He screwed his glass tightly into his eye, and looked round him with a measuring glance. “This place will be as light as day,” he said, “when the moon rises from behind those trees.” He drew Uncle Ben aside, and talked with him for some time in a low voice. The man was almost sober now, but so weak that he could not stand without assistance. Major White was an advocate, it seemed, of heroic measures. He appeared to be asking many questions, for Uncle Ben pointed from time to time with an unsteady hand into the darkness. When his mind, muddled with malgamite and drink, failed to rise to the occasion, Major White shook him like a sack. After a few minutes' conversation, Ben broke down completely, and sat against a sand-bank to weep. Major White left him there, and went towards the ladies. “Will you tell your man,” he said to Mrs. Vansittart, “to drive back to the junction of the two roads and wait there under the trees?” He paused, looking dubiously from one to the other. “And you and Miss Roden had better go back with him and stay in the carriage.” “No,” said Dorothy, quietly. “Oh no!” added Mrs. Vansittart. And Major White moistened his lips with an air of patient toleration for the ways of a sex which had ever been far beyond his comprehension. “It seems,” he said, when the carriage had rolled away over the noisy stones, “that we are in good time. They do not expect him until nearly ten. He has been attempting for some time to get the men to refuse to work, and these same men have written to ask him to meet them at the works at ten o'clock, when Roden is at Utrecht, and Von Holzen is out. There is no question of reaching the works at all. They are going to lie in ambush in a hollow of the Dunes, and knock him on the head about half a mile from here north-east.” And Major White paused in this great conversational effort to consult a small gold compass attached to his watch-chain. The two women waited patiently. “Fine place, these Dunes,” said the major, after a pause. “Could conceal three thousand men between here and Scheveningen.” “But it is not a question of hiding soldiers,” said Mrs. Vansittart, sharply, with a movement of the head indicative of supreme contempt. “No,” admitted White. “Better hide ourselves, perhaps. No good standing here where everybody can see us. I'll fetch our friend. Think he'll sleep if we let him. Chemist gave him enough to kill a horse.” “But haven't you any plans?” asked Mrs. Vansittart, in despair. “What are you going to do? You are not going to let these brutes kill Tony Cornish? Surely you, as a soldier, must know how to meet this crisis.” “Oh yes. Not much of a soldier, you know,” answered White, soothingly, as he moved away towards Uncle Ben. “But I think I know how this business ought to be managed. Come along--hide ourselves.” He led the way across the dunes, dragging Uncle Ben by one arm, and keeping in the hollows. The two women followed in silence on the silent sand. Once Major White paused and looked back. “Don't talk,” he said, holding up a large fat hand in a ridiculous gesture of warning, which he must have learnt in the nursery. He looked like a large baby listening for a bogey in the chimney. Once or twice he consulted Uncle Ben, and as often glanced at his compass. There was a certain skill in his attitude and demeanour, as if he knew exactly what he was about. Mrs. Vansittart had a hundred questions to ask him, but they died on her lips. The moon rose suddenly over the distant trees and flooded all the sand-hills with light. Major White halted his little party in a deep hollow, and consulted Uncle Ben in whispers. Then bidding him sit down, he left the three alone in their hiding-place, and went away by himself. He climbed almost to the summit of a neighbouring mound, and stopped suddenly, with his face uplifted, as if smelling something. Like many short-sighted persons, he had a keen scent. In a few minutes he came back again. “I have found them,” he whispered to Mrs. Vansittart and Dorothy. “Smelt 'em--like sealing-wax. Eleven of them--waiting there for Cornish.” And he smiled with a sort of boyish glee. “What are you going to do?” whispered Mrs. Vansittart. “Thump them,” he answered, and presently went back to his post of observation. Uncle Ben had fallen asleep, and the two women stood side by side waiting in the moonlight. It was chilly, and a keen wind swept in from the sea. Dorothy shivered. They could hear certain notes of certain instruments in the band of the Scheveningen Kurhaus, nearly two miles away. It was strange to be within sound of such evidences of civilization, and yet in such a lonely spot--strange to reflect that eleven men were waiting within a few yards of them to murder one. And yet they could safely have carried out their intention, and have scraped a hole in the sand to hide his body, in the certainty that it would never be found; for these dunes are a miniature desert of Sahara, where nothing bids men leave the beaten paths, where certain hollows have probably never been trodden by the foot of man, and where the ever-drifting sand slowly accumulates--a very abomination of desolation. At length White rose to his feet agilely enough, and crept to the brow of the dune. The men were evidently moving. Mrs. Vansittart and Dorothy ascended the bank to the spot just vacated by White. Only a few dozen yards away they could see the black forms of the malgamiters grouped together under the covert of a low hillock. Hidden from their sight, Major White was slowly stalking them. Dorothy touched Mrs. Vansittart's arm, and pointed silently in the direction of Scheveningen. A man was approaching, alone, across the silvery sand-hills. It was Tony Cornish, walking into the trap laid for him. Major White saw him also, and thinking himself unobserved, or from mere habit acquired among his men, he moistened the tips of his fingers at his lips. The malgamiters moved forward, and White followed them. They took up a position in a hollow a few yards away from the foot-path by which Cornish must pass. One of their number remained behind, crouching on a mound, and evidently reporting progress to his companions below. When Cornish was within a hundred yards of the ambush, White suddenly ran up the bank, and lifting this man bodily, threw him down among his comrades. He followed this vigorous attack by charging down into the confused mass. In a few moments the malgamiters streamed away across the sand-hills like a pack of hounds, though pursued and not pursuing. They left some of their number on the sand behind them, for White was a hard hitter. “Give it to them, Tony!” White cried, with a ring of exultation in his voice. “Knock 'em down as they come!” For there was only one path, and the malgamiters had to run the gauntlet of Tony Cornish, who knocked some of them over neatly enough as they passed, selecting the big ones, and letting the others go free. He knew them by the smell of their clothes, and guessed their intention readily enough. It was a strange scene, and one that left the two women, watching it, breathless and eager. “Oh, I wish I were a man!” exclaimed Mrs. Vansittart, with clenched fists. They hurried toward Cornish and White, who were now alone on the path. White had rolled up his sleeve, and was tying his handkerchief round his arm with his other hand and his teeth. “It is nothing,” he said. “One of the devils had a knife. Must get my sleeve mended to-morrow.”

23

A REINFORCEMENT.

“Prends moy telle que je suy.” When Major White came down to breakfast at his hotel the next morning, he found the large room deserted and the windows thrown open to the sun and the garden. He was selecting a table, when a step on the verandah made him look up. Standing in the window, framed, as it were, by sunshine and trees, was Marguerite Wade, in a white dress, with demure lips, and the complexion of a wild rose. She was the incarnation of youth--of that spring-time of life of which the sight tugs at the strings of older hearts; for surely that is the only part of life which is really and honestly worth the living. Marguerite came forward and shook hands gravely. Major White's left eyebrow quivered for a moment in indication of his usual mild surprise at life and its changing surface. “Feeling pretty--bobbish?” inquired Marguerite, earnestly. White's eyebrow went right up and his glass fell. “Fairly bobbish, thank you,” he answered, looking at her with stupendous gravity. “You look all right, you know.” “You should never judge by appearances,” said White, with a fatherly severity. Marguerite pursed up her lips, and looked his stalwart frame up and down in silence. Then she suddenly lapsed into her most confidential manner, like a schoolgirl telling her bosom friend, for the moment, all the truth and more than the truth. “You are surprised to see me here; thought you would be, you know. I knew you were in the hotel; saw your boots outside your door last night; knew they must be yours. You went to bed very early.” “I have two pairs of boots,” replied the major, darkly. “Well, to tell you the truth, I have brought papa across. Tony wrote for him to come, and I knew papa would be no use by himself, so I came. I told you long ago that the Malgamite scheme was up a gum-tree, and that seems to be precisely where you are.” “Precisely.” “And so I have come over, and papa and I are going to put things straight.” “I shouldn't if I were you.” “Shouldn't what?” inquired Marguerite. “Shouldn't put other people's affairs straight. It does not pay, especially if other people happen to be up a gum-tree--make yourself all sticky, you know.” Marguerite looked at him doubtfully. “Ah!” she said. “That's what--is it?” “That's what,” admitted Major White. “That is the difference, I suppose, between a man and a woman,” said Marguerite, sitting down at a small table where breakfast had been laid for two. “A man looks on at things going--well, to the dogs--and smokes and thinks it isn't his business. A woman thinks the whole world is her business.” “So it is, in a sense--it is her doing, at all events.” Marguerite had turned to beckon to the waiter, and she paused to look back over her shoulder with shrewd, clear eyes. “Ah!” she said mystically. Then she addressed herself to the waiter, calling him “Kellner,” and speaking to him in German, in the full assurance that it would be his native tongue. “I have told him,” she explained to White, “to bring your little coffee-pot and your little milk-jug and your little pat of butter to this table.” “So I understood.” “Ah! Then you know German?” inquired Marguerite, with another doubtful glance. “I get two pence a day extra pay for knowing German.” Marguerite paused in her selection, of a breakfast roll from a silver basket containing that Continental choice of breads which look so different and taste so much alike. “Seems to me,” she said confidentially, “that you know more than you appear to know.” “Not such a fool as I look, in fact.” “That is about the size of it,” admitted Marguerite, gravely. “Tony always says that the world sees more than any one suspect. Perhaps he is right.” And both happening to look up at this moment, their glances met across the little table. “Tony often is right,” said Major White. There was a pause, during which Marguerite attended to the two small coffee-pots for which she had such a youthful and outspoken contempt. The privileges of her sex were still new enough to her to afford a certain pleasure in pouring out beverages for other people to drink. “Why is Tony so fond of The Hague? Who is Mrs. Vansittart?” she asked, without looking up. Major White looked stolidly out of the open window for a few minutes before answering. “Two questions don't make an answer.” “Not these two questions?” asked Marguerite, with a sudden laugh. “No; Mrs. Vansittart is a widow, young, and what they usually call 'charming,' I believe. She is clever, yes, very clever, and she was, I suppose, fond of Vansittart; and that is the whole story, I take it.” “Not exactly a cheery story.” “No true stories are,” returned the major, gravely. But Marguerite shook her head. In her wisdom--that huge wisdom of life as seen from the threshold--she did not believe Mrs. Vansittart's story. “Yes, but novelists and people take a true story and patch it up at the end. Perhaps most people do that with their lives, you know; perhaps Mrs. Vansittart--” “Won't do that,” said the major, staring in a stupid way out of the window with vacant, short-sighted eyes. “Not even if Tony suggested it--which he won't do.” “You mean that Tony is not a patch upon the late Mr. Vansittart--that is what _you_ mean,” said Marguerite, condescendingly. “Then why does he stay in The Hague?” Major White shrugged his shoulders and lapsed into a stolid silence, broken only by a demand made presently by Marguerite to the waiter for more bread and more butter. She looked at her companion once or twice, and it is perhaps not astonishing that she again concluded that he must be as dense as he looked. It is a mistake that many of her sex have made regarding men. “Do you know Miss Roden?” she asked suddenly. “I have heard a good deal about her from Joan.” “Yes.” “Is she pretty?” “Yes.” “Very pretty?” persisted Marguerite. “Yes,” replied the major. And they continued their breakfast in silence. Marguerite appeared to have something to think about. Major White was in the habit of stating that he never thought, and certainly appearances bore him out. “Your father is late,” he said at length. “Yes,” answered Marguerite, with a gay laugh. “Because he was afraid to ring the bell for hot water. Papa has a rooted British conviction that Continental chambermaids always burst into your room if you ring the bell, whether the door is locked or not. He is nothing if not respectable, poor old dear--would give points to any bishop in the land.” As she spoke her father came into the room, looking, as his daughter had stated eminently British and respectable. He shook hands with Major White, and seemed pleased to see him. The major was, in truth, a man after his own heart, and one whom he looked upon as solid. For Mr. Wade belonged to a solid generation that liked the andante of life to be played in good heavy chords, and looked with suspicious eyes upon brilliancy of execution or lightness of touch. “I have had a note from Cornish,” he said, “who suggests a meeting at this hotel this afternoon to discuss our future action. The other side has, it appears, written to Lord Ferriby to come over to The Hague.” There had in Mr. Wade's life usually been that “other side,” which he had treated with a good, honest respect so long as they proved themselves worthy of it; but which he crushed the moment they forgot themselves. For there was in this British banker a vast spirit of honest, open antagonism by which he and his likes have built up a scattered empire on this planet. “At three o'clock,” he concluded, lifting the cover of a silver dish which Marguerite had sent back to the kitchen awaiting her father's arrival. “And what will you do, my dear?” he said, turning to her. “I?” replied Marguerite, who always knew her own mind. “I shall take a carriage and drive down to the Villa des Dunes to see Dorothy Roden. I have a note for her from Joan.” And Mr. Wade turned to his breakfast with an appetite in no way diminished by the knowledge that the “other side” were about to take action. At three o'clock the carriage was awaiting Marguerite at the door of the hotel, but for some reason Marguerite lingered in the porch, asking questions and absolutely refusing to drive all the way to Scheveningen by the side of the “Queen's Canal.” When at length she turned to get in, Tony Cornish was coming across the Toornoifeld under the trees; for The Hague is the shadiest city in the world, with forest trees growing amid its great houses. “Ah!” said Marguerite, holding out her hand. “You see, I have come across to give you all a leg-up. Seems to me we are going to have rather a spree.” “The spree,” replied Cornish, with his light laugh, “has already begun.” Marguerite drove away towards The Hague Wood, and disappeared among the transparent green shadows of that wonderful forest. The man had been instructed to take her to the Villa des Dunes by way of the Leyden Road, making a round in the woods. It was at a point near the farthest outskirts of the forest that Marguerite suddenly turned at the sight of a man sitting upon a bench at the roadside reading a sheet of paper. “That,” she said to herself, “is the Herr Professor--but I cannot remember his name.” Marguerite was naturally a sociable person. Indeed, a woman usually stops an old and half-forgotten acquaintance, while men are accustomed to let such bygones go. She told the driver to turn round and drive back again. The man upon the bench had scarce looked up as she passed. He had the air of a German, which suggestion was accentuated by the solitude of his position and the poetic surroundings which he had selected. A German, be it recorded to his credit, has a keen sense of the beauties of nature, and would rather drink his beer before a fine outlook than in a comfortable chair indoors. When Marguerite returned, this man looked up again with the absorbed air of one repeating something in his mind. When he perceived that she was undoubtedly coming towards himself, he stood up and took off his hat. He was a small, square-built man, with upright hair turning to grey, and a quiet, thoughtful, clean-shaven face. His attitude, and indeed his person, dimly suggested some pictures that have been painted of the great Napoleon. His measuring glance--as if the eyes were weighing the face it looked upon--distinctly suggested his great prototype. “You do not remember me, Herr Professor,” said Marguerite, holding out her hand with a frank laugh. “You have forgotten Dresden and the chemistry classes at Fräulein Weber's?” “No, Fräulein; I remember those classes,” the professor answered, with a grave bow. “And you remember the girl who dropped the sulphuric acid into the something of potassium? I nearly made a great discovery then, mein Herr.” “You nearly made the greatest discovery of all, Fräulein. Yes, I remember now--Fräulein Wade.” “Yes, I am Marguerite Wade,” she answered, looking at him with a little frown, “but I can't remember your name. You were always Herr Professor. And we never called anything by its right name in the chemistry classes, you know; that was part of the--er--trick. We called water H2 or something like that. We called you J.H.U, Herr Professor.” “What does that mean, Fräulein?” “Jolly hard up,” returned Marguerite, with a laugh which suddenly gave place, with a bewildering rapidity, to a confidential gravity. “You were poor then, mein Herr.” “I have always been poor, Fräulein, until now.” But Marguerite's mind had already flown to other things. She was looking at him again with a frown of concentration. “I am beginning to remember your name,” she said. “Is it not strange how a name comes back with a face? And I had quite forgotten both your face and your name, Herr ... Herr ... von Holz”--she broke off, and stepped back from him--“von Holzen,” she said slowly. “Then you are the malgamite man?” “Yes, Fräulein,” he answered, with his grave smile; “I am the malgamite man.” Marguerite looked at him with a sort of wonder, for she knew enough of the Malgamite scheme to realize that this was a man who ruled all that came near him, against whom her own father and Tony Cornish and Major White and Mrs. Vansittart had been able to do nothing--who in face of all opposition continued calmly to make malgamite, and sell it daily to the world at a preposterous profit, and at the cost only of men's lives. “And you, Fräulein, are the daughter of Mr. Wade, the banker?” “Yes,” she answered, feeling suddenly that she was a schoolgirl again, standing before her master. “And why are you in The Hague?” “Oh,” replied Marguerite, hesitating for perhaps the first time in her life, “to enlarge our minds, mein Herr.” She was looking at the paper he held in his hand, and he saw the direction of her glance. In response, he laughed quietly, and held it out towards her. “Yes,” he said, “you have guessed right. It is the Vorschrift, the prescription for the manufacture of malgamite.” She took the paper and turned it over curiously. Then, with her usual audacity, she opened it and began to read. “Ah,” she said, “it is in Hebrew.” Von Holzen nodded his head, and held out his hand for the paper, which she gave to him. She was not afraid of the man--but she was very near to fear. “And I am sitting here, quietly under the trees, Fräulein,” he said, “learning it by heart.”

24

A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT.

“Un homme sérieux est celui qui se croit regardé.” When Lord Ferriby decided to accede to Roden's earnest desire that he should go to The Hague, he was conscious of conferring a distinct favour upon the Low Countries. “It is not a place one would choose to go to at this time of year,” he said to a friend at the club. “In the winter, it is different; for the season there is in the winter, as in many Continental capitals.” One of the numerous advantages attached to an hereditary title is the certainty that a hearer of some sort or another will always be forthcoming. A commoner finds himself snubbed or quietly abandoned so soon as his reputation for the utterance of egoisms and platitudes is sufficiently established, but there are always plenty of people ready and willing to be bored by a lord. A high-class club is, moreover, a very mushroom-bed of bores, where elderly gentlemen who have traveled quite a distance down the road of life, without finding out that it is bordered on either side by a series of small events not worth commenting upon, meet to discuss trivialities. “Truth is,” said his lordship to one of these persons, “this Malgamite scheme is one of the largest charities that I have conducted, and carries with it certain responsibilities--yes, certain responsibilities.” And he assumed a grave air of importance almost amounting to worry. For Lord Ferriby did not know that a worried look is an almost certain indication of a small mind. Nor had he observed that those who bear the greatest responsibilities, and have proved themselves worthy of the burden, are precisely they who show the serenest face to the world. It must not, however, be imagined that Lord Ferriby was in reality at all uneasy respecting the Malgamite scheme. Here again he enjoyed one of the advantages of having been preceded by a grandfather able and willing to serve his party without too minute a scruple. For if the king can do no wrong, the nobility may surely claim a certain immunity from criticism, and those who have allowance made to them must inevitably learn to make allowance for themselves. Lord Ferriby was, in a word, too self-satisfied to harbour any doubts respecting his own conduct. Self-satisfaction is, of course, indolence in disguise. It was easy enough for Lord Ferriby to persuade himself that Cornish was wrong and Roden in the right; especially when Roden, in the most gentlemanly manner possible, paid a cheque, not to Lord Ferriby direct, but to his bankers, in what he gracefully termed the form of a bonus upon the heavy subscription originally advanced by his lordship. There are many people in the world who will accept money so long as their delicate susceptibilities are not offended by an actual sight of the cheque. “Anthony Cornish,” said Lord Ferriby, pulling down his waistcoat, “like many men who have had neither training nor experience, does not quite understand the ethics of commerce.” His lordship, like others, seemed to understand these to mean that a man may take anything that his neighbour is fool enough to part with. Joan was willing enough to accompany her father, because, in the great march of social progress, she had passed on from charity to sanitation, and was convinced that the mortality among the malgamiters, which had been more than hinted at in the Ferriby family circle, was entirely due to the negligence of the victims in not using an old disinfectant served up in artistic flagons under a new name. Permanganate of potash under another name will not only smell as sweet, but will perform greater sanitary wonders, because the world places faith in a new name, and faith is still the greatest healer of human ills. Joan, therefore, proposed to carry to The Hague the glad tidings of the sanitary millennium, fully convinced that this had come to a suffering world under the name of “Nuxine,” in small bottles, at the price of one shilling and a penny halfpenny. The penny halfpenny, no doubt, represented the cost of bottle and drug and the small blue ribbon securing the stopper, while the shilling went very properly into the manufacturer's pocket. It was at this time the fashion in Joan's world to smell of “Nuxine,” which could also be had in the sweetest little blue tabloids, to place in the wardrobe and among one's clean clothes. Joan had given Major White a box of these tabloids, which gift had been accepted with becoming gravity. Indeed, the major seemed never to tire of hearing Joan's exordiums, or of watching her pretty, earnest face as she urged him to use “Nuxine” in its various forms, and it was only when he heard that cigar-holders made of “Nuxine” absorbed all the deleterious properties of tobacco that his stout heart failed him. “Yes,” he pleaded, “but a fellow must draw the line at a sky-blue cigar-holder, you know.” And Joan had to content herself with the promise that he would use none other than “Nuxine” dentifrice. Lord Ferriby and Joan, therefore, set out to The Hague, his lordship in the full conviction (enjoyed by so many useless persons) that his presence was in itself of beneficial effect upon the course of events, and Joan with her “Nuxine” and, in a minor degree now, her “Malgamiters” and her “Haberdashers' Assistants.” Lady Ferriby preferred to remain at Cambridge Terrace, chiefly because it was cheaper, and also because the cook required a holiday, and, with a kitchen-maid only, she could indulge in her greatest pleasure--a useless economy. The cook refused to starve her fellow-servants, while the kitchen-maid, mindful of a written character in the future, did as her ladyship bade her--hashing and mincing in a manner quite irreconcilable with forty pounds a year and beer money. Major White met the travellers at The Hague station, and Joan, who had had some trouble with her father during the simple journey, was conscious for the first time of a sense of orderliness and rest in the presence of the stout soldier, who seemed to walk heavily over difficulties when they arose. “Eh--er,” began his lordship, as they walked down the platform, “have you seen anything of Roden?” For Lord Ferriby was too self-centred a man to b keenly observant, and had as yet failed to detect Von Holzen behind and overshadowing his partner in the Malgamite scheme. “No--cannot say I have,” replied the major. He had never discussed the malgamite affairs with Lord Ferriby. Discussion was, indeed, a pastime in which the major never indulged. His position in the matter was clearly enough defined, but he had no intention of explaining why it was that he ranged himself stolidly on Cornish's side in the differences that had arisen. Lord Ferriby was dimly conscious of a smouldering antagonism, but knew the major sufficiently well not to fear an outbreak of hostilities. Men who will face opposition may be divided into two classes--the one taking its stand upon a conscious rectitude, the other half-hiding with the cheap and transparent cunning of the ostrich. Many men, also, are in the fortunate condition of believing themselves to be invariably right unless they are told quite plainly that they are wrong. And there was nobody to tell Lord Ferriby this. Cornish, with a sort of respect for the head of the family--a regard for the office irrespective of its holder--was so far from wishing to convince his uncle of error that he voluntarily relinquished certain strong points in his position rather than strike a blow that would inevitably reach Lord Ferriby, though directed towards Roden or Von Holzen. Lord Ferriby heard, however, with some uneasiness, that the Wades were in The Hague. “A worthy man--a very worthy man,” he said abstractedly; for he looked upon the banker with that dim suspicion which is aroused in certain minds by uncompromising honesty. The travellers proceeded to the hotel, where rooms had been prepared for them. There were flowers in Joan's room, which her maid said she had rearranged, so awkwardly had they been placed in the vase. The Wades, it appeared, were out, and had announced their intention of not returning to lunch. They were, the hotel porter thought, to take that meal at Mrs. Vansittart's. “I think,” said Lord Ferriby, “that I shall go down to the works.” “Yes, do,” answered White, with an expressionless countenance. “Perhaps you will accompany me?” suggested Joan's father. “No--think not. Can't hit it off with Roden. Perhaps Joan would like to see the Palace in the Wood.” Joan thought that it was her duty to go to the malgamite works, and murmured the word “Nuxine,” without, however, much enthusiasm; but White happened to remember that it was mixing-day. So Lord Ferriby went off alone in a hired carriage, as had been his intention from the first; for White knew even less about the ethics of commerce than did Cornish. The account of affairs that awaited his lordship at the works was, no doubt, satisfactory enough, for the manufacture of malgamite had been proceeding at high pressure night and day. Von Holzen had, as he told Marguerite, been poor all his life, and poverty is a hard task-master. He was not going to be poor again. The grey carts had been passing up and down Park Straat more often than ever, taking their loads to one or other of the railway stations, and bringing, as they passed her house, a gleam of anger to Mrs. Vansittart's eyes. “The scoundrels!” she muttered. “The scoundrels! Why does not Tony act?” But Tony Cornish, who alone knew the full extent of Von Holzen's determination not to be frustrated, could not act--for Dorothy's sake. A string of the quiet grey carts passed up Park Straat when the party assembled there had risen from the luncheon-table. Mrs. Vansittart and Mr. Wade were standing together at the window, which was large even in this city of large and spotless windows. Dorothy and Cornish were talking together at the other end of the room, and Marguerite was supposed to be looking at a book of photographs. “There goes a consignment of men's lives,” said Mrs. Vansittart to her companion. “A human life, madam,” answered the banker, “like all else on earth, varies much in value.” For Mr. Wade belonged to that class of Englishmen which has a horror of all sentiment, and takes care to cloak its good actions by the assumption of an unworthy motive. And who shall say that this man of business was wrong in his statement? Which of us has not a few friends and relations who can only have been created as a solemn warning? As Mrs. Vansittart and Mr. Wade stood at the window, Marguerite joined them, slipping her hand within her father's arm with that air of protection which she usually assumed towards him. She was gay and lively, as she ever was, and Mrs. Vansittart glanced at her more than once with a sort of envy. Mrs. Vansittart did not, in truth, always understand Marguerite or her English, which was essentially modern. They were standing and laughing at the window, when Marguerite suddenly drew them back. “What is it?” asked Mrs. Vansittart. “It is Lord Ferriby,” replied Marguerite. And looking cautiously between the lace curtains, they saw the great man drive past in his hired carriage. “He has recently bought Park Straat,” commented Marguerite. And his lordship's condescending air certainly seemed to suggest that the street, if not the whole city, belonged to him. Mr. Wade pointed with his thick thumb in the direction in which Lord Ferriby was driving. “Where is he going?” he asked bluntly. “To the malgamite works,” replied Mrs. Vansittart, with significance. And Mr. Wade made no comment. Mrs. Vansittart spoke first. “I asked Major White,” she said, “to lunch with us to-day, but he was pledged, it appeared, to meet Lord Ferriby and his daughter, and see them installed at their hotel.” “Ah!” said Mr. Wade. Mrs. Vansittart, who in truth seemed to find the banker rather heavy, allowed some moments to elapse before she again spoke. “Major White,” she then observed, “does not accompany Lord Ferriby to the malgamite works.” “Major White,” replied Marguerite, demurely, “has other fish to fry.”

25

CLEARING THE AIR

“It is as difficult to be entirely bad as it is to be entirely good.” Percy Roden, who had been to Utrecht and Antwerp, arrived home on the evening of the day that saw Lord Ferriby's advent to The Hague. Though the day had been fine enough, the weather broke up at sunset, and great clouds chased the sun towards the west. Then the rain came suddenly and swept across the plains in a slanting fury. A cold wind from the south-east followed hard upon the heavy clouds, and night came in a chaos of squall and beating rain. Roden was drenched in his passage from the carriage to the Villa des Dunes, which, being a summer residence, had not been provided with a carriage-drive across the dunes from the road. He looked at his sister with tired eyes when she met him in the entrance-hall. He was worn and thinner than she had seen him in the days of his adversity, for Percy Roden, like his partner, had made several false starts upon the road to fortune before he got well away. Like many--like, indeed, nearly all--who have to try again, he had lightened himself of a scruple or so each time he turned back. Prosperity, however, seems to kill as many as adversity. Abundant wealth is a vexation of spirit to-day as surely as it was in the time of that wise man who, having tried it, said that a stranger eateth it, and it is vanity. “Beastly night,” said Roden, and that was all. He had been to Antwerp on banking business, and had that sleepless look which brings a glitter to the eyes. This was a man handling great sums of money. “Von Holzen been here to-day?” he asked, when he had changed his clothes, and they were seated at the dinner-table. “No,” answered Dorothy, with her eyes on his plate. He was eating little, and drank only mineral water from a stone bottle. He was like an athlete in training, though the strain he sought to meet was mental and not physical. He shivered more than once, and glanced sharply at the door when the maid happened to leave it open. When Dorothy went to the drawing-room she lighted the fire, which was ready laid, and of wood. Although it was nearly midsummer, the air was chilly, and the rain beat against the thin walls of the house. “I think it probable,” Roden had said, before she left the dining-room, “that Von Holzen will come in this evening.” She sat down before the fire, which burnt briskly, and looked into it with thoughtful, clever grey eyes. Percy thought it probable that Von Holzen would come to the Villa des Dunes this evening. Would he come? For Percy knew nothing of the organized attempt on Cornish's life which she herself had frustrated. He seemed to know nothing of the grim and silent antagonism that existed between the two men, shutting his eyes to their movements, which were like the movements of chess-players that the onlooker sees but does not understand. Dorothy knew that Von Holzen was infinitely cleverer than her brother. She knew, indeed, that he was cleverer than most men. With the quickness of her sex, she had long ago divined the source and basis of his strength. He was indifferent to women--who formed no part of his life, who entered in no way into his plans or ambitions. Being a woman, she should, theoretically, have disliked and despised him for this. As a matter of fact, the characteristic commanded her respect. She knew that her brother was not in Von Holzen's confidence. It was probable that no man on earth had ever come within measurable distance of that. He would, in all likelihood, hear nothing of the attempt to kill Cornish, and Cornish himself would be the last to mention it. For she knew that her lover was a match for Von Holzen, and more than a match. She had never doubted that. It was a part of her creed. A woman never really loves a man until she has made him the object of a creed. And it is only the man himself who can--and in the long run usually does--make it impossible for her to adhere to her belief. She was still sitting and thinking over the fire when her brother came into the room. “Ah!” he said at the sight of the fire, and came forward, holding out his hands to the blaze. He looked down at his sister with glittering and unsteady eyes. He was in a dangerous humour--a humour for explanations and admissions--to which weak natures sometimes give way. And, looking at the matter practically and calmly, explanations and admissions are better left--to the hereafter. But Von Holzen saved him by ringing the front-door bell at that moment. The professor came into the room a minute later. He stood in the doorway, and bowed in the stiff German way to Dorothy. With Roden he exchanged a curt nod. His hair was glued to his temples by the rain, which gleamed on his face. “It is an abominable night,” he said, coming forward. “Ach, Fräulein, please do not leave us--and the fire,” he added; for Dorothy had risen. “I merely came to make sure that he had arrived safely home.” He took the chair offered to him by Roden, and sat on it without bringing it forward. He had but little of that self-assurance which is so highly cultivated to-day as to be almost offensive. “There are, of course, matters of business,” he said, “which can wait till to-morrow. To-night you are tired.” He looked at Roden as a doctor may look at a patient. “Is it not so, Fräulein?” he asked, turning to Dorothy. “Yes.” “Except one or two--which we may discuss now.” Dorothy turned and glanced at him. He was looking at her, and their eyes met for a moment. He seemed to see something in her face that made him thoughtful, for he remained silent for some time, while he wiped the rain from his face with his pocket-handkerchief. It was a pale, determined face, which could hardly fail to impress those with whom he came in contact as the face of a strong man. “Lord Ferriby has been at the works to-day,” he said; and then, with a gesture of the hands and a shrug, he described Lord Ferriby as a nonentity. “He went through the works, and looked over your books. I wrote out a sort of certificate of his satisfaction with both, and--he signed it.” Roden was leaning forward over the fire with a cigarette between his lips. He nodded shortly. “Good,” he said. “Yesterday,” continued Von Holzen, “I met an old acquaintance--a Miss Wade--one of the young ladies of a Pensionnat at Dresden, in which I taught at one time. She is a daughter of the banker Wade, and told me, reluctantly, that she is at The Hague with her father--a friend of Cornish's. This morning I took a walk on the sands at Scheveningen; there was a large fat man, among others, bathing at the Northern bathing-station. It was Major White. It is a regular gathering of the clans. I saw a German paper-maker--a big man in the trade--on the Kursaal terrace this morning. It may be a mere chance, and it may not.” As he spoke he had withdrawn from his pocket a folded paper, which he was fingering thoughtfully. Dorothy, who knew that she had by her looks unwittingly warned him, made no motion to go now. He would say nothing that he did not deliberately intend for her ears as much as for her brother's. Von Holzen opened the paper slowly, and looked at it as if every line of it was familiar. It was a sheet of ordinary foolscap covered with minute figures and writing. “It is the Vorschrift, the--how do you say? --prescription for the malgamite, and there are several in The Hague at this moment who want it, and some who would not be too scrupulous in their methods of procuring it. It is for this that they are gathering--here in The Hague.” Roden turned in his leisurely way, and looked over his shoulder towards the paper. Von Holzen glanced at Dorothy. He had no desire to keep her in suspense, but he wished to know how much she knew. She looked into the fire, treating his conversation as directed towards her brother only. “I tried for ten years in vain to get this,” continued Von Holzen, “and at last a dying man dictated it to me. For years it lived in the brain of one man only--and he a maker of it himself. He might have died at any moment with that secret in his head. And I,”--he folded the paper slowly and shrugged his shoulders--“I watched him. And the last intelligible word he spoke on earth was the last word of this prescription. The man can have been no fool; for he was a man of little education. I never respected him so much as I do now when I have learnt it myself.” He rose and walked to the fire. “You permit me, Fräulein,” he said, putting the logs together with his foot. They burnt up brightly, and he threw the paper upon them. In a moment it was reduced to ashes. He turned slowly upon his heel, and looked at his companions with the grave smile of one who had never known much mirth. “There,” he said, touching his forehead, with one finger; “it is in the brain of one man--once more.” He returned to the chair he had just vacated. “And whosoever wishes to stop the manufacture of malgamite will need to stop that brain,” he said, with a soft laugh. “Of course there is a risk attached to burning that paper,” he continued, after a pause. “My brain may go--a little clot of blood no bigger than a pin's head, and the greatest brain on earth is so much pulp! It may be worth some one's while to kill me. It is so often worth some one's while to kill somebody else, even at a considerable risk--but the courage is nearly always lacking. However, we must run these risks.” He rose from his chair with a low and rather pleasant laugh, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was evidently his intention to take his leave. Dorothy rose also, and they stood for a moment facing each other. He was a few inches above her stature, and he looked down at her with his slow, thoughtful eyes. He seemed always to be making a diagnosis of the souls of men. “I know, Fräulein,” he said, “That you are one of those who dislike me, and seek to do me harm. I am sorry. It is long since I discarded a youthful belief that it was possible to get on in life without arousing ill feeling. Believe me, it is impossible even to hold one's own in this world without making enemies. There are two sides to every question, Fräulein--remember that.” He brought his heels together, bowed stiffly, from the waist, in his formal manner, and left the room. Percy Roden followed him, leaving the door open. Dorothy heard the rustle of his dripping waterproof as he put it on, the click of the door, the sound of his firm retreating tread on the gravel. Then her brother came back into the room. His rather weak face was flushed. His eyes were unsteady. Dorothy saw this in a glance, and her own face hardened unresponsively. The situation was clearly enough defined in her own mind. Von Holzen had destroyed the prescription before her on purpose. It was only a move in that game of life which is always extending to a new deal, and of which women as onlookers necessarily see the most. Von Holzen wished Cornish, and others concerned, to know that he had destroyed the prescription. It was a concession in disguise--a retrograde movement--perhaps _pour mieux sauter_. Percy Roden was one of those men who have a grudge against the world. The most hopeless ill-doer is he who excuses himself angrily. There are some who seem unconscious of their own failings, and for these there is hope. They may some day find out that it is better to be at peace with the world even at the cost of a little self-denial. But Percy Roden admitted that he was wrong, and always had that sort of excuse which seeks to lay the blame upon a whole class--upon other business men, upon those in authority, upon women. “It is excused in others, why not in me?” --the last cry of the ne'er-do-well. He glanced angrily at Dorothy now. But he was always half afraid of her. “I wish we had never come to this place,” he said. “Then let us go away from it,” answered Dorothy, “before it is too late.” Roden looked at her in surprise. Did she expect him to go away now from Mrs. Vansittart? He knew, of course, that Dorothy and the world always expected too much from him. “Before it is too late. What do you mean?” he asked, still thinking of Mrs. Vansittart. “Before the Malgamite scheme is exposed,” replied Dorothy, bluntly. And, to her surprise, he laughed. “I thought you meant something else,” he said. “The Malgamite scheme can look after itself. Von Holzen is the cleverest man I know, and he knows what he is doing. I thought you meant Mrs. Vansittart--were thinking of her.” “No, I was not thinking of Mrs. Vansittart.” “Not worth thinking about,” suggested Roden, adhering to his method of laughing for fear of being laughed at, which is common enough in very young men; but Roden should have outgrown it by this time. “Not seriously.” “What do you mean, Dorothy?” “That I hope you do not think seriously of asking Mrs. Vansittart to marry you.” Roden gave his rather unpleasant laugh again. “It happens that I do,” he replied. “And it happens that I know that Mrs. Vansittart never stays in The Hague in summer when all the houses are empty and everybody is away, and the place is given up to tourists, and becomes a mere annex to Scheveningen. This year she has stayed--why, I should like to know.” And he stroked his moustache as he looked into the fire. He had been indulging in the vain pleasure of putting two and two together. A young man's vanity--or indeed any man's vanity--is not to be trusted to work out that simple addition correctly. Percy Roden was still in a dangerously exalted frame of mind. There is no intoxication so dangerous as that of success, and none that leaves so bitter a taste behind it. “Of course,” he said, “no girl ever thinks that her brother can succeed in such a case. I suppose you dislike Mrs. Vansittart?” “No; I like her, and I understand her, perhaps better than you do. I should like nothing better than that she should marry you, but----” “But what?” “Well, ask her,” replied Dorothy--a woman's answer. “And then?” “And then let us go away from here.” Roden turned on her angrily. “Why do you keep on repeating that?” he cried. “Why do you want to go away from here?” “Because,” replied Dorothy, as angry as himself, “you know as well as I do that the Malgamite scheme is not what it pretends to be. I suppose you are making a fortune and are dazzled, or else you are being deceived by Herr von Holzen, or else----” “Or else----” echoed Roden, with a pale face. “Yes--go on.” But she bit her lip and was silent. “It is an open secret,” she went on after a pause. “Everybody knows that it is a disgrace or worse--perhaps a crime. If you have made a fortune, be content with what you have made, and clear yourself of the whole affair.” “Not I.” “Why not?” “Because I am going to make more. And I am going to marry Mrs. Vansittart. It is only a question of money. It always is with women. And not one in a hundred cares how the money is made.” Which, of course, is not true; for no woman likes to see her husband's name on a biscuit or a jam-pot. “Of course,” went on Percy, in his anger. “I know which side you take, since you are talking of open secrets. At any rate, Von Holzen knows yours--if it is a secret--for he has hinted at it more than once. You think that it is I who have been deceived or who deceive myself. You are just as likely to be wrong. You place your whole faith in Cornish. You think that Cornish cannot do wrong.” Dorothy turned and looked at him. Her eyes were steady, but the color left her face, as if she were afraid of what she was about to say. “Yes,” she said. “I do.” “And without a moment's hesitation,” went on Roden, hurriedly, “you would sacrifice everything for the sake of a man you had never seen six months ago?” “Yes.” “Even your own brother?” “Yes,” answered Dorothy.

26

THE ULTIMATUM.

“Le plus grand, le plus fort et le plus adroit surtout, est celui qui sait attendre.” “If you think that Herr von Holzen is a philanthropist, my dear,” said Marguerite Wade, sententiously, “that is exactly where your toes turn in.” She addressed this remark to Joan Ferriby, whose eyes were certainly veiled by that cloak of charity which the kind-hearted are ever ready to throw over the sins of others. The two girls were sitting in the quiet old-world garden of the hotel, beneath the shade of tall trees, within the peaceful sound of the cooing doves on the tiled roof. Major White was sitting within earshot, looking bulky and solemn in his light tweed suit and felt hat. The major had given up appearances long ago, but no man surpassed him in cleanliness and that well-groomed air which distinguishes men of his cloth. He was reading a newspaper, and from time to time glanced at his companions, more especially, perhaps, at Joan. “Major White,” said Marguerite. “Yes.” “Greengage, please.” The greengages were on a table at the major's elbow, having been placed there at Marguerite's command by the waiter who attended them at breakfast. White made ready to pass the dish. “Fingers,” said Marguerite. “Heave one over.” White selected one with an air of solemn resignation. Marguerite caught the greengage as neatly as it was thrown. “What do you think of Herr von Holzen?” she asked. “To think,” replied the Major, “certain requisites are necessary.” “Um--m.” “I do not know Herr von Holzen, and I have nothing to think with,” he explained gravely. “Well, you soon will know him, and I dare say if you tried you would find that you are not so stupid as you pretend to be. You are going down to the works this morning with Papa and Tony Cornish. I know that, because papa told me.” The Major looked at her with his air of philosophic surprise. She held up her hand for a catch, and with resignation he threw her another greengage. “Tony is going to call for you in a carriage at ten o'clock, and you three old gentlemen are going to drive in an open barouche with cigars, like a bean feast, to the malgamite works.” “The description is fairly accurate,” admitted Major White, without looking up from his paper. “And I imagine you are going to raise--Hail Columbia!” He looked at her severely through his glass, and said nothing. She nodded in a friendly and encouraging manner, as if to intimate that he had her entire approval. “Take my word for it,” she continued, turning to Joan, “Herr von Holzen is a shady customer. I know a shady customer when I see him. I never thought much of the malgamite business, you know, but unfortunately nobody asked my opinion on the matter. I wonder----” She paused, looking thoughtfully at Major White, who presently met her glance with a stolid stare. “Of course!” she said, in a final voice. “I forgot. You never think. You can't. Oh no!” “It is so easy to misjudge people,” pleaded Joan, earnestly. “It is much easier to see right through them, straight off, in the twinkling of a bedpost,” asserted Marguerite. “You will see, Herr von Holzen is wrong and Tony is right. And Tony will smash him up. You will see. Tony”--she paused, and looked up at the roof where the doves were cooing--“Tony knows his way about.” Major White rose and laid aside his paper. Mr. Wade was coming down the iron steps that led from the verandah to the garden. The banker was cutting a cigar, and wore a placid, comfortable look, as if he had breakfasted well. Even as regards kidneys and bacon in a foreign hotel, where there is a will there is a way, and Marguerite possessed tongues. “I'll turn this place inside out,” she had said, “to get the old thing what he wants.” Then she attacked the waiter in fluent German. Marguerite noted his approach with a protecting eye. “It's all solid common sense,” she said in an undertone to Joan, referring, it would appear, to his bulk. In only one respect was she misinformed as to the arrangements for the morning. Tony Cornish was not coming to the hotel to fetch Mr. Wade and White, but was to meet them in the shadiest of all thoroughfares and green canals, the Koninginne Gracht, where at midday the shadows cast by the great trees are so deep that daylight scarcely penetrates, and the boats creep to and fro like shadows. This amendment had been made in view of the fact that Lord Ferriby was in the hotel, and was, indeed, at this moment partaking of a solemn breakfast in his private sitting-room overlooking the Toornoifeld. His lordship did not, therefore, see these two solid pillars of the British constitution walk across the corner of the Korte Voorhout, cigar in lip, in a placid silence begotten, perhaps, of the knowledge that, should an emergency arise, they were of a material that would arise to meet it. Cornish was awaiting them by the bank of the canal. He was watching a boat slowly work its way past him. It was one of the large boats built for traffic on the greater canals and the open waters of the Scheldt estuary. It was laden from end to end with little square boxes bearing only a number and a port mark in black stencil. A pleasant odor of sealing-wax dominated the weedy smell of the canal. “Wherever you turn you meet the stuff,” was Cornish's greeting to the two Englishmen. Major White, with his delicate sense of smell, sniffed the breeze. Mr. Wade looked at the canal-boat with a nod. Commercial enterprise, and, above all, commercial success, commanded his honest respect. They entered the carriage awaiting them beneath the trees. Cornish was, as usual, quick and eager, a different type from his companions, who were not brilliant as he was, nor polished. They found the gates of the malgamite works shut, but the door-keeper, knowing Cornish to be a person of authority, threw them open and directed the driver to wait outside till the gentlemen should return. The works were quiet and every door was closed. “Is it mixing-day?” asked Cornish. “Every day is mixing-day now, mein Herr, and there are some who work all night as well. If the gentlemen will wait a moment, I will seek Herr Roden.” And he left them standing beneath the brilliant sun in the open space between the gate and the cottage where Von Holzen lived. In a few moments he returned, accompanied by Percy Roden, who emerged from the office in his shirt-sleeves, pen in hand. He shook hands with Cornish and White, glanced at Mr. Wade, and half bowed. He did not seem glad to see them. “We want to look at your books,” said Cornish. “I suppose you will make no objection?” Roden bit his moustache and looked at the point of his pen. “You and Major White?” he suggested. “And this gentleman, who comes as our financial advisor.” Roden raised his eyebrows rather insolently. “Ah--may I ask who this gentleman is?” he said. “My name is Wade,” answered the banker, characteristically for himself. Roden's face changed, and he glanced at the great financier with a keen interest. “I have no objection,” he said after a moment's hesitation. “If Von Holzen will agree. I will go and ask him.” And they were left alone in the sunshine once more. Mr. Wade watched Roden as he walked towards the factory. “Not the sort of man I expected,” he commented. “But he has the right shaped head for figures. He is shrewd enough to know that he cannot refuse, so gives in with a good grace.” In a few minutes Von Holzen approached them, emerging from the factory alone. He bowed politely, but did not offer to shake hands. He had not seen Cornish since the evening when he had offered to make malgamite before him, and the experiment had taken such a deadly turn. He looked at him now and found his glance returned by an illegible smile. The question flashed through his mind and showed itself on his face as to why Roden had made such a mistake as to introduce a man like this into the Malgamite scheme. Von Holzen invited the gentlemen into the office. “It is small, but it will accommodate us,” he said, with a smile. He drew forward chairs, and offered one to Cornish in particular, with a grim deference. He seemed to have divined that their last meeting in this same office had been, by tacit understanding, kept a secret. There is for some men a certain satisfaction in antagonism, and a stern regard for a strong foe--which reached its culmination, perhaps, in that Saxon knight who desired to be buried in the same chapel as his lifelong foe--between him, indeed, and the door--so that at the resurrection day they should not miss each other. Von Holzen seemed to have somewhat of this feeling for Cornish. He offered him the best seat at the table. Roden was taking his books from a safe--huge ledgers bound in green pigskin, slim cash-books, cloth-bound journals. He named them as he laid them on the table before Mr. Wade. Major White looked at the great tomes with solemn and silent awe. Mr. Wade was already fingering his gold pencil-case. He eyed the closed books with an anticipatory gleam of pleasure in his face--as a commander may eye the arrayed squadrons of the foe. “It is, of course, understood that this audit is strictly in confidence?” said Von Holzen. “For your own satisfaction, and not in any sense for publication. It is a trade secret.” “Of course,” answered Cornish, to whom the question had been addressed. “We trust to the honor of these gentlemen.” Cornish looked up and met the speaker's grave eyes. “Yes,” he said. Roden, having emptied the large safe, leant his shoulder against the iron mantelpiece and looked down at those seated at the table--especially at Mr. Wade. His hands were in his pockets; his face wore a careless smile. He had not resumed his coat, and the cleanliness of the books testified to the fact that he always worked in shirt-sleeves. It was a trick of the trade, which exonerated him from the necessity of apologizing. Mr. Wade took the great ledgers, opened them, fluttered the pages with his fingers, and set them aside one after the other. Then Roden seemed to recollect something. He went to a drawer and took from it a packet of neatly folded papers held together by elastic rings. The top one he unfolded and laid on the table before Mr. Wade. “Trial balance-sheet of 31st of March,” he said. Mr. Wade glanced up and down the closely written columns, which were like copper-plate--an astounding mass of figures. The additions in the final column ran to six numerals. The banker folded the paper and laid it aside. Then, he turned to the slim cash-books, which he glanced at casually. The journals he set aside without opening. He handled the books with a sort of skill showing that he knew how to lift them with the least exertion, how to open them and close them and turn their stiff pages. The enormous mass of figures did not seem to appal him; the maze was straight enough beneath such skillful eyes. Finally, he turned to a small locked ledger, of which the key was attached to Roden's watch-chain, who came forward and unlocked the book. Mr. Wade turned to the index at the beginning of the volume, found a certain account, and opened the book there. At the sight of the figures he raised his eyebrow and glanced up at Roden. “Whew!” he exclaimed, beneath his breath. He had arrived at his destination--had torn the heart out of these great books. All in the room were watching his placid, shrewd old face. He studied the books for some time and then took a sheet of blank paper from a number of such attached by a string to a corner of the table. He reflected for some minutes, pushing the movable part of his gold pencil in and out pensively as he did so. Then he wrote a number of figures on the sheet of paper and handed it to Cornish. He closed the locked ledger with a snap. The audit of the malgamite books was over. “It is a wonderful piece of single-handed bookkeeping,” he said to Roden. Cornish was studying the paper set before him by the banker. The proceedings seemed to have been prearranged, for no word was exchanged. There was no consultation on either side. Finally, Cornish folded the paper and tore it into a hundred pieces in scrupulous adherence to Von Holzen's conditions. Mr. Wade was sitting back in his chair thoughtfully amusing himself with his gold pencil-case. Cornish looked at him for a moment, and then spoke, addressing Von Holzen. “We came here to make a final proposal to you,” he said; “to place before you, in fact, our ultimatum. We do not pretend to conceal from you the fact that we are anxious to avoid all publicity, all scandal. But if you drive us to it, we shall unhesitatingly face both in order to close these works. We do not want the Malgamite scheme to be dragged as a charity in the mud, because it will inevitably drag other charities with it. There are certain names connected with the scheme which we should prefer; moreover, to keep from the clutches of the cheaper democratic newspapers. We know the weakness of our position. “And we know the strength of ours,” put in Von Holzen, quietly. “Yes. We recognize that also. You have hitherto slipped in between international laws, and between the laws of men. Legally, we should have difficulty in getting at you, but it can be done. Financially----” He paused, and looked at Mr. Wade. “Financially,” said the banker, without lifting his eyes from his pencil case, “we shall in the long run inevitably smash you--though the books are all right.” Roden smiled, with his long white fingers at his moustache. “From the figures supplied to me by Mr. Wade,” continued Cornish, “I see that there is an enormous profit lying idle--so large a profit that even between ourselves it is better not mentioned. There are, or there were yesterday, two hundred and ninety-two malgamite makers in active work.” Von Holzen made an involuntary movement, and Cornish looked at him over the pile of books. “Oh!” he said, “I know that. And I know the number of deaths. Perhaps you have not kept count, but I have. From the figures supplied by Mr. Wade, I see, therefore, that we have sufficient to pension off these two hundred and ninety-two men and their families--giving each man one hundred and twenty pounds a year. We can also make provision for the widows and orphans out of the sum I propose to withdraw from the profits. There will then be left a sum representing two large fortunes--of say between three and four thousand a year each. Will you and Mr. Roden accept this sum, dividing it as you think fit, and hand over the works to me? We ask, you to take it--no questions asked, and go.” “And Lord Ferriby?” suggested Von Holzen. Major White made a sudden movement, but Cornish laid his hand quickly upon the soldier's arm. “I will manage Lord Ferriby. What is your answer?” “No,” replied Von Holzen, instantly, as if he had long known what the ultimatum would be. Cornish turned interrogatively to Roden. His eyes urged Roden to accept. “No,” was the reply. Mr. Wade took out his large gold watch and looked at it. “Then there is no need,” he said composedly, “to detain these gentlemen any longer.”

27

COMMERCE.

“The world will not believe a man repents. And this wise world of ours is mainly right.” “Then you are of opinion, my dear White, that one cannot well refuse to meet these--er--persons?” “Not,” replied Major White to Lord Ferriby, whose hand rested on his stout arm as they walked with dignity in the shade of the trees that border the Vyver--that quaint old fish-pond of The Hague--“not without running the risk of being called a d----d swindler.” For the major was a lamentably plain-spoken man, who said but little, and said that little strong. Lord Ferriby's affectionate grasp of the soldier's arm relaxed imperceptibly. One must, he reflected, be prepared to meet unpleasantness in the good cause of charity--but there are words hardly applicable to the peerage, and Major White had made use of one of these. “Public opinion,” observed the major, after some minutes of deep thought, “is a difficult thing to deal with--'cos you cannot thump the public.” “It is notably hard,” said his lordship, firing off one of his pet platform platitudes, “to induce the public to form a correct estimate, or what one takes to be a correct estimate.” “Especially of one's self,” added the major, looking across the water towards the Binnenhof in his vacant way. Then they turned and walked back again beneath the heavy shade of the trees. The conversation, and indeed this dignified promenade on the Vyverberg, had been brought about by a letter which his lordship had received that same morning inviting him to attend a meeting of paper-makers and others interested in the malgamite trade to consider the position of the malgamite charity, and the advisability of taking legal proceedings to close the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. The meeting was to be held at the Hôtel des Indes, at three in the afternoon, and the conveners hinted pretty plainly that the proceedings would be of a decisive nature. The letter left Lord Ferriby with a vague feeling of discomfort. His position was somewhat isolated. A coldness had for some time been in existence between himself and his nephew, Tony Cornish. Of Mr. Wade, Lord Ferriby was slightly distrustful. “These commercial men,” he often said, “are apt to hold such narrow views.” And, indeed, to steer a straight course through life, one must not look to one side or the other. There remained Major White, of whom Lord Ferriby had thought more highly since Fortune had called this plain soldier to take a seat among the gods of the British public. For no man is proof against the satisfaction of being able to call a celebrated person by his Christian name. The major had long admired Joan, in his stupid way from, as one might say, the other side of the room. But neither Lord nor Lady Ferriby had encouraged this silent suit. Joan was theoretically one of those of whom it is said that “she might marry anybody,” and who, as the keen observer may see for himself, often finishes by failing to marry at all. She was pretty and popular, and had, moreover, the _entrée_ to the best houses. White had been useful to Lord Ferriby ever since the inauguration of the Malgamite scheme. He was not uncomfortably clever, like Tony Cornish. He was an excellent buffer at jarring periods. Since the arrival of Joan and her father at The Hague, the major had been almost a necessity in their daily life, and now, quite suddenly, Lord Ferriby found that this was the only person to whom he could turn for advice or support. “One cannot suppose,” he said, in the full conviction that words will meet any emergency--“One cannot suppose that Von Holzen will act in direct opposition to the voice of the majority.” “Von Holzen,” replied the major, “plays a doocid good game.” After luncheon they walked across the Toornoifeld to the Hôtel des Indes, and there, in a small _salon_, found a number of gentlemen seated round a table. Mr. Wade was conspicuous by his absence. They had, indeed, left him in the hotel garden, sitting at the consumption of an excellent cigar. “Join the jocund dance?” the major had inquired, with a jerk of the head towards the Hôtel des Indes. But Mr. Wade was going for a drive with Marguerite. Tony Cornish was, however, seated at the table, and the major recognized two paper-makers whom he had seen before. One was an aggressive, red-headed man, of square shoulders and a dogged appearance, who had “radical” written all over him. The other was a mild-mannered person, with a thin, ash-colored moustache. The major nodded affably. He distinctly remembered offering to fight these two gentlemen either together or one after the other on the landing of the little malgamite office in Westminster. And there was a faint twinkle behind the major's eyeglass as he saluted them. “Good morning, Thompson,” he said. “How do, MacHewlett?” For he never forgot a face or a name. “A'hm thinking----” Mr. MacHewlett was observing, but his thoughts died a natural death at the sight of a real lord, and he rose and bowed. Mr. Thompson remained seated and made that posture as aggressive and obvious as possible. The remainder of the company were of varied nationality and appearance, while one, a Frenchman of keen dark eyes and a trim beard--seemed by tacit understanding to be the acknowledged leader. Even the pushing Mr. Thompson silently deferred to him by a gesture that served at once to introduce Lord Ferriby and invite the Frenchman to up and smite him. Lord Ferriby took the seat that had been left vacant for him at the head of the table. He looked around upon faces not too friendly. “We were saying, my lord,” said the Frenchman, in perfect English and with that graceful tact which belongs to France alone, “that we have all been the victims of an unfortunate chain of misunderstandings. Had the organizers of this great charity consulted a few paper-makers before inaugurating the works at Scheveningen, much unpleasantness might have been averted, many lives might, alas, have been spared. But--well--such mundane persons as ourselves were probably unknown to you and unthought-of; the milk is spilt, is it not so? Let us rather think of the future.” Lord Ferriby bowed graciously, and Mr. Thompson moved impatiently on his chair. The suave method had no attractions for him. “A'hm thinking,” began Mr. MacHewlett, in his most plaintive voice, and commanded so sudden and universal an attention as to be obviously disconcerted, “his lordship'll need plainer speech than that,” he muttered hastily, and subsided, with an uneasy glance in the direction of that man of action, Major White. “One misunderstanding has, however, been happily dispelled,” said the Frenchman, “by our friend--if monsieur will permit the word--our friend, Mr. Cornish. From this gentleman we have learned that the executive of the Malgamite Charity are not by any means in harmony with the executive of the malgamite works at Scheveningen; that, indeed, the charity repudiates the action of its servants in manufacturing malgamite by a dangerous process tacitly and humanely set aside by makers up to this time; that the administrators of the fund are no party to the 'corner' which has been established in the product; do not desire to secure a monopoly, and disapprove of the sale of malgamite at a price which has already closed one or two of the smaller mills, and is paralyzing the paper trade of the world.” The speaker finished with a bow towards Cornish, and resumed his seat. All were watching Lord Ferriby's face, except Major White, who examined a quill pen with short-sighted absorption. Lord Ferriby looked across the table at Cornish. “Lord Ferriby,” said Cornish, without rising from his seat, and meeting his uncle's glance steadily, “will now no doubt confirm all that Monsieur Creil has said.” Lord Ferriby had, in truth, come to the meeting with no such intention. He had, with all his vast experience, no knowledge of a purely commercial assembly such as this. His public had hitherto been a drawing-room public. He was accustomed to a flower-decked platform, from which to deliver his flowing periods to the emotional of both sexes. There were no flowers in this room at the Hôtel des Indes, and the men before him were not of the emotional school. They were, on the contrary, plain, hard-headed men of business, who had come from different parts of the world at Cornish's bidding to meet a crisis in a plain, hard-headed way. They had only thoughts of their balance-sheets, and not of the fact that they held in the hollow of their hands the lives of hundreds, nay, of thousands, of men, women, and children. Monsieur Creil alone, the keen-eyed Frenchman, had absolute control of over three thousand employees--married men with children--but he did not think of mentioning the fact. And it is a weight to carry about with one--to go to sleep with and to awake with in the morning--the charge of, say, nine thousand human lives. For a few moments Lord Ferriby was silent. Cornish watched him across the table. He knew that his uncle was no fool, although his wisdom amounted to little more than the wisdom of the worldly. Would Lord Ferriby recognize the situation in time? There was a wavering look in the great man's eye that made his nephew suddenly anxious. Then Lord Ferriby rose slowly, to make the shortest speech that he had ever made in his life. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I beg to confirm what has just been said.” As he sat down again, Cornish gave a sharp sigh of relief. In a moment Mr. Thompson was on his feet, his red face alight with democratic anger. “This won't do,” he cried. “Let's have done with palavering and talk. Let's get to plain speaking.” And it was not Lord Ferriby, but Tony Cornish, who rose to meet the attack. “If you will sit down,” he said, “and keep your temper, you shall have plain speaking, and we can get to business. But if you do neither, I shall turn you out of the room.” “You?” “Yes,” answered Tony. And something which Mr. Thompson did not understand made him resume his seat in silence. The Frenchman smiled, and took up his speech where he had left it. “Mr. Cornish,” he said, “speaks with authority. We are, gentlemen, in the hands of Mr. Cornish, and in good hands. He has this matter at the tips of his fingers. He has devoted himself to it for many months past, at considerable risk, as I suspect, to his own safety. We and the thousands of employees whom we represent cannot do better than entrust the situation to him, and give him a free hand. For once, capital and labour have a common interest----” He was again interrupted by Mr. Thompson, who spoke more quietly now. “It seems to me,” he said, “that we may well consider the past for a few minutes before passing on to the future. There's more than a million pounds profit, at the lowest reckoning, on the last few months' manufacture. Question is, where is that profit? Is this a charity, or is it not? Mr. Cornish is all very well in his way. But we're not fools. We're men of business, and as such can only presume that Mr. Cornish, like the rest of 'em, has had his share. Question is, where are the profits?” Major White rose slowly. He was seated beside Mr. Thompson, and, standing up, towered above him. He looked down at the irate red face with a calm and wondering eye. “Question is,” he said gravely, “where the deuce you will be in a few minutes if you don't shut up.” Whereupon Mr. Thompson once more resumed his seat. He had the satisfaction, however, of perceiving that his shaft had reached its mark; for Lord Ferriby looked disconcerted and angry. The chairman of many charities looked, moreover, a little puzzled, as if the situation was beyond his comprehension. The Frenchman's pleasant voice again broke in, soothingly and yet authoritatively. “Mr. Cornish and a certain number of us have, for some time, been in correspondence,” he said. “It is unnecessary for me to suggest to my present hearers that in dealing with a large industry--in handling, as it were, the lives of a number of persons--it is impossible to proceed too cautiously. One must look as far ahead as human foresight may perceive--one must give grave and serious thought to every possible outcome of action or inaction. Gentlemen, we have done our best. We are now in a position to say to the administrators of the Malgamite Fund, close your works and we will do the rest. And this means that we shall provide for the survivors of this great commercial catastrophe, that we shall care for the widows and children of the victims, that we shall supply ourselves with malgamite of our own manufacture, produced only by a process which is known to be harmless, that we shall make it impossible that such a monopoly may again be declared. We have, so far as lies in our power, provided for every emergency. We have approached the two men who, from their retreat on the dunes of Scheveningen, have swayed one of the large industries of the world. We have offered them a fortune. We have tried threats and money, but we have failed to close them but one alternative, and that is--war. We are prepared in every way. We can to-morrow take over the manufacture of malgamite for the whole world--but we must have the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. We must have the absolute control of the Malgamite Fund and of the works. We propose, gentlemen, to seize this control, and invest the supreme command in the one man who is capable of exercising it--Mr. Anthony Cornish.” The Frenchman sat down, looked across the table, and shrugged his shoulders impatiently; for the irrepressible Thompson was already on his feet. It must be remembered that Mr. Thompson worked on commission, and had been hard hit. “Then,” he cried, pointing a shaking forefinger into Lord Ferriby's face, “that man has no business to be sitting there. We're honest here--if we're nothing else. We all know your history, my fine gentleman; we know that you cannot wipe out the past, so you're trying to whitewash it over with good works. That's an old trick, and it won't go down here. Do you think we don't see through you and your palavering speeches? Why have you refused to take action against Roden and Von Holzen? Because they've paid you. Look at him, gentlemen! He has taken money from those men at Scheveningen--blood money. He has had his share. I propose that Lord Ferriby explains his position.” Mr. Thompson banged his fist on the table, and at the same moment sat down with extreme precipitation, urged thereto by Major White's hand on his collar. “This is not a vestry meeting,” said the major, sternly. Lord Ferriby had risen to his feet. “My position, gentlemen,” he began, and then faltered, with his hand at his watch-chain. “My position----” He stopped with a gulp. His face was the colour of ashes. He turned in a dazed way towards his nephew; for at the beginning and the end of life blood is thicker than water. “Anthony,” said his lordship, and sat down heavily. All rose to their feet in confusion. Major White seemed somehow to be quicker than the rest, and caught Lord Ferriby in his arms--but Lord Ferriby was dead.

28

WITH CARE.

“Some man holdeth his tongue, because he hath not to answer: and some keepeth silence, knowing his time.” Those who live for themselves alone must at least have the consolatory thought that when they die the world will soon console itself. For it has been decreed that he who takes no heed of others shall himself be taken no heed of. We soon learn to do without those who are indifferent to us and useless to us. Lord Ferriby had so long and so carefully studied the _culte_ of self that even those nearest to him had ceased to give him any thought, knowing that in his own he was in excellent hands--that he would always ask for what he wanted. It was Lord Ferriby's business to make the discovery (which all selfish people must sooner or later achieve) that the best things in this world are precisely those which may not be given on demand, and for which, indeed, one may in nowise ask. When Major White and Cornish were left alone in the private _salon_ of the Hôtel des Indes--when the doctor had come and gone, when the blinds had been decently lowered, and the great man silently laid upon the sofa--they looked at each other without speaking. The grimmest silence is surely that which arises from the thought that of the dead one may only say what is good. “Would you like me,” said Cornish, “to go across and tell Joan?” And Major White, whose god was discipline, replied, “She's your cousin. It is for you to say.” “I shall be glad if you will go,” said Cornish, “and leave me to make the other arrangements. Take her home tomorrow, or tonight if she wants to, and leave us--me--to follow.” So Major White quitted the Hôtel des Indes, and walked slowly down the length of the Toornoifeld, leaving Cornish alone with Lord Ferriby, whose death made his nephew suddenly a richer man. The Wades had gone out for a drive in the wood. Major White knew that he would find Joan alone at the hotel. Bad news has a strange trick of clearing the way before it. The major went to the _salon_ on the ground floor overlooking the corner of the Vyverberg. Joan was writing a letter at the window. “Ah!” she said, turning, pen in hand, “you are soon back. Have you quarrelled?” White went stolidly across the room towards her. There was a chair by the writing-table, and here he sat down. Joan was looking uneasily into his face. Perhaps she saw more in that immovable countenance than the world was pleased to perceive. “Your father was taken suddenly ill,” he said, “during the meeting.” Joan half rose from her chair, but the major laid his protecting hand over hers. It was a large, quiet hand--like himself, somewhat suggestive of a buffer. And it may, after all, be no mean _rôle_ to act as a buffer between one woman and the world all one's life. “You can do nothing,” said White. “Tony is with him.” Joan looked into his face in speechless inquiry. “Yes,” he answered, “your father is dead.” Then he sat there in a silence which may have been intensely stupid or very wise. For silence is usually cleverer than speech, and always more interesting. Joan was dry-eyed. Well may the children of the selfish arise and bless their parents for (albeit unwittingly) alleviating one of the necessary sorrows of life. After a silence, Major White told Joan how the calamity had occurred, in a curt military way, as of one who had rubbed shoulders with death before, who had gone out, moreover, to meet him with a quiet mind, and had told others of the dealings of the destroyer. For Major White was deemed a lucky man by his comrades, who had a habit of giving him messages for their friends before they went into the field. Perhaps, moreover, the major was of the opinion of those ancient writers who seemed to deem it more important to consider how a man lives than how he dies. “It was some heart trouble,” he concluded, “brought on by worry or sudden excitement.” “The Malgamite,” answered Joan. “It has always been a source of uneasiness to him. He never quite understood it.” “No,” answered the major, very deliberately, “he never quite understood it.” And he looked out of the window with a thoughtful noncommitting face. “Neither do I--understand it,” said Joan, doubtfully. And the major looked suddenly dense. He had, as usual, no explanation to offer. “Was father deceived by some one?” Joan asked, after a pause. “One hears such strange rumours about the Malgamite Fund. I suppose father was deceived?” She spoke of the dead man with that hushed voice which death, with a singular impartiality to race or creed, seems to demand of the survivors wheresoever he passes. White met her earnest gaze with a grave nod. “Yes,” he answered. “He was deceived.” “He said before he went out that he did not want to go to the meeting at all,” went on Joan, in a tone of tender reminiscence, “but that he had always made a point of sacrificing his inclination to his sense of duty. Poor father!” “Yes,” said the major, looking out of the window. And he bore Joan's steady, searching glance like a man. “Tell me,” she said suddenly. “Were you and Tony deceived also?” Major White reflected for a moment. It is unwise to tell even the smallest lie in haste. “No,” he answered at length. “Not so entirely as your father.” He uncrossed his legs, and made a feeble attempt to divert her thoughts. But Joan was on the trail as it were of a half-formed idea in her own mind, and she would not have been a woman if she had relinquished the quest so easily. “But you were deceived at first?” she inquired, rather anxiously. “I know Tony was. I am sure of it. Perhaps he found out later; but you--” She drew her hand from under his rather hastily, having just found out that it was in that equivocal position. “You were never deceived,” she said, with a suspicion of resentment. “Well--perhaps not,” admitted the major, reluctantly. And he looked regretfully at the hand she had withdrawn. “Don't know much about charities,” he continued, after a pause. “Don't quite look at them in the right light, perhaps. Seems to me that you ought to be more business-like in charities than in anything else; and we're not business men--not even you.” He looked at her very solemnly and wisely, as if the thoughts in his mind would be of immense value if he could only express them; but he was without facilities in that direction. If one cannot be wise, the next best thing is to have a wise look. He rose, for he had caught sight of Tony Cornish crossing the Toornoifeld in the shade of the trees. Perhaps the major had forgotten for the moment that a great man was dead; that there were letters to be written and telegrams to be despatched; that the world must know of it, and the insatiable maw of the public be closed by a few scraps of news. For the public mind must have its daily food, and the wise are they who tell it only that which it is expedient for it to know. Lord Ferriby's life was, moreover, one that needed careful obituary treatment. Everybody's life may for domestic purposes be described as a hash; but Lord Ferriby's was a hash which in the hands of a cheap democratic press might easily be served up so daintily as to be very savoury in the nostrils of the world. Some of its component parts were indeed exceedingly ancient, and, so to speak, gamey, while the Malgamite scheme alone might easily be magnified into a very passable scandal. Tony came into the room, keen and capable. He did not show much feeling. Perhaps Joan and he understood each other without any such display. For they had known each other many years, and had understood other and more subtle matters without verbal explanation. For the world had been pleased to say that Joan and Tony must in the end inevitably marry. And they had never explained, never contradicted, and never married. While the three were still talking, a carriage rattled up to the door of the hotel, and then another. There began, in a word, that hushed confusion--that running to and fro as of ants upon a disturbed ant-hill--which follows hard upon the footsteps of the grim messenger, who himself is content to come so quietly and unobtrusively. Roden arrived to make inquiries, and Mrs. Vansittart, and a messenger from more than one embassy. Then the Wades came, brought hurriedly back by a messenger sent after them by Tony Cornish. Marguerite, with characteristic energy, came into the room first, slim and bright-eyed. She looked from one face to the other, and then crossed the room and stood beside Joan without speaking. She was smiling--a little hard smile with close-set lips, showing the world a face that meant to take life open-eyed, as it is, and make the best of it. Before long the two girls quitted the room, leaving the three men to their hushed discussion. Tony had already provided himself with pen and paper. In twelve hours that which the world must know about Lord Ferriby should be in print. There was just time to cable it to the _Times_ and the news agencies. And in these hurried days it is the first word which, after all, goes farthest and carries most weight. A contradiction is at all times a poor expedient. “I have silenced the paper-makers,” said Cornish, sitting down to write. “Even that ass Thompson, by striking while the iron was hot.” “And Roden won't open his lips,” added Mr. Wade, who, as he drove up, had seen that brilliant financier uneasily strolling under the trees of the Toornoifeld, looking towards the hotel, for Lord Ferriby's death was a link in the crooked malgamite chain which even Von Holzen had failed to foresee. Indeed, Lord Ferriby must have been gratified could he have seen the posthumous pother that he made by dying at this juncture. For in life he had only been important in his own eyes, and the world had taken little heed of him. This same keen-sighted world would not regret him much now and would assuredly mete out to that miserly old screw, his widow, only as much sympathy as the occasion deserved. Lady Ferriby would, the world suspected, sell off his lordship's fancy waistcoats, and proceed to save money to her heart's content. Even the thought of his club subscriptions, now necessarily to be discontinued, must have assuaged a large part of the widow's grief. Such, at least, was the opinion of the clubs themselves, when the news was posted up among the weather reports and the latest tapes from the House that same evening. While Lord Ferriby's friends were comfortably endowing him with a few compensating virtues over their tea and hot buttered toast in Pall Mall and St. James's Street, Mr. Wade, Tony, and White dined together at the Hotel of the Old Shooting Gallery at The Hague. The hour was an early one, and had never been countenanced by Lord Ferriby, but the three men in whose hands he had literally left his good name did not attach supreme importance to this matter. Indeed, the banker thought kindly of six-thirty as an hour at which in earlier days he had been endowed with a better appetite than he ever possessed now at eight o'clock or later. While they were at table a telegram was handed to Cornish. It was from Lord Ferriby's solicitor in London, and contained the advice that Tony Cornish had been appointed sole executor of his lordship's will. “Thank God!” said Tony, with a little laugh, as he read the message and handed it across to Mr. Wade, who looked at it gravely without comment. “And now,” said Cornish, “not even Joan need know.” For Cornish, having perceived Percy Roden under the trees of the Toornoifeld, had gone out there to speak to him, and in answer to a plain question had received a plain answer as to the price that Lord Ferriby had been paid for the use of his name in the Malgamite Fund transactions. Joan had elected to remain in her own rooms, with Marguerite to keep her company, until the evening, when, under White's escort, she was to set out for England. The major had in a minimum of words expressed himself ready to do anything at any time, provided that the service did not require an abnormal conversational effort. “I shall be home twenty-four hours after you,” said Cornish, as he bade Joan good-bye at the station. “And you need believe no rumours and fear no gossip. If people ask impertinent questions, refer them to White.” “And I'll thump them,” added the major, who indeed looked capable of rendering that practical service. They were favoured by a full moon and a perfect night for their passage from the Hook of Holland to Harwich. Joan expressed a desire to remain on deck, at all events, until the lights of the Maas had been left behind. Major White procured two deck chairs, and found a corner of the upper deck which was free alike from too much wind and too many people. There they sat in the shadow of a boat, and Joan seemed fully occupied with her own thoughts, for she did not speak while the steamer ploughed steadily onwards through the smooth water. “I wonder if it is my duty to continue to take an active part in the Malgamite Fund,” she said at length. And the major, who had been permitted to smoke, looked attentively at the lighted end of his cigar, and said nothing. “I am afraid it must be,” continued Joan, whose earnest endeavours to find out what was her duty, and do it, occupied the larger part of her time and attention. “Why?” asked Major White. “Because I don't want to.” The major thought about the matter for a long time--almost half through a cigar. It was wonderful how so much thought could result in so few words, especially in these days, which are essentially days of many words and few thoughts. During this period of meditation, Joan sat looking out to sea, and the moon shining down upon her face showed it to be puckered with anxiety. Like many of her contemporaries, she was troubled by an intense desire to do her duty, coupled with an unfortunate lack of duties to perform. “I wish you would tell me what you think,” she said. “Seems to me,” said White, “that your duty is clear enough.” “Yes?” “Yes. Drop the Malgamiters and the Haberdashers and all that, and--marry me.” But Joan only shook her head sadly. “That cannot be my duty,” she said. “Why? 'Cos it isn't unpleasant enough?” “No,” answered Joan, after a pause, in the deepest earnestness--“no--that's just it.” Out of which ambiguous observation the major seemed to gather some meaning, for he looked up at the moon with one of his most vacant smiles.

29

A LESSON.

“Whom the gods mean to destroy, they blind.” Mrs. Vansittart had passed the age of blind love. She had not the incentive of a healthy competition. She had not that more dangerous incentive of middle-aged vanity, which draws the finger of derision so often in the direction of widows. And yet she took a certain pleasure in playing a half-careless and wholly cynical Juliet to Percy Roden's _gauche_ Romeo. She had no intention of marrying him, and yet she continued to encourage him even now that open war was declared between Cornish and the malgamite makers. Cornish had indeed thanked Mrs. Vansittart for her assistance in the past in such a manner as to convey to her that she could hardly be of use to him in the future. He had magnified her good offices, and had warned her to beware of arousing Von Holzen's anger. Indeed, her use of Percy Roden was at an end, and yet she would not let him go. Cornish was puzzled, and so was Dorothy. Percy Roden was gratified, and read the riddle by the light of his own vanity. Mrs. Vansittart was not, perhaps, the first woman to puzzle her neighbours by refusing to relinquish that which she did not want. She was not the first, perhaps, to nurse a subtle desire to play some part in the world rather than be left idle in the wings. So she played the part that came first and easiest to her hand--a woman's natural part, of stirring up strife between men. She was, therefore, gratified when Von Holzen made his way slowly towards her through the crowd on the Kursaal terrace one afternoon on the occasion of a Thursday concert. She was sitting alone in a far corner of the terrace, protected by a glass screen from the wind which ever blows at Scheveningen. She never mingled with the summer visitors at this popular Dutch resort--indeed, knew none of them. Von Holzen seemed to be similarly situated; but Mrs. Vansittart knew that he did not seek her out on that account. He was not a man to do anything--much less be sociable--out of idleness. He only dealt with his fellow-beings when he had a use for them. She returned his grave bow with an almost imperceptible movement of the head, and for a moment they looked hard at each other. “Madame still lingers at The Hague,” he said. “As you see.” “And is the game worth the candle?” He laid his hand tentatively on a chair, and looked towards her with an interrogative glance. He would not, it appeared, sit down without her permission. And, womanlike, she gave it, with a shrug of one shoulder. A woman rarely refuses a challenge. “And is the game worth the candle?” he repeated. “One can only tell when it is played out,” was the reply; and Herr von Holzen glanced quickly at the lady who made it. He turned away and listened to the music. An occasional concert was the one diversion he allowed himself at this time from his most absorbing occupation of making a fortune. He had probably a real love of music, which is not by any means given to the good only, or the virtuous. Indeed, it is the art most commonly allied to vice. “By the way,” said Von Holzen, after a pause, “that paper which it pleased madame's fantasy to possess at one time--is destroyed. Its teaching exists only in my unworthy brain.” He turned and looked at her with his slow smile, his measuring eyes. “Ah!” “Yes; so madame need give the question no more thought, and may turn her full attention to her new--fancy.” Mrs. Vansittart was studying her programme, and did not look up or display the slightest interest in what he was saying. “Every event seems but to serve to strengthen our position,” went on Von Holzen, still half listening to the music. “Even the untimely death of Lord Ferriby--which might at first have appeared a _contretemps_. Cornish takes home the coffin by tonight's mail, I understand. Men may come, madame, and men may go--but we go on for ever. We are still prosperous--despite our friends. And Cornish is nonplussed. He does not know what to do next, and fate seems to be against him. He has no luck. We are manufacturing--day and night.” “You are interested in Mr. Cornish,” observed Mrs. Vansittart, coolly; and she saw a sudden gleam in Von Holzen's eyes. After all, the man had a passion over which his control was insecure--the last, the longest of the passions--hatred. He shrugged his shoulders. “He has forced himself upon our notice--unnecessarily as the result has proved--only to find out that there is no stopping us.” He could scarcely control his voice as he spoke of Cornish, and looked away as if fearing to show the expression of his eyes. Mrs. Vansittart watched him with a cool little smile. Von Holzen had not come here to talk of Cornish. He had come on purpose to say something which he had not succeeded in saying yet, and she was not ignorant of this. She was going to make it as difficult as possible for him, so that when he at last said what he had come to say, she should know it, and perhaps divine his motives. “Even now,” he continued, “we have succeeded beyond our expectations. We are rich men, so that madame--need delay no longer.” He turned and looked her straight in the eyes. “I?” she inquired, with raised eyebrows. “Need delay no longer--in what?” “In consummating the happiness of my partner, Percy Roden,” he was clever enough to say without being impertinent. “He--and his banking account--are really worth the attention of any lady.” Mrs. Vansittart laughed, and, before answering, acknowledged stiffly the stiff salutation of a passer. “Then it is suggested that I am waiting for Mr. Roden to be rich enough in order to marry him?” “It is the talk of gossips and servants.” Mrs. Vansittart looked at him with an amused smile. Did he really know so little of the world as to take his information from gossips and servants? “Ah,” she said, and that was all. She rose and made a little signal with her parasol to her coachman, who was waiting in the shadow of the Kursaal. As she drove home, she wondered why Von Holzen was afraid that she should marry Percy Roden, who, as it happened, was coming to tea in Park Straat that evening. Mrs. Vansittart had not exactly invited him--not, at all events, that he was aware of. He was under the impression that he had himself proposed the visit. She remembered that he was coming, but gave no further thought to him. All her mind was, indeed, absorbed with thoughts of Von Holzen, whom she hated with the dull and deadly hatred of the helpless. The sight of him, the sound of his voice, stirred something within her that vibrated for hours, so that she could think of nothing else--could not even give her attention to the little incidents of daily life. She pretended to herself that she sought retribution--that she wished on principle to check a scoundrel in his successful career. The heart, however, knows no principles; for these are created by and belong to the mind. Which explains why many women seem to have no principles and many virtuous persons no heart. Mrs. Vansittart went home to make a careful toilet pending the arrival of Percy Roden. She came down to the drawing-room, and stood idly at the window. “The talk of gossips and servants,” she repeated bitterly to herself. One of Von Holzen's shafts had, at all events, gone home. And Percy Roden came into the room a few minutes afterwards. His manner had more assurance than when he had first made Mrs. Vansittart's acquaintance. He had, perhaps, a trifle less respect for the room and its occupant. Mrs. Vansittart had allowed him to come nearer to her; and when a woman allows a man of whom she has a low opinion to come near to her, she trifles with her own self-respect, and does harm which, perhaps, may never be repaired. “I was too busy to go to the concert this afternoon,” he said, sitting down in his loose-limbed way. His assumption that his absence had been noticed rather nettled his hearer. “Ah! Were you not there?” she inquired. He turned and looked at her with his curt laugh. “If I had been there you would have known it,” he said. It was just one of those remarks--delivered in the half-mocking voice assumed in self-protection--which Mrs. Vansittart had hitherto allowed to pass unchallenged. And now, quite suddenly, she resented the manner and the speech. “Indeed,” she said, with a subtle inflection of tone which should have warned him. But he was engaged in drawing down his cuffs. Many young men would know more of the world if they had no cuffs or collars to distract them. “Yes,” answered Roden; “if I had gone to the concert it would not have been for the music.” Percy Roden's method of making love was essentially modern. He threw to Mrs. Vansittart certain scraps of patronage and admiration, which she could pick up seriously and keep if she cared to. But he was not going to risk a wound to his vanity by taking the initiative too earnestly. Mrs. Vansittart, who was busy at the tea-table, set down a cup which she had in her hand and crossed the room towards him. “What do you mean, Mr. Roden?” she asked slowly. He looked up with wavering eyes, and visibly lost colour under her gaze. “What do I mean?” “Yes. What do you mean when you say that, if you had gone to the concert, it would not have been for the music; that if you had been there, I should have known of your presence, and a hundred other--impertinences?” At first Roden thought that the way was being made easy for him as it is in books, as, indeed, it sometimes is in life, when it happens to be a way that is not worth the treading; but the last word stung him like a lash--as it was meant to sting. It was, perhaps, that one word that made him rise from his chair. “If you meant to object to anything that I may say, you should have done so long ago,” he said. “Who was the first to speak at the hotel when I came to The Hague? Which of us was it that kept the friendship up and cultivated it? I am not blind. I could hardly be anything else, if I had failed to see what you have meant all along.” “What have I meant all along?” she asked, with a strange little smile. “Why, you have meant me to say such things as I have said, and perhaps more.” “More--what can you mean?” She looked at him still with a smile, which he did not understand. And, like many men, he allowed his vanity to explain things which his comprehension failed to elucidate. “Well,” he said, after a moment's hesitation, “will you marry me? There!” “No, Mr. Roden, I will not,” she answered promptly; and then suddenly her eyes flashed, at some recollection, perhaps--at some thought connected with her happy past contrasted with this sordid, ignoble present. “You!” she cried. “Marry you!” “Why,” he asked, with a bitter little laugh, “what is there wrong with me?” “I do not know what there is wrong with you. And I am not interested to inquire. But, so far as I am concerned, there is nothing right.” A woman's answer after all, and one of those reasons which are no reasons, and yet rule the world. Roden looked at her, completely puzzled. In a flash of thought he recalled Dorothy's warning, and her incomprehensible foresight. “Then,” he said, lapsing in his self-forgetfulness into the terse language of his everyday life and thought, “what on earth have you been driving at all along?” “I have been driving at Herr von Holzen and the Malgamite scheme. I have been helping Tony Cornish,” she answered. So Percy Roden quitted the house at the corner of Park Straat a wiser man, and perhaps he left a wiser woman in it. “My dear,” said Mrs. Vansittart to Marguerite Wade, long afterwards, when a sort of friendship had sprung up and ripened between them--“my dear, never let a man ask you to marry him unless you mean to say yes. It will do neither of you any good.” And Marguerite, who never allowed another the last word, gave a shrewd little nod before she answered--“I always say no--before they ask me.”

30

ON THE QUEEN'S CANAL.

“There's not a crime--But takes its proper change still out in crime If once rung on the counter of this world.” Cornish went back to The Hague immediately after Lord Ferriby's funeral because it has been decreed that for all men, this large world shall sooner or later narrow down to one city, perhaps, or one village, or a single house. For a man's life is always centred round a memory or a hope, and neither of those requires much space wherein to live. Tony Cornish's world had narrowed to the Villa des Dunes on the sandhills of Scheveningen, and his mind's eye was always turned in that direction. His one thought at this time was to protect Dorothy--to keep, if possible, the name she bore from harm and ill-fame. Each day that passed meant death to the malgamite workers. He could not delay. He dared not hurry. He wrote again to Percy Roden from London, amid the hurried preparations for the funeral, and begged him to sever his connection with Von Holzen. “You will not have time,” he wrote, “to answer this before I leave for The Hague. I shall stay on the Toornoifeld as usual, and hope to arrive about nine o'clock to-morrow evening. I shall leave the hotel about a quarter-past nine and walk down the right-hand bank of the Koninginne Gracht, and should like to meet you by the canal, where we can have a talk. I have many reasons to submit to your consideration why it will be expedient for you to come over to my side in this difference now, which I cannot well set down on paper. And remember that between men of the world, such as I suppose we may take ourselves to be, there is no question of one of us judging the other. Let me beg of you to consider your position in regard to the Malgamite scheme--and meet me to-morrow night between the Malie Veld and the Achter Weg about half-past nine. I cannot see you at the works, and it would be better for you not to come to my hotel.” The letter was addressed to the Villa des Dunes, where Roden received it the next morning. Dorothy saw it, and guessed from whom it was, though she hardly knew her lover's writing. He had adhered firmly to his resolution to keep himself in the background until he had finished the work he had undertaken. He had not written to her; had scarcely seen her. Roden read the letter, and put it in his pocket without a word. It had touched his vanity. He had had few dealings with men of the standing and position of Cornish, and here was this peer's nephew and peer's grandson appealing to him as to a friend, classing him together with himself as a man of the world. No man has so little discretion as a vain man. It is almost impossible for him to keep silence when speech will make for his glorification. Roden arrived at the works well pleased with himself, and found Von Holzen in their little office, put out, ill at ease, domineering. It was unfortunate, if you will. Percy Roden was always ready to perceive his own ill-fortune, and looked back later to this as one of his most untoward hours. Life, however, should surely consist of seizing the fortunate and fighting through the ill moments--else why should men have heart and nerve? In such humours as they found themselves it did not take long for these two men to discover a question upon which to differ. It was a mere matter of detail connected with the money at that time passing through their hands. “Of course,” said Roden, in the course of a useless and trivial dispute--“of course you think you know best, but you know nothing of finance--remember that. Everybody knows that it is I who have run that part of the business. Ask old Wade, or White--or Cornish.” The argument had, in truth, been rather one-sided. For Roden had done all the talking, while Von Holzen looked at him with a quiet eye and a silent contempt that made him talk all the more. Von Holzen did not answer now, though his eye lighted at the mention of Cornish's name. He merely looked at Roden with a smile, which conveyed as clearly as words Von Holzen's suggestion that none of the three men named would be prepared to give Roden a very good character. “I had a letter, by the way, from Cornish this morning,” said Roden, lapsing into his grander manner, which Von Holzen knew how to turn to account. “Ah--bah!” he exclaimed sceptically. And that lurking vanity of the inferior to lessen his own inferiority did the rest. “If you don't believe me, there you are,” said Roden, throwing the letter upon the table--not ill-pleased, in the heat of the moment, to show that he was a more important person than his companion seemed to think. Von Holzen read the letter slowly and thoughtfully. The fact that it was evidently intended for Roden's private eye did not seem to affect one or the other of these two men, who had travelled, with difficulty, along the road to fortune, only reaching their bourn at last with a light stock of scruples and a shattered code of honour. Then he folded it, and handed it back. He was not likely to forget a word of it. “I suppose you will go,” he said. “It will be interesting to hear what he has to say. That letter is a confession of weakness.” In making which statement Von Holzen showed his own weak point. For, like many clever men, he utterly failed to give to women their place--the leading place--in the world's history, as in the little histories of our daily lives. He never detected Dorothy between every line of Cornish's letter, and thought that it had only been dictated by inability to meet the present situation. “I cannot very well refuse to go since the fellow asks me,” said Roden, grandly. He might as well have displayed his grandeur to a statue. If love is blind, self-love is surely half-witted as well, for it never sees nor understands that the world is fooling it. Roden failed to heed the significant fact that Von Holzen did not even ask him what line of conduct he intended to follow with regard to Cornish, nor seek in his autocratic way to instruct him on that point; but turned instead to other matters and did not again refer to Cornish or the letter he had written. So the day wore on while Cornish impatiently walked the deck of the steamer, ploughing its way across the North Sea, through showers and thunderstorms and those grey squalls that flit to and fro on the German Ocean. And some tons of malgamite were made, while a manufacturer or two of the grim product laid aside his tools forever, while the money flowed in, and Otto von Holzen thought out his deep silent plans over his vats and tanks and crucibles. And all the while those who write in the book of fate had penned the last decree. Cornish arrived punctually at The Hague. He drove to the hotel, where he was known, where, indeed, he had never relinquished his room. There was no letter for him--no message from Percy Roden. But Von Holzen had unobtrusively noted his arrival at the station from the crowded retreat of the second-class waiting-room. The day had been a very hot one, and from canal and dyke arose that sedgy odour which comes with the cool of night in all Holland. It is hardly disagreeable, and conveys no sense of unhealthiness. It seems merely to be the breath of still waters, and, in hot weather, suggests very pleasantly the relief of northern night. The Hague has two dominant smells. In winter, when the canals are frozen, the reek of burning-peat is on the air and in the summer the odour of slow waters. Cornish knew them both. He knew everything about this old-world city, where the turning-point of his life had been fixed. It was deserted now. The great houses, the theatre--the show-places--were closed. The Toornoifeld was empty. The hotel porter, aroused by the advent of the traveller from an after-dinner nap in his little glass box, spread out his hands with a gesture of surprise. “The season is over,” he said. “We are empty. Why you come to The Hague now?” Even the sentries at the end of the Korte Voorhout wore a holiday air of laxness, and swung their rifles idly. Cornish noticed that only half of the lamps were lighted. The banks of the Queen's Canal are heavily shaded by trees, which, indeed, throw out their branches to meet above the weed-sown water. There is a broad thoroughfare on either side of the canal, though little traffic passes that way. These are two of the many streets of The Hague which seem to speak of a bygone day, when Holland played a greater part in the world's history than she does at present, for the houses are bigger than the occupants must need, and the streets are too wide for the traffic passing through them. In the middle the canal--a gloomy corridor beneath the trees--creeps noiselessly towards the sea. Cornish was before the appointed hour, and walked leisurely by the pathway between the trees and the canal. Soon the houses were left behind, and he passed the great open space called the Malie Veld. He had met no one since leaving the guard-house. It was a dark night, with no moon, but the stars were peeping through the riven clouds. “Unless he stands under a lamp, I shall not see him,” he said to himself, and lighted a cigar to indicate his whereabouts to Roden, should he elect to keep the appointment. When he had gone a few paces farther he saw someone coming towards him. There was a lamp halfway between them, and, as he approached the light, Cornish recognized Roden. There was no mistaking the long loose stride. “I wonder,” said Cornish, “if this is going to the end?” And he went forward to meet the financier. “I was afraid you would not come,” he said, in a voice that was friendly enough, for he was a man of the world, and in that which is called Society (with a capital letter) had rubbed elbows all his life with many who had no better reputation than Percy Roden, and some who deserved a worse. “Oh, I don't mind coming,” answered Roden, “because I did not want to keep you waiting here in the dark. But it is no good, I tell you that at the outset.” “And nothing I can say will alter your decision?” “Nothing. A man does not get two such chances as this in his lifetime. I am not going to throw this one away for the sake of a sentiment.” “Sentiment hardly describes the case,” said Cornish, thoughtfully. “Do you mean to tell me that you do not care about all these deaths--about these poor devils of malgamiters?” And he looked hard at his companion beneath the lamp. “Not a d--n,” answered Roden. “I have been poor--you haven't. Why, man! I have starved inside a good coat. You don't know what that means.” Cornish looked at him, and said nothing. There was no mistaking the man's sincerity--nor the manner in which his voice suddenly broke when he spoke of hunger. “Then there are only two things left for me to do,” said Cornish, after a moment's reflection. “Ask your sister to marry me first, and smash you up afterwards.” Roden, who was smoking, threw his cigarette away. “You mean to do both these things?” “Both.” Roden looked at him. He opened his lips to speak, but suddenly leapt back. “Look out!” he cried, and had barely time to point over Cornish's shoulder. Cornish swung round on his heel. He belonged to a school and generation which, with all its faults, has, at all events, the redeeming quality of courage. He had long learnt to say the right thing, which effectually teaches men to do the right thing also. He saw some one running towards him, noiselessly, in rubber shoes. He had no time to think, and scarce a moment in which to act, for the man was but two steps away with an upraised arm, and in the lamplight there flashed the gleam of steel. Cornish concentrated his attention on the upraised arm, seizing it with both hands, and actually swinging his assailant off his legs. He knew in an instant who it was, without needing to recognize the smell of malgamite. This was Otto von Holzen, who had not hesitated to state his opinion--that it is often worth a man's while to kill another. While his feet were still off the ground, Cornish let him go, and he staggered away into the darkness of the trees. Cornish, who was lithe and quick, rather than of great physical force, recovered his balance in a moment, and turned to face the trees. He knew that Von Holzen would come back. He distinctly hoped that he would. For man is essentially the first of the “game” animals and beneath fine clothes there nearly always beats a heart ready, quite suddenly, to snatch the fearful joy of battle. Von Holzen did not disappoint him, but came flying on silent feet, like some beast of prey, from the darkness. Cornish had played half-back for his school not so many years before. He collared Von Holzen low, and let him go, with a cruel skill, heavily on his head and shoulder. Not a word had been spoken, and, in the stillness of the summer night, each could hear the other breathing. Roden stood quite still. He could scarcely distinguish the antagonists. His own breath came whistling through his teeth. His white face was ghastly and twitching. His sleepy eyes were awake now, and staring. Each charge had left Cornish nearer to the canal. He was standing now quite at the edge. He could smell, but he could not see the water, and dared not turn his head to look. There is no railing here as there is nearer the town. In a moment, Von Holzen was on his feet again. In the dark, mere inches are much equalized between men--but Von Holzen had a knife. Cornish, who held nothing in his hands, knew that he was at a fatal disadvantage. Again, Von Holzen ran at him with his arm outstretched for a swinging stab. Cornish, in a flash of thought, recognized that he could not meet this. He stepped neatly aside. Von Holzen attempted to stop stumbled, half recovered himself, and fell headlong into the canal. In a moment Cornish and Roden were at the edge, peering into the darkness. Cornish gave a breathless laugh. “We shall have to fish him out,” he said. And he knelt down, ready to give a hand to Von Holzen. But the water, smooth again now, was not stirred by so much as a ripple. “Suppose he can swim?” muttered Roden, uneasily. And they waited in a breathless silence. There was something horrifying in the single splash, and then the stillness. “Gad!” whispered Cornish. “Where is he?” Roden struck a match, and held it inside his hat so as to form a sort of lantern, though the air was still enough. Cornish did the same, and they held the lights out over the water, throwing the feeble rays right across the canal. “He cannot have swum away,” he said. “Von Holzen,” he cried out cautiously, after another pause--“Von Holzen--where are you?” But there was no answer. The surface of the canal was quite still and glassy in those parts that were not covered by the close-lying duck-weed. The water crept stealthily, slimily, towards the sea. The two men held their breath and waited. Cornish was kneeling at the edge of the water, peering over. “Where is he?” he repeated. “Gad! Roden, where is he?” And Roden, in a hoarse voice, answered at length “He is in the mud at the bottom--head downwards.”

31

AT THE CORNER.

“L'homme s'agite et Dieu le mêne.” The two men on the edge of the canal waited and listened again. It seemed still possible that Von Holzen had swum away in the darkness--had perhaps landed safely and unperceived on the other side. “This,” said Cornish, at length, “is a police affair. Will you wait here while I go and fetch them?” But Roden made no answer, and in the sudden silence Cornish heard the eerie sound of chattering teeth. Percy Roden had morally collapsed. His mind had long been t a great tension, and this shock had unstrung him. Cornish seized him by the arm, and held him while he hook like a leaf and swayed heavily. “Come, man,” said Cornish, kindly--“come, pull yourself together.” He held him steadily and patiently until the shaking eased. “I'll go,” said Roden, at length. “I couldn't stay ere alone.” And he staggered away towards The Hague. It seemed hours before he came back. A carriage rattled past Cornish while he waited there, and two foot-passengers paused for a moment to look at him with some suspicion. At last Roden returned, accompanied by a police official--a phlegmatic Dutchman, who listened to the story in silence. He shook his head at Cornish's suggestion, made in halting Dutch mingled with German, that Von Holzen had swum away in the darkness. “No,” said the officer, “I know these canals--and this above all others. They will find him, planted in the mud at the bottom, head downward like a tulip. The head goes in and the hands are powerless, for they only grasp soft mud like a fresh junket.” He drew his short sword from its sheath, and scratched a deep mark in the gravel. Then he turned to the nearest tree, and made a notch on the bark with the blade. “There is nothing to be done tonight,” he said philosophically. “There are men engaged in dredging the canal. I will set them to work at dawn before the world is astir. In the mean time”--he paused to return his sword to its scabbard--“in the meantime I must have the names and residence of these gentlemen. It is not for me to believe or disbelieve their story.” “Can you go home alone? Are you all right now?” Cornish asked Roden, as he walked away with him towards the Villa des Dunes. “Yes, I can go home alone,” he answered, and walked on by himself, unsteadily. Cornish watched him, and, before he had gone twenty yards, Roden stopped. “Cornish!” he shouted. “Yes.” And they walked towards each other. “I did not know that Von Holzen was there. You will believe that?” “Yes; I will believe that,” answered Cornish. And they parted a second time. Cornish walked slowly back to the hotel. He limped a little, for Von Holzen had in the struggle kicked him on the ankle. He suddenly felt very tired, but was not shaken. On the contrary, he felt relieved, as if that which he had been attempting so long had been suddenly taken from his hands and consummated by a higher power, with whom all responsibility rested. He went to bed with a mechanical deliberation, and slept instantly. The daylight was streaming into the window when he awoke. No one sleeps very heavily at The Hague--no one knows why--and Cornish awoke with all his senses about him at the opening of his bedroom door. Roden had come in and was standing by the bedside. His eyes had a sleepless look. He looked, indeed, as if he had been up all night, and had just had a bath. “I say,” he said, in his hollow voice--“I say, get up. They have found him--and we are wanted. We have to go and identify him--and all that.” While Cornish was dressing, Roden sat heavily down on a chair near the window. “Hope you'll stick by me,” he said, and, pausing, stretched out his hand to the washing-stand to pour himself out a glass of water--“I hope you'll stick by me. I'm so confoundedly shaky. Don't know what it is--look at my hand.” He held out his hand, which shook like a drunkard's. “That is only nerves,” said Cornish, who was ever optimistic and cheerful. He was too wise to weigh carefully his reasons for looking at the best side of events. “That is nothing. You have not slept, I expect.” “No; I've been thinking. I say, Cornish--you must stick by me--I have been thinking. What am I to do with the malgamiters? I cannot manage the devils as Von Holzen did. I'm--I'm a bit afraid of them, Cornish.” “Oh, that will be all right. Why, we have Wade, and can send for White if we want him. Do not worry yourself about that. What you want is breakfast. Have you had any?” “No. I left the house before Dorothy was awake or the servants were down. She knows nothing. Dorothy and I have not hit it off lately.” Cornish made no answer. He was ringing the bell, and ordered coffee when the waiter came. “Haven't met any incident in life yet,” he said cheerfully, “that seemed to justify missing out meals.” The incident that awaited them was not, however, a pleasant one, though the magistrate in attendance afforded a courteous assistance in the observance of necessary formalities. Both men made a deposition before him. “I know something,” he said to Cornish, “of this malgamite business. We have had our eye upon Von Holzen for some time--if only on account of the death-rate of the city.” They breathed more freely when they were out in the street. Cornish made some unimportant remark, which the other did not answer. So they walked on in silence. Presently, Cornish glanced at his companion, and was startled at the sight of his face, which was grey, and glazed all over with perspiration, as an actor's face may sometimes be at the end of a great act. Then he remembered that Roden had not spoken for a long time. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Didn't you see?” gasped Roden. “See what?” “The things they had laid on the table beside him. The things they found in his hands and his pockets.” “The knife, you mean,” said Cornish, whose nerves were worthy of the blood that flowed in his veins, “and some letters?” “Yes; the knife was mine. Everybody knows it. It is an old dagger that has always lain on a table in the drawing room at the Villa des Dunes.” “I have never been in the drawing room at the Villa des Dunes, except once by lamplight,” said Cornish, indifferently. Roden turned and looked at him with eyes still dull with fear. “And among the letters was the one you wrote to me making the appointment. He must have stolen it from the pocket of my office coat, which I never wear while I am working.” Cornish was nodding his head slowly. “I see,” he said, at length--“I see. It was a pretty _coup_. To kill me, and fix the crime on you--and hang you?” “Yes,” said Roden, with a sudden laugh, which neither forgot to his dying day. They walked on in silence. For there are times in nearly every man's life when events seem suddenly to outpace thought, and we can only act as seems best at the moment; times when the babbler is still and the busybody at rest; times when the cleverest of us must recognize that the long and short of it all is that man agitates himself and God leads him. At the corner of the Vyverberg they parted--Cornish to return to his hotel, Roden to go back to the works. His carriage was awaiting him in a shady corner of the Binnenhof. For Roden had his carriage now, and, like many possessing suddenly such a vehicle, spent much time and thought in getting his money's worth out of it. “If you want me, send for me, or come to the hotel,” were Cornish's last words, as he shut the successful financier into his brougham. At the hotel, Cornish found Mr. Wade and Marguerite lingering over a late breakfast. “You look,” said Marguerite, “as if you had been up to something.” She glanced at him shrewdly. “Have you smashed Roden's Corner?” she asked. “Yes,” answered Cornish, turning to Mr. Wade; “and if you will come out into the garden, I will tell you how it has been done. Monsieur Creil said that the paper-makers could begin supplying themselves with malgamite at a day's notice. We must give them that notice this morning.” Mr. Wade, who was never hurried and never late, paused at the open window to light his cigar before following Marguerite. “Ah,” he said placidly, “then fortune must have favored you, or something has happened to Von Holzen.” Cornish knew that it was useless to attempt to conceal anything whatsoever from the discerning Marguerite, so--in the quiet garden of the hotel, where the doves murmur sleepily on the tiles, and the breeze only stirs the flowers and shrubs sufficiently to disseminate their scents--he told father and daughter the end of Roden's Corner. They were still in the garden, an hour later, writing letters and telegrams, and making arrangements to meet this new turn in events, when Dorothy Roden came down the iron steps from the verandah. She hurried towards them and shook hands, without explaining her sudden arrival. “Is Percy here?” she asked Cornish. “Have you seen him this morning?” “He is not here, but I parted from him a couple of hours ago on the Vyverberg. He was going down to the works.” “Then he never got there,” said Dorothy. “I have had nearly all the malgamiters at the Villa des Dunes. They are in open rebellion, and if Percy had been there they would have killed him. They have heard a report that Herr von Holzen is dead. Is it true?” “Yes. Von Holzen is dead.” “And they broke into the office. They got at the books. They found out the profits that have been made and they are perfectly wild with fury. They would have wrecked the Villa des Dunes, but----” “But they were afraid of you, my dear,” said Mr. Wade, filling in the blank that Dorothy left. “Yes,” she admitted. “Well played,” muttered Marguerite, with shining eyes. Cornish had risen, and was folding away his papers. “I will go down to the works,” he said. “But you cannot go there alone,” put in Dorothy, quickly. “He will not need to do that,” said Mr. Wade, throwing the end of his cigar into the bushes, and rising heavily from his chair. Marguerite looked at her father with a little upward jerk of the head and a light in her eyes. It was quite evident that she approved of the old gentleman. “He's a game old thing,” she said, aside to Dorothy, while her father collected his papers. “Your brother has probably been warned in time, and will not go near the works,” said Cornish to Dorothy. “He was more than prepared for such an emergency; for he told me himself that he was half afraid of the men. He is almost sure to come to me here--in fact, he promised to do so if he wanted help.” Dorothy looked at him, and said nothing. The world would be a simpler dwelling-place if those who, for one reason or another, cannot say exactly what they mean would but keep silence. Cornish told her, hurriedly, what had happened twelve hours ago on the bank of the Queen's Canal; and the thought of the misspent, crooked life that had ended in the black waters of that sluggish tideway made them all silent for a while. For death is in itself dignified, and demands respect for all with whom he has dealings. Many attain the distinction of vice in life, while more only reach the mere mediocrity of foolishness; but in death all are equally dignified. We may, indeed, assume that we shall, by dying, at last command the respect of even our nearest relations and dearest friend--for a week or two, until they forget us. “He was a clever man,” commented Mr. Wade, shutting up his gold pencil case and putting it in the pocket of his comfortable waistcoat. “But clever men are rarely happy----” “And clever women--never,” added Marguerite--that shrewd seeker after the last word. While they were still speaking, Percy Roden came hurriedly down the steps. He was pale and tired, but his eye had a light of resolution in it. He held his head up, and looked at Cornish with a steady glance. It seemed that the vague danger which he had anticipated so nervously had come at last, and that he stood like a man in the presence of it. “It is all up,” he said. “They have found the books; they have understood them; and they are wrecking the place.” “They are quite welcome to do that,” said Cornish. Mr. Wade, who was always business-like, had reopened his writing-case when he saw Roden, and now came forward to hand him a written paper. “That is a copy,” he said, “of the telegram we have sent to Creil. He can come here and select what men he wants--the steady ones and the skilled workmen. With each man we will hand him a cheque in trust. The others can take their money--and go.” “And drink themselves to death as expeditiously as they think fit,” added Cornish, the philanthropist--the fashionable drawing-room champion of the masses. “I got back here through the Wood,” said Percy Roden, who was still breathless, as if he had been hurrying. “One of them, a Swede, came to warn me. They are looking for me in the town--a hundred and twenty of them, and not one who cares that”--he paused, and gave a snap of the fingers--“for his life or the law. Both railway stations are watched, and all the steam-boat stations on the canals; they will kill me if they catch me.” His eyes wavered, for there is nothing more terrifying than the avowed hostility of a mass of men, and no law grimmer than lynch-law. Yet he held up his head with a sort of pride in his danger--some touch of that subtle sense of personal distinction which seems to reach the heart of the victim of an accident, or of a prisoner in the dock. “If I had not met that Swede I should have gone on to the works, and they would have pulled me to pieces there,” continued Roden. “I do not know how I am to get away from The Hague, or where I shall be safe in the whole world; but the money is at Hamburg and Antwerp. The money is safe enough.” He gave a laugh and threw back his head. His hearers looked at him, and Mr. Wade alone understood his thoughts. For the banker had dealt with money-makers all his life and knew that to many men, money is a god, and the mere possession of it dearer to them than life itself. “If you stay here, in my room upstairs,” said Cornish, “I will go down to the works now. And this evening I will try and get you away from The Hague--and from Europe.” “And I will go to the Villa des Dunes again,” added Dorothy, “and pack your things.” Marguerite had risen also, and was moving towards the steps. “Where are you going?” asked her father. “To the Villa des Dunes,” she replied; and, turning to Dorothy, added, “I shall take some clothes and stay with you there until things straighten themselves out a bit.” “Why?” “Because I cannot let you go there alone.” “Why not?” asked Dorothy. “Because--I am not that sort,” said Marguerite; and, turning, she ascended the iron steps.

32

ROUND THE CORNER.

“Les heureux ne rient pas; ils sourient.” Soon after Mr. Wade and Cornish had quitted their carriage, on that which is known as the New Scheveningen Road, and were walking across the dunes to the malgamite works, they met a policeman running towards them. “It is,” he answered breathlessly, to their inquiries--“it is the English Chemical Works on the dunes, which have caught fire. I am hurrying to the Artillery Station to telegraph for the fire-engines; but it will be useless. It will all be over in half an hour--by this wind and after so much dry weather; see the black smoke, excellencies.” And the man pointed towards a column of smoke, blown out over the sand-hills by the strong wind, characteristic of these flat coasts. Then, with a hurried salutation, he ran on. Cornish and Mr. Wade proceeded more leisurely on their way; for the banker was not of a build to hurry even to a fire. Before they had gone far they perceived another man coming across the Dunes towards The Hague. As he approached, Cornish recognized the man known as Uncle Ben. He was shambling along on unsteady legs, and carried his earthly belongings in a canvas sack of doubtful cleanliness. The recognition was apparently mutual; for Uncle Ben deviated from his path to come and speak to them. “It's me, mister,” he said to Cornish, not disrespectfully. “And I don't mind tellin' yer that I'm makin' myself scarce. That place is gettin' a bit too hot for me. They're just pullin' it down and makin' a bonfire of it. And if you or Mr. Roden goes there, they'll just take and chuck yer on top of it--and that's God's truth. They're a rough lot some of them, and they don't distinguish 'tween you and Mr. Roden like as I do. Soddim and Gomorrer, I say. Soddim and Gomorrer! There won't be nothin' left of yer in half an hour.” And he turned and shook a dirty fist towards the rising smoke, which was all that remained of the malgamite works. He hurried on a few paces, then stopped and laid down his bag. He ran back, calling out “Mister!” as he neared Cornish and Mr. Wade. “I don't mind tellin' yer,” he said to Cornish, with a ludicrous precautionary look round the deserted dunes to make sure that he would not be overheard; for he was sober, and consequently stupid--“I don't mind tellin' yer--seein' as I'm makin' myself scarce, and for the sake o' Miss Roden, who has always been a good friend to me--as there's a hundred and twenty of 'em looking for Mr. Roden at this minute, meanin' to twist his neck; and what's worse, there's others--men of dedication like myself--who has gone to the murder, or something. And they'll get it too, with the story they've got to tell, and them poor devils planted thick as taters in the cheap corner of the cemetery. I've warned yer, mister.” Uncle Ben expectorated with much emphasis, looked towards the malgamite works with a dubious shake of the head, and went on his way, muttering, “Soddim and Gomorrer.” His hearers walked on over the sand-hills towards the smoke, of which the pungent odour, still faintly suggestive of sealing-wax, reached their nostrils. At the top of a high dune, surmounted with considerable difficulty, Mr. Wade stopped. Cornish stood beside him, and from that point of vantage they saw the last of the malgamite works. Amid the flames and smoke the forms of men flitted hither and thither, adding fuel to the fire. “They are, at all events, doing the business thoroughly,” said the banker. “And there is nothing to be gained by our disturbing them at it--and a good deal to be lost--namely, our lives. They are not burning the cottages, I see; only the factory. There is nothing heroic about me, Tony. Let us go back.” But Mr. Wade returned to The Hague alone; for Cornish had matters of importance requiring his attention. It was now doubly necessary to get Roden safely away from Holland, and with the necessity increased the difficulty. For Holland is a small country, well watched, highly civilized. Cornish knew that it would be next to impossible for Roden to leave the country by rail or road. There remained, therefore, the sea. Cornish had, during his sojourn at the humble Swan at Scheveningen, made certain friends there. And it was to the old village under the dunes, little known to visitors, and a place apart from the fashionable bathing resort, that he went in his difficulty. He spent nearly the whole day in these narrow streets; indeed, he lunched at the Swan in company of a seafaring gentleman clad in soft blue flannel, and addicted to the mediaeval coiffure still affected in certain parts of Zeeland. From this quiet retreat Cornish also wrote a note to Dorothy at the Villa des Dunes, informing her of Roden's new danger, and warning her not to attempt to communicate with her brother, or even send him his baggage. In the afternoon Cornish made a few purchases, which he duly packed in a sailor's kit-bag, and at nightfall Roden arrived on foot. The weather was squally, as it often is in August on these coasts; indeed, the summer seemed to have come to an end before its time. “It is raining like the deuce,” said Roden, “and I am wet through, though I came under the trees of the Oude Weg.” He spoke with his usual suggestion of a grievance, which made Cornish answer him rather curtly--“We shall be wetter before we get on board.” It was raining when they quitted the modest Swan, and hurried through the sparsely lighted, winding streets. Cornish had borrowed two oil-skin coats and caps, which at once disguised them and protected them from the rain. Any passer-by would have taken them for a couple of fishermen going about their business. But there were few in the streets. “Why are you doing all this for me?” asked Roden, suddenly. “To avoid a scandal,” replied Cornish, truthfully enough; for he had been brought up in a world where the longevity of scandal is fully understood. The wide stretch of sand was entirely deserted when they emerged from the narrow streets and gained the summit of the sea-wall. A thunderstorm was growling in the distance, and every moment a flash of thin summer lightning shimmered on the horizon. The wind was strong, as it nearly always is here, and shallow white surf stretched seaward across the flats. The sea roared continuously without that rise and fall of the breakers which marks a deeper coast, and from the face of the water there arose a filmy mist--part foam, part phosphorescence. As Roden and Cornish passed the little lighthouse, two policemen emerged from the shadow of the wall, and watched them, half suspiciously. “Good evening,” said one of them. “Good evening,” answered Cornish, mimicking the sing-song accent of the Scheveningen streets. They walked on in silence. “Whew!” ejaculated Roden, when the danger seemed to be past, and they could breathe again. They went down a flight of steps to the beach, and stumbled across the soft sand towards the sea. One or two boats were lying out in the surf--heavy Dutch fishing-boats, known technically as “pinks,” flat-bottomed, round-prowed, keel less, heavy and ungainly vessels, but strong as wood and iron and workmanship could make them. Some seemed to be afloat, others bumped heavily and continuously; while a few lay stolidly on the ground with the waves breaking right over them as over rocks. The noise of the sea was so great that Cornish touched his companion's arm, and pointed, without speaking, to one of the vessels where a light twinkled feebly through the spray breaking over her. It seemed to be the only vessel preparing to go to sea on the high tide, and, in truth, the weather looked anything but encouraging. “How are we going to get on board?” shouted Roden, amid the roar of the waves. “Walk,” answered Cornish, and he led the way into the sea. Hampered as they were by their heavy oil skins, their progress was slow, although the water barely reached their knees. The _Three Brothers_ was bumping when they reached her and clambered on board over the bluff sides, sticky with salt water and tar. “She'll be afloat in ten minutes,” said a man in oil-skins, who helped them over the low bulwarks. He spoke good English, and seemed to have learned some of the taciturnity of the seafaring portion of that nation with their language; for he went aft to the tiller without more words and took his station there. Roden seated himself on the rail and looked back towards Scheveningen. Cornish stood beside him in silence. The spray broke over them continuously, and the boat rolled and bumped in such a manner that it was impossible to stand or even sit without holding on to the clumsy rigging. The lights of Scheveningen were stretched out in a line before them; the lighthouse winked a glaring eye that seemed to stare over their heads far out to sea. The summer lightning showed the sands to be bare and deserted. There were no unusual lights on the sea wall. The Kurhaus and the hotels were illuminated and gay. The shore took no heed of the sea tonight. “We've succeeded,” said Roden, curtly, and quite suddenly he rolled over in a faint at Cornish's feet. The next morning, Dorothy received a letter at the Villa des Dunes, posted the evening before by Cornish at Scheveningen. “We hope to get away tonight,” he wrote, “in the 'pink,' the _Three Brothers_. Our intention is to knock about the North Sea until we find a suitable vessel--either a sailing ship trading between Norway and Spain on its way south, or a steamer going direct from Hamburg to South America. When I have seen your brother safely on board one of these vessels, I shall return in the _Three Brothers_ to Scheveningen. She is a small boat, and has a large white patch of new canvas at the top of her mainsail. So if you see her coming in, or waiting for the tide, you may conclude that your brother is in safety.” Later in the day, Mr. Wade called, having driven from The Hague very comfortably in an open carriage. “The house,” he said placidly, “is still watched, but I have no doubt that Tony has outwitted them all. Creil arrived last night, and seems a capable man. He tells me that half of the malgamiters are in jail at The Hague for intoxication and uproariousness last night. He is selecting those he wants, and the rest he will send to their homes. So we are balancing our affairs very comfortably; and if there is anything I can do for you, Miss Roden, I am at your command.” “Oh, Dorothy is all right,” said Marguerite, rather hurriedly; and when her father took his leave, she slipped her hand within his solid arm, and walked with him across the sand towards the carriage. “Haven't you seen,” she asked--“you old stupid! --that Dorothy is all right? Tony is in love with her.” “No,” replied the banker, rather humbly--“no, my dear. I am afraid I had not noticed it.” Marguerite pressed his arm, not unkindly. “You can't help it,” she explained. “You are only a man, you know.” The following days were quiet enough at the Villa des Dunes, and it is in quiet days that a friendship ripens best. The two girls left there scarcely expected to hear of Cornish's return for some days; but they fell into the habit of walking towards the sea whenever they went out-of-doors, and spent many afternoon hours on the dunes. During these hours Dorothy had many confidential and lively conversations with her new-found friend. Indeed, confidence and gaiety were so bewilderingly mingled that Dorothy did not always understand her companion. One afternoon, three days after the departure of Percy Roden, when Von Holzen was buried, and the authorities had expressed themselves content with the verdict that he had come accidentally by his death, Marguerite took occasion to congratulate herself, and all concerned, in the fact that what she vaguely called “things” were beginning to straighten themselves out. “We are round the corner,” she said decisively. “And now papa and I shall go home again, and Miss Williams will come back. Miss Williams--oh, lord! She is one of those women who have a stick inside them instead of a heart. And papa will trot out his young men--likely young men from the city. Papa married the bank, you know. And he wants me to marry another bank and live gorgeously ever afterwards. Poor old dear!” “I think he would rather you were happy than gorgeous,” said Dorothy, with a laugh, who had seen some of the honest banker's perplexity with regard to this most delicate financial affair. “Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his best--his very best. He has tried at least fifty of these gentle swains since I came back from Dresden--red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent opinion of one's self, fair hair and stupidity. But they wouldn't do--they wouldn't do, Dorothy!” Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in the sand with her walking-stick. “There was only one,” she said quietly, at length. “I suppose there is always--only one--eh, Dorothy?” “I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight in front of her. Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to sea with a queer little twist of the lips that made her look older--almost a woman. One could imagine what she would be like when she was middle-aged, or quite old, perhaps. “He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily. He was a million times cleverer than the rest--a million times--well, he was quite different, I don't know how. But he was paternal. He thought he was much too old, so he didn't try----” She broke off with a light laugh, and her confidential manner was gone in a flash. She stuck her stick firmly into the ground, and threw herself back on the soft sand. “So,” she cried gaily. _“Vogue la galère_. It's all for the best. That is the right thing to say when it cannot be helped, and it obviously isn't for the best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to pass in with the crowd, and be conventional--if you swing for it.” She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion's face. A few boats had been leisurely making for the shore all the afternoon before a light wind, and Dorothy had been watching them. They were coming closer now. “Dorothy, do you see the _Three Brothers_?” “That is the _Three Brothers_,” answered Dorothy, pointing with her walking-stick. For a time they were silent, until, indeed, the boat with the patched sail had taken the ground gently, a few yards from the shore. A number of men landed from her, some of them carrying baskets of fish. One, walking apart, made for the dunes, in the direction of the New Scheveningen Road. “And that is Tony,” said Marguerite. “I should know his walk--if I saw him coming out of the Ark, which, by the way, must have been rather like the _Three Brothers_ to look at. He has taken your brother safely away, and now he is coming--to take you.” “He may remember that I am Percy's sister,” suggested Dorothy. “It doesn't matter whose sister you are,” was the decisive reply. “Nothing matters”--Marguerite rose slowly, and shook the sand from her dress--“nothing matters, except one thing, and that appears to be a matter of absolute chance.” She climbed slowly to the summit of the dune under which they had been sitting, and there, pausing, she looked back. She nodded gaily down at Dorothy. Then suddenly, she held out her hands before her, and Cornish, looking up, saw her slim young form poised against the sky in a mock attitude of benediction. “Bless you, my dears,” she cried, and with a short laugh turned and walked towards the Villa des Dunes. THE END

1

None

The managing editor of the _New York Argus_ sat at his desk with a deep frown on his face, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows at the young man who had just thrown a huge fur overcoat on the back of one chair, while he sat down himself on another. 'I got your telegram,' began the editor. 'Am I to understand from it that you have failed?' 'Yes, sir,' answered the young man, without the slightest hesitation. 'Completely?' 'Utterly.' 'Didn't you even get a synopsis of the documents?' 'Not a hanged synop.' The editor's frown grew deeper. The ends of his fingers drummed nervously on the desk. 'You take failure rather jauntily, it strikes me,' he said at last. 'What's the use of taking it any other way? I have the consciousness of knowing that I did my best.' 'Um, yes. It's a great consolation, no doubt, but it doesn't count in the newspaper business. What did you do?' 'I received your telegram at Montreal, and at once left for Burnt Pine--most outlandish spot on earth. I found that Kenyon and Wentworth were staying at the only hotel in the place. Tried to worm out of them what their reports were to be. They were very polite, but I didn't succeed. Then I tried to bribe them, and they ordered me out of the room.' 'Perhaps you didn't offer them enough.' 'I offered double what the London Syndicate was to pay them for making the report, taking their own word for the amount. I couldn't offer more, because at that point they closed the discussion by ordering me out of the room. I tried to get the papers that night, on the quiet, out of Wentworth's valise, but was unfortunately interrupted. The young men were suspicious, and next morning they left for Ottawa to post the reports, as I gathered afterwards, to England. I succeeded in getting hold of the reports, but I couldn't hang on. There are too many police in Ottawa to suit me.' 'Do you mean to tell me,' said the editor, 'that you actually had the reports in your hands, and that they were taken from you?' 'Certainly I had; and as to their being taken from me, it was either that or gaol. They don't mince matters in Canada as they do in the United States, you know.' 'But I should think a man of your shrewdness would have been able to get at least a synopsis of the reports before letting them out of his possession.' 'My dear sir,' said the reporter, rather angry, 'the whole thing covered I forget how many pages of foolscap paper, and was the most mixed-up matter I ever saw in my life. I tried--I sat in my room at the hotel, and did my best to master the details. It was full of technicalities, and I couldn't make it out. It required a mining expert to get the hang of their phrases and figures, so I thought the best thing to do was to telegraph it all straight through to New York. I knew it would cost a lot of money, but I knew, also, you didn't mind that; and I thought, perhaps, somebody here could make sense out of what baffled me; besides, I wanted to get the documents out of my possession just as quickly as possible.' 'Hem!' said the editor. 'You took no notes whatever?' 'No, I did not. I had no time. I knew the moment they missed the documents they would have the detectives on my track. As it was, I was arrested when I entered the telegraph-office.' 'Well, it seems to me,' said the managing editor, 'if I had once had the papers in my hand, I should not have let them go until I had got the gist of what was in them.' 'Oh, it's all very well for you to say so,' replied the reporter, with the free and easy manner in which an American newspaper man talks to his employer; 'but I can tell you, with a Canadian gaol facing a man, it is hard to decide what is best to do. I couldn't get out of the town for three hours, and before the end of that time they would have had my description in the hands of every policeman in the place. They knew well enough who took the papers, so my only hope lay in getting the thing telegraphed through; and if that had been accomplished, everything would have been all right. I would have gone to gaol with pleasure if I had got the particulars through to New York.' 'Well, what are we to do now?' asked the editor. 'I'm sure I don't know. The two men will be in New York very shortly. They sail, I understand, on the _Caloric_, which leaves in a week. If you think you have a reporter who can get the particulars out of these men, I should be very pleased to see you set him on. I tell you it isn't so easy to discover what an Englishman doesn't want you to know.' 'Well,' said the editor, 'perhaps that's true. I will think about it. Of course you did your best, and I appreciate your efforts; but I am sorry you failed.' 'You are not half so sorry as I am,' said Rivers, as he picked up his big Canadian fur coat and took his leave. The editor did think about it. He thought for fully two minutes. Then he dashed off a note on a sheet of paper, pulled down the little knob that rang the District Messenger alarm, and when the uniformed boy appeared, gave him the note, saying: 'Deliver this as quickly as you can.' The boy disappeared, and the result of his trip was soon apparent in the arrival of a very natty young woman in the editorial rooms. She was dressed in a neatly-fitting tailor-made costume, and was a very pretty girl, who looked about nineteen, but was, in reality, somewhat older. She had large, appealing blue eyes, with a tender, trustful expression in them, which made the ordinary man say: 'What a sweet, innocent look that girl has!' yet, what the young woman didn't know about New York was not worth knowing. She boasted that she could get State secrets from dignified members of the Cabinet, and an ordinary Senator or Congressman she looked upon as her lawful prey. That which had been told her in the strictest confidence had often become the sensation of the next day in the paper she represented. She wrote over a _nom de guerre_, and had tried her hand at nearly everything. She had answered advertisements, exposed rogues and swindlers, and had gone to a hotel as chambermaid, in order to write her experiences. She had been arrested and locked up, so that she might write a three-column account, for the Sunday edition of the _Argus_, of 'How Women are Treated at Police Headquarters.' The editor looked upon her as one of the most valuable members of his staff, and she was paid accordingly. She came into the room with the self-possessed air of the owner of the building, took a seat, after nodding to the editor, and said, 'Well?' 'Look here, Jennie,' began that austere individual, 'do you wish to take a trip to Europe?' 'That depends,' said Jennie; 'this is not just the time of year that people go to Europe for pleasure, you know.' 'Well, this is not exactly a pleasure trip. The truth of the matter is, Rivers has been on a job and has bungled it fearfully, besides nearly getting himself arrested.' The young woman's eyes twinkled. She liked anything with a spice of danger in it, and did not object to hear that she was expected to succeed where a mere masculine reporter had failed. The editor continued: 'Two young men are going across to England on the _Caloric_. It sails in a week. I want you to take a ticket for Liverpool by that boat, and obtain from either of those two men the particulars--the _full_ particulars--of reports they have made on some mining properties in Canada. Then you must land at Queenstown and cable a complete account to the _Argus_.' 'Mining isn't much in my line,' said Miss Jennie, with a frown on her pretty brow. 'What sort of mines were they dealing with--gold, silver, copper, or what?' 'They are certain mines on the Ottawa River.' 'That's rather indefinite.' 'I know it is. I can't give you much information about the matter. I don't know myself, to tell the truth, but I know it is vitally important that we should get a synopsis of what the reports of these young men are to be. A company, called the London Syndicate, has been formed in England. This syndicate is to acquire a large number of mines in Canada, if the accounts given by the present owners are anything like correct. Two men, Kenyon and Wentworth--the first a mining engineer, and the second an experienced accountant--have been sent from London to Canada, one to examine the mines, the other to examine the books of the various corporations. Whether the mines are bought or not will depend a good deal on the reports these two men have in their possession. The reports, when published, will make a big difference, one way or the other, on the Stock Exchange. I want to have the gist of them before the London Syndicate sees them. It will be a big thing for the _Argus_ if it is the first in the field, and I am willing to spend a pile of hard cash to succeed. So, don't economize on your cable expenses.' 'Very well; have you a book on Canadian mines?' 'I don't know that we have; but there is a book here, "The Mining Resources of Canada;" will that be of any use?' 'I shall need something of that sort. I want to be a little familiar with the subject, you know.' 'Quite so,' said the editor; 'I will see what can be got in that line. You can read it before you start, and on the way over.' 'All right,' said Miss Jennie; 'and am I to take my pick of the two young men?' 'Certainly,' answered the editor. 'You will see them both, and can easily make up your mind which will the sooner fall a victim.' 'The _Caloric_ sails in a week, does it?' 'Yes.' 'Then I shall need at least five hundred dollars to get new dresses with.' 'Good gracious!' cried the editor. 'There is no "good gracious" about it. I'm going to travel as a millionaire's daughter, and it isn't likely that one or two dresses will do me all the way over.' 'But you can't get new dresses made in a week,' said the editor. 'Can't I? Well, you just get me the five hundred dollars, and I'll see about the making.' The editor jotted the amount down. 'You don't think four hundred dollars would do?' he said. 'No, I don't. And, say, am I to get a trip to Paris after this is over, or must I come directly back?' 'Oh, I guess we can throw in the trip to Paris,' said the editor. 'What did you say the names of the young men are? --or are they not young? Probably they are old fogies, if they are in the mining business.' 'No; they are young, they are shrewd, and they are English. So you see your work is cut out for you. Their names are George Wentworth and John Kenyon.' 'Oh, Wentworth is my man,' said the young woman breezily. 'John Kenyon! I know just what sort of a person he is--sombre and taciturn. Sounds too much like John Bunyan, or John Milton, or names of that sort.' 'Well, I wouldn't be too sure about it until you see them. Better not make up your mind about the matter.' 'When shall I call for the five hundred dollars?' 'Oh, that you needn't trouble about. The better way is to get your dresses made, and tell the people to send the bills to our office.' 'Very well,' said the young woman. 'I shall be ready. Don't be frightened at the bills when they come in. If they come up to a thousand dollars, remember I told you I would let you off for five hundred dollars.' The editor looked at her for a moment, and seemed to reflect that perhaps it was better not to give a young lady unlimited credit in New York. So he said: 'Wait a bit; I'll write you out the order, and you can take it downstairs.' Miss Jennie took the paper when it was offered to her, and disappeared. When she presented the order in the business office, the cashier raised his eyebrows as he noticed the amount, and, with a low whistle, said to himself: 'Five hundred dollars! I wonder what game Jennie Brewster's up to now.'

2

None

The last bell had rung. Those who were going ashore had taken their departure. Crowds of human beings clustered on the pier-head, and at the large doorways of the warehouse which stood open on the steamer wharf. As the big ship slowly backed out there was a fluttering of handkerchiefs from the mass on the pier, and an answering flutter from those who crowded along the bulwarks of the steamer. The tug slowly pulled the prow of the vessel round, and at last the engines of the steamship began their pulsating throbs--throbs that would vibrate night and day until the steamer reached an older civilization. The crowd on the pier became more and more indistinct to those on board, and many of the passengers went below, for the air was bitterly cold, and the boat was forcing its way down the bay among huge blocks of ice. Two, at least, of the passengers had taken little interest in the departure. They were leaving no friends behind them, and were both setting their faces toward friends at home. 'Let us go down,' said Wentworth to Kenyon, 'and see that we get seats together at table before all are taken.' 'Very good,' replied his companion, and they descended to the roomy saloon, where two long tables were already laid with an ostentatious display of silver, glassware, and cutlery, which made many, who looked on this wilderness of white linen with something like dismay, hope that the voyage would be smooth, although, as it was a winter passage, there was every chance it would not be. The purser and two of his assistants sat at one of the shorter tables with a plan before them, marking off the names of passengers who wished to be together, or who wanted some particular place at any of the tables. The smaller side-tables were still uncovered because the number of passengers at that season of the year was comparatively few. As the places were assigned, one of the helpers to the purser wrote the names of the passengers on small cards, and the other put the cards on the tables. One young woman, in a beautifully-fitting travelling gown, which was evidently of the newest cut and design, stood a little apart from the general group which surrounded the purser and his assistants. She eagerly scanned every face, and listened attentively to the names given. Sometimes a shade of disappointment crossed her brow, as if she expected some particular person to possess some particular name which that particular person did not bear. At last her eyes sparkled. 'My name is Wentworth,' said the young man whose turn it was. 'Ah! any favourite place, Mr. Wentworth?' asked the purser blandly, as if he had known Wentworth all his life. 'No, we don't care where we sit; but my friend Mr. Kenyon and myself would like places together.' 'Very good; you had better come to my table,' replied the purser. 'Numbers 23 and 24--Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth.' The steward took the cards that were given him, and placed them to correspond with the numbers the purser had named. Then the young woman moved gracefully along, as if she were interested in the names upon the table. She looked at Wentworth's name for a moment, and saw in the place next to his the name of Mr. Brown. She gave a quick, apprehensive glance around the saloon, and observed the two young men who had arranged for their seats at table now walking leisurely toward the companion-way. She took the card with the name of Mr. Brown upon it, and slipped upon the table another on which were written the words 'Miss Jennie Brewster.' Mr. Brown's card she placed on the spot from which she had taken her own. 'I hope Mr. Brown is not particular which place he occupies,' said Jennie to herself; 'but at any rate I shall see that I am early for dinner, and I'm sure Mr. Brown, whoever he is, will not be so ungallant as to insist on having this place if he knows his card was here.' Subsequent events proved her surmise regarding Mr. Brown's indifference to be perfectly well founded. That young man searched for his card, found it, and sat down on the chair opposite the young woman, who already occupied her chair, and was, in fact, the first one at table. Seeing there would be no unseemly dispute about places, she began to plan in her own mind how she would first attract the attention of Mr. Wentworth. While thinking how best to approach her victim, Jennie heard his voice. 'Here you are, Kenyon; here are our places.' 'Which is mine?' said the voice of Kenyon. 'It doesn't matter,' answered Wentworth, and then a thrill of fear went through the gentle heart of Miss Jennie Brewster. She had not thought of the young man not caring which seat he occupied, and she dreaded the possibility of finding herself next to Kenyon rather than Wentworth. Her first estimate of the characters of the two men seemed to be correct. She always thought of Kenyon as Bunyan, and she felt certain that Wentworth would be the easier man of the two to influence. The next moment her fears were allayed, for Kenyon, giving a rapid glance at the handsome young woman, deliberately chose the seat farthest from her, and Wentworth, with 'I beg your pardon,' slipped in and sat down on the chair beside her. 'Now,' thought Jennie, with a sigh of relief, 'our positions are fixed for the meals of the voyage.' She had made her plans for beginning an acquaintance with the young man, but they were rendered unnecessary by the polite Mr. Wentworth handing her the bill of fare. 'Oh, thank you,' said the girl, in a low voice, which was so musical that Wentworth glanced at her a second time and saw how sweet and pretty and innocent she was. 'I'm in luck,' said the unfortunate young man to himself. Then he remarked aloud: 'We have not many ladies with us this voyage.' 'No,' replied Miss Brewster; 'I suppose nobody crosses at this time of the year unless compelled to.' 'I can answer for two passengers that such is the case.' 'Do you mean yourself as one?' 'Yes, myself and my friend.' 'How pleasant it must be,' said Miss Brewster, 'to travel with a friend! Then one is not lonely. I, unfortunately, am travelling alone.' 'I fancy,' said the gallant Wentworth, 'that if you are lonely while on board ship, it will be entirely your own fault.' Miss Brewster laughed a silvery little laugh. 'I don't know about that,' she said. 'I am going to that Mecca of all Americans--Paris. My father is to meet me there, and we are then going on to the Riviera together.' 'Ah, that will be very pleasant,' said Wentworth. 'The Riviera at this season is certainly a place to be desired.' 'So I have heard,' she replied. 'Have you not been across before?' 'No, this is my first trip. I suppose you have crossed many times?' 'Oh no,' answered the Englishman; 'this is only my second voyage, my first having been the one that took me to America.' 'Ah, then you are not an American,' returned Miss Brewster, with apparent surprise. She imagined that a man is generally flattered when a mistake of this kind is made. No matter how proud he may be of his country, he is pleased to learn that there is no provincialism about him which, as the Americans say, 'gives him away.' 'I think,' said Wentworth, 'as a general thing, I am not taken for anything but what I am--an Englishman.' 'I have met so few Englishmen,' said the guileless young woman, 'that really I should not be expected to know.' 'I understand it is a common delusion among Americans that every Englishman drops his "h's," and is to be detected in that way.' Jennie laughed again, and George Wentworth thought it one of the prettiest laughs he had ever heard. Poor Kenyon was rather neglected by his friend during the dinner. He felt a little gloomy while the courses went on, and wished he had an evening paper. Meanwhile, Wentworth and the handsome girl beside him got on very well together. At the end of the dinner she seemed to have some difficulty in getting up from her chair, and Wentworth showed her how to turn it round, leaving her free to rise. She thanked him prettily. 'I am going on deck,' she said, turning to go; 'I am so anxious to get my first glimpse of the ocean at night from the deck of a steamer.' 'I hope you will let me accompany you,' returned young Wentworth. 'The decks are rather slippery, and even when the boat is not rolling it isn't quite safe for a lady unused to the motion of a ship to walk alone in the dark.' 'Oh, thank you very much,' replied Miss Brewster, with effusion. 'It is kind of you, I am sure; and if you promise not to let me rob you of the pleasure of your after-dinner cigar, I shall be most happy to have you accompany me. I will meet you at the top of the stairway in five minutes.' 'You are getting on,' said Kenyon, as the young woman disappeared. 'What's the use of being on board ship,' said Wentworth, 'If you don't take advantage of the opportunity for making shipboard acquaintances? There is an unconventionality about life on a steamer that is not without its charm, as perhaps you will find out before the voyage is over, John.' 'You are merely trying to ease your conscience because of your heartless desertion of me.' George Wentworth had waited at the top of the companion-way a little more than five minutes when Miss Brewster appeared, wrapped in a cloak edged with fur, which lent an additional charm to her complexion, set off as it was by a jaunty steamer cap. They stepped out on the deck, and found it not at all so dark as they had expected. Little globes of electric light were placed at regular intervals on the walls of the deck building. Overhead was stretched a sort of canvas roof, against which the sleety rain pattered. One of the sailors, with a rubber mop, was pushing into the gutter by the side of the ship the moisture from the deck. All around the boat the night was as black as ink, except here and there where the white curl of a wave showed luminous for a moment in the darkness. Miss Brewster insisted that Wentworth should light his cigar, which, after some persuasion, he did. Then he tucked her hand snugly under his arm, and she adjusted her step to suit his. They had the promenade all to themselves. The rainy winter night was not so inviting to most of the passengers as the comfortable rooms below. Kenyon, however, and one or two others came up, and sat on the steamer chairs that were tied to the brass rod which ran along the deckhouse wall. He saw the glow of Wentworth's cigar as the couple turned at the farther end of the walk, and when they passed him he heard a low murmur of conversation, and caught now and then a snatch of silvery laughter. It was not because Wentworth had deserted him that Kenyon felt so uncomfortable and depressed. He could not tell just what it was, but there had settled on his mind a strange, uneasy foreboding. After a time he went down into the saloon and tried to read, but could not, and so wandered along the seemingly endless narrow passage to his room (which was Wentworth's as well), and, in nautical phrase, 'turned in.' It was late when his companion came. 'Asleep, Kenyon?' asked the latter. 'No,' was the answer. 'By George! John, she is one of the most charming girls I ever met. Wonderfully clever, too; makes a man feel like a fool beside her. She has read nearly everything. Has opinions on all our authors, a great many of whom I've never heard of. I wish, for your sake, John, she had a sister on board.' 'Thanks, old man; awfully good of you, I'm sure,' said Kenyon. 'Don't you think it's about time to stop raving, get into your bunk, and turn out that confounded light?' 'All right, growler, I will.' Meanwhile, in her own state-room, Miss Jennie Brewster was looking at her reflection in the glass. As she shook out her long hair until it rippled down her back, she smiled sweetly, and said to herself: 'Poor Mr. Wentworth! Only the first night out, and he told me his name was George.'

3

None

The second day out was a pleasant surprise for all on board who had made up their minds to a disagreeable winter passage. The air was clear, the sky blue as if it were spring-time, instead of midwinter. They were in the Gulf Stream. The sun shone brightly and the temperature was mild. Nevertheless, it was an uncomfortable day for those who were poor sailors. Although there did not seem, to the casual observer, to be much of a sea running, the ship rolled atrociously. Those who had made heroic resolutions on the subject were sitting in silent misery in their deck-chairs, which had been lashed to firm stanchions. Few were walking the clean bright deck, because walking that morning was a gymnastic feat. Three or four who evidently wished to show they had crossed before, and knew all about it, managed to make their way along the deck. Those recumbent in the steamer-chairs watched with lazy interest the pedestrians who now and then stood still, leaning apparently far out of the perpendicular, as the deck inclined downward. Sometimes the pedestrian's feet slipped, and he shot swiftly down the incline. Such an incident was invariably welcomed by those who sat. Even the invalids smiled wanly. Kenyon reclined in his deck-chair with his eyes fixed on the blue sky. His mind was at rest about the syndicate report now that it had been mailed to London. His thoughts wandered to his own affairs, and he wondered whether he would make money out of the option he had acquired at Ottawa. He was not an optimistic man, and he doubted. After their work for the London Syndicate was finished, the young men had done a little business on their own account. They visited together a mica-mine that was barely paying expenses, and which the proprietors were anxious to sell. The mine was owned by the Austrian Mining Company, whose agent, Von Brent, was interviewed by Kenyon in Ottawa. The young men obtained an option on this mine for three months from Von Brent. Kenyon's educated eye had told him that the white mineral they were placing on the dump at the mouth of the mine was even more valuable than the mica for which they were mining. Kenyon was scrupulously honest--a quality somewhat at a discount in the mining business--and it seemed to him hardly the fair thing that he should take advantage of the ignorance of Von Brent regarding the mineral on the dump. Wentworth had some trouble in overcoming his friend's scruples. He claimed that knowledge always had to be paid for, in law, medicine, or mineralogy, and therefore that they were perfectly justified in profiting by their superior wisdom. So it came about that the young men took to England with them a three months' option on the mine. Wentworth had been walking about all morning like a lost spirit apparently seeking what was not. 'It can't be,' he said to himself. No; the thought was too horrible, and he dismissed it from his mind, merely conjecturing that perhaps she was not an early riser, which was indeed the case. No one who works on a morning newspaper ever takes advantage of the lark's example. 'Well, Kenyon,' said Wentworth 'you look as if you were writing a poem, or doing something that required deep mental agony.' 'The writing of poems, my dear Wentworth, I leave to you. I am doing something infinitely more practical--something that you ought to be at. I am thinking what we are to do with our mica-mine when we get it over to London.' 'Oh, "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,"' cried Wentworth jauntily; 'besides, half an hour's thinking by a solid-brained fellow like you is worth a whole voyage of my deepest meditation.' 'She hasn't appeared yet?' said Kenyon. 'No, dear boy; no, she has _not_. You see, I make no pretence with you as other less ingenuous men might. No, she has _not_ appeared, and she has not breakfasted.' 'Perhaps----' began Kenyon. 'No, no!' cried Wentworth; 'I'll have no "perhaps." I thought of that, but I instantly dismissed the idea. She's too good a sailor.' 'It requires a very good sailor to stand this sort of thing. It looks so unnecessary, too. I wonder what the ship is rolling about?' 'I can't tell, but she seems to be rolling about half over. I say, Kenyon, old fellow, I feel horrible pangs of conscience about deserting you in this way, and so early in the voyage. I didn't do it last time, did I?' 'You were a model travelling companion on the last voyage,' returned Kenyon. 'I don't wish to make impertinent suggestions, my boy, but allow me to tell you that there are some other very nice girls on board.' 'You are not so bad as I feared, then,' replied Kenyon, 'or you wouldn't admit that. I thought you had eyes for no one but Miss--Miss--I really didn't catch her name.' 'I don't mind telling you confidentially, Kenyon, that her name is Jennie.' 'Dear me!' cried Kenyon, 'has it got so far as that? Doesn't it strike you, Wentworth, that you are somewhat in a hurry? It seems decidedly more American than English. Englishmen are apt to weigh matters a little more.' 'There is no necessity for weighing, my boy. I don't see any harm in making the acquaintance of a pretty girl when you have a long voyage before you.' 'Well, I wouldn't let it grow too serious, if I were you.' 'There isn't the slightest danger of seriousness about the affair. On shore the young lady wouldn't cast a second look at me. She is the daughter of a millionaire. Her father is in Paris, and they are going on to the Riviera in a few weeks.' 'All the more reason,' said Kenyon, 'that you shouldn't let this go too far. Be on your guard, my boy. I've heard it said that American girls have the delightful little practice of leading a man on until it comes to a certain point, and then arching their pretty eyebrows, looking astonished, and forgetting all about him afterwards. You had better wait until we make our fortunes on this mica-mine, and then, perhaps, your fair millionairess may listen to you.' 'John,' cried Wentworth, 'you are the most cold-blooded man I know of. I never noticed it so particularly before, but it seems to me that years and years of acquaintance with minerals of all kinds, hard and flinty, transform a man. Be careful that you don't become like the minerals you work among.' 'Well, I don't know anything that has less tendency to soften a man than long columns of figures. I think the figures you work at are quite as demoralizing as the minerals I have spent my life with.' 'Perhaps you are right, but a girl would have to be thrown into your arms before you would admit that such a thing as a charming young lady existed.' 'If I make all the money I hope to make out of the mica-mine, I expect the young ladies will not be thrown into my arms, but at my head. Money goes a long way toward reconciling a girl to marriage.' 'It certainly goes a long way toward reconciling her mother to the marriage. I don't believe,' said Wentworth slowly, 'that my--that Miss Brewster ever thinks about money.' 'She probably doesn't need to, but no doubt there is someone who does the thinking for her. If her father is a millionaire, and has, like many Americans, made his own money, you may depend upon it he will do the thinking for her; and if Miss Brewster should prove to be thoughtless in the matter, the old gentleman will very speedily bring you both to your senses. It would be different if you had a title.' 'I haven't any,' replied Wentworth, 'except the title George Wentworth, accountant, with an address in the City and rooms in the suburbs.' 'Precisely; if you were Lord George Wentworth, or even Sir George, or Baron Wentworth of something or other, you might have a chance; as it is, the title of accountant would not go far with an American millionaire, or his daughter either.' 'You are a cold, calculating wretch.' 'Nothing of the sort. I merely have my senses about me, and you haven't at this particular moment. You wouldn't think of trusting a book-keeper's figures without seeing his vouchers. Well, my boy, you haven't the vouchers--at least, not yet, so that is why I ask you to give your attention to what we are going to do with our mine; and if you take my advice you will not think seriously about American millionaires or their daughters.' George Wentworth jumped to his feet, the ship gave a lurch at that particular moment, and he no sooner found his feet than he nearly lost them again; however, he was an expert at balancing himself as well as his accounts, and though for the moment his attention was occupied in keeping his equilibrium, he looked down on his companion, still placidly reclining in his chair, with a smile on his face. 'Kenyon,' he said, 'I am going to look for another girl.' 'Is one not enough for you?' 'No, I want two--one for myself, and one for you. No man can sympathize with another unless he is in the same position himself. John, I want sympathy, and I'm not getting it.' 'What you need more urgently,' said Kenyon calmly, 'is common-sense, and that I am trying to supply.' 'You are doing your duty in that direction; but a man doesn't live by common-sense alone. There comes a time when common-sense is a drug in the market. I don't say it has come to me yet, but I'm resolved to get you into a more sympathetic mood, so I am going to find a suitable young lady for you.' 'More probably you are going to look for your own,' answered Kenyon, as his friend walked off, and, disappearing round the corner, crossed to the other side of the ship. Kenyon did not turn again to his figures when his companion left him. He mused over the curiously rapid turn of circumstances. He hoped Wentworth would not take it too seriously, for he felt that, somehow or other, Miss Brewster was just the sort of girl to throw him over after she had whiled away a tedious voyage. Of course he could not say this to his friend, who evidently admired Miss Brewster, but he had said as much as he could to put Wentworth on his guard. 'Now,' said Kenyon to himself, 'if she had been a girl like _that_, I wouldn't have minded.' The girl 'like _that_' was a young woman who for half an hour had been walking the deck alone with marvellous skill. She was not so handsome as the American girl, but she had a better complexion, and there was a colour in her cheek which seemed to suggest England. Her dress was not quite so smart nor so well-fitting as that of the American girl; but, nevertheless, she was warmly and sensibly clad, and a brown Tam o' Shanter covered her fair head. The tips of her hands were in the pockets of her short blue-cloth jacket; and she walked the deck with a firm, reliant tread that aroused the admiration of John Kenyon. 'If she were only a girl like _that_,' he repeated to himself, 'I wouldn't mind. There's something fresh and genuine about her. She makes me think of the breezy English downs.' As she walked back and forward, one or two young men seemingly made an attempt to become acquainted with her, but it was evident to Kenyon that the young woman had made it plain to them, politely enough, that she preferred walking alone, and they raised their sea-caps and left her. 'She doesn't pick up the first man who comes,' he mused. The ship was beginning to roll more and more, and yet the day was beautiful and the sea seemingly calm. Most of the promenaders had left the deck. Two or three of them had maintained their equilibrium with a gratifying success which engendered the pride that goeth before a fall, but the moment came at last when their feet slipped and they had found themselves thrown against the bulwark of the steamer. Then they had laughed a little in a crestfallen manner, picked themselves up, and promenaded the deck no more. Many of those who were lying in the steamer-chairs gave up the struggle and went down to their cabins. There was a momentary excitement as one chair broke from its fastenings and slid down with a crash against the bulwarks. The occupant was picked up in a hysterical condition and taken below. The deck steward tied the chair more firmly, so that the accident would not happen again. The young English girl was opposite John Kenyon when this disaster took place, and her attention being diverted by fear for the safety of the occupant of the sliding chair, her care for herself was withdrawn at the very moment when it was most needed. The succeeding lurch which the ship gave to the other side was the most tremendous of the day. The deck rose until the girl leaning outward could almost touch it with her hand, then, in spite of herself, she slipped with the rapidity of lightning against the chair John Kenyon occupied, and that tripping her up, flung her upon him with an unexpectedness that would have taken his breath away if the sudden landing of a plump young woman upon him had not accomplished the same thing. The fragile deck-chair gave way with a crash, and it would be hard to say which was the more discomfited by the sudden catastrophe, John Kenyon or the girl. 'I hope you are not hurt,' he managed to stammer. 'Don't think about me!' she cried. 'I have broken your chair, and--and----' 'The chair doesn't matter,' cried Kenyon. 'It was a flimsy structure at best. I am not hurt, if that is what you mean--and you mustn't mind it.' Then there came to his recollection the sentence of George Wentworth: 'A girl will have to be thrown into your arms before you will admit that such a thing as a charming young woman exists.'

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Edith Longworth could hardly be said to be a typical representative of the English girl. She had the English girl's education, but not her training. She had lost her mother in early life, which makes a great difference in a girl's bringing up, however wealthy her father may be; and Edith's father was wealthy, there was no doubt of that. If you asked any City man about the standing of John Longworth, you would learn that the 'house' was well thought of. People said he was lucky, but old John Longworth asserted that there was no such thing as luck in business--in which statement he was very likely incorrect. He had large investments in almost every quarter of the globe. When he went into any enterprise, he went into it thoroughly. Men talk about the inadvisability of putting all one's eggs into one basket, but John Longworth was a believer in doing that very thing--and in watching the basket. Not that he had all his eggs in one basket, or even in one kind of basket; but when John Longworth was satisfied with the particular variety of basket presented to him, he put a large number of eggs in it. When anything was offered for investment--whether it was a mine or a brewery or a railway--John Longworth took an expert's opinion upon it, and then the chances were that he would disregard the advice given. He was in the habit of going personally to see what had been offered to him. If the enterprise were big enough, he thought little of taking a voyage to the other end of the world for the sole purpose of looking the investment over. It was true that in many cases he knew nothing whatever of the business he went to examine, but that did not matter; he liked to have a personal inspection where a large amount of his money was to be placed. Investment seemed to be a sort of intuition with him. Often, when the experts' opinions were unanimously in favour of the project, and when everything appeared to be perfectly safe, Longworth would pay a personal visit to the business offered for sale, and come to a sudden conclusion not to have anything to do with it. He would give no reasons to his colleagues for his change of front; he simply refused to entertain the proposal any further, and withdrew. Several instances of this kind had occurred. Sometimes a large and profitable business, held out in the prospectus to be exceedingly desirable, had come to nothing, and when the company was wound up, people remembered what Longworth had said about it. So there came to be a certain superstitious feeling among those who knew him, that, if old Mr. Longworth was in a thing, the thing was safe, and if a company promoter managed to get his name on the prospectus, his project was almost certain to succeed. * * * * * When Edith Longworth was pronounced finished so far as education was concerned, she became more and more the companion of her father, and he often jokingly referred to her as his man of business. She went with him on his long journeys, and so had been several times to America, once to the Cape, and one long voyage, with Australia as the objective point, had taken her completely round the world. She inherited much of her father's shrewdness, and there is no doubt that, if Edith Longworth had been cast upon her own resources, she would have become an excellent woman of business. She knew exactly the extent of her father's investments, and she was his confidante in a way that few women are with their male relatives. The old man had a great faith in Edith's opinion, although he rarely acknowledged it. Having been together so much on such long trips, they naturally became, in a way, boon companions. Thus, Edith's education was very unlike that of the ordinary English girl, and this particular training caused her to develop into a different kind of woman than she might have been had her mother lived. Perfect confidence existed between father and daughter, and only lately had there come a shadow upon their relations, about which neither ever spoke to the other since their first conversation on the subject. Edith had said, with perhaps more than her usual outspokenness, that she had no thought whatever of marriage, and least of all had her thoughts turned toward the man her father seemed to have chosen. In answer to this, her father had said nothing, but Edith knew him too well to believe that he had changed his mind about the matter. The fact that he had invited her cousin to join them on this particular journey showed her that he evidently believed all that was necessary was to throw them more together than had been the case previously; and, although Edith was silent, she thought her father had not the same shrewdness in these matters that he showed in the purchasing of a growing business. Edith had been perfectly civil to the young man--as she would have been to anyone--but he saw that she preferred her own company to his; and so, much to the disgust of Mr. Longworth, he spent most of his time at cards in the smoking-room, whereas, according to the elder gentleman's opinion, he should have been promenading the deck with his cousin. William Longworth, the cousin, was inclined to be a trifle put out, for he looked upon himself as quite an eligible person, one whom any girl in her senses would be glad to look forward to as a possible husband. He made no pretence of being madly in love with Edith, but he thought the marriage would be an admirable thing all round. She was a nice girl, he said to himself, and his uncle's money was well worth thinking about. In fact, he was becoming desirous that the marriage should take place; but, as there was no one upon whom he could look as a rival, he had the field to himself. He would therefore show Miss Edith that he was by no means entirely dependent for his happiness upon her company; and this he proceeded to do by spending his time in the smoking-room, and playing cards with his fellow-passengers. It was quite evident to anyone who saw Edith, that, if this suited him, it certainly suited her; so they rarely met on shipboard except at table, where Edith's place was between her father and her cousin. Miss Longworth and her cousin had had one brief conversation on the subject of marriage. He spoke of it rather jauntily, as being quite a good arrangement, but she said very shortly that she had no desire to change her name. 'You don't need to,' said Cousin William; 'my name is Longworth, and so is yours.' 'It is not a subject for a joke,' she answered. 'I am not joking, my dear Edith. I am merely telling you what everybody knows to be true. You surely don't deny that my name is Longworth?' 'I don't mean to deny or affirm anything in relation to the matter,' replied the young woman, 'and you will oblige me very much if you will never recur to this subject again.' And so the young man betook himself once more to the smoking-room. On this trip Edith had seen a good deal of American society. People over there had made it very pleasant for her, and, although the weather was somewhat trying, she had greatly enjoyed the sleigh-rides and the different festivities which winter brings to the citizen of Northern America. Her father and her cousin had gone to America to see numerous breweries that were situated in different parts of the country, and which it was proposed to combine into one large company. They had made a Western city their headquarters, and while Edith was enjoying herself with her newly-found friends, the two men had visited the breweries in different sections of the country--all, however, near the city where Edith was staying. The breweries seemed to be in a very prosperous condition, although the young man declared the beer they brewed was the vilest he had ever tasted, and he said he wouldn't like to have anything to do with the production of it, even if it did turn in money. His uncle had not tried the beer, but confined himself solely to the good old bottled English ale, which had increased in price, if not in excellence, by its transportation. But there was something about the combination that did not please him; and, from the few words he dropped on the subject, his nephew saw that Longworth was not going to be a member of the big Beer Syndicate. The intention had been to take a trip to Canada, and Edith had some hopes of seeing the city of Montreal in its winter dress; but that visit had been abandoned, as so much time had been consumed in the Western States. So they began their homeward voyage, with the elder Longworth sitting a good deal in his deck-chair, and young Longworth spending much of his time in the smoking-room, while Edith walked the deck alone. And this was the lady whom Fate threw into the arms of John Kenyon.

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Steamer friendships ripen quickly. It is true that, as a general thing, they perish with equal suddenness. The moment a man sets his foot on solid land the glamour of the sea seems to leave him, and the friend to whom he was ready to swear eternal fealty while treading the deck, is speedily forgotten on shore. Edith Longworth gave no thought to the subject of the innocent nature of steamer friendships when she reviewed in her own mind her pleasant walk along the deck with Kenyon. She had met many interesting people during her numerous voyages, but they had all proved to be steamer acquaintances, whose names she had now considerable difficulty in remembering. Perhaps she would not have given a second thought to Mr. Kenyon that night if it had not been for some ill-considered remarks her cousin saw fit to make at the dinner-table. 'Who was that fellow you were walking with today?' young Longworth asked. Edith smiled upon him pleasantly, and answered: 'Mr. Kenyon you mean, I suppose?' 'Oh, you know his name, do you?' he answered gruffly. 'Certainly,' she replied; 'I would not walk with a gentleman whose name I did not know.' 'Really?' sneered her cousin. 'And pray were you introduced to him?' 'I do not think,' answered Edith quietly, 'any person has a right to ask me that question except my father. He has not asked it, and, as you have, I will merely answer that I _was_ introduced to Mr. Kenyon.' 'I did not know you had any mutual acquaintance on board who could make you known to each other.' 'Well, the ceremony was a little informal. We were introduced by our mutual friend, old Father Neptune. Father Neptune, being, as you know, a little boisterous this morning, took the liberty of flinging me upon Mr. Kenyon. I weigh something more than a feather, and the result was--although Mr. Kenyon was good enough to say he was uninjured--that the chair on which he sat had not the same consideration for my feelings, and it went down with a crash. I thought Mr. Kenyon should take my chair in exchange for the one I had the misfortune to break, but Mr. Kenyon thought otherwise. He said he was a mining engineer, and that he could not claim to be a very good one if he found any difficulty in mending a deck-chair. It seems he succeeded in doing so, and that is the whole history of my introduction to, and my intercourse with, Mr. Kenyon, Mining Engineer.' 'Most interesting and romantic,' replied the young man; 'and do you think that your father approves of your picking up indiscriminate acquaintances in this way?' Edith, flushing a little at this, said: 'I would not willingly do what my father disapproved of;' then in a lower voice she added: 'except, perhaps, one thing.' Her father, who had caught snatches of the conversation, now leaned across towards his nephew, and said warningly: 'I think Edith is quite capable of judging for herself. This is my seventh voyage with her, and I have always found such to be the case. This happens to be your first, and so, were I you, I would not pursue the subject further.' The young man was silent, and Edith gave her father a grateful glance. Thus it was that, while she might not have given a thought to Kenyon, the remarks which her cousin had made, brought to her mind, when she was alone, the two young men, and the contrast between them was not at all to the advantage of her cousin. The scrubbing-brushes on the deck above him woke Kenyon early next morning. For a few moments after getting on deck he thought he had the ship to himself. One side of the deck was clean and wet; on the other side the men were slowly moving the scrubbing-brushes backward and forward, with a drowsy swish-swish. As he walked up the deck, he saw there was one passenger who had been earlier than himself. Edith Longworth turned round as she heard his step, and her face brightened into a smile when she saw who it was. Kenyon gravely raised his steamer cap and bade her 'Good-morning.' 'You are an early riser, Mr. Kenyon.' 'Not so early as you are, I see.' 'I think I am an exceptional passenger in that way,' replied the girl. 'I always enjoy the early morning at sea. I like to get as far forward on the steamer as possible, so that there is nothing between me and the boundless anywhere. Then it seems as if the world belongs to myself, with nobody else in it.' 'Isn't that a rather selfish view?' put in Kenyon. 'Oh, I don't think so. There is certainly nothing selfish in my enjoyment of it; but, you know, there are times when one wishes to be alone, and to forget everybody.' 'I hope I have not stumbled upon one of those times.' 'Oh, not at all, Mr. Kenyon,' replied his companion, laughing. 'There was nothing personal in the remark. If I wished to be alone, I would have no hesitation in walking off. I am not given to hinting; I speak plainly--some of my friends think a little too plainly. Have you ever been on the Pacific Ocean?' 'Never.' 'Ah, there the mornings are delicious. It is very beautiful here now, but in summer on the Pacific some of the mornings are so calm and peaceful and fresh, that it would seem as if the world had been newly made.' 'You have travelled a great deal, Miss Longworth. I envy you.' 'I often think I am a person to be envied, but there may come a shipwreck one day, and then I shall not be in so enviable a position.' 'I sincerely hope you may never have such an experience.' 'Have you ever been shipwrecked, Mr. Kenyon?' 'Oh no; my travelling experiences are very limited. But to read of a shipwreck is bad enough.' 'We have had a most delightful voyage so far. Quite like summer. One can scarcely believe that we left America in the depth of winter, with snow everywhere and the thermometer ever so far below zero. Have you mended your deck-chair yet, sufficiently well to trust yourself upon it again?' 'Oh!' said Kenyon, with a laugh, 'you really must not make fun of my amateur carpentering like that. As I told you, I am a mining engineer, and if I cannot mend a deck-chair, what would you expect me to do with a mine?' 'Have you had much to do with mines?' asked the young woman. 'I am just beginning,' replied Kenyon; 'this, in fact, is one of my first commissions. I have been sent with my friend Wentworth to examine certain mines on the Ottawa River.' 'The Ottawa River!' cried Edith. 'Are you one of those who were sent out by the London Syndicate?' 'Yes,' answered Kenyon with astonishment. 'What do you know about it?' 'Oh, I know everything about it. Everything, except what the mining expert's report is to be, and that information, I suppose, you have; so, between the two of us, we know a great deal about the fortunes of the London Syndicate.' 'Really! I am astonished to meet a young lady who knows anything about the matter. I understood it was rather a secret combination up to the present.' 'Ah! but, you see, I am one of the syndicate.' 'You!' 'Certainly,' answered Edith Longworth, laughing. 'At least, my father is, and that is the same thing, or almost the same thing. We intended to go to Canada ourselves, and I was very much disappointed at not going. I understand that the sleighing, and the snowshoeing, and the tobogganing are something wonderful.' 'I saw very little of the social side of life in the district, my whole time being employed at the mines; but even in the mining village where we stayed, they had a snowshoe club, and a very good toboggan slide--so good, in fact, that, having gone down once, I never ventured to risk my life on it again.' 'If my father knew you were on board, he would be anxious to meet you. Doubtless you know the London Syndicate will be a very large company.' 'Yes, I am aware of that.' 'And you know that a great deal is going to depend upon your report?' 'I suppose that is so, and I hope the syndicate will find my report at least an honest and thorough one.' 'Is the colleague who was with you also on board?' 'Yes, he is here.' 'He, then, was the accountant who was sent out?' 'Yes, and he is a man who does his business very thoroughly, and I think the syndicate will be satisfied with his work.' 'And do you not think they will be satisfied with yours also? I am sure you did your work conscientiously.' Kenyon almost blushed as the young woman made this remark, but she looked intently at him, and he saw that her thoughts were not on him, but on the large interests he represented. 'Were you favourably impressed with the Ottawa as a mining region?' she asked. 'Very much so,' he answered, and, anxious to turn the conversation away from his own report, he said: 'I was so much impressed with it that I secured the option of a mine there for myself.' 'Oh! do you intend to buy one of the mines there?' Kenyon laughed. 'No, I am no capitalist seeking investment for my money, but I saw that the mine contained possibilities of producing a great deal of money for those who possess it. It is very much more valuable, in my opinion, than the owners themselves suspect; so I secured an option upon it for three months, and hope when I reach England to form a company to take it up.' 'Well, I am sure,' said the young lady, 'if you are confident that the mine is a good one, you could see no one who would help you more in that way than my father. He has been looking at a brewery business he thought of investing in, but which he has concluded to have nothing to do with, so he will be anxious to find something reliable in its place. How much would be required for the purchase of the mine you mention?' 'I was thinking of asking fifty thousand pounds for it,' said Kenyon, flushing, as he thought of his own temerity in more than doubling the price of the mine. Wentworth and he had estimated the probable value of the mine, and had concluded that even selling it at that price--which would give them thirty thousand pounds to divide between them--they were selling a mine that was really worth very much more, and would soon pay tremendous dividends on the fifty thousand pounds. He expected the young woman to be impressed by the amount, and was, therefore, very much surprised when she said: 'Fifty thousand pounds! Is that all? Then I am afraid my father would have nothing to do with it. He only deals with large businesses, and a company with a capitalization of fifty thousand pounds I am sure he would not look at.' 'You talk of fifty thousand pounds,' said Kenyon, 'as if it were a mere trifle. To me it seems an immense fortune. I only wish I had it, or half of it.' 'You are not rich, then?' said the girl, with apparent interest. 'No,' replied the young man. 'Far otherwise.' At that moment the elder Mr. Longworth appeared in the door of the companion-way, and looked up and down the deck. 'Oh, here you are,' he said, as his daughter sprang from her chair. 'Father,' she cried, 'let me introduce to you Mr. Kenyon, who is the mining expert sent out by our syndicate to look at the Ottawa mines.' 'I am pleased to meet you,' said the elder gentleman. The capitalist sat down beside the mining engineer, and began, somewhat to Kenyon's embarrassment, to talk of the London Syndicate.

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A few mornings later Wentworth worked his way, with much balancing and grasping of stanchions, along the deck, for the ship rolled fearfully, but the person he sought was nowhere visible. He thought he would go into the smoking-room, but changed his mind at the door, and turned down the companion-way to the main saloon. The tables had been cleared of the breakfast belongings, but on one of the small tables a white cloth had been laid, and at this spot of purity in the general desert of red plush sat Miss Brewster, who was complacently ordering what she wanted from a steward, who did not seem at all pleased in serving one who had disregarded the breakfast-hour, to the disarrangement of all saloon rules. The chief steward stood by a door and looked disapprovingly at the tardy guest. It was almost time to lay the tables for lunch, and the young woman was as calmly ordering her breakfast as if she had been the first person at table. She looked up brightly at Wentworth, and smiled as he approached her. 'I suppose,' she began, 'I'm dreadfully late, and the steward looks as if he would like to scold me. How awfully the ship is rolling! Is there a storm?' 'No. She seems to be doing this sort of thing for amusement. Wants to make it interesting for the unfortunate passengers who are not good sailors, I suppose. She's doing it, too. There's scarcely anyone on deck.' 'Dear me! I thought we were having a dreadful storm. Is it raining?' 'No. It's a beautiful sunshiny day; without much wind either, in spite of all this row.' 'I suppose you have had your breakfast long ago?' 'So long since that I am beginning to look forward with pleasant anticipation to lunch.' 'Oh dear! I had no idea I was so late as that. Perhaps _you_ had better scold me. Somebody ought to do it, and the steward seems a little afraid.' 'You over-estimate my courage. I am a little afraid, too.' 'Then you _do_ think I deserve it?' 'I didn't say that, nor do I think it. I confess, however, that up to this moment I felt just a trifle lonely.' 'Just a trifle! Well, that _is_ flattery. How nicely you English do turn a compliment! Just a trifle!' 'I believe, as a race, we do not venture much into compliment making at all. We leave that for the polite foreigner. He would say what I tried to say a great deal better than I did, of course, but he would not mean half so much.' 'Oh, that's very nice, Mr. Wentworth. No foreigner could have put it nearly so well. Now, what about going on deck?' 'Anywhere, if you let me accompany you.' 'I shall be most delighted to have you. I won't say merely a trifle delighted.' 'Ah! Haven't you forgiven that remark yet?' 'There's nothing to forgive, and it is quite too delicious to forget. I shall never forget it.' 'I believe that you are very cruel at heart, Miss Brewster.' The young woman gave him a curious side-look, but did not answer. She gathered the wraps she had taken from her cabin, and, handing them to him before he had thought of offering to take them, she led the way to the deck. He found their chairs side by side, and admired the intelligence of the deck-steward, who seemed to understand which chairs to place together. Miss Jennie sank gracefully into her own, and allowed him to adjust the wraps around her. 'There,' she said, 'that's very nicely done; as well as the deck-steward himself could do it, and I am sure it is impossible to pay you a more graceful compliment than that. So few men know how to arrange one comfortably in a steamer chair.' 'You speak as though you had vast experience in steamer life, and yet you told me this was your first voyage.' 'It is. But it doesn't take a woman more than a day to see that the average man attends to such little niceties very clumsily. Now just tuck in the corner out of sight. There! Thank you, ever so much. And would you be kind enough to--Yes, that's better. And this other wrap so. Oh, that is perfect. What a patient man you are, Mr. Wentworth!' 'Yes, Miss Brewster. You _are_ a foreigner. I can see that now. Your professed compliment was hollow. You said I did it perfectly, and then immediately directed me how to do it.' 'Nothing of the kind. You did it well, and I think you ought not to grudge me the pleasure of adding my own little improvements.' 'Oh, if you put it in that way, I will not. Now, before I sit down, tell me what book I can get that will interest you. The library contains a very good assortment.' 'I don't think I care about reading. Sit down and talk. I suppose I am too indolent to-day. I thought, when I came on board, that I would do a lot of reading, but I believe the sea-air makes one lazy. I must confess I feel entirely indifferent to mental improvement.' 'You evidently do not think my conversation will be at all worth listening to.' 'How quick you are to pervert my meaning! Don't you see that I think your conversation better worth listening to than the most interesting or improving book you can choose from the library? Really, in trying to avoid giving you cause for making such a remark, I have apparently stumbled into a worse error. I was just going to say I would like your conversation much better than a book, when I thought you would take that as a reflection on your reading. If you take me up so sharply I will sit here and say nothing. Now then, talk!' 'What shall I say?' 'Oh, if I told you what to say I should be doing the talking. Tell me about yourself. What do you do in London?' 'I work hard. I am an accountant.' 'And what is an accountant? What does he do? Keep accounts?' 'Some of them do; I do not. I see, rather, that accounts which other people keep have been correctly kept.' 'Aren't they always correctly kept? I thought that was what book-keepers were hired for.' 'If books were always correctly kept there would be little for us to do; but it happens, unfortunately for some, but fortunately for us, that people occasionally do not keep their accounts accurately.' 'And can you always find that out if you examine the books?' 'Always.' 'Can't a man make up his accounts so that no one can tell there is anything wrong?' 'The belief that such a thing can be done has placed many a poor wretch in prison. It has been tried often enough.' 'I am sure they can do it in the States. I have read of it being done and continued for years. Men have made off with great sums of money by falsifying the books, and no one found it out until the one who did it died or ran away.' 'Nevertheless, if an expert accountant had been called in, he would have found out very soon that something was wrong, and just where the wrong was, and how much.' 'I didn't think such cleverness possible. Have you ever discovered anything like that?' 'I have.' 'What is done when such a thing is discovered?' 'That depends upon circumstances. Usually a policeman is called in.' 'Why, it's like being a detective. I wish you would tell me about some of the cases you have had. Don't make me ask so many questions. Talk.' 'I don't think my experiences would interest you in the least. There was one case with which I had something to do in London, two years ago, that----' 'Oh, London! I don't believe the book-keepers there are half so sharp as ours. If you had to deal with American accountants, you would not find out so easily what they had or had not done.' 'Well, Miss Brewster, I may say I have just had an experience of that kind with some of your very sharpest American book-keepers. I found that the books had been kept in the most ingenious way with the intent to deceive. The system had been going on for years.' 'How interesting! And did you call in a policeman?' 'No. This was one of the cases where a policeman was not necessary. The books were kept with the object of showing that the profits of the m--of the business--had been much greater than they really were. I may say that one of your American accountants had already looked over the books, and, whether through ignorance or carelessness, or from a worse motive, he reported them all right. They were not all right, and the fact that they were not, will mean the loss of a fortune to some people on your side of the water, and the saving of good money to others on my side.' 'Then I think your profession must be a very important one.' 'We think so, Miss Brewster. I would like to be paid a percentage on the money saved because of my report.' 'And won't you?' 'Unfortunately, no.' 'I think that is too bad. I suppose the discrepancy must have been small, or the American accountant would not have overlooked it?' 'I didn't say he overlooked it. Still, the size of a discrepancy does not make any difference. A small error is as easily found as a large one. This one was large. I suppose there is no harm in my saying that the books, taking them together, showed a profit of forty thousand pounds, when they should have shown a loss of nearly half that amount. I hope nobody overhears me.' 'No; we are quite alone, and you may be sure I will not breathe a word of what you have been telling me.' 'Don't breathe it to Kenyon, at least. He would think me insane if he knew what I have said.' 'Is Mr. Kenyon an accountant, too?' 'Oh no. He is a mineralogist. He can go into a mine, and tell with reasonable certainty whether it will pay the working or not. Of course, as he says himself, any man can see six feet into the earth as well as he can. But it is not every man that can gauge the value of a working mine so well as John Kenyon.' 'Then, while you were delving among the figures, your companion was delving among the minerals?' 'Precisely.' 'And did he make any such startling discovery as you did?' 'No; rather the other way. He finds the mines very good properties, and he thinks that if they were managed intelligently they would be good paying investments--that is, at a proper price, you know--not at what the owners ask for them at present. But you can have no possible interest in these dry details.' 'Indeed, you are mistaken. I think what you have told me intensely interesting.' For once in her life Miss Jennie Brewster told the exact truth. The unfortunate man at her side was flattered. 'For what I have told you,' he said, 'we were offered twice what the London people pay us for coming out here. In fact, even more than that: we were asked to name our own price.' 'Really now! By the owners of the property, I suppose, if you wouldn't tell on them?' 'No. By one of your famous New York newspaper men. He even went so far as to steal the papers that Kenyon had in Ottawa. He was cleverly caught, though, before he could make any use of what he had stolen. In fact, unless his people in New York had the figures which were originally placed before the London Board, I doubt if my statistics would have been of much use to him even if he had been allowed to keep them. The full significance of my report will not show until the figures I have given are compared with those already in the hands of the London people, which were vouched for as correct by your clever American accountant.' 'You shouldn't run down an accountant just because he is American. Perhaps there will come a day, Mr. Wentworth, when you will admit that there are Americans who are more clever than either that accountant or that newspaper man. I don't think your specimens are typical.' 'I don't "run down," as you call it, the men because they are Americans. I "run down" the accountant because he was either ignorant or corrupt. I "run down" the newspaper man because he was a thief.' Miss Brewster was silent for a few moments. She was impressing on her memory what he had said to her, and was anxious to get away, so that she could write out in her cabin exactly what had been told her. The sound of the lunch-gong gave her the excuse she needed, so, bidding her victim a pleasant and friendly farewell, she hurried from the deck to her state-room.

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One morning, when Kenyon went to his state-room on hearing the breakfast-gong, he found the lazy occupant of the upper berth still in his bunk. 'Come, Wentworth,' he shouted, 'this won't do, you know. Get up! get up! breakfast, my boy! breakfast! --the most important meal in the day to a healthy man.' Wentworth yawned and stretched his arms over his head. 'What's the row?' he asked. 'The row is, it's time to get up. The second gong has sounded.' 'Dear me! is it so late? I didn't hear it.' Wentworth sat up in his bunk, and looked ruefully over the precipice down the chasm to the floor. 'Have you been up long?' he asked. 'Long? I have been on deck an hour and a half,' answered Kenyon. 'Then, Miss What's-her-Name must have been there also.' 'Her name is Miss Longworth,' replied Kenyon, without looking at his comrade. 'That's her name, is it? and she _was_ on deck?' 'She was.' 'I thought so,' said Wentworth; 'just look at the divine influence of woman! Miss Longworth rises early, therefore John Kenyon rises early. Miss Brewster rises late, therefore George Wentworth is not seen until breakfast-time. If the conditions were reversed, I suppose the getting-up time of the two men would be changed accordingly.' 'Not at all, George--not at all. I would rise early whether anybody else on board did or not. In fact, when I got on deck this morning, I expected to have it to myself.' 'I take it, though, that you were not grievously disappointed when you found you hadn't a monopoly?' 'Well, to tell the truth, I was not; Miss Longworth is a charmingly sensible girl.' 'Oh, they all are,' said Wentworth lightly. 'You had no sympathy for me the other day. Now you know how it is yourself, as they say across the water.' 'I don't know how it is myself. The fact is, we were talking business.' 'Really? Did you get so far?' 'Yes, we got so far, if that is any distance. I told her about the mica-mine.' 'Oh, you did! What did she say? Will she invest?' 'Well, when I told her we expected to form a company for fifty thousand pounds, she said it was such a small sum, she doubted if we could get anybody interested in it in London.' Wentworth, who was now well advanced with his dressing, gave a long whistle. 'Fifty thousand pounds a small sum? Why, John, she must be very wealthy! Probably more so than the American millionairess.' 'Well, George, you see, the difference between the two young ladies is this: that while American heiresses are apt to boast of their immense wealth, English women say nothing about it.' 'If you mean Miss Brewster when you speak in that way, you are entirely mistaken. She has never alluded to her wealth at all, with the exception of saying that her father was a millionaire. So if the young woman you speak of has been talking of her wealth at all, she has done more than the American girl.' 'She said nothing to indicate she was wealthy. I merely conjectured it when I discovered she looked upon fifty thousand pounds as a triviality.' 'Well, the fault is easily remedied. We may raise the price of the mine to one hundred thousand pounds if we can get people to invest. Perhaps the young lady's father might care to go in for it at that figure.' 'Oh, by the way, Wentworth,' said Kenyon, 'I forgot to tell you, Miss Longworth's father is one of the London Syndicate.' 'By Jove! are you sure of that? How do you know? You weren't talking of our mission out there, were you?' 'Certainly not,' replied Kenyon, flushing. 'You don't think I would speak of that to a stranger, do you? nor of anything concerned with our reports.' Wentworth proceeded with his dressing, a guilty feeling rising in his heart. 'I want to ask you a question about that.' 'About what?' said Wentworth shortly. 'About those mines. Miss Longworth's father being a member of the London Syndicate, suppose he asks what our views in relation to the matter are: would we be justified in telling him anything?' 'He won't ask me as I don't know him; he may ask you, and if he does, then you will have to decide the question for yourself.' 'Would you say anything about it if you were in my place?' 'Oh, I don't know. If we were certain it was all right--if you are sure he _is_ a member of the syndicate, and he happens to ask you about it, I scarcely see how you can avoid telling him.' 'It would be embarrassing; so I hope he won't ask me. We should not speak of it until we give in our reports. He knows, however, that you are the accountant who has that part of the business in charge.' 'Oh, then you have been talking with him?' 'Just a moment or two, after his daughter introduced me.' 'What did you say his name was?' 'John Longworth, I believe. I am sure about the Longworth, but not about the John.' 'Oh, old John Longworth in the City! Certainly; I know all about him. I never saw him before, but I think we are quite safe in telling him anything he wants to know, if he asks.' 'Breakfast, gentlemen,' said the steward, putting his head in at the door. After breakfast Edith Longworth and her cousin walked the deck together. Young Longworth, although in better humour than he had been the night before, was still rather short in his replies, and irritating in his questions. 'Aren't you tired of this eternal parade up and down?' he asked his cousin. 'It seems to me like a treadmill--as if a person had to work for his board and lodging.' 'Let us sit down then,' she replied; 'although I think a walk before lunch or dinner increases the attractiveness of those meals wonderfully.' 'I never feel the need of working up an appetite,' he answered pettishly. 'Well, as I said before, let us sit down;' and the girl, having found her chair, lifted the rug that lay upon it, and took her place. The young man, after standing for a moment looking at her through his glistening monocle, finally sat down beside her. 'The beastly nuisance of living on board ship,' he said, 'is that you can't play billiards.' 'I am sure you play enough at cards to satisfy you during the few days we are at sea,' she answered. 'Oh, cards! I soon tire of them.' 'You tire very quickly of everything.' 'I certainly get tired of lounging about the deck, either walking or sitting.' 'Then, pray don't let me keep you.' 'You want me to go so you may walk with your newly-found friend, that miner fellow?' 'That miner fellow is talking with my father just now. Still, if you would like to know, I have no hesitation in telling you I would much prefer his company to yours if you continue in your present mood.' 'Yes, or in any mood.' 'I did not say that; but if it will comfort you to have me say it, I shall be glad to oblige you.' 'Perhaps, then, I should go and talk with your father, and let the miner fellow come here and talk with you.' 'Please do not call him the miner fellow. His name is Mr. Kenyon. It is not difficult to remember.' 'I know his name well enough. Shall I send him to you?' 'No. I want to talk with you in spite of your disagreeableness. And what is more, I want to talk with you about Mr. Kenyon. So I wish you to assume your very best behaviour. It may be for your benefit.' The young man indulged in a sarcastic laugh. 'Oh, if you are going to do that, I have nothing more to say,' remarked Edith quietly, rising from her chair. 'I meant no harm. Sit down and go on with your talk.' 'Listen, then. Mr. Kenyon has the option of a mine in Canada, which he believes to be a good property. He intends to form a company when he reaches London. Now, why shouldn't you make friends with him, and, if you found the property is as good as he thinks it is, help him to form the company, and so make some money for both of you?' 'You are saying one word for me and two for Kenyon.' 'No, it would be as much for your benefit as for his, so it is a word for each of you.' 'You are very much interested in him.' 'My dear cousin, I am very much interested in the mine, and I am very much interested in you. Mr. Kenyon can speak of nothing but the mine, and I am sure my father would be pleased to see you take an interest in something of the sort. I mean, you know that if you would do something of your own accord--something that was not suggested to you by him--he would like it.' 'Well, it is suggested to me by you, and that's almost the same thing.' 'No, it is not the same thing at all. Father would indeed be glad if he saw you take up anything on your own account and make a success of it. Why can you not spend some of your time talking with Mr. Kenyon discussing arrangements, so that when you return to London you might be prepared to put the mine on the market and bring out the company?' 'If I thought you were talking to me for my own sake, I would do what you suggest; but I believe you are speaking only because you are interested in Kenyon.' 'Nonsense! How can you be so absurd? I have known Mr. Kenyon but for a few hours--a day or two at most.' The young man pulled his moustache for a moment, adjusted his eyeglass, and then said: 'Very good. I will speak to Kenyon on the subject if you wish it, but I don't say that I can help him.' 'I don't ask you to help him. I ask you to help yourself. Here is Mr. Kenyon. Let me introduce you, and then you can talk over the project at your leisure.' 'I don't suppose an introduction is necessary,' growled the young man; but as Kenyon approached them, Edith Longworth said: 'We are a board of directors, Mr. Kenyon, on the great mica-mine. Will you join the Board now, or after allotment?' Then, before he could reply, she said: 'Mr. Kenyon, this is my cousin, Mr. William Longworth.' Longworth, without rising from his chair, shook hands in rather a surly fashion. 'I am going to speak to my father,' said the girl, 'and will leave you to talk over the mica-mine.' When she had gone, young Longworth asked Kenyon: 'Where is the mine my cousin speaks of?' 'It is near the Ottawa River, in Canada,' was the answer. 'And what do you expect to sell it for?' 'Fifty thousand pounds.' 'Fifty thousand pounds! That will leave nothing to divide up among--by the way, how many are there in this thing--yourself alone?' 'No; my friend Wentworth shares with me.' 'Share and share alike?' 'Yes.' 'Of course, you think this mine is worth the money you ask for it--there is no swindle about it, is there?' Kenyon drew himself up sharply as this remark was made. Then he answered coldly: 'If there was any swindle about it, I should have nothing to do with it.' 'Well, you see, I didn't know; mining swindles are not such rarities as you may imagine. If the mine is so valuable, why are the proprietors anxious to sell?' 'The owners are in Austria, and the mine in Canada, and so it is rather at arm's-length, as it were. They are mining for mica, but the mine is more valuable in other respects than it is as a mica property. They have placed a figure on the mine which is more than it has cost them so far.' 'You know its value in those other respects?' 'I do.' 'Does anyone know this except yourself?' 'I think not--no one but my friend Wentworth.' 'How did you come to learn its value?' 'By visiting the mine. Wentworth and I went together to see it.' 'Oh, is Wentworth also a mining expert?' 'No; he is an accountant in London.' 'Both of you were sent out by the London Syndicate, I understand, to look after their mines, or the mines they thought of purchasing, were you not?' 'We were.' 'And you spent your time in looking up other properties for yourselves, did you?' Kenyon reddened at this question. 'My dear sir,' he said, 'if you are going to talk in this strain, you will have to excuse me. We were sent by the London Syndicate to do a certain thing. We did it, and did it thoroughly. After it was done the time was our own, as much as it is at the present moment. We were not hired by the day, but took a stated sum for doing a certain piece of work. I may go further and say that the time was our own at any period of our visit, so long as we fulfilled what the London Syndicate required of us.' 'Oh, I meant no offence,' said Longworth. 'You merely seemed to be posing as a sort of goody-goody young man when I spoke of mining swindles, so I only wished to startle you. How much have you to pay for the mine--that is the mica-mine?' Kenyon hesitated for a moment. 'I do not feel at liberty to mention the sum until I have consulted with my friend Wentworth.' 'Well, you see, if I am to help you in this matter, I shall need to know every particular.' 'Certainly. I shall have to consult Wentworth as to whether we require any help or not.' 'Oh, you will speedily find that you require all the help you can get in London. You will probably learn that a hundred such mines are for sale now, and the chances are you will find that this very mica-mine has been offered. What do you believe the mine is really worth?' 'I think it is worth anywhere from one hundred thousand pounds to two hundred thousand pounds, perhaps more.' 'Is it actually worth one hundred thousand pounds?' 'According to my estimate, it is.' 'Is it worth one hundred and fifty thousand pounds?' 'It is.' 'Is it worth two hundred thousand pounds?' 'I think so.' 'What percentage would it pay on two hundred thousand pounds?' 'It might pay ten per cent., perhaps more.' 'Why, in the name of all that is wonderful, don't you put the price at two hundred thousand pounds? If it will pay ten per cent and more on that amount of money, then that sum is what you ought to sell it for. Now we will investigate this matter, if you like, and if you wish to take me in with you, and put the price up to two hundred thousand pounds, I will see what can be done about it when we get to London. Of course, it will mean somebody going out to Canada again to report on the mine. Your report would naturally not be taken in such a case; you are too vitally interested.' 'Of course,' replied Kenyon, 'I shouldn't expect my report to have any weight.' 'Well, somebody would have to be sent out to report on the mine. Are you certain that it will stand thorough investigation?' 'I am convinced of it.' 'Would you be willing to make this proposition to the investors, that, if the expert did not support your statement, you would pay his expenses out there and back?' 'I would be willing to do that,' said Kenyon, 'if I had the money; but I haven't the money.' 'Then, how do you expect to float the mine on the London market? It cannot be done without money.' 'I thought I might be able to interest some capitalist.' 'I am much afraid, Mr. Kenyon, that you have vague ideas of how companies are formed. Perhaps your friend Wentworth, being an accountant, may know more about it.' 'Yes, I confess I am relying mainly on his assistance.' 'Well, will you agree to put the price of the mine at two hundred thousand pounds, and share what we make equally between the three of us?' 'It is a large price.' 'It is not a large price if the mine will pay good dividends upon it; if it will pay eight per cent. on that amount, it is the real price of the mine, while you say that you are certain it will pay ten per cent.' 'I say I think it will pay that percentage. One never can speak with entire certainty where a mine is concerned.' 'Are you willing to put the price of the mine at that figure? Otherwise, I will have nothing to do with it.' 'As I said, I shall have to consult my friend about it, but that can be done in a very short time, and I will answer you in the afternoon.' 'Good; there is no particular hurry. Have a talk over it with him, and while I do not promise anything, I think the scheme looks feasible, if the property is good. Remember, I know nothing at all about that, but if you agree to take me in, I shall have to know full particulars of what you are going to pay for the property, and what its peculiar value is.' 'Certainly. If we agree to take a partner, we will give that partner our full confidence.' 'Well, there is nothing more to say until you have had a consultation with your friend. Good-morning, Mr. Kenyon;' and with that Longworth arose and lounged off to the smoking-room. Kenyon waited where he was for some time, hoping Wentworth would come along, but the young man did not appear. At last he went in search of him. He passed along the deck, but found no trace of his friend, and looked for a moment into the smoking-room, but Wentworth was not there. He went downstairs to the saloon, but his search below was equally fruitless. Coming up on deck again, he saw Miss Brewster sitting alone reading a paper-covered novel. 'Have you seen my friend Wentworth?' he asked. She laid the book open-faced upon her lap, and looked quickly up at Kenyon before answering. 'I saw him not so very long ago, but I don't know where he is now. Perhaps you will find him in his state-room; in fact, I think it more than likely that he is there.' With that, Miss Brewster resumed her book. Kenyon descended to the state-room, opened the door, and saw his comrade sitting upon the plush-covered sofa, with his head in his hands. At the opening of the door, Wentworth started and looked for a moment at his friend, apparently not seeing him. His face was so gray and ghastly that Kenyon leaned against the door for support as he saw it. 'My God, George!' he cried, 'what is the matter with you? What has happened? Tell me!' Wentworth gazed in front of him with glassy eyes for a moment, but did not answer. Then his head dropped again in his hands, and he groaned aloud.

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There was one man on board the _Caloric_ to whom Wentworth had taken an extreme dislike. His name was Fleming, and he claimed to be a New York politician. As none of his friends or enemies asserted anything worse about him, it may be assumed that Fleming had designated his occupation correctly. If Wentworth were asked what he most disliked about the man, he would probably have said his offensive familiarity. Fleming seemed to think himself a genial good fellow, and he was immensely popular with a certain class in the smoking-room. He was lavishly free with his invitations to drink, and always had a case of good cigars in his pocket, which he bestowed with great liberality. He had the habit of slapping a man boisterously on the back, and saying, 'Well, old fellow, how are you? How's things?' He usually confided to his listeners that he was a self-made man: had landed at New York without a cent in his pocket, and look at him now! Wentworth was icy towards this man; but frigidity had no effect whatever on the exuberant spirits of the New York politician. 'Well, old man!' cried Fleming to Wentworth, as he came up to the latter and linked arms affectionately. 'What lovely weather we are having for winter time!' 'It _is_ good,' said Wentworth. 'Good? It's glorious! Who would have thought, when leaving New York in a snowstorm as we did, that we would run right into the heart of spring? I hope you are enjoying your voyage?' 'I am.' 'You ought to. By the way, why are you so awful stand-offish? Is it natural, or merely put on "for this occasion only"?' 'I do not know what you mean by "stand-offish."' 'You know very well what I mean. Why do you pretend to be so stiff and formal with a fellow?' 'I am never stiff and formal with anyone unless I do not desire his acquaintance.' Fleming laughed loudly. 'I suppose that's a personal hint. Well, it seems to me, if this exclusiveness is genuine, that you would be more afraid of newspaper notoriety than of anything else.' 'Why do you say that?' 'Because I can't, for the life of me, see why you spend so much time with Dolly Dimple. I am sure I don't know why she is here; but I do know this: that you will be served up to the extent of two or three columns in the _Sunday Argus_ as sure as you live.' 'I don't understand you.' 'You don't? Why, it's plain enough. You spend all your time with her.' 'I do not even know of whom you are speaking.' 'Oh, come now, that's too rich! Is it possible you don't know that Miss Jennie Brewster is the one who writes those Sunday articles over the signature of "Dolly Dimple"?' A strange fear fell upon Wentworth as his companion mentioned the _Argus_. He remembered it as J.K. Rivers' paper; but when Fleming said Miss Brewster was a correspondent of the _Argus_, he was aghast. 'I--I--I don't think I quite catch your meaning,' he stammered. 'Well, my meaning's easy enough to see. Hasn't she ever told you? Then it shows she wants to do you up on toast. You're not an English politician, are you? You haven't any political secrets that Dolly wants to get at, have you? Why, she is the greatest girl there is in the whole United States for finding out just what a man doesn't want to have known. You know the Secretary of State'--and here Fleming went on to relate a wonderfully brilliant feat of Dolly's; but the person to whom he was talking had neither eyes nor ears. He heard nothing and he saw nothing. 'Dear me!' said Fleming, drawing himself up and slapping the other on the back, 'you look perfectly dumfounded. I suppose I oughtn't to have given Dolly away like this; but she has pretended all along that she didn't know me, and so I've got even with her. You take my advice, and anything you don't want to see in print, don't tell Miss Brewster, that's all. Have a cigar?' 'No, thank you,' replied the other mechanically. 'Better come in and have a drink.' 'No, thank you.' 'Well, so long. I'll see you later.' 'It can't be true--it can't be true!' Wentworth repeated to himself in deep consternation, but still an inward misgiving warned him that, after all, it might be true. With his hands clasped behind him he walked up and down, trying to collect himself--trying to remember what he had told and what he had not. As he walked along, heeding nobody, a sweet voice from one of the chairs thrilled him, and he paused. 'Why, Mr. Wentworth, what is the matter with you this morning? You look as if you had seen a ghost.' Wentworth glanced at the young woman seated in the chair, who was gazing up brightly at him. 'Well,' he said at last, 'I am not sure but I _have_ seen a ghost. May I sit down beside you?' 'May you? Why, of course you may. I shall be delighted to have you. Is there anything wrong?' 'I don't know. Yes, I think there is.' 'Well, tell it to me; perhaps I can help you. A woman's wit, you know. What is the trouble?' 'May I ask you a few questions, Miss Brewster?' 'Certainly. A thousand of them, if you like, and I will answer them all if I can.' 'Thank you. Will you tell me, Miss Brewster, if you are connected with any newspaper?' Miss Brewster laughed her merry, silvery little laugh. 'Who told you? Ah! I see how it is. It was that creature Fleming. I'll get even with him for this some day. I know what office he is after, and the next time he wants a good notice from the _Argus_ he'll get it; see if he don't. I know some things about him that he would just as soon not see in print. Why, what a fool the man is! I suppose he told you out of revenge because I wouldn't speak to him the other evening. Never mind; I can afford to wait.' 'Then--then, Miss Brewster, it _is_ true?' 'Certainly it is true; is there anything wrong about it? I hope you don't think it is disreputable to belong to a good newspaper?' 'To a good newspaper, no; to a bad newspaper, yes.' 'Oh, I don't think the _Argus_ is a bad newspaper. It pays me well.' 'Then it is to the _Argus_ that you belong?' 'Certainly.' 'May I ask, Miss Brewster, if there is anything I have spoken about to you that you intend to use in your paper?' Again Miss Brewster laughed. 'I will be perfectly frank with you. I never tell a lie--it doesn't pay. Yes. The reason I am here is because _you_ are here. I am here to find out what your report on those mines will be, also what the report of your friend will be. I have found out.' 'And do you intend to use the information you have thus obtained--if I may say it--under false pretences?' 'My dear sir, you are forgetting yourself. You must remember that you are talking to a lady.' 'A lady!' cried Wentworth in his anguish. 'Yes, sir, a lady; and you must be careful how you talk to _this_ lady. There was no false pretence about it, if you remember. What you told me was in conversation; I didn't ask you for it. I didn't even make the first advances towards your acquaintance.' 'But you must admit, Miss Brewster, that it is very unfair to get a man to engage in what he thinks is a private conversation, and then to publish what he has said.' 'My dear sir, if that were the case, how would we get anything for publication that people didn't want to be known? Why, I remember once, when the Secretary of State----' 'Yes,' interrupted Wentworth wearily; 'Fleming told me that story.' 'Oh, did he? Well, I'm sure I'm much obliged to him. Then I need not repeat it.' 'Do you mean to say that you intend to send to the _Argus_ for publication what I have told you in confidence?' 'Certainly. As I said before, that is what I am here for. Besides, there was no "in confidence" about it.' 'And yet you pretend to be a truthful, honest, honourable woman?' 'I don't _pretend_ it; I am.' 'How much truth, then, is there in your story that you are a millionaire's daughter about to visit your father in Paris, and accompany him from there to the Riviera?' Miss Brewster laughed brightly. 'Oh, I don't call fibs, which a person has to tell in the way of business, untruths.' 'Then probably you do not think your estimable colleague, Mr. J.K. Rivers, behaved dishonourably in Ottawa?' 'Well, hardly. I think Rivers was not justified in what he did because he was unsuccessful, that is all. I'll bet a dollar if I had got hold of these papers they would have gone through to New York; but, then, J.K. Rivers is only a stupid man, and most men _are_ stupid'--with a sly glance at Wentworth. 'I am willing to admit that, Miss Brewster, if you mean me. There never was a more stupid man than I have been.' 'My dear Mr. Wentworth, it will do you ever so much good if you come to a realization of that fact. The truth is, you take yourself much too seriously. Now, it won't hurt you a bit to have what I am going to send published in the _Argus_, and it will help me a great deal. Just you wait here for a few moments.' With that she flung her book upon his lap, sprang up, and vanished down the companion-way. In a very short time she reappeared with some sheets of paper in her hand. 'Now you see how fair and honest I am going to be. I am going to read you what I have written. If there is anything in it that is not true, I will very gladly cut it out; and if there is anything more to be added, I shall be very glad to add it. Isn't that fair?' Wentworth was so confounded with the woman's impudence that he could make no reply. She began to read: '"By an unexampled stroke of enterprise the _New York Argus_ is enabled this morning to lay before its readers a full and exclusive account of the report made by the two English specialists, Mr. George Wentworth and Mr. John Kenyon, who were sent over by the London Syndicate to examine into the accounts, and inquire into the true value of the mines of the Ottawa River."' She looked up from the paper, and said, with an air of friendly confidence: 'I shouldn't send that if I thought the people at the New York end would know enough to write it themselves; but as the paper is edited by dull men, and not by a sharp woman, I have to make them pay twenty-five cents a word for puffing their own enterprise. Well, to go on: "When it is remembered that the action of the London Syndicate will depend entirely on the report of these two gentlemen--"' 'I wouldn't put it that way,' interrupted Wentworth in his despair. 'I would use the word "largely" for "entirely."' 'Oh, _thank_ you,' said Miss Brewster cordially. She placed the manuscript on her knee, and, with her pencil, marked out the word 'entirely,' substituting 'largely.' The reading went on: '"When it is remembered that the action of the London Syndicate will depend _largely_ on the report of these two gentlemen, the enterprise of the _Argus_ in getting this exclusive information, which will be immediately cabled to London, may be imagined." That is the preliminary, you see; and, as I said, it wouldn't be necessary to cable it if women were at the head of affairs over there, which they are not. "Mr. John Kenyon, the mining expert, has visited all the mineral ranges along the Ottawa River, and his report is that the mines are very much what is claimed for them; but he thinks they are not worked properly, although, with judicious management and more careful mining, the properties can be made to pay good dividends. Mr. George Wentworth, who is one of the leading accountants of London--"' 'I wouldn't say that, either,' groaned George. 'Just strike out the words "one of the leading accountants of London."' 'Yes?' said Miss Brewster; 'and what shall I put in the place of them?' 'Put in place of them "the stupidest ass in London"!' Miss Brewster laughed at that. 'No; I shall put in what I first wrote: "Mr. George Wentworth, one of the leading accountants of London, has gone through the books of the different mines. He has made some startling discoveries. The accounts have been kept in such a way as to completely delude investors, and this fact will have a powerful effect on the minds of the London Syndicate. The books of the different mines show a profit of about two hundred thousand dollars, whereas the actual facts of the case are that there has been an annual loss of something like one hundred thousand dollars--"' 'What's that? what's that?' cried Wentworth sharply. 'Dollars, you know. You said twenty thousand pounds. We put it in dollars, don't you see?' 'Oh,' said Wentworth, relapsing again. ' "One hundred thousand dollars"--where was I? Oh yes. "It is claimed that an American expert went over these books before Mr. Wentworth, and that he asserted they were all right. An explanation from this gentleman will now be in order."' 'There!' cried the young lady, 'that is the substance of the thing. Of course, I may amplify a little more before we get to Queenstown, so as to make them pay more money. People don't value a thing that doesn't cost them dearly. How do you like it? Is it correct?' 'Perfectly correct,' answered the miserable young man. 'Oh, I am so glad you like it! I do love to have things right.' 'I didn't say I _liked_ it.' 'No, of course, you couldn't be expected to say that; but I am glad you think it is accurate. I will add a note to the effect that you think it is a good _résumé_ of your report.' 'For Heaven's sake, don't drag me into the matter!' cried Wentworth. 'Well, I won't, if you don't want me to.' There was silence for a few moments, during which the young woman seemed to be adding commas and full-stops to the MS. on her knee. Wentworth cleared his throat two or three times, but his lips were so dry that he could hardly speak. At last he said: 'Miss Brewster, how can I induce you not to send that from Queenstown to your paper?' The young woman looked up at him with a pleasant bright smile. 'Induce me? Why, you couldn't do it--it couldn't be done. This will be one of the greatest triumphs I have ever achieved. Think of Rivers failing in it, and me accomplishing it!' 'Yes; I have thought of that,' replied the young man despondently. 'Now, perhaps you don't know that the full report was mailed from Ottawa to our house in London, and the moment we get to Queenstown I will telegraph my partners to put the report in the hands of the directors?' 'Oh, I know all about that,' replied Miss Brewster; 'Rivers told me. He read the letter that was enclosed with the documents he took from your friend. Now, have you made any calculations about this voyage?' 'Calculations? I don't know what you mean.' 'Well, I mean just this: We shall probably reach Queenstown on Saturday afternoon. This report, making allowance for the difference in the time, will appear in the _Argus_ on Sunday morning. Your telegram will reach your house or your firm on Saturday night, when nothing can be done with it. Sunday nothing can be done. Monday morning, before your report will reach the directors, the substance of what has appeared in the _Argus_ will be in the financial papers, cabled over to London on Sunday night. The first thing your directors will see of it will be in the London financial papers on Monday morning. That's what I mean, Mr. Wentworth, by calculating the voyage.' Wentworth said no more. He staggered to his feet and made his way as best he could to the state-room, groping like a blind man. There he sat down with his head in his hands, and there his friend Kenyon found him.

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'Tell me what has happened,' demanded John Kenyon. Wentworth looked up at him. 'Everything has happened,' he answered. 'What do you mean, George? Are you ill? What is the matter with you?' 'I am worse than ill, John--a great deal worse than ill. I wish I were ill.' 'That wouldn't help things, whatever is wrong. Come, wake up. Tell me what the trouble is.' 'John, I am a fool--an ass--a gibbering idiot.' 'Admitting that, what then?' 'I trusted a woman--imbecile that I am; and now--now--I'm what you see me.' 'Has--has Miss Brewster anything to do with it?' asked Kenyon suspiciously. 'She has everything to do with it.' 'Has she--rejected you, George?' 'What! _that_ girl? Oh, you're the idiot now. Do you think I would ask _her_?' 'I cannot be blamed for jumping at conclusions. You must remember "that girl," as you call her, has had most of your company during this voyage; and most of your good words when you were not with her. What _is_ the matter? What has she to do with your trouble?' Wentworth paced up and down the narrow limits of the state-room as if he were caged. He smote his hand against his thigh, while Kenyon looked at him in wonder. 'I don't know how I can tell you, John,' he said. 'I must, of course; but I don't know how I can.' 'Come on deck with me.' 'Never.' 'Come out, I say, into the fresh air. It is stuffy here, and, besides, there is more danger of being overheard in the state-room than on deck. Come along, old fellow.' He caught his companion by the arm, and partly dragged him out of the room, closing the door behind him. 'Pull yourself together,' he said. 'A little fresh air will do you good.' They made their way to the deck, and, linking arms, walked up and down. For a long time Wentworth said nothing, and Kenyon had the tact to hold his peace. Suddenly Wentworth noticed that they were pacing back and forth in front of Miss Brewster, so he drew his friend away to another part of the ship. After a few turns up and down, he said: 'You remember Rivers, of course.' 'Distinctly.' 'He was employed on that vile sheet, the _New York Argus_.' 'I suppose it is a vile sheet. I don't remember ever seeing it. Yes, I know he was connected with that paper. What then? What has Miss Brewster to do with Rivers?' 'She is one of the _Argus_ staff, too.' 'George Wentworth, you don't mean to tell me that!' 'I do.' 'And is she here to find out about the mine?' 'Exactly. She was put on the job after Rivers had failed.' 'George!' said Kenyon, suddenly dropping his companion's arm and facing him. 'What have you told her?' 'There is the misery of it. I have told her everything.' 'My dear fellow, how could you be----' 'Oh, I know--I know! I know everything you would say. Everything you can say I have said to myself, and ten times more and ten times worse. There is nothing you can say of me more bitter than what I think about myself.' 'Did you tell her anything about _my_ report?' 'I told her everything--_everything_! Do you understand? She is going to telegraph from Queenstown the full essence of the reports--of both our reports.' 'Heavens! this is fearful. Is there no way to prevent her sending it?' 'If you think you can prevent her, I wish you would try it.' 'How did you find it out? Did _she_ tell you?' 'Oh, it doesn't matter how I found it out. I did find it out. A man told me who she was; then I asked her, and she was perfectly frank about it. She read me the report, even.' 'Read it to you?' 'Yes, read it to me, and punctuated it in my presence--put in some words that I suggested as being better than those she had used. Oh, it was the coolest piece of work you ever saw!' 'But there must be some way of preventing her getting that account to New York in time. You see, all we have to do is to wire your people to hand in our report to the directors, and then hers is forestalled. She has to telegraph from a British office, and it seems to me that we could stop her in some way.' 'As, for instance, how?' 'Oh, I don't know just how at the moment, but we ought to be able to do it. If it were a man, we could have him arrested as a dynamiter or something; but a woman, of course, is more difficult to deal with. George, I would appeal to her better nature if I were you.' Wentworth laughed sneeringly. 'Better nature?' he said. 'She hasn't any; and that is not the worst of it. She has "calculated," as she calls it, all the possibilities in the affair; she "calculates" that we will reach Queenstown about Saturday night. If we do, she will get her report through in time to be published on Sunday in the _New York Argus_. If that is the case, then see where our telegram will be. We telegraph our people to send in the report. It reaches the office Saturday night, and is not read. The office closes at two o'clock; but even if they got it, and understood the urgency of the matter, they could not place the papers before the directors until Monday morning, and by Monday morning it will be in the London financial sheets.' 'George, that woman is a fiend.' 'No, she isn't, John. She is merely a clever American journalist, who thinks she has done a very good piece of work indeed, and who, through the stupidity of one man, has succeeded, that's all.' 'Have you made any appeal to her at all?' 'Oh, haven't I! Of course I have. What good did it do? She merely laughed at me. Don't you understand? That is what she is here for. Her whole voyage is for that one purpose; and it's not likely the woman is going to forego her triumph after having succeeded--more especially as somebody else in the same office has failed. That's what gives additional zest to what she has done. The fact that Rivers has failed and she has triumphed seems to be the great feather in her cap.' 'Then,' said Kenyon, 'I'm going to appeal to Miss Brewster myself.' 'Very well. I wish you joy of your job. But do what you can, John, there's a good fellow. Meanwhile, I want to be alone somewhere.' Wentworth went down the stairway that led to the steerage department, and for a few moments sat among the steerage passengers. Then he climbed up another ladder, and got to the very front of the ship. Here he sat down on a coil of rope, and thought over the situation. Thinking, however, did him very little good. He realized that, even if he got hold of the paper Miss Brewster had, she could easily write another. She had the facts in her head, and all that she needed to do was to get to a telegraph office and there hand in her message. Meanwhile, Kenyon took a few turns up and down the deck, thinking deeply on the same subject. He passed over to the side where Miss Brewster sat, but on coming opposite her had not the courage to take his place beside her. She was calmly reading her book. Three times he came opposite her, paused for a moment, and then continued his hopeless march. He saw that his courage was not going to be sufficient for the task, and yet he felt the task must be accomplished. He didn't know how to begin. He didn't know what inducement to offer the young woman for foregoing the fruits of her ingenuity. He felt that this was the weak point in his armour. The third time he paused in front of Miss Brewster; she looked up and motioned him to the chair beside her, saying: 'I do not know you very well, Mr. Kenyon, but I know who you are. Won't you sit down here for a moment?' The bewildered man took the chair she indicated. 'Now, Mr. Kenyon, I know just what is troubling you. You have passed three or four times wishing to sit down beside me, and yet afraid to venture. Is that not true?' 'Quite true.' 'I knew it was. Now I know also what you have come for. Mr. Wentworth has told you what the trouble is. He has told you that he has given me all the particulars about the mines, hasn't he?' 'He has.' 'And he has gone off to his state-room to think over the matter, and has left the affair in your hands, and you imagine you can come here to me and, perhaps, talk me out of sending that despatch to the _Argus_. Isn't that your motive?' 'That is about what I hope to be able to do,' said Kenyon, mopping his brow. 'Well, I thought I might just as well put you out of your misery at once. You take things very seriously, Mr. Kenyon--I can see that. Now, don't you?' 'I am afraid I do.' 'Why, of course you do. The publication of this, as I told Mr. Wentworth, will really not matter at all. It will not be any reflection on either of you, because your friends will be sure that, if you had known to whom you were talking, you would never have said anything about the mines.' Kenyon smiled grimly at this piece of comfort. 'Now, I have been thinking about something since Mr. Wentworth went away. I am really very sorry for him. I am more sorry than I can tell.' 'Then,' said Kenyon eagerly, 'won't you----' 'No, I won't, so we needn't recur to that phase of the subject. That is what I am here for, and, no matter what you say, the despatch is going to be sent. Now, it is better to understand that at the first, and then it will create no trouble afterwards. Don't you think that is the best?' 'Probably,' answered the wretched man. 'Well, then, let us start there. I will say in the cablegram that the information comes from neither Mr. Kenyon nor Mr. Wentworth.' 'Yes, but that wouldn't be true.' 'Why, of course it wouldn't be true; but that doesn't matter, does it?' 'Well, on our side of the water,' said Kenyon, 'we think the truth does matter.' Miss Brewster laughed heartily. 'Dear me!' she said, 'what little tact you have! How does it concern you whether it is true or not? If there is any falsehood, it is not you who tell it, so you are free from all blame. Indeed, you are free from all blame anyhow, in this affair; it is all your friend Wentworth's fault; but still, if it hadn't been Wentworth, it would have been you.' Kenyon looked up at her incredulously. 'Oh yes, it would,' she said, nodding confidently at him. 'You must not flatter yourself, because Mr. Wentworth told me everything about it, that you wouldn't have done just the same, if I had had to find it out from you. All men are pretty much alike where women are concerned.' 'Can I say nothing to you, Miss Brewster, which will keep you from sending the message to America?' 'You cannot, Mr. Kenyon. I thought we had settled that at the beginning. I see there is no use talking to you. I will return to my book, which is very interesting. Good-morning, Mr. Kenyon.' Kenyon felt the hopelessness of his project quite as much as Wentworth had done, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he wandered disconsolately up and down the deck. As he went to the other side of the deck, he met Miss Longworth walking alone. She smiled a cordial welcome to him, so he turned and changed his step to suit hers. 'May I walk with you a few minutes?' he said. 'Of course you may,' was the reply, 'What is the matter? You are looking very unhappy.' 'My comrade and myself are in great trouble, and I thought I should like to talk with you about it.' 'I am sure if there is anything I can do to help you, I shall be most glad to do it.' 'Perhaps you may suggest something. You see, two men dealing with one woman are perfectly helpless.' 'Ah, who is the one woman--not I, is it?' 'No, not you, Miss Longworth. I wish it were, then we would have no trouble.' 'Oh, thank you!' 'You see, it is like this: When we were in Quebec--I think I told you about that--the _New York Argus_ sent a man to find out what we had reported, or were going to report, to the London Syndicate.' 'Yes, you told me that.' 'Rivers was his name. Well, this same paper, finding that Rivers had failed after having stolen the documents, has tried a much more subtle scheme, which promises to be successful. They have put on board this ship a young woman who has gained a reputation for learning secrets not intended for the public. This young woman is Miss Brewster, who sits next Wentworth at the table. Fate seems to have played right into her hand and placed her beside him. They became acquainted, and, unfortunately, my friend has told her a great deal about the mines, which she professed an interest in. Or, rather, she pretended to have an interest in him, and so he spoke, being, of course, off his guard. There is no more careful fellow in the world than George Wentworth, but a man does not expect that a private conversation with a lady will ever appear in a newspaper.' 'Naturally not.' 'Very well, that is the state of things. In some manner Wentworth came to know that this young woman was the special correspondent of the _New York Argus_. He spoke to her about it, and she is perfectly frank in saying she is here solely for the purpose of finding out what the reports will be, and that the moment she gets to Queenstown she will cable what she has discovered to New York.' 'Dear me! that is very perplexing. What have you done?' 'We have done nothing so far, or rather, I should say, we have tried everything we could think of, and have accomplished nothing. Wentworth has appealed to her, and I made a clumsy attempt at an appeal also, but it was of no use. I feel my own helplessness in this matter, and Wentworth is completely broken down over it.' 'Poor fellow! I am sure of that. Let me think a moment.' They walked up and down the deck in silence for a few minutes. Then Miss Longworth looked up at Kenyon, and said; 'Will you place this matter in my hands?' 'Certainly, if you will be so kind as to take any interest in it.' 'I take a great deal of interest. Of course, you know my father is deeply concerned in it also, so I am acting in a measure for him.' 'Have you any plan?' 'Yes; my plan is simply this: The young woman is working for money; now, if we can offer her more than her paper gives, she will very quickly accept, or I am much mistaken in the kind of woman she is.' 'Ah, yes,' said Kenyon; 'but we haven't the money, you see.' 'Never mind; the money will be quickly forthcoming. Don't trouble any more about it. I am sure that can be arranged.' Kenyon thanked her, looking his gratitude rather than speaking it, for he was an unready man, and she bade him good-bye until she could think over her plan. That evening there was a tap at the state-room door of Miss Jennie Brewster. 'Come in,' cried the occupant. Miss Longworth entered, and the occupant of the room looked up, with a frown, from her writing. 'May I have a few moments' conversation with you?' asked the visitor gravely.

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Miss Jennie Brewster was very much annoyed at being interrupted, and she took no pains to conceal her feelings. She was writing an article entitled 'How People kill Time on Shipboard,' and she did not wish to be disturbed; besides, as she often said of herself, she was not 'a woman's woman,' and she neither liked, nor was liked by, her own sex. 'I desire a few moments' conversation with you, if I have your permission,' said Edith Longworth, as she closed the door behind her. 'Certainly,' answered Jennie Brewster. 'Will you sit down?' 'Thank you,' replied the other, as she took a seat on the sofa. 'I do not know just how to begin what I wish to say. Perhaps it will be better to commence by telling you that I know why you are on board this steamer.' 'Yes; and why am I on board the steamer, may I ask?' 'You are here, I understand, to get certain information from Mr. Wentworth. You have obtained it, and it is in reference to this that I have come to see you.' 'Indeed! and are you so friendly with Mr. Wentworth that you----' 'I scarcely know Mr. Wentworth at all.' 'Then, why do you come on a mission from him?' 'It is not a mission from him. It is not a mission from anyone. I was speaking to Mr. Kenyon, or, rather, Mr. Kenyon was speaking to me, about a subject which troubled him greatly. It is a subject in which my father is interested. My father is a member of the London Syndicate, and he naturally would not desire to have your intended cable message sent to New York.' 'Really; are you quite sure that you are not speaking less for your father than for your friend Kenyon?' Anger burned in Miss Longworth's face, and flashed from her eyes as she answered: 'You must not speak to me in that way.' 'Excuse me, I shall speak to you in just the way I please. I did not ask for this conference; you did, and as you have taken it upon yourself to come into this room uninvited, you will have to put up with what you hear. Those who interfere with other people's business, as a general thing, do not have a nice time.' 'I quite appreciated all the possible disagreeableness of coming here, when I came.' 'I am glad of that, because if you hear anything you do not like, you will not be disappointed, and will have only yourself to thank for it.' 'I would like to talk about this matter in a spirit of friendliness if I can. I think nothing is to be attained by speaking in any other way.' 'Very well, then. What excuse have you to give me for coming into my state-room to talk about business which does not concern you?' 'Miss Brewster, it _does_ concern me--it concerns my father, and that concerns me. I am, in a measure, my father's private secretary, and am intimately acquainted with all the business he has in hand. This particular business is his affair, and therefore mine. That is the reason I am here.' 'Are you sure?' 'Am I sure of what?' 'Are you sure that what you say is true?' 'I am not in the habit of speaking anything but the truth.' 'Perhaps you flatter yourself that is the case, but it does not deceive me. You merely come here because Mr. Kenyon is in a muddle about what I am going to do. Isn't that the reason?' Miss Longworth saw that her task was going to be even harder than she had expected. 'Suppose we let all question of motive rest? I have come here--I have asked your permission to speak on this subject, and you have given me the permission. Having done so, it seems to me you should hear me out. You say that I should not be offended----' 'I didn't say so. I do not care a rap whether you are offended or not.' 'You at least said I might hear something that would not be pleasant. What I wanted to say is this: I have taken the risk of that, and, as you remark, whether I am offended or not does not matter. Now we will come to the point----' 'Just before you come to the point, please let me know if Mr. Kenyon told you he had spoken to me on this subject already.' 'Yes, he told me so.' 'Did he tell you that his friend Wentworth had also had a conversation with me about it?' 'Yes, he told me that also.' 'Very well, then, if those two men can do nothing to shake my purpose, how do you expect to do it?' 'That is what I am about to tell you. This is a commercial world, and I am a commercial man's daughter. I recognise the fact that you are going to cable this information for the money it brings. Is that not the case?' 'It is partly the case.' 'For what other consideration do you work, then?' 'For the consideration of being known as one of the best newspaper women in the city of New York. That is the other consideration.' 'I understood you were already known as the most noted newspaper woman in New York.' This remark was much more diplomatic than Miss Longworth herself suspected. Jennie Brewster looked rather pleased, then she said: 'Oh, I don't know about that; but I intend it shall be so before a year is past.' 'Very well, you have plenty of time to accomplish your object without using the information you have obtained on board this ship. Now, as I was saying, the _New York Argus_ pays you a certain amount for doing this work. If you will promise not to send the report over to that paper, I will give you a cheque for double the sum the _Argus_ will pay you, besides refunding all your expenses twice over.' 'In other words, you ask me to be bribed and refuse to perform my duty to the paper.' 'It isn't bribery. I merely pay you, or will pay you, double what you will receive from that paper. I presume your connection with it is purely commercial. You work for it because you receive a certain amount of money; if the editor found someone who would do the same work cheaper, he would at once employ that person, and your services would be no longer required. Is that not true?' 'Yes, it is true.' 'Very well, then, the question of duty hardly enters into such a compact. They have sent you on what would be to most people a very difficult mission. You have succeeded. You have, therefore, in your possession something to sell. The New York paper will pay you a certain sum in cash for it. I offer you, for the same article, double the price the _New York Argus_ will pay you. Is not that a fair offer?' Jennie Brewster had arisen. She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. For a small space of time nothing was said, and Edith Longworth imagined she had gained her point. The woman standing looked down at the woman sitting. 'Do you know all the particulars about the attempt to get this information?' asked Miss Brewster. 'I know some of them. What particulars do you mean?' 'Do you know that a man from the _Argus_ tried to get this information from Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth in Canada?' 'Yes; I know about that.' 'Do you know that he stole the reports, and that they were taken from him before he could use them?' 'Yes.' 'Do you know he offered Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth double the price the London Syndicate would have paid them, on condition they gave him a synopsis of the reports?' 'Yes, I know that also.' 'Do you know that, in doing what he asked, they would not have been keeping back for a single day the real report from the people who engaged them? You know all that, do you?' 'Yes; I know all that.' 'Very well, then. Now you ask me to do very much more than Rivers asked them, because you ask me to keep my paper completely in the dark about the information I have got. Isn't that so?' 'Yes, you can keep them in the dark until after the report has been given to the directors; then, of course, you can do what you please with the information.' 'Ah, but by that time it will be of no value. By that time it will have been published in the London financial papers. At that time anybody can get it. Isn't that the case?' 'I suppose so.' 'Now, I want to ask you one other question, Miss--Miss--I don't think you told me your name.' 'My name is Edith Longworth.' 'Very well, Miss Longworth. I want to ask you one more question. What do you think of the conduct of Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth in refusing to take double what they had been promised for making the report?' 'What do I think of them?' repeated the girl. 'Yes; what do you think of them? You hesitate. You realize that you are in a corner. You think Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Kenyon did very nobly in refusing Rivers' offer?' 'Of course I do.' 'So do I. I think they acted rightly, and did as honourable men should do. Now, when you think that, Miss Longworth, how dare you come and offer me double, or three times, or four times, the amount my paper gives to me for getting this information? Do you think that I am any less honourable than Kenyon or Wentworth? Your offer is an insult to me; nobody but a woman, and a woman of your class, would have made it. Kenyon wouldn't have made it. Wentworth wouldn't have made it. You come here to bribe me. You come here to do exactly what J. K. Rivers tried to do for the _Argus_ in Canada. You think money will purchase anything--that is the thought of all your class. Now, I want you to understand that I am a woman of the people. I was born and brought up in poverty in New York. You were born and brought up amid luxury in London. I have suffered privation and hardships that you know nothing of, and, even if you read about them, you wouldn't understand. You, with the impudence of your class, think you can come to me and bribe me to betray my employer. I am here to do a certain thing, and I am going to do that certain thing in spite of all the money that all the Longworths ever possessed, or ever will possess. Do I make myself sufficiently plain?' 'Yes, Miss Brewster. I don't think anyone could misunderstand you.' 'Well, I am glad of that, because one can never tell how thickheaded some people may be.' 'Do you think there is any parallel between your case and Mr. Wentworth's?' 'Of course I do. We were each sent to do a certain piece of work. We each did our work. We have both been offered a bribe to cheat our employers of the fruits of our labour; only in my case it is very much worse than in Wentworth's, because his employers would not have suffered, while mine will.' 'This is all very plausible, Miss Brewster, but now allow me to tell you that what you have done is a most dishonourable thing, and that you are a disgrace to our common womanhood. You have managed, during a very short acquaintance, to win the confidence of a man--there is a kind of woman who knows how to do that: I thank Heaven I am not of that class; I prefer to belong to the class you have just now been reviling. Some men have an inherent respect for all women; Mr. Wentworth is apparently one of those, and, while he was on his guard with a man, he was not on his guard with a woman. You took advantage of that and you managed to secure certain information which you knew he would never have given you if he had thought it was to be published. You stole that information just as disreputably as that man stole the documents from Mr. Kenyon's pocket. _You_ talk of your honour and your truth when you did such a contemptible thing! _You_ prate of unbribeableness, when the only method possible is adopted of making you do what is right and just and honest! Your conduct makes me ashamed of being a woman. A thoroughly bad woman I can understand, but not a woman like you, who trade on the fact that you _are_ a woman, and that you are pretty, and that you have a pleasing manner. You use those qualities as a thief or a counterfeiter would use the peculiar talents God had given him. How dare you pretend for a moment that your case is similar to Mr. Wentworth's? Mr. Wentworth is an honourable man, engaged in an honourable business; as for you and your business, I have no words to express my contempt for both. Picking pockets is reputable compared with such work.' Edith Longworth was now standing up, her face flushed and her hands clenched. She spoke with a vehemence which she very much regretted when she thought of the circumstance afterwards; but her chagrin and disappointment at failure, where she had a moment before been sure of success, overcame her. Her opponent stood before her, angry and pale. At first Edith Longworth thought she was going to strike her, but if any such idea passed through the brain of the journalist, she thought better of it. For a few moments neither spoke, then Jennie Brewster said, in a voice of unnatural calmness: 'You are quite welcome to your opinion of me, Miss Longworth, and I presume I am entitled to my opinion of Kenyon and Wentworth. They are two fools, and you are a third in thinking you can control the actions of a woman where two young men have failed. Do you think for a moment I would grant to you, a woman of a class I hate, what I would not grant to a man like Wentworth? They say there is no fool like an old fool, but it should be said that there is no fool like a young woman who has had everything her own way in this world. You are----' 'I shall not stay and listen to your abuse. I wish to have nothing more to do with you.' 'Oh, yes! you will stay,' cried the other, placing her back against the door. ' _You_ came here at your own pleasure; you will leave at mine. I will tell you more truth in five minutes than you ever heard in your life before. I will tell you, in the first place, that my business is quite as honourable as Kenyon's or Wentworth's. What does Kenyon do but try to get information about mines which other people are vitally interested in keeping from him? What does Wentworth do but ferret about among accounts like a detective trying to find out what other people are endeavouring to conceal? What is the whole mining business but one vast swindle, whose worst enemy is the press? No wonder anyone connected with mining fears publicity. If your father has made a million out of mines, he has made it simply by swindling unfortunate victims. I do my business my way, and your two friends do theirs in their way. Of the two, I consider my vocation much the more upright. Now that you have heard what I have to say, you may go, and let me tell you that I never wish to see you or speak with you again.' 'Thank you for your permission to go. I am sure I cordially echo your wish that we may never meet again. I may say, however, that I am sorry I spoke to you in the way I did. It is, of course, impossible for you to look on the matter from my point of view, just as it is impossible for me to look upon it from yours. Nevertheless, I wish you would forget what I said, and think over the matter a little more, and if you see your way to accepting my offer it will be always open to you. Should you forego the sending of that cablegram, I will willingly pay you three times what the _New York Argus_ will give you for it. I do not offer that as a bribe; I merely offer it so that you will not suffer from doing what I believe to be a just action. It seems to me a great pity that two young men should have to endure a serious check to their own business advancement because one of them was foolish enough to confide in a woman in whom he believed.' Edith Longworth was young, and therefore scarcely likely to be a mistress of diplomacy, but she might have known the last sentence she uttered spoiled the effect of all that had gone before. 'Really, Miss Longworth, I had some little admiration for you when you blazed out at me in the way you did; but now, when you coolly repeat your offer of a bribe, adding one-third to it, all my respect for you vanishes. You may go and tell those who sent you that nothing under heaven can prevent that cablegram being sent.' In saying this, however, Miss Brewster somewhat exceeded her knowledge. Few of us can foretell what may or may not happen under heaven.

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Edith Longworth went to her state-room and there had what women call 'a good cry' over her failure. Jennie Brewster continued her writing, every now and then pausing as she thought, with regret, of some sharp thing she might have said, which did not occur to her at the time of the interview. Kenyon spent his time in pacing up and down the deck, hoping for the reappearance of Miss Longworth--an expectation which, for a time at least, was the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. Fleming, the New York politician, kept the smoking-room merry, listening to the stories he told. He varied the proceedings by frequently asking everybody to drink with him, an invitation that met with no general refusal. Old Mr. Longworth dozed most of his time in his steamer chair. Wentworth, who still bitterly accused himself of having been a fool, talked with no one, not even his friend Kenyon. All the time, the great steamship kept forging along through the reasonably calm water just as if nothing had happened or was going to happen. There had been one day of rain, and one night and part of a day of storm. Saturday morning broke, and it was expected that some time in the night Queenstown would be reached. Early on Saturday morning the clouds looked lowering, as they have a right to look near Ireland. Wentworth, the cause of all the worry, gave Kenyon very little assistance in the matter that troubled his mind. He was in the habit, when the subject was referred to, of thrusting his hands into his hair, or plunging them down into his pockets, and breaking out into language which was as deplorable as it was expressive. The more Kenyon advised him to be calm, the less Wentworth followed that advice. As a general thing, he spent most of his time alone in a very gloomy state of mind. On one occasion when the genial Fleming slapped him on the shoulder, Wentworth, to his great astonishment, turned fiercely round and cried: 'If you do that again, sir, I'll knock you down.' Fleming said afterwards that he was 'completely flabbergasted' by this--whatever that may mean--and he added that the English in general were a queer race. It is true that he gathered himself together at the time and, having laughed a little over the remark, said to Wentworth: 'Come and have a drink; then you'll feel better.' This invitation Wentworth did not even take the trouble to decline, but thrust his hands in his pockets once more, and turned his back on the popular New York politician. Wentworth summed up the situation to John Kenyon when he said: 'There is no use in our talking or thinking any more about it. We can simply do nothing. I shall take the whole blame on my shoulders. I am resolved that you shall not suffer from my indiscretion. Now, don't talk to me any more about it. I want to forget the wretched business, if possible.' So thus it came about quite naturally that John Kenyon, who was a good deal troubled about the matter, took as his confidante Edith Longworth, who also betrayed the greatest interest in the problem. Miss Longworth was left all the more alone because her cousin had taken permanently to the smoking-room. Someone had introduced him to the fascinating game of poker, and in the practice of this particular amusement Mr. William Longworth was now spending a good deal of his surplus cash, as well as his time. Jennie Brewster was seldom seen on deck. She applied herself assiduously to the writing of those brilliant articles which appeared later in the Sunday edition of the _New York Argus_ under the general title of 'Life at Sea,' and which have more recently been issued in book form. As everybody is already aware, her sketches of the genial New York politician, and also of the taciturn, glum Englishman, are considered the finest things in the little volume. They have been largely copied as typical examples of American humour. When Jennie Brewster did appear on deck, she walked alone up and down the promenade, with a sort of half-defiant look in her eyes as she passed Kenyon and Edith Longworth, and she generally encountered them together. On this particularly eventful Saturday morning, Kenyon and Edith had the deck to themselves. The conversation naturally turned to the subject which for the last few days had occupied the minds of both. 'Do you know,' said the girl, 'I have been thinking all along that she will come to me at the last for the money.' 'I am not at all sure about that,' answered Kenyon. 'I thought she would probably keep us on the tenterhooks just as long as possible, and then at the last moment come and say she would accept the offer.' 'If she does,' said Kenyon, 'I would not trust her. I would give her to understand that a cheque would be handed to her when we were certain the article had not been used.' 'Do you think that would be a safe way to act if she came and said she would take the money for not sending the cablegram? Don't you think it would be better to pay her and trust to her honour?' Kenyon laughed. 'I do not think I would trust much to her honour.' 'Now, do you know, I have a different opinion of her. I feel sure that if she said she would do a thing, she _would_ do it.' 'I have no such faith,' answered Kenyon. 'I think, on the contrary, that she is quite capable of asking you for the money and still sending her telegram.' 'Well, I doubt if she would do so. I think the girl really believes she is acting rightly, and imagines she has done a creditable action in a very smart way. If she were not what she calls "honest," she would not have shown so much temper as she did. Not but that I gave a deplorable exhibition of temper myself, for which there was really no excuse.' 'I am sure,' said Kenyon warmly, 'you did nothing of the kind. At all events, I am certain everything you did was perfectly right; and I know you were completely justified in anything you said.' 'I wish I could think so.' 'I want to ask you one question,' said Kenyon. But what that question was will never be known. It was never asked; and when Edith Longworth inquired about it some time later, the question had entirely gone from Kenyon's mind. The steamship, which was ploughing along through the waters, suddenly gave a shiver, as if it were shaken by an earthquake; there were three tremendous bumps, such as a sledge might make by going suddenly over logs concealed in the snow. Both Kenyon and Miss Longworth sprang to their feet. There was a low roar of steam, and they saw a cloud rise amidships, apparently pouring out of every aperture through which it could escape. Then there was silence. The engines had stopped, and the vessel heeled distinctly over to the port side. When Edith Longworth began to realize the situation, she found herself very close to Kenyon, clasping his arm with both hands. 'What--what is it?' she cried in alarm. 'Something is wrong,' said Kenyon. 'Nothing serious, I hope. Will you wait here a moment while I go and see?' 'It is stupid of me,' she answered, releasing his arm; 'but I feel dreadfully frightened.' 'Perhaps you would rather not be left alone.' 'Oh no, it is all over now; but when the first of those terrible shocks came it seemed to me we had struck a rock.' 'There are no rocks here,' said Kenyon. 'The day is perfectly clear, and we are evidently not out of our course. Something has gone wrong with the machinery, I imagine. Just wait a moment, and I will find out.' As Kenyon rushed towards the companion-way, he met a sailor hurrying in the other direction. 'What is the matter?' cried Kenyon. The sailor gave no answer. On entering the companion-way door, Kenyon found the place full of steam, and he ran against an officer. 'What is wrong? Is anything the matter?' 'How should I know?' was the answer, very curtly given. 'Please do not ask any questions. Everything will be attended to.' This was scant encouragement. People began crowding up the companion-way, coughing and wheezing in the steam; and soon the deck, that but a moment before had been almost without an occupant, was crowded with excited human beings in all states of dress and undress. 'What is wrong?' was the question on every lip, to which, as yet, there was no answer. The officers who hurried to and fro were mute, or gave short and unsatisfactory replies to the inquiries which poured in upon them. People did not pause to reflect that even an officer could hardly be expected to know off-hand what the cause of the sudden stoppage of the engine might be. By-and-by the captain appeared, smiling and bland. He told them there was no danger. Something had gone amiss with the machinery, exactly what he could not, at the moment, tell; but there was no necessity for being panic-stricken, everything would be all right in a short time if they merely remained calm. These, and a lot of other nautical lies, which are always told on such occasions, served to calm the fears of the crowd; and by-and-by one after another went down to their state-rooms on finding the vessel was not going to sink immediately. They all appeared some time afterward in more suitable apparel. The steam which had filled the saloon soon disappeared, leaving the furniture dripping with warm moisture. Finally, the loud clang of the breakfast-gong sounded as if nothing had happened, and that did more, perhaps, than anything else to allay the fears of the passengers. If breakfast was about to be served, then, of course, things were not serious. Nevertheless, a great many people that morning had a very poor appetite for the breakfast served to them. The one blessing, as everybody said, was that the weather kept so fine and the sea so calm. To those few who knew anything about disasters at sea, the list of the ship to the port side was a most serious sign. The majority of the passengers, however, did not notice it. After breakfast people came up on deck. There was a wonderful avoidance of hurry, alike by officers and sailors. Orders were given calmly and quietly, and as calmly and quietly obeyed. Officers were still up on the bridge, although there were no commands to give to the man at the wheel and no screw turning. The helmsman stood at the wheel as if he expected at any time the order to turn it port or starboard. All this absence of rush had a very soothing effect on the passengers, many of whom wanted only a slight excuse to become hysterical. As the day wore on, however, a general feeling of security seemed to have come upon all on board. They one and all congratulated themselves on the fact that they had behaved in a most exemplary manner considering the somewhat alarming circumstances. Nevertheless, those who watched the captain saw that he swept the long line of the horizon through his glass every now and then with a good deal of anxiety, and they noticed on looking at the long level line where sea and sky met that not a sail was visible around the complete circle. Up from the engine-room came the clank of hammers, and the opinion was general that, whatever was amiss with the engine, it was capable of being repaired. One thing had become certain, there was nothing wrong with the shafts. The damage, whatever it was, had been to the engine alone. All of the passengers found themselves more or less affected by the peculiar sensation of the steamer being at rest--the awe-inspiring and helpless consciousness of complete silence--after the steady throb they had become so accustomed to all the way across. That night at dinner the captain took his place at the head of the table, urbane and courteous, as if nothing unusual had happened; and the people, who, notwithstanding their outward calmness, were in a state of anxious tension, noticed this with gratified feelings. 'What is the matter?' asked a passenger of the captain; 'and what is the extent of the accident?' The captain looked down the long table. 'I am afraid,' said he, 'that if I went into technical details you would not understand them. There was a flaw in one of the rods connected with the engine. That rod broke, and in breaking it damaged other parts of the machinery. Doubtless you heard the three thuds which it gave before the engine was stopped. At present it is impossible to tell how long it will take to repair the damage. However, even if the accident were serious, we are right in the track of vessels, and there is no danger.' This was reassuring; but those who lay awake that night heard the ominous sound of the pumps, and the swishing of water splashing down into the ocean.

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Most of the passengers awoke next morning with a bewildering feeling of vague apprehension. The absence of all motion in the ship, the unusual and intense silence, had a depressing effect. The engines had not yet started; that at least was evident. Kenyon was one of the first on deck. He noticed that the pumps were still working at their full speed, and that the steamer had still the unexplained list to port. Happily, the weather continued good, so far as the quietness of the sea was concerned. A slight drizzle of rain had set in, and the horizon was not many miles from the ship. There would not be much chance of sighting another liner while such weather continued. Before Kenyon had been many minutes on deck, Edith Longworth came up the companion-way. She approached him with a smile on her face. 'Well,' he said, 'you, at least, do not seem to be suffering any anxiety because of our situation.' 'Really,' she replied, 'I was not thinking of that at all, but about something else. Can you not guess what it is?' 'No,' he answered hesitatingly. 'What is it?' 'Have you forgotten that this is Sunday morning?' 'Is it? Of course it is. So far as I am concerned, time seemed to stop when the engines broke down. But I do not understand why Sunday morning means anything in particular.' 'Don't you? Well, for a person who has been thinking for the last two or three days very earnestly on one particular subject, I am astonished at you. Sunday morning and no land in sight! Reflect for a moment.' Kenyon's face brightened. 'Ah,' he cried, 'I see what you mean now! Miss Brewster's cable message will not appear in this morning's _New York Argus_.' 'Of course it will not; and don't you see, also, that when we do arrive you will have an equal chance in the race. If we get in before next Sunday, your telegram to the London people will go as quickly as her cable despatch to New York; thus you will be saved the humiliation of seeing the substance of your report in the London papers before the directors see the report itself. It is not much, to be sure, but, still, it puts you on equal terms; while if we had got into Queenstown last night that would have been impossible.' Kenyon laughed. 'Well,' he said, 'for such a result the cause is rather tremendous, isn't it? It is something like burning down the house to roast the pig!' Shortly after ten o'clock the atmosphere cleared, and showed in the distance a steamer, westward bound. The vessel evidently belonged to one of the great ocean lines. The moment it was sighted there fluttered up to the masthead a number of signal-flags, and people crowded to the side of the ship to watch the effect on the outgoing vessel. Minute after minute passed, but there was no response from the other liner. People watched her with breathless anxiety, as though their fate depended on her noticing their signals. Of course, everybody thought she must see them, but still she steamed westward. A cloud of black smoke came out of her funnel, and then a long dark trail, like the tail of a comet, floated out behind; but no notice was taken of the fluttering flags at the masthead. For more than an hour the steamer was in sight. Then she gradually faded away into the west, and finally disappeared. This incident had a depressing effect on the passengers of the disabled ship. Although every officer had maintained there was no danger, yet the floating away of that steamer seemed somehow to leave them alone; and people, after gazing toward the west until not a vestige of her remained in the horizon, went back to their deck-chairs, feeling more despondent than ever. Fleming, however, maintained that if people had to drown, it was just as well to drown jolly as mournful, and so he invited everybody to take a drink at his expense--a generous offer, taken instant advantage of by all the smoking-room frequenters. 'My idea is this,' said Fleming, as he sipped the cocktail which was brought to him, 'if anything happens, let it happen; if nothing happens, why, then let nothing happen. There is no use worrying about anything, especially something we cannot help. Here we are on the ocean in a disabled vessel--very good; we cannot do anything about it, and so long as the bar remains open, gentlemen, here's to you!' And with this cheerful philosophy the New York politician swallowed the liquor he had paid for. Still the swish of water from the pumps could be heard, but the metallic clanking of steel on steel no longer came up from the engine-room. This in itself was ominous to those who knew. It showed that the engineer had given up all hope of repairing the damage, whatever it was, and the real cause of the disaster was as much a mystery as ever. Shortly before lunch it became evident to people on board the ship that something was about to be done. The sailors undid the fastenings of one of the large boats, and swung it out on the davits until it hung over the sea. Gradually rumour took form, and it became known that one of the officers and certain of the crew were about to make an attempt to reach the coast of Ireland and telegraph to Queenstown for tugs to bring the steamer in. The captain still asserted that there was no danger whatever, and it was only to prevent delay that this expedient was about to be tried. 'Do you know what they are going to do?' cried Edith Longworth, in a state of great excitement, to John Kenyon. Kenyon had been walking the deck with Wentworth, who now had gone below. 'I have heard,' said Kenyon, 'that they intend trying to reach the coast.' 'Exactly. Now, why should you not send a telegram to your people in London, and have the reports forwarded at once? The chances are that Miss Brewster will never think of sending her cablegram with the officer who is going to make the trip; then you will be a clear day or two ahead of her, and everything will be all right. In fact, when she understands what has been done, she probably will not send her own message at all.' 'By George!' cried Kenyon, 'that is a good idea. I will see the mate at once, and find out whether he will take a telegram.' He went accordingly, and spoke to the mate about sending a message with him. The officer said that any passenger who wished to send a telegraphic message would be at liberty to do so. He would take charge of the telegrams very gladly. Kenyon went down to his state-room and told Wentworth what was going to be done. For the first time in several days George Wentworth exhibited something like energy. He went to the steward and bought the stamps to put on the telegram, while John Kenyon wrote it. The message was given to the officer, who put it into his inside pocket, and then Kenyon thought all was safe. But Edith Longworth was not so sure of that. Jennie Brewster sat in her deck-chair calmly reading her usual paper-covered novel. She apparently knew nothing of what was going on, and Edith Longworth, nervous with suppressed excitement, sat near her, watching her narrowly, while preparations for launching the boat were being completed. Suddenly, to Edith's horror, the deck-steward appeared, and in a loud voice cried: 'Ladies and gentlemen, anyone wishing to send telegrams to friends has a few minutes now to write them. The mate will take them ashore with him, and will send them from the first office that he reaches. No letters can be taken, only telegrams.' Miss Brewster looked up languidly from her book during the first part of this recital. Then she sprang suddenly to her feet, and threw the book on the deck. 'Who is it will take the telegrams?' she asked the steward. 'The mate, miss. There he is standing yonder, miss.' She made her way quickly to that official. 'Will you take a cable despatch to be sent to New York?' 'Yes, miss. Is it a very long one?' he asked. 'Yes, it is a very long one.' 'Well, miss,' was the answer, 'you haven't much time to write it. We leave now in a very few minutes.' 'It is all written out; I have only to add a few words to it.' Miss Brewster at once flew to her state-room. The telegram about the mine was soon before her with the words counted, and the silver and gold that were to pay for it piled on the table. She resolved to run no risk of delay by having the message sent 'to collect.' Then she dashed off, as quickly as she could, a brief and very graphic account of the disaster which had overtaken the _Caloric_. If this account was slightly exaggerated, Miss Brewster had no time to tone it down. Picturesque and dramatic description was what she aimed at. Her pen flew over the paper with great rapidity, and she looked up every now and then, through her state-room window, to see dangling from the ropes the boat that was to make the attempt to reach the Irish coast. As she could thus see how the preparations for the departure were going forward, she lingered longer than she might otherwise have done, and added line after line to the despatch which told of the disaster. At last she saw the men take their places in the longboat. She hurriedly counted the words in the new despatch she had written, and quickly from her purse piled the gold that was necessary to pay for their transmission. Then she sealed the two despatches in an envelope, put the two piles of gold into one after rapidly counting them again, cast a quick look up at the still motionless boat, grasped the gold in one hand, the envelope in the other, and sprang to her feet; but, as she did so, she gave a shriek and took a step backwards. Standing with her back to the door was Edith Longworth. When she had entered the state-room, Miss Brewster did not know, but her heart beat wildly as she saw the girl standing silently there, as if she had risen up through the floor. 'What are you doing here?' she demanded. 'I am here,' said Miss Longworth, 'because I wish to talk with you.' 'Stand aside; I have no time to talk to you just now. I told you I didn't want to see you again. Stand aside, I tell you.' 'I shall not stand aside.' 'What do you mean?' 'I mean that I shall not stand aside.' 'Then I will ring the bell and have you thrust out of here for your impudence.' 'You shall not ring the bell,' said Edith calmly, putting her hand over the white china plaque that held in its centre the black electric button. 'Do you mean to tell me that you intend to keep me from leaving my own state-room?' 'I mean to tell you exactly that.' 'Do you know that you can be imprisoned for attempting such a thing?' 'I don't care.' 'Stand aside, you vixen, or I will strike you!' 'Do it.' For a moment the two girls stood there, the one flushed and excited, the other apparently calm, with her back against the door and her hand over the electric button. A glance through the window showed Miss Brewster that the mate had got into the boat, and that they were steadily lowering away. 'Let me pass, you--you wretch!' 'All in good time,' replied Edith Longworth, whose gaze was also upon the boat swinging in mid-air. Jennie Brewster saw at once that, if it came to a hand-to-hand encounter, she would have no chance whatever against the English girl, who was in every way her physical superior. She had her envelope in one hand and the gold in the other. She thrust both of them into her pocket, which, after some fumbling, she found. Then she raised her voice in one of the shrillest screams which Edith Longworth had ever heard. As if in answer to that ear-piercing sound, there rose from the steamer a loud and ringing cheer. Both glanced up to see where the boat was, but it was not in sight. Several ropes were dangling down past the porthole. Miss Brewster sprang up on the sofa, and with her small hands turned round the screw which held the window closed. Edith Longworth looked at her without making any attempt to prevent the unfastening of the window. Jennie Brewster flung open the heavy brass circle which held the thick green glass, and again she screamed at the top of her voice, crying 'Help!' and 'Murder!' The other did not move from her position. In the silence that followed, the steady splash of oars could be heard, and again a rousing cheer rang out from those who were left upon the motionless steamer. Edith Longworth raised herself on tiptoe and looked out of the open window. On the crest of a wave, five hundred yards away from the vessel, she saw the boat for a moment appear, showing the white glitter of her six dripping oars; then it vanished down the other side of the wave into the trough of the sea. 'Now, Miss Brewster', she said, 'you are at liberty to go.'

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After Edith Longworth left her, Jennie Brewster indulged in a brief spasm of hysterics. Her common-sense, however, speedily came to her rescue; and, as she became more calm, she began to wonder why she had not assaulted the girl who had dared to imprison her. She dimly remembered that she thought of a fierce onslaught at the time, and she also recollected that her fear of the boat leaving during the struggle had stayed her hand. But now that the boat had left she bitterly regretted her inaction, and grieved unavailingly over the fact that she had stopped to write the account of the disaster which befell the _Caloric_. Had she not done so, all might have been well, but her great ambition to be counted the best-newspaper woman in New York, and to show the editor that she was equal to any emergency that might arise, had undone her. While it would have been possible for her to send away one telegram, her desire to write the second had resulted in her sending none at all. Although she impugned her own conduct in language that one would not have expected to have heard from the lips of a millionaire's daughter, her anger against Edith Longworth became more intense, and a fierce desire for revenge took possession of the fair correspondent. She resolved that she would go up on deck and shame this woman before everybody. She would attract public attention to the affair by tearing Edith Longworth from her deck-chair, and in her present state of mind she had no doubt of her strength to do it. With the yearning for vengeance fierce and strong upon her, the newspaper woman put on her hat and departed for the deck. She passed up one side and down the other, but her intended victim was not visible. The rage of Miss Brewster increased when she did not find her prey where she expected. She had a fear that, when she calmed down, a different disposition would assert itself, and her revenge would be lost. In going to and fro along the deck she met Kenyon and Fleming walking together. Fleming had just that moment come up to Kenyon, who was quietly pacing the deck alone, and, slapping him on the shoulder, asked him to have a drink. 'It seems to me,' he said, 'that I never have had the pleasure of offering you a drink since we came on board this ship. I want to drink with everybody here, and especially now, when something has happened to make it worth while.' 'I am very much obliged to you,' said John Kenyon coldly, 'but I never drink with anybody.' 'What, never touch it at all? Not even beer?' 'Not even beer.' 'Well, I am astonished to hear that. I thought every Englishman drank beer.' 'There is at least one Englishman who does not.' 'All right, then; no harm done, and no offence given, I hope. I may say, however, that you miss a lot of fun in this world.' 'I suppose I miss a few headaches also.' 'Oh, not necessarily. I have one great recipe for not having a headache. You see, this is the philosophy of headaches.' And then, much to John's chagrin, he linked arms with him and changed his step to suit Kenyon's, talking all the time as if they were the most intimate friends in the world. 'I have a sure plan for avoiding a headache. You see, when you look into the matter, it is this way: The headache only comes when you are sober. Very well, then. It is as simple as A B C. Never get sober; that's my plan. I simply keep on, and never get sober, so I have no headaches. If people who drink would avoid the disagreeable necessity of ever getting sober, they would be all right. Don't you see what I mean?' 'And how about their brains in the meantime?' 'Oh, their brains are all right. Good liquor sharpens a man's brains wonderfully. Now, you try it some time. Let me have them mix a cocktail for you? I tell you, John, a cocktail is one of the finest drinks that ever was made, and this man at the bar--when I came on board, he thought he could make a cocktail, but he didn't know even the rudiments--I have taught him how to do it; and I tell you that secret will be worth a fortune to him, because if there is anything Americans like, it is to have their cocktails mixed correctly. There's no one man in all England can do it, and very few men on the Atlantic service. But I'm gradually educating them. Been across six times. They pretend to give you American drinks over in England, but you must know how disappointing they are.' 'I'm sure I don't see how I should know, for I never taste any of them.' 'Ah, true; I had forgotten that. Well, I took this bar-keeper here in hand, and he knows now how to make a reasonably good cocktail; and, as I say, that secret will be worth money to him from American passengers.' John Kenyon was revolving in his mind the problem of how to get rid of this loquacious and generous individual, when he saw, bearing down upon them, the natty figure of Miss Jennie Brewster; and he wondered why such a look of bitter indignation was flashing from her eyes. He thought that she intended to address the American politician, but he was mistaken. She came directly at him, and said in an excited tone, with a ring of anger in it: 'Well, John Kenyon, what do you think of your work?' 'What work?' asked the bewildered man. 'You know very well what work I mean. A fine specimen of a man you are! Without the courage yourself to prevent my sending that telegram, you induced your dupe to come down to my state-room and brazenly keep me from sending it.' The blank look of utter astonishment upon the face of honest John Kenyon would have convinced any woman in her senses that he knew nothing at all of what she was speaking. A dim impression of this, indeed, flashed across the young woman's heated brain. But before she could speak, Fleming said: 'Tut, tut, my dear girl! you are talking too loud altogether. Do you want to attract the attention of everybody on the deck? You mustn't make a scandal in this way on board ship.' 'Scandal!' she cried. 'We will soon see whether there will be a scandal or not. Attract the attention of those on deck! That is exactly what I am going to do, until I show up the villainy of this man you are talking to. He was the concocter of it, and he knows it. She never had brains enough to think of it. He was too much of a coward to carry it through himself, and so he set her to do his dastardly piece of work.' 'Well, well,' said Fleming, 'even if he has done all that, whatever it is, it will do no good to attract attention to it here on deck. See how everybody is listening to what you are saying. My dear girl, you are too angry to talk just now; the best thing you can do is to go down to your state-room.' 'Who asked you to interfere?' she cried, turning furiously upon him. 'I'll thank you to mind your own business, and let me attend to mine. I should have thought that you would have found out before this that I am capable of attending to my own affairs.' 'Certainly, certainly, my dear child,' answered the politician soothingly; 'I'm sorry I can't get you all to come and have a drink with me, and talk this matter over quietly. That's the correct way to do things, not to stand here scolding on the deck, with everybody listening. Now, if you will quietly discuss the matter with John here, I'm sure everything will be all right.' 'You don't know what you are talking about,' replied the young lady. 'Do you know that I had an important despatch to send to the _Argus_, and that this man's friend, doubtless at his instigation, came into my room and practically held me prisoner there until the boat had left, so that I could not send the despatch? Think of the cheek and villainy of that, and then speak to me of talking wildly!' An expression of amazement upon Kenyon's face convinced the newspaper woman, more than all his protestations would have done, that he knew nothing whatever of the escapade. 'And who kept you from coming out?' asked Fleming. 'It is none of your business,' she replied tartly. 'If you will believe me,' said Kenyon at last, 'I had absolutely no knowledge of all this; so, you see, there is no use speaking to me about it. I won't pretend I am sorry, because I am not.' This added fuel to the flames, and she was about to blaze out again, when Kenyon, turning on his heel, left her and Fleming standing facing each other. Then the young woman herself turned and quickly departed, leaving the bewildered politician entirely alone, so that there was nothing for him to do but to go into the smoking-room and ask somebody else to drink with him, which he promptly did. Miss Brewster made her way to the captain's room and rapped at the door. On being told to enter, she found that officer seated at his table with some charts before him, and a haggard look upon his face, which might have warned her that this was not the proper time to air any personal grievances. 'Well?' he said briefly as she entered. 'I came to see you, captain,' she began, 'because an outrageous thing has been done on board this ship, and I desire reparation. What is more, I will have it! 'What is the "outrageous thing"?' asked the captain. 'I had some despatches to send to New York, to the _New York Argus_, on whose staff I am.' 'Yes,' said the captain with interest; 'despatches relating to what has happened to the ship?' 'One of them did, the other did not.' 'Well, I hope,' said the captain, 'you have not given an exaggerated account of the condition we are in.' 'I have given no account at all, simply because I was prevented from sending the cablegrams.' 'Ah, indeed,' said the captain, a look of relief coming over his face, in spite of his efforts to conceal it; 'and pray what prevented you from sending your cablegrams? The mate would have taken any messages that were given to him.' 'I know that,' cried the young woman; 'but when I was in my room writing the last of the despatches, a person who is on board as a passenger here--Miss Longworth--came into my room and held me prisoner there until the boat had left the ship.' The captain arched his eyebrows in surprise. 'My dear madam,' he said, 'you make a very serious charge. Miss Longworth has crossed several times with me, and I am bound to say that a better-behaved young lady I never had on board my ship.' 'Extremely well behaved she is!' cried the correspondent angrily, 'she stood against my door and prevented me from going out. I screamed for help, but my screams were drowned in the cheers of the passengers when the boat left.' 'Why did you not ring your bell?' 'I couldn't ring my bell because she prevented me. Besides, if I had reached the bell, it is not likely anybody would have answered it; everybody seemed to be bawling after the boat that was leaving.' 'You can hardly blame them for that. A great deal depends on the safety of that boat. In fact, if you come to think about it, you will see that whatever grievance you may have, it is, after all, a very trivial one compared with the burden that weighs on me just now, and I should much prefer not to have anything to do with disputes between the passengers until we are out of our present predicament.' 'The predicament has nothing whatever to do with it. I tell you a fact. I tell you that one of your passengers came and imprisoned me in my state-room. I come to you for redress. Now, there must be some law on shipboard that takes the place of ordinary law on land. I make this demand officially to you. If you decline to hear me, and refuse to redress my wrong, then I have public opinion, to which I can appeal through my paper, and perhaps there will also be a chance of obtaining justice through the law of the land to which I am going.' 'My dear madam,' said the captain calmly, 'you must not use threats to me. I am not accustomed to be addressed in the tone you have taken upon yourself to use. Now tell me what it is you wish me to do?' 'It is for you to say what you will do. I am a passenger on board this ship, and am supposed to be under the protection of its captain. I therefore tell you I have been forcibly detained in my state-room, and I demand that the person who did this shall be punished.' 'You say that Miss Longworth is the person who did this?' 'Yes, I do.' 'Now, do you know you make a serious charge against that young lady--a charge that I find it remarkably difficult to believe? May I ask you what reason she had for doing what you say she has done?' 'That is a long story. I am quite prepared to show that she tried to bribe me not to send a despatch, and, finding herself unsuccessful, she forcibly detained me in my room until too late to send the telegram.' The captain pondered over what had been said to him. 'Have you any proof of this charge?' 'Proof! What do you mean? Do you doubt my word?' 'I mean exactly what I say. Have you anybody to prove the exceedingly serious charge you bring?' 'Certainly not. I have no proof. If there had been a witness there, the thing would not have happened. If I could have summoned help, it would not have happened. How could I have any proof of such an outrage?' 'Well, do you not see that it is impossible for me to take action on your unsupported word? Do you not see that, if you take further steps in this extraordinary affair, Miss Longworth will ask you for proof of what you state? If she denies acting as you say she did, and you fail to prove your allegation, it seems to me that you will be in rather a difficult position. You would be liable to a suit for slander. Just think the matter over calmly for the rest of the day before you take any further action upon it, and I would strongly advise you not to mention this to anyone on board. Then to-morrow, if you are still in the same frame of mind, come to me.' Thus dismissed, the young woman left the captain's room, and met Fleming just outside, who said: 'Look here, Miss Brewster, I want to have a word with you. You were very curt with me just now.' 'Mr. Fleming, I do not wish to speak to you.' 'Oh, that's all right--that's all right; but let me tell you this: you're a pretty smart young woman, and you have done me one or two very evil turns in your life. I have found out all about this affair, and it's one of the funniest things I ever heard of.' 'Very funny, isn't it?' snapped the young woman. 'Of course it's very funny; but when it appears in full in the opposition papers to the _Argus_, perhaps you won't see the humour of it--though everybody else in New York will, that's one consolation.' 'What do you mean?' 'I mean to say, Jennie Brewster, that unless you are a fool, you will drop this thing. Don't, for Heaven's sake, let anybody know you were treated by an English girl in the way you were. Take my advice: say no more about it.' 'And what business is it of yours?' 'It isn't mine at all; that is why I am meddling with it. Aren't you well enough acquainted with me to know that nothing in the world pleases me so much as to interfere in other people's business? I have found out all about the girl who kept you in, and a mighty plucky action it was too. I have seen that girl on the deck, and I like the cut of her jib. I like the way she walks. Her independence suits me. She is a girl who wouldn't give a man any trouble, now, I tell you, if he were lucky enough to win her. And I am not going to see that girl put to any trouble by you, understand that!' 'And how are you going to prevent it, may I ask?' 'May you ask? Why, of course you may. I will tell you how I am going to prevent it. Simply by restraining you from doing another thing in the matter.' 'If you think you can do that, you are very much mistaken. I am going to have that girl put in prison, if there is a law in the land.' 'Well, in the first place, we are not on land; and, in the second place, you are going to do nothing of the kind, because, if you do, I shall go to the London correspondents of the other New York papers and give the whole blessed snap away. I'll tell them how the smart and cute Miss Dolly Dimple, who has bamboozled so many persons in her life, was once caught in her own trap; and I shall inform them how it took place. And they'll be glad to get it, you bet! It will make quite interesting reading in the New York opposition papers some fine Sunday morning--about a column and a half, say. Won't there be some swearing in the _Argus_ when that appears! It won't be your losing the despatch you were going to send, but it will be your utter idiocy in making the thing public, and letting the other papers on to it. Why, the best thing in the world for you to do, and the _only_ thing, is to keep as quiet as possible about it. I am astonished at a girl of your sense, Dolly, making a public fuss like this, when you should be the very one trying to keep it secret.' The newspaper correspondent pondered on these words. 'And if I keep quiet about it, will you do the same?' 'Certainly; but you must remember that if ever you attempt any of your tricks of interviewing on me again, out comes this whole thing. Don't forget that.' 'I won't,' said Miss Jennie Brewster. And next morning, when the captain was anxiously awaiting her arrival in his room, she did not appear.

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After all, it must be admitted that George Wentworth was a man of somewhat changeable character. For the last two or three days he had been moping like one who meditated suicide; now when everyone else was anxiously wondering what was going to happen to the ship, he suddenly became the brightest individual on board. For a man to be moody and distraught while danger was impending was not at all surprising; but for a man, right in the midst of gloom, to blossom suddenly out into a general hilarity of manner, was something extraordinary. People thought it must be a case of brain trouble. They watched the young man with interest as he walked with a springy step up and down the deck. Every now and again a bright smile illuminated his face, and then he seemed to be ashamed that people should notice he was feeling so happy. When he was alone he had a habit of smiting his thigh and bursting out into a laugh that was long and low, rather than loud and boisterous. No one was more astonished at this change than Fleming, the politician. George met him on deck, and, to the great surprise of that worthy gentleman, smote him on the back and said: 'My dear sir, I am afraid the other day, when you spoke to me, I answered a little gruffly. I beg to apologize. Come and have a drink with me.' 'Oh, don't mention it,' said Fleming joyously; 'we all of us have our little down-turns now and then. Why, I have them myself, when liquor is bad or scarce! You mightn't believe it, but some days I feel away down in the mouth. It is true I have a recipe for getting up again, which I always use. And that reminds me: do you remember what the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina?' 'I'm sure I don't know,' said Wentworth; 'you see, I'm not very well versed in United States politics.' 'Well, there wasn't much politics about his remark. He merely said, "It's a long time between drinks;" come in and have something with me. It seems to me you haven't tasted anything in my company since the voyage began.' 'I believe,' said Wentworth, 'that is a true statement. Let us amend it as soon as possible, only in this case let me pay for the drinks. I invited you to drink with me.' 'Not at all, not at all!' cried Fleming; 'not while I'm here. This is my treat, and it is funny to think that a man should spend a week with another man without knowing him. Really, you see, I haven't known you till now.' And so the two worthy gentlemen disappeared into the smoking-room and rang the electric bell. But it was in his own state-room that George Wentworth's jocularity came out at its best. He would grasp John Kenyon by the shoulder and shake that solemn man, over whose face a grim smile generally appeared when he noticed the exuberant jollity of his comrade. 'John,' Wentworth cried, 'why don't you laugh?' 'Well, it seems to me,' replied his comrade, 'that you are doing laughing enough for us both. It is necessary to have one member of the firm solid and substantial. I'm trying to keep the average about right. When you were in the dumps I had to be cheerful for two. Now that you feel so lively, I take a refuge in melancholy, to rest me after my hard efforts at cheerfulness.' 'Well, John, it seems to me too good to be true. What a plucky girl she was to do such a thing! How did she know but that the little vixen had a revolver with her, and might have shot her?' 'I suppose she didn't think about it at all.' 'Have you seen her since that dramatic incident?' 'Seen whom? Miss Brewster?' 'No, no; I mean Miss Longworth.' 'No, she hasn't appeared yet. I suppose she fears there will be a scene, and she is anxious to avoid it.' 'Very likely that is the case,' said Wentworth. 'Well, if you do see her, you can tell her there is no danger. Our genial friend, Fleming, has had a talk with that newspaper woman, so he tells me, and the way he describes it is exceedingly picturesque. He has threatened her with giving away the "snap," as he calls it, to the other New York papers, and it seems that the only thing on earth Miss Brewster is afraid of is the opposition press. So she has promised to say nothing more whatever about the incident.' 'Then, you have been talking with Fleming?' 'Certainly I have; a jovial good fellow he is, too. I have been doing something more than talking with him; I have been drinking with him.' 'And yet a day or two ago, I understand, you threatened to strike him.' 'A day or two ago, John! It was ages and ages ago. A day or two isn't in it. That was years and centuries since, as it appears to me. I was an old man then; now I have become young again, and all on account of the plucky action of that angel of a girl of yours.' 'Not of mine,' said Kenyon seriously; 'I wish she were.' 'Well, cheer up. Everything will come out right; you see, it always does. Nothing looked blacker than this matter about the telegram a few days ago, and see how beautifully it has turned out.' Kenyon said nothing. He did not desire to discuss the matter even with his best friend. The two went up on deck together, and took a few turns along the promenade, during which promenade the eyes of Kenyon were directed to the occupants of the deckchairs, but he did not see the person whom he sought. Telling Wentworth he was going below for a moment, he left him to continue his walk alone, and on reaching the saloon Kenyon spoke to a stewardess. 'Do you know if Miss Longworth is in her stateroom?' 'Yes, sir, I think she is,' was the answer. 'Will you take this note to her?' John sat down to wait for an answer. The answer did not come by the hand of the stewardess. Edith herself timorously glanced into the saloon, and, seeing Kenyon alone, ventured in. He sprang up to meet her. 'I was afraid,' he said, 'that you had been ill.' 'No, not quite, but almost,' she answered. 'Oh, Mr. Kenyon, I have done the most terrible thing! You could not imagine that I was so bold and wicked;' and tears gathered in the eyes of the girl. Kenyon stretched out his hand to her, and she took it. 'I am afraid to stay here with you,' she said, 'for fear----' 'Oh, I know all about it,' said Kenyon. 'You cannot know about it; you surely do not know what I have done?' 'Yes, I know exactly what you've done; and we all very much admire your pluck.' 'It hasn't, surely, been the talk of the ship?' 'No, it has not; but Miss Brewster charged me with being an accomplice.' 'And you told her you were not, of course?' 'I couldn't tell her anything, for the simple reason that I hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about; but that's how I came to know what had happened, and I am here to thank you, Miss Longworth, for your action. I really believe you have saved the sanity of my friend Wentworth. He is a different man since the incident we are speaking of occurred.' 'And have you seen Miss Brewster since?' 'Oh yes; as I was telling you, she met me on the deck. Dear me! how thoughtless of me! I had forgotten you were standing. Won't you sit down?' 'No, no; I have been in my room so long that I am glad to stand anywhere.' 'Then, won't you come up on deck with me?' 'Oh, I'm afraid,' she said. 'I am afraid of a public scene; and I am sure, by the last look I caught in that girl's eyes, she will stop at no scandal to have her revenge. I am sorry to say that I am too much of a coward to meet her. Of course, from her point of view I have done her eternal wrong. Perhaps it was wrong from anybody's point of view.' 'Miss Longworth,' said John Kenyon cordially, 'you need have no fear whatever of meeting her. She will say nothing.' 'How do you know that?' 'Oh, it is a long story. She went to the captain with her complaint, and received very little comfort there. I will tell you all about it on deck. Get a wrap and come with me.' As Kenyon gave this peremptory order, he realized that he was taking a liberty he had no right to take, and his face flushed as he wondered if Edith would resent the familiarity of his tones; but she merely looked up at him with a bright smile, and said: 'I will do, sir, as you command.' 'No, no,' said Kenyon; 'it was not a command, although it sounded like one. It was a very humble request; at least, I intended it to be such.' 'Well, I will get my wrap.' As she left for her state-room, a rousing cheer was heard from on deck. She stopped, and looked at Kenyon. 'What does that mean?' she asked. 'I do not know,' was the answer. 'Please get your things on and we will go up and see.' When they reached the deck they saw everybody at the forward part of the ship. Just becoming visible in the eastern horizon were three trails of black smoke, apparently coming towards them. The word was whispered from one to the other: 'It is the tug-boats. It is relief.' Few people on board the steamer knew that their very existence depended entirely on the good weather. The incessant pumping showed everybody, who gave a thought to the matter, that the leak had been serious; but as the subsidence of the vessel was imperceptible to all save experts, no one but the officers really knew the grave danger they were in. Glad as the passengers were to see those three boats approach, the one who most rejoiced was the one who knew everything respecting the disaster and its effects--the captain. Edith Longworth and John Kenyon paced the deck together, and did not form two of the crowd who could not tear themselves away from the front of the ship, watching the gradually approaching tug boats. Purposely, John Kenyon brought the girl who was with him past Miss Jennie Brewster, and although that person glared with a good deal of anger at Edith, who blushed to her temples with fear and confusion, yet nothing was said; and Kenyon knew that afterwards his companion would feel easier in her mind about meeting the woman with whom she had had such a stormy five minutes. The tug boats speedily took the big steamer in tow, and slowly the four of them made progress towards Queenstown, it having been resolved to land all the passengers there, and to tow the disabled vessel to Liverpool, if an examination of the hull showed such a course to be a safe one. The passengers bade each other good-bye after they left the tender, and many that were on board that ship never saw each other again. One at least, had few regrets and no good-byes to make, but a surprise was in store for her. Jennie Brewster found a cablegram from New York waiting for her. It said 'Cable nothing respecting mines. Letter follows.'

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London again! Muddy, drizzly, foggy London, London, with its well filled omnibuses tearing along the streets, more dangerous than the chariots of Rome, London, with its bustling thoroughfares, with its traffic blocked at the corners by the raised white gloved hand of the policeman, London, with the four wheeled growler piled high with luggage, and the dashing hansom whirling along, missing the wheels of other vehicles by half an inch, while its occupant sits serenely smoking, or motioning his directions to his cabman with an umbrella; London, with its constantly moving procession of every sort of wheeled carriage, from the four-horsed coach to the coster barrow. London, London, London, London! the name seemed to ring in John Kenyon's ears as he walked briskly along the crowded pavement towards the City. The roar of its busy streets was the sweetest music in the world to him, as it is to every man who has once acquired the taste for London. Drink of the fountain of Trevi, and you will return to Rome. Drink of the roar and the bustle of London, and no other metropolis in the world, can ever satisfy the city-hunger in you again. London is London, and John Kenyon loved its very disadvantages as he strode along the streets. He called at the office of George Wentworth, took that young man with him, and together they went to the place where the adjourned meeting of the London Syndicate was to be held. There were questions to be asked of the two young men, and the directors couldn't quite see why the reports had been so suddenly precipitated upon them, before the arrival of the experts they had sent out. So they had merely read the documents at the former meeting and adjourned until such time as the two young men could appear in person. Most of the directors were there, but, though Kenyon looked anxiously among them, he did not see the face of old Mr. Longworth. Questions were asked Kenyon about the position of the mines, about their output, and such other particulars as the directors wished to know. Then Wentworth underwent a similar examination. He pointed out the discrepancies which he had found in the accounts. He showed that there was an evident desire on the part of the owners of the different mines to make it appear that the properties paid better than they actually did, and he answered in a clear and satisfactory way all the questions asked him. The chairman thanked the young men for the evident care with which they had done their work, and the meeting then went into a private session to consider what action should be taken respecting the mines. When the two friends got out of the building, Kenyon said: 'Well, thank goodness that is over and done with. Now, George, what have you to suggest with reference to the mica-mine?' 'I think,' said Wentworth, 'we had better adjourn to my office and have a talk over the matter quietly there. Let us go into private session as the directors have done. I feel rich after having got my cheque, and the vote of thanks from the chairman; so I will spend a shilling on a hansom and get there with speed and comfort. Actually, since I have got back to London, I am spending all my surplus cash on hansoms. They are certainly the best and cheapest vehicles in the world. Think of what that pirate charged us for a ride from the hotel to the steamer in New York.' 'I don't like to think of it,' said Kenyon; 'it makes me shudder!' 'Do you know, John, I should not be inconsolable if I never saw the great city of New York again. London is good enough for me.' 'Oh, I don't know! New York is all right. I confess there are one or two of her citizens that I do not care much about.' 'Ah,' said Wentworth; then, after a few moments' reflection, he remarked suddenly, apropos of nothing: 'Do you know, John, I was very nearly in love with that girl?' 'I thought you were drifting in that direction.' 'Drifting! It wasn't drifting. It was a mad plunge down the rapids, and it is only lately I have begun to think what a close shave I had of it. The horror of those days, when I thought that despatch was going to New York, completely obliterated any other feeling in regard to her. If I had found she was a hopeless flirt, or something of that kind, who was trifling with me, I should have been very much shocked, of course, but I should have thought about my own feelings. Now, the curious thing is that I never began to think about them till I got to London.' 'Very well, Wentworth; I wouldn't think about them now, if I were you.' 'No, I don't intend to, particularly. The fact that I talk over them with you shows that the impression was not very deep.' Wentworth drew a long breath that might have been mistaken for a sigh, if he had not just before explained how completely free he was from the thraldom in which Miss Brewster at one time held him. 'Still, she was a very pretty girl, John. You can't deny that.' 'I have no wish to deny it. I simply don't want to think about her at all.' 'No, and we don't need to, thank goodness. But she _was_ very bright and clever. Of course you didn't know her as I did. I never before met anyone who--Well, that's all past and done with. I told her all about our mica-mine, and she gave me much sage advice.' Kenyon smiled, but held his peace. 'Oh yes, I know what you are thinking of. I spoke of other mines as well; still, that was my folly, and not her fault exactly. She imagined she was doing right, and after all, you know, I think we sometimes don't make enough allowance for another's point of view.' Kenyon laughed outright. 'It seems to me you are actually defending her. My remembrance is that you didn't make much allowance for her point of view when your own point was that coil of rope in the front of the ship--those days when you wouldn't speak even to me.' 'I admit it, John. No, I'm not defending her. I have succeeded in putting her entirely out of my mind--with an effort. How about your own case, John?' 'My own case! What do you mean?' 'You know very well what I mean.' 'I suppose I do forgive the little bit of affectation, will you? but a man gets somewhat nervous when such a question is sprung upon him. My own case is just where we left it at Queenstown.' 'Haven't you seen her since?' 'No.' 'Aren't you going to?' 'I really do not know what I am going to do.' 'John, that young woman has a decided personal interest in you.' 'I wish I were sure of that, or, rather, I wish I were sure of it and in a position to--But what is the use of talking? I haven't a penny to my name.' 'No; but if our mine goes through, you soon will have.' 'Yes, but what will it amount to? I never can forget the lofty disdain with which a certain person spoke of fifty thousand pounds. It sends a cold chill over me whenever I think of it. Fifty thousand pounds to her seemed so trivial; to me it was something that might be obtained after the struggle of a lifetime.' 'Well, I wouldn't let that discourage me too much if I were you; besides, you see--Oh! here we are. We'll talk about this some other time.' Having paid the cabman, the two young men went upstairs into Wentworth's room, where they closed the door, and John drew up a seat by the side of his friend. 'Now, then,' said Wentworth, 'what have you done about the mine?' 'I have done absolutely nothing. I have been waiting for this conference with you.' 'Well, my boy, time is the great factor in anything of this sort.' 'Yes, I suppose it is.' 'You see, our option is running along; every day we lose is so much taken off our chances of success. Have you anything to propose?' 'I'll tell you what I thought of doing. You know young Longworth spoke to me a good deal about the mine at one time. His cousin introduced me to him, and she seemed to think he might take some interest in forming the company. I was to have a talk with you, because Longworth gave it as his opinion that the amount should be put at two hundred thousand pounds rather than at fifty thousand pounds.' Wentworth gave a long whistle. 'Yes, it seems a very large amount; but he claims that if it would pay ten per cent. on that sum--if we could show that there was a reasonable chance of its paying so much--we could put it at two hundred thousand.' 'Well, that looks reasonable. What else did he say?' 'He did not say very much more about it, because I told him I should have to consult you.' 'And why didn't you? On board ship there was one of the best opportunities we could have had of having a talk with him. In fact, the whole matter might perhaps have been arranged there.' 'Oh, well, you know, I couldn't talk to you about it, because a certain circumstance arose, and you spent your time very much in the forward part of the steamer, sitting on a coil of rope and cursing the universe generally and yourself in particular'. 'Ah, yes, I remember, of course--yes. Very well, then, you have not seen young Longworth since, have you?' 'No, I have not.' 'Wouldn't the old gentleman go in for it?' 'His daughter seemed to think he would not, because the amount was too small.' 'Why couldn't he be got to go into it entirely by himself? If we put the price up to one hundred thousand pounds or two hundred thousand pounds, that ought to be large enough for him, if he were playing a lone hand.' 'Well, you see, I don't suppose they thought of going in for it at that, except as a matter of speculation. Of course, if they intended to buy some shares, it is not likely they would propose to raise the price from fifty thousand pounds to two hundred thousand pounds. Young Longworth spoke of dividing the profit. He claimed that whatever we made on fifty thousand pounds would be too small to be divided into three. I told him, of course, that you were my partner in this, and that is why he proposed the price should be made two hundred thousand pounds.' 'I suppose he seemed indifferent on the question whether it should pay a dividend on that amount of money or not?' 'He didn't mention that particularly--at least, he did not dwell upon it. He asked if it would pay a dividend on two hundred thousand, and I told him I thought it would pay ten per cent. if rightly managed; then he said of course that was its price, and we should be great fools to float it at fifty thousand pounds when it was really worth two hundred thousand.' Wentworth pondered for a few minutes on this, tapping his pencil on the desk and knitting his brow. 'It seems an awful jump, from fifty thousand pounds to two hundred thousand pounds, doesn't it, John?' 'Yes, it does; it has a certain look of swindling about it. But what a glorious thing it would be if it could be done, and if it would pay the right percentage when we got the scheme working!' 'Of course I wouldn't be connected, nor you either, with anything that was bogus.' 'Certainly not. I wouldn't think for a moment of inflating it if I were not positive the property would stand it. I have been making, and have here in my pocket, an elaborate array of figures which will show approximately what the mine will yield, and I am quite convinced that it will pay at least ten per cent., and possible twelve or fifteen.' 'Well, nobody wants a better percentage on their money. Have you the figures with you?' 'Yes, here they are.' 'Very well, you had better leave them with me, and I will go over them as critically as if they were the figures of somebody I was deeply suspicious of, I hope they will hold water; but if they do not, I will point out to you where the discrepancies are.' 'But, you see, George, it is more a question of facts than of figures. I believe the whole mountain is made of the mineral which is so valuable, but I take only about an eighth of it as being possible to get out, which seems to me a very moderate estimate.' 'Yes, but how much demand is there for it? That is the real question. The thing may be valuable enough, but if there is only a limited demand--that is to say, if we have ten times the material that the world needs--the other nine parts are comparatively valueless.' 'That is true.' 'Do you know how many establishments there are in the world that use this mineral?' 'There are a great many in England, and also in the United States.' 'And how about the duty on it in the United States?' 'Ah, that I do not know.' 'Well, we must find that out. Just write down here what it is used for; then I shall try to get some information about the factories that require it, and also what quantities they need in a year. We shall have to get all these facts and figures to lay before the people who are going to invest, because, as I understand it, the great point we make is not on the mica, but on the other mineral.' 'Exactly.' 'Very well, then, you leave me what you know already about it, and I will try to supplement your information. In fact, we shall have to supplement it, before we can go before anybody with it. Now, I advise you to see the Longworths--both old and young Longworth--and you may find that talking with them in the City of London is very different from talking with them on the _Caloric_. By the way, I wonder why Longworth was not at the directors' meeting to-day.' 'I do not know. I noticed he was absent.' 'He very likely intends to have nothing more to do with the other mines, and so there may be a possibility of his investing in ours. Do you know his address?' 'Yes, I have it with me.' 'Then, if I were you, I would jump into a hansom and go there at once. Meanwhile, I will try to get your figures into shipshape order, and supplement them as far as it is possible to do so. This is going to be no easy matter, John. There are a great many properties now being offered to the public--the papers are full of them--and each of them appears to be the most money-making scheme in existence; so if we are going to float this mine without knowing any particular capitalist, we have our work cut out for us.' 'Then, you would be willing to put the price up to two hundred thousand pounds?' 'Yes, if you say the mine will stand it. That we can tell better after we have gone over the figures together. We ought to be sure of our facts first.' 'Very well. Good-bye; I will go and see Mr. Longworth.'

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John Kenyon did not take a cab. He walked so that he might have time to think. He wanted to arrange in his mind just what he would say to Mr. Longworth, so he pondered over the coming interview as he walked through the busy streets of the City. He had not yet settled things satisfactorily to himself when he came to the door leading to Mr. Longworth's offices. 'After all,' he said to himself, as he paused there, 'Mr. Longworth has never said anything to me about the mica-mine; and, from what his daughter thought, it is not likely that he will care to interest himself in it. It was the young man who spoke about it.' He felt that it was really the young man on whom he should call, but he was rather afraid of meeting him. The little he had seen of William Longworth on board the _Caloric_ had not given him a very high opinion of that gentleman, and he wondered if it would not have been better to have told Wentworth that nothing was to be expected from the Longworths. However, he resolved not to shirk the interview, so passed up the steps and into the outer office. He found the establishment much larger than he had expected. At numerous desks there were numerous clerks writing away for dear life. He approached the inquiry counter, and a man came forward to hear what he had to say. 'Is Mr. Longworth in?' 'Yes, sir. Which Mr. Longworth do you want--the young gentleman or Mr. John Longworth?' 'I wish to see the senior member of the firm.' 'Ah! have you an appointment with him?' 'No, I have not; but perhaps if you will take this card to him, and if he is not busy, he may see me.' 'He is always very busy, sir.' 'Well, take the card to him; and if he doesn't happen to remember the name, tell him I met him on board the _Caloric_.' 'Very good, sir.' And with that the clerk disappeared, leaving Kenyon to ponder over in his mind the still unsettled question of what he should say to Mr. Longworth if he were ushered into his presence. As he stood there waiting, with the host of men busily and silently working around him, amid the general air of important affairs pervading the place, he made up his mind that Mr. Longworth would not see him, and so was rather surprised when the clerk came back without the card, and said, 'Will you please step this way, sir?' Passing through a pair of swinging doors, his conductor tapped lightly at a closed one, and then opened it. 'Mr. Kenyon, sir,' he said respectfully, and then closed the door behind him, leaving John Kenyon standing in a large room somewhat handsomely furnished, with two desks near the window. From an inner room came the muffled click, click, click of a type-writer. Seated at one of the desks was young Longworth, who did not look round as Kenyon was announced. The elder gentleman, however, arose, and cordially held out his hand. 'How are you, Mr. Kenyon?' he said. 'I am very pleased to meet you again. The terror of our situation on board that ship does not seem to have left an indelible mark upon you. You are looking well.' 'Yes,' said John; 'I am very glad to be back in London again.' 'Ah, I imagine we all like to get back. By the way, it was a much more serious affair than we thought at the time on board the _Caloric_.' 'So I see by the papers.' 'How is your friend? He seemed to take it very badly.' 'Take what badly?' asked John in astonishment. 'Well, he appeared to me, at the time of the accident, to feel very despondent about our situation.' 'Oh yes, I remember now. Yes, he did feel a little depressed at the time; but it was not on account of the accident. It was another matter altogether, which, happily, turned out all right.' 'I am glad of that. By the way, have you made your report to the directors yet?' 'Yes; we were at a meeting of the directors to-day.' 'Ah, I could not manage to be there. To tell the truth, I have made up my mind to do nothing with those Ottawa mines. You do not know what action the Board took in the matter, do you?' 'No, they merely received our report; in fact, they had had the report before, but there were some questions they desired to ask us, which we answered apparently to their satisfaction.' 'Who were there? Sir Ropes McKenna was in the chair, I suppose?' 'Yes, sir, he was there.' 'Ah, so I thought. Well, my opinion of him is that he is merely a guinea-pig--you know what that is? I have made up my mind to have nothing more to do with the venture, at any rate. And so they were pleased with your report, were they?' 'They appeared to be. They passed us a vote of thanks, and one or two of the gentlemen spoke in rather a complimentary manner of what we had done.' 'I am glad of that. By the way, William, you know Mr. Kenyon, do you not?' The young man looked round with an abstracted air, and gazed past, rather than at, John Kenyon. 'Kenyon, Kenyon,' he said to himself, as if trying to recollect a name that he had once heard somewhere. 'I really don't----' 'Tut, tut!' said the old man, 'you remember Mr. Kenyon on board the _Caloric_?' 'Oh, ah, yes; certainly--oh, certainly. How do you do, Mr. Kenyon? I had forgotten for the moment. I thought I had met you in the City somewhere. Feeling first-rate after your trip, I hope.' And young Mr. Longworth fixed his one eyeglass in its place and flashed its glitter on Kenyon. 'I am very well, thanks.' 'That's right. Let me see, your business with the London Syndicate is concluded now, is it not?' 'Yes, it is done with.' 'Ah, and what are you doing? Have you anything else on hand?' 'Well, that is what I wish to see you about.' 'Really?' 'Yes; I--you remember, perhaps, we had some talk about a mica-mine near the Ottawa River?' 'On my soul, I don't. You see, the voyage rather--that was on board ship, I suppose?' 'Yes,' said John, crossing over to the young man's desk and taking a chair beside him. The old gentleman now turned to his own papers, and left the two young men to talk together. 'Do you mean to say you don't remember a talk we had on deck once about a mica-mine?' Young Longworth looked at him with a puzzled expression, as if he could not quite make out what he was talking about. 'I remember,' he said, 'your telling me that you had been sent over by the London Syndicate to see after certain mines there; but I don't remember anything being said in reference to them.' 'It was not in reference to them at all; it was in reference to another mine, of which I have secured the option. You will, perhaps, recollect that your cousin introduced me to you. You seemed to think at the time that the price at which we were going to offer the mine was too low.' 'By Jove, yes! now I do recollect something about it, when you mention that. Let me see, how much was it? A million, was it not?' 'No, no' said Kenyon, mopping his brow. He did not at all like the turn the conversation had taken. 'Not a million, nor anything like that amount.' 'Ah, I am sorry for that. You see, my uncle and myself rarely touch anything that is not worth while; and anything under a million would be hardly worth bothering with, don't you know.' 'I don't think so; it seems to me that something below a million would be worth spending a little time on; at least, it would be worth _my_ while.' 'That may be very true; but, you see, my uncle takes large interests only in large businesses.' 'If you remember, Mr. Longworth, your uncle was not mentioned in connection with this at all. Your cousin seemed to think you might take some interest in it yourself. You told me, when I said the price at which we wished to offer the mine was fifty thousand pounds, that the sum was altogether too small; at least, it left too little margin to divide amongst three.' 'Well, I think I was perfectly correct in that.' 'And you further said that, if we increased the capital to two hundred thousand pounds, you would take a share in it with us.' 'Did I say that?' 'Yes. It rested with my partner then. I said I would speak to him about it, and, if he were willing, I should be. Circumstances occurred which made it impossible for me to go into details with him on board the ship; but I have spoken to him to-day at his own office, and he is quite willing to offer the mine at two hundred thousand pounds, provided the figures which I have given him show that it will pay a handsome dividend on that sum.' 'Well, it seems to me that, if the mine is really worth two hundred thousand pounds, it is a pity to offer it at fifty thousand pounds. Doesn't it strike you that way?' 'Yes, it does; so I called to see you with reference to it. I wanted to say that Wentworth will go carefully over the figures I have given him, and see if there is any mistake about them. If there is not, and if we find that the mine will bear inflation to two hundred thousand pounds, we shall be very glad of your aid in the matter, and will divide everything equally with you. That is to say, each of us will take a third.' 'If I remember rightly, I asked you a question which you did not answer. I asked you how much you paid for the mine.' Kenyon was astonished at this peculiar kind of memory, that could forget a whole conversation, and yet remember accurately one detail of it. However, he replied: 'Of course, at that time you had not said you would join us. I recognise that, if you are to be a partner, it is your right to know exactly what we pay for the mine. I may say that we have not paid for it, but have merely got an option on it at a certain price, and of course, if we can sell it for two hundred thousand pounds, we shall have a large amount to divide. Now, if you think you will go in with us, and do your best to make this project a success, I will tell you what our option is on the mica-mine.' 'Well, you see, I can hardly say that I will join you. It is really a very small matter. There ought not to be any difficulty in floating that mine on the London market, except that it is hardly worth one's while to take it up. Still, I should have to know exactly what you are to pay for the property before I went any further in the matter.' 'Very well, then, I tell you in confidence, and only because I expect you to become a partner with us, that the amount the mine is offered to us for is twenty thousand pounds.' Young Longworth arched his eyeglass. 'It cannot be worth very much if that is all they ask for it.' 'The price they ask for it has really nothing at all to do with the value of the mine. They do not know the value of it. They are not working it, even now, so as to bring out all there is in it. They are mining for mica, and, as I told you, the mineral which they are throwing away is very much more valuable than all the mica they can get out of the mine. If it were worked rightly, the mica would pay all expenses, as well as a good dividend on fifty thousand pounds, while the other mineral would pay a large dividend on one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, or even two hundred thousand pounds.' 'I see. And you feel positive that there is enough of this mineral to hold out for some time?' 'Oh, I am positive of that. There is a whole mountain of it.' 'And do you get the mountain as well as the mine?' 'We get three hundred acres of it, and I think there would be no difficulty in buying the rest.' 'Well, that would seem to be a good speculation, and I am sure I hope you will succeed in forming your company. How much money are you prepared to spend in floating the mine?' 'I have practically nothing at all. My asset, as it were, is the option I have on the mine.' 'Then, how are you going to pay the preliminary fees, the advertising in the newspapers, the cost of counsel, and all that? These expenses will amount to something very heavy in the formation of a company. Of course you know that.' 'Well, you see, I think that perhaps we can get two or three men to go into this and form our company quietly, without having any of those heavy expenses which are necessary in the forming of some companies.' 'My dear sir, when you have been in this business a little longer, you will be very much wiser. That cannot be done--at least, I do not believe it can be done. I do not know of its having been done, and if you can do it, you are a very much cleverer man than I am. Companies are not formed for nothing in the City of London. You seem to have the vaguest possible notion about how this sort of thing is managed. I may tell you frankly I do not think I can go in with you; I have too much else on hand.' Although Kenyon expected this, he nevertheless felt a grim sense of defeat as the young man calmly said these words. Then he blurted out: 'If you had no idea of going in with us, why have you asked me certain questions about the property which I would not have answered if I had not thought you were going to take an interest in it?' 'My dear sir,' said the other blandly, 'you were at perfect liberty to answer those questions or not, as you chose. You chose to answer them, and you have no one to blame but yourself if you are sorry you have answered them. It really doesn't matter at all to me, as I shall forget all you have said in a day or two at furthest.' 'Very well; I have nothing more to say except that what I have told you has been said in confidence.' 'Oh, of course. I shall mention it to nobody.' 'Then I wish you good-day.' Turning to the elder gentleman, he said: 'Good-day, Mr. Longworth.' The old man raised his eyes rather abstractedly from the paper he was reading, and then cordially shook hands with Kenyon. 'If I can do anything,' he said, 'to help you in any matter you have on hand, I shall be very pleased to do it. I hope to see you succeed. Good-day, Mr. Kenyon.' 'Good-day, Mr. Longworth.' And with that the young man found himself again in the outer office, and shortly afterwards in the busy street, with a keen sense of frustration upon him. His first move in the direction of forming a company had been a disastrous failure; and thinking of this, he walked past the Mansion House and down Cheapside.

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John Kenyon walked along Cheapside feeling very much downhearted over his rebuff with Longworth. The pretended forgetfulness of the young man, of course, he took at its proper value. He, nevertheless, felt very sorry the interview had been so futile, and, instead of going back to Wentworth and telling him his experience, he thought it best to walk off a little of his disappointment first. He was somewhat startled when a man accosted him; and, glancing up, he saw standing there a tall footman, arrayed in a drab coat that came down to his heels. 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the footman, 'but Miss Longworth would like to speak to you.' 'Miss Longworth!' cried Kenyon, in surprise; 'where is she?' 'She is here in her carriage, sir.' The carriage had drawn up beside the pavement, and John Kenyon looked round in confusion to see that Miss Longworth was regarding him and the footman with an amused air. An elderly woman sat in the carriage opposite her, while a grave and dignified coachman, attired somewhat similarly to the footman, kept his place like a seated statue in front. John Kenyon took off his hat as he approached the young woman, whom he had not seen since the last day on the steamer. 'How are you, Mr. Kenyon?' said Edith Longworth brightly, holding out her hand to the young man by her carriage. 'Will you not step in? I want to talk with you, and I am afraid the police will not allow us to block such a crowded thoroughfare as Cheapside.' As she said this, the nimble footman threw open the door of the carriage, while John, not knowing what to say, stepped inside and took his seat. 'Holborn,' said the young woman to the coachman; then, turning to Kenyon, she continued: 'Will you not tell me where you are going, so that I may know where to set you down?' 'To tell the truth,' said John, 'I do not think I was going anywhere. I am afraid I have not yet got over the delight of being back in London again, so I sometimes walk along the streets in rather a purposeless manner.' 'Well, you did not seem delighted when I first caught sight of you. I thought you looked very dejected, and that gave me courage enough to ask you to come and talk with me. I said to myself, "There is something wrong with the mica-mine," and, with a woman's I curiosity, I wanted to know all about it. Now tell me.' 'There is really very little to tell. We have hardly begun yet. Wentworth is to-day looking over the figures I gave him, and I have been making a beginning by seeing some people who I thought might be interested in the mine.' 'And were they?' 'No; they were not.' 'Then, that was the reason you were looking so distressed.' 'I suppose it was.' 'Well, now, Mr. Kenyon, if you get discouraged after an interview with the first person you think will be interested in the mine, what will you do when a dozen or more people refuse to have anything to do with it?' 'I'm sure I do not know. I am afraid I am not the right person to float a mine on the London market. I am really a student, you see, and flatter myself I am a man of science. I know what I am about when I am in a mine, miles away from civilization; but when I get among men, I feel somehow at a loss. I do not understand them. When a man tells me one thing to-day, and to-morrow calmly forgets all about it, I confess it--well, confuses me.' 'Then the man you have seen to-day has forgotten what he told you yesterday. Is that the case?' 'Yes; that is partly the case.' 'But, Mr. Kenyon, the success of your project is not going to depend upon what one man says, or two, or three, is it?' 'No; I don't suppose it is.' 'Then, if I were you, I would not feel discouraged because one man has forgotten. I wish I were acquainted with your one man, and I would make him ashamed of himself, I think.' Kenyon flushed as she said this, but made no reply. The coachman looked round as he came to Holborn, and Miss Longworth nodded to him; so he went on without stopping into Oxford Street. 'Now, I take a great interest in your mine, Mr. Kenyon, and hope to see you succeed with it. I wish I could help you, or, rather, I wish you would be frank with me, and tell me how I can help you. I know a good deal about City men and their ways, and I think I may be able to give you some good advice--at least, if you would have the condescension to consult me.' Kenyon smiled. 'You are making game of me now, Miss Longworth. Of course, as you said on board ship, it is but a very small matter.' 'I never said any such thing. When did I say that?' 'You said that fifty thousand pounds was a small matter.' 'Did I? Well, I am like your man who has forgotten; I have forgotten that. I remember saying something about its being too small an amount for my father to deal with. Was not that what I said?' 'Yes, I think that was it. It conveyed the idea to my mind that you thought fifty thousand pounds a trifling sum indeed.' Edith Longworth laughed. 'What a terrible memory you have! I do not wonder at your City man forgetting. Are you sure what you told him did not happen longer ago than yesterday?' 'Yes, it happened some time before.' 'Ah, I thought so; I am afraid it is your own terrible memory, and not his forgetfulness, that is to blame.' 'Oh, I am not blaming him at all. A man has every right to change his mind, if he wants to do so.' 'I thought only a woman had that privilege.' 'No; for my part I freely accord it to everybody, only sometimes it is a little depressing.' 'I can imagine that; in fact, I think no one could be a more undesirable acquaintance than a man who forgets to-day what he promised yesterday, especially if anything particular depends upon it. Now, why cannot you come to our house some evening and have a talk about the mine with my cousin or my father? My father could give you much valuable advice with reference to it, and I am anxious that my cousin should help to carry this project on to success. It is better to talk with them there than at their office, because they are both so busy during the day that I am afraid they might not be able to give the time necessary to its I discussion.' John Kenyon shook his head. 'I am afraid,' he said, 'that would do no good. I do not think your cousin cares to have anything to do with the mine.' 'How can you say that? Did he not discuss the matter with you on board ship?' 'Yes; we had some conversation about it there, but I imagine that--I really do not think he would care to go any farther with it.' 'Ah, I see,' said Edith Longworth. 'My cousin is the man who "forgot to-day what he said yesterday."' 'What am I to say, Miss Longworth? I do not want to say "Yes," and I cannot truthfully say "No."' 'You need say nothing. I know exactly how it has been. So he does not want to have anything to do with it. What reason did he give?' 'You will not say anything to him about the matter? I should be very sorry if he thought that I talked to anyone else of my conference with him.' 'Oh, certainly not; I will say nothing to him at all.' 'He gave no particular reason; he simply seemed to have changed his mind. But I must say this: he did not appear to be very enthusiastic when I discussed it with him on board ship.' 'Well, you see, Mr. Kenyon, it rests with me now to maintain the honour of the Longworth family. Do you want to make all the profit there is to be made in the mica-mine--that is, yourself and your friend Mr. Wentworth?' 'How do you mean--"all the profit"?' 'Well, I mean--would you share the profit with anyone?' 'Certainly, if that person could help us to form the company.' 'Very well; it was on that basis you were going to take in my cousin as a partner, was it not?' 'Yes.' 'Then I should like to share in the profits of the mine if he does not take an interest in it. If you will let me pay the preliminary expenses of forming this company, and if you will then give me a share of what you make, I shall be glad to furnish the money you need at the outset.' John Kenyon looked at Miss Longworth with a smile. 'You are very ingenious, Miss Longworth, but I can see, in spite of your way of putting it, that what you propose is merely a form of charity. Suppose we did not succeed in forming our company, how could we repay you the money?' 'You would not need to repay the money. I would take that risk. It is a sort of speculation. If you form the company, then I shall expect a very large reward for furnishing the funds. It is purely selfishness on my part. I believe I have a head for business. Women in this country do not get such chances of developing their business talents as they seem to have in America. In that country there are women who have made fortunes for themselves. I believe in your mine, and I am convinced you will succeed in forming your company. If you or Mr. Wentworth were capitalists, of course there would be no need of my assistance. If I were alone, I could not form a company. You and Mr. Wentworth can do what I cannot do. You can appear before the public and attend to all preliminaries. On the other hand, I believe I can do what neither of you can do; that is, I can supply a certain amount of money from time to time to pay the expenses of forming the company--because a company is not formed in London for nothing, I assure you. Perhaps you think you have simply to go and see a sufficient number of people and get your company formed. I fancy you will find it not so easy as all that. Besides this business interest I have in it, I have a very friendly interest in Mr. Wentworth.' As she said this, she bent over towards John Kenyon, and spoke in a lower tone of voice: 'Please do not tell him so, because I think that he is a young man who has possibilities of being conceited.' 'I shall say nothing about it,' said Kenyon dolefully. 'Please do not. By the way, I wish you would give me Mr. Wentworth's address, so that I may communicate with him if a good idea occurs to me, or if I find out something of value in forming our company.' Kenyon took out a card, wrote the address of Wentworth upon it, and handed it to her. 'Thank you,' she said 'You see, I deeply sympathized with Mr. Wentworth for what he had to pass through on the steamer.' 'He is very grateful for all you did for him on that occasion,' replied Kenyon. 'I am glad of that. People, as a general thing, are not grateful for what their friends do for them. I am glad, therefore, that Mr. Wentworth is an exception. Well, suppose you talk with him about what I have said, before you make up your own mind. I shall be quite content with whatever share of the profits you allow me.' 'Ah, that is not business, Miss Longworth.' 'No, it is not; but I am dealing with you--that is, with Mr. Wentworth--and I am sure both of you will do what is right. Perhaps it would be better not to tell him who is to furnish the money. Just say you have met a friend to-day who offers, for a reasonable share of the profits, to supply all the money necessary for the preliminary expenses. You will consult with him about it, will you not?' 'Yes, if it is your wish.' 'Certainly it is my wish; and I also wish you to do it so diplomatically that you will conceal my name from him more successfully than you concealed my cousin's name from me this afternoon.' 'I am afraid I am very awkward,' said John, blushing. 'No; you are very honest, that's all. You are not accomplished in the art of telling what is not true. Now, this is where we live; will you come in?' 'Thank you, no; I'm afraid not,' said John. 'I must really be going now.' 'Let the coachman take you to your station.' 'No, no, it is not worth the trouble; it is only a step from here.' 'It is no trouble. Which is your station--South Kensington?' 'Yes.' 'Very well. Drive to South Kensington Station, Parker,' she said to the coachman; and then, running up the steps, she waved her hand in good-bye, as the carriage turned. And so John Kenyon, feeling abashed at his own poverty, was driven in this gorgeous equipage to the Underground Railway station, where he took the train for the City. As he stepped from the carriage at South Kensington, young Mr. Longworth came out of the station on his way home, and was simply dumfounded to see Kenyon in the Longworths' carriage. John passed him without noticing who he was, and just as the coachman was going to start again, Longworth said to him: 'Parker, have you been picking up fares in the street?' 'Oh no, sir,' replied the respectable Parker; 'the young gentleman as just left us came from the City with Miss Longworth.' 'Did he, indeed? Where did you pick him up, Parker?' 'We picked him up in Cheapside, sir.' 'Ah, indeed;' and with that, muttering some imprecations on the cheek of Kenyon, he stepped into the carriage and drove home.

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George Wentworth was a very much better man than John Kenyon to undertake the commercial task they hoped to accomplish. Wentworth had mixed with men, and was not afraid of them. Although he had suffered keenly from the little episode on the steamer, and although at that trying time he appeared to but poor advantage so far as an exhibition of courage was concerned, the reason was largely because the blow had been dealt him by a woman, and not by a man. If one of Wentworth's fellow-men so far forgot himself as to make an insulting or cutting remark to him, Wentworth merely shrugged his shoulders and thought no more about it. On the other hand, notwithstanding his somewhat cold and calm exterior, John Kenyon was as sensitive as a child, and a rebuff such as he received from the Longworths was enough to depress him for a week. He had been a student all his life, and had not yet learnt the valuable lesson of knowing how to look at men's actions with an eye to proportion. Wentworth said to himself that nobody's opinion amounted to very much, but Kenyon knew too little of his fellows to have arrived at this comforting conclusion. George Wentworth closed his door when he was alone, drew the mass of papers, which Kenyon had left, towards him on his desk, and proceeded systematically to find a flaw in them if possible. He said to himself: 'I must attack this thing without enthusiasm, and treat Kenyon as if he were a thief. I must find an error in the reasoning or something shaky about the facts.' He perused the papers earnestly, making pencil-marks on the margin here and there. At first he said to himself: 'It is quite evident that the mining of the mica will pay for the working of the mine. We can look upon the demand for mica as being in a certain sense settled. It has paid for the working of the mine so far, also a small dividend, and there is no reason to think it should not go on doing so. Now, the uncertain quantity is this other stuff, and the uncertain thing about this uncertain quantity is the demand for it in the markets of the world, also how much the carriage of it is going to cost.' Wentworth had a theory that all things were possible if you only knew a man who knew _the_ man. There is always _the_ man in everything--the man who is the authority on iron; the man who is the authority on mines; the man who is the authority on the currency, and the man who knows all about the printing trade. If you want any information on any particular subject, it was not necessary to know _the_ man, but it was very essential to know a man who can put his finger on _the_ man. Get a note of introduction from a man who knows _the_ man, and there you are! Wentworth touched his bell, and a boy answered his summons. 'Ask Mr. Close to step in here for a moment, will you, please?' The boy disappeared, and shortly after an oldish man with a very deferential look, who was perpetually engaged in smoothing one hand over the other, came in, and, in a timid manner, closed the door softly behind him. 'Close,' said Wentworth, 'who is it that knows everything about the china trade?' 'About the china trade, sir?' 'Yes, about the china trade.' 'Wholesale or retail, sir?' 'I want to get at somebody who knows all about the manufacture of china.' 'Ah, the manufacture, sir,' said Close, in a tone that indicated this was another matter altogether; 'the manufacture, sir; yes, sir, I really do not know who could tell everything about the manufacture of china, sir, but I know of a man who could put you on the right track.' 'Very well; that is quite as good.' 'I would see Mr. Melville, if I were you, sir--Mr. Melville, of the great Scranton China Company.' 'And what is his address?' 'His address is----' And here the old man stooped over and wrote it on a card. 'That will find him, sir. If you can drop a note to Mr. Melville, sir, and say you want to learn who knows all about the production of china, he will be able to tell you just the man, sir. He is in the wholesale china trade himself, sir.' 'Would he be in at this hour, do you think?' 'Oh yes, sir, he is sure to be in his office now.' 'Very well, then; I think I will just run over and see him.' 'Very good, sir; anything more, sir?' 'Nothing more, Close, thank you.' When the valuable Close had departed as softly and apologetically as he had entered, Wentworth picked up one of the specimens of spar which Kenyon had taken from the mine, and put it into his pocket. In two minutes more he was in a cab, dashing through the crowded streets towards Melville's office. By the side of the door of the china company's warehouse, inside the hall, were two parallel rows of names--one under the general heading of 'Out,' the other under the heading of 'In.' It appeared that Mr. Smith was out and Mr. Jones was in, but, what was more to the purpose, the name of Richard Melville happened to be in the column of those who were inside. After a few moments' delay, Wentworth was ushered into the office of this gentleman. 'Mr. Melville,' he said, 'I have been recommended to come to you for information regarding the china trade. The information I want, you will, perhaps, not be able to give me, but I believe you can tell me to whom I should apply for it.' Saying this, he took out of his pocket the specimen of mineral which he had brought with him. 'What I want to know is, how much of this material you use each year in the manufacture of china; what price you pay for it; and I should like to get at an estimate, if possible, of the quantity used in England every year.' Melville picked up the specimen and turned it round and round, looking at it attentively. 'Well,' he said at last, 'I could tell you anything you wished about the wholesale china trade, but about the manufacture of it I am not so well informed. Where did you get this?' 'That,' said Wentworth, 'is from a mine in which I am interested.' 'Ah, where is the mine situated, may I ask?' 'It is in America,' said Wentworth vaguely. 'I see. Have you considered the question of carriage in proposing to put it on the English market? That, as you know, is an important question. The cost of taking a heavy article a long distance is a great factor in the question of its commercial value.' 'I recognise that,' said Wentworth; 'and it is to enable me to form some estimate of the value of this material that I ask for particulars of its price here.' 'I understand, but I am not able to answer your questions. If you have time to wait and see Mr. Brand, our manager of the works, who is also one of the owners, he could easily tell you everything about this mineral--whether used at all or not. He comes up to London once every fortnight, and to-day is his day. I am expecting him here at any time. You might wait, if you liked, and see him.' 'I do not think that will be necessary. I will write, if you will allow me, just what I want to know, and in two or three minutes he could jot down the information I require. Then I will call again to-morrow, if you don't mind.' 'Not in the least. I will submit the matter to him. You can leave me this piece of mineral, I suppose?' 'Certainly,' said Wentworth, writing on a sheet of paper the questions: 'First, What quantity of this mineral is used in your works in a year? second, What price per ton do you pay for it? third, Will you give me, if possible, an estimate of how much of this is used in England?' 'There,' he said, 'if you will give him this slip of paper, and show him the specimen of mineral, I shall be very much obliged.' 'By the way,' said Melville, 'is this mine in operation?' 'Yes, it is.' 'Is there anyone else beside yourself interested in it in this country?' 'Yes,' said Wentworth, with some hesitation; 'John Kenyon, a mining expert, is interested in it, and Mr. Longworth--young Mr. Longworth of the City.' 'Any relation to John Longworth?' 'His nephew.' 'Ah, well, anything that Longworth has an interest in is reasonably sure of being successful.' 'I am perhaps going too far in saying he has an interest in the mine, but in coming from America he seemed desirous of going in with us. My partner. John Kenyon, of whom I spoke just now, is with him at the present moment, I believe.' 'Very well. I will submit this specimen to Mr. Brand as you desire, and will let you know to-morrow what he says.' With that Wentworth took his leave, and in going out through the hall he met the manager of the china works, although he didn't know at the time who he was. He was a very shrewd-faced individual, who walked with a brisk business step which showed he believed that time was money. 'Well, Melville,' he said when he entered, 'I am a little late to-day, am I not?' 'You are a little behind the usual time, but not much.' 'By the way----' began the manager, and then his eye wandered to the specimen on the desk before Melville. 'Hello!' he cried, 'where did you get this?' 'That was left here a moment ago by a gentleman whom I wanted to wait until you came, but he seemed to be in a hurry. He is going to call again to-morrow.' 'What is his name?' 'Wentworth. Here's his card.' 'Ah, of a firm of accountants, eh? How did he come to have this?' 'He wanted to get some information about it, and I told him I would show it to you. Here is the note he left.' The manager turned the crystal over and over in his hand, put on his eyeglasses and peered into it, then picked up the piece of paper and looked at what Kenyon had written. 'Did he say where he had got this?' 'Yes; he says there is a mine of it in America.' 'In America, eh? Did he say how much of this stuff there was? 'No; he didn't tell me that. The mine is working, however.' 'It is very curious! I never heard of it.' 'I gathered from him,' said Mr. Melville, 'that he wishes to do something with the mine over here. He did not say much, but he told me his partner--I forget his name--was talking at the present moment with young Longworth about it.' 'Longworth--who's he?' 'He's a man who goes in for mines or other investments; that is, his uncle does--a very shrewd old fellow, too. He is always on the right side of the market, no matter how it turns.' 'Then, he would be a man certain to know the value of the property if he had it, wouldn't he?' 'I don't know anybody who knows the value of what he has better than Longworth.' 'Ah, that's a pity,' mused the manager. 'Why? Is it a mineral of any worth?' 'Worth! A quarry of this would be better for us than a gold-mine!' 'Well, it struck me, in talking with Mr. Wentworth, that he had no particular idea of its utility. He seemed to know nothing about it, and that's why he came here for information.' Again the manager looked at the paper before him. 'I'm not so sure about that,' he said. 'He wants to know the quantity used in a year, how much of it is consumed in England, and the price we pay for it per ton. I should judge, from that, he has an inkling of its value, and wants merely to corroborate it. Yes, I feel certain that is his move. I fear nothing very much can be done with Mr. Wentworth.' 'What were you thinking of doing?' 'My dear Melville, if we could get hold of such a mine, supposing it has an unlimited quantity of this mineral in it, we could control the china markets of the world.' 'You don't mean it!' 'It's a fact, because of the purity of the mineral. The stuff that we use is heavily impregnated with iron; we have to get the iron out of it, and that costs money. Not that the stuff itself is uncommon at all, it is one of the most common substances in Nature; but anything so pure as this I have never seen. I wonder if it is a fair specimen of what they can get out of the mine? If it is, I would rather own that property than any gold-mine I know of.' 'Well, I will see Mr. Wentworth, if you like. He is going to call here about this time to-morrow, and I will find out if some arrangement cannot be made with him.' 'No, I wouldn't do that,' replied the manager, who preferred never to do things in a direct way. 'I think your best plan is to see Longworth. The chances are that a City man like him does not know the value of the property; and, if you don't mind, I will write a letter to Mr. Wentworth and give him my opinion on this mineral.' 'What shall I say to Longworth?' 'Say anything you like; you understand that kind of business better than I. Here are the facts of the case. If we can get a controlling interest in this mine, always supposing that it turns out mineral up to sample--I suspect that this is a picked specimen; of course we should have to send a man to America and see--if we could get hold of this property, it would be the greatest feat in business we have ever done, provided, of course, we get it at a cheap enough price.' 'What do you call a cheap enough price?' 'You find out what Longworth will sell the mine for.' 'But supposing Wentworth owns the mine, or as much of it as Longworth does?' 'I think, somehow, that if you know Longworth you can perhaps make better terms with him. Meanwhile I will send a letter to Wentworth. You have his address there?' 'Yes.' 'Very well.' Taking his pen, he dashed off the following letter: 'DEAR SIR, 'I regret to say that the mineral you left at our office yesterday is of no value to us. We do not use mineral of this nature, and, so far as I know, it is not used anywhere in England. 'Yours truly, 'ADAM BRAND.'

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The chances are that, no matter under what circumstances young Longworth and Kenyon had first met, the former would have disliked the latter. Although strong friendships are formed between men who are dissimilar, it must not be forgotten that equally strong hatreds have arisen between people merely because they were of opposite natures. No two young men could have been more unlike each other; and as Longworth recalled the different meetings he had had with Kenyon, he admitted to himself that he had an extreme antipathy to the engineer. The evident friendship which his cousin felt for Kenyon added a bitterness to this dislike which was rapidly turning it into hate. However, he calmed down sufficiently, on going home in the carriage, to become convinced that it was better to say nothing about her meeting with Kenyon unless she introduced the subject. After all, the carriage was hers, not his, and he recognised that fact. He wondered how much Kenyon had told her of the interview at his uncle's office. He flattered himself, however, that he knew enough of women to be sure that she would very speedily refer to the subject, and then he hoped to learn just how much had been said. To his surprise, his cousin said nothing at all about the matter, neither that evening nor the next morning, and, consequently, he went to his office in a somewhat bewildered state of mind. On arriving at his room in the City, he found Melville waiting for him. Melville shook hands with young Longworth, and, taking a mineral specimen from his pocket, placed it on the young man's desk, saying; 'I suppose you know where that comes from?' Longworth looked at it with an air of indecision which made Melville suspect he knew very little about it. 'I haven't the slightest idea, really.' 'No? I was told you were interested in the mine from which this was taken. Mr. Wentworth called on me yesterday, and gave your name as one of those who were concerned with the mine.' 'Ah, yes, I see; yes, yes, I have--some interest in the mine.' 'Well, it is about that I came to talk with you. Where is the mine situated?' 'It is near the Ottawa River, I believe, some distance above Montreal. I am not certain about its exact position, but it is somewhere in that neighbourhood.' 'I thought by the way Wentworth talked it was in the United States. He mentioned another person as being his partner in the affair; I forget his name.' 'John Kenyon, probably.' 'Kenyon! Yes, I think that was the name. Yes, I am sure it was. Now, may I ask what is your connection with that mine? Are you a partner of Wentworth's and Kenyon's? Are you the chief owner of the mine, or is the mine owned by them?' 'In the first place, Mr. Melville, I should like to know why you ask me these questions?' Melville laughed. 'Well, I will tell you. We should like to know what chance there is of our getting a controlling interest in the mine. That is very frankly put, isn't it?' 'Yes, it is. But whom do you mean by "we"? Who else besides yourself?' 'By "we" I mean the china company to which I belong. This mineral is useful in making china. That I suppose you know.' 'Yes, I was aware of that,' answered Longworth, although he heard it now for the first time. 'Very well, then; I should like to know who is the owner of the mine.' 'The owner of the mine at present is some foreigner whose name and address I do not know. The two young men you speak of have an option on that mine for a certain length of time--how long I don't know. They have been urging me to go in with them to form a company for the floating of that mine for two hundred thousand pounds on the London market.' 'Two hundred thousand pounds!' said Melville. 'That seems to me rather a large amount.' 'Do you think so? Well, the objection I had to it was that it was too small.' 'Those two men must have an exaggerated idea of the value of this mineral if they think it will pay dividends on two hundred thousand pounds.' 'This mineral is not all there is in the mine. In fact, it is already paying a dividend on fifty thousand pounds or thereabouts, because of the mica in it. It is being mined for mica alone. To tell the truth, I did not know much about the other mineral.' 'And do you think the mine is worth two hundred thousand pounds?' 'Frankly, I do not.' 'Then why are you connected with it?' 'I am not connected with it--at least, not definitely connected with it. I have the matter under consideration. Of course, if there is anything approaching a swindle in it, I shall have nothing to do with it. It will depend largely on the figures that the two men show me whether I have anything to do with it or not.' 'I see; I understand your position.' Then, lowering his voice, Melville leaned over towards Longworth, and said: 'You are a man of business. Now, I want to ask you what would be the chance of our getting the mine at something like the original option priced which is, of course, very much less than two hundred thousand pounds? We do not want to have too many in it. In fact, if you could get it for us at a reasonable rate, and did not care to be troubled with the property yourself, we would take the whole ourselves.' Young Longworth pondered a moment, and then said to Melville: 'Do you mean to freeze out the other two fellows, as they say in America?' 'I do not know about freezing out; but, of course, with the other two there is so much less profit to be divided. We should like to deal with just as few as if possible.' 'Exactly. I see what you mean. I think it can be done. Are you in any great hurry to secure the mine?' 'Not particularly. Why?' 'Well, if things are worked rightly, I don't know but what we could get it for the original option. That would mean, of course, to wait until this first option had run out.' 'Wouldn't there be a little danger in that? They may form their company in the meantime, and then we should lose everything. Our interest in the matter is as much to prevent anyone else getting hold of the mine as to get it ourselves.' 'I see. I will think it over. I believe it can be done without great risk; but, of course, we shall have to be reasonably quiet about the matter.' 'I see the necessity of that.' 'Very good. I will see you again after I have thought over the affair, and we can come to some arrangement.' 'I may say that our manager has written a note to Wentworth, saying that this mineral is of no particular use to us.' 'Exactly,' said young Longworth, with a look of intelligence. 'So, of course, in speaking with Wentworth about the mine, it is just as well not to mention us in any way.' 'I shall not.' 'Very well. I will leave the matter in your hands for the present.' 'Yes, do so. I will think over it this afternoon, and probably see Wentworth and Kenyon to-morrow. There is no immediate hurry, for I happen to know they have not done anything yet.' With that Mr. Melville took his leave, and young Longworth paced up and down the room, evolving a plan that would at once bring him money and give him the satisfaction of making it lively for John Kenyon. When he reached home, Longworth waited for his cousin to say something about Kenyon; but he soon saw that she did not intend to speak of him at all. So he said to her: 'Edith, do you remember Kenyon and Wentworth--who were on board our steamer?' 'I remember them very well.' 'Did you know they had a mining property for sale?' 'Yes.' 'I have been thinking about it--in fact, Kenyon called at my office a day or two ago, and at that time, not having given the subject much thought, I could not give him any encouragement; but I have been pondering over it since, and have almost decided to help them. What do you think about it?' 'Oh, I think it would be an excellent plan. I am sure the property is a good one, or Mr. Kenyon would have nothing to do with it. I shall write a note to them, if you think it advisable, inviting them here to talk with you about it.' 'That will not be necessary at all. I do not want people to come here to talk business. My office is the proper place.' 'Still, we met them in a friendly way on board the steamer, and I think it would be nice if they came here some evening and talked over the matter with you.' 'I don't believe in introducing business into a man's home. This would be a purely business conversation, and it may as well take place at my office, or at Wentworth's, if he has one, as I suppose he has.' 'Oh, certainly; his address is----' 'Oh, you know it, do you?' Edith blushed as she realized what she had said; then she remarked: 'Is there any harm in my knowing the business address of Mr. Wentworth?' 'Oh, not at all--not at all. I merely wondered how you happened to know his address, when I didn't.' 'Well, it doesn't matter how I know it. I am glad you are going to join him, and I am sure you will be successful. Will you see them to-morrow?' 'I think so. I shall call on Wentworth and have a talk with him about it. Of course we may not be able to come to a workable arrangement. If not, it really does not matter very much. But if I can make satisfactory terms with them, I will help them to form their company.' When Edith went to her own room she wrote a note. It was addressed to George Wentworth in the City, but above that address was the name John Kenyon. She said: 'DEAR MR. KENYON, 'I was certain at the time you spoke that my cousin was not so much at fault in forgetting his conversation as you thought. We had a talk to night about the mine, and when he calls upon you tomorrow, as he intends to do, I want you to know that I said nothing whatever to him of what you told me. He mentioned the subject first. I wanted you to know this because you might feel embarrassed when you met him by thinking I had sent him to you. That is not at all the case. He goes to you of his own accord, and I am sure you will find his assistance in forming a company very valuable. I am glad to think you will be partners. 'Yours very truly, 'EDITH LONGWORTH.' She gave this letter to her maid to post, and young Longworth met the maid in the hall with the letter in her hand. He somehow suspected, after the foregoing conversation, to whom the letter was addressed. 'Where are you going with that?' 'To the post, sir.' 'I am going out; to save you the trouble I will take it.' After passing the corner, he looked at the address on the envelope; then he swore to himself a little. If he had been a villain in a play he would have opened the letter; but he did not. He merely dropped it into the first pillar-box he came to, and in due time it reached John Kenyon.

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Although Jennie Brewster arrived in London angry with the world in general, and with several of its inhabitants in particular, she soon began to revel in the delights of the great city. It was so old that it was new to her, and she visited Westminster Abbey and other of its ancient landmarks in rapid succession. The cheapness of the hansoms delighted her, and she spent most of her time dashing about in cabs. She put up at one of the big hotels, and ordered many new dresses at a place in Regent Street. She bought most of the newspapers, morning and evening, and declared she could not find an interesting article in any of them. From her point of view they were stupid and unenterprising, and she resolved to run down the editor of one of the big dailies when she got time, interview him, and discover how he reconciled it with his conscience to publish so dull a sheet every day. She wrote to her editor in New York that London, though a slow town, was full of good material, and that nobody had touched it in the writing line since Dickens' time; therefore she proposed to write a series of articles on the Metropolis that would wake them up a bit. The editor cabled to her to go ahead, and she went. Jennie engaged a chaperon, and took great satisfaction in this unwonted luxury. It had been intimated to her that Lady Willow was a sort of society St. Peter, who held keys that would open the gates of the social heaven, if she were sufficiently recompensed. Of all the ancient landmarks of England, none attracted Jennie so much as the aristocracy, and although she had written to New York for letters of introduction that would be useful in London, she was too impatient to await their arrival. Thus she came to secure the services of Lady Willow, the widow of Sir Debenham Willow, who had died abroad, insolvent, some years before, mourned by the creditors he left behind him. Jennie was suspicious about the title, and demanded convincing proofs of its genuineness before she engaged Lady Willow. She was amazed that any real lady would, as it were, sell her social influence at so much a week; but, as Lady Willow was equally astonished that an American girl earned her livelihood by writing for the papers, the surprise of the one found its counterpart in the wonder of the other. Lady Willow thought all American girls were born daughters of millionaires, in accordance with some unexplained Western by-law of nature, and imagined that their sole object in desiring to enter London society was to purchase for themselves a more or less expensive scion of the aristocracy; she was therefore inclined to resent meeting a shrewd young woman apparently determined on getting the value for her money. 'It is not my custom to chaffer about terms,' said Lady Willow with much dignity. 'It is mine,' replied Jennie complacently; 'I always like to know what I am buying, and the price I am to pay for it.' 'You are dealing with me,' said the lady, rising indignantly, 'as if you were engaging a cook. I am sure we would not suit each other at all.' 'Please sit down, Lady Willow, and don't be offended. Let us talk it over in an amicable manner, even if we come to no arrangement. I think a cook an exceedingly important person, and I assure you I would treat one in the most deferential manner; while with you, on the other hand, I talk in an open and frank way, as between friend and friend. I take it that you and I are somewhat similarly situated. We are neither of us rich, and so we have each of us to earn the money we need in our own way. It would be dishonest if I pretended to you that I was wealthy, and then couldn't pay what you expected after you had done all you could for me--now, wouldn't it? Very well, if you have anyone else to chaperon who can afford to pay more than I can, you shouldn't bother about me at all, but secure a richer client.' Lady Willow remembered that this was not the season when rich clients abounded; so she smothered her resentment, and sat down again. 'That's right,' said Jennie; 'we'll have a nice quiet talk, whatever comes of it. Now, if you like, I could write a lovely article about you in the _Sunday Argus_, and then all rich girls who come over here would go direct to you.' 'Oh dear! oh dear!' cried Lady Willow, evidently inexpressibly shocked at the idea, 'you would surely never do so cruel a thing as that? If my friends knew I chaperoned young ladies and took money for it, I would never be allowed to enter their doors again.' 'Ah, I didn't think of that. Of course it wouldn't do. What a curious thing it is that those who want to be written up in the papers generally never see their names in print; while those who don't want to have anything said about them are the people the reporters are always after.' 'Do you write for the papers, then?' 'For one of them.' 'How dreadful!' said Lady Willow, rising again, with an air of finality about her movement. It was evident that any dealings with this American girl were out of the question. 'Do sit down again, Lady Willow. We will take it that I am hopelessly ineligible, and so say no more about it; but I do want to have a talk with you.' 'But you will write something----' 'I shall not write a word about you or about anything you tell me. You see, your profession is as strange to me as mine is to you.' 'My profession? I have none.' 'Well, whatever you call it. I mean the way in which you make your money.' Lady Willow sighed, and the tears came into her eyes. 'You little know, my child, to what straits one may come who is left unprovided for, and who has to do the best to keep up appearances.' Jennie sprang up instantly and took the unresisting hand of the elder woman, smoothing it with her own caressingly. 'Why, of course I know,' she cried, with a little quaver in her voice; 'and there is nothing more terrible on earth than lack of money. If there was a single really civilized country in existence, it would make provision for its women. Every woman should be assured enough to live on, merely because she is a woman. If England had put aside as much for its women as it has spent in the last hundred years on foolish wars, or if America had made a fund of what its politicians have been allowed to steal, the women of both barbarous countries might have been provided with incomes that would at least keep them from the fear of want.' Lady Willow seemed more alarmed than comforted by the vehemence of Miss Brewster. She said hesitatingly: 'I'm afraid you have some very strange ideas, my dear.' 'Perhaps; but I have one idea that isn't strange: it is that you are going to take charge of a lonesome, friendless girl for a few weeks at least--until the rich pork-packer's daughter from Chicago comes along, and she won't be here for a month or two yet. We won't say a word about terms; I'll pay you all that's left over from my hansom fares.' 'I shall be very happy to do what I can for you, my dear.' Lady Willow had softened towards her fair client, and had now adopted a somewhat motherly tone with her, which Jennie evidently liked. 'I will try and be very little trouble to you, although I shall probably ask you ever so many questions. All I really want is merely to see the Zoo, hear the animals roar, and watch them being fed. I have no ambition to steal any of them.' 'Oh, that will be easily done,' said Lady Willow in surprise. 'We can get tickets from one of the Fellows of the Zoological Society which will admit us on Sunday, when there are but few people there.' Jennie laughed merrily. 'I mean the social Zoo, Lady Willow; I have visited the other already. Please do not look so shocked at me, and don't be afraid; I really talk very nicely when I am in society, and I am sure you will not be in the least ashamed of me. You see, I haven't had a soul to speak with since I came to London, so I think I ought to be allowed a little latitude at first.' Lady Willow so far relaxed her dignity as to smile, although a little dubiously; and Jennie joyfully proclaimed that their compact was sealed and that she was sure they would be great friends. 'Now you must tell me what I am to do,' she continued. 'I suppose dresses are the most important preliminaries when one is meditating a siege on society. Well, I've ordered ever so many, so that's all right. What's the next thing?' 'Yes, dress is important; but I think the first thing to do is to choose pleasant rooms somewhere. You can't stay at this hotel, you know; besides, it must be very expensive.' 'Yes, it is rather; but it is so handy and central.' 'It is not central for society.' 'Oh, isn't it? I was thinking of Westminster Abbey and Trafalgar Square, and that sort of thing. Besides, there's _always_ a nice hansom right at the door whenever one wants to go out.' 'Oh, but you mustn't ride in hansoms, you know!' 'Why? I thought the aristocracy--the very highest--rode in hansoms.' 'Some of them have private hansoms; but that's a very different thing.' 'And I heard somewhere that most of the hansoms in London are owned by the aristocracy. I am sure I rode in one belonging to the Marquis of Something--I forget his name. I don't suppose the Marquis himself drove it. Perhaps it was driven by his hired man; but the driver was such a nice young fellow, and he gave me a lot of information. He told me that the Marquis owned the hansom; for I asked him whose it was. I thought perhaps it belonged to the driver. I'll give up the hotel willingly, but I don't know about hansoms. I'm afraid to promise; for I feel sure I'll hail a hansom automatically the moment I go out alone. So we will postpone the hansom question until later. Now, where would you recommend me to stay while in London?' 'You could stop with me if you liked. I have not a large house; but there is room for one or two friends, and it is in a very good locality.' 'Oh, that will be delightful. I suppose the correct address on one's notepaper is everything, almost as good as a coat-of-arms--if they use coats-of-arms as letter-heads; and there is a difference between Drury and Park when they precede the word "Lane."' The two ladies speedily came to an understanding that was satisfactory to each of them, and Lady Willow found, to the no small comforting of her dignity, that, although she came to the hotel in the attitude of one who, if it may be so expressed, sought a favour, the impetuous eagerness of the younger woman had so changed the situation that the elder lady now left with the gratifying self complacency of a generous person who has conferred a boon. Nor was her condescension without its reward, both material and intellectual, for not only did Jennie pay her way with some lavishness, but her immediate social success was flattering to Lady Willow as the introducer of a Transatlantic cousin so bright and vivacious. So great an impression did Jennie make upon the more susceptible portion of the young men she met under Lady Willow's chaperonage, that even the rumour which got abroad, that she had no money, did not damp the devotion of all of them. Lord Frederick Bingham was quite as assiduous in his attentions as if she were the greatest heiress that ever crossed the ocean to exchange dubiously won gold for a title founded by some thief in the Middle Ages, thus bringing ancient and modern villainy into juxtaposition. Lady Willow saw Lord Frederick's preference with pleasurable surprise. Although she did not altogether approve of the damsel in her care, she had become very fond of her; but she failed to see why Jennie was so much sought after, when other girls, almost as pretty and much more eligible, were neglected. She hinted delicately to the young woman one day that perhaps her visit to England would not be, after all, so futile. 'I don't think I understand you,' said Jennie. 'Well, my dear, with a little tact on your part, I'm not at all sure but Lord Frederick Bingham might propose.' Jennie, who was putting on her gloves, paused and looked at Lady Willow, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, and a demure smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. 'Do you imagine, then, that I have come over here to ensnare some poor unprotected nobleman--with a display of tact? Oh dear me! As if tact had anything to do with it! Never, never, never, Lady Willow! I wouldn't marry an Englishman if he were the last man left on earth.' 'Many Englishmen are very nice, my dear,' protested Lady Willow gently, with a deep sigh, for she thought of her own husband, who, having been all his life an irreclaimable reprobate, had commanded her utmost affection while he lived, and was the object of her tenderest regret now that he had taken his departure from a world that had never appreciated his talents; although its influence was, in the estimation of the widow, entirely to blame for those shortcomings which Sir Debenham had been unable to conceal. 'And yet,' continued Jennie inconsequently, as she buttoned her glove, 'I do adore a title; I wonder why that is? I suppose no woman is ever at heart a republican, and if the United States is to be wrecked, it is the women who will do the wrecking, and start a monarchy. I have no doubt the men would let us proclaim an empire now if they imagined it would please us.' 'I thought you were all sovereigns over there already,' said Lady Willow. 'Oh, we are, but that's just the trouble. There is too much competition in the queen business; there are too many of us, and so we exchange our sovereignty for the lesser titles of duchesses and countesses and all that. ' "It is no trivial thing, I ween, To be a regular Royal Queen. No half and half affair, I mean, But a right down regular, regular regular regular Royal Queen." I don't know that the words are right, but the sentiment is there. Oh dear me! I'm afraid I'm becoming quite English, you know.' 'I don't see many signs of it,' said Lady Willow, smiling in spite of herself as her voluble companion sang and danced about the room. 'Come, Lady Willow,' cried Jennie, 'get on your things; I am going to a City bank to cash a cheque, and I warn you that I will take a hansom. Lord Freddie agrees with me that a hansom is the jolliest kind of vehicle: please don't frown at me, Lady Willow--"jolliest" is Lord Freddie's word, not mine.' 'What I didn't like,' said Lady Willow, with as near an approach to severity as the kindly woman could assume, 'was your calling him Lord Freddie.' 'Oh, that's his phrase, too! He says everybody calls him Lord Freddie. But come along, and I'll call him Lord--Frederick--Bingham,' with a voice of awe and appropriate pauses between the words. 'He always seems so trivial compared with his name; he reminds me of a salesman at a remnant counter, and I don't wonder everybody calls him Lord Freddie. I'm afraid I'm a disappointed woman, Lady Willow. I suppose the men have retrograded since armour went out of fashion; they had to be big and strong then to carry so much hardware. Of course it makes a difference to a man whether his tailor cuts him a suit out of broadcloth or out of sheet iron. Yes, I begin to suspect that I've come to England several centuries too late.' Lady Willow was too much shocked at these frivolous remarks to make any reply, so, attempting none, she went to her room to prepare for her trip to the City. Leaving Lady Willow in the hansom, Jennie entered the bank and got the white notes, generally alluded to in fiction as 'crisp,' stuffing them with greater carelessness than their value warranted into her purse. She took from this receptacle of her wealth a bit of paper on which was written an address, and this she looked at for some moments before leaving the bank. On reaching the hansom, she handed up the slip of paper to the driver. 'Do you know where that is?' she asked. 'Yes, miss; it is just round the corner.' 'Well, drive to the opposite side of the street, and stop where I can see the door of No. 23.' 'Very good, miss.' Arriving nearly opposite No. 23, the driver pulled up. Jennie looked across at the doorway where many hurrying men were entering and leaving. It was a large building evidently filled with offices; the girl drew a deep breath, but made no motion to leave the hansom. 'Have you business here, too?' asked Lady Willow, to whom the City was an unknown land, the rush and noise of which were unpleasantly bewildering. 'No,' said Jennie, with a doleful note in her voice, 'this is not business; it is pleasure. I want to sit here for a few minutes and think.' 'But, my dear child,' expostulated Lady Willow, 'you can't think in this babel; besides, the police will not allow the hansom to stand here unless one of us is shopping, or has business in an office.' 'Then, dear Lady Willow, do go shopping for ten minutes; I saw some lovely shops just down the street. Here are five pounds, and if you see anything that I ought to have, buy it for me. One must think now and then, you know. Our thoughts are like the letters we receive; we need to sort them out periodically, and discard those that we don't wish to keep. I want to rummage over my thoughts and see whether some of them are to be abandoned or not.' When Lady Willow left her, Jennie sat with her chin in her hands and her elbows on her knees gazing across at No. 23. The faces of none who went in or came out were familiar to her. Frequently glances were cast at her by passers-by, but she paid no heed to the crowd, nor to the fleeting admiration her pretty face aroused in many a flinty stockbroking breast, if, indeed, she was conscious of the attention she received. She awoke from her reverie when Lady Willow stepped into the hansom. 'What, back already?' she cried. 'I have been away for a quarter of an hour,' said the elder woman reproachfully. 'Besides, the money is all spent, and here are the parcels.' 'Money doesn't go far in the City, does it?' said Jennie. 'Why, what's the matter with you, my dear?' asked the elder woman; 'your voice sounds as if you had been crying.' 'Nonsense! What an idea! This street reminds me so of Broadway that I have become quite homesick, that's all. I think I'll go back to New York.' 'Have you met somebody from over there?' 'No, no. I've seen no one I knew.' 'Did you expect to?' 'Perhaps.' 'I didn't know you had any friends in the City.' 'I haven't. He's an enemy.' 'Really? An enemy who was once a friend?' 'Yes. Why do you ask so many questions?' Lady Willow took the girl's hand, and said soothingly: 'I am sorry there was a misunderstanding.' 'So am I,' agreed Jennie.

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When John Kenyon entered the office of his friend next morning, Wentworth said to him: 'Well, what luck with the Longworths?' 'No luck at all,' was the answer; 'the young man seemed to have forgotten all about our conversation on board the steamer, and the old gentleman takes no interest in the matter.' Wentworth hemmed and tapped on the desk with the end of his lead pencil. 'I never counted much on that young fellow,' he said at last. 'What appeared to be his reason?' 'I don't know exactly. He didn't give any reason. He merely said that he would have nothing to do with it, after having got me to tell him what our option on the mine was.' 'Why did you tell him that?' 'Well, it seemed, after I had talked to him a little, that there was some hope of his going in with us. I told him point-blank that I didn't care to say at what figure we had the option unless he was going in with us. He said of course he couldn't consider the matter at all unless he knew to what he was committed; and so I told him.' 'And what excuse did he make for not joining us?' 'Oh, he merely said he thought he would have nothing to do with it.' 'Now, what do you imagine his object was in pumping you if he had no intention of taking an interest in the mine?' 'I'm sure I don't know. I do not understand that sort of man at all. In fact, I feel rather relieved he is going to have nothing to do with it. I distrust him.' 'That's all very well, John, you are prejudiced against him; but you know the name of Longworth would have a very great effect upon the minds of other City men. If we can get the Longworths into this, even for a small amount, I am certain that we shall have very little trouble in floating the company.' 'Well, all I can say is, my mission to the Longworths was a failure. Have you looked over the papers?' 'Oh yes, and that reminds me. The point on which the whole scheme turns is the availability of the mineral for the making of china, isn't it?' 'That is so.' 'Well, look at this letter; it came this morning.' He tossed the letter over to Kenyon, who read it, and then asked: 'Who's Adam Brand? He doesn't know what he is talking about.' 'Ah, but the trouble is that he does. No man in England better, I should imagine. He is the manager and part owner of the big Scranton china works. I went to see Melville of that company yesterday. He could tell me nothing about the mineral, but kept the specimen I gave him, and told me he would show it to the manager when he came in. Brand is the manager of the works, and if anybody knows the value of the mineral, he ought to be the man.' 'Nevertheless,' said Kenyon, 'he is mistaken.' 'That is just the point of the whole matter--is he? The mineral is either valueless, as he says, or he is telling a deliberate lie for some particular purpose; and I can't see, for the life of me, why a stranger should not only tell a falsehood, but write it on paper. Now, John, what do you know about china manufacture?' 'I know very little indeed about it.' 'Very well, then, how can you put your knowledge against this man's, who is a practical manufacturer?' Kenyon looked at Wentworth, who was evidently not feeling in the best of humours. 'Do you mean to say, George, that I do not know what I am talking about when I tell you that this mineral is valuable for a certain purpose?' 'Well, you have just admitted that you know nothing about the china trade.' 'Not "nothing," George--I know something about it; but what I do understand is the value of minerals. The reason I know anything at all about china manufacture is simply because I learned that this mineral is one of the most important components of china.' 'Then why did that man write such a letter?' 'I'm sure I don't know. As you saw the man, you can judge better than I whether he would tell a deliberate falsehood, or whether he was merely ignorant.' 'I didn't see Brand at all; I saw Melville. Melville was to submit this mineral to Brand, and let me know what he thought about it. Of course, everything depends upon the value of it in the china trade.' 'Of course.' 'Very well then, I took the only way that was open to me to find out what practical men say about it. If they say they will have nothing to do with it, then we might as well give up our mining scheme and send back our option to Mr. Von Brent.' Kenyon read the letter again, and pondered deeply over it. 'You see, of course,' said George once more, 'everything hinges on that, don't you?' 'I certainly see that.' 'Then, what have you to say?' 'I have to say this--that I shall have to take a trip among the china works of Great Britain. I think it would be a good plan if you were to write to the different manufacturers in the United States and find out how much they use of it. There is no necessity for sending the mineral. They have to use that, and nothing else will do. Find out from them, if you can, how much of it they need, what price they will pay for pure material, and what they pay for the impure material they use now.' 'How do you know, John, that there are not a dozen mines with that material in them?' 'How do I know? Well, if you want to impugn my knowledge of mineralogy, I wish you would do so straight out. I either know my business or I do not. If you think I do not, then leave this matter entirely alone. I tell you that what I say about this mineral is true. What I say about its scarcity is true. There are no other mines with mineral so pure as this.' 'I am perfectly satisfied when you say that, but you must remember those who are going to put their money in this company will not be satisfied. They must have the facts and figures down before them, and they are not going to take either your word or mine as to the value of the mineral. Your proposal about seeing the different manufactories is good. I would act upon it at once, if I were you. We must have the opinions of practical men set forth clearly before we can make a move in the matter. Now, how much of this mineral have you got?' 'Only the few lumps I took with me in my portmanteau. The barrel full of it which we got at Burntpine has not arrived yet. I suppose it came by slow steamer and is probably on the ocean still.' 'Very good. Take what specimens you have, go to the North, and see those manufacturers. Get, in some way or another, whether from the principals or from the subordinates, the price they pay for it, and the cost of removing the adulteration from the stuff they employ now; because that is really the material we come into competition with. It is not with their first raw material, but with their material as cleared from the deleterious foreign substances, that we have to deal. Find out exactly what it costs to do this purifying, and then, when you get your facts and figures, I will arrange them for you in the best order. Meanwhile, as you suggest, I will learn what manufactories there are in the States. Nothing can be done except that until you come back, and, if I were you, I should leave at once.' 'I am quite ready. I don't want to lose any further time.' So John Kenyon departed, and was soon on his way to the North, with a list of china manufactories in his note-book. That afternoon Wentworth got the letters off by the American mail, and he felt that they were doing business as rapidly as could be expected. Next morning there was a letter for John Kenyon addressed to the care of Wentworth, and by a later mail there came a letter to Wentworth himself from John, who had reached his first district and had had an interview already with the manager of the works. He found the mineral was all he had expected, and they would be glad to take a certain quantity each year at a specified rate. This letter Wentworth filed away with a smile of satisfaction, and then he began again to wonder why Adam Brand, representing such a well-known manufactory, should have written a deliberate falsehood. Before he had time to fathom this mystery, the office-boy announced that a gentleman wished to see him, and handed Wentworth a card which bore the name of William Longworth. Wentworth arched his eyebrows as he looked at it. 'Ask the gentleman to step in, please,' he said; and the gentleman stepped in. 'How are you, Mr. Wentworth? I suppose you remember me, although I did not see much of you on board the steamer.' 'I remember you perfectly,' replied Wentworth. 'Won't you sit down?' 'Thank you. I did not know where to find Mr. Kenyon, and so, being aware that both of you were interested in this mica-mine, I called to see you with reference to it.' 'Indeed! I understood Mr. Kenyon to say that he had called upon you, and that you had decided to have nothing to do with it.' 'I hardly think he was justified in saying anything quite so definite. I got from him such particulars as he cared to give. He is not a very communicative man at the best, but he told me something about it, and I have been thinking over his proposal. I have now concluded to help you in this matter, if you care to have my aid. Perhaps, however, things have got to such a stage that you do not wish any assistance?' 'On the contrary, we have done very little. Mr. Kenyon is just now among the china manufactories in the North, finding out what demand there will be in England for this mineral.' 'Ah, I see. Have you had reports from him yet?' 'Nothing further than a letter this morning, which is very satisfactory.' 'There is no question, then, about the mineral being useful in the china trade?' 'No question whatever.' 'Well, I am glad of that. Now, Mr. Kenyon spoke to me on the steamer of going in share and share alike; that is, you taking a third, he taking a third, and I taking a third. We did not go very minutely into particulars, but I suppose we each share the expense in the same way--the preliminary expenses, I mean?' 'Yes,' said Wentworth; 'that would be the arrangement, I imagine.' 'Well, have you the authority to deal with me in the matter, or would it be better for me to wait until Kenyon comes back?' 'We can settle everything here and now.' 'Very good. Would you have any objection to my seeing the papers that relate to the mine? I should like to get the figures of the output as nearly as possible, and any other particulars you may have that would enable me to estimate the value of the property. Also I should like to see a copy of the option, or the original document by which you hold the mine.' 'Certainly; I shall be very pleased to give you all the information in my power.' Wentworth turned to his desk and wrote for a few moments, then blotted the paper he had been writing, and handed it to Longworth. 'You have no objection, before this is done, to signing this document, have you?' Longworth adjusted his one eyeglass and looked at the paper, which read: 'I hereby agree to do my best to form a limited liability company for the purpose of taking over the Ottawa Mica-mine. I agree to pay my share of the expenses, and to accept one-third of the profits.' 'No, I don't object to sign this, though I think it should be a little more definite. I think it should state that the liability I incur is to be one-third of the whole preliminary expenses, the other two-thirds to be paid by Kenyon and yourself; and that, in return, I am to get one-third of the profits, the other two-thirds going to yourself and Kenyon. I think it should also state the amount of the capital of the new company; two hundred thousand pounds was suggested, if I remember rightly.' 'Very well,' answered Wentworth; 'I will rewrite that in accordance with your wishes.' This he did, and Longworth, again adjusting his eyeglass, read it. 'Now,' he said, 'as we are so formal about the matter, perhaps it would be as well for you to give me a note which I can keep, setting forth these same particulars.' 'Undoubtedly,' said Wentworth, 'I shall do that. Probably it would be better for you to write the document to suit your own views, and I will sign it.' 'Oh no, not at all. Write whatever is embodied there, so that you will have one paper and I the other.' This was done. 'Now then,' said Longworth, 'when does your option run out?' Wentworth named the date. 'Who is the owner of the mine?' 'It is owned by the Austrian Mining Company, headquarters at Vienna, and the option is signed by a Mr. Von Brent, of Ottawa, who is manager of the mine and one of the owners.' 'You are perfectly certain that he has every right to sell the mine?' 'Yes; Mr. Kenyon's lawyer saw to that while he was in Ottawa.' 'And you are sure, also, that your option is a thoroughly legal instrument?' 'We are sure of that.' 'Has it been examined by a London solicitor?' 'It has been submitted to a Canadian lawyer. The bargain was made in Canada, and it will have to be carried out in Canada, under the laws of Canada.' 'Still, don't you think it would be just as well to get the opinion of an English lawyer on it?' 'I think that would be an unnecessary expense. However, if you wish to have that done, we will do it.' 'Yes; I think we shall need to have the opinion of a good lawyer upon it before we submit it to the stockholders.' 'Very well, I will have it done. Is there anyone whom you wish to give an opinion on it?' 'Oh, it is a matter of indifference to me; your own solicitor would do as well as anyone else. Perhaps, however, it will be better to have a legal adviser for the Mica Mining Company, Limited--we shall have to have one as we go on--and it might be as well to submit the document to whomever we are going to place in that position. It will not increase the legal expenses at all, or at least by only a very trifling amount. Have you anyone to suggest?' 'I have not thought about the matter,' said Wentworth. 'Suppose you let me look up a firm who will answer our purpose? My uncle is sure to know the right men, and that will be something towards my share of forming the company.' 'Very good,' said Wentworth; 'that will be satisfactory to me.' 'Now, there is a good deal to be done in the forming of a company, and it is going to take three men a good deal of time, besides some expense. What do you say to letting me look up offices?' 'Do you think it is necessary to have offices?' 'Oh, certainly. A great deal depends, in this sort of thing, on appearances. We shall need to get offices in a good locality.' 'To tell the truth, Mr. Longworth, Kenyon and I have not very much money, and we do not want to enter into any expense that is needless.' 'My dear sir, it is not needless. This business is one of those things into which, if you go boldly, you win; while if you go gingerly, on the economical plan, you lose everything. Of course, if there is to be a scarcity of cash, I shall have nothing to do with the scheme, because I know how these half-economically worked affairs turn out. I have seen too much of them. We are making a strike for sixty thousand pounds each. That is a sum worth risking something for, and, if you will believe me, you will not get it unless you venture something for it.' 'I suppose that is true.' 'Yes, it is very true. Of course I've had more experience in matters of this kind than either of you, and I know we shall have to get good offices, with a certain prosperous look about them. People are very much influenced by appearances. Now, if you like, I will see to getting the offices and to engaging a solicitor. Every step must be taken under legal advice, otherwise we may get into a very bad tangle and spend a great deal more money in the end.' 'Very well,' said Wentworth. 'Is there anything else you can suggest?' 'Not just at present; nothing need be done until Kenyon comes back, and then we can have a meeting to see what is the best way to proceed.' Longworth then looked over the papers, took a note of some things mentioned in the option, and finally said: 'I wish you would get these papers copied for me, I suppose you have someone in the office who can do it?' 'Yes.' 'Then just have duplicates made of each of them. Good-morning, Mr. Wentworth.' Wentworth mused for a few moments over the unexpected turn affairs had taken. He was very glad to get the assistance of Longworth; the name itself was a tower of strength in the City. Then, Kenyon's letter from the North was encouraging. Thinking of the letter brought the writer of it to his mind, so he took a telegraph-form from his desk, and wrote a message to the address given on the letter. 'Everything right. Longworth has joined us, and signed papers to assist in forming company.' 'There,' he said, as he sent the boy out with the message, 'that will cheer up old John when he gets it.'

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When John Kenyon returned from the North and entered the office of his friend Wentworth, he found that gentleman and young Longworth talking in the outer room. 'There's a letter for you on my desk,' said Wentworth, after shaking hands with him. 'I'll be there in a minute.' Kenyon entered the room and found the letter. Then he did a very unbusinesslike thing. He pressed the writing to his lips and placed the letter in his pocket-book. This act deserves mention because it is an unusual thing in the City. As a general rule, City men do not press business communications to their lips, and the letter John had received was entirely a business communication, relating only to the mine, and to William Longworth's proposed connection with it. He wondered whether he should write an answer to it or not. He sat down at Wentworth's desk, and came upon an obstacle at the very beginning. He did not know how to address the young woman. Whether to say 'My dear Miss Longworth,' or 'My dear madam,' or whether to use the adjective 'dear' at all, was a puzzle to him; and over this he was meditating when Wentworth came bustling in. 'Well,' said the latter, as John tore into small pieces a sheet of notepaper and threw the bits into the waste-basket, 'how have you got on? Your letters were very short indeed, but rather to the point. You seem to have succeeded.' 'Yes, I have succeeded very well. I have got all the figures and prices and everything else that it is necessary to have. I succeeded with everybody except Brand, who wrote that letter to you. I cannot make him out at all. He would give me no information, and he managed to prevent everyone else in his works from giving me any. He pooh-poohed the scheme--in fact, wouldn't listen to it. He said it was not usual for men to give away information regarding their business, and in that, of course, he was perfectly justified; but when I tried to argue with him as to whether this mineral was used in his manufactory or not, he would not listen. I asked him what he used in place of it, but he would not tell. All in all, he is a most extraordinary man, and I confess I do not understand him.' 'Oh, it doesn't matter about him in the least. I was speaking with Longworth just now about that curious letter of his, and he agrees with me that it makes no difference. He says, what is quite true, that in every business you find some man with whom it is difficult to deal.' 'Yes, that is so; but, still, he either uses this substance or he does not. I can understand a man who says, "We have no need for that, because we use another material." But that is one of the things Brand does not say.' 'Well, it is not worth while talking about him. By the way, you have all your figures and notes with you, I suppose?' 'Yes, I have everything.' 'Very well. Leave them with me, and I will get them into some sort of shape. Longworth says we shall have to have everything printed relating to this--your statements and all.' 'That will cost a great deal of money, will it not?' 'Oh, not very much. It is necessary, it seems. We must have printed matter to give to those who make application for information. It would be impossible to explain personally to everybody who inquires, and to show them these documents.' 'Yes, I suppose so.' 'Longworth was just now speaking to me about offices he has seen, and he is anxious to secure them at once. He is attending to that matter.' 'Do you think we need an office? Why could not the business be transacted here; or perhaps a room might be had on this floor that would do perfectly well; then we should be close together, and able to communicate when necessary.' 'Longworth seems to think differently. He says you must impress the public, and so he is going in for fine offices.' 'Yes, but who is to pay for them?' 'Why, we must, of course--you and Longworth and myself.' 'Have you the money?' 'I have a certain amount. I think we shall have enough to see it through, and if not, we can easily get it, and settle up when we finish the business.' 'Well, you know I have no money to spare.' 'Oh, I know that well enough. Perhaps Longworth will see us through, for, as he says, this sort of thing can be spoilt by niggardliness. He has known, and so have I, many a business go to pieces because of false economy.' 'But it seems to me all this is needless expense. We only want to get a few moneyed men interested in our project, and if they are sensible men, they will look to the probability of getting a good dividend, not at fine offices.' 'Very well, John; you get the men, and I shall be satisfied. I am sure I am as anxious to do this cheaply as you are. If you think you can go out and interest a dozen or twenty-four men in the City, and persuade them to go in for our mine, I will cry "Halt!" on our part until you do it. Will you try that?' Kenyon pondered for a few minutes, and then said: 'I suppose that would be rather a difficult thing to do.' 'Yes, that is the way it strikes me. I do not know to whom I could go. Longworth is a good man, and we have gone to him. Now it seems to me, having got his assistance, the least we can do, unless we are prepared to produce the men ourselves forthwith, is to act as he wishes.' 'Yes, I quite appreciate that, and I also grasp the fact that too close economy is not the best thing; but, on the other hand, George, how are we to perform our part with Longworth? His ideas of economy and yours may be vastly different. What is a mere trifle to him would bankrupt us!' 'I know that. Well, he is coming here this afternoon at three. Suppose you manage to be in then, and talk with him. Meanwhile, I will go over the papers and get them into tabulated form.' 'Very well; I shall be here at three o'clock.' It will hardly be credited that a business man like John Kenyon spent most of the time between that hour and three o'clock trying to compose a business letter in answer to the business communication he had received that morning. Yet such was the astonishing fact, and it showed, perhaps more than anything else, how utterly unfit Mr. John Kenyon was to join in a commercial undertaking in a city of hard-headed people. At last, however, the letter was posted, and Kenyon hurried away to be in time for his three-o'clock appointment. He found Wentworth and young Mr. Longworth together, the latter looking more like a young man from the West End than a typical City business man. His monocle was in his eye, and it shone on Kenyon as he entered. It was evident something was troubling Wentworth, and it was equally evident that the something, whatever it was, was not troubling young Longworth. 'You are late, John,' was Wentworth's greeting. 'A little,' he answered. 'I was detained.' There was silence for a few moments, and Wentworth appeared to be waiting for Longworth to speak. At last Longworth said: 'I have succeeded in getting very nice offices indeed, and I was telling Mr. Wentworth about them. You see, it is not very easy to engage offices in a good part of the City by the week. They do not care to let them in that way, because, while a weekly tenant is occupying them, somebody else, who wants them for a longer time, might have to be sent away.' 'Yes,' said Kenyon in a non-committal manner. 'Well, I have got just the offices we need, and have now set the men at putting gilt lettering on the windows. I have taken the offices in the name of "The Canadian Mica Mining Company, Limited," which I shall have on the plate-glass windows in a very short time. Now, Mr. Wentworth here seems to think the offices rather expensive. I have told him before what my ideas are in the matter of expense. Perhaps, before anything more is said on the subject, we ought to go and look at the rooms.' 'How much are they a week?' asked Kenyon. Young Mr. Longworth did not answer, because at that moment his monocle fell out of its place and had to be adjusted again; but Wentworth jerked out the two words, 'Thirty pounds.' 'A _week_?' cried John. 'Yes,' said Longworth, after having succeeded in replacing the round bit of glass--'yes; Mr. Wentworth seems to think that is rather high, but I defy him to get as fine offices in the City for anything less in price. It is merely ten pounds a week for each of us. However, before you can judge of their dearness or cheapness, you must see them. If you ask me, I think they are a bargain.' 'Very well,' said Kenyon. 'Have you the time, George?' Wentworth, without answering, shoved the papers into his desk and closed it. The three young men went out together, and after a short walk came to large plate-glass windows, where a man on a ladder was chalking the words 'The Canadian Mica Mining Company, Limited,' in a semicircle. 'You see,' said Longworth, 'this is one of the very best situations in the City. As I said before, I doubt if you could get anything like it for the price.' They could not deny the excellence of the position, or that the plate-glass looked very imposing and the gilt letters exceedingly fine; but the cost of this running on perhaps for two or three months seemed to appal them. 'Come inside,' said young Longworth suavely; 'I am sure you will be pleased with the rooms we have. You see,' he said, entering and nodding to the carpenters who were at work there, 'this will be the front office, where the public is received. Here you have room for an accountant or two and your secretary. The back-room, which you see is also well lighted, is just the spot for our people to meet. We will get in a large long table here, and a number of chairs, and there we are--capital directors' room.' 'Does the thirty pounds a week include the furnishing of the place?' asked Kenyon. 'Oh, bless you, no! You surely couldn't expect that? We shall have to put in the furniture, of course.' 'And do you intend to put in desks and counter and everything of that sort here?' 'Of course. Beside that, we will get in a large safe. There is nothing like a ponderous safe, with the name of the company in gilt letters on it, for impressing the general public.' 'And how much is the furnishing of this place to cost?' 'Really, I don't know that. The men I have engaged will do it very reasonably. They have done work for me before. You don't get it done any cheaper by haggling about the price beforehand--I've found that out.' 'I do not see how we are to pay our share of all this,' said Kenyon. 'Nothing easier, my boy; I've arranged all that. I will pay them my third in cash when it is finished, and, they have agreed to wait three months for the remainder. By that time you will have sixty thousand pounds each, and a little bill like this will be nothing to you.' Kenyon looked grave. 'It's a little like counting your chickens,' he said. 'Ah, they'll hatch all right,' laughed Longworth. And then his eyeglass dropped out.

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It is never wise to despise an enemy, no matter how humble he may be. The mouse liberated the enmeshed lion. Jennie Brewster should have been thankful that circumstances, working in her favour, had rendered her account of the discoveries she made about the mines unnecessary. She was saved the bitterness of acknowledged defeat by the cable despatch that awaited her at Queenstown, telling her not to forward her information. The letter she received from the editor of the _Argus_ later explained the cable message. The _Argus_ had obtained from a different source what purported to be an account of the reports on the mines, and this had been published. If Jennie's contribution corroborated this article, it was unnecessary; if it contradicted what had been already published, then, of course, it was equally unavailable, for the _Argus_ was a paper that never stultified itself by acknowledging an error. So the editor sent his correspondent a short cable message to save the expense of a long and costly despatch that would have been useless when it reached the _Argus_ office. Instead, however, of being grateful to the stars that fought so well for her, Jennie became bitterly resentful against Fleming, and hardly less so against Miss Longworth. If it had not been for the meddling politician's interference, Wentworth would never have discovered who she was, and the whole train of humiliating events that followed would not have taken place. She would have parted with Wentworth on a friendly basis, at least. She was forced, reluctantly, to admit to herself that she liked Wentworth better than any young man she had ever before met; and now that there was little chance of seeing him again, her regret had become more and more poignant as time went on. He had told her all his hopes about the mica-mine before their unfortunate disaster, and had taken her into his confidence in a way, she felt sure, he had never done with any other woman. She saw the earnest look in his honest eyes whenever she closed her own, and this look haunted her day and night, alternating with the remembrance of that gaze of incredulous reproach with which he regarded her when he discovered her mission, which was even harder to bear than the recollection of his confidence and esteem. And the sting of the situation lay in the fact that it had all been so useless and unnecessary. She had wounded her friend and humiliated herself all for nothing! The rapid changes that had taken place in the newspaper office since she left, had rendered her sacrifices futile, and while she had buoyed herself up on shipboard by holding that she was merely doing her duty to her employers, even that consolation had been made naught by the editor's letter. Thus it ever is in that kaleidoscopic, gigantic and fascinating lottery, the modern press. The sensation for which an editor to-day would sell his soul, is to-morrow worthless. The greatest fool in the office will sometimes stumble stupidly upon the most important news of the day, while the cleverest reporter may be baffled in his constant fight against time, for the paper goes to press at a certain hour, and after that, effort is useless. The conductor of a great paper is like the driver of a Roman chariot; he needs a cool head and a strong arm, with a clear eye that peers into the future, and that pays little heed to the victims of the whirling scythe-blades at the hub. He may overturn a Government or be himself thrown, by an unexpected jolt, under the wheels. The fiery steeds never stop, and when one drops the reins, another grasps them, to be in turn lost and forgotten in the mad race, wherein never a glance is cast to the rear. The best brains in the country are called into requisition, squeezed, and flung aside. With a lavish but indiscriminating hand are thrown broadcast fame and dishonour, riches and disaster. Unbribable in the ordinary sense of the word, the press will, for the accumulation of the smallest coins of the realm, exaggerate a cholera scare and paralyze the business of a nation; then it will turn on a corrupt Government and rend it, although millions might be made by taking another course. It is the terror of scoundrels and the despair of honest men. Jennie Brewster, in the midst of her unavailing regrets, clenched her little fist when she thought of Fleming. It is both customary and consoling to place the blame on other shoulders than our own. Human nature is such an erring quantity, that usually we can find a scapegoat among our fellow-beings, who can be made responsible for any misdeeds or failings which are so much a part of ourselves that they escape recognition. If Fleming had only attended his own business, as a man should, Wentworth would never have known that Jennie wrote for the _Argus_, and Jennie might have had a friend in London who would have added that spice of interest to her visit which usually accompanies the friendship of an agreeable young man for a girl so pretty and fascinating. Fleming put up at the hotel that Jennie had at first selected, and now and then she met him in the extensive halls of the great building; but she invariably passed him with the dignity of an offended queen, although the unfortunate man always took off his hat, and once or twice paused as if about to speak with her. On the last day of her stay at the hotel, she met Fleming oftener than ever before; but it did not occur to her that the unhappy politician was lying in wait for her, never being able to muster up enough courage to address her when his opportunity came. At last a note was brought up to the room she occupied, from Fleming, in which he said that he would like to have a few moments' conversation with her, and would wait for a reply. 'Tell him there is no reply,' said the girl to the messenger. It is sometimes well to know the point of view, even of an enemy, but Jenny was too angry with him to think of that. However, a politician, to be successful, must not be easily rebuffed, and as a rule he is not. Fleming, when he got the curt reply to his note, threw away his cigar, put on his hat, took the lift, passed through the long corridor, and knocked at Jennie's door. The girl's amazement at seeing her enemy there was so great that the obvious act of shutting the door in his face did not occur to her until it was too late, and Fleming had carelessly placed his large foot in the way of its closing. 'How dare you come here, when I refused to see you?' she cried, with her eyes ablaze. 'Oh, I understood the messenger to say I might come,' replied the untruthful politician. 'You see, it's not a personal matter, but the very biggest sensation that ever went under the ocean on a cable, and I thought--Well, you know, I felt I had done you--quite unintentionally--a mean trick on board the _Caloric_ and this was kind of to make up for it, don't you know. 'You can never repair what you have done.' 'Oh yes, I can, Jennie.' 'I shall be obliged to you if you remember that my name is Miss Brewster,' said the girl, drawing herself up; but Fleming noticed, with relief, that since he had mentioned the sensation she had made no motion to close the door, while the eagerness of the newspaper woman was gradually replacing the anger with which she had at first regarded him. 'All right, Miss Brewster. I meant no disrespect, you know; and, honestly, I would rather give you a big item than anybody else.' 'Oh, you're very honest--I know that.' 'Well, I am, you know, Jen--I mean Miss Brewster; although I tell you it don't pay in politics any more than in the newspaper business.' 'If you only came to speak like that of the newspapers, I don't care to listen to you.' 'Wait a minute. I don't blame you for being angry----' 'Thank you.' 'But, all the same, if you let this item get away, you'll be sorry. I'm giving you the straight tip. I could get more gold than you ever saw for giving this snap away, yet here you're treating me as if I were----' 'A New York politician. Why do you come to me with this valuable piece of information? Just because you have a great regard for me, I suppose?' 'That's right. That's it exactly.' 'I thought so. Very well. There is a parlour on this floor where we can talk without being interrupted. Come with me.' Jennie closed the door and walked down the passage, followed by Fleming, who smiled with satisfaction at his own tact and shrewdness, as, indeed, he had every right to do. In the deserted sitting-room was a writing-table, and Jennie sat down beside it, motioning Fleming to a chair opposite her. 'Now,' she said, drawing some paper towards her, and taking up a pen, 'what is this important bit of news?' 'Well, before we begin,' replied Fleming, 'I would like to tell you why I interfered on shipboard and let that Englishman know who you were.' 'Never mind that. Better let it rest.' There was a flash of anger in the girl's eye, but, in spite of it, Fleming continued. He was a persistent man. 'But it has some bearing on what I'm going to tell you. When I saw you on board the _Caloric_, my heart went down into my boots. I thought the game was up, and that you were after me. I was bound to find out whether the _Argus_ knew anything of my trip or not, and whether it had put you on my track. Only five men in New York knew of my journey across, and as a good deal depended on secrecy, I had to find out in some way whether you were there for the purpose of--well, you know. So I spoke to the Englishman, and raised a hornets' nest about my ears; but I soon saw you had no suspicion of what I was engaged in, otherwise I would have had to telegraph to certain persons then in London, and scatter them.' 'Dear me! And what villainy were you concocting? Counterfeiting?' 'No; politics. Just as bad, I suppose you think. Now, do you know where Crupper is?' 'The Boss of New York? I heard before I left that he was at Carlsbad for his health.' 'He was there,' said Fleming mysteriously; 'but now----' The politician solemnly pointed downwards with his forefinger. 'What! Dead?' cried Jennie, the ominous motion of Fleming's finger naturally suggesting what all good people believed to be the arch-thief's ultimate destination. 'No,' said Fleming, laughing; 'he's in this hotel.' 'Oh!' 'Yes, and Senator Smollet, leader of the Conscientious Party, is here too, although you don't meet them in the halls as often as you do me. These good men supposed to be political opponents, are lying low and saying nothing.' 'I see. And they've had a conference.' 'Exactly. Now, it's like this.' Fleming pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and drew on it an oval. 'That's New York. We'll call it a pumpkin-pie, if you like, the material of which it is composed being typical of the heads of its conscientious citizens. Or a pigeon-pie, perhaps, for the New Yorker is made to be plucked. Well, look here.' Fleming drew from a point in the centre several radiating lines. 'That's what Crupper and Smollet are doing in London. They're dividing the pie between the two parties.' 'That's very interesting, but how are they going to deliver the pieces?' 'Simple as shelling peas. You see, our great pull is the conscientious citizen--the voter who wants to vote right, and for a good man. If it weren't for the good men as candidates and the good men as voters, New York politics would be a pretty uncertain game. You see, the so-called respectable element in both parties is our only hope. Each believes in his party, thinks his crowd is better than the other fellow's, so all you have to do is to nominate an honest man to represent each party, and then that divides what they call the reputable vote, and we real politicians get our man in between the two. That's all there is in New York politics. Well, Senator Smollet threatened not to put up a good man on the conscientious ticket, and that would have turned the whole unbribable vote of both parties against us, so we had to make a deal with him, and throw in the next Presidential election. Crupper's no hog; he knows when he's had plenty, and New York's good enough for him. He don't care who gets the Presidency.' 'And this conference has been held?' 'That's right. It took place in this hotel.' 'The bargain was made, I suppose?' 'It was. The pie was divided.' 'And you didn't get a slice?' 'Oh, I beg your pardon, I did!' 'Then, why do you come to me and tell me all this--if it's true?' Honest indignation shone in Fleming's face. ' _If_ it's true? Of course it's true. Why do I come to you? Because I want to be friendly with you, that's why.' Jennie, nibbling the end of her pen, looked thoughtfully across at him for a few moments, then slowly shook her head. 'If you get me to believe that, Mr. Fleming, I'll not cable a word. No, I must have an adequate motive, for I won't cable anything I don't believe to be absolutely true.' 'I assure you, Jennie----' 'Wait a moment. You say you are promised your share in the new deal, but it is not as big a slice as what you have now. It stands to reason that, if Crupper is to divide with Smollet's rascals, each of Crupper's rascals must content himself with a smaller piece. The greater the number of thieves, the smaller each portion of booty. You didn't see that when you left New York, and therefore you were afraid of publicity. You see it now, and you want a sensational article published, so that Senator Smollet will be forced to deny it, or further arouse the suspicions of the honest men in his party. In either case publicity will nullify the results of the deal, and you will hold the share you have. As you didn't know any of the regular London representatives of the New York papers, you couldn't trust them not to tell on you, and so you came to me. Now that I see a good substantial selfish motive for your action, I am ready to believe you.' An expression of dismay at first overspread the countenance of the politician, but this gave way to a look of undisguised admiration as the girl went on. 'By Jove, Jennie!' he cried, bringing his fist down on the table when she had finished; 'you're wasted in the newspaper business; you ought to be a politician! Say, girl, if you marry me, I'll be President of the United States yet.' 'Oh no, you wouldn't,' said Jennie, quite unabashed by his handsome, if excited, proposal. 'No corrupt New York politician will ever be President of the United States. You have the great honest bulk of the people to deal with there, and I'm Democrat enough to believe in them when it comes to big issues, however much you may befog them in small; you can't fool all people for all time, Mr. Fleming, as a man who was not in little politics once said. Every now and then the awakened people will get up and smash you.' Fleming laughed boisterously. 'That's just it,' he said. 'It's every now and then. If they did it every year I would have to quit politics. But will you send the particulars of this meeting to the _Argus_ without giving me away?' 'Yes, I recognise its importance. Now, I want you to give me every detail--the number of the room they met in, the exact hour, and all that. What I like to get in a report of a secret meeting is absolute accuracy in small matters, so that those who were there will know it is not guesswork. That always takes the backbone out of future denials. I'll mention your name----' 'Bless my soul, don't do that!' 'I must say you were present.' 'Why?' 'Why? Dear me! you can't be so stupid as not to see that, if your name is left out, suspicion will at once point to you as the divulger?' 'Yes I suppose that is so.' 'And this man is a ruler in one of the greatest cities in the world! Go on, Mr. Fleming; who else was there besides Crupper, Smollet, and yourself?' The account--two columns and a half--was a bombshell in political New York the morning it appeared in the _Argus_. Senator Smollet cabled from Paris that there wasn't a word of truth in it, that he wasn't in London on the date mentioned, and had never seen Crupper there or elsewhere. Crupper cabled from Carlsbad that he was ill, and had not been out of bed for a month. He would sue the _Argus_ for libel, which, by the way, he never did. The reporters flocked to meet Fleming when his steamer came in, but of course _he_ knew nothing about it; he had been across the ocean solely on private business that had no connection with politics. He knew nothing of Crupper's whereabouts, but he knew _one_ thing, which was that Crupper was too honest and honourable a man to traffic with the enemy. Notwithstanding all these denials, the report bore the marks of truth on its face, and everybody believed it, although many pretended not to. The division of the spoils aroused the greatest consternation and indignation among Crupper's own following, and a deputation went over to see the old man. Meanwhile, the _Argus_, with much dignity of diction, explained that it stood for the best interests of the people, and in the people's cause was fearless. It defied all and sundry to bring libel suits if they wanted to; it was prepared to battle for the people's rights. And its circulation went up and up, its many web presses being taxed to their utmost in supplying the demand. Thus are the truly good rewarded. A great newspaper is as lavishly generous as a despotic monarch, to those who serve it well, and the cheque which Jennie cashed when Lady Willow accompanied her to the City lined her purse with banknotes to a fulness that receptacle had never known before. After a few weeks with Lady Willow, Jennie seemed to tire of the frivolities of society, and even of the sedate company of the good lady with whom she lived. She announced that she was going to Paris for a week or two, but, owing to uncertainty of address, her letters were not to be forwarded. She merely took a hand-bag, leaving the rest of her luggage with Lady Willow, who was thus sustained by the hope that her paying guest would soon return. Jennie took a hansom to Charing Cross, but instead of departing on the Paris express, she hailed a four-wheeler, and, giving a West End address to the driver, entered the closed vehicle.

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On the big plate-glass windows of the new rooms there soon appeared, in gilt letters with black edges, the words, 'Canadian Mica Mining Company, Limited: London Offices.' But the workmen who were finishing the interior were not so quick as the painters and gilders. The new offices took a long time to prepare, and both Kenyon and Wentworth chafed at the delay, because Longworth said nothing could be done until the rooms were occupied. 'It is like this, Longworth,' said Wentworth to him: 'every moment is of value. Time is running on, and we have not for ever in which to form this company.' 'And you must remember,' replied young Mr. Longworth, gazing reproachfully at him through his glittering monocle, 'that I am equally interested in this project with you. It is just as much to my interest to save time as it is to yours. You must not worry about the matter, Mr. Wentworth; everything is all right. The men are doing a good job for us, and it will not be long before their work is completed. As I have told you time and again, a great deal depends on the appearance we present to the public. We have nearly the best offices in the City. The workmen have certainly taken longer than I expected they would, but, you see, they have a great deal of work on hand. When we get this started it will not take long. I, in the meanwhile, have not been idle. At least half a dozen moneyed men are ready to go in with us on this project. The moment the offices are finished we will have a meeting of the proposed shareholders. If they subscribe sufficiently large amounts--and I think they will--all the rest is a mere matter of detail which our solicitors will attend to. But if you imagine that you and Mr. Kenyon can manage everything better than I am doing, you are perfectly at liberty to go ahead. I am sure I have no desire to monopolize all the work. What have _you_ done, for instance? What has Mr. Kenyon done?' 'Kenyon, as I think you know, has got all the facts in reference to the demand for the mineral, and I have arranged them. We have had everything printed as you suggested, and the papers are ready. They were delivered at my office to-day.' 'Very well,' answered young Longworth; 'we are getting on. That is so much done which will not have to be done over again. Perhaps it will be as well to send me some of the printed matter, so that I can give it to the men I was speaking of. Meanwhile, don't worry about the offices; they will be ready in good time.' Wentworth and Kenyon visited the new offices time and again, but still the work seemed to drag. At last Wentworth said very sharply to the foreman: 'Unless this is finished by next Monday, we will have nothing to do with it.' The foreman seemed astonished. 'I understood from Mr. Longworth,' he said, 'from whom we take our instructions, that there was no particular hurry about this job.' 'Well, there is a particular hurry. We must be in here by the first of next week, and if you have not finished by that time, we shall have to come in with it unfinished.' 'In that case,' said the foreman, 'I will do the best I can. I think we can finish it this week.' And finished it was accordingly. When Kenyon entered his new offices, he found them rather oppressive for so modest a man as himself. Wentworth laughed at his doleful expression as he viewed the general grandeur of his surroundings. 'What bothers me,' said John, 'is knowing that all this has to be paid for.' 'Ah, yes,' answered Wentworth; 'but by the time the debts become due I hope we shall have plenty of money.' 'I must confess I do not understand Longworth in this matter. He seems to be doing nothing; at least, he has nothing to show for what he has done, and he does not appear to realize that time is an object with us; in fact, that our company-forming has really become a race against time.' 'Well, we shall see very shortly what he is going to do. I have sent a messenger for him to meet us here--he ought to be here now--and we must certainly push things. There is no time to lose.' 'Has he said anything to you--he talks more freely with you than he does to me--about what the next move is to be?' 'No; he has said nothing.' 'Well, don't you see the situation in which we stand? We are practically doing nothing--leaving everything in his hands. Now, if he should tell us some fine day that he can have nothing more to do with our project (and I believe he is quite capable of it), here we are with our time nearly spent, deeply in debt, and nothing done.' 'My dear John, what a brain you have for conjuring up awful possibilities! Trust me, Longworth won't act in the way you suggest. It would be dishonourable, and he is, so far as I know, an honourable man of business. I think you take a certain prejudice against a person, and then can see nothing good in anything he does. Longworth told me the other day that he had five or six people who are ready to go into this business with us, and if such is the case he has certainly done his share.' 'Yes, I admit that. Did he give you their names?' 'No, he did not.' 'The thing that troubles me is our own helplessness. We seem, in some way or other, to have been shoved into the background.' 'So far from that being the case,' said Wentworth, 'Longworth told me that, if anything suggested itself to us, we were to go ahead with it. He asked what you had done and what I had done, and I told him. He seemed quite anxious that we should do everything we could, as he is doing.' 'Well, but, don't you see, the situation is this: if we make a move at all, we may do something of which he does not approve. Haven't you noticed that whenever I suggest anything, or whenever you suggest anything, for that matter, he always has something counter to it? And I don't like the solicitors he has engaged for this business. They are what is known as "shady"; you know that as well as I do.' 'Bless me, John! then suggest something yourself if you have such dark suspicions of Longworth. I'm sure I'm willing to do anything you want done. Suggest something.' Before John could make the required suggestion, the messenger Wentworth had sent to young Longworth returned. 'His uncle says, sir,' began the messenger, 'that Master William has gone to the North, and will not be back for a week.' 'A week!' cried both the young men together. 'Yes, sir, a week was what he said. He left a note to be given to either of you if you called. Here is the note, sir.' Wentworth took the envelope handed to him and tore it open. The contents ran thus: 'I have been suddenly called away to the North, and may be gone for a week or ten days. I am sorry to be away at this particular juncture, but as it is not likely that the men will have the offices finished before I come back, no great harm will be done. Meanwhile I shall see several gentlemen I have in my mind's eye, men that seldom come to London, who will be of great service to us. If you think of anything to forward the mica-mine, pray go on with it. You can send any letters for me to my uncle, and I shall get them. As there is no hurry in the matter of time, however, I should strongly advise that nothing be done until my return, when we can all go at the business with a will. 'Yours truly, 'WILLIAM LONGWORTH.' When Wentworth had finished reading this letter, the two young men looked at each other. 'What do you make of that?' said Kenyon. 'I'm sure I do not know. In the first place, he is gone for a week.' 'Yes; that one thing is certain.' 'Well now, John, one of two things has to be done. We have either to trust this Longworth, or we have to go on alone without him. Which is it to be?' 'I am sure I don't know,' answered Kenyon. 'But, my dear fellow, we have come to a point when we must decide. You are, evidently, suspicious of Longworth. What you say really amounts to this: that he, for some reason of his own, which I confess I cannot see or understand, desires to delay forming this company until it is too late.' 'I didn't say that.' 'You say what practically amounts to that. Either he is honest or he is not. Now, we have to decide to-day, and here, whether we are going to ignore him and go on with the forming of the company, or work with him. Unless you can give some good reason for doing otherwise, I propose to work with him. I think it will be very much worse if he leaves us now than if he had never gone into it. People will ask why he left.' 'Probably he wouldn't leave, even if you wanted him to do so. He has your signature to an agreement, and you have his.' 'Certainly.' 'I do not see how we can help ourselves.' 'Then I think these suspicions should be dropped, because you cannot work with a man whom you suspect of being a rascal.' 'I quite admit of the justice of that, so I shall say nothing more. Meanwhile, do you propose to wait until he comes back?' 'I shall write him to-night and ask him what he intends to do. I shall tell him, as I have told him before, that time is pressing, and we want to know what is being done.' 'Very well,' said John; 'I will wait till you get the answer to your letter. In the meantime, I do not see that there is anything to do but occupy this gorgeous office as well as I can, and wait to see what turns up.' 'That is my own idea. I think, myself, it is rather unfair to suspect a man of being a villain when he has really done nothing to show that he is one.' To this John made no answer. The next day Kenyon occupied the new offices, and set himself to the task of getting accustomed to them. The first day a few people dropped in, made inquiries about the mine, took some printed matter, and generally managed to ask several questions to which Kenyon was unable to reply. On the second day a number of newspaper men called--advertising canvassers, most of them, who left cards or circulars with Kenyon, showing that unless a commercial venture was advertised in their particular papers it was certain not to be a success. One very swell individual, with a cast of countenance that betokened a frugal, money-making, and shrewd race, asked Kenyon for a private interview. He said he belonged to the _Financial Field_, the great newspaper of London, which was read by every investor both in the City and in the country. All he wanted was some particulars of the mine. Had the company been formed yet? No, it had not. When did they intend to go to the public? That Kenyon could not say. What was the peculiarity about the mine which constituted its recommendation to investors? Kenyon said the full particulars would be found in the printed sheet he handed him, and with profuse thanks the newspaper man put it in his pocket. How had the mine paid in previous years? It had paid a small dividend. On what amount? That Kenyon was not prepared to answer. How long had it been in operation? For several years. Had it ever been placed on the London market before? Not so far as Kenyon was aware. Who was at present interested in the mine? That Mr. Kenyon did not care to answer, and he further stated, so far as giving out advertisements was concerned, he was not yet prepared to do any advertising. The visitor, who had taken down these notes, said his object was not to get an advertisement, but to obtain information about the mine. People could advertise in his paper or not, as they chose. The journal was such a well-known medium for reaching investors that everyone who knew his business advertised in it as a matter of course, and so they kept no canvassers, and made no applications for advertisements. 'The chances are,' said the newspaper man, as he took his leave, 'that our editor will write an editorial on this mine, and, in order that there may be no inaccuracy, I shall bring it to you to read, and shall be very much obliged if you will correct any mistakes.' 'I shall be glad to do so,' returned Kenyon, as the representative of the _Financial Field_ took his leave. The newspaper men were rather hard to please, and to get rid of; but John had a visitor on the afternoon of the second day who almost caused his wits to desert him. He looked up from his desk as the door opened, and was astonished to see the smiling face of Edith Longworth, while behind her came the old lady who had been an occupant of the carriage when John had taken his drive to the west. 'You did not expect to see me here among the investors who have been calling upon you, Mr. Kenyon, did you?' Kenyon held out his hand, and said: 'I am very pleased indeed to see you, whether you come as an investor or not.' 'And so this is your new office?' she cried, looking round. 'How you have blossomed out, haven't you? These offices are as fine as any in the City.' 'Yes,' said John; 'they are too fine to suit me.' 'Oh, I don't see why you should not have handsome offices as well as anyone else. You have been in my father's place of business, of course. But it is not so grand as these rooms.' 'I think that helps to show the absurdity of ours. Your father's house is an old-standing one, and this gives us an air of new riches which, I must confess, I don't like, especially as we have not the riches.' 'Then, why did you agree to have such offices? I suppose you had something to say about them?' 'Very little, I must own. They were engaged while I was in the North, and after they had been engaged, of course I did not like to say anything against them.' 'Well, and how is the mine getting on? You have not applied to me yet to fulfil my offer, which I think was a very fair one.' 'I have not needed to do so,' said Kenyon. 'Ah, then, subscriptions are coming in, are they? Where is the list?' 'We have no list yet. We are waiting for your cousin, who is in the North.' 'In the North!' said Edith, with her eyes open wide. 'He is not in the North; he is in Paris, and we expect him home to-night.' 'Oh, indeed!' said John, who made no further comment. 'Now, where's your subscription-list? Oh, you told me you have none yet. Very well; this sheet of paper will do.' And the young woman drew some lines across the paper, heading it, 'The Canadian Mica-mine.' Then underneath she wrote the name Edith Longworth, and after it--'For ten thousand pounds.' 'There! I am the first subscriber to the new company; if you get the others as easily, you will be very fortunate.' And, before John could thank her, she laughingly turned to her companion, and said: 'We must go.'

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When Wentworth dropped in to see if anything had happened, Kenyon told him that young Longworth was not in the North at all, but in Paris. Wentworth pondered over this piece of information for a moment, and said: 'I have written him, but have received no answer. I have just been to see the solicitors, and have told them that time was pressing; that we must do something. They quite agreed it was desirable some action should be taken at once, but, of course, as they said, they merely waited our instructions. They are willing to do anything we ask them to do. However, they advised waiting until Longworth got back, and then they proposed we should have a meeting at the offices here. They said, moreover, that, if Longworth had five or six men who would go at work with a will, the whole affair would be finished in a week at most. They did not appear to be at all alarmed at the shortening time, but said everything depended upon the men Longworth was going to bring with him. If they were the right men, there would be no trouble. So, all in all, they advised me not to worry about it, but to communicate with Longworth, if I could, and get him to come as soon as possible. I had to admit myself that this was the only thing to do, so I called round to see if you had heard anything from him.' 'I have heard nothing about him,' said Kenyon, 'except that he has lied, and has gone to Paris instead of going North.' 'Well,' mused Wentworth, 'I don't know that that is a very important point. He may have business in Paris, and he may have thought it was no affair of ours where he went, in which he was partly right and partly wrong. He thought, no doubt, that if he said he was going North, to see some men who could not be seen without his going there, it would relieve our minds, and make us imagine we were going on all right.' 'That is just what I object to, Wentworth. His whole demeanour seems to show that he wants us to think things are all right when they are not all right.' 'Well, John, as I said before, you've got to do one thing or the other. You have to trust Longworth or to go on without him. Now, for Heaven's sake make up your mind which it is to be, and don't grumble.' 'I am not grumbling. A man that is really honest will not say what is false, even about a small thing.' 'Oh, you are too particular. Wait till you have been in the City ten years longer, and you won't mind a little thing like that.' 'Little things like that, as you call them, are indicative of general character.' 'Sometimes yes, and sometimes no. You mustn't take things too seriously. I do not see that anything can be done until Longworth chooses to exhibit himself. If you can suggest anything better, as I said before, tell me what it is, and I am ready to do my part.' 'I confess I don't see what we can do. We might wait a day or two longer yet, and then, if we hear nothing more from Longworth, dismiss those solicitors he has chosen, and take the gentlemen who act for you.' 'The people Longworth has engaged do not bear a very good reputation; still, I must admit they talk in a very straightforward manner. As you say, it is perhaps better to let matters rest for a day or two.' And so the days passed. Wentworth wrote again to Longworth at his office, and said they would wait for two days, and if he did not put in an appearance, before that time, they would go on forming the company as if he did not exist. To this no answer came, and Kenyon and Wentworth again held consultation in the sumptuous offices which had been chosen for them. 'No news yet, I suppose?' said Kenyon. 'None whatever,' was the answer. 'Very well; I have made up my mind what to do----' But before John Kenyon could say what he had resolved to do, the door opened, and there entered unto them Mr. William Longworth, with his silk hat as glossy as a mirror, a general trim and prosperous appearance about him, a flower in his buttonhole and his eyeglass in its place. 'Good-morning, gentlemen,' he said. 'I thought I should find you here, and so I did not call at your office, Wentworth. Ah,' he cried, looking round, 'this is the proper caper! These offices look even better than I thought they would. I just got back this morning,' he added, turning to his partners. 'Indeed,' said Wentworth, 'we are very glad to see you. How did you enjoy your trip to Paris?' The young man did not appear in the least abashed by this remark. He merely elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and said: 'Ah, well, as both of you are doubtless aware, Paris is not what it used to be. Still, I had a very good time there.' 'I'm glad of that,' said Wentworth; 'and did you see the gentlemen you expected to meet?' 'I must confess I did not. I did not think it was necessary. I have five or six men interested already, practically pledged to furnish all the capital.' And, saying this, he walked round the desk at which they stood, and sat down, throwing the right leg across the left and clasping his knee in his hands. 'Well, what has been done during my absence? The mine floated yet?' 'No,' said Wentworth; 'the mine is not yet floated. Now, Mr. Longworth, the time has come for plain speaking. You have gone off to Paris without a word of warning to us at a very critical time, and you have not answered any of the letters I sent to you.' 'Well, my dear boy, the reason was that I expected every day to get back here, and each day was detained a little longer.' 'Very good; the point I want to impress upon you is this--time is getting short. If we are going to form this company, we have to set about it at once.' 'My dear fellow,' said Longworth, in an expostulating tone of voice, 'that is exactly what I told myself. The time _is_ getting short, as you say. Of course, as I said when I joined you, I cannot give my whole time to this. We are equal partners, and the fact that I had to leave for a few days should not interrupt the business we have on hand. What did you expect to do if I had not been a partner at all?' 'If you were not a partner,' replied Wentworth with some heat, 'we should have gone on and formed our company, or failed; but the very fact that you _are_ a partner is just what now retards us. We do not feel justified in doing anything until it has your approval, or until we know that it does not run counter with something you have already done.' 'Well, gentlemen, if you feel like that about it, I am quite willing to withdraw. I am ready to give up the paper I hold from you, and receive back the paper you hold from me. Of course we cannot work together if there are to be any recriminations. I have done my best; I have done everything that I promised to do--even more than that; but if you think for a moment you can get on better without me, I am ready at any time to retire.' 'It is easy to say that, Mr. Longworth, now that the time of the option has only a month further to run. You must remember that a great deal of time has been lost, and not through our fault.' 'Ah! do you mean it has been lost through my fault?' 'I mean that if we had been alone something would have been done, whereas we are now in the same position as when we started. We are in a worse position than we were at the beginning, because we have not only spent our money, but are deeply in debt into the bargain.' 'Well, Mr. Wentworth, I did not propose to withdraw until you, as a matter of fact, almost suggested it. I am quite willing and anxious to help, but if I do stay with you it must be understood that we have no such recriminations as these. You must do your best, and I must do my best.' 'Very well, then,' said Wentworth; 'your leaving us at this time is entirely out of the question. Now, will you give me the names of those gentlemen who have offered to go in with us?' 'Certainly.' And Longworth pulled out a note-book from his inside pocket, while Wentworth took up a pen from the desk and pulled a sheet of paper towards him. 'First, Mr. Melville.' 'Is that the Melville I saw in relation to this mineral?' 'I am sure I do not know. He is at the head of the Scranton China Company.' 'Has _he_ spoken of going in with us?' 'Yes, he seems to think the scheme is a good one. Why do you ask?' 'Well, merely because I took a specimen of the mineral to him and his manager wrote to me that it was of no value. It seems rather remarkable that he should go in for the mine if his manager believes it to be worthless.' 'Oh, he goes in entirely in his own private capacity. He is not at all affected by what the manager says. The manager has nothing to do with Melville's private affairs.' 'Still, it seems very strange, because, when Kenyon saw the manager in the North, he claimed they did not use this material, and said it would be of no benefit whatever to him.' 'That is very singular,' mused Longworth. 'Well, all I can say is, Melville has intimated that he should like to have a share in this mine, so, I take it, he and the manager do not agree as to the value of the mineral. You can set down Mr. Melville's name with perfect confidence. I know him very well, and I know that he's a thorough man of business. Besides, it will be a great advantage to have a man connected with the china trade in with us.' There was no denying this point, so Wentworth said nothing more. Longworth named five other persons, none of whom Wentworth knew. Then he closed his note-book and put it in his pocket. 'The question now is: Have these gentlemen stated how much they will subscribe?' asked Wentworth. 'No, they have not. Of course, everything will depend on how they are impressed with what we can tell them. The great thing is to get men who are willing even to listen to you. The rest depends on the inducements you offer.' 'Do you expect to get any more men interested?' 'I don't think any more are needed. The best thing to do now is to get those we have together and summon our solicitors here. Then our friend Kenyon, who is a fluent speaker, can lay the case before them.' Kenyon, who had not spoken at all during the interview, did not even look up, and apparently did not hear the satirical allusion to his eloquence. 'Very well; when would be a good time to call this meeting?' 'As soon as possible, I think,' said Longworth. 'What do you say to Monday, at three o'clock? Men come from lunch about that hour, and are in a good humour. If you send out a letter saying a meeting will be held here in the directors' room at three o'clock, prompt, on Monday, I will see the men and get them to come. Of course they are generally busy, and may have other appointments; still, we must do something, and nothing can be done until we get them together.' 'Right; the invitations to the meeting shall be sent out at once.' Longworth rose, went to the desk and picked up a paper. 'What is this?' he said. Kenyon looked up suddenly. 'That,' he said, flushing slightly, 'is our first subscription.' 'Who wrote the name of Miss Edith Longworth here?' 'The young lady herself.' 'Has she been here?' 'She called, and desired to be the first subscriber.' 'Nonsense!' cried Longworth, with a frown; 'we don't want any women in this business;' and, saying that, he tore the paper in two. Kenyon clenched his fist and was about to say something, when Wentworth's hand came down on his shoulder. 'I don't think I would refuse ten thousands pounds,' said Wentworth, 'from anybody who offered it, woman or man. Perhaps we had better see whether your men will subscribe as much before we throw away a subscription already received.' 'But she hasn't the ten thousand pounds.' 'I fancy,' said Wentworth, 'that whatever Miss Longworth puts her name to, she is ready to stand by;' and with that he placed the two pieces of paper in a drawer. 'Now, I think that is all,' he added; 'we will call the meeting for Monday, and see what comes of it.'

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William Longworth had an eye for beauty. One of his eyes was generally covered by a round disc of glass, save when the disc fell out of its place and dangled in front of his waistcoat. Whether the monocle assisted his sight or not, it is certain that William knew a pretty girl when he saw her. One of the housemaids in the Longworth household left suddenly, without just cause or provocation, as the advertisements say, and in her place a girl was engaged who was so pretty that, when William Longworth caught sight of her, his monocle dropped from its usual position, and he stared at her with his two natural eyes, unassisted by science. He tried to speak to her on one or two occasions when he met her alone; but he could get no answer from the girl, who was very shy and demure, and knew her place, as people say. All this only enhanced her value in young Longworth's estimation, and he thought highly of his cousin's taste in choosing this young person to dust the furniture. William had a room in the house which was partly sitting-room and partly study, and there he kept many of his papers. He was supposed to ponder over matters of business in this room, and it gave him a good excuse for arriving late at the office in the morning. He had been sitting up into the small hours, he would tell his uncle; although he would sometimes vary the excuse by saying that it was quieter at home than in the City, and that he had spent the early part of the morning in reading documents. The first time William got an answer from the new housemaid was when he expressed his anxiety about the care of this room. He said that servants generally were very careless, and he hoped she would attend to things, and see that his papers were kept nicely in order. This, without glancing up at him, the girl promised to do, and William thereafter found his apartment kept with a scrupulous neatness which would have delighted the most particular of men. One morning when he was sitting by his table, enjoying an after-breakfast cigarette, the door opened softly, and the new housemaid entered. Seeing him there, she seemed confused, and was about to retire, when William, throwing his cigarette away, sprang to his feet. 'No, don't go,' he said; 'I was just about to ring.' The girl paused with her hand on the door. 'Yes,' he continued, 'I was just going to ring, but you have saved me the trouble; but, by the way, what is your name?' 'Susy, if you please, sir,' replied the girl modestly. 'Ah well, Susy, just shut the door for a moment.' The girl did so, but evidently with some reluctance. 'Well, Susy,' said William jauntily, 'I suppose that I'm not the first one who has told you that you are very pretty.' 'Oh, sir!' said Susy, blushing and looking down on the carpet. 'Yes, Susy, and you take such good care of this room that I want to thank you for it,' continued William. Here he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and drew out half a sovereign. 'Here, my girl, is something for your trouble. Keep this for yourself.' 'Oh, I couldn't think of taking money, sir,' said the girl, drawing back. 'I couldn't indeed, sir!' 'Nonsense!' said William; 'isn't it enough?' 'Oh, it's more than enough. Miss Longworth pays me well for what I do, sir, and it's only my duty to keep things tidy.' 'Yes, Susy, that is very true; but very few of us do our duty, you know, in this world.' 'But we ought to, sir,' said the girl, in a tone of quiet reproof that made the young man smile. 'Perhaps,' said he; 'but then, you see, we are not all pretty and good, like you. I'm sorry you won't take the money. I hope you are not offended at me for offering it;' and William adjusted his eye-glass, looking his sweetest at the young person standing before him. 'Oh no, sir,' she said, 'I'm not at all offended, and I thank you very much, very much indeed, sir, and I would like to ask you a question, if you wouldn't think me too bold.' 'Bold?' cried William. 'Why, I think you are the shyest little woman I have ever seen. I'll be very pleased to answer any question you may ask me. What is it?' 'You see, sir, I've got a little money of my own.' 'Well, I declare, Susy, this is very interesting. I'd no idea you were an heiress.' 'Oh, not an heiress, sir--far from it. It's only a little matter of four or five hundred pounds, sir,' said Susy, dropping him an awkward little curtsy, which he thought most charming. 'The money is in the bank, and earns no interest, and I thought I would like to invest it where it would bring in something.' 'Certainly, Susy, and a most laudable desire on your part. Was it about that you wished to question me?' 'Yes, if you please, sir. I saw this paper on your desk, and I thought I would ask you if it would be safe for me to put my money in these mines, sir. Seeing the paper here, I supposed you had something to do with it.' William whistled a long incredulous note, and said: 'So you have been reading my papers, have you, miss?' 'Oh no, sir,' said the girl, looking up at him with startled eyes. 'I only saw the name Canadian Mica-mine on this, and the paper said it would pay ten per cent., and I thought if you had anything to do with it that my money would be quite safe.' 'Oh, that goes without saying,' said William; 'but if I were you, my dear, I should not put my money in the mica-mine.' 'Oh, then, you haven't anything to do with the mine, sir?' 'Yes, Susy, I have. You know, fools build houses, and wise men live in them.' 'So I have heard,' said Susy thoughtfully. 'Well, two fools are building the house that we will call the Canadian Mica-mine, and I am the wise man, don't you see, Susy?' said the young man, with a sweet smile. 'I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir.' 'I don't suppose, Susy,' replied the young man, with a laugh, 'that there are many who do; but I think in a month's time I shall own this mica-mine, and then, my dear, if you still want to own a share or two, I shall be very pleased to give you a few without your spending any money at all.' 'Oh, would you, sir?' cried Susy in glad surprise; 'and who owns the mine now?' 'Oh, two fellows; you wouldn't know their names if I told them to you.' 'And are they going to sell it to you, sir?' William laughed heartily, and said: 'Oh no! they themselves will be sold.' 'But how can that be if they don't own the mine? You see, I'm only a very stupid girl, and don't understand business. That's why I asked you about my money.' 'I don't suppose you know what an option is, do you, Susy?' 'No, sir, I don't; I never heard of it before.' 'Well, these two young men have what is called an option on the mine, which is to say that they are to pay a certain sum of money at a certain time and the mine is theirs; but if they don't pay the certain sum at the certain time, the mine isn't theirs.' 'And won't they pay the money, sir?' 'No, Susy, they will not, because, don't you know, they haven't got it. Then these two fools will be sold, for they think they are going to get the money, and they are not.' 'And you have the money to buy the mine when the option runs out, sir.' 'By Jove!' said William in surprise, 'you have a prodigious head for business, Susy; I never saw anyone pick it up so fast. You will have to take lessons from me, and go on the market and speculate yourself.' 'Oh, I should like to do that, sir--I should indeed.' 'Well,' said William kindly, 'whenever you have time, come to me, and I will give you lessons.' The young man approached her, holding out his hand, but the girl slipped away from him and opened the door. 'I think,' he said in a whisper, 'that you might give me a kiss after all this valuable information.' 'Oh, Mr. William!' cried Susy, horrified. He stepped forward and tried to catch her, but the girl was too nimble for him, and sprang out into the passage. 'Surely,' protested William, 'this is getting information under false pretences; I expected my fee, you know.' 'And you shall have it,' said the girl, laughing softly, 'when I get ten per cent. on my money.' 'Egad!' said William to himself as he entered his room again, 'I will see that you get it. She's as clever an outside broker.' When young Longworth had left for his office, Susy swept and dusted out his room again, and then went downstairs. 'Where's the mistress?' she asked a fellow-servant. 'In the library,' was the answer, and to the library Susy went, entering the room without knocking, much to the amazement of Edith Longworth, who sat near the window with a book in her lap. But further surprise was in store for the lady of the house. The housemaid closed the door, and then, selecting a comfortable chair, threw herself down into it, exclaiming: 'Oh dear me! I'm so tired.' 'Susy,' said Miss Longworth, 'what is the meaning of this?' 'It means, mum,' said Susy, 'that I'm going to chuck it.' 'Going to _what_?' asked Miss Longworth, amazed. 'Going to chuck it. Didn't you understand? Going to give up my situation. I'm tired of it.' 'Very well,' said the young woman, rising, 'you may give notice in the proper way. You have no right to come into this room in this impudent manner. Be so good as to go to your own room.' 'My!' said Susy, 'you can do the dignified! I must practise and see if I can accomplish an attitude like that. If you were a little prettier, Miss Longworth, I should call that striking;' and the girl threw back her head and laughed. Something in the laugh aroused Miss Longworth's recollection, and a chill of fear came over her; but, looking at the girl again, she saw she was mistaken. Susy jumped up, still laughing, and drew a pin from the little cap she wore, flinging it on the chair; then she pulled off her wig, and stood before Edith Longworth her natural self. 'Miss Brewster!' gasped the astonished Edith. 'What are you doing in my house in that disguise?' 'Oh,' said Jennie, 'I'm an amateur housemaid. How do you think I have acted the part? Now sit down, Miss Dignity, and I will tell you something about your own family. I thought you were a set of rogues, and now I can prove it.' 'Will you leave my house this instant?' cried Edith, in anger. 'I shall not listen to you.' 'Oh yes, you will,' said Jennie, 'for I shall follow your own example, and not let you out until you do hear what I have to tell you.' Saying which the amateur housemaid skipped nimbly to the door, and placed her back against it.

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Jennie Brewster stood with her back to the door, a sweet smile on her face. 'This is my day for acting, Miss Longworth. I think I did the _rôle_ of housemaid so well that it deceived several members of this family. I am now giving an imitation of yourself in your thrilling drama, "All at Sea." Don't you think I do it most admirably?' 'Yes,' said Edith, sitting down again. 'I wonder you did not adopt the stage as a profession.' 'I have often thought of doing so, but journalism is more exciting.' 'Perhaps. Still, it has its disappointments. When I gave my thrilling drama, as you call it, on shipboard, I had my stage accessories arranged to better advantage than you have now.' 'Do you mean the putting off of the boat?' 'No; I mean that the electric button was under my hand--it was impossible for you to ring for help. Now, while you hold the door, you cannot stop me from ringing, for the bell-rope is here beside me.' 'Yes, that is a disadvantage, I admit. Do you intend to ring, then, and have me turned out?' 'I don't think that will be necessary. I imagine you will go quietly.' 'You are a pretty clever girl, Miss Longworth. I wish I liked you, but I don't, so we won't waste valuable time deploring that fact. Have you no curiosity to hear what I was going to tell you?' 'Not the slightest; but there is one thing I should like to know.' 'Oh, is there? Well, that's human, at any rate. What do you wish to know?' 'You came here well recommended. How did you know I wanted a housemaid, and were your testimonials----' Edith paused for a word, which Jennie promptly supplied. 'Forged? Oh dear no! There is no necessity for doing anything criminal in this country, if you have the money. I didn't forge them--I bought them. Didn't you write to any of the good ladies who stood sponsor for me?' 'Yes, and received most flattering accounts of you.' 'Certainly. That was part of the contract. Oh, you can do anything with money in London; it is a most delightful town. Then, as for knowing there was a vacancy, that also was money. I bribed the other housemaid to leave.' 'I see. And what object had you in all this?' Jennie Brewster laughed--the same silvery laugh that had charmed William Longworth an hour or two before, a laugh that sometimes haunted Wentworth's memory in the City. She left her sentinel-like position at the door and threw herself into a chair. 'Miss Longworth,' she said, 'you are not consistent. You first pretend that you have no curiosity to hear what I have to say, then you ask me exactly what I was going to tell you. Of course, you are dying to know why I am here; you wouldn't be a woman if you weren't. Now, I've changed my mind, and I don't intend to tell you. I will say, though, that my object in coming here was, first, to find out for myself how servants are treated in this country. You see, my sympathies are all with the women who work, and not with women--well, like yourself, for instance.' 'Yes, I think you said that once before. And how do we treat our servants?' 'So far as my experience goes, very well indeed.' 'It is most gratifying to hear you say this. I was afraid we might not have met with your approval. And now, where shall I send your month's money, Miss Brewster?' Jennie Brewster leaned back in her chair, her eyes all but closed; an angry light shooting from them reminded Edith of her glance of hatred on board the steamship. A rich warm colour overspread her fair face, and her lips closed tightly. There was a moment's silence, and then Jennie's indignation passed away as quickly as it came. She laughed, with just a touch of restraint in her tone. 'You can say an insulting thing more calmly and sweetly than anyone I ever met before; I envy you that. When I say anything low down and mean, I say it in anger, and my voice has a certain amount of acridity in it. I can't purr like a cat and scratch at the same time--I wish I could.' 'Is it an insult to offer you the money you have earned?' 'Yes, it is, and you knew it was when you spoke. You don't understand me a little bit.' 'Is it necessary that I should?' 'I don't suppose you think it is,' said Jennie meditatively, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin on her palm. 'That is where our point of view differs. I like to know everything. It interests me to learn what people think and talk about, and somehow it doesn't seem to matter to me who the people are, for I was even more interested in your butler's political opinions than I was in Lord Frederick Bingham's. They are both Conservatives, but Lord Freddie seems shaky in his views, for you can argue him down in five minutes, but the butler is as steadfast as a rock. I do admire that butler. I hope you will break the news of my departure gently to him, for he proposed to me, and he has not yet had his answer.' 'There is still time,' said Edith, smiling in spite of herself. 'Shall I ring for him?' 'Please do not. I want to avoid a painful scene, because he is so sure of himself, and never dreams of a refusal. It is such a pity, too, for the butler is my ideal of what a member of the aristocracy should be. His dignity is positively awe-inspiring; while Lord Freddie is such a simple, good-natured, everyday young fellow, that if I imported him to the States I am sure no one would believe he was a real lord. With the butler it would be _so_ different,' added Jennie, with a deep sigh. 'It is too bad that you cannot exchange the declaration of the butler for one from Lord Frederick.' 'Too bad!' cried Jennie, looking with wide-open eyes at the girl before her; 'why, bless you! I had a proposal from Lord Freddie two weeks before I ever saw the butler. I see you don't believe a word I say. Well, you ask Lord Freddie. I'll introduce you, and tell him you don't believe he asked me to be Lady Freddie, if that's the title. He'll look sheepish, but he won't deny it. You see, when I found I was going to stay in England for a time, I wrote to the editor of the _Argus_ to get me a bunch of letters of introduction and send them over, as I wanted particularly to study the aristocracy. So he sent them, and, I assure you, I found it much more difficult to get into your servants' hall than I did into the halls of the nobility--besides, it costs less to mix with the Upper Ten.' Edith sat in silence, looking with amazed interest at the girl, who talked so rapidly that there was sometimes difficulty in following what she said. 'No, Lord Freddie is not half so condescending as the butler, neither is his language so well chosen; but then, I suppose, the butler's had more practice, for Freddie is very young. I am exceedingly disappointed with the aristocracy. They are not nearly so haughty as I had imagined them to be. But what astonishes me in this country is the way you women spoil the men. You are much too good to them. You pet them and fawn on them, and naturally they get conceited. It is such a pity, too; for they are nice fellows, most of them. It is the same everywhere I've been--servants' hall included. Why, when you meet a young couple, of what you are pleased to call the "lower classes," walking in the Park, the man hangs down his head as he slouches along, but the girl looks defiantly at you, as much as to say, "I've got him. Bless him! What have you to say about it?" while the man seems to be ashamed of himself, and evidently feels that he's been had. Now, a man should be made to understand that you're doing him a great favour when you give him a civil word. That's the proper state of mind to keep a man in, and then you can do what you like with him. I generally make him propose, so as to get it over before any real harm's done, and to give an artistic finish to the episode. After that we can be excellent friends, and have a jolly time. That's the way I did with Lord Freddie. Now, here am I, chattering away as if I were paid for talking instead of writing. Why do you look at me so? Don't you believe what I tell you?' 'Yes, I believe all you say. What I can't understand is, why a bright girl like you should enter a house and,--well, do what you have done here, for instance.' 'Why shouldn't I? I am after accurate information. I get it in my own way. Your writers here tell how the poor live, and that sort of thing. They enter the houses of the poor quite unblushingly, and print their impressions of the poverty-stricken homes. Now, why should the rich man be exempt from a similar investigation?' 'In either case it is the work of a spy.' 'Yes; but a spy is not a dishonourable person--at least, he need not be. I saw a monument in Westminster Abbey to a man who was hanged as a spy. A spy must be brave; he must have nerve, caution, and resource. He sometimes does more for his country than a whole regiment. Oh, there are worse persons than spies in this world.' 'I suppose there are, still----' 'Yes, I know. It is easy for persons with plenty of money to moralize on the shortcomings of others. I'll tell you a secret. I'm writing a book, and if it's a success, then good-bye to journalism. I don't like the spy business myself any too well; I'm afraid England is contaminating me, and if I stayed here a few years I might degenerate so far as to think your newspapers interesting. By the way, have you seen Mr. Wentworth lately?' Edith hesitated a moment, and at last answered: 'Yes, I saw him a day or two ago.' 'Was he looking well? I think I ought to write him a note of apology for all the anxiety I caused him on board ship. You may not believe it, but I have actually had some twinges of conscience over that episode. I suppose that's why I partially forgave you for stopping the cablegram.' Edith Longworth was astonished at herself for giving the young woman information about Wentworth, but she gave it, and the amateur housemaid departed in peace, saying, by way of farewell: 'I'm not going to write up your household, after all.'

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One day when Kenyon entered the office, the clerk said to him: 'That young gentleman has been here twice to see you. He said it was very important, sir.' 'What young gentleman?' 'The gentleman--here is his card--who belongs to the _Financial Field_, sir.' 'Did he leave any message?' 'Yes, sir; he said he would call again at three o'clock.' 'Very good,' said Kenyon; and he began composing his address to the proposed subscribers. At three o'clock the smooth, oily person from the _Financial Field_ put in an appearance. 'Ah, Mr. Kenyon,' he said, 'I am glad to meet you. I called in twice, but had not the good fortune to find you in. Can I see you in private for a moment?' 'Yes,' answered Kenyon. 'Come into the directors' room;' and into the directors room they went, Kenyon closing the door behind them. 'Now,' said the representative of the _Financial Field_, 'I have brought you a proof of the editorial we propose using, which I am desired by the proprietor to show you, so that it may be free, if possible, from any error. We are very anxious to have things correct in the _Financial Field_;' and with this he handed to John a long slip of paper with a column of printed matter upon it. The article was headed, 'The Canadian Mica Mining Company, Limited.' It went on to show what the mine had been, what it had done, and what chances there were for investors getting a good return for their money by buying the shares. John read it through carefully. 'That is a very handsome article,' he said; 'and it is without an error, so far as I can see.' 'I am glad you think so,' replied the young gentleman, folding up the proof and putting it in his inside pocket. 'Now, as I said before, although I am not the advertising canvasser of the _Financial Field_, I thought I would see you with reference to an advertisement for the paper.' 'Well, you know, we have not had a meeting of the proposed stockholders yet, and therefore are not in a position to give any advertisements regarding the mine. I have no doubt advertisements will be given, and, of course, your paper will be remembered among the rest.' 'Ah,' said the young man, 'that is hardly satisfactory to us. We have a vacant half-page for Monday, the very best position in the paper, which the proprietor thought you would like to secure.' 'As I said a moment ago, we are not in a position to secure it. It is premature to talk of advertising at the present state of affairs.' 'I think, you know, it will be to your interest to take the half-page. The price is three hundred pounds, and besides that amount we should like to have some shares in the company.' 'Do you mean three hundred pounds for one insertion of the advertisement?' 'Yes.' 'Doesn't that strike you as being a trifle exorbitant? Your paper has a comparatively limited circulation, and they do not ask us such a price even in the large dailies.' 'Ah, my dear sir, the large dailies are quite different. They have a tremendous circulation, it is true, but it is not the kind of circulation we have. No other paper circulates so largely among investors as the _Financial Field. _ It is read by exactly the class of people you desire to reach, and I may say that, except through the _Financial Field_, you cannot get at some of the best men in the City.' 'Well, admitting all that, as I have said once or twice, we are not yet in a position to give an advertisement.' 'Then, I am very sorry to say that we cannot, on Monday, publish the article I have shown you.' 'Very well; I cannot help it. You are not compelled to print it unless you wish. I am not sure, either, that publishing the article on Monday would do us any good. It would be premature, as I say. We are not yet ready to court publicity until we have had our first meeting of proposed stockholders.' 'When is your first meeting of stockholders?' 'On Monday, at three o'clock.' 'Very well, we could put that announcement in another column, and I am sure you would find the attendance at your meeting would be very largely and substantially increased.' 'Possibly; but I decline to do anything till after the meeting.' 'I think you would find it pay you extremely well to take that half-page.' 'I am not questioning the fact at all. I am merely saying what I have said to everyone else, that we are not ready to consider advertising.' 'I am sorry we cannot come to an arrangement, Mr. Kenyon--very sorry indeed;' and, saying this, he took another proof-sheet out of his pocket, which he handed to Kenyon. 'If we cannot come to an understanding, the manager has determined to print this, instead of the article I showed you. Would you kindly glance over it, because we should like to have it as correct as possible.' Kenyon opened his eyes, and unfolded the paper. The heading was the same, but he had read only a sentence or two when he found that the mica-mine was one of the greatest swindles ever attempted on poor old innocent financial London! 'Do you mean to say,' cried John, looking up at him, with his anger kindling, 'that if I do not bribe you to the extent of three hundred pounds, besides giving you an unknown quantity of stock, you will publish this libel?' 'I do not say it is a libel,' said the young man smoothly; 'that would be a matter for the courts to decide. You might sue us for libel, if you thought we had treated you badly. I may say that has been tried several times, but with indifferent success.' 'But do you mean to tell me that you intend to publish this article if I do not pay you the three hundred pounds?' 'Yes; putting it crudely, that is exactly what I do mean.' Kenyon rose in his wrath and flung open the door. 'I must ask you to leave this place, and leave it at once. If you ever put in an appearance here again while I am in the office, I will call a policeman and have you turned out!' 'My dear sir,' expostulated the other suavely, 'it is merely a matter of business. If you find it impossible to deal with us, there is no harm done. If our paper has no influence, we cannot possibly injure you. That, of course, is entirely for you to judge. If, any time between now and Sunday night, you conclude to act otherwise, a wire to our office will hold things over until we have had an opportunity of coming to an arrangement with you. If not, this article will be published on Monday morning. I wish you a very good afternoon, sir.' John said nothing, but watched his visitor out on the pavement, and then returned to the making of his report. On Monday morning, as he came in by train, his eye caught a flaming poster on one of the bill-boards at the station. It was headed _Financial Field_, and the next line, in heavy black letters, was, 'The Mica Mining Swindle,' Kenyon called a newsboy to him and bought a copy of the paper. There, in leaded type, was the article before him. It seemed, somehow, much more important on the printed page than it had looked in the proof. As he read it, he noticed an air of truthful sincerity about the editorial that had escaped him during the brief glance he had given it on Friday. It went on to say that the Austrian Mining Company had sunk a good deal of money in the mine, and that it had never paid a penny of dividends; that they merely kept on at a constant loss to themselves in the hope of being able to swindle some confiding investors--but that even their designs were as nothing compared to the barefaced rascality contemplated by John Kenyon. He caught his breath as he saw his own name in print. It was a shock for which he was not prepared, as he had not noticed it in the proof. Then he read on. It seemed that this man, Kenyon, had secured the mine at something like ten thousand pounds, and was trying to palm it off on the unfortunate British public at the enormous increase of two hundred thousand pounds; but this nefarious attempt would doubtless be frustrated so long as there were papers of the integrity of the _Financial Field_, to take the risk and expense of making such an exposure as was here set forth. The article possessed a singular fascination for Kenyon. He read and re-read it in a dazed way, as if the statement referred to some other person, and he could not help feeling sorry for that person. He still had the paper in his hand as he walked up the street, and he felt numbed and dazed as if someone had struck him a blow. He was nearly run over in crossing one of the thoroughfares, and heard an outburst of profanity directed at him from a cab-driver and a man on a bus; but he heeded them not, walking through the crowd as if under a spell. He passed the door of his own gorgeous office, and walked some distance up the street before he realized what he had done. Then he turned back again, and, just at the doorstep, paused with a pang at his heart. 'I wonder if Edith Longworth will read that article,' he said to himself.

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When John Kenyon entered his office, he thought the clerk looked at him askance. He imagined that innocent employee had been reading the article in the _Financial Field_; but the truth is, John was hardly in a frame of mind to form a correct opinion on what other people were doing. Everybody he met in the street, it seemed to him, was discussing the article in the _Financial Field_. He asked if anybody had been in that morning, and was told there had been no callers. Then he passed into the directors' room, closed the door behind him, sat down on a chair, and leaned his head on his hands with his elbows on the table. In this position Wentworth found him some time later, and when John looked up his face was haggard and aged. 'Ah, I see you have read it.' 'Yes.' 'Do you think Longworth is at the bottom of that article?' John shook his head. 'Oh no,' he said; 'he had nothing whatever to do with it.' 'How do you know?' Kenyon related exactly what had passed between the oily young man of the _Financial Field_ and himself in that very room. While this recital was going on, Wentworth walked up and down, expressing his opinion now and then, in remarks that were short and pithy, but hardly fit for publication. When the story was told he turned to Kenyon. 'Well,' he said, 'there is nothing for it but to sue the paper for libel.' 'What good will that do?' 'What good will it do? Do you mean to say that you intend to sit here under such an imputation as they have cast upon you, and do nothing? What _good_ will it do? It will do all the good in the world.' 'We cannot form our company and sue the paper at the same time. All our energies will have to be directed towards the matter we have in hand.' 'But, my dear John, don't you see the effect of that article? How can we form our company if such a lie remains unchallenged? Nobody will look at our proposals. Everyone will say, "What have you done about the article that appeared in the _Financial Field_?" If we say we have done nothing, then, of course, the natural inference is that we are a pair of swindlers, and that our scheme is a fraud.' 'I have always thought,' said John, 'that the capitalization is too high.' 'Really, I believe you think that article is not so unfair, after all. John, I'm astonished at you!' 'But if we do commence a libel suit, it cannot be finished before our option has expired. If we tell people that we have begun a suit against the _Financial Field_ for libel, they will merely say they prefer to wait and hear what the result of the case is. By that time our chances of forming a company will be gone.' 'There is a certain amount of truth in that; nevertheless, I do not see how we are to go on with our company unless suit for libel is at least begun.' Before John could reply there was a knock at the door, and the clerk entered with a letter in his hand which had just come in. Kenyon tore it open, read it, and then tossed it across the table to Wentworth. Wentworth saw the name of their firm of solicitors at the top of the letter-paper. Then he read: 'DEAR SIR, 'You have doubtless seen the article in the _Financial Field_ of this morning, referring to the Canadian Mica Mining Company. We should be pleased to know what action you intend to take in the matter. We may say that, in justice to our reputation, we can no longer represent your company unless a suit is brought against the paper which contains the article. 'Yours truly, 'W. HAWK.' Wentworth laughed with a certain bitterness. 'Well,' he said, 'if it has come to such a pass that Hawk fears for his reputation, the sooner we begin a libel suit against the paper the better!' 'Perhaps,' said John, with a look of agony on his face, 'you will tell me where the money is to come from. The moment we get into the Law Courts money will simply flow like water, and doubtless the _Financial Field_ has plenty of it. It will add to their reputation, and they will make a boast that they are fighting the battle of the investor in London. Everything is grist that comes to their mill. Meanwhile, we shall be paying out money, or we shall be at a tremendous disadvantage, and the result of it all will probably be a disagreement of the jury and practical ruin for us. You see, I have no witnesses.' 'Yes, but what about the mine? How can we go on without vindicating ourselves?' Before anything further could be said, young Mr. Longworth came in, looking as cool, calm, and unruffled as if there were no such things in the world as financial newspapers. 'Discussing it, I see,' were his first words. 'Yes,' said Wentworth; 'I am very glad you have come. We have a little difference of opinion in the matter of that article. Kenyon here is averse to suing that paper for libel; I am in favour of prosecuting it. Now, what do _you_ say?' 'My dear fellow,' replied Longworth, 'I am delighted to be able to agree with Mr. Kenyon for once. Sue them! Why, of course not. That is just what they want.' 'But,' said Wentworth, 'if we do not, who is going to look at our mine?' 'Exactly the same number of people as would look at it before the article appeared.' 'Don't you think it will have any effect?' 'Not the slightest.' 'But look at this letter from your own lawyers on the subject.' Wentworth handed Longworth the letter from Hawk. Longworth adjusted his glass and read it carefully through. 'By Jove!' he said with a laugh, 'I call that good; I call that distinctly good. I had no idea old Hawk was such a humorist! His reputation indeed; well, that beats me! All that Hawk wants is another suit on his hands. I wish you would let me keep this letter. I will have some fun with my friend Hawk over it.' 'You are welcome to the letter, so far as I am concerned,' said Wentworth; 'but do you mean to say, Mr. Longworth, that we have to sit here calmly under this imputation and do nothing?' 'I mean to say nothing of the kind; but I don't propose to play into their hands by suing them--at least, I should not if it were my case instead of Kenyon's.' 'What would you do?' 'I would let them sue me if they wanted to. Of course, their canvasser called to see you, didn't he, Kenyon?' 'Yes, he did.' 'He told you that he had a certain amount of space to sell for a certain sum in cash?' 'Yes.' 'And, if you did not buy that space, this certain article would appear; whereas, if you did, an article of quite a different complexion would be printed?' 'You seem to know all about it,' said Kenyon suspiciously. 'Of course I do, my dear boy! Everybody knows all about it. That's the way those papers make their money. I think myself, as a general rule, it is cheaper to buy them off. I believe my uncle always does that when he has anything special on hand, and doesn't want to be bothered with outside issues. But we haven't done so in this instance, and this is the result. It can be easily remedied yet, mind you, if you like. All that you have to do is to pay his price, and there will be an equally lengthy article saying that, from outside information received with regard to the Canadian Mining Company, he regrets very much that the former article was an entire mistake, and that there is no more secure investment in England than this particular mine. But now, when he has come out with his editorial, I think it isn't worth while to have any further dealings with him. Anything he can say now will not matter. He has done all the harm he can. But I would at once put the boot on the other foot. I would write down all the circumstances just as they happened--give the name of the young man who called upon you, tell exactly the price he demanded for his silence, and I will have that printed in an opposition paper to-morrow. Then it will be our friend the _Financial Field's_ turn to squirm! He will say it is all a lie, of course, but nobody will believe him, and we can tell him, from the opposition paper, that if it is a lie he is perfectly at liberty to sue us for libel. Let him begin the suit if he wants to do so. Let him defend his reputation. Sue him for libel! I know a game worth two of that. Could you get out the statement before the meeting this afternoon?' Kenyon, who had been looking, for the first time in his life, gratefully at Longworth, said he could. 'Very well; just set it down in your own words as plainly as possible, and give date, hour, and full particulars. Sign your name to it, and I will take it when I come to the meeting this afternoon. It would not be a bad plan to read it to those who are here. There is nothing like fighting the devil with fire. Fight a paper with another paper. Nothing new, I suppose?' 'No,' said Kenyon; 'nothing new except what we are discussing.' 'Well, don't let that trouble you. Do as I say, and we will begin an interesting controversy. People like a fight, and it will attract attention to the mine. Good-bye. I shall see you this afternoon.' He left both Kenyon and Wentworth in a much happier frame of mind than that in which he had found them. 'I say, Kenyon,' said Wentworth, 'that fellow is a trump. His advice has cleared the air wonderfully. I believe his plan is the best, after all, and, as you say, we have no money for an expensive lawsuit. I shall leave you now to get on with your work, and will return at three o'clock.' At that hour John had his statement finished. The first man to arrive was Longworth, who read the article with approval, merely suggesting a change here and there, which was duly made. Then he put the communication into an envelope, and sent it to the editor of the opposition paper. Wentworth came in next, then Melville, then Mr. King. After this they all adjourned to the directors' room, and in a few minutes the others were present. 'Now,' said Longworth, 'as we are all here, I do not see any necessity for delay. You have probably read the article that appeared in this morning's _Financial Field_. Mr. Kenyon has written a statement in relation to that, which gives the full particulars of the inside of a very disreputable piece of business. It was merely an attempt at blackmailing which failed. I intended to have had the statement read to you, but we thought it best to get it off as quickly as possible, and it will appear to-morrow in the _Financial Eagle_, where, I hope, you will all read it. Now, Mr. Kenyon, perhaps you will tell us something about the mine.' Kenyon, like many men of worth and not of words, was a very poor speaker. He seemed confused, and was often a little obscure in his remarks, but he was listened to with great attention by those present. He was helped here and there by a judicious question from young Longworth, and when he sat down the impression was not so bad as might have been expected. After a moment's silence, it was Mr. King who spoke. 'As I take it,' he said, 'all we wish to know is this: Is the mine what it is represented to be? Is the mineral the best for the use Mr. Kenyon has indicated? Is there a sufficient quantity of that mineral in the mountain he speaks of to make it worth while to organize this company? It seems to me that this can only be answered by some practical man going out there and seeing the mine for himself. Mr. Melville is, I understand, a practical man. If he has the time to spare, I would propose that he should go to America, see this mine, and report.' Another person asked when the option on the mine ran out. This was answered by Longworth, who said that the person who went over and reported on the mine could cable the word 'Right' or 'Wrong'; then there would be time to act in London in getting up the list of subscribers. 'I suppose,' said another, 'that in case of delay there would be no trouble in renewing the option for a month or two?' To this Kenyon replied that he did not know. The owners might put a higher price on the property, or the mine might be producing more mica than it had been heretofore, and they perhaps might not be inclined to sell. He thought that things should be arranged so that there would be no necessity of asking for an extension of the option, and to this they all agreed. Melville then said he had no objection to taking a trip to Canada. It was merely a question of the amount of the mineral in sight, and he thought he could determine that as well as anybody else. And so the matter was about to be settled, when Longworth rose, and said that he was perfectly willing to go to Canada himself, in company with Mr. Melville; that he would pay all his own expenses, and give them the benefit of his opinion as well. This was received with applause, and the meeting terminated. Longworth shook hands with Kenyon and Wentworth. 'We will sail by the first steamer,' he said, 'and, as I may not see you again, you might write me a letter of introduction to Mr. Von Brent, and tell him that I am acting for you in this affair. That will make matters smooth in getting an extension of the option, if it should be necessary.'

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Kenyon was on his way to lunch next day, when he met Wentworth at the door. 'Going to feed?' asked the latter. 'Yes.' 'Very well; I'll go with you. I couldn't stay last night to have a talk with you over the meeting; but what did you think of it?' 'Well, considering the article which appeared in the morning, and considering also the exhibition I made of myself in attempting to explain the merits of the mine, I think things went off rather smoothly.' 'So do I. It doesn't strike you that they went off a little _too_ smoothly, does it?' 'What do you mean?' 'I don't know exactly what I mean. I merely wanted to get your own opinion about it. You see, I have attended a great many gatherings of this sort, and it struck me there was a certain cut-and-driedness about the meeting. I can't say whether it impressed me favourably or unfavourably, but I noticed it.' 'I still don't understand what you mean.' 'Well, as a general thing in such meetings, when a man gets up and proposes a certain action there is some opposition, or somebody has a suggestion to make, or something better to propose--or thinks he has--and so there is a good deal of talk. Now, when King got up and proposed calmly that Melville should go to America, it appeared to me rather an extraordinary thing to do, unless he had consulted Melville beforehand.' 'Perhaps he had done so.' 'Yes, perhaps. What do you think of it all?' Kenyon mused for a moment before he replied: 'As I said before, I thought things went off very smoothly. Whom do you suspect--young Longworth?' 'I do not know whom I suspect. I am merely getting anxious about the shortness of the time. I think, myself, you ought to go to America. There is nothing to be done here. You should go, see Von Brent, and get a renewal of the option. Don't you see that when they get over there, allowing them a few days in New York, and a day or two to get out to the mine, we shall have little more than a week, after the cable despatch comes, in which to do anything, should they happen to report unfavourably.' 'Yes, I see that. Still, it is only a question of facts on which they have to report, and you know, as well as I do, that no truthful men can report unfavourably on what we have certified. We have understated the case in every instance.' 'I know that. I am perfectly well aware of that. Everything is all right if--if--Longworth is dealing honestly with us. If he is not, then everything is all wrong, and I should feel a great deal easier if we had in our possession another three months' option of the mine. We are now at the fag-end of this option, and, it seems to me, as protection to ourselves, we ought either to write to Von Brent--By the way, have you ever written to him?' 'I wrote one letter telling him how we were getting on, but have received no answer; perhaps he is not in Ottawa at present.' 'Well, I think you ought to go to the mine with Longworth and Melville. It is the conjunction of those two men that makes me suspicious. I can't tell what I distrust. I can give nothing definite; but I have a vague uneasiness when I think that the man who tried to mislead us regarding the value of the mineral is going with the man who has led us into all this expense. Longworth refused to go into the scheme in the first place, pretended he had forgotten all about it in the second place, and then suddenly developed an interest.' John knitted his brows and said nothing. 'I don't want to worry you about it, but I am anxious to have your candid opinion. What had we better do?' 'It seems to me,' said John, after a pause, 'that we can do nothing. It is a very perplexing situation. I think, however, we should turn it over in our minds for a few days, and then I can get to America in plenty of time, if necessary.' 'Very well, suppose we give them ten days to get to the mine and reply. If no reply comes by the eleventh day then you will still have eighteen or nineteen days before the option expires. Put it at twelve days. I propose, if you hear nothing by then, you go over.' 'Right,' said John; 'we may take that as settled.' 'By the way, you got an invitation to-day, did you not?' 'Yes.' 'Are you going?' 'I do not know. I should like to go and yet, you know, I am entirely unused to fashionable assemblages. I should not know what to say or do while I was there.' 'As I understand, it is not to be a fashionable party, but merely a little friendly gathering which Miss Longworth gives because her cousin is about to sail for Canada. I don't want to flatter you, John, at all, but I imagine Miss Longworth would be rather disappointed if you did not put in an appearance. Besides, as we are partners with Longworth in this, and as he is going away on account of the mine. I think it would be a little ungracious of us not to go.' 'Very well, I will go. Shall I call for you, or will you come for me?' 'I will call for you and we will go there together in a cab. Be ready about eight o'clock.' The mansion of the Longworths was brilliantly lighted, and John felt rather faint-hearted as he stood on the steps before going in. The chances are he would not have had the courage to allow himself to be announced if his friend Wentworth had not been with him. George, however, had no such qualms, being more experienced in this kind of thing than his comrade. So they entered together, and were warmly greeted by the young hostess. 'It is so kind of you to come,' she said, 'on such short notice. I was afraid you might have had some prior engagement, and would have found it impossible to be with us.' 'You must not think that of me,' said Wentworth. 'I was certain to come; but I must confess my friend Kenyon here was rather difficult to manage. He seems to frown on social festivities, and actually had the coolness to propose that we should both plead more important business.' Edith looked reproachfully at Kenyon, who flushed to the temples, as was his custom, and said: 'Now, Wentworth, that is unfair. You must not mind what he says, Miss Longworth; he likes to bring confusion on me, and he knows how to do it. I certainly said nothing about a prior engagement.' 'Well, now you are here, I hope you will enjoy yourselves. It is quite an informal little gathering, with nothing to abash even Mr. Kenyon.' They found young Longworth there in company with Melville, who was to be his companion on the voyage. He shook hands, but without exhibiting the pleasure at meeting them which his cousin had shown. 'My cousin,' said the young man, 'seems resolved to make the going of the prodigal nephew an occasion for killing the fatted calf. I'm sure I don't know why, unless it is that she is glad to be rid of me for a month.' Edith laughed at this, and left the men together. Wentworth speedily contrived to make himself agreeable to the young ladies who were present; but John, it must be admitted, felt awkward and out of place. He was not enjoying himself. He caught himself now and then following Edith Longworth with his eyes, and when he realized he was doing this, would abruptly look at the floor. In her handsome evening dress she appeared supremely lovely, and this John Kenyon admitted to himself with a sigh, for her very loveliness seemed to place her further and further away from him. Somebody played something on the piano, and this was, in a way, a respite for John. He felt that nobody was looking at him. Then a young man gave a recitation, which was very well received, and Kenyon began to forget his uneasiness. A German gentleman with long hair sat down at the piano with a good deal of importance in his demeanour. There was much arranging of music, and finally, when the leaves were settled to his satisfaction, there was a tremendous crash of chords, the beginning of what was evidently going to be a troublesome time for the piano. In the midst of this hurricane of sound John Kenyon became aware that Edith Longworth had sat down beside him. 'I have got everyone comfortably settled with everyone else,' she said in a whisper to him, 'and you seem to be the only one who is, as it were, out in the cold, so, you see, I have done you the honour to come and talk to you.' 'It is indeed an honour,' said John earnestly. 'Oh, really,' said the young woman, laughing very softly, 'you must not take things so seriously. I didn't mean quite what I said, you know--that was only, as the children say, "pretended"; but you take one's light remarks as if they were most weighty sentences. Now, you must look as if you were entertaining me charmingly, whereas I have sat down beside you to have a very few minutes' talk on business; I know it's very bad form to talk business at an evening party, but, you see, I have no other chance to speak with you. I understand you have had a meeting of shareholders, and yet you never sent me an invitation. I told you that I wished to help you in forming a company; but that is the way you business men always treat a woman.' 'Really, Miss Longworth,' began Kenyon; but she speedily interrupted him. 'I am not going to let you make any explanation. I have come over here to enjoy scolding you, and I am not to be cheated out of my pleasure.' 'I think,' said John, 'if you knew how much I have suffered during this last day or two, you would be very lenient with me. Did you read that article upon me in the _Financial Field_?' 'No, I did not, but I read your reply to it this morning, and I think it was excellent.' 'Ah, that was hardly fair. A person should read both sides of the question before passing judgment.' 'It is a woman's idea of fairness,' said Edith, 'to read what pertains to her friend, and to form her judgment without hearing the other side. But you must not think I am going to forego scolding you because of my sympathy with you. Don't you remember you promised to let me know how your company was progressing from time to time, and here I have never had a word from you; now tell me how you have been getting on.' 'I hardly know, but I think we are doing very well indeed. You know, of course, that your cousin is going to America to report upon the mine. As I have stated nothing but what is perfectly true about the property, there can be no question as to what that report will be, so it seems to me everything is going on nicely.' 'Why do not you go to America?' 'Ah, well, I am an interested party, and those who are thinking of going in with us have my report already. It is necessary to corroborate that. When it is corroborated, I expect we shall have no trouble in forming the company.' 'And was William chosen by those men to go to Canada?' 'He was not exactly chosen; he volunteered. Mr. Melville here was the one who was chosen.' 'And why Mr. Melville more than you, for instance?' 'Well, as I said, I am out of the question because I am an interested party. Melville is a man connected with china works, and as such, in a measure, an expert.' 'Is Mr. Melville a friend of yours?' 'No, he is not. I never saw him until he came to the meeting.' 'Do you know,' she said, lowering her voice and bending towards him, 'that I do not like Mr. Melville's face?' Kenyon glanced at Melville, who was at the other side of the room, and Edith went on: 'You must not look at people when I mention them in that way, or they will know we are talking about them. I do not like his face. He is too handsome a man, and I don't like handsome men.' 'Don't you, really,' said John; 'then, you ought to----' Edith laughed softly, a low, musical laugh that was not heard above the piano din, and was intended for John alone, and to his ears it was the sweetest music he had ever heard. 'I know what you were going to say,' she said; 'you were going to say that in that case I ought to like _you_. Well, I do; that is why I am taking such an interest in your mine, and in your friend Mr. Wentworth. And so my cousin volunteered to go to Canada. Now, I think you ought to go yourself.' 'Why?' said Kenyon, startled that she should have touched the point that had been discussed between Wentworth and himself. 'I can only give you a woman's reason--"because I do." It seems to me you ought to be there to know what they report at the time they _do_ report. Perhaps they won't understand the mine without your explanation, and then you see an adverse report might come back in perfect good faith. I think you ought to go to America, Mr. Kenyon.' 'That is just what George Wentworth says.' 'Does he? I always thought he was a very sensible young man, and now I am sure of it. Well, I must not stay here gossiping with you on business. I see the professor is going to finish, and so I shall have to look after my other guests. If I don't see you again this evening, or have no opportunity of speaking with you, think over what I have said.' And then, with the most charming hypocrisy, the young woman thanked the professor for the music to which she had not listened in the least. 'Well, how did you enjoy yourself?' said Wentworth when they had got outside again. It was a clear, starlight night, and they had resolved to walk home together. 'I enjoyed myself very well indeed,' answered Kenyon; 'much better than I expected. It was a little awkward at first, but I got over that.' 'I noticed you did--with help.' 'Yes, "with help."' 'If you are inclined to rave, John, now that we are under the stars, remember I am a close confidant, and a sympathetic listener. I should like to hear you rave, just to learn how an exasperatingly sensible man acts under the circumstances.' 'I shall not rave about anything, George, but I will tell you something. I am going to Canada.' 'Ah, did she speak about that?' 'She did.' 'And of course her advice at once decides the matter, after my most cogent arguments have failed?' 'Don't be offended, George, but--_it does_.'

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'What name, please?' 'Tell Mr. Wentworth a lady wishes to see him.' The boy departed rather dubiously, for he knew this message was decidedly irregular in a business office. People should give their names. 'A lady to see you, sir,' he said to Wentworth; and, then, just as the boy had expected, his employer wanted to know the lady's name. Ladies are not frequent visitors at the office of an accountant in the City, so Wentworth touched his collar and tie to make sure they were in their correct position, and, wondering who the lady was, asked the boy to show her in. 'How do you do, Mr. Wentworth?' she said brightly, advancing towards his table and holding out her hand. Wentworth caught his breath, and took her extended hand somewhat limply, then he pulled himself together; saying: 'This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Brewster.' Jennie blushed very prettily, and laughed a laugh that Wentworth thought was like a little ripple of music from a mellow flute. 'It may be unexpected,' she said, 'but you don't look a bit like a man suffering from an overdose of pure joy. You didn't expect to see me, did you?' 'I did not; but now that you are here, may I ask in what way I can serve you?' 'Well, in the first place, you may ask me to take a chair, and in the second place you may sit down yourself; for I've come to have a long talk with you.' The prospect did not seem to be so alluring to Wentworth as one might have expected, when the announcement was made by a girl so pretty, and dressed in such exquisite taste; but the young man promptly offered her a chair, and then sat down, with the table between them. She placed her parasol and a few things she had been carrying on the table, arranging them with some care; then, having given him time to recover from his surprise, she flashed a look at him that sent a thrill to the finger-tips of the young man. Yet a danger understood is a danger half overcome; and Wentworth, unconsciously drawing a deep breath, nerved himself against any recurrence of a feeling he had been trying with but indifferent success to forget, saying grimly, but only half convincingly, to himself: 'You are not going to fool me a second time, my girl, lovely as you are.' A glimmer of a smile hovered about the red lips of the girl, a smile hardly perceptible, but giving an effect to her clear complexion as if a sunbeam had crept into the room, and its reflection had lit up her face. 'I have come to apologize, Mr. Wentworth,' she said at last. 'I find it a very difficult thing to do, and, as I don't quite know how to begin, I plunge right into it.' 'You don't need to apologize to me for anything, Miss Brewster,' replied Wentworth, rather stiffly. 'Oh yes, I do. Don't make it harder than it is by being too frigidly polite about it, but say you accept the apology, and that you're sorry--no, I don't mean that--I should say that you're sure I'm sorry, and that you know I won't do it again.' Wentworth laughed, and Miss Brewster joined him. 'There,' she said, 'that's ever so much better. I suppose you've been thinking hard things of me ever since we last met.' 'I've tried to,' replied Wentworth. 'Now, that's what I call honest; besides, I like the implied compliment. I think it's very neat indeed. I'm really very, very sorry that I--that things happened as they did. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had used exceedingly strong language about it at the time.' 'I must confess that I did.' 'Ah!' said Jennie, with a sigh, 'you men have so many comforts denied to us women. But I came here for another purpose; if I had merely wanted to apologize, I think I would have written. I want some information which you can give me, if you like.' The young woman rested her elbows on the table, with her chin in her hands, gazing across at him earnestly and innocently. Poor George felt that it would be almost impossible to refuse anything to those large beseeching eyes. 'I want you to tell me about your mine.' All the geniality that had gradually come into Wentworth's face and manner vanished instantly. 'So this is the old business over again,' he said. 'How can you say that!' cried Jennie reproachfully. 'I am asking for my own satisfaction entirely, and not for my paper. Besides, I tell you frankly what I want to know, and don't try to get it by indirect means--by false pretences, as you once said.' 'How can you expect me to give you information that does not belong to me alone? I have no right to speak of a business which concerns others without their permission.' 'Ah, then, there are at least two more concerned in the mine,' said Jennie gleefully. 'Kenyon is one, I know; who is the other?' 'Miss Brewster, I will tell you nothing.' 'But you have told me something already. Please go on and talk, Mr. Wentworth--about anything you like--and I shall soon find out all I want to know about the mine.' She paused, but Wentworth remained silent, which, indeed, the bewildered young man realized was the only safe thing to do. 'They speak of the talkativeness of women,' Miss Brewster went on, as if soliloquizing, 'but it is nothing to that of the men. Once set a man talking, and you learn everything he knows--besides ever so much more that he doesn't.' Miss Brewster had abandoned her very taking attitude, with its suggestion of confidential relations, and had removed her elbows from the table, sitting now back in her chair, gazing dreamily at the dingy window which let the light in from the dingy court. She seemed to have forgotten that Wentworth was there, and said, more to herself than to him: 'I wonder if Kenyon would tell me about the mine.' 'You might ask him.' 'No; it wouldn't do any good,' she continued, gently shaking her head. 'He's one of your silent men, and there are so few of them in this world. Perhaps I had better go to William Longworth himself; he's not suspicious of me.' As she said this, she threw a quick glance at Wentworth, and the unfortunate young man's face at once told her that she had hit the mark. She bent her head over the table, and laughed with such evident enjoyment that Wentworth, in spite of his helpless anger, smiled grimly. Jennie raised her head, but the sight of his perplexed countenance was too much for her, and it was some time before her merriment allowed her to speak. At last she said: 'Wouldn't you like to take me by the shoulders and put me out of the room, Mr. Wentworth?' 'I'd like to take you by the shoulders and shake you.' 'Ah! that would be taking a liberty, and could not be permitted. We must leave punishment to the law, you know, although I do think a man should be allowed to turn an objectionable visitor into the street.' 'Miss Brewster,' cried the young man earnestly, leaning over the table towards her, 'why don't you abandon your horrible inquisitorial profession, and put your undoubted talents to some other use?' 'What, for instance?' 'Oh, anything.' Jennie rested her fair cheek against her open palm again, and looked at the dingy window. There was a long silence between them--Wentworth absorbed in watching her clear-cut profile and her white throat, his breath quickening as he feasted his eyes on her beauty. 'I have always got angry,' she said at last, in a low voice with the quiver of a suppressed sigh in it, 'when other people have said that to me--I wonder why it is I merely feel hurt and sad when you say it? It is so easy to say, "Oh, anything"--so easy, so easy. You are a man, with the strength and determination of a man, yet you have met with disappointments and obstacles that have required all your courage to overcome. Every man has, and with most men it is a fight until the head is gray, and the brain weary with the ceaseless struggle. The world is utterly merciless; it will trample you down relentlessly if it can, and if your vigilance relaxes for a moment, it will steal your crust and leave you to starve. Every time I think of this incessant sullen contest, with no quarter given or taken, I shudder, and pray that I may die before I am at the mercy of the pitiless world. When I came to London, I saw, for the first time in my life, that hopeless, melancholy promenade of the sandwich-men; human wreckage drifting along the edge of the street, as if cast there by the rushing tide sweeping past them. They--they seemed to me like a tottering procession of the dead; and on their backs was the announcement of a play that was making all London roar with laughter. The awful comedy and tragedy of it! Well, I simply couldn't stand it. I had to run up a side-street and cry like the little fool I was, right in broad daylight.' Jennie paused and tried to laugh, but the effort ended in a sound suspiciously like a sob. She dashed her hand with quick impatience across her eyes, from which Wentworth had never taken his own, seeing them become dim, as if the light from the window proved too strong for them, and finally fill as she ceased to speak. Searching ineffectually about her dress for a handkerchief, which lay on the table beside her parasol unnoticed by either, Jennie went on with some difficulty: 'Well, these poor forlorn creatures were once men--men who have gone down--and if the world is so hard on a man with all his strength and resourcefulness, think--think what it is for a woman thrown into this inhuman turmoil--a woman without friends--without money--flung among these relentless wolves--to live if she can--or--to die--if she can.' The girl's voice broke, and she buried her face in her arms, which rested on the table. Wentworth sprang to his feet and came round to where she sat. 'Jennie,' he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. The girl, without looking up, shook off the hand that touched her. 'Go back to your place,' she cried, in a smothered voice. 'Leave me alone.' 'Jennie,' persisted Wentworth. The young woman rose from her chair and faced him, stepping back a pace. 'Don't you hear what I say? Go back and sit down. I came here to talk business, not to make a fool of myself. It's all your fault, and I hate you for it--you and your silly questions.' But the young man stood where he was, in spite of the dangerous sparkle that shone in his visitor's wet eyes. A frown gathered on his brow. 'Jennie,' he said slowly, 'are you playing with me again?' The swift anger that blazed up in her face, reddening her cheeks, dried the tears. 'How _dare_ you say such a thing to me!' she cried hotly. 'Do you flatter yourself that, because I came here to talk business, I have also some personal interest in you? Surely even _your_ self-conceit doesn't run so far as that!' Wentworth stood silent, and Miss Brewster picked up her parasol, scattering, in her haste, the other articles on the floor. If she expected Wentworth to put them on the table again, she was disappointed, for, although his eyes were upon her, his thoughts were far away upon the Atlantic Ocean. 'I shall not stay here to be insulted,' she cried resentfully, bringing Wentworth's thoughts back with a rush to London again. 'It is intolerable that you should use such an expression to me. Playing with you indeed!' 'I had no intention of insulting you, Miss Brewster.' 'What is it but an insult to use such a phrase? It implies that I either care for you, or----' 'And do you?' 'Do I what?' 'Do you care for me?' Jennie shook out the lace fringes of her parasol; and smoothed them with some precision. Her eyes were bent on what she was doing; consequently, they did not meet those of her questioner. 'I care for you as a friend, of course,' she said at last, still giving much attention to the parasol. 'If I had not looked on you as a friend, I would not have come here to consult with you, would I?' 'No, I suppose not. Well, I am sorry I used the words that displeased you, and now, if you will permit it, we will go on with the consultation.' 'It wasn't a pretty thing to say.' 'I'm afraid I'm not good at saying pretty things.' 'You used to be.' The parasol being arranged to her liking, she glanced up at him. 'Still, you said you were sorry, and that's all a man can say--or a woman either, for that's what I said myself when I came in. Now, if you will pick up those things from the floor--thanks--we will talk about the mine.' Wentworth seated himself again, and said; 'Well, what is it you wish to know about the mine?' 'Nothing at all.' 'But you said you wanted information.' 'What a funny reason to give! And how a man misses all the fine points of a conversation! No; just because I asked for information, you might have known that was not what I really wanted.' 'I'm afraid I'm very stupid. I hate to ask boldly what you did want, but I would like to know.' 'I wanted a vote of confidence. I told you I was sorry because of a certain episode. I wished to see if you trusted me, and I found you didn't. There!' 'I think that was hardly a fair test. You see, the facts did not belong to me alone.' Miss Brewster sighed, and slowly shook her head. 'That wouldn't have made the least difference if you had really trusted me.' 'Oh, I say! You couldn't expect a man to----' 'Yes I could.' 'What, merely a friend?' Miss Brewster nodded. 'Well, all I can say,' remarked Wentworth, with a laugh, 'is that friendship has made greater strides in the States than it has in this country.' Before Jennie could reply, the useful boy knocked at the door and brought in a tea-tray, which he placed before his master; then silently departed, closing the door noiselessly. 'May I offer you a cup of tea?' 'Please. What a curious custom this drinking of tea is in business offices! I think I shall write an article on "A Nation of Tea-tipplers." If I were an enemy of England, instead of being its greatest friend, I would descend with my army on this country between the hours of four and five in the afternoon, and so take the population unawares while it was drinking tea. What would you do if the enemy came down on you during such a sacred national ceremony?' 'I would offer her a cup of tea,' replied Wentworth, suiting the action to the phrase. 'Mr. Wentworth,' said the girl archly, 'you're improving. That remark was distinctly good. Still, you must remember that I come as a friend, not as an enemy. Did you ever read the "Babes in the Wood"? It is a most instructive, but pathetic, work of fiction. You remember the wicked uncle, surely? Well, you and Mr. Kenyon remind me of the "Babes," poor innocent little things! and London--this part of it--is the dark and pathless forest. I am the bird hovering about you, waiting to cover you with leaves. The leaves, to do any good, ought to be cheques fluttering down on you, but, alas! I haven't any. If negotiable cheques only grew on trees, life would not be so difficult.' Miss Brewster sipped her tea pensively, and Wentworth listened contentedly to the musical murmur of her voice. Such an entrancing effect had it on him that he paid less heed to what she said than a man ought when a lady is speaking. The tea-drinking had added a touch of domesticity to the _tête-a-tête_ which rather went to the head of the young man. He clinched and unclinched his hand out of sight under the table, and felt the moisture on his palm. He hoped he would be able to retain control over himself, but the difficulty of his task almost overcame him when she now and then appealed to him with glance or gesture, and he felt as if he must cry out, 'My girl, my girl, don't do that, if you expect me to stay where I am.' 'I see you are not paying the slightest attention to what I am saying,' she said, pushing the cup from her. She rested her arms on the table, leaning slightly forward, and turning her face full upon him: 'I can tell by your eyes that you are thinking of something else.' 'I assure you,' said George, drawing a deep breath, 'I am listening with intense interest.' 'Well, that's right, for what I am going to say is important. Now, to wake you up, I will first tell you all about your mine; you will understand thereafter that I did not need to ask anyone for information regarding it.' Here, to Wentworth's astonishment, she gave a rapid and accurate sketch of the negotiations and arrangements between the three partners, and the present position of affairs. 'How do you know all this?' he asked. 'Never mind that; and you mustn't ask how I know what I am now going to tell you, but you must believe it implicitly, and act upon it promptly. Longworth is fooling both you and Kenyon. He is marking time, so that your option will run out; then he will pay cash for the mine at the original price, and you and Kenyon will be left to pay two-thirds of the debt incurred. Where is Kenyon?' 'He has gone to America.' 'That's good. Cable him to get the option renewed. You can then try to form the company yourselves in London. If he can't obtain a renewal, you have very little time to get the cash together, and if you are not able to do that, then you lose everything. This is what I came to tell you, although I have been a long time about it. Now I must go.' She rose, gathered her belongings from the table, and stood with the parasol pressed against her. Wentworth came around to where she was standing, his face paler than usual, probably because of the news he had heard. One hand was grasped tightly around one wrist in front of him. He felt that he should thank her for what she had done, but his lips were dry, and, somehow, the proper words were not at his command. She, holding her fragile lace-fringed parasol against her with one arm, was adjusting her long neatly fitting glove, which she had removed before tea. A button, one of many, was difficult to fasten, and as she endeavoured to put it in its place, her sleeve fell away, showing a round white arm above the glove. 'You see,' she said, a little breathlessly, her eyes upon her glove, 'it is a very serious situation, and time is of immense importance.' 'I realize that.' 'It would be such a pity to lose everything now, when you have had so much trouble and worry.' 'It would.' 'And I think that whatever is done should be done quickly. You should act at once and with energy.' 'I am convinced that is so.' 'Of course it is. You are of too trusting a nature; you should be more suspicious, then you wouldn't be tricked as you have been.' 'No. The trouble is I have been too sceptical, but that is past. I won't be again.' 'What are you talking about?' she said, looking quickly up at him. 'Don't you know you'll lose the mine if----' 'Hang the mine!' he cried, flinging his wrist free, and clasping her to him before she could step back or move from her place. 'There is something more important than mines or money.' The parasol broke with a sharp snap, and the girl murmured 'Oh!' but the murmur was faint. 'Never mind the parasol,' he said, pulling it from between them and tossing it aside; 'I'll get you another.' 'Reckless man!' she gasped; 'you little know how much it cost, and I think, you know, I ought to have been consulted--in an--in an--affair of this kind--George.' 'There was no time. I acted upon your own advice--promptly. You are not angry, Jennie, my dear girl, are you?' 'I suppose I'm not, though I think I ought to be; especially as I know only too well that I held my heart in my hand the whole time, almost offering it to you. I hope you won't treat it as you have treated the sunshade.' He kissed her for answer. 'You see,' she said, putting his necktie straight, 'I liked you from the very first, far more than I knew at the time. If you--I'm not trying to justify myself, you know--but if you had, well, just coaxed me a little yourself, I would never have sent that cable message. You seemed to give up everything, and you sent Kenyon to me, and that made me angry. I expected you to come back to me, but you never came.' 'I was a stupid fool. I always am when I get a fair chance.' 'Oh no, you're not, but you do need someone to take care of you.' She suddenly held him at arm's length from her. 'You don't imagine for a moment, George Wentworth, that I came here to-day for--for this.' 'Certainly not!' cried the honest young man, with much indignant fervour, drawing her again towards him. 'Then it's all right. I couldn't bear to have you think such a thing, especially--well, I'll tell you why some day. But I do wish you had a title. Do they ever ennoble accountants in this country, George?' 'No; they knight only rich fools.' 'Oh, I'm so glad of that; for you'll get rich on the mine, and I'll be Lady Wentworth yet.' Then she drew his head down until her laughing lips touched his.

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Although the steamship that took Kenyon to America was one of the speediest in the Atlantic service, yet the voyage was inexpressibly dreary to him. He spent most of his time walking up and down the deck, thinking about the other voyage of a few weeks before. The one consolation of his present trip was its quickness. When he arrived at his hotel in New York, he asked if there was any message there for him, and the clerk handed him an envelope, which he tore open. It was a cable despatch from Wentworth, with the words: 'Longworth at Windsor. Proceed to Ottawa immediately. Get option renewed. Longworth duping us.' John knitted his brows and wondered where Windsor was. The clerk, seeing his perplexity, asked if he could be of any assistance. 'I have received this cablegram, but don't quite understand it. Where is Windsor?' 'Oh, that means the Windsor Hotel. Just up the street.' Kenyon registered, told the clerk to assign him a room, and send his baggage up to it when it came. Then he walked out from the hotel and sought the Windsor. He found that colossal hostelry, and was just inquiring of the clerk whether a Mr. Longworth was staying there, when that gentleman appeared at the desk, took some letters and his key. Kenyon tapped him on the shoulder. Young Longworth turned round with more alacrity than he usually displayed, and gave a long whistle of surprise when he saw who it was. 'In the name of all the gods,' he cried, 'what are _you_ doing here?' Then, before Kenyon could reply, he said: 'Come up to my room.' They went to the elevator, rose a few stories, and passed down an apparently endless hall, carpeted with some noiseless stuff that gave no echo of the footfall. Longworth put the key into his door and opened it. They entered a large and pleasant room. 'Well,' he said, 'this _is_ a surprise. What is the reason of your being here? Anything wrong in London?' 'Nothing wrong, so far as I am aware. We received no cablegram from you, and thought there might be some hitch in the business; therefore I came.' 'Ah, I see. I cabled over to your address, and said I was staying at the Windsor for a few days. I sent a cablegram almost as long as a letter, but it didn't appear to do any good.' 'No, I did not receive it.' 'And what did you expect was wrong over here?' 'That I did not know. I knew you had time to get to Ottawa and see the mine in twelve days from London. Not hearing from you in that time, and knowing the option was running out, both Wentworth and I became anxious, and so I came over.' 'Exactly. Well, I'm afraid you've had your trip for nothing.' 'What do you mean? Is not the mine all I said it was?' 'Oh, the mine is all right; all I meant was, there was really no necessity for your coming.' 'But, you know, the option ends in a very short time.' 'Well, the option, like the mine, is all right. I think you might quite safely have left it in my hands.' It must be admitted that John Kenyon began to feel he had acted with unreasonable rashness in taking his long voyage. 'Is Mr. Melville here with you?' 'Melville has returned home. He had not time to stay longer. All he wanted was to satisfy himself about the mine. He was satisfied, and he has gone home. If you were in London now, you would be able to see him.' 'Did you meet Mr. Von Brent?' 'Yes, he took us to the mine.' 'And did you say anything about the option to him?' 'Well, we had some conversation about it. There will be no trouble about the option. What Von Brent wants is to sell his mine, that is all.' There was a few moments' silence, then Longworth said: 'When are you going back?' 'I do not know. I think I ought to see Von Brent. I am not at all easy about leaving matters as they are. I think I ought to get a renewal of the option. It is not wise to risk things as we are doing. Von Brent might at any time get an offer for his mine, just as we are forming our company, and, of course, if the option had not been renewed, he would sell to the first man who put down the money. As you say, all he wants is to sell his mine.' Longworth was busy opening his letters, and apparently paying very little attention to what Kenyon said. At last, however, he spoke: 'If I were you--if you care to take my advice--I would go straight back to England. You will do no good here. I merely say this to save you any further trouble, time, and expense.' 'Don't you think it would be as well to get a renewal of the option?' 'Oh, certainly; but, as I told you before, it was not at all necessary for you to come over. I may say, furthermore, that Von Brent will not renew the option without a handsome sum down, to be forfeited if the company is not formed. Have you the money to pay him?' 'No, I have not.' 'Very well, then, why waste time and money going to Ottawa?' Young Mr. Longworth arched his eye-brows and gazed at John through his eyeglass. 'I will let you have my third of the money, if that will do any good.' 'How much money does Von Brent want?' 'How should I know? To tell you the truth, Mr. Kenyon--and truth never hurts, or oughtn't to--I don't at all like this visit to America. You and Mr. Wentworth have been good enough to be suspicious about me from the very first. You have not taken any pains to conceal it, either of you. Your appearance in America at this particular juncture is nothing more nor less than an insult to me. I intend to receive it as such.' 'I have no intention of insulting you,' said Kenyon, 'if you are dealing fairly with me.' 'There it is again. That remark is an insult. Everything you say is a reflection upon me. I wish to have nothing more to say to you. I give you my advice that it is better for you, and cheaper, to go back to London. You need not act on it unless you like. I have nothing further to say to you and so this interview may be considered closed.' 'And how about the mine?' 'I imagine the mine will take care of itself.' 'Do you think this is courteous treatment of a business partner?' 'My dear sir, I do not take my lessons in courtesy from you. Whether you are pleased or displeased with my treatment of you is a matter of supreme indifference to me. I am tired of living in an atmosphere of suspicion, and I have done with it--that is all. You think some game is being played on you--both you and Mr. Wentworth think that--and yet you haven't the "cuteness," as they call it here, or sharpness, to find it out. Now, a man who has suspicions he cannot prove to be well founded should keep those suspicions to himself until he can prove them. That is my advice to you. I wish you a good-day.' John Kenyon walked back to his hotel with more misgivings than ever. He wrote a letter to Wentworth detailing the conversation, telling him Melville had sailed for home, and advising him to see that gentleman when he arrived. He stayed in New York that night, and took the morning train to Montreal. In due time he arrived at Ottawa, and called on Von Brent. He found that gentleman in his chambers, looking as if he had never left the room since the option was signed. Von Brent at first did not recognise his visitor, but after gazing a moment at him he sprang from his chair and held out his hand. 'I really did not know you,' he said; 'you have changed a great deal since I saw you last. You look haggard, and not at all well. What is the matter with you?' 'I do not think anything is the matter. I am in very good health, thank you; I have had a few business worries, that is all.' 'Ah, yes,' said Von Brent; 'I am very sorry indeed you failed to form your company.' 'Failed!' echoed Kenyon. 'Yes; you haven't succeeded, have you?' 'Well, I don't know about that; we are in a fair way to succeed. You met Longworth and Melville, who came out to see the mine? I saw Longworth in New York, and he told me you had taken them out there.' 'Are they interested with you in the mine?' 'Certainly; they are helping me to form the company.' Von Brent seemed amazed. 'I did not understand that at all. In fact, I understood the exact opposite. I thought you had attempted to form a company, and failed. They showed me an attack in one of the financial papers upon you, and said that killed your chances of forming a company in London. They were here, apparently, on their own business.' 'And what was their business?' 'To buy the mine.' 'Have they bought it?' 'Practically, yes. Of course, while your option holds good I cannot sell it, but that, as you know, expires in a very few days.' Kenyon, finding his worst suspicions confirmed, seemed speechless with amazement, and in his agony mopped from his brow the drops collected there. 'You appear to be astonished at this,' said Von Brent. 'I am very much astonished.' 'Well, you cannot blame me. I have acted perfectly square in the matter. I had no idea Longworth, and the gentleman who was with him, had any connection with you whatever. Their attention had been drawn to the mine, they said, by that article. They had investigated it and appeared to be satisfied there was something in it--in the mine, I mean, not in the article. They said they had attended a meeting which you had called, but it was quite evident you were not going to be able to form the company. So they came here and made me a cash offer for the mine. They have deposited twenty thousand pounds at the bank here, and on the day your option closes they will give me a cheque for the amount.' 'It serves me right,' said Kenyon. 'I have been cheated and duped. I had grave suspicions of it all along, but I did not act upon them. I have been too timorous and cowardly. This man Longworth has made a pretence of helping me to form a company. Everything he has done has been to delay me. He came out here, apparently, in the interests of the company I was forming, and now he has got the option for himself.' 'Yes, he has,' said Von Brent. 'I may say I am very sorry indeed for the turn affairs have taken. Of course, as I have told you, I had no idea how the land lay. You see, you had placed no deposit with me, and I had to look after my own interests. However, the option is open for a few days more, and I will not turn the mine over to them till the last minute of the time has expired. Isn't there any chance of your getting the money before then?' 'Not the slightest.' 'Well, you see, in that case I cannot help myself. I am bound by a legal document to turn the mine over to them on receipt of the twenty thousand pounds the moment your option is ended. Everything is done legally, and I am perfectly helpless in the matter.' 'Yes, I see that,' said John. 'Good-bye.' He went to the telegraph-office and sent a cablegram. Wentworth received the message in London the next morning. It read: 'We are cheated. Longworth has the option on the mine in his own name.'

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When George Wentworth received this message, he read it several times over before its full meaning dawned upon him. Then he paced up and down his room, and gave way to his feelings. His best friends, who had been privileged to hear George's vocabulary when he was rather angry, admitted that the young man had a fluency of expression which was very more terse than proper. When the real significance of the despatch became apparent to him, George outdid himself in this particular line. Then he realized that, however consolatory such language is to a very angry man, it does little good in any practical way. He paced silently up and down the room, wondering what he could do, and the more he wondered the less light he saw through the fog. He put on his hat and went into the other room. 'Henry,' he said to his partner, 'do you know anybody who would lend me twenty thousand pounds?' Henry laughed. The idea of anybody lending that sum of money, except on the very best security, was in itself extremely comic. 'Do you want it to-day?' he said. 'Yes, I want it to-day.' 'Well, I don't know any better plan than to go out into the street and ask every man you meet if he has that sum about him. You are certain to encounter men who have very much more than twenty thousand pounds, and perhaps one of them, struck by your very sane appearance at the moment, might hand over the sum to you. I think, however, George, that you would be more successful if you met the capitalist in a secluded lane some dark night, and had a good reliable club in your hand.' 'You are right,' said George. 'Of course, there is just as much possibility of my reaching the moon as getting that sum of money on short notice.' 'Yes, or on long notice either, I imagine. I know plenty of men who have the money, but I wouldn't undertake to ask them for it, and I don't believe you would. Still there is nothing like trying. He who tries may succeed, but no one can succeed who doesn't try. Why not go to old Longworth? He could let you have the money in a moment if he wanted to do so. He knows you. What's your security? What are you going to do with it--that eternal mine of yours?' 'Yes, that "eternal mine"; I want it to _be_ mine. That is why I need the twenty thousand pounds.' 'Well, George, I don't see much hope for you. You never spoke to old Longworth about it, did you? He wasn't one of the men you intended to get into this company?' 'No, he was not. I wish he had been. He would have treated us better than his rascally nephew has done.' 'Ah, that immaculate young man has been playing you tricks, has he?' 'He has played me one trick, which is enough.' 'Well, why don't you go and see the old man, and lay the case before him? He treats that nephew as if he were his son. Now, a man will do a great deal for his son, and perhaps old Longworth might do something for his nephew.' 'Yes; but I should have to explain to him that his nephew is a scoundrel.' 'Very well; that is just the kind of explanation to bring the twenty thousand pounds. If his nephew really is a scoundrel, and you can prove it, you could not want a better lever than that on the old man's money-bags.' 'By Jove!' said Wentworth, 'I believe I shall try it. I want to let him know, anyhow, what sort of man his nephew is. I'll go and see him.' 'I would,' said the other, turning to his work. And so George Wentworth, putting the cablegram in his pocket, went to see old Mr. Longworth in a frame of mind in which no man should see his fellow-man. He did not wait to be announced, but walked, to the astonishment of the clerk, straight through into Mr. Longworth's room. He found the old man seated at his desk. 'Good-day, Mr. Wentworth,' said the financier cordially. 'Good-day,' replied George curtly. 'I have come to read a cable despatch to you, or to let you read it.' He threw the paper down before the old gentleman, who adjusted his spectacles and read it. Then he looked up inquiringly at Wentworth. 'You don't understand it, do you?' said the latter. 'I confess I do not. The Longworth in this telegram does not refer to me, does it?' 'No, it does not refer to you, but it refers to one of your house. Your nephew, William Longworth, is a scoundrel!' 'Ah!' said the old man, placing the despatch on the desk again, and removing his glasses, 'have you come to tell me that?' 'Yes, I have. Did you know it before?' 'No, I did not,' answered the old gentleman, his colour rising; 'and I do not know it now. I know you say so, and I think very likely you will be glad to take back what you have said. I will at least give you the opportunity.' 'So far from taking it back, Mr. Longworth, I shall prove it. Your nephew formed a partnership with my friend Kenyon and myself to float on the London market a certain Canadian mine.' 'My dear sir,' broke in the old gentleman, 'I have no desire to hear of my nephew's private speculations; I have nothing to do with them. I have nothing to do with your mine. The matter is of no interest whatever to me, and I must decline to hear anything about it. You are, also, if you will excuse my saying so, not in a fit state of temper to talk to any gentleman. If you like to come back here when you are calmer, I shall be very pleased to listen to what you have to say.' 'I shall never be calmer on this subject. I have told you that your nephew is a scoundrel. You are pleased to deny the accusation.' 'I do not deny it; I merely said I did not know it was the case, and I do not believe it, that is all.' 'Very well; the moment I begin to show you proof that things are as I say----' 'My dear sir,' cried the elder man, with some heat, 'you are not showing proof. You are merely making assertions, and assertions about a man who is absent--who is not here to defend himself. If you have anything to say against William Longworth, come and say it when he is here, and he shall answer for himself. It is cowardly of you, and ungenerous to me, to make a number of accusations which I am in no wise able to refute.' 'Will you listen to what I have to say?' 'No; I will not.' 'Then, by God, you shall!' and with that Wentworth strode to the door and turned the key, while the old man rose from his seat and faced him. 'Do you mean to threaten me, sir, in my own office?' 'I mean to say, Mr. Longworth, that I have made a statement which I am going to prove to you. I mean that you shall listen to me, and listen to me _now_!' 'And I say, if you have anything to charge against my nephew, come and say it when he is here.' 'When he is here, Mr. Longworth, it will be too late to say it; at present you can repair the injury he has done. When he returns to England you cannot do so, no matter how much you might wish to make the attempt.' The old man stood irresolute for a moment, then he sat down in his chair again. 'Very well,' he said, with a sigh; 'I am not so combative as I once was. Go on with your story.' 'My story is very short,' said Wentworth; 'it simply amounts to this: You know your nephew formed a partnership with us in relation to the Canadian mine?' 'I know nothing about it, I tell you,' answered Mr. Longworth. 'Very well, you know it now.' 'I know you say so.' 'Do you doubt my word?' 'I shall tell you more definitely when I hear what you have to say. Go on.' 'Well, your nephew, pretending to aid us in forming this company, did everything to retard our progress. He engaged offices that took a long time to fit up, and which we had at last to take in hand ourselves. Then he left for a week, leaving us no address, and refusing to answer the letters I sent to his office for him. On one pretext or another, the forming of the company was delayed; until at length, when the option by which Mr. Kenyon held the mine had less than a month to run, your nephew went to America in company with Mr. Melville, ostensibly to see and report upon the property. After waiting a certain length of time and hearing nothing from him (he had promised to cable us), Kenyon went to America to get a renewal of the option. This cablegram explains his success. He finds, on going there, that your nephew has secured the option of the mine in his own name, and, as Kenyon says, we are cheated. Now have you any doubt whether your nephew is a scoundrel or not?' Mr. Longworth mused for a few moments on what the young man had told him. 'If what you say is exactly true, there is no doubt William has been guilty of a piece of very sharp practice.' 'Sharp practice!' cried the other. 'You might as well call robbery sharp practice!' 'My dear sir, I have listened to you; now I ask you to listen to me. If, as I say, what you have stated is true, my nephew has done something which I think an honourable man would not do; but as to that I cannot judge until I hear his side of the story. It may put a different complexion on the matter, and I have no doubt it will; but even granting your version is true in every particular, what have I to do with it? I am not responsible for my nephew's actions. He has entered into a business connection, it seems, with two young men, and has outwitted them. That is probably what the world would say about it. Perhaps, as you say, he has been guilty of something worse, and has cheated his partners. But even admitting everything to be true, I do not see how I am responsible in any way.' 'Legally, you are not; morally, I think you are.' 'Why?' 'If he were your son----' 'But he is not my son; he is my nephew.' 'If your son had committed a theft, would you not do everything in your power to counteract the evil he had done?' 'I might, and I might not. Some fathers pay their sons' debts, others do not. I cannot say what action I should take in a purely imaginary case.' 'Very well; all I have to say is, our option runs out in two or three days. Twenty thousand pounds will secure the mine for us. I want that twenty thousand pounds before the option ceases.' 'And do you expect me to pay you twenty thousand pounds for this?' 'Yes, I do.' Old Mr. Longworth leaned back in his office chair, and looked at the young man in amazement. 'To think that you, a man of the City, should come to me, another man of the City, with such an absurd idea in your head, is simply grotesque.' 'Then the name of the Longworths is nothing to you--the good name, I mean?' 'The good name of the Longworths, my dear sir, is everything to me; but I fancy it will be able to take care of itself without any assistance from you.' There was silence for a few moments. Then Wentworth said, in a voice of suppressed anguish: 'I thought, Mr. Longworth, one of your family was a scoundrel; I now wish to say I believe the epithet covers uncle as well as nephew. You have had a chance to repair the mischief a member of your family has done. You have answered me with contempt. You have not shown the slightest indication of wishing to make amends.' He unlocked the door. 'Come, now,' said old Mr. Longworth, rising, 'that will do, that will do, Mr. Wentworth.' Then he pressed an electric bell, and, when the clerk appeared, he said: 'Show this gentleman the door, please, and if ever he calls here again, do not admit him.' And so George Wentworth, clenching his hands with rage, was shown to the door. He had the rest of the day to ponder on the fact that an angry man seldom accomplishes his purpose.

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The stormy interview with Wentworth disturbed the usual serenity of Mr. Longworth's temper. He went home earlier than was customary with him that night, and the more he thought over the attack, the more unjustifiable it seemed. He wondered what his nephew had really done, and tried to remember what Wentworth had charged against him. He could not recollect, the angrier portions of the interview having, as it were, blotted the charges from his mind. There remained, however, a very bitter resentment against Wentworth. Mr. Longworth searched his conscience to see if he could be in the least to blame, but he found nothing in the recollections of his dealings with the young men to justify him in feeling at all responsible for the disaster that had overtaken them. He read his favourite evening paper with less than his usual interest, for every now and then the episode in his office would occur to him. Finally he said sharply: 'Edith!' 'Yes, father,' answered his daughter. 'You remember a person named Wentworth, whom you had here the evening William went away?' 'Yes, father.' 'Very well. Never invite him to this house again.' 'What has he been doing?' asked the young woman in rather a tremulous voice. 'I desire you also never to ask anyone connected with him--that man Kenyon, for instance,' continued her father, ignoring her question. 'I thought,' she answered, 'that Mr. Kenyon was not in this country at present.' 'He is not, but he will be back again, I suppose. At any rate, I wish to have nothing more to do with those people. You understand that?' 'Yes, father.' Mr. Longworth went on with his reading. Edith saw her father was greatly disturbed, and eagerly desired to know the reason, but knew enough of human nature to understand that in a short time he would relieve her anxiety. He again appeared to be trying to fix his attention on the paper. At length he threw it down, and turned towards her. 'That man, Wentworth,' he said bitterly, 'behaved to-day in a most unjustifiable manner to me in my own office. It seems that William and he and Kenyon embarked in some mine project. I knew nothing of their doings, and was not even consulted with regard to them. Now it appears William has gone to America and done something Wentworth considers wrong. Wentworth came to me and demanded twenty thousand pounds--the most preposterous thing ever heard of--said I owed it to clear the good name of Longworth. As if the good name were dependent on him, or anyone like him! I turned him out of the office.' Edith did not answer for a few moments, while her father gave expression to his indignation by various ejaculations that need not be here recorded. 'Did he say,' she spoke at length, 'in what way William had done wrong?' 'I do not remember now just what he said. I know I told him to come again when my nephew was present, and then make his charges against him if he wanted to do so. Not that I admitted I had anything to do with the matter at all, but I simply refused to listen to charges against an absent man. I paid no attention to them.' 'That certainly was reasonable,' replied Edith. 'What did he say to it?' 'Oh, he abused me, and abused William, and went on at a dreadful rate, until I was obliged to order him out of the office.' 'But what did he say about meeting William when he returned, and making the charges against him then?' 'What did he say? I don't remember. Oh yes! he said it would be too late then; that they had only a few days to do what business they have to do, and that is why he made the demand for twenty thousand pounds. It was to repair the harm, whatever the harm was, William had done. I look on it simply as some blackmailing scheme of his, and I am astonished that a man belonging to so good a house as he does should try that game with me. I shall speak to the elder partner about it to-morrow, and if he does not make the young man apologize in the most abject manner he will be the loser by it, I can tell him that.' 'I would think no more about it, father, if I were you. Do not let it trouble you in the least.' 'Oh, it doesn't trouble me, but young men nowadays seem to think they can say anything to their elders.' 'I mean,' she continued, 'that I would not go to his partner for a day or two. Wait and see what happens. I have no doubt, when he considers the matter, he will be thoroughly ashamed of himself.' 'Well, I hope so.' 'Then give him the chance of being ashamed of himself, and take no further steps in the meantime.' Edith shortly afterwards went to her own room; there, clasping her hands behind her, she walked up and down thinking, with a very troubled heart, of what she had heard. Her view of the occurrence was very different from that taken by her father. She felt certain something dishonourable had been done by her cousin. For a long time she had mistrusted his supposed friendship for the two young men, and now she pictured to herself John Kenyon in the wilds of Canada, helpless and despondent because of the great wrong that had been done him. It was far into the night when she retired, and it was early next morning when she arose. Her father was bright and cheerful at breakfast, and had evidently forgotten all about the unpleasant incident of the day before. A good night's sleep had erased it from his memory. Edith was glad of this, and she did not mention the subject. After he had gone to the City, his daughter prepared to follow him. She did not take her carriage, but hailed a hansom, and gave the driver the number of Wentworth's offices. That young man was evidently somewhat surprised to see her. He had been trying to write to Kenyon an account of his interview with old Mr. Longworth; but after he had finished, he thought John Kenyon would not approve of his zeal, so had just torn the letter up. 'Take this chair,' he said, wheeling an armchair into position. 'It is the only comfortable one we have in the room.' 'Comfort does not matter,' said Miss Longworth. 'I came to see you about the mica-mine. What has my cousin done?' 'How do you know he has done anything?' 'That does not matter. I know. Tell me as quickly as you can what he has done.' 'It is not a very pleasant story to tell,' he said, 'to a young lady about one of her relatives.' 'Never mind that. Tell me.' 'Very well, he has done this: He has pretended he was our friend, and professed to aid us in forming this company. He has delayed us by every means in his power until the option has nearly expired. Then he has gone to Canada and secured for himself, and a man named Melville, the option of the mine when John Kenyon's time is up--that is to say, at twelve o'clock to-morrow, when Kenyon's option expires, your cousin will pay the money and own the mine; after which, of course, Kenyon and myself will be out of it. I don't mind the loss at all--I would gladly give Kenyon my share--but for John it is a terrible blow. He had counted on the money to pay debts which he considers he owes to his father for his education. He calls them debts of honour, though they are not debts of honour in the ordinary sense of the words. Therefore, it seemed to me a terrible thing that--' Here he paused and did not go on. He saw there were tears in the eyes of the girl to whom he was talking. 'It is brutal,' he said, 'to tell you all this. You are not to blame for it and neither is your father, although I spoke to him in a heated manner yesterday.' 'When did you say the option expires?' 'At twelve o'clock to-morrow.' 'How much money is required to buy the mine?' 'Twenty thousand pounds.' 'Can money be sent to Canada by cable?' 'Yes, I think so.' 'Aren't you quite sure?' 'No, I am not. It can be sent by telegraph in this country, and in America.' 'How long will it take you to find out?' 'Only a few moments.' 'Very well. Where is Mr. Kenyon now?' 'Kenyon is in Ottawa. I had a cablegram from him yesterday.' 'Then, will you write a cablegram that can be sent away at once, asking him to wait at the telegraph-office until he receives a further message from you?' 'Yes, I can do that; but what good will it do?' 'Never mind that; perhaps it will do no good. I am going to try to make it worth doing. Meanwhile remember, if I succeed, John Kenyon must never know the particulars of this transaction.' 'He never will--if you say so.' 'I say so. Now, there is six hours' difference of time between this country and Canada, is there not?' 'About that, I think.' 'Very well; lose no time in getting the cable-message sent to him, and tell him to answer, so that we shall be sure he is at the other end of the wire. Then find out about the cabling of the money. I shall be back here, I think, as soon as you are.' With that she left the office, and, getting into her cab, was driven to her father's place of business. 'Well, my girl,' said the old man, pushing his spectacles up on his brow, and gazing at her, 'what is it now--some new extravagance?' 'Yes, father, some new extravagance.' His daughter was evidently excited, and her breath came quickly. She closed the door, and took a chair opposite her father. 'Father,' she said, 'I have been your business man, as you call me, for a long time.' 'Yes, you have. Are you going to strike for an increase of salary?' 'Father,' she said earnestly, not heeding the jocularity of his tone, 'this is very serious. I want you to give me some money for myself--to speculate with.' 'I will do that very gladly. How much do you want?' The old man turned his chair round and pulled out his cheque-book. 'I want thirty thousand pounds,' she answered. Mr. Longworth wheeled quickly round in his chair and looked at her in astonishment. 'Thirty thousand what?' 'Thirty thousand pounds, father; and I want it now.' 'My dear girl,' he expostulated, 'have you any idea how much thirty thousand pounds is? Do you know that thirty thousand pounds is a fortune?' 'Yes, I know that.' 'Do you know that there is not one in twenty of the richest merchants in London who could at a moment's notice produce thirty thousand pounds in ready money?' 'Yes, I suppose that is true. Have you not the ready money?' 'Yes, I have the money. I can draw a cheque for that amount, and it will be honoured at once; but I cannot give you so much money without knowing what you are going to do with it.' 'And suppose, father, you do not approve of what I am going to do with it?' 'All the more reason, my dear, that I should know.' 'Then, father, I suppose you mean that whatever services I have rendered you, whatever comfort I have given you, what I have been to you all my life, is not worth thirty thousand pounds?' 'You shouldn't talk like that, my daughter. Everything I have is yours, or will be, when I die. It is for you I work; it is for you I accumulate money. You will have everything I own the moment I have to lay down my work.' 'Father!' cried the girl, standing up before him, 'I do not want your money when you die. I do not want you to die, as you know; but I do want thirty thousand pounds to-day, and now. I want it more than I ever wanted anything else before in my life, or ever shall again. Will you give it to me?' 'No, I will not, unless you tell me what you are going to do with it.' 'Then, father, you can leave your money to your nephew when you die; I shall never touch a penny of it. I now bid you good-bye. I will go out from this room and earn my own living.' With that the young woman turned to go, but her father, with a sprightliness one would not have expected from his years, sprang to the door and looked at her with alarm. 'Edith, my child, you never talked to me like this before in your life. What is wrong with you?' 'Nothing, father, except that I want a cheque for thirty thousand pounds, and want it now.' 'And do you mean to say that you will leave me if I do not give it to you?' 'Have you ever broken your word, father?' 'Never, my child, that I know of.' 'Then remember I am your daughter. I have said, if I do not get that money now, I shall never enter our house again.' 'But thirty thousand pounds is a tremendous amount. Remember, I have given _my_ word, too, that I would not give you the money unless you told me what it was for.' 'Very well, father, I will tell what it is for when you ask me. I would advise you, though, not to ask me; and I would advise you to give me the money. It will all be returned to you if you want it. 'Oh, I don't care about the money at all, Edith. I merely, of course, don't want to see it wasted.' 'And, father, have you no trust in my judgment?' 'Well, you know I haven't much faith in any woman's wisdom, in the matter of investing money.' 'Trust me this time, father. I shall never ask you for any more.' The old man went slowly to his desk, wrote out a cheque, and handed it to his daughter. It was for thirty thousand pounds.

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Edith Longworth, with that precious bit of paper in her pocket, once more got into her hansom and drove to Wentworth's office. Again she took the only easy-chair in the room. Her face was very serious, and Wentworth, the moment he saw it, said to himself. 'She has failed.' 'Have you telegraphed to Mr. Kenyon?' she asked. 'Yes.' 'Are you sure you made it clear to him what was wanted? Cablegrams are apt to be rather brief.' 'I told him to keep in communication with us. Here is a copy of the cablegram.' Miss Longworth read it approvingly, but said: 'You have not put in the word "answer."' 'No; but I put it in the despatch I sent. I remember that now.' 'Have you had a reply yet?' 'Oh no; you see, it takes a long time to get there, because there are so many changes from the end of the cable to the office where Kenyon is. And then, again, you see, they may have to look for him. He may not be expecting a message; in fact, he is sure not to be expecting any. From his own cablegram to me, it is quite evident he has given up all hope.' 'Show me that cablegram, please.' Wentworth hesitated. 'It is hardly couched in language you will enjoy reading,' he said. 'That doesn't matter. Show it to me. I must see all the documents in the case.' He handed her the paper, which she read in silence, and gave it back to him without a word. 'I knew you wouldn't like it,' he said. 'I have not said I do not like it. It is not a bit too strong under the circumstances. In fact, I do not see how he could have put it in other words. It is very concise and to the point.' 'Yes; there is no doubt about that, especially the first three words, "We are cheated!" Those are the words that make me think Kenyon has given up all hope; so there may be some trouble in finding him.' 'Did you learn whether money could be sent by cable or not?' 'Oh yes; there is no difficulty about that. The money is deposited in a bank here, and will be credited to Kenyon in the bank at Ottawa.' 'Very well, then,' said Miss Longworth, handing him the piece of paper, 'there is the money.' Wentworth gave a long whistle as he looked at it. 'Excuse my rudeness,' he said; 'I don't see a bit of paper like this every day. You mean, then, to buy the mine?' 'Yes, I mean to buy the mine.' 'Very well; but there is ten thousand pounds more here than is necessary.' 'Yes. I mean not only to buy the mine, but to work it; and so some working capital will be necessary. How much do you suppose.' 'About that I have no idea,' said Wentworth. 'I should think five thousand pounds would be ample.' 'Then, we shall leave five thousand pounds in the bank here for contingencies, and cable twenty-five thousand pounds to Mr. Kenyon. I shall expect him to get me a good man to manage the mine. I am sure he will be glad to do that.' 'Most certainly he will. John Kenyon, now that the mine has not fallen into the hands of those who tried to cheat him, will be glad to do anything for the new owner of it. He won't mind, in the least, losing his money if he knows that you have the mine.' 'Ah, but that is the one thing he must not know. As to losing the money, neither you nor Mr. Kenyon are to lose a penny. If the mine is all you think it is, then it will be an exceedingly profitable investment; and I intend that we shall each take our third, just as if you had contributed one-third of the money, and Mr. Kenyon another.' 'But, my dear Miss Longworth, that is absurd. We could never accept any such terms.' 'Oh yes, you can. I spoke to John Kenyon himself about being a partner in this mine. I am afraid he thought very little of the offer at the time. I don't intend him to know anything at all about my ownership now. He has discovered the mine--you and he together. If it is valueless, then you and he will be two of the sufferers; if it is all you think it is, then you will be the gainers. The labourer is worthy of his hire, and I am sure both you and Mr. Kenyon have laboured hard enough in this venture. Should he guess I bought it, the chances are that he will be stupidly and stubbornly conscientious, and decline to share the fruits of his labours.' 'And do you think, Miss Longworth, I am not conscientious enough to refuse?' 'Oh, yes; you are conscientious, but you are sensible. Mr. Kenyon isn't.' 'I think you are mistaken about that. He is one of the most sensible men in the world--morbidly sensible, perhaps.' 'Well, I think, if Mr. Kenyon knew I owned the mine, he would not take a penny as his share. So I trust you will never let him know I am the person who gave the money to buy the mine.' 'But is he never to know it, Miss Longworth?' 'Perhaps not. If he is to learn, I am the person to tell him.' 'I quite agree with you there, and I shall respect your confidence.' 'Now, what time,' said the young woman, looking at her watch, 'ought we to get an answer from Mr. Kenyon?' 'Ah, that, as I said before, no one can tell.' 'I suppose, then, the best plan is to send the money at once, or put it in the way of being sent, to some bank in Ottawa.' 'Yes, that is the best thing to do; although, of course, if John Kenyon is not there----' 'If he is not there what shall we do?' 'I do not exactly know. I could cable to Mr. Von Brent. Von Brent is the owner of the mine, and the man who gave John the option. I do not know how far he is committed to the others. If he is as honest as I take him to be, he will accept the money, providing it is sent in before twelve o'clock, and then we shall have the mine. Of that I know nothing whatever, because I have no particulars except John's cable-message.' 'Then, I can do no more just now?' 'Yes, you can. You will have to write a cheque for the twenty-five thousand pounds. You see, this cheque is crossed, and will go into your banking account. An other cheque will have to be drawn to get the money out.' 'Ah, I see. I have not my cheque-book here, but perhaps you can send this cheque to the bank, and I will return. There will be time enough, I suppose, before the closing hour of the bank?' 'Yes, there will be plenty of time. Of course, the sooner we get the money away the better.' 'I shall return shortly after lunch. Perhaps you will then have heard from Mr. Kenyon. If anything comes sooner, will you send me a telegram? Here is my address.' 'I will do that,' said Wentworth, as he bade her good-bye. As soon as lunch was over, Miss Longworth, with her cheque-book, again visited Wentworth's office. When she entered he shook his head. 'No news yet,' he said. 'This is terrible,' she answered; 'suppose he has left Ottawa and started for home?' 'I do not think he would do that. Still, I imagine he would think there was no reason for staying in Ottawa. Nevertheless, I know Kenyon well enough to believe that he will wait there till the last minute of the option has expired, in the hope that something may happen. He knows, of course, that I shall be doing everything I can in London, and he may have a faint expectation that I shall be able to accomplish something.' 'It would be useless to cable again?' 'Quite. If that message does not reach him, none will.' As he was speaking, a boy entered the room with a telegram in his hand. Its contents were short and to the point: 'Cablegram received. 'KENYON.' 'Well, that's all right,' said Wentworth; 'now I shall cable that we have the money, and advise him to identify himself at the bank, so that there can be no formalities about the drawing of it, to detain him.' Saying this, Wentworth pulled the telegraph-forms towards him, and, after considerable labour, managed to concoct a satisfactory despatch. 'Don't spare money on it,' urged his visitor; 'be sure and make it plain to him.' 'I think that will do, don't you?' 'Yes,' she answered, after reading the despatch; 'that will do.' 'Now,' she said, 'here is the cheque. Shall I wait here while you do all that is necessary to cable the money, or had I better go, and return again to see if everything is all right?' 'If you don't mind, just sit where you are. You may lock this door, if you like, and you will not be disturbed.' It was an hour before Wentworth returned, but his face was radiant. 'We have done everything we can,' he said, 'the money is at his order there, if the cablegram gets over before twelve o'clock to-morrow, as of course it will.' 'Very well, then, good-bye,' said the girl with a smile, holding out her hand.

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If any man more miserable and dejected than John Kenyon existed in the broad dominion of Canada, he was indeed a person to be pitied. After having sent his cablegram to Wentworth, he returned to his very cheerless hotel. Next morning when he awoke he knew that Wentworth would have received the message, but that the chances were ten thousand to one that he could not get the money in time, even if he could get it at all. Still, he resolved to stay in Ottawa, much as he detested the place, until the hour the option expired. Then, he thought, he would look round among the mines, and see if he could not get something to do in the management of one of them. This would enable him to make some money, wherewith to pay the debts which he and Wentworth would have incurred as a result of their disastrous speculation. He felt so depressed that he did what most other Englishmen would have done in his place--took a long walk. He stood on the bridge over the Ottawa River and gazed for a while at the Chaudière Falls, watching the mist rising from the chasm into which the waters plunged. Then he walked along the other side of the river, among big saw-mills and huge interminable piles of lumber, with their grateful piny smell. By-and-by he found himself in the country, and then the forest closed in upon the bad road on which he walked. Nevertheless, he kept on and on, without heeding where he was going. Here and there he saw clearings in the woods, and a log shanty, or perhaps a barn. The result of all this was that, being a healthy man, he soon developed an enormous appetite, which forced itself upon his attention in spite of his depression. He noticed the evening was closing around him, and so was glad to come to a farmhouse that looked better than the ordinary shanties he had left behind. Here he asked for food, and soon sat down to a plentiful meal, the coarseness of which was more than compensated for by the excellence of his appetite. After dinner he began to realize how tired he was, and felt astonished to hear from his host how far he was from Ottawa. 'You can't get there to-night,' said the farmer; 'it is no use your trying. You stay with us, and I'll take you in to-morrow. I'm going there in the afternoon.' And so Kenyon remained all night, and slept the dreamless sleep of health and exhaustion. It was somewhat late in the afternoon when he reached the city of Ottawa. Going towards his hotel, he was astonished to hear his name shouted after him. Turning round, he saw a man, whom he did not recognise, running after him. 'Your name is Kenyon, isn't it?' asked the man, somewhat out of breath. 'Yes, that is my name.' 'I guess you don't remember me. I am the telegraph operator. We have had a despatch waiting for you for some time, a cablegram from London. We have searched all over the town for you, but couldn't find you.' 'Ah,' said Kenyon, 'is it important?' 'Well, that I don't know. You had better come with me to the office and get it. Of course, they don't generally cable unimportant things. I remember it said something about you keeping yourself in readiness for something.' They walked together to the telegraph-office. The boy was still searching for Kenyon with the original despatch, but the operator turned up the file and read the copy to him. 'You see, it wants an answer,' he said; 'that's why I thought it was important to get you. You will have plenty of time for an answer to-night.' John took a lead pencil and wrote the cable despatch which Wentworth received. He paid his money, and said: 'I will go to my hotel; it is the ---- House. I will wait there, and if anything comes for me, send it over as soon as possible.' 'All right,' said the operator, 'that is the best plan; then we will know exactly where to find you. Of course, there is no use in your waiting here, because we can get you in five minutes. Perhaps I had better telephone to the hotel for you if anything comes.' 'Very well,' said Kenyon; 'I will leave it all in your hands.' Whether it was the effect of having been in the country or not, John felt that the cablegram he had received was a good omen. He meditated over the tremendous ill-fortune he had suffered in the whole business from beginning to end, and thought of old Mr. Longworth's favourite phrase, 'There's no such thing as luck.' Then came a rap at his door, and the bell-boy said: 'There is a gentleman here wishes to speak to you.' 'Ask him to come up,' was the answer; and two minutes later Von Brent entered. 'Any news?' he asked. John, who was in a state of mind which made him suspicious of everything and everybody, answered: 'No, nothing new.' 'Ah, I am sorry for that. I had some hopes that perhaps you might be able to raise the money before twelve o'clock to-morrow. Of course you know the option ends at noon to-morrow?' 'Yes, I know that.' 'Did you know that Longworth was in Ottawa?' 'No,' said Kenyon; 'I have been out of town myself.' 'Yes, he came last night. He has the money in the bank, as I told you. Now, I will not accept it until the very latest moment. Of course, legally, I cannot accept it before that time, and, just as legally, I cannot refuse his money when he tenders it. I am very sorry all this has happened--more sorry than I can tell you. I hope you will not think that I am to blame in the matter?' 'No, you are not in the slightest to blame. There is nobody in fault except myself. I feel that I have been culpably negligent, and altogether too trustful.' 'I wish to goodness I knew where you could get the money; but, of course, if I knew that, I would have had it myself long ago.' 'I am very much obliged to you,' said Kenyon; 'but the only thing you can do for me is to see that your clock is not ahead of time to-morrow. I may, perhaps, be up at the office before twelve o'clock--that is where I shall find you, I suppose?' 'Yes; I shall be there all the forenoon. I shall not leave until twelve.' 'Very good; I am much obliged to you, Mr. Von Brent, for your sympathy. I assure you, I haven't many friends, and it--well, I'm obliged to you, that's all. An Englishman, you know, is not very profuse in the matter of thanks, but I mean it.' 'I'm sure you do,' said Von Brent, 'and I'm only sorry that my assistance cannot be something substantial. Well, good-bye, hoping to see you to-morrow.' After he had departed, Kenyon's impatience increased as the hours went on. He left the hotel, and went direct to the telegraph-office; but nothing had come for him. 'I'm afraid,' said the operator, 'that there won't be anything more to-night. If it should come late, shall I send it to your hotel?' 'Certainly; no matter at what hour it comes, I wish you would let me have it as soon as possible. It is very important.' Leaving the office, he went up the street and, passing the principal hotel in the place, saw young Longworth standing under the portico of the hotel as dapper and correct in costume as ever, his single eyeglass the admiration of all Ottawa, for there was not another like it in the city. 'How do you do, Kenyon?' said that young man. 'My dear sir,' replied Kenyon, 'the last time you spoke to me you said you desired to have nothing more to say to me. I cordially reciprocated that sentiment, and I want to have nothing to say to you.' 'My dear fellow,' cried Longworth jauntily, 'there is no harm done. Of course, in New York I was a little out of sorts. Everybody is in New York--beastly hole! I don't think it is worse than Ottawa, but the air is purer here. By the way, perhaps you and I can make a little arrangement. I am going to buy that mine to-morrow, as doubtless you know. Now, I should like to see it in the hands of a good and competent man. If a couple of hundred pounds a year would be any temptation to you, I think we can afford to let you develop the mine.' 'Thank you!' said Kenyon. 'I knew you would be grateful; just think over the matter, will you? and don't come to any rash decision. We can probably give a little more than that; but until we see how the mine is turning out, it is not likely we shall spend a great deal of money on it.' 'Of course,' said John, 'the proper answer to your remark would be to knock you down; but, besides being a law-abiding citizen, I have no desire to get into gaol to-night for doing it, because there is one chance in a thousand, Mr. Longworth, that I may have some business to do with that mine myself before twelve o'clock to-morrow.' 'Ah, it is my turn to be grateful now!' said Longworth. 'In a rough-and-tumble fight I am afraid you would master me easier than you would do in a contest of diplomacy.' 'Do you call it diplomacy? You refer, I suppose, to your action in relation to the mine. I call it robbery.' 'Oh, do you? Well, that is the kind of conversation which leads to breaches of the peace; and as I also am a law-abiding subject, I will not continue the discussion any further. I bid you a very good evening, Mr. Kenyon.' The young man turned on his heel and went into the hotel. John walked to his own much more modest inn, and retired for the night. He did not sleep well. All night long, phantom telegraph-messengers were rapping at the door, and he started up every now and then to receive cablegrams which faded away as he awoke. Shortly after breakfast he went to the telegraph-office, but found that nothing had arrived for him. 'I am afraid,' said the operator, 'that nothing will come on before noon.' 'Before noon!' echoed John. 'Why?' 'The wires are down in some places in the East, and messages are delayed a good deal. Perhaps you noticed the lack of Eastern news in the morning papers? Very little news came from the East last night.' Seeing John's look of anxious interest, the operator continued: 'Does the despatch you expect pertain to money matters?' 'Yes, it does.' 'Do they know you at the bank?' 'No, I don't think they do.' 'Then, if I were you, I would go up to the bank and be identified, so that, if it is a matter of minutes, no unnecessary time may be lost. You had better tell them you expect a money-order by cable, and, although such orders are paid without any identification at the bank, yet they take every precaution to see that it does not get into the hands of the wrong man.' 'Thank you,' said Kenyon. 'I am much obliged to you for your suggestion. I will act upon it.' And as soon as the bank opened, John Kenyon presented himself to the cashier. 'I am expecting a large amount of money from England to-day. It is very important that, when it arrives, there shall be no delay in having it placed at my disposal. I want to know if there are any formalities to be gone through.' 'Where is the money coming from?' said the clerk. 'It is coming from England.' 'Is there anyone in Ottawa who can identify you?' 'Yes; I know the telegraph operator here.' 'Ah!' said the cashier somewhat doubtfully. 'Anybody else?' 'Mr. Von Brent knows me very well.' 'That will do. Suppose you get Mr. Von Brent to come here and identify you as the man who bears the name of Kenyon. Then the moment your cablegram comes the money will be at your disposal.' Kenyon hurried to Von Brent's rooms and found him alone. 'Will you come down to the bank and identify me as Kenyon?' 'Certainly. Has the money arrived?' 'No, it has not; but I expect it, and want to provide for every contingency. I do not wish to have any delay in my identification when it does come.' 'If it comes by cable,' said Von Brent, 'there will be no need of identification. The bank is not responsible, you know. They take the money entirely at the sender's risk. They might pay it to the telegraph operator who receives the message! I believe they would not be held liable. However, it is better to see that nothing is left undone.' Going over to the bank, Von Brent said to the cashier: 'This is John Kenyon.' 'Very good,' replied the cashier. 'Have you been at the telegraph-office lately, Mr. Kenyon?' 'No, I have not--at least, not for half an hour or so.' 'Well, I would go there as soon as possible, if I were you.' 'That means,' said Von Brent, as soon as they had reached the door, 'that they have had their notice about the money. I believe it is already in the bank for you. I will go back to my rooms and not leave them till you come.' John hurried to the telegraph-office. 'Anything for me yet?' he said. 'Nothing as yet, Mr. Kenyon; I think, however,' he added with a smile, 'that it will be all right. I hope so.' The moments ticked along with their usual rapidity, yet it seemed to Kenyon the clock was going fearfully fast. Eleven o'clock came and found him still pacing up and down the office of the telegraph. The operator offered him the hospitality of the private room, but this he declined. Every time the machine clicked, John's ears were on the alert, trying to catch a meaning from the instrument. Ten minutes after eleven! Twenty minutes after eleven, and still no despatch! The cold perspiration stood on John's brow, and he groaned aloud. 'I suppose it's very important,' said the operator. ' _Very_ important.' 'Well, now, I shouldn't say so, but I know the money is in the bank for you. Perhaps if you went up there and demanded it, they would give it to you.' It was twenty-five minutes past the hour when John hurried towards the bank. 'I have every belief,' he said to the cashier, 'that the money is here for me now. Is it possible for me to get it?' 'Have you your cablegram?' 'No, I have not.' 'Well, you know, we cannot pay the money until we see your cablegram. If time is of importance, you should not leave the telegraph-office, and the moment you get your message, come here; then there will be no delay whatever. Do you wish to draw all the money at once?' 'I don't know how much there is, but I must have twenty thousand pounds.' 'Very well, to save time you had better make out a cheque for twenty thousand pounds; that will be----' And here he gave the number of dollars at the rate of the day on the pound. 'Just make out a cheque for that amount, and I will certify it. A certified cheque is as good as gold. The moment you get your message I will hand you the certified cheque.' John wrote out the order and gave it to the cashier, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was now twenty-five minutes to twelve. He rushed to the telegraph-office with all the speed of which he was capable, but met only a blank look again from the chief operator. 'It has not come yet,' he said, shaking his head. Gradually despair began to descend on the waiting man. It was worse to miss everything now, than never to have had the hope of success. It was like hanging a man who had once been reprieved. He resumed his nervous pace up and down that chamber of torture. A quarter to twelve. He heard chimes ring somewhere. If the message did not come before they rang again, it would be for ever too late. Fourteen minutes--thirteen minutes--twelve minutes--eleven minutes--ten minutes to twelve, and yet, no-- 'Here you are!' shouted the operator in great glee, 'she's a-coming--it's all right--"John Kenyon, Ottawa."' Then he wrote as rapidly as the machine ticked out the message. 'There it is; now rush!' John needed no telling to rush. People had begun to notice him as the man who was doing nothing but running between the bank and the telegraph-office. It was seven minutes to twelve when he got to the bank. 'Is that despatch right?' he said, shoving it through the arched aperture. The clerk looked at it with provoking composure, and then compared it with some papers. 'For God's sake, hurry!' pleaded John. 'You have plenty of time,' said the cashier coolly, looking up at the clock and going on with his examination. 'Yes,' he added, 'that is right. Here is your certified cheque.' John clasped it, and bolted out of the bank as a burglar might have done. It was five minutes to twelve when he got to the steps that led to the rooms of Mr. Von Brent. Now all his excitement seemed to have deserted him. He was as cool and calm as if he had five days, instead of so many minutes, in which to make the payment. He mounted the steps quietly, walked along the passage, and knocked at the door of Von Brent's room. 'Come in!' was the shout that greeted him. He opened the door, glancing at the clock behind Von Brent's head as he did so. It stood at three minutes to twelve. Young Mr. Longworth was sitting there, with just a touch of pallor on his countenance, and there seemed to be an ominous glitter in his eyeglass. He said nothing, and John Kenyon completely ignored his presence. 'There is still some life left in my option, I believe?' he said to Von Brent, after nodding good-day to him. 'Very little, but perhaps it will serve. You have two minutes and a half,' said Von Brent. 'Are the papers ready?' inquired John. 'All ready, everything except putting in the names.' 'Very well, here is the money.' Von Brent looked at the certified cheque. 'That is perfectly right,' he said, 'the mine is yours.' Then he rose and stretched his hand across the table to Kenyon, who grasped it cordially. Young Mr. Longworth also rose, and said languidly 'As this seems to be a meeting of long-lost brothers, I shall not intrude. Good-day, Mr. Von Brent.' Then, adjusting his eyeglass in a leisurely manner, he walked out of the room.

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When Edith Longworth entered the office of George Wentworth, that young gentleman somewhat surprised her. He sprang from his chair the moment she entered the room, rushed out of the door, and shouted at the top of his voice to the boy, who answered him, whereupon Wentworth returned to the room, apparently in his right mind. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Longworth,' he said, laughing; 'the fact was, I had just sent my boy with a telegram for you, and now, you see, I have saved sixpence.' 'Then you have heard from Canada?' said the young lady. 'Yes; a short message, but to the point.' He handed her the cablegram, and she read: 'Mine purchased; shall take charge temporarily.' 'Then, the money got there in time,' she said, handing him back the telegraphic message. 'Oh yes,' said George, with the easy confidence of a man who doesn't at all know what he is talking about. 'We had plenty of time; I knew it would get there all right.' 'I am glad of that; I was afraid perhaps we might have sent it too late. One can never tell what delays or formalities there may be.' 'Evidently there was no trouble. And now, Miss Longworth, what are your commands? Am I to be your agent here, in Great Britain?' 'Have you written to Mr. Kenyon?' 'Yes, I wrote to him just after I sent the cable message.' 'Of course you didn't----' 'No, I didn't say a word that would lead him to suspect who was the mistress of the mine. In my zeal I even went so far as to give you a name. You are hereafter to be known in the correspondence as Mr. Smith, the owner of the mine.' Miss Longworth laughed. 'And--oh, by the way,' cried Wentworth, 'here is a barrel belonging to you.' 'A barrel!' she said, and, looking in the direction to which he pointed, she saw in the corner of the room a barrel with the head taken away. 'If it is my property,' continued the young woman, 'who has taken the liberty of opening it?' 'Oh, I did that as your agent. That barrel contains the mineral from the mine, which we hope will prove so valuable. It started from Canada over three months ago, and only arrived here the other day. It seems that the idiot who sent it addressed it by way of New York, and it was held by some Jack-in-office belonging to the United States Customs. We have had more diplomatic correspondence and trouble about that barrel than you can imagine, and now it comes a day behind the fair, when it is really of no use to anyone.' Miss Longworth rose and went to the barrel. She picked out some of the beautiful white specimens that were in it. 'Is this the mineral?' she asked. Wentworth laughed. 'Imagine a person buying a mine at an exorbitant price, and not knowing what it produces. Yes, that is the mineral.' 'This is not mica, of course?' 'No, it is not mica. That is the stuff used for the making of china.' 'It looks as if it would take a good polish. Will it, do you know?' 'I do not know. I could easily find out for you.' 'I wish you would, and get a piece of it polished, which I will use as a paper-weight.' 'What are your orders for the rest of the barrel?' 'What did you intend doing with it?' said the young woman. 'Well, I was thinking the best plan would be to send some of it to each of the pottery works in this country, and get their orders for more of the stuff, if they want to use it.' 'I think that an extremely good idea. I understand from the cablegram that Mr. Kenyon says he will take charge of the mine temporarily.' 'Yes; I imagine he left Ottawa at once, as soon as he had concluded his bargain. Of course, we shall not know for certain until he writes.' 'Very well, then, it appears to me the best thing you could do over here would be to secure what orders can be obtained in England for the mineral. Then, I suppose, you could write to Mr. Kenyon, and ask him to engage a proper person to work the mine.' 'Yes, I will do that.' 'When he comes over here, you and he can have a consultation as to the best thing to do next. I expect nothing very definite can be arranged until he comes. You may make whatever excuse you can for the absence of the mythical Mr. Smith, and say that you act for him. Then you may tell Mr. Kenyon, in whatever manner you choose, that Mr. Smith intends both you and Mr. Kenyon to share conjointly with him. I think you will have no trouble in making John--that is, in making Mr. Kenyon--believe there is such a person as Mr. Smith, if you put it strongly enough to him. Make him understand that Mr. Smith would never have heard of the mine unless Mr. Kenyon and you had discovered it, and that he is very glad indeed to have such a good opportunity of investing his money; so that, naturally, he wishes those who have been instrumental in helping him to this investment to share in its profits. I imagine you can make all this clear enough, so that your friend will suspect nothing. Don't you think so?' 'Well, with any other man than John Kenyon I should have my doubts, because, as a fabricator, I don't think I have a very high reputation; but with John I have no fears whatever. He will believe everything I say. It is almost a pity to delude so trustful a man, but it's so very much to his own advantage that I shall have no hesitation in doing it.' 'Then, you will write to him about getting a fit and proper person to manage the mine?' 'Yes. I don't think there will be any necessity for doing so, but I will make sure. I imagine John will not leave there until he sees everything to his satisfaction. He will be very anxious indeed for the mine to prove the great success he has always believed it to be, even though, at present, he does not know he is to have any pecuniary interest in its prosperity.' 'Very well then, I shall bid you good-bye. I may not be here again, but whenever you hear from Mr. Kenyon, I shall be very glad if you will let me know.' 'Certainly; I will send you all the documents in the case, as you once remarked. You always like to see the original papers, don't you?' 'Yes, I suppose I do.' Miss Longworth lingered a moment at the door, then, looking straight at Wentworth, she said to him, 'You remember you spoke rather bitterly to my father the other day?' 'Yes,' said Wentworth, colouring; 'I remember it.' 'You are a young man; he is old. Besides that, I think you were entirely in the wrong. He had nothing whatever to do with his nephew's action.' 'Oh, I know that,' said Wentworth. 'I would have apologized to him long ago, only--well, you know, he told me I shouldn't be allowed in the office again, and I don't suppose I should.' 'A letter from you would be allowed in the office,' replied the young lady, looking at the floor. 'Of course it would,' said George; 'I will write to him instantly and apologize.' 'It is very good of you,' said, Edith, holding out her hand to him; the next moment she was gone. George Wentworth turned to his desk and wrote a letter of apology. Then he mused to himself upon the strange and incomprehensible nature of women. 'She makes me apologize to him, and quite right too; but if it hadn't been for the row with her father, she never would have heard about the transaction, and therefore couldn't have bought the mine, which she was anxious to do for Kenyon's sake--lucky beggar John is, after all!'

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When the business of transferring the mine to its new owner was completed, John Kenyon went to the telegraph-office, and sent a short cable-message to Wentworth. Then he turned his steps to the hotel, an utterly exhausted man. The excitement and tension of the day had been too much for him, and he felt that, if he did not get out of the city of Ottawa and into the country, where there were fewer people and more air, he was going to be ill. He resolved to leave for the mine as soon as possible. There he would get affairs in as good order as might be, and keep things going until he heard from the owner. When he reached his hotel, he wrote a letter to Wentworth, detailing briefly the circumstances under which he had secured the mine, and dealing with other more personal matters. Having posted this, he began to pack his portmanteau, preparatory to leaving early next morning. While thus occupied, the bell-boy came into his room, and said: 'There is a gentleman wants to see you.' He imagined at once that it was Von Brent, who wished to see him with regard to some formality relating to the transfer, and he was, therefore, very much astonished--in fact, for the moment speechless--when Mr. William Longworth entered and calmly gazed round the rather shabby room with his critical eyeglass. 'Ah,' he said, 'these are your diggings, are they? This is what they call a dollar hotel, I suppose, over here. Well, some people may like it, but, I confess, I don't care much about it, myself. Their three or four dollars a day hotels are bad enough for me. By the way, you look rather surprised to see me; being strangers together in a strange country, I expected a warmer greeting. You said last night, in front of the Russell House, that it would please you very much to give me a warm greeting; perhaps you would like to do so to-night.' 'Have you come up here to provoke a quarrel with me?' asked Kenyon. 'Oh, bless you, no! Quarrel! Nothing of the sort. What should I want to quarrel about?' 'Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me why you come here, then?' 'A very reasonable request. Very reasonable indeed, and perfectly natural, but still quite unnecessary. It is not likely that a man would climb up here into your rooms, and then not be prepared to tell you why he came. I came, in the first place, to congratulate you on the beautiful and dramatic way in which you secured the mine at the last moment, or apparently at the last moment. I suppose you had the money all the time?' 'No, I had not.' 'Then you came in to Von Brent just as soon as you received it?' 'Well, now, I don't see that it is the business of anyone else but myself. Still, if you want to know, I may say that I came to Mr. Von Brent's room at the moment I received the money.' 'Really! Then it was sent over by cable, I presume?' 'Your presumption is entirely correct.' 'My dear Kenyon,' said the young man, seating himself without being asked, and gazing at John in a benevolent kind of way, 'you really show some temper over this little affair of yours. Now, here is the whole thing in a nutshell----' 'My dear sir, I don't wish to hear the whole thing, in a nutshell. I know all about it--all I wish to know.' 'Ah, precisely; of course you do; certainly; but, nevertheless, let me have my say. Here is the whole thing. I tried to--well, to cheat you. I thought I could make a little money by doing so, and my scheme failed. Now, if anybody should be in a bad temper, it is I, not you. Don't you see that? You are not acting your part well at all. I'm astonished at you!' 'Mr. Longworth, I wish to have nothing whatever to say to you. If you have anything to ask, I wish you would ask it as quickly as possible, and then leave me alone.' 'The chief fault I find with you, Kenyon,' said Longworth, throwing one leg over the other, and clasping his hands round his knee--'the chief fault I have to find is your painful lack of a sense of humour. Now, you remember last night I offered you the managership of the mine. I thought, certainly, that by this time to-day I should be owner of it, or, at least, one of the owners. Now, you don't appear to appreciate the funniness of the situation. Here you are the owner of the mine, and I am out in the cold--"left," as they say here in America. I am the man who is left----' 'If that is all you have to talk about,' said Kenyon gravely, 'I must ask you to allow me to go on with my packing. I am going to the mine to-morrow.' 'Certainly, my dear fellow; go at once and never mind me. Can I be of any assistance to you? It requires a special genius, you know, to pack a portmanteau properly. But what I wanted to say was this: Why didn't you turn round, when you had got the mine, and offer _me_ the managership of it? Then you would have had your revenge. The more I think of that episode in Von Brent's office, the more I think you utterly failed to realize the dramatic possibilities of the situation.' Kenyon was silent. 'Now, all this time you are wondering why I came here. Doubtless you wish to know what I want.' 'I have not the slightest interest in the matter,' said Kenyon. 'That is ungracious, but, nevertheless, I will continue. It is better, I see, to be honest with you, if a man wants to get anything from you. Now, I want to get a bit of information from you. I want to know where you got the money with which you bought the mine?' 'I got it from the bank.' 'Ah, yes, but I want to know who sent it over to you?' 'It was sent to me by George Wentworth.' 'Quite so; but _now_ I want to know who gave Wentworth the money?' 'You will have a chance of finding that out when you go to England, by asking him.' 'Then you won't tell me?' 'I can't tell you.' 'You mean by that, of course, that you won't.' 'I always mean, Mr. Longworth, exactly what I say. I mean that I can't tell you. I don't know myself.' 'Really?' 'Yes, really. You seem to have some difficulty in believing that anybody can speak the truth.' 'Well, it isn't a common vice, speaking the truth. You must forgive a little surprise.' He nursed his knee for a moment, and looked meditatively up at the ceiling. 'Now, would you like to know who furnished that money?' 'I have no curiosity in the matter whatever.' 'Have you not? You are a singular man. It seems to me that a person into whose lap twenty thousand pounds drops from the skies would have some little curiosity to know from whom the money came.' 'I haven't the slightest.' 'Nevertheless, I will tell you who gave the money to Wentworth. It was my dear friend Melville. I didn't tell you in New York, of course, that Melville and I had a little quarrel about this matter, and he went home decidedly huffy. I had no idea he would take this method of revenge; but I see it quite clearly now. He knew I had secured the option of the mine. There was a little trouble as to what our respective shares were to be, and I thought, as I had secured the option, I had the right to dictate terms. He thought differently. He was going to Von Brent to explain the whole matter; but I pointed out that such a course would do no good, the option being legally made out in my name, so that the moment your claim expired mine began. When this dawned upon him, he took the steamer and went to England. Now, I can see his hand in this artistic finish to the affair. It was a pretty sharp trick of Melville's, and I give him credit for it. He is a very much shrewder and cleverer man than I thought he was.' 'It seems to me, Mr. Longworth, that your inordinate conceit makes you always underestimate your friends, or your enemies either, for that matter.' 'There is something in that, Kenyon; I think you are more than half right, but I thought, perhaps, I could make it advantageous to you to do me a favour in this matter. I thought you might have no objection to writing a little document to the effect that the money did not come in time, and consequently, I had secured the mine. Then, if you would sign that, I would take it over to Melville and make terms with him. Of course, if he knows that he has the mine there will not be much chance of coming to any arrangement with him.' 'You can make no arrangements with me, Mr. Longworth, that involve sacrifice of the truth.' 'Ah, well, I suspected as much; but I thought it was worth trying. However, my dear sir, I may make terms with Melville yet, and then, I imagine, you won't have much to do with the mine.' 'I shall not have anything to do with it if you and Melville have a share in it; and if, as you suspect, Melville has the mine, I consider you are in a bad way. My opinion is that, when one rascal gets advantage over another rascal, the other rascal will be, as you say, "left."' Longworth mused over this for a moment, and said: 'Yes, I fear you are right--in fact, I am certain of it. Well, that is all I wanted to know. I will bid you good-bye. I shan't see you again in Ottawa, as I shall sail very shortly for England. Have you any messages you would like given to your friends over there?' 'None, thank you.' 'Well, ta-ta!' And John was left to his packing. That necessary operation concluded, Kenyon sat down and thought over what young Longworth had told him. His triumph, after all, had been short-lived. The choice between the two scoundrels was so small that he felt he didn't care which of them owned the mine. Meditating on this disagreeable subject, he suddenly remembered a request he had asked Wentworth to place before the new owner of the mine. He wanted no favour from Melville, so he wrote a second letter, contradicting the request made in the first, and, after posting it, returned to his hotel, and went to bed, probably the most tired man in the city of Ottawa.

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This chapter consists largely of letters. As a general rule, letters are of little concern to anyone except the writers and the receivers, but they are inserted here in the hope that the reader is already well enough acquainted with the correspondents to feel some interest in what they have written. It was nearly a fortnight after the receipt of the cablegram from Kenyon that George Wentworth found, one morning, on his desk two letters, each bearing a Canadian postage-stamp. One was somewhat bulky and one was thin, but they were both from the same writer. He tore open the thin one first, without looking at the date stamped upon it. He was a little bewildered by its contents, which ran as follows: 'MY DEAR GEORGE, 'I have just heard that Melville is the man who has bought the mine. The circumstances of the case leave no doubt in my mind that such is the fact; therefore, please disregard the request I made as to employment in the letter I posted to you a short time ago. I feel a certain sense of disappointment in the fact that Melville is the owner of the mine. It seems I have only kept one rascal from buying it in order to put it in the hands of another rascal. 'Your friend, 'JOHN KENYON.' 'Melville the owner!' cried Wentworth to himself. 'What could have put that into John's head? This letter is evidently the one posted a few hours before, so it will contain whatever request he has to make;' and, without delay, George Wentworth tore open the envelope of the second letter, which was obviously the one written first. It contained a number of documents relating to the transfer of the mine. The letter from John himself went on to give particulars of the buying of the property. Then it continued: 'I wish you would do me a favour, George. Will you kindly ask the owner of the mine if he will give me charge of it? I am, of course, anxious to make it turn out as well as possible, and I believe I can more than earn my salary, whatever it is. You know I am not grasping in the matter of money, but get me as large a salary as you think I deserve. I desire to make money for reasons that are not entirely selfish, as you know. To tell you the truth, George, I am tired of cities and of people. I want to live here in the woods, where there is not so much deceit and treachery as there seems to be in the big towns. When I reached London last time, I felt like a boy getting home. My feelings have undergone a complete change, and I think, if it were not for you and a certain young lady, I should never care to see the big city again. What is the use of my affecting mystery, and writing the words "a certain young lady"? Of course, you know whom I mean--Miss Edith Longworth. You know, also, that I am, and have long been, in love with her. If I had succeeded in making the money I thought I should by selling the mine, I might have had some hopes of making more, and of ultimately being in a position to ask her to be my wife; but that and very many other hopes have disappeared with my recent London experiences. I want to get into the forest and recover some of my lost tone, and my lost faith in human nature. If you can arrange matters with the owner of the mine, so that I may stay here for a year or two, you will do me a great favour.' George Wentworth read over the latter part of this letter two or three times. Then he rose, paced the floor, and pondered. 'It isn't a thing upon which I can ask anyone's advice,' he muttered to himself. 'The trouble with Kenyon is, he is entirely too modest; a little useful self-esteem would be just the thing for him.' At last he stopped suddenly in his walk. 'By Jove!' he said to himself, slapping his thigh, 'I shall do it, let the consequences be what they may.' Then he sat down at his desk and wrote a letter. 'DEAR Miss LONGWORTH' (it began), 'You told me when you were here last that you wanted all the documents pertaining to the mine, in every instance. A document has come this morning that is rather important. John Kenyon, as you will learn by reading the letter, desires the managership of the mine. I need not say that I think he is the best man in the world for the position, and that everything will be safe in his hands. I therefore enclose you his letter. I had some thought of cutting out a part of it, but knowing your desire to have all the documents in the case, I take the liberty of sending this one exactly as it reached me, and if anyone is to blame, I am the person. 'I remain, your agent, 'GEORGE WENTWORTH.' He sent this letter out at once, so that he would not have a chance to change his mind. 'It will reach her this afternoon, and doubtless she will call and see me.' It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to say she did _not_ call, and she did not see him for many days afterwards; but next morning, when he came to his office, he found a letter from her. It ran: 'DEAR MR. WENTWORTH, 'The sending of Mr. Kenyon's letter to me is a somewhat dangerous precedent, which you must on no account follow by sending any letters you may receive from any other person to Mr. Kenyon. However, as you were probably aware when you sent the letter, no blame will rest on your shoulders, or on those of anyone else, in this instance. Still, be very careful in future, because letter-sending, unabridged, is sometimes a risky thing to do. You are to remember that I always want all the documents in the case, and I want them with nothing eliminated. I am very much obliged to you for forwarding the letter. 'As to the managership of the mine, of course I thought Mr. Kenyon would desire to come back to London. If he is content to stay abroad, and really wants to stay there, I wish you would tell him that Mr. Smith is exceedingly pleased to know he is willing to take charge of the mine. It would not look businesslike on the part of Mr. Smith to say that Mr. Kenyon is to name his own salary, but, unfortunately, Mr. Smith is very ignorant as to what a proper salary should be, so will you kindly settle that question? You know the usual salary for such an occupation. Please write down that figure, and add two hundred a year to it. Tell Mr. Kenyon the amount named is the salary Mr. Smith assigns to him. 'Pray be very careful in the wording of the letters, so that Mr. Kenyon will not have any idea who Mr. Smith is. 'Yours truly, 'EDITH LONGWORTH. When Wentworth received this letter, being a man, he did not know whether Miss Longworth was pleased or not. However, he speedily wrote to John, telling him that he was appointed manager of the mine, and that Mr. Smith was very much pleased to have him in that capacity. He named the salary, but said if it was not enough, no doubt Mr. Smith was so anxious for his services that the amount would be increased. John, when he got the letter, was more than satisfied. At the time Wentworth was reading his letters, John had received those which had been sent when the mine was bought. He was relieved to find that Melville was not, after all, the owner; and he went to work with a will, intending to put in two or three years of his life, with hard labour, in developing the resources of the property. The first fortnight, before he received any letters, he did nothing but make himself acquainted with the way work was being carried on there. He found many things to improve. The machinery had been allowed to run down, and the men worked in the listless way men do when they are under no particular supervision. The manager of the mine was very anxious about his position. John told him the property had changed hands but, until he had further news from England, he could not tell just what would be done. When the letters came, John took hold with a will, and there was soon a decided improvement in the way affairs were going. He allowed the old manager to remain as a sort of sub-manager; but that individual soon found that the easy times of the Austrian Mining Company were for ever gone. Kenyon had to take one or two long trips in Canada and the United States, to arrange for the disposal of the products of the mine; but, as a general rule, his time was spent entirely in the log village near the river. When a year had passed, he was able to write a very jubilant letter to Wentworth. 'You see,' he said, 'after all, the mine was worth the two hundred thousand pounds we asked for it. It pays, even the first year, ten per cent. on that amount. This will give back all the mine has cost, and I think, George, the honest thing for us to do would be to let the whole proceeds go to Mr. Smith this year, who advanced the money at a critical time. This will recoup him for his outlay, because the working capital has not been touched. The mica has more than paid the working of the mine, and all the rest is clear profit. Therefore, if you are willing, we will let our third go this year, and then we can take our large dividend next year with a clear conscience. I enclose the balance-sheet.' To this letter there came an answer in due time from Wentworth, who said that he had placed John's proposal before Mr. Smith; but it seemed the gentleman was so pleased with the profitable investment he had made that he would hear of no other division of the profits but that of share and share alike. He appeared to be very much touched by the offer John had made, and respected him for making it, but the proposed rescinding on his part and Wentworth's was a thing not to be thought of. This being the case, John sent a letter and a very large cheque to his father. The moment of posting that letter was, doubtless, one of the happiest of his life, and this ends the formidable array of letters which appears in this chapter.

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Wentworth had written to Kenyon that Mr. Smith absolutely refused to take more than one-third of the profits of the mine. It was true that the offer had been declined, but Wentworth never knew how much tempted the Mistress of the Mine had been when he made it. Her one great desire was to pay back the thirty thousand pounds to her father, and she wanted to do it as speedily as possible. At the end of the second year her profits from the mine, including the return of the five thousand pounds which had been sent to Ottawa as working capital, was still about five thousand pounds under the thirty thousand pounds. She looked forward eagerly to the time when she would be able to pay the thirty thousand pounds to her father. Old Mr. Longworth had never spoken a word to his daughter about the money. She had expected he would ask her what she had done with it, but he had never mentioned the subject. Her conscience troubled her very frequently about the method she had taken to obtain that large amount. She saw that her father had changed in his manner towards her since that day. He had given her the money, but he had given it, as one might say, almost under compulsion, and there was no doubt that, generous as he was, he did not like being coerced into parting with his money. Edith Longworth had paid more for the mine than the amount of cash she had deposited in Ottawa. She had paid for it by being cut off from her father's confidence. Now he never asked her advice about any of his business ventures, and, for the first time in many years, he had taken a long sea-voyage without inviting her to accompany him. All this made the girl more and more anxious to obtain the money to pay back her indebtedness, and, if Wentworth had made the same offer at the end of the second year which he had made at the close of the first, she would have accepted it. The offer, however, was not made, and Miss Longworth said nothing, but took her share of the profits and put them into the bank. The plan of placing all one's eggs into the same basket is a good one--until something happens to the basket! It is said that lightning never strikes twice in the same place, and, as the small boy remarked, 'it never needed to.' In Mr. Longworth's affairs lightning struck in three places, and in each of those strokes it hit a large basket. A new law had been passed in one part of the world that vitally affected great interests he held there. In another part of the world, at the same time, there occurred a revolution, and every business in that country stopped for the time being. In still another part of the world there had been a commercial crisis; and, in sympathy with all these financial disasters, the money market in London was exceedingly stringent. Everybody wanted to sell, and nobody wished to buy. This unfortunate combination of circumstances hit old Mr. Longworth hard. It was not that he did not believe all his investments were secure, could he only weather the gale, but there was an immediate need of ready money which it seemed absolutely impossible to obtain. Day by day his daughter saw him ageing perceptibly. She knew worry was the cause of this, and she knew the events that were happening in different parts of the world must seriously embarrass her father. She longed to speak to him about his business, but one attempt she made in this direction had been very rudely rebuffed, and she was not a woman to tempt a second repulse of that kind. So she kept silent, and saw with grief the havoc business troubles were making with her father's health. 'The old man,' said young Longworth, 'seems to be in a corner.' 'I do not want you ever again to allude to my father as "the old man"--remember that!' cried the girl indignantly. Young Longworth shrugged his shoulders, and said: 'I don't think you can insist on my calling him a young man much longer. If he isn't an old man, I should like to know who is?' 'That doesn't matter,' said Edith. 'You must not use such a phrase again in my hearing. What do you mean by saying he is in a corner?' 'Well,' returned the young man, 'I don't know much about his business. He does not take me into his confidence at all. In fact, the older he grows, the closer he gets, and the chances are he will make some very bad speculation before long, if he has not done so already. That is the way with old men, begging your pardon for using the phrase. It is not levelled against your father in this instance, but at old men as a class, especially men who have been successful. They seem to resent anybody giving them advice.' One day Edith received a telegram, asking her to come to the office in the City without delay. She was panic-stricken when she read the message, feeling sure her father had been stricken down in his office, and was probably dying--perhaps dead. She had feared some such result for a long time, because of the intense anxiety to which he had been subjected, and he was not a man who could be counselled to take care of himself on the plea that he was getting old. He resented any intimation that he was not as good a business man as he had ever been, and so it was extremely difficult to get him to listen to reason, if anyone had the courage to talk reason to him. Edith, without a moment's delay, sprang lightly into a hansom, and went to the District Railway without waiting for her carriage. From the Mansion House Station another cab took her quickly to her father's office. She was immensely relieved, as she passed through, to see the clerks working as if nothing particular had happened. On entering her father's room, she found him pacing up and down the apartment, while her cousin sat, apparently absorbed in his own affairs, at his desk. Her father was evidently greatly excited. 'Edith,' he cried the moment she entered, 'where is that money I gave you two years ago?' 'It is invested,' she answered, turning slightly pale. Her father laughed--a hoarse, dry laugh. 'Just as I thought,' he sneered--'put in such shape that a person cannot touch a penny of it, I suppose. In what is it invested? I must have that money.' 'How soon do you need it, father? 'I want it just now, at this moment; if I don't have that money I am a ruined man.' 'This moment. I suppose, means any time to-day, before the bank closes?' Her father looked at her for a moment, then said: 'Yes that is what it means. 'I will try and get you the money before that time.' 'My dear girl,' he said bitterly, 'you don't know what you are talking about. If you have that money invested, even if your investment is worth three times now what it was then, you could not get a penny on it. Don't you know the state of the London money market? Don't you know how close money is? I thought perhaps you might have some portion of it yet, not sunk in your silly investment, whatever it is. I have never asked you what it was. You told me you would tell me, but you never have done so. I looked on that money as lost. I look on it still as lost. If you can get me a remnant of it, it will help me now more than the whole amount, or double the amount, would have done at the time I gave it to you. What have you done with the money? What is it invested in?' 'It is invested in a mine.' 'A mine. Of all things in the world in which to sink money, a mine is the worst. Just what a woman or a fool would do! How do you expect to raise money on a mine in the present state of the market? What, in the name of wonder, made you put it into a mine? Whose mine did you buy?' 'I do not know whose it was, father, but I was willing to tell you all I knew at the time you asked me and if you ask me now what mine I bought, I will tell you.' 'Certainly I ask you. What mine did you buy?' 'I bought the mine for which John Kenyon was agent.' The moment these words were said, her cousin sprang to his feet and glared at her like a man demented. 'You bought that mine--you? Then Wentworth lied to me. He said a Mr. Smith had given him the money.' 'I am the Mr. Smith, William.' 'You are the Mr. Smith! You are the one who has cheated me out of that mine!' 'My dear cousin, the less we say about cheating, the better. I am talking to my father just now, and I do not wish to be interrupted. Will you be so kind as to leave the room until my interview with him is over?' 'So you bought the mica-mine, did you! Pretending to be friendly with me, and knowing all the time that you were doing your best to cheat----' 'Come, come!' interrupted the old gentleman; 'William, none of this. If anyone is to talk roughly to Edith, it will be me, not you. Come, sir, leave the room, as she has asked you to do. Now, my daughter,' he continued, in a much milder tone of voice, after young Longworth had left the office, 'have you any ready money? It is no use saying the mine is worth a hundred thousand pounds, or a million, just now, if you haven't the ready money. Edith, my child,' he cried, 'sit down with me a moment, and I will explain the whole situation to you. It seems to me that ever since I stopped consulting you things have gone wrong. Perhaps, even if you have the money, it is better not to risk it just now; but one pound will do what two pounds will not do a year hence, or perhaps six months from now, when this panic is over.' Edith sat down beside her father and heard from him exactly how things stood. Then she said: 'All you really need is about fifteen thousand pounds?' 'Yes, that would do; I'm sure that would carry me over. Can you get it for me, my child?' 'Yes, and more. I will try to get you the whole amount. Wait for me here twenty minutes or half an hour.' George Wentworth was very much surprised when he saw Edith Longworth enter his office. It had been many months since she was there before, and he cordially held out his hand to the girl. 'Mr. Wentworth,' she began at once, 'have you any of the money the mica mine has brought you?' 'Yes. I invested the first year's proceeds, but, since I got the last amount, things have been so shaky in the City that it is still at the bank.' 'Will you lend me--_can_ you lend me five thousand pounds of it?' 'Of, course I can, and will; and very glad I am to get the chance of doing so.' 'Then, please write me out a cheque for it at once, and whatever papers you want as security, make them out, and I will see that you are secured.' 'Look here, Miss Longworth,' said the young man, placing his hands on his hips and gazing at her, 'do you mean to insult me? Do you not know that the reason I am able to write out a cheque for five thousand pounds, that will be honoured, is entirely because you trusted your money to me and Kenyon without security? Do you think I want security? Take back the word, Miss Longworth.' 'I will--I will,' she said; 'but I am in a great hurry. Please write me out the cheque, for I must have it before the bank closes.' The cheque was promptly written out and handed to her. 'I am afraid,' she said, 'I am not very polite to-day, and rather abrupt; but I will make up for it some other time.' And so, bidding the young man good-bye, she drove to the bank, deposited the cheque, drew her own for thirty thousand pounds, and carried it to her father. 'There,' she said, 'is thirty thousand pounds, and I still own the mine, or, at least, part of it. All the money is made from the cheque you gave me, or, rather, two-thirds of it, because one-third was never touched. Now, it seems to me, father, that, if I am a good enough business woman to more than double my money in two years, I am a good enough business woman to be consulted by my father whenever he needs a confidant. My dear father, I want to take some of the burden off your shoulders.' There were tears in her father's eyes as he put his arm round her waist and whispered to her: 'There is no one in all London like you, my dear--no one, no one. I'll have no more secrets from you, my own brave girl.'

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Kenyon's luck, as he said to himself, had turned. The second year was even more prosperous than the first, and the third as successful as the second. He had a steady market for his mineral, and, besides, he had the great advantage of knowing the rogues to avoid. Some new swindles he had encountered during his first year's experience had taught him lessons that he profited by in the second and third. He liked his home in the wilderness, and he liked the rough people amongst whom he found himself. Notwithstanding his renunciation of London, however, there would now and then come upon him a yearning for the big city, and he promised himself a trip there at the end of the third year. Wentworth had been threatening month after month to come out and see him, but something had always interfered. Taking it all in all, John liked it better in the winter than in the summer, in spite of the extreme cold. The cold was steady and could be depended upon; moreover, it was healthful and invigorating. In summer, John never quite became accustomed to the ravages of the black fly, the mosquito, and other insect pests of that region. His first interview with the black fly left his face in such a condition that he was glad he lived in a wilderness. At the beginning of the second winter John treated himself to a luxury. He bought a natty little French Canadian horse that was very quick and accustomed to the ice of the river, which formed the highway by which he reached Burntpine from the mine in the cold season. To supplement the horse, he also got a comfortable little cutter, and with this turn-out he made his frequent journeys between the mine and Burntpine with comfort and speed, wrapped snugly in buffalo robes. If London often reverted to his mind, there was another subject that obtruded itself even more frequently. His increased prosperity had something to do with this. He saw that, if he was to have a third of the receipts of the mine, he was not to remain a poor man for very long, and this fact gave him a certain courage which had been lacking before. He wondered if she remembered him. Wentworth had said very little about her when he wrote, for his letters were largely devoted to enthusiastic eulogies of Jennie Brewster, and Kenyon, in spite of the confession he had made when his case seemed hopeless, was loath to write and ask his friend anything about Edith. One day, on a clear sharp frosty winter morning, Kenyon had his little pony harnessed for his weekly journey to Burntpine. After the rougher part of the road between the mine and the river had been left behind, and the pony got down to her work on the ice, with the two white banks of snow on either side of the smooth track, John gave himself up to thinking about the subject which now so often engrossed his mind. Wrapped closely in his furs, with the cutter skimming along the ice, these thoughts found a pleasant accompaniment in the silvery tinkle of the bells which jingled around his horse's neck. As a general thing, he met no one on the icy road from the mine to the village. Sometimes there was a procession of sleighs bearing supplies for his own mine and those beyond, and when this procession was seen, Kenyon had to look out for some place by the side of the track where he could pull up his horse and cutter and allow the teams to pass. The snow on each side of the cutting was so deep that these bays were shovelled out here and there to permit teams to get past each other. He had gone halfway to the village, when he saw ahead of him a pair of horses which he at once recognised as those belonging to the hotel-keeper. He drew up in the first bay and awaited the approach of the sleigh. He saw that it contained visitors for himself, because the driver, on recognising him, had turned round and spoken to the occupants of the vehicle. As it came along, the man drew up and nodded to Kenyon, who, although ordinarily the most polite of men, did not return the salutation. He was stricken dumb with astonishment on seeing who was in the sleigh. One woman was so bundled up that not even her nose appeared out in the cold, but the smiling rosy face of the other needed no introduction to John Kenyon. 'Well, Mr. Kenyon,' cried a laughing voice, 'you did not expect to see me this morning, did you?' 'I confess I did not,' said John, 'and yet--.' Here he paused; he was going to say, 'and yet I was thinking of you,' but he checked himself. Miss Longworth, who had a talent for reading the unspoken thoughts of John Kenyon, probably did not need to be told the end of the sentence. 'Are you going to the village?' she asked. 'I _was_ going. I am not going now.' 'That's right. I was just about to invite you to turn round with us. You see, we are on our way to look at the mine, and, I suppose, we shall have to obtain the consent of the manager before we can do so.' Miss Longworth's companion had emerged for a moment from her wraps and looked at John, but instantly retired among the furs again with a shiver. She was not so young as her companion, and she considered this the most frightful climate she had ever encountered. 'Now,' said John, 'although your sleigh is very comfortable, I think this cutter of mine is even more so. It is intended for two; won't you step out of the sleigh into the cutter? Then, if the driver will move on, I can turn, and we will follow the sleigh.' 'I shall be delighted to do so,' said the young woman, shaking herself free from the buffalo robe, and stepping lightly from the sleigh into the cutter, pausing, however, for a moment, before she did so, to put her own wraps over her companion. John tucked her in beside himself, and, as the sleigh jingled on, he slowly turned his pony round into the road again. 'I have got a pretty fast pony,' he said, 'but I think we will let them drive on ahead. It irritates this little horse to see anything in front of it.' 'Then we can make up speed,' said Edith, 'and catch them before they get to the mine. Is it far from here?' 'No, not very far; at least, it doesn't take long to get there with a smart horse.' 'I have enjoyed this experience ever so much,' she said; 'you see, my father had to come to Montreal on business, so I came with him, as usual, and, being there, I thought I would run up here and see the mine. I wanted,' she continued, looking at the other side of the cutter and trailing her well-gloved fingers in the snow--'I wanted to know personally whether my manager was conducting my property in the way it ought to be conducted, notwithstanding the very satisfactory balance-sheets he sends.' ' _Your_ property!' exclaimed John, in amazement. 'Certainly. You didn't know that, did you?' she replied, looking for a moment at him, and then away from him. 'I call myself the Mistress of the Mine.' 'Then you are--you are----' 'Mr. Smith,' said the girl coming to his rescue. There was a moment's pause, and the next words John said were not at all what she expected. 'Take your hand out of the snow,' he commanded, 'and put it in under the buffalo robe; you have no idea how cold it is here, and your hand will be frozen in a moment.' 'Really,' said the girl, 'an employee must not talk to his employer in that tone! My hand is my own, is it not?' 'I hope it is,' said John, 'because I want to ask you for it.' For answer Miss Edith Longworth placed her hand in his. Actions speak louder than words. The sleigh was far in advance, and there were no witnesses on the white topped hills. 'Were you astonished?' she said, 'when I told you that I owned the mine?' 'Very much so indeed. Were _you_ astonished when I told you I wished to own the owner of the mine?' 'Not in the slightest.' 'Why?' 'Because your treacherous friend Wentworth sent me your letter applying for a situation. You got the situation, didn't you, John?' THE END

1

AN INVITATION FOR TOM AND HUCK

[Note: Strange as the incidents of this story are, they are not inventions, but facts--even to the public confession of the accused. I take them from an old-time Swedish criminal trial, change the actors, and transfer the scenes to America. I have added some details, but only a couple of them are important ones. -- M. T.] WELL, it was the next spring after me and Tom Sawyer set our old nigger Jim free, the time he was chained up for a runaway slave down there on Tom's uncle Silas's farm in Arkansaw. The frost was working out of the ground, and out of the air, too, and it was getting closer and closer onto barefoot time every day; and next it would be marble time, and next mumbletypeg, and next tops and hoops, and next kites, and then right away it would be summer and going in a-swimming. It just makes a boy homesick to look ahead like that and see how far off summer is. Yes, and it sets him to sighing and saddening around, and there's something the matter with him, he don't know what. But anyway, he gets out by himself and mopes and thinks; and mostly he hunts for a lonesome place high up on the hill in the edge of the woods, and sets there and looks away off on the big Mississippi down there a-reaching miles and miles around the points where the timber looks smoky and dim it's so far off and still, and everything's so solemn it seems like everybody you've loved is dead and gone, and you 'most wish you was dead and gone too, and done with it all. Don't you know what that is? It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want--oh, you don't quite know what it is you DO want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so! It seems to you that mainly what you want is to get away; get away from the same old tedious things you're so used to seeing and so tired of, and set something new. That is the idea; you want to go and be a wanderer; you want to go wandering far away to strange countries where everything is mysterious and wonderful and romantic. And if you can't do that, you'll put up with considerable less; you'll go anywhere you CAN go, just so as to get away, and be thankful of the chance, too. Well, me and Tom Sawyer had the spring fever, and had it bad, too; but it warn't any use to think about Tom trying to get away, because, as he said, his Aunt Polly wouldn't let him quit school and go traipsing off somers wasting time; so we was pretty blue. We was setting on the front steps one day about sundown talking this way, when out comes his aunt Polly with a letter in her hand and says: “Tom, I reckon you've got to pack up and go down to Arkansaw--your aunt Sally wants you.” I 'most jumped out of my skin for joy. I reckoned Tom would fly at his aunt and hug her head off; but if you believe me he set there like a rock, and never said a word. It made me fit to cry to see him act so foolish, with such a noble chance as this opening up. Why, we might lose it if he didn't speak up and show he was thankful and grateful. But he set there and studied and studied till I was that distressed I didn't know what to do; then he says, very ca'm, and I could a shot him for it: “Well,” he says, “I'm right down sorry, Aunt Polly, but I reckon I got to be excused--for the present.” His aunt Polly was knocked so stupid and so mad at the cold impudence of it that she couldn't say a word for as much as a half a minute, and this gave me a chance to nudge Tom and whisper: “Ain't you got any sense? Sp'iling such a noble chance as this and throwing it away?” But he warn't disturbed. He mumbled back: “Huck Finn, do you want me to let her SEE how bad I want to go? Why, she'd begin to doubt, right away, and imagine a lot of sicknesses and dangers and objections, and first you know she'd take it all back. You lemme alone; I reckon I know how to work her.” Now I never would 'a' thought of that. But he was right. Tom Sawyer was always right--the levelest head I ever see, and always AT himself and ready for anything you might spring on him. By this time his aunt Polly was all straight again, and she let fly. She says: “You'll be excused! YOU will! Well, I never heard the like of it in all my days! The idea of you talking like that to ME! Now take yourself off and pack your traps; and if I hear another word out of you about what you'll be excused from and what you won't, I lay I'LL excuse you--with a hickory!” She hit his head a thump with her thimble as we dodged by, and he let on to be whimpering as we struck for the stairs. Up in his room he hugged me, he was so out of his head for gladness because he was going traveling. And he says: “Before we get away she'll wish she hadn't let me go, but she won't know any way to get around it now. After what she's said, her pride won't let her take it back.” Tom was packed in ten minutes, all except what his aunt and Mary would finish up for him; then we waited ten more for her to get cooled down and sweet and gentle again; for Tom said it took her ten minutes to unruffle in times when half of her feathers was up, but twenty when they was all up, and this was one of the times when they was all up. Then we went down, being in a sweat to know what the letter said. She was setting there in a brown study, with it laying in her lap. We set down, and she says: “They're in considerable trouble down there, and they think you and Huck'll be a kind of diversion for them--'comfort,' they say. Much of that they'll get out of you and Huck Finn, I reckon. There's a neighbor named Brace Dunlap that's been wanting to marry their Benny for three months, and at last they told him point blank and once for all, he COULDN'T; so he has soured on them, and they're worried about it. I reckon he's somebody they think they better be on the good side of, for they've tried to please him by hiring his no-account brother to help on the farm when they can't hardly afford it, and don't want him around anyhow. Who are the Dunlaps?” “They live about a mile from Uncle Silas's place, Aunt Polly--all the farmers live about a mile apart down there--and Brace Dunlap is a long sight richer than any of the others, and owns a whole grist of niggers. He's a widower, thirty-six years old, without any children, and is proud of his money and overbearing, and everybody is a little afraid of him. I judge he thought he could have any girl he wanted, just for the asking, and it must have set him back a good deal when he found he couldn't get Benny. Why, Benny's only half as old as he is, and just as sweet and lovely as--well, you've seen her. Poor old Uncle Silas--why, it's pitiful, him trying to curry favor that way--so hard pushed and poor, and yet hiring that useless Jubiter Dunlap to please his ornery brother.” “What a name--Jubiter! Where'd he get it?” “It's only just a nickname. I reckon they've forgot his real name long before this. He's twenty-seven, now, and has had it ever since the first time he ever went in swimming. The school teacher seen a round brown mole the size of a dime on his left leg above his knee, and four little bits of moles around it, when he was naked, and he said it minded him of Jubiter and his moons; and the children thought it was funny, and so they got to calling him Jubiter, and he's Jubiter yet. He's tall, and lazy, and sly, and sneaky, and ruther cowardly, too, but kind of good-natured, and wears long brown hair and no beard, and hasn't got a cent, and Brace boards him for nothing, and gives him his old clothes to wear, and despises him. Jubiter is a twin.” “What's t'other twin like?” “Just exactly like Jubiter--so they say; used to was, anyway, but he hain't been seen for seven years. He got to robbing when he was nineteen or twenty, and they jailed him; but he broke jail and got away--up North here, somers. They used to hear about him robbing and burglaring now and then, but that was years ago. He's dead, now. At least that's what they say. They don't hear about him any more.” “What was his name?” “Jake.” There wasn't anything more said for a considerable while; the old lady was thinking. At last she says: “The thing that is mostly worrying your aunt Sally is the tempers that that man Jubiter gets your uncle into.” Tom was astonished, and so was I. Tom says: “Tempers? Uncle Silas? Land, you must be joking! I didn't know he HAD any temper.” “Works him up into perfect rages, your aunt Sally says; says he acts as if he would really hit the man, sometimes.” “Aunt Polly, it beats anything I ever heard of. Why, he's just as gentle as mush.” “Well, she's worried, anyway. Says your uncle Silas is like a changed man, on account of all this quarreling. And the neighbors talk about it, and lay all the blame on your uncle, of course, because he's a preacher and hain't got any business to quarrel. Your aunt Sally says he hates to go into the pulpit he's so ashamed; and the people have begun to cool toward him, and he ain't as popular now as he used to was.” “Well, ain't it strange? Why, Aunt Polly, he was always so good and kind and moony and absent-minded and chuckle-headed and lovable--why, he was just an angel! What CAN be the matter of him, do you reckon?”

2

JAKE DUNLAP

WE had powerful good luck; because we got a chance in a stern-wheeler from away North which was bound for one of them bayous or one-horse rivers away down Louisiana way, and so we could go all the way down the Upper Mississippi and all the way down the Lower Mississippi to that farm in Arkansaw without having to change steamboats at St. Louis; not so very much short of a thousand miles at one pull. A pretty lonesome boat; there warn't but few passengers, and all old folks, that set around, wide apart, dozing, and was very quiet. We was four days getting out of the “upper river,” because we got aground so much. But it warn't dull--couldn't be for boys that was traveling, of course. From the very start me and Tom allowed that there was somebody sick in the stateroom next to ourn, because the meals was always toted in there by the waiters. By and by we asked about it--Tom did and the waiter said it was a man, but he didn't look sick. “Well, but AIN'T he sick?” “I don't know; maybe he is, but 'pears to me he's just letting on.” “What makes you think that?” “Because if he was sick he would pull his clothes off SOME time or other--don't you reckon he would? Well, this one don't. At least he don't ever pull off his boots, anyway.” “The mischief he don't! Not even when he goes to bed?” “No.” It was always nuts for Tom Sawyer--a mystery was. If you'd lay out a mystery and a pie before me and him, you wouldn't have to say take your choice; it was a thing that would regulate itself. Because in my nature I have always run to pie, whilst in his nature he has always run to mystery. People are made different. And it is the best way. Tom says to the waiter: “What's the man's name?” “Phillips.” “Where'd he come aboard?” “I think he got aboard at Elexandria, up on the Iowa line.” “What do you reckon he's a-playing?” “I hain't any notion--I never thought of it.” I says to myself, here's another one that runs to pie. “Anything peculiar about him? --the way he acts or talks?” “No--nothing, except he seems so scary, and keeps his doors locked night and day both, and when you knock he won't let you in till he opens the door a crack and sees who it is.” “By jimminy, it's int'resting! I'd like to get a look at him. Say--the next time you're going in there, don't you reckon you could spread the door and--” “No, indeedy! He's always behind it. He would block that game.” Tom studied over it, and then he says: “Looky here. You lend me your apern and let me take him his breakfast in the morning. I'll give you a quarter.” The boy was plenty willing enough, if the head steward wouldn't mind. Tom says that's all right, he reckoned he could fix it with the head steward; and he done it. He fixed it so as we could both go in with aperns on and toting vittles. He didn't sleep much, he was in such a sweat to get in there and find out the mystery about Phillips; and moreover he done a lot of guessing about it all night, which warn't no use, for if you are going to find out the facts of a thing, what's the sense in guessing out what ain't the facts and wasting ammunition? I didn't lose no sleep. I wouldn't give a dern to know what's the matter of Phillips, I says to myself. Well, in the morning we put on the aperns and got a couple of trays of truck, and Tom he knocked on the door. The man opened it a crack, and then he let us in and shut it quick. By Jackson, when we got a sight of him, we 'most dropped the trays! and Tom says: “Why, Jubiter Dunlap, where'd YOU come from?” Well, the man was astonished, of course; and first off he looked like he didn't know whether to be scared, or glad, or both, or which, but finally he settled down to being glad; and then his color come back, though at first his face had turned pretty white. So we got to talking together while he et his breakfast. And he says: “But I aint Jubiter Dunlap. I'd just as soon tell you who I am, though, if you'll swear to keep mum, for I ain't no Phillips, either.” Tom says: “We'll keep mum, but there ain't any need to tell who you are if you ain't Jubiter Dunlap.” “Why?” “Because if you ain't him you're t'other twin, Jake. You're the spit'n image of Jubiter.” “Well, I'm Jake. But looky here, how do you come to know us Dunlaps?” Tom told about the adventures we'd had down there at his uncle Silas's last summer, and when he see that there warn't anything about his folks--or him either, for that matter--that we didn't know, he opened out and talked perfectly free and candid. He never made any bones about his own case; said he'd been a hard lot, was a hard lot yet, and reckoned he'd be a hard lot plumb to the end. He said of course it was a dangerous life, and--He give a kind of gasp, and set his head like a person that's listening. We didn't say anything, and so it was very still for a second or so, and there warn't no sounds but the screaking of the woodwork and the chug-chugging of the machinery down below. Then we got him comfortable again, telling him about his people, and how Brace's wife had been dead three years, and Brace wanted to marry Benny and she shook him, and Jubiter was working for Uncle Silas, and him and Uncle Silas quarreling all the time--and then he let go and laughed. “Land!” he says, “it's like old times to hear all this tittle-tattle, and does me good. It's been seven years and more since I heard any. How do they talk about me these days?” “Who?” “The farmers--and the family.” “Why, they don't talk about you at all--at least only just a mention, once in a long time.” “The nation!” he says, surprised; “why is that?” “Because they think you are dead long ago.” “No! Are you speaking true? --honor bright, now.” He jumped up, excited. “Honor bright. There ain't anybody thinks you are alive.” “Then I'm saved, I'm saved, sure! I'll go home. They'll hide me and save my life. You keep mum. Swear you'll keep mum--swear you'll never, never tell on me. Oh, boys, be good to a poor devil that's being hunted day and night, and dasn't show his face! I've never done you any harm; I'll never do you any, as God is in the heavens; swear you'll be good to me and help me save my life.” We'd a swore it if he'd been a dog; and so we done it. Well, he couldn't love us enough for it or be grateful enough, poor cuss; it was all he could do to keep from hugging us. We talked along, and he got out a little hand-bag and begun to open it, and told us to turn our backs. We done it, and when he told us to turn again he was perfectly different to what he was before. He had on blue goggles and the naturalest-looking long brown whiskers and mustashes you ever see. His own mother wouldn't 'a' knowed him. He asked us if he looked like his brother Jubiter, now. “No,” Tom said; “there ain't anything left that's like him except the long hair.” “All right, I'll get that cropped close to my head before I get there; then him and Brace will keep my secret, and I'll live with them as being a stranger, and the neighbors won't ever guess me out. What do you think?” Tom he studied awhile, then he says: “Well, of course me and Huck are going to keep mum there, but if you don't keep mum yourself there's going to be a little bit of a risk--it ain't much, maybe, but it's a little. I mean, if you talk, won't people notice that your voice is just like Jubiter's; and mightn't it make them think of the twin they reckoned was dead, but maybe after all was hid all this time under another name?” “By George,” he says, “you're a sharp one! You're perfectly right. I've got to play deef and dumb when there's a neighbor around. If I'd a struck for home and forgot that little detail--However, I wasn't striking for home. I was breaking for any place where I could get away from these fellows that are after me; then I was going to put on this disguise and get some different clothes, and--” He jumped for the outside door and laid his ear against it and listened, pale and kind of panting. Presently he whispers: “Sounded like cocking a gun! Lord, what a life to lead!” Then he sunk down in a chair all limp and sick like, and wiped the sweat off of his face.

3

A DIAMOND ROBBERY

FROM that time out, we was with him 'most all the time, and one or t'other of us slept in his upper berth. He said he had been so lonesome, and it was such a comfort to him to have company, and somebody to talk to in his troubles. We was in a sweat to find out what his secret was, but Tom said the best way was not to seem anxious, then likely he would drop into it himself in one of his talks, but if we got to asking questions he would get suspicious and shet up his shell. It turned out just so. It warn't no trouble to see that he WANTED to talk about it, but always along at first he would scare away from it when he got on the very edge of it, and go to talking about something else. The way it come about was this: He got to asking us, kind of indifferent like, about the passengers down on deck. We told him about them. But he warn't satisfied; we warn't particular enough. He told us to describe them better. Tom done it. At last, when Tom was describing one of the roughest and raggedest ones, he gave a shiver and a gasp and says: “Oh, lordy, that's one of them! They're aboard sure--I just knowed it. I sort of hoped I had got away, but I never believed it. Go on.” Presently when Tom was describing another mangy, rough deck passenger, he give that shiver again and says: “That's him! --that's the other one. If it would only come a good black stormy night and I could get ashore. You see, they've got spies on me. They've got a right to come up and buy drinks at the bar yonder forrard, and they take that chance to bribe somebody to keep watch on me--porter or boots or somebody. If I was to slip ashore without anybody seeing me, they would know it inside of an hour.” So then he got to wandering along, and pretty soon, sure enough, he was telling! He was poking along through his ups and downs, and when he come to that place he went right along. He says: “It was a confidence game. We played it on a julery-shop in St. Louis. What we was after was a couple of noble big di'monds as big as hazel-nuts, which everybody was running to see. We was dressed up fine, and we played it on them in broad daylight. We ordered the di'monds sent to the hotel for us to see if we wanted to buy, and when we was examining them we had paste counterfeits all ready, and THEM was the things that went back to the shop when we said the water wasn't quite fine enough for twelve thousand dollars.” “Twelve-thousand-dollars!” Tom says. “Was they really worth all that money, do you reckon?” “Every cent of it.” “And you fellows got away with them?” “As easy as nothing. I don't reckon the julery people know they've been robbed yet. But it wouldn't be good sense to stay around St. Louis, of course, so we considered where we'd go. One was for going one way, one another, so we throwed up, heads or tails, and the Upper Mississippi won. We done up the di'monds in a paper and put our names on it and put it in the keep of the hotel clerk, and told him not to ever let either of us have it again without the others was on hand to see it done; then we went down town, each by his own self--because I reckon maybe we all had the same notion. I don't know for certain, but I reckon maybe we had.” “What notion?” Tom says. “To rob the others.” “What--one take everything, after all of you had helped to get it?” “Cert'nly.” It disgusted Tom Sawyer, and he said it was the orneriest, low-downest thing he ever heard of. But Jake Dunlap said it warn't unusual in the profession. Said when a person was in that line of business he'd got to look out for his own intrust, there warn't nobody else going to do it for him. And then he went on. He says: “You see, the trouble was, you couldn't divide up two di'monds amongst three. If there'd been three--But never mind about that, there warn't three. I loafed along the back streets studying and studying. And I says to myself, I'll hog them di'monds the first chance I get, and I'll have a disguise all ready, and I'll give the boys the slip, and when I'm safe away I'll put it on, and then let them find me if they can. So I got the false whiskers and the goggles and this countrified suit of clothes, and fetched them along back in a hand-bag; and when I was passing a shop where they sell all sorts of things, I got a glimpse of one of my pals through the window. It was Bud Dixon. I was glad, you bet. I says to myself, I'll see what he buys. So I kept shady, and watched. Now what do you reckon it was he bought?” “Whiskers?” said I. “No.” “Goggles?” “No.” “Oh, keep still, Huck Finn, can't you, you're only just hendering all you can. What WAS it he bought, Jake?” “You'd never guess in the world. It was only just a screwdriver--just a wee little bit of a screwdriver.” “Well, I declare! What did he want with that?” “That's what I thought. It was curious. It clean stumped me. I says to myself, what can he want with that thing? Well, when he come out I stood back out of sight, and then tracked him to a second-hand slop-shop and see him buy a red flannel shirt and some old ragged clothes--just the ones he's got on now, as you've described. Then I went down to the wharf and hid my things aboard the up-river boat that we had picked out, and then started back and had another streak of luck. I seen our other pal lay in HIS stock of old rusty second-handers. We got the di'monds and went aboard the boat. “But now we was up a stump, for we couldn't go to bed. We had to set up and watch one another. Pity, that was; pity to put that kind of a strain on us, because there was bad blood between us from a couple of weeks back, and we was only friends in the way of business. Bad anyway, seeing there was only two di'monds betwixt three men. First we had supper, and then tramped up and down the deck together smoking till most midnight; then we went and set down in my stateroom and locked the doors and looked in the piece of paper to see if the di'monds was all right, then laid it on the lower berth right in full sight; and there we set, and set, and by-and-by it got to be dreadful hard to keep awake. At last Bud Dixon he dropped off. As soon as he was snoring a good regular gait that was likely to last, and had his chin on his breast and looked permanent, Hal Clayton nodded towards the di'monds and then towards the outside door, and I understood. I reached and got the paper, and then we stood up and waited perfectly still; Bud never stirred; I turned the key of the outside door very soft and slow, then turned the knob the same way, and we went tiptoeing out onto the guard, and shut the door very soft and gentle. “There warn't nobody stirring anywhere, and the boat was slipping along, swift and steady, through the big water in the smoky moonlight. We never said a word, but went straight up onto the hurricane-deck and plumb back aft, and set down on the end of the sky-light. Both of us knowed what that meant, without having to explain to one another. Bud Dixon would wake up and miss the swag, and would come straight for us, for he ain't afeard of anything or anybody, that man ain't. He would come, and we would heave him overboard, or get killed trying. It made me shiver, because I ain't as brave as some people, but if I showed the white feather--well, I knowed better than do that. I kind of hoped the boat would land somers, and we could skip ashore and not have to run the risk of this row, I was so scared of Bud Dixon, but she was an upper-river tub and there warn't no real chance of that. “Well, the time strung along and along, and that fellow never come! Why, it strung along till dawn begun to break, and still he never come. 'Thunder,' I says, 'what do you make out of this? --ain't it suspicious?' 'Land!' Hal says, 'do you reckon he's playing us? --open the paper!' I done it, and by gracious there warn't anything in it but a couple of little pieces of loaf-sugar! THAT'S the reason he could set there and snooze all night so comfortable. Smart? Well, I reckon! He had had them two papers all fixed and ready, and he had put one of them in place of t'other right under our noses. “We felt pretty cheap. But the thing to do, straight off, was to make a plan; and we done it. We would do up the paper again, just as it was, and slip in, very elaborate and soft, and lay it on the bunk again, and let on WE didn't know about any trick, and hadn't any idea he was a-laughing at us behind them bogus snores of his'n; and we would stick by him, and the first night we was ashore we would get him drunk and search him, and get the di'monds; and DO for him, too, if it warn't too risky. If we got the swag, we'd GOT to do for him, or he would hunt us down and do for us, sure. But I didn't have no real hope. I knowed we could get him drunk--he was always ready for that--but what's the good of it? You might search him a year and never find--Well, right there I catched my breath and broke off my thought! For an idea went ripping through my head that tore my brains to rags--and land, but I felt gay and good! You see, I had had my boots off, to unswell my feet, and just then I took up one of them to put it on, and I catched a glimpse of the heel-bottom, and it just took my breath away. You remember about that puzzlesome little screwdriver?” “You bet I do,” says Tom, all excited. “Well, when I catched that glimpse of that boot heel, the idea that went smashing through my head was, I know where he's hid the di'monds! You look at this boot heel, now. See, it's bottomed with a steel plate, and the plate is fastened on with little screws. Now there wasn't a screw about that feller anywhere but in his boot heels; so, if he needed a screwdriver, I reckoned I knowed why.” “Huck, ain't it bully!” says Tom. “Well, I got my boots on, and we went down and slipped in and laid the paper of sugar on the berth, and sat down soft and sheepish and went to listening to Bud Dixon snore. Hal Clayton dropped off pretty soon, but I didn't; I wasn't ever so wide awake in my life. I was spying out from under the shade of my hat brim, searching the floor for leather. It took me a long time, and I begun to think maybe my guess was wrong, but at last I struck it. It laid over by the bulkhead, and was nearly the color of the carpet. It was a little round plug about as thick as the end of your little finger, and I says to myself there's a di'mond in the nest you've come from. Before long I spied out the plug's mate. “Think of the smartness and coolness of that blatherskite! He put up that scheme on us and reasoned out what we would do, and we went ahead and done it perfectly exact, like a couple of pudd'nheads. He set there and took his own time to unscrew his heelplates and cut out his plugs and stick in the di'monds and screw on his plates again. He allowed we would steal the bogus swag and wait all night for him to come up and get drownded, and by George it's just what we done! I think it was powerful smart.” “You bet your life it was!” says Tom, just full of admiration.

4

THE THREE SLEEPERS

WELL, all day we went through the humbug of watching one another, and it was pretty sickly business for two of us and hard to act out, I can tell you. About night we landed at one of them little Missouri towns high up toward Iowa, and had supper at the tavern, and got a room upstairs with a cot and a double bed in it, but I dumped my bag under a deal table in the dark hall while we was moving along it to bed, single file, me last, and the landlord in the lead with a tallow candle. We had up a lot of whisky, and went to playing high-low-jack for dimes, and as soon as the whisky begun to take hold of Bud we stopped drinking, but we didn't let him stop. We loaded him till he fell out of his chair and laid there snoring. “We was ready for business now. I said we better pull our boots off, and his'n too, and not make any noise, then we could pull him and haul him around and ransack him without any trouble. So we done it. I set my boots and Bud's side by side, where they'd be handy. Then we stripped him and searched his seams and his pockets and his socks and the inside of his boots, and everything, and searched his bundle. Never found any di'monds. We found the screwdriver, and Hal says, 'What do you reckon he wanted with that?' I said I didn't know; but when he wasn't looking I hooked it. At last Hal he looked beat and discouraged, and said we'd got to give it up. That was what I was waiting for. I says: “'There's one place we hain't searched.' “'What place is that?' he says. “'His stomach.' “'By gracious, I never thought of that! NOW we're on the homestretch, to a dead moral certainty. How'll we manage?' “'Well,' I says, 'just stay by him till I turn out and hunt up a drug store, and I reckon I'll fetch something that'll make them di'monds tired of the company they're keeping.' “He said that's the ticket, and with him looking straight at me I slid myself into Bud's boots instead of my own, and he never noticed. They was just a shade large for me, but that was considerable better than being too small. I got my bag as I went a-groping through the hall, and in about a minute I was out the back way and stretching up the river road at a five-mile gait. “And not feeling so very bad, neither--walking on di'monds don't have no such effect. When I had gone fifteen minutes I says to myself, there's more'n a mile behind me, and everything quiet. Another five minutes and I says there's considerable more land behind me now, and there's a man back there that's begun to wonder what's the trouble. Another five and I says to myself he's getting real uneasy--he's walking the floor now. Another five, and I says to myself, there's two mile and a half behind me, and he's AWFUL uneasy--beginning to cuss, I reckon. Pretty soon I says to myself, forty minutes gone--he KNOWS there's something up! Fifty minutes--the truth's a-busting on him now! he is reckoning I found the di'monds whilst we was searching, and shoved them in my pocket and never let on--yes, and he's starting out to hunt for me. He'll hunt for new tracks in the dust, and they'll as likely send him down the river as up. “Just then I see a man coming down on a mule, and before I thought I jumped into the bush. It was stupid! When he got abreast he stopped and waited a little for me to come out; then he rode on again. But I didn't feel gay any more. I says to myself I've botched my chances by that; I surely have, if he meets up with Hal Clayton. “Well, about three in the morning I fetched Elexandria and see this stern-wheeler laying there, and was very glad, because I felt perfectly safe, now, you know. It was just daybreak. I went aboard and got this stateroom and put on these clothes and went up in the pilot-house--to watch, though I didn't reckon there was any need of it. I set there and played with my di'monds and waited and waited for the boat to start, but she didn't. You see, they was mending her machinery, but I didn't know anything about it, not being very much used to steamboats. “Well, to cut the tale short, we never left there till plumb noon; and long before that I was hid in this stateroom; for before breakfast I see a man coming, away off, that had a gait like Hal Clayton's, and it made me just sick. I says to myself, if he finds out I'm aboard this boat, he's got me like a rat in a trap. All he's got to do is to have me watched, and wait--wait till I slip ashore, thinking he is a thousand miles away, then slip after me and dog me to a good place and make me give up the di'monds, and then he'll--oh, I know what he'll do! Ain't it awful--awful! And now to think the OTHER one's aboard, too! Oh, ain't it hard luck, boys--ain't it hard! But you'll help save me, WON'T you? --oh, boys, be good to a poor devil that's being hunted to death, and save me--I'll worship the very ground you walk on!” We turned in and soothed him down and told him we would plan for him and help him, and he needn't be so afeard; and so by and by he got to feeling kind of comfortable again, and unscrewed his heelplates and held up his di'monds this way and that, admiring them and loving them; and when the light struck into them they WAS beautiful, sure; why, they seemed to kind of bust, and snap fire out all around. But all the same I judged he was a fool. If I had been him I would a handed the di'monds to them pals and got them to go ashore and leave me alone. But he was made different. He said it was a whole fortune and he couldn't bear the idea. Twice we stopped to fix the machinery and laid a good while, once in the night; but it wasn't dark enough, and he was afeard to skip. But the third time we had to fix it there was a better chance. We laid up at a country woodyard about forty mile above Uncle Silas's place a little after one at night, and it was thickening up and going to storm. So Jake he laid for a chance to slide. We begun to take in wood. Pretty soon the rain come a-drenching down, and the wind blowed hard. Of course every boat-hand fixed a gunny sack and put it on like a bonnet, the way they do when they are toting wood, and we got one for Jake, and he slipped down aft with his hand-bag and come tramping forrard just like the rest, and walked ashore with them, and when we see him pass out of the light of the torch-basket and get swallowed up in the dark, we got our breath again and just felt grateful and splendid. But it wasn't for long. Somebody told, I reckon; for in about eight or ten minutes them two pals come tearing forrard as tight as they could jump and darted ashore and was gone. We waited plumb till dawn for them to come back, and kept hoping they would, but they never did. We was awful sorry and low-spirited. All the hope we had was that Jake had got such a start that they couldn't get on his track, and he would get to his brother's and hide there and be safe. He was going to take the river road, and told us to find out if Brace and Jubiter was to home and no strangers there, and then slip out about sundown and tell him. Said he would wait for us in a little bunch of sycamores right back of Tom's uncle Silas's tobacker field on the river road, a lonesome place. We set and talked a long time about his chances, and Tom said he was all right if the pals struck up the river instead of down, but it wasn't likely, because maybe they knowed where he was from; more likely they would go right, and dog him all day, him not suspecting, and kill him when it come dark, and take the boots. So we was pretty sorrowful.