I
suppose if anything happens he will step into Dick's shoes. I've never
heard Dick mention any one else. Poor old Dick!" "I am so sorry, father!" Gladys said, laying her hand on his. "But
cheer up! It may not be as bad as you expect. Shall you go and see how
he is?" "I think so, my dear! I think so," John Martin replied, "but don't
worry me about it now. Talk to your aunt and leave me out of it, I'm a
bit upset. My brain's in a regular whirl!" Undoubtedly the news was something in the nature of a blow: for Dick
Davenport, apart from being John Martin's partner--partner in the firm
of Martin and Davenport, the world-renowned conjurors, whose hall in
the Kingsway was one of the chief amusement places in London, was John
Martin's oldest friend. They had been chums at Cheltenham College, had
entered the Army and gone to India together, had quitted the Service
together, and, on returning together to England, had started their
conjuring business, first of all in Sloane Street, and subsequently in
the Kingsway. From the very start their enterprise had met with
success, and, had it not been for Davenport's wild extravagance, they
would have been little short of millionaires. But Davenport, though a
most lovable character in every respect, could not keep money--he no
sooner had it than it was gone. His house in Sydenham was little short
of a palace; whilst, it was said, he almost rivalled royalty, in
magnificent display, whenever he entertained. The result of all this
reckless expenditure was no uncommon one--he ran through considerably
more than he earned and--as there was no one else to help him--he
invariably came down on John Martin. It was "Jack, old boy, I'm damned
sorry, but I must have another thousand;" or, "Jack! these infernal
scamps of creditors are worrying the life out of me, can you, will
you, lend me a trifle--a couple of thousand will do it"--and so on--so
on, ad infinitum. John Martin never refused, and at the time of
Davenport's illness, the latter owed him something like a hundred
thousand pounds. Fortunately John Martin, though far from parsimonious, was careful. He
had an excellent business head, and, thanks to his sagacious share in
the management, the business remained solvent. He knew Davenport's
capacity--that nowhere could he have found another such a brilliant
genius in conjuring--nor, apart from his thriftlessness, any one so
thoroughly reliable. In Davenport's keeping all the great tricks they
had invented--and great tricks they undoubtedly were--were absolutely
safe. Despite the fact that they had repeatedly offered big sums of money to
any one who could discover the secret of how they were done, every
attempt to do so had utterly failed. The Mysteries of Martin and
Davenport's Home of Wonder, in the Kingsway, baffled the world. Of
course one thing had helped them enormously--namely, they had no
rivals. So colossal was their reputation, that no one else had ever
even thought of setting up in opposition. And now one of the two great master-minds, that had accomplished all
these marvels and acquired such universal fame, was stricken down,
checkmated by the still greater power of nature; and his
colleague--the only other man in existence who shared his
knowledge--was obliged to rack his brain as to what was now to be
done--done for the continuance and prosperity of the firm. After finishing her breakfast Gladys joined her aunt in the garden. "To dream of flowers and trees evidently means bad news," she said. "But as I feel in a mood for a walk, I shall call at the Vicarage." "What, now! At this hour!" Miss Templeton cried aghast. "Why not?" Gladys said imperturbably. "I'm not going to pay a call. They haven't called on us. I shall say I've merely come to make an
inquiry. Can she tell me of any one who interprets dreams? Come with
me!" But as her aunt pleaded an excuse, Gladys went alone. The Vicar was in the garden in his shirt sleeves, and though obviously
surprised to see Gladys, seemed quite prepared to enter into
conversation with her. But Gladys was not enamoured of clergymen. Her
ways were not their ways, and she had come strictly on business. Consequently she somewhat curtly demanded to be conducted into the
presence of his wife, who received her very affably. "Why, how very strange," she observed when Gladys had stated the
object of her visit. "I was asked a similar question only yesterday. A
Miss Rosenberg, who is staying with us, had an extraordinary dream
about trees and flowers--only it took the form of a poem, which she
awoke repeating. There were several verses--quite doggerel it is
true--but nevertheless rather remarkable for a dream. She wrote them
down, and asked me if I could tell her whether there was any hidden
meaning in them. Here they are," and she handed Gladys two pages of
sermon paper on which was written--

    "In the greenest of green valleys,
    Aglow with summer sun,
    Lived a maiden fair and radiant,
    More radiant there was none. "The flowers gave her their friendship;
    Her couch was on the ground. A happier, gayer maiden,
    Was nowhere to be found. "The air was filled with music
    Sung by the babbling brook. Sweet lullabies with chorus clear
    In which the flowers partook. "This maiden knew not sorrow,
    Until an evil day;
    When riding lone across the moors,
    A hunter lost his way. "And chancing on this valley,
    He met the maiden sweet. Her beauty overwhelmed him;
    He fell love-sick at her feet. "Despite the fervent warnings
    Of her friends the flowers and trees,
    She listened to his courting;
    And with him roamed the leas. "The leas, far from the valley,
    They rode the livelong night;
    Till a heavy mist descending
    Hid the roadway from their sight. "Uprose, then, forms of evil. From out the mocking gloom;
    And seizing horse and hunter scared,
    Left the maiden to her doom. "Travellers now within those regions,
    Through the nightly grey fog see
    A woman's shade crawl slow along,
    To a ghastly melody. "And those who linger--follow
    The phantom pale and wan. O'er hill and dale, and rill and vale
    It slowly leads them on. "On till they reach the valley,
    A valley grim and drear,
    Where lurid things with fibrous arms
    Their course through darkness steer. "And on the travellers palsied
    In frenzied crowd they pour. And those who view their faces,
    Are heard but seen no more." "Do you mean to say she dreamed all that?" Gladys exclaimed. "Yes," the Vicar's wife said. "She told me so and I have no reason to
doubt her. She doesn't romance as a rule, and is certainly not the
least bit in the world poetical--on the contrary she is most practical
and matter-of-fact. Her only hobby, as far as I know, is flowers." "Mine, too!" Gladys interrupted. "Were you able to explain the
verses?" "No, I can't interpret dreams. I'm intensely interested in them; as I
am in all things psychic. I was at a lecture given by Mrs. Annie
Besant last night!