"And you've not had any vaseline," Gladys cried. "I'll get you some,"
and before he could prevent her she had gone. She was back again, however, in a few moments with a tiny white jar
and some linen bandages. "I couldn't find my aunt," she began, "or she
would bandage your hands for you." "Won't you?" Shiel asked. "Do!" He thrust his hands towards her as he spoke, and Gladys uttered an
exclamation of horror--the palms and fingers were raw and swollen. "I feel heartily ashamed of myself for being so thin-skinned," Shiel
said. But Gladys had disappeared. She returned almost immediately with
a bowl of water. "I'm sure they must hurt you dreadfully," she exclaimed, as she gently
bathed the hands. "It makes me feel quite ill to see them." For the next few moments Shiel was in Paradise. The touch of her cool,
white fingers on his hot and burning skin was far nicer than anything
he had ever imagined. Her sweet-scented breath stealing gently up his
nostrils soothed away all his care--even the remembrance of his recent
loss. With his whole heart and soul concentrated in his gaze, he watched her
every movement--watched the waving and tossing of the stray wisps of
hair over her temples and ears, as the breeze rustled through the open
windows; and the gentle tightening and relaxation of her delicately
moulded lips each time she breathed. Shiel had always led a very solitary existence. Apart from his uncle
he had no near relatives, and with the exception of the five or six
weeks in the year he had spent at Dick Davenport's house at Sydenham,
he had always been in rooms. He had often felt lonely, but never quite
so lonely as now--now that the only person he had known intimately and
for whom he had entertained any real affection, was suddenly taken
away. He was now absolutely alone in the world, and the poignancy of
his position came home to him acutely. It is a terrible thing to be lonely. Lonely men do all sorts of
dreadful things--things they would certainly never dream of doing if
they had companionship. And Shiel was doing a dreadful thing now. Every moment he was falling more and more desperately in love, despite
the fact that he had no money, and worse still--no prospects of ever
making any. And loneliness was in the main responsible for it. Had he not been so lonely--had he not spent days and days, alone in
lodgings, with no one to talk to--no one to care whether he were ill
or dying; had this not been his experience--the experience he was even
then undergoing, reason would have outweighed folly, and even though
he might have realized that in Gladys Martin he had found his ideal of
beauty--of womanliness, he would have been content only to admire. As it was, he was in that very dangerous mood when the heart yearns
for sympathy; when a plain woman's sympathy means much--and a pretty
woman's more than much. It is no exaggeration to say that Shiel would
have lain down and died for Gladys ten times over. For her sake--if
only to see her smile, no mere physical pain would have been too
excruciating for him to bear. And when she put the finishing touches
to the bandages, and quite by chance, of course, their eyes met, he
looked at her as if he never meant to leave off looking at her, as if
he never meant to do anything else but look at her for all eternity. Whether she understood as much or not, is impossible to say. Shiel
asked himself the question over and over again before the day was out,
and in his sleep, and during the next day, and for many days
afterwards. Could she tell how much he admired her? How much he
worshipped her? All that he was prepared to do for her sweet sake? All
this he asked himself repeatedly, and went on thinking of her when he
knew he ought never to have thought of her at all. "I'm sure your hands are more comfortable now. Won't you go into the
garden and see how the work is progressing?" she said. "Or if you are
afraid Father will want you to dig again, perhaps you would like to go
into his study and read the papers." "I should like to stay here and listen to you singing," he said. "Mayn't I do that?" "You might," she said, "but I have to go out." "Then I'll stay here till you return," he said, "I've never been in
such a delightful room." "What do you think of Shiel Davenport?" Gladys remarked to her aunt a
few minutes later. "I don't think I've ever met such an extraordinary
young man. He does nothing but stare at me, and when I ask him to do
one thing he suggests doing another. He's the most difficult person to
manage. In fact, I can't manage him at all." "Never mind about managing him, my dear," Miss Templeton replied, "so
long as you don't let him manage you. Young men who do nothing but
stare are not merely difficult--they are dangerous." CHAPTER XII

THE GREAT CHALLENGE


When John Martin came into tea that afternoon, he gave Gladys a shock. Despite the fact that he had been in the sun all day and was much
tanned in consequence he had never looked--so Gladys thought--so old
and haggard. "You dear old Daddie!" she said, hastening to pour him out some tea,
"you shouldn't work so hard--this silly digging has quite knocked you
up! Haven't you finished?" "Yes, I've finished!" John Martin said, catching his breath. "I've
found water!" "Nonsense!" "It's true all the same. We struck it at exactly the distance he
said--twenty feet." "Then of course he knew." "How? How the deuce could he have known?" "I can't say," Gladys replied. "All I know is, that he's not straight,
and that there's some underhand trickery going on. But do have your
tea now, and dismiss it from your mind. Anyhow, he can do you no
harm." "Here's a letter for you, John," Mrs. Templeton exclaimed, entering
the room at that moment. John Martin took it from her, and tore open the envelope curiously. It
was a handwriting he did not know, and did not like--its
characteristics were sinister. "I knew it!" he cried; "I knew the fellow was a scoundrel. What the
deuce do you think he has the impertinence to do now?" "He!" Gladys said, looking anxiously at her father. "Whoever do you
mean?" "Why, that confounded young bounder who came here last night--Leon
Hamar he signs himself. In this letter he declares that he can perform
any of our tricks, and will accept the wager I offered for their
solution some little time ago. He also says that unless I consent to
see him, and to listen courteously to what he has to say, he will
publicly announce his intention of taking up the wager, at our Hall,
in Kingsway, to-night." "Do you think there is any possibility of his having discovered the
secrets of your tricks?" Gladys asked. "Could he have bribed any one
to tell him?" "I don't think so," John Martin said. "The only people who have any
clue as to how they are done are my two attendants--both as you know
natives of Cashmere, and men who, I feel pretty certain, could not be
'got at.'" "In that case," Gladys remarked, "I fail to see what there is to worry
about.